Miss Appleby's Academy (10 page)

Down on the floor, listening to her voice lifting and then screaming with pleasure, Mick felt the tears run down his face. How surprising. He had not cried when his mother had died, he had not cried when his father had died, and now, when he was realizing that his wife did not care for him, perhaps never had, because he could not do this to her, had not even done this in the time when Connie was conceived, he was crying. He was not a man, he was just a thing, left outside and unwanted. Had she ever really wanted him? Did she want this man or was it brandy she wanted, vodka, the sweet never-to-be land that gloated and tempted and was always there in pink hues of cloud above the ground?

It sounded so real, the screaming now; it went on and on and the man’s voice still soft as though he were in control. This man knew what to do as other men did not and Mick had a horror that people could be held to such things.

He thought he would never forget the screams of his wife in ecstasy. He couldn’t move, he sat there as though nobody would come out of the room, as though his child would not come home, as though his wife would not return, and in some ways she had left forever.

The tears had turned into grateful sobs beyond the door, though they were quiet as they must. Why must they? Nobody should know, it was too shameful. She did not love him, maybe she never had loved him, he was not worthy, he was not adequate, he had spoiled her life, taken something from her which she needed and this was the result. She could not help it, he felt sure.

When the screaming had stopped, when it had slowed and taken on the music of satisfaction, of completeness, there was laughter again and finally silence. And after that he heard the man’s voice. He did not know him well, but they had met occasionally through business and possibly, he could remember now, socially. It was Henry Atkinson, who had clipped, almost aristocratic tones such as northern people did not have. He was from a good family, moneyed business people. How long had Isabel loved this man? How long had she been giving herself to him so completely?

He was older of course, he was married and he had
several children as far as Mick could remember. He was educated, erudite, even said to be fascinating. Mick had been at one or two dinners when he had spoken; he had been charming and was held in high esteem by powerful men in the area.

His wife’s family had also been wealthy and respected; Mick could remember seeing Henry’s wife, middle-aged but slim and fair-haired, pale-skinned and blue-eyed. She must have been incredibly beautiful at twenty because she fairly took your breath away now: a sweet mouth and gleaming white teeth and a perfect skin. Her shoulders were pearly, she wore an expensive gown, her lovely throat and neck glittered with diamonds and she was talking to all the right people. He had never met her socially, he was very far below them, had seen them almost from afar, had kept within his own circle.

Mick stood up, managed to get to the stairs, he even got down them without much noise though he doubted anybody would have noticed, so caught up in the sublime minutes after sex were they. He got out of the building and was fine. He didn’t even need to take deep breaths. He understood now.

He waited across the street, just down the side of the alley. When she came out she went into the street and up the road and into a perfectly respectable off-licence. She came out with a bag – not a big bag, just large enough to hold two or three bottles of spirits. Why had he thought she had to go to a pub for such things? There were several places which would sell her spirits and think nothing
about it, and enough of them so nobody would think there was anything untoward. He went to the school gates much too early and again Connie was not there and he went home and waited.

Isabel came back, but she didn’t come upstairs; she went into the sitting room and began drinking. He found Connie later on, in a nearby barn with a book. She greeted him as though this happened every day.

‘Oh Daddy,’ she said, ‘I’m reading about King Arthur and his knights of the round table and about Guinevere. I don’t think very much of her, do you? It’s so obvious that Lancelot is not the sort of person you would marry. I would have stayed with Arthur if it had been me.’

He gathered her to him and it was not for her, he thought with dismay, it was for himself. He held her there until she complained. He heard the bright brittle note in her voice. She did not know what was going on, she only knew that things were not as they should be in her young life.

Together they went back to the house. Isabel was drunk by then. He made a meal for them with what he could find and he took Connie up to bed. He read to her and when she fell asleep he went back to the pub. There he took a bottle of whisky into the office with him. How pathetic that he should employ the same kind of means as Isabel did to keep himself sane.

Ed came to him. Mick’s hands shook, he couldn’t even pour out the first glass of whisky. He watched like somebody detached as the golden liquid flowed over both sides
of the glass and his hands shook so much that he couldn’t stop. Ed, horrified, watched and put out both hands.

‘Come here, I’ll do it. You’re spillin’ it, yer clown.’

Never had Ed spoken to him like that, so gently, as if he were a child. Ed took the glass and the bottle from him. He handed the glass to Mick who downed it quickly. Ed poured him another.

When Ed came back, much later, he looked at the second drink he had poured. It was almost untouched. That was one thing that was good, Mick thought savagely: he himself would never take to drink in a big way.

He went outside for the air. Nell Whittington, the local whore, was still hanging around. He could see her standing back in the shadows, but there was a half moon and the twisted curl of her hair gave her away.

‘Come in,’ he offered. It was a cold night, but she hesitated.

‘I need to make some money.’

‘I’ll give you some money.’

‘I don’t want no charity,’ she said.

‘Oh howay,’ he said.

She had been a pretty woman once, but disappointment and loss and the deep lines in her face made her well past forty-five and he didn’t think she could be older than that.

He took her through into the office, sat her down, found another glass and poured generously. She looked at it.

‘You in need of company?’

He nodded.

Nell drank her whisky, looked doubtfully at the money he took from his pocket. ‘You want me?’

He hated to offend her. ‘Nell—’

‘All right,’ she said, and he even thought he heard relief as he pressed the coins into her hand.

‘How are the bairns?’ he said.

She looked severely at him. ‘You know they’re fine, you’re always asking our Larry and givin’ him money and drink for nowt.’

‘Do you wish I wouldn’t?’

‘Nay, I don’t wish nothin’, at least nothing you can do.’

He wished there was some other way he could provide for them which was less clumsy than this. It was quite a lot, at least she would think it was a lot, she wouldn’t think it was guilt money either because he had always thought he should help her more, it was just that somehow he couldn’t help everybody.

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Oh, take it, for God’s sake, it makes me feel better.’

She shook her head and laughed a bit.

He said, and softly, ‘Have you ever had a man that you really liked?’

Nell stared at him. ‘You mean close like?’

‘Aye.’

‘Nay, savin’ your presence, you’re all bastards really.’

When he laughed and didn’t reply she smiled.

Mick laughed more and shook his head. Nell watched him. ‘Your wife, she’s beautiful.’

‘Aye.’ He stared down into his whisky and he had the
feeling that Nell understood completely without him saying more. ‘We didn’t know, either of us, that there is no such thing as love. Only for our bairns. She’s a grand little lass is yours, different though.’ She got up.

‘You want more whisky? Something to eat?’

‘No, thanks.’

Her husband had died down the pit and was blamed, and she got no money for it. Instead she left her children with her drunken brother at night and gave herself to the men as they came out of the pubs. What else could she do? Take in washing? Scrub floors? What was the difference but for pride? Whoring paid better, he knew, and she had two children and a leaking roof in the windswept little house at Road Ends where there was nothing to stop the howling winds from the fell. Her husband had been no good, had beaten her when she wouldn’t let him touch the children; her brother was a drunk. She had been so pretty, so fresh and young.

‘Nell—’ He stopped there, he didn’t want to insult her because he liked her, she was doing her best.

She hesitated by the door. ‘I know.’ She looked hard at him. ‘We go on but we want to scream. You do a lot for me. If you get fed up you know where I am.’

She was right, he had lost hope that night and a lot of other things as well. He went home eventually, as he must because of Connie and Ulysses, who had stayed at the house that day, and Hector, glad at last that he had given up his watch at the pub, sighed as they walked, knowing that he would be back to the house and all would be well
and he would see Ulysses and there would be comfort, a fire, warmth and a rug. Only there wasn’t any more, and Mick didn’t care somehow.

The dog sighed again when they got there. The house was cold and it looked unfriendly. No fire burned, no supper was ready. The kitchen was undisturbed and Connie was in bed. Isabel of course was drunk. He left her on the floor in the living room and went to bed.

After that the world narrowed and was strange, as if it were all happening to somebody else. He could not keep the house and the pub and the child and everything working and going round and round as life should. He kept falling over himself and his grief until all he could do was go to work and make sure Connie had something to eat.

It was as if Isabel died that winter and with her all his hopes and dreams. The future had gone away, there was nothing on offer except to get up every morning and try to keep his life turning, his child by him.

Connie, in unspoken agreement always went back to the house after school now, as though she knew he could not stand any more. He didn’t want it that way, but it was all there was.

He couldn’t bear to see the house as it had been. He neglected it. He ignored the garden, he watched in some satisfaction as the lawns became meadows, as the fields around it grew and were empty, as the house decayed and was thick with dust and his wife slipped further and further into the land of lost hope and he into despair.

He kept up a lilting voice for his child, but he knew that he didn’t deceive her.

It was as though his child was alone when she came home from school, so he left a dog there. At night, while Mick worked in the office and drank whisky slowly, Hector would nudge a warm moist nose into his hand. It was all the pleasure that Mick had. When he heard the thumping of the dog’s tail it lifted his heart just a little. Hector was always there, as Ed was always there, except that Ed went off to his little house a couple of doors away for sleep and sustenance, if he ever ate anything, which Mick doubted.

Ed’s gift to him was constancy. Nothing else got done. Somehow Mick didn’t want the women there who cleaned; he couldn’t stand it. The house and the pub sank beneath the weight of his sadness and nothing came to alleviate it.

At first Emma had faltered. The journey had been so long and every day she had told herself a hundred times that this was a very bad mistake and she would end up going back to New England and admitting that she was wrong and marrying Judge Philips, though now that Laurence had gone back and told his tale the Judge would not have her, the town would never accept her. These thoughts had driven her on. There was no going back. She was three thousand miles away, across an ocean. There was some relief in that.

George had spent the days on board ship running about the decks with other children and getting to know the crew so that they called him by name. He ate hungrily and slept well and was a good sailor. When they landed in England and boarded a train he was up at the window most of the time in case he should miss anything which they passed. It was all new and he was determined not to miss a second of it.

A savage wind bit her ankles as Emma got down from the train, holding George’s hand so tightly that he objected.

‘Is there a hotel?’ she asked the stationmaster.

‘There’s nowt like that here, lass,’ the stationmaster said.

She didn’t know what to do now. They had eaten sparingly for days. All she had left were her mother’s pearls and in the end she knew she would pawn or sell them, but she did not know what awaited her so she had clung to the comforting idea that she still had funds.

She had thought Liverpool was a lot nearer than it was. It was meant to be in the north but this place was a lot further north, not so very far from the border with Scotland and on the opposite side of the country. She had forgotten or not known any English geography.

She had finally reached her destination and it was indeed the very middle of nowhere. There was nothing for miles but this little town. It should have been spring, but showed no signs of such. When they had stepped from the train a keen biting wind was hurling big flakes of snow about. She could not believe she had been so stupid as to bring George to this godforsaken place.

‘We need somewhere to stay,’ she said to the stationmaster, but even as she spoke he had turned his back and was walking away.

She was beginning to feel that she had come here for no better reason than her own stupid will. The voices from the past which had urged her were silent now, making her feel foolish, making her panic. Her memories did not include this windswept road. Had she come to the wrong town? It was nothing more than a few streets set on a bleak hillside, the houses small, shabby, badly built, crouched low there as though trying to get beneath the
bad weather. The main street was wide and an icy wind rushed through as though it could not wait to get to the moors. Surely she had not been born here? But her memory told her that she had.