‘For two pins I’d go out there and roll her, and she’d have her knickers off for me in less time—’
As Peter’s fist thrust out, his father’s hand caught him a blow that knocked him backwards against the table, and sprawling over it to save himself from falling, his hand came in contact with a fruit knife that was lying on a low wooden platter beside some apples. Peter grabbed at it, and kept it in his fist, and still leaning backwards against the table he spluttered, ‘You’re rotten; filthy, stinking. You always have been. Why she’s stayed with you all these years, I’ll never know; but she won’t any longer because I’m going to tell her about the house in Quilter Street…number eighteen, and the walks you take every afternoon for the good of your health…for the good of your health’—he was straining forward now—‘with a girl young enough to be your granddaughter, you dirty—!’
As his father dived at him, Peter’s hand came up and the point of the short knife just missed the thick neck, although the blade ripped through the shoulder of Jim’s coat.
Constance was screaming as she gripped Peter’s arm in an effort to stop him repeating the action. Then her voice trailed away as she saw Jim stagger back, his face lint-white, and grasping his shoulder. She watched him pull off his coat, then the long-sleeved cardigan he was wearing underneath, to reveal a patch of blood on his shirt. He stared at it, then slowly he pulled off his shirt.
The point of the knife had merely slit the skin on the fleshy part of his upper arm, although if his coat had not been made of thick tweed and cushioned by the pullover the injury could have been much worse. But even if it had been, Constance would have found it impossible at the moment to have gone to his aid. She stood there, still holding on to Peter, who was shaking now from head to foot, yet just as aggressive as before.
When Jim dropped into a chair and, glaring at Constance, yelled, ‘Well, come and do something, can’t you?’ Peter grabbed at her, but slowly she disengaged herself from him, and went to her husband’s side. Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed at the cut; then pressed it on to the wound and forced herself to speak to him: ‘Hold it there,’ she said in a voice that was scarcely audible.
She now went into the kitchen and returned with a strip of elastoplast which she placed across the wound; then, again with a great effort, she said, ‘It…it might need a stitch.’
‘Huh!’ He gave a cracked laugh. ‘It might need a stitch, she says. He stabs me, and that’s what she says, quite calmly: it might need a stitch.’ He got to his feet and pulled on his clothes, wincing each time he thrust his arm upwards. When he was again dressed, he picked his tie up from a chair, and thrust it into his pocket, then went to the cupboard under the stairs and took out his overcoat and hat. Having put them on, he looked towards her and repeated scathingly, ‘It might need a stitch. You don’t care a damn if I’m able to drive the car to get down there. Not a damn you care.’ He brought his infuriated gaze from her to Peter, and he surveyed him for some seconds before saying, ‘As for you, you lying, mischief-making young bugger, if you were to get what you deserve, I should go straight down to the police and inform them that my son had stabbed me, that he attempted to kill me.’
‘But you won’t, will you? For I would tell them the reason why, wouldn’t I? As for me being a lying bugger—’
‘Be quiet! Peter. Be quiet!’
But Peter now thrust away his mother’s hand and repeated, ‘Lying bugger, am I? Well, for your information I’ve been trailing you for weeks…all during the summer holidays.’
‘Peter! Peter!’ She stood in front of him. Then turning to Jim, she cried bitterly, ‘Go on, get out! Get out, will you?’
His face almost purple with rage, Jim sounded as though he was choking on his words before he finally said, ‘God! It’s come to something, hasn’t it? New Year’s Day, to be knifed, then told to get out.’ He seemed to throw his body towards the door and as he went out, banging it after him, she wondered yet again at his capacity for shifting the onus.
Turning to Peter, she put her arms about him and led him to the couch; and when they were seated he bowed his head, bit on his lip, then slowly and painfully began to cry.
Holding him to her, she stroked his hair but said nothing; and when the spasm was over he pulled himself from her and wiped his face, first with his hands, then with a handkerchief, and after he had blown his nose he muttered, ‘I…I couldn’t help it. He took hold of her and she struggled.’
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ she said quietly; ‘I saw what happened.’
His head was moving slowly now, and he said, ‘I’ve been wanting to tell you about him for weeks and weeks, but I didn’t want to upset you again and…and I didn’t really know if you knew about it…Did you?’
‘No.’
‘I thought you couldn’t know and keep going on, yet I—’
‘How did you find out?’ she interrupted in a flat voice, the while she looked down at the white knuckles of her joined hands.
He rose from the couch and leant his forearms on the mantelpiece. Drooping his head onto his hands, he mumbled, ‘It was the day I came back from my holiday. He had gone out for a walk over the moor, as he was always supposed to do, and then I saw him, right down by the Armstrong Memorial. He was hurrying with what seemed to be purpose; then he jumped on a bus that was going the Leazes Park way. I don’t know what made me follow it.’ He stopped for a moment, then said, ‘Yes I do. I’ve always suspected him since the last business.’ Again he paused, but she didn’t ask, How did you know about that? for she had already realised little had escaped him over the years. ‘He got off at the end of Queen Victoria Road, went round by the Infirmary, and I thought I’d lost him, until I saw him entering the park. I left the car there and followed him. When he came out he cut into Barrack Road; then made for Arthur’s Hill way; in and out of streets he went. He walked for a good ten minutes before he went up the back lane of Quilter Street. I didn’t know then which house he went to, because when I got there he had disappeared.’
He stopped now and was silent for some time before she said, ‘Go on; I want to hear all of it.’ He lifted his head but with his arm still on the mantelpiece he asked, ‘Will you leave him?’
‘Go on and tell me what you know.’ She was still staring at her hands.
He took in a long breath before drooping his head again. ‘I had to follow him four or five times before I saw which house he went into. There’s a factory wall that runs along the end, and on the opposite side of the front street, on the corner near the main road, there’s a little shop, so one day I went in. There were two women there. I had seen one of them before—she had come out of her house in Quilter Street as I was standing on the corner—and this day, after I’d asked for some cigarettes, I asked if they could tell me the name of the people who lived at number eighteen. Then they looked at me, the two of them, and the woman who lived opposite said to me, “You take my advice and keep clear of that one.” She kept on and on; she…they thought I was after her, the girl, and the woman behind the shop told me to be sensible because’—he swallowed again, then ended in a rush—‘they said that the girl did not only work day shift but the night shift as well. She had the system well arranged, they said, and she was spoofing the old bloke that kept her. Her name was Phyllis Vagus.’
There was a deep silence in the room now. The wood shifted in the grate and sent up a shower of sparks. There was no sound from outside.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But…but it’s better you should know. Anyway’—he turned from the mantelpiece and looked at her now—‘you’ll leave him, won’t you? This’ll be the finish?’
As she stared blankly back at him the dark bulk of Vincent passed the window, and he opened the door without knocking.
Constance did not turn to look at him, for her gaze was directed towards the fire, but she knew that he was standing close behind her; and over her head he said to Peter, ‘Are you all right?’ and Peter, after nodding,
answered, ‘I’m all right.’
Vincent now looked about him. ‘Your…your father. Where is he now?’
‘He’s gone.’
Constance rose slowly to her feet, and as she passed round the head of the couch Peter asked anxiously, ‘Where’re you going?’ and she answered dully, ‘To make some tea.’
When they were alone, Vincent’s eyes moved to the table to where lay the fruit knife and the bloodstained handkerchief and, looking back at Peter, he said, ‘Don’t blame yourself; Kathy told me what happened. She’s very upset. I’d go down and have a word with her if I were you.’
‘I couldn’t.’ Peter closed his eyes. ‘It was all so rotten, beastly, and I…I acted like somebody mad. And coming on top of the other business.’ He glanced at Vincent. ‘They think we quarrelled, parted over…did she tell you?’
‘A little.’
‘God! She must think we are a right lot.’
‘She thinks none the worse of you. As for being a right lot, most families have skeletons. We’ve got more than our share. Go on down; she’s leaving in an hour, as you know. I’ll stay here until you come back, but I’ll take her in today; you’re in no shape to drive the car; and anyway your mother needs company. Go on, now.’ His voice and his expression were soft.
Peter looked up into the large face, and after moving his head from side to side he said quietly, ‘There’s a reason why I acted as I did…I can’t—’
‘I know there’s a reason, and there’s no need to say more. Go on, now.’ He put his hand out, and touched Peter’s shoulder. ‘But don’t be more than half an hour; I want to get her in and be back before it’s dark. I think there’s another fall of snow coming.’
Peter turned slowly away and picked up his long scarf, wound it about his neck, then pulled on his coat and left.
When Constance re-entered the room she stopped for a moment as she saw that Vincent stood alone in front of the fire. He said, ‘He’s gone down to say goodbye to Kathy; she’s due to leave shortly. He won’t be long.’
As she placed the tray on the table she was overcome by a fit of shivering. It started in her jaws, passed over her chest, down her arms and into her legs, and caused her to drop limply onto the couch.
Going to the tray, Vincent poured her a cup of tea, then silently handed it to her, and when she had drunk it and the shivering had subsided somewhat, she looked at the fire as she said, ‘He…he could have killed him if the knife had been big enough.’
‘Well, it wasn’t, and he didn’t; and he’ll never attempt it again.’ She raised her eyes to his, and he went on, ‘He’s still a boy; his action will wipe out all the bitterness that he feels towards him.’
When she still stared at him, he said, ‘I know. I know. I told you before that if I hadn’t done it the first time I would have tried it later; but this was different: Peter was fighting for his mother, I was fighting for a wife. There’s all the difference in the world. There’s something primitive rises in you when someone you imagine is going to share your life is taken from you, or…or marred in any way.’
Slowly he lowered himself onto the couch, although at a distance from her, and he leaned back and stared at the fire, and the silence that fell on them did not yell aloud in the room. But she began to recall the events that had occurred in the early hours of this morning, and as she pictured yet again her clinging to him and returning his kisses with all the fervour of which she was capable, her body began to burn and she hoped that he wouldn’t put his hand out and touch her, for she was afraid she would repulse him. The joy of New Year’s morning was over. It might have continued throughout the day if Jim hadn’t put in his appearance, but in one way she felt it was as well he had. At least it had put a stop to her madness, to the winter madness that seemed to fill and surround this house.
But she needn’t have worried about Vincent making advances to her, for after lighting a pipe he sat puffing intermittently, his head forward on his chest. He could have been sitting in his own kitchen, so little notice did he take of her. The silence went on and on and she found she could not break it.
She felt a sense of relief when Peter returned. He was hardly in the door before Vincent got up and left, without saying either ‘So long,’ or ‘Goodbye.’ He did not even look at her, but just walked out. And Peter said, ‘Is there anything wrong; I mean, with him?’ and she replied, ‘No. Nothing.’
Seven
On the Tuesday morning Constance said to Peter, ‘If I’m not back tonight don’t worry; I may not be able to get everything done today.’
‘Are you going round there?’
‘Yes.’
She had turned away as she spoke, and he said, ‘You shouldn’t go alone, I should be with you.’
‘I don’t want you with me. I’m calling on Aunt Millie; she’ll come with me.’
He said nothing to this, then asked, ‘What then?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘You don’t mean you would…?’
‘Peter.’ She had her back to him and she bowed her head. ‘Whatever happens, I’m staying here permanently.’ As she pulled on her gloves she said, ‘There’s plenty to eat. I’ll…I’ll bring more supplies back with me.’
‘You’re not fit to drive,’ he said; ‘and the roads are like glass.’
‘I’ll be all right, don’t you worry.’ She turned and looked at him without smiling. ‘Look after yourself. If I don’t see you later today I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t come out.’
‘I’m coming down with you,’ he said firmly as he dragged on his coat; ‘at least as far as the car. And you may not be able to get it going.’
As it happened, Constance got the car going with little trouble, and as she drew away she lifted her hand to him in farewell, driving cautiously down the ice-bound road.
Because of the road conditions it took her almost two hours to reach the bungalow on the outskirts of Low Fell. Before she got out of the car she sat for a moment gathering her forces, in case Jim should be still at home. But as soon as she entered the bungalow she knew he was gone; the whole place showed evidence of his anger. Dirty dishes were strewn over the kitchen table and sink, while in the dining room, which she had turned into a bedroom-cum-study for him, the wardrobe doors were open, as were the doors of the dressing chest; and she noticed that his pigskin case had gone from the top of the wardrobe. She made no attempt to clear up, but instead made herself a cup of black coffee. Then she got into the car again and drove to Newcastle and Millie’s.
When Millie opened the door she put her hand to her cheek and said, ‘Why, Connie! This is a surprise. A Happy New Year, lass. Come in, come in. Oh, I am glad to see you. It…it seems years. Sit yourself down; you look frozen. What’ll I get you? A cup of tea, or coffee?’
‘No, thanks, Millie; I’ve just had a coffee.’
Millie now sat down on the edge of a chair and stared at Constance, and she said, ‘You look thinner, if that’s possible, and you’re as white as a sheet.’
‘I’ve had ’flu, or something…How are you, Millie? And…and Harry?’
‘Oh.’ Millie jerked her chin. ‘What do you expect? It’s no use trying to paint the lily, is it? For meself, I find the house quiet, more peaceful altogether, until he comes in at teatime. And the sight of his face! Well, no matter how I tell meself I’m not going to worry any more, the look of him knocks all the gumption out of me, and I tell meself that if it would make him any better, I’d have Ada back. Yet, you know Connie, I doubt if he’d let her inside the door now.’
‘Have you seen her since?’
‘No, I’ve never clapped eyes on her, Connie, although she’s about the town. Susan’s seen her. She went into Ben’s shop one day, Susan says, and judging by the order she gave, money was scarce, and Ben made her up a parcel, and she didn’t say no to it…I worry about that, an’ all: if she’s gettin’ enough to eat; if she’s got any money. Yet, remembering how hard-boiled she was, I can’t see her going short, not really…But…b
ut about yourself? You’re in some trouble, Connie, aren’t you?’
‘I was wondering if you would come with me, Millie. I want to go to a house in Quilter Street.’ She looked away towards the blazing fire, with the fancy glazed, cloaked horsemen propping up each side of the bars, and said, ‘Peter found out that Jim’s keeping someone in Quilter Street. He followed him a number of times. But if I just go on what Peter says and tackle him with it, he’ll deny it. He went to London on New Year’s Day. I…I don’t think he can have done much about it since he left me. He had a dreadful scene with Peter up at the house; Peter used a knife on him.’
‘Oh my God, lass!’
‘I want to see for myself, Millie; then I’ll know what I have to do.’
‘Aw, lass.’ Millie got to her feet and went to Constance’s side and put her arm around her shoulder. ‘I thought that was all over.’
‘So did I. Yet I knew it would never be over with him. As long as he breathes it’ll never be over…Will you come with me, Millie?’
‘Yes, lass.’
‘You…you weren’t going to do anything? I mean, you’re not busy or—?’
‘Oh, busy? I have so much time on me hands that I want to scream. I said I like it quiet, but you can get too much of that, an’ all. Of course, lass, I’ll come with you. And I’m so pleased to see you; I’ve missed comin’ along.’ She smiled at Constance, and Constance replied, ‘And I’ve missed you, Millie.’
‘I’ll get me hat and coat’ …
It took Constance only fifteen minutes to find number eighteen Quilter Street. It was a short street and, as Peter had described, the last house was cut off by a factory wall. She drew the car up within a few yards of the wall; then, glancing at Millie, she got out, and when Millie came round to her side they walked two steps across the pavement. As Constance knocked on the brown-painted front door her heart pounded painfully against her ribs.
The Solace of Sin Page 22
