by Annie Murray
‘I wondered if John’d like visiting,’ Olive ventured to say. ‘You know – stuck in there all the time. Would ’e like a bit of young company? The girls’d sit and chat with him for a bit if ’e’d like?’
Mrs Bullivant began to wring her hands in an agitated way.
‘It’s nice of yer, Mrs Beeston, but I don’t think . . . I mean, I don’t think ’e’s up to it. ’E’s still in a bit of a state, and . . .’ Her emotion flooded to the surface, and she was fighting back tears as she spoke. ‘I really don’t know what I’m going to do with him!’
Trying awkwardly to offer comfort, Olive said,
‘Yer going through a bad time, I can see. It’s terrible for yer. But ’e’ll get adjusted to it by and by, won’t ’e? Things’ll get better.’
‘They will, will they?’ Marion Bullivant’s eyes blazed with sudden, bitter fury. ‘How? You tell me that!’
Thirty-One
Jess was growing more and more worried and despairing. She hadn’t heard from Ned for three weeks.
She went over to Iris’s every other day now, each time full of hope, only to be greeted by Iris sorrowfully shaking her head. The third Sunday in October, a lowering grey afternoon, she hurried over there, sodden leaves underfoot and a bitter wind in her face, in such suspense that she could barely contain herself as she ran alongside the Workhouse wall, past the factories and into Crabtree Road. There had to be a letter from him this time! Perhaps he’d been too busy. The news was full of the fighting at Ypres. If that was where he was he most probably hadn’t had the chance . . . But then if that was where he was . . . Never had there been a gap in their communication this long before. He had to have written by now – had to!
Iris was expecting her, and the door opened almost straight away to let her in. Jess didn’t need to speak.
‘I’m so sorry, my dear. Still nothing.’ Iris looked upset.
‘Oh Iris, I can’t bear it!’
They went through to the back room where a meagre fire was burning. The coal shortages had become acute and now the cold weather was drawing in it was increasingly hard to get hold of any. Iris, being Iris, dealt with the shortages imposed by the war with equanimity. Her life had long been one of privation. She stood watching Jess with her arms folded.
‘I know there’s summat wrong!’ Jess paced the floor, wringing her hands. She found it impossible to keep still these days, her body full of restless agitation. ‘Anything could’ve happened.’
‘Not the worst, necessarily, remember,’ Iris reminded her.
‘But it could be, Iris. Oh it’s so horrible – never knowing, not being able to do anything!’ Her anxiety and frustration, which she tried to keep in check at home, poured out now.
‘In any case, if anything’s happened to ’im, I’m going to be the last one to know. They’d send word to his mom and dad, or Mary, but they’re never going to tell me. So far as they’re concerned I don’t even exist.’
She sank into a chair, looking woefully up at Iris, arms wrapped tightly round herself as if to contain her emotion. ‘I’m sorry, Iris – my troubles always seem to land on you one way or another.’
‘His family really should be the ones to be told in the first place if anything’s happened,’ Iris pointed out. ‘It’s only natural.’
‘I know. But how am I ever going to find out if I don’t hear it from Ned?’
‘Well . . .’ Iris hesitated. ‘I suppose if the worst comes to the worst . . . and God forbid,’ she added. ‘You’ll have to go and ask them.’
‘But I can’t – they’ll never speak to me! They think I’m the devil – or worse!’ The next day, Jess bought an evening paper as she had all the week before, and scanned frantically through the columns of names.
Sis peered over her shoulder as they walked home, just as anxious not to see Percy’s name among the casualties.
‘Nothing there,’ she said.
Jess closed the Mail and tucked it under her arm. ‘But I could’ve missed it. It could’ve been in earlier.’
The days were torture. Fear and dread seemed to swell inside her like a physical sensation and she found it difficult to get any food down her. Her emotions ran out of control: at home, snapping at everyone, bursting into tears and running upstairs to hide her emotion, and at work she was a bag of nerves, jumping at any sound. While before she was glad of her solitary job so that she could think her own thoughts, now she wished she could be in the filling sheds again among the chatter of the other women to help keep her mind off it. Apart from the breaks, the only people she saw from one end of the day to the other were the two girls next door when she took batches of detonators through for varnishing, and Peter Stevenson when he popped in to check on things, which he seemed to do more often nowadays. She was glad of the interruption. She found his strong, kind presence soothing, and was always aware that while she felt sorrow and dread, he was also grieving and had plenty of problems of his own.
By the time another few days had passed with no news, Jess’s nerves were ragged to a point where she was beyond fear of any reaction from other people. Whatever it took, she had to find out if something had happened to Ned.
‘I can’t live like this,’ she said to Polly. They were sitting on Jess’s bed, Grace lying kicking behind them. ‘It’s like Mr Stevenson said to me – not being sure’s almost worse than knowing . . .’
Polly looked round at her. Jess’s usually rosy cheeks were white and drawn with tension, her eyes dull from exhaustion and lack of sleep. Pitying her, Polly put her arms round her shoulders.
‘How much longer’s it all going to go on for?’ she sighed. ‘There’s hardly anyone yer meet not grieving, or in a state. I mean, look at ’im—’ She jerked her head towards the wall which they shared with the Bullivants. ‘I hear ’im nights, sometimes. Crying. Sobbing like a child. Must be the pain. They say it’s worse at night.’
Jess shook her head. ‘Poor bloke. Auntie says ’e’s not been out since ’e come home.’
‘I’d go and call . . .’ Polly said hesitantly. ‘Only his mom said he don’t want anyone round.’
‘Maybe you should. Leave it a bit though. See if ’e settles in.’ Jess wiped her face, sniffing exhaustedly.
‘What is there you can do?’ Polly asked.
Jess bit her lip, staring at the floor, then roused herself and stood up with sudden purpose. ‘I’m going to his mom and dad’s. They may hate my guts, but the least they can do is tell me what’s happened.’
‘What – now? But we haven’t had tea!’
‘It’ll keep. If I don’t go straight away I’ll lose my nerve.’
Riding the tram out along the Bristol Road, Jess felt calm, resolved. Courage in the face of the hangman, she thought. After all, Ned’s mom and dad were only people. What could they do except shout and curse at her? She thought she could manage loathing: her childhood had given her practice at that. And she knew it was no worse than the fear and worry she was living with now.
But climbing down from the tram in the tranquil suburb of Selly Oak, with its genteel High Street, she immediately felt out of place and very frightened. She hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes! What a mess she must look. She wanted to get back on another tram straight away and go home. But she just couldn’t go back to waiting, dreading, still with no idea where Ned was.
Ned had told her his family lived in Oak Tree Lane, but she didn’t know the number. A lady was coming towards her as she turned into the road and passed the Oak Inn. Jess quickly tucked some loose ends of hair under her hat.
‘Excuse me – do you live along ’ere?’
‘Yes,’ she replied pleasantly, and Jess was momentarily reassured. When she asked for the Green family the woman laughed and said,
‘It’s yer lucky day – I live a few doors up from ’em.’ She pointed. ‘On the left there – the blue door.’
Once she’d knocked, Jess felt as if her chest had caved in, she was finding it so difficult to breathe. As Mrs Green came round the
door she took in a great gulp of air.
She found herself observed, scrutinized in fact, by Ned’s mother. She was a little taller than Jess, a gently rounded woman dressed in a soft, brown wool frock with a cream collar and brown leather shoes. Her hair was thick and fastened back into a soft, dignified pleat. Jess could see immediately where Ned had inherited his clear blue eyes from. Her face had a natural gentleness, and in the seconds that they looked at each other, Jess felt a pang of great sorrow. If she had married Ned, if this woman was her mother-in-law, she sensed instinctively that she would have felt great fondness for her.
‘And who are you?’ Mrs Green’s tone was polite, but already held suspicion, as if she guessed or was beginning to.
Jess saw herself through Mrs Green’s eyes: young, unkempt, a stranger on her step, but not one who was nothing to her. She was much more than nothing: she was an object of loathing. She opened her mouth to say her name, finding it as hard as coughing up a chicken bone.
‘I’m Jessica Hart – please . . .’ Seeing the hostility provoked by the mention of her name she reached out to put her hand on the door so Mrs Green couldn’t shut it on her. ‘I know what you must feel about me, but just tell me where ’e is and how ’e is! I ain’t heard a thing from him for weeks and I’ve been nearly out of my mind worrying. Just tell me ’e’s alive, Mrs Green, I beg yer . . .’
The woman folded her arms tightly across her chest and stood back.
‘Step inside. I don’t want the whole neighbourhood watching.’
Jess walked into the narrow hall. It was covered with brown linoleum and there was a nice, homely smell of cooking, apples and onions mixed.
‘He’s alive,’ Mrs Green said, hoarsely.
‘Oh thank God!’ Jess put her hands over her face and sobbed, unable to stop herself. For a few moments there was no sound but that of her weeping. Mrs Green watched her.
‘Do you have any idea,’ she started speaking quietly, but her voice rose until it was shrill with emotion. ‘Of the trouble and pain you’ve caused? To all of us? His family, his wife and child?’
Jess took her hands from her face and looked into Mrs Green’s eyes, unable to reply. Whatever answer she gave would be offensive, and the truth, the most honest answer of all was no. No she didn’t know. Hadn’t wanted to know because she’d believed she loved Ned with all her heart and that had been all that mattered. Guilt, consideration of the consequences to others had been there, had lain constantly between them, but nothing, not even those things had been enough to quell the power of attraction, the passion she felt for him which dictated that they had to be together whatever else.
Mrs Green took a step towards her and Jess cowered.
‘My son was married – happily – to a girl he’s known most of his life. They made their vows in church. He had a child, a good job. He’d never thought of anything else. Why should he? What more could a mother ask for her son? And then you came along. Have yer thought for one second what it’s been like for his wife, for Mary, to be deserted with a child to bring up? Have yer?’
Jess hung her head, unable to meet the woman’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I have, course I have, but . . .’
‘But what?’
There were more footsteps from the back of the house and a man appeared who Jess saw was Ned’s father.
‘What’s all this?’
Mrs Green gestured towards Jess. ‘This is – the girl. The one – Jessica. Look, you deal with it. I can’t . . .’ Hands over her face she went into the front room and Jess heard her weeping.
Faced with Mr Green, Jess could feel the fury emanating from him. He was quite a tall man, though perhaps an inch or two short of his son in height, his hair still mostly brown, though greying round the temples. Jess saw Ned’s chiselled features, the generous mouth.
‘So you’re the one.’
‘I know what you think of me. I just want to know he’s all right. I hadn’t heard . . .’
Mr Green was by nature a mild, gentle man, qualities Ned had inherited from him. But he was outraged at what had happened to his son’s marriage. Mary had been a sweet girl as a child and the two had been friends for such a time. The arrangement had felt safe and right. Everything had been well sorted out until Ned went off the rails like a weak fool. How could he admit what had happened, his son running off with some factory bint, deserting his new family and asking for a divorce? As well as this reservoir of anger and disappointment, his emotions were twisted further by the sight of this pretty, distraught girl in front of him. For a second, before he repressed the feeling, he understood his son’s desire, his wish for this lovely girl who was crying so passionately for him and he found himself speaking more harshly to her than he ever had to anyone in his life before.
‘How can you dare even set foot in my house?’ He paced the floor in front of her, trying to steady himself. He fished around in his pocket for his pipe and took refuge in lighting it. ‘After what you’ve done. You’re a . . . a bloody disgrace!’
Jess almost had the impulse to go down on her knees. ‘All I wanted was to know if ’e’s alive. I didn’t know . . .’
‘Well of course you didn’t know, yer stupid girl. You’re not family. You’re nothing to us!’
‘Please.’ She wrung her hands.
Mr Green held a match in the bowl of his pipe, puffing at it to get it lit up. The sweet smell of tobacco curled round the hall.
‘He’s wounded.’ Ned’s father spoke as if against his own will, without looking at her. ‘Smashed up thigh – a shell caught him.’
Jess’s hands clawed at the air. More, tell me more.
‘I’ll tell yer, and then you’re to go for good. D’you understand? And I mean for good.’
She nodded. Anything. Just tell me.
‘He’s home – in hospital, at least. Things haven’t gone any too smoothly – infection set in. It was touch and go at one point. He’s coming out of it now but for a time he didn’t know us. His mother’s been worried to death. They think it’ll be a good few months in hospital – then home, and who knows. It may all be over by then.’
Jess was listening with absolute attention, quite still now.
‘He’s going to be all right?’
‘Depends on how the leg heals. There may be a limp. But he’s going to live, yes.’
‘Thank God,’ she gasped. ‘I thought . . . oh . . .’ She was weeping again, quietly. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, then looked up. ‘Where is he?’
He jabbed the pipe at her. ‘He doesn’t need disturbing – what ’e needs is rest and settling back down with his family where he belongs!’ Mr Green looked down into the bowl of his pipe, evading her eyes. ‘I’m not going to tell you where he is. His wife’s going – that’s all he needs. You’re to keep away. Ned’s married. He and Mary can . . . well, this is a chance for them. Patch things up and put the mistakes behind them. He’s finished with you. Is that clear?’
He looked across at her with a terrible sternness that made Jess shrink inside.
‘I’ve told you what you want to know. Now, if you’ve any real consideration for him, for all of us, you’ll keep away. You’ve done enough harm to us all already.’ His voice became ever sharper. ‘Keep away – you’re not wanted. By anyone!’
Thirty-Two
That same night, Peter Stevenson sat staring into the grate in his back sitting room. He had drawn the chair in close to catch the last of the heat from a smouldering log and was hunched forwards, elbows resting on his knees in a sad, sagging posture similar to that in which Jess had once come upon him in his office. Mrs Hughes had long since put David to bed and the house was quiet except for the fire still hissing quietly and the clock on the mantelpiece with its slow, mellow ticking. Either side of it were arranged framed photographs: a small, oval, silver frame held a picture of David as a baby, and the other, a rectangular frame wrought in silver-plated filigree, was a portrait of Sylvia. She had had a soft, reassuring beauty, long fair hair brush
ed back and fastened elegantly for the photograph. Every so often his gaze moved up to take in that picture. Even now, so many months after her death, he had to stop himself expecting to see her seated opposite him on the chair by the fire, legs comfortably crossed, with sewing or knitting for David in her lap. When he looked at the photograph the day it was taken always came to mind, how she couldn’t stop laughing: for some reason the sight of the photographer disappearing under the black hood of the camera tickled her, seeming absurd in some way, and they had to make several attempts. Even in the finished portrait her face had a look of repressed mirth.
Peter Stevenson put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. At last he sat back in the chair, crossing one long leg over the other. The eyes of the picture seemed to watch him relentlessly, as if she were seeing into his thoughts, and with a sudden movement he stood up and picked up the frame.
‘You know I loved you, Sylvia, don’t you? Always . . . I wish I still had you here, God knows I do. There’s nothing I wish for more.’ For a moment he held the picture over his heart, smoothing the back of it with his hand, then replaced it, turning it away from him towards the wall. He went to the glass door which looked out over the bleak little garden, but in the dark, could see only his own, long reflection, and he pressed his forehead against the window, shocked for a second by the coldness of it.
He had expected grief to go on, undiluted, forever. The extent of his anguish when Sylvia first fell ill, then lay dying and was finally taken from him, leaving him with a motherless child, was so acute that he could not then imagine life without the agony of it inside him. The early mornings were the worst, waking alone, and these silent evenings. Sylvia had liked music, would sing to herself, and the house had felt full of life. The pain of losing her had been his one certainty. It was still present, waves of loss and bereftness building and receding within him. But already he found that other feelings could exist mingled with grief: he could begin to move on without her, and this made him feel guilty and ashamed of his disloyalty. Chiefly these emotions were directed towards Jess Hart. At first he simply noticed her, the way some people in a group stand out while others fade. Her presence drew his eye, her prettiness, her shape. And he liked her, enjoyed the way their brief conversations seemed to fit with each other’s, her smile which had become, along with seeing David, the main thing which could brighten the day. She could make him laugh. More lately, she had aroused his tenderness, finally his desire.
