On the landing she stood for a moment drying her face and endeavouring to overcome the choking sensation that was rising from the anguish in her heart, as it cried, ‘Oh Rory, what am I to do without you? Oh my darling, how am I to go on now? Don’t leave me. Please, please don’t leave me.’ Yet as she descended the stairs she knew it was a hopeless cry.
In the hall she showed her surprise when she saw Ruth in her cape and tying on her bonnet. Going to her, she murmured, ‘You’re not leaving? You, you can’t . . .’
Ruth swallowed deeply before she said, ‘Just for . . . for a short while; I’m takin’ Janie back home. And there’s me husband, he’s got to be seen to. He can do nothing with his leg as it is. I’ll be back later in the mornin’.’
‘I’ll call the carriage for you then.’ There was a stiffness in her tone.
‘That would be kind.’
‘But why?’ Charlotte was now looking at Ruth with a deeply puzzled expression. ‘I . . . I should have thought you’d have let Lizzie go back and take care of things . . . Being his mother, you would have—’ she paused as Ruth, nodding at her now, put in quietly, ‘Aye, yes, I know what you’re thinkin’, it’s a mother’s place to be at her son’s side at a time like this. Well, he’ll have his mother with him. For you see, lass, I’m not his mother, ’tis Lizzie.’
‘What!’ The exclamation was soft. ‘Yes, ’tis Lizzie who’s his mother.’
‘But . . . but I don’t understand. He’s never, I mean he’s got such a regard for you, I’m . . .’
‘Aye, it is a bit bewilderin’ and it’s a long story, but put simply, me husband gave Lizzie a child when she was but seventeen. Rory regarded me as his mother for years and when he found out I wasn’t and it was Lizzie who had borne him he turned against her. I’m not surprised that you didn’t know. It’s something very strange in his nature that he should be ashamed of her, for she’s a good woman, and she’s suffered at his hands. I shouldn’t say it at this stage, but to be fair I must; many another would have turned on him as he did on her, but all she did was give him the length of her tongue. Her heart remained the same towards him always. She’s a good woman is Lizzie . . . So there it is, lass, that’s the truth of it. Well, I’ll be away now, but I’ll be back.’
When the door had closed on her Charlotte remained standing. The hall to herself, she looked about it; then in a kind of bewilderment she walked down the step into the office and, sitting behind the desk, she put her forearms on it and patted the leather top gently with her fingers. He had admitted to her the theft of the five pounds; he had told her everything about himself; he had confessed his weaknesses, and boasted of his strength; yet he had kept the matter of his birth to himself as if it were a shameful secret. Why? Why couldn’t he have told her this? She felt a momentary hurt that he should have kept it from her. She had wondered at times at him calling his mother, Ruth. He had appeared very fond of the gentle-voiced, quiet little woman, even proud of her. And yet of the two women she was the lesser in all ways, body, brain, intelligence. She remembered that Rory had once referred to Lizzie as ignorant, and she had replied that she should imagine her ignorance was merely the lack of opportunity for her mind always seemed lively.
It was strange, she thought in this moment, that he could never have realized that all the best in him stemmed from Lizzie—for now she could see he was a replica of her, in bulk, character, obstinacy, bumptiousness . . . loving. Her capacity for loving was even greater than his, for, having been rejected, she had gone on loving.
There came a knock on the door and when she said, ‘Come in,’ it opened and Lizzie stood on the threshold.
‘I was wondering where you were, I couldn’t see you. You mustn’t sit by yourself there broodin’, it’ll do no good. Come on now out of this.’
Like a child obeying a mother, Charlotte rose from the chair and went towards Lizzie. Then standing in front of her, she looked into her eyes and said quietly, ‘I’ve just learned that you’re his mother. Oh, Lizzie. Lizzie.’
‘Aye.’ Lizzie’s head was drooping. ‘I’m his mother an’ he’s always hated the fact, but nevertheless, it was something he could do nowt about. I am what I am, and he was all I had of me own flesh and blood an’ I clung to him; even when he threw me off I clung to him.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, my dear.’ When she put her arms around Lizzie, Lizzie held her tightly against her breast, and neither of them was capable of further words, but they cried together.
It was three days later when Rory died. He was unconscious for the last twelve hours and the final faint words he spoke had been to Charlotte, ‘If it’s a lad, call him after me,’ he murmured.
She didn’t know how she forced herself to whisper, ‘And if it should be a girl?’
He had looked at her for some time before he gasped, ‘I’ll . . . I’ll leave that to you.’
It was odd but she had hoped he would have said, ‘Name her Lizzie,’ for then it would have told her of his own peace of mind, but he said, ’I’ll leave it to you.’ His very last words were, ‘Thank you, my dear . . . for everything.’
Through a thick mist she gazed down on to the face of the man who had brought her to life, who had made her body live, and filled it with new life—his life. She was carrying him inside of her; he wasn’t dead; her Rory would never die.
When she fainted across his inert body they thought for a moment that she had gone with him.
7
Rory’s funeral was such that might have been accorded to a prominent member of the town for the sympathy of the town had been directed towards him through the newspaper reports of how he had been fatally injured in saving his brother from the blazing building, and the likelihood that charges, not only of arson, but of murder or manslaughter as well, would soon be made against local men now being questioned by the police.
No breath of scandal. No mention of former wife reappearing.
Other reports gave the names of the town’s notable citizens who had attended the funeral. Mr Frank Nickle’s name was not on it. Mr Nickle had been called abroad on business.
Two of the Pittie brothers had already been taken into custody. The police were hunting the third. And there were rumours that one of the brothers was implicating others, whose names had not yet been disclosed. Not only the local papers, but those in Newcastle as well carried the story of how there had been attempts to monopolize the river trade, and that Mr Connor’s boats had not only been set adrift, but also been sunk when they were full of cargo.
The reports made Jimmy’s little boats appear the size of tramp steamers or tea clippers, and himself as a thriving young businessman.
The private carriages had stretched the entire length of the road passing Westoe village and far beyond. The occupants were all male. In fact, the entire cortège was male, with one exception. Mrs Connor was present at her husband’s funeral and what made her presence even more embarrassing to the gentlemen mourners was that it was whispered she was someway gone in pregnancy. She wore a black silk coat and a fashionable hat with widow’s weeds flowing low down at the back but reaching no farther than her chest at the front. She was a remarkable woman really . . . nothing to look at personally, but sort of remarkable, a kind of law unto herself.
Another thing that was remarkable, but only to the occupants of the kitchen, was that John George had been present at the burial, but had not shown his face to condole with them nor had he spoken with Paddy who had struggled to the cemetery on sticks. All except Jimmy said they couldn’t make him out. But then prison changed a man, and likely he was deeply ashamed, and of more than one thing, for was he not now living with another man’s wife?