Shelter from the Storm (5 page)

Joe stood well back, watching her.

‘It’s a … it’s a very pretty dress,’ he said, and she thought happily that he was not like Billy and neither was he like Dryden, and she was glad of that, she was glad of it all. It was almost last Sunday, it was almost normality if anything could be. She smiled at him.

‘Vinia made it for me. She’s very clever, she makes all kinds of things.’

‘Have you ever thought of running away?’

It was so unexpected she stared into Joe’s green eyes.

‘You can’t run from things,’ she said.

Joe looked down at the path and the daffodils that had somehow made their way through the mess that was not quite a garden, and then away at the vast expanse of fell.

‘I want to.’

She didn’t blame him. People talked of his father being rich because he had the pit and that great barn of a house up on the fell, but it wasn’t true. They weren’t rich at all, they could hardly keep the pit going. They had no carriage any more, no servants except that awful Jacob Smith, and the house looked as though it was falling down. They didn’t go anywhere that she knew of and Joe had never gone to school. He had never done anything that lads might do or wanted to do, she thought. No wonder he was ready to run.

‘You can’t. If you do everything follows you.’

‘How can it?’

‘That’s what people say, that your problems follow you because they’re inside you, things you have to deal with, and that you take them with you.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘God helps.’

‘God doesn’t do anything for people,’ Joe said.

Esther Margaret was horrified. Nobody said things like that.

‘It isn’t true, Joe. God is inside you. “Greater is He that is in you than he that is in the world”. He gives people strength.’

Joe’s green eyes were like the stained glass in the church, all deep and keen.

‘Come with me,’ he said.

Esther Margaret stared. The wind coming off the fell was bitter, and from inside the hall she could hear the sound of other people’s voices. She thought that because of what had happened this week she would always feel as if they were in there and she was out here and they could not be mixed. For a moment she considered how wonderful it would be to leave, and then she remembered Joe’s mother. She had run away from whatever problems were haunting her, she had run off and left her husband and child for some no-good man, and she had died and for ever and ever she would lie in the churchyard, held fast, the punishment for those who ran away — death and spiritual abandonment. It was not to be thought of. Joe’s mother had gone to hell for what she had done and burned for ever, looking down and seeing her child unloved and neglected and not being able to do anything about it. That was not for Esther Margaret. She would stay here and try to get things right.

‘You can’t leave,’ she said. ‘What about your father?’

Joe laughed. It was not a nice sound. He didn’t say anything and they stood for quite a long time while the wind blew cold upon Esther Margaret’s dress, which was meant for ceremonies but had not been made for gardens in early spring.

‘It’s Easter Sunday tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Good things always happen then. It’s joyful.’

‘Nothing good ever happens,’ Joe said bitterly.

Esther Margaret could see her mother hovering in the doorway and wondered why she had to time everything so badly.

‘Esther Margaret, what on earth are you doing out there? You’ll catch your death of cold. Get back in here.’

It seemed to her that her mother had been harsher with her that week than ever before. The whole world was turned upside down. She stared at Joe. Irritatingly she was reminded of all those things her mother had said the previous Sunday, that Joe came from weak people who ran from their fears and gave up their children, who did not honour respectability, who put themselves
first. He was just like his mother, she thought; he was going to run. She lifted her chin, ignoring her mother’s call. ‘I have a life here and a family and I could never run away. My future is here. You must go if you can do no better.’

She marched back into the hall feeling smug and self-righteous and better than she had felt all week. Her mother had been right — he was not the man for her, he was not worthy of her. He was no more to her than Billy Robson. She went up to the minister and asked him how his mother was and saw him smile approvingly upon her.

*

Joe watched her as she went back inside. He had not expected her to say yes but then he had not thought she would say no. He didn’t know what he had thought, just that there was no future in this place, but he could see that if he did leave she would despise him. There was little point in going if she would not go too, but she had so much, he could see that — her family and whatever life brought her — and it would be good, there was no reason why it should not be. People like Esther Margaret deserved rich and rewarding lives and he felt sure that hers would be. She was strong and capable and she believed in God. He didn’t believe in anything any more. He had felt as if he couldn’t stand another day in that house with his father and in the pit office being told what to do because his father didn’t trust him to get anything right. He had had dreams, had thought he might go to university and get away, that his father could not continue to begrudge him an education and some freedom. The truth was that his father saw nothing and cared for nothing. That morning, as Jacob had ladled what he called porridge from a black pan on to plates, thick and sticky, he had said, ‘There’s to be short time from now on.’

His father never told him anything; he relayed information through Jacob, even though he worked at the office. His father gave him no responsibility, treated him like a clerk. He hadn’t cared, had thought he was leaving. It was funny really, when he
thought back to breakfast. He had believed that it was Esther Margaret who was stopping him but it wasn’t, it was himself and his mother. She had run from everything and because of it he couldn’t go. He had to prove to his father that no matter what was thrown at him he could endure it.

He knew what short time meant; it was lower wages, but the pitmen were so badly paid already that they could ill afford any cuts. His father didn’t care and Jacob seemed to take pure delight in relaying the message. He would not give his father the satisfaction of asking questions so he had gone off to the wedding, relying on Esther Margaret to make the decision for him, and so she had, but in his heart it was already made. The pitmen had nobody on their side, and if he left nobody would help.

He came back from the wedding ready to tackle him but his father had consumed a bottle of brandy and was deeply asleep by a dying fire. The lines were etched deep in his red face and made Joe wonder what he had been like when he was young. He had the feeling that every man started off with excitement, enthusiasm, energy, ready to take on the world. His father had long since given up, and Joe had a sneaking feeling that his mother was at least partly to blame for that. He went into the kitchen where Jacob was in his usual seat by the blaze.

‘The fire’s almost out in there. See to it or my father will waken to a black grate,’ Joe said, and he took a lamp and went upstairs.

The room was dark. From the windows there was no light of any kind, neither moon nor stars. It was so dark it was frightening. It was like being down the pit, a thick darkness that you could almost touch. Joe imagined that being dead was like that, nothing around you, no waking. He could hear his father downstairs shouting at Jacob so the fire must have gone out or the brandy had run out or some other catastrophe had occurred. It was nothing to do with him — the door was closed, everybody was shut out, on the other side, away. Even Esther Margaret. The reality of her was not what he had dreamed it would be. There was something he
disliked about the way she had spoken and the way she had tripped indoors and left him. If she had intended to make him change his mind then she had succeeded. Joe banished farther from his thoughts any idea of leaving.

*

‘I’m on night shift this fortnight,’ Tom said.

Vinia opened her eyes.

‘Night shift?’

‘Aye.’ Tom kissed her, snuggled in against her body. She liked having him there, as she had known she would. Tom’s body was bliss — big and smooth and firm.

‘What does that mean in particular?’

‘It means, my petal, that at some time after midnight you will get up off your sweet backside and have hot water and a meal ready.’

Her eyes flew open.

‘Of course I will,’ she said.

‘Of course you will,’ Tom said. ‘It’s the only difficult shift that way, otherwise I finish at eight in the morning or at teatime.’

‘I know that, Tom.’

‘I know you do, but there’s a difference between knowing it and doing it.’

‘Your mother’s done it for years. I’m sure I can manage.’

Tom had gone back to sleep. For the first time she began to see what Mary Cameron had meant about being at home. At eight o’clock in the morning she was going to work and at four in the afternoon, when Tom finished, she was at work so to her way of thinking it was only the night shift that would be easy because she would be in. Never mind; Miss Applegate might appreciate her difficulty and adjust her hours. Early morning was rarely busy and neither was late afternoon or early evening; it was the middle of the day that mattered, though you could say they never had a rush on. Vinia wished they would. Most of the time she was sure that Miss Applegate could manage well enough
without her. She didn’t have to worry about it to begin with anyway, since Tom was on night shift. She closed her eyes and went back to sleep. It had been a busy night in their new home. Tom had wanted her very badly indeed and had not been satisfied until he had plundered her body thoroughly. She had made no objection; it was just that now she was so very tired.

*

That Sunday Esther Margaret did all she could to keep her thoughts away from the Cutting Bridge, but she couldn’t. It was a bright day. It was typical that it should be a much better day after the wedding, but she was glad because it was Easter Sunday, the most important day of the church calendar. And in other respects too it was a better day than last Sunday had been. In the first place Joe Forster didn’t turn up at church. She couldn’t remember that having happened before but she was glad in a way, though she was also rather anxious because she had felt guilty at what she had said to him — she thought it had been shock and all that had happened that week. She could not help feeling that morning that she was better off without Joe, though she did worry that he might have carried out his plan and left. She didn’t want him to go, not for any noble reason, just because she didn’t want him to. The good thing was that her mother didn’t lecture her. They ate their dinner in peace and Billy Robson and his parents were not invited for tea so the day was a huge improvement all round, only after they had eaten and her mother had taken up her sewing and her father had fallen asleep by the fire she kept thinking about Dryden and glancing towards the window until her mother said, ‘Why don’t you go out and get some fresh air? You’ve had a very pasty look this week. Go for a walk until teatime. It’ll do you good.’

‘I don’t think I will. I’ve got a headache.’

‘Walking on a nice sunny day is the best cure for headaches. Off you go.’

‘I could help you with your sewing or read to you.’

Her mother practically shooed her out of the door. After that came the decision as to where to go; anywhere other than the Cutting Bridge would have done. Her resolution lasted five minutes, and then she turned around and was walking quickly up the main street and around the corner into Bridge Street and out of the village. When she got to the bridge nobody was there. She was glad and then she was sorry and then she didn’t know what to think, but since her mother had told her not to come back for a couple of hours she walked on for almost an hour right away from the village until it fell out of sight and seemed to take her problems with it. She felt much more clear-headed when she turned around. Her mother, as usual, had been right. But when she got back to the bridge she could see him, leaning just as he had been last week, with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look up even when she reached him. She could have gone past and she didn’t think he would have said anything but she stopped, and when he looked up she realised that she had been waiting for him to do so, that she had been thinking all that week about how beautiful his eyes were, and it seemed to her now that they were much more so than she had thought — unfathomable, mysterious, like black stars. His skin was like fudge and his hair was black pennies and he was tall and lean and had long legs and … She was ashamed of herself, especially when he did nothing. He was not like Billy, putting himself forward, nor like Joe, making impossible decisions. He was uncomplicated, more exquisite than anything she had ever seen. Other men didn’t look like that, exotic, foreign, dangerous. He suffered her gaze and then his lashes came down like leaves on a tree, thick and sweeping and shutting everything out, and Esther Margaret took a step backwards.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said.

‘Go, then.’

‘I don’t want to.’ All she could think about was his mouth. She had never wanted anything in her life as much as she wanted his mouth. Suddenly she understood fully for the first time the meaning of ‘lead us not into temptation’. Temptation had never
been something to try to resist before. Giving in to it was the most delicious thing Esther Margaret had ever done and he understood her completely. He kissed her and this time he did it in the way that she had once hoped Joe Forster would, or some man she had never met who would become the whole world to her, and she did not deceive herself that she liked it less because it was wicked, because everybody said he was the Devil incarnate. She needed to embrace sin, she gave herself up to it, and the very trembling reluctance and guilt were the most heady thing that had ever happened. She had never tasted alcohol but she had seen the pitmen when they were intoxicated and it was the right name for it. She almost swooned with pleasure when he drew her close with gentle hands and lingered over her mouth, and it was not just the physical thing, it was much more than that. It was a oneness, an agreement, a meeting of souls, a togetherness such as never before, and he did not for one second try to press her. He was not stupid Billy Robson. He was not damaged Joe Forster. She felt as though he belonged to her as he had not and would not belong to anyone else, yet it had been nothing beyond a kiss. When she moved he released her, but she went to him, unable to bear the distance between them. She felt as though they could no longer be separated. She thought she loved him. There was no mistake. He smiled at her, held her face as though it were something precious.