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by Unknown

  "Happy Christmas, Connie," said Sarah to her niece; 'and to you.

  Father. It's well you've come at this minute, you're just in time to hear the news. Kate here . well. she's going to be married. "

  "Married 1 Oh, Kate!" yelled Connie.

  "And who are you going to marry, Kate?" asked the priest, in a tone of polite enquiry.

  Kate regarded him steadily. From now on he would think he had a tight hand on her life. "Patrick Delahunty," she replied quietly.

  The pin-points of the priest's eyes widened through his glasses:

  "Patrick Delahunty... well, well! I'm surprised at your common sense.... A good, steady-going. God-fearing man; you've done well for yourself."

  Kate's head went up, a look flashing from her eyes, which the priest read only too well.

  "I've never known him miss mass," he went on; 'nor the altar rails on a Sunday morning for the three years he's been over here. He'll be a great influence on Annie. "

  "Oh, are you going, doctor?" said Sarah.

  "I'll show you out."

  "That's quite all right, Mrs. Hannigan," said Rodney.

  "Good morning."

  He inclined his head towards Connie, where she stood, strangely quiet since she had heard the name of the man Kate was going to marry.

  "Good morning," he said to her, and, looking at neither Kate nor the priest, he went out through the front-room.

  Father O'Malley watched Kate's gaze follow him. Patrick Delahunty, he thought; there's something funny here. Why, I was talking to him at nine o'clock this morning and he said nothing to me. His mind suddenly switched to the doctor. That man's dangerous, I'm never mistaken; and this one, she's ripe for the Devil; and she's too strong for Pat, she'll have an influence on him. Well, God's will be done!

  no

  THE PATH IS MAPPED OUT

  Sitting before the kitchen fire, at three o'clock in the afternoon, Kate reviewed the happenings of the past year, with not a little wonder at the change time and the simple personality of a man had wrought in her; her mind, compared with the turmoil it had been in a year ago today, was at peace. In a fortnight's time, when she was to marry Pat, her life would change completely. No longer did she dread the idea; in fact, there were times when she actually looked forward to it, for, once married, she would be safe; there would be no more 'wondering' at what might happen, no more mistrusting herself; married to Pat, "he intended her sole aim would be to make him a good wife.... Last Christmas Eve, when she had sent for him and told him she would marry him and that she had already told her mother and Father O'Malley, he had asked no reason for her lightning change of front, but had simply taken her two hands in his and pressed her palms against his face, and, in his soft Irish voice, had said, " It's a miracle. He has answered my prayers. If you ever live to regret this day, Kate, may my death soon follow. "

  She had been amused at what she termed his theatrical speech, but was to remember it vividly within the next few hours. Gentleness had been his keynote; he was big and lumbering, but not uncouth; he had thick brown hair and a ruddy complexion, and his temper and love of peace denied his nationality. That he loved her with a deep abiding love she knew, and she felt sure in her heart that. left alone . she would be happy and would find peace with him. The phrase 'left alone' was with her less now than at the beginning of the year; contrary to her in usual procedure of facing up to things she had never dissected the phrase, had never asked herself what she meant by being 'left alone'.

  Looking back now, she thought how grossly she must have exaggerated the emotions of last Christmas Eve, and on other occasions too, and how near she had become to making a fool of herself by turning kindly interest into something that even now made her feel hot inside. She excused herself with the thought that the evil-tongued women had unbalanced her and that, for a moment, she had seen things through their eyes. But she had silenced their tongues, she felt, and felt truly that she had them guessing and that they did not know what to make of the turn of events.

  She had seen the doctor only twice during the past year, both occasions being during the past month when he was visiting her mother.

  His visits to the Tolmaches had seemed to coincide with her days off.

  When they had met in the kitchen he had been so ordinary and nice that she had thought to herself: How dreadful it is that one exaggerates things so much; the second time Pat had been with her, and she had chided herself for willing him to like Pat. But apparently he had found this quite easy, for within a short while they were talking, even laughing, together. He had wished them both every happiness. One awkward moment alone had occurred, when the doctor had asked Pat if, later, he would be allowed to pay court to his stepdaughter once in a while. Pat had laughed heartily at a joke he couldn't see, and Kate, looking at the doctor's face, had seen nothing but kindly interest and, perhaps, a little amusement. Pat had been loud in his praises of the doctor: "There's a real gentle man, and a man, Kate.... If it wasn't that I love Ireland I'd want to be an Englishman like himself."

  Dear, simple Pat.

  Yes, the year had turned out much better than she had expected. Her hardest task had been to tell the Tol maches. They had covered their regret at their coming loss by taking an active interest in the preparations for her wedding. Miss Tolmache was providing all the linen, Mr. Rex had bought them a carpet and Mr. Bernard bad given her a cheque for ten pounds. The unfailing kindness of these people was sometimes more than Kate could bear. That her marriage was not to cut her off entirely from them, she owed to Pat's understanding; for it was he who had suggested she should go to them at least two afternoons a week, and even to keep up her reading with Mr. Bernard if she wished. Seeing with what bands of prejudice the women around her were tied to their houses, welded by the men's domination, she felt this augured good for their future together.

  Their house was all ready for them; it was in the quiet corner of Simonside, only a mile from the fifteen streets but as distant as heaven from earth. It had four rooms and a garden, back and front.

  When Kate thought of the garden she thought of Annie; there she would grow and blossom, away from these filthy back lanes and streets. She had been worried about Annie, after the business of last Christmas Eve; she had lost the sparkle and eagerness of childhood and a sadness had settled on her. Remembering her own short memory at Annie's age, Kate felt there must be another cause other than that of not seeing the doctor for this continued staleness. Pat, through time, had won her round to laughter again, for he loved her already as his own. But still Sarah's reports of her were that she sat too long looking at nothing. Well, thought Kate, once she was married it wouldn't matter; she could let her see the doctor occasionally, if this were really the reason for her unusual behaviour. But not so much as before. No, that wouldn't do, she had been far too fond of him; but just now and again wouldn't do any harm.

  She was feeling that everything would settle in its groove. What a fool she had been to worry so much. Her mind flashed back to last Christmas Eve. What would have happened had the priest and Connie not come in when they did. Now, she told herself, you've been through all that before. Stop dramatising things! Whatever happened was only in your imagination. She looked at her mother lying dozing on the saddle.

  How old she looked, and ill. If only she could take her with them, away from this house and him. Her ankles overflowed over her slippers, the swelling seemed to get

  "3

  worse every week. Kate wished she were staying over Christmas, she would have been able to make her rest. But the Tolmaches had decided that, at last, they were too old for hotels. With the war being on, they had said, the hotel would likely be overcrowded and noisy anyway, and it would be nice to have Kate spend her last Christmas with them.

  So she was returning tonight; it was no hardship, she could never have too much of their company . only she knew how much her mother looked forward to this week alone with her . and then there was Annie.

  As Sarah lay, she kept mutt
ering to herself. It sounded, to Kate, like a single word, a name being repeated, but it was unintelligible. She's tired and worn out, thought Kate. I'll let her sleep as long as possible, there'll be no one coming in before tea-time, unless Connie comes. The thought of her cousin aroused a slight uneasiness in Kate's mind. Why. had she ceased calling these past two months? Her mother, who had grumbled that she was never off the door-step, was now wondering why her visits had stopped altogether. Perhaps, thought Kate, it's be cause I demurred about going to Peter's wedding. She and Pat had been invited to her cousin Peter's wedding, and when in an effort to evade what she knew would be a drinking bout, she had said she thought she would be unable to get off that week-end, Connie had caused quite a scene and accused her of thinking herself to be a cut above them all now. So she had gone, and sat in the packed front-room, watching whisky and beer being drunk in such quantities as to ensure that everyone was having a real good time. Her refusal to touch anything had only made Connie more firm in her belief that "Kate was looking down her nose at them all'. It was in his endeavour to turn Connie's spleen from her that Pat had laughingly drunk all Connie had pressed on him, and, not being used to it in quantity, for as he was wont to say he could 'take it or leave it', he was soon quite befuddled, if not actually drunk. At four o'clock in the morning it was impossible for him to attempt the three miles walk home. There he had sat, smiling broadly at everyone and powerless to use his legs.

  Kate told herself she was glad she had seen him in drink and witnessed his reactions to it, and she was amazed, and not a little pleased, that he hadn't followed the usual course of his countrymen and become fighting mad.

  The house had been full with the family alone, there being ten of them in the four rooms, so, when it was decided that they couldn't possibly go home until Pat had sobered up, Kate found herself sharing one of the two beds in the back room, lying between two of her young cousins.

  Pat, amid screams of laughter, had been assigned to a cupboard which ran under the stairs. Apparently this had often been used as a spare bed space and a straw mattress had been made to fit it. Kate had rebuked herself for feeling disgust of her cousins, for, after all, she had told herself, they were her people, and had it not been for the Tolmaches she would have found them, if not likeable, at least amusing, but the only impression they left on her was disgust. After the wedding Pat seemingly thought as she did, for he blamed them for having made him drunk and spoke bitterly of drink, swearing he had tasted his last.

  She had laughed at him, and although she was glad he intended to drink no more she thought he had taken the effect of his lapse too seriously, for in the weeks that followed he was at times openly hostile towards the Fawcetts as a whole, and Connie in particular, going so far as to walk out of the kitchen whenever she came in.

  Kate could find no reason for this. Had he made a spectacle of himself when drunk she could have understood his attitude. Sometimes she thought that Connie did not like the idea of her marrying. She was five years Kate's senior and anything but attractive, being inclined to fat and, as her own father was won't to say, 'wore too much on her hat and not enough on her chest'.

  Kate, in the quiet peacefulness of the kitchen and the knowledge of the home that was soon to be hers, in the love that Pat showered on her, and in the deep friendship and kindness . yes, and love of the Tolmaches, felt it in her heart to be sorry for her cousin and her vain, and all too obvious, attempts to attract the opposite sex.

  Resuming the smocking on a frock for Annie, that she

  "5

  had laid aside when she had begun her reverie, Kate's thoughts wandered lovingly around her daughter and her future. She'd still have to be brought up a Catholic, but not at the Borough Road school, on that she was determined; and, although it would mean a two- or three mile walk there, and perhaps back, every Sunday, she would take her to either Shields or Tyne Dock church; St. David's in the Borough Road and Father O'Malley would see them no more.

  A cry from her mother suddenly startled her; Sarah was sitting upright on the saddle, calling out a name, "Stephen! Stephen!"

  "Ma!" cried Kate, shaking her gently.

  "Wake up! Wake up, dear!"

  "Oh!" whispered Sarah, opening her eyes.

  "Oh, Innny, Stephen's here."

  "You're dreaming, ma. There, lie down." Kate pressed her gently back.

  Sarah lay for some minutes staring up at her daughter. There was a look on her face that was new to Kate, a youthful, happy look; but, even as she watched, it died away and Sarah sighed.

  "Yes, lass, I've been dreaming."

  "You were calling someone named Stephen. Who's Stephen? We don't know anyone by that name, do we?"

  "Did I shout that name out?"

  "Yes, you've been muttering for some time."

  "Dear God! Dear God!" The look of fear that was almost habitual returned to Sarah's eyes.

  "It's because I've been thinking lately ... been wondering what I should do. I've been thinking, hinny, that I'm not long for the top."

  "Oh, ma, don't talk like that! Your legs will get better, you only need rest.... Please don't say that. Things will be different next year, I'll be able to come and help you. Oh, ma!" Kate stroked her mother's thin, grey hair, and her eyes looked anxious.

  Sarah lay for some minutes in silence. Then she said quietly, "Is anyone in? ... Annie, or anyone?"

  "No, dear. Annie's gone to the matinee with Rosie. There'll be no one in till five o'clock ... I hope," she added.

  Then," said Sarah, " I've got something to tell you, lass. I never meant to tell you, or anyone, I meant it to go to the grave with me.

  But somehow, lately, the thought has come to me that you've the right to know. You're sure there's no one about? "

  "No, dear."

  "Then close the front-room door, lass, and slip the bolt in the back, and bring up your chair."

  Somewhat mystified, Kate complied. Taking her mother's hand in hers she waited for her to speak.

  "I don't know where to begin, hinny." Sarah's voice had the catch of tears in it. She gazed up at Kate, taking in the warm beauty of this child of hers, wondering vaguely how she could have been born of her.

  She licked her lips with the old, nervous habit.

  "I think I'd better tell you straight out, if it's got to be said....

  Tim isn't your father, Kate!" Anxiously, she watched for some startling change in the face of her daughter.

  The pressure of Kate's hand on her mother's remained the same as a moment before. She was conscious only of thinking, I hope Annie doesn't get wet, it is raining so hard. She heard the fire drop, and with it some of the glow faded from the kitchen. The gas would soon have to be lit. Her mother was looking up, searchingly, into her face.

  Kate knew she should say something . but what? She hadn't words with which to describe this new surge of happiness, what this revelation meant to her. For as long as she could remember she had hated the thought of Tim Hannigan being her father. But it had been something she was powerless to alter, like being blind or deformed.

  The very sight of him always made her recoil, and an early fear of becoming like him had not wholly vanished. But now! Oh, now! This blessed, blessed're lief. "Hinny," said Sarah anxiously, 'you don't mind, do you? "

  "Oh, ma!" Kate suddenly laid her face against her mother's.

  Sarah put her hand on her hair.

  "There, lass ... there! Well, it's out.... But, hinny' she pressed Kate away' ll7 from her--'you'll never tell a soul until I'm gone?...

  promise I' Kate promised, but at the same time the desire was in her to tell the world. For to know that Tim Hannigan had no part in her being, that her cousins in Jarrow were not really her cousins, was so uplifting to her spirit that she had the quaint urge to sing and dance really frolic around the kitchen. She remembered short spasms of happiness she had experienced as a child; they had come unbidden, unannounced, called from some central pool of delight that supplied all children, at some time
or another, whether they had cause for happiness or not.... At these times her desire had been to run, to feel her feet just flicking the earth.... And now this was the same feeling.

  To her mother's surprise she suddenly stood up, flung her arms above her head, and pivoted rapidly two or three times, her full skirt billowing against the kitchen table. Then she flung herself on her knees by the couch and buried her head on her mother's shoulder. They stayed thus, in silence, for some minutes.

  After a while Kate began to think more steadily about the matter; questions tumbled into her mind, and she sat up on the chair again, and held her mother's hands once more. "Does he know, ma?" she asked.

  "Yes, and no," said Sarah; 'he's always been suspicious. When you were born you were so like your father that he tried to make me admit it.

  But once I had done that, I was afraid of what he might do to you. So I've always denied it strongly. "

  "Who was my father?"

  "He was an artist, lass."

  "An artist!" Kate's face lit up.

  "Yes, hinny.... He painted pictures of slums and docks and people like the blind beggar who used to sit under the arches, never anything pretty. He came to the back door there one stifling night in July and said someone had told him we'd a room to spare.... Would we let him have it? Just for a few weeks? I asked him in; Tim was eating his tea, and I felt he was going to say no. But then he looked him up and down, and I could see he didn't think much of him; for he was rather short and slim and his hair was going grey at the temples, although he wasn't forty. And when he offered to pay thirty shillings a week, that settled the matter, for thirty shillings a week was a fortune. "

  "How long did he stay? ... And did he know about me?" asked Kate, eagerly.

  "He stayed three months.... No, he didn't know about you ... but he wanted me to go away with him."

  "Oh, why didn't you, ma?"

  "I had married Tim, hinny, for better or worse.... Anyway, I hadn't the courage then. Had it been a few years later. God knows what I might have done. But then it was too late.... It was too late eighteen months after."