by Ruth Sutton
‘It’s been a bad week,’ she said. ‘You know I’ve been working at the camp, the one near Millom, teaching English?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, remembering. ‘That chap who drowned, last week. Did you know him?’
She nodded. ‘He was a wonderful young man,’ she said. ‘I knew him well. We talked all about his life in Poland before the war, how he got out, where he’d been. Such an interesting person.’
‘Oh,’ said John. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve chosen a bad time –’
‘He played the piano, here in this house,’ said Jessie, as if John hadn’t spoken at all. ‘So beautifully. Such a talent.’
‘I see,’ said John.
‘And now he’s gone,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said John. He got up. ‘I think I should go, you’re obviously upset, and – well, I should go.’
‘But you’ve only just got here,’ she said. ‘And you hardly ever come to see me. Do stay a little longer. I’m going to have a sherry. Would you like one?’ John looked at his watch. If he left now he could get the six thirty bus back.
‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Not to you, he thought. Aloud, he added,‘You’re obviously upset about that young man.’
Jessie was pouring herself a sherry. ‘It feels like losing a son,’ she said.
John felt his face flush and a sour taste in his mouth. He turned away. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
She looked at him. ‘You’ve never lost a child, how could you know?’
He turned to face her. ‘No, I never have,’ he said, ‘but you have. You lost me. Bet you didn’t shed any tears over that.’
Jessie’s hand carrying the sherry glass stopped halfway up to her lips.
‘That’s a terrible thing to say. You know how it was. We talked.’
‘We did not,’ said John, his voice rising. ‘We never talked, not even when we were stuck in this house together for two whole days. You probably talked more to that dead man than you’ve ever talked to me. Have you ever asked me about my life, before we met? Have you?’
She faltered. ‘I didn’t think …’
‘No, you didn’t,’ he said. Words poured into his head and into his mouth, bitter words. ‘You never did. For years, when I was younger than that “son” of yours, I dreamed of you, finding you, having a mother, feeling part of a family. I searched for you, and you knew who I was. That day at Mill Cottage, you knew when you saw me and fainted away, you knew it was me. And you said nothing.’
‘I couldn’t be sure,’ she said, sitting down on the arm of a chair to steady herself.
‘You didn’t want to be sure. You didn’t want me upsetting your settled life. I was a nuisance to you. I still am.’
‘No. John, no! That’s not true. You said …’
‘Yes, I gave you the lifeline and you took it like a drowning man, didn’t you?’ She flinched. ‘Your nephew, your poor bloody nephew,’ he sneered, ‘abandoned by your wicked sister. How kind you were to the poor boy, out of the goodness of your heart. That’s what your fancy friends would say. Good, kind Jessie. They have no idea, do they? You still haven’t told anyone. You’re afraid to. Ashamed.’
‘I did. I have,’ said Jessie, desperately trying to fend off the anger that was pouring over her. ‘I told Caroline.’ She hesitated, remembering. ‘It was awful. She wouldn’t let me tell Lionel, said it might kill him.’
‘What did you expect her to say?’
‘I wanted her to understand, it was a long time ago.’ She slid down to sit in the chair, looking at the empty fireplace.
‘So she disappointed you,’ he said, mercilessly. ‘So now you know how it feels, to be disappointed. Maybe you can understand what it felt like for me? I didn’t want much from you, and I got nothing, nothing. And now that poor bastard comes along, pours his heart out, plays his beautiful bloody piano and kills himself and you’re in pieces. Is that what it takes? Would you love me if I was dead?’
Jessie stared at him.
‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘Just came to tell you that I’m getting married, but I’m sure you couldn’t care less.’
He slammed the door on his way out and ran up the drive. As he reached the bottom of the hill by the school the bus was pulling away. He swore and slammed his fist into the wall. Blood welled red from his torn knuckles.
For a long time after the front door slammed Jessie could not move. She sat motionless in the chair, looking at the same spot, the same dusty grate. She could not believe what he had said. And his anger, his shouting. After a while she lay back in the chair and closed her eyes, but she could still see his flushed face so close to hers, feel the spittle on her cheek.
It was getting dark in the quiet room when she pulled herself up and climbed the stairs. She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. The glass of sherry stood neglected on the mantelpiece where she had left it. Upstairs she took off her clothes and got into bed in her underwear. When she woke the room was full of morning light, but she pulled the curtains across and lay down again. Sometime in the afternoon the telephone rang but she did not get up. She woke with a start when the telephone rang again, but she didn’t want to speak to anyone and listened to its hateful jangling echoing through the house. Would it never stop? She wanted to pull the wires out and burn it.
When she woke again, she had no idea what time or even what day it was. The clock by the bed said six fifteen, but was that morning or evening? She crept downstairs to relieve herself, pulling an old coat round her before she stepped outside. Sunlight was hitting the west-facing door of the outhouse. It was evening. The bread in the pantry was old and stale, but she was hungry enough not to care. The food stuck in her mouth. She found it hard to swallow and threw the rest away. The fire was out. She drank some water. The floor was cold under her feet, and she went back to bed where it was warm and safe, discarding the coat in the hall. She picked up the receiver off the phone as she passed and let it drop, useless, to the floor. Then she slept again, dreaming of a baby crying somewhere in a large house but she couldn’t find it. People were staring at her. Then she was outside, on a beach, and it was grey and cold. Guns were thudding in the distance, big guns.
The thudding stopped and there was a voice, in the house. She sat up suddenly, her heart pounding. Maybe that was what she had heard, her own heart. But there was the voice again, nearer. She pulled the bedclothes up to her throat and waited, holding her breath.
‘Miss Whelan,’ said the voice. ‘Are you there?’ It was a deep voice, with a familiar accent. A door creaked downstairs.
‘Are you upstairs?’ said the voice.
She tried to speak, but no sound came out, and she coughed.
‘I’m here,’ she whispered. ‘Who is it?’
‘I’m coming up,’ the stairs creaked. ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s Father O’Toole.’
Jessie began to panic. Her mouth was dry. There was a faint tapping on the door.
‘Don’t come in,’ she croaked.
‘That’s alright. I’ll go down and light the fire. Can you walk?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll come … I’ll come down.’
Jessie poured some water onto her hands and rubbed her face. In the small mirror she saw someone who looked like her, but the hair was flattened at the sides and the face haggard. It was the face of an old woman. Where was the brush? Jessie pulled at her hair with her fingers. The blue dressing gown hung on the back of the door, and she pulled it on, tying the belt tightly around her waist, making sure that her legs were covered.
A black coat hung on the back of the chair in the kitchen and a man was squatting in front of the range, blowing in to the fireplace. She stood at the door and watched him. As the sparks began to catch he drew back, and closed the door against the blue smoke that sidled into the room. She coughed and he turned around.
‘There you are,’ said the priest. ‘We’ve been concerned about you. Sit you down and I’ll make some tea.’
‘In the canister, on th
at shelf,’ said Jessie. Her voice sounded oddly far away. ‘There’s some milk, but …’
‘We’ll do without. A hot drink is the main thing.’
He looked into various pots on the shelf until he found some sugar.
‘Sugar,’ he cried. ‘What a treat. We’ll both have some.’
Jessie sat like a child, watching as the priest busied himself with the rituals of making tea. The smell of it tickled in her nose and her mouth felt sour. She wanted to drink and took a sip from the steaming cup that he placed on the table in front of her.
‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Too hot.’
For a while they sat in silence, on either side of the oak table. She looked at the cup, watching the steam curl up, while he looked at her.
‘You’ve been unwell?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been in bed for …’ She didn’t know. ‘What time is it? What day is it?
‘We were concerned about you,’ he said. ‘There was no word, and you didn’t come for the classes. Philip, Mr Andrews, tried to telephone you, but no one answered. He tried again but the operator said there was no connection. So I thought I would come and see how you were.’
‘I’m alright, really. Just very tired. I’ve been sleeping.’
She sipped the cooling tea while he looked carefully at her.
‘Is something troubling you?’ he said.
Jessie looked down at the table. She could feel tears running down her face. She put down the cup and wiped her eyes with the cuff of her dressing gown. She did not look at the priest’s kind face. She shook her head.
‘Would you like to tell me about it?’ he said.
‘My son came to see me.’
The priest had turned away, as if hearing a confession, but he looked back at Jessie, surprised. ‘You have a son?’
She saw his expression. She knew she had to start further back, and took a deep breath.
‘When I was nineteen, I was pregnant. My fiancé was killed, at Vickers. He didn’t know about the baby.’
Father O’Toole looked towards the window, at the small white flowers in the hedge outside.
Jessie didn’t wait for a response. ‘My mother and my aunt, they said I couldn’t keep the baby. They wanted me to … to get rid of it, but I couldn’t. So I had it, a boy. I didn’t give him a name. Some people my mother knew came and took him away. I tried to forget. It was wartime. I got a job. When the war ended I went back to teacher training. I lied about my name. I was called Jessie Thompson. Clive Whelan was my fiancé, so I took his name instead. But I had no right to it. I should be Jessie Thompson.’
She sat with her head bowed, remembering things she had never spoken of before. All the strength she needed to maintain the lies had gone, drained out of her. There was nothing left but the truth.
‘I gave the baby away, father. But when he grew up he found out that his parents were not really his parents, and he came looking for me.’
‘And he found you?’ asked the priest, so quietly that she hardly heard him.
‘I saw him,’ she said, ‘by accident. He looked so like his father. I knew it was him, but I didn’t say anything. I hoped he would go away. I wanted him to disappear again. But he kept looking until he knew it was me, that I was his mother.’ She hesitated.
‘What did you do?’ he said.
Jessie covered her face with her hands and felt the tears. ‘I didn’t want him, father. I was afraid of what people would say. It was 1937. I would have lost my job, and the house.’ She sobbed. He turned and handed her a large handkerchief, and she wiped her face and blew her nose.
‘I told John we couldn’t tell anyone. Some people knew already, but they would keep the secret. I made him pretend to be my nephew, not my son, in case anyone saw a likeness. Everything else was true, about his adopted family, his search.’ She faltered. ‘I gave him away again, father, do you see? I denied him. He expected me to be pleased, but I was afraid of him. I’m still afraid of him.’
‘You said he came to see you.’
‘After Piotr’s funeral. John just turned up, to tell me something. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. All I could think about was Piotr. I was very upset. I told John it felt like losing a son.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Father O’Toole.
‘He just turned on me, suddenly. He was so angry. He’s such mild person, a nice person, I was shocked.’
‘Can you remember what he said?’
She shook her head but suddenly John’s bitter words burned her memory. ‘He said he would have to die before I could love him.’
The priest stood up and walked over to the window before he spoke again.
‘What did John want to tell you?’
‘That he was getting married. He said I wouldn’t care.’
‘Do you care?’ he asked.
She thought for a moment. ‘I’ve been trying to forget about him. He haunts me.’
‘He’s your son,’ said the priest.
She sobbed again.
‘I never wanted him. It was his father I wanted and he died. One day we were going to be married and I was happy, and then he was dead. I couldn’t mourn for him properly, couldn’t go to the funeral. By the time I found out, it was all over. And then that awful place in Carnforth.’
‘You were there, of course,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘It was an awful place.’
‘When it was over, and John was born, I just wanted to forget it all. And I did. Until he came back. And now he hates me. I hate myself.’
‘God doesn’t hate you, Jessie,’ he said gently. ‘Do you believe that?’
She shook her head.
‘I’ll make some more tea,’ he said. ‘And we’ll sit outside for a while.’
They sat side by side on the bench in the far corner of the garden. It was surprisingly warm. Jessie sipped her tea, wondering what he must think of her.
‘Remember all the good you have done, all these years,’ he said.
‘Have I?’
‘At the school, for how many years?’
‘Twenty-two,’ she said.
‘Hundreds of children have been in your care, Jessie, learning from you, becoming the people they are. You have made mistakes, but not with your teaching. Remember that.’
‘Other people’s children,’ she said, ‘but not my own.’
‘It’s not too late,’ he said. ‘He is going to be married, you say. There may be children, God willing. Your grandchildren. Think about that.’
She did, remembering the woman’s red hair and the pride.
‘I’m not sure his friend, the one he will marry, likes me.’
‘You’ve met her then.’
‘She came to see me,’ said Jessie. She looked up. ‘It was difficult, father. She blamed me for not accepting John as my son. I was angry, too. I sent her away.’
‘Then you have some bridges to build, Jessie. And you must build them, however hard it will be. If I were your confessor, that’s what I would tell you. No Hail Marys for you, that would be too easy.’
‘What should I do?’ she asked.
‘You must decide. Do it for yourself, to find the peace you need. All those lies, for so many years, no wonder you’re exhausted.’
‘Should I tell other people, about John being my son?’
‘You must decide that, too. If they love you, they will understand.’
‘And if they reject me?’
‘That’s the risk you have to take.’
She thought for a moment.
‘There’s one more thing, father,’ she said. ‘There is someone else, a man who says he wants to marry me. He doesn’t know … about all this.’
‘Will it make a difference to him, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. I will have to tell him, I know, but … first I must talk to John. I owe him that.’
‘I think you do,’ said Father O’Toole.
Jessie said no more. The secrets were tumbling out of her, and there was still one s
he didn’t choose to let go of. Andrew was in her past, and would stay there. She knew she would never see him again.
CHAPTER 24
JOHN SAT UNCOMFORTABLY in the Catholic chapel in Kells, waiting. It was cold, and he had no idea what would happen or what was expected of him. All he knew was that if he wanted to marry Maggie it would have to be in a Catholic church, which meant he had to be a Catholic. Violet had arranged for him to see Father Pryce at five o’clock this evening, and here he was, waiting.
The outside door creaked open and a thin man in a black suit came in. He had an oval face and sharp nose, bearing small, round rimless glasses. He wore a large black hat, which he removed, revealing a pink smooth forehead. He looked very young. John guessed he might be about the same age as himself.
‘Mr Pharaoh?’ said the young man. ‘I’m Father Pryce, parish priest here at St Mary’s. Mrs McSherry tells me that you wish to marry her daughter Margaret but that you are not of our Church.’
‘Yes, vicar, I mean no, I’m not a Catholic.’
‘You will call me father, not vicar,’ said the priest. ‘Vicar is for the Protestants.’
‘Sorry, father,’ said John.
‘You are a Protestant, I take it?’ John noticed his accent, from Liverpool he thought.
‘I think so,’ said John. ‘My mother, my adopted mother, was a Methodist.’
‘A Methodist? I see. And you were adopted. Have you been baptised?’
‘I suppose so,’ said John. ‘I must have been, mustn’t I?’
‘And confirmed? Did you take communion at your church? Where was it?’
‘In Ulverston, father. I seem to remember something, when I was about twelve, would that be it?’
‘Whatever it was, Mr Pharaoh, it does not appear to have had a profound effect.’
‘Well, no,’ said John. He was wondering how to answer these questions. If being a Methodist was important, would that mean it would be harder to be a Catholic? Or would it be easier to start from scratch, as it were. He had no idea. He’d already decided however, that he did not like Father Pryce and that Father Pryce did not like him.
‘What do I have to do, father?’ he asked. ‘I want to marry Margaret, and I know she wants you to marry us, here at St Mary’s. So what do I have to do?’
