Shelter from the Storm (24 page)

Tom became misty after a while, his well-loved face became a blur beyond the pain and the blood, and Dryden didn’t care what happened. He was not there, he was in the street with his brother when it was late, when the pavements were empty and the air was keen and the wind blew in from the fell with snow behind it like a cold caress and there was nobody else. It was like a painting to him. He would have hung it on the wall, the images of himself and Tom and the shadowed houses and that peculiarly wild fresh stillness which only the fells had, all heather and sheep and wood smoke and the view that went on for ever. It was the best. When you have had the best then it doesn’t really matter, he thought; when you had heard Tom singing in the dead of night you knew that even the angels listened. They did not hear now when Tom beat him to the floor and everything became slow and then slower. Mary Cameron would have been proud of Tom, Dryden thought; she would have been pleased with him.

And then there was peace. When he came to Vinia was crying and she was all over him, begging him to come round, as though he wouldn’t, and accusing him of things, as though it had anything to do with him, which it hadn’t, and going on about how much she loved Tom, which was too much for his stomach. He resented her. He wished he had never got involved. And for what? For some bloody stupid shop! And after he had managed to climb the stairs, and it had been a very long way, she came up
and started sponging his face, which was bliss, he wished she would never stop. A bird was singing outside as though everything were normal, and then she had gone on and on about the bloody shop and how she couldn’t have it. Didn’t she know what was happening here? Didn’t she realise that Tom would not let her do it? He tried to tell her but she wouldn’t listen. She was like somebody from another age, another place.

She had finally shut up and gone to sleep and let him rest, and he needed to, everything hurt so much, and then he awoke. The door had slammed. The enemy was in the house and she nearly got up and went downstairs; he had to stop her. But she was right in what she said. Tom was drunk. He did not attempt the narrow steepness of the stairs, which Dryden thought very sensible of him. Soon there was peace again and Dryden breathed more easily. Nobody was going to kill him that night, and it was all he cared about. Vinia went to her own room. He was glad when she had gone because he had all the space to himself to ease the hurts. He stretched out and went to sleep.

*

Mr Samson had said she could have the sign repainted. Vinia thought she would have it plain in black with her name in white and it would read ‘Vinia Cameron, Ladies’ Fashions’. That very first day she went into Bishop Auckland and bought two sewing machines, and she bought chairs and tables from the auction rooms and ordered everything to be delivered, and then she went back to the shop and dusted and swept it out; it didn’t need much. She and Mr Samson signed an agreement for the rent; she paid in advance and spent all her time during the day at the shop. With thick paper and pencils and pens her fingers could not move fast enough to suit her brain — it was as though all the ideas had backed up and were now being let out in a hurry. She took materials and fashioned a hat without even thinking about it, and then another, creating from nowhere beautiful things.

She asked Mrs Perry, two doors down, who had nobody
except her husband to look after, if she would come in and see to the house and the cooking during the day, so Tom came home on the Friday afternoon to one of Mrs Perry’s lovely meat pies. Dryden had gone back to work after two days. He didn’t look very good and he was very tired when he got home, and he washed and ate and went straight back to bed. Tom said nothing; he went on as though everything were the same. All that weekend Tom kept to the pub, turned away from her in bed, but on the Monday when he came home he threw down his bait tin and said, ‘So, you went ahead and did it.’

‘I told you I was going to.’

Dryden hadn’t gone to bed; he was sitting in a chair to one side of the fire.

‘I suppose you think he’s going to save you.’ Tom jerked his chin in Dryden’s direction.

‘I don’t suppose anybody will need to save me,’ she said, looking straight at him.

Tom didn’t look at her. It was Dryden he turned to.

‘I want you out of my house.’

‘Tom, you can’t.’ Vinia took a step towards him but Tom stopped her.

‘I don’t want to hear another word,’ he said.

‘Tom, please. It’s nothing to do with him.’

‘I’m going to the Lion and I want you out by the time I come back. If you’re still here then I’ll break your neck.’

‘Tom —’ she said again, but Tom walked out.

Dryden watched the door for a few seconds as though it might reopen and Tom would come in and say that it was only a joke, he hadn’t really meant it. Then he walked out of the room and up the stairs and after a few seconds she ran after him. He had already begun putting his things together.

‘He didn’t mean it,’ she said from the doorway. He didn’t reply. ‘You can’t just go. Dryden. Dryden! Don’t go. This is your house.’

‘It doesn’t feel like my house any more and I can’t say I cared
much for it when it did. I’m going to leave you and Tom to fight this out. Don’t blame me if you get hurt.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to involve you.’

‘It’s all right. Maybe just once you needed somebody on your side,’ he said softly, and then he left.

Vinia sat down and cried over it and over him and over the friendship with Tom which had meant so much to him. She had not been alone for long when the back door opened and Tom’s mother came in. She never came in except during the day when she knew Dryden was not there. Perhaps she had seen him leave.

‘What’s this I hear about you setting up shop?’ she demanded. ‘I had it from Mrs Everton. I told her it couldn’t be right, that our Tom would never let you do such a thing, but she says it is, that you’ve rented Willie Samson’s shop. Whatever would you do with such a place?’

‘I would sell things in it,’ Vinia said, putting up her chin.

‘Sell things?’ Mary Cameron stared at her. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Vinia stood up from the chair she had sat down in when Dryden went.

‘I’m going to design and make and sell ladies’ clothing, hats and dresses, and repairs and mending too. I’m going to have my name above the door and employ people to help and Mrs Perry to come in to see to things and I’m going to pay her.’

Mary stared.

‘You impudent little baggage!’ she said. ‘How dare you? You couldn’t do such a thing. How could you ever afford to do anything like that?’

‘I can. I’ve got some money and that’s what I’m going to do with it.’

‘We’ll see what our Tommy has to say about this.’

‘Tom already knows and he’s had his say. Can’t you see the state of my face? Your precious son knocked me across this floor.’

‘Our Tommy wouldn’t do such a thing. You little liar!’

‘Use your eyes. How else do you think I ended up like this?’

‘That man did it. He would do anything to women. Look at what happened to his wife. Our Tommy should never have had him here. I said no good would come of it.’

‘You’ll be glad to hear, then, that he’s left.’

‘I am indeed,’ Mary said, ‘I’m very glad. That’s the best piece of news I’ve ever heard. We’ll soon have you sorted out. Shops indeed. You’ve got enough to do here—’

‘I’ve got nothing to do here, nor am I likely to have. There’s no bairn to see to and Tom’s always at the pub. What am I expected to do?’

‘If there is no bairn it’s because of you, never at home, always gadding about, interfering where you shouldn’t be and giving homes to people who don’t deserve it. Our Tommy deserved better than you. Any lass in this village would have given him a bairn by now. You with your funny ideas!’

After she had left Vinia was exhausted. She fell asleep on the settee and awoke only when Tom came back from the pub. She wasn’t sure what to expect; she only hoped he was so drunk that she could get past him and up to bed before he started anything else.

‘Has that bastard gone?’ Tom said.

‘Of course he has. You told him to.’

‘Right. You get up those bloody stairs to bed. I don’t want to hear any more tonight!’

Vinia went. She was quick, but she was only half undressed by the time Tom got there, and afterwards she thought he had done it on purpose because he got hold of her as he had before, by the hair, and turned her over on to the bed, and she was more afraid than she had been the night of the fight.

‘No, Tom, don’t. We don’t have to quarrel about this. I love you.’

‘Who’s quarrelling?’ Tom said.

‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Am I? Well, fancy that. I wonder why you think so? I wonder
what I would be doing such a thing for when you are such a good and obedient wife.’

*

It was not far to Mrs Clancy’s and yet it was a whole world away, a world without Tom’s regard, that chilly place which Dryden had inhabited for all those years before his brother had spoken to him. Mrs Clancy seemed to be expecting him, but then the whole village knew that they had fought.

‘Come in, bonny lad,’ she said, offering him her gummy grin. ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars. Your Tom likes to keep his wife to himself, I hear.’

Dryden didn’t respond. He hadn’t realised that people were talking or that they were saying such things, but they could only guess at the reason he and Tom had had a fight and that was the obvious conclusion they would come to. It wasn’t so very far from the truth, though he hoped he would have tried to help any woman in a similar situation. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe it was just that she was the only woman he had ever had any positive feelings towards. It had cost him Tom so he wasn’t feeling very charitable any longer.

He dumped his belongings and then he walked across to the Station Hotel, one of the pubs that Tom didn’t go to. Nobody spoke to him and he stood there all evening until he was very, very drunk, and then he walked the dark streets. Dora Sims was coming out of the Black Horse by the time he reached it. He wasn’t sure whether he had arranged it on purpose.

‘Hello, Dryden,’ she said. ‘I’ve been hearing things about you.’

‘It’s not true,’ Dryden said.

‘You don’t know what they are yet.’

‘I do.’

‘Your face is a picture,’ she said. ‘You should keep your hands off other men’s wives, you know,’ and she drew very close and then she kissed him.

It hurt to kiss her but it was a lot better than not kissing her.

‘How would you like to come home with me?’

‘Last time I went home with you my life fell apart.’

‘As bad as that?’ she said. ‘Look at it this way, petal, you’ve got nowt much left to lose by all accounts.’

Dryden had got to the door of her house, and it was then that he remembered the day the baby had been born and died and he couldn’t go in.

‘Are you all right, lover?’ Dora said.

‘I’m drunk.’

‘I’m used to drunks. Hart’s always drunk when he’s here. You could sleep. It’s got to be better than the other place you have to go to.’

‘I don’t think so, thanks.’

He wandered away and was at the end of the street by the time she closed the door. He didn’t want to go back to the boarding house. He didn’t know where he wanted to be. He walked down the street and past the Golden Lion and over the railway crossings and then down Church Lane with the fields on either side until finally he reached the churchyard. It was dark so he had to search for Esther Margaret’s headstone. He hadn’t seen it before, but being new it stood out in its position not far from the gates that opened on to the path towards the heavy church door. He couldn’t believe that she was actually in there, that anybody could be. Her stone read ‘Esther Margaret Cameron. Sleeping’. Sleeping? If she was sleeping then he wished to God she would wake up and end this nightmare. He felt as if he had come full circle. Could it be that he was about to die? Could it be that when you lost everything it was the end? He felt as though there were nothing more to be done, nothing to be tried for. He was suddenly very tired. He sat down and then lay down and it was surprisingly comfortable. The churchyard, Dryden thought, was a lot better than Ma Clancy’s beds.

*

Tom tore the clothes off Vinia and laid heavy hands on her until any goodwill that she had tried to salvage was gone. They had not before this fought in bed, she believed him incapable of such a thing, but then in the beginning she had thought Tom wanted her for who she was and not a woman made in his mother’s image, not somebody to hold beneath his will. He subdued her, had her until he was tired, and then in the morning he told her that while he was at work that day she would go back to Mr Samson and tell him that she no longer wanted the shop. She would send everything back and by the time he came home that afternoon she would be there with the tea ready.

‘I won’t do anything of the kind,’ Vinia said. ‘If I have to I’ll move out.’

‘You can’t. If I have to come to the shop for you I’ll thrash you all the bloody road home. Do you understand me?’

Even after he had gone out and slammed the door she shouted after him, ‘I will never forgive you for this, Tom, never!’

The following day Dryden and Tom were on the back shift, which was normally Dryden’s favourite, being during the day, but then he would have given anything not to be there. Tom was still ignoring him and he had nothing to look forward to. He thought that maybe if he went to one of the more respectable boarding houses somebody might have the grace to take him in. He didn’t fancy another night in the churchyard, even though it was warm, and he needed somewhere with a few comforts if he was to take any pleasure at all from his life.

They worked. He could hear Tom’s voice in the distance now and then as Tom spoke to other people. Dryden didn’t think about the work, he just did it, got paid for it, and was always aching and tired at the end of it. He made good money and often other men couldn’t keep up, but he was glad of it when times were difficult, you knew where you were with it. If Tom hadn’t been there Dryden would have been much happier. As it was he tried to make the best of it, which wasn’t saying much. He thought about Vinia and hoped Tom had been kind to her, but he doubted it. Tom wasn’t the man to give in over anything, but if she gave in now over this she would never again be able to do anything she wanted which Tom didn’t want, and he knew how badly she wanted it by the fight she had put up so far. He just wished he had been out of the way when it happened, though it
was always possible that Tom might have hurt her badly or killed her when he was in a temper like that.