Song of Songs

by Beverley Hughesdon

  Downstairs I would sit in the warm kitchen and eat my breakfast, while Mary told me the latest news of her neighbours, and mine. I knew more about them now than I had ever done in those first months of my marriage. One morning she said, ‘I ran into Edna Fairbarn yesterday afternoon – she asked after you, Lady Helena – said she hoped you were feeling brighter these days – and not to forget what she told you!’ I felt my cheeks grow hot and Mary glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and laughed. ‘Aye, she’s an interfering old besom is Edna – but she’s no fool for all that. I remember when Jim came back from hospital without his legs – I were at me wits’ end; he were so irritable, not like hisself at all, and he kept saying he were no use to me anymore – it would have been better if Jerries had made a proper job of it. Well, she gave me some advice then – I’d blush to repeat it, Lady Helena, so I won’t.’ Her cheeks flushed as she spoke, then she smiled a little. ‘But she were right – and it made all the difference to Jim, though I were watching for me monthlies real anxious like the next week or so – but I were lucky that time and Edna – well, she knows a thing or two about that too. And I’m willing to take the risk – it matters so much to a man, though I’ve never been that interested meself.’

  She bustled out to the scullery and her words hung in the air: ‘It matters so much to a man, though I’ve never been that interested meself.’ But I had been. And later, as I lay resting on the sofa in the parlour, I remembered that day when his strong fingers had handled me in the doorway before we had gone out to Ada’s; I remembered, as though I were another woman, how I had longed for his body on mine. I turned my face away from the door – the war had taken so much from me: my brothers, my voice – and now this. Then, as I blinked back the threatening tears I saw the picture of Ben on the piano – Sergeant-Major Holden, with his three stripes and his crown – the war had spared him, at least.

  He was due back around eight that evening, but at six there was a rattle at the door. A grimy-faced youngster stood on the doorstep. ‘Missus ’Olden – Ben says ’e’ll be late tonight – ’e’s gone out on the breakdown, and fog’ll slow ’em up.’ I looked out and down the street, and could scarcely see the light of the lamp at the next corner. The lad told me, ‘It’s worse in valley bottom, missus – so ’e said don’t wait up for ’im – ’e’ll likely be well after midnight.’ He replaced his greasy cap and vanished into the mist.

  But I did not want to go to bed early – I had been watching the clock, expecting Ben to be home in a couple of hours. I would have gone into the kitchen to heat up his meal, listening to the splashing of his bath water, and then we would have sat either side of the table while he ate his supper – telling each other the small doings of our day.

  By half-past nine I knew I should be going to bed, but instead I wandered about restlessly, and went upstairs to peer into the front bedroom; it was very neat and tidy – Mary had turned it out today, so there was nothing for me to do. I felt uncomfortably superfluous – he was my husband, but another woman had done all that was needed. Then, on the pile of clean clothing left ready for him after his bath, I noticed the pair of socks and thought, with a little touch of excitement, that surely there must be some that needed darning – I would mend them for him.

  I tugged open a drawer and began to search through the neat piles, but someone else had been busy with their needle – I felt absurdly cheated. I took one out and studied the darns – they were neat, but not as neat as mine – I would tell Mary in the morning that darning was not part of her duties. I pulled the drawer out further – perhaps she had missed one that needed attention – and found a tissue-wrapped parcel, right at the back – a sock-shaped parcel. I lifted it out and unwrapped it, and there was another pair of socks. Then my hand stilled – I recognized those darns, they were my darns: I had woven them at Clegg Street. The socks had obviously never been worn since – the darns had not matted together. Yet the tissue paper was creased with much handling – he had wrapped up the socks and hidden them at the back of the drawer to take out from time to time – to look at, even hold against his cheek. I smiled as I raised them now to my cheek, and held them there a moment. Then I carefully covered up the coarse grey wool again and concealed the parcel where I had found it – one day, perhaps, I might tell Ben that I knew they were there – but not yet.

  Downstairs I went over to the piano and picked up the photograph – his level eyes gazing back at me – and I said aloud, ‘I will wait up for you, Ben.’

  I made up the fire in the parlour and attended to the range, so that his bath water would be piping hot when he came in, then carried down a blanket and put it round my shoulders and sat down to wait.

  I dozed and woke and dozed again. When I next looked at the clock it was five past one. I uncurled my cramped legs and went to the window and peered out – there was nothing but a thick, muffling greyness. The fog was denser than ever. I built up the fires and went back to my vigil.

  When the hands of the clock crept round to three I began to worry – thinking of the great engine movingly cumbrously – unseeingly – through the fog; the tired men on the footplate straining their eyes to see the signals – suppose they did not see one? Suppose another engine was moving through the dense darkness too? I thrust the thought away and got up to see to the range again. As I closed the lid I heard his key in the door. I ran through to him, and he stood there in the doorway, his eyes red- rimmed, his face grey with smoke and dirt. ‘Lass – are you all right? I seed the gas still on, so I ran up rest of street…’

  ‘Of course I’m all right, Ben – I just decided to wait up for you, and keep the range in, that’s all.’ He swayed a moment against the darkness outside. ‘Come in, Ben – I’ll close the door.’ I looked past him, smelling the smoke and coal dust on his jacket. ‘Why the fog’s lifting.’

  ‘Aye, aye - it’s lifting.’

  He sounded so tired that I began to scold him. ‘Don’t just stand there, Ben – come through to the kitchen – and you’re absolutely exhausted, so you must have a cup of tea before your bath. The kettle’s already warm, it won’t take a minute.’

  He sat slumped in the chair in the kitchen while I bustled about making his tea, then he drank it gratefully, while I put the bucket under the tap of the range.

  ‘I’ll see to that, sweetheart, I’ve come round now – nothing like a nice cup of tea to put me right.’

  I put his supper to warm while I listened to him splashing in the scullery then I sat with him while he ate – neither of us spoke much, but it was a companionable silence. Then he stood up and came round to my side and bent over me, smelling of soap. ‘Time you were in bed now, my lass – up you go.’ He kissed me quickly on the cheek then pushed me towards the stairs with a light pat on my behind. As I began to climb up I heard him whistling softly as he moved about the kitchen.

  Soon his own footsteps were on the stairs, and I heard his voice, calling softly, ‘Goodnight, lass – and thanks for waiting up for me,’ before the front bedroom door closed behind him.

  Chapter Three

  The fog had cleared away altogether by the next morning; the sun came out for a fine bright day – and it was Sunday, so Ben would be at home. We ate our breakfast late, lingering over it in the warm kitchen; there was no need to hurry because we made our own Sunday dinner now and could have it when we pleased – Mary left everything ready and then spent the day with her family.

  Pushing back his chair, Ben stretched the muscles in his arms until his joints cracked, then glanced at me and asked, ‘’Ow do you fancy a little walk, lass? Just to end of street and back?’

  For a moment I was frightened – I had only been beyond the front door that once, before Christmas, and then he had half-carried me to the cab. I had lived safe in my warm little cocoon ever since – so now I was nervous of the world outside. But Ben would be with me – and looking at his broad shoulders I knew he would help me if need be, so I drew a deep breath and told him, ‘Yes – yes Ben, I’d lik
e to try.’

  ‘You mun wrap up well, then. Fetch down a thick coat.’

  It was strange to be putting a hat on my head after so long, and easing my fingers into gloves. When I came shyly down he looked at my feet and grunted, ‘You never give up, do you? First walk out and it’s got to be in heels.’

  ‘These are my lowest, Ben – and I wear them round the house, all the time.’

  ‘Aye – I suppose you do.’ His gaze travelled slowly up to my face and he smiled. ‘With having such a neat pair of ankles mebbe it’s only natural you want to show them off.’ He added, quite seriously, ‘I reckon change in fashions did us all a bit of good where you’re concerned – legs like yours are too fine to be hidden – now your ma, hers ’ud be better covered up, like.’ I felt a small surge of triumph – Mother was beautiful, but Ben was right – her legs were shapeless. I slipped my hand through his arm and he led me to the door.

  The winter sun was so bright outside that I stood blinking in the doorway, dazzled by it. Then Ben pressed my hand. ‘Come on now, lass – us’ll take it slowly. We’ll go up first, then you’ve only got the downhill run when you’re tired.’

  As we turned to head up the street the door opposite opened, and a man came quickly across the cobbles, tugging his jacket on over his braces, his hand outstretched. ‘’Ow are you, Missus Holden? I’m reet pleased to see you up and about. My Lizzie says, as soon as door opened, “Sid, that’s Missus Holden out for a walk – you get straight over to ’er and say good morning and wish ’er all the best” – so ’ere I am.’

  As he pumped my hand vigorously I murmured, ‘Thank you – thank you so much.’

  Other doors opened; Mrs Ingham came out wiping her hands on her apron, a round-eyed toddler clinging to her skirts. ‘How are you, Mrs Holden? First time out, is it? Now you just take it steady. I’m right glad to see you on the mend.’

  We moved slowly up the street – it was like a royal progress. My hand was shaken over and over again while Ben’s shoulder was vigorously thumped. I kept murmuring, ‘Thank you, thank you,’ the tears filling my eyes.

  As we reached the top of the street a fat, balding man came rushing out with a chair and planted it on the flagged pavement. ‘Here you are, Missus Holden – you just have a rest afore y’ goo down again.’ I collapsed on to the seat gratefully. Ben said, ‘Albert here, we were in same company for a while early on.’

  Albert beamed, a great gap-toothed grin. ‘Aye, that’s reet.’ Then his face became serious. ‘And I knew your brothers, lass – they were as like as two peas in a pod, and always ready with a laugh and a joke. I were sorry, reet sorry.’ He added, ‘An’ I were sorry when I heard how bad you were – but I were in hospital at Eatapps meself, so no wonder you were worn out. How about a cup o’ tea now, just to keep your strength up? Florrie’s got kettle on.’

  The small wiry woman in the doorway smiled, but Ben said, ‘Thanks, Albert another time we’ll take your offer, but I best get lass back now, afore sun goes in.’ He helped me up and I set slowly off again, clinging to Ben’s arm.

  He put me straight on the sofa as soon as we got home and plumped the cushions up behind me. My legs were trembling a little. ‘How kind everyone was, Ben – how very kind – but’ – I swallowed, then plunged on – ‘but when I first came here, back in June – I mean – that is – people were always polite, but…’

  He smiled a little. ‘You were a foreigner, lass – and so different – they was scared of you, with your voice and your ways. And then, you weren’t yourself, either…’ I remembered the days I had walked in my grief and despair down this street, unseeing, uncaring. His voice was dry as he added, ‘But there’s nowt like illness for getting folk interested – though it’s genuine interest, I’ll not say it isn’t – but it brings you down to same level, like – and they feel you’re more one of us now, I suppose.’ He stared into the leaping flames of the fire as he told me, ‘We unveiled war memorial in park back in October – so we all paraded there – with t’mayor and some general, though it were Mrs Illingworth who pulled flags off – she lost all her lads over them years, so it were right for her to do it. Anyroad, I were standing beside Albert, him as lives at top house with Florrie, and he said to me: “Your missus should be here today, Ben – wearing her ribbons just like us – I reckon if anyone’s got right to wear ribbons it’s her.”’ He looked up at me for a moment and added softly, ‘He were right, lass. I know from things you’ve let drop that you feel you’ve been weak over these last few months – just lying there in bed in nursing home, but you moan’t think like that – you were wounded in war, like me – and you needed rest – and still do – to get properly right. So no more of this nonsense about being a burden, being useless – do you hear?’

  I smiled across at him. ‘Oh, Ben – and I’ve been hiding under the stairs every time I heard the rag-bone man calling in the street!’

  He threw back his head and laughed, then slipped from his chair and knelt on the rug, putting his arms around me. I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling warm and safe. He lifted my chin gently and reached up to press his mouth on mine; I kept my lips still and let him kiss me. When he pulled back his head he was breathing deeply and I said, ‘Ben – if you want to – it would be all right.’

  His gaze held mine, until my eyes fell; then he shook his head. ‘Nay, lass – I can tell difference – there’d be no pleasure in it for you. And you’ve only been up street once, hanging on me arm – you’re a long way from being right yet.’ He smiled and touched my cheek. ‘’Sides, I reckon with you being the way you are I’d only have to hang me trousers over end of bed and you’d be in family way by morning – and then what would your ma say to me?’

  As he spoke I felt a little fluttering of pride – I was thin and small-breasted, but I had quickened to this man easily. Then I glanced at his vigorous body and ventured, ‘But you had something to do with it, too, Ben Holden.’

  He grinned. ‘Aye, happen – ’cept on moor that first time – I must have missed then.’ He sounded almost ashamed of himself and I wanted to laugh – then he reached for his paper and muttered, ‘But if I’d taken you in maze when I came on that visit you’d ’a’ been walking up th’aisle with a full belly, my girl.’ I saw him give a small smile of satisfaction to himself before he began to read the news.

  Watching him I thought, and when you filled my belly it was with two babies – not just one, but two – and I waited for the trembling to start, but it did not. The two I had lost had been unformed, come too early, when neither I nor they were ready. And they had not been my brothers – my brothers had died for their country, as so many other men had done.

  I lay with my eyes closed for a while, resting, then I opened them and looked across at the man reading the paper: with his straight nose, his full firm mouth, his neat, curving ears. I said suddenly, ‘Ben – you’ve got very nice ears – they don’t stick out like most men’s do – they lie so beautifully flat against the side of your head.’

  He looked up, his mouth twitching slightly. ‘Aye – you mun thank me old mam for that. She used to pin them to side of me head with a meat skewer every night, regular.’ I stared at him. ‘’Course, it were difficult to sleep, like –’ He burst out laughing. ‘The look on your face, lass! You believed me for a minute there, didn’t you?’ I blushed and laughed at myself, then he jumped up. ‘You stay there, sweetheart – I’ll start veg.’

  Next morning Mary Grimshaw arrived late; she flushed and began to apologize. ‘I’m so sorry, Lady Helena – but Jim’s not so well – his stumps are playing him up – he reckons he can feel his legs again, and it always upsets him – and our Betsy’s in such a mood – she keeps pestering him and he hasn’t got patience when he’s like this.’

  She sighed as she put down my tray. I said quickly, ‘Mrs Grimshaw – go and fetch Betsy – she can spend the day with us, then your husband can rest.’ She hesitated, biting her lip, so I added, ‘I’m sure I’ll enjoy her company – I’
m going to walk up the street again, and she can come with me and hold my hand.’

  Her face lightened. ‘If you’re sure, Lady Helena – she likes to think she’s helping, does Betsy – and it need only be for morning. Right, I’ll do that – and thank you kindly.’

  Betsy’s curly fair hair was tied ruthlessly back into two stubby pigtails; her eyes were ferociously blue. As soon as she was inside the door she held out one chubby hand. ‘I’ll tek you up street, missus – I’ll see you reet.’

  ‘Now, Betsy - my lady’s got to have her breakfast, first.’ Betsy’s lower lip pouted ominously.

  I rushed in with, ‘Perhaps you would like to share a slice of toast with me, Betsy’, and watched her mouth change direction. ‘Wi jam, missus? Wi’ jam?’ Then she saw her mother’s expression and added hastily, ‘Please.’ I was walking more easily this morning I was proud of myself; Betsy clung to my hand and planted her small clogs firmly in the gutter as she ‘helped’ me down the curb. I thanked her when we got back and her blue eyes shone.

  Later I heard her ‘helping’ her mother in the kitchen, and Mary’s voice raised in irritation, so I went out and invited her to sit in the front room with me. But I was not used to small children and could barely follow her dialect, so I let her roam around the parlour exploring while I lay back and closed my eyes.

  It was the clashing discord which jerked me upright – Mary had the child by her plait – Betsy, red-faced and defiant, was anchored to the piano leg. ‘Wanter make a noise, wanter make a noise!’

  Mary drew breath – she had been up in the night, her patience was gone – I intervened quickly, ‘I’ll make a noise for you, Betsy – I’ll show you how to do it.’ I pulled out the piano stool and began to play, ‘Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?’