In the other window a display of handbags, hats and gloves surrounded a central model in an oyster-coloured slinky negligee, making an eye-catching change from the normal run of the mill dresses and blouses. Mary, who had had misgivings at first, considering it far too early for a spring display, was now reaping the benefit of orders for Easter weddings, and working harder than ever before, serving all day in the shop and sewing well into the night after Jack left for work at six.
Eventually it was Alan who drew her attention to Jack’s unhealthy and haunted look.
‘I think Dad should see a doctor, Mother,’ he said one evening when his father had passed within yards of him without noticing his son, got into his car and driven off in a most erratic manner.
Mary looked up from the zip she was inserting. ‘Why? He hasn’t complained of feeling ill.’ She sounded unconcerned.
‘He doesn’t need to. You’ve only to look at him to see he isn’t right. I’m not talking about physical illness. He’s a bag of nerves, surely you can see that.’
‘He hasn’t adjusted to his new job, that’s all,’ Mary said.
‘I don’t think it’s just that. Besides, I noticed before he left the pit. Even our Jacqueline was concerned about him when she was home, and she’s worrying now she’s gone back, she said in her letter.’
‘He was upset about Tittle Harry. Having to take the poor old thing to be put down didn’t help.’
‘I know, but I still think he should see a doctor, or at least you should have a word with Grandad Roberts. My dad’s never been volatile, but now we can’t talk to him without him flying off the handle.’
‘Well, he was never exactly on top of the world on night shift.’
‘Exactly, and now he’s just about on permanent nights, and twelve hours at that.’
Mary was exasperated. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting he was better off as a miner,’ she snapped. ‘He’s not exactly overworked, and admits he can get his head down at the works for a couple of hours.’
‘But it’s not doing him any good, Mother, working in solitary for hours on end. He’s in need of some companionship. God knows he doesn’t get much from you.’
The colour soared in Mary’s face as she jumped to her feet, dropping the almost completed garment to the floor. ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’ she demanded.
‘I mean it’s time you showed Dad a bit of consideration for a change, rather than your customers.’
‘Your father should be grateful, especially with his cut in wages. At least he needn’t worry financially.’
Alan’s voice rose uncharacteristically. ‘Oh, that’s great. Don’t you realise what it must feel like, to be told you don’t have your job any more, and to know your wife is earning more than you are? My father needs to be given back his confidence, not to be made to feel inferior to you.’
Mary resumed her sewing. ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Anyway, how come you presume to know so much about how your father feels?’
‘I know, because Freddie Cartwright told me how my father was looked up to by his workmates, respected as one of the best workers, and the kindest. I know, because when Freddie was upset at losing his job I took time to listen. How long is it since you listened to Dad? That’s if you ever did.’ Alan picked up his coat and stormed out, letting the door slam behind him, leaving Mary reflecting on her son’s words.
Maybe he was right and she had been a little inconsiderate, but it had been a busy time, what with Christmas and now Easter coming up. Once she caught up with her orders she would have more time to spend with Jack, she promised herself. In the meantime she would keep her eye on her husband’s health, though she was sure there was nothing to worry about.
She plugged in the iron to finish the completed garment.
Jack had cleaned down the panels with paraffin waste, washed down the table and even gone over the floor with an old dried-up mop which he guessed hadn’t seen the light of day for years. Now there was nothing left to do except be there in case anything sent the clocks out of action, and make sure he adjusted the temperatures accordingly.
He could hear the men from the brick yard as they changed shifts. Although the dust they worked in was every bit as harmful as coal dust, he would have given anything to be amongst them doing a proper job. He went outside, hoping to engage one of them in a bit of conversation, but the afternoon shift were eager to be home to beds and wives, some of them shouldering bags of coaloids, a coke-like perk which saved them quite a bit when mixed with coal. Others entering the yard were in a hurry to clock on at the last minute and had only time for a hiya or goodnight.
He returned to the stark loneliness of the kiln room, silent except for the monotonous drone of the mechanism. Eight more hours to go.
He switched on the radio and settled down, picking up a magazine left by the man he had taken off earlier. He thumbed through the pages of scantily dressed pin-ups. At the pit he would have passed it round to an eager audience, amongst laughter and ribald remarks. Now he didn’t even have any interest. What was the use of looking when his sex life was non-existent and had been for weeks, apart from once at Christmas, and even that had been a half-hearted attempt on Mary’s part.
Suddenly Jack’s heart began to pound, the thudding filling his head and beating on the back of his chair. He felt the dizziness wash over him again, and the sweat cold and clammy on the back of his neck. He made his way shakily to the door on quaking legs, and gulped in the fresh night air. The feeling of panic began to subside but Jack was afraid, and a weakness drained his body of energy.
He resumed his place in front of the meter panel, distressed at the thought of making a major mistake. Suddenly he began to cry, in deep harrowing sobs, drowned in a feeling of self-pity. It was as though there was nothing for him any more except a job he loathed, a wife who seemed indifferent to anything but her work, and all the joys of the former years disappearing in a haze of gloom. Jacqueline, his little girl, had made the transition to woman, and would soon belong to some other man. Tittle Harry, his trusting old friend, gone now, cold and limp in the arms of the vet; and his father, distressed and dying and he hadn’t been there, but in some bloody caravan many miles away.
The tears began to subside, leaving Jack staring fixedly at the clocks on the panel, a broken man, whose feelings were shattered into a thousand fragments. His watch said two o’clock.
Four more hours to go, but that wouldn’t be the end, only the beginning of another nightmare day.
It was Joe Johnson who found Jack when he came in for the morning shift. He was still sitting, transfixed and trembling, before the monitors.
‘Come on, Jack, it’s time yer were off, man – ’asn’t tha been ’ere long enough?’ But there was no response from Jack. Joe switched off the radio, not knowing which to do first, check the temperatures or see to Jack. In the end he hurried to the telephone and called Dr Sellers.
By the time Jack was escorted home Alan was up and ready for work, and it came as no surprise to see the condition his father was in. He explained to the doctor how his father had seemed. ‘It’s been brewing for some time,’ he finished.
‘He should have come to see me before he reached this stage. I’m afraid it will be a long haul back now. Luckily, he hasn’t broken completely.’
Alan was almost as sorry for his mother as for Jack, and regretted his outburst of the previous day. All she could do was keep repeating ‘I didn’t realise, I didn’t realise’ as she helped her son get Jack upstairs and into bed.
‘You mustn’t distress yourself,’ Dr Sellers tried to reassure her. ‘It isn’t always obvious until it’s too late.’
‘But I should have known,’ Mary said.
‘Has he had any worries recently? More than usual, I mean.’
‘He lost his job, and the dog had to be put down, that upset him a lot,’ Alan said. ‘And he’s been depressed for some time.’
‘I believe it’s overstress rather than depression,’ s
aid the doctor.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘With stress or anxiety the patient has to be taught how to relax and become calm again. In a depressed state the patient needs to be shocked into becoming interested in normal everyday activities. If not they automatically withdraw into themselves.’
‘So how can my father be treated?’
‘By helping him voice his anxieties, talk about what’s in his mind, and above all by getting him to relax.’
‘Isn’t there any medication?’ Mary suddenly seemed aware of what was being discussed.
‘Oh, yes. I’ll make out a prescription. The pills will calm him for the time being, but in the long term he needs to unwind, and be protected from pressure and anxiety. He also needs to know he has your love and support – which I’m sure he does,’ Dr Sellers hastened to add.
When Jack’s trembling had ceased, he apologised for the third time for causing such an upheaval. Mary looked at his pale haggard face and wondered how she could have failed to notice the stress her husband must have been suffering. Jack knew he should be getting up and doing the usual chores of fetching in the coal and letting down the canopies over the shop windows, but his body seemed drained of all energy. Besides, if he moved the panic might return, terrifying in its intensity. So he offered no resistance when Alan insisted he stay in bed.
Mary, filled with remorse, brought him strong sweet tea and toast which he left untouched, and tried to fathom what must be done in the future. She knew her son was right when he said his father could no longer work at the brickworks, and deeply regretted not realising sooner the effect the job was having on her husband.
She glanced at the clock. The shop should have been open some time ago, but she remained by Jack’s side, aching inside as his dark-rimmed eyes searched her face, appealing for reassurance. She drew him towards her, enclosing him in her arms, protective as a mother towards her child. And there they stayed, unheeding of time, pressed together, as Mary prayed for the first time in years. For her husband’s sanity and her own peace of mind.
Three months had gone by since Rowland Roberts had taken Jack under his wing and offered him the sanctity of Moorland House. Now the daffodils were at their fullest, pale golden trumpets playing in the breeze, in time to the ripples on the reservoir.
Jack paused to rest on the green grassy bank and skimmed a stone across the water. Catkins trembled above his head and he was at peace in the solitude. The last time he had come to this place he had stood on the rock close to the water’s edge and considered throwing himself down into the cold mesmeric depths. At the time it seemed easier than striving to find a reason for living. Now, looking back, he cringed at his weakness, ashamed that he could even have considered such an action, and wondered if he had been sane at the time.
It was Rowland who had brought him back from the abyss with his calm reassurance and his gentle persuasion, Rowland who in the beginning had encouraged him to leave his bed, and then the shop, wheedling him into taking his first steps out of the door and into the car, calming him as yet another panic attack threatened to send him cowering back into the safety of his familiar armchair and Mary’s protection.
When Alan had rung Rowland on the day of his father’s breakdown it had been for the doctor’s advice, but Rowland, only just semi-retired, had taken over the care of Jack completely, releasing Mary so she could continue running the shop, which would be essential if Jack was to be unemployed. It had given Rowland an objective just when he had been at a loss as to how to fill his extra leisure time, and Alan had willingly handed over his father into Grandad Roberts’s capable hands.
It had been Rowland who had sat up for hours at a stretch trying to still the trembling and the jerking limbs, guiding Jack through the desperation as he struggled to breathe. Calming him with words of reassurance and praising him after each small achievement, such as shaving himself or making the early morning tea.
It had been Rowland who had taken him into the garden, leading him by the hand like a child, through the gate and on to the lane, each day a few yards further until they had reached this place, where the tranquillity had acted like a healing salve on Jack’s shattered nerves.
It had been Rowland who had followed at a distance, anxiously watching, the first time Jack had come here by himself, hoping he was sufficiently recovered to cope with yet another hurdle. His heart had raced when he saw Jack pause beside the deepest part of the reservoir, but he had trusted his own judgement that Jack was over the worst and strong enough to resist the call of the cold grey waters. He had been right.
Now Jack looked around him, listened to a blackbird’s song and marvelled at the marble effect of the vast blue-white skyscape. He knew it was time to go home, not for an afternoon visit but back to the activities of a normal working day. Back to Mary, not as an invalid to be cosseted, but as a husband and lover.
He frowned as he wondered what he would do, how he would cope with finding a job, but he breathed in the pure country air, relaxing as Rowland had taught him to do, and flung the worry aside. He had already glimpsed the horrors of Hell and had no wish to see more. He turned and retraced his steps in the direction of Moorland House.
Rowland, watching from the window, marvelled at the improvement in the appearance of his young friend. The dejection seemed to have disappeared and his shoulders to have lifted. He knew Jack had some way to go before he was back to his normal self, but the breakthrough had been made. Rowland didn’t profess to be an expert in psychiatry, indeed he knew very little on the subject, but he did know enough to realise that Jack had needed to talk. Gradually he had wheedled out his fears and anxieties, of most of which Rowland had already been aware.
The losses of father, job, pet and daughter had obviously gnawed away at Jack’s nerves, but a far deeper worry, of which even Jack himself had been unaware, had turned out to be the culprit: the fear that Mary had never loved him, that she regarded him as second best. That it was Tom Downing who still held the special place in her heart.
Mary had been shocked when Rowland had revealed Jack’s anxiety.
‘Why, that’s ridiculous.’
‘It may be to you, but it isn’t to Jack.’
‘But how could he think such a thing?’ she cried. ‘Oh, I loved Tom, but in a totally different way. I never loved him as I love Jack – I could never love anyone as I love Jack.’
‘Then tell him so,’ Rowland had advised.
After that, Jack’s recovery had begun.
Jack had been home three weeks and showed no desire to seek employment, and Mary was so thankful at his improvement that she had no intention of setting him back by mentioning it. Instead she encouraged him to catch up on any odd jobs around the house, taking Rowland’s advice and praising him for even the slightest achievement. Jack found peace of mind and a great satisfaction in turning to his old hobby of working with wood, and set about replacing pantry shelves and putting up extra shelves in the shop. After that he fixed a picture rail on the wall of the sitting room, and hung the pictures Jacqueline had given them for Christmas. He found he was somewhat comforted by the picture of Tittle Harry gambolling across the purple-heathered moor.
He spent quite a bit of time next door at the shoe shop. Old Will Whitaker had owned the lock-up premises for as long as most people could remember. He was a good businessman and a gentleman, always immaculately dressed in white stiff-collared shirt and dark pinstriped suit, complete with gold watch and chain. Before opening the shop, and sometimes in the evenings, he would take off his jacket, don a long hessian apron and work on repairing the shoes and boots. Jack had never had much to do with him apart from passing the time of day, but Mr Whitaker had been the first to offer Mary his support on hearing of her husband’s illness.
‘If I can be of any assistance whatsoever, you have only to ask,’ he had said.
He had followed up the offer by bringing first a basket of fruit for Jack, and then a bottle of Wincarnis, the finest tonic for ne
rvous disorders in his opinion. When Jack came home he had called to offer Mr Whitaker his thanks, over a cup of tea and an interesting and stimulating conversation. After that Jack had taken to calling in at the shoe shop each morning, and a firm friendship had developed between the two men.
Jack realised that the old man was finding the business too much for him in his declining years, and often took over some small task such as sorting the Wellingtons into sizes, or checking the shoes on delivery day for faults like varying shades or imperfect inner soles. He also designed a new footstool for the shop to replace the one which must have been in use for at least sixty years and, although sturdy, looked extremely shabby owing to the leather’s being worn away in parts.
After a few weeks Mr Whitaker asked Jack, ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about cobbling, lad?’
‘Well, I’ve fixed a few clog irons in my time.’ Jack laughed.
‘Did you make a fair job of it?’
‘Fair enough for the pit,’ Jack answered, wondering what Mr Whitaker was getting at.
‘What would you say to a bit of training? In cobbling, I mean.’
‘What, fixing clog irons?’
‘Well yes, if needs be, though there’s not so much call for clogs these days, what with the pit closure. No, what I meant was soling and heeling.’
‘Well.’ Jack was taken aback. ‘Would I be able to, seeing as I’ve never tried? I don’t really know.’
‘Oh.’ The old man brushed away Jack’s doubts. ‘There’s nothing to it. The hardest part about it is squatting down on the floor, and that’s what’s beating me, I’m afraid. My poor old legs won’t stand it for much longer, not to mention my back. So I thought with you being out of work, if you don’t mind my mentioning it, you might like to learn the trade, sort of. Of course, you would be paid for any repairs you did. I do hope you’ll consider my suggestion. I wouldn’t like to discontinue the repairing side of the business. Apart from disappointing my regular clientele, it would be quite catastrophic to let it go, in case I decide to put the shop up for sale in the future.’
Christmas Past Page 26
