Shelter from the Storm (36 page)

She had been there for only a few minutes when she saw Joe stop outside. She opened the door.

‘Are you busy?’ he said, not coming inside.

‘No.’

‘Would you like to come home and have a drink and a meal with me? I’m not trying to get you to stay. It’s light enough so that I could see you back.’

Vinia nearly fell over herself accepting. Having been to Joe’s house only once she found herself overwhelmingly glad to go back there, to go anywhere that wasn’t the house or the shop. His housekeeper had left good food and she liked the wine and she liked the way that the last rays of light seemed to linger in the garden. She had only once been in another big house, Thaddeus’s home, but she preferred this one for some reason. Maybe because there was nobody in it but herself and Joe, so there was no intrusion and no whining woman like Alice who was discontented and had made her daughter reach out too far and fall.

Joe had a gardener who was making plants grow around the house, but she thought it would not take much for the fell to encroach once again. A week or two left to itself and there would be little trace of such civilisation. That was what she liked about it, she thought — there was nothing to stop the howling winds, the hard rain and now the still eventide as it fell soundlessly across the open land. You could see for miles and miles. It looked as though it went on for ever, easy on the eye and with that rarity of air — like champagne, Joe said.

‘I haven’t had champagne.’

‘Would you like some?’

‘You have champagne?’ she asked, astonished.

‘There could be some in the cellar. My father didn’t drink stuff like that. He specialised in spirits.’

She followed Joe into the house and down the cellar steps. He dusted off various bottles until he found what he thought they wanted and then, carefully by candlelight, they made their way back to the kitchen. He opened the bottle and found some wonderful glasses with long stems and wide mouths in a back cupboard. The pop of the cork made her laugh. The way the bubbles foamed and danced as he poured mesmerised her, and the taste was beyond anything that she had ever imagined. Sweet like honey and dry upon the tongue and unlike anything she had experienced before. One glass made her happy but she was unable to refuse a second.

Joe produced chicken from the larder and bread and cheese and they sat at the kitchen table and talked about the shop and the pit and business in general, so when it was late and he offered to take her home, made brave by half a bottle of champagne, she ventured, ‘I would like to stay, if you don’t mind.’

Joe showed her upstairs into a clean neat bedroom which smelled of polish and lavender and beyond which a moon hung gracefully in a cloudless night sky. She opened the window and said as he was about to leave the room, ‘Stay here with me.’

Joe stopped by the open door.

‘Am I forward?’ she said. ‘I’m so tired of being alone.’

‘Me too.’

Joe closed the door and came back to her, and then it was just a question of not knowing one another and of the surprise that he was not Tom, nothing like Tom, and she was glad of that. He was not like Dryden either, but there was no use in grieving over it because she could not and would not be able to have Dryden. Esther Margaret’s baby was due in the late summer and Esther Margaret should be happy. She did not have the right to intrude upon the chance of that happiness. There was nothing to be gained from wishing.

Luisa McAndrew had taught Joe how to make love, or he had known and she had given him confidence, and something else new. He was a gentleman, and although he was not rich it was all rich compared to anything she had known before. The bed was huge and the house was far enough away from the village so that there were no noises from either it or the pit. There were no interruptions, nobody to overhear, such as there might be in a pit row. Nobody needed looking after and, best of all — and she felt guilty over it — Joe pleased her. Tom had never done anything to make her want him, he just assumed she did. In the beginning she had, when he was kind, which was not often, but he had not made her want to take part, had not made her laugh, had not made her feel safe. That was the best of it. That was what money and a little power and independence did. It gave you a house apart up on the fell and cold champagne and a man clever enough to know what you needed. For the first time then in bed with Joe, Vinia understood a little of why Luisa had married George. Cold beds and rough men played their part, but luxury gave an edge to pleasure like nothing else.

Also, Joe had class in a way George McAndrew never could. Vinia could see why Luisa would want the one as well as the other. You could tell it was Joe’s house just by this bedroom, which was not his personally. There were lots of books. There was a writing table over by the window with pens and paper and
a silver inkwell. The furniture was old and stout and well polished and there were big rugs on either side of the bed. The bed was thick and wide and the sheets had not been slept in before now. As for Joe himself, he was the way that men ought to be. When the day began to dawn again the light fell upon his pale golden hair and smooth shoulders. She didn’t love him, she thought, while he slept, but she liked him very much and she enjoyed the way he made her feel.

They left the house and went to work before his housekeeper arrived to find them, but he lingered at the shop, kissing her in the back room when he should have been at the pit.

‘I have to open the shop,’ she objected, laughing.

‘Not yet.’

‘Now.’

He went. She didn’t want him to go but she didn’t want anybody to see him there either, and he had made promises to come back at the day’s end. Em arrived and later the customers and she was caught up in the work and the day, but at the back of her mind were images of the night before and she kept smiling, thinking of him.

In the early evening, when Em had gone, she heard the doorbell and called out from the back, ‘We’re closed,’ and then went through and Dryden was standing with his back to the door as though to hold off intruders.

‘You went to Joe.’

She looked deep into the dark eyes and said flatly, ‘Yes, I did. Would you have me not?’

Dryden seemed to have difficulty in breathing.

‘No. No. Of course I wouldn’t. If I didn’t want your happiness what would I be?’

‘Human?’

He smiled.

‘Nobody ever accused me of that before. But you are all right?’

She took a deep breath.

‘I’m all right, yes.’

‘And expecting him?’

‘I’m hoping.’

‘I’m going.’

He went. And shortly after that Joe arrived.

‘Was that Dryden?’ he asked, looking down the street.

‘Yes.’

That was the love of her life, not given expression nor room nor time nor space nor any hope. In heaven she would be Tom’s and on earth she might be Joe’s, but there was nowhere and no way that she would ever look across a room and think that she might be going home to bed with Dryden Cameron legitimately, bound in church, feted by friends, allowed by God. It was a clawing in the darkness at empty air. It was not meant to be in the great grand scheme, it held no substance and had no time. It was a cry unanswered in the night, it was the disappearing around the corner, it was the empty main street in the early evening.

She walked slowly through into the back.

‘I could come by later,’ Joe said.

He was not insensitive, she thought, smiling.

‘No, no, I want you here.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘I wouldn’t want you to think that …’

‘I wouldn’t think it. Tell me, Joe, do you still consider Esther Margaret?’

‘Consider her what?’

‘Just consider her.’

‘Sometimes. Yes. It wasn’t meant to be.’

‘But you love her?’

‘She was my first love. Luisa was my second.’

‘And am I to be the third?’

‘You could be the last if you wished,’ he said.

Esther Margaret’s baby was a boy, born upon the hottest August day, and it was as unlike the last time as possible. For one thing its father was at home since her labour started on the Saturday evening and went on all through Sunday.

Dryden hardly moved from the house and kept on coming upstairs. It was sweltering and all the windows were open to catch even the slightest breeze coming in from the fells. He had insisted on having the doctor there at the beginning and nobody objected. The doctor didn’t seem to mind Dryden intruding all the time, anxious and fretting and sitting down on the bed and generally getting in the way, though he did calm Esther Margaret by holding her hand quite a lot of the time in the early stages.

By the time the baby was born he had retreated to the front room. It was late on Sunday evening and long shadows fell across the houses. Vinia found him asleep on the settee.

‘Long day?’ she said sarcastically as he opened his eyes.

Dryden sat up abruptly.

‘Is it all right?’

‘Everything’s fine. You can go up now.’

Dryden ran. Vinia felt left out but she didn’t want to intrude on what should be a private moment for them. Esther Margaret was so happy she almost shone, Vinia thought, and she determined to leave the shop for Em to look after during the
first few days when Esther Margaret would need rest and perhaps some reassurance.

That first morning, unable to shut the doors because of the heat, Vinia was treated to a visit from Mary, who crept into the house wide-eyed and stopped when Vinia barred the stairs.

‘I’ve come to see the baby,’ she announced.

Vinia was reluctant but Esther Margaret shouted down the stairs.

‘Let her come up.’

Mary took the stairs nimbly, Vinia following. She stopped when she reached the doorway, gazed at the child asleep in Esther Margaret’s arms and then tiptoed into the room. She stood looking down at him and her eyes filled with tears.

‘They took him from me,’ she said. ‘Alf wouldn’t have him there. Those awful people, they took him away.’

‘Would you like to hold him?’ Esther Margaret offered.

Vinia frowned but Esther Margaret gave the baby to Mary.

‘He’s just like his father was,’ Mary said.

‘Dryden says he looks like Tom.’

‘He does have a look of Tommy,’ Mary said, beginning to smile.

‘We’re going to call him Tom.’

Vinia was not worried that Mary would drop the baby or try to run from the house with him. Suddenly the air in the room was no longer oppressive; from beyond the open window a cool breeze fluttered upon the curtains.

We’ll never get rid of her, Vinia thought, watching Mary trundle happily up the yard some time later. She turned at the gate and waved.

In the afternoon Joe arrived, bearing champagne and smiling, but when he went upstairs to see the baby Vinia realised that it was an act of bravado. After he was born Joe had not seen his son, nor, she thought sadly, would he.

‘Poor little beggar. He looks too much like Dryden to call him handsome,’ he said.

‘My husband is very handsome,’ Esther Margaret declared, laughing, and it made Vinia feel hollow to hear her say it. She watched Joe with Esther Margaret. She could see that to him the woman in the bed was another man’s wife with his child in her arms, and although she was beautiful motherhood had changed the way she appeared to Joe. When he left the room Esther Margaret no longer looked wistfully at the doorway; she was too busy watching her son sleeping in her arms.

Joe walked slowly downstairs.

‘I should go.’

‘Should you? Why?’

‘You’re busy with the baby and everything.’

‘The baby’s father will be due home soon and I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a little free time.’

Joe said nothing.

‘If you’re busy …’ Vinia said.

‘No.’ Joe looked at her. ‘Vinia, have you ever thought about getting married again?’

She stared at him.

‘What sort of a question is that?’

‘I know you weren’t very happy with Tom and you have the shop and …’

‘I certainly couldn’t consider getting married again if it meant giving up the shop.’

‘And if it didn’t mean giving up the shop?’

‘I don’t know. I know what’s brought this on,’ she said frankly, ‘but I don’t think I can bear a child.’

‘Why not?’

Under his cool look Vinia blushed.

‘Because I haven’t, and in the light of what’s happened in your life I think it could become very important to you. I’ve been through one bad marriage. I’d rather stay single than be blamed for you not having a son.’

‘I’m very fond of you,’ Joe said.

It made her want to laugh. It was such a middle-of-the-day
kind of declaration, whereas on Saturday nights in his bed he wasn’t happy until she was exhausted, bruised and completely satisfied.

‘Why is that funny?’ he said, looking offended.

‘We could go on as we are until I’m pregnant.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m just some village lad who might have to get married. I’m tired of just Saturday nights. I want you to be my wife. I’m proud of you. I want you to myself.’

Vinia was suddenly aware of Dryden filling the doorway. Sometimes when he came in he was nothing but Esther Margaret’s husband, black and weary from the day. Sometimes he was Tom, irritable and hungry, and other times he was the traveller from the moor with eyes a hundred years old.

‘Now then,’ he said, as though he hadn’t heard anything.

‘Dryden,’ Joe acknowledged him.

‘Joe brought champagne for the baby.’

‘Really? Did he drink it all?’

‘If you tidy yourself up we could open it and toast the baby’s health.’

‘Is he all right? Is Esther Margaret all right?’

Vinia was beginning to think he would never lose the anxious note in his voice, or the question in his eyes.

‘They’re fine.’

Dryden’s ill temper did not dissipate, though she believed she was the only one to realise that he was angry. To anyone else he would have seemed perfectly friendly. They drank the baby’s health, and though Joe found the champagne too warm nobody else was complaining.

When Joe had gone she began to make the tea. Dryden hovered in the kitchen, saying finally, ‘So, are you going to marry him?’