Josephine Cox 3-Book Collection 2: The Loner, Born Bad, Three Letters

‘What about the girl you took out last weekend – her from Leyland Street?’

Lenny shook his head. ‘She was good company, but that’s all.’

‘So, there’s still nobody you like enough to put a ring on their finger?’

‘No, there’s nobody special,’ Lenny sighed. ‘I’ve dated a few girls, but it never comes to anything serious.’

‘Ah, well!’ Joseph was no fool. ‘That’s because you’ve only got eyes for young Judy.’

Lenny blushed. ‘How did you know that?’

‘’Cause I’ve seen you!’ the old man retorted. ‘When she comes round to pay me a visit, you never tek yer eyes off her. Mesmerised, you are!’ He gave a cheeky wink. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised, ’cause she’s a real lovely lass.’ He nudged Lenny in the ribs. ‘Why don’t you ask her out?’ he suggested mischievously. ‘Tek her to the pictures or summat.’

Lenny’s eyes lit up. ‘If I did ask her, d’you think she’d say yes?’

‘Who knows?’ On the occasions when Joseph had seen these two young people talking and laughing together, they were more like mates, with Judy seemingly content to leave the relationship as it was. But it was a well-known fact that a girl could always change her mind. ‘If you don’t ask her, you’ll never know,’ he warned. ‘Anyhow, what have you got to lose?’

‘Her friendship, maybe.’ Lenny was afraid of taking that first real step. ‘I don’t want her to turn away from me altogether.’

‘Aw, lad … she would never do that.’ Joseph was certain of it. ‘In life you meet all sorts o’ folks,’ he told Lenny now. ‘Them as mek a good pretence o’ being friendly, an’ them as are friends to the last. Judy is a true friend. Through thick and thin, she would never turn away from you.’

Being made to think about it, Lenny was of the same opinion. ‘You’re right!’ he said. ‘I’ll ask her out, and if she says no, we’ll just go on as before, being friends.’ All the same, he would never lose hope that one day she might come to care for him, in the same way he cared for her.

‘That’s the spirit, lad. Tek the bull by the horns and see how it goes, eh?’ Old Joe smiled. ‘I recall when I were a soldier boy, fighting in Northern France, I had eyes for only one lass. She were more interested in me mate Wally, but I persevered, and I got her in the end. Brought her back home to Blackburn, I did. We never had a quiet marriage, mind. Oh dear me, no! It were up one minute, down the next, and there were many times when I wished I’d never got me self into it. But I did, ’cause I loved her, d’you see? An’ for all her faults, I never stopped loving my Marie.’

He knew what a keen fisherman Lenny was. ‘Going after a girl is a bit like being an angler,’ he went on. ‘You throw out a line, hoping the fish will bite, and you might land it safely. Another time you could throw out umpteen lines and still go away empty-handed.’

He tapped the end of his nose and winked. ‘The thing is, if you don’t throw out a line at all, you’ve no chance in hell of catching a fish – ain’t that right?’

Lenny was fired with the idea. ‘You’re right! I might even take Judy to show her my new shop.’

‘That’s the fighting spirit!’ The old man was thrilled. ‘You do that, son!’

When the conversation was over and it was time to go, Joseph walked Lenny to the door. ‘The next time you come and see me, happen it’ll be arm-in-arm with our Judy, eh?’

With Lenny gone, Joseph walked back to the kitchen, where he set about washing up the empty mugs. ‘Be gentle with his feelings, Judy, me darling.’ He’d got into a habit of muttering to himself. ‘You could do worse than link up wi’ that young man.’

He almost leaped out of his skin when the knock came on the door, and as he ambled along the passageway, the knocking grew more urgent. ‘All right, all right, hold your hosses! Now then, where’s the panic?’

Flinging open the door he was shocked to his roots, for there stood Don, five years older and with a few strands of grey hair, but still the same well-built proud man he had always been. ‘Good God Almighty!’ Rooted to the floor, he stared at the man, unable to believe his eyes. ‘Don!’ Tears clogged his throat and he felt suddenly weakened, as though he’d been felled by some giant fist.

‘Well, Dad, are ye pleased to see me or not?’ Don smiled that familiar slow smile, his quiet voice belying the turmoil he felt at being back in this street, on the doorstep of this house, and there before him, his father-in-law, the man who had stood by him and Rita all those years. ‘How are ye, Joseph?’ The love in his voice was genuine.

When Joseph could hold back the tears no longer, Don took him by the shoulders. ‘I’m sorry it took so long for me to come home,’ he apologised. ‘Things got in the way and suddenly five years had gone by … but I’m home now, and I mean to stay.’

Joseph looked up and he felt an incredible calm in his heart; but oh, there were such bad things he had to tell Don – about Rita, and young Davie. And he was afraid that such terrible news would drive Don away again.

Suddenly the tears brimmed over again, and when Don assured him once more that everything would be all right, he composed himself. ‘You’d best come in,’ he said shakily. ‘We’ve much to talk about.’

Unaware of the awful news Joseph had to tell, Don stepped inside, closed the door and followed Joseph to the back parlour.

‘Are they home-Rita and young Davie?’ Hungry for news, Don went on, ‘Oh, but our Davie is a young man now, eh? Eighteen, and proud of it, I’ll be bound. And my lovely Rita – I have so much to say to her. I’m frightened, Dad. Frightened that she’s found someone else. Are they still with you, Joseph, or have they managed to find a place of their own?’ Don was gabbling with nerves now. How could he have left them for so long? Panic crept into his heart. It was as well he couldn’t see the old man’s face, because the tragedy of what had happened was written all over it.

As they came into the parlour, Joseph gestured to the arm chair. ‘You’d best sit down,’ he said sadly. ‘I’ve news to tell yer.’ Suddenly he was back there, on the day they came to tell him, in this very room, that his Rita was gone, and that his grandson had run off. ‘I’m sorry, Don …’ How could he say it? May be the best way was just to say it, and pray that his son-in-law could live with what he must hear. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

With a pale-faced Don now seated, he eased himself into the chair opposite. ‘That night, when you went away …’ He cleared his throat. How could he go on? How could he burden this man with the truth? But he had no choice. The story must be told – and quickly.

‘What is it, Joseph?’ The man had a deep sense of foreboding. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

Joseph took a deep breath, and then he launched into the telling of it.

He told his son-in-law how, the night he left, Rita and Davie followed soon after. ‘I lost my faith with her,’ he said guiltily. ‘She seemed more like the devil than the child I had raised. She wasn’t sorry for what she’d done. I’d had enough, Don. I knew then, that she would never change, and I couldn’t take any more, so I asked her to leave this house.’

The shame of it would live with him forever. ‘God forgive me, but I threw my own daughter out on the streets. She must have been hurt, poor lass, bleeding inside, mebbe, from her fall down the stairs, but she never said a word. Too damn obstinate as usual. I wanted to keep the lad here,’ he explained, ‘but young Davie felt responsible for his mammy, and when she went, he went with her. At the last minute I changed my mind and ran after them, but it was too late. They’d gone.’

When he paused, afraid of the next thing he had to tell his son-in-law, Don’s soft voice rippled through his senses. ‘Where are they?’ he asked tremulously. ‘My wife and son … where are they now?’

Joseph gulped, glanced up and, looking straight into Don’s tormented face, he told him the whole story. He described how, for a time after they’d left, he’d sat in this very chair, hoping and praying they might come back, and everything would be all right. And then, some long time later, how there had come a knock on the door, and it was the police. ‘Come to tell me a bad thing, Don. Oh, dear God, this will break your heart.’

When his voice quavered, Don urged him on. ‘What, Joseph! Was there a fight? Did Rita cause trouble and they put her in jail – is that it? JOSEPH! You have to tell me!’

Hesitantly, the old man went on, ‘You remember that night: how can you ever forget it? Rita was out of her mind with booze. She and the boy were headed for friends of hers, or so she said.’

‘Go on, I’m listening.’ Though with every word the old man spoke, Don’s heart grew heavier.

Joseph described the events as he knew them. He told how Davie had got his mammy as far as the so-called friend’s house, where they had been turned away, then how they’d tried to make for the church. Almost carrying her by then, Davie had reached the shelter of the woods with his mam, who was becoming very ill and weak. It was here that she had collapsed. He told how Tom Make peace was out on his early milk-round, when he heard Davie calling for help on the edge of the woods. ‘When he got to Rita, she was hurt bad.’

Taking a deep breath, Joseph finished, ‘Tom lifted her onto the wagon, meaning to drive her to the Infirmary. But they never got there because … she died … Oh, Don, I’m so sorry. Rita’s gone … she’s gone.’ There! It was told, and now he couldn’t speak for it was all too real.

For one shocking moment, the house was heavy with silence, all but for the old man’s quiet sobbing.

Don was looking up at him, his eyes wide and shocked. Numbed by the weight of what he had just learned, he could only be still, as though he too had died somewhere inside.

Don knew, as well as Joseph, that they had both played a significant part in that night’s terrible events. The combination of drink, temper, betrayal and blame had ended in a tragedy so profound, that both men would be marked by it for ever more.

Joseph knew how hard the news must have been for Don, and there was nothing he could do to ease it. So he stood up, and leaving the younger man to come to terms with it, he said helplessly, ‘I’ll get us a drink, son. I’m so sorry. I would give anything not to have to have told you that.’

As he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder. Don was just sitting there, staring into the fireplace and shaking his head, making small, unintelligible noises.

In the kitchen, Joseph quickly made a strong brew, and taking it back to his son-in-law, he was not surprised to see him, head bent, quietly sobbing and calling his wife’s name.

On soft footsteps he went across the room, placed the cup of tea in the hearth and, sliding his arm round Don’s shoulders, he consoled him, needing to give him strength, and yet knowing how futile it was, for news of that kind can break a man.

Moments passed before Don raised his head, and with both hands wiped his face. ‘Where is she, Joseph? I need to see her.’

Joseph understood. ‘First, just take a minute or two,’ he suggested kindly. ‘Drink this.’ He handed him the mug of hot tea. ‘I’ll get myself ready, and I’ll take you to her.’ With every passing minute he waited in dread for the inevitable question, and when it came he was not prepared.

‘Where’s Davie?’ Replacing the mug of tea in the hearth, Don waited for an answer.