The Most Precious Thing

by Bradshaw, Rita

  She had blamed her early nights and lack of desire to go out with Lillian in the evenings on the after-effects of the chill which had confined her to bed for a few days after her walk home in just a thin dress, but she knew she couldn’t keep that up for ever. And so, when Lillian offered to treat her to a birthday tea at Binns in Bishopwearmouth, Carrie had forced herself to smile and sound grateful.

  The two girls had a lovely cream tea in Binns restaurant. Lillian presented her friend with a card and little brooch in the shape of a C, before they left to spend time window-shopping in the big shops in the High Street. The night was bitterly cold, made bleaker by thick damp fog which turned the street lights into hazy gold circles and made visibility poor, but they’d promised to do some shopping in the Old Market for their mothers so they were waiting until the meat and fruit came down in price. Lillian had a list of items Olive Sutton had asked for, but Joan McDarmount had just whispered to her daughter, ‘Anything you can get real cheap will do, hinny. You understand?’

  Carrie had understood. With Renee’s wage gone, and her da off sick due to a runaway tub which had gone over his foot, crushing it so the blood had seeped out between the lace holes of his boot, every farthing she and Billy brought in was precious. Her mother had kept a clooty bag on her da’s bad foot for days, but the flour bag filled with hot bran was taking the swelling down only slowly. Her da still couldn’t force his boot over the black bloated flesh even though he’d tried until the sweat had poured off him.

  The two girls took their time wandering through the Old Market, standing listening to the barrel organ for a while and sharing a bag of hot chestnuts cooked in a brazier coke fire with the little monkey dressed in a red suit and tiny pillar-box hat. Some of the stalls had paraffin heaters which smelled homely and warmed the air under the covered roof, and the sweet stalls gave off sugary, burned-toffee odours along with the sharper scents of aniseed and winter mixture. There was masses to see as always and the stallholders, most of whom Carrie knew, were as good as any music hall act, especially when they were engaged in shouting rude remarks about each other in good-natured rivalry.

  Carrie was tired, she seemed to have been constantly tired the last week or two, but for the first time since Alec’s attack she found herself relaxing into all the hustle and bustle going on around her. Prices were coming down at last, and soon she would be able to purchase a bag of broken kippers and some fat bacon bits she had her eye on, along with a couple of bags of bruised fruit and browning vegetables which went for next to nothing as the stallholders cleared their stock for the weekend.

  Lillian was buying a pound of sausages and pork ends from Soldier Sammy’s meat stall - so called because the ancient warrior was a veteran of the Boer wars as the row of medals pinned to his green, ragged jacket proclaimed - and Carrie stood a few feet away, listening to Sammy’s ongoing repartee with his rival, Hattie, who kept a pease pudding and faggot stall.

  ‘I’ve heard there’s a few more cats missin’ round your way then, Hattie, m’dear. Nice flavour to them faggots is there?’

  Hattie, who was as round as she was tall and who had arms the size of a circus strongman’s, pulled the man’s cap she always wore more firmly down on her springy grey hair and glared Sammy’s way. ‘Less of your lip, Sammy, else you might find it’s twice the size.’

  ‘How d’ye mean, lass?’

  ‘Don’t you come the lass line with me, not after your ’sinuations about me faggots.’

  ‘Ee, lass, lass, you cut me to the quick.’

  ‘Aye, an’ I might finish with that an’ all.’

  Customers were handing over plates and dishes for them to be filled with hot food for their suppers, and Carrie was smiling along with everyone else at the entertainment when a sudden waft of cooking from Hattie’s stall came her way. Her stomach turned over and the queasiness that had attacked her at odd times the last few days returned with renewed vigour.

  She just had time to call to Lillian that she had to get some fresh air and dive out into Coronation Street before the nausea overcame her and she lost the cream tea. When Lillian came hurrying to find her she was leaning against the wall, wiping her mouth with her handkerchief.

  ‘You all right, Carrie?’ It was a silly question and Lillian must have realised this. Her next comment was, ‘You look like death warmed up, lass.’ It was meant to be comforting, as was the patting on Carrie’s shoulder. ‘You should have said before if you felt bad. We needn’t have stayed this long.’

  ‘I . . . I wanted to. To get a few bits for Mam.’

  Lillian nodded. She knew the situation in Carrie’s home and it was typical of her now when she said, ‘You tell me what you want and I’ll nip back in. I’ve got most of what Mam wanted now anyway. I’ll make sure I get it at the right price an’ all.’ She stepped back a pace from Carrie as she spoke, adding, ‘By, you’re as white as a sheet but it can’t be what we had at Binns ’cos I feel fine. You’ve been all out of sorts since Christmas, haven’t you?’

  ‘Aye, I have.’

  ‘You ought to go and see old Ma Bradley, she’ll put you to rights. Remember when I had the bellyache for weeks and weeks and she made up one of her potions? Wild foxgloves and all sorts went in it, so me mam said, but it worked, and it didn’t taste too bad neither. Go and see her, Carrie. Me mam says Ma Bradley’s better than any doctor. Seven and six for them to walk through the door and a couple of bob for any medicine they dish out, but Ma Bradley’s happy if you slip her sixpence. Everyone swears by her.’

  Carrie nodded. She had missed her period and she knew what that meant; she couldn’t ignore the truth any longer. When you stopped having your period you were going to have a bairn and that’s why she had felt ill lately. All the potions in the world wouldn’t cure what she had. She looked into Lillian’s concerned face and said quietly, ‘I’ll go and see her in the next day or two.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Aye, aye, I promise.’

  Once she was alone again she stood quite still with her back pressed against the wall and one hand to her throat. What was she going to do? Her heart was thumping fit to burst. She couldn’t just carry on, she had to do something. And the answer came so clearly she suddenly realised she had been anticipating this moment for days, ever since the nausea had begun to make itself felt. She had to tell Alec.

  Carrie shut her eyes tightly, taking a gulp of the soupy grey air. If she told Alec she was having a bairn he would have to marry her, wouldn’t he? She began to tremble, the hand clutching her throat working convulsively and the other dropping across her stomach before she brought it sharply away, her whole being recoiling from the thing growing inside her. And that was how she thought of it, as a thing, something dirty and horrible brought about by an act that had been dirty and horrible. How could she ever have thought she loved Alec Sutton? She must have been stark staring mad.

  The chill of the foggy air made her shiver but she felt too desolate to go back into the warm womb of the market. She had to tell him, there was nothing else she could do, and if they were married straight away no one would know about the bairn. Folk would just think it had come early and even if they suspected something they wouldn’t know for sure. But what would her mam and da say? She’d have to tell them. She moaned, deep in her throat. And if she was married she’d have to lie with Alec Sutton, let him . . . She swung her head to the side. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t be able to bear it, she’d rather kill herself. No, no, she wouldn’t. She lifted her head, gazing up into the opaque sky as her thoughts tumbled on.

  She was scared by the thought of dying but she didn’t want to live either, not with this thing growing inside her and the thought of Alec being able to touch her whenever he wanted. Oh, if only she could just go back to Renee’s wedding day, to the person she had been then. That girl seemed like a stranger now. And whatever happened in the future, there would be some who would whisper she was a trollop who had gone to the altar with her belly full, even if they didn’t say
it to her face.

  When Lillian bounced out of the market a few minutes later, pleased as Punch by her bargaining prowess, she was slightly aggrieved at the lack of enthusiasm when she showed Carrie her purchases. Her tone reflected this when she said, ‘Look at these veg, lass, they’re still as good as when they were pulled, and there’s enough bacon bits here to make a couple of pans of broth and then some. Old Jimmy threw in the pig’s trotters for nowt an’ all, and they’re big ones.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Carrie took the bags and her change. ‘Thanks very much.’

  Somewhat deflated, Lillian reminded herself that her friend was middling - you only had to look at Carrie to see that. Silently the two girls walked to the tram stop. This made it all the more surprising to Lillian when, having alighted from the tram in Cornhill Terrace before walking to the bottom of James Armitage Street, Carrie continued past her own house, saying, ‘I’ll just pop in and thank your mam and da for their card before I go in.’

  ‘What?’ Lillian had stopped at Carrie’s doorstep and she had to hurry to catch up. ‘Ee, you don’t have to do that, lass, not with you feeling bad. They won’t expect it . . .’ Her voice trailed away. Carrie wasn’t listening.

  What was she going to say to Alec if he was at home? And how could she bear to be in that room where it had happened? Carrie’s mind went blank for a moment. When the blankness passed the first question she asked herself was, can you do this without letting Mrs Sutton suspect something’s wrong? She answered this immediately. What did Mrs Sutton matter now anyway? She couldn’t let more time go by, not now, not after tonight. Something had changed as she’d stood outside the market and the last vestige of hope had gone. She had to face this, she couldn’t pretend any more. And part of facing it was acknowledging that Alec Sutton didn’t care a fig about her; he hadn’t even tried to see her again or sent her a note asking if she was all right . . .

  Carrie gazed ahead down the dark terraced street, the bricks stained by smoke and grime from the collieries and factories and hundreds of house chimneys, and her face was grim.

  If he was in she would ask him, very politely, if she could have a word with him outside, and his mam could think what she liked. If he wasn’t home she would leave as soon as she could and wait on the corner of Collingwood Street. That way she would see him from whichever direction he came. But whatever, she would tell him. He might not care about her, and she felt she hated him, but with a bairn on the way everything was different.

  Alec wasn’t in. When the two girls entered the aseptic environment Lillian called home, only Olive Sutton looked up from where she stood ironing, and again the smell of bleach was overpowering. She ignored Carrie, looking directly at her daughter as she said, ‘What time do you call this, miss?’

  ‘We waited at the market, you know, for stuff to come down.’

  ‘No need for that, we can afford to pay our way, I’m sure.’

  Lillian’s mam was being nasty. Carrie stared into the sharp-featured face in front of her. Mrs Sutton knew full well her da was off sick and money was short and this was her way of rubbing it in. For a second the churning feeling the older woman’s antagonism always wrought in her was paramount, and then Carrie’s chin lifted and she mentally braced herself to speak to Olive.

  ‘I came to say thank you for the birthday card, Mrs Sutton,’ she said flatly.

  Aye, and pigs might fly. Olive Sutton stared at the girl who had ceased to be merely an irritant years ago and was now a constant thorn in her flesh. Thought she was the cat’s whiskers, did Carrie McDarmount, and no doubt the chit had been hoping Alec or David would be at home. Man mad, like her sister, with the same come hither look in her eyes, but she would see her lads rot in hell before she let another of them marry a piece of McDarmount scum. But she knew how to get under this one’s skin.

  Olive smiled thinly. ‘And how’s your da’s foot, Carrie? Surely he’s back at work now.’

  ‘Not yet, Mrs Sutton, no.’

  ‘Dear, dear. How long does it take for a bit of bruising to go down?’ There was no mistaking her meaning, and Olive noted the sudden flush in Carrie’s cheeks with some satisfaction. She’d bet her last farthing that the only thing wrong with Sandy now was his back - it stuck to the bed of a morning. But this dimwit standing in front of her, blue eyes ablaze, would never see it. The Pope, Archbishop and King all rolled into one, Sandy McDarmount was, according to Carrie.

  ‘My da can’t even get his boot on yet and he can hardly go down the pit barefoot.’ Carrie’s tone was such that if Lillian had spoken in the same manner Olive wouldn’t have been able to keep her hands off her. As it was, Olive contented herself with glaring her dislike before turning her gaze on her daughter. ‘You, get yourself to bed, and don’t think you’re going to the social after church tomorrow neither.’

  ‘Aw, Mam.’

  ‘And don’t “aw, Mam” me, madam, not unless you want to feel my hand across your mouth.’

  Carrie knew she had better go. Mrs Sutton was just going to take it out on Lillian like she always did, and she didn’t want to get her friend into any more trouble. She turned on her heel, only to become still as Mr Sutton walked in through the scullery, with Alec and David behind him.

  It had been bad enough to be in the room that carried memories of such abasement and Carrie had been stifling her panic through the altercation with Lillian’s mother. Now, as her gaze was drawn to Alec’s face, she became rigid with burning humiliation and bitterness. He looked the same lad she had always secretly loved and admired - handsome, smiling, carefree. How could he look the same after what he’d done to her? She stared at him but he was looking past her at his mother, and after a short, tense silence it was Mr Sutton who said, ‘What’s going on?’ and his eyes, like Alec’s, were on Olive.

  ‘Going on?’ Olive’s voice was sharp. ‘Nothing’s “going on” as you put it. I’ve just told your daughter I won’t have her coming in at this time of night, that’s all.’ She didn’t add, not that it’s any of your business, but the tone of her voice said it for her.

  Ned continued to stare at his wife, his words slow, deep and flat when he said, ‘I thought she was doing some shopping for you.’

  ‘So? That doesn’t give her leave to stay out all hours, does it?’ And then, as Olive’s gaze moved past her husband to the two young men standing behind him, she said even more sharply, ‘I thought you and David were attending some union meeting the night.’

  ‘We met in the street a couple of minutes ago, Mam.’ It was Alec who spoke and his tone was one of appeasement. ‘I’ve been in town like I told you.’

  ‘Right.’ Olive nodded, her face softening as she looked at him.

  Carrie sensed immediately this explanation had pleased Mrs Sutton although she didn’t understand why. It seemed to infuriate Mr Sutton, however, who muttered, ‘Aye, wouldn’t be seen dead with us, would you, lad?’ He took a deep breath but whatever he had been about to say was pre-empted by Lillian.

  ‘We went to the Old Market, Da,’ she chimed in, ‘me an’ Carrie, and waited till they started clearing up. That’s why we’re late.’

  Lillian’s face was trying to convey what she didn’t like to put into words, and now Carrie said quietly, ‘It was my fault, Mr Sutton. I wanted to wait.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Ned nodded at her, his face smiling even as he thought, of course, that’s what this is all about. Olive’s turning the knife as only she can. By, he’d swing for her one day, he would straight. ‘Makes sense to me, lass. I like a woman who’s canny with her money.’

  She had to say something to Alec right now. Carrie wanted to put her hand over her heart which was beating so violently she was sure they would all notice, but before she could steel herself to look at him again, he spoke, a lilting note in his voice.

  ‘Want to know how my bit of business in town went then, Mam?’ And before Olive could respond, he continued, his gaze sweeping over all of them as he thrust his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat, rockin
g on his heels with mock dignity. ‘You are now looking at the fiancé of Miss Margaret Reed, spinster of this parish, although not for much longer if I have my way.’

  ‘You asked her?’ Olive’s face was alight, her voice high.

  ‘Aye, I asked her.’ Alec was laughing. ‘After I’d spoken to Mr Reed in his study, all very formal and above board.’

  Miss Margaret Reed. Alec worked for a Mr Reed who owned a string of gents’ outfitters throughout Monkwearmouth and Bishopwearmouth. Only a few months ago Olive had been full of how he had been promoted to manager of his particular shop . . . Carrie’s mind was working after a fashion but curiously she didn’t seem able to feel anything. She knew she was staring at Alec but he was looking everywhere but at her. It struck her he hadn’t once looked her full in the face since he had walked into the house.