Shelter from the Storm (17 page)

He avoided Joe. Again and again he remembered Esther Margaret’s voice telling him that she loved Joe, had always loved Joe. Dryden even tried blaming Joe for what had happened as he was sure Joe blamed him. Nothing was said. Joe cast long looks at him sometimes but they didn’t speak. January went on its bitter way and it was only when it was coming to its end that
Dryden was called into the office. There he found Joe, not looking at him much, with something to say.

‘I’m sorry about this, Cameron, but you can’t go on living in that house. You’ll have to find somewhere to lodge. I have married men with children living in cramped quarters and that’s a big house. You’ll have to find somewhere else.’

Joe spoke flatly as though he didn’t care. The only comfort that Dryden had fell away from him.

‘Give up the house?’ he said. Visions of Mrs Clancy’s gritty beds and dried-out food flashed through Dryden’s mind. When he had been there he had known nothing better, had been glad of the way that nobody and nothing mattered, but he had grown accustomed to Vinia’s cooking and cleaning, the space and the fire. At Mrs Clancy’s he had never got near a fire, never had a bed to himself or clean clothes or a kind word. He looked miserably at Joe.

‘What if she comes back?’ he said. It was the first time that he had spoken hopefully of the situation, and it caused Joe to shift in embarrassment.

‘She’s not going to come back, is she? She’s dead.’

‘It was only a piece of paper. It was only …’ Dryden could hear his voice, desperate, guilty.

‘What was it only?’ Joe was looking at him and Dryden didn’t like the look. ‘You got her pregnant, married her and made her so miserable that she killed herself. You’re worthless and useless and … oh, get out of the office. You’ve got until the end of the week.’

Dryden didn’t move. He couldn’t. He had told himself a thousand times that it was all his fault, but nobody else had said it to him. He knew very well that Joe didn’t like him, that Joe held him responsible, but he had not until that moment known that Joe loved Esther Margaret.

‘Get out!’ Joe said again, so he went.

At first Esther Margaret didn’t know where she was going. All she had in mind was to walk up the road she had looked at so many days from her window since the baby had died. She was happy there, she felt that she was doing something useful, something she had long wanted to do, but it was cold and she was soon tired, so she was very glad when a horse and cart came along.

‘Want a lift, missy?’ the man offered, and she was glad, even though he was inclined to talk and ask questions. She said as little as possible to him, and as the horse trudged along Esther Margaret realised where she was going. She would make her way to her mother’s cousin, who lived in Northumberland. Her mother had come from a little fishing village there and had not been back, as far as Esther Margaret knew, so it was likely that they couldn’t stand one another. Her mother’s cousin might take her in for a day or two until she found a place to stay and a job. She would be like her mother in that she would never go back and they could mourn her and wish they had done differently and they would never know.

The man with the cart was only going as far as Esh Winning, which was a little pit town about halfway to Durham, but when they reached the middle, stopping outside the co-op in the street, he shouted across to another man.

‘Blakey. A young lady here wants to get to Durham today. You going there?’

‘I’m off now.’

‘There you are, missy. Get you down.’

Esther Margaret got down, thanked him and hurried across to the other, slightly better equipage, and they set off at a smart pace on the road that led out towards the city. This man was not the kind who asked questions and she was glad of that because it took all the rest of the light to cover the miles and the weather began to worsen. Only when they were on the outskirts did he say, ‘Going to family, are you?’ and Esther Margaret confessed that she was. She wished that she had not done so, she did not want to give information to anybody, but she was glad after that because he said that it being Christmas Day she might have difficulty finding somewhere to stay and that his wife would be glad to put her up for the night. Esther Margaret thanked him gratefully, making up a story about travelling to her aunt because her mother had died and she had nowhere else to go. His sympathy won her somewhere to stay and hopefully food and a bed — the weather was freezing and it was beginning to sleet.

She spent the night in the shadows beneath the great cathedral in a room from where she could hear the river. The house was not quiet because the carrier had children, but she was glad of shelter and the food they gave her, and the conviction stayed with her that she was doing what she was meant to be doing, getting away from that place and her husband and all the dreadful memories. She had accepted that the child was dead but the pain of that realisation made her want to keep on going, as though if she went fast enough she could leave it behind.

The following day she sold her wedding ring and the gold cross from around her neck which she had been given as a little girl and had learned to hate. That gave her sufficient money to catch a train to Newcastle and then on to Alnwick. She sat by the window in the train after it left Newcastle and
watched the sea, and she began to feel better for the first time since the baby had been born. She had made her escape, had not given her real name to anyone. The snow flew past the window but she was safe inside, listening to the chatter of the other passengers and glad that she was putting miles between herself and her past.

She found a hotel for the night in Alnwick and set out the following day to walk the few miles to the coast. The weather was bad and she had not gone far when the snow came down so fast that she could hardly see in front of her. She could not tell how long it took or how much distance she had travelled but she was beginning to feel as if she could go no farther when she finally came in sight of the little village which she knew from the correspondence her mother had once held with her cousin was the right place. She stopped, afraid. The correspondence had been a long time ago. The woman could have moved. She knew little about her other than the address, which was not difficult to remember, being Cormorant Cottage, and her name, which was Daisy Selwood.

The road split into two halves and most of the houses were dotted about on the right-hand side, but Esther Margaret chose to go left, which was just as well, because there were two cottages joined there by a yard and there was a sign on the stone wall which said ‘Cormorant Cottage’. Esther Margaret was so relieved that she forgot to be apprehensive. She walked as quickly as her last energy would let her and banged boldly on the door. A short time passed and just as she was about to knock again the door opened and a stout woman, looking much older than her mother, stood there.

‘Well?’ she said.

Covered in snow, Esther Margaret knew she did not present much of a picture.

‘I’m Esther Margaret Hunter, your cousin’s daughter. I’ve come to stay with you.’

The woman stared.

‘Have you indeed?’ she said finally. ‘You’d better come in then, hadn’t you?’

*

Joe had thought he could put Esther Margaret from his mind, that he could learn to think of her as Dryden’s wife. If the child had been safely born and healthy he knew that everything would have altered. A woman who was a wife was still of interest but a woman who had another man’s child was something quite different. Esther Margaret had no child and she had lain in her bed looking not much more than a child herself, and it was all he could do not to pick her up in his arms and run away with her. There was, however, nothing to be done but endure, and he managed that. He managed until Esther Margaret went missing, and after that he felt he could not stand any more. By day he organised other people searching and did so himself from dawn to dusk on the short days in the freezing wet, and by night he sat over a meagre fire which he lit and tended himself in his bedroom and began to wish that he could, like his father, stave off the hurts with alcohol. He could not sleep; he pictured her dead, dying, badly injured and freezing to death up on the fell. He tried to think of her returning but that didn’t happen. Each day that it didn’t happen was a new horror, so by the time Joe discovered that Esther Margaret had left a note which indicated that she had killed herself he thought he could manage no more. After that he found that he didn’t care what happened to Dryden so long as it was nothing good. He wished he could have manufactured an excuse to get rid of him. Short of that the loss of his house, which was inevitable, would do.

He was surprised, however, the day after he had told Dryden that he must get out, to have Mary Cameron pay him a visit. Joe had always hoped that he would like Tom’s mother simply because she had suffered so much, but there was something about her which always reminded him of his own situation, so it was not easy. Mary Cameron had given Dryden up. His mother had left him. There was a similarity which always made him feel as
though he did not want the woman’s acquaintance. She smiled at him from across the street because he was the pit-owner’s son and that was all. Joe was distantly polite. This time, however, he had to ask Mary Cameron into his office, the clerks in the bigger office being curious and looking. He closed the door.

There was not an ounce of her which looked anything like Dryden, Joe observed; Dryden must be all his father. He took savage satisfaction in deciding that this was the case. He asked her to sit down and she did so and Joe did not and she smiled and he decided that he did not like her smile.

‘The news about Esther Margaret Hunter is very nasty,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Joe said.

‘I never thought much of her. I never thought much of her parents, for all they go to church every week. Not nice people. The thing is, Mr Forster, that I was wondering, and if I have this right that man can’t stay in that house on his own, can he? It isn’t the way of things, is it?’

‘It isn’t the way of things, no, Mrs Cameron.’

‘And I was thinking. My Tommy is a good worker and he has never had a pit house. I know, I know …’ She held up both hands even though Joe hadn’t said a word. ‘He does have a house but it’s a very small house and it was his wife’s before she was married and it is tiny and it isn’t a pit house so you’ve been spared that all this while and I know that we have a house but then my Alf is a good worker too and I was thinking that after that man leaves Tommy and his wife could maybe have the house. It’s only two doors away from us and they’ll be … well, you know, they’ve been married a while and when the bairns come along which they will be any minute it would be ever so handy for us to be close. I know that you’ve got plenty of deserving cases and I wouldn’t want you thinking that I was trying to change your mind when you might have made it up but it would be very nice for us, it really would.’

Joe had not realised until that moment that Mary Cameron
hated Dryden. Only a really vindictive person would have come to him like this. The man had lost his wife and now the pit-owner and his mother were about to put him out of his home. So far Dryden had not said a word. Joe was almost ashamed. Mrs Cameron was right, Tom was a good worker, though he was no better than his brother, but he had a wife and would undoubtedly have children and he was as entitled to a house as any other man.

‘I can’t promise anything, Mrs Cameron, but I’ll do my best.’

‘I’m sure you will, Mr Forster,’ she said, giving him her imitation of a sweet smile.

Joe was glad when she had gone. If that was what mothers were like, he thought he was better without one. He felt sorry for Tom as well as for Dryden. At least Tom was married to a sensible woman. Joe liked Vinia. If every man in the village had a wife like that his life would be much easier.

*

That evening, when Vinia was about to go up to Dryden’s house with his dinner, Dryden called in. She was pleased about that. He had not set foot in their house since before the baby had died. She was worried about him. The talk in the village was that Dryden had killed his wife and child. People would believe what they wanted to believe, in spite of the evidence.

‘I didn’t want you going all the way up there when I’m not in,’ he said as she encouraged him to sit down with them and eat. ‘I’m being put out of my house by the end of the week. Did you want any of the furniture? I know it isn’t much but—’

‘The bastards can’t do that!’ Tom declared, banging on the table and making everything on it jump.

‘Mr Forster had me in when I came off shift. It’s his house, he can do what he likes with it.’

‘He could at least have waited a week or two. You can move in here with us.’

Dryden shook his head.

‘I can’t do that.’

‘We’ve got two bedrooms.’

‘You’ve got one room downstairs. There’s only just enough room for two of you.’

‘What else will you do?’

‘Go back to Mrs Clancy’s.’

There was silence after that. Vinia didn’t want Dryden there but the idea of letting him go back to a dirty boarding house was more than she could stomach.

‘You can’t do that.’

‘I must.’

Tom went off to the pub after tea, trying to get Dryden to go with him as usual but finally giving in when Dryden declared that he must go home.

‘Why don’t you sit here a while? There’s been nobody in your house all day, it won’t be very warm. You could even stay—’

‘No.’

The way he said it made her look at him.

‘You’ve done too much already. Mrs Clancy says she has room for me—’

‘She’d say that to anybody, just for the money, you know she would, the miserable old …’

Vinia cleared the table, hasty in her anger. Dryden came to the pantry door when she washed up, as he had done the first time he had ever been there. She had been surprised and then had realised why he was so grateful — it was because of his mother and Mrs Harmer and Mrs Clancy. Dryden must think women were connected to the Devil, she decided.

‘I’d better go. Thanks for the tea.’