A Crimson Dawn (37 page)

‘Keep to your own bed, mind,' he warned. ‘No comin' in Mammy and Dadda's bed the night.'

Emmie's insides lurched. They would have to wait until Barny fell asleep before going to bed. She pulled on another cardigan and sat by the banked-up fire. Tom carried on drinking from the bottle.

‘Get the fire blazing,' he chivvied.

‘We have to be careful with coal,' Emmie said quietly. ‘We don't get it free any more.'

‘My fault again,' Tom said with a sneer.

‘People help us out,' Emmie murmured.

‘Bloody MacRaes, no doubt.'

Emmie looked at him. ‘I told you about Jonas having a stroke, remember. They have little to spare. And now Peter's been called up—'

‘Peter?' Tom spluttered.

Emmie nodded. ‘Tried to appeal, but Hauxley and his cronies decreed he must go.'

‘By, they must be desperate if they're takin' that dafty.'

She watched him drink. He was sunk in thought. Eventually he shook his head. ‘They shouldn't have picked him. He'll be scared out his wits - what's left of them.' He sounded quite sober, sorrowful even.

Gently, Emmie asked, ‘Tell me what it's been like for you, Tom. I've wondered so much, but you tell so little in your letters. I know it's out of kindness—'

‘Kindness?' He spat out the word. ‘I don't write 'cos there's nowt to write about.' His look was savage. ‘Just one day like the next, tryin' to stay alive, tryin' to kill a few more bastard Germans.'

Emmie tensed. He seemed full of a cold anger. Fruitless to argue with him - they stood on either side of a gaping chasm of belief. She tried to change tack.

‘What would you like to do tomorrow? We could take Barny up the fell.'

‘I want to sleep,' Tom said impatiently.

‘Afterwards then,' Emmie encouraged. ‘Barny would like—'

‘Shut up about bloody Barny,' he shouted. She stared, open-mouthed. He went on aggressively, ‘Why's everyone tellin' me what to do? I'll decide, all right? And I'm not ganin' to any teetotal bloody party. If they want to see me they can come here. I want a bit peace and quiet in me own home. Is that too much to ask?'

‘No,' Emmie answered quietly, ‘that's what I want an' all.'

‘Champion!' he shouted and took a swig. The bottle was almost empty.

‘Let's gan to bed, Tom,' Emmie suggested.

He looked wary. ‘You go, I'll come in a minute.'

For the first time she wondered if he might be as nervous as she was. Emmie went out to the water closet in the back yard. The stars were bright in the sky as she crossed back again. A good omen. She lay in bed waiting for Tom to join her.

Just as she was drifting off to sleep, he stumbled in, groping around in the dark. He climbed in still half dressed and lay there breathing heavily. She could tell from his breath that he was facing her. Emmie reached out an arm and placed it on his shoulder. He shifted towards her, kissing her roughly with whisky-laden breath.

Tom groped at her clothing, pulled back her hair. She tried to slow him down, stroking his head, covering his face in soft kisses. But he fastened his mouth back on hers and leaned his weight on to her. Their lovemaking was quick, mechanical, joyless. He did not even bother to undress. He seemed impatient, full of anger, as if it were a punishment for her, an ordeal for him.

Without even a word of good night, Tom rolled over and fell asleep. Emmie lay, fighting back tears, aching physically, her mind numb. There was no trace of the old Tom, no hint of the tenderness of which he had once been capable. This man was an angry, cold-hearted, embittered drunk. He repelled and frightened her. She wished she could go to Barny and hold him for comfort, but she dared not move for fear of waking Tom.

As the night wore on and sleep eluded her, Emmie listened to the ragged breathing and moaning beside her. From time to time, Tom cried out incoherently and once he sat bolt upright and stared rigidly ahead of him. His face was a mask of terror.

‘Tom?' Emmie whispered in alarm. ‘What is it?'

But he did not see or hear her; he was still fast asleep. She put a hand to his forehead. He was drenched in sweat.

‘Lie down,' she coaxed. He groaned, then lay back, curling into a tight ball.

She wondered what nightmare haunted his sleep and felt a stirring of pity. The strain of trench warfare must be intolerable. His mind was fragile, his nerves shattered. Emmie determined once more to try to make Tom's leave as peaceful and happy as possible. They would put the bad start behind them.

For the first two days, Tom did little more than sleep, eat and smoke cigarettes by the fire. He was edgy and moody, starting at the sound of footsteps in the yard or when the coal sparked and spat on to the hearth.

‘Shurrup!' he would bark at Barny if he talked too loud, dropped a spoon or scraped a chair. ‘Can't you keep the lad quiet?'

Tom refused to go round to his parents' house or to see anyone.

‘Tell them I'm sleepin',' he muttered, retreating into the bedroom when someone knocked at the door.

Emmie felt awkward turning people away and making up excuses. She knew the Currans did not believe her and blamed her for keeping Tom to herself.

‘We've done all that baking!' Mrs Curran railed, when Emmie relayed the message that Tom could not face the party. ‘What will we tell the neighbours?'

‘Tell them he's had a year in the trenches,' she replied with spirit, ‘and wants a few days' peace.'

On the day of the party, he paced around the kitchen like a caged animal, yet snapped at Emmie for suggesting he should get some fresh air and walk down to the shops with her.

‘Where've you been?' he asked suspiciously on her return. ‘You've been out hours.'

‘Queuing, what else?' Emmie sighed, dumping her meagre shopping on the table. ‘I'm ganin' down the allotment this afternoon. Why don't you come and lend a hand? It would do you good—'

‘Stop tellin' what's good for me all the time, woman!' he cried.

Emmie held her temper. ‘Well, you could take Barny out instead.'

The boy glanced up anxiously from the hearth where he had settled to draw a picture for Peter on a piece of cardboard. Tom regarded him with vacant eyes as if he had forgotten he was there.

‘Aye,' he muttered, ‘maybes I will.'

Emmie was heartened by this small show of interest. She brought out oatcakes and fish paste as a change from bread and dripping, and a bowl of stewed rhubarb sweetened with honey she had bartered for eggs. They ate in silence, Barny's usual stream of chatter stemmed by fear. This man opposite, who claimed to be his dadda, was always shouting and he did not like talking or singing at mealtimes. Barny hoped he was going to go soon and his real dadda would come instead.

Emmie got Barny into his coat and cap, as the wind was still chill, and told him to do what his father said. She spent the afternoon working hard in the garden, planting seeds garnered the previous season, chatting to Peter. He would be gone in a few days.

‘I'm ganin' to camp,' he told her excitedly.

Emmie stopped and leaned on the spade, pushing dark ringlets out of her eyes.

‘Peter,' she said gently, ‘it won't be like a holiday with the Clarion Club. You do know that, don't you? You'll be gone a lot longer and your mam won't be able to visit.'

Peter looked at her solemnly and nodded. She shaded her eyes in the spring sunshine and held his look.

‘I love being here in this garden,' she mused. ‘Do you, Peter?' He nodded. She stepped closer. ‘If ever you get sad or lonely or a bit frightened - and every soldier does; it's not a sign of weakness - I want you to think of this place,' she said softly. ‘You can close your eyes and think of this garden, the chickens running among the beanstalks and your dad's chrysanthemums. The sound of the pit and the clatter of Lily's hoofs up the lane. The smell of the coal fires and the henhouse - the smell of the earth. Do it now, Peter.'

She watched him as he closed his eyes.

‘Can you see it, Peter, smell it?'

‘Aye,' he nodded, then opened his eyes. ‘But I'm still here.'

Emmie smiled. ‘It was just a practice.'

He gave her a quizzical grin.

‘It just means wherever you are - however far from home - you can take a little bit of it with you in your head,' she explained. ‘And no one can ever take that away from you.'

He gave her a bashful look. ‘Wish I could take you an' all, Emmie. I never feel frightened when I'm with you. But the trouble is the army would never have you - you being a lass and not likin' fightin' and that.'

She laughed. ‘You're right there, bonny lad.'

He carried back the onions and carrots they had dug to the MacRaes, and Emmie took a handful to put in a broth. She promised to bring Barny round to see Peter before he left and hurried away before they could question her too closely about Tom.

She found Barny squatting by the hearth, still in his coat and cap. The fire was nearly out.

‘What you doing? Where's your da?' she asked, getting him out of his coat. Barny said nothing. ‘Oh, lad, you've wet your breeks.'

His small face crumpled. ‘Said I had to stay here and not m-move,' Barny gasped, on the verge of tears.

‘It's all right,' she assured quickly, ‘nowt to get upset about.'

She changed him into dry clothes. There was no sign of Tom anywhere.

‘Can you remember what Dadda said - where he was ganin'?' she asked again.

‘Thirsty,' Barny mumbled. ‘“Dadda get drink. Barny stay here and not move.” That's what Dadda said.'

Emmie's heart sank. Tom had gone out drinking. He could be anywhere. She set about scrubbing the vegetables and making the broth. Evening came, but Tom did not return. She fed Barny, then suggested they go for a walk before bedtime. They skirted the village, Emmie scanning the streets for sign of her husband. She could not go into any of the pubs or clubs, and she knew her search for him was fruitless. A small part of her still hoped he was out walking somewhere, not drinking himself senseless. All she could do was return home and wait.

They were both asleep when Tom came crashing in the bedroom. He swore at them and fell on to the bed. Emmie got up, trying to hush him while removing his boots. He ranted, foul-mouthed, but none of it made much sense. In a few minutes he had fallen into a drugged sleep.

She bent over Barny and stroked his head.

‘Why does Dadda shout?' he asked.

‘I don't know,' she answered forlornly, ‘but he's asleep now.'

‘Mammy? Is it ‘cos of the war?'

Emmie swallowed hard. ‘Maybe. Sleep now, pet lamb.'

Sunday morning came and Emmie made a decision. She shook Tom awake and thrust a cup of tea at him.

‘It's an hour till chapel,' she said briskly. ‘Your parents expect you. If you do nowt else this week you can manage that to keep them happy. I'll not be blamed for you not ganin'.'

He squinted at her through bloodshot eyes and groaned. ‘Leave us alone.'

‘No, I won't.' Emmie steeled herself. ‘There's a basin of water on the washstand and I'm frying bacon for breakfast. Up you get.'

He sank back, groaning and cursing her. She pulled the covers off him and left the room. Tensely, she made the breakfast, forcing herself to chat to Barny while wondering what Tom would do. A short while later, she heard a splashing of water and a long drawn-out groan. He emerged half dressed, scowling and creased-faced, and stomped out to the water closet.

He ate in ill-tempered silence while Emmie dressed Barny in his best breeches and pulled on her threadbare white blouse. Together the three of them set out for the chapel, questions about the previous night unanswered. The Currans' relief at seeing them was transparent. Barnabas led them into the family pew, proud of his uniformed son.

Emmie's mind wandered as the minister poured praise on the men serving their country, and Tom in particular, and they sang ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers', and ‘Fight the Good Fight'.

She allowed herself to think of Rab and wondered if he would be free in another month. But free for how long? He was still conscripted. The military would come looking for him again, sooner rather than later. This time the Fellowship must persuade him to escape, go overseas if necessary. If Tom could be so changed by a year in the army, what toll would a year of hard labour and solitary have taken on Rab?

After the service, the family stood about talking outside, while well-wishers shook Tom's hand and slapped him on the back. Emmie noticed how the Attwaters ignored her, as if she were not worthy to be Tom's wife. Others too were wary and avoided conversation. Instead, they fussed over Barny and told Tom how like him he was growing. Tom nodded and smiled, exchanging banalities, yet his face was tense, his hands clenching and unclenching. Before they left the chapel grounds, Tom had been pressed to half a dozen tea invitations.

They retreated to the Currans' for Sunday lunch and Tom wolfed down the food before collapsing in a chair in the parlour and sleeping it off. They stayed for tea, wading through food that should have been eaten at the cancelled party, and Mrs Curran sent them home with more. When Emmie suggested they call in on the MacRaes and give them some scones, Tom lost his temper in an instant.

‘We're not feedin' them bloody heathen anarchists!' he cried.

‘We can't eat all this before it gans stale,' she protested. ‘And Peter leaves the day after the morra.'

‘Then we'll feed it to the bloody pigs!' Tom snarled and, seizing the basket of food from Emmie, began hurling scones over the fence into a neighbouring allotment. Emmie was speechless with annoyance. She took Barny by the hand and hurried on without another word.

When Tom caught them up at home, he was still spoiling for an argument.