Forever Yours

by Rita Bradshaw

  Not that he could have done any differently, he told himself. He’d been angry and hurt on their wedding night, but maybe in the months that had followed he might have been able to come to terms with the fact she’d lied to him. But once he knew she’d married him with her belly full of another man’s bairn any spark of sexual desire had gone, and it had never been any different. But she’d wanted him. Even now, hating him as she did, he knew if he lifted his little finger she’d come running.

  Quietly, he said, ‘Do you want to take this job?’

  Her voice was like her face, sharp and hard, and he read in her eyes that she thought the question was double-edged when she said, ‘I would like to earn my own money and receive some thanks for what I do, aye.’

  He knew she was telling him he wouldn’t see a penny of what she earned, but that didn’t bother him. He’d been supporting the three of them for the last eleven or so years and he could continue to do so without any help from Tilly. His family wouldn’t understand, and he’d get some stick from his pals down the pit when the news got out, but strangely that didn’t bother him either, although before this day he would have expected it would have. Like a bolt of lightning it came to him that for a long time now he’d realised he’d tied himself into a loveless marriage through pride and fear of what folk might think of him if they knew the truth. He was a damn fool, because other people didn’t matter a jot. But he’d ruined his life finding that out.

  He didn’t actually care if Tilly worked for the postmaster and his wife, that was the truth of it, and if he didn’t care, why should he stop her? And he sure as hell didn’t have to answer to his family or pals or anyone else for his decision.

  Tilly was staring at him and he could see she was bracing herself for the explosion she was sure was coming. Still speaking very quietly, he said, ‘You’d still see to the bairn’s needs and your duties here? Run the house like it’s always been run?’

  For a moment she didn’t reply. ‘Aye,’ she said, slowly and flatly. ‘Of course I’d do that.’

  He nodded. ‘Good.’ He continued to the door, stepping into the hall before her voice caused him to turn.

  ‘You mean I can do it? You don’t mind?’

  ‘Does it matter what I think one way or the other?’ She made no reply and after a long pause, he said, ‘No, Tilly, I don’t mind. As long as you look after things here, I don’t mind.’

  She made a little sound that jerked her head as she emitted it, and in answer to it, he said, ‘What’s the matter? I’ve said I don’t mind, haven’t I? That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  Their eyes met and held, and what he read in hers caused him to feel uncomfortable enough to say, ‘Damn it, there’s no pleasing you, woman. I’ve said you can take the job, what more do you want?’ before he turned his back on her and made for the stairs.

  Tilly watched him go. She remained in the kitchen doorway for some minutes more before turning and walking over to the chair she’d occupied before Matt had walked in. Rebecca’s dress lay where she’d thrown it and now she picked it up, burying her face in the cotton in an attempt to stifle the sobs that were tearing her apart.

  Chapter 15

  It was the middle of the night but Constance was wide awake. She hadn’t been able to sleep properly since she had arrived back in Sacriston, and it wasn’t only the death of her grandma that had her tossing and turning in an agony of mind.

  She’d done the only thing possible in pleading a headache and staying out of Matt’s way, she told herself for the umpteenth time. And if she’d offended him, she was sorry, but every minute she was with him there was the possibility she’d give herself away. He’d been kind and friendly last night. He’d always been kind and friendly to her and it wasn’t his fault she loved him, but her love had her reading too much into what he said and the way he looked at her, because she wanted to believe he cared for her as she cared for him.Which was wrong. He was a married man.

  Molly had told her she didn’t think Matt and Tilly were happily married. ‘It’s not a match made in heaven, lass, that’s for sure.Your grandma didn’t think so and neither does Ruth Heath from what she’s let on to your grandma over the years. Still, you make your bed and you have to lie on it. And there’s the bairn to consider. She’s a grand little lass, Rebecca, and she thinks the sun shines out of her da’s backside. Always has done. Followed him about like a puppy when she was younger.’

  Constance had forced herself to smile. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Aye, although he didn’t want much to do with her when she was first born. Mind you, my Edwin was like that. He was always worried he was going to drop ’em when they were little. All fingers and thumbs, he was. Said they gave him the willies.’

  Knowing she shouldn’t ask, she’d said, ‘But Matt and Tilly are all right on the whole?’

  Molly had shrugged. ‘All I know is Mam didn’t think things were right. But then marriage isn’t a bed of roses for anyone. Me an’ Edwin have had our differences but you work through them.You’ve got no choice, have you? Once that ring’s on your finger it’s for life an’ that’s that.’

  Constance had nodded. She knew one of the Ashtons’ friends had recently acquired a divorce because she had heard them talking about the scandal which had ensued, but such a thing was unheard of among ordinary men and women, even those who weren’t Catholics.

  ‘I mean, our Daisy’s husband can be a bit handy with his fists,’ Molly had gone on, ‘and Edwin had to go round and give him a taste of his own medicine which seems to have done the trick. Mind, like I said to her, she needs to stand up for herself. Wait till he’s asleep and give him a bashing, that’s what I’d do.’

  ‘But Matt doesn’t hit Tilly?’ she’d asked, shocked.

  ‘Ee, no, lass. Whatever put that idea in your head? No, no, nothing like that as far as I know. They’re just like lots of other couples round here. No worse and no better.’

  And that had been the end to what had been a depressing conversation.

  Marriage shouldn’t be like Molly had described, indeed, what she had seemed to think was normal. Constance sat up, swung her feet out of bed and padded across to the window, opening the curtains wide. The moonlight lit the recently harvested fields beyond Blackett Street nearly as brightly as day, and she could see beyond Cross Lane right to the wooded area in the distance. The view was softer in the moonlight, gentler.You could almost imagine that the voracious entity that was the pit, which ate men and lads whole and spat out their bones, didn’t exist. For eleven years she had lived in dread of opening one of her grandma’s letters and reading that the pit had got Matt. She still dreaded it; she supposed she always would. But she’d have gladly put up with that constant fear if she could have been his wife and had his bairns.

  She loved him as much as ever. She shut her eyes tightly before opening them again. She had tried to pretend to herself over the last years that she was over him, but she’d never be over Matt. Just seeing him last night, hearing his voice, watching the way his mouth moved had made her weak at the knees. She didn’t know why and she couldn’t explain the attraction he held for her; she supposed he was nothing special in the world’s eyes, but everything about him made her blood race. And she’d felt there was something there on his side too yesterday, the same as that long-ago afternoon in her grandma’s kitchen.

  She leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the window. But she’d been wrong then. He had married Tilly and they’d had a bairn together. That was reality. All her silly imaginings and fancies were just that. Silly. And even if Matt and Tilly weren’t happy, even if they were the most unhappy couple in the world, it was nothing to do with her.

  The glass was smudged with her tears and she took her handkerchief out of the sleeve of her nightdress and rubbed the window. As she did so, she gave a start, leaping backwards into the room, her heart thudding. Someone was out there. Someone had been spying on her, she’d swear to it. Down in the hedgerow dividing the fields near
est the houses, she’d definitely seen the figure of a man.

  Biting down on the knuckles of her clenched hand she edged to the side of the window and peered out round the curtain. Bathed in moonlight, the view mocked her with its peacefulness. Her legs trembling, she continued to watch for a full ten minutes but nothing stirred.

  She must have been mistaken. A trick of the moonlight combined with her reflection in the glass, that was all it had been. Nevertheless, she continued with her vigil for a little longer before returning to bed, and it was another hour before she fell into a restless, troubled sleep.

  Vincent didn’t move from his spot in the hedgerow until the subtle fingers of dawn began to spread across the sky. He’d known there was little hope of seeing her again after that one time when she had obviously caught sight of him, but he still hadn’t been able to tear himself away. He drank the last of the half-bottle of brandy he’d brought with him for company and stretched before standing up. It wouldn’t be long before the early-morning shift would be turning out and he needed to get home and have a wash and change before then.

  He glanced across the stubble fields where a large loose flock of lapwings were already having breakfast, picking off the plentiful supply of grubs and beetles disturbed by the harrow. They had risen early; their plaintive cries had been echoing for at least an hour before daybreak. The old wives would have you believe the birds were departed human spirits who could find no rest and were doomed to wander the earth seeking absolution, bringing down evil upon all who heard them, but he liked them. He liked all nature, but there was an element to the lapwings’ melancholy cries that touched something deep in him. He admired them too. In the breeding season he’d spend hours watching them perform their spectacular display, flying high and then plunging towards the earth with spinning movements, as if mortally wounded, their wings vibrating and causing a loud, thundering noise.

  He’d come across a couple of youths a few summers ago – ne’er-do-wells, by the look of them. They’d netted and captured a good number of lapwings and had been busy cutting out their hearts, brains and eyes to be enclosed in necklaces which they sold, saying it would profit the wearer against forgetfulness, kidney trouble and the slow workings of the body. Another old wives’ tale. To see the remains of the beautiful dark plumage shot with iridescent specks of metallic turquoise and the blood and bones had sent him fair mad. Even their own mothers wouldn’t have recognised them by the time he’d finished with the lads. He’d buried their bodies where no one would find them, along with the remnants of the birds.

  Casting his eyes back towards the village he stared at Constance’s window. He hadn’t expected to see her, he had just wanted to be near her once he’d heard she’d returned because the grandmother had died. He had to get her alone, to talk to her and let her know he understood she’d been sent away against her will and that his offer of marriage still stood. The heady excitement that had kept him warm all night sent his blood pulsing through his veins like spiced wine. The old woman and man had gone now. There was nothing stopping them. Once she understood that he’d tried to find her, that he’d left no stone unturned in his attempts to track her down, she wouldn’t blame him. But he didn’t want to say what he had to say in front of the old ’uns’ daughter.

  He did not allow himself to acknowledge here his fear that Constance wouldn’t want him. She had to want him. For years now he had carried the image of her in a pocket of his mind, and when the weight of her absence had become unbearable, he’d taken out his frustration and blind desire on Polly, but it had never sufficed. Never met the need in him.

  He tucked the brandy bottle in the deep pocket of his jacket after tipping it against his tongue to get the last drop or two. He knew he was drinking too much. The ghosts that came and paraded in front of him every time he closed his eyes at night could only be obliterated by brandy, and the amount he had to drink to be able to sleep had increased with the years. But that would change once he had Constance.

  Brushing his clothes down with the flat of his hands, he stepped out into the field, giving a mental apology to the birds as they rose screaming into the air. The rising sun had yet to sweep the dew of dawn from the fields and chilliness stabbed the fresh autumn air, but Vincent didn’t feel it. The funeral was tomorrow and then his life could begin afresh. Nothing mattered except Constance. His position as weighman, the cottage – he was willing to leave it all if she wanted to put the village behind her and start again where there were no wagging tongues. He had enough money to take her wherever she wanted to go.

  She would understand tomorrow. He would make her understand.

  Polly stood hidden at the back of the crowd at the graveside. The funeral service had been short but sincere; you could tell Father Duffy had liked Mabel Gray, but then she had too. Mrs Gray had been one of the few women in the village who always spoke to her if she saw her when she was out shopping, and not just a ‘good morning’ or ‘nice day’ but a proper conversation. She suspected Mrs Gray had felt sorry for her, but she hadn’t minded this – why should she? She felt sorry for herself.

  A little breeze swept over the graveyard, rustling the leaves in the trees which bordered it. She could see Vincent on the far side of the cemetery but she had been careful to stay out of his sight. She hadn’t asked permission to come to the funeral in case he refused it, but she didn’t want to incur his wrath if she could avoid it.

  She could see Mrs Gray’s two daughters and their families; they were weeping, and so were some of the neighbours and friends. Mrs Gray would be really pleased if she could see what a send-off she’d had; there wouldn’t be one person in the whole wide world who would cry if she popped her clogs, Polly reflected. And that girl who’d come home for the funeral was beautiful but sad-looking, but then she supposed she would be. It must be awful to lose someone you loved.

  As the grave-diggers began their work of filling in the hole, folk began mingling and Polly prepared herself for the moment she could slip away unnoticed. Probably because it was such a lovely warm day, no one seemed in any hurry to leave. A group had gathered round the two daughters, and a row of folk were looking at the posies and wreaths at the head of the grave; a number of bairns were running up and down the cemetery paths.

  Polly edged her way towards the gate, taking care to stay hidden as she did so and keeping an eye on Vincent. She saw the bonny lass was standing slightly apart from the rest of the family with two or three bairns hanging on her hands; she was talking to Mr and Mrs Heath and one of their sons, the youngest one. As she got nearer she heard the girl say, ‘. . . today, with Aunt Ivy. We’ll stay overnight at her place and then go on in the morning. I’ve been away long enough.’

  She was within a few feet of the group now and again she thought, By, but that girl’s beautiful. Fascinated, she stared at the heart-shaped face, the deep blue eyes and golden hair. Polly’s fingers unconsciously went to her own skin which bore the scars and blemishes of the acne she’d suffered years before as she took in the pure milk and roses complexion in front of her. She wondered what it would be like to wake up every morning and look in the mirror and see that face staring back at her.

  It was as the Heaths made their goodbyes and the girl bent down to hear something one of the bairns was saying, that Polly realised with a stab of panic that she didn’t know where Vincent was. Glancing round, her eyes swept the crowd and then she saw him coming straight for her.Without hesitating she darted behind a laurel bush and crouched down, fiddling with her boot as though she was tying the laces. With luck, he wouldn’t notice her.

  When she heard him speak she wondered for a moment if it was Vincent. His voice was deep and soft, with a quality she couldn’t put a name to because she was unable to associate tenderness with the man she knew. ‘Hello, Constance,’ he said.

  ‘H-hello.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting to talk to you.’

  Peering through the leaves of the bush, Polly could just make out that the two of them were
alone, since the bairns had obviously run off to join the others. She saw the girl glance around before she said, ‘I have to go, there’re people I need to thank. Everyone’s been so kind and I don’t want to miss anyone.’

  ‘I searched for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When they sent you away, I looked for you for months. It was because of me, wasn’t it? They didn’t want you to marry the weighman but I don’t have to do that job any more. I’ve got plenty put by, Constance. More than enough for us to make a new life somewhere and for us to live in clover. I’ll sell the cottage and we can buy a place wherever you like. You can furnish it – you’d like that, wouldn’t you? And—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Polly saw the girl back away and as she did so Vincent caught her arm.

  ‘Us,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about us. We made plans, don’t you remember? We talked about how it was going to be.’

  ‘No, we didn’t. Let go of me.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’There was a note of almost childish temper in his voice, like the moment before a bairn threw a tantrum. ‘Look, you don’t have to worry about the old folk any more, they’re gone. You’re free now, aren’t you? And the rest of them don’t matter. I’ve waited for you for years—’

  Again she broke into his pleading, pulling her arm free as she said, ‘I didn’t want you to wait. I never wanted you to wait.’