September Starlings (35 page)

When he had left, my mother turned on me. ‘Don’t you dare to criticize me to your father. This is your fault, isn’t it? You’re the one who has begged him to be rid of me, and I will not have you standing in judgement. What I do is my own affair. And as for him …’ She waved a hand towards the back door. ‘He is useless. I’m going nowhere, because he’ll put me nowhere. No way will he go to court and tell lies about me. I shall stay put.’

I walked right up to her. ‘They aren’t lies. He knows what happened – I know too, because people followed you to that sports pavilion and to the midwife’s house. And that’s the truth.’

She raised her hand and swiped it across my cheek. Without hesitation, I grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the table. ‘I’m bigger now, Mother. You can’t drag me round by the hair and bang my head against the walls. You can’t hurt me any more.’

But she did. She never left the farm, never went to live in a rented house in town. And at every opportunity, she made my life a misery.

‘I’m not going to Mary Dunbar’s. I don’t care what happens, but she’s not getting hold of me.’ There was no bulge yet, no outward sign of my sin, but my body clock had missed a beat, and there could be only one explanation for the failure of a metronome that had always been so steady.

He leaned against a dry stone wall, his hands plucking at the spiky petals of a dandelion. ‘She loves me,’ he said with near-sarcasm as he threw away the mutilated remains. ‘And I don’t mean Mary Dunbar. I can’t work out why you’re worrying. There’s no way I’m going back to Imperial College. My interest in organic chemistry petered out months ago. I’ll get a job and a day off to get married, so where’s the problem?’

I didn’t know why I was so worried. There would be the usual encounters, of course, a couple of showdowns with parents, my hasty exit from St Mary’s, a hurried wedding in a registry. But none of those things bothered me.

He grabbed my arm, squeezed it tight. He was always doing that, hurting me a little then stroking me better. That was how I’d managed to get pregnant, when the stroking better had gone too far. Even that thirty seconds of frantic activity had been rather painful. But he loved me, was looking at me with such naked devotion that I dispelled the misgivings from my mind.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll tell Mater and Pater what’s going on. Take no notice of my mother – she tends to go on a bit, gets rather hysterical when threatened with change. Then we’ll tackle your parents in a day or two.’ His eyes gleamed, as if he were looking forward to these
encounters. ‘You’ll soon be mine, Laura, all mine.’ He grinned, but there was no amusement in his expression.

I tried hard not to mind. Belonging completely to somebody might prove a little difficult, as I had not belonged to anyone before. I was blessed with a mother who, in defiance of her husband’s requests for her to leave, remained ensconced at Ravenscroft Farm. And my father was always up to his armpits in ingredients and recipes. Being owned did not promise to be easy. In fact, childhood for me had been rather pleasant, in spite of the absence of love and attention. Freedom was a privilege I had come to enjoy, and my sweet liberty was about to vanish into history.

We went first to Tommo’s house in John Street. It was in a large terrace with steps up to front doors and grilles under windows where the cellars were. I hadn’t been inside before, had never met Tommo’s parents. It was a pleasant house with bookshelves everywhere and a nice painting of the Town Hall over the fireplace. Tommo’s dad, who had painted the picture, was an avid reader. He was a balding man with coal-miner’s eyes screwed up against the light. As I walked in, he put on a pair of dark glasses and placed a book on the table. ‘Hello,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Are you the girl who’s being mercilessly chased by Bernard?’ Daytime brightness plainly bothered him, though he seemed able to read without spectacles.

I had to search for a sensible reply until I remembered Tommo’s real name. ‘Yes,’ I answered feebly. ‘I’m Laura McNally.’

‘Sit down, please.’ His hand waved towards a chair, and I noticed the blue-black marks of coal eaten into the skin. ‘Phoebe should be here in a minute. She … er … might enjoy a bit of female company, because we’ve just the two boys, you see.’ From his tone, I gathered that Mrs Thompson didn’t really want any company at all.

I hadn’t known that Tommo had a brother, and I shot a look of surprise in his direction. He was leaning casually against a dresser where some statues sat, the sort of statues
that lined the corridors of St Mary’s school. This wasn’t going to be easy, then. A practising Catholic family would not welcome a non-believer into its midst, would not be pleased about a hasty wedding. I sat down, waited for Tommo to say his piece.

He didn’t even clear his throat. ‘We’re getting married,’ he announced. ‘And I’m not going back to college.’

Mr Thompson stared at his son, then glanced at me. ‘Pregnant?’ he asked.

Tommo nodded.

‘Well, that’s exactly what I might have expected from you, Bernard. Really, you were wasting everyone’s time at university, so I expected you to leave before completing the course. But there was no need for the drama. I was already concerned about the money that was being wasted on your education.’ He looked at me for a second or two. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’ My cheeks were burning like a foundry furnace, were warm enough to heat the whole room. ‘Seventeen and a bit.’

Mr Thompson took a step towards his son. ‘Go to Butterworth’s and fetch your mother. She’ll be gossiping in the queue.’

Tommo turned towards the door. ‘Coming, Laura?’ he asked.

‘She is staying here,’ stated Mr Thompson. ‘I want to have a word with her.’

Tommo slammed the door in his wake, then Mr Thompson drew back the curtain, as if making sure that his son was out of earshot. ‘Laura,’ he said, coming to sit in a green-covered armchair. ‘You must not make this dreadful mistake.’ He removed the dark spectacles and placed them on the table.

I searched his face for clues, found nothing but concern in the coal-stained features. ‘But I can’t kill a baby, Mr Thompson. My m— I know somebody who did that, and she finished up in hospital. Anyway, I think it’s wrong.’ I didn’t want the baby, didn’t want to murder it, didn’t
want to die because of dirty instruments. ‘I’ll have to get married.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Someone who has no children will adopt your baby. I’ll talk to the priests and the nuns, because they always know how to place a child. Don’t think about ending your pregnancy except by giving birth. And don’t marry that boy.’

‘That boy’ was his son. He seemed a genuine sort of man, looked concerned for me. ‘I love him, Mr Thompson. We met ages ago when he was going round with Ginger and Art and the twins. Then when I moved out to Barr Bridge, he started to come up at weekends. It was funny at first, because he just watched me, took weeks to come and talk to me.’

‘Stalking his prey,’ said Mr Thompson. He dropped his head, moved his lips in what looked like prayer, pleaded with me again. ‘Just stay away from him, please. He isn’t right for marriage.’

‘Well, we’re both a bit young,’ I answered carefully, ‘but he’s the father and he wants to marry me. I know it won’t be easy. I’ll have to leave the convent and Tommo will need to get work and find somewhere for us to live.’

He sighed, rose from the chair, went to lean on the fireguard. ‘I’ll get you a rentbook if you really want one. There’s a house on the other side of John Street, one of the smaller ones without cellars. If you insist on going through with the marriage, I can at least make sure that you are near me.’

I studied my hands, kept folding and unfolding them in my lap. Mr Thompson was a nice man who seemed not to like his own son. Up to now, I had believed that my mother was the only person in the world who managed to dislike her own flesh and blood. But this man was sitting on something, was withholding some of the truth. Or perhaps he was simply trying to save his family from disgrace. He looked uncomfortable, preoccupied. ‘We’ll be all right, Mr Thompson,’ I said. ‘Tommo will do his best to look after me and the baby.’

He raised his head, and I saw a flicker of hope in the gentle eyes. ‘You may be right. My son has never been one to shoulder his responsibilities, you see. So he may well take to fatherhood and prove me wrong.’ He sighed. ‘I hope for your sake that I am completely mistaken.’

Phoebe Thompson rushed in and stopped abruptly when she saw me sitting by her fireside. It seemed that the top half of her body was still running, as if she had ground to a halt at the lower level while continuing to move above the waist. ‘You’re not getting your hands on my boy, you evil little minx,’ she snapped.

‘She spoils him, thinks he’s special,’ said Mr Thompson to no-one in particular. ‘He’s special all right, but not in the way she imagines.’

Mrs Thompson rounded on her husband. ‘Shut up, Colin. Can’t you see what’s happening here? This girl has trapped our son in the usual good old-fashioned way. She’s trying to take him away from me, from his home, from his studies—’

‘He’ll not study, Phoebe. You know damned well that he’s doing no good in London. He’d be better off at work.’

The tiny woman turned on me again. She was like a little doll with red cheeks and black hair painted on to its head, because she had scraped back every thread into a tight bun at the nape. ‘You’re not having him.’

Throughout all this, Tommo had been casting his eye over the
Green Final
, a sports edition of the
Bolton Evening News
that was issued each Saturday. ‘They’ll not get the cup again,’ he muttered. I assumed that he was referring to the local football team. ‘And don’t shout, Mater. I’ve made my mind up to marry Laura, so leave her alone.’

She dumped a basket on the table and stared hard at me. She had blackcurrant eyes that seemed to pierce my flesh so deeply that they might well have found my innermost core. ‘Well, you made sure you got first prize, eh? There’s many a girl would open her legs to catch a good man, but—’

‘Phoebe!’ roared her husband. ‘There’s no necessity for that sort of talk. You’ve ruined that lad all his life and now you’re reaping the benefit. It’s not a cat he’s fetched home this time, not a dumb creature that can’t defend itself against his wickedness. He’s caught a human being now, and my pity goes to Laura, not to this so-called good man you’ve reared.’

They were frightening me a bit. He clearly disliked Tommo, she obviously doted on him. How would I cope if I lived in this street? There would be Tommo’s parents across the cobbles, one of them cursing him and the other one praising him, damning me. The future seemed rather bleak.

Tommo tossed aside the newspaper and grabbed his mother’s arm. ‘This is what I want,’ he said between lips that had narrowed to a thin line. The words continued to force themselves out from behind clenched teeth. ‘You can have me and Laura, or you can have just our Frank. Laura and I are a team now, so if you want to keep me, you must take her on as well.’

Mr Thompson touched my arm. ‘Frank is Bernard’s older brother. He was born lame, so he is not considered by his mother to be a proper person. Bernard has been my wife’s whole life. She can take full credit for the man he is today.’

Although Mr Thompson’s voice was soft, a silence hung in the room at the end of his short speech. Tommo plucked a cherry from the table, tossed it into his mouth, tipped the stone into his hand after chewing the flesh. ‘I’m nineteen,’ he said. ‘So I don’t really need permission to marry. When the church hears about Laura’s condition, a way will be found so that we can marry. Laura needs permission, but with her expecting a baby, she’ll be allowed to get married just to give it a name. So it’s all as good as cut and dried.’ He stared hard at his own male parent. ‘You’ve no time for me, Pa, and that works both ways. As for Mater, she’ll come round in a while. Laura, let’s get you home in time for tea.’

Phoebe Thompson was taking my measure, running those dark, beady eyes over my body as if assessing a beast on its way to market. ‘Well.’ She slid the tip of an extremely red tongue along her lower lip. ‘Then I must welcome you to the family, I suppose.’

‘I’ll get them the empty house across the way,’ announced Mr Thompson. ‘So that we can keep an eye on them.’

The door opened and a beautiful young man hobbled into the room. Like Tommo, he had red-gold hair and grey eyes, but everything about him was softer, gentler. I glanced at the boys’ father, realized that he too had hair of this rare colour, but he had lost most of it, and the little that remained was weary and running to salt-and-pepper. Frank Thompson leaned against the mirrored dresser and awarded me a shy smile. One of his boots was built up in an effort to lengthen a shrivelled limb, yet he still depended heavily on the healthy leg. ‘I’m Frank.’ He blushed like a teenager, jangled some coppers in his jacket pocket.

‘This will be your brother-in-law,’ said Tommo. ‘Frank, this is Laura.’

He held out a hand and shook mine firmly. ‘Pleased to meet you, Laura.’

‘He’s a clerk with the corporation,’ sniffed Mrs Thompson. ‘He had to have a sitting down job because he’s a cripple.’

I wanted to hug Frank in that moment, wanted to shake him too. He needed telling that he was beautiful, because his mother was making him so small and useless. ‘For hair like yours, Frank, a woman might commit murder,’ I said.

Tommo stared at me. ‘His hair’s the same as mine.’

‘It’s a bit quieter,’ I said. ‘And his eyes are a warmer grey.’

Tommo laughed. ‘Our Frank’s a good chap.’ He clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder, causing a degree of unsteadiness that made Frank’s blush even deeper. ‘I’ll
be trying to get a job alongside you, old boy. This university business isn’t up my street at all.’

Mr Thompson walked to Frank’s side. ‘College would have been just the ticket for you, Frank. All you needed was confidence and you’d have walked an honours.’

Mrs Thompson sidled towards the kitchen. ‘He can’t walk half a mile, never mind the honours. Will you be back for tea, Bernard?’

‘I don’t know.’ Tommo led me to the door. ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’