Forgiven

by Ruth Sutton

‘That’s none of your business,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’ He felt his heart thump in his chest but looked away, trying to control his anger.

  ‘I’ll get some more logs,’ said Jessie as she walked out of the room.

  Suddenly John was furious, with himself as much as with her. Every instinct urged him to leave the house, but there was nowhere he could go. He stood up, stared into the fire and held his fist to his mouth, stifling what he wanted to say.

  His mother came back in, carrying the basket of logs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s happened, but it’s personal.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You deal with the fire, I’ll make us a drink.’

  The moment passed. Nothing more was said. John looked on Jessie’s bookshelf, found a book on the history of Whitehaven and settled down to read while she sat with her sewing box and some mending. An observer could have believed, mistakenly, that they were both perfectly content. When Jessie said goodnight and went upstairs John made his bed and settled down, still thinking about how this tension between them might be resolved.

  One thing he was very clear about: he had to make his peace with Maggie, and do whatever it took to keep her. He wanted to be with her, marry her, have children with her. What he wanted more than anything else was a family, and the proud, difficult woman upstairs was part of that family, whether either of them wanted it or not. Jessie Whelan would be his children’s grandmother.

  Before he slept, John resolved that he would take the first opportunity in the coming day to push through all the hurt and open himself up to Jessie in the same way that he always did with Hannah and Fred. He had to trust that she would respect him for doing so, and be honest with him in return. There was no other way.

  CHAPTER 17

  IT WAS THE LIGHT THAT WOKE HIM, brightening the gap between the curtains on one side of the room, but it was only seven o’clock. March, of course, he reminded himself, ten weeks on from the shortest day. And it was quiet, too, without the continuous whine of the wind. He struggled out from his nest of cushions and blankets and pulled the curtain aside. A sharp diamond of sunlight bounced and glittered off the snowy fields, turning them pink and grey.

  He blinked, and noticed a movement where the whitened road passed the house. The movement stopped. A fox, glowing gold in the early light, stood in the middle of the road, looking directly at him. Its ears were pricked, eyes dark, and the long tail drooped down towards the snow around its delicate feet. For several seconds, man and fox gazed calmly at each other before the creature turned and trotted away. It must be hungry, John thought, realising that he was himself.

  There was no sound from upstairs. John pulled on his clothes and spent a while lighting the fire in the range. When the fire was ready he put the kettle on and waited while it heated and boiled, and made a pot of tea. Still no sign of movement from upstairs.

  He had been rehearsing what he wanted to say to Jessie for an hour or more now, and the delay was frustrating him. Should he take a cup of tea up to her? No, that was a bad idea. He drank his tea and listened, then tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs to listen again. The sound of the bedroom door opening caught him by surprise. He wanted to be sitting calmly at the kitchen table when she came down, and then he was resolved to seize the moment and say his piece.

  Jessie was still in her dressing gown and slippers, rubbing her eyes, her hair unbrushed and wild. John was taken aback; he had never seen his mother like this before. It was as if she had forgotten he was in the house. Without speaking, she poured herself a cup of tea from the pot on the table and turned back towards the stairs.

  ‘Not feeling well,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to food.’

  ‘Can we talk?’ he asked.

  She shook her head without turning round. ‘Later,’ she said, and was gone.

  All John’s resolve crumbled, and the prepared statement blurred in his mind. He was trapped in this woman’s house, but excluded by her. It shouldn’t matter, but it did, and the same anger that he had felt the night before welled up in him again. He ate some stale bread and cheese from the pantry, put on as many extra layers of clothes as he could find and let himself out of the back door, clearing the drifted snow to make a path across the yard.

  The exercise warmed his body and calmed his mind. He was making a noise, and might be disturbing her, but he didn’t care about that. If she was so unconcerned about him, he could play that game, too. The air was still and cold, but less biting without the wind. John saw the tracks of the fox heading boldly between the houses and round the corner, and decided to start digging a path down towards the shop. He guessed that others might be doing the same, now that the break in the weather had finally arrived. He heard the sound of a shovel before he heard the man’s voice.

  ‘Miss Whelan?’ cried the voice. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘No, it’s John,’ he called back, ‘John Pharaoh. I’m stopping at the schoolhouse. Can’t get home.’

  ‘Are you coming down this way, to t’shop?’

  ‘Aye, are you coming up?’

  The two men dug in silence for a while, moving slowly towards each other along the narrow lane. ‘Feels like we’re digging the railway across America or summat,’ the other man cried. ‘Won’t be long now I reckon.’

  Each man speeded up as the other came close, laughing as they vied with each other to shift the final shovelful and complete the shallow trench that lay between them. Finally they stood straight, pushed their shovels triumphantly into the snow to one side and shook hands with great ceremony, smiling broadly.

  ‘Cecil Geer, from t’shop,’ said the other digger. ‘I’ve seen you around. Mr Pharaoh, ain’t it? Isn’t Jessie a relative o’yorn?’

  ‘My aunt,’ said John. ‘I was coming back from Boot the other night when the blizzard came. Got as far as Applegarth, on the bike, and couldn’t go any further. Jessie took me in. Otherwise I might’ve been banging on your door, Mr Geer.’

  ‘And reet welcome you’d’ve been, lad. Strong pair of ’ands allus welcome at a time like this. Bad eh! Not sure I’ve ever sin worse. Come down to t’shop, now you’re ’ere. Missus was doing a bit o’ bacon. Just the smell was making me ’ungry and that was afore this lot.’

  In single file Cecil led John down their trench to the shop and they worked together to clear the area round the door.

  ‘Not much to sell,’ said Cecil, ‘but folk’ll be down just for the craic after being stuck inside for two days. Anything you think Jessie might need, you could tek back for ’er?’

  John thought for a moment. ‘Flour for bread,’ he said, ‘and maybe a bit of cheese?’

  Cecil Geer tapped his finger on the side of his nose. ‘We’ll ’ave a look. Never know what you might find, by accident like. But come away in for now, lad. We need a bit o’ food after all that digging.’ He pushed open the door of the shop and shouted, ‘Betty! Put a bit more bacon on, love. We got company.’

  John relished the conversation as much as the breakfast in the cluttered room behind the shop. After the claustrophobic anxiety of two days with Jessie, he revelled in the craic, about the snow and the shortages and how it had been in times past, and who was doing what, and where, to survive.

  There were stories of farmers breaking through barn walls with a sledgehammer to reach the animals inside, and of how many animals had already died or would do so if not found and fed very soon. Rumours too, about how and when things might return to something like normalcy.

  News had passed from farm to farm, north from Millom, that a gang from the camp was out clearing the main coast road, and heading towards Newton sometime that day. Not for the first time John found that his knowledge of the area was assumed, and he had to ask for information when the camp was mentioned.

  ‘I thought all the prisoners of war had gone home already,’

  ‘They ’ave,’ said Cecil.

  ‘Then who’s at the camp?’ John asked.

  ‘Them other foreigners
, tha knows,’ said Betty. ‘What do they call ’em, DPs.’

  John still had no idea.

  ‘D stands for summat, and P stands for people, or persons, summat like that. What’s the D for, Betty?’

  His wife thought deeply for a moment, trying to find the word. ‘Disturbed!’ she said finally, ‘No, dis- something else. Displaced. Displaced Persons, that’s it.’

  ‘Foreigners who were over here when war broke out, and got stuck,’ said Cecil. ‘Rum bunch, by all accounts. Don’t get on wi’ Russkies, and now their countries have been taken o’er, after war like, they can’t go back. Summat like that.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ said Betty in confirmation. ‘The DPs live at the old camp where the prisoners were before, down Millom way, near the sea. They go to work on farms and such, so now everywhere’s under snow they’ll use ’em to dig roads out. They’re young, most of ’em, not injured or ’owt. Big gang could make pretty good progress if they’ve got the right gear.’

  ‘We did alreet this morning, John, I reckon,’ said Cecil raising his mug to salute his fellow excavator. ‘Sometime today they should reach us, that’s the craic.’

  ‘And they’re digging the railway out as well,’ said Betty. ‘That’s what Harold from t’station were saying when he were in earlier. He’d come across fields like, walking on top of walls sometimes ’e said. And ’e reckoned there’d be a train through afore the end of the day, from Millom up the coast. Not so bad north of ’ere, they say. Men need to get to work. No miners, no coal, and God knows we’re short enough already.’

  ‘I’m at the Haig, in Kells,’ said John.

  ‘Didn’t ’ave you down as a pitman,’ said Betty. ‘You’ve got nice ’ands.’

  ‘Office,’ said John. ‘No idea whether they’re working, but I ought to try to get there if I can. Now that things are getting back to normal, Jessie can do without me.’

  ‘Strong woman, that Miss Whelan,’ said Betty approvingly. ‘They say new vicar’s trying to get ’er out of school. I know the men need jobs but kids need learning, too. She did a grand job with our two, so why chuck ’er out?’

  John nodded in agreement, although what Betty was saying was all new to him. Why hadn’t Jessie said anything to him about it, he wondered. They knew so little about each other. It was time to go back to the schoolhouse and face her again, if she’d deigned to get out of bed. He thanked Betty and Cecil for their hospitality and company, and Betty gave him some flour for Jessie.

  ‘Any cheese?’ said John, hopefully.

  ‘Just for you, lad,’ she said, holding up a wrapped package. ‘Payment for services, you might say,’ she added, winking at him. John put on his outer layers of clothing, stuffed the food into his pockets and walked slowly back up the lane. Sparrows were twittering in the hedge and drops of water on the branches sparkled as they hung and fell. Must be above freezing, he thought, but it’ll take a while to thaw this lot. As he pushed open the back door of the schoolhouse it took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the fierce light outside to the gloom of the kitchen. Jessie was there, standing by the range, dressed and looking her normal self.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, looking genuinely pleased to see him.

  ‘I helped Cecil dig out a path to the shop,’ he said, ‘and brought a few things back with me. They didn’t ask for any money …’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Jessie, checking what he’d brought. ‘I’ll make some scones with the old milk.’

  John told Jessie about the DPs gang clearing the road, and the possibility of a train. He wanted her to be in a good mood when he made his effort to talk to her properly. As he bent to take off his wet boots, she said, ‘Sorry I was bit preoccupied this morning. I was tired but it wasn’t just that.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not used to having someone around, all the time,’ she said, as she put the flour away in the pantry. ‘Living on your own, you get used to it. Strange to have someone here, especially someone …’

  ‘Someone you don’t know very well,’ said John. ‘We don’t really know much about each other, do we? Betty was talking about the school, and what the new vicar is doing. I had no idea, you never said.’

  ‘Oh that,’ she said. ‘It’s all rather silly in a way. The vicar feels that the men who’ve been away fighting need the jobs, and that I shouldn’t be occupying this house all on my own. He has a point, I suppose.’

  ‘Well Betty’s not happy about it. Says you did a grand job with her kids.’

  Jessie smiled. ‘Did she? She never said that to me at the time. And they were a handful – ’ She stopped, turned her head and held up her hand. ‘Did you hear anything?’

  They both stood quite still, listening. Jessie walked through to the front room and looked out, holding her hand to shield her eyes from the light. John followed and did the same. A hundred yards or so down the road a cloud of smoke or steam was hanging in the air, and around it blurred shapes, moving. John opened the window just a fraction and they both heard it, the unmistakeable sound of an engine, echoing off the stone walls.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, screwing up her eyes.

  ‘I think it’s a tractor. I can see someone sitting on top, and there are other men around it. It must be the gang from the camp, lots of them.’ He began to count the shapes around the tractor. ‘More than a dozen, I reckon. They must have worked really hard to get this far up, unless …’ He watched a little longer. ‘Yes, there’s a snowplough on the tractor, pushing a way through, and the men are shovelling the rest.’

  ‘Heavens,’ said Jessie. ‘I haven’t got enough cups to give them all a drink. We’ll have to do it in shifts! Put your boots back on, John, and go and meet them. There must be someone in charge. Ask them to stop here for a hot drink. I’ll get two kettles going.’

  By the time John returned, the kitchen was full of steam and Jessie had gathered containers of all sorts, mugs, jugs, even a gravy boat, and two big pots of tea were brewing on the range.

  ‘This is Mr Rawson, from the camp,’ said John. ‘Offer of drinks very gratefully accepted.’

  ‘First we’ve ’ad all morning,’ said Jack Rawson. ‘G’day missus, and thanks. Folk round ’ere seem to think the men are enemy agents or summat.’

  Jessie shook his hand. ‘Well, you’re very welcome here, Mr Rawson. How many men are with you?’

  ‘Fourteen, and me,’ he said.

  ‘Not sure I can fit you all in at once,’ she said, ‘but we can do it in shifts.’

  ‘Any way you say, missus. The men’ll be reet glad of a break. I’ll explain what’s happening and we’ll get ’em sorted.’

  John went with him to where the men were leaning on their shovels, smoking and talking together in a language John had never heard before. Or maybe it was more than one language, he couldn’t tell. Jack Rawson gave some instructions to one of the men, who translated for two others, who passed the message on to others in turn.

  ‘Some Poles, some Russians, some from Hungary,’ said Jack. ‘Only one with any English. It’s like Chinese whispers.’

  It looked as if the men were dividing into two groups, and the first group moved towards the house.

  ‘See?’ said Jack. ‘Reet, lads, you lot first. Round the back, boots off, cuppa tea, then the next lot.’ In the small kitchen, Jessie had managed not only tea but some cake, too. John watched admiringly as she organised the group with the efficiency befitting a headmistress. He could see why the village held her in such esteem. It was as if the unexpected challenge had ignited her energy and charm, both of which were clearly appreciated by the men who crowded into the kitchen.

  ‘If they can leave their boots by the door, out of the way, Mr Rawson, they can go through to the front room and we can make space for the other group. It’ll be a squash, but we’ll manage.’

  Jack pantomimed the instructions and the men trooped through with their tea. John went with them and watched as they stood awkwardly, smiling but not daring to sit down.

  Jack Rawson came to the
door. ‘This is a first for most of ’em,’ he said. ‘Look at ’em, pleased as punch to be invited into someone’s home, made to feel welcome. They’re not used to kindness. I ’ope I can winkle ’em out again!’

  ‘We’re very pleased to see them, Mr Rawson,’ said John. ‘We’ve been stuck here for a couple of days now. Gets a bit claustrophobic.’

  ‘Like our ’ouse at Christmas,’ said Jack. ‘Family all crammed in, on top of each other. After two days with the wife’s mother I wanted to hit ’er over the ’ead.’

  In both the front room and the kitchen almost everyone was smoking and the air in house was heavy and acrid. John opened a window, but quickly had to retreat to the back door as his chest began to prickle. Jessie didn’t seem to mind, still pouring tea and smiling, as if having a house full of strange men happened every day.

  In the front room, one of the men seemed to be teaching the others a few words of English. When they all shuffled out to find their boots and head off on the next stage of their task, each man shook Jessie’s hand and said ‘Thank you,’ with varying degrees of success.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ Jack Rawson whispered to John. ‘Your mam’s got ’em eating out of ’er ’and.’

  John didn’t correct Mr Rawson’s assumption; the old pretence seemed suddenly irrelevant.

  ‘How many of them can speak English?’ Jessie asked as Jack Rawson rounded them up.

  ‘Just the one, as far as I know,’ he said, looking around. ‘Peter?’ he called, and a young man put his head round the back door. ‘Come in ’ere a minute.’

  ‘This is Peter, miss. He’s from Hungary.’

  ‘Poland,’ said Piotr. ‘I am Piotr Gorski, madam,’ he said to Jessie. He took her hand and raised it to his lips with a small bow from the waist. ‘We thank you madam, for your kindness. Very good. I have a little English, but the other men,’ Piotr gestured to the group outside, ‘no.’

  Jack Rawson was clearly anxious to be off, but Jessie held his arm.

  ‘They need to know English, surely, Mr Rawson?’ she said.