End of the Line

Chapter Eighteen. Ernest and Mary

Chapter Eighteen

Ernest and Mary 

Neither Meg nor Mrs Maclean could satisfy Pop's curiosity about the young man who persisted in forcing his attention on Mary at every church social gathering. Pop's not so discreet enquiries at church eventually revealed that the young man worked on a farm, was a regular churchgoer, and no scandal had ever been attached to his name. He was however only eighteen years of age. Mary was twenty-three. Ma Benson anxious to see her daughter in a normal relationship (she had her suspicions), argued that this really wasn't that much of a problem, as women tended to have the longer lifespan. 

Mary encouraged the suit. She was terrified of the unnatural desires she had felt for Penny, desires she thought she had overcome, but that had resurfaced with Meg. Dreams that no woman should have, disturbed her sleep. Maybe a man would end this torment. 

Ernest lived up to his name. He had no time for the niceties of courtship; he was quick to the chase. Just before Christmas, and never having seen Mary outside the confines of the church, he asked for her hand in marriage. Mary was taken aback, she had never considered this more than a dalliance, a cover for her true desires, but it did offer a possible way out from a life that promised nothing but constant drudgery. She gave him permission to talk to her father.  

Mary led Ernest in to the parlour where her father sat in his favourite chair. He remained seated and motioned Ernest to take a seat opposite him.  

"You must leave us now Mary." Mary obediently left the room without a backward glance. 

"Do you mind if I smoke young man?"  

"N...no sir." 

There was a prolonged silence as Pop prepared his pipe. 

"Are you a smoker lad?" 

"N...no sir." 

"A drinker?" 

"No sir." 

"Mary says that you're English. I'd never have guessed it." 

"Why not?" 

"Well you speak funny and have a strange second name. What is it, Kerner?" 

"K...Kercher, sir." 

"Now that's no English name. Where did you come by that?" 

"That's a l...long story." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Hasn't Mary told you?" 

"Told me what?" 

"M...maybe I'd better explain." 

"I think so, son." 

Ernest went in to a prolonged, stuttering, repetitive account of his early years. Apparently, he had been born in Bolton, an industrial town in the North of England. He was the youngest of eight children. Plagued by poverty his parents put him on a train bound for London saying that an uncle who had offered help would meet him at Euston station. There was no uncle. He ended up eking out an existence around the docks in the east end. To survive he joined a gang that peddled stolen kerchiefs. One day he was caught stealing and sent to a workhouse. After a couple of months, he and several other lads were transferred to a Dr. Barnardo's home, and from there they were shipped to Canada.  

Pop, who harboured a very low opinion of Barnardo boys, interrupted the tale  

"How old were you when all this happened?"