Secrets of Our Hearts

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It hadn’t been for him a couple of weeks ago. How swiftly could one’s life change. Desperate, utterly consumed by his need to possess her one way or another, he exclaimed, ‘Tell you what! How about coming out with me just as a friend then? We both know where we stand. I can’t see it’d do any harm and we like each other’s company – least I think we do,’ he ended with an embarrassed laugh.

She hesitated, probing his eyes warily, before replying, ‘I suppose so …’

‘Next week?’ Having rationed himself to one night out per week, it might look suspicious to Nora if he were to start making regular outings again. ‘What day?’ He half expected another excuse.

But no. ‘I’ve got next Monday evening off,’ she told him. ‘In fact every Monday evening from now on ’cause they’re changed my hours.’

Niall’s heart soared in triumph, and though he tried his best to disguise this for fear of scaring her away, his face appeared brighter than she had seen it for weeks. ‘Do you like the pictures?’ At her enthusiastic nod, he began to list the options. ‘There’s Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi at the Rialto – or maybe you prefer Greta Garbo?’

‘No, give me a good fright any day.’ She cocked her head knowingly. ‘I see you’ve already checked to see what’s on. I admire your confidence.’

‘I wasn’t confident at all, just hopeful.’

Her eyes were warm but stern. ‘Remember we’re just friends.’

‘Just friends.’ But his gut was taut with excitement.

‘The Rialto it is then.’

He grinned his delight at the venue so easily being agreed. Then, with a care as to who might see them, he added, ‘Shall I meet you outside? It’ll have to be second house ’cause I’m working away and I sometimes don’t get home while seven.’

‘That’ll be grand,’ smiled Boadicea.

And the deal was struck.

Niall could hardly believe this was happening – would refuse to believe it until she was standing there outside the cinema – and he bade himself not to become overexhilarated. Even so, there were plans to construct. For a start he would need more than his usual pocket money from Nora. Without wanting to explain what the extra amount was for, he took it from his wage packet on Friday before handing it over. The slightest hesitation as she opened it showed that she had noticed the packet had been tampered with, though to his relief she did not remark on it.

Then there was the question of his whereabouts. Having allotted Monday as his night out there would be no trouble getting away, but with two films and a newsreel to watch, he would be out much longer than usual. Whilst he laboured on the railway line, he was to mull over a list of excuses. But why not be truthful? At least half truthful? It wasn’t illegal for a man to go to the pictures on his own and that was what he would let them assume.

Having made that decision, his next concern was what to wear. It bothered him that he could not dress in suit and tie, and he fretted over this as he donned these for Mass on Sunday. But there was much more to bother him that morning, for this was no ordinary Sabbath. Only the most thick-skinned of men would have enquired what ailed the children, who sat all misty-eyed and forlorn in preparation of their trip to church. Where others would offer flowers and prayers of gladness on this, Mothering Sunday, Honor, Dom, Juggy, Batty and Brian would only be reminded of their still raw loss, and Niall’s heart went out to them, knowing how empty was this festival for those without a mother. His eyes pricked with tears when Juggy was the one to articulate her own despair and that of her siblings. ‘I wanted to make one for you, Gran,’ she murmured sadly, as she examined the cards on the sideboard that had been sent by Nora’s daughters, ‘but, ’teacher wouldn’t let me. She said we could only make one for our mothers …’

Everyone looked round as Honor rushed outside. Not knowing what to do, a concerned Niall glanced at Nora, but she shook her head as if to say leave the child be.

Whilst the boys hung their heads, Juggy turned her attention back to the cards. ‘I told her I didn’t have a mam any more – Mary Kelly put her hand up, an’ all – but ’teacher said it wasn’t called Grannying Sunday and those of us who didn’t have a mam could do jobs instead, so I had to bash the chalk out of the blackboard duster.’

‘Stupid bloody woman,’ muttered a tearful Harriet to her mother, as she turned away to put on her hat.

Niall was angry too, but his voice was soft as he bent over to address his little daughter. ‘If you want to make your mam a card,’ he said firmly, ‘then you can. And this afternoon we’ll go on Low Moor and pick her some flowers and lay them where your mam’s put to rest.’

‘Will we see her when she’s had her rest?’ came the hopeful query from Brian.

‘No, son, you won’t.’ Niall shook his head and, straightening, he chucked his youngest with sad affection before turning away.

‘Away now,’ said Nora in a gruff voice that betrayed deep emotion. ‘Let’s get to Mass.’

Whilst the women put last-minute touches to the youngsters’ appearance, Niall wandered outside to where Honor lingered miserably by the front window. A dejected figure in her grammar school uniform and beret, she remained with eyes downcast, so as not to see her friends with their bunches of flowers.

‘It’ll get better,’ he murmured, trying to convey in his manly way that he understood how it felt to lose one’s mother. ‘I know you won’t think so at the moment, but it will. And when it does, you’ll feel guilty for laughing or whatever …’ The face beneath the school beret looked up at him then, giving away a hint that Honor had already experienced this sensation. ‘But you shouldn’t,’ he added quickly, ‘because your mam wants you to be happy. Still … it’s only fitting that you’ll feel sad today.’ He placed a helpful hand to steer her. ‘Come on, you and me’ll set off and let t’others follow.’

As they walked, Honor was quiet for a while, before blurting, ‘I feel guilty about something else, Dad.’

Niall looked down at her, his face kind and quizzical.

‘I can’t tell you what it is. It’s too awful.’ She was obviously racked with conscience. ‘I can’t even tell Father Finnegan at confession, but if I don’t …’ Her face told what would befall her.

Niall was becoming worried, but had to coax this out of her with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder. ‘I can’t think you’ve done anything so bad—’

‘I wished it were Gran who died instead of Mother!’ She hardly dared look at him.

But her father seemed relieved it was not worse. ‘Don’t think too badly of yourself, Honey. Your gran’s old; she’d probably wish exactly the same thing.’

Taught by nuns, Honor remained anxious. ‘But God knows all the secrets of our hearts …’ She saw the look of shock that pulled her father up in his tracks.

Niall recovered his step quickly, but felt totally wretched, for if Honor only knew, his own secret was so much worse. It was one he had to live with, but his child did not. ‘Yes, He can see into your heart and He can tell it’s a good and pure one, and that you didn’t mean it,’ came his words of comfort, he desperately trying to draw comfort from them himself as he assuaged his daughter’s worry. ‘He wouldn’t punish you for wanting to keep your mam alive. I’m sure of it.’ Whether or not God would punish him for imagining Ellen dead, was another matter. Try as he might to allay his child’s fears, to convince her of a merciful Creator, the doctrine that had been impressed upon him both mentally and physically from childhood caused him to fear for his own soul.

However, it seemed to help Honor. Appreciating the firm pressure of his hand on her shoulder in its navy blazer, she did not look up but took reassurance in the love of her one remaining parent, and, leaning into Niall’s steadfast presence, she accompanied him to church.

Despite his having reassured her, all in all, it was a melancholy day for Niall, the trip to the cemetery where his children laid flowers on their mother’s grave overshadowing all thoughts of Boadicea.

Not until he removed his clothes for bed did he allow her to steal into his mind again. Placing the suit on a hanger, and giving it a gentle brush before putting it away and climbing into bed gingerly so as not to wake Brian, he was reminded of his thoughts upon donning it that morning, and before he fell asleep he wondered again if there was any way he could wear it for his date tomorrow night.

Awakening to that same image on Monday morning, he was forced to relinquish it, for there was no way round this. He was desperate to look his best for Boadicea, but that would immediately give the game away. Best clothes on a weekday? Must be going to see a woman! It was with some irony that he recalled a similar phrase directed at his brother. And now he was taking the same furtive path as Sean – not that they were cast from the same mould; no, he wouldn’t have that. Sean’s only reason for deceiving his mother-in-law had been to save his own skin, whereas Niall’s action was to prevent her being hurt. For as much as he had condemned Nora in the past for her tyrannical nagging, she had been so good since Ellen’s death, so compassionate in her handling of him, he could not have expected better treatment from his own mother. How could he hurt her by announcing that he had met someone else? The time would come when he would have to tell her. But not yet, not until there was really something to tell.

Yet despite this professed noble reason, his choice of venue was not without guile. The dark interior of the picture house would help to shroud him, and make it less likely that he be spotted. Imagining himself there beside Boadicea, perhaps with his arm around her to quell her squeals of fright at the horror film, the feelings of anticipation and sexual excitement grew, so that by Monday tea-time he could barely sit still for five minutes – not that he had the luxury for there was less than half an hour before the rendezvous, leaving him little time for ablutions.

To this purpose, unaware that he was being watched, he wolfed down his tea.

‘You’ll give yourself bellyache,’ observed Harriet, turning a page of the evening newspaper. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘I’m off to the flicks.’ He had been dreading this moment of explanation. But apart from the murmur of slight surprise, Nora and her girls seemed pleased about his change of pastime.

‘Well, I hope you weren’t thinking of going to the Rye,’ Harriet chuckled, without looking up from the paper.

Pricked by guilt, Niall hoped she would not comment on his blush. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, head lowered, still eating.

‘It’s burned down.’

‘What?’ His eyes shot up. ‘When?’

‘Saturday. It’s in here.’ She held up the print for him to see. ‘I was just saying to Mam, that explains all the fire engine racket we heard.’

His fork still poised midway between plate and mouth, his plans so unexpectedly demolished, Niall groaned.

Misreading his dismay, Nora asked, ‘Was it something you really wanted to see?’

‘What?’ He turned vague eyes on his mother-in-law who, with his children lined up before her, was performing her weekly search for nits, roughly positioning each head over a white cloth on her lap before running her comb through it. Breaking away from his thoughts about Boadicea, he set upon his meal again, saying hastily, ‘Oh no … no, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go somewhere else.’

‘There’s a good one on at the Picture House!’ Dolly jumped in eagerly. ‘I wouldn’t mind coming with you.’

Luckily, Niall had researched the programme. ‘That’s one o’ them soppy ones, isn’t it? I don’t really fancy that. I might try George’s instead.’

‘Oh, if it’s that historical thing about the Duke of Wellington you can stick it,’ sniffed Dolly, as he had known she would, and she went back to plaiting Juggy’s hair ready for bed.

‘It won’t go, Dad!’ On his hands and knees, little Brian had been attempting to shove a homemade toy lorry across the square of carpet at the centre of the room, but now hurled it away in frustration.

‘Eh! We’ll have less of that,’ warned Niall. Then, at a show of repentance, ‘It’ll wheel better on lino, son.’ And he indicated the brown linoleum around the edge of the room, to where Brian quickly shuffled.

‘Well, I’d best get ready then.’ Still chewing, Niall clattered his knife and fork onto the empty plate and carried it briskly towards the scullery. ‘Can I just have a wash before you do the pots?’ Nora granting his wish, he climbed over Brian, and pulled the door shut after him.

Ensconced in the tiny scullery, he underwent a quick wipe with a flannel, generally smartening himself up, exchanging his working trousers for less ragged ones, his dusty boots for shoes. But that was the easy part. What the hell would he do about Boadicea now? What if she had heard of the Rialto fire and was in this same dilemma? He had no idea how to let her know, nor where she lived. The only thing for it was to head for the original venue and hope that she had reached the same conclusion.

His mind on this, he emerged from the scullery, again having to avoid Brian.

Hair in neat plaits, and in her nightgown, Juggy came straight to him. ‘Can I have a story, Dad?’

His thoughts interrupted, anxious to be off, Niall glanced down at the elfin face, still forlorn from yesterday, and immediately his glazed expression melted. Grabbing a book from a shelf, he led her to his chair. ‘Away then, sparrowshanks!’ He pulled her onto his lap, where she snuggled in, her head against his chest. ‘But don’t get too comfy, ’cause it’s just a quick’n!’ But this was issued with a hug. Batty came running too, in his striped pyjamas and with happy round cheeks, reminding his father of a character from a comic. ‘Away then, Tiger Tim!’ Niall hauled him onto the other knee, then shouted to the youngest – ‘Put that lorry down, Bri!’ – finally to read them four pages from All the Mowgli Stories, before thoughts of Boadicea were to overrule his good intentions.

After a swift good night kiss to his little ones – for there was now less than ten minutes to get there – he was on his way.

Sunny by day, it might have been, but it was still only April and the nights retained their wintry chill. Without his greatcoat and feeling the nip, Niall huddled into his jacket, his excitement tempered by concern as he travelled brisklythrough the dark, passing from the labyrinth of terraced streets and alleys, under the thick stone archway of Fishergate Bar and its crenellated battlements that were scarred both by time and civil rebellion, past the row of stinking cattle pens that ran directly parallel to these same medieval walls, along Fawcett Street, with its public houses crammed full of drovers from today’s fat-stock market, and on towards Fishergate.

An ominous smell of carbon hung in the air. Approaching the charred hulk of the cinema, he saw that he was not to be alone. A small number of other cinemagoers, unacquainted with the disaster, had turned up to see the film and were standing there in bemusement. To his great relief Boadicea was amongst them.

She did not see him for the moment, her profile slightly hidden behind her fur collar, which she had tugged around her neck and cheeks, but he knew it was her. Relaxing, he eased his pace and made a quick check of his attire before continuing, his lips twitching in fun as he moved up silently behind her.

‘If you didn’t want to go out with me you only had to say, you know. You didn’t have to burn the place down.’

She spun round at his comment, looking as relieved as he was, then giggling heartily at the joke. Then she covered her mouth in guilt. ‘Oh God, you’re terrible! It’s people’s livelihoods – we really shouldn’t be laughing!’ But all the same she expressed further mirth at the ironic concurrence and so did Niall.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be here.’ He continued to appraise her lovingly, his smiling eyes fixed to hers, which were shining and alert, her cheeks and nose reddened by the keen air. ‘I didn’t find out meself till I got home, and then I realised I’d no idea where you live so I couldn’t let you know.’ Not expecting her to be so forthcoming, he was delighted when she did not hide her address.

‘You know where Dorothy Wilson’s Hospital is on Foss Bridge? Well, between there and the old Malt Shovel in Walmgate you might’ve seen an archway, go down there and you’ll find a Georgian mansion – sounds grand, doesn’t it? Oh, I’m terribly grand!’ She stuck her nose in the air, flicked it haughtily, then laughed at her own quip. ‘No, it’s just a boarding house, dropping to bits really, and we’re right next to a tripe dresser – stinks to high heaven – but the people are awfully nice. What about you? Do you live on Walmgate itself?’

Unlike her, he was imprecise, though not through any reason of concealment. ‘No, I live down one of the streets, down t’other end, near the Bar.’ He hovered self-consciously over what to do next, rubbing his large hands and looking around as if in search of a venue. ‘Well, we can’t hang about here in the cold … where would you like to go now?’

She followed his gaze to the Edinburgh Arms, and gave a cryptic smile. ‘Not in there, for sure.’

‘Aye, it’d be a bit of a busman’s holiday for you, wouldn’t it?’ laughed Niall. ‘Come on then, it’ll only take us ten minutes into town. We can make our minds up when we get there.’

They embarked on a long stretch of pavement that sloped in gentle descent through the darkness towards the floodlit Minster and bar walls, walking independently of each other yet with an air of closeness between them. To their left, merging with the night sky, loomed the tall, smoking chimney of the glassworks, and along the way lurked other sinister intrusions; yet, totally in thrall to his companion, Niall saw none of them, his eyes remaining steadfastly on the lighted path ahead.

As usual it was Boadicea who initiated the conversation, enquiring cheerfully, ‘Well then, Mr Niall Doran, and what have you done today at work?’

Having been struggling to think of a topic, he perked up instantly to tell her. ‘Have you read about the wolf that’s going round eating sheep?’

‘Oh, yes!’

‘Well, I saw him again today.’

Boadicea showed deep interest, sucking in her breath. ‘You’ve seen him before then?’

‘Aye! I was the first to report him – well, me and the rest of the gang!’ Niall hurried to correct the impression that he was bragging. ‘We’ve seen it plenty of times.’

‘Come on then, tell me all about it!’ she urged.

And so he did, this providing enough conversation to take them right the way into town.

Uninformed as to York’s picture theatres, and asked which one she would care to visit, Boadicea plumped for the Electric, simply because it was near to where she lived and, in passing, she had liked the look of it. This caused Niall a moment’s awkwardness. It might look like an ancient Greek palace, with its tall pillars, its huge archway graced with plaster garlands and swags and a theatrical mask, and be guarded by a grandly uniformed commissionaire, but beyond that entrance was a fleapit. However, there was another source to his discomfort as the usherette’s torch showed them to their seats, namely the main film on show, ironically titled The Man With Two Faces