The Solace of Sin

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Of course not.’ Constance shook her head, then added, ‘Isn’t it close? I feel boiled.’

  ‘Here! Let me help you.’ Kathy took some of the packages from her arms. Then Constance, turning her back to the door, gave it a jab with her buttocks, laughing as she said, ‘Moira showed me this trick.’

  As she dropped the parcels onto the round rosewood table to the right of the stairs, she looked about her, saying, ‘I feel I’ve been away for weeks; it’s wonderful to be back.’

  ‘Funny how it gets you.’ Kathy nodded understandingly. ‘When I’m down there in the nursery there are times I get an awful homesick feeling. You know, you’d think I was a thousand miles away. You either love this kind of life and scenery or you hate it.’

  ‘Well, you all love it,’ said Constance.

  ‘Oh no. No. Kevin, he couldn’t stand it; it nearly drove him mad.’

  ‘Kevin?’ Constance put her head on one side, and Kathy explained, ‘He’s the one next to Vin. He’s married and has four children. They come up for holidays, but he’s always glad to get back, is Kevin, into the town, I mean.’

  ‘He’s in Newcastle?’

  ‘No, in Jarrow. A week of it would kill me, but he loves it. His wife is from there, so everybody’s happy. Shall I put the kettle on and make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely, but I’ve got more stuff to bring from the car.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll help you, then.’

  And so the rest of the parcels were brought up. Afterwards, Kathy put the kettle on and laid out a tray with quiet ease as if she were used to doing it in this house every day, and when the tea was brewed and poured they sat in the long room and drank it; and after a while Constance said, ‘Peter was telling me he ran into you the other day.’

  ‘Yes; yes, we had a coffee together. He’s good fun.’

  It was on the tip of Constance’s tongue to say, You think so? Instead, she said, ‘Yes; yes, he likes to laugh.’ She had always considered her son a very serious-minded boy; it was strange to hear someone label him as good fun, but she was glad that someone had. ‘Is it your day off?’ she asked.

  ‘Half-day,’ said Kathy. ‘And don’t I need it.’

  ‘You like looking after the children?’

  ‘Oh yes, I love it. But I think I’ll like it better when I can work in the General. I can’t do that, though, until I’m eighteen.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Next month.’

  ‘How do you get in and out; I mean, from the town to here?’

  ‘Oh; coming, I get a bus to Wark-on-Tyne or Woodpark, whichever one comes, and then I shank it from there. It’s only three miles, but Vin always takes me back.’

  Constance said now, ‘He already has his work cut out as a chauffeur taking the children to school and back.’

  ‘Yes, he’s got his work cut out all right. They could go part of the way in the school bus from Haltwhistle, but he prefers to take them straight to Hexham.’ Kathy’s face became thoughtful for a moment. Then looking directly at Constance she said, ‘He’s wonderful, our Vin; he’s wonderful, Mrs Stapleton.’

  After a moment, during which she felt slightly embarrassed, although she couldn’t say why, Constance said, ‘I’m sure he is. He seems to take care of everything.’

  ‘Yes, he does that. I don’t know where they’d all be without him.’ Her head turned slowly and she now looked towards the mantelpiece, although Constance felt the girl had been aware of what sat there from the moment she first entered the room.

  ‘That’s a beautiful piece, isn’t it?’ Kathy moved her head slowly.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Suddenly Constance made up her mind to say something and, bending forward, she said, ‘Kathy, I…I didn’t want to take the carving but Vi…your brother put it in such a way that it was impossible for me to refuse.’

  Kathy’s dark brown eyes surveyed her but she offered no comment, and Constance went on, ‘Well, I…I mean they all seemed rather surprised when they saw it there, and neither your mother nor Hannah made any reference to it, which puzzled me. I feel that in some way it’s of value and…and I’d like to return it, but—’

  ‘Oh, don’t do that, Mrs Stapleton, if he’s given it to you, and he did give it to you. Don’t, please don’t return it; he’d be so upset. When Vin does anything it’s final. You know?’

  Constance didn’t know, but she said, ‘Yes; yes, I understand.’

  Kathy now smiled at her. Then getting to her feet, she said, ‘I’ll have to be moving; they’ll wonder where I’ve got to, for, you know’—her smile widened—‘they expect me to talk and tell them tales about the children every minute I’m at home. You’d think I spent my time at the pictures, the tales I’ve got to tell them, true and imaginary’—she nodded—‘especially me dad. He’d sit and listen all day to tales. That’s the Irish in him. And, of course, he can tell his share himself.’

  ‘Yes, I can believe that.’ Constance laughed with Kathy. Then, together, they walked out of the door and with a word of goodbye Kathy ran along the terrace in much the same way as Biddy or Moira would have done. She did not, however, go round the side of the house and take the pathway down the hill; instead, she scrambled over the edge of the crag that was a short cut to the farm, the short cut that always left its impression on the boys’ hind quarters. At this thought, Constance smiled to herself.

  Her lips were still apart when she again entered the long room, and sat in the armchair opposite the window, letting herself swim in the view from it.

  The past twenty-four hours were receding fast; it was as if the events in them had happened a year ago; the house was spreading a blanket of time between her life in the flat and the life within these walls. But she wished, after what had happened yesterday, that she didn’t have to thank Millie and Harry for finding the house…Oh that girl! She was vile. Vile.

  Of a sudden, the sun was gone, and the biscuit coloured, sloping stretches of land and mauve-tinted hills had turned to a steely grey. It’s going to rain, she thought…What would she do when it rained all day, day after day, as it might do in the winter? And when she was snowed up for weeks on end? As the children had said, she could even be cut off from the farm below. What would she do with herself then? She couldn’t read all the time, and there wouldn’t be enough work to occupy her. If Jim didn’t come, and it wasn’t likely that he would in the winter, when he’d hardly stay a night now, there wouldn’t be much cooking to do, except at weekends for Peter…Well, she’d have to take up a hobby; she’d take up painting again. She’d been quite good at it in the convent, and embroidery, too. She could do that. She could also practise at the piano. That’s if she could get a piano up here…That was a thought; a piano. She’d look round for a second-hand one, a smallish one, something that the men could manoeuvre up the hill.

  She got to her feet and walked to the open door, and as she looked onto the empty terrace and the greater emptiness of the land beyond that stretched away to meet the heavens, she became awed by the vastness and the silence, and she found herself wishing that she could persuade Jim to come and live here. It would solve everything. But attached to this wish was an unpleasant truth and she made herself face it. The only reason she wanted him to come and live in this house was so that she might live in it all the time. She desired his presence at any time only as a means to ward off the soul-stripping feeling of aloneness. She had put up with the unspeakable for years simply because she was afraid to be left entirely alone. Peter, she had recognised, was but a stopgap to her fear; he would leave her some day to marry. Then, if she didn’t have Jim, what would she do?

  She despised herself.

  Just then, a thin veil of rain came over the hills, so she went in and closed the door on it, on everything.

  Ten

  It was the day Constance decided to go for a walk that she met the priest.

  She had felt restless all day, and worried, too: Peter’s manner was puzzling her more and more. He seemed distu
rbed about something: she was sure it had nothing to do with Ada’s accusation; nor was he worried about starting his first term at university, for she had challenged him with this. The trouble lay, she was sure, with his father. From the beginning, there had never been any love between Jim and his son, and for this, at times, she felt she was to blame, because she had done nothing to make the boy even like his father. It had been impossible for her. That Peter had always been respectful towards Jim, she knew was because he was a little afraid of him. But over the past few days—in fact, since his return from his holiday—his manner towards Jim had undergone a change for the worse.

  Last night he had been quite cheerful and they had gone down to the O’Connors and he had talked with Kathy again. He had even taken her back to the nursery. But today, the set look was on his face again. When he announced he was going into Newcastle before lunch, Constance thought that perhaps he had made an appointment to meet Kathy; but he hadn’t said, and she hadn’t asked.

  As yet, Constance had not explored the countryside; the only distance she had been from the house on foot was to the wood. It had rained heavily in the night and for most of the morning, but now the sun was shining. It was even hot, and steam was rising from the ground. It was as if she were walking on the clouds themselves.

  After she had walked for about two miles she crossed a fast flowing burn and gauged that she was on Allerybank Moor. To the right would be the village of Falstone. Some day, before the bad weather set in, she would walk to Falstone or Stannersburn. She had been to Falstone by car and found it delightful, but today she felt she had gone far enough, because she wasn’t used to rough walking.

  It was as she retraced her steps over the stones on a narrow part of the burn that she saw the priest pushing his bike up an incline. He was a dark-haired young man with a thin, ascetic-looking face. His Irish accent was prominent as he greeted her politely, saying, ‘It’s a beautiful day it’s turned out.’

  ‘Yes, it has, Father.’ The spontaneous way she gave him his title caused him to look at her closely, and with a smile on his thin lips he said, ‘You’re a Catholic?’

  ‘No, Father. No, I’m not a Catholic.’

  ‘No? I could have sworn you were, though you’re not from these parts. You’re just on holiday, then?’

  ‘No, I’m not on holiday, Father. From now on you could say I am from these parts. I live up in Shekinah Hall.’

  ‘Oh, you do, you do?’ His face brightened. ‘You must be Mrs Stapleton? I’m Father Shelley.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Mrs Stapleton, Father.’

  ‘Ah! Ah! That’s it, I knew there was something. I had a feeling I’d met you before; it was their good description of you. You know’—he leant his head towards her and his voice dropped to a whisper—‘when you ask some people if they’re Catholics they take it as if you are accusing them of being a Communist or something.’

  She laughed, and he said, ‘I’m on my way to the O’Connors now; it’s a long trek to the next downhill run. Good day to you. We’ll doubtless be meeting up again.’

  ‘Good day, Father.’

  As the black-clothed figure pushed the bike up the slope of the moor she sat down on the bank of the stream and gazed into the water, where it gurgled around a group of rocks.

  More than once she had been tempted to enter a confessional box and unburden herself to a priest: not that she could receive absolution, but just so that she could speak about this dark thing that shadowed her life. But it would have meant asking, What should I do, Father? Should I leave my husband or should I stay with him? And when she was asked the reason could she have said, even through a dark grid, because he has a weakness for young girls? No, it would have been impossible to have betrayed him, even to a stranger.

  She must have sat on the bank for nearly an hour before starting on the return journey, and she was feeling weary as she neared the end of it. But she knew she had only to round the foot of just one more hill and from there she would see the house.

  It was at that point that she heard Hannah’s unmistakable voice yelling, ‘Well! You’ve found me. So what you goin’ to do?’

  ‘If your conscience wasn’t troubling you, you wouldn’t try to hide.’ It was the priest who spat the words at Hannah, which caused her to bawl back, ‘Who’s hidin’? I was goin’ for a walk!’

  There followed a short silence, during which Constance remained still; there was something about the exchange that appeared utterly private, and she hesitated whether to show herself or retrace her steps and get to the house the back way. Then she heard Hannah say, ‘All right, all right, there’ll be no peace until you have your say, but don’t forget, I’ve heard it all afore and you’re wastin’ your time. But if you intend to try again, I’d get off me legs if I were you, for it looks like being a long session.’

  Constance moved slightly so that she could see the priest. He was looking down on Hannah as if he hated the very sight of her, and no doubt this feeling was engendered by his inability to bring her to her knees, for she now laughed scornfully at him as she said, ‘Well, I’m waitin’; you’re wastin’ precious time. Come on, Patrick, you might as well get it over with.’

  ‘Don’t you dare call me Patrick, woman.’ The priest’s jaws were clamped together now.

  ‘And why not?’ Hannah’s head went back and she gave a loud, coarse laugh. ‘You wouldn’t like me to call you Mister, would you now? And you’ll wait a hell of a time afore I call you Father…What did you say?’ She brought her head towards him. ‘Thank God for that?…Well, you said somethin’ and it sounded pretty like it. An’ I repeat, an’ I’ve said it to your face afore, I’m not callin’ you Father. Father Bateman, aye. Any day in the week I’ll give him his title, because he’s a priest of God, but not you.’

  Father Shelley’s face was livid and for the moment he could not speak. Instead, he had to listen to Hannah laughing up at him from the grass and saying, ‘It’s right what I’m tellin’ you. Oh but, for God’s sake, don’t let the thought make you pass out. Come and sit yourself down; you’ll be able to upbraid me easier that way.’

  Father Shelley gulped in his throat before he said, ‘I haven’t sought you out to hold a conversation with you, but to tell you that you must get yourself to confession and the sacraments, as well as your Easter duties, long overdue, before it is too late. You’re getting no younger, remember that—’

  ‘Aw, you don’t have to remind me. And it’s a pity, I say, because it stops me showing the results of more sins.’

  Father Shelley’s voice was harsh as he said slowly, ‘I’m a priest of God and as such should have forgiveness in me for you, but I haven’t; nevertheless I must try, but at this moment I can only see you as a loose, brazen woman. You told me once that Father Bateman said that your kind were Christ’s own chosen people; well, I don’t see eye to eye with my superior on this matter, for to me, woman, you are a sink of iniquity.’

  ‘Don’t you call me woman, I’m warnin’ you. Me name’s Hannah Kerry.’

  ‘Well, Miss Kerry’—the priest’s words came weighed now as though prophesying—‘there’re only two things sure in life: birth and death. You’ve achieved one and the other is fast approaching you. Remember that: the other is fast approaching you, and ask yourself if you’re going over with your soul as black as the coals of hell. Ask yourself that in the quiet of the night.’

  Constance was amazed at what she had heard, yet at the same time she didn’t fully understand it. What had Hannah done? She knew that Catholic priests, especially Irish ones, could put emphasis on actions such as adultery, far away and above the censure entailed outside the church. She had no doubt in her mind that the priest was accusing Hannah of adultery. Yet Hannah was a middle-aged woman, a motherly person whose only apparent attraction was her sense of humour. Had Hannah in her early days had an affair with someone? And if so, would the priest be keeping on at her now about it? Everybody had their troubles, but somehow she wished the O’Connors had escaped them. It
disturbed her to think there was disharmony in that household. She remembered yet again Jim saying, ‘They’re a queer lot down there.’

  She stood for a moment uncertain what to do. She didn’t hear either of them leave, but after a time she imagined the priest had made his departure following his last words, so with a deep breath she stepped quickly from around the butt, prepared to show surprise at Hannah sitting on the grass. But the hillside was unoccupied.

  Some time before she reached the house she saw Hannah sitting on the corner of the terrace. She greeted Constance over the distance, calling, ‘Aw, there you are. You’ve been for a walk. I came away up to see you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Constance managed to call back airily. ‘I wanted to explore the countryside. I’m sorry I wasn’t in. Have you been waiting long?’

  As she approached her, Hannah said, ‘No, not very long. To tell you the truth, I thought I’d catch you about to go into town, and I was after a lift.’

  ‘Oh, you want to go into town? Well, I’ll run you in.’

  ‘Well, not into town exactly; I just wanted to go as far as Birtley.’

  ‘Birtley!’ Constance raised her brows. ‘But that’s miles away; on the way to Durham.’

  ‘Aw.’ Hannah threw her head back. ‘Not that Birtley. Oh, not that Birtley; I mean the little village yon side of the river. It’ll be no more than fifteen minutes in the car.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be pleased to take you. Would…would you like to go now?’ She hoped Hannah would tell her there was no rush, for she was dying for a cup of tea, but Hannah did say she would like to go now. ‘If it wouldn’t be puttin’ you out too much,’ she said.

  Constance went into the house to pick up the car keys, and when they were both seated in the car Hannah, with disarming frankness, said, ‘I never thought I would take a likin’ to the body who would buy the Hall, but I’ve been proved wrong. An’ I’m speakin’ for all of us.’