by Ruth Sutton
‘Caroline Leadbetter?’
‘Yes she said on no account should I tell you, that you might not want to see me again.’
‘She had no right … and she was wrong about me. I don’t judge people. I’ve seen too much, over the years.’
Jessie wiped her eyes again. ‘I’m sorry this happened, like this. What shall we do?’
‘About us, you mean?’ Matthew Dawson kissed Jessie’s hand. ‘Everything I said to you an hour ago in the garden remains the same,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve both been lonely long enough. But it’s a big step and there’s no rush, is there? I’m going to stay in London with Ann next week, and that’s the best time to talk to her. We’re planning to see Emily, too, on our way back. We can talk about it, all of us.’
Jessie wondered what Matthew would say to his daughters, and they to him.
‘You understand, don’t you, dear?’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘So can we keep all this to ourselves, for now?’
‘Of course,’ she replied.
‘We will be together, soon, but I want to do things properly.’
‘I understand, truly I do,’ she said.
Before he drove away, they stood together inside the front door, and kissed again. For the first time Jessie felt the urgency in his touch, the kiss of a lover, not just a friend.
So much was on her mind that she could not share. She thought of the one person she could confide in about Matthew and John and her own turmoil, someone who would never tell.
The following Tuesday, she made the familiar journey to the camp, for the first time since Piotr’s funeral, to talk to Philip about re-starting the men’s English class. The bright light of summer as well as her own sunnier mood warmed the drab buildings. Philip Andrews was pleased to see her, and so was Father O’Toole when he arrived for his usual weekly visit. At the end of the afternoon, Jessie and the priest sat together in the decorated chapel. Through open windows they heard the gulls wheeling between the camp and the beach, and the sound of a football game after the men arrived back from their work.
‘I’ve tried to put the past behind me, as you suggested, father. I’ve thought about the choices I made all those years ago, and since then too.’ Jessie looked up at him, like a schoolgirl too anxious to please. ‘I’m trying to be more honest with people.’
Father O’Toole nodded.
‘And how is John?’
Jessie hesitated. ‘We struggle,’ she said. ‘He’s a grown man now, and doesn’t want to pretend any more. Thinking about his own marriage has made him more determined to tell the truth. I just didn’t expect …’
‘What happened?’
‘John came to see me,’ she said. ‘My friend, Matthew Dawson was there, and out of the blue John told him that he is my son. It was so sudden. I thought I would faint.’
‘And did you?’
‘No, I didn’t. I just dropped something.’
‘So the truth is out, and the sky did not fall in.’ He looked at her. ‘Your friend, Mr Dawson, is he important to you?
‘He’s Dr Dawson, from Cockermouth. I’ve known him for many years. His wife died during the war and we’ve – we’re very close.’ She hesitated. ‘He has grown-up children. He must talk to them, before we make our plans.
‘I see,’ said the priest. ‘Are you happy, Jessie?’
‘He’s a good man, father, so kind, generous. I always thought of him as a friend, and now … maybe more.’
‘I’m glad for you.’
They sat together in silence for a few minutes. Jessie was grateful for his undemanding presence. A thought crossed her mind.
‘There’s some thing else, father,’ she said. ‘It’s about John. He’s not a believer, but the woman he wants to marry, is a Catholic. She lives in Kells.’
Father O’Toole nodded. He knew all the priests up and down the west coast.
‘Mrs Lowery’s family want John to become a Catholic, or else they can’t be married in church.’
‘Mrs Lowery?’
‘Oh, she’s not divorced, she’s a widow. I believe her husband died in the war.’
‘Is your son a good man, Jessie? Honest, and kind?’
‘I believe so father. But the priest in Kells seems to have taken against him, or so John says. He doesn’t know what to do. I can’t remember the priest’s name.’
‘I know him,’ said Father O’Toole, picturing the joyless young man who seemed to revel in the adoration of his congregation. ‘And have you met Mrs Lowery and her family?’
Jessie thought for a moment. ‘Not the family, no, but she came to see me,’ she said. ‘We talked about John. She was very –’ Jessie struggled to find the right word, ‘very committed to John, very loyal.’
‘Is she a good Catholic? And does she love him, truly?’
‘I cannot vouch for her as a Catholic, but she does love him, I’m sure of that.’
Father O’Toole pressed his fingers together and thought for a moment.
‘Becoming a Catholic is a very serious matter, Jessie. I’m sure your son understands this.’ Jessie nodded. ‘The priest who instructs you is like your teacher. No doubt there are pupils that you have trouble reaching, and it’s like that sometimes with a priest. If John sincerely wants to convert, and feels that he cannot take instruction from Father Pryce, then I might be allowed to help him. I will talk to Father Pryce, of course. We both want to bring another soul to God, and to see John and his fiancée married in the eyes of the Church. Let me see what I can do.’
Light from the open door of the painted chapel picked out the colours on the walls. Jessie’s face was dark by contrast, but the eyes she turned towards the priest were bright. There was no sound except the sighing of the wind around the parched field and the peeling huts of the camp.
‘This is a difficult time for you, Jessie,’ he said, looking at her. ‘God can help you, too, if you will accept him.’
‘I’ve been a churchgoer for many years, as many of us are. But I’ve managed without much faith for most of my life, father,’ she said, after a long pause. ‘I’ve had to rely on myself alone, and I’ve done so. I wish I’d done some things differently, but there were reasons. Now I want to make my peace with John, with my son.’
‘Are you sorry, Jessie, for what happened?’
‘I’m not sorry that I had him. When he found me, I was older. I …’ Her voice faded.
‘You need to talk to him, tell him what’s in your heart.’
‘I’ll try, father.’
In the days that followed, Jessie’s resolve weakened. She would talk to John, soon, but not yet. In the meantime she wrote him a letter, and knew that it wasn’t enough.
Dear John,
I have been thinking so hard about what I did and said all those years ago. You know that I was confused and afraid when you found me, afraid of what people would say. That’s how my mother was when I was having you. I remember how much she hurt me then, and I have hurt you, too. We cannot put the clock back. All those years when you were growing up I never knew you, nor you me. We are like strangers, despite the blood we share.
There is a priest who has helped me to see all this. I met him at the camp, and he gave the poor man who died there a decent funeral. I told Father O’Toole about your wish to marry a Catholic and he is willing to talk to you about it. You can find him at the Catholic church in Millom.
I don’t know how these things work. Maybe he can help you.
There are other things happening in my life, too, but they can wait. For now, you must know that I am sorry for all that has happened between us. I understand if you cannot forgive me for the wrong I have done you.
Your mother,
Jessie
* * *
‘He’s done what?’ Violet looked at her daughter. ‘What d’you mean, John’s going somewhere else?
Maggie glanced at her father for support, but Frank looked away. Both front and back doors of the West Row house were open to catch the breeze, but still
the small front room was oppressively hot.
‘John’s going to another priest, Mam. He was afraid that Father Pryce would never … so he’s found someone else.’
‘Who, for ’eaven’s sake?’ cried Violet, for whom Father Pryce represented both God and the Virgin Mary.
‘His name is Father O’Toole, from Millom.’
‘Millom? That’s miles away. Is ’e a proper priest?’
‘He’s older than Father Pryce. More patient, John says. They’re getting on well.’
‘Are you telling me the truth, girl?’
Maggie’s face flushed. Frank looked anxiously at his daughter and his wife and wished he could get away. He knew what was coming.
‘I’m not a girl, Mam,’ said Maggie, regretting her offer to tell Violet what was going on.
The knock on the front door surprised all of them.
‘Ehyup,’ said Tom Pickthall. He had pushed the door, found it blocked by Frank’s wheelchair, and stuck his head round, realising in an instant that hard words were about to be said.
‘Tom!’ shouted Frank. ‘Thank God.’ He shifted his wheelchair to let his brother-in-law into the room. ‘Just in time, lad. We might need a referee.’
‘I could ’ear your voice, Vi, as soon as I turned t’corner. Me an’ ’alf the street. What’s all t’shouting about, lass?’
‘It’s that John,’ said Violet.
‘Mam,’ protested Maggie, but her mother raised a warning finger. ‘I’m telling our Tom, Maggie, not you.’ She turned to Tom. ‘Listen to this. John went to see Father Pryce, about being a Catholic so him and Maggie can get wed properly.’
‘Aye,’ said Tom.
‘But John doesn’t like Father Pryce, so he’s gone off to another priest, in Millom! What d’ye make of that?’
‘I don’t like Father Pryce either,’ said Tom. ‘Ardly out of college or wherever they come from, thinks he knows it all, looks at me as if I’ve crawled out from under summat.’
‘And me, too,’ said Frank.
‘So John’s gone to someone else, good for ’im,’ said Tom.
‘See?’ said Maggie, triumphant.
Violet, looked accusingly at Tom and pushed past him out of the room. They heard the back door slam, and there was silence while they assured themselves that Violet had actually left the house.
‘Shall I go after ’er, Dad?’ said Maggie.
‘Nay lass, leave ’er be. She’ll calm down. Well said, our Tom. That Father Pryce gets reet up my nose.’
‘And John’s, too,’ said Maggie. ‘Father O’Toole’s different, John says.’
‘Ave you met him?’ asked her father.
‘Not yet, but I will before he marries us.’
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Frank, ‘Your mam’ll go off the deep end over that.’
But by the time Violet returned, Frank, Tom and Maggie had it all worked out.
* * *
‘Bloody brilliant,’ said John. He and Tom were sitting outside the pub in Sandwith two days later, after a long day working on the house. Maggie had wanted to help John bring piped water into his home, but Violet had put her foot down and wouldn’t budge. ‘Until you two are wed, you’ll not set foot in ’is ’ouse again. God knows what people think when they see you there all hours. Bad enough you’re running off to get wed like a pair of criminals. Let our Tom stop there and help John. You and Judith are stopping ’ere till after the wedding.’
‘It’s very good of you, Tom,’ he said, ‘to help out like this, and to persuade Violet to go along with it.’
Tom took a long pull on his pint and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I told you about my Honor, didn’t I?’
‘Your wife, yes, you did.’
‘Those years wi’er were the happiest of my life, John. I know we all ’ave a good laugh about ’er indoors, and being ’en-pecked an’ all that, but for me being married to Honor were a wonderful thing. Not just sex, lad. That were part of it, but it weren’t just that. She brought out the best in me, and she said I did in ’er. People don’t talk, do they, about the important things, well men don’t any road. Down pit, in t’pub, we don’t talk, not really. But me and Honor, we talked about anything, everything. And laughed, too. They were grand times.’
‘And you never found anyone else?’ said John.
‘Not for what I ’ad wi’er. Sex, could’ve got that. Did once or twice, like.’ Tom winked. ‘But no one to wed.’
‘Is that why you want Maggie and me to be married, so we can be as happy as you were with Honor?’
Tom laughed. ‘There’s summat else, too,’ he said. ‘When Maggie got wed first time to that Isaac, I were all set up to ’ave the back bedroom in West Row, until the poor bastard were killed and Maggie moved back in. I’ve been stuck in that shithole of a boarding ’ouse in Bransty all these years since. When Maggie and Judith move out to live ’ere wi’ you, I can ’ave that room at long last. So look after ’er and don’t die on us, lad.’
‘Longer walk for you down to William Pit from Kells,’ said John.
‘That’s t’other thing, John,’ said Tom. ‘Come end of August, I’m shifting up to th’Haig. Allus wanted to do it, and there’s a space in me auld marra’s gang up there, so I’m off. Been at William twenty year and it’s enough. Summat about that pit I’ve never trusted.’
Tom Pickthall raised his pint pot to John. ‘So ’ere’s to you and our Maggie, lad. I ’ope you’re as ’appy wi’er as I were wi’ mine, and that back room at our Vi’s will do me fine. Hear that? Poetry!’
CHAPTER 26
‘YOU WON’T BE THE FIRST BRIDE to go to her wedding on the train,’ said Violet to her daughter. ‘It’s the price you pay for sneaking off, like a couple of criminals.’
‘Mam, for heaven’s sake. Father O’Toole has agreed to marry us, properly like you wanted, and why should we drag ’im all the way up here, or expect everyone ’ere to drag themselves down to Millom when there’s no fuel and no money. So long as we’re married, and in a church, that’s all that matters to us. I thought you’d be pleased about it. Uncle Tom’s coming wi’ me because you wouldn’t let me go down on t’bike wi’ John. Anyone’d think you didn’t want us to be wed at all.’
Violet sniffed. ‘I’m sure John Pharaoh is a fine man, apart from being a heathen. You can’t keep your ’ands off each other, so you’ll ’ave to marry, and he’s got ’is own ’ouse and a proper job, and ’e can look after you and the bairn properly. That’s better than nowt.’
‘So why can’t Judith come to the wedding, Mam?’
‘Our Judith’s staying ’ere with me, and that’s an end to it,’ Violet insisted. ‘Bad enough you two sneaking off, without dragging an innocent bairn along. And what kind of a priest is this Father O’Toole, going behind Father Pryce’s back? Are you sure ’e’s a proper priest, not something left over from t’war? No wonder ’e’s ’anging around that foreigners’ camp. God knows what kind of Catholics they are down there.’
Maggie gave up. They’d been round and round it, and her mother would keep on fretting until it was all over, signed and settled. Maggie had braced herself and persuaded Father Pryce to bless the two of them at St Mary’s after the wedding, to convince her mother that everything was above board. It had been an awkward encounter.
‘Where will you be living?’ Father Pryce had asked.
‘Mr Pharaoh’s house is in Sandwith, father,’ she replied.
‘That’s a fair way to come for Mass,’ he said, and she was happy to tell him that St Bees was closer. With any luck she would never have to see him again.
* * *
The sun was well up but it was still early when John drove his bike down to Millom to be married on a Saturday in August. The hottest summer anyone could remember seemed to go on and on, and dust swirled from his wheels as he drove.
In the public toilets in the park he took off his jacket and trousers and shook as much dust as he could out of them before getting dressed ag
ain and brushing himself down. He rubbed his best shoes with grass and tied his best tie carefully before pushing open the heavy door of the church and stepping inside. The draught launched more dust into the still air, where it hung like tiny crystals in the sunlight streaming through the window above the altar.
Father O’Toole emerged, pulling his cassock straight as he did so.
‘Is that you, John?’ he called, squinting into the gloom at the far end of the nave.
‘I’m here, father. I think I’m supposed to be early. Maggie’s coming down on the train with Mr Pickthall.’ He checked his watch. ‘All being well, she’ll be here in ten minutes or so.’
‘Mr Pickthall is …?
‘Maggie’s mother’s brother. Maggie’s dad is in a wheelchair and her mam has made quite a fuss about us being married here, so Uncle Tom’s representing the family, like, and giving Maggie away.’
‘Splendid,’ said the priest. ‘We’ve just time for a tot. I’ve a bottle in the vestry for special occasions. Will you join me? Calm the nerves.’
‘Whisky and I don’t get along very well, father, thank you.’
‘Come away in, anyway, and sit with me while we wait. I’ve a couple of witnesses coming, but they’ll be here at the last minute.’
‘I can’t thank you enough for this, father,’ said John, as they sat, knee to knee in the tiny vestry. ‘It means so much to Maggie and her family. Her mother’s not too happy about it, as I said.’
‘I’m a great believer in the New Testament, John, and in bending a few rules, as Jesus did himself. Some of my brethren take a different view.’
‘Will it cause trouble for you, father?’
‘Nothing I haven’t heard before, John, believe me. And who’s to say what the future holds? You could turn to God yourself one day, when the spirit reaches you.’
John smiled. ‘You’re investing in me, father.’
‘You could say so. You’re a good man, and worth the risk. I would say. And Maggie, she’s a fine Catholic woman, and you should be very proud.’
They heard the west door opening. John got to his feet and saw her, standing against the light from the open door, fixing a small blue hat on top of her russet hair. She was wearing a navy jacket and a full skirt, and shoes with a little heel. Despite the heat, she had on her best white gloves, to hide the darkened scars. Tom stood behind her, almost unrecognisable in a suit that had fitted him better once than it did now.
