A man who cried (43 page)

be married shortly and I’ll be there on me own, and I’ve got a fellow there now who’s neither use

nor ornament, and he’s doing me out of money every day. You’ll be doing me a favour if you

come back. And I’m going to say it although I shouldn’t, you owe me a favour, and this is the

way you can repay it, so if you want to pay your debts get your few things packed and let’s get

out of this because it isn’t fit for a pig to live in.”

He didn’t move and the child was strangely still in his arms. They were both looking at her, the

child at the woman who had become its mother, and he at the woman who had once thought she

was his wife. He, like Dick, noted with amazement that she was wearing make-up; he noticed,

too, that she was no longer podgy; but what was most evident was the change within her. She

was asking him to come back, she was offering him cleanliness, warmth, and good food . . . and

comfort. The comfort of her ? The first three he wanted, but would he ever again be able to take

comfort from her ... or any other woman for that matter ? The question was a blank in his mind.

He lowered his head and looked down to the worn oilcloth that he had not so long ago scrubbed

on his hands and knees ; then raising his head slowly, he looked at her and said, ”I’m still a

married man, Hilda.”

”I’m well aware of that.”

He could have almost laughed. He said now, ”You’ve got your name to think about, there’ll be

talk. You can’t stand up to the vicar about a thing like this.”

”I’ve already dealt with the vicar.” >

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Now he actually did want to laugh; and yet, no, he didn’t, the feeling that was rife in him wasn’t

actually touching on laughter. But it wasn’t touching on tears either. Oh no, no, he’d never cry

again, now or ever.

His head was drooping once more when her voice checked it as she turned from him, saying

briskly to Dick, ”Get your father’s things together and let’s be gone.”

As if he was fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen, scampering to do her bidding, Dick almost ran to the

rickety cupboard and pulled a suitcase down from it, and having put it on the bed he opened the

lid and began packing his father’s few possessions. He did not turn towards them as he heard her

voice saying quietly, ”Give her here,” but he knew she had taken the child and had put it in the

pram and it was she who opened the door and pushed it into the street and there stood waiting.

His father was standing over by the door leading into the backyard and he said softly, ”Dick,”

and as he approached him Dick could see that he was hardly capable of speech, and when the

words tumbled out in a mutter, ”I don’t know. It isn’t right. I’m . . . I’m ashamed,” Dick gripped

him by both arms and even attempted to shake him as he said, ”It’s for the best. We all want you,

and she needs you. And as she said, you owe her something. Don’t forget that, Dad, you owe her

something . . . you owe her a lot ”

A few minutes later they were all in the street and, like a family out for a Saturday afternoon

walk, Hilda went on ahead pushing the pram while the father and son walked behind.

It wasn’t until they entered the yard that Dick realized how deeply affected his father was. His

face was devoid of colour, his cheekbones were pressing white through the skin, his eyes looked

sunken in his head, and as he walked up towards the kitchen door he looked first to one side then

to the other. His gaze remained longest on the window above the garage and his thoughts must

have gone to the room that had afforded them shelter when they first came into this yard.

”There now. There now. Stop your yelling and I’ll give you your tea in a minute. Here, you take

her, Dick, and don’t let her down on the floor yet, she’s got her good things on.”

Dick paused with the child in his arms and he looked at Hilda with admiration. It was as if they

really had just returned from a

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Saturday afternoon’s outing. Then he looked towards his fajfcer. He wasn’t sitting in the big

wooden armchair near the fire but at the corner of the table. He was still wearing his overcoat

and holding his trilby on his knee.

When Hilda said quietly, ”Give me your coat here,” he did not rise from the chair, nor did he

look at her. Something was happening inside him, something had burst in his bowels like burning

white lava. It was rising, spilling forth its fire through his ribs and up through his gullet. He

yelled at it, screamed at it, ”No ! no! Never! Not again. Never!” He could bear this, this

humiliation, he could bear everything as long as he remained closed within himself, as long as he

could withstand human kindness. As long as he could imprison his emotions nothing could touch

him, but he was losing his power. The strength was flowing from him. He couldn’t combat the

force of this burning flood ; he went down before it.

When the release came through his eyes, his nose and lastly his mouth, he gave a great cry and,

burying his face in his hands, he rocked himself as a woman might in agony.

For a matter of seconds Hilda stood and watched him; then, putting her arms about him, she

pressed his head into her breasts and, her own voice thick and choked, she comforted him,

saying, ”It’s all right. It’s all right, you’re home. It’s all over. There now. There now. Come on,

dear, come on.” She couldn’t remember when she had called him dear, yet she called his child

dear all the time.

When his hands left his face and went around her hips she did not delude herself for she knew

that the action was to be cornpared to that of a child seeking comfort and protection.

She looked through her blurred streaming eyes to where Dick was still standing holding the child

and she knew now that she had two children to care for, one to bring up into womanhood and the

other she hoped to lead into peace. She did not ask that it should be into love; yet life could be

long and she could but hope. . . .

Dick stood, the child held close to
him,
and looked at his father. It seemed to him at this moment that he only ever saw the real man in his father when he was crying. His own face was wet but he

knew he would never cry like his father cried because he’d never be half the man he was. This

man who had done nothing

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with his life except impinge it on four women had, he felt, in him something naturally big;

perhaps it would show itself in the years ahead if only in bringing some happiness to the woman

he had wronged and who was now savouring a certain joy from his agony.

Catherine Cookson

THE MALLEN TRILOGY

The Malien Streak The Malien Girl ’ The Malien Litter

*A splendidly readable romance set on Tyneside a ’ century ago.’ ^H.

Sunday Express

THE INVISIBLE CORD

’Mrs Cookson treads a narrow path above the chasm

of melodrama in her 30 years’ chronicle, but she

never falters. A most moving book.’

Sunday Telegraph

THE GAMBLING MAN

’Extremely well drawn; delicate, subtle, convincing.’
The Yorkshire Post

THE TIDE OF LIFE

’Like all her novels it offers splendid value for money.’
Daily Express

THE GIRL

’Powerful and compulsively readable . . . The end of the last century is made alive by this very

popular

novelist.’
The Yorkshire Post

THE CINDER PATH

’It is not fulsome to compare this (finest) Catherine Cookson novel with Thomas Hardy.

With him she shares an economy of expression. She pursues the same course - attributing

deeds to environment. And she recognizes the inevitability of Fate.’
Coventry Evening

Telegraph

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