‘Tea won’t be long now. Go upstairs,’ she said to Stephen and Christine, ‘And wash your hands.’
‘Oh, do we have to?’ Stephen said in a whining voice.
‘Yes, you do,’ Leah replied. ‘Just look at you both. You’re filthy. Now go on, do as you’re told or you’ll get no tea.’
They went out of the kitchen reluctantly. Leah retrieved Julia, who had scampered under the table. She held her out to Paddy.
‘Take her into the living room and I’ll get tea ready. How’s the fire in there.’
‘Nearly out,’ he said tersely.
‘Well, why don’t you build it up,’ Leah said. ‘It’ll be cold tonight.’
She noticed when she walked into the kitchen that Paddy had not been out all day (she’d only asked him if he had to make conversation, something she seemed to do a lot lately). He looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed, and although he had his faults she knew he had too much pride to be seen in public as he was: unwashed and a day and half growth of stubbly, black beard.
He was aware of Leah’s scrutiny, which annoyed him further, because as usual, in spite of a day’s work she looked as though she’d just stepped out of a band- box. Her close fitting grey wool dress showed how her figure had filled out in all the right places and although she’d borne three children her waist was till tiny, her hips trim and breasts firm, if a little fuller. Her face hadn’t changed and if anything she was even more beautiful than when he’d married her, another thing which narked him because he knew he definitely looked the worse for wear.
So, because he was down in the dumps and could see no way out he decided to rile her further (something he was getting good at), for he could see she was riled by the set of her back as she stood at the kitchen sink.
‘By the way Miss Smartypants, your mother said to tell you that she’s having trouble getting up here, it’s too steep and too far away and for you to call at Glebe Street after work. I told you didn’t I, that this place is too far out.’
As Paddy spoke Leah was gazing with distaste into the sink. It was filthy, littered with odds and ends of wet food. Pushed into the small grate were two wet cigarette butts. She turned round quickly, anger flaring.
‘It’s not too far away. It’s not a spit and a stride from the shop and Mam finds it hard to even go to the Co-op these days.’ Her voice was sharp with irritation and rising by the time she had finished. Just what Paddy had hoped for!
‘No need to get on your high horse with me,’ Paddy yelled. He was just in the mood for it and he jumped so suddenly out of his chair that it fell over with a loud bang.
At his sudden movement, and the noise as the chair hit the floor Leah stepped backwards, hitting her spine on the edge of the sink. She had a birthmark on just that particular spot and it was always very tender.
As she came in contact with the hard edge an excruciating pain shot through her, as though a knife had been thrust into that vulnerable spot. For a moment the intensity of it made her almost faint. She gasped and turned to hold onto the edge of the cupboard. She closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to subside. Then the tears came. Not so much because of the pain but because she was tired and unhappy and she hated Paddy shouting. She felt a tight knot forming in her stomach, which always happened when she was upset. She was aware that Julia was crying loudly and that Paddy was trying to placate her.
She opened her eyes and turned around. Paddy was staring at her in alarm. She was deathly white. He was suddenly ashamed. Ashamed at the way he was, at the way he’d behaved towards her. He was a bastard and she didn’t deserve to be treated like that. He should be shot, that’s what, he thought viciously.
He looked a moment longer into Leah’s pale face, at the tears. Then he put Julia on the floor and impulsively reached over and pulled Leah to him.
‘I’m sorry, Leah, sorry, love. I should be shot for carrying on like that.’ He stroked her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder, her body shuddering.
Julia began another loud wail and Paddy bent down and picked her up, cradling them both. He was achingly aware of how much he needed Leah. As her sobs subsided he put her away from him. They looked at each other for a long moment, his blue eyes full of remorse. Julia struggled to get out of his arms now the shouting was over.
‘We’ll have to get ourselves sorted out.’
Leah nodded. Paddy put his arm round her shoulders and walked her out of the kitchen, up the passage and into the living room. She was still white and drawn and he cleared some newspapers off the settee and made her sit down.
‘I’ll get the fire going. Then I’ll make you a cup of tea and warm the pies up.’
Paddy felt for the ashtray in the dark and stubbed his cigarette out. Leah lay in his arms fast asleep, her hand resting lightly on his chest, her breath warm and sweet on his face. He kissed her forehead. Things were going to be different from now on! So he couldn’t get a job? What of it! They weren’t starving. There were thousands worse off, men without jobs all over the country and they didn’t go to pieces. It wasn’t his fault that things were bad. He should stop acting like an old goat and more like a man. He turned on his side, holding Leah close and for the first time in a long time he fell peacefully asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Life goes in stages Paddy thinks. He’s sitting in front of a roaring fire; it’s cold outside, there’s a Guinness on the table next to him (nice and handy) and he’s in a philosophical mood (the Irish tend to this quite a lot).
In each of these stages he ponders, a different person emerges. Sometimes he’s hard put to recognize just who it is. Sometimes it’s even rather frightening. Child, boy, adolescent, man - all quite unconnected, or so they seem to him; it’s experience, of course, that changes you into someone you hardly recognize. Is this me he’s often thought, over the years? How did I get here? He’s a stranger to himself. Yet, he’s been lucky. He’s missed out on conscription. He’s married the girl he loves. And so on and so on until he reaches the conclusion he’s been so lucky, he’s boring. Still, he’s a lot to be thankful for.
He settled himself in front of a roaring fire, a bottle of Guinness on the table next to him. He’d persuaded Leah to go to the pictures. Her first night out since Julia was born (well over a year ago). After ‘that’ night things had looked up and he’d used his gift of the gab to make her take more time off and, more importantly, not to open another shop.
He’d kept his promise, too, and cut down on the booze. Well, almost. A drop of Guinness wouldn’t hurt. Good for you from all accounts: had a lot of iron in it. He took another swig from the bottle. He still wasn’t having much luck as far as jobs went. Bloody government; bloody strikes, and bloody everything! He took another swig. All his attempts had met with failure, but what was he trained for? Bugger all really, except to go down the pit and most around here were either closed or only working a fraction of the time.
A loud cry from upstairs brought him out of his reverie (something which happened often in this house – the crying, that is). Don’t tell me, he thought, exasperated. Julia’s awake again. She should have slept for hours yet. He listened intently. Perhaps she’d drop off. As this crossed his mind another loud wail drifted down the stairs, then a rattling sound as though the cot was being rattled to pieces; that made him bang his bottle down, jump out of the chair and run to the bottom of the stairwell. He took the stairs two at a time. In the last cot episode Julia had got her head stuck between the cot rails and it had frightened them half to death.
He flung the bedroom door open where the three children slept. Julia was standing up, looking wide eyed and innocent through the bars of the cot, her mop of curly black hair endearingly tangled. When she saw Paddy she put her arms out.
‘Dada, up, up!’
‘No,’ Paddy whispered, firmly. ‘You’re not getting up. Now go back to sleep, that’s a good girl.’ He tried to prise the small hands off the cot.
‘No, no, up, up,’ and she shook the cot again f
or emphasis.
Paddy looked as his youngest daughter in exasperation. She was the apple of his eye, but she’d also inherited his mother’s Irish temper and had a stubborn streak as wide as his arm. It was no good, he thought as he tried a second time to make her lie down. She looked as bright as a button and if he wasn’t careful the other two would wake up and then his night of relaxation would be definitely over.
‘All right, then, you little villain, come on.’ He lifted her out of the cot and wrapped a blanket around her.
Christine and Stephen were still sleeping soundly.
He tiptoed out of the bedroom and quietly closed the door behind him. Julia laughed happily at getting her own way and pulled his hair. He’d just give her five minutes or so and she might get sleepy again.
He made his way down the stairs and into the living room. The fire was still blazing away. He put Julia on the floor next to him and gave her a doll to play with. She grasped it, chuckling delightedly. She was the picture of health with her plump, rosy cheeks. Paddy gazed at her fondly. How bonny she was! He reached over and picked up the Guinness.
He sat in the chair next to the fire, leant over and picked up the poker, stirring the coals then added a few more from the scuttle next to him. Julia stood up shakily and staggered to him (she still wasn’t walking properly), the doll grasped tightly in her hands. He sighed, picked her up and sat her on his knee. She cuddled against him, sucking her thumb. She might just settle, Paddy thought, giving her head a light kiss. He sank further into the chair, put his head back and stared into the fire. He glanced down again at Julia. Her eyelids were drooping, her thumb still firmly in her mouth, one finger curled over her nose. His own head began to nod, the Guinness beginning to have its usual soporific effect. He was soon asleep.
The silence was shattered by a loud noise from outside. Julia woke with a jump and struggled to sit up. Paddy snored on. His arms dropped limply to his sides and Julia slid to the floor. She took a few shaky steps to where the blanket lay on the floor. She picked it up, flinging it over her head, chuckling with this new situation. She staggered around for a moment, moving closer and closer to the fire.
Paddy slept on.
********
After Leah and Emma went, Paddy sat at the table in silence. For a few days drink had dulled his grief, but when Leah smashed the last of his bottles, he decided it was time to ‘go on the wagon’.
It was now two days since that decision. Two whole days! He was screaming for it! He put his hands to his head and moaned. The dullness had vanished, his brain like a razor. Each day his sorrow increased until he thought he’d go mad. If only he could have a drink, but he lacked even the willpower to go out. He wanted to bang his head against something, anything to take away this terrible feeling of guilt.
His little girl, his bonny little Julia, gone and the agony of his guilt was almost as unbearable as his grief. Leah had said she hated him, that she’d never forgive him, that she wished he were dead! Well, he wished he were dead, too.
How could it have happened? It had been an accident, an accident. He hadn’t killed her! No, whatever Leah said, he hadn’t killed her. The relentless voice in his head thought otherwise. It just wouldn’t shut up. You did kill her. You killed your daughter. No, no, it was the drink. It made me fall asleep.
If you hadn’t been sozzled, if you’d kept your promise Julia would still be alive.
You’re twisting things, twisting things.
You’re a murderer!
Paddy buried his head in his arms. His shoulders shook. After the paroxysm was over he pushed himself off the chair and went to rinse his face at the sink. There was a small mirror on a shelf next to the window. As he straightened up he caught sight of himself. Bloody hell, he thought, I look a hundred and I feel a hundred as well; a few days growth of black beard, eyes almost disappearing beneath the puffiness, face bloated as though in water for weeks (which it had been in a way – pickled in booze).
He shuddered as he looked at his reflection. And they used to call me handsome, he thought bitterly, but who cares? He finished drying his face, then walked listlessly into the living area.
He had moved out of the Belmont Road house after what happened and was living above the shop again, although not for long. Leah had told him point blank, that she didn’t want him anywhere near her, so he’d have to look for somewhere else to live. He was tired and drained from weeping and stared unseeingly for a moment at a photo on the mantelpiece taken on their wedding day. Leah had a shy smile on her face and the light had caught the brilliance of her eyes. Paddy picked up the photo, now studying it intently and walked back into the kitchen. He gazed vacantly at the gas stove for a few minutes. He was still thinking of the picture, of how much he loved Leah, how she was the only one for him. How could he live without her?
Then he walked purposefully back to the door leading to the living area and closed it. He got a few towels and stuffed them against the bottom of the door. He made sure the windows were closed, went to the oven and turned on all the gas jets. He was quite calm now, although his hands shook a little. He picked up the photo, which he’d placed on a cupboard. Holding it against his chest, he slowly sank onto the floor next to the open oven door.
The sickly sweet, cloying smell became stronger. He wouldn’t let it bother him. He’d just look at the picture and think about the good times. There had been good times! Leah stared at him from the photo. She seemed to come alive. His gaze devoured that shyly smiling face. She was looking at him, joyfully. There was no one else, no one but the two of them. On the day the photo was taken, on their wedding day, he’d sung to her. The song he always sang to her. The picture was getting dim. He couldn’t think straight, but he could remember what he’d sung. Sweet Sixteen! To him she would always be that. Sweet and sixteen! His eyes closed; the picture slipped from his hand. He was singing, singing as he’d never sung before, his voice soaring. It soared over the meadows, over the moors and dales, to the heavens and beyond…
‘When you were swe…eet sixteen…’
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Walter Hargraves made his usual weekly morning walk to the train station. From there he would take the train to Accrington where he worked as head clerk for the prestigious firm of solicitors, Lawson, Dunne and Grey.
Walter was a bachelor, thirty-nine years of age and moderately good looking in a rather prim way; neat suit, polished shoes, dapper moustache and hair slicked back from a narrow face. He turned to wave to his mother who always saw him off, then proceeded on down St. Hubert’s Road, his mind not, as usual on what he would do that day, but on a visit he’d paid the day before to a certain Mrs. O’Shea.
His mother, Martha, watched his dapper walk down the street, a smile of satisfaction on her face. She was proud of her son, that his employment as head clerk in a law firm gave him some status in the town and, in doing so, also her. She waited for his usual last wave as he turned the corner. Yes, there it was! She raised her hand, then walked slowly back up the path.
The houses on St. Hubert’s Road were larger than those in Glebe Street, just round the corner. Furthermore, the front door didn’t open onto the pavement, but was separated from it by a low fence with a gate. There was a path to the front door and on one side a small area suitable for growing flowers. There was even room for a few shrubs. At the back of the house was a long, sloping lawn down to the back gate which led onto the back lane, the lawn divided by a path leading to the outside toilet. However, there was a bathroom upstairs, which again put them above Glebe Street. Martha’s house was always spotless and ‘you could eat off her floors’ as most people, who had been inside, would tell you.
Walter continued on his walk to the station. He couldn’t ever remember feeling as he did at the moment. For so long his life had been orderly; a life of specifics, schedules strictly adhered to, which gave him a feeling of security that all was as it should be. But since that visit to Leah Hammond at her shop on the Square he was at ‘sixes
and sevens’, as his mother would have said. Even after the war, when most men had found it hard to adjust to civilian life, he’d picked up the thread of his existence with the same law firm as though nothing untoward had happened. Granted, there had been times when visions of the Front returned to him in his nightmares, when he’d wake sweating and wished he smoked. Unfortunately his mother had absolutely forbidden smoking and he’d never think of going against his mother. So he would turn over and turn his mind off any unpleasant thoughts tending to surface. Even the presence of three very bossy, spinster older sisters and a complaining semi-invalid father could not ruffle his outwardly placid and correct exterior.
His mouth was set in its usual prim line as he boarded the train, his briefcase clutched tight. He looked what he was, severe, correct, proper and parsimonious.
Not until recently had Walter thought much about women except that they were not like men (he had noticed this!) His relationship with his mother and sisters was cordial, yet distant. He really knew little at all about women and it hadn’t worried him unduly. Until now! It was not in his nature to pursue women. Conversely women found they were not drawn to him. So, with regard to this situation there was a kind of stalemate.
Now, however, he suddenly had the desire to get to know a woman (Leah Hammond) in a more intimate way, but he’d no idea how to go about it. He’d no real male friends, for again men found him wanting. Not that he was inclined towards men. He would have been horrified at the intimation, although there had been a bit of surmising about this by those who knew him. But he was as straight as a dye as the saying went, proven by that day when he’d walked into the shop. When Leah Hammond levelled those pansy blue eyes at him he felt as though he’d been hit by a thunderbolt (he was not prone to exaggeration, but this is how he felt at the time, had anyone asked). He had been momentarily struck dumb and it wasn’t until she’d asked him three times what he wanted that he’d collected himself, stuttering his name and his business like Simple Simon.
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