The Solace of Sin

by Catherine Cookson

  Later, as she sat on the terrace in the dusk wishing that tomorrow was here, when Peter would be home, even wishing that Jim might put in an appearance, as he had done twice during the past week, Vincent O’Connor came round the corner of the house and towards her. He was carrying in his hand a brown-paper parcel, and on his approach a nervous tremor filled her. She made herself sit quietly, and when he stood before her he handed her the parcel, saying, ‘I’d like you to take this as a peace offering.’ He was smiling. It was the first time she had seen him smile and it transformed his face. His voice, too, had a gentle quality. This wasn’t the man who had confronted her in the workshop.

  She took the parcel from his hand. She knew what it contained before she opened it; but she undid the string and looked again at the straining sheep; and now she thought it looked beautiful, and good, and very, very human. She said quietly, ‘It’s…it’s very, very kind of you, but I can’t take it. Not because—’ She, too, was smiling now. ‘I’m not annoyed any longer, but it’s too fine a piece for you to give me. If it had been one of your little horses or lions I would have accepted it gladly.’

  ‘They’re trash, commercial stuff. I wouldn’t offer you any one of them. If you’re no longer annoyed you’ll take it; but if you’re still mad then you’ll hand it back.’

  ‘Put like that, what can I do?’

  She went to rise from the low deckchair but had difficulty in pulling herself up because she was holding the wood carving. His hand came down towards her elbow, but he didn’t touch it; instead he took the carving from her, and, with both hands now on the chair, she pulled herself up, and when silently he handed her back the carving she took it, saying, ‘I’m…I’m very grateful to you. It’ll sit on the mantelpiece beautifully.’

  She passed him and was walking into the house when she realised he wasn’t following her, so she turned and said, ‘Won’t you come in for a moment?’

  He crossed the threshold and stood just within the doorway and watched her walk down the room, then place the carving on the mantelpiece; and when, standing back, she surveyed it and said, ‘It seems to have been made especially for there,’ he answered quietly, ‘It was, many years ago.’

  ‘Really!’ She turned towards him.

  ‘Yes’—his chin was jerking—‘it’s funny how things work out, but that piece was made for that very mantelpiece.’

  She watched him now walking towards her. He wasn’t looking at her, but went past her and stood in front of the carving and gazed at it, and she didn’t ask why he hadn’t placed it there before. But once again there came back to her a feeling of disquiet.

  ‘I’m about to make some coffee; would you like a cup?’ It was what she would have said to a visitor to the flat, and it seemed quite as natural to say it to a guest in this new house, but from the surprised look he turned on her she might, she thought, have been making an indecent suggestion to him. ‘No. No, thank you,’ he said quickly.

  As he walked back towards her, he asked, ‘When will your son be back?’

  ‘Tomorrow; and I’ll be glad, because I miss him very much.’

  He went past her now and towards the door, saying, ‘You shouldn’t stay here alone. Not that anyone would interfere with you, nothing like that, but it’s not good for you to be on your own; it’s…it’s not good for anyone to be on their own.’

  ‘Well—’ she forced herself to smile and speak lightly—‘after tomorrow I won’t be,’ and she made a further effort to say, ‘My husband would have been here but he’s working on a new book, and it’s strange—’ she gave a little laugh—‘but he can’t write in the country; he’s got to be in the middle of town. You’d think writers would need the quiet of the countryside, wouldn’t you?’

  He was staring at her from the doorway and he nodded, but didn’t give her an answer.

  She followed him slowly onto the terrace, but stood apart from him as she followed his gaze across the hills that were purple in the fast-fading twilight.

  ‘If you can’t find peace here, you’ll find it nowhere.’

  ‘What?’

  He turned his head slightly and repeated, ‘I said, if you can’t find peace here, you’ll find it nowhere.’

  Why must he stab at her with such truisms? He talked as if he knew all about her life, her inner life. He made her uncomfortable, and that was putting it mildly.

  ‘Goodnight.’ He was walking away, and she answered to his back, ‘Goodnight;’ then returned immediately into the house and locked the doors and went to bed.

  Eight

  Her displaying of the carving on the mantelpiece had repercussions. They began when Davie and Joseph brought the first batch of wood to the back door and stacked it under the lean-to. They would be starting school on Monday, they informed her, and their mother said they must bring a supply up because the nights would soon become chilly. It was when Davie carried some wood into the house to fill the big rope basket that rested at the side of the fireplace that he saw the sheep with its lamb. His arms still piled with the wood, he stood staring up at it; then turning to where Constance was entering the kitchen, he shouted at her, ‘Where did you get that?’

  By the time she reached the fireplace he had dropped the wood into the basket and was again staring up at the mantelpiece.

  ‘Vincent gave it to me.’

  ‘Our Vin!?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He gave you that?’

  She nodded now.

  ‘But he wouldn’t.’

  She looked down into the round black eyes, so like his father’s, and she said, ‘Well, he did, Davie, I didn’t steal it.’

  ‘No. No. You wouldn’t steal it,’ he said; then he went out.

  There was quite an interval before the boys came up the hill with the next pile of wood, and when she offered them hot chocolate, for which she discovered they had a particular liking, together with some biscuits, they drank and ate in comparative silence, saying only, ‘Ta,’ and ‘No, no; I don’t want any more. Thanks all the same.’

  During the afternoon she went several times down the rough path to the end of the garden, round by the outhouses and the closet, which had defeated her in her endeavours to eliminate its particular odour, through the small patch of what had been a vegetable garden, and on to the hill that overlooked the rough road below to see if Peter was coming. He should have arrived in Newcastle by the early morning train and she had expected him to come straight out to the house.

  It was mid-afternoon when, returning to the house once more, she found Florence O’Connor on the terrace. She was taking a stroll, she said, just to stretch her legs, and she had looked in to see if she needed anything. Mr O’Connor was going into town in the morning, so could he bring her any groceries? Had she enough oil?

  It was very kind of her, Constance had replied, but she herself would be going into town tomorrow; she needed to go to the flat. She had laughingly added that at times she forgot she had to look after two homes now; the purchase of this house had brought on a particular kind of amnesia. Would Mrs O’Connor like a cup of tea?

  Florence O’Connor had accepted and had sat in the long room drinking the tea and talking about her childhood spent in this very room. Only once had she glanced towards the mantelpiece, and that was when she first entered the room. Constance had seen her do this, and had expected her to make some comment, but she hadn’t referred to the carving in any way, and so, remembering Davie’s surprise at seeing it, she refrained now from alluding to it. The feeling of disquiet was back.

  Then, at six o’clock, Hannah climbed the hill and came along the terrace. She was carrying a blackberry and apple pie; she was sure the boy would be hungry after his long journey.

  Constance told her that Peter had not yet arrived and that she was rather worried; if he didn’t come shortly she would take the car down to the main road and phone the flat.

  Without invitation Hannah walked from the terrace into the long room and exclaimed in a high voice, ‘It’s bea
utiful you’ve got it. Never have I seen it looking like this. Now, why didn’t we ever think of hanging red curtains at the windows?’ She fingered the material. ‘It’s fine velvet. I guess that cost a pretty penny. That’s the reason we didn’t hang such curtains at the windows.’ She put her head back now and laughed, and her large breasts shook.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Hannah?’

  ‘No, no; thank you all the same.’ Hannah turned her beaming face towards Constance. ‘You know, I never drink anybody else’s tea but me own or Florence’s, unless I’m parched, that is. You know, the English, no offence meant’—she brought her head forward—‘but the English can’t make tea. Water bewitched and tea bedamned it is that most of them turn out.’

  Constance was laughing heartily now. ‘I’ll let you brew your own, Hannah. It’s all yours,’ she said, holding out her hand towards the kitchen, and Hannah, laughing louder now, said, ‘No, no. Honestly, I’m runnin’ half the night out of me warm bed. Like a hare I go across the yard, the skitters it gives me.’

  Oh! Oh! Like a hare I go, the skitters it gives me! Constance had never belly-laughed in her life, but she wanted to do so now. The very sight of Hannah filled her with mirth, and this was a feeling strange to her. She had the desire to link her arm and draw her to the couch and say, ‘Talk, Hannah, just talk, because I want to laugh, really laugh.’ But now Hannah had turned her head towards the mantelpiece and was staring at the carving, and again Constance waited for some comment about it. But as Florence O’Connor had reacted, so did Hannah; an ignoring of the fact that an apparently well-known piece of carving had found its way from Vincent’s workshop onto her mantelpiece. She should have said to both Florence and Hannah, as she had said to Davie, ‘Vincent gave it to me,’ but because she sensed there was something behind it, some significance, some embarrassing significance, she said nothing.

  Her face still bright, Hannah turned to her now, saying, ‘An’ you’re settled right in, then?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Until the bad weather starts, Hannah.’

  ‘Well, that could start from any time next month an’ go on right up to the beginnin’ of March…We’ll miss you when you leave.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll miss you, all of you. And this house, and meeting the family.’ She hadn’t known whether to say ‘your family’ or not. ‘It has been a wonderful experience, and…and you’ve all been so kind.’

  ‘Aw.’ Hannah flicked Constance’s arm with her fingertips. ‘It’s easy to be kind to some folks, very easy,’ and she finished the compliment with a bob of her head, then sauntered towards the door. But it was on the terrace that she said, ‘Well now, I’ll be goin’. If I don’t get down there soon that lot’ll be in bed with their boots on. It’s school for them on Monday, thanks be to God.’ And then, the smile slipping from her face, she gazed at Constance and said, ‘I shouldn’t say that, it’s a lie. I’m never happy unless they’re around me feet kickin’ up a shindy. Truth to tell, I dread the day the last one leaves home, because then they’ll all be grown up.’

  Constance dared to probe now, asking, ‘You’ve been here a long time, Hannah?’ And Hannah stared back at her, and it was a moment or so before she replied, ‘A long time, Mrs Stapleton, a long time. Goodnight to you.’

  ‘Goodnight, Hannah.’

  She was as wise as ever. A long time …

  It had turned seven when she stood on the hill and at last saw the red open car bumping along the road, and she went hastily down to meet it.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ After holding Peter in her arms she kissed him and he kissed her back. ‘Where’ve you been? What time did you get in? I’ve been expecting you since lunchtime.’

  He walked by her side up the hill, saying, ‘I got in this morning but I was so tired I went to bed.’

  ‘You’ve been in bed all day?’

  ‘No, no.’

  She looked at him closely as they walked in silence for a time; then she said, ‘Is anything wrong, Peter?’

  ‘Wrong? No, no. What could be wrong?’ He was smiling fully into her face.

  ‘Have you had a good time?’

  ‘Oh.’ He pressed his lips together and jerked his head. ‘Great! Absolutely great! We’ve decided to go again next year, only for twice as long. I’ll tell you all about it later.’

  As they entered the house through the kitchen door she said, ‘You saw your father?’

  He threw his bag onto the table and there was a definite pause before he answered, ‘Yes.’

  Swiftly she pulled him round to face her. ‘What’s wrong, Peter? There’s something wrong.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘You’ve had words with him? A row?’

  ‘No.’

  She swallowed; then moistened her lips. ‘Is he in the house?’

  ‘He was when I left.’

  ‘Was he there this morning when you arrived?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I got him out of bed.’

  ‘And…and you’ve had no words?’

  ‘No, no; I’ve told you. We were very polite to each other.’

  She sighed, then asked, ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned now and looked round the kitchen, saying, ‘Oh, you’ve got it fixed. Oh, I like this. I say!’ He went towards the open grate in which a wood fire was burning. ‘Does this work?’

  ‘Yes. It cooks beautifully too, and heats the water in the side boiler, with the help of some coke. Go and have a look at the other room while I make the tea. Or would you prefer coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  When he left her she stood for a moment gazing after him. There was something troubling him and it concerned his father. She was sure of that. They must have had words, although he’d said they hadn’t.

  A few minutes later he returned to the kitchen and his enthusiasm had lifted the blank look from his face. ‘It’s splendid! Really splendid. I knew you’d make it comfortable, but not like this. The orange rugs and those red curtains; you’d imagine they’d clash, but instead they look wonderful. The whole place looks warm. It’ll be marvellous in there in the winter.’

  ‘But we won’t be here in the winter.’

  ‘Oh, no. Have you found a place yet?’

  ‘No, but then I haven’t looked. I must, though, and very soon. I don’t suppose I can stay here later than October.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll have sold the flat by then?’

  ‘I don’t know. In any case we’ll have to have some place in town to go into first; you couldn’t possibly come out here in the winter even…even if I decided to stay on.’

  ‘Look.’ That strange expression was on his face again, and his voice was urgent now. ‘I’ve told you, you’re not to take me into account. In any case I’ll be living in. Don’t you worry about me in any way; do what is going to suit you, and just you.’

  She saw his jawbones tighten on the last two words and she said again, ‘Peter, tell me, please, what’s wrong? And it’s no use saying nothing’s happened between you and your father, because I don’t believe you.’

  He turned from her, but swinging quickly round again he said, ‘I’m going to say this once more. You should divorce him, for he’s no use to you.’

  ‘Peter! Don’t talk like that. I hate to hear you talk like that.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to hear quite a lot more of it in the future. I don’t know how you stand it for you’re neither married nor single.’

  She stared at him. He had only been gone from her for three weeks but he seemed to have developed into a fully grown man in that short time. Perhaps his education had been widened when he was abroad. She rejected the thought. No, whatever had happened she was sure Jim had had a part in it.

  After he’d eaten his meal she reopened the matter of finding a place in the town and said, ‘I think I’ll go in tomorrow. We could go round looking at places. What about it?’

  ‘I’ll go in with you but I’ll be busy in the afternoon.’ He kept his eyes on his plat
e. ‘I’ve got an appointment. It’s about some work I’ve got to do before I go up.’

  ‘So late? You didn’t say.’ She was staring at his bent head.

  ‘Well, I didn’t know until this morning; there was a letter awaiting me at the flat.’

  She knew he was lying.

  ‘I’ve got to see this fellow at the Hancock Museum.’

  ‘Will it be open?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes.’ He glanced up at her and smiled. ‘You don’t stop studying because you’re on holiday, you know.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. I saw Kathy O’Connor, the one that’s nursing, you know.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Yes; I stood her a coffee.’

  ‘You didn’t! That was very, very generous of you.’

  They were both laughing now.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘I was stopped at the traffic lights and there was a bus stop further on and I saw her waiting. We spotted each other at the same time and we waved, and so I asked her if I could drop her anywhere. She was going back to the nursery. She was having her two hours off or something.’ He wagged his head, drained his coffee cup, then ended, ‘After spending a couple of bob I dropped her at her quarters, and that was that.’

  ‘You mustn’t throw your money about.’

  He wafted his hand at her; then after a moment said, ‘She’s rather nice.’

  ‘Yes, I should imagine so. And she’s very pretty.’

  ‘Well.’ He lay back in the chair, stretched out his legs and again he said, ‘Well,’ and his hairless chin flattened itself as he paused to consider this statement. Then he gave his verdict. ‘I suppose she is, in a way. And you know something?’ He was looking up at her as she poured out more coffee. ‘She’s good company. We laughed all the time we were together. The O’Connors are all like that, aren’t they? You always find yourself laughing. How are they, by the way?’