"I was awakened by Dad saying, " Come on, lass, you going to sleep all day? "
I sat up with a bound, asking, "What... what time is it?"
"Just on nine."
"Nine o'clock!"
"Aye, nine o'clock." He handed me a cup of tea, and as he left the room he said, "It must have been that washing and all that running round. It used to tell even on your mother and you're not half her size."
"Constance?"
"Oh, now Dad flapped his hand at me 'she's all right. She came in to me over two hours ago and got me up. She's had her breakfast, so dont worry. You lie on a bit if you want to."
"I'll be down in a minute," I said.
"Now there's no hurry." He went out, closing the door after him, and I drank the tea, then lay back. I felt rested as I had never known rest, I felt that I had been asleep for the first time in my life. I was purged of all weariness yet consumed with a delightful languor, and my body seemed to draw this feeling from my mind which was bemused with happiness. I was a young girl again, walking blindly in the white mist of love.
I hummed as I dressed, and in the middle of the morning Dad came in from the yard where he had been chopping sticks and, standing in the doorway, he said, "It's good to hear you singing, lass. You look as if you've had a new lease of life. It's sleep you want."
No, not sleep, Dad, not sleep.
In the afternooon Sam came in, and after a few minutes he too cast a closer sidelong glance at me and said, "You got the spring feelin', Christine?"
I laughed, and answered, "No, I just feel this way." I had unconsciously misquoted a line from my favourite song and he nodded with a laugh, "You're only painting the clouds with sunshine?"
As I laughed outright his face became straight and he stared at me.
Sam had a much keener perception 'than Dad, and he asked quietly,
"Something happened, Christine?" I turned from him, then swiftly to him again. I wanted to tell him every thing for I knew he would understand Sam would always understand but it was too new, too much mine yet. ours, so all I said was, "I've got something to tell you, Sam, but later." His eyes were still fixed on me, but being Sam he did not press to know what my something was. Sam could always wait. Sam had patience. I, too, had had patience, for five years I'd had patience and had waited, but now I had no patience left. The minutes could not pass quickly enough until Martin came again. His last words had been,
"We must talk." They seemed reminiscent of our Ronnie's, but unlike his words, they left no foreboding.
There had been no definite time stated.
"Any time after seven," he had said. He did not arrive until half past eight, and this time there was no awkwardness between us, for before we passed through the front room our arms were holding, and on the threshold of the kitchen we embraced with a fierceness that left us breathless. Gone was the gentle element that had been prominent in last night's loving.
When we let each other go he held me from him and said, "I've thought of you all day, I haven't been able to get you out of my mind for a minute... a second."
"And me, it's been the same with me. Oh, Martin." I was on his breast again saying softly, "I love you so, I love you so."
We did riot talk but went upstairs, and even hours later we still did not talk. It was as he was leaving the house for the second time he turned to me at the door and said, "I really must talk to you, Christine, before we go on. There are things I must say. There are things to be straightened out."
Just for a fleeting second a fear tore through me, and I gasped, "You want me. You love me? You'll not leave me again?"
"Never. Never. It's all in your hands now. I'll want you as long as I breathe." His mouth came on mine, hard yet tender. And after a moment he went on, "But in the meantime you've got to live, and I want you to live ... well--' he smiled 'comfortably. You understand?"
I gave a soft chuckle and for answer fell against him. And time stood still once again. Then, taking me by the shoulders, he shook me gently, saying, "Be practical. Look, take this." He pulled a wallet from his pocket and out of it a thick wad of notes.
"No, no. No, I dont want any money, I'm all right."
"Look, dont be silly. All these years. You must take this. It's nothing. I'm going to arrange about money for you."
When he could not get my hands from behind my back to take the money he rolled it up and threw it into the far corner of the room, behind a chair, saying, "Now you'll have to find it."
"Oh, Martin." Again we embraced, and then with the latch in his hand he whispered, "The same time tomorrow night, or about it anyway. And then, mind He gripped my chin in his hand and, shaking my face, he said, " We'll talk first, under stand? "
I nodded happily. Then even once again he pulled me into his arms and murmured, "There's so much to be said, we really must talk, Christine.
Look, come out tomorrow night, to that pub where we went on Monday.
"
"No." I shook my head.
"Come here. I promise you I'll let you talk as much as ever you like, and I'll agree with every thing you say."
"You mean that?"
"Yes, yes, my love."
"God bless you."
I had always considered "God bless you' as a saying the prerogative of Catholics. It sounded funny coming from his lips, and there was something ... a trace of sadness in it. And there was a touch of sadness on his face, too, as he took my hands and pressed them on to his cheek. Then he opened the door and passed out into the darkness. I did not watch him go but returned slowly into the kitchen, dazed and happy.
It was as I was about to go upstairs that I remembered the money.
Gathering it up, I did not even count it properly, but guessed there was more than twenty pounds and thought:
"Fancy being able to carry so much money around with you." When I got into my room I noticed with a start that he had forgotten his wrist-watch. I picked it up. It was a lovely watch and, I surmised, solid gold. I pressed it to my face, then, placing it on top of the notes, I laid them both in the bottom drawer of the chest. The next morning Don Dowling came in with a pound box of chocolates for Constance. Chocolates were rationed, and to see a fancy box was something unusual. Before I could do anything the box was in her hands, and when I said, "Let me have it, Constance," she put it behind her back, then ran away into the front room. And I turned to Don and said in a voice that I tried to keep ordinary, "You mustn't give her things like that, Don. She's too young for them."
"Nonsense," he said.
"It's little enough she gets."
"She gets all she needs."
"You know, Christine, you sounded just like your mother then. You're getting like her."
"I couldn't get like a better person."
Before he made his next remark he rasped his great hand up and down the stubble on his cheek.
"That's questionable. You know, if it hadn't been for her..."
"Look, Don, I'm not going to discuss my mother with you."
"All right, all right." He wagged his finger at me.
"There's no need for us to fight, is there ?"
I wanted to say, "I'll fight with you as long as I have breath," but I was afraid. I was not only afraid for myself and Con stance, I was afraid for Sam. Whenever I had got Don Dowling's back up somebody had suffered. It had been the animals at first, the poor animals, then Sam and his burnt hands and feet. And still Sam, for there was a feeling against Sam in the town now. Don had done what he had promised. Even my dad was not quite the same to Sam. He had tackled him about the pit episode and Sam had denied it, but his denial had not been convincing, perhaps because I was present. I must not, I knew, add to the burden that was already Sam's, so I said evenly, "It takes two to make a fight and I dont feel like it today."
He laughed.
"Good enough. By the way, I bought a smasher of a car yesterday."
"What can you do with a car," I asked, 'you can't get petrol? "
"I look ahead,
Christine. I'm always looking ahead. The war's on its last legs. I got this car for a hundred and twenty. The minute the war's over I bet I can ask three hundred for it. It's a Wolseley, dark blue, a beautiful job. I'm leaving the pit as soon as this business is finished."
"Are you? What are you going to do?" I was rolling out some pastry.
"I'm going in with Remmy. I haven't done so bad already. I've got quite a little bit tucked away, you know."
At this I wanted to retort, "Then you want to give some to your mother," for I knew Aunt Phyllis had to depend mainly on Sam to keep the house going, but all I said was, "That's nice."
"I've got ideas, big ideas. I'll even leave Remmy behind shortly."
"Oh?"
"I was looking at a house on Brampton Hill the other day."
In spite of myself my eyes swung to him and I exclaimed, "Brampton Hill?"
"Aye, and why shouldn't I? Me and the likes of me are as good as anybody up there. Anyway half of them are empty now, and most of the others have been requisitioned and will go for a song. They won't have the money to keep them up the present owners. Things'll be different after the war. By! they will that, and not afore time. It'll be a case of the mighty brought low." He paused, then added, "Anyway, I'll have to have a house some time, I'm thinkin' of getting married."
I had turned to the pastry, but now again I was looking at him.
"Married? Who to?"
"Oh, just a lass."
"Oh, I'm glad, Don." And I was glad.
"Well, so long." He smiled at me, then went to the front- room door and called to Constance, saying, "What! you haven't opened them yet?"
When he passed me again he remarked, "You've got her scared1 told you you were like your mam." He laughed teasingly, "So long again."
"So long, Don."
I could not help feeling swamped with relief, for if I had thought about him in the last forty-eight hours it was to tell myself that he could not spoil my happiness in any way, and yet, knowing Don, I had still been fearful. And after all, there had been no need for fear, he was going to be married. It seemed that everything was working together for my good, the tide had turned at last. I sang, not under my breath, but right out loud, and I was carolling, "You May Not Be An Angel' and thinking of Martin when Sam came in. I stopped immediately and greeted him with, " Well what do you think of the news? "
He blinked an enquiring blink and said, "I've never heard any, not since last night. I wasn't up for the eight o'clock."
"I'm not talking about the wireless, but about your Don."
A shadow passed over his face, leaving it with the blank dead look that even Don's name had the power to create, and he asked, "Well, what about him ?"
"Don't you know?"
"Apparently not the latest."
"He's going to be married. Hasn't he told your mother?"
"He's going to be married?" Sam repeated each word slowly.
"Yes, didn't you know?"
"Who did he say he was going to marry?"
"Well... well when I asked him he just said a lass. But he's got somebody, hasn't he, in Bog's End?"
Sam gave me a long, concentrated look before letting his gaze slip away, and he walked from me and sat down by the table, and from there he looked at me again and said, "The lass he's got in Bog's End is no lass, she's a woman near on forty and she's married and apart from her man."
"But, Sam, he said a lass. It needn't be her, it could be somebody else."
"Oh, God in heaven...." Sam's voice drifted away wearily as he finished this phrase and, taking up his favourite position, his hands dangling, his eyes cast floor wards he said, "You better know this.
You're the lass, Christine. You always have been and you always will be with him. " He turned his head slightly to the side and glanced at me.
There was a dryness in my mouth, and I wet my lips several times before I managed to bring out, "You're wrong, Sam. He might have wanted me that way once but not since I've had Constance. He hates me for what I did."
"He might have done, but he still wants you and he means to get you.
He's never been baulked of anything he's wanted in his life, and the very fact that you're hard to get makes him all the more sure that he'll win. If you weren't that way, he would've dropped the idea of you years ago. It's the twist in him. "
"Sam, you're mistaken."
"No, Christine." Sam got to his feet and stood opposite to me, and he did not look like an eighteen-year-old lad but like a man much older than myself. And he talked like one as he said, "I live next door, I know what goes on. Only the night afore last me mother was up when I came in off late shift.
She was crying because he hadn't come in and it near two in the morning. She said they'd had a row before he went out. It started about the woman in Bog's End, and he had said to her, "You needn't worry your head about her much longer for I'm going over the fence where I threw me cap years ago." And he had nodded towards the wall.
It's funny, Christine, but I think me ma's as twisted as he is for she's more worried over him having you than she is the one in Bog's End. "
My voice was very small when I said, "Well, he'll have his jump to no purpose. You know that, Sam, dont you?"
Now Sam stepped close to me and there was an actual tremor in his voice when he spoke.
"Listen to me, Christine. You've got to get away.
That's the only place you'll be safe from him. Take the baim and go some place. You'll get work. And listen he held up his hand to stop me from speaking and added 'let me finish. I've thought about this a lot. I've saved a little bit and I never spend half my pocket money. I can help you until you get on your feet. But you've got to get out.
Your dad'U manage, and I'll talk to him and explain. "
"Sam ... Sam, you listen to me. Come and sit down." I took his hand and pressed him into a chair, and, sitting opposite him, I said, "I've got something to tell you, Sam. Remember what I said yesterday?"
He gave a brief nod and I went on, "Do you remember the lad you saw me with that night by the river? You remember me grabbing you into the kitchen to tell me mam that you had seen me with that lad?" Again he nodded.
"Well he's come back. He loves me and I love him and we're going to be married."
I dont know what reaction I expected from Sam to my news, I hadn't thought about it, but when, with his eyes fixed intently on me, he got slowly to his feet and, turning without a word, made for the door. I cried to him, "Sam!"
On this he paused, and without looking at me, he said, "I would still go away if I was you."
Standing alone in the kitchen I had, for a moment, a feeling of utter deflation. I had thought I could talk to Sam about Martin, but he had no intention of listening to anything I had to say about him; that was plain. Then there was what he had told me about Don. Cap over the fence indeed! Yet who could have judged from Don's manner that he still wanted me. That he would want to hurt me for hurting him, yes, but not want to marry me. Fear was with me again. But I pressed it away, Martin would deal with him. In my mind's eyes I saw them together and I saw Don dwarfed by Martin's presence. Martin had something that could shrivel people like Don. A crisp word from him and Don would soon know where he stood with regards to me. Don could no longer frighten me with his subtle tactics. Martin had said that tonight we must talk. He would talk, I wouldn't be able to stop him tonight, I knew, and I would talk, too, and tell him about Don, and that would be that.
Martin did not come, and I spent the evening in a fever of waiting and the night hours in telling myself between doses that there would be a letter in the post for me. If there was not I wondered just how I would get through each hour until the night again.
There was no letter in the post. About eleven o'clock Sam came in, and for the first time in my life I snapped at him, for he began again to tell me that I must get away.
"Oh, dont be silly, Sam," I said sharply, 'where am I to go ? "
He turned his eyes away as he mutter
ed, "Well you said you've got this fellow ... if he's on the level hey fix something."
His tone made me angry and I exclaimed, "Of course he's on the level."
And then he asked with a sort of pleading, "Christine, do this for me, will you? Go away for a little while." And I replied, "I can't Sam, there's nothing settled yet." On this he barked at me in a very un Sam-like manner, "Well, dont tell me later on you wished you had."
When in the afternoon I slapped Constance's bottom hard for getting on the chair and taking from the top shelf the box of chocolates, Dad said, "That trick, lass, didn't merit that spankin'." And he looked at me with a little twisted smile and, perhaps remembering my gaiety of yesterday, added "Spring's soon over and summer comes."
Yes, summer comes, but Martin did not come that night either and by nine o'clock I was pacing the floor like someone demented. At half-past ten I was retching into the sink. Knowing I would go mad if I did not sleep I took six aspirins, but even in the drowsy daze that these induced I was still waiting and calling, "Martin... Martin."
The following day I made preparations for that evening. If he did not come by eight I would go down to that bar and try to get news of him I just could not stand another evening of pacing from the front room to the kitchen. But there had to be someone in the house with Constance.
There was no one I could ask who would not want to know my business except, strangely enough, the Pattersons next door. As I have said before, they were the only Protestants in the place and be cause of this had always been divided from us. The fault lay not on the one side or the other. It would seem that the roads on which we were travelling to God were going in exactly opposite directions and therefore we never met. Mrs. Patterson had always been pleasant, she would always speak about the weather, or the news when we met, but we had never visited each other, even the war had not brought us close.
Fenwick Houses Page 19
