Authors: Rita Bradshaw
The Rainbow Years (5 page)
When Father Fraser entered the house by the front door, Muriel following respectfully on his heels, he walked straight down the hall and into the kitchen without pausing. Bess stood at his entrance, their eyes meeting for a moment before she dropped her head.
The priest did not speak immediately. He took the chair Muriel fussily pulled out for him and nodded to her offer of a cup of tea. He did not ask Bess to be seated and she did not presume to do so without his permission.
‘So, Bess?’ The thick fleshy lips in the fat face paused. When Bess didn’t raise her head or attempt to reply, the priest allowed some ten seconds to tick by before he said,‘Sit down, girl. We have some talking to do.’
Her colour high, Bess sat, and Muriel - beside herself with agitation - said, ‘Would you have a couple of girdle cakes with your tea, Father? Freshly made this mornin’.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Shawe.’ The priest did not take his gaze from Bess’s face which, now the flush of colour had subsided, was as white as lint. His small beady eyes examined the young girl in front of him with a coldness which was habitual.These young lasses! Father Fraser settled his ample buttocks more comfortably on the hard wooden seat, lacing his podgy fingers over the mound of his belly.This was what came from giving slips of girls a man’s wage. It never ought to be. He cleared his throat before saying sententiously, ‘When were you last at confession, Bess?’
Her head rose and big brown eyes met his. ‘Over two months ago, Father.’
‘And before that?’
‘I . . . I don’t remember.’
Muriel placed a steaming cup of tea and the sugar bowl in front of Father Fraser. Her voice held the obsequious note it always did when addressing the priest as she said, ‘Do help yourself, Father.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Shawe, but I have resolved to do without sugar in my tea until this terrible war is over. We all need to do our bit, don’t we?’ He reached for the plate of scones which had followed the tea, finishing one in two bites and sliding another onto the side of his saucer before he said, ‘This is a sad state of affairs, Bess. A grievous state of affairs. God’s holy order of things will not be mocked. You are aware of this, aren’t you? Aware of how greatly you have sinned?’ The second scone went the way of the first.
‘She is, Father.’ When Bess didn’t immediately answer Muriel’s voice was rushed.‘You are, aren’t you, lass?’ she added, not waiting for a reply. ‘She’s heart sorry, Father, but . . . but like I said, she was led on, fooled by this man. He—’
‘I think Bess can speak for herself, Mrs Shawe.’
Bess’s chin had fallen again, her eyes on her hands in her lap, but now her head shot up at the icy tone. Her cheeks flaming once more, she said, ‘All sin is equally grievous to God surely, Father? Isn’t that what the Bible says?’
The priest sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing. The heavy silence which now fell on the kitchen was broken only by the sound of Muriel clasping and unclasping her hands in the background, and it was this which made Bess say, ‘I’m sorry, Father.’
‘This man, this . . . gentleman. I take it he wasn’t from these parts?’
‘No, Father.’
‘But he was of the faith?’
Bess looked steadily at the priest. ‘He was married, Father. With a child.’
‘That isn’t what I asked. Was he of the true religion?’
Bess swallowed hard but didn’t lower her gaze. ‘He had no religion, Father. He was an atheist.’
This time the silence stretched and lengthened until Muriel, unable to bear it a moment longer, gabbled, ‘Won’t you have another girdle cake, Father? An’ there’s more tea in the pot.’
Father Fraser motioned away the offer with an abrupt movement of his hand. His eyes hard on Bess, he said, ‘I think it is as well I shall be here when your father arrives home. As big a shock as your condition will be to him, his greater sorrow will be in knowing you have scorned the Church’s teaching on consorting with those whose eyes are blinded.’
Did he really believe that? Bess stared at the priest. And then they heard the back door open and footsteps in the scullery. Wilbur walked into the kitchen. She saw his eyes flash round the room before they came to rest on the face of Father Fraser, and as ever a pious note crept into his voice when he said, ‘Father, I didn’t know you were paying us a visit the day.’
‘For once it is a visit which gives me no pleasure, Wilbur.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Sit down, my son.’
It was a moment or two before her father obeyed the command; he had sensed something serious was afoot. Just the fact that Father Fraser was sitting in the kitchen would have alerted him to the severity of the crisis. The priest was usually ushered into the hallowed front room on his visits to the house, the fire which lay dormant between such occasions being lit immediately in the colder months.
‘Now,’ Father Fraser sat up straighter, bringing his hands onto his knees, ‘prepare yourself as best you can for a great shock, Wilbur.’
He was enjoying this. Bess found she was quite incapable of movement; she had been from the moment her father had returned home, but her mind was more than making up for the stillness of her body. It told her Father Fraser was experiencing a covert but deep satisfaction at her downfall. She had been an irritating thorn in the priest’s side for some time, what with missing Mass and so on, and more than once he had spoken scathingly from the pulpit about the new ideas which were being bandied about and how the war was going to be the ruination of many a young girl. He must be relishing the knowledge he’d been proved right in her case.
Wilbur remained immobile as Father Fraser talked on but his face became a mottled red and his whole body seemed to swell. Muriel was standing by the range, her hand across her mouth. She could have been carved in stone.
When the eruption came it took the priest by surprise, so much so he nearly fell off his chair. Wilbur leaped to his feet with a cry which sounded almost inhuman. Not so Bess. She had been waiting for her father to react.As Wilbur lunged at her, she took sanctuary behind the bulky figure of Father Fraser, knowing her safety depended on it.
Pandemonium followed. Muriel’s shrill shrieks and Bess’s screams mingled with Wilbur’s curses and the priest’s remonstrations as he bodily held Wilbur off his daughter. If it had been anyone but Father Fraser, there was no doubt Wilbur would have knocked him to the floor, the rage he was in, but the deeply superstitious streak which made up the main part of Wilbur’s belief held firm.To strike a priest was inviting the fires of hell to consume you.
It was only a minute or two before Wilbur came to his senses, but beads of sweat were standing out on Father Fraser’s brow, his face as red as a beetroot.
‘I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry,’ muttered Wilbur.
Father Fraser was panting heavily and he still stood with his arms stretched wide, Bess cowering behind him, for a few seconds more. Then his hands slowly dropped to his sides and he took the seat he’d vacated, bending forward and touching Wilbur’s arm as he said, ‘I understand your outrage and disappointment, my son. For a child to be born out of wedlock is a grievous sin to be sure, but when the father is godless, a heathen.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve been given much to bear.’
Wilbur raised his head. He didn’t give a damn what religion the father was, not in these circumstances, but his voice did not betray this when he said, ‘Just so, Father.’
‘But now you must rise above this tribulation with God’s strength and direction, Wilbur. The wayward soul needs to be chastised and corrected. Didn’t the good Lord Himself extend the hand of compassion to the harlot at Jacob’s Well when she truly repented of her sin? Your duty is to see to it that the wicked forsakes her way and sins no more.’
Behind the priest, Bess stiffened. Did Father Fraser understand what he was saying to her da? Did he know he was giving him carte blanche to treat her however he wanted? And she wasn’t a harlot. She had loved Christopher, she’d loved him with all her heart and believed they were going to live the rest of their lives together once the war was over.
She must have made some involuntary sound or movement although she wasn’t aware of it, because in the next moment Father Fraser turned to look at her and her father said, ‘
You.
Get upstairs if you know what’s good for you.’
You.
Get upstairs if you know what’s good for you.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry, Da.’ She knew better than to go anywhere near him but she lifted her hands pleadingly. ‘I didn’t mean it. I thought we were going to be married, I didn’t know . . .’ Her lips trembling and her voice low she said again, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not yet you aren’t but you will be. Oh aye, m’girl, take it from me, you will be. Because of you I won’t be able to hold me head up once this gets around. Now get up them stairs like I told you.’
The priest’s grim expression didn’t change and Bess knew she had received the only help she was going to get from that quarter. She glanced at her mother, and in the second or two that their gaze held she read the same panic and fear she knew must be reflected in her own eyes. Her life wasn’t going to be worth living from this point on. And then the flutter deep inside her belly came again. Bess straightened her back and stretched her neck and it was with her head held high that she left the room.
Chapter 3
‘She’s a bonny bairn, Ronald, now isn’t she? An’ as good as gold the day long. She’s never bin a moment’s trouble.’ Muriel’s voice held a pleading note as, together with her son, she watched Bess’s daughter play with a wooden spoon and an old saucepan lid on the clippy mat in front of the kitchen range.
Ronald Shawe didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, his voice flat, ‘Aye, she’s bonny, Mam.’
Muriel glanced at his face and then said quickly, ‘Ee, lad, you’ve finished your tea. Have another cup afore it goes cold an’ the last of that jam roll.You must be able to smell it ’cos you never fail to turn up when I’ve just baked one.’
Ronald smiled now, patting his mother’s hand as he said softly, ‘No one makes a jam roll like you, Mam, but don’t tell May I said that or she’ll have me guts for garters.’
‘Oh, our Ronald.’ Muriel, pink with pleasure, placed the last of the roll on his plate. ‘Your May’s a canny little cook an’ well you know it.You don’t look as if you’re fading away to me, that’s for sure.’
‘Aye, she keeps me fed.’ Ronald’s voice was cheery but he didn’t feel cheery inside, he never did when he called at his parents’ house and was confronted by the evidence of the shame his sister had brought on them all. He wished he could feel differently, wished he could take to the bairn like his mam had but he was with his father on this. Every time he set eyes on Bess’s daughter his stomach twisted. But his mam loved her and he loved his mam, so for her sake he held his tongue and pretended to play the fond uncle. But his mam knew. He’d never been able to pull the wool over her eyes about anything. And she had never once suggested she bring the baby over to their house in the twenty or so months since she had been born, which spoke for itself.
‘An’ you’re all keepin’ well in spite of this Spanish flu then?’ Muriel said now, pouring him a second cup of tea and adding a spoonful of sugar to it.
Ronald nodded, his mouth full of jam roll. His mother tried to keep her voice casual but he knew she was worried. The beginning of 1918 had seen a virulent strain of influenza sweep across the globe and take millions of lives. It was said to hit the old and very young and those with a weakness hardest, so the heart murmur which had prevented him being called up might now prove to be a mixed blessing. September had been a bad month, with people dropping like flies, but they were saying October would be worse. He swallowed before saying reassuringly, ‘I’m fine, Mam, never felt better. All right? And they’re saying the war will be over by Christmas so that’s something to be thankful for.’
‘Huh.’ Muriel sniffed her disbelief. ‘I’ll believe it when it happens an’ not a minute before.’
‘Gamma?’
They had been unaware of the child tottering towards them but now small dimpled hands caught at Muriel’s skirt. Muriel bent and lifted her granddaughter into her arms, saying, ‘Aye, me bairn? What do you want?’ She brushed a wisp of golden-brown hair from the small forehead.
Bright blue laughing eyes under a crown of thick loose curls stared back at her, and when small arms went round her neck in a stranglehold, Muriel hugged the child tight. She had loved both her children from the day they were born but the emotion she felt for this flesh of her flesh was something beyond. Maybe it was a result of the nightmare she and Bess had endured at the hands of Wilbur in the months leading up to Amy’s birth when she’d feared the baby would be stillborn. Or perhaps it was the fever Bess had had following the delivery, which had necessitated her taking over the care of her granddaughter from day one, that had created the bond between them. Certainly by the time Bess went back to work when the baby was a few weeks old, she had known the child was a blessing the like of which only happens once in a lifetime, and then if you’re lucky.Which was strange considering the circumstances of the bairn’s begetting.
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