Song of Songs

by Beverley Hughesdon

  I whispered, ‘It wasn’t his fault, Ben – he was out at a confinement.’ I began to cry. He took my arm and guided me out of the shop, still using his body as a shield against the curious glances of the other customers. Outside he swung me round and pushed me into a narrow alleyway. I shook with sobs, fighting for control. At last I said, ‘I can’t go to the funeral, Ben.’

  ‘You’ll have to. It’ll look downright strange if you don’t.’

  ‘I don’t care, I won’t go.’

  ‘Look, Lady Helena.’ His voice was low, but very serious. ‘What you did, you could be put away for it, if it ever gets out.’ His eyes held mine; I stared back into his stern face as he said, ‘You were right to do it – it were only thing to do – but law’s law.’

  I repeated, ‘I don’t care – I deserve to be punished.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t. Anyroad, what about doctor? He were ready to help Captain – to take a chance – you don’t want to put him behind bars, do you?’ At last I shook my head. ‘Well, then – you’ve got to go to funeral and act normal. And no more letting cats out of bags, like you nearly did with young Emmie. You’ll have to keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘But – I told you, Ben.’

  ‘That were different.’ His tone was final. ‘I’ll take you back meself Monday morning. ’Sides, I want to pay me last respects to Captain Girvan – he were well liked.’ Back in the small kitchen I swallowed a few mouthfuls of potato pie. It tasted like sawdust, but under Mrs Greenhalgh’s stem gaze I dared not refuse it. Then she sent Ben into the front room to sleep on the sofa before his shift. He tried to argue. ‘I’ve got to see to me plot, and –’

  ‘You can do that later, Ben Holden. I doubt you’ve had enough sleep today, and if you’re staying up on Monday you’ve got to get what you can, today and tomorrow. Off you go now.’ And meekly, he went.

  I sat listening to the clatter of saucepans in the scullery as Emmie and her mother washed up – Emmie’s voice murmured on unceasingly, with only the occasional punctuation from Mrs Greenhalgh’s short replies. When they had finished they came back and sat down at the kitchen table, and Mrs Greenhalgh lifted a large basket on to the red chenille tablecloth. Emmie’s face fell. ‘Oh Mam, not the mending – not when we’ve got a guest.’ But her mother was inflexible. ‘You’ve barely a whole stocking to your foot, my girl – and there’s Ben’s socks.’ She turned to me and said, half-apologetically, ‘We’ve been a bit tied up getting ready for the new babby, my lady – else I’m not one to be getting behind with my mending, though I say it myself.’

  I watched her shake out a sock and reach for the wooden mushroom and suddenly I was begging, ‘Please – do let me help.’

  Mrs Greenhalgh looked shocked. ‘Certainly not, my lady, it wouldn’t be fitting. Besides…’

  ‘Oh, but I can darn. Nanny taught me, when I was a child. I like darning…’

  ‘Like darning! Emmie’s face was amazed.

  Mrs Greenhalgh still shook her head. I said desperately, ‘Please – if I had something to do – I can’t bear just to sit…’ My hands were beginning to tremble again. The woman’s stern face softened for a moment, and silently she held out the skein of wool. I threaded the needle, positioned the mushroom and began to pick up the worn loops.

  I was still darning when Ben pushed open the door later – bleary-eyed and stretching his brawny arms until they cracked. Emmie said quickly, ‘Ben, Lady Helena’s mending your socks for you – she’s a beautiful darner – look how neat hers is, next to my stocking.’ Emmie generously held out her own puckered darn.

  Ben flushed red and Mrs Greenhalgh said sharply, ‘Put that away Emmie – showing a young man your stocking! Whatever will you do next?’

  Emmie said, ‘It’s all right, Mam – my leg’s not still inside it,’ and winked at me.

  Her mother reared up. ‘Into the scullery with you my girl, and fill that kettle at once.’ Emmie dumped her mending on the table and scuttled off.

  We drank more strong hot tea and then Ben went up to his plot. ‘He’s growing lots of vegetables he’s really worked hard, my lady. Old Alf Whittam had let it get all overgrown with weeds and suchlike, and Ben spent all autumn clearing it. I helped too, didn’t I Mam?’ She leant close to me and whispered, ‘But Mam wouldn’t let me go up with Ben too often, she said it wasn’t respectable – and I’d get under Ben’s feet and keep chattering all the time. But when I told Ben he said he didn’t mind. “After all,” he said, “I don’t have to listen, do I?” ’ She smiled happily as she reached for another coarse black stocking and stabbed awkwardly at it.

  I offered, ‘I’ll mend those for you tomorrow, Emmie, when I’ve finished Ben’s socks.’

  ‘Oh, would you? I’d be ever so grateful – I hate mending.’

  At eight o’clock I heard Ben come in and go straight upstairs. When he came down again he was wearing a pair of grubby overalls. He picked up the haversack Mrs Greenhalgh had packed ready for him and left for work, with only a glance in my direction. I darned on.

  At half-past nine Mrs Greenhalgh put away her needle. ‘I’ll make you a nice cup of cocoa, my lady – it’ll help you to sleep.’ As she came past me I felt the light touch of her hand on my shoulder, and the tears stung my eyes.

  Emmie took me up to Ben’s bedroom at the back of the house. It was very neat and tidy; the only furniture was the bed, a chair and a chest of drawers, though one alcove was curtained off. I looked at the other alcove which was spanned by three sturdy shelves, filled with books. Emmie followed my gaze. ‘Ben put those up himself – he’s a great reader is Ben, when he’s not up plot or down pub on a Friday night. It’s not just paper he reads, he gets books regular from the Co-op library – but all them’s his own. Mam thinks they’re a waste of money, but he saved a lot in war, see. His old mam she kept on working, and though he made her a good allotment she wouldn’t use much of it, she put most of it in Penny Bank – he said it made him wild but she would do it, and of course she were well over seventy, so she had a bit from pension, too. She had Ben very late, you see – Edna Fairbairn told me Mrs Holden thought it were change – didn’t know she was expecting, and one day she thinks she’s just got a touch of indigestion and she stands up to ease it like and next minute Ben pops out on the rug and sets up a howling fit to wake the neighbours! There was only his sister Ada there to help – she were my age then – gave her quite a turn it did – she were courting Albert Small, him she wed, but she called off banns then – said she didn’t fancy it if that’s what it were about – but he talked her round and she’s got five of her own, now – he’s got a good job, Albert, clerk at Bolton Town Hall.’ She paused for breath, and before she could carry on there was a call of ‘Emmie!’ from downstairs. Emmie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, miss – my lady don’t tell Mam what I told you – she’d have a fit. She thinks I still believe babbies are found behind cabbage patch!’

  Emmie looked so funny in her round-eyed dismay that for a moment I almost laughed. Then I promised, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell her, Emmie.’

  She flashed me a quick smile, said, ‘Chamber’s under bed,’ and was gone.

  I sat down on the chair and looked round the cell-like room. I knew I would not sleep – I longed for the mending basket. There was a photograph of an elderly woman on the mantelpiece – Ben’s mother, I guessed – there was a look of him around the eyes. She was half-smiling, and she had a kind face – but she was dead – they were all dead. I gripped my hands together until they hurt. When I had controlled myself I stood up and walked over to the alcove and made myself concentrate on the books there. I forced myself to read the titles on the top row: Locomotive Management from Cleaning to Firing – in a purple binding; next to it a shabby green volume proclaimed itself to be Continuous Railway Brakes; and it was followed by a fat Textbook of Mechanical Engineering. I put out my hand and took down the last one – I would see what Ben read – but there was page after page of working drawings and diagrams and close-pack
ed text. Then I came upon a picture of four men – in waistcoats and close-fitting caps, working at a bench – I looked hopefully at the page opposite: ‘If the surface is to be further trued, recourse is had to the scraper.’ The words meant nothing to me, and they blurred and danced before my eyes until I slammed the book shut and pushed it back on the shelf.

  I looked down at the next row and saw more familiar authors: Carlyle’s French Revolution, Burke’s American Speeches and Letters, Macaulay’s History of England, Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; followed by Hobbes’ Leviathan, More’s Utopia – and Marx’s Das Kapital. How shocked my mother would be if she saw that! Tucked in, incongruously, at the end of the bottom row was a modest green volume entitled How to Grow Vegetables. I looked at the choice hopelessly; then at last I took down the first volume of the lowest shelf and opened it; it was Gibbon. I would read that. I pulled the chair under the gas mantle and forced myself to read:

  ‘In the second century of the Christian era, the Empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most civilised portion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensive monarchy were guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valour…’

  And suddenly I wondered whether one day a woman would be reading a book which began just like this one, but that was entitled The Decline and Fall of the British Empire? And would all our sacrifices of these last terrible years have been in vain? I thrust the treacherous thought from me and read grimly on.

  Chapter Seven

  It was very late when at last I closed Ben’s book, undressed, pulled on Emmie’s starched calico nightdress and climbed into the bed. I fell asleep at once, but as I slept I dreamt. I was back in the nursery with my brothers tumbling and laughing at my feet; I felt their soft baby hair brush my bare leg – and woke weeping. When I dozed off a second time I dreamt again: I was very young and small, clutching tightly at Ena’s hand as I stumbled along the shadowy passageway. Nanny sat in her chair with a big white bundle on her lap; Ena lifted me up, and Nanny smiled, her loving smile, and turned back the fleecy edge of the shawl – I leant forward, eager, excited, to see my present, my babies. But there were no babies’ dimpled cheeks on Nanny’s lap – only deep holes and gaping sockets – I was looking down at two tiny skulls – my babies, my babies! I woke sobbing, and knew that both my babies were dead now; I had sat and watched Eddie die in his delirium – and Robbie, Robbie I had killed myself. I lay weeping and dared not sleep again, until the early church bells calling across the valley told me it was morning.

  Mrs Greenhalgh tapped at my door soon after. ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea, my lady. Ben’ll be back soon and needing his bed.’

  Ben returned while we were breakfasting. He smelt of oil and coal dust and his tired face was smudged and grimy. He went straight through to the scullery with a pail of hot water from the range and we could hear him splashing out there. As her mother riddled the fire Emmie leant forward and whispered, ‘Ben washes every day, as soon as he gets in – there’s some I could name in this street as don’t bother, but Ben – he’s fussy like that.’ She smiled as she spoke and I realized that in her eyes Ben could do no wrong. I was glad for his sake – Emmie was sweet-tempered and lively – and so young.

  But when Ben came back into the kitchen he only returned her greeting absently before turning to me. ‘Did you sleep all right, Lady Helena?’

  ‘Yes, yes thank you,’ I lied.

  Mrs Greenhalgh reached down her pan. ‘I’ll fry you a rasher of bacon with your egg this morning, Ben – seeing as it’s Sunday. Now, my lady, if you’ve finished your slice of toast perhaps you’d like to go through to parlour, while Ben’s having his breakfast.’

  I got up obediently and went to sit in solemn state in the small front room. I heard Ben go up to bed and then Emmie came in and told me we would be going to morning chapel later. I asked her for the mending basket and she looked quite shocked. ‘But it’s Sunday, my lady – still, I’ll ask me mam.’ She came back rather longfaced. ‘Mam says it’s all right, just for today – but I mun help you.’ She sighed and took out a coarse flannel petticoat and began to repair the hem.

  As I began to set the first delicate stitches in one of Emmie’s thick cotton stockings I remembered how she had admired the soft cloth of my suit the day before and offered, ‘Emmie, my sister’s about the same size as you are, and she’s just brought lots of new clothes back from Paris, so she’ll be going through her wardrobe - would you like me to send you some of her old frocks?’

  ‘Oh miss – my lady – that’d be lovely!’ Her face was alight. ‘Why, perhaps Ben’ud take me to Co-op dance, if I had a nice new dress.’

  ‘Would you like to go dancing with Ben, Emmie?’

  She blushed and looked down at her hem. ‘Mam says he’s a steady enough chap, and a good worker.’ She sewed on in uncharacteristic silence for a minute or so, then asked, without looking up, ‘Don’t you think he’s handsome, my lady?’

  I stared at her – Ben, handsome? Ben with his tow-coloured hair and bluish-grey eyes and very ordinary face. ‘He – he’s a very well set-up young man.’

  ‘He’s not young – he’s nearly thirty!’ Emmie exclaimed. ‘Why, he mun be near as old as you, my lady.’ I did not bother to correct her; I had seen my face in the mirror that morning. But Emmie had not finished. ‘He told me about you, my lady, after he saw you in Manchester a bit back. He said’ – she drew a deep breath – ‘he said as you saved his life!’ Emmie gazed at me, and for a moment her frank admiration warmed me. ‘I’m ever so glad you did, my lady.’ Her rosy face bent back over her sewing.

  I went with them to chapel; how could I tell the upright Mrs Greenhalgh that I had lost my faith? Afterwards we sat in the stuffy little parlour through a long afternoon. Mrs Greenhalgh did not go to her elder daughter’s. ‘Wilf s home today,’ she had told me as we walked back from the chapel. ‘A man likes a bit of peace and quiet on his day off. I’ve left a pie for him to heat up, and taters peeled ready.’ Emmie’s whisper had enlightened me further: ‘Wilf don’t always see eye to eye with our mam.’

  As the memories crowded in I fought them back with my desperate needle. ‘You’ve given us a real lift with the mending, my lady – basket’ll soon be empty. I’ll go and see to Ben’s tea – he’ll be hungry when he gets up.’ Mrs Greenhalgh rolled her last stocking and put it neatly on the pile of work the three of us had completed.

  After he had finished his meal Ben came into the front parlour and suggested, rather hesitantly, that Emmie and I might care for a walk. Emmie jumped up eagerly, but Mrs Greenhalgh frowned. ‘It’ll be evening chapel soon, Ben. Minister were asking after you – reckon he’s forgotten what you look like, and you used to be in choir, and all.’

  Ben looked squarely at me. ‘I thought you might fancy some fresh air, Lady Helena – we could go up on tops, perhaps walk along to tower.’

  I put down my needle. ‘Yes, Ben – I should like that.’

  I slipped on my jacket, Emmie wrapped her shawl round her shoulders and we were ready. It was fresh and clear outside and I breathed in deeply. Emmie chattered happily to Ben and he answered her with the occasional grunt. I did not speak.

  At the foot of the path leading up to the tower Emmie spotted a couple of girls ahead. ‘There’s Lily and Elsie – hey, Lil!’ The girls heard her and turned and waited and she ran heavily ahead, her plump calves flashing amidst her petticoats as she scrambled up the stony slope.

  Ben paused and turned to me. ‘Can you manage, Lady Helena? Them shoes of yours aren’t made for walking.’

  ‘None of my shoes are made for walking, Ben, but I can walk in all of them.’ I saw his smile and added, ‘The secret is to have them properly fitted. Gerrett’s in Sloane Street have my last; I never buy footwear anywhere else.’

  There was a silence, then Ben asked, ‘Do they make your glass slippers?’

  I smiled at him, then my breath caught in my throat as Robbie’s thin face swam before my eyes. I c
ould not go on; I stopped still on the stony track and began to weep. The high-pitched girlish laughter of Emmie and her friends rang out ahead and I felt Ben’s hand touch my arm in apology. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Helena, I’m sorry – I should have thought before I spoke. Emmie,’ he called, ‘come back down a minute.’

  Emmie swung round and came stumbling down the path, panting. Her warm arms came round me and hugged me as I wept. At last I whispered, ‘It’s all right, Emmie – I’m all right now, thank you. You go back to your friends, they’re waiting for you. I’ll just sit down for a moment – and look at the view.’ My legs were shaking so much I almost collapsed on to the flat-topped boulder beside the path. Emmie hovered over me, her face concerned, until Ben said, ‘Leave her to rest now, lass,’ then she squeezed my shoulder and walked slowly back up to the other two girls.

  Ben squatted down beside me and together we gazed out over the smoke-smeared valley. My breathing gradually slowed. A party of Sunday walkers passed us, chattering and laughing, and then, as their voices receded, there was only the singing of a solitary bird. ‘It’s peaceful up here, Ben – I’m glad we came. I couldn’t have stayed in that parlour any longer – I had to get out.’

  ‘That’s what I reckoned.’ He was quiet for a while, then he said, ‘When I came back from France I couldn’t settle. I know I were one of the lucky ones – with me job waiting for me, and Company counted me war service as seniority – but still, I couldn’t settle. And I ran wild like – drinking too much and – anyroad I were generally playing the fool, so me driver, Stan Roberts it were then, he spoke to me, straight from shoulder. I didn’t like it at first – with me having been a sergeant-major and all – but then I began to see sense. What he said to me was, “You go up and walk on tops, Ben – walk till you’re fit to drop and then walk some more – that’ll get war out of your system.” He were right, not that you forget – you can’t forget – but you learn to live with memories. The hills, these hills – they give you a sense of proportion, like.’