My Beloved Son

by Catherine Cookson

  She smiled up at him. ‘I’ve no doubt about that, Joe. Sometimes I can’t understand myself. That’s one of the things I hope to achieve in the end. Look, would you come down into the town and have a word with him? He’s never really got over that business at Janet’s. He says one of the things he’s continually fighting is his hate of her. Will you come, Joe? By the way’—she looked round—‘where is Miss…?’

  ‘Maggie? Oh, she’s gone to visit a neighbour. She’s taken the child with her.’

  ‘She…she has a baby?’

  Now it was her mouth that dropped into a slight gape, and he was quick to close it by saying, ‘Yes, but it’s got nothing to do with me.’ And, strangely, again he only just stopped himself from adding, ‘More’s the pity.’

  Dear, dear. He turned his head away from her. Here he was with Carrie, the girl he had loved since he was a boy, and in this moment he was wishing he was the father of Maggie’s child. Well, it just went to show, didn’t it, what he had been thinking a few minutes before that car stopped opposite the window.

  He smiled broadly at Carrie now, saying, ‘Yes, I’ll come down with you. I too will be happier after I’ve cleared the air with Mick. What a day! But would you like a cup of tea first?’

  ‘No, no; I’ve just finished lunch.’ She was standing up now looking about her, and again she said, ‘This is a nice house.’

  ‘Go and have a look round while I’m getting my coat.’

  Up in the bedroom he bent down and looked in the small mirror: his face was smiling, his eyes were bright, he looked alive.

  When he came downstairs again Carrie was walking into the kitchen, and he joined her as she said, ‘I would like to have seen her.’

  He did not follow this up, but said, ‘I’d better leave a note,’ then added quickly, ‘No, no; I’ll tell her everything when I come back. Oh, Carrie’—he took her by the shoulders—‘I’m happy for you, and I’m happy for myself. You’ve done something today.’

  On this he leant towards her and kissed her on the brow; then taking her by the arm they went out.

  It was almost two hours later when he returned to the cottage. His meeting with Mick hadn’t gone as smoothly as that with Carrie; both he and Mick had seemed embarrassed, not, Joe thought, in recalling the last time they had met but rather at the turn of events that were taking the brother and sister into the religious world. Whereas he had been able to speak freely when with Carrie up in the cottage, Mick’s presence formed a barrier to speech, not least in himself, and as he had listened to the bantering tones of the conversation between these two people who had been so dear to him at one time, and who, by Carrie’s confession, were still very dear to each other, there had arisen in him a feeling of inadequacy and the not pleasant knowledge that these two people, brought up without any advanced education, had gone far beyond him in their thinking.

  But here he was back. He had caught the bus to the village and had run the last couple of miles and he was panting as he entered the kitchen calling, ‘Maggie! Maggie!’ A feeling of happiness had earlier returned but now it had heightened itself onto the border of elation. Oh, he had been blind. And that girl, what she had put up with, and how she had cared for him. Right from the beginning she had cared for him. But why had she had the child? Damn that! He liked the child; he loved it; yes, he did, he had come to love it, and who was he to blame her for having it? And he had blamed her. He had a nerve when he came to think about it. He should really alter the substance of that article he was writing.

  ‘Maggie! Maggie!’ He was in the sitting room now. She hadn’t come back. Well, he would go over and meet her.

  He was trotting now down the lane along by the Cuthberts’ fence; through the gate and into the field, closing the gate behind him, over a fence and through another field; and there was the farmhouse and the duckpond, the quacking of the ducks and the honking of the geese coming to him on the wind. He was out of breath as he came to a stop against the railings overlooking the home paddock. He wouldn’t go any nearer but he would wait for her here.

  He had been standing against the railings for about ten minutes when he saw Donald Cuthbert come out of the farmyard and make his way towards the pond. He watched him stoop and pick up a duck, which, unlike the rest, didn’t scamper away. He saw him stroke its leg before putting it onto the ground again, and when he straightened up he was looking across the paddock, and, instinctively, Joe lifted his hand in salute.

  Donald Cuthbert walked slowly towards him, and when he was within speaking distance, Joe called, ‘I’m waiting for Maggie.’

  The farmer came to the fence and peered into Joe’s face, and he repeated, ‘You’re waiting for Maggie? What’s up?’

  ‘What do you mean, what’s up?’

  ‘Well, I don’t get this. She’s gone. You had a row?’

  Joe’s face crinkled. His lips apart, he went to speak; but then he closed his mouth and, his hand going to his throat, he gulped for a moment before saying, ‘What do you mean, she’s gone? She can’t be gone. I only went down into Hereford, and we haven’t had a row. No.’

  ‘Well, something upset her; I’ve never seen her like she was. She was all right when she first came, but you see, it’s me mother’s birthday and she thought she would like you to come over and have a cup of tea along with the rest of us, so Maggie left the child and went back for you.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. Do you know where she’s gone?’

  ‘Not a clue. She was gone some time, and then she arrived with the car piled up, takes the child, saying she was very sorry. At least that’s what she said to me mother. She said, “I’m very sorry, Mrs Cuthbert, but I’ve got to go and see about some business. I’d forgotten about it.” Me mother was puzzled; there was such a change in her. And then when I came outside with her I saw the car. Piled up to its roof it was, as if she had thrown the stuff in.’

  ‘Did she say where she might be going?’ Joe asked; but then shook his head, saying, ‘No, no; silly question.’

  ‘Haven’t you got any idea what’s upset her, then?’

  Joe looked at the older man now and said frankly, ‘Yes; an old friend came unexpectedly. She, I mean Maggie, must have come back when we were talking. She’s likely misconstrued things.’

  ‘That happens; women are made that way. Oh yes, that happens. Well, I wish I could be of some help to you. We are very fond of Maggie, you know. When she first came here to live with her aunt she was like a roly-poly pudding. But she was nice, always nice and cheery. She had a cheery tongue.’

  ‘Yes,’ Joe went to turn away repeating, ‘Yes, she had a cheery tongue.’ Then looking back at the farmer, he said, ‘Thanks. And I’m sorry about your mother’s birthday party.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right; it was just a little tea. But she’s puzzled about Maggie. I’ll have to tell her what happened. Anyway, what are you going to do now?’

  Joe took in a deep breath as he said, ‘I don’t know, except look for her. Yes’—he nodded his head vigorously now—‘I’ll look for her. I’ll find her.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you will. She can’t have gone all that far and she has a child, and all that clobber. She’s got to stop somewhere soon. And anyway, there’s the petrol; she’d never get very far on the ration, would she?’

  ‘No, no; you’re right. Well, thank you. Thank you, Donald.’

  ‘I wish I could help.’

  Joe made no answer to this, only inclined his head and turned away.

  He did not run now; there was no need. When once again he entered the cottage he wondered why he hadn’t noticed that the kitchen floor was clear of toys and that the mugs weren’t on the rack. Slowly now he went into the sitting room and, standing in the middle of the room, he stood gazing about him. This house had come to be home to him; what was he going to do now? Where would he start to look? Dear God—he swung around, his hand to his head—to think that she should come back during the sh
ort time that Carrie was in the house. And what had she heard?

  What had he said? And where had she been while she was listening? It wasn’t likely that she had heard the conversation from this room if she had been in the kitchen, but if she had been in the scullery or even outside the scullery door, which opened out onto the cobbled enclosure where the coalhouse and wood store was, she could have heard from there anything that had been said in the kitchen. But then, what had he said in the kitchen? The only thing he could really recall was that he had kissed Carrie on the forehead. But she couldn’t have seen that. Had his kiss been audible?

  He sat down at the little desk before the window; and there on the pad in front of him was an envelope with his name on it: Joe. He tore at it and pulled out a strip of paper with a perforated top. It had been torn from her shopping pad and on it he learned what she had heard, for it stated simply, ‘You have no need to come home and tell me; I have listened to you for the last time. I don’t want to see you again, so, please, don’t come back. I won’t return home until I know you are gone for good. So do me this one last favour; get on with your life and let me get on with mine.’

  As there had been no heading, so there was no signature.

  Oh Maggie. Maggie.

  He read the letter again and again, and one thing came through from it; she couldn’t be that far away if she would know when he left the house for good. Why did things happen to him? Why couldn’t he be like other men whose lives ran smoothly? But did their lives run smoothly? Did he know anybody whose life had run smoothly? Just taking his own family: his father, his mother, Uncle Arthur, Martin, Harry. Yes, Harry’s life had run smoothly, happily, until the gods became jealous. Only the good die young. There was something in that. Oh, at this moment he wished he was dead…No, he didn’t! He was on his feet. Enough of that; he was going to find her. Whether it took a long time or a short time he was going to find her. But where to make a start? Down in Hereford.

  He walked round Hereford for three days. He had always imagined it to be a small town, but each day it seemed to grow bigger. Every time he saw a pushchair he made eagerly towards it. But Charles was never in it.

  Next, he tried the villages, riding from one to the other on his bike, making discreet enquiries. But no-one seemed to have heard of a Miss LeMan who had a two-year-old child. In fact, the enquiry raised eyebrows, especially from the occupants of small hamlets, and as one pious lady said, ‘Is she one of the victims of the war’s mishaps?’

  They were all victims of the war’s mishaps.

  He had been in the house ten days when two letters arrived. One was from Alec Beecham, the other for Maggie. And he recognised the handwriting as being Mary’s.

  Alec Beecham’s letter said that the new will was ready for signing and would need to be witnessed. Would he care to make the journey back north or would he prefer that James came to him and settled the matter there?

  ‘I won’t come back until you’ve gone.’ Well, he could be gone, couldn’t he? He could go north and settle the will business and go to the house for the last time and settle the business there, too. And knowing he had left the house she would, as she said, return. Yes, as he had surmised, wherever she had settled she had him seemingly in view, or had detailed someone to report to her. Well, he would stay away a week and then he would return. She couldn’t stop him, no matter what she said. And anyway, now he came to reason it out, she must know that he wasn’t with Carrie if he was still in the cottage, so why was she making it difficult? Was she really wanting to be rid of him? No—he shook his head at the thought—she had seemed so happy; at least, up till a short while ago. He could put his finger on the time; it was from the day James Holden had visited him. A slight stiffness in her manner had appeared. What had caused it? Had he also said something then to hurt her? No, no. He shook his head. But yes; now he remembered something that James had asked him about getting married. And what had he replied? That he had no intention of ever getting married. Had she heard that too? And about the new will he intended to make?

  He was tactless; he was senseless; had he ever grown up? Had he ever stopped to think about anyone else but himself and the burden that his mother had laid on him? As a boy he had cried because he couldn’t have Carrie. And then, faced with the fact that he had a mad mother for a parent, he had tried to escape from the responsibility, and had eventually succeeded. And when he found that his young love had a deeper feeling for her own brother than she had for him, and at the same time that he had been betrayed by his one and only friend, he had decided that it was too much and had given up. And who had stood by him during all this, and before this when he had become lost in the mass of men down in that camp? A small fat girl. And such had been his ingratitude, even from the beginning, that he had tried to hide their association. And then it was she who had forced her way into the silence and pulled him back into the world again. And it was she to whom he had returned as if by right, only to be upset, even shocked by the knowledge that she had, in the meantime, given birth to a child. Lizzie apart, it was Maggie, the little fat girl, to whom he had clung as a life raft over the past years. And now she had got tired of his clinging; as she saw it he had left the raft for a lifeboat.

  What must she think of him? God! What must she think of him now?

  Eight

  ‘I think you are making a mistake.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but I’ve made up my mind to sell.’

  ‘It’s in a dreadful state; it should really be put into order before it’s put on the market.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything about that. Let it go as it is; take what you can get for it.’

  ‘Why not leave it for a while, think it over?’

  ‘You said it’s in a dreadful state; it will only get worse.’

  Alec Beecham heaved an impatient sigh. ‘It could be a lovely place,’ he persisted.

  ‘It was, once; it never could be again; too much happened there.’

  ‘Too much happened everywhere.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Anyway, I’m going over today to see Mary and say goodbye to her. She’s been very good.’

  ‘Good isn’t the word for it, stuck out there all alone in that place; it’s a wonder she’s been able to stand it. I feel that she should be recompensed. Would you like us to see to it for you?’

  ‘No; I’ll do that myself.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Alec Beecham rose from his chair and extended his hand to his client. Difficult one, if he knew anything: his attitude had been stubborn with regards to his mother. That was a very, very sad affair; couldn’t get to the bottom of it. But his attitude now was just as rigid with regard to the house. He was an odd man. And this business of wanting to get rid of his title, it wasn’t understandable.

  Joe could almost guess what the solicitor was thinking and when he smiled at him and said, ‘I’m a nuisance, aren’t I? Always have been,’ Alec Beecham denied it strongly, saying, ‘Nonsense, nonsense; you’ve been through difficult times. Anyway, do what I ask, will you, and think it over about the selling? I’ve always had a soft spot for Screehaugh. I used to envy Arthur such a house and I always enjoyed my stays there and the shooting.’

  Without further comment, Joe took his leave, and as he went out into the street he repeated to himself, ‘And the shooting.’

  He was unable to persuade a cab driver to take him all the way to Screehaugh; and so he went by train to Consett, from where he was able to hire a taxi.

  He had expected to find the grounds overgrown, but the tangled mass they presented saddened him long before he reached the house. He had no memory of his last visit here, for his mind was comparing the condition of the place now with that on the day he had walked out, the day he had lain in Mick’s arms and cried.

  The appearance of the house was even worse than that of the grounds: windows were broken; the dark stain on the brickwork, outlining the chimney, had widened.

  He walked through the grass-strewn yard to the
back door, and when he found it locked he stood back from it and stared upwards, wondering if Mary had already gone. Alec Beecham had given no indication of it.

  The wind was whistling down the yard, bending the tall dry grass that had grown up between the stones, and a half-door of a horse box swung drunkenly on one hinge. He shivered: the day was raw, but there was an added iciness in the atmosphere surrounding the place.

  He looked in at the kitchen window, shading his face on either side with both hands. The room looked tidy; and after some further positioning of his hand he could see that there were some embers of the fire still glowing in the grate. Mary must have only recently gone out.

  He pushed his open pocket-knife between the upper and lower half of the window, released the catch and pushed the bottom half upwards, then climbed in over the sink and into the room.

  The kitchen was tidy, although the delph rack was clear of all but a few ordinary dishes; there were no copper pans hanging on the wall, and the brass candlesticks and horseshoes had gone from the mantelpiece.

  He walked from the kitchen and into the hall, but remained standing just within the doorway. The noontime sun slanted through the windows and showed up the floor that had once been so highly polished you could almost see your reflection in it, but now presented a large square of scuffed boards. There was no furniture whatsoever in the hall.

  Standing opposite the fireplace, he could see where the fire had been. The whole wall was black with smoke; the big oak beam that formed a mantelshelf was charred. As James Holden had said, it was indeed a wonder the place hadn’t burned down. What a pity it hadn’t.

  The drawing room presented the same bareness, as did the dining room. It wasn’t until he came to the long billiard room and the study that he saw where the furniture was stored. The billiard table was piled high with carpets, and surrounded by couches, chairs, tables, bureaux, drawers, chests and every article of furniture stacked one on top of the other almost to the ceiling.