The Solace of Sin

by Catherine Cookson

  Florence, knitting vigorously at a sock, nodded her head but did not look up at her husband. She remembered that year at the Freemans’ do: it was the first time she had appeared publicly with her farmhand husband and the tongues had nearly wagged themselves loose.

  ‘Who’s up there?’

  Florence turned her head towards Vincent and said, ‘Moira and Davie. They all wanted to go but I wouldn’t have it. The others are along in the back room; they’ve got a fire on and they’re setting up the train. I told Davie to stay put there until their dad went up for them.’ Florence did not add, or you.

  ‘She looks ill,’ said Sean. ‘I don’t think she should be out of her bed; that ’flu took her down.’

  ‘Aye. Besides which, she’s got something on her mind,’ said Hannah flatly as she reached over towards the table and took a piece of home-made toffee from a tin. ‘The bairns say she’s brought a pile of china and stuff back with her, all lovely bits. When the snow clears I’ll take a dander up and have a look at them. Davie says they’re beautiful, an’ he’s got an eye for such things, has Davie.’

  And Hannah was right. Davie had an eye for china. He was standing at the Welsh dresser pointing to a shelf on which stood three figurines in Dresden, and he said, ‘I like colours; colours like their clothes’. I say to our Vin, “Why don’t you paint some of your things?” but he won’t.’

  From the couch, Constance looked at the back of Davie’s head as she said, ‘It would be a shame to paint any of Vin’s work. It’s a different matter altogether, a different kind of art, Davie. If you like figures like that, then you should go in for pottery. Can you draw?’

  Before he could answer, Moira, who was curled up on the couch by Constance’s side, with a large encyclopaedia on her knee, said, ‘Oh, he draws lovely, our Davie. Vin says he should go to an art school somewhere.’

  ‘Where?’ said Davie, still looking up at the china; ‘they’re all too far away. Anyway, I want to be a doctor.’ He had turned towards the couch and Constance said in some surprise, ‘A doctor? You want to be a doctor, Davie?’

  ‘Yes.’ He came and stood before her and looked into her face. He, the smallest of the O’Connors, was thin and, as Moira had once described him, undersized, but he was undoubtedly the smartest of them all where brains were concerned, and in an unchildlike tone, he said, ‘I want to, and I’d like to, but I know I’ll not be able to stay on at school; though me dad says if our Vin makes a go of it down there’—he jerked his head—‘I’ll have a chance. But Vin doesn’t say so.’

  ‘And you can’t believe it until Vin says so?’ asked Constance quietly.

  ‘Well no.’ Davie shook his head and, looking down, examined his fingernails, which were far from clean. ‘Our Vin always knows how the land lies; he never bunks you up unless he means to keep you there. Dad’s different.’ He smiled now. ‘He keeps hopin’. Our Kathy calls him “Littlewood’s bright light”. Kathy does the pools. She says if she wins she’s going to build us a mansion and a swimming pool.’

  Constance didn’t want to laugh, she didn’t even want to smile, but you couldn’t be with one of the O’Connors for long and not smile; that is, with the exception of Vin. She hadn’t seen him since New Year’s Day, when he had sat by her side on the couch here, silent and dour.

  ‘If I won the pools I wouldn’t build a mansion,’ said Moira; ‘I’d come up here and live with you, Mrs Stapleton.’

  Constance put her hand out and Moira hugged it and laughed, and it was at that moment the door burst open. They thought it was the gale and they all sprang round, no fear on their faces, because the children didn’t fear the elements, nor yet did Constance. Then, almost as one, their expressions changed, and Moira, looking at Mr Stapleton from where she was kneeling on the couch, slid backwards and stood near Davie. Mr Stapleton was covered with snow, but it wasn’t that which frightened her, it was the look on his face. And then he was yelling at them, ‘Get out! Get out!’

  They both looked questioningly at Mrs Stapleton, but she was gaping at her husband, so they sidled around the head of the couch, keeping a good distance from the man. Then Mrs Stapleton spoke. She said, ‘Go and get your coats;’ and they came back and walked behind her and moved sideways towards the kitchen; then, grabbing up their coats and scarves, they put them on as they again hurried through the long room. The door was still open and the snow was piling up on the mat as they went out, and Davie had difficulty in closing the door after him. On the terrace, he groped at Moira and pulled her along by the wall, but after passing the window, he drew her to a halt and whispered in her ear, ‘We’ll wait here a minute and see what he does.’

  What Jim Stapleton did was to walk slowly towards Constance and stare at her, and for the first time she felt a real fear of him. When angry or frustrated he bawled or shouted at her, but now he was silent, suffused with a white anger that had bleached his face almost to the colour of the snow lying on the broad brim of his tweed hat. When his hand shot out and grabbed at the neck of her dress she cried, ‘No! No! Don’t! Let go of me! Let go!’

  As he held her his lips mouthed words without sound, and then slowly he ground out, ‘I should throttle you, but you’re not worth swinging for, you sneaking, bloody prig, you! Coming home off a journey to that, a notice in the window, and the place stripped. God! You were lucky you weren’t there, because I would have killed you on the spot. As it is, I’m going to give you something to remember me by.’

  ‘Let go of me!’ She tugged violently away from him, and the front of her dress ripped downwards, and as she staggered back she cried brokenly, ‘I’ve got enough to remember you by: a small fortune gone, a wrecked life, your lies, and your deceit, the fear of a policeman coming to the door for you. I…’ Her chin trembled. ‘I’ve…I’ve plenty to remember you by. And the latest, your filthy little prostitute whom you’ve kept supplied with my money so that—in case you don’t know it—she could carry on her business when you weren’t there—’

  The flat of his hand caught her full across the face and sent her staggering against the wall, and she fell down by the side of the wooden chair. When he came at her again, she turned her body across the seat and grasped the edge of it. Now she was screaming aloud as his fists pummelled her. Once having lifted his hand it seemed he couldn’t stop and he rained blows on her; he even pulled her head backwards by the hair and punched at her face; then finally he raised his foot and kicked her shins. But the excruciating pain that this must have caused only brought a moan from her now. And after that she became quite quiet …

  Davie jumped off the end of the terrace with the speed of a hare, and Moira, whom he was still holding by the hand, seemed to fly through the air after him. He did not follow the path they had cut out during the day which led down the hill but, sitting on the slide at the top of a steep incline, he let himself go, yelling, ‘Come on! Come on!’

  The snow permeated through Moira’s long stockings and knickers and made her yell before she fell into the drift at the bottom of the hill, and she pulled herself out of it, gasping and shouting to Davie. But Davie was no longer there; he was racing across the yard, yelling, ‘Dad! Dad! Vin! Vin!’

  When he burst into the kitchen he was so breathless and his head was wagging so violently that he couldn’t answer them for a moment, and they all shouted at once, ‘What is it? What is it?’

  ‘He’s…he’s killin’ her. P…punchin’ her all over, kicking her. Sh…she’s lying down by the wall.’

  ‘Who? in the name of God!’ shouted Hannah.

  ‘Mr…Mr Stapleton. He came in all covered…’

  The boy’s voice was drowned by Florence crying, ‘No! Vin. Let your father go.’ Then Sean was shouting, ‘Wait boy, wait! I’ll see to this.’ But Vincent was already through the storeroom, dragging a coat on as he went.

  ‘Go after him, Sean. Go after him.’ Hannah’s voice was high and panic-filled, and Sean, bounding across the room in his stockinged feet, almost jumped into his wellingtons, a
nd as he dragged on his coat, Florence thrust a torch in his hand, saying, ‘Do something, anything, only don’t let them meet up.’

  Before he went out of the door Sean grabbed at a piece of wood Vincent had left there earlier to be chopped for kindling. It was of seasoned timber but had a flaw in it. It measured about two feet long and three inches square, and Sean tucked it under his arm as he lumbered and slithered out of the yard. When he flashed his torch in the direction of the hill he could see the dark shape of Vincent climbing the hill, but being impeded by the soles of a pair of ordinary shoes, and twice within a few minutes he lost his foothold and went onto his knees. Because of this, Sean, in his ridged-soled wellingtons, was able to gain on him, and when at last he reached the top of the hill, Vincent was only a few yards away and he called to him, ‘Listen boy, listen. Hold your hand a minute. Do you hear me?’

  When Sean passed the window Vincent was at the front door, and the next moment they were both in the room, immediately noticing the crumpled figure on the floor, then the man who with great sweeps of his arm was scattering the china ornaments, figures and plates from the dresser. So much noise was he making that he hadn’t heard their arrival and it wasn’t until he sprang towards the mantelpiece and, after knocking a Chinese vase to the hearth, grabbed the carving of the sheep and its lamb, that the voice thundered at him, ‘Leave that alone!’

  Jim Stapleton swung round. His face, no longer white, was suffused with an emotion that had gone beyond anger into the realm of destructive hate. He was holding the carving above his head as he cried, ‘What the hell do you want?’

  Vincent didn’t speak, but his body stretched and Sean cried, ‘No! I tell you, no!’

  Vincent seemed deaf to his father’s voice. His eyes were now fixed on Jim Stapleton and it was as he moved towards him that Stapleton cried on a high note, ‘Christ Almighty! A bloody murderer like you. My God! That’s why she did it; she hadn’t the guts before. But for you, you!’

  What followed next surprised Jim Stapleton as much as it did Vincent, for Sean, gripping the piece of wood in both hands, brought it down with all the force of which he was capable on the back of his son’s neck and shoulders. The act silenced Stapleton and it also brought a spate of apologetic words from Sean, but no sound at all from Vincent who, after staggering forward, his hands cupping his head, turned around, and through his dazed eyes looked at his father gabbling on, ‘It’s the only way, Vin, the only way.’ The older man was almost crying as he watched his son stagger towards the table and hold on to it for support. So, ignoring Stapleton, he went to Vin and implored him almost tearfully, ‘Leave this to me. Trust me, boy. Leave it to me. Go on, go on down home.’

  Vincent’s reaction was to pull himself up straight and give a violent shake of his head; but he couldn’t rid himself of the effects of the blow.

  ‘Go on now, go on, boy.’ Sean pulled his torch from his pocket and thrust it into Vincent’s wavering hand. ‘Go on, go on down and tell one of them to come up, either your mother or Hannah. Go on now, boy.’ His tone was coaxing and pleading at the same time.

  As Sean made to lead his son to the door, Vincent again shook himself; but, still under the effects of the blow, he allowed himself to be led outside. There, Sean pushed him gently a few steps along the terrace. Then, in the light from the window, he watched him step off the end of the terrace and move away into the darkness.

  Stapleton was still staring hard towards the door when Sean re-entered the room and straightway picked up the piece of wood from the floor and again held it in both hands, and he said, ‘I’ll give you exactly a minute to get goin’.’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’

  ‘You know who I’m talkin’ to: a dirty, cowardly skunk of a man…I’m givin’ you a chance to get out, because when he comes to himself, he’ll do for you. And I’m goin’ to tell you this: I wish I had the courage to do it meself. Another thing I’ll say. If it was possible to get the polis up here I’d have them like a flash of lightnin’. Now get out, and go the road you came. You got here by car and pray to God that you’ll be able to go back the same way because, I’m warnin’ you, I don’t hold much for your chances if you’re about when he comes round.’

  Sean’s attention was drawn to Constance as she moaned and tried to raise herself from the floor, but he did not go to her. He looked again at Jim Stapleton, who was still holding the carving in his hand. Then with a violent gesture Stapleton turned and flung it into the heart of the fire and for a moment stared at it as the flames licked around it. Then, picking up his hat, which was still lying on the floor, spattered with pieces of broken china, he pulled it onto his head and, buttoning up his coat, he walked past Sean without taking his eyes off him. At the door he hesitated, as if the wind-driven snow deterred him, but then, lowering his head, he went out.

  Constance again groaned and now made an effort to get to her feet, and Sean, quickly putting his arms about her, said, ‘There now. There now. Come away. Come away,’ and he led her to the couch and sat her down. Then pressing her back and lifting up her feet gently he spoke as if to a child, saying, ‘Rest now. Rest now. They’ll be up in a minute, the women.’ Bending over her, he stroked the hair back from her bruised forehead and darkening cheeks, the while muttering to himself, ‘God save us! It’ll be black and blue she’ll be the morrow, and all over. That swine of a man! Mad he was, stark staring mad. And look at this place…What is it? What is it, my dear?’ He cocked an ear to catch the words she was trying to frame with her swollen lips, and he questioned her, ‘Stop what?’ Then he screwed up his face before saying, ‘Don’t worry, my dear; it’s all over.’

  When again Constance muttered, ‘Stop…stop,’ he said, ‘Yes, yes, I’ll stop with you. Of course, I’ll stop with you. We’ll not leave you, none of us.’ When she moved her head and tried to rise from the couch he realised that he had got her meaning wrong and, pressing her gently back, he said, ‘Now, now; don’t upset yourself;’ then he looked towards the open door, through which snow was drifting into the room, and as if he had heard something, he went swiftly to it, put his head out and peered along the terrace. But there was no sign of anyone coming up from down below. What was keeping them? She needed a woman, someone to bathe that face and put her to bed. Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth. Had he hit Vin so hard that he had collapsed on the way down? The only thing for it was to run to the top of the hill and shout down to them; surely they’d be on the alert. He glanced back into the room before running along the terrace and over the ground to the top of the hill, and there, cupping his hands, he cried into the white night, ‘Hello there! Hello there! Vin! Vin! Florence!’

  A thin voice came back to him from quite near, calling, ‘Dad! Dad!’ And as Sean recognised the voice of his son, Michael, he shouted to him, ‘Where’s Vin? Is he down there?’

  ‘No, Dad, he hasn’t come back.’

  ‘God in heaven!’ Sean turned his head first one way then the other as if looking for support; then he shouted to Michael, ‘Don’t come any further. Go back and tell your mother and Hannah they’re needed up here, an’ quick.’

  ‘Yes, Dad. Yes, Dad.’

  As Sean turned back towards the house he thought, What’s happened? God Almighty! What’s happened to him? I shouldn’t have hit him so hard…Come on. Come on, you women.

  It was as he ran back towards the terrace that he heard the wailing and it speeded his legs along it to the door, and when he thrust it open his eyes looked on the strangest sight, for there was Vincent sitting on the couch, and in his arms, held like a child, was the woman he had left just a minute or so ago. And her crying was like a horde of banshees; for it was high and weird, and from the heart.

  ‘There now. There now.’ Vincent was soothing her as he himself had done. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t cry like that. Quiet now. Quiet.’

  But Constance could not quell her crying, for she was crying the tears that she had suppressed for years. She was crying as she had cried on
ly once before, and the sound she was making seemed to be issuing from every pore in her body, for it deafened her own ears; moreover, it assaulted her sense of dignity as it ripped open her façade and tore away her control. It brought her mouth open wide and the saliva flowing from it; it racked all her bones and sent her arms flailing the air.

  ‘Get my mother,’ muttered Vincent thickly.

  ‘They’re comin’. They’re comin’,’ said Sean.

  ‘Don’t. Don’t.’ Vincent now tried to smother her head against his shoulder, but she fought him, and went on fighting him, and Sean said, ‘Put her down.’

  ‘No; she’ll do herself an injury.’

  When Florence entered the room she immediately stopped and gazed at the shambles; then she looked at the man she thought of as her son nursing Mrs Stapleton, and she struggling to be free.

  ‘Lay her on the couch, Vin,’ she commanded.

  Vincent looked at Florence for a moment; then went to do as she bade. But now Constance clung to him. Her hands clawing at his neck, she held on to him fiercely as her wailing mounted.

  ‘In the name of God! In the name of God!’ It was Hannah.

  Stepping gingerly amid the broken china, she went to the couch and gazed at her son and the second woman he had set his heart on, and she said, ‘Poor creature. It’s as Davie said, he kicked her all over. God above! Look at her poor face…Can’t you stop her wailing?’

  ‘Tell me how,’ said Vin, looking up at her.

  ‘See if there’re any spirits about,’ said Sean, nodding towards Hannah, who answered, ‘You’ll never get them down her. It’s a doctor you want, with a needle. She’s in hysterics, and if it’s allowed to go on anything could happen to her.’

  ‘Get me some snow.’

  ‘What!’ Hannah looked down at Vincent; and so did Florence, and she questioned, ‘Snow, Vin?’