The Stony Path (40 page)

The eyelids shut for a moment and then rose again, and now the gaze was tight and deep, fixed on her face. The whole bone structure of the skull was visible under the yellow skin, the once thick, vibrant hair sparse and wispy. Polly could hardly believe someone could be so emaciated and still be alive. She wished her aunt would say something,
anything
. And then her wish was granted when the mouth opened and Eva said, ‘Polly Farrow, or Weatherburn as you are now. Well, well, well. Come and sit by me, Polly.’

Polly felt herself beginning to sweat with an unknown dread as she approached the bed, partly because the voice was the same as it had ever been and all at odds with the skeletal frame whence it had emerged. But it was her aunt’s eyes that were freezing her blood and causing the goose-pimples to prick her skin. Their greenness was so dark as to be black and the power in them was riveting.

‘I’m sorry to find you so poorly—’

‘Don’t give me that.’ The tone was low but clear. ‘You hate me. You’ve been wishing me dead for the last five years.’

‘That’s not true.’ Polly hadn’t sat down on the straight, hardbacked chair at the side of the bed but had remained standing. Now she offered her aunt the mug of broth, and when it was refused with an irritable gesture from one claw-like hand, she placed it on the little table next to the chair, before repeating, ‘That’s not true, Aunt Eva.’

‘Well, I hate you.’ The words were steady and ominous. ‘All the trouble you caused, and then you calmly go and marry Frederick Weatherburn not six months later, you dirty little strumpet. I know all about you. Flaunted yourself at all of ’em, I know, but it was Michael who was daft enough to fall for your whoring.’

For a moment Polly could only gape at the figure propped on the pillows. Her aunt was mad. Her granny had always said Eva was mad, and she was right. ‘That’s not true, Aunt Eva, and you know it.’ Compassion for the remains of what once had been a bonny woman moderated Polly’s tone, but her stomach was heaving at the nastiness of the confrontation.

‘Spoilt you from the day you was born, me mam and da did. There was no one like you and yet they wouldn’t give their own daughter the time of day.’

‘Aunt Eva—’

‘And what are you when all’s said and done?’ The words were coming deep and guttural now, and they were coated with a bitterness that was tangible. ‘A dirty little trollop who’s living in clover because she opened her legs for money, that’s what. I’ve always hated me mam and da, for as long as I can remember, but do you know something, Polly Weatherburn? I hate you more, aye, I do, and that’s the truth. I wanted to tell me mam that I’ll die cursing her, but you’ll do even better. Aye, you will.’

‘Stop this now, you terrible woman.’ Although Polly didn’t shout, such was the quality of her voice that it brought Eva’s venom to a temporary halt, but she rallied almost immediately.

‘Me terrible?’ Her eyes were unblinking. ‘Well, maybe I am at that, but have you asked yourself who made me that way, eh? Your precious gran and grandda, that’s who. An’ I’ll see ’em in hell, and you an’ all.’ Eva had raised herself on the pillows with a strength born of hatred, her scrawny neck straining out of her calico nightdress as she shouted at Polly, who had turned and was leaving the room, and even when they heard Michael running up the stairs she still continued to rant on.

Polly passed Michael in the doorway and walked straight down the stairs and into the kitchen, more shaken than she had ever been in all her life. Thank goodness her granny hadn’t been well enough to come. That was the first coherent thought when the shock began to recede. And how incredible that a woman like her aunt could have given birth to someone like Michael. That was the second.

It was quiet now upstairs, very quiet, but it was a full minute before Michael came into the kitchen, and his face was very white. ‘She’s gone into some kind of coma. I need to call the doctor. You’ll wait, Polly? You won’t leave before I get back?’

The pungent smell of the tripe and onions still sitting on the plate on the table was making Polly feel nauseous, but she nodded quickly. ‘Of course not. You go.’ She didn’t want to stay here with the personification of evil lying upstairs, but there was nothing else she could do.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Michael was gone for fifteen minutes, and Polly felt it was the longest fifteen minutes of her life. She busied herself clearing the table and washing the pile of dishes she found in the deep stone sink, before stoking up the fire in the range with more coal and filling the kettle to make a fresh pot of tea for Michael and the doctor. By the time they walked in the door she had stopped shaking and was able to converse quite naturally with Dr Henderson once he came downstairs after examining his patient.

‘She won’t come out of this coma.’ He was quite definite. ‘But exactly how long . . . I’m not sure. It could be tonight, or perhaps tomorrow, there’s no telling.’

Polly and Michael stared at each other. They both knew Eva had gone into unconsciousness cursing her family, and it was chilling. And then Polly mentally shook herself, offering the doctor and Michael a cup of tea and a shive of Elsie Appleby’s seed cake she had found in the pantry.

The doctor didn’t stay long, and once he had gone – promising to return in the morning – Polly could see Michael was very upset. And so she stayed talking to him by the fire, and after a little while they found the talking was easier and they could even reminisce about some of the good times from their childhood.

‘Why did you marry Frederick, Poll?’

She had just realised three o’clock had come and gone and had jumped up, grabbing her coat and hat, but now she turned to face Michael, the coat limp in her hands. She could prevaricate, give an evasive answer that was no answer at all, but as she looked into the face of this dear brother she knew she owed him the truth. ‘There was nothing else I could do if I wanted to keep Gran and Grandda out of the workhouse,’ she said quietly. And then she explained it all – the debts, the struggle to keep the family afloat and the final blow on the day of the storm.

Michael listened, and he found it difficult to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he said, ‘So he blackmailed you into it.’

‘It was my decision, Michael.’

Maybe. Michael looked into the great blue eyes, and then he asked the question Luke had asked the day before. ‘Are you happy with him?’

Again she didn’t beat about the bush. ‘No.’ And somehow she found she could talk to him about the true state of affairs between herself and Frederick in a way she could never have done with Luke. Which was strange really, she thought to herself after she had finished telling Michael all of it. ‘I must go.’ He had listened well, he’d make a good priest. ‘I shan’t make the bridge where I’m meeting Frederick before half past now.’

He wanted to take her into his arms. He didn’t think he had ever wanted anything quite so much, especially after what she had revealed about her husband. Which was why he mustn’t touch her. ‘Goodbye, Polly.’

‘Shall . . . shall I see you again? Will you come back here after . . .’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ He would want her until the day he died and beyond.

‘No.’ She nodded slowly and then touched his arm, her manner tentative as she said, ‘I don’t know if I should say this, but you will always be part of my life, Michael. You’re my brother, my only brother, and I love you.’ Her left hand unconsciously touched his ring, which she still wore on the third finger of her right hand.

He had noticed it there earlier and it had touched him more than any words could have done, and now it took all his will power to answer quietly, ‘And I you, Polly. As my dear sister.’

She smiled at him – a sweet smile – but she didn’t reach up to kiss him goodbye, for which he was eternally grateful. And then she was buttoning her coat and adjusting the cape on her shoulders and they were at the front door.

Polly felt the lump in her throat become constricting as she looked into Michael’s face. It was probably for the last time, and for a moment she felt she couldn’t bear to say goodbye.
She mustn’t cry
. He had enough to bear with his mother dying, she told herself silently, forcing herself to say steadily, as a gust of wind nearly took her hat off, ‘Don’t stand on the doorstep, it’s beginning to snow again. Tell Luke I’m sorry I missed him, and that we’d appreciate knowing at the farm when . . . when it happens.’

Michael nodded. ‘Luke’s on the foreshift today, I thought he would be home before now.’ What were they doing talking about Luke and shifts or anything else but what really mattered? Michael asked himself desperately. She was going, and these few hours were going to have to last him a lifetime.

‘Goodbye, Michael.’ Polly stepped down into the street as she spoke, turning and smiling at him one last time.

‘Goodbye, Poll.’ He couldn’t prolong this, not without spoiling everything and begging her not to go.

Michael shut the door as Polly began walking away, sinking immediately to his knees with a groan that came from the depths of him as he swayed back and forth, his arms crossed against his waist. And it wasn’t until he tasted salt on his lips a minute or so later that he even realised the tears were streaming down his face.

Chapter Seventeen

The temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees since midday, and there were flakes of snow blowing in the wind as Polly hurried along Southwick Road. As she passed the entrance to the Wearmouth Colliery she was aware that there were several groups of miners standing talking and others leaving after their shift, but she didn’t look in their direction. She couldn’t have coped with seeing Luke right now, besides which – and now she had left Michael, this was a very real worry – she didn’t know if Frederick would be waiting for her, the mood he had been in that morning. But he wouldn’t leave her to walk home, she reassured herself as she passed the smithy and turned into North Bridge Street. Not even Frederick would do that.

When she reached Bridge Dock she was craning her neck to see over the bridge, the smell of industrial smoke heavy in the cold air. A dredger and a hopper were in the middle of the river, with other smaller vessels fore and aft, but it wasn’t until Polly reached the south side of the bridge, near the bottle works at Bishopwearmouth Panns, that she realised there was no horse and trap waiting for her.

How could he! She stood for a moment or two biting her lip as she stared down Bridge Street, and then she nearly jumped out of her skin as a voice just behind her said, ‘And what’s the lady of the manor doing in this neck of the woods?’

‘Arnold.’ She stared into the black face in which the mouth and eyes showed in stark contrast to the coal dust. ‘You startled me.’

‘Been to see Eva?’

His cap was set at a jaunty angle and it matched the tone of his voice, and when Polly said, ‘Yes, aye, yes, I have,’ he nodded once. ‘Aye, I thought so when I saw you pass the colliery gates. I was going there meself once the shift ended, but we had a meeting – union business.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘You know Luke’s the representative now?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Rising star, our Luke. No one can argue the toss like my little brother.’

It wasn’t meant to be laudatory, and as his eyes ran all over her Polly forced herself to show no reaction at all, keeping her voice cool and even as she said, ‘If you’re going to see Eva, haven’t you come in the wrong direction?’

Cocky little baggage. She’d got more airs and graces than a duchess. ‘Aye, well, I saw you scurrying past and wondered what was what,’ Arnold said with elaborate casualness. ‘How are you getting back to the farm?’

Polly hesitated just a fraction too long before she said, ‘With Frederick. I . . . I’m meeting him.’

‘Oh, aye? Where?’

‘In Fawcett Street.’

‘I’ll walk along with you. I want a word with him . . . about Ruth.’

Was he going to ask for her? Polly stared into the mean black eyes as she said quickly, ‘I’m going shopping first; besides which, I wouldn’t want to delay you. Eva was quite poorly when I left.’

Arnold nodded sagely. There was something going on here, and if he wasn’t far wrong she wasn’t meeting Frederick at all. Was she meeting someone else, or was it simply that she didn’t want to be seen with him? He looked into the beautiful face framed by the soft fur of her hat and felt his body stir. Had them all dangling on a string, Polly did, damn her. And what was she when all was said and done? A bit farmer’s daughter, and one who’d been caught sleeping with his own sister. Polly had nothing to be uppity about, not with her heritage. But he’d see his day with her; oh, aye, he would. He’d made himself that promise years ago and put up with that silly halfwit of a sister of hers in order to keep a foot in the door.

He took a step nearer to her, and as he saw the slight recoil she didn’t quite manage to hide, his eyes narrowed, but his voice was offhand as he said, ‘Right you are, lass. Well, I’m in lodgings round here, so I might as well nip back and change afore I go to see Eva.’

Polly nodded, relieved he wasn’t going to be awkward. ‘Goodbye, then.’ She turned quickly, walking off at a smart pace down Bridge Street, and it wasn’t until she reached the intersection with High Street West that she glanced behind her. Arnold was nowhere to be seen, and after searching the pavements for some moments she let out a deep sigh of relief. He had gone. She put her hand to her racing heart and breathed deeply. Now all she had to worry about was getting home before the threatened snow hit. How
could
Frederick have gone without her, and what on earth would he say to the others back at the farmhouse to explain his actions? She would never forgive him for this, never.