by Ruth Sutton
‘Oh God,’ said John, lying down again and turning his head away from her laughter. ‘Someone must have undressed me. How humiliating. I’ll have to move away.’
‘It was New Year’s Eve,’ she said. She walked over, picked up his clothes and put them on the end of the bed. ‘You got drunk, it doesn’t matter. Just shows that your neighbours like you. Best thing you can do now is get your body out of that bed, put your clothes on, and come for a walk with me. That’ll clear your head. I’ll make tea. I brought you some stew from last night if you’re hungry. I was going to leave it on the doorstep, like a present from the fairies. Don’t be long.’
She left the room, pulling the door shut behind her. John rubbed his face and forced himself to sit up, swung his legs round and put both feet on the cold floor. He fumbled into his clothes, his heart racing, and pulled at his hair as he went down the stairs. Maggie was standing by the sink, her back to him, and then turned as he walked slowly towards her. She smiled at him, put out her hand and rubbed the stubble on his chin. It was too much. John pulled her towards him, leaning his face into her warm neck, feeling the softness of her hair, the warmth of her body as she clung to him. ‘Maggie, Maggie,’ he whispered. Suddenly he was overcome. He found her mouth and kissed her urgently, feeling her response. By the time he realised what was happening to his body it was too late and he could not hold back. He buried his face in the collar of her coat as the orgasm shook him.
‘Hush, John, lovely boy, it’s alright.’ Maggie stroked his head and held him tightly as he leaned against her, pressing her up against the sink. They stood locked together for a while, as she stroked his hair. He raised his head a little and wiped tears from his eyes with his hand. She pushed him gently away and raised his face, kissing his damp skin.
‘It’s alright,’ she said. ‘It happens. You’d better go and find some clean clothes.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I never … Oh God. What a mess.’
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll still be here. No rush.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, not looking at her as he stumbled back up the stairs.
When he came down again, she was sitting at the little table, steam rising from the mug in her hands. The kettle was hissing on the range.
‘You want some tea?’ she said. ‘Sit down, I’ll make it.’
John sat miserably on the little chair. He’d made a complete fool of himself last night, and now this. What must she think of him, a grown man doing that, like a boy who can’t control himself? He was ashamed. She put the tea down on the table in front of him and watched him. He could not look at her.
He heard her say, ‘Is it me you want, or is it just, you know …?’
‘Oh God,’ was all he could manage in response, turning his head further away from her.
‘Talk to me,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you want.’
‘I want you, more than I can stand. Look at me. Like a kid. I think about you all the time, dream about you, night after night. Seeing you standing there, and when you touched me, I …’
‘Why didn’t you say?’ she said gently. ‘I’m a grown woman, been married, remember. I’m not about to be shocked by ’owt you could tell me. Screen lasses know it all, hadn’t you heard?’
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘You kept quiet about that, for fear of what I would think about you. And then you told me. Then I thought … if I told you that I wanted you, you might think it was because I thought, you know …’ He was hopelessly tangled and lost. No more words would come.
‘You thought I’d be insulted? Oh John. All these weeks, you’ve never tried anything. I thought you liked me, but you must be saving yourself or summat. Maybe you are.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ said John, turning to look into her face. ‘I don’t know about women. They’ve always been a mystery, saying one thing, meaning something else, laughing at me. All my life, since school, I’ve tried to work out what they wanted, and never guessed right. And I was afraid of losing you. I can’t lose you, Maggie.’
‘You’ve got me,’ she said. ‘You’ve had me since that first day when I saw you in the screen shed, the dog day. There was summat about you, even then. But I couldn’t do ’owt about it. It was just luck you saw us at the rugby, I couldn’t believe it. ‘
‘Why didn’t you say anything to me?’
“I wasn’t sure what to say. I’ve been married, and it wasn’t good. I’ve Judith to think of. I ’ave to be careful. And I wasn’t sure how you felt, you’ve never even put your arm round me.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘We’ll keep it dark, whatever we do,’ she said. ‘We’ll carry on walking out, not give folk the chance to gossip. And we’ll be clever. You know how to lie, after all these years with your mam. We’ll lie until we’re ready to tell folk. We can be together here, if we’re careful. We need time.’
John sipped his tea. More lies. He had to tell her something else.
‘I’ve never done it,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’ve never had a woman.’
‘Oh sweetheart,’ she said. She stood up and took off her coat. ‘Bring your tea,’ she said. ‘We’re going upstairs.’
When he woke for the second time that day, the sun had reached its low zenith and was on its way down again. Everything felt different. She had helped him, patiently. She had let him into her, inside her warm body. He had felt the smooth skin at the base of her spine, held her full breasts in his hands. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that married people did this, all the time, every day, whenever they felt like it. He wondered how he could ever look at her again. She had said nothing before she left. He lay still and thought about what to do.
It was dark when he was ready. He had drunk more tea, and a pint of water, and eaten the stew that she had brought. There was gingerbread left in the tin and he had eaten that too, in one big piece, scattering crumbs over the table and the floor. The kitchen was a mess, and he didn’t even notice. The night was still and clear when he wheeled the bike out of the shed behind the house and set off north. He had to see her. He had to know what she would do, and say.
At the house in West Row there was so much noise that he had to knock on the front window before anyone heard him. It was Tom who let him in, and he called over his shoulder as he did so, ‘It’s our John.’
‘Happy New Year!’ shouted a chorus of voices from the front room. The house was blue with cigarette smoke that caught in John’s throat and made his eyes prickle. Maggie took John’s hand, squeezing it as she did so. ‘No drink for you,’ she said, ‘not after last night.’ She led him into the front room where Frank McSherry was holding court from his wheelchair. He shook John’s hand.
‘Reet good craic last night, our John,’ said Frank. ‘We missed you.’
‘John was busy first-footing round Sandwith,’ said Maggie. ‘He’s no idea who put ’im to bed.’
John heard the shouts that greeted this news, but he didn’t care what they said. She was here, she was smiling and holding his hand. It would be all right.
‘I can hear Mam shouting for me,’ said Maggie, close to his ear. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ She squeezed out of the room and into the kitchen.
‘Shut the door,’ said Violet. She turned towards her daughter, holding the back of a chair.
‘Where did you get to today, creeping out before we were up? Our Judith was asking and I didn’t know what to tell ’er.’
‘I told you, Mam, I went for a walk.’
‘Walk, did you, well I can guess where to. You’ve been with that man, ’aven’t you? I can tell just by looking at ’im. Cat that got the cream, that look is. And you, too, look at you. You can fool the rest of them but you can’t fool me, I’m your mam.’
‘Yes I went to John’s. I took ’im some stew, had a cuppa.’
‘You ’ad more than a cuppa. What are you thinking of? You’re nearly thirty, girl, wi’ a bairn and working on t’screens. Might as well put a cross
on your forehead like an “untouchable” – or whatever they did.’
‘I knew it,’ said Maggie. ‘Just because John’s not a good Catholic boy. Well I’m a grown woman and I’ll make up me own mind, thank you, with no ’elp from you.’
‘Grown woman who lives wi’ er mam and dad.’ Violet raised her voice, and then lowered it again quickly. ‘It’s a proper man you need, to give you a home and the bairn a father. He’ll never marry you if you give it ’im for nowt. It’ll get around, mark my words.’
Maggie copied the fierce whisper. ‘If we want to marry, we will, and don’t try to stop us. If the blessed Father Pryce doesn’t like it you can both tek a running jump. I did the whole Catholic thing last time and landed up wi’ that Isaac.’
‘He were alright,’ said her mother. ‘Good family.’
‘My arse,’ said Maggie. ‘You ’ad no idea what ’e were like and nor did I till it were too late. This one’s different, and don’t you dare try and mess it up.’
‘We’ll see. I’ll ’ave to tell Father Pryce, Maggie, if you don’t.’
‘For God’s sake, Mam, this is 1947 not 1847. I don’t need your permission, nor any bloody priest.’
She closed the kitchen door with more than necessary force on her way back into the hall. John was standing by the half open front door, taking deep breaths of the cold night air to calm his itching lungs. Maggie took down their coats from the high pegs on the wall of the passage.
‘Now we are going for a walk,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
CHAPTER 14
THE START OF SCHOOL IN JANUARY was always a flat time, and this year the gloom of midwinter settled on Jessie more quickly and more deeply than usual. She felt obliged to live mostly at the schoolhouse, aware of the resentment from Alan Crompton about her staying at Applegarth and the schoolhouse being left empty. Even Grace Crompton, Alan’s wife, who had previously been obsequiously polite, cut her dead in the shop, quite deliberately and in full view of Newton’s women who were queuing patiently for their ration of sausage.
When she saw Gideon Barker and Alan Crompton talking together at the school gate one dark morning, she guessed what it was about, and braced herself.
The vicar’s voice grated on her as it always did. ‘Mr Crompton and I would like to talk to you, if we may, Jessie – now – before the children arrive.’
Jessie looked mildly at the two men but said nothing. She led them into her room, turned to face them and remained standing. She did not want them to look down at her. Mr Barker adjusted the collar of his black overcoat. Mr Crompton stood behind the vicar, peeping at Jessie over his shoulder.
‘How long have you been at this school, Jessie?’ the vicar asked, although she knew that he already knew the answer.
‘As I told you before,’ she said. ‘I came here from Liverpool in 1925, and then they asked me to become the headmistress’
‘They?’
‘The Board. They told me they couldn’t get anyone else.’
‘Ah,’ said the vicar.
‘Mr Crompton joined me here in 1934.’
‘1935,’ said Alan quickly. ‘Just after I finished my training. Then I went to the navy when the war broke out.’
‘To serve your country,’ the vicar added, half turning towards him.
‘Have you something to say to me, Mr Barker?’ Jessie asked, trying to interrupt this tedious chronology.
He flushed. She knew he didn’t like her, but she didn’t care.
‘Now that Mr Crompton has returned,’ he said, ‘we would like you to consider your position.’ Jessie saw Alan Crompton’s head nod in agreement.
‘My position?’ she said, pulling herself up, slightly taller than either of the men who confronted her.
‘Yes,’ Gideon Barker ploughed on. ‘You are a single woman, living alone in the schoolhouse, while Mr Crompton here, with a wife and family, is obliged to rent a cottage down near the river.’
I knew it, thought Jessie.
‘The house has always been available to the headteacher,’ she said, ‘since the school was first established.’
‘And now things are different,’ said the vicar. ‘Times change, Jessie, and we must adapt. This is a new world, after the war. Men who have served their country deserve –’
‘What?’ said Jessie. ‘What do they deserve, beyond our thanks?’
‘Homes and jobs,’ he said. ‘Homes and jobs.’ Alan Crompton’s head bobbed again.
‘Do you mean my home and my job, by any chance?’ asked Jessie, without surprise.
‘Well,’ said the vicar, ‘that’s what we want to discuss.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Jessie. ‘The children will be arriving very soon. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters, and I do not intend to do so. I take it you have alerted the Board to your concerns?’
‘I have indeed,’ said the vicar.
‘I am prepared to talk to you further, Mr Barker,’ said Jessie, ‘but only to you, not to Mr Crompton. I hope that is understood.’
Alan Crompton began to speak, but the vicar turned and held his arm.
‘I will represent Mr Crompton’s views,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Jessie.
Even so, when Mr Barker returned at the end of the school day later in the week, Alan Crompton seemed determined to remain in the room, and the vicar made no move to stick to their agreement. Jessie knew they had been planning what to say to her. She sat down this time, in the largest chair, leaving the two men to perch on the small chairs used by the children. Even before they had settled themselves she began to say what she had rehearsed.
‘I have served this school well, I believe,’ she said. ‘There have been no complaints from parents. I would know if they were unhappy. The children of this village read and write as well as any of their peers in this area. The school inspectors have confirmed this and I’m sure you’re aware of that too, Mr Barker.’
‘The Board do not believe that you are doing a poor job, Jessie,’ said Gideon Barker. Jessie hated the whining Yorkshire accent. ‘But that’s not what we’re here to discuss. There’s an issue of justice at stake here.’
‘Justice?’ she said, amazed at the man’s pomposity. ‘I would have thought that justice would support my remaining here.’
‘We’ve come through a war,’ the vicar went on. ‘Men like Mr Crompton here risked their lives for this country and now find themselves with nowhere to live, nowhere fit for a growing family. People in London are having to take over empty houses just to put a roof over their heads.’
‘But the schoolhouse isn’t empty, Mr Barker, is it? I live there, by right, as the headmaster of the school did before me.’
‘The headmaster had a family,’ said the vicar, with unmistakeable emphasis. ‘You live here alone.’
‘If I were a single man, would you be saying this?’ she asked.
Jessie noticed a look that passed between the two men.
‘There are other problems in the school,’ said Alan, shifting his weight on the uncomfortable chair. ‘The older children need a firmer hand.’
‘A man’s hand, you mean,’ she said, ‘preferably on the back of their legs.’
‘Mr Crompton has every right to chastise the children if he sees fit,’ said the vicar, taking up his turn again. ‘We stand in the place of the parents, and many parents believe their children need proper discipline.’
‘Is that what your experience has taught you both?’ she said. ‘Did we fight this war for the right to beat our children?’
‘The fact remains, Jessie, that it’s time to make some changes. We hope that you will accept this fact and make your plans to move on.’
‘And if I don’t wish to “move on” as you put it?’ said Jessie, realising that if they were determined to see her go, the Board would be unlikely to interfere.
‘Then I will ask the Board to dismiss you. There are other schools where such decisions have already been made, since our fighting
men have returned to work. I have no doubt that they will agree, however reluctantly.’
Jessie’s urge to fight was strong, but suddenly she felt herself falter. Her secret past wasn’t safe any more. Again she felt the flutter of uncertainty, the unravelling that had started with John and was now spreading into her work; but old habits of self-control served her well. She stood and looked at the vicar, hoping that this would make Alan Crompton feel like the interloper he was.
‘I shall take as much time as I need to consider what you have said to me, Mr Barker. After so many years of service to the school I will not be rushed or bullied, and you will have to wait for my decision. If necessary, I shall write to the Board myself, and I expect that you, and your colleague, will keep this conversation to yourselves in the meantime. Please close the door on your way out.’
Gideon Barker stood for a moment, saying nothing, before he turned abruptly and left the room, with Alan Crompton right behind him. When Jessie heard the school door close, she breathed out slowly and sat down. Her knees were shaking slightly and she felt sick. She sat on the hard chair quite motionless for several minutes before gathering her things and seeking the solace of the schoolhouse.
As so many times before, the routines of her own home calmed her. She had loved this house from the very first, revelling in the privacy and independence it provided. The house was quite small, but bigger than her childhood home in Barrow, with two rooms downstairs, two bedrooms above, piped water in the kitchen and a toilet in the yard. The small garden to the side was enough to grow some food of her own, to eke out the rations of the past few years. The garden was hers, the house was hers, the job was hers, and she had defended them with fierce determination. Once before, during the lean years of the 1930s she had felt threatened, as women teachers were being sacked up and down the coast to give the jobs to men with families. Lionel Leadbetter had stood up for her then, but he was gone. During the war her job had felt safer, but now the men were back. Two of them had just told her that she should give way to them, and they would probably get what they wanted.
