A Greater World (2 page)

He turned to Danny with a grin. The boy liked to race the dog to retrieve the prey. It was a silly game he always played - even though Stone had never lost a contest yet. But Danny wasn't racing up the hill. Michael looked back at the top of the slope as his heart pounded his ribcage. Stone was whining. He dropped the gun, shaded his eyes with both hands and looked into the blinding sunlight. His brother was in the long grass, arms stretched out in front of him as though trying to grab what was a very dead rabbit.

He screamed Danny's name and raced up the slope. God, let him be alive. Let him be alive.

Danny was on his stomach, a pool of blood seeping from under his body and a dark hole burnt through the back of his jacket.

Michael turned the boy over and lifted him up. The dog howled as he tried to make Danny stand up. Realising the futility of this, he sank to the ground, cradling his brother in his arms.

'No! God No! What've I done? I'm sorry. Please, please, wake up! Dan! Don't die.'

The boy's face had a puzzled expression: eyes still open wide.

There was no time for any last words, for Michael's plea for forgiveness to be acknowledged, or the chance to comfort the lad before he died: the bullet had gone straight through his heart. Michael's guttural cry seared the silence of the dale.

He kicked the carcass of the dead rabbit into the trees. The foxes or crows could have it. He lifted Danny and carried him over his shoulder, with Stone trailing behind, the dog's whimpering an eerie accompaniment.

As he walked towards the cottages, his shirt red with his brother's blood, his arms aching with the weight of the boy, neighbours came to their doorways and several walked out to meet him. He was blind to them.

'What's happened? Is he hurt bad?'

'Let's help you carry him.'

He ignored them all and staggered on in silence.

Michael knew he would never be able to forget the way his mother looked at her dead child. The boy's face had a look almost of pleasure and it was hard to believe that his spirit had fled the still-warm body. She began to keen, her voice rose like a banshee as Michael and his father laid the boy on the kitchen table.

'Danny, Danny! My baby. Me little, lovely lad.' She turned to Michael. 'What happened? What did you do?'

Michael looked down at his boots and shook his head. His mother rushed towards him and hammered her fists into his chest.

'You were supposed to look after him. He were just a wee bairn.'

'It were an accident Mam...the sun were in me eyes...I didn't see him move...' The words sounded lame as they came out of his mouth and he stopped trying to answer.

His father eased her towards the bed and made her lie down, then turned to Michael. 'Son, what the hell possessed you? For God's sake man! How did it happen? We trusted you to look out for him.'

He shoved his hand roughly into Michael's shoulder, but then collapsed back into a chair, his head in his hands and began to sob. Michael had never seen his father cry before.

He left them and walked up the hill behind the houses avoiding the scrutiny of the neighbours and their well-intended words of comfort.

No one in the cottage slept that night. Michael's mother sobbed, inconsolable, while his father kept a vigil by the body of the dead boy. Michael lay on the bed he had shared with Danny, thinking of the many times he had complained when Danny stole the bedcovers or kicked him during a bad dream. Now the narrow truckle bed felt large and empty.

He could not dispel the image of Danny's face, with its surprised half smile. Danny had been afraid of the dark and Michael hated the thought of him being shut up in a wooden box and left to rot away under the soil. He thought of all those other men and boys, blown to pieces and left to mingle with the mud in shell holes or their body parts anonymously buried in communal graves. He and Danny had been spared that fate, but right now he would gladly be lying in a grave on the Somme if it meant Danny would be alive.

His father was awake when he rose just before dawn, slumped in his chair, staring at the embers of the fire. On the floor beside him was a scattered collection of carrots and parsnips, still lying where he had swept them off the table to accommodate Danny's corpse.

The morning of the funeral was wet and blustery. The rain was almost horizontal, blowing water straight into the faces of the mourners. Michael, his father and two of their fellow miners carried the coffin, hair plastered to their faces in the driving rain. The Gala bunting that had bobbed about so brightly just a few days ago, trailed limply from the branches of the trees.

Michael left the chapel and found Minnie and her mother in a line of friends and neighbours, waiting to pay their respects. Mrs Hawthorn hugged him warmly, but Minnie lowered her eyes and stiffened when he embraced her.

She spoke quietly, barely a whisper. 'Sorry, Michael. Danny were a lovely lad. We'll all miss him.' Her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears, then she turned and walked away from him. He went after her, reached for her arm and said, 'We need to talk Min.'

She shrank from his touch and moved away slightly from the pressure of his hand on her arm, looking past him in the direction of her mother, as though hoping for rescue.

Her voice was soft: 'I have to go. Mam wants me to take care of our Billy and Jenny while she's at the wake'.

'Aren't you coming?'

'I'm sorry.' She shook her head and walked away across the green, moving slowly, head bowed, in contrast to the exuberant way she had run across the same grass just a few days before.

He decided not to go into the miners' hall to the wake. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and set off towards the dale. Alone under the dripping trees on the hillside, he made up his mind.

'Da, I'm going away for a while.'

'We need you here, son.'

'I can't stay. It's best if I'm not around. I don't want you and me Mam looking at me and thinking about what's happened. Blaming me and hating me.'

'Your Mam and me could never hate you.'

'Maybe not, but I can't bear to see your sadness and know I'm the cause of it. I can't face it.'

'Look, son, I'm sorry about what I said before. I were shocked. I didn't mean to blame you.' His voice broke and his words came out in a sob. 'He were such a good boy. I were angry with him the day he died for whittling sticks and leaving the bark in the hearth and playing about with that bloody lump of stone. I yelled at him. Oh God, why did I do that? My last words to him were angry ones.'

'You weren't angry. Danny knew that. It were water off a duck's back.'

Tom Winterbourne looked up at his son and put a hand on his sleeve. 'Please stay, Michael. Yer mam and me 'ave both said things we didn't really mean. You're all we've got now. You can't just go like that.'

'I've made me mind up Da. I'd been thinking of going away for a long time. If I'd not hung around so long, hoping I'd get Minnie to come with me, I could have been long gone and Dan would still be alive. But I put her first. I know now that were wrong.'

'Don't be daft lad. I'd've done the same for your mother.'

'Mam loves you, Da and that means you'll both get by. You'll help each other. You don't need me. I'd just make it harder for you. And now I know Min doesn't really care for me.'

'Course she does.'

'Today after funeral, it were like she were afraid of me – disgusted by me.'

'She doesn't mean it. She's as shocked as we all are – and specially for her after losing Georgie and her da in the war. And she were right fond of our Dan. She spent a lot of time with him when you were away fighting. She'll come round in the end son.'

'She won't. I know her like you don't, Da and I also know that Mam would never have looked at you the way Minnie looked at me today.'

Tom Winterbourne shook his head.

Michael said, 'I'll send money when I can. I won't forget about you just cause I'm out of sight.'

'There's no need for that. Where'll you go?'

Michael shrugged. 'Depends what ship's in. America? Or mebbe New Zealand or Australia - I met a few chaps from there during the War. They were good lads.'

His father grunted, 'It's t'other side of world! What'll you do for money?'

'I've enough put by to pay the passage. I were saving a long time to get wed. There's some I've left in a box under the bed. It's there in case Minnie should ever be short. There's no point in me offering her money now as she'd not take it. Use it to see her right if she or her mam need help. She'll not be on her own long I expect.'

'Aye she's a bonny lass. There's some'd say you're daft in the head to give her up.'

'I think she's given me up, Da. She's just afraid to tell me that. If I write her a letter will you give it her?'

He sat on his bed and tore a blank piece of paper out of the back of a hymn book and began to write. He had rarely had occasion to write since school and he did so slowly, forming the letters carefully.

Dear Minnie

We know each other that well we don't need words. I know you don't want to marry me any more. I don't blame you. I have to get away now I've lost you and Dan.

I wish you a long and happy life and always will think of you fondly. Please go to my Da if you ever need anything.

Your Michael

The next morning, as soon as it was light, he parted the curtain that partitioned his parents' bed from the living area and leaned in and kissed the forehead of his sleeping mother. He stroked her hair and whispered. 'Bye Mam. I'm sorry for what I've done.'

His father was standing in front of the fire, waiting for him.

'Do you have to go right now? Why not wait a bit? Yer Mam'll come round in the end. And the Hawthorn lassie will too.'

'I'll get by without Minnie. Better to find out now than later that she doesn't really care for me.'

'But yer mam?'

'There's more chance of her coming round if I'm not here. If I'm gone it'll mebbe get a bit easier for you both with time. And then one day I'll come back.'

As he said the words, he knew he never would.

The barn was pitch dark. Somewhere in the distance, a fox screamed. The dog stirred, then settled, tired after their long walk.

Stone had followed him for two days, refusing to go home. She had been a loyal and faithful servant, friend and companion and until now, had shown unstinting obedience. In truth, he was glad of her presence. It was lonely on the road. They had walked all day, avoiding roads and villages, travelling cross-country and sheltering in barns or shepherds' huts at night. He was grateful for Stone's body heat and curled closer around the dog.

Liverpool was another day's walk - at most two. He would take whichever ship left port soonest. America was just a week away, but ever since the Titanic went down, he had not relished crossing the Atlantic. Australia or New Zealand took several weeks, but there wouldn't be icebergs on the way.

When he rose the next morning, he knew today he must send Stone back. They walked to the top of a hill and he crouched down on his knees beside the dog and put his arms around her neck, breathing in her familiar smell. She seemed to read him and at once began a low whimper.

'We have to say goodbye girl. They won't let you come where I'm going. A ship's no place for a dog. Go on lass! Get yourself home! Go and watch out for Mam and Da. They need you. Go on Stone!'

He could not bear to look in the dog's eyes. He stood up again and walked away, changing the tone of his voice, hardening it. 'Go home, Stone. Go! Now!' Then he pulled his cap down, stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt the smooth surface of his brother's other treasured stone. This one would go with him on the voyage. He set off down the other side of the hill, pretending that the cold wind was the reason for his wet eyes.

Chapter Two - The Letter

Northport, England 1920

The front door banged shut and a tennis racket clattered into the hall-stand. Elizabeth Morton stuck her head around the drawing room door and spoke to her sister, Sarah. 'I'd kill for a cup of tea. Shall I ask Cook to bring a pot? Smells like she's been making shortbread.'

'I had three cups while I was waiting for you to come home.'

'Waiting for me? What for? I always play tennis on Thursday. What's happened?' Without waiting for an answer, she continued. 'I got clobbered by Margaret Barry today. Jolly embarrassing, with half the club looking on. My backhand was appalling.'

'Hurry up and sort your tea out – we need to talk. We've had letters from Father.'

Elizabeth's face lit up. 'Why didn't you say! Where?'

'On the mantelpiece.'

An envelope was propped against the carriage clock, its stamp bearing a kangaroo on a map of Australia.

'How marvellous! It's been so long.' She ripped open the envelope, almost tearing the letter in her excitement. A printed ticket fell out onto the floor and Elizabeth bent to pick it up.

'It's a voucher for a passage to Sydney on the White Star Line.' She frowned. 'In my name.'

She turned her attention to the letter. As she read, her brow furrowed, and she looked over at her sister from time to time. Sarah avoided eye contact, looking out of the window. Eventually, with a snort, Elizabeth stuffed the letter back into its envelope, crushed it into her the pocket of her cardigan and flung herself into an armchair.

'Father's lost his mind. Must have. Gone completely barmy. There's no other explanation. Do you know what it says? He wants me to go out there and marry some chap called Jack Kidd. All he says is that he's a widower and is fifty-seven. Fifty-seven! It's some kind of joke.' She was shaking her head. 'Come on, Sarah, admit it. He's pulling my leg.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Elizabeth. Why do you have to be so dramatic?'

Elizabeth looked at her sister as though seeing her for the first time. There was a hardness about Sarah's eyes and her mouth turned downwards, making her appear petulant. Her light brown hair with its tight marcel waves was cut to follow the shorter fashion of the year, but did little to flatter her round face. Her velvet dress strained over her pregnant belly, while her small, delicate hands fluttered up and down, constantly smoothing out imagined wrinkles in the fabric.

'It is a sensible solution, Lizzie. Father clearly has your best interests at heart.'

'Good Lord, you don't take this nonsense seriously do you?'

Elizabeth jumped up and took up a position in front of the unlit fireplace, her elbows on the mantelpiece and her chin resting on her hands, while she tried to compose herself. Without turning round, she spoke again, slowly.

'You know as well as I do that Father's not been himself since Mother died. I'll write to him immediately and tell him his plan is impracticable. Don't worry – I'll resist the temptation to tell him it's bordering on insane.'

'For heaven's sake. It's not insane. You must write and tell him you agree to marry Mr Kidd.'

'You're as crazy as he is!'

Sarah became exasperated. There's no money left. Father has lost everything. Charles can't support you.'

Elizabeth pretended not to hear. 'Father must have been drinking when he wrote it.'

'That's not fair. How else are can you find a husband at twenty-seven, when you're penniless? You should jump at the chance of a wealthy husband, your own home and a new life in a new country. Laid out on a plate. Your stubbornness is breath-taking.'

'Stubbornness? It's not you who's being asked to marry a man you've never set eyes on. This is 1920 not 1820!'

'Father can't support you any more. He's only doing what any good father would do.'

Sarah plumped up the cushion behind her and took another opportunity to stroke her bulging abdomen proprietorially. 'Really, Lizzie. Mother bent over backwards trying to find you a husband. I've lost count of the number of eligible men you poured scorn on.' She counted on her fingers. 'Not clever enough. Too pious. Too shallow. No interest in music. Too old. Too dull. No sense of humour. It's as though you want to be an old maid. I don't understand you.'

'That's obvious.'

'You can't keep carrying a torch for someone who's never coming back.'

'That's enough, Sarah!'

'I'm sorry Stephen was killed. We're all sorry. But you're not the only woman in that position. With so many men killed in the war, you can't afford to be picky. As for this Mr Kidd, being a widower I'm sure he believes other factors to be more important than love the second time around. And so should you.'

It's not picky to want to be in love with the person I marry. Maybe you don't understand that. After all you can't have been in love with...'

'Don't you dare speak of Charles and me that way. We're talking about you. Don't you want to be married?

'I'd rather be single than marry a man for whom I have no feelings. My fiancé was blown up in the middle of a muddy Belgian swamp and yes, I know that doesn't make me unusual; and no, I'm not complaining about my lot. But since Stephen died, I've not found another man whom I can love. It may be a sentimental approach to life, but it's how I feel. It should be possible for a woman to forge a life on her own if she so wishes, rather than be obliged to marry to survive.'

'You aren't forging a life on your own – you're dependent on Charles and me. It's a situation that we can't sustain with our growing family.'

'I've always contributed more than my share to the household expenses. And I intend to continue doing so. You and Charles haven't had to pay a penny to the upkeep of the house until now. If Father's stops my allowance I'll take on more pupils.'

'More pupils!' There was contempt in Sarah's voice. 'Your pupils pay buttons. Besides, Charles is not prepared to put up with strangers trooping through the house and scratching and wailing away with those dreadful violins for hours on end.'

'Charles is at work when my pupils come.'

'That's beside the point. Charles says it's bad for the babies to be exposed to noise and all those people bringing germs into our home. He's had enough and so have I.'

'I'd like to remind you that this is my home too. Charles has no right to dictate what I can and cannot do here.'

'That's where you're wrong. Didn't Father explain?'

Sarah pulled another letter from the drawer of a small sewing table that stood beside her chair and thrust it at Elizabeth.

'Read what he wrote to me.'

Elizabeth opened the letter, and read with growing dismay. Her father had not been the same since her mother's death left a huge hole in the fabric of the family. After a few months of withdrawal from the world, when he stopped going to his office and shunned all social events, he had emerged from self-imposed purdah and found a new-found passion for gambling. What had once been a sizeable fortune, built from his small but successful coffee importing company, was decimated by a throw of the dice, a hand of cards or a bad choice in the four o'clock at Aintree or Chester. Out of the blue, he had announced that he would be leaving for Australia, where at first he had prospered. The remains of his fortune, and luck at cards on the voyage out, provided enough cash for a share in a small mining consortium. His letters home were filled with optimism and enthusiasm. He claimed to have stopped gambling and intended to buy land to build a house. Six months passed with no further word, but Elizabeth continued to receive her monthly allowance through the bank. One month ago the payment had not arrived.

His letters today explained that a drinking spree, celebrating a possible gold-strike, had turned into a binge when the gold failed to materialise. The alcohol brought on a loss of self-control and he turned to the card table like a plant towards light. In a few hours he lost everything that he had built.

The contents of Sarah's letter were similar to Elizabeth's until the last page.

With Elizabeth to be married, I must also think of you, Sarah.

It's no secret that your mother and I were opposed to your marriage, but in my present straitened circumstances I want to protect the family home from any possibility that I could one day put at risk my grandchildren's inheritance. My latest misfortune has demonstrated how I can lose all reason when I sit down at a card-table. I have instructed my solicitors to transfer the deeds of Trevelyan House into your husband's name.

I will remain in Sydney until Elizabeth arrives and is married, then I plan to make a new start - I have heard good things of the city of Melbourne.

With fondest love and respect, your father,

William M Morton
.

A chill spread through Elizabeth's body as she realised the limited choices before her. Charles Dawson had tolerated her presence only because she had more right to be in the house than he did.

Elizabeth had never understood why Sarah had married him. He was dull, older than his years and sullen to the point of rudeness. He found laughter undignified and had no trouble avoiding it. Elizabeth thought him selfish, materialistic and short-tempered. He was cold to his children and showed no affection to Sarah.

When Sarah had announced her engagement her parents were dismayed, but in the face of her evident happiness, consented. While accepting the marriage, William Morton continued to keep the clerk at arm's length, making no attempt to include him in business decisions.

The day William Morton announced to the assembled family that he had sold Morton's Coffee, Dawson's hopes of being accepted by his father in law were dashed. His job was safe – he was to be transferred to the new owners along with the other company assets, as if he were a bushel of beans or a gross of sacks – but any possibility that he would inherit the family firm vanished with the sale.

Elizabeth avoided her brother-in-law. She often contrived to be elsewhere, maintaining a social life that included dining at the homes of close friends, concerts in Liverpool or Manchester and trips with friends to Northport's popular new picture house, where she could indulge her fascination with the films of Rudolph Valentino. Dawson shut himself away in the small back parlour, where he was usually to be found studying religious tracts. He spent little time with Sarah and his daughters, preferring to make regular visits to his elderly mother on the other side of Northport.

'So you mean to throw me out of my own home?' Elizabeth said to Sarah.

'Stop the drama, Lizzie.'

'That's what it amounts to – no matter how you phrase it. Father has handed the family home to your husband and you're saying he won't let me stay here.'

'Why should he be expected to share his home with his wife's spinster sister? You've had plenty of chance to marry. Mother used to despair of you.'

'Don't bring Mother into this.'

'She wanted you to be settled and happy.'

'I'm settled and happy here and Mother would be horrified to know that you're trying to throw me out of my home.'

'There's
no more money
! Charles's salary is pitifully inadequate. Handing over the house is the least Father could do after selling the firm out from under Charles and never giving him the status and salary he deserves. You'll be fine. You'll be close to Father. You'll have a rich husband and will want for nothing. I can't believe you're not the least bit excited about all this?'

Elizabeth curled her lip. 'Excited? Excited at being treated like a piece of baggage to be shipped across the world and handed, sight unseen, to an old man? What's wrong with you, Sarah?'

'There's nothing wrong with me. I have two children and another on the way and a house to run with no income other than the paltry sum my husband brings home. The servants will have to go too. Susan's been here since Mother and Father married and Betty since you were born. It's not just about you, you know.'

Elizabeth tried to be conciliatory. She knelt on the floor and took Sarah's hands in hers. 'We'll get through this together. We'll find a way. I'll look for a post in a school. The salary will be better than I'm getting now. I can work full time. I'm not afraid of that. I'll apply for a position at Harbour House. It's very exclusive. High fees. I can earn enough to make up what Father used to send us.'

'Charles would not be happy.'

'Why? If I pay my way? You can make him understand? He'll listen to you.'

Sarah picked up a glass paperweight and turned it over in her hands, then polished the glass on her velvet dress. She frowned then took a breath, replaced the paperweight and answered her sister. 'We need your bedroom.'

'But the girls are still tiny and ...'

'Charles has decided to move his mother in here. She's very frail and he wants her close by. He's going to tell her this evening and there isn't room for you both. It's Charles's house now and it's understandable that he should put his mother first.'

'You mean Charles already knows about Father's letters? The pair of you have got it all worked out!'

'Of course he knows. As soon as I read the letter I went over to the office to discuss it with him. It's a great relief to him to be able to care for his mother and to know that he has at last been accepted into this family.'