‘Course you have, lad.’ His father’s voice was low but urgent. ‘We’ll all do our part in seeing that Phyllis is looked after financially and that the child has a decent education. ’
‘
Dad
.’ James’s voice had a cracked sound and he cleared his throat twice. ‘This is not about me or even Phyllis. I got her pregnant and that’s an end of it. I’m not having a child of mine born a bastard.’
‘But do you love her?’
‘Love her?’ The look James bestowed upon his father could have come from a man three times his age. It carried a wealth of cynicism. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’
‘Oh, James.’
He could hear the quick intake of breath his father made and then the sound of it being expelled. Irritation rose hot and strong and he had to remind himself that whatever his father said or did, his motive was governed by love. But he had spoken the truth when he’d said he had no choice. Phyllis was the daughter of his mother’s best friend and he’d always known she carried a torch for him. He and his father had laughed about it in times past when his mother had insisted on trying to pair him off with the daughter of her dear friend Cecilia. Her matchmaking endeavours had finally borne fruit. His mother had inveigled Phyllis back into his life at a time when he was feeling suicidal, and, grateful for her unstinting adoration, they had ended up in bed together.
The organ started up and a rustle at the back of the church announced the bride had arrived. James kept his eyes on the priest smiling benevolently in front of him. He had no one to blame but himself for this.
As Phyllis reached him he forced himself to turn his head and smile at her. Her white gown was a triumph in the present circumstances when most brides were marrying in a smart serviceable suit, but it emphasised the mockery of what they were doing - at least to him. But she did love him. Whatever else, he believed she loved him.
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here . . .’
He would feel better once it was over. The last four weeks since Christmas when she had told him she was expecting a child had been sheer murder, with both mothers insisting on a grand white wedding and all that that entailed. He didn’t know if they were fooling anyone, but his mother and Phyllis’s seemed to think so. He just thanked his lucky stars he’d had his father to talk to or he would have gone mad. He glanced at him now. He had asked his father to be his best man, needing the older man’s unconditional support and understanding, and he hadn’t let him down.
‘And who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’
Phyllis’s father was all smiles as he made the appropriate response, but then he had five unmarried daughters, of whom Phyllis was the eldest; an orang-utan could have asked for her hand and he would have obliged.
For a moment as he looked at his bride James saw a monkey’s head superimposed on the small, tight features of Phyllis’s face, and he had to remind himself to concentrate on the present and not slip away into that other universe which came under the heading of shell shock, according to the doctors.
Phyllis smiled at him, her pale blue eyes bright, and he tried to smile back. This wasn’t her fault. She had always wanted him and he’d known it; it had been up to him to call a halt before things went too far. His father insisted it was a psychological thing, that as a result of the rejection and hurt he’d felt over Abby’s desertion he had subconsciously grasped a love which had stood the test of time. James knew his father and mother had had the bitterest of rows over him and Phyllis once her pregnancy had become known, his father blaming his mother for it all. They were still hardly speaking.
‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’
It was over. James blinked; more than twenty minutes had gone by without him really being aware of it. He was a married man. Oh, Abby.
Abby
. Why didn’t you wait? Why didn’t you love me like I loved you?
‘All right?’ Phyllis’s voice was soft, her expression faintly anxious when he looked at her. He knew that look. She was frightened he was going to have one of his ‘turns’ and spoil her big day. But no, that wasn’t fair. She had never belittled how he felt or been offhand about the nervous breakdown he had suffered shortly after visiting Abby’s old home. That her understanding took the form of virtually smothering him was just the way she was and he would have to learn to live with it. It and her.
‘I’m fine and you look beautiful.’ It was the best he could do but it seemed to satisfy her, and as they walked into the vestry at the front of the church to sign the register, there was a happy tilt to her blonde head under its frothy veil. When he sat down to sign the book himself, she immediately put her hand on his shoulder, her slim body turned towards him and her voice soft and encouraging as she said, ‘That’s it, write clearly and take your time,’ as though he was five years old like the children she taught. He didn’t acknowledge she had spoken, merely finishing what he had to do and then standing up again, but as he did so he caught his father’s eye and the older man’s expression was one of commiseration.
It was as they were leaving Phyllis’s parish church on the outskirts of Hendon close to Ryhope that a familiar face in the small crowd outside caught his attention. Was that Abby’s mother? He turned sharply, almost stumbling and treading on the hem of Phyllis’s dress as he did so.
‘Sorry.’ He looked down at his bride and she smiled back at him, holding his arm tightly. By the time he scanned the crowd again he could see no sign of Nora Vickers and he told himself he must be mistaken. Why on earth would Abby’s mother be here now, today? He hadn’t heard a thing from her since the day she had told him Abby was a married woman, or as good as. She wouldn’t know he was getting married today and she certainly wouldn’t have come to the church if she did. He was imagining things. He brushed his hand over his face as they reached the bottom of the path leading from the church door. It was time for one of his tablets and then he would feel better.
The day was bitterly cold as he climbed into the back of his father’s car with Phyllis. His parents took the seats in front and they all set off to the little reception which had been arranged at the Grand Hotel in Bishopwearmouth. Sleety flakes of snow began to fall from a heavily laden sky. It seemed fitting somehow.
It was done then, thank the heavens for that. Nora Vickers’s mouth was set in the normal grim line it assumed these days, but inside she was elated. It had paid off, her keeping tabs on James Benson, because now she could relax knowing he was beyond Abby’s clutches should her daughter decide to come back to Sunderland after the war.
Nora was walking swiftly along Ryhope Road, her head down as the weather worsened and the snow became more like a blizzard.
James Benson’s bride came from a good family and the father-in-law had given the lad a job in his own accountancy firm, so there was no reason at all why James and Abby would ever meet again, not with the newlyweds settling in Hendon close to the wife’s folks. It had worked out very well, all things considered.
As she passed the trees and open grass of Hendon Burn on her left, the wind hit the side of her face with such force it almost whipped her hat off. What a day to get wed! The euphoria she’d felt on seeing Abby’s old beau leave the church with his bride on his arm heightened. She couldn’t have wished James Benson a nicer one. But although she felt this was the end of the story, she’d keep popping along to the family butcher who supplied the Bensons now and again to hear the latest. His daughter cleaned for Dr Benson and the butcher liked to think he was in with the doctor and his wife. Amazing what you could pick up from folk if they were trying to impress you; the man was all strut and swagger. Her lips curled with contempt.
Drops of water were trickling down her neck and she knew she would be soaked to the skin before she got home. But it had been worth it. Wilbert was now living at home once more, and the foreman at the yard had just taken him on as a welder in one of the fitting-out quays, so they were sitting pretty: Wilbert was clear of the more dangerous work he’d done before the war, and with a bit of luck she’d be able to cut down her hours at the hospital laundry. By, she hated that place and the smell was enough to knock you off your feet most days. Still, the work was safer than some, she had to admit that. The munitions factories were lethal, from what she could make out, although her dear sister seemed to be doing all right. But that was Audrey all over. Drop her in a cesspit and she’d come up smelling of roses.
Nora had only caught the odd glimpse of her sister over the last months, and Audrey’s increasingly slim shape and new hairdo and clothes had been enough to make her seethe with frustration. Her mind continued to worry and chew at the past, especially the events just after Christmas which had signalled the end of any further contact between her sister and herself. So wrapped up was she in her thoughts that she hardly noticed the mile and a half walk from the church to Rose Street. It was only when she let herself into the house that she realised how cold she was. Her hands and feet were numb.
She didn’t pause in the hall to hang up her coat and hat, intending to put them on the clothes horse in front of the fire in the kitchen to start drying out. At the kitchen door, she stopped dead and stared. Abby was standing by the range.
‘Hello, Mam,’ she said, her tone and face expressionless.
In a moment, Nora recovered herself. ‘Well, this is a surprise.’ She divested herself of her hat and coat and hung them on the clothes horse. ‘What’s brought you home?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about something.’
‘That’s a first if ever I heard one, you wanting to talk to me.’ Could Abby know about James getting married? Is that why she was back? But no, it was impossible. She knew for a fact her daughter didn’t correspond with the family. ‘How long are you back for and where’s Clara?’ She kept her voice flat; she had no real interest in her youngest daughter’s whereabouts.
‘I left Clara at the farm.’ Abby didn’t elaborate. ‘It’s about Clara I’ve come actually, or rather something she told me.’
It caught Nora unawares and her eyes shot to meet her daughter’s steady gaze. They exchanged a look that held for a moment and then Nora pulled herself together, her voice deliberately airy as she said, ‘Oh aye? And what’s that then? Some tale or other, I’ll be bound.’
‘How can you say that when you don’t know what it is she’s said?’
‘I don’t have to know. The child’s a born mischief maker, always has been, although you’ve never seen it.’
Abby ignored this. ‘It’s something to do with the night Da—’
‘Where’s Wilbert?’Nora interrupted abruptly. ‘Is he home yet?’
‘No.’
‘Any tea in the pot?’
It took all of Abby’s patience to answer quietly, ‘I only made enough for one and that was over an hour ago.’ Then she continued, ‘Clara said she saw you push Da down the stairs and that you told her you’d send her away if she said anything to anyone.’ This was blunter than she’d intended but the way her mother was behaving they could go on for ages fencing with each other.
‘
What?
The little madam! You wait till I get my hands on her.’
The apparent outrage and shock would have been believable in anyone else, but Abby had seen what was in her mother’s eyes in that first unguarded moment. ‘You’re saying it’s not true?’
Nora tossed her head. ‘I surely don’t have to, do I? You can’t believe her.’
‘Aye, yes, I believe her.’
‘I’ve heard everything now.’ Nora pulled in her chin and narrowed her eyes. ‘My own daughters to turn against me like this. Well, I’m not wasting my breath on you, girl.’
‘Look me in the face and say you didn’t push him.’
‘I shouldn’t have to, like I said.’
‘You can’t, can you, Mam?’ Abby’s voice was still quiet but it was taking all her self-control to remain outwardly calm. On the journey to her mother’s house she had felt sick with nerves but she’d promised herself she wouldn’t shout or lose her temper. ‘You can’t because you did it. Did you mean to do it? Was it an accident? What?’
For the briefest of moments her mother seemed to hesitate and an expression flitted across her face that Abby couldn’t pin down. Then it had gone, and Nora said, ‘How you can take the word of a bairn against that of your own mother I don’t know.’
Abby glanced about her. There was no trace of her father remaining in this house, her mother had seen to it that every last item, every belonging had gone. ‘Da was a good man,’ she said painfully, ‘and he never hurt a living soul, but you made his life hell when he was home from the sea. No wonder he couldn’t wait to get back to the ships all the time.’