Authors: Tim Vicary
‘I couldn't stay away. You're a hard man to find, though.’
‘Am I? I thought all of London knew where I was by now. I must try harder.’
‘I'm sorry I spoilt your speech.’
‘What does that matter?’ He glanced over his shoulder, where the remaining dockers were leaving in dribs and drabs, watching them curiously. ‘Half of them have heard it already and, if they haven't, they'll hear it again. It doesn't change so much.’
‘Still the same old agitator, then?’
‘Surely. You know me.’
He looked at her quietly and she thought, for a moment, he's going to reach up and kiss me now. But instead he stepped back and offered his arm as a gentleman might.
‘Well, now you're here, will you take a walk with me at least? I don't know about you, but my belly's cleaving to my backbone. Can I find you a bite to eat?’
‘You can indeed.’
She stepped down off the doorstep and took his arm. How courteous he can be when he wants to, she thought. When I am on his arm like this I feel honoured . . .
What will he say when I tell him?
That will have to wait, she decided. Just for the moment she felt so proud, like a young girl again, walking along this grubby London street on the arm of her handsome Irish lover. I wish I had been born poor, she thought, then I could have had a man like this of my own, without having to give up anything.
But that's nonsense. Poverty's not a blessing, it's a curse. Look at those men pouring into that pub to drink away their wages. Think of the blow that man gave his wife in the meeting a minute ago. Remember all the miserable abandoned girls I saw in my work for the Irish Women's Guild. My problems with Charles are nothing to theirs.
To me they're overwhelming.
‘Where do you live, James?’
‘Me? In a terrace in Battersea, just now.’
‘Take me there.’
‘What? No, darlin', that's not a place for you. There's four of us fellers in it. Dirty plates and washing everywhere, no carpets or wallpaper and rats sifting through the rubbish in the back garden.’
‘But I want to see it.’
‘What?
No,
I tell you. Holy Mary, are you trying to make me ashamed?’
She felt the tension in his arm, and she wondered if he would pull away from her. She did not cling on, but he relaxed and they continued up the street, arm in arm like man and wife or lovers.
Almost.
His other hand was fumbling in his jacket pocket. She heard the clink of coins. He said: ‘There's a fish restaurant in a little street behind the Tower. It's cheap but it's better than anything round here. I'll take you there, shall I?’
‘All right. Don't worry about the money, James. I can pay.’
‘I said
I'd
take
you
, madam. Act like a lady, now.’
‘I am. An independent one, James. Have you forgotten that?’
‘I've forgotten nothing.’
He stopped for a minute at the corner of the street, and turned her to face him. His eyes searched hers, unsmiling. She looked back at him. It might have been seconds, or half an hour, she did not know. All those nights in Mrs McCafferty's, the long walks along the quays beside the Liffey. The passion, the beauty of him — my Gaelic prince. And the laughter.
Hesitantly, she tried a smile. He shook his head, in wonder. ‘My fine English lady, Deborah — why did you come?’
‘To see you, my lover. What else?’
‘And your husband? The Unionist soldier. You were to go back to him?’
‘I did. But I missed you. And — there were other things. It's a long story. Come on. You said you were starving.’
‘I am that.’
They crossed the road, went down a few side streets, found the restaurant. He was right, it
was
cheap. Run, as far as she could tell, by a family of Greeks, whose chubby brown children played around a handcart on the pavement. An older boy, eleven perhaps, came to take their order. He had smooth olive skin, serious dark eyes, and a sudden gleaming smile when Rankin made him laugh.
Perhaps my child will look like that, she thought, with a pang of keen sadness. So dark and beautiful. So utterly unlike Charles.
At least the place was private. No dockers, no union men, no one he seemed to know. There were a few single men, eating quietly at plain wooden tables. Most had a book or a newspaper open in front of them. Probably he chose it for the privacy, she thought. Is that a good thing? Does it mean he wants to spend time alone with me? Or to keep me separate from the rest of his life? She wasn't sure.
They were both hungry and ate ravenously when the food came. He began to relax. She told him of her travels round various docks during the day, and he laughed and related odd anecdotes about the places she had been.
‘I was lost more than once myself, when I first came here,' he said. 'But you've not told me how you come to be in the big city at all. I pictured you at that fine country house of yours in Ulster. What do you call it now?’
‘Glenfee.’
‘That's the one.’
‘Oh, I went there, James, of course I did.’ But he has never been there, she thought. How remote our lives are from each other. There was bread and butter with the fish, and tea. She rolled the bread into little pellets between her fingers and ate it thoughtfully, between sips of hot, strong tea, while she wondered how to begin. Should she tell him now? She was so afraid of what he would say. He looked less tense than he had, but still not . . . entirely pleased to see her. ‘It's partly because of my sister that I came.’
‘Why?’
She told the story of Sarah. It was true, it was safe, it was interesting. She could see him relax as he became absorbed. Amused at what Sarah had done, angry at her sentence, concerned at the way she might have been treated in prison. Thoughtful, too, about Jonathan's response.
‘You say he disowned her in Parliament?’
‘More or less, yes. He didn't just say he disagreed with what she had done, he said he wouldn't even vote for female suffrage any more. Not if women did things like that.’
‘So he rejects the end because he doesn't like the means?’
‘In a way. Even I don't believe in smashing windows, James. You know that. But I can't just denounce my own sister.’
‘No.’ He sipped his tea, his elbows on the table, gazing at her thoughtfully over the cup. ‘Always the lady bountiful.’
She didn't like that. ‘I don't mind getting my hands dirty, you know that. Working among the poor, taking their children to my home. I'm not afraid, there's no need to sneer. I just don't think violence makes things better, that's all.’
‘All right, all right, I know.’ He held a hand before his face, as though to defend himself from the vehemence of her response. ‘But she must be a powerful woman, your sister, to pick up a meat cleaver and slash a painting like that.’
There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes; whether at the thought of what Sarah had done, or herself, Deborah was not sure. She frowned. It did not seem funny to her.
‘Sarah's not big or strong, if that's what you mean. Just passionate and impulsive, I suppose. And rather unhappy, too, I think.’
‘That must run in the family, then. The passion, at least . . .’
And not the unhappiness?
‘What do you mean, James?’
He put his teacup down, smiled. ‘Well now, I seem to remember, in Dublin . . .’
It was that beguiling, entrancing smile she remembered so well. Impulsively, she reached across the table and seized one of his hands in hers. There would never be a better time to tell him than now.
‘James. Listen to me, my dear. I came to tell you something.’
‘Is that a fact now?’ He glanced at his hand, surprised. She was gripping it tight, imprisoning it in her own. ‘Sure you'd best spit it out then.’
‘I am . . .’ His eyes were fixed on hers, quiet, waiting. She glanced over her shoulder, around the little dining room. The other customers were eating, reading. Three men near the door were talking quietly. No one seemed to be listening.
‘I'm pregnant, James.’
Some animals have a little membrane that can move across their eyes, to clear them from dust or an outside intrusion they do not want. When they do this for a moment the eye appears clouded, opaque. Something similar happened to Rankin's eyes as she watched them anxiously for his response. The sparkle faded. The pupils widened slightly and he seemed to go away from her inside himself. Into a dark pool of thought.
Only for a second. Then a smile returned to his lips.
‘Well now. Congratulations.’ His left hand moved across the table, to stroke her hands which clung tightly on to his. ‘A new son to ride in the hunt at Glenfee. Or a daughter perhaps. Your husband must be pleased.’
‘I haven't told him, James.’
‘Not told him? You came all this way across the water to tell me, and you haven't told your husband?’
Oh come on, James — don't mock me now!
‘I
can't
tell him, James.’
‘Why ever not? The man will be delighted, surely!’
‘Because . . .’ She glanced hurriedly round the room. The beautiful, olive-skinned boy was carrying a tray from the kitchen to the three men at the door. This is a mistake, I shouldn't have told him here. She lowered her voice to an intense, nervous whisper. ‘Because he won't sleep with me, James. He hasn't once, not since he came back. It's your baby and when I tell him about it he'll know!’
Rankin was silent. His left hand stroked hers absently while she gripped the fingers of his other hand tight and stared at him, beseechingly. He saw the pain in her face, the intensity, the ugly tense lines that go with anxiety and fear. It's as though she is drowning, he thought, and clinging to me to save her.
But I can't swim.
‘How do you know it's mine?’
‘Don't be silly! There's no one else.’
‘No. Of course not.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So what are you going to do ?’
‘What
can
I do, James? I've come to you. You're the father!’
‘What do you think I can do, then?’
‘Help me! Take me in, find me a home. There's nowhere else - I can't go to the workhouse!’
‘Would you like any more, sir? Madam?’ The young waiter was standing by the table, looking at them with his beautiful, impassive eyes.
‘What? No, no, that's all. Here, son, we've finished. Let me pay now.’
He freed his hand from her grip, delved into his pocket, gave the boy some coins. When he had got his change, he stood up, pushed his chair in, and said: ‘This is a rotten place to talk. Come on, let's go for a walk outside.’
She had her little blue jacket but not a coat, and it was dark and cold in the street. She shivered, but he did not put his jacket round her as she had hoped. They set off, walking quickly towards the river and the Tower.
‘I told you, I haven't got a place here. Only a filthy men's lodgings which I'd be ashamed to let you see.’
‘But you're the father, James! You've got to help. There's no one else!’
They stopped under a gas lamp by the walls of the Tower of London. Fifty yards to their right, the black waters of the Thames flowed dark and silently downstream. The gas lamp hissed above their heads, the wind blew cold around them. Deborah looked up into his face and saw not love or compassion but fear, anger, irritation.
‘How
can I help, woman? Think now for a minute, will you! We discussed all this in Dublin, and you said you wanted to leave me then.’
‘Yes, but then I didn't know . . .’
‘You understand the laws of nature — you knew it was possible, surely! But it's not just the laws of nature you have to understand, it's the laws of society. You're a different class to me, Deborah. You could never live as I do. If you left your husband and came to me you'd lose all your money, your house, your son — and you'd live in one room with no carpets, and spend your day scrubbing cockroaches out of the bed. You couldn't do it, woman! And, even if you could, I wouldn't want you to. If that's my son in your belly I'd rather he grew up rich, with a decent house, warm clothes, and a good education, not shivering in a slum as I did! And another thing . . .’
‘No more, James, please!’ She stared at him stunned, shaking. But he wasn't listening to her. Perhaps he never had.
‘If I took in a woman like you, my work in the union would be over. Half the workers in the union would call me a fornicator and throw me out, especially the Catholic Irish. Look what happened to Parnell!’
‘James, you're not Parnell, nor anything like him!’ She turned to walk away from him, towards the river, but he snatched her arm and held her back.
‘No, but the principle's the same. Anyway, Deborah, I know it sounds harsh, but what I'm telling you is for the best in the long run, believe me! Go back to Glenfee, go back to your husband and make him sleep with you — you can do that surely, a pretty woman like you? Then he'll think the child is his and bring it up with a silver spoon in its mouth, and maybe I'll come over and see it some time. And we can meet . . .’
‘Why should we want to meet?’
The words, to her, sounded bleak, cold as the unfeeling black river flowing silently past the embankment. To him, too, they sounded strange. He stopped for a moment, puzzled.
‘Why? Well, for old times' sake, of course. And if your husband is as bad as you say . . . I thought you loved me.’
‘I thought so too, once, James Rankin.’ It was hard to get the words up, she was so choked with the tears that would have to come, soon, when she left him. But first — a vast flow of anger began to surge through her.
‘I don't think you know the meaning of the word love, really, James, do you? It was all lust with you, wasn't it — fornication, as your union colleagues would say! And they'd be right, too, if they said it now, when you won't take me in. Because the difference between love and lust is whether you care for the other person, and the results of the time you spend together in bed! You don't give a fig for that, do you — not even for your own child!’
She snatched her arms out of his, and went away, half-walking, half-running, along the embankment, feeling the tears well up inside her. A policeman stopped and watched her go, but did nothing. After fifty yards she turned once and looked back, hoping perhaps that even now Rankin would change his mind and come after her. But he had not moved. He was still there, with his flat cap and warm jacket, under the gas light, watching. He had his hands in his pockets. The green silk scarf, which she had adjusted so maternally earlier when they had met, was fluttering loose in the cold wind.