A Time for Courage (29 page)

Now he moved slowly towards the stairs, each step deliberate and in time with words which rolled round his head as he cursed his daughter and all those like her. Up he went, past the room where his wife had died, past his own bedroom and then on past Harry’s room and up until he was there, and now he opened her door.

There was nothing left of her here; her books were gone, her photographs. He flung open the door of the wardrobe and there was only her old school coat and he could not tear that, the seams were too strong, so he took his pocket-knife and held the coat in his left hand while he slashed and cut until there was nothing left to recognise.

He moved to the bed, her bed, the one she had slept in last night, and the smell of her was still on the sheets and he tore them once, twice, and again and again, and when he was finished he left the room, sweat falling into his eyes, and his rage still there as he strode from the house.

She is dead to me, he told his solicitor, she does not exist any more. And he walked through the park, past nannies who wheeled babies, past children who played with balls, past ducks that swam. On and on he walked until the streets grew mean and narrow and dark and he hated Hannah, her wide mouth, her brown hair, her brown eyes, the way she swung when she walked. He hated her as he had hated her mother, his mother. Oh God, he groaned deep inside his head as he came to the path that ran by the river.

The stench filled his head. How dare she neglect her filial duty, her obedience to her father. How dare she have thoughts and plans that he knew nothing of. How dare she take it upon herself to make her own decisions.

The path was dry and he kicked up dust which caught in his throat and he coughed, putting his gloved hand to his mouth. The women were here as always and he chose one with a flick of his fingers and gripped her brown hair in his gloved hand and before all thought left him he cursed Hannah once more. How dare she reject him too, he thought, and he knew that soon he would call out that word again – mother.

The same afternoon Hannah walked down the road in Fulham past the butcher’s. She breathed in the smell from the baker’s and this time there was no one heaving furniture from a shuttered shop into a large furniture dray drawn by two large horses.

The noise was different too. There were still the cries of the hawkers and the street-traders but added to the clattering horse-drawn transport was the deeper and more violent roar of motor-cars and one omnibus which passed in a cloud of dust and caused a horse to shy, spilling its load. The sounds of curses were sharp and harsh and Hannah walked quickly now, moving in and out of the stream of other walkers. Her carpet-bag was heavy and she felt the pull of muscles in her shoulder as she passed it across to her other hand.

There were no dahlias today and so she stopped and bought watercress from an old woman with a shawled head who smiled and showed blackened teeth as she wound old newspaper round the dripping, fine-haired roots.

Hannah did not need a map. She turned right and right again and the noise of the street was left behind like it had been before as the roads narrowed and the alleys converged either side. The washing-lines were still strung high and washing hung on some but did not move because there was no wind today. She passed the first public house and then the second and saw sawdust being spread across the floor and smelt the beer again. The blackened wall was on her left and the women passing in thin torn shawls looked at her hat, at her coat, but their faces did not change.

At last she reached his street. The stairs were still dark, though the child’s cart no longer blocked the way. The stairs sounded hollow beneath her feet as she climbed and she did not stop, though with each step the words she had spoken when she was last here sounded louder and louder. Her bag was heavy again but she could not change hands; the watercress had soaked her glove and the newspaper ink would have run into the black cotton but it would not show, would it?

His door was closed and now she wanted to turn and leave, down those stairs, out into the street and along to the noise and bustle of anonymity. But she put down her bag and it fell to one side as she knocked.

There was no sound for a moment and she swallowed, her mouth dry, and again she knocked for he did not know she was coming; but if he did not reply this time then she could leave, run down the stairs and it would be as though she had never been there.

But the door opened and the light from the room fell on to her hand and caught the side of Joe’s face, lighting the gold-red hair and the pale, freckled skin, the early smile which froze on his face and his eyes which looked blank in their surprise. She could say nothing and so she held out her hand with the dripping watercress and she knew that her face was also stiff and that no smile had come.

She looked at his face and then down because he had not spoken, and she watched as water fell on to the floor from the cress and a small pool stained the unpolished floorboards of the landing. Would he leave her standing here? Would he close the door on her without ever speaking, ever smiling? But then his hand, large and strong, took the cress and fleetingly she felt his warmth and wondered if his hands were still as hard.

‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry, Joe.’ Her voice sounded too high, too tight, and now she looked into his face and there was still no smile, no sound of his voice; she waited but the silence stretched into what seemed like hours and finally she knew it was too late. She bent and picked up her carpet-bag and turned away from the light and the marigolds which still hung on the wall behind Joe. Her footsteps were loud as she walked to the stairs and the empty space was filled with a deep ache now and she hunched her shoulders to protect herself against any further pain.

She felt his hand as she reached the stairs, a hand which caught her and pulled her round, and she could not see his face because he held her close within his arms, but she could smell the varnish which was on his clothes and the wood which clung to his shirt.

‘My mother is dead and I loved her so,’ she said and felt the moist heat from her own breath. ‘I am so sorry I spoke to you as I did. You were right and I’ve missed you and Harry has gone.’

The words were tumbling now and racking sobs began which could not come before; she knew now that they had needed the comfort of his strong hands, his familiar warmth.

His voice was gentle now, not like the last time, and he talked softly as he held her. She knew that she had found her friend again and the tears went on and on until her throat was sore and his shirt was wet and still he held her and talked, though she could not hear the words.

At last the sobs became quiet tears and then just tired breathing and they walked together into his room with a silence which was not uncertain as before but full, rounded and peaceful. He helped her to a chair at the kitchen table before pouring water into the black kettle and lighting the gas burner. There were still no words as he washed thick mugs, leaving them upside-down on the wooden drainer while he held the watercress under the running tap and Hannah remembered the red-specked water as it had gushed from the cottage tap but she said nothing yet for this was a time for silence. She watched as he cut four slices from a loaf of bread which was so new that moist crumbs stuck to the knife. Did he buy it from the bakery that she had passed? His hands were deft as he placed cress between the slices and then cut the sandwiches into quarters; the green was dark against the white. He poured boiling water into the teapot, his face set in concentration, and Hannah saw new deep lines on his face which ran down to his mouth. He was drawn, thin, and there was darkness beneath his eyes. The thick-set boy was gone, the bloom of health along with it. She had seen hunger too often not to recognise it now but said nothing, only watched as he brought a newspaper from the cupboard beneath the sink and laid three sheets on the table, flattening them with his hands, blackening his palms; and it was his hands that she looked at, not his face, because he was not looking at her either.

It was only when he set the steaming mugs on the newspaper and pushed the plate of sandwiches towards her that he looked at her and smiled, and it was as though the sun had come out and the gulls wheeled and danced in the sky. He sat down at the small table opposite her.

‘Have a raw colonial sandwich, Hannah,’ he said. She felt the heat of her blush but laughed because there was so much in her after such a long dark time.

Without butter the bread was dry. She took a sip of tea and watched as he ate one of the sandwiches and then another.

‘How is your work these days, Joe?’ she asked.

‘Slow, but then these things often are.’ He ate another sandwich and she took a bite of hers. The cress was strong and hot.

‘I had no right to talk to you as I did, Hannah. I don’t know why it happened.’ But he did know and he wondered as he watched her drink more tea whether Arthur was still in her life.

Hannah sat back, her gloves by her plate. She was hot and unbuttoned her coat, pulling her arms from the sleeves, shaking her head as Joe rose to help. ‘It’s all right, Joe, I can manage.’ She turned and draped it over the chair, seeing the work-bench behind her and the two chairs of simple design beside it, partly upholstered.

‘They are very beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘So uncluttered.’ She saw for a moment her father’s drawing-room, so dark, so full, but pushed the image from her because all that was over now.

‘Thank you, Hannah. I wish more people thought as you do.’ He rose and walked to the draining-board where the teapot stood and with his back to her he said, ‘I’m so very sorry about your mother. I would find it hard to bear if mine died.’

Hannah picked up her sandwich but then put it down again for there was no hunger in her.

Joe turned, pointing to her mug, which was still half-full, but she shook her head.

‘Your mother lives a different life to the one mine had to suffer, Joe. She will be with you for much longer.’ Was there bitterness in her voice, she wondered, and knew that there was, and that Joe had heard it too because he came and sat down and placed his hand on her ungloved one and it was as hard as it had always been. She smiled.

‘So, what have you been doing and what are your plans now?’ he asked, shaking his head as she pushed the sandwiches towards him but taking another when she insisted.

He listened as she told him of her Sunday school, of the fundraising, of Esther. Of Harry and how at last they had met and talked and found one another again before he had left.

‘And Arthur?’ he asked.

‘Arthur is in Scotland shooting deer.’

‘What do you intend to do now, Hannah?’ It was not what he wanted to ask and he was surprised that his voice was steady.

Hannah sat looking at the marigolds, seeing their simplicity and warmth. ‘I’m free now, Joe. I have left home.’ She laughed at his face, at his mouth falling open.

‘My word, Cornish girl, you sure do act fast.’

Hannah registered his drawl which suddenly sounded strong.

‘Listen, colonial, the British have been known to take decisions, you know.’ Their laughter was soft and they were back as they had once been and Joe listened as she spoke of Miss Fletcher and the room she had been offered in the schoolhouse and he listened as she pondered aloud the difficulties which that entailed.

‘If I move my allegiance from the suffragists to the suffragettes and follow the Pankhursts’ militancy as I feel I must,’ she explained, ‘how can I live with someone who is a constitutionalist and supports Mrs Fawcett’s National Union of Women’s Suffrage? There is friction between the suffragettes and the suffragists already and I couldn’t bear to damage the relationship I have with Miss Fletcher.’ Hannah saw in her mind the calm face and soft grey dress of her Headmistress.

She was leaning forward, her finger running backwards and forwards on the newspaper, keeping level with the print, following the column lines, her face drawn in a frown, and she listened as Joe said that she must discuss it with the obvious person, the woman most involved.

Hannah looked at him. It was so good to be back with him. ‘You’re right, of course, and I shall, but I have another problem that needs solving first.’

She looked again at his thin face and the way his shirt hung on his body. He had finished the sandwiches now.

‘How do you manage to live, Joe?’

He looked at her and laughed. ‘Well, I breathe in and I breathe out and I guess that seems to work quite well.’

She did not laugh. ‘Food helps,’ she said and watched as his laugh died.

‘Well, Hannah, better men than I have starved in a garret for the sake of their Art.’ His voice was suddenly very British and he flourished his hand in a bow, his laugh returning.

Eliza had told her that Joe could barely live on the money that his craft brought him, that he would accept nothing from his father because he was too proud. He only wanted money that he had earned himself. She had said that London broke his heart with its darkness and misery, its stench and poverty.

‘How is Mary?’ she asked. ‘Is she still making matches?’

‘She died.’ His answer was short and his bow died in mid-flourish as he sat back in his chair, his hands on his lap, quite still.

‘Her husband too.’

‘And the children?’ she asked, fearing his answer, seeing their blank eyes, their thin bodies in the dark fetid room.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They were taken to the workhouse and I could do nothing. I had nothing I could offer. I am, as you can quite obviously see, Hannah, not exactly the American success story.’ This time it was his voice that was bitter.

‘You saved Bernie,’ Hannah said and it was her turn to put her hand on his and she felt his thumb press her fingers.

‘So, we won one but lost five. It’s not a good equation, teacher lady.’

Hannah sat quiet for a few moments because her next words must be just right.

‘I’ve a problem which only you can help with.’ She watched as he rubbed his thumb backwards and forwards on her fingers.

‘Go on then, Hannah. You know I’ll help if I can.’