Renunciation
The under-manager of the sawmill watched John jump the wall; he was waiting for him on the pavement of the main road.
‘You know, that’s a punishable offence,’ he said evenly.
John straightened his cap. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, I don’t want to seem stiff’—the man was almost apologetic—‘but it’s got to stop. I shouldn’t mind if it was just one doing it, but it only needs a start you know, and we’ll have everybody living in Jarrow coming out this way, and I leave you to guess what’ll happen to the timber . . . It’s got to stop you see.’
John merely nodded before moving off; and the man, looking after him, thought ‘poor devil’. It was right what they said, he had gone a bit queer. What other reason could there be for him not using the dock gates—for though the sawmill yard might be a short cut to Jarrow, it was difficult of access. Perhaps the lad thought he was still chasing his brother. Well, whatever he thought he was doing now, he’d have to find some other way of doing it but by this wall . . .
John realised this as he strode homewards. But there was no other way to avoid meeting Mary; if he used the main gate sooner or later they would be bound to meet. For four weeks now he had come out by the wall; it cut off the arches and the length of road past the Simonside bank. It did not cut off the gut—no deviation could cut off the gut. At first, he was determined to avoid Mary only until he should feel strong enough to face her; but with each passing day he became weaker, and told himself that in the silence between them the madness would fade and he would not have to see her. Then her letters started to come. Every day for the past three weeks there had been a letter. They were all neatly stacked in his box under the bed . . . and all unopened. With the coming of the first one he knew he must not open it, for the words it held would break down his reserve.
In the long stretches of the night he would think of the letters and what they held, and it would seem as if their substance created Mary herself, bringing her into the room to him . . . at times, even into the bed. He would feel her there, even smell the faint perfume that was hers, and his arms would go out to her, and in pulling her to him he would come to himself and, getting up, would stand on the cold floor, staring out of the window into the black square of the backyard, or up at the piece of sky visible between the houses, and know that Mary and the magic world that she alone could make was not for him—this wherein he stood was his world, this his night view for all time . . . this was his far horizon; this was the limit to all his wild hopes; here in this house he would have to work out his salvation. Sometimes he would lean his head against the window frame and murmur, ‘Katie, Katie,’ as if asking her forgiveness . . . If only he had never had the idea of making her a teacher! It was his fault, for she was a child and would have forgotten about it. Then he would never have got dressed up to go and see . . . her. And not seeing her, he would have come to love Christine; and the issue between him and Dominic would have been finished earlier, and his Katie and Christine would have been alive today . . . Again, had the Brackens not come next door, and, like a disciple, he had not sat at Peter’s feet, lapping up all his mad ideas about the power of thought, this would never have happened.
Well, he was finished with thinking . . . his mother was right—it got you nowhere. There would be no more wild imagining for him. The road he was on held no space for flights of fancy. He had been mad in a number of ways. Between her and Peter he had gone crazy for a time. She even made him believe that the quaint thoughts which came into his head were unpolished gems, holding poetic qualities . . . and Peter, that life held something gigantic for him, that one day he would lead men, not into battle, but out of it . . . out of the battle with squalor into brighter and better conditions. Peter even egged him to take on the job of being a delegate to the Labourers’ and General Workers’ Union . . . God! how far above the earth he had walked; until that business of Nancy Kelly’s! Even then he saw his Mecca in America. But now it was all over. He knew where his Mecca lay . . . in this house, in the fifteen streets and in the docks, working to feed his mother and father and Molly and that other growing Dominic.
Yet as he walked up the road, he knew that it wasn’t all over; the hardest part for him was yet to come. He would have to see her and finish it. Far better to make a clean cut than try to keep dodging her. Once it was done, he would feel better; he could not feel worse.
Saturdays were like the opening afresh of a wound; the week-ends altogether were a torture. And now another was upon him. Since jumping the sawmill wall, he knew how he must spend this one . . . he must read the letters! . . .
When he entered the kitchen, his eyes, in spite of himself, were forced to the mantelpiece. There was yet another letter against the clock. He thrust it into his pocket, then washed himself before sitting down to dinner. Shane was already at the table, and John, out of the pity growing in him for his father, answered his questions patiently . . . Yes, the first boat of the year was in from Sweden with Lulea ore, and it seemed heavier than ever . . . yes, there was one due in on Monday from Bilbao.
‘That’ll mean piece work,’ his father said . . . ‘five shillings a shift.’ He shook his head and looked down at his trembling hands. ‘Perhaps if I made a start I would steady up . . . eh, lad?’
‘Give yourself time,’ said John, knowing that all the time in the world wouldn’t put his father back in the docks.
‘Yes. Another week then,’ said Shane, with pitiable relief.
Silently, Mary Ellen moved between the oven and the table. Into the love she held for this son of hers was creeping a feeling of awe. The letters were creating it. The lass was writing to him every day, yet he was standing out against her. If ever a lad was in love, he was. But he was renouncing her . . . and for them. Where did he get his strength? She recognised him as a man with a man’s needs, and her humility ignored the origin of his strength in herself. If only in some way he could have the lass . . . But it was impossible, the house depended on him; they could only live by him.
Here was another Saturday. How she dreaded and hated Saturdays! She seemed to spend her weeks gathering strength to face the Saturdays. Yet life went on. Round the doors, it was back to normal. Already the incident was being referred to as something long past, in remarks, such as, ‘That was a Saturday, wasn’t it?’ or, ‘That day the two bairns went down.’ The only ones outside the house who still felt the weight of that day were Peggy Flaherty and the Kellys . . . Peggy, because John, as she said, wouldn’t look the side she was on. He wouldn’t forgive her for duping him, and her fat was visibly disappearing through the worry of it. Her simple soul felt that until she was on speaking terms with John again nothing would be right. The Kellys were affected because now there could be no redress for Nancy. They would be saddled with her child and their scraping to live would become more difficult, while the possibility of yet another Nancy would be growing under their eyes. Mary Ellen, too, often thought of this. In a short while now, the child would be born, and she would be a grandmother. And always there would be Dominic across the street from her . . . from behind the curtains, she would look for the traits to show. She could see herself doing just that all down the years, for there was no possibility of her ever leaving the fifteen streets. Nor did she want to now; all desire for a change had long since left her, and she knew she must see life out to its close here. This did not worry her, but what did was that her lad would have to do the same. She hadn’t wanted him to go to America, but that wasn’t saying she wanted him to be stuck in the fifteen streets all his life . . . Dear God, no . . .
The meal was over, and while Molly cleared away Mary Ellen, taking Mick’s shirt from the top of the pile of mending, cut off the tail and pinned it across the shoulders, before sitting down opposite Shane and beginning to sew.
John came from the bedroom, and looking hard at Molly, asked, ‘Did someone call here a while ago? You know who I mean.’
Molly, after staring back at him for a second, hung her head and answered, ‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
Molly turned her head a little and stared down to her mother’s lap . . . How could she say to him, ‘You were all mad when she came’? She recalled going to the door on the Sunday afternoon and seeing Miss Llewellyn standing there. She had asked to see her mother or father, and Molly had said she couldn’t, they were both bad. It felt nice, at the time, to deny something to her one-time teacher, a teacher who had never taken any notice of her; and when she was able to deny her John, saying that he was out and she didn’t know where he was, she experienced a definite pleasure. There was no room in her to feel sorry for Miss Llewellyn, who looked pale and bad. She didn’t want her here, anyway. She guessed that Miss Llewellyn had clicked with their John, and she was puzzled, yet made bold, by sensing the come-down it was for anyone so swanky to click with their John. And so, after Miss Llewellyn had gone, she forgot about her. And now here was John blaming her, and she didn’t want him to be vexed, for the daily aim of her life was that he and her ma would come to like her as they had liked Katie.
When she gave him no reply, John went back to the bedroom. He picked up the letter he had been reading . . . ‘Dearest, I felt I must come and see you. Judged by my own sorrow, yours and your people’s must be unbearable . . .’ She had come here, to this house. Through the open door she must have glimpsed the conditions from the bareness of the front room, yet it had not put her off; nor the fifteen streets themselves. Nothing would put her off. She would go on believing that when he had accepted his sorrow he would come again to her.
He picked up another letter . . . ‘Beloved, I understand. I will wait patiently. Each night I go to the lane, and I know that if you are not there there is always the following night, or the one after, or yet the one after that . . .’ He ground his fist into the palm of his hand, and getting up, began to pace the floor in his stockinged feet . . . How much could a man endure! Of all the millions of women in the world, this one, who stood out above them, had to offer him a love such as this, a love men dreamed of, and died with it still but a dream. And it was his, it was being offered to him, John O’Brien, of 10 Fadden Street, of the fifteen streets. Yet he must renounce it, and do so now, this day. He must tell her in words that the mad dream was over. He must do it quickly and cleanly; the cut must be made without sentiment; there must be no tender goodbyes, and no holding out hopes for the future. He knew what the future held for him . . . he was a gaffer, and he’d remain a gaffer; and there was not even the remotest chance of her even becoming a gaffer’s wife.
John caught sight of Mary before she saw him. She wasn’t in the lane but on the main road, walking slowly with her back towards him, and the setting sun cast an aura of white light about her as she moved. He paused and drew in to the side of the road. The sight of her back had taken all the strength and determination out of him—what hope had he then to stand firm when he faced her. It was easy to be brave in a room talking to oneself. There you asked the questions and fired the answers; there were no eyes to bore into your heart and no touch to set the blood racing. In the bedroom he had been brave enough to don his old style of dress; with a grim defiance he had knotted the muffler ends around his braces, put on his old trousers and heavy boots, and lastly his mackintosh and cap. This, he told himself, was getting back to what he really was, and it would make things easier for her; she would have less regret at what she imagined she was losing. But now he wasn’t so sure. His decent clothes would at least have left him free of thinking of himself. Fingering his muffler he could only think of her reaction when she saw him like this—well, wasn’t that what he wanted? He continued to watch her for some minutes, and his heart defying his head, cried out, ‘Mary—oh! Mary!’
As if the voice of his longing had become audible, she turned, and John, knowing that the time had come, stepped into the centre of the path and walked slowly towards her.
Mary remained still, gazing over the distance towards him. She did not see his clothes, only his face. Even from a distance it sent out its lostness to her, and she murmured aloud, ‘My dear! my dear!’ and with a little cry she picked up her skirts and ran to him. John halted before she reached him, and the resistance needed to stop the automatic gesture of holding out his arms became a pain.
‘Oh John!—my dear!’ Her hands were on his chest.
He swallowed as if ridding himself of a piece of granite, and said, ‘Hallo, Mary.’
‘Hallo, my dear,’ she smiled at him gently; ‘how are you?’
‘All right.’ He could not take his eyes from her face. She was pale, but she was more beautiful than he had ever seen her, and the tenderness in her eyes caused him to groan inwardly.
‘How is your mother?’ she asked softly.
‘All right.’
‘And is your father better?’
‘Yes.’
Her eyes fell from his to her hand. Her fingers were softly stroking his muffler. ‘I’ve missed you, dear.’
It was unbearable. No flesh and blood could stand it. He moved brusquely away from her and began to walk; and in a second she was by his side with her hand in his arm. ‘What is it, John?’
He did not reply, and she went on, ‘Shall we go up the lane?’
He turned into the lane without speaking, his arm hanging straight and stiff under her touch. The action was boorish, but he knew that if he allowed himself one tender move he would be finished. They stopped by the field gate, where they had been wont to lean and watch the moon and make love. Beyond, the after-glow was tinting the field of young wheat with sweeping strokes of pastel colour. John did not lean against the gate but stood staring into the field.
‘Talk about it, my dear. Katie would want it so. It will make you feel better.’ Mary had withdrawn her hand from his arm, and now she stood by the side of him, waiting.
‘No talking would make any difference to that,’ he replied tersely; ‘but there’s something else I’ve got to talk about.’
She remained silent, and he went on, swiftly now, ‘I am not going to America—that’s finished. This business has put paid to my father. He’ll never work again. And Molly and Mick are still at school. There’s no money coming in, only mine.’ He turned now and looked at her; the afterglow which was mellowing the world around had no softening effect upon his face. ‘Nothing can come of it now—it’s no good going on. You understand?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t.’
He moved his head impatiently: ‘How can I? What will there be to live on?’
‘We could wait . . . you asked me to wait while you were in America.’
‘That was different. What could there be to wait for now?’
‘Molly leaves school this summer, and your brother will soon be fourteen.’
‘And what about my mother and father?’
‘There are ways and means. You could always manage to keep them.’
‘Out of what?’ he almost shouted. It was as if he were fighting her now, and some part of him was shocked; but he went on, ‘Where would we live, and on what?—just tell me that.’
She made no answer. And his head dropped, and he murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be sorry.’ She took a step nearer to him, but did not touch him. ‘John, look at me.’ She waited until he raised his head before going on: ‘We love each other. There won’t be anyone else for either of us—we know that—so don’t let this happen. There is a way out, there must be—there is a way out of everything.’
Peter’s words—‘There is a way out of everything. Use your mind and it will give you the solution.’ Peter’s reasoning, added to the appeal of her voice and the entreaty of her eyes, broke the tension of his body for the moment, and he allowed his mind to clutch at a fleeting hope—could there be some way out? Could the madness be resurrected? Oh the joyful bewilderment of touching her again! Her face blurred before his eyes, and her voice became blended with the evensong of the birds.
‘If you’ll only listen to me, darling—I don’t mind where I live or how I live, as long as I’m with you. We could be married and I’d go on working. John—I’ll come to the fifteen streets . . .’
The blur cleared. The mention of the fifteen streets held the power to betray dreams for what they were. No longer did he see the pleading in her eyes. He saw only her well-cut costume, the gold wrist-watch, the ring on her finger with the large amber stone in the centre, the patent leather of her narrow shoes, and the glimpse of grey stockings, which were of silk; and covering all, the perfume which emanated from her was in his nostrils, the perfume whose ingredients lay not in any bottle but in a sequence starting from a scented bath to fresh linen—and she said she would come to the fifteen streets! He laughed inwardly, harsh, bitter laughter, and said sharply, ‘Be quiet! You don’t know what you’re talking about. Have you ever been inside a house in the fifteen streets?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a pity you haven’t.’
‘There’s no disgrace in being poor.’
‘No? I used to think that at one time, but I don’t any longer—it’s a crying disgrace, but one that I can’t alter. But I can do this—I can save you from yourself. You shall never come to the fifteen streets through me.’
‘John, darling, listen.’
‘I can’t listen, I’ve got to go.’ He stepped back from her outstretched hand.
‘John, please . . . Oh, don’t go like this—John, I love you . . . Don’t you see, I can’t go on without you?’
The stillness of the field settled on them. Outwardly they appeared lifeless things, fixed in their staring. Then, in spite of himself, he spoke her name, ‘Mary.’ And like a caress it touched her. But the caress was short-lived, for he went on, ‘This has got to be—it’s got to finish right now. It’s no use going on—no—no!’—he silenced her quietly and with upraised hand. ‘All the talking in the world won’t make it any different. You’ll forget—time will help.’
‘It won’t—I know that deep within my soul you’ll remain with me for ever; I won’t be able to forget you—John, oh, John—please! Please let us try to find a way out.’ She held out her arms to him, and the humility in their appeal probed a fresh depth of pain in him. But he did not touch them, and Mary made a desperate final effort: ‘Katie would have wanted it—she loved to think that we . . .’
‘Don’t! . . . Goodbye, Mary.’ For a second longer he allowed his gaze to linger on her. A lark in the field beyond suddenly rose, singing, from the grass and soared into the dusk of the closing evening. When he saw the mist of tears blinding her eyes, he turned from her and went down the lane.