Remember Me (33 page)

‘Hmm…tricky,’ observed William as they sat at the breakfast table, just the two of them left there, lingering over their tea and coffee. ‘But we knew this would happen eventually, and Hetty can’t go on hiding her condition for ever.’

‘I don’t think she wants to hide it,’ replied Faith. ‘But she’s still adamant that it’s a closed book as far as she and Samuel are concerned. But as you say, my dear, he will have to know, and it had better be this weekend, hadn’t it?’

‘Yes…’ William shook his head thoughtfully. ‘D’you know, I can’t imagine what his reaction will be. And now, of course, that young photographer has come on the scene. He certainly seems very fond of Hetty.’

‘Yes, so he is. She told me how considerate he has been towards her, and he insisted that he wanted to go on seeing her and taking her out. I couldn’t say whether or not they have an…understanding;
whether they intend to get married.’

‘It’s not his child though, is it?’ said William. ‘He must be a remarkable young man to even think of taking on a responsibility like that.’

‘That’s not the issue, though, at the moment, is it?’ said Faith. ‘We must make sure that Hetty is here on Friday, and that we leave them alone together for a while.’

‘Yes, I suppose we’ll have to,’ agreed William. ‘I’ll give Hetty the afternoon off; Katy can stand in for her for a few hours. Samuel doesn’t say what time his train gets in, does he?’

‘No, except that he’ll be here in the afternoon. It’s always “expect me when you see me” with Samuel. I feel quite anxious when I think about it all,’ said Faith. ‘But really, it’s their business, isn’t it, not ours, and they’re quite old enough to sort it out for themselves.’

When Samuel arrived, however, it was not by train. He made his appearance on the roadside of Victoria Avenue in a Ford T two-seater motor car. Faith had heard the sound of the engine and had dashed to the door ahead of Mrs Baker. Trust that son of mine to steal a march on William, she thought. Her husband was full of excited plans at the moment about purchasing their first motor car, and although she was not quite as enthusiastic as he was, she had shown keen interest in what he was telling her. And now Samuel had gone and spoilt it all.

‘Hello, Mother,’ he said affably, meeting her
halfway up the garden path. He put his leather-gauntleted hands on her shoulders, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘How d’you like her?’ he grinned, gesturing with his thumb. ‘She’s a grand little mover. I’ll take you for a spin later, if you like.’

‘Well, we’ll see about that, dear,’ she replied. She frowned a little. ‘How have you managed to afford that?’ She was sure that the starting salary of a very junior university lecturer could not be all that high.

‘Oh, ways and means, you know,’ he answered, tapping his nose. ‘Actually…I might as well tell you; Father helped me out. It was his idea really. They have a Renault, a much bigger model than mine, of course. He persuaded me that I must be able to drive in today’s world.’

‘Yes…I see,’ replied Faith. She was not much interested in her former husband’s doings, although she knew that Samuel saw him quite regularly. She did not say, as she might have done, that William, also, would soon be getting a motor car. That might seem too much like a retaliatory comment.

She took a deep breath. ‘Hetty is here,’ she said. ‘She’s got the afternoon off work and she’s staying for a meal with us. William is at work, of course, but we’ll all be here later, all except Maddy, that is. It’s her last week with the Pierrots.’ She realised she was gabbling rather, so she smiled and opened the door to the lounge.

‘Here is Hetty, see. You go and have a chat to her whilst I make a pot of tea.’

‘Mother! We’re not…I mean, I don’t see her anymore,’ whispered Samuel, a little agitatedly.

‘No, I realise that, dear. But it doesn’t mean you can’t talk to her, does it?’ She disappeared quickly in the direction of the kitchen.

Hetty stood up as he entered the room. He stepped forward, about to kiss her on the cheek in a friendly manner. Then he drew back. Her high-waisted dress of lilac and white striped cotton could not disguise – nor did it attempt to – the fact that she was pregnant; several months so, it appeared. Samuel gasped. ‘Hetty…!’ He looked her up and down, but, she had to admit to herself, not disgustedly or with any annoyance. He just looked stunned, and then a little dismayed. ‘Is it…?’ he asked.

Hetty nodded her head. ‘Yes…it’s your baby, Samuel. It is due at Christmas.’ She sat down again on the nearest chair and Samuel sat opposite her, gripping hold of the chair arms.

‘But…that’s only just over three months away. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Would it have made any difference, Samuel? We agreed, didn’t we, that it would be best if we stopped seeing one another? And…it was the right decision.’

‘But you knew…then? When we decided to part company?’

‘Yes, I knew. But I had already made up my mind that we were not right for one another. And so had
you. I couldn’t see that me being pregnant could alter the fact.’

‘But…what will you do?’

Hetty smiled. ‘I shall have the baby, of course, and then I shall look after him, or her.’

‘And…everybody knows, do they?’ He gestured around him; the family, she supposed he meant.

‘Yes, they know, Samuel. It’s inevitable, isn’t it? I can’t hide it and nor do I want to. I’m not sure what Tommy and Tilly know about it all, but as for everyone else, they are quite used to the idea.’

‘So everyone knew but me?’

‘Yes…I’m sorry, Samuel, but you haven’t been back here for ages and I didn’t want to write and tell you. I don’t expect you to do anything about it, you see… As a matter of fact, I am seeing a young man. He has been a very good friend to me. Well, actually, he is far more than that. And he wants to marry me.’

Hetty thought she saw – or she might have imagined – a spasm of relief flit across Samuel’s face. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then he said, ‘Who is he? Do I know him?’

‘He’s called Bertram Lucas. He took the photographs at Patrick and Katy’s wedding…but you weren’t there, were you? And he was at Grandad Isaac’s funeral. He has a studio near to William’s place of work, and mine, too, of course. That was how I got to know him.’

‘Yes, I have heard about him.’ Samuel nodded. ‘A
very able photographer, I have been told. But…this child is my responsibility. Financially, I mean. I can’t expect…’

She was not sure what it was he could not expect, but she guessed his words might be idle ones, spoken on the spur of the moment. She interrupted him. ‘As I have said, Samuel, I don’t expect anything of you. I want to make that quite clear. It is all over between you and me, just as it was before you knew about…this.’

Hetty was aware of Faith hovering outside the door with a tea tray. ‘Come on in, Faith,’ she called. ‘Samuel and I have had our little chat.’

Samuel had the grace to look a little shamefaced as he took the tray from his mother and placed it on a small table. ‘I’m really sorry about all this, Mother,’ he said. ‘I had no idea. I’ve just said to Hetty that she should have told me. But she does seem to have everything under control.’

‘Yes, so she has,’ replied Faith briskly. ‘But that is no thanks to you, Samuel. However, we will say no more about it at the moment. Now Hetty…are you going to pour?’ She smiled. ‘I suppose I should say, “Are you going to be Mother?”’

Chapter Twenty-Six

W
hen Maddy started her autumn tour with the Melody Makers, Daniel, unbeknown to her, was settling into the seminary that would be his home for the next few years. It was in Northumberland and had been built in the mid-nineteenth century, near to the ruins of an Augustinian priory.

There had been some talk of him going to Rome where his tutor, Father Fitzgerald, had studied; but after a great deal of thought, Daniel had opted for Rothburn Priory College. It was situated way up in the Cheviot Hills in a clearing on the banks of the River Coquet, near to where the Romans had once built a camp. Daniel’s main reason for spurning the ‘Eternal City’ was because his mother, after encouraging him throughout his childhood and young adulthood to enter the priesthood, as the time drew nearer, had started to bemoan the fact that Rome was a very long way away. She would miss him. Whenever would she see him? He had told her that the summer months, when the heat in Rome became unbearable, were spent on retreat at a lake resort in the Appian Hills. It seemed as
though he might not be able to get home from one year’s end to the next.

Rothburn Priory College was nearer, at least it was in the same country, but neither road nor rail transport was all that easily accessible. Daniel realised that this was intentional. Trainee priests were given leave to go home only rarely, and they had to accept this, as should their families, respecting that their loved ones had been called to make and to adhere to this sacrifice. He made up his mind that he would try to settle into his new life as quickly as possible; and as for his mother, he hoped she would gradually get used to his absence, although he had not expected her to be quite so tearful at his departure. Was it not what she had wanted all his life?

As for himself, he had not expected to feel quite so homesick. He had known that the seminary would be spartan – that was the first of the three vows they made, for poverty, chastity and obedience – but he had not imagined quite such stark surroundings. His bedroom – which, fortunately, he had to himself – was more like a cell with stone walls, and there was only an enamel bowl in which to wash. He would be allowed one bath each week, he was informed. No one was allowed to visit him in his room except in the case of illness, and then never alone. The clothes in which he arrived had been taken away from him and in exchange he was given a bundle containing two cassocks, one of a
much coarser woollen weave than the other, which he gathered was for winter wear; also two calico shirts and two sets of underwear.

The morning bell rang at five-thirty and the early Mass followed at six o’clock, after which they all gathered in the dining hall for breakfast. He could not complain of the quantity of the food at any of the meals; the vast piles of bread and potatoes, and pasta, such as was eaten by their Italian brethren. There were huge carafes of wine, too, which was a surprise, but the fare, on the whole, was plain and monotonous.

They dined beneath frescoes of the Virgin Mary and innumerable saints. Wherever they looked, indeed, there were reminders of why they were there and of the path they had chosen. In the main chapel Daniel’s eyes were constantly drawn to a painting, in allegorical style, of Christ conquering the heathen world. The blood that flowed from his side, hands and feet appeared to be engulfing the whole world and setting fire to England.

He was disturbed by this. Although he was a Roman Catholic, he was English, too. Well, partly Irish, but he had been born in England and he felt that he had a certain loyalty to his native land. He had no desire, personally, to reclaim England for what their tutors called the ‘true faith’ or Holy Mother Church.

‘Don’t forget,’ Father Crispin told them, ‘that many were lured away from the true faith in the
dark days of the Reformation. I appreciate that there is more religious tolerance nowadays… nevertheless, we must hold fast to what we believe. There is still a good deal of missionary work to be done…’

Religious tolerance, mused Daniel, when he was alone in his cell bedroom. He had not experienced much of that in his own family; or rather, to be fair, in his mother. A memory of that grand old man, Isaac Moon, flitted across his mind. A staunch Methodist, as he had been since childhood. How he had loved those grand old hymns by one of the most notable dissenters of all time, Charles Wesley. How could one think of Isaac Moon as a heretic, which was how he would be regarded in this place? He had made Daniel most welcome in his home, as had William. A united family, as firm in their beliefs as was Daniel in his.

His thoughts led inevitably to Madeleine, the lovely girl who had brought such joy into his life for such a brief time. But thoughts of her were futile. He had learnt to dismiss them as soon as they appeared; but here in his solitude he found that they would not go away quite so readily.

Daniel missed his family life; his wise and understanding father, his lovable, somewhat childlike brother, and his mother. She had been stubborn and determined to have her own way, but she had loved him; she had always been there, a constant in his life.

He did not particularly like this communal life, nor the regimentation. He was relieved, though, to discover that some of his fellow postulants were of the same mind. They were encouraged to walk everywhere. The gentle countryside of rounded hills and dales was ideal walking country, but they were not allowed outside the college grounds by themselves. On the other hand, neither were they encouraged to form a close friendship with just one other postulant. So they usually walked in threes. Daniel was part of a trio with Father Michael and Father Bernard, which was how they were expected to address one another. All three of them were northerners, Michael O’ Riordan from Bradford in Yorkshire, and Bernard Flynn from Darlington, which was not very far away.

On a free afternoon, when they had been at the college for about a month, they went for a walk along the banks of the river. And there, away from listening ears and prying eyes, they allowed themselves the luxury of a gentle moan. They all agreed that they missed their homes and their families.

‘Sure, we’re told, though, that this is our family now,’ said Michael. ‘And we’re getting more used to them all…aren’t we?’

‘I just want to be ordinary,’ said Bernard. ‘You know; do ordinary things; play a game of football and wear normal clothes.’

‘Priests aren’t ordinary though, are they?’ said
Daniel. ‘That’s what we’re always being told. If we want to be ordinary we shouldn’t be here. But there’s nothing to say we can’t play football or cricket. And we only have to wear these silly clothes whilst we’re here. When we go home we can wear our normal things, apart from the dog collar… But what I don’t like is the solitude. It gets to me when I’m in my room at night, and I sometimes wonder how I could bear to live by myself in one of those gloomy presbyteries.’

They did not talk about the vow of chastity, which would deny them the company of women, except in a very asexual sort of friendship. Nor did they talk about what had led them to take the step that had brought them eventually to Rothburn Priory College. Michael and Bernard were both young men, similar in age to Daniel, both reasonably good-looking and personable. And despite their grumblings they must, at one time, have felt God calling them to His service.

Gradually, Daniel settled down to his new life. Airing his grievances had done him good. He knew now that others felt the same way and this was a great consolation to him.

They were granted a few days’ leave at Christmas time, to which Daniel had been looking forward all through the term. The first agony of homesickness had eased quite a lot, however, and he had begun to enjoy the lectures and discussions, the regular attendances at Mass, the music and the mysticism
of it all, which had attracted him since boyhood in his own parish churches. But the atmosphere of sanctity and wonder was so much more potent here.

It was good to be home. There was only the immediate family there on Christmas Day, plus Myrtle, Joe’s girlfriend; that friendship was clearly progressing very nicely. They attended Mass, of course, where Anna visibly preened herself in front of the other women at having her elder son, the priest in training, at her side. She had burst into tears at first seeing him, tears of happiness, and her joy at having him back in the fold was transparent.

As the time drew near for him to return to college Anna’s joy turned to sorrow, as she continually lamented, ‘Oh, Daniel…I do wish you hadn’t to go back.’

He was perplexed, also somewhat annoyed. ‘But, Mammy, you know I have to go back,’ he told her. ‘And isn’t this what you have wanted, all my life?’

‘Yes…yes, of course it is,’ she replied tearfully. ‘I’m just being silly. But I do miss you so much.’

‘Take no notice,’ said his father. ‘She’ll get over it. She was terrible when you first went away. I thought she’d have hysterics at one time, going on about how she wanted you back. But there was no point in telling you and upsetting you, son. She calmed down after a while. She’ll be all right. I’ll take care of her.’

Her parting from him, once again, was tearful,
and she did not go to the station with him as did his father and Joe. ‘I’ll see you in a few months’ time, hopefully,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m not sure when. Look after Mammy. I’ll write as often as I can.’

His mother had brought all this on herself, he pondered, waving goodbye as the train pulled away. There was a grim satisfaction in the thought. She would just have to get used to it. And, strangely, he did not feel half so bad as he had anticipated at the thought of returning to Northumberland.

He was surprised, one morning in mid-January, to be summoned to the study of the college principal, Father Vincent. What have I done wrong? was his immediate thought. A summons usually followed a misdemeanour of some sort. Father Vincent, however, smiled at him and invited him to sit down.

‘I am afraid I have some bad news for you, Father Daniel,’ he began. ‘There is a telegram for you from your home…’ Mammy, thought Daniel. He had been worried about her state of health, or, more particularly, her state of mind. But he was wrong.

‘It’s your father,’ said the priest. ‘He has had an accident and it sounds as though he is seriously injured. You must go home at once.’ He handed Daniel the telegram to read. Daniel understood that the college principal would have had to read it first, when it arrived.

‘Please come home,’ it read. ‘Daddy badly hurt
following accident at work. Love, Mammy.’

‘My father is a builder,’ he said dazedly. ‘I expect he had a fall; he’s usually so careful. Will it be all right then…for me to go?’

‘Yes, you may go at once. As soon as you can get ready,’ said Father Vincent. ‘And stay for as long as they need you there.’

He was driven by pony and trap, which was their usual means of transport, to the nearest railway station, which was at Alnwick. Then he started on his long journey back to Blackpool.

It was late evening when he arrived. His mother met him at the door in a paroxysm of grief. ‘He’s gone, Daniel,’ she cried. ‘It’s too late. Your daddy’s…dead, God rest his soul.’

Daniel crossed himself, repeating the words silently: God bless him and keep him… This was dreadful! He felt his tears begin to flow as he put his arms around his mother and drew her close to him, feeling the sobs racking her body.

His brother appeared at his side, his face, also, ravaged with pain. ‘Aye, it’s a bad do, Dan,’ said Joe. ‘She’s been nearly out of her mind, waiting for you to come home.’

‘Come and sit down, Mammy,’ said Daniel, leading her into the living room and making her sit down in an easy chair. ‘Now, tell me what happened. I must know. And…where is Daddy?’

‘He’s in hospital,’ she managed to say, between the sobs that were still shaking her body. ‘They’re
seeing to…everything. He never came round…after the fall.’

Gradually he learnt that his father had insisted on going to the building site where new houses were being erected, to supervise a rather tricky procedure. The ground was icy after a light fall of snow, but it was vital, or so they said, that the work should be completed that day. Thomas had lost his footing on a high piece of scaffolding and had fallen from the first floor storey level to the ground. His back was broken and, as Anna had said, he never regained consciousness.

She and Joe had stayed with him in the hospital after she had sent the telegram to Daniel, but there had been nothing they could do for him. The doctors had tried, but to no avail. He had died in the late afternoon.

It was a tragic few days, but Anna overcame the worst of her grief with her beloved elder son there at her side. Daniel made a long-distance call to the college and it was confirmed that he could stay as long as it was necessary.

The church was half full to say farewell to Thomas Murphy, who had been a steadfast member of the church and a good friend and workmate to many. His family and colleagues gathered afterwards at the graveside in Layton Cemetery. It was noticed that Anna, with a son on either side of her, was bearing up very well. It had seemed at first as though her grief would consume her, but she was
dry-eyed and stoical of face as she scattered the clods of earth on top of the coffin.