Forever Yours Page 19

  ‘Aye.’

  Matt found it difficult to imagine the stolid Edwin rousing himself enough to engage in a ‘debate’ about anything. Getting a word in edgeways must be an accomplishment with Molly around.

  ‘You’ll have a shive of cake, won’t you, lad? And help yourself to sugar.’ Molly poured him a cup of tea and placed it in front of him before cutting a large wedge of fruitcake.

  Matt opened his mouth to thank her, but the words were never voiced as the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs brought his eyes to the doorway. His heart pounding fit to burst he waited, and then there she was. So beautiful she took his breath away. He rose clumsily to his feet, his voice gruff as he said, ‘Hello, Constance.’ He knew he’d gone red but he couldn’t help it.

  ‘Hello, Matt.’ She came fully into the kitchen, the light shining on the golden coils of her hair which she wore in a smooth chignon. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  She was dressed plainly in a dove-grey dress with a neat lace collar, but he sensed it was an expensive plainness. There was a poise about her, a polish, and the words her grandmother had spoken years ago came back to him. ‘She’s outgrown us, lad.’

  His voice stilted, he said, ‘I came to pay my respects and say how sorry I am about your grandmother. She was a good woman.’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  ‘Come and sit yourself down, lass, I’ve just made a fresh pot of tea.’ Molly drew out one of the hardbacked chairs from around the table and as Constance came forward and sat down, Matt couldn’t take his eyes off her face. He could see what his mam had meant about Constance having changed, and yet in another respect she was just the same, not that that made sense.

  Clearing his throat, he said, ‘How long are you planning to stay?’ as he took his seat again.

  ‘Just until the funeral’s over. They’re very good, Sir Henry and Lady Isabella, but I wouldn’t want to presume.’

  So she worked for a Sir and a Lady? ‘Aye, your grandma said they thought a bit of you but then they would, you saving their lad an’ all.’ He knew his eyes had lingered on the soft curve of her lips a mite too long, but he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Constance has been telling us a bit about Italy, haven’t you, lass?’ Molly plumped herself down beside her niece. ‘Your grandma did enjoy getting them picture cards you used to send her when you were there, tickled pink she used to be. It looks right bonny.’

  Constance’s eyes were on the cup in her hand, her cheeks flushed. ‘It is bonny.’

  ‘You’re a lucky lass and no mistake. Most folk I know haven’t been further than their own backyard. Isn’t that right, Matt?’ And without waiting for a reply: ‘And here’s you been the other side of the world and seen goodness knows what.’

  Quietly, Constance said, ‘It isn’t really the other side of the world, Aunt Molly, and – and there’s nowhere like home.’

  Matt stared at her bent head. She was the same. Sweet to the core. How could he have been so incredibly, so monumentally foolish as to not see what was under his nose all those years ago? The conflict that had warred in him for over a decade brought his guts twisting. She’d never change. Not his Constance.

  And then something of what he was feeling was challenged when Constance raised her head, her voice pleasant but cool when she said to him,‘How are Tilly and Rebecca, Matt? Rebecca must be . . . what? Eleven years old, I suppose.’

  He had to swallow before he could speak. ‘They’re fine. Rebecca is doing well at school, they tell me she is very bright.’

  ‘Does she know what she wants to do when she leaves school?’

  It wasn’t a question any of the folk in the village would have put to him. When a lass left school there was no personal choice involved in what she did thereafter. Until she got married she helped at home or went into service or got some other job until a ring was put on her finger. Her question stretched the divide between them. Stiffly, he said, ‘We haven’t discussed that yet.’

  ‘And Tilly? She’s well?’ Constance said politely.

  ‘Well enough.’ It sounded too abrupt even to his own ears.

  ‘Good. Give her my best regards and tell her I hope to see her before I leave. Will she be coming to the funeral?’

  He doubted it but now was not the moment to say so. His voice even stiffer, he said, ‘Of course.’

  A knock at the front door brought Molly to her feet again. ‘That will be the Father this time.’ She cast a glance at her husband. ‘I’ve lit the fire in the front room.’

  It was clearly an order and Edwin obeyed it by silently pulling on his jacket over his shirt-sleeves and knitted waistcoat. ‘You won’t mind if we leave you for a while?’ Molly was already at the door leading into the hall. Father Duffy coming to the house was an event equal to that of the doctor calling, and both of those gentlemen were accorded the esteemed front room which was only used on high days and holidays. ‘Constance, pour Matt another cup of tea when he’s finished that one. There’s plenty in the pot and that cake needs eating up.’ So saying, she bustled to answer the door, Edwin trailing after her.

  After an awkward pause when he had never felt so self-conscious in his life, Matt finished his cup of tea. He didn’t object when Constance silently refilled his cup although he didn’t really want more. He had always prided himself on being any man’s equal, be they one of the gaffers or an ordinary pitman like himself. He’d upset his mother one day when he was still living at home by saying Father Duffy was just a man like himself and he wouldn’t doff his cap to him or anyone else. Caused ructions, that had, but he’d stood by what he’d said. But now . . .

  ‘I saw your mother today. She told me all the family news.’

  She had said mother not mam, and although her voice carried the warm northern burr it always had, it came to him that her speech was different, uppish. Not in an artificial way, he’d have felt better if she was putting it on, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He supposed mixing with the family like she did, something of their way of talking and carrying on was bound to rub off. He had to moisten his lips before he could say, ‘I can imagine. I bet you got the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed about everything that’s gone on for years and then some.’

  ‘I like your mother.’

  She spoke as though he’d criticised his mam in some way. With the anger came a perverseness which prompted his tone to take on the pitmatic as he said, ‘Aye, me an’ all, she’s a canny little body, is me mam.’

  Constance looked into her cup again and he felt at a complete loss as to what to do or say next. He felt he’d been boorish and that made him angrier still at her – she’d put him in the wrong somehow. Well, she could go back to her high-and-mighty going-on and good riddance. That’s what he said, he told himself bitterly. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was.

  ‘I’ve missed the village.’ Her great azure eyes met his across the table and his heart bounded with a force which nearly choked him. ‘Especially in the early days when I was working in the kitchen. Not that there’s anything wrong with working in a kitchen,’ she added hastily, and he knew she’d sensed how he was feeling, ‘but I felt so shut in – claustrophobic, you know?’

  He nodded although he hadn’t heard the word before.

  ‘Sometimes I started work in the dark and finished when it was dark and I hadn’t been outside once. I – I thought about how you must feel, all the miners. Not that you can compare working in a kitchen with being down the pit.’ Her eyes dropped from his. ‘At least I could see the sky through the window.’

  ‘Your grandma told me about why you left.’ Her head shot up, her eyes wary. ‘Not when you first went, but after you’d saved the little lad – she told me then. Why – why didn’t you say anything to me? Surely you knew I wouldn’t have let anyone bother you? I’d have sorted it – you could have stayed.’

  She bit on to her lower lip for a moment. ‘No one knew.’

  He asked the question which had been there like a thorn in his flesh for y
ears. ‘Who was it? What’s his name?’

  ‘She didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Not his name, no.’ There had been relief in her voice. After all these years, was she still frightened of this man? Of what he might do? That was crazy. ‘Who was it?’ he asked again.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, it’s so long ago now.’

  ‘If it doesn’t matter you can tell me his name.’

  She shook her head. ‘Please, Matt, leave it.’

  The tone of her voice had been such that he felt he was being put in his place, and it washed over him afresh that Constance the woman was very different from Constance the girl. He also knew he loved the woman as he had never imagined he could love anyone, and the knowledge roughened his voice when he said, ‘Constance, you left the village because of him, he drove you away from’ – he had been about to say ‘me’ and caught himself just in time – ‘your grandma and granda and changed the course of your life.’ And mine. Because if you had stayed I would have finished with Tilly and waited for you. I would have. Something had happened that day in her grandma’s kitchen which had been fundamental.

  ‘But it’s turned out all right.’ Again she met his gaze and her eyes, luminous with unshed tears, belied her words.

  ‘Has it?’ He reached across the table and took one of her hands. Her fingers were cool and delicate in his; he felt as though if he tightened his hold they would break, so fragile they seemed in his callused, work-roughened hands. The emotion that ripped through him was so fierce it stopped his breath, and for aeons, countless ages, they stared at each other.

  The front-room door opening and Molly’s voice calling, ‘Constance, lass?’ brought her hand jerking from his. In the next moment Molly appeared in the doorway. ‘The Father would like a word with you, lass,’ she said busily, ‘and I’m just going to make some fresh tea and sandwiches, as the Father’s a mite peckish. You’ll stay an’ all, won’t you, Matt?’

  ‘No thanks, Molly, I’d best be off.’ The thought of sitting in Molly’s front room with the priest and making polite conversation with Constance present wasn’t an option.

  ‘Aye, all right, lad.’ Molly smiled at him before saying to Constance, ‘Go on, lass, don’t keep the Father waiting.’

  ‘Goodbye, Matt.’ Constance’s voice was little more than a whisper and she didn’t meet his eyes. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘’Bye, Constance. I’ll call again tomorrow when things are sorted and find out about the funeral.’

  ‘You do that, lad.’ It was Molly who answered as Constance disappeared into the hall without replying. ‘You’re welcome any time, you know that.’

  When he arrived at the house the following evening, he found that Constance had gone to bed early with a headache. Molly and Edwin told him she hadn’t been well all day and had stayed in her room most of the time. The funeral was the day after tomorrow, Molly said. Constance had wanted it to be over and done with as soon as possible, and Father Duffy had been able to accommodate them and so . . . Her tone made it clear she didn’t agree with the rush.

  Matt had had a cup of tea and left, but he hadn’t gone home straightaway. Instead he’d walked into the first of the fields beyond New Town, sitting amid the bristly corn stubble left by the farm labourers’ sickles, his arms draped over his knees.

  All day the thought of seeing her again had been like a shining light in a dark place. He hadn’t known which end of him was up, and on the way round to Molly’s he’d been hard-pressed not to run. And what had he found? She had a headache.

  He made a guttural sound deep in his throat. She was avoiding him, the same as she was avoiding this man who’d been the cause of her leaving the village. Molly had told him Constance hadn’t set foot outside the house since she’d arrived back, and he dare bet she wouldn’t venture beyond those four walls until the funeral. She was frightened of this bloke, that was obvious.

  He needed to tell her how he felt, to bring it out into the open. He flung himself back on the sun-warmed ground, looking up into the black sky glittering with stars. He had to explain about Tilly, the sham that was his marriage. There was so much she needed to understand. But . . . did she really want to know?

  The doubts and fears that had tormented him since he’d seen the polished young woman she’d become washed over him. She had the sort of life that came once in a blue moon for a working-class lass, she’d be a fool to give that up. Not that he had any hope she would consider doing that for him; why would she? He was a miner. The pit and all it entailed was the only life he knew. And he was married. Married with a bairn. Hell, why had he come to see her again anyway?

  Because he hadn’t been able to keep away.

  He groaned, rolling over on to his face and startling a young rabbit at the edge of the field that had come out to feed upon the lush herbage of early autumn at the perimeter of the hedgerow. What was he going to do? What could he do?

  Nothing. The answer brought him sitting up again as he stared into the darkness. He could do nothing. Even if Constance had feelings for him, and he didn’t know for sure that she did, nothing had been said. He couldn’t ask her to give up everything and run away with him. It was unthinkable. She would be branded a scarlet woman and her name would be mud, and what could he offer her in recompense? Himself?

  The sound he made now was the final straw for the rabbit. It dived for its burrow, quivering and afraid.

  Matt shook his head at himself, tired and weary suddenly in both mind and body. What would it be like to be dead? If you believed in the hereafter Father Duffy spoke of, every Catholic was to be welcomed at the Pearly Gates and every Protestant went straight to the other place, but he wasn’t so sure. Maybe you just slept, a deep and dreamless sleep with no worries and no rows and no memories, no regrets about what could have been.

  Enough of that. He heaved himself to his feet and drew in a long slow breath. He was thinking like a skittish slip of a lass. He was done in; he hadn’t slept above an hour or two last night even after the double shift, and he’d put in another full day today. That was all it was. A good night’s sleep and he’d be back on an even keel. He had to be.

  He dusted some dried grass and stubble from his trousers and jacket, taking off his cap and running his hand through his hair before placing it on his head again.

  The streets were quiet as he walked home. Darkness had sent the bairns indoors but the odd window was open as he passed and sounds from within filtered through: a woman laughing; bairns squabbling; the smell of dinner cooking. He felt a loneliness so intense as to be unbearable and for once he was actually glad when he stepped into his backyard.

  Tilly was letting down the hem of one of Rebecca’s summer dresses when he entered the kitchen. She didn’t look up or speak but he didn’t expect her to. Taking off his boots he pulled his slippers on and sat down in his easy chair to one side of the range, opening his newspaper.

  It was then she said, ‘Didn’t stay long, did you?’

  Without lowering the newspaper, he said quietly, ‘I told you, I wanted to find out about the funeral, that’s all.’

  ‘Sent away with a flea in your ear more like. I hear our Constance is quite the little lady now, too high and mighty for a pit-yakkor.’

  The abusive term for pitmen didn’t bother him, he’d heard far worse from her, but the fact that she’d hit the nail on the head caught him on the raw. Warning himself not to give her the satisfaction of seeing she’d riled him, he said even more quietly, ‘Don’t talk such rubbish, woman.’

  ‘Rubbish, is it? And I suppose it’s rubbish that you’ve been round to see her two nights on the trot?’

  He lowered the paper, saying with elaborate patience, ‘I went to offer my condolences yesterday. Molly has lost her mam and Constance her grandma, if you remember? And tonight I asked about the funeral arrangements because I want to be there. Are you coming? You were invited.’ He didn’t say by whom.

  ‘I’d rather walk on hot coals.’

  ‘I t
ake that as a no then.’

  ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? The big fellow. But you’re nowt, Matt Heath.’

  He flung the paper down as he rose. ‘I’m not in the mood for this, Tilly. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Are you in the mood to hear I’ve been offered a job and I start tomorrow?’

  ‘What?’ He stopped and stared at her.

  ‘Aye.’ She had stood up too, hands on hips and her head thrust forward. ‘Rupert Wood wanted someone to help out in the flat above the post office now his wife’s so poorly, a bit of cooking and cleaning and such, and beens as I used to work for him before we got wed, he asked if I might be interested.’ Her tone was openly defiant. ‘Five shillings a week, he said, for a few hours each day ’cept Sunday.’

  Everything about her proclaimed she expected to have to fight him on this. She knew as well as he did that it lowered a man’s prestige if his wife worked outside the house. She could take in washing or ironing, mind other folks’ bairns, bake and sell cakes and pies, work as a seamstress making clothes and mending others, do jobs for a pittance compared to what she’d earn doing the same work in a factory or shop, but as long as she was in the home, her husband’s rightful place as breadwinner was protected. He worked with men – good, upright men who loved their wives and families – who would guard this male authority to their last breath. No gentle emotions or kindly instincts must be allowed to weaken it. And even though the wife might work half the night at whatever she did, the bairns and house and everything in it was the woman’s responsibility. A man would let the clothes go rotten on his back before he’d wash them, and starve rather than cook a meal. As for changing a child’s nappy, he’d as soon cut his own throat.

  All this went through Matt’s mind as he stared into Tilly’s belligerent face. And he was a man of his own people, through and through. It would never have occurred to him to think any differently; he’d imbibed such customs and conventions along with his mother’s milk. And maybe if she’d put this forward a week ago, even a couple of days ago, he wouldn’t have countenanced it. His eyes narrowed with his confusing emotions. He couldn’t have put into thoughts, let alone words, the jumbled-up feelings he was experiencing, but somehow after seeing Constance again there was an element of pity in his dislike of his wife which hadn’t been there before. He’d withheld himself, body, soul and spirit from her, and of the three he knew it was the first that had affected her the most. There was a passion and desire in Tilly as strong as any man’s.