Walking until he exhausted himself and his leg throbbed with pain, Mark turned towards Nile Street. His grandmother would take him in without grilling him with awkward questions. She was the only person who seemed to accept him the way he was, even during his bouts of drunken anger. He knocked at the door and went in without waiting for an answer. The room was in darkness except for the glow from the television.
‘Nana?’ he said, squinting at the bulky shadow in the chair. Ivy was dozing. He leaned over the back of the chair and kissed her grey hair gently.
She woke with a start and put out a hand to him. ‘Hassan?’ she gasped in confusion. ‘Is that you?’
Mark laughed softly. ‘Who’s Hassan? Some lover boy from the bingo?’ he teased. But the look on her face halted his laughter. She was staring at him, clutching her throat in fear. ‘It’s all right, Nana, it’s me,’ he said, quickly reaching to turn on the light.
She let go a long breath. ‘By, you gave me a fright!’
‘Aye, sorry. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Mark said, easing himself down beside her.
She put out a hand to him. ‘I thought I had,’ she whispered. Mark felt a tingle of fear at her words. She was looking at him so strangely.
‘What is it, Nana?’ he asked in concern. ‘You’ve not been having nightmares too?’
A little sob caught in her throat. ‘For longer than you can imagine,’ she said in a desolate voice. She clutched his hand tighter. ‘Oh, Mark, hinny, I’ve got to tell you. It’s on me mind all the time these days. It can’t make you any unhappier than you already are − and maybe it’ll make you feel better about yourself.’ She gave him a desperate look.
Mark asked in bafflement, ‘Tell me what?’
Ivy hung on to his hand as if it were a lifeline. ‘About your grandfather and me. Your grandfather Hassan.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
September 1982
Jo did not know what to wear for the memorial service. It was being held at the cathedral and was a joint one for all the forces. Would it be like a funeral? Or would it be an excuse for victory celebrations? she wondered. That was what Alan had thought and that was his reason for not going with her.
‘It’ll be triumphal − flags and uniforms and hymns about the sea,’ he said dismissively. ‘It won’t be about Colin.’
‘Maybe it won’t, but Dad wants to go,’ Jo said. ‘At least I can go there and think about Colin. And if Dad finds it a comfort, then I’m happy to go.’
‘I think you’ll both get very upset, not comforted,’ Alan predicted. ‘You’d be closer to Colin going for a walk in Wallsend Park.’
‘You’re not making it any easier for me,’ Jo sighed, discarding the black skirt in favour of the green. The late-September day was too warm and bright to be dressed in black. She was dreading the afternoon ahead and angry at herself for arguing with Alan. They had ended the holiday being much closer and happier together and she missed the teasing intimacy of those last sunny Spanish days. But on returning, the aftermath of the war had come between them again. As she hurried through the streets of Newcastle, with their normal bustle, she wondered if anyone else even thought about the Falklands any more.
She found her father and Pearl waiting on the corner of the Bigg Market as they had arranged. She slipped her arm through Jack’s and gave him an encouraging smile. Pearl seemed distant; her face pale and thin in the sunshine, and Jo suddenly wondered how well her aunt was bearing up. She had taken the strain of Colin’s death on her shoulders; coping with Jack’s overwhelming grief and worrying over Mark. Jo realised that no one ever asked Pearl how she was feeling, and yet she had been like a mother to Colin. This was the first time she had seen Pearl since going on holiday and she noticed how her fair hair was lacklustre and her eyes glassy. There was a ladder in her tights and her make-up had been slapped on in a hurry. It was not like Pearl to let her appearance slip.
‘You all right?’ Jo asked.
‘Course I am,’ Pearl answered in her no-nonsense way. Jo gave her aunt a quick kiss and determined to pay her more attention.
They filed into the cool interior of the cathedral with its ancient tombs and memorial stones, its stained glass and solid pillars. It was filling up with mourners and people in uniforms representing all the forces. Officers from Colin’s regiment were present, and there was the captain of HMS Gateshead and some of the crew in the procession. As music boomed around the church and the voices of hundreds rose to the vaulted ceiling, Jo looked around for sign of Mark. She knew he must be somewhere there, but she could not spot him in the crowd.
Having gone full of reluctance, Jo found herself moved by the service. There was no glorifying of the war, just short prayers of remembrance and simple words offering comfort. She felt drawn to the other people in the pews, strangers mostly, who cried silently or listened and held each other’s hands. Although she did not know them, she felt close to them in their shared sorrow. Some of the time her mind wandered and she realised she had kept herself frantically busy since her brother’s death to avoid having too much time to think. Only on holiday had she had moments of contemplation, but even then she had been afraid to be left alone with her thoughts. Now she let them drift up with the music.
The war had always seemed so far away and unreal for those who did not have loved ones out there. It struck Jo that this was why she and Alan saw things in such a different way. He had never been emotionally involved. He could analyse it objectively, talk about politics and the immorality of killing. She could agree intellectually, but in her heart there was no such objectivity. She understood that there were hundreds of soldiers’ sisters in Argentina who felt as bereft as she did. But she would have traded in the life of the pilot who dropped the bomb on Colin to have her brother alive. That was the difference between her and Alan. Up until her brother and Skippy were killed, she had been passionately pacifist. She had performed anti-war sketches at the gates of military bases. She still knew that war was wrong. But now it was more complex. Her feelings were mixed and conflicting. Were there times when it was necessary to fight to prevent a greater injustice? she questioned.
Mark had been so sure of this before he went and she had been envious of his straightforward conviction. Colin and Skippy, Jo knew, had just gone because they had been sent. Their motivation had been simple loyalty to their mates, wanting to do their best and not let anyone down. But Mark had seen it as standing up to the Junta, the playground bullies. And, Jo reflected, he had had experience of bullies, not just in the playground but in his own home. Again she looked around for him, hoping that he was finding some solace from having old shipmates there. Soon they were streaming out again into the mellow afternoon sunshine and exchanging quiet greetings with those around. The captain and padre who had visited them at the time of Colin’s death sought them out and shook their hands.
Afterwards, Jo asked, ‘Would you like to come back to the flat for a cup of tea, Dad?’
Jack looked at Pearl for guidance, but her aunt shook her head. She looked flushed and ill at ease. ‘No, I’d rather just head home,’ she said, sounding breathless.
Jo put out a hand. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Auntie Pearl?’
Pearl brushed off her concern. ‘I’m fine. I just need to get me feet up for a bit.’
Jo looked at her father, but he did not seem aware of her aunt’s discomfort. ‘Perhaps you’re coming down with something?’ Jo puzzled.
‘No, I’m not,’ Pearl said in irritation. ‘Don’t fuss.’
‘Well, I’ll come back with you then,’ Jo insisted.
‘There’s no need,’ Pearl began.
‘Please,’ Jo said. ‘I’d rather spend the rest of the day with you both.’
***
Mark had intended to go to the service. He had set out in his naval uniform, encouraged by the thought of seeing Andy and some of the other survivors of his old ship. He was to meet Brenda and his parents at the Metro station and they would travel into the
city together. He had just gone out to buy a newspaper. Passing the Coach and Eight as it was opening, he went in knowing it would be quiet. Just one for Dutch courage, he told himself.
Three drinks later he left and wandered down to the riverside. He thought about going to see Ivy. But he had not spoken to his grandmother since her shocking revelations about his real grandfather, a Yemeni sailor he had never heard about. So the mystery was solved. His dark skin had nothing to do with his mother’s affair; his blackness had come from his father! Mark had been stunned by the news. He was not upset by it, for in a strange way it was a relief to know why he looked the way he did.
But he had been furious with Ivy. He had bawled and shouted at her and picked up the photograph of himself in uniform and smashed it in the fireplace. How could she have let him suffer all his childhood from his father’s prejudice and abuse knowing what she did? he had accused.
‘All me life I’ve been made to feel different and not known why,’ he had cried. ‘And all the time you knew! You let me mam take the blame. It could’ve just as easily been Gordon who looked different, but you let me brother pick on me too. You’ve ruined all our lives, you cowardly old bitch!’
Ivy had sobbed hysterically. ‘I knew I should have kept it to myself, but she said I had to tell you. Now it’s just made things ten times worse!’
‘Who said?’ Mark had asked in fury. ‘Who else have you been blabbing this story to before you told me?’
‘Jo,’ croaked Ivy.
Mark had felt humiliation flood over him at the thought of Ivy confiding in Jo. Her of all people! Try as he might to rid his world of her, he could not. Now she had another hold over him, this explosive knowledge about his family.
‘How long has she known?’ Mark demanded, shaking his grandmother roughly.
‘After you sailed for the Falklands,’ Ivy wept.
All this time Jo had known about his past and yet said nothing. She could have written to him on Ivy’s behalf. But all she had sent was an almost blank postcard with a begrudging ‘good luck’, he thought bitterly. He imagined Jo discussing him with that boyfriend who looked old enough to be her father. He would be an interesting case for their dinner parties, the Geordie with an Arab grandfather who went to fight for Britain, just like Hassan had done. Poor old Mark, discriminated against just like his foreign grandfather, having to prove himself more British than the British. The thought of their patronising pity was just as bad as the callous remarks of the casually racist. ‘He looks more like an Argie than the Argies, that one!’ he had heard it said by onlookers in Plymouth, and seamen in Ascension Island. Well, he did not want Jo’s pity or the curiosity of her middle-class friends.
Mark had stumbled out into the night and spent it curled up on the railway embankment under a hedge, his mind in turmoil. Now he was too ashamed to face his grandmother after all the vile things he had said to her. She had begged him not to tell his father yet, but he felt armed with a new weapon against his family and one day he would use it.
There was still time for another drink before catching the train, and he needed to numb himself to the ordeal ahead. For as the time drew nearer, the thought of seeing old comrades and of being packed in close to all those people in the cathedral made his heart hammer and his palms sweat. He needed to get away from menacing faces on the street who were staring at him as if he were the enemy. Mark hobbled back to the pub and stayed there all afternoon. At one point he vaguely remembered Ted trying to get him to go home, and eventually the landlord must have rung Brenda. Suddenly all his family were there, dressed in their best clothes, shouting at him. Even Gordon had taken the time off to attend the service.
‘You’re a bloody disgrace!’ Matty fumed. ‘We were stood on the platform an hour.’
‘I checked in here, but Ted said you’d left ages ago,’ Gordon added.
Mark grinned. ‘I came back, didn’t I?’
‘We had to go without you,’ Norma said in agitation. ‘Your father said we should.’
‘You missed all the lads from the ship,’ Brenda said impatiently. ‘People were asking for you and we had to pretend you weren’t well.’
Mark laughed mirthlessly. ‘Pretend! You wouldn’t have to do that, would you?’
Matty cuffed his head. ‘You’ve no respect for anyone − not even your old comrades. Call yourself a hero!’
Mark’s temper flared at once. He shoved his father back. ‘I’ve never called m’self a hero. It’s you lot who’ve pushed that on to me.’ Gordon tried to steady him, but Mark flung him away too.
Brenda joined in angrily. ‘Mark! Stop showing yourself up.’
He turned on her. ‘Sorry to be such a disappointment to you all, but I didn’t do anything special − I just survived. The heroes are the dead ones; sorry I messed that up for you.’
Norma stretched out a hand. ‘Don’t do this,’ she pleaded in tears. ‘You were brave. Why are you punishing yourself?’
But Matty said with contempt, ‘Let the little beggar stew in his own misery. We’ve done all we can for him.’
‘No,’ Norma quavered, ‘we’re not going to turn our backs on him, he needs help. Come on, pet,’ she coaxed, ‘come home.’
But this seemed to annoy Matty more. ‘Don’t pander to him; you always were too soft on him. That’s why he’s gone to pieces now. Look at all those tough lads at the service − none of them were in the state he’s in and they’ve all come through as much or worse. Why does everyone else’s son cope with the war except for this one!’
Mark lunged at him and grabbed his jacket. ‘And what do you know about war? From Boys’ Own comics?’ he ridiculed.
‘Let’s go home,’ Brenda urged. Mark threw off her hold.
‘No, I want to hear him. What gives you the right to sneer at me, eh?’ he demanded of his father.
Matty flushed and pushed him back. ‘The Duggans have a proud history of fighting for their country. I never had the opportunity − but I would have gone like a shot and not whinged about it afterwards. No Duggan ever cracked up like you have. You’re −.’
‘Go on, say it,’ Mark goaded. ‘I’m not really a Duggan?’
‘Well, look at you!’ Matty cried.
Norma sobbed, ‘Stop it, both of you. He’s your son, Matty, whether you like it or not.’
‘You’re both right,’ Mark said, glaring at his father with savage triumph. ‘I’m not a Duggan − but I am your son.’
‘What you talking about?’ Matty barked.
‘You’re not a Duggan either! You’re just a pathetic bully −’
Matty seized hold of Mark and pushed him up against the bar. Ted hovered behind, wondering whether to call the police. ‘Steady, lads’ he pleaded, ‘I should have closed ages ago.’ But everyone ignored him.
‘Don’t you bad-mouth me!’ Matty shouted.
‘You’re not a Duggan,’ Mark repeated with a savage smile. ‘None of us are. You’re the son of an Arab sailor. All these years you’ve blamed Mam for the colour of me skin, but I got it from you all along.’
‘Of all the bloody lies!’ Matty cursed, and knocked him to the ground. Gordon leapt to intervene.
‘Leave him alone, Dad,’ he ordered, coming between them and fending Matty off.
Brenda stood and stared, but Norma went to help Gordon haul Mark to his feet. ‘What do you mean? What Arab sailor?’ she asked.
‘He’s lying! It’s an insult!’ Matty blustered.
‘Ask Nana; she told me everything,’ Mark said, his head reeling. ‘She married a Yemeni before Duggan.’ He glared at his father. ‘So don’t you ever look down on me again. And don’t you lift another finger against Mam, or I’ll kill you. ’Cos it wouldn’t bother me if they lock me away for murder. I’ve done plenty of that already.’
Mark felt nauseous with drink and anger. He turned and staggered towards the door, leaving them staring after him in disbelief. He was vaguely aware of his father ranting behind him.
‘You’re not coming ba
ck to my house! Do you hear? You’re out for good this time!’
Mark did not care. He felt light-headed at having told the secret. Somehow the power of it had lessened by its telling. Fear of his father had been diminished too. Never again would Matty be able to dominate, hurt or undermine him in the way he had in the past. He was free of him, Mark thought as he stumbled out into the glare of daylight and fled.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jo was making paella in her father’s kitchen while he watched the evening news with Pearl. She was worried about her aunt’s tired tetchiness and had rung Alan to say she was going to stay the night. She was determined to get to the bottom of what was bothering Pearl, for her father did not seem to notice there was something wrong. She would make her go and see the doctor if necessary. Jo would not contemplate how her father would cope if Pearl were ill; he relied on her so completely these days.
As she stirred in the rice, the doorbell rang. Nobody moved to answer it. It rang again. Jo turned down the gas ring and dashed across the sitting room with a look of annoyance. But Pearl had fallen asleep and her father was staring at the local news coverage about the service.
She opened the door to see Mark standing there. He was dressed in naval uniform, but was dishevelled and reeking of beer. His look was startled, then hostile.
‘I didn’t think you’d be here,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back another−’
‘Did you want to see Dad?’ she interrupted, not wanting an argument. ‘He’s here. Come in,’ she insisted, reaching out to stop him going. ‘It might cheer him up to see you.’
Jo smothered her resentment that her father seemed to find more comfort in seeing Colin’s old friend than he did in her. She knew from Pearl that Mark often came round to see Jack. They would sit and play cards or read newspapers, saying very little. ‘They don’t even talk about Colin,’ Pearl had said in bafflement. ‘Still, if that’s what your father wants…’
THE TYNESIDE SAGAS: Box set of three dramatic and emotional stories: A Handful of Stars, Chasing the Dream and For Love & Glory Page 111
