daft, you are. You go to church too much.’
‘Please, Dryden.’ She clutched at his coat pocket.
‘How do you know?’ he said.
‘I am’.
‘You’ve been with another lad? You went with Billy Robson?’
‘No. No.’ Her fingers clutched hard at the material of his coat.
‘You’re just saying it.’
‘Why would I?’
Dryden turned away as best he could given that she had both hands fastened in the front of his coat. People were looking, some of them slowing down, watching and listening, two thingshe was trying not to do. Esther Margaret thought it must be somebody else beseeching Dryden Cameron to believe she was carrying his child. It could not possibly be the so respectable Esther Margaret Hunter, who was too high and mighty to work, who could have run away with the pit-owner’s son or married her father’s assistant manager, who went to church every Sunday and said her prayers night and morning and embroidered tray cloths with her mother in the sitting room. It could not be her standing in the main street crying over a lad like Dryden Cameron, who got drunk and went with low women and had no home.
‘Please, Dryden.’
‘Let go of me.’ Dryden unlatched her fingers from the material of his coat and walked on. Esther Margaret couldn’t move. She stood, watching him move away, and the tears ran down her face.
She went back to her house. Her mother must have been listening for her because when Esther Margaret had gone up to her room she followed her.
‘You can’t marry a lad like that,’ she said. ‘We’d never be able to hold up our heads in this village again. You must go to the mother-and-baby home in Newcastle. You could have the baby and we would find a home for it and then you could come back—’
‘And you think nobody would know?’
‘Nobody would know for certain.’
‘My baby.’
‘His baby. You have forgotten what he is, Esther Margaret, what his father did. I believe, though you have not said so, that he forced you. You have only to say he did and it will be his shame not ours.’
‘They would kill him,’ Esther Margaret said softly.
‘He’s evil.’
‘And then I would have to live unmarried, bringing up a child here, and know nothing else ever but the knowledge that I had killed its father.’
‘He deserves to die.’
‘No. I told you. He didn’t force me. I wanted him.’
Her mother blushed beetroot.
‘You couldn’t,’ she said, and put a hand up to her throat.
‘Why couldn’t I? Just because you wanted me to like another lad, a lad who I think is awful, who molested me. Dryden didn’t do any of that and he was second best. You know he was. You knew I cared for Joe but I couldn’t have him.’
‘You can’t marry Dryden Cameron,’ her mother said, beginning to cry.
‘I can’t marry anybody else.’
*
Tom was waiting for Dryden in the pub. They were both early and Tom seemed keen to leave and go somewhere else, to a pub they didn’t normally go to where none of their friends would be, the Station Hotel in the main street. He sat Dryden down at a table well away from everybody else and got the beer in and then looked seriously at him.
‘You’ve got a problem,’ he said.
‘Who, me?’
‘Don’t pretend, Dryden. Esther Margaret Hunter.’
Dryden didn’t want to look at him, and he didn’t want his beer either.
‘You’re going to have to marry her.’
Dryden glared at him.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You’re going to go there and offer.’
‘What would I want to do that for?’
‘Because if she says that you did to her what your father did to my mother you’ll end up dead in a back street. Nobody likes you. People will say that you did it — all she has to do is give people the idea that it happened.’
‘Do you think I did that?’
‘You only have two choices. Either you marry her or you end up dead.’
‘I don’t want to marry her. I don’t even like her. It was just … something to do on Sunday afternoons,
‘Please, Dryden.’ She clutched at his coat pocket.
‘How do you know?’ he said.
‘I am’.
‘You’ve been with another lad? You went with Billy Robson?’
‘No. No.’ Her fingers clutched hard at the material of his coat.
‘You’re just saying it.’
‘Why would I?’
Dryden turned away as best he could given that she had both hands fastened in the front of his coat. People were looking, some of them slowing down, watching and listening, two thingshe was trying not to do. Esther Margaret thought it must be somebody else beseeching Dryden Cameron to believe she was carrying his child. It could not possibly be the so respectable Esther Margaret Hunter, who was too high and mighty to work, who could have run away with the pit-owner’s son or married her father’s assistant manager, who went to church every Sunday and said her prayers night and morning and embroidered tray cloths with her mother in the sitting room. It could not be her standing in the main street crying over a lad like Dryden Cameron, who got drunk and went with low women and had no home.
‘Please, Dryden.’
‘Let go of me.’ Dryden unlatched her fingers from the material of his coat and walked on. Esther Margaret couldn’t move. She stood, watching him move away, and the tears ran down her face.
She went back to her house. Her mother must have been listening for her because when Esther Margaret had gone up to her room she followed her.
‘You can’t marry a lad like that,’ she said. ‘We’d never be able to hold up our heads in this village again. You must go to the mother-and-baby home in Newcastle. You could have the baby and we would find a home for it and then you could come back—’
‘And you think nobody would know?’
‘Nobody would know for certain.’
‘My baby.’
‘His baby. You have forgotten what he is, Esther Margaret, what his father did. I believe, though you have not said so, that he forced you. You have only to say he did and it will be his shame not ours.’
‘They would kill him,’ Esther Margaret said softly.
‘He’s evil.’
‘And then I would have to live unmarried, bringing up a child here, and know nothing else ever but the knowledge that I had killed its father.’
‘He deserves to die.’
‘No. I told you. He didn’t force me. I wanted him.’
Her mother blushed beetroot.
‘You couldn’t,’ she said, and put a hand up to her throat.
‘Why couldn’t I? Just because you wanted me to like another lad, a lad who I think is awful, who molested me. Dryden didn’t do any of that and he was second best. You know he was. You knew I cared for Joe but I couldn’t have him.’
‘You can’t marry Dryden Cameron,’ her mother said, beginning to cry.
‘I can’t marry anybody else.’
*
Tom was waiting for Dryden in the pub. They were both early and Tom seemed keen to leave and go somewhere else, to a pub they didn’t normally go to where none of their friends would be, the Station Hotel in the main street. He sat Dryden down at a table well away from everybody else and got the beer in and then looked seriously at him.
‘You’ve got a problem,’ he said.
‘Who, me?’
‘Don’t pretend, Dryden. Esther Margaret Hunter.’
Dryden didn’t want to look at him, and he didn’t want his beer either.
‘You’re going to have to marry her.’
Dryden glared at him.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You’re going to go there and offer.’
‘What would I want to do that for?’
‘Because if she says that you did to her what your father did to my mother you’ll end up dead in a back street. Nobody likes you. People will say that you did it — all she has to do is give people the idea that it happened.’
‘Do you think I did that?’
‘You only have two choices. Either you marry her or you end up dead.’
‘I don’t want to marry her. I don’t even like her. It was just … something to do on Sunday afternoons,
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