Forgiven

by Ruth Sutton

  ‘Appen they do, miss,’ he said. ‘But they don’t need English to dig out the road to t’station, and that’s what we ’ave to do now.’

  John made a sudden decision. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said. ‘Hang on while I get my coat. If that train gets through today, I need to be on it.’

  John’s urge to get away overcame his plan for talking to his mother. Something about the company and the smoke and the more benign weather brought the thought of Maggie urgently to his mind. His dream of family depended on her, and the rest could wait.

  Jessie watched from the window as the tractor driver climbed up into the cab and started the engine, inching the snowplough round to find the right direction and angle before the gang moved slowly away, the cloud of exhaled breath settling around them. A few minutes later, as they got into a rhythm of shovelling the snow, she heard them start to sing. The tune hung in the air like a hymn in a quiet church. She listened to the fading sound, then turned away to reclaim her home, relieved beyond words to be alone again.

  CHAPTER 18

  RARELY HAD THE SIGHT AND SOUND of the train been more welcome. It snorted into Newton station and stopped at the platform in a hiss of steam that enveloped John and the others who had gathered during the day in anticipation of escape. The train was packed. Condensation was running down the inside of the windows, making it hard to see out. Only the hollow rumble of the wheels told them that they were on the viaduct across the Esk. John wiped the window with his sleeve and peered out. Everywhere was white, but the snow was less deep than before, as if the storm had exhausted itself by the time it had reached the west coast.

  ‘It’s like the war again,’ said the train guard on the platform at Corcickle. ‘Brings out the best in folk when things are really bad.’

  Once out of the train, John’s first goal was to get to the pit, and the road up to Kells was passable. When he got to the Haig, looking out over the improbably blue sea, John was told that the bosses had given in and closed everything down for two days. Not enough men to work the shifts, half the screen lasses weren’t in and the rest had been sent home. He thought about going to West Row himself, but he wasn’t ready to face Maggie, so he walked the rest of the way back to Sandwith, working round the drifts, finding the easiest route.

  He was pleased to be back, and relieved that his little house seemed to have survived the weather without harm. He lit the fire, boiled water, and had a good wash before he changed his clothes. For the following two days John did nothing except keep himself warm, eat, sleep and listen to his radio. The news was surreal: seas frozen, power supplies dwindling, food rations shorter than ever. Compared to some other parts of the country, the west of Cumberland seemed to have been spared the worst, but it was grim. John slept downstairs where it was warmer by the range, and lay there wondering where he could go to start a different life, somewhere warm, away from the rationing and shortages and the vicious weather. Would he be alone? That he didn’t know, but he couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing Maggie again.

  The last conversation with Hannah and Fred seemed like weeks ago, and it was a while before the details of it came back to him with painful clarity. They’d said a lot about lies and forgiveness, and told him to stop feeling sorry for himself and get Maggie back any way he could. Easy to say, he thought. She’s probably told her mam about it by now, or stopped talking about me altogether. They’ll have noticed something’s wrong. They’re as nosey as Hannah and Fred. He pictured himself going back to the West Row house, and all the whispering and pointing. What if Maggie refused to see him? He burned at the thought of such humiliation, and his head began to ache again.

  Then he decided he would write Maggie a letter. That way he could say what he wanted and not be put off by what was going on. She might read it, or she might tear it up, but it was a better plan than just knocking on the door. He couldn’t try to talk to her at work, not with all those lasses watching their every move. The decision about what he needed to do made him get up and have some food. He lit the fire with the last of the logs. It was still snowy outside but he might find some dry wood in the outhouse, or even a bit of coal. Finding a piece of paper to write on was more of a challenge, but he discovered one in the end, just one, in a drawer. He would have to use that piece for the real thing and compose the words in his head beforehand. Up and down the small room he walked, rehearsing what to say, as if Maggie were in the room with him, sitting quietly, not interrupting. The fumbling words fell into the silence, punctuated by the hiss and crackle of the tiny fire as it took hold. He tried to remember what Hannah had said. He couldn’t talk about forgiving Maggie, because that would mean he thought she’d done something that had to be forgiven, and the only thing she’d done was embarrass him.

  Suddenly John stopped as the thought struck him: it was his mother he felt really angry with, and himself. It was their lie, the two of them, not Maggie’s. When he began pacing and talking again the words he needed came more easily. There was not much to say in the end. He cut the piece of paper in half, so he could try again if the first attempt came out wrong. His best pen was at work, and there was no ink in the house, so he found a stub of pencil and sharpened it with his keenest knife. He wrote, as carefully as he could:

  Dear Maggie,

  I hope you are well in all this cold. And all your family, too.

  He hesitated. That sounded silly, but he couldn’t just launch into the important bit. He licked the pencil and carried on.

  Last time I saw you I was upset and said some things that made you angry. Now I think I was wrong to say those things. I have missed you so much. Please can we talk again? I’m at home and the bike is stuck in Newton. Can’t tell you about that now. Will you see me if I come to your house?

  Please, Maggie. I love you.

  Yours faithfully,

  John

  It was a long time since he’d written a personal letter. ‘Yours faithfully’ didn’t look right but he didn’t want to do it all again. He read the whole thing through, decided it was the best he could manage and put it in the envelope that he’d found after a desperate search. Would the post be working? That question was answered when a letter arrived later, a note from Arthur Curran telling him to be in work the next day. John picked his way across the snow to the post box on the green, slipped in his letter addressed to Mrs M. Lowery at the house in West Row, and went home to wait.

  The prospect of going back to work helped him fill the waiting hours, but his mind was churning and he slept badly.

  * * *

  A letter arrived. It was from her, he knew it. He looked at his name on the envelope and felt sick with anticipation. Inside Maggie had written in a round childish hand:

  Mam and Dad are going to the rugby club on Friday night. You can come to the house then if you want. Not before 8 o’clock, so Judith will be in bed.

  Margaret

  That was all. He looked for something more in the envelope but there was nothing. He read the few lines again and again, but could not decide what they meant.

  The next two days were the longest of his life.

  ‘What’s up wi’ you, lad?’ said Arthur, when John dropped a pile of papers that scattered over the office floor. ‘I reckon all that digging took it out of you. Or is it some lass keeping you awake?’

  You’d be shocked if you knew which lass it was, John thought as he fumbled around under the desk, picking up the papers. Arthur had clear views about the screen lasses, and none of them were complimentary.

  When Friday evening came John thought carefully about what he should say. He’d said he was sorry in his letter, but he couldn’t recall the exact words he’d used. Why hadn’t he kept a copy? And saying he was sorry might not be enough. Maggie was stubborn, he knew that, and he hadn’t seen her for weeks. He put on his best corduroy trousers and polished his boots, and it was well gone eight when he approached Maggie’s door. He pictured himself stepping into the narrow hall and taking her in his arms before she
had time to say anything, to show her that he was decisive and strong and wanted her.

  When the door opened the prepared smile froze on his face. Violet McSherry stood in the doorway. She was not smiling.

  ‘I thought –’ he stammered.

  ‘Aye, well, you thought wrong,’ she said. ‘I knew summat was up. Didn’t take long to get it out of ’er. Maggie’s dad and I want a word with you, young man. Come in.’

  John stepped nervously into the hall, and followed Violet’s pointing arm into the front room. Frank was sitting in his wheelchair by the window.

  ‘Where’s Maggie?’ asked John.

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Violet, pushing him into the room and closing the door behind her. ‘She’s where she should be, out of sight till we’ve got a few things straight.’ John looked at Frank, who shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly.

  ‘We don’t want to hear about what’s ’appened with you and our Maggie,’ Violet began. She was standing as far away from John as she could manage in the tiny room, so that she didn’t have to look up at him. ‘Something has, I know that, and I don’t mean about you two falling out. Before that. I could tell. It were written all over your face, and ’ers too.’

  ‘What?’ asked John, suddenly confused. He looked at Frank again, who winked at him.

  ‘She’s a fine lass, a respectable widow with a bairn and she deserves a good man and a proper wedding, if that’s what it’s going to be. What’s your parish?’

  ‘My what?’ said John.

  ‘What’s the priest’s name, where you live?’

  ‘I don’t have a priest,’ he said.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Violet. ‘You’re not a Catholic are you? Do you go to church at all?’

  ‘No,’ said John.

  ‘I told you,’ Violet said to Frank. ‘The lad’s a heathen. Not a chance of a proper wedding.’ She turned back to John, who tried without success to step back and had to stand with one foot on the fireplace. ‘What were you planning to do,’ she said, ‘run away to Gretna or summat?’

  ‘Get married?’ said John. ‘No, we haven’t …’

  Violet’s face was triumphant. ‘Living in sin, was that it? Not with my girl, you don’t. Do you want to marry our Maggie.?’

  Behind his wife’s back Frank was nodding furiously.

  ‘Well,’ John ventured.

  ‘Well? Do you or don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ John stammered. ‘We haven’t talked …’

  ‘Too busy to talk were you?’

  Frank smiled into his hand.

  ‘Well now, we’ll see what Father Pryce has to say. If we’re lucky, he might agree to take you on.’

  ‘Take me on?’

  ‘For instruction.’

  John was none the wiser and his expression betrayed him.

  ‘To be a Catholic!’ roared Violet. ‘You’ll marry in a Catholic church or you won’t see ’er again.’

  ‘Shall I call Maggie?’ said Frank, trying unsuccessfully to move his wheelchair into the space between his red-faced wife and the pale young man standing in front of her. Violet opened the door.

  ‘Margaret!’ she shouted. ‘Come in ’ere.’

  John heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Maggie edged into the crowded room. She looked across at her father, who smiled. Then she looked at John. He tried to smile but his face didn’t respond.

  ‘We’ve ’ad a chat,’ said Violet.

  ‘I ’eard,’ said Maggie.

  ‘If Father Pryce will take ’im on, we’ll make a Catholic out of John and ’ave a proper wedding. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Maggie and John, together.

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘DO YOU HAVE TO GO?’ said Jessie.

  Agnes smiled. ‘Will you miss me?’

  It was Saturday morning and Agnes was putting a few things into a small bag while Jessie watched from the doorway. ‘You look exhausted. Couldn’t they do without you for a bit longer?’

  Agnes looked up. The shadows under her eyes seemed darker than ever.

  ‘It feels like we’re still at war,’ she said, stretching her back. ‘Coal stocks are right down because of the trains being in chaos, and the docks have been frozen up so we haven’t even been able to bring anything by sea. Such a mess. We haven’t noticed the blackouts up here as we don’t have electricity anyway, but it’s been chaotic down south. I have to go back, now that the London trains are running again.’ She smiled at Jessie. ‘Can you stay here at Applegarth while I’m away? It’s such a comfort to know there’s someone here, and now you’ve given in your notice that horrid Mr Crompton will just have to wait for the schoolhouse.’

  ‘His wife keeps cutting me dead whenever I see her,’ said Jessie. ‘She’s been talking to the others too, I think. When I went into the shop the other day there was a silence, as if they’d been talking about me.’ She turned to look out of the window at the silent snow-covered fields. The thaw had started but it was slow, and it felt as if the winter would never end.

  ‘She’s still punishing you for living at the schoolhouse?’ said Agnes. ‘Is that’s what’s bothering you? You don’t usually look so down when I have to leave and you get the place to yourself.’ She smiled. ‘Will you miss me, really?’

  Jessie turned. ‘No – I mean, well, of course I’ll miss you, but it’s not just that. I don’t know. It must be about leaving the school. I feel as if I don’t matter here any more. And I miss the Leadbetters more than I ever thought I would, even Lionel!’

  Agnes closed up her bag and pulled it off the bed. ‘Well there’s precious little comfort from church these days. I can’t think what possessed the diocese to send us that dreadful little man. Barker by name and Barker by nature, like a dog who can’t shut up.’

  There was time for a last cup of tea before the car came to take Agnes to the station. The two women sat together, as they had done so many times before.

  ‘I suppose I’m feeling lonely,’ said Jessie. ‘With school not on my mind all the time, my life feels a bit, well, empty. You’re away a lot, I’m not blaming you for that, I know how important the work is. And John’s up the coast and busy at work, and … well, he has a life of his own now.’

  ‘But he was here with you for two days, wasn’t he? You must have talked about something.’

  ‘Well, yes, but mostly about the weather, and digging through the snow. We didn’t have much to say to each other.’ She hesitated. ‘He has a girlfriend.’

  ‘He does? How exciting! Have you met her, where’s she from?’

  Jessie poured some more tea. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ve not met her, and he didn’t tell me much. It’s natural I suppose, but I feel left out of his life these days.’

  Agnes knew there was little she could say about John without straying too far into the painful past. ‘So,’ she said brightly. ‘Sounds as if it’s time to think about what’s next for you, my dear. You need a project, something to do, meet more people. Can’t have you mooching around here feeling sorry for yourself.’

  So like Agnes, thought Jessie. Always wanting to sort my life out. What about that woman of John’s? What would Agnes make of her? And how will I deal with it, she wondered. What if they marry, and have children? The idea upset her so much that she went to lie down as soon as Agnes had gone and the house was quiet again.

  It was the following day, just after morning church and another joyless encounter with the vicar that Jessie heard the Applegarth front doorbell ring. When she opened the door a man was standing with his back to her. He was quite short, not much taller than Jessie herself. His shoulders were hunched against the cold and his hands pushed deep into the pockets of a long shabby coat. He turned towards her, only the lower part of his face visible under a broad-brimmed hat.

  ‘Yes?’ said Jessie.

  The man took off his hat and smiled. In his hand he held some holly with bright red berries, wrapped in newspaper like a small bouquet that he held out towards her. Something about him was fami
liar. It was only when he spoke that Jessie remembered him.

  ‘This for you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it’s Mr …,’ she began, but the name escaped her.

  ‘Piotr Gorski,’ he said, with a brief bow. ‘I come in the snow. We dig.’

  ‘Of course. Mr Gorski. You were with the men from the camp. But that was at the schoolhouse,’ Jessie pointed in the direction of her home. ‘How …?’

  ‘I went to shop,’ he said, ‘and they said to come here.’

  ‘How clever of you! Do come in.’

  He thrust the newspaper bouquet into her hand and pointed at his boots, wet and muddy from the thawing lanes. He bent to undo the laces and took off the boots. Jessie noticed a large hole in one of his socks. When he took off his long coat she could see the badly fitting suit and a wide blue tie. The clothes were clearly meant for someone else. They sat on either side of the fireplace after Jessie had arranged the stems of holly in a brass vase and placed it in the middle of the mantelpiece. The room was cold.

  ‘I walk, from the camp,’ he said. ‘I bring you something, to thank you.’

  ‘Thank me?’ said Jessie. ‘It was you and the others who need to be thanked.’

  ‘You give us food. You are kind,’ said Piotr.

  Jessie remembered what the man in charge, Mr Rawson, had said about how the men were normally treated.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It was the least I could do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again.

  ‘You walked all this way,’ she said, ‘to say that?’

  ‘Yes, and to bring,’ he pointed at the holly.

  ‘Stay here,’ said Jessie.

  Five minutes later she returned with a tray: coffee, cake, and two scones fresh from the baking she and Agnes had done the day before. Every drop and every crumb was gone in a remarkably short time.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again. He looked around the room.

  ‘Piano?’ he said. ‘I play for you.’

  She looked at his hands as he wiggled his long pale fingers. Then she got up and led him through into the dining room at the back of the house where Agnes’s mother’s piano stood, polished weekly by Nellie, but unplayed by anyone since Lionel’s stroke. Jessie opened the lid and pulled out the stool, trying to recall when it might have been tuned. Piotr blew on his hands, stretched his fingers and sat down looking at the keys.