A man who cried (41 page)

towards it, but did not follow him inside because he was thinking, He wants to cry. But when,

five minutes later, his father appeared his eyes were dry. There were no signs of tears in them,

and he thought that was strange for he usually cried when he was deeply moved. Had those

months in prison hardened him ? As they walked out of the hospital he stared at his father’s

profile, and the only answer he could give himself was, He’s changed.

”What kind of a room is it?” asked Hilda.

He turned away towards the fireplace and hesitated before he said, ”Not much. It’s clean though.

He says it’ll do for the present; it’s better than the digs.”

”Whereabouts is it?”

He hesitated again, longer this time before answering, ”It’s in Bartwell Place.”

”Bartwell Place ?” Her voice was high. ”That’s in Bog’s End!”

”Well” - he turned towards her - ”it’s the most convenient spot for him, it’s halfway between the

factory and the hospital.”

”How much is he paying for it ?”

Dick was forced to smile here and she cried at him now, ”Well, there’s no disgrace in being

practical.”

”No, no, there’s not, Mam.” He had fallen into the habit of calling her mam with an ease which

was in a way a surprise to both of them, because she now accepted it as if it were her right, in

fact she acted towards him more now as a mother would, not watching her every word in case he,

too, would leave her.

”Well, what is he paying for it?”

”He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”

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”He’ll have to have something different from that if he’s to get

her out.”

”He knows that and he’s on the look-out for some place.” ”How . . . how soon do you think she’ll

be able to come out ?” She was at the cupboard and her question was low, muttered as if she

were speaking to someone inside it.

When he made no reply she turned to him and said, ”I was talking to you, I asked you . . .”

”Yes, I know you did, and I can’t give you an answer.” ”Why ?” She came towards him and they

stood with the table between them looking at each other; then he said, ”I ... I have me doubts as

to whether she’ll ever come out. It seems she’s in a bad way. I was talking to one of the nurses.”

”You never said.”

”No, I know. But we should have surmised something, she’s been down to the theatre three times

lately.”

After a moment she turned from the table and went towards the crib and she looked down on the

sleeping child as she asked softly, ”Does . . . does he ever speak of her ?”

Again she had to turn to him and wait for an answer and when it came it was brief and he said,

”No.”

Dick now watched her bend over the child and adjust the blanket under its chin, and he realized

that in a way she must be suffering as much as either Florrie or his father, because if his father

did manage to get a bungalow and Florrie ever came out she would naturally want the child, and

his father being who he was would see that she had her, and also someone there to help look after

it. On the other hand, if Florrie died the child was all he would have left, and still being who he

was, he would take it because, although he hadn’t mentioned it, it didn’t mean that he didn’t

think about it. He had seen him holding his daughter, and when he held her he was holding the

mother. Poor Hilda. Although he knew that she was grateful for his presence in the house, and

for Molly’s company too, it was the child that was bringing her comfort now, and as long as she

could keep her it would go on doing so. But once it was taken from her she would be lost again.

Automatically he now went towards the wireless to switch on the news, and as he did so he

thought there was so much tragedy in this house that it made him forget the greater tragedy of the

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war. It was strange but the war seemed to be of no <&nsequence to him now. He didn’t even

think of the air force any more, what he thought about was the lack of happiness in those close’to

him. When you got down to rock bottom it was the personal issues that mattered. The woman

with a broken back, the man who had never known happiness, and her standing across the

kitchen there, the wife who had never really known what it was to be a wife.

He had said to Molly that they would be happy, in spite of all the emotional turmoil around them

they would be happy; but what he had learned over these past weeks was that people were

entwined one with the other, and that you couldn’t isolate yourself from them and say, ”I am

going to be happy”, because their emotions penetrated you and cast a shadow over your

happiness, they tinged your love with sadness and fear until you were being forced to believe that

sadness and fear were part of love. He didn’t want to see love like that, not his and Molly’s love.

He didn’t want his life to be like his father’s.

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11

She had said to Dick, ”I’d like to see our Florrie, again; and to this he had answered, ”The only

clear time is a Wednesday afternoon because he’s there every evening and Saturday and Sunday

afternoon too.”

She had said, ”I’ll go tomorrow then,” and so here she stood, holding in one hand a basket

containing a box of home-made cakes and her month’s ration of sweets, and in the other a bunch

of flowers, and she was staring with stretching eyes and open mouth at the empty bed. It was

stripped right down to the mattress.

When she dashed into the corridor she almost overbalanced two visitors approaching the ward,

and now running towards the duty room she went straight in and gasped, ”Mrs Ford ! Mrs Ford,

where is she? Have they moved her?”

”Eeh! I know nothing about it.” A woman turned from the sink where she was washing dishes.

”You’ll have to see the nurse or sister. Go to the office.”

She was in the corridor again ; then she stopped and darted back into the kitchen. ”Where’s the

office ?”

The woman looked at her as if she were mental and said, ”Right afore you, in that door there

where it says office.”

She turned about again and the next minute she was knocking on the door marked office. It was

some seconds before it was opened by a nurse, and she gabbled at her, ”Mrs . . . Mrs Ford, where

is she? Have . . . have they moved her?”

The nurse, holding the door-handle, looked back over her shoulder towards the sister seated

behind the desk, and she, rising to her feet, came forward, saying, ”Come in. Please take a seat.”

When she took a seat the sister said, ”I’m very sorry but Mrs

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Ford died this morning. You should have got word, aftd a message was sent to the man who

comes to visit her, but there was no reply, he must be out at work. Anyway, a note was left for

him.”

She’s dead! Florrie.

When she sprang up from the seat the sister took her arm, saying, ”Sit quiet for a moment,” but

Hilda, shaking her off, muttered, ”No! no! I’ve got to get back and . . . and tell Dick; he’s got to go and find him ... his father.”

The nurse and sister looked at each other.

Hilda now went towards the door, then stopped and turning she asked flatly, ”Where’ve they put

her?”

”In the mortuary.” The sister didn’t add ”Of course”, but her n’V tone implied the words.

”Oh! Oh!”

She ran along the corridor, out of the hospital, round by the bed that had once held flowers but

was now showing the stripped stalks of brussels sprouts, and into the street.

There she hesitated and looked first one way and then the other before she turned in the direction

of home, running one minute, walking the next, talking to herself all the way. Dick wouldn’t be

finished till five, but she could go to the factory and perhaps he could get off an hour earlier and go and meet his father and tell him, break it to him. That’s what she would do, she would go to

the factory. But she’d have to go home first and leave these things. The bairn would be all right

with Molly. It was a good job she was on the night shift. Yes, yes. She was still gabbling to

herself like someone demented.

As she went up the yard a man said, ”You not doing business any more, I’ve been waiting round

here half an hour for me bike?”

”Oh, I’m sorry. Turnbull, isn’t it?”

”Yes.”

”Just a minute.” She opened the kitchen door, threw the flowers and the basket on the table,

picked up a bunch of keys from a nail, flung out of the kitchen again, locking the door behind

her; then opening the garage door she again said, ”Turnbull?”

”Yes.”

”Here. . . here it is.” ,
,•’.”

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”It’s taken some time,” said the man; ”it’s been here over a fortnight.”

She turned on him now angrily. ”Well, you know yourself we can’t get labour, nor bits. You’re

lucky my son works in his spare time doing them.”

”He gets paid for it, doesn’t he?”

She wheeled the bike forward and thrust it at him and when he said, ”What’s the cost?” she ran

into the office, looked up a narrow ledger and shouted towards him, ”Twelve and six,” and at this

he shouted back at her, ”God! I could have got a secondhand one for that.”

She almost pushed him and the bike out of the garage; then having locked it she was running

once more. It was a good fifteen minutes’ walk to the munitions factory but she covered it in less

than ten, and after making enquiries at the gate the porter, looking up a ledger, said, ”Gray, Dick

Gray. Aye, number four shop. Along the end there.” He pointed. . . .

Five minutes later she was walking out of the gate with Dick and he was saying, ”I knew it was

coming, I knew it would happen, but not as quick as this.” She looked at his grease-smeared

profile as she said, ”Do you ... do you think he knew ?”

”Yes, he was bound to. There’s been a change in her these last two weeks but I knew he kept

hoping. But he wouldn’t expect it to be so sudden.”

When they came to the crossroads and their ways lay in different directions she confronted him

squarely and quietly. She said, ”Stay with him as long as he needs you, I’ll . . . I’ll be all right.

If ... if I want company there’s Molly. He’ll have to see to the funeral and things, he’ll . . . he’ll need help.”

He looked at her steadily for a moment, then bending forward, he kissed her on the cheek before

turning quickly away.

As she walked blindly homewards she kept repeating to herself, ”Oh! Florrie, Florrie!” and each

time she spoke the name it was a plea for forgiveness. Since they were young she had slandered

her, and since Abel had come into her life her jealousy had bred hate in her; and now she was

gone, and it was too late to say to her, ”I’m sorry for all the things I said about you.”

When she reached the kitchen she sat down at the table without taking her hat and coat off, and

laying her head on her arms she cried, and as she cried she talked to the woman who for years

she

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had thought of as her sister, she talked to her as she had né^er talked to her in her life; and

finally, before raising her head from the table she beseeched her, ”Please, Florrie, let me bring up your child. Let me keep her. Please. Please.” ^.

rv

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•**

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12

Dick couldn’t understand his father. That night he had met him outside the gates of the works.

Although his very presence he knew must have conveyed to him why he was there, and he had

given him the news as gently as possible, Abel had just stared at him, then walked on in the

direction of Bog’s End. Once, he had stopped and put his hand out against a lamp-post; his arm

extended to its full length, he had stood supporting himself while he looked down at his feet;

then had walked on again.

Inside the dingy room, Dick had expected him to give way but all he had done was to sit down

and stare towards the gas ring that stood on the bare table next to the shallow sink. When he had

said to him, ”Will I make you a cup of tea?” he was answered by a shake of the head.

Not until he had mentioned the funeral did his father speak. ”The funeral will have to be

arranged,” he said, and Abel answered, ”I’ll see to that.”

After Abel had left the room to go to the outside toilet and when, twenty minutes later, had not

returned, Dick had opened the back door to see a strange man standing in the yard. He was

leaning against the doorway leading to the upstairs rooms, and he looked towards Dick while

nodding towards the lavatory as he said, ”That bugger’s takin’ his time.”

When his father came out a few minutes later he passed the man without looking at him, and

when he entered the room he said to Dick, ”You go home now; I’ll be all right.”

”I’m not going to leave you like this.”

Abel had then turned and looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time that night, and

he said quietly, ”I’m going to be like this for a long time, lad, a long, long time., so you go

home.”

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Dick swallowed deeply. ”I’ll go back and get a
wasf,
and change,” he said, ”but I’ll be along later.” I

”I might be out.” |

”I’ll be along anyway. ...”

Abel hadn’t been out when he returned that night, nor the following four nights preceding the

funeral. . . .

The sun was shining and the frost glistened on the grass. Besides the minister and the

gravedigger,

the only people present at the graveside were his father, Hilda, and himself.