‘Well, that being the case, boy, you could have fooled me,’ said Sean grimly now.
‘And apparently I did. But how do you know how I feel about ever hitting a man again? You’ve never been inside; you don’t know what it’s like. I took an oath to myself that I’d never lay a hand on anyone in my life again and I’ve kept it; even without your blow, I would have kept it.’
Sean sighed deeply and said, ‘You think you would, lad. You think you would.’
‘Oh, God Almighty!’ Vincent beat his forehead with his clenched fist; then, gripping the edge of the bench with both hands, he leant his big body over the cluster of animals lying there and cried, ‘How can you expect her or anybody else to believe in me when your own don’t?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ said Sean. Then, turning towards the door, he said, ‘She’s in a bad way; she’s as shocked about this as she was when she thought he was dead.’ He opened the door and stood for a moment on the threshold before he asked quietly, ‘Are you going up?’
Slowly Vincent turned from the table, and as slowly he said, ‘No; I’m not going up.’
‘Aw, you’re nowt but a damn stubborn fool,’ cried Sean, and on this he went out, slamming the door behind him.
Vincent sat down at the bench and pushed the animals aside, then leant his elbows on the cleared space and pressed his face into his hardened palms.
Twelve
Towards the end of February, Constance knew she would have to get away; the loneliness was engulfing her. She hadn’t felt it so much up to the middle of January, when Peter’s term began at university. And anyway, during those days she had felt too physically ill to pay much attention to this other feeling, which the daily visits of the children, the popping in of Hannah, Florence and Sean did something to alleviate. Now, during the week, she was on her own most of the time. Peter came up on a Friday evening and stayed until Sunday evening; that’s if the weather allowed. A fortnight ago, the road had been blocked again and the weekend had seemed longer than the week, in spite of the visits from the O’Connors.
There had been the unexpected mid-week visit from Harry and Millie that had taken her mind off herself for a while. They had come on an afternoon and had brought Ada’s child with them. It was a fortnight old and already it had brought comfort to Harry. But at first neither he nor Millie spoke about the child, for they were aghast at the sight of Constance’s face.
‘Our Jim did that?’ said Harry; and when Constance nodded, he said, ‘Where is he?’
Millie and Constance both refrained from looking at each other, but Constance said, ‘In London, I think;’ and he replied, ‘London? Well, it’s a damn good job for him he is. The cowardly swine.’
But even following this they spoke little of the child; there was embarrassment about it on both sides. It wasn’t until Millie, under the pretext of helping Constance to clear away the tea things, followed her into the kitchen that she said, ‘Do you think he looks all right?’
‘Harry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, Millie; better than when I last saw him.’
‘He’s been through hell. He never speaks of Ada. When I brought the baby home he didn’t even ask if she was dead or alive. I’m glad, in a way, it’s a boy; he’ll likely be more sensible with it.’
‘She showed no signs of wanting it?’
‘Not her! Like nails, she is…By the way, how did you know he’d gone to London?’
‘I didn’t. I just said that in case Harry had heard of where he was staying.’
‘Well, it was a good guess, ’cos that’s where he has gone. She told me when I saw her; and it was with spite she said it. She said her Uncle Jim was in the money again…It looks as if they’re taking his book for a film, Connie. It’s a damn shame that you’ll not get a penny of it after all the money you’ve spent on him these last years.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter now, Millie. And in a way I’m glad; he’ll have something to tide him over.’
‘Tide him over!’ said Millie scornfully. ‘Small fortune he’ll get for it, likely.’
Constance smiled wryly. That’s what everyone had thought when he’d got his first book filmed; they made guesses at five to ten thousand pounds and he had not contradicted them. Later he’d told them he had received seven hundred and fifty pounds for the film rights. Of course, that was seventeen years ago, but even if they’d given him two thousand this time, it’d not last a year, not at the way he liked to spend.
Before they left, Harry said, ‘Don’t be lonely, Connie. If things get too much, come and stay with us for a while.’
She thanked him and said she would do that, knowing that she never would. Yet when they had gone she felt more alone than ever.
She hadn’t seen even the back of Vincent in the distance all these weeks. She might have seen him had she walked down the hill, but she wouldn’t do that; nor had the O’Connors, Florence, Hannah, or Sean, suggested that she should come down.
For years her pride had been rubbed in the dust through her husband’s rejection of her. For a long time she had been unable to look upon his choice of younger women as a defect in his character; rather, she had seen it as a defect in her own. Her looks, or her figure, did little to help her morale. She wanted to love, and be loved, yet she knew the need in her to love was greater than that to be loved, but the damming up of this outlet over the years now made it impossible for her to move towards Vincent O’Connor. In any case, she was seeing the situation in another light: if he had wanted her he’d had plenty of time to show it. Reviewing the incident on New Year’s morning, she saw it now as between a single man and a married woman. Then she had been safe, as it were; soon she’d no longer be married, but because of his past and the treachery in it, he wasn’t going to become involved again. At first she had put his attitude down to his anger against her mistrust, but six weeks was a long time to sustain such a feeling, she considered, at least under the present circumstances.
So she sent for the travel brochures, and Michael and Moira took the news of her intentions down the hill. They stood in the kitchen and looked at Florence, Hannah and Sean, and Michael said, ‘She’s going to Spain.’
‘She said that?’ asked Sean.
‘Yes. Didn’t she, Moira? She showed us the place on the map.’
‘When is she going?’ asked Florence.
‘I don’t know. I only took the things up to her this morning. I met the postie on the brow and he asked me to take the letters along, and there was this big envelope with the folders in and there was a letter in it, and after she read it she pointed to the place where she was goin’, didn’t she, Moira?’
Moira said nothing, only nodded her head.
Sean thrust his fist into the palm of his hand, making a loud clapping noise. ‘That’ll be the finish; once she goes she’ll never come back. She’ll put it up for sale. Mark my words, she’ll put it up for sale. And the way it is now it’ll go like a hot cake. Once she steps down that hill, for Spain or any other place, that’s the last we’ll see of her, I’m tellin’ you.’
‘Why don’t you go and tell him?’ said Hannah. ‘If you don’t, I will. Tell him to stop actin’ the bloody fool.’
‘And what’ll be the result?’ asked Florence quietly. ‘Except to drive him further into himself. He’ll come round in his own time.’
‘And it’ll be too late,’ said Sean.
Florence didn’t answer her husband but gazed at Michael, then at Moira, and after a moment she said to them, ‘Do you think that at dinner time you could begin chatting between yourselves on the subject of Mrs Stapleton going for a holiday to Spain?’
Michael grinned up at her. ‘You mean offhand, like?’
‘Just that,’ said Florence; ‘offhand, like. And you, Moira, could you do the same, talk back to him as Michael has said, offhand, like?’
Now Moira grinned up at her. ‘’Course,’ she said. ‘And I’ll talk to our Davie about it. He always says he’s goin’ to tra
vel, that’s if he makes a lot of money as a doctor; that’s if he ever gets to be a doctor, ’cos—’
‘All right, all right.’ Florence checked Moira’s gabbling. ‘Leave it at that…Now, don’t start straight away’—she looked from one to the other. ‘When you’re half through your dinners, you, Michael, make a remark about…about wishing you could go to Spain, or something like that, the weather you know, and it being warmer there.’
Michael nodded at her quickly, saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll bring it up.’
‘He’ll twig it,’ said Hannah; ‘you can’t hoodwink Vin.’
‘He won’t,’ said Michael, on the defensive; ‘not the way I’ll put it, you’ll see. An’ we won’t look at him while we’re talkin’. Remember that, our Moira.’ He pressed his thumb into her arm. ‘Don’t look at him; look at Barney, or Joseph, or me, or anybody, but don’t look at him; that is, unless he asks you somethin’.’
‘Aw, you needn’t worry on that score,’ said Sean; ‘he’s not likely to ask you anything. Dumb he’s become, blind, deaf and dumb.’
In the middle of dinner Michael addressed a remark about Spain to his sister Moira, and Moira told Davie about the wonderful place Mrs Stapleton was going to, and Barney asked if Peter would still be coming up at the weekends, and Michael said he didn’t think so, ’cos what would be the use? And when Joseph asked if she’d still want the fire kept on to keep the place warm, Michael again said he didn’t think so. ‘Bang goes me half-crown a week,’ said Joseph, and Moira pushed him as she chastised, ‘Aw, our Joe, that’s all you think about, your half-crown.’ And Joseph replied, ‘Well, you don’t refuse it yourself, do you?’ and she said, quite heatedly, ‘Well, I don’t just go up for that, I go ’cos I like goin’ up.’ Then looking at Michael, almost in triumph she spoke her best line, ‘It won’t be the same when she’s gone,’ she said.
If the family expected any quick reaction they were disappointed. Vincent returned to his workshop, where he worked all afternoon. He came in as usual shortly after five, washed himself at the sink, then had his tea. But now his pattern of behaviour, they noticed with interest, changed, for instead of settling down to do drawings of more animals, or sitting to the side of the fireplace with a book about wood-carving in his hand, he returned to the workshop, and the elders looked at one another.
It was Sean who said to Michael, ‘Go and squint through the window in the storeroom and see if you can make out what he’s doing.’
A few minutes later Michael scurried back into the kitchen, saying, ‘He’s comin’ over again.’ Then he settled himself quickly at the table while the others, each assuming a nonchalant air, proceeded to carry on as usual: Florence clearing the table, Hannah washing up, Sean seating himself to the side of the hearth with his feet on the fender. And so they waited. After a few minutes had passed and there was no sound coming from the storeroom, they looked at Michael and he back at them, and he said quietly, ‘Well, he was. He came out an’ he was comin’ over.’
‘He must have gone back, then,’ said Hannah.
Florence now put her face against one of the small panes in the window above the sink and she squinted across the yard towards the workshop, then said, ‘There’s no light on.’
‘He was carrying something in his hand,’ said Michael.
‘Something in his hand?’ said Sean. ‘What was it?’
‘I don’t know; it was wrapped up.’
‘Well, whatever it was,’ said Hannah, her face bright, ‘if he brought it from the workshop he’d not likely be takin’ it to the cowshed, or the pigsties, nor yet the hen crees…Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?’ She was addressing Florence as she walked towards her at the window and Florence said, ‘I could be.’
They now looked at Sean, and he grinned back at them, saying, ‘Then we’ll only have to content ourselves, won’t we?’ and turned to look at his son, jerking up his chin as he said, ‘You’re a clever lad, Michael, a clever lad.’
‘I wonder how long he’ll be?’ said Michael.
‘I wonder, too; I wonder, too, son. But the longer the better. In cases like this the longer the better, son.’ He put out his fist and punched Michael’s shoulder, and Michael punched him back and they both laughed …
To Vincent, it seemed like years since he had walked up the hill, and when he reached the terrace he stopped. The light was streaming from the window, and he looked at it for quite some time before he passed it by and knocked on the front door.
He heard her coming from the direction of the kitchen—that door had always squeaked; it was hung by bolt and spike and no amount of oil would ease it because of the weight of the timbers.
When she opened the door she stared at him. Then, her head drooping forward just the slightest, she said, ‘Come in.’ When he entered the room he saw that the layout was somewhat changed. There were two carpets on the floor now, one at each end of the room, with a runner between them going from the door to the foot of the stairs. The runner was yellow, and he wiped his feet carefully on the doormat before stepping onto it. After closing the door she passed him and walked up the room towards the fireplace. He followed her, noting that the couch was no longer opposite the fireplace but set at right angles to it, making the room seem even longer. He also noted that some of the china ornaments were back on the dresser—she must have glued them together again—and the two figures were on the mantelpiece, one on each side. But there was nothing in the middle.
‘Won’t…won’t you sit down?’
He sat down in a chair opposite the couch. The parcel was on his knees, his hands resting on top of it. And not until she had seated herself did he speak. ‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, much better; in fact, I’m feeling quite well.’
He looked at her. Her face seemed thinner, if that was possible. There were hollows under the cheekbones and her eyes seemed more sunken in her head, but there was no sign of discoloration on her skin. ‘I hear you’re going on a holiday?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m thinking of going to Spain.’
‘For long?’
‘Oh, it depends if I like it there. Two or three weeks, a month; it all depends.’
He broke the ensuing silence with the rustle of the brown paper as he moved the parcel around his knee; then looking down at it, he said, ‘And you won’t be coming back?’ Without lifting his head he raised his eyes and she looked into them. ‘I…I don’t know,’ she said.
‘You know all right,’ he said softly; ‘once you go, you go for good. You’ll sell up here.’
‘Perhaps.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ll have no worry about selling this now. Somebody will take it as a real weekend place.’
‘Yes, yes; I thought that.’
There was another silence before she said, ‘If Peter was here all the time it would be different, but…but, as things are, it’s rather lonely.’
‘You haven’t given it much of a trial.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘No.’ Again he moved the parcel around on his knee. ‘What will you do after your divorce?’
She uncrossed her legs and, bending forward, she picked up the poker and straightened out a piece of burning wood.
‘I don’t know; I…I haven’t thought that far ahead. Perhaps I’ll get some place near Peter so that he can drop in.’
‘Peter may get married. Have you thought of that?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve thought of that; but he’s very young yet; only nineteen.’
‘Some are fathers at that age these days.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s true.’
‘He’s very fond of our Kathy.’
‘Yes, I know, and…and I’m glad; but they’re both very young.’
‘You wouldn’t put a spoke in their wheel, would you?’
‘Oh, no. No, not at all. What makes you ask such a question?’
‘I was just wondering.’
‘Why? Why should you wonder about such a thi
ng? I want my son to be happy.’ There was a terse note in her voice.
‘But you’re going to live near him so you can keep an eye on him.’
‘I didn’t mean that; it was only because—’
‘Yes I know, I know; because you’re lonely. You’d be far lonelier if you left here, Peter or no Peter. You know that, don’t you?’
‘No, no, I don’t,’ she said bitterly. ‘I can’t feel more alone than I have done these past few weeks.’
‘I should have thought you’d be glad to have been on your own.’
‘I’m not…I’m not.’
‘You would rather still be tied to him?’
‘Oh no. No!’ She shook her head and moved her body on the couch. ‘I wasn’t meaning that at all.’
‘Perhaps you’ll feel different when the divorce is through.’
‘Perhaps.’
He now leant against the back of the couch, pulling the parcel further up his thighs. ‘I would never divorce a woman.’
She stared at him.
‘No matter what she did, I would never divorce her. Once I married her, it would be for good.’
‘Even…even if your life was hell?’
‘If I’d married her in the first place, then without her my life would be a greater hell than anything it could be with her.’
‘You’re speaking personally; it isn’t the answer for everybody.’
‘No; no, it isn’t. But if people took their time and learned about each other aforehand then they would know whether they wanted to tie up or not; and once done, I can’t see they would find out much about each other then that would make them want to separate.’
‘It’s a simple logic you have,’ she said, her voice still terse.
‘It answers,’ he replied.
‘Again, only for certain people. You never know what people are really like until you live with them day in, day out; and then they can still surprise you.’
The Solace of Sin Page 28
