by Irene Carr
She stood on the platform as the train puffed into the station with a sigh of steam and rattling of couplings, a grinding of brakes. The men were hanging out of the windows, eager for it to stop. Most were in khaki but there were some in the dark blue of the Navy. As the train halted they spilled out of the carriages into the arms of the waiting women who thronged the platform. Fleur looked for Matt and soon spotted his head above the crowd around him. She waved her handkerchief and smiled tentatively. He smiled in return but it was mechanical. When they met among the embracing couples they did not touch except for the peck Fleur planted on his cheek. He was unshaven from travelling through the night and his stubble scraped her. She noted the three stripes on his sleeve. She had forgotten he was a sergeant and that it would be awkward. In the circles in which she now moved she had become used to walking on the arms of officers. A sergeant would be out of place. She would just have to stay at home.
Irritated, she said, ‘So there you are.’
Matt sensed a coldness and tried to ignore it. ‘Aye, the bad penny.’
Fleur smiled politely. ‘Will you get us a cab?’
They found a horse-drawn cab outside the station and sat facing each other, Matt’s pack on the seat beside him. They conversed politely as the cab took them home and Matt knew then it had all gone to hell but he still tried. During the long nights on the Plain he had told himself he had loved this woman and married her, sworn fidelity and much besides. He would not throw that aside. And when they were in the house Fleur put her arms around him and whispered, ‘It’s good to have you home.’ But then she added, ‘I forgive you.’
‘Forgive me?’ Matt stared down at her. ‘What for?’ ‘When I found you with that woman.’
Matt’s face stiffened. ‘I explained about that. There was nothing to forgive.’
Fleur’s arms slipped away and she stepped back from him. ‘It wasn’t explained to my satisfaction.’
Matt took a breath, swallowing the first angry retort.
He insisted, ‘I told you, there was nothing between me and Katy, not all the time we worked together.’
Fleur sniffed, ‘I saw how she clung to you.’
‘She needed to cling to somebody, anybody! The girl had just lost her child, stolen by her father!’
Fleur laughed without humour. ‘That’s her story. If he was the father. You never know with that sort of woman.’
Matt, outraged, snapped, ‘I won’t have you talking about her like that! She’s not “that sort of woman”!’
Fleur shrugged, pouting, ‘If you say so.’ And remembering how he had hungered for her, said, ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I have a migraine. I’m going to lie down.’ She looked for disappointment in his face, thought he might plead, but she was the one to be disappointed when Matt said, ‘Of course.’
Fleur turned at the door to have the last word: ‘Will you use the spare room? I haven’t been sleeping well lately.’ Then she left without waiting for an answer.
Matt stared bleakly at the closed door. He did not want her.
He dined with his wife that night and breakfasted with her the next day, then told her, ‘I’m going down to the yard.’
Fleur said sulkily, ‘To see that woman, I suppose.’
Matt refused to be drawn and only answered curtly, ‘To see how the business is running. It pays for your keep, remember.’
He went reluctantly and because he had to, and not only to see to the business. He drove there in the Vauxhall, making a mental note to sell it. Turkey was in the war now, since Guy Fawkes day, and Matt believed now that the war would be a long one. There was no sense in leaving the car to gather dust in the garage.
Katy was in the driving seat of the Dennis, Ernie at her side, and ready to drive out on the day’s work. Then she saw the Vauxhall swing in through the gateway with Matt at the wheel. Her heart leapt instinctively and her first ridiculous thought was that she wished she was not wearing the overalls. She got down from the Dennis and walked towards him as he came to meet her, but they stopped a yard apart by mutual unspoken agreement. They smiled ruefully, lopsidedly at each other because there was an invisible wall between them now. The easy days of comradeship when they had worked together, were over. They both knew it.
He said, ‘Hello, Katy.’
‘Hello, Matt.’
He asked, anxiety mixed with hope, ‘Is there any news of Louise?’
Katy shook her head wordlessly, the fret and fear surfacing as they did every day in some moment when she was not busy.
Matt said, ‘I’m sorry.’ And in an awkward attempt to get away from a subject which pained her, he asked, ‘How are you getting on?’
‘We’re coping. If you go into the office, Annie will show you the books.’
He stared at that. ‘Annie?’
‘I took her on to handle the office work. I’m out on the road most of the time. I told you about the Army taking the men besides the lorries.’
‘Aye, you did. I wondered if you would manage.’ ‘We have — just.’
But while they were talking it was only on the surface and their eyes were exchanging other messages — of hunger and despair.
Katy felt no sense of guilt because Matt had briefly supplanted Louise in her thoughts. She could think of him though her child was a prisoner in a foreign land because she had enough love for both her child and this tall man, and both were tearing her apart. But while thoughts of Louise were always with her, Matt was here now. She could not prolong this and said, ‘I’d better get out on the road and try to earn a few shillings.’
Matt agreed heavily, ‘Aye. You do that. I’ll talk to Annie.’
But when Katy drove the Dennis out of the gates and glanced behind her she saw him still standing where she had left him, outside the office, watching her go from him.
Katy worked mechanically through the morning, her thoughts elsewhere. When she returned to the yard at mid-day she found Matt outside the office again but this time Annie and Beatrice were with him. The little girl was excited: ‘Uncle Matt gave me a ride in his motor car. He went fast!’
Katy addressed Beatrice but her eyes were on Matt. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
Beatrice said ecstatically, ‘It was lovely!’
Matt said, ‘It was like old times.’
Katy thought, Old times, past times.
Annie broke in proudly, ‘I showed him all the books.’
Matt said, ‘You’ve done very well, both of you.’ He glanced across at Ernie who was sweeping out the back of the Dennis, and amended, ‘All of you.’ His gaze returned to Katy: ‘Will you be able to carry on?’ And then, without waiting for her answer, ‘I think when I go back after this leave I’ll be sent over the pond and I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
Katy had been expecting this but she still flinched inside under the blow. Then Annie laid a hand on Matt’s shoulder and said sympathetically, ‘And you want something to come home to.’
That could be interpreted two ways and Katy put in quickly, ‘We’ll cope.’
Matt studied her a moment, then nodded. ‘I think you will.’
Annie appealed to Katy, ‘I’ve been trying to get him to stay for a bite of dinner.’
Matt shook his head, ‘Thanks, but I think I should get back to Fleur.’ He frowned as he thought of the reception he would receive but then strode to the Vauxhall, cranked it into life and swung into the driving seat. He looked back at Katy for long seconds then drove out of the yard. She was left staring at the empty gateway where a faint wisp of exhaust smoke hung a moment in the air then was dispersed on the breeze, leaving no sign of his passing.
The days of his leave slipped by and Katy kept count of them but he did not come to the yard again. She arranged the work schedule so there were no jobs on the day he was to go back to his regiment. She stayed in the office all that day but he did not come. She had not thought that he would, but just in case . . . As the shadows of a winter dusk filled the yard she knew that he w
ould not come, would be on the train racing south by then.
She knew him, that he would keep faith and would be true to Fleur, the woman he had married, and that was why he had stayed away from Katy. She was temptation.
She had not lost him because she had never possessed him in the first place. Now she was sure she never would.
Chapter Eighteen
MONKWEARMOUTH. JULY 1916.
‘They’re dying in their hundreds over in Flanders!’ Annie Scanlon said it, her face drawn with horror. They were talking in the office, Katy already feeling warm although dressed only in her overalls on top of her underwear. They had suffered two years of war and now the battle of the Somme, the ‘Big Push’, had begun. Annie went on, her lips quivering, ‘That lad Benny Pennington, Hetty Pennington’s son, he’s home on leave from the Navy and he stopped in London for one night before coming up north. He says the ambulance trains are coming into all the stations day and night, bringing the wounded.’
Katy nodded, ‘Aye. I’d heard that.’ And inevitably she had wondered if Matt was safe. He had written once, just to say that he was in Palestine, a stilted, formal letter. As it had to be, she understood that.
They were talking in the office and now Katy picked up the job list. ‘I’ll start the Dennis and get going.’ Ernie Thompson had finally persuaded the Army to take him and had gone off to the war. Katy had managed to find a boy to help her with the lifting of cargo on and off the lorry. She could not take on a man because the shipyards on the three rivers of the North-East, Tyne, Wear and Tees, were working all out to replace the ships lost to the U-boats. The men the Army had not taken were now in the shipyards. The fifteen-year-old Danny was a cheerful, willing worker but she could not ask him to start the Dennis and warm it up as Ernie had done.
As she walked across the yard she reflected that the engine would not take long to warm in this summer weather. And now she thought of Louise as she had earlier thought of Matt. There was not a day she did not think of the man and her daughter. She had nightmare visions of Matt lying dead or terribly wounded. And of a big-eyed, skeletal Louise, because the government claimed the naval blockade had left the people of Germany starving.
Katy shuddered now despite the warmth of the sunlight and the pink-faced Danny, his cap so big it seemed to rest on his ears, stared at her, puzzled. But then Katy saw the postman sauntering in at the gateway and she turned back to take the letters from him. She fanned through the few envelopes, looking for a letter — from Germany or from Matt — but was disappointed. She passed on to Annie all the post except one envelope addressed to herself in a sprawling, ill-educated hand. There was something about it that struck a chord of memory and she ripped it open and glanced first at the signature.
The letter was from her sister, Ursula. Katy thought absently that it was little wonder she had not recognised the writing on sight because she had not seen it since she left home ten years ago. She scanned it quickly, then read it through more slowly to take in its full import. There was a good deal about how the family should stick together, letting bygones be bygones, forgiving and forgetting, but essentially the message was simple: her father was at death’s door.
‘Annie, will you write to everybody on the job list and tell them I’ve been called away on urgent family affairs. I’ve got to go to Newcastle. Danny, will you sweep out the yard and do any jobs Annie finds for you. I’ll see you when I get back.’
It was a strange house in a strange street in Wallsend. Katy saw the neighbours standing at their doors watching her curiously as she passed. She was much better dressed than any of them. The front door was open and she walked along the uncarpeted passage and knocked at the first door she came to. The passage needed sweeping, there was a stale smell of cooking and two near-naked little boys, dressed only in vests, played on the stairs but stopped to stare at her.
Ursula opened the door, blinked at the smartly dressed Katy for a moment but then her expression changed from surprise to relief and she held the door open to admit her sister. ‘By lass, I’m glad to see you.’ But that was the end of their greetings. They stayed apart and there was no exchange of pecks on the cheek.
There was just the one room, the floor covered with ancient, cracked linoleum. A small fire burned in the grate and an old basket chair stood before it. A table and two straight-backed chairs were set under the window and the bed was in a corner. Barney Merrick lay in the bed. He was sleeping, his breathing laboured, and grey-faced under the stubble of several days. The room had been swept and dusted and the windows cleaned. There was a smell of sweat but the sheets on the bed were clean.
All this Katy took in with one swift glance. Ursula noted it and said defensively, ‘I’ve done what I could. The others don’t come near.’ And then, pointing to the basket chair, ‘Sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Katy sat down cautiously but the chair held her with only a faint creaking. She was shocked by the appearance of her father, who had been a man of strength and high temper. ‘He looks awful. How did he get like this?’
Ursula used an enamelled jug to fill the kettle from a bucket of water by the fireside, then she set the kettle on the coals and a small teapot on the hob to warm. ‘He had an accident a year or two back, fell down some steps when he was coming home drunk. It left him crippled and he couldn’t get work in the shipyards any more, only odds and ends of jobs. Then his wife died. She left him a few quid but he soon got through it. I think after that he just pawned stuff. I found a lot of pawn tickets when I came here.’
She hesitated, then said with a rush, ‘You knew what he was like. I always took his part, thought he was great, but I found out about him at the end. I had money saved for my wedding, I’d put a bit away every week for years.
He found it, took every penny and spent it on booze. So when he came round to me a few weeks ago and asked for a loan I told him to go to hell. I thought he wanted it for drink.’ Ursula wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand then made the tea as the kettle sang. She poured it into two chipped cups and sat down across the fire on one of the straight-backed chairs.
She sniffed, ‘I wouldn’t have let him starve. One of the neighbours came in when they hadn’t seen him for a day or two. They knew where I lived and fetched me because he was in bed and they couldn’t get any sense out of him, he just wandered.’ They drank tea and Ursula went on, ‘I cleaned up the place and him, tried to get his temperature down and some beef tea into him, but he didn’t improve, so I got the doctor in.’ She lowered her voice: ‘He said Dad could go at any time. So I wrote to you.’
Katy said, ‘Don’t blame yourself. You did all anybody could do.’
They were silent for a moment, then Ursula looked up and asked, ‘How are you, then?’
‘I’m fine.’
Ursula looked down at the cup on her knee and ventured, ‘We heard you had a bairn and were living with a feller.’
Katy eyed her sister and said directly, ‘I had a little girl but her father deserted me. I’m not living with any feller.’
Ursula gave an apologetic flap of the hand, primly embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’ Then she got up quickly, took a slip of paper from the mantelpiece and handed it to Katy. ‘That’s yours.’ And when Katy stared: ‘It’s Mam’s brooch.
She always wanted you to have it. Dad must have got it back from that second wife of his, Marina, to pawn it for drink.’
Katy reclaimed it the next day. When she came out of the pawnshop she stopped for a minute under the three brass balls of the sign and looked down at the brooch lying in the palm of her hand. It brought back memories of her mother — and Louise. Katy vowed that one day she would hand on the brooch to her own daughter. It was a promise made with determination and fear. She slipped the brooch into her bag and walked back to the room where her father lay dying.
She and Ursula took it in turns to care for the old man and to sleep in the basket chair under a blanket. They did that for two nights because Barney Merrick, a fig
hter all his life, fought for it now. It was an animal reaction of the body. The mind was elsewhere. Often he would mumble incoherently when it was impossible to tell whether he was awake or sleeping. When he could be understood his talk was of old times, old places, old fights and old friends, all gone from him now. He never gave any sign of recognising Ursula or Katy, lost in his own world.
The doctor came once when Katy was on duty and Ursula had gone to buy bread and milk. He was an elderly man, too old for war service, and he eyed Katy disapprovingly as he said, ‘He should never have been allowed to get into this condition. All he needed was some care.’
Katy could have defended herself against the charge being levelled at her, could have pointed out that she had not known of his destitution and illness while others did,
that she had come as soon as she had learned of his condition, that her father had turned her out and disowned her. But she said nothing. She would not argue over his body.
Barney Merrick died in the last cold hour of the night. He did not wake. Katy was on duty, sitting by his bedside, watching him by the light from the fire because that would allow him to rest, rather than using the brighter gas lamp which hung from the ceiling. The flames flickering low in the grate cast shifting shadows on the walls and the old man’s face. In sleep it was austere but not hard. Katy hoped he had found some inner peace, wished he had been kinder to her — and she to him. She could feel only pity for him now, his cruelty forgotten. She acknowledged sadly that he would not have thought he had treated her harshly, would have been sure he was acting as much for her good as his.
When he drew his last breath — Katy heard the quick, shallow intake and long sigh — she knew he had gone from her. She had a moment of loneliness then. She had lost Louise, could never have the man she wanted and her family were strangers to her. But then her own fighting spirit buoyed her up. She had a home of her own, a life of her own and one day she would find Louise and bring her back.
