by Maggie Hope
‘Come in, Amos, I have the kettle on the bar and I just baked scones this morning,’ she said, hustling the startled carrier into the house despite his protests of work still to be done.
Karen went on staring at Patrick, still unsure if she was seeing aright. I must be dreaming, she thought. Everything seemed to have gone into slow motion. Had the sun gone to her head? She closed her eyes but when she opened them again Patrick was still there, his grey eyes drinking in the sight of her.
‘Karen,’ he said at last, in a quiet contented sort of tone, as though he had finally found what he was seeking. He crossed the yard slowly, steadily, ignoring the angry hoot of the gander who spread his wings in threatened attack. And then he was standing before Karen, not touching her, just searching her face. The moment seemed to last forever before he broke into her trance by stepping forward and taking her into his arms.
‘Patrick,’ she breathed, and he held her head in the crook of his arm as they swayed together. She drank in the remembered smell of him and the baby moved in her womb as though in recognition and approval. They gave themselves up to the overwhelming sense of peace and belonging which washed over them.
She had forgotten all about Robert until he took hold of her arm and pulled her away from Patrick. Surprised, still bemused, she looked up at him. ‘Robert,’ she said with a twinge of sadness, but he seemed remote somehow. She couldn’t yet think of anyone but Patrick. ‘I’m sorry, Robert.’
‘Sorry? Why are you sorry, Karen?’
Patrick was suddenly alert. Though he spoke to her he was staring at Robert. He was still, strangely still, his eyes intent.
‘Karen has promised to marry me,’ said Robert flatly, still holding her arm. She made an involuntary movement away from him then stopped.
‘Robert, please,’ she said, but he didn’t hear her. All his attention was on Patrick.
‘She’s mine now, she is going to marry me,’ Robert said again. His head held high, his shoulders back, he glared at his adversary over his nose. ‘You deserted her,’ he added.
‘I’m here now,’ said Patrick.
‘Karen?’ said Robert, still looking at Patrick. She could feel the tension between the two men. It was so strong she could almost see it.
‘Please, Robert,’ she said. ‘I love him.’
Robert slumped, seeming to fall in on himself. Without another word he got into his car and drove off up the lane, and they waited until the sound of his engine faded along the top road. Then Patrick took her arm and they went into the house together.
Earlier in the evening Patrick had descended from the train at Old Morton village and began to look for Chapel Row. He had tried to get her address from Annie but in the end had had to go to the hospital. It was Doctor Clarke who had searched the hospital files and found the address for him, but only after weeks of opportuning. Patrick was on the point of leaving for County Durham to look for her on his own account. After all, there couldn’t be many mining villages such as the one she had described to him, could there?
‘I’m making a mistake, I know,’ Doctor Clarke had said as he handed the information over. Patrick thanked him profusely and rushed away, and within two days he had left Essex for the North-East, leaving without any further discussion with his superiors.
The countryside looked quite pleasant in the evening twilight; much to his surprise, not at all what he had expected. He thought it would only take a few minutes to find out where Chapel Row was. This was a small village, after all. The platform of the tiny station was deserted but for the man who took his ticket.
‘Is it far to the village?’ Patrick asked him, gazing around at the empty fields.
‘About ten minutes’ walk, sir,’ the man answered, looking curiously at him. Strangers were not too common in Old Morton.
Patrick thanked him and set out to walk along the road. His long legs soon covered the distance to the village but when he arrived there he looked around him in perplexity. There was a village green complete with pond and an old stone church with a square tower instead of a spire. On the opposite side of the green to where he stood he could see what looked to be an inn. Perhaps that would be the best place to make enquiries, he thought, and walked over to it.
Inside there was a small group of men clustered around a darts board in the corner and a stoutish man polishing glasses behind the bar. The place had the familiar smell of beer and tobacco of most public houses, but the atmosphere was welcoming in spite of the fug.
‘Evening,’ said the barman, nodding laconically at him while continuing to polish a glass.
‘I’ll have a small whisky,’ said Patrick, adding hopefully, ‘Would you be having the Irish whiskey now?’
‘Aye, we would,’ said the barman, and produced a bottle of Jamieson’s from beneath the bar. Patrick was surprised. Irish whiskey had been practically unobtainable in Essex yet here it was in a tiny village in the remote north-east of the country.
A darts player detached himself from the group in the corner and came over to him.
‘Sure now, and wouldn’t you just be knowing your whiskey, sir?’ he said admiringly. He was a small, sinewy man with faded red hair and a red freckled face, and his accent was pure Galway.
Patrick smiled at him. It felt extraordinarily pleasant to hear the accent of home after so long.
‘Will you be having one with me?’ he asked.
‘I will, I thank you, sir,’ the Galway man said, with some satisfaction. The barman poured out the drinks and they each sipped in appreciation.
‘I’m looking for Chapel Row,’ said Patrick, putting his glass down on the bar.
‘Chapel Row, is it?’ The Irishman looked surprised. ‘Oh, not in Old Morton there’s no Chapel Row. In the pit village there might be, Morton Main, that is.’
Of course, thought Patrick, he should have known.
‘Is it far from here?’ he asked.
‘About two miles it is, sir.’
Patrick pondered on the information. It would be too late now to go there, the evening was too advanced. It would have to wait until morning. Perhaps he could get a bed for the night here. After he finished his drink he would ask the barman.
‘Michael, come over here and take your turn,’ a darts player called, and the man from Galway left his drink and went back into the darts corner.
‘Can you put me up for the night?’ Patrick asked the barman who shook his head slowly.
‘Sorry, we don’t let rooms.’
Michael came back to the bar, coughing softly to attract Patrick’s attention. ‘If it’s a room you’re after, sir, there’s more chance at Weston. That’s only a mile away. I’m going that way myself, I could put you on to the right road. I have to go now though, I work on the railway, have to be up at six.’
Weston. Of course, that was where Sean lived. He could stay with Sean for the night. It would give him a chance to try to explain to his friend, tell him why he had to leave the church, make him understand.
Thank you, Michael, I would be grateful for that,’ said Patrick. The two Irishmen said their goodnights and went out on to the green, Michael pointing out the road to Weston.
‘Would you be having business in Morton Main, sir?’ he asked after a while. ‘You’ll be going to see the manager, maybe?’
‘No, just a friend,’ said Patrick. They came to a bend which brought the road alongside a railway track. Between the road and the track was a small terrace of cottages. He could just make out the sign ‘Railway Terrace’.
‘Paddy’s Row, the locals call this,’ said Michael, noticing Patrick looking at the sign. ‘From the time when the men came over from Ireland to build the railway. Ah, but they’re all right, they meant nothing by it.’ He laid his hand on the gate of the first house.
‘I’ll be leaving you now, sir. Now, you just go on up the road and you’ll come to the church – the Catholic church I’m meaning, sir, it’s the only Catholic church hereabouts. Just a bit further on, there’s an inn. I know
they take in travellers, sir.’
‘Thank you for your help, Michael.’
‘That’s all right, sir. Will I be seeing you at Mass on Sunday?’
‘Very likely, very likely,’ said Patrick. What else could he say, though he knew it would be very unlikely indeed for him to attend Mass next Sunday.
As he walked up to the church and found the presbytery next to it, Patrick thought about what he was going to say to Sean. Of one thing he was determined: he would not allow his friend to change his mind, not now. Briefly, he considered going to the inn anyway, putting off his meeting with Sean. But that would be no good, he was bound to meet his friend sometime, he might as well get it over with. Marching up to the front door, he rang the bell firmly.
‘Good God, man, think what you are doing!’ exclaimed Sean angrily.
It was two o’clock in the morning and they had been talking ever since Patrick had arrived.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said doggedly. ‘I am going to the woman I love. She is my future now.’
‘Damnation is your future if you go ahead with this,’ said Sean. ‘I know this woman. I tell you, you are not the first man to think himself in love with her. My friend Robert has been hopelessly entangled with her for years. He won’t hear a thing against her. Why, man, she –’
‘Neither will I hear anything against her,’ said Patrick quietly, though a shaft of jealousy ran through him at the mention of another man in connection with Karen.
‘I went to see her, Patrick. I thought I had convinced her that she couldn’t marry you. Perhaps she will heed me and then where will you be?’
Patrick got to his feet. He felt bone-weary and sick to death of the argument. ‘I’ve made up my mind, Sean,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m going to bed if I may?’
Sean realized he had to leave it there. ‘Well, I’ll speak to you again in the morning. Perhaps when you’ve had some sleep you will be more sensible.’
True to his word, next morning Sean launched a further attack as soon as his housekeeper had served breakfast and left the room.
‘Patrick,’ he began, trying to keep his tone reasonable, ‘you should go back. Nothing good can come of you just upping and leaving as you did. Go back, man, talk to the bishop, ask for further counselling. Don’t do this.’
Patrick carefully folded his napkin and put it back in the ring beside his untouched plate.
‘I thank you for your hospitality, Sean,’ he said, ‘but I will be getting on now. I want to get to Morton Main this morning.’ Rising to his feet, he went out into the hall and picked up the bag which he had already packed and left by the hall stand. Opening the front door, he turned to say goodbye to Sean who had followed him out of the dining room and was standing, napkin in hand, watching him.
‘If you leave the priesthood now, run away without permission, you will forfeit your right to remain a Catholic,’ said Sean, desperately, trying to make Patrick see how wrong he felt him to be.
‘Goodbye,’ said Patrick. ‘You see, it doesn’t matter, none of it does. I don’t even believe in your God, not any more.’
As he walked towards the huge winding wheel he could now see in the near distance, he heard the sound of a motor car coming towards him. Moving to the side of the road, he waited while an Austin Tourer drove past with a tall dark man at the wheel. Robert was on his way to see Karen.
‘So you’re the man who ruined our Karen’s life,’ said Kezia, glaring pugnaciously at Patrick. ‘Proud of yourself, are you?’ She stood guard in the doorway of her parents’ house, arms folded across her chest.
He sighed. ‘I haven’t ruined her life. I’ve come here to get her to marry me, if only she’ll have me.’
‘Kezia, who is it?’ Mam’s voice came down the stairs, frail and anxious. Once again she had been ordered to bed for a few days’ rest.
‘It’s nobody we know, Mam, just someone wanting to know the way,’ called Kezia. She turned back to Patrick and lowered her voice.
‘Will you treat her right if I tell you where she is?’
‘I give you my word.’
‘Hmm,’ said Kezia, evidently thinking little of his word. She went into the room and came back out with a scrap of paper. ‘Here it is. If you hurry, you’ll catch the ten o’clock train from Morton station. Mind, I’m only giving it to you for our Karen’s sake.’
‘And I thank you for it,’ said Patrick, and without more ado set off, hurrying down the row.
Chapter Twenty
PATRICK AND KAREN sat side by side on the train going down to Bishop Auckland. Patrick was very quiet and Karen glanced up at him often. She wanted to ask him if he had any doubts about what they were doing but she was afraid to in case he said he had.
I don’t know him, not really, not what he is thinking or how he feels, she thought desperately. What am I doing, marrying a man I don’t know? She stared out of the window, at the tall hedgerows and hills behind. Robert, she mused. She had known him since they were children together attending Sunday School. Why could she not have loved him? What sort of a God did this to people? Was it all just for His amusement?
Blasphemy. She could almost hear her father’s voice berating her. I’m sorry, God, she said in her mind. And I’m sorry, Robert, I never meant to hurt you. A pang of compunction shot through her. She had written to him and tried to explain her actions but she was well aware that there was no excuse for the way she had treated him. So far she had not received a reply and she didn’t expect one. She moved restlessly and glanced up at Patrick once more. His expression was strained and in her anxiety she promptly forgot all about Robert.
Their wedding day though somehow it didn’t feel like one. And the registrar was going to marry them, not the Minister in Chapel, not a proper wedding. She looked down at her bulging stomach, only half-disguised by the cloak she had covered herself with despite the July heat. Desperately she wished Gran had come with them. Surely she could have managed it if she had really wanted to?
‘Fred’s going to give me a hand with the hay,’ Gran had said in a voice which brooked no argument. ‘You know as well as I do that July is a bad month to take time off. I can’t do as much as I used to neither. I’m glad of Fred Bainbridge, bless his good soul, and take him whenever he can come.’ She had turned away and her voice sharpened. ‘Anyroad, I don’t hold with these Register Office weddings. New-fangled things. We would never have got wed in my day, not without the Minister and the blessing of God.’
She had turned back and seen the stricken look on Karen’s face and her tone softened. ‘Eeh, lass, take no heed of me, I’m just a daft old woman. I’ll be here when you get back. An’ at least the bairn won’t be born out of wedlock, you can take comfort in that. An’ you’ll have the certificate to prove it.’
The train slowed down for Etherley station and the woman opposite them got out. They were alone in the carriage now and Patrick took hold of Karen’s hand. She was filled with a sudden rush of emotion so that she smiled at him tremulously. Of course he didn’t have any doubts, she scolded herself for thinking it. He was here with her now, wasn’t he? That was enough for her. They were on their way to be married and the baby would bear the name to which he was entitled.
As the train drew nearer to Auckland, Patrick clutched Karen’s hand tighter, his thoughts as confused as hers. This morning he hadn’t been able to get the thought of his mother out of his mind. He could picture her face as it would be when she heard of his defection. How hurt she would be, who had been so proud of him once.
It’s my life, he thought, mine and Karen’s, this is the right thing for us. I couldn’t go on living a lie. This is what I want more than anything in the world. He looked down at Karen. Her cheeks were flushed and as she looked back at him her eyes were anxious. He squeezed her hand, feeling protective. This is the right thing for us, he told himself. The train slowed and puffed into the station and came to a halt.
‘Bishop Auckland! This is Bishop Auckland,’ came the call, and th
ey alighted on the platform, both of them bracing themselves to face Karen’s family.
‘Well now.’ Kezia moved away from Luke to greet them at the barrier. ‘Here you are then. We’d best make haste, we’ve not a lot of time.’ She glanced up at the station clock which showed ten minutes to eleven o’clock. Luke stepped forward and hesitantly Karen introduced Patrick to her sister and brother-in-law. Kezia avoided looking directly at Patrick.
Karen looked round the station yard, hoping that her mother and father had come after all. Were they just in the waiting room?
‘How’s Mam?’ she said as they passed the waiting-room window and she saw no sign of her parents. ‘I thought … I thought they might come.’ She had sent a letter to them and one to Kezia three weeks before as soon as the wedding arrangements were made but she hadn’t heard from them.
‘You surely didn’t think they’d come, our Karen?’ Kezia answered. ‘Mam’s upset, how did you think she’d be with such news? And when she gets upset it makes her badly.’
They walked out of the station yard and along the road to the Register Office.
‘I’m sorry, Kezia.’
‘Oh, aye, you’re sorry.’
She relented as she saw the look in Karen’s eyes.
‘Eeh, pet, don’t take on. Me mam’ll be all right but naturally it was a shock to her when she got your letter. She thinks you deceived them about the babby. And then there was getting married like this an’ all. “Why not in the Chapel?” she asked. So I had to tell them about him.’ She gave a brief nod in Patrick’s direction.
Patrick looked at her keenly. He seemed about to say something but a glance at Karen made him change his mind and in the end he made no comment. Instead, he pulled her hand more firmly over his arm and she gained some comfort from it.
‘I wish you’d given me time to prepare them, that’s all,’ continued Kezia. ‘By, Da was upset, but he had to cover up a bit with Mam being poorly. But I reckon he’ll come round if he has a bit of time –you know Da, he’ll forgive you anything. Anyroad, you’d best not come home till after the babby is born, then likely they’ll make their peace with you.’
