The Black Mountains (72 page)

He knew this was unreasonable—he had already lost his leg when she exchanged Ted's company for his. But he wondered if that might actually have been some kind of morbid attraction for her in the first place, before she realized she couldn't after all go through with it.

That night when he left Stella at the door to her hostel, they made arrangements to meet again the following week, and Jack, although tired, was pleased with the way the evening had gone. The pleasant, warm feeling was back, surrounding him as it always seemed to when Stella was around, and he felt exhilarated as he took a taxi back to his lodgings.

Why hadn't he looked her up before? he asked himself. Why had he just let her go? There was no answer to that, but he was determined not to let her go so easily again.

APRIL came and went, and May, and the warm sunshine mirrored Jack's happiness.

For the first time in his life, everything seemed to have come together just as he wanted it. He was busily engaged day by day in the sort of study he found most fascinating, and soon he would be embarking properly on the career he had always wanted. His personal life too was rewarding — not the wild, passionate elation he had known with Rosa, but something which was just as good in its own way, warmer, safer and more comfortable. He took pleasure in the way Stella looked, the tone of her voice, her cool touch. When they were together, he felt happy and strangely complete, and when they were not, he missed her, storing up every arousing or interesting experience to share with her.

But after a while, be noticed another reaction, one he thought of as very odd. If he began to think about how things might be if he and Stella remained together, a tight, choking feeling he could not explain began inside him, closing in like a straight jacket, until he found some way of channelling his thoughts into a different direction.

It was the same when they were alone together. He kissed her and held her with tenderness, but if ever he felt the stirrings of breathless desire, a shutter came down almost at once, blocking off feeling and producing the same sense of inexplicable claustrophobia.

At first, he did not worry about it. But as the weeks passed and the days became longer and warmer, he began to realize he could not go on like this forever, shutting himself off from extremes of emotion and refusing to plan beyond the next few casual meetings.

Already, people were beginning to look on them as a couple. Stella was always included in invitations from his friends, and he from hers, and his landlady had commented on one occasion that he should look for a teaching post with a house to go with it. At the moment, he thought Stella was quite happy with things as they were, but it might very well be that before long she would be thinking along the same lines as his landlady. Sooner or later she was almost bound to look for some commitment, and the thought of that made his stomach knot in panic and everything in him cry out in silent protest.

Why? he asked himself. Why should he feel like this? He was so fond of Stella, he had begun to think he was in love with her, yet the very thought of telling her so made him feel physically sick, and he would almost rather not see her than have her expect more from him than a transitory love.

But why … why? She was a nice girl, a wonderful girl, and plenty of men would give their eye-teeth to be in his position. So what was the matter with him that he should feel like this?

It was Charlotte who gave him a glimpse of the truth.

He had come home, as he so often did, for a cup of tea and a couple of her delicious home-made johnny-cakes, and he was sitting in the kitchen with her and Harry when she suddenly raised the subject of Stella.

“When are we going to meet this girl of yours?” she asked bluntly.

“But you know her, Mam,” he said. “You've known the O'Hallorans for years.”

“You know what I mean, Jack,” she said impatiently. “If you don't want to lose her, you ought to do something about it. I know there's a shortage of men, thanks to the damn war, but you can't expect a girl like her to wait for ever.”

Oh no! he thought. Not Mam, too!

“Give me a chance,” he retorted. “ We've only been going out together a couple of months.”

“Long enough to be fixing up some kind of an understanding,” Charlotte told him tartly. “ Don't you know there's talk of Hal retiring soon? If he goes back up North where he came from, like as not she'll go, too, and that'll be the last you'll see of her.”

Although annoyed, Jack said nothing. Mam was biased of course. She'd always wanted him to marry someone to suit her ideals, and she no doubt thought Stella was a good match. But it wasn't knowing that that made him turn away silently. It was hearing her put his own thoughts into words.

“You know what I think?” Charlotte went on, ignoring his stony response. “I think you're afraid she'll let you down like Rosa Clements did. Well, you're wrong, Jack. She's a very different girl. I know that Rosa business hurt you more than you ever let on, but it was all for the best and you mustn't let what happened mar your life.”

“Oh, don't be so silly, Mam,” he said irritably, but in his heart of hearts he knew she'd struck pretty dose to the truth and when he was alone in his room, he mulled it over again, looking squarely for the first time at the facts he had refused to face.

Once before he'd told a girl he loved her, and asked her to marry him. He'd bared his soul to her, and pinned all his hopes and dreams on the future they would share. And she'd gone—disappeared without so much as seeing him to explain. And he hadn't needed her explanation. He had known why. Deep in the part of him that was hidden even from himself, he had known.

He was only half a man, and it was too much to expect any girl to take on a cripple …

Now that it was out, it should have been better, but it was not. For in spite of himself, in spite of all the contradictory emotions, he knew he was in love with Stella, more deeply and lastingly than he had ever been with Rosa. But at the same time, he knew it would be no good. It would end in misery for them both. What she felt for him could only be based on pity, and one day she was certain to realize that. Perhaps she did already. Perhaps she had only accepted his invitations so as not to hurt his feelings. That would be like Stella. She was a nurse, and the most generous of people. And he could not put her in the position of testing her kindness to the limits.

Yet, he wanted desperately to know the truth, even if it meant the end of everything between them. The strain began to tell, added to by the worry of his examinations and knowing he would soon have to find a job. Tension crept into their meetings, where before there had been only warmth, and he became distant, moody and irritable.

One day in June, she lost patience with him.

“What's the matter with you these days?” she asked. “You used to be full of fun, but not any more. Now it's an obstacle course not to say the wrong thing.”

His heart sank. So she was getting tired of him, just as he had known she would. He sought a defence in bad temper. “You'd better find someone else to spend your time with then, hadn't you?”

“Oh, Jack, there are times I could hit you!” she said in exasperation. “ I don't want someone else. Don't you know that by now?”

He looked at her, wondering if he dare believe her. But once before he had been stupid enough to think a girl had forgotten his disability. He could not take the risk of making the same mistake again.

“You can do better than me, Stella,” he said. “ You don't want to be landed with a cripple.”

“I don't think of you as a cripple. And neither should you. For goodness sake, stop pitying yourself.”

“I'm not pitying myself. I'm pitying you, stuck with me when you could do so much better.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “With all these exams you're just impossible, Jack Hall. You're absolutely infuriating!”

“Maybe. Maybe it would be better if we didn't see one another until they're over.” As soon as he had said it, he was hoping she would tell him again not to be stupid. But she didn't. This time she, too, had been pushed to her limits.

“Maybe that would be best,” she said.

AFTER she had gone, the darkness seemed to close in around him, shutting out the sun.

He had thought that, pretending he had not committed himself, it would hurt less. He had thought that this time he would be prepared. Not so.

She had gone, and the rejection was as sharp as when Rosa had left—sharper, for this time he knew he really cared. Depression was like a stormy sea. He felt he was drowning in it. Although he had prepared himself, although he knew he had brought it upon himself, he still was shocked. Despite his tormenting self-doubt, he had expected her to stay.

His final days at college meant nothing to him now. Without her, even the things he had worked for seemed meaningless. When it was all over, he packed his things and went back to Hillsbridge in a daze of misery. He had interviews to attend, but he had no enthusiasm for them.

So sunk in self-pity was he, the depression of Hillsbridge hardly affected him at all. It was merely an extension of his own depression, another example of the wretched black world he found himself in.

Had he but noticed, he would have seen that the mood of the men had changed now, hardened with the passing weeks, with the poverty and the hunger. Their meetings were more bitter, although still peaceful, and when groups of them gathered on the bridge, the hopelessness was etched into the leathery lines of their faces.

They had had support from their own, it was true. A Welsh male voice choir had toured the area, giving concerts in aid of the relief fund, and there had been parades when those with money or food to spare had given it for those whose long families had quickly eaten away what little they had. But quiet though they might be, they were also stubborn, and already they had twice voted against acceptance of the owners' offer.

Now, it was coming to the vote again, and hardship was driving a wedge between those who wanted acceptance and those who were determined to see the struggle through to the bitter end. Whereas before there had been unanimity, now there were arguments, with vociferous factions arising on either side.

Stepping off the train that day in early July, Jack felt the tension in the air, but cared little for it. He had not seen Stella for three weeks now, but she still occupied his mind as much, if not more, than before. And he wondered, too, what his mother would have to say when she heard it was all over. She wouldn't be at all pleased, he knew, but perhaps he could keep it from her for the time being at least.

That hope was short lived.

Almost as soon as he got into the house, Charlotte raised the subject, turning from the fire that was making the sweat run in rivers down her cheeks. “ Well, Jack, and what have you done about Stella?”

“Nothing, Mam,” he said, hoping his tight tone would stop her, but he should have known better than that.

“I thought as much,” she said, brushing a strand of greying hair behind her ear. “She's home, you know. The woman who goes up there to clean told me. Home for a holiday and then going back to London, she said. I knew straight away there must be something wrong between you.”

Jack felt sick with shock, but he hid his dismay. If Stella was going back to London, it could mean only one thing, that she had decided to wash her hands of the whole affair and start afresh.

“Jack, you're a fool,” Charlotte said, and he bridled.

“Mam, I wish you wouldn't interfere in things you know nothing about.”

He would have had his answer when Charlotte had recovered from her surprise, but at that moment, the door opened and James came in calling, “ Cheerio,” to Walter Clements over his shoulder.

“Can we have tea a bit earlier tonight, Mother?” he said to Charlotte. “ There's a meeting down in the square to talk about this 'ere offer.”

She nodded brusquely. “If you must. And I hope you'll have the good sense to call it all off this time.”

“Be you coming down to hear what they've got to say?” James asked Jack.

Jack shook his head. “No thanks, Dad. I've got some applications to write out. I'm going upstairs where it's quiet.”

“Ah, well, at least our Jim's coming,” James said resignedly, and for the first time, Jack saw that his father actually minded that he had not followed him into the pit. Not wanting to be buried there himself, he had seen only Charlotte's eagerness for him to be free of it. He hadn't realized that James felt, deep down, that what had been good enough for him should be good enough for his sons. Even in troubled times, as these were.

Jack left his mother washing up the tea plates and went up to his room. The window had been thrown open to the summer's day, and through it he could hear the sound of music floating up from the valley below.

They must have got the band together for the meeting, he supposed. That didn't bode well for those who wanted a vote to end the strike. The band was always good for stirring up a fighting spirit.

He sat down on the window-sill, his writing pad beside him, and remembered how he had sat here as a child. How long ago, it seemed now, and yet, in some ways, how close! Nostalgia brought the misery flooding back again, and impatiently he took the top off his pen and began to write.

When he had finished, he looked out of the window again. The band had stopped playing now, but from time to time he heard the distant roar of a hundred and more voices, raised in a unanimous shout, and he wondered just what was going on. Perhaps he'd wander down the hill and find out after all. The sweet evening air was making him restless, and anything would be better than facing his mother's questions again.

He could hear the hubbub more clearly as he reached the foot of the hill, but it seemed to be closer than the town square. The wind must be blowing this way. But as he rounded the corner, he stopped, unable to believe his eyes.