Forgiven

by Ruth Sutton

  Jessie drank the cup of tea she always had at the end of her working day and thought about the possibility of leaving. Later this year she would be fifty years old; she had been working to support herself since her mother had thrown her out when she was barely more than a girl. She was a good teacher, she knew that, but was that all there was, for the rest of her working life? It would be easy, and rewarding in its way, but the thought suddenly appalled her.

  The new government was making change but what might a new regime look like, if it ever happened? Sometimes it felt as if the rest of England were another country, where things happened that never reached this isolated place. She could not just sit and wait for things to change. Leaving the school could be an opportunity, but leaving the house would be a wrench. Applegarth was always there, and had been her second home for several years, more so since Agnes had been spending so much time in London. She had her own bedroom there, big enough for an armchair by the fire and her own radio and her books. But it was still Agnes’s house.

  Even so, when Jessie weighed her options she knew what would happen, whether she wanted it not. Without the protection of the vicar, she would not be able to keep her job and her house. If both were to be forfeit, she should surrender them with as much dignity as possible and make it look like a positive decision on her part. Even before Agnes’s usual weekend phone call from London, Jessie had made up her mind.

  ‘I’ll make them wait,’ she told her friend. ‘They’ll have to find another teacher, but that will mean some other man can get a job whether they’re suitable or not. If that’s what they want for the village, it’s out of my hands. If I go at Easter, that gives everyone plenty of time.’

  ‘Whatever you decide, dear,’ said Agnes. ‘There’s room at Applegarth for you to have all your things around you.’

  Even over the crackly line from London, Jessie could hear the delight in Agnes’s voice.

  ‘Have you told John?’ Agnes ventured to ask.

  ‘No I haven’t, not yet. He’s busy I know, and I don’t hear much from him.’

  ‘Such a pity we didn’t see him at Christmas,’ said Agnes, and Jessie heard a question in her voice. Jessie had said nothing to Agnes about her encounter with Mrs Lowery from Kells.

  There was a long pause. Jessie wondered if they’d been cut off, and then Agnes continued. ‘Does this mean that you’ll be able to tell people about … about John?’

  The old lie about John had not even crossed Jessie’s mind.

  ‘One thing at a time, I think,’ was all she replied, and Agnes knew she could say no more.

  * * *

  ‘Jessie wants to meet me,’ John read aloud. He had picked up the letter from inside the front door and opened it before he snuggled back into the makeshift bed on the floor of his kitchen, which was warmer than his room upstairs.

  ‘What about?’ said Maggie, feeling suddenly sick about her encounter with Jessie. She must have been mad to go down there without telling him.

  ‘She doesn’t say, just says she’s coming up to Whitehaven shopping on Saturday and will I meet her in the market café at two. That’s all.’

  He pulled her towards him, absorbing the heat from her body.

  ‘Maybe it’s about the school,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she gets on well with the teacher, the one who was in the navy. If she leaves, it wouldn’t matter who knows about her and me.’

  ‘Would you tell people?’

  ‘Most of the people who matter know about it already. I’m glad I told you when I did.’

  ‘She didn’t want you to, though,’ said Maggie.

  ‘But I told you anyway,’ he said, ‘so it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘When will I meet her?’ Maggie was glad he couldn’t see her face.

  ‘Whenever you want to,’ he said. ‘Don’t bother about it now.’ Jessie was fading from his mind, along with everything else.

  ‘I’ve got a lot of catching up to do,’ he said, shifting his body onto hers.

  * * *

  John was still thinking about Maggie’s body as he waited for Jessie at the appointed time. The market café was as busy as ever on Saturday afternoon, although most of the shops had closed at noon. He ordered a cup of tea, just to occupy the table while he waited. When she arrived, they ordered more tea and scones.

  ‘It’s been a while, John,’ she said, checking who was sitting close to them. ‘How are you managing in this cold?’

  ‘The house is freezing, like everyone’s,’ he said, ‘and I’m sleeping in the kitchen by the range. Work’s difficult with more men off than normal, but not as bad as it is down south, by the sound of it. Seems strange that they’ve got all that snow and we haven’t got any, not yet at least. Is the schoolhouse warm enough?’

  ‘That’s what I want to tell you about,’ she said, pouring tea from a brown teapot. ‘I won’t be living there much longer.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve told the Board I’m leaving at Easter. That means I’ll lose the schoolhouse, and I’m moving into Applegarth with Agnes.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said John. ‘That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it, after all this time?’ His mind was already working on the implications.

  Jessie lowered her voice. ‘The vicar couldn’t wait to get me out,’ she said. ‘He never said a word about all I’ve done for the place. He even said I should get out straight away. He has the empathy of a block of wood.’ She knocked lightly on the little table where they sat, leaning forward like conspirators.

  John said nothing for a few moments, as he spread something that wasn’t butter and something else that resembled jam on his scone and ate it slowly.

  ‘Will you tell people now about – you know …?’

  ‘I suppose I might,’ she said, looking at him, trying to determine what he knew. ‘What about your friend? Did you tell her?’

  John looked away.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘I had to be honest with her. Secrets do damage. She hasn’t told anyone, it’s no one’s business but ours.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jessie. Clearly he didn’t know what the woman had done.

  ‘Is it serious, with this friend of yours? What do her family think?’

  ‘We’re not going to discuss that here,’ said John.

  They finished their tea. Jessie was walking down to catch the bus back to Newton and John walked with her, carrying some of her bags. They were a little early, and John was about to leave, when she said suddenly, ‘She came to see me, you know.’

  John stared at his mother. ‘Who did?’

  ‘Your friend, Mrs Lowery.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just after Armistice Day.’

  ‘In November?’

  ‘Yes, she came to the school.’

  ‘Are you sure it was her?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure,’ said Jessie. ‘She was very clear about that, Mrs Lowery, from Kells.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She told me that she knew about it, about you. And that I had treated you shamefully, that was the gist of it.’

  John couldn’t speak. Two months. Right through Christmas, and New Year, and the hours in each other’s arms, she’d not said anything about it.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. Jessie shrugged. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I mean, why are you telling me now?’

  ‘It’s clear that you didn’t know, and I think you should. Secrets do damage, you said it yourself.’

  John turned away, angry, disgusted, humiliated. He didn’t wait for the approaching bus to arrive. Jessie watched him walk quickly up the street, regretting what she had said, and knowing it could not be undone.

  John didn’t notice the Newton bus pass him before he walked up the hill by the harbour. The winter day was clear and blue, and bitterly cold. The sea glittered beyond the outer harbour wall. Behind him the western fells sparkled white but for once he didn’t look or care. He didn’t care what Maggie had said to his mother, when or how. What he cared about was that sh
e hadn’t told him. She knew how sick he was of deception and how it had corroded his life. He had trusted her. Now he knew it had been too good, too easy with Maggie. Life wasn’t like that. You don’t just meet someone, fall in love, take them to bed and live happy ever after. He’d been a fool.

  Maggie was in the garden with Violet as he turned the corner into West Row. The grime of the Saturday shift had been washed off and the two women were looking at the frozen ground and the blackened remains of the sprouts.

  Maggie saw him coming. He didn’t hear what passed between them, but Violet went into the house after the briefest of acknowledgements.

  ‘I thought you were going into town,’ Maggie said, instantly aware that something was badly wrong.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said, taking her arm.

  She pulled free, glanced at the window of the house, and they walked down the street onto a frost-hardened path that led towards the quarry.

  ‘She told me,’ he said, turning to face her when they were out of sight of the houses. ‘She said you went to see her.’

  Maggie knew it was no use denying it.

  ‘I wanted to see her myself, to make her realise the damage she’s done.’

  ‘You should have told me. I could have taken you to see her.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t, would you?’ Maggie hesitated. She could see how angry he was. She could fight back, or crumble and tell him how much she regretted what she’d done.

  ‘You did whatever she wanted,’ she countered, ‘right from the start, as far as I can see. I don’t have to kowtow to her. She gave her baby away. I kept mine. That was her choice, and she had to know the damage she’s done.’

  ‘That’s not for you to say. It’s my business, not yours.’

  ‘But you never did say, did you?’ Maggie was warming to her own defence. ‘You never stood up for yourself.’

  ‘So you did it for me?’

  ‘Aye, I did. And it felt good.’

  ‘Not to me, it doesn’t.’ John was trying not to shout. ‘It makes me feel like a kid, and you the big sister who fights my battles. That’s not good, not for me. And all this time, for weeks, Maggie, you’ve lied to me.’

  ‘I’ve not lied, I’ve just not told you the truth.’

  He put his hands to his head.

  ‘How could you?’ he said, his words freezing in the air between them. ‘All this time, when we’ve been so … so close. You’ve kept this to yourself, like a blanket between us. Secrets do damage, that’s what I said to Jessie and she flung it back at me. You’ve put secrets between us.’

  ‘And what about you?’ she said, trying to stop herself saying more, but failing. ‘I need a man who can stand up for ’imself, who’s not afraid of ’is bloody mother. Go away and think on that John Pharaoh, and don’t come ’ere again until you ’ave.’

  She stood in front of him, defiant, miserable.

  For the second time that day, John walked away, his mind in turmoil, his future crashing to the hard ground.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE COLD CONTINUED. For three weeks John did nothing except work, find enough food to make and eat his evening meal, keep his house tidy, read his climbing books and sleep. Maggie had given him an ultimatum, and he didn’t know what to do. Part of him wanted to say whatever she wanted, just to get her back. But he’d done that once before, with Jessie, and Maggie condemned him for it.

  The choices tumbled around in his brain. He’d been alone before, for most of his life, and the routines were familiar and comforting in a way. When the long winter ended he would go back to his climbing and his mates, free from concern for anyone else. Doing nothing seemed the best way out. He and Maggie worked different shift times and could have gone for weeks without overlapping on the way into the pit, or in the yard. The screen lasses didn’t mix much with others, and being in the office set John apart.

  It was just bad luck that he caught sight of her one afternoon as he was crossing the yard and glimpsed the familiar shape, even more muffled than usual but unmistakeable all the same. He could picture what lay below the coat, apron, clogs, and shawl, and turned quickly away so that she wouldn’t see him. What might she do? Point at him, laugh, call him a mummy’s boy? If he gave in and went crawling back to her, that would make it worse. He had to show that he was stronger than she thought, even though her absence hurt him terribly.

  The snow that had immobilised the south of England for weeks was slowly moving north. Wind was blowing bitter from the north and east, and snow would not be long, everyone knew that. As the wind increased in ferocity, John thought about the draughts in the West Row House, and pictured the new hookie rug, Fred’s gift to Maggie, pushed up against the front door, wasting its beauty on the mundane task of keeping the house a little less cold.

  Shopping for a new shovel on a Saturday morning early in March took John to St Bees rather than to Whitehaven, to avoid the risk of seeing any of the McSherrys. He went to the Crown for a pint before walking home, and there at the bar next to him was a man he’d not seen for a while.

  Peter Sim was the innkeeper from the pub at Ganthwaite. In the days before the motorbike, John had ridden up the valley on Peter’s wagon a few times and they had found themselves in agreement about the issues of the day.

  ‘You used to stop wi’ Hannah and Fred, didn’t you?’ asked Peter. ‘Up at mill?’

  ‘Aye,’ said John. ‘Go up there every now and then, just to see they’re alreet.’

  ‘Folk ’elp ’em out, when it gets bad like this,’ said Peter. ‘Someone in t’pub last week were saying Fred’s been badly like.’

  John put down his pint. ‘What sort of badly?’

  ‘Pains in ’is chest, or summat. Hannah wanted to get doctor but ’e wouldn’t ’ear of it. Stubborn auld sod.’

  John hadn’t heard about it, but there were no phones up the valley, and neither of them was likely to write to him. They probably knew that word would get around, like it always did. Fred always said that if you sneezed up the valley everybody in the county knew you had a cold.

  ‘So ’as the doctor been up?’ asked John. ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Peter. ‘I haven’t seen t’doctor’s car.’

  With an empty weekend stretching ahead of him, John decided to take the bike up the valley before the forecast snow finally came. He knew that Hannah and Fred had good neighbours, but he needed to be sure that they were all right.

  He called at the shop in Boot and bought a battery for his torch. It would be dark by four o’clock and heavy cloud would block whatever light the moon might offer. He remembered the shock of impenetrable darkness that he’d first encountered when he left Ulverston, so dark that you could walk into a wall or stumble into a ditch without ever knowing it was there.

  As he parked the bike as usual by the bridge below Mill Cottage, the millstream was still running; he could see and hear it below a top layer of ice. It was early afternoon, but low dark cloud blanketed the fell tops.

  He knocked on the low front door and walked straight in.

  ‘It’s our John,’ said Fred’s voice out of the gloom. ‘Na then, lad. We ’eard the bike, ’ad to be you.’

  ‘On your own?’ asked Hannah, straining her eyes to see if there was anyone with him. ‘Where’s that lass?’

  Damn, thought John. Now they’re going to start asking questions. He decided not to respond.

  ‘I ’ear you’re not so well, Fred,’ he said, looking at his old friend who seemed to have aged since his last visit.

  ‘Who told ye that?’ asked Fred, shifting in his chair.

  ‘I met Peter from the pub down in St Bees,’ said John.

  ‘E’s a reet auld mitherer, that ’un,’ said Fred. ‘Folks talk too much round ’ere, nowt else to do.’

  ‘You ’eard reet,’ said Hannah to John, taking her chance while it was offered. ‘This auld bugger’s been bad for weeks, wheezing worse than ever. So he stays in th’ouse an’ gets crabby.’

&nb
sp; ‘Has the doctor been?’ asked John, knowing the answer.

  ‘Ain’t seeing no doctor,’ said Fred, with a sudden burst of energy. ‘Waste o’ space them doctors, and they cost. Nowt wrong wi’ me a bit o’ whisky won’t cure. And some warm weather would ’elp.’

  ‘It’s only March, Fred,’ said Hannah. ‘Not goin’ to get warm for weeks, and I’ll have to stop ’ere, listening to you gasping and moaning.’

  She turned to John. ‘We’ll be reet,’ she said. ‘I’ll give ’im some of that nettle tea I used to give me dad.’

  John looked at them both. ‘Are you sure? Snow’s coming, I can feel it.’

  ‘Folk up ’ere dinna fret about a bit o’ snow, lad,’ said Fred. ‘Best thing you could do to ’elp is chop some more logs for us, fetch some water in.’

  ‘Shall I stay over? I can bed down on t’floor.’

  ‘Nay, lad, unless you want to sleep wi’ me,’ said Fred. ‘I’ve not been up them stairs in weeks.’

  ‘I can’t ’ear ’im wheezing when I’m up there,’ said Hannah.

  John recalled the old days, when Hannah and Fred couldn’t keep their hands off each other. An image of Maggie hit him hard, her lovely face so near to his, her eyes closed.

  It was as if Hannah had read his mind.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Where is she? Maggie, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Fred. ‘Maggie from Kells, Frank McSherry’s lass.’

  ‘She’s called Maggie Lowery,’ said John. He knew he couldn’t fend them off any longer. ‘We had a falling out.’

  ‘What about?’ said Hannah.

  John hesitated. ‘She did something and didn’t tell me.’

  ‘She’s a good lass, that ’un,’ Fred added. ‘You should ’ang on to ’er, lad. What made you fall out?’

  John knew this would happen. He tried once more to avoid telling them.

  ‘She did something I didn’t want her to do. That’s all.’

  Hannah insisted. ‘So why did you fall out over it?’

  Fred looked up at them both from his hunched position in the low chair. The eyes were still bright in the drawn face.

  ‘Come on, John lad,’ he said quietly. ‘We know you. That lass means a lot to you. We could see that. Whatever it was, get it out, don’t just hide inside yoursen like you do. It must’ve been bad for you to just drop ’er.’