The Stony Path (36 page)

Arnold was a hypocrite and a liar and that was the least of it. There was still something dark and menacing staring out of his eyes in the odd unguarded moment, but it seemed to Polly that she was the only member of her family to recognise it. Even her beloved grandfather, on the occasions when Arnold made a visit to his room and sat and talked with the frail old man, seemed pleased to see him and brighter for his company. She didn’t understand how they could all be so blind. She wished she could talk to Luke about it. She had thought when he and Katy Chapman had parted company in the spring that Luke might visit the farm a little more, especially as Arnold was coming so often, but if anything, his visits were more infrequent.

A picture of the tall, dark miner came into her mind, and she dwelt on it for a second before pushing it aside sharply. Luke was the brother she had never had, she told herself for the hundredth time, as her heart began to beat a little faster. He looked on her as a sister and she on him as a brother, and that was fine. It was, it was fine and how things should be. She was a married woman and he had never expressed anything other than brotherly affection. They were worlds apart, and these feelings she had . . . She did not go on to explain to herself what the churning feelings embodied but instead turned quickly and walked across to the open kitchen window, leaning out for a moment as she looked up into the startlingly blue sky.

How long could she go on like this? she asked herself silently. In this marriage that wasn’t a marriage? And the answer came as it always did – as long as you have to. Till death us do part. She had said that and meant it and that was the end of it. And Frederick had kept to his part of their unspoken agreement to some degree: he provided a roof over their heads and food on their plates for her family, and not grudgingly. No, he was kind to her grandparents and to her mother and Ruth; it was just his wife who saw that other side of him.

She sighed deeply, her eyes on a lark high above as it swooped and glided with the sun on its wings. He hated her, she knew he hated her. He looked at her sometimes as though he wished her dead.

‘Not lettin’ up, this heat, is it?’ Betsy had joined her at the window and now her voice had a gurgle to it as she said, ‘Makes folk do funny things when it’s as hot as this. Croft told me –’ and here the housekeeper’s voice dropped even lower – ‘he told me that old Parson Casey at Ryhope, him that’s always preachin’ damnation an’ hellfire an’ the sins of the flesh, he went for a midnight dip down near Hole Rock as naked as the day he was born. Just unfortunate for the good parson that two of his parishioners were busy courtin’ down there an’ all. Croft said the parish was rockin’ for a week at the picture of the parson in the altogether stumblin’ across Biddy McBrodie an’ Len from the public house sportin’ in the moonlight. An’ she’s a big girl, Biddy. The parson would have got an eyeful all right.’

‘Oh, Betsy.’ Polly was shaking with laughter.

‘An’ accordin’ to Croft – an’ he got it from the horse’s mouth so to speak, bein’ on such friendly terms with Len since they were bairns – the parson leapt ten foot in the air an’ gave a whinny like a mare before boltin’ like the devil himself had stuck his pitchfork where he shouldn’t. Croft said Len didn’t know which’d given him the more pleasure, Biddy or the parson.’

Betsy’s mirth was spilling over now and the two women leaned against each other for long moments before they drew apart, both of them wiping their streaming eyes with their aprons.

What would she do without Betsy? Polly looked into the dear face of this friend who had been tried and tested over the last five years and found to be rock solid. But thank God, aye, thank God indeed that she didn’t have to do without her. ‘I suppose I’d better go and have a word with Ruth,’ said Polly as their smiles faded. ‘She should be down here by now anyway, preparing the vegetables for Grandda’s broth.’

Betsy nodded. The day Ruth came downstairs to the kitchen after paying her morning call to her mother without being called at least three times would be a miracle, she thought grimly. If ever there was a lazy upstart, that little madam was one. Thought she was the cat’s whiskers and the tail an’ all, Ruth did. Betsy never ceased to wonder how two sisters could be so different. ‘Aye, all right, lass, an’ tell her to bring down your mam’s breakfast tray, would you? Once I’m finished here I’ll be in the dairy; them creampots have been standin’ for a week now, so they need churnin’.’

As Betsy bustled back to her work, Polly left the kitchen by the door which led into the passage adjoining the hall, and after mounting the polished wooden staircase, she stopped for a moment and glanced about her. This was a beautiful house, large and well furnished, but she had never felt mistress of it, not deep down. She had visited what remained of her old home a few weeks ago, and it had saddened her to see the ruin it had become. Frederick had decided there was no point in repairing the roof once the extent of the damage had been clear, and as he wanted the forty acres for pasture, the farmhouse had been left to decay. But at least Buttercup had companions in her old age. Polly smiled to herself as she thought of the cow who now – owing to a promise Frederick had made Polly before their marnage – lived in queenly comfort in lush pasture with a host of other bovines and old Bess and Patience.

Once on the wide landing with its deep stone windowsills and leaded windows, Polly walked along to her mother’s room, which was between Ruth’s and her grandparents’. She could hear voices from within but these stopped immediately she opened the door, and it was clear that the two occupants’ conversation had not been for her ears. This was a regular occurrence when Ruth and her mother were together, and it had ceased to bother Polly years ago. Polly looked across to the wide double bed in which her mother was lying and on which Ruth was perched, and her face was expressionless as she said, ‘Good morning, Mother.’

‘I suppose you’ve come to take her downstairs.’ Hilda’s voice was sharp and querulous. ‘She’s not well, you know, she’s had stomach ache this morning.’

‘I’m not surprised, given the size of the breakfast she ate,’ Polly said pleasantly. ‘What was it, Ruth? A bowl of porridge followed by two eggs, sausages and bacon?’

Ruth wasn’t fooled by the amiable tone and she slid off the bed after one peevish ‘Huh.’

‘Bring Mother’s tray with you.’

‘She’s not a servant; let Betsy or that half-witted girl do it.’

‘Betsy is busy in the dairy, and even if she wasn’t I wouldn’t bother her to come and fetch your tray, as you well know,’ Polly said steadily, meeting the eyes of the thin-faced woman in the bed. ‘And Emily is far from half-witted.’

‘She doesn’t say boo to a goose.’

‘And if she was more outspoken, that would be wrong too.’

‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ Hilda snapped testily. ‘Ruth never does.’

Polly didn’t bother to answer, merely indicating with a wave of her hand for Ruth – who was now holding her mother’s breakfast tray – to precede her out of the room. The tenor of the exchange was the same every morning, it was only the detail which varied.

Once on the landing, with her mother’s bedroom door closed, Polly said quietly, ‘Just a moment, Ruth.’

‘What now?’ Ruth flounced round to face her sister, her face set in its perpetual scowl. ‘It’s not
my
fault if she keeps me in there half the morning.’

‘It’s not about that.’ Polly stared at the young woman in front of her. Ruth was now eighteen years of age and was slightly above middle height. Her hair did not have the rich chestnut tint which Polly’s had, but nevertheless the brown curls were thick and shiny and her skin was clear and finely textured. She could have been pretty – she ought to have been pretty – and certainly the blue muslin summer dress she was wearing had been chosen with a view to flattering her somewhat voluptuous figure, but the ill-temper which had become a permanent feature dominated her face. ‘I just wondered when Arnold is calling next?’

‘Why?’ It was immediate and aggressive.

‘You know why.’

Ruth made no answer, but stood looking at Polly, her face set.

‘He’s not right for you, Ruth. You must see that. You deserve someone a hundred times better than Arnold.’

‘He won’t be a miner all his life.’

‘I’m not talking about him being a miner,’ Polly said sharply. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, for goodness’ sake. I’m talking about him, the man. The last time we had this conversation you promised me you’d think carefully about what you were doing.’

Ruth blinked rapidly, and as her eyes fell away from her sister’s she said, ‘I did, I have.’

‘And?’

‘It’s all right for you. You’re married, no one is going to label you a spinster,’ Ruth said bitterly.

‘You’re eighteen years old, not thirty-eight or even twenty-eight! You’ve got the rest of your life in front of you.’ Polly shook her head, her face softening as she said, ‘You’re a pretty lass, Ruth. Don’t throw your life away on Arnold Blackett.’

Ruth looked at her quickly, and just for a brief moment Polly saw a glimpse of the little sister who had always run to her older sibling with her troubles before their mother had done her best to sour her daughters’ relationship. ‘But what if no one else asks for me, Polly?’

‘They will. I promise you they will. And it would be worse to be married to the wrong man than not married at all.’ Then, as Ruth’s gaze honed in on her sister’s face, Polly forced a bright note into her voice as she realised she might have given too much away. ‘Why don’t you come into town with me next time I go? You used to do that at one time and we had fun, didn’t we, when we used to go to Binns cake shop and restaurant or to Grimshaw’s Elephant Tea House?’

‘Aye, I know, but Arnold said—’

Ruth stopped abruptly, and as her sister’s face turned scarlet Polly said, ‘Yes? What did Arnold say?’

Ruth just stared at her, her eyes flickering and her mouth opening once before shutting again. Polly’s voice changed tenor as she said again, ‘Ruth? What did Arnold say?’

‘I . . . I don’t know.’

‘Ruth.’

‘He said I hadn’t to say anything. He was trying to protect me, warn me in case I heard anything . . .’

Ruth’s voice trailed away and now she gazed at her sister miserably as Polly said, ‘You
will
tell me, Ruth, if we have to stand here all day, and I shall know if you’re lying.’

‘It’s just that there’s been some gossip about what happened that day when Da hang— When Da died,’ Ruth stuttered. ‘Michael leaving like he did, and you . . .’

‘And me what?’

‘You doing all right for yourself and marrying Frederick and all. Some people seemed to have put two and two together about Michael being our half-brother, and they think you were . . . well, carrying on with him, and then for you to marry your uncle . . .’

‘He is not our uncle.’ Polly’s voice was flat and low. Ruth’s words had seemed to freeze her blood. She understood, now, the sly looks and nudges that occurred occasionally in certain shops she frequented when she accompanied Frederick into town on market day. Shops Arnold knew she frequented. He had been saying things about her, wicked, disgusting things. She knew it.

‘No, I know that,’ Ruth agreed quickly, ‘but you know what folk are like.’

Aye, she knew what folk were like all right – or one particular man at least. Polly stared at her sister, and then she said, her voice still flat and quiet, ‘So that’s why you stopped accompanying me into town? Because you were ashamed to be seen with me?’

‘No, no.’

Yes, yes. And that was also why Mr and Mrs McCabe from the confectioner’s in High Street West always made a point of serving her themselves – to show everyone they were for her. A little glow warmed the ice round Polly’s heart. The McCabes had known her since the first time she had accompanied her father into town on market day, and he had treated her to a quarter of stickjaw and two ounces of rhubarb-and-custard sweets from the little shop, which was always redolent with the smell of winter mixtures and aniseed fudge. To this very day, Mrs McCabe continued to slip her a piece of Boy Blue liquorice nougat every time she left.

‘You should have told me, Ruth.’ And then Polly said, as Ruth continued to stand mute, ‘You know Arnold was behind these supposed rumours, don’t you? You see that?’

‘That’s exactly what he said you would say if I told you, which is why I didn’t,’ Ruth fired back suddenly. ‘He knows you don’t like him.’

‘No, Ruth, I don’t.’

‘Well, I do!’ All the defiance was back, the brief moment of softness gone. ‘And you don’t like it because he likes me rather than you, admit it. You can’t bear for him not to be falling down at your feet. Well, he told me how you tried to make up to him years ago and he wasn’t having any of it.’

Polly stared at the red-faced girl in front of her in amazement. ‘You can’t believe that.’

‘I do.’ Ruth’s chin was out and her eyes were narrowed. ‘Well, Arnold is never going to want you because he is mine, do you hear? And he’s going to ask me to marry him soon, so what do you think about that?’

Polly’s eyes widened before growing darker, and she spoke with a startling crispness as she said, ‘I think you would be making the worst mistake of your life, that’s what I think, but if you are determined to throw your life away on a man who is a liar and a rogue, that is up to you.’

‘He isn’t! How dare you say that!’