Immediately the door closed, Nora said of the peach tin – the kind that Ellen had gone to purchase on the day of her death – ‘Stick ’em in the cupboard, Dolly! I couldn’t stomach the blasted things if I was starving.’ Her tone was one of deep loathing. ‘You can’t say anything when they’re only showing concern but, by God, I don’t know how I stopped meself from crowning her with it.’
Niall’s eyes followed Dolly as she relegated the peaches to the back of a cupboard, his voice hollow. ‘Aye, I were just about to say, when she came in, I wish they’d just leave me to get on with it now. Every time I open the front door I can feel their eyes on me, brimming with pity.’
The women agreed that it was the same for them, Dolly voicing what all had experienced. ‘Whenever you see any of them gathered together they clam up – you can tell they’ve been talking about Nell.’
‘People love a tragedy,’ pronounced Nora, her eye and tone become bitter.
‘They make me sick,’ seethed Harriet, revisited by her own grief. ‘Acting all teary and concerned – it’s not their tragedy it’s ours.’
Niall chewed his lip, noting how quickly they turned, how they hated to be on the receiving end of the gossip. So did he.
‘And the worst thing is,’ declared Nora mournfully, ‘they’ll have got over it in a few weeks. We never will.’
Dreading Christmas, Niall found it even worse when it finally arrived not crisp and white but wet and miserable. Telling himself it was for the children’s sake, he tried to make the best of an overcast celebration, scrimped on his own pleasures to take them all to a pantomime, and to buy each the type of present they would normally not receive. Yet, at the end of a very testing day, there remained an empty bed and a sobering indictment: no gift he had bestowed could replace their mother.
The winter months of 1935 were tough. Battling his way up the line through flurries of January snow, he had never felt so desolate. The wolf was obviously finding it arduous too in these foot-high drifts, for the vulpine spoor that defaced the pristine blanket led investigators not to a savaged sheep but to the remains of tinier mammals. Despite these giveaway tracks, the predator continued to remain at large. Wishing he too was a lesser beast, so as not to think and to feel emotion, Niall tried to inject himself with hope; told himself that spring was just around the corner.
But even after the upland streams and tributaries had thawed and their icy contents came tumbling down from the hills to swell the Ouse and Foss and threaten the city, before mercifully receding, Niall was to remain swamped in desolation.
Is this it? he was often to ask during the months after Ellen’s funeral. Was this what he had wished upon himself? Why, he was even worse off than before. At least he had had a wife to cuddle up to on a night. However much she might nag him over his shortcomings, Ellen had been good at heart, knitting him jumpers and socks, making sure he was warm and well fed before setting off to work on winter mornings, treating him to his favourite sweets whenever she went into town. How could he have been so lacking in imagination, so perverse as to think he would not miss her as much as anyone else in this house? Steeped in melancholia, for months he had crucified himself over his last words to her. He had told her to bugger off, and she had. For good. And all over a tin of bloody peaches! Grief superseded by anger, he raged at the stupidity of it all. I told her I’d go for them! Why does she never listen? And then the anger had reverted to misery, for that was another thing: the habit of referring to her in the present tense; expecting her still to be there when he got home on a night, waiting to take his coat and to rub his cold hands with her warm ones, to steer him towards the fire …
But he had imagined her dead and now he had got his just deserts. Life held no further pleasure than to see his children become adults, and marry, and hopefully make better decisions than he himself had done. And isn’t that sufficiently worthwhile, a sudden, inner voice demanded at his lowest ebb. At least you can help to guide them, make up for your failure as a husband. And there would be grandchildren. Yes, yes, of course there were things that were still meaningful. And thereupon the tide of self-pity began to recede. Never even to contemplate re-marriage, Niall decided then that, with his mother-in-law willing to cook and to wash and to lay out his clean underwear for him, his children would be enough; must be enough. Accordingly, from that point of catharsis, it was to Nora he handed his wage packet, and she who took over from Ellen in the running of his life.
4
Despite the apparent return to normality, both for Niall and those who lived alongside him, there remained an air of emptiness in the house, and the women could not help but feel how unsatisfactory this was for a man.
‘He’s lonely, is the lad,’ Niall overheard his mother-in-law murmuring to her daughters one night in early March, with greater understanding than he gave her credit for. ‘God knows, I miss Nell, but her husband must miss her twice as much.’
Drying his hands in the scullery, he cringed and gripped the rough towel, listening to the three talking about him for a while, and taking a few moments to compose himself before hanging the towel on its hook and wandering in to join them.
The only one still draped in black, Nora glanced up sympathetically from her knitting as he entered. ‘All right, love?’
He nodded, his face pensive and his voice loaded with regret. ‘I shouldn’t have let her go on her own. If the bike had hit me it wouldn’t have done any damage …’
Stricken by a bolt of agony, she rebuked him, ‘Eh, now don’t start that!’
‘How can you be to blame?’ demanded Harriet and Dolly, both misty-eyed.
‘Here!’ Resting her knitting on her lap, full of bluster to mask her grief, Nora made a grab for her purse and dug out some coppers. ‘We were just saying you need summat to take your mind off things. Get yourself out for a little bevy.’
Having enjoyed this pursuit only a handful of times during his entire marriage. Niall was taken aback, and did not seem particularly keen to go, for instead of taking the money from her he stared at the manly wrist in its delicate little gold watchband and shook his head.
But his mother-in-law’s hand remained extended, gesturing deliberately as she urged in a kind but forceful manner, ‘Go on! It doesn’t do you any good to be sitting with us women night after night. Go and find some male company. Anyway, you earned it.’
As of course he had. And so, in reluctant fashion he took the money, donned his cap and his army surplus greatcoat, and picked up the evening paper, saying, ‘I’ll take the press with me in case there’s nobody to talk to.’
The night was dark and cold; the kind of damp, depressing cold that permeates one’s bones and dilutes the marrow. Set between two rivers, which ever-threatened to break their banks, in its scooped-out saucer of land this city was not a good place to be in winter; like an overfilled cup in a puddle of tea, its lower reaches constantly a-drip. Niall was glad of his greatcoat, tugging its collar around his neck, chin and ears against the drizzle, as he made his way towards Walmgate, welcoming each intermittent splash of lamplight, before being plunged into gloom once more.
From behind a closed door came the sound of a man and women arguing violently, and pots being thrown; from another, a child’s pathetic wail. Niall jumped and stopped dead as a dog came barking at him out of an alley, and he kept a wary eye on it as he walked on. Seeking a drinking partner, he went straightaway to the abode of his friend Reilly, a short distance away on the other side of Walmgate. Pals since their schooldays, the two had gone their separate ways upon leaving there – Niall to the railway, and Reilly to Terry’s factory – and had met only a couple of times a year since then. They had last reunited at Ellen’s funeral. It might seem odd to some that such close friends did not get together more regularly – especially at such time of strife – but Reilly had said genuinely then, if Niall ever needed him he knew where to come, and that provided solace enough. It would be nice to meet again in happier circumstances and Niall found himself lo
oking forward to it, as, just before the Bar, he turned off this main artery that was Walmgate, and entered a primary vein. Travelling beyond its many capillaries – the overcrowded alleyways and courts – he went down to its far end where, by a cut of the River Foss, was to be found his friend’s dwelling, a similar two-up, two-down to his own.
Reilly’s wife, Eileen, answered the door, warily at first, until she discerned his identity through the darkness – then she was immediately pleased to see him. An attractive little woman, dark of hair and eye, her face cracked into a munificent smile and she threw open the door.
‘Eh, look who it is after all this time – what’s your name again?’ And she gave a bubbling laugh. But in the next breath she was to issue disappointment. ‘Oh, you do right come when he’s working nights! He’ll be that mad at having missed you, Nye. Anyway, come in and have a cup of tea with me and get the neighbours talking. Eh, how lovely to see you!’ With an encouraging sweep of her hand she prepared to welcome him in.
Reminded of how this might appear to others, Niall went only as far as the doormat, though he retained his friendly smile as he took off his cap. ‘Er, no, I won’t stop, Eileen, thanks all the same. Me mother-in-law’s given me the money for a pint. I daren’t waste it; she might not grant me the opportunity again!’ Nevertheless, he did not leave immediately, taking a few moments to enquire after Eileen’s wellbeing – for he liked this small, but generously proportioned woman very much – and to share with her news of his children, about whom she was always quick to ask. If ever a woman was made for motherhood, this was she, with her soft ample bosom upon which a small head could rest, and her kind eyes and patient nature. It was a great shame the Reillys were childless.
‘Eh dear,’ she sighed, when he had finished bringing her up to date on his sons and daughters’ emotional welfare – particularly Juggy, ‘you never can tell what’s running through a bairn’s mind, can you?’
Niall gave a sombre shake of his head. ‘I try to buck them up as best I can, but—’
‘Oh, I’m sure you do, love!’ Eileen pressed his arm.
‘—it’s not the same as their mam, is it?’ he finished.
‘I’ll tell you, lad,’ bolstered Eileen, ‘you do a lot better than most.’ Acquainted with Niall for many years, she had never met a man so mindful of his children’s happiness. That alone would have earned her admiration, but he had also proved a loyal friend to her and Reilly too, at short notice – even in the middle of the night – coming to their aid when the flood waters threatened their furniture, and helping to shift it to higher ground. ‘They’re lucky to have you as a father – and you’re lucky to have them.’
‘Well, I don’t know about the first bit,’ came his self-effacing reply. ‘But you’re right about the second.’ Absent-mindedly, he wrung his cap.
Eileen studied his abstracted pose. ‘And how are you managing without her?’
‘So, so …’
She served a thoughtful nod, knowing that Ellen had been the only buffer between Niall and his awful in-laws. Personally, she had never been enamoured of Ellen either, thinking the pair badly suited, but one could not say this to a bereaved husband.
‘Anyway!’ Niall broke away from the spell that thoughts of Ellen had created. ‘I won’t keep you standing here being nithered to death.’ He gave a smile and a shiver, before backing away and replacing his cap. ‘Tell me laddo I’ll catch up with him another time.’
‘I will, love!’ With a brisk, smiling gesture, Eileen waved him off. ‘He’ll be that jealous I’ve seen you and he hasn’t!’ And with a last warm farewell, she closed the door.
Niall felt at a loss now as he made his way back towards Walmgate. There were a dozen public houses in this vicinity and he had no idea of where to dispose of his coppers. Eschewing the most notorious hostelries, which were a regular feature in the local press, he re-examined the one on the corner of the road from which he had just emerged. This might sport the usual advertising posters on its side wall, its brickwork chipped and scruffy, but it did not emit rowdy voices. He paused for a while, trying to see through the window but its glass was frosted and etched with fancy scrolls that advertised the commodities within: Wines, Spirits and Beer. The light from a gas jet illuminated a sign overhead: ‘The Angel’. He couldn’t get into much trouble in there, could he?
His self-conscious entry was quickly allayed by the bright warm atmosphere: a fire burning merrily in the hearth, gleaming brass, polished tables, sparkling mirrors, and pictures on the walls depicting scenes of fox-hunting and horse-racing. The bar shimmered with rows of spotless glasses. On its top shelf, above a row of optics, was an assortment of brightly coloured ceramic barrels, and other such decorative items relating to the trade. Removing his cap and flicking it to remove the droplets of rain, Niall folded it inside out, put it into his pocket and strolled across the tiled floor towards the counter of polished mahogany. The woman behind it smiled at him in a friendly but polite fashion – amply proportioned, but not one of your blowsy types, he decided with relief, more of a country lass, fair-skinned, fresh-complexioned, blue-eyed, and competent-looking – and there was a Celtic lilt to her tongue. Asking for a pint of bitter, he noted her strong-looking fingers on the pump. Strong, but not those of a peasant, for the nails were trimmed short and clean, and the skin was smooth with no blemish, as was that of her face. She was wearing lipstick, he suspected, though it was not heavily applied. Having lived here all his life, he knew most of the folk round this area, if not by name then by sight, but he had never laid eyes on this one before. He would have remembered that smile, that shape …
His inspection was knocked aside by guilt. It was not yet five months since his wife had died, scarcely time for her blood to be washed from the pavement, and here he was looking at another. He was as bad as Sean. Handing over his coppers, he gave peremptory thanks, then glanced around for a nook in which to sit and read his paper. First, though, he blew his nose, which had developed a dewdrop, courtesy of the roaring fire. Much too warm now to sit in his overcoat, he hung it on a stand before settling down to read.
But for some reason he could not concentrate on the pages and found his gaze being dragged back to the barmaid. He liked the honest way she had looked him straight in the eye when serving him, her face a sweet, open book. There was someone who would never belittle a man, thought Niall, someone who’d never cheat or lie or steal. Part of this assumption was to be proved correct a few moments later when she called out to a chap who had forgotten his change. She could just have kept quiet and pocketed it, but she hadn’t. Niall liked that. Affecting to read his paper, casting surreptitious glances from the print, he continued to observe as she chatted and laughed with other customers, his interest in part for the nice manner she had about her, but mainly for the attractive swellings under her jumper. Embarrassed to find himself reacting to them in base fashion, he tore his eyes away. What was the point in tormenting oneself over something one could not have? With no hope of concentrating on the press, after downing his pint, he went home.
Nora was there alone, waiting up for him. Harriet and Dolly had gone up to bed, the only trace of them being the scent of cocoa that wafted from their coats as he brushed against them in the passage. The elderly widow was partially ready for bed too, for her grey hair was dangling in a long plait over one shoulder. But for now, she sat by the firelight, employing its weak glow and that from the one remaining lamp as she squinted over her mending. Her iron jaw relaxed into a smile, as he hung his coat on a hook and came to join her by the fire. ‘You weren’t long. Didn’t you enjoy it?’
His nose beginning to run again from the sudden change in temperature, Niall pulled out a frayed handkerchief and trumpeted into it before answering, ‘Aye, it was a nice break, but I were hoping to have Reilly as company and he was working.’ His tone was dull and he made absentminded dabs at his nose. ‘No point being sat on me own. I might as well be in bed.’
Nora put aside her mending, lifted he
avily corseted hips from her chair and went to fetch him some cocoa. ‘Never mind, he might be available next time.’
Her son-in-law nodded, shoved his handkerchief away, then sat rubbing his hands and staring into the glowing embers, conjuring pictures from them. Yet even then he could not concentrate, for he found his absent thoughts depicting not Reilly, but the smiling girl behind the bar.
Is this some fluke, asked a wary Niall, when his moment of wakening failed to produce that sensation of dread, or is it some miracle? Seemingly overnight, the weather had taken a turn for the better too. The sun shone, the air was crisp instead of damp, and the sky was clear and blue. The odd daffodil began to flutter along the grassy ramparts of the city walls. Where yesterday had been a brown and barren tangle of dormant briar along the railway embankment, there were primroses, and bees that zigzagged between them. At the shrieking whistle and clattering wheels of a train, startled lambs bucked and skittered, kicking their heels in the air. A stoat came out of hiding to enjoy the sun, his beady little eye ever alert for the delighted man who watched him as he darted like quicksilver among the rocks at the side of the track, his lissom body dipping and gyrating into nook and cranny, the sunlight gleaming on his russet coat, his entire being conveying the sense of rejuvenation that Niall himself felt.
With the following days proving that this was no aberration, at the end of the week when his mother-in-law doled out pocket money from the wage packet he had just handed her, Niall clinked it thoughtfully, before saying, ‘You know, I reckon you were right about that little trip to the pub doing me good …’
‘It must have done.’ She cast a shrewd eye at him. ‘If it’s made you visit the barber at last.’
Secrets of Our Hearts Page 6
