There were more fat flakes of snow blowing in the wind now, and as Polly crossed the road into Fawcett Street the sky was low and heavy; the pavements crowded with bustling shoppers anxious to get home to the warm before the weather worsened.
Should she wait for a tram? And then she answered herself almost immediately as one drew away some yards in front of her. No, no, she wouldn’t. It would probably be ten minutes or so until the next one, and then it would only take her part of the way home. She was warmly dressed, and a brisk walk wouldn’t do her any harm. If she stepped out she could be back at the farm before it was really dark. Having decided what she was going to do, she lifted up her head, pulled her hat more firmly over her ears and set off at a smart rate for the outskirts of the town without looking back. Which was her first mistake.
When Luke had seen Polly hurrying past the colliery yard his first reaction – to call her name – had been quickly checked. He was in his working clothes and as black as the ace of spades, which couldn’t have been more of a contrast to Frederick’s tweeds and leather boots. She was gone in an instant, but then he noticed Arnold detach himself from a group of the men who were standing about talking after the union meeting and disappear, not in the direction of his old home, as Luke would have expected – Arnold having promised he’d look in on Eva after the shift – but southwards, towards North Bridge Street.
It was instinctual to follow his brother, and when it became obvious that Arnold, in turn, was tailing the slender, blue-coated figure in front of them both, Luke’s inherent distrust of his sibling quickened his footsteps, but still he didn’t make himself known. He felt slightly ridiculous as the three of them walked on, but then Polly was crossing the bridge and Luke, like Polly, was straining his eyes for Frederick’s horse and trap.
And then Polly stopped and he watched Arnold catch her up and the pair of them begin to talk, and he felt even more foolish as he hovered in the middle of the bridge pretending to look at the ships below while he kept an eye on the couple in front of him.
He must look a right Charlie. A three-masted sailing ship was being towed by a tugboat in the distance as he feigned an interest in the river, but within moments Polly and Arnold had parted – Polly walking on down Bridge Street in the direction of Fawcett Street and Arnold turning right into Matloor Street.
Of course – Polly must be meeting Frederick at his gentlemen’s club in Fawcett Street. The penny suddenly dropped. Frederick had rammed his damn club down their throats enough on those Sunday afternoons long ago; his membership there, which involved rubbing shoulders with many of the leading lights of the town, was very important to Polly’s husband. But where was Arnold going? Luke frowned to himself as he continued to stand on the bridge, a few desultory snowflakes whirling and dancing in the bitterly cold air. His brother had said he was going to come and pay his respects to Eva and have a word with Michael once the shift had finished, and he couldn’t be going to his lodgings – Luke knew the room Arnold rented was in a house in Barrington Street, at the back of St Peter’s graveyard in Monkwearmouth. Still, it was none of his business. He wasn’t his brother’s keeper. He’d better get back home; Michael would be wondering what had happened to everyone, and he’d probably had more than enough of his mother by now, and Elsie Appleby oohing and ahhing over him.
Luke smiled to himself as he turned back the way he had come. Elsie had actually genuflected at her first sight of Michael the night before, and he was sure that Eva – as Michael’s mother – had immediately achieved a status just a little lower than the Virgin Mary in Elsie’s devout Catholic eyes.
They had talked half the night, he and Michael. Luke walked swiftly now, anxious to get home and wash the pit out of his skin and hair. Funny really, but Michael had always been more his brother than Arnold could ever be, even though there was no blood tie between them and in spite of knowing that Michael held Polly’s heart. He was glad he had seen him again, although his shock – like Elsie’s – had been considerable when he’d first opened the door to a young priest with Michael’s face.
He passed Monkwearmouth Station and the row of houses beyond, but it was as he reached the school on the comer and a tumble of children came spilling out that his footsteps slowed. So many raggedy-arsed little nippers, he thought bleakly. When were times going to change? Half of them were bandy-legged with rickets, their stick legs thrust into broken-down boots that were several sizes too large, having been passed down from an older brother or sister. Back-to-back hovels with one living room, one bedroom and a damp, dark cellar for families of fourteen and more was no way to live, and that was what a good number of these bairns would be going home to. Aye, and on their way some of them would be looking for an orange box or wet-fish box that a kind shopkeeper would leave outside to give a family free fuel for a night.
Luke breathed in deeply, the rage which always accompanied the feeling of social injustice he felt at times such as these making his stomach knot.
He was still thinking of the children he’d seen when he reached home, Michael meeting him at the kitchen door. ‘Arnold not with you?’ Michael asked quietly.
‘He’ll be here shortly, no doubt.’ As Michael mentioned his brother’s name Luke felt the same sense of unease he’d felt earlier in the colliery yard, and then he told himself not to be daft. Polly was all right – she was with Frederick. And then, looking at Michael’s face, Luke said, ‘What is it? Is she worse?’
‘Aye, a coma the doctor said, but I can’t help feeling it’s one of her own making. Polly was here and my mother went for her; I think the bitterness of years was vented on Polly’s head,’ Michael said soberly. ‘You just missed her, she’s gone to meet Frederick.’
Luke nodded, thrusting the kettle into the glow of the fire in the range as he said, ‘I’ll have a quick wash-down and then look in on Eva, although I doubt there’s anything anyone can do.’
‘There never was, Luke.’
‘Aye, you’re right there, man.’
They looked at each other for a long moment before Luke turned away.
Once he had filled the tin bath in the scullery and washed the black coal dust out of the pores of his skin and his hair – no easy task with the portion of hard, marble-veined soap – Luke dressed quickly in clean clothes. It was something Nathaniel had always done immediately on returning from the pit, and he and Arnold had followed suit. ‘You’ll come back mucky but that’s no excuse for wallowin’ in it like some do,’ his father had said to them both on their first days down the pit. ‘We’re men, not pigs, an’ don’t you forget it, son.’
After banging his heavy pit clothes against the wall in the backyard to get the thick of the dirt off, Luke cleaned his boots and left the pile to one side of the boiler in the washhouse ready to put on in the morning. They would be cold and slightly damp, but Eva had never allowed any of them to bring their working clothes into the house once they had stripped off, and old habits died hard.
Once back in the kitchen, he accepted the mug of tea Michael handed him, glancing at the clock on the dresser as he said, ‘Arnold’s taking his time. I saw him take off over the bridge earlier, so I reckon he’s got a bit of business in Bishopwearmouth.’
They both knew Arnold’s weakness for dabbling in the odd items that fell off the back of a lorry, and he’d got more than one pal who worked at the docks.
‘Oh, aye? You didn’t see Polly there? She was meeting Frederick at the bridge.’
‘At the bridge?’ Luke looked up sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
Michael nodded. ‘She left in something of a hurry, she was late and—’
He found he was talking to thin air. Luke had already left the house at a run, grabbing his coat and cap as he flew out into the street and set off in the direction of Wearmouth Bridge.
Something was wrong, something was very wrong here. He had felt it earlier but ignored his gut instinct, Luke told himself as he half ran, half walked the pavements, which were already covered in a thin white layer of snow.
It was now gone four o’clock, and as Luke reached the bridge the streets were still crowded, but once through the main part of Bishopwearmouth town they began to empty rapidly. Luke passed Mowbray Park and carried on down Burdon Road until he came to the comer of Christ Church, whereupon he turned right towards Tunstall Vale and Tunstall Road. It was the most direct route to Stone Farm and one he had walked many a time, but now his breath was tearing his lungs and he had to stop a moment and take deep pulls of air before again running on.
The light was failing swiftly, but owing to the white blanket settling on the fields and trees it wasn’t dark, and Luke’s eyes were straining ahead, frantic to catch sight of a blue-coated figure in front of him.
Maybe Arnold had gone to see one of his cronies in Bishopwearmouth? No, no, he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure how he came about his knowledge, but Luke would have bet his life on the fact that Arnold had somehow suspected that Polly had missed Frederick. If indeed she had. No, she had. She had. But pray God she hadn’t. By, he wasn’t making sense here, not even to himself. The lads at the colliery were forever pulling his leg about how he was so clear and concise about everything; they should hear him now.
If she’d caught a tram part way she could be home by now. Or maybe she would take a horse cab? He might get to the farm and she’d be sitting with the rest of them at her tea or whatever. Still, he could make some excuse about Eva.
Eva
. He groaned inwardly at the realisation that he had never even popped up to see his stepmother, but then dismissed the guilt in the next moment as his anxiety regarding Polly’s safety swamped everything. But she
could
be safely home and Arnold could be knocking the door in Southwick Road at this very minute. He could be wrong about all of this. So why didn’t he feel that deep inside the core of him?
Stop thinking and concentrate on running
. His brain gave the command and he obeyed it, the impetus putting wings on his feet as he ran on through the raw November night.
When Arnold had left Polly he’d walked briskly down Matloor Street for a few yards, but after surreptitiously checking over his shoulder he dived down the street running parallel to Bridge Street and emerged at the junction with High Street West just in time to see Polly cross the road some fifty yards away and continue on along Fawcett Street.
She might be meeting Frederick. He frowned briefly as he crossed the road himself and then hurried on into Fawcett Street, keeping to the opposite side of the road to Polly. But somehow he didn’t think so. Adrenalin born of excitement was making his heart pound. Well, he’d soon find out one way or the other, and if she’d got a fancy man somewhere . . . He wetted his lips, his eyes narrowing. He’d have something over her then right enough. By, he’d give his right arm to have her squirming, he would that. Never thought he was good enough, did she? An ordinary working man wasn’t good enough for the likes of Polly Weatherburn.
He followed her cautiously, and when Polly walked on down Burdon Road Arnold’s brow wrinkled again. Whoever it was she couldn’t wait to see him, the brazen hussy. All decked out in her fine togs, but under the fur and linen she was scum, just like her da.
It wasn’t until Polly had passed Tunstall Hills Farm that it actually dawned on Arnold what had happened. He’d gone without her! Frederick had gone back without waiting for her. Well, well, well. His bottom lip moved over his top as he narrowed his eyes reflectively. So that was how it was. Mind, he wasn’t surprised. All wind and water, Frederick was. It would take a real man to satisfy a tart little piece like Polly, and Frederick didn’t have it in him, the soft nowt.
There was only the odd house dotted every few hundred yards along the road now, although the lane was heavily fringed with trees, which Arnold used to his advantage. Polly was still striding out, obviously intent on getting home before dark, and when she came to the fork in the road a third of a mile past Tunstall Hills Farm she took the path which led past the Silksworth Colliery and on to Farrington Hall, beyond which was the village and then the winding path to Stone Farm.
Arnold was sweating heavily now, although it was nothing to do with the pace at which he was walking; rather the realisation that an opportunity had presented itself to him tonight the like of which he might never have again. He was going to have her. For years he had wanted her and tonight he was going to have her. And the way things obviously were with Frederick, she’d probably like it too. Oh, she might squawk a bit, they all squawked when you gave it to them rough, but they liked it too. He knew. Oh, aye, he knew all right. There wasn’t much about women he didn’t know.
The snowflakes were thicker now, and dodging behind trees as he was, he lost sight of her in front of him for a moment or two. He moved quicker and then had to stop sharply and duck down on his haunches when he saw she had stopped and was talking to two women who looked to be miners’ wives from the village. They had a couple of bairns with them and a babe in arms, and after a while he saw Polly open her bag and take something out, pressing it towards the baby before the mother reached out her hand and bobbed her head in thanks.
Obviously crossing a new arrival’s palm with silver, Arnold thought to himself. Lady Bountiful to the last. His lips drew back from his teeth in a sneer. Well, she could give him something the night, and he wasn’t talking about a silver thrupenny bit neither.