Fanny McBride

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘All right! All right!’ Fanny held out her hand. It always irritated her to have Phil pointed out as a cut above Mulhattan’s Hall. ‘Them that wants council houses can have ’em. I’m not starving me belly to impress the neighbours. Council houses! Anyway, can you see me in a council house?’

  ‘No, Fan.’

  This plain statement of truth slightly nonplussed Fanny. ‘I can pass meself when I want to, don’t forget that.’ She bounced her head to convey the depth her decorum could reach if she was called upon to use it. Then she added, ‘Look, get me half-a-pound of streaky and a pound of scrap ends. But mind, don’t let ’em pang all the fat bits on you. And you can get me a pound of sausages, and keep threepence for yerself.’

  ‘I’m obliged, Fan. And you don’t think none the worse of me for opening me big mouth. And you won’t let on to Phil that it was from me you heard, will you, ’cos I like Phil.’

  ‘You can set your mind at rest there,’ said Fanny, ‘I’ll tell him nothing. It’s his business, and let him find out for himself.’

  Mary, nodding her head and on the point of verbal agreement with Fanny, stopped. That the undauntable Fan should allow any of her offspring to mind their own business was a new one on her. Fanny certainly must be feeling poorly.

  ‘If I was you, Fan,’ she said, ‘I’d lie up for an hour. Yes, I’d do that. And look, when I come back I’ll take your ashes out for you.’

  ‘Me ashes are out. Go on, get yerself away,’ said Fanny. ‘What’s up with you? It’s you who should be lying up with that leg. Go on, get along.’

  ‘All right, Fan.’ Buttoning her coat about her, Mary went out, and Fanny stood looking towards the door, her head moving slightly like that of a golliwog at the end of its wagging…So his lady piece was more of a piece than a lady! Well, well. And as for letting him find this knowledge out for himself, had it not been for his curt answer this morning to her question of was he going to be married, she wouldn’t have let him through the door the night before she had passed the information on to him, for she wouldn’t stand aside and let anybody make a fool of any flesh of hers, not even him.

  She turned from her contemplation of the door and moved towards the fire. Yet in the long run it was going to make very little difference to her whether he married or not…wasn’t he going away?

  She now looked at the poker in her hand. Was it the lass who was driving him away, more than his desire to get on? Or, painful thought, herself and Mulhattan’s Hall? Could it be, though, that he was wise to the lass? That was something she’d have to make it her business to find out, for, knowing her son, she knew she’d wait a long time before getting anything of a private nature out of him.

  The morning passed much as usual, and after Fanny had cooked herself some sausages and mash for her dinner and washed it down with at least a pint of coal-black tea, she brought up a chair to the side of the window and into a position where, without moving her head, she could see the steps that led down from the house to street level, and, taking up a half-finished sock, she began to knit without even casting her eyes in its direction.

  The house remained comparatively quiet, with no-one coming or going, until half-past two, when Ted Neilson, who lodged with the Quigleys on the top floor, came in with his hand bandaged up. Her needles stopped clicking for a moment. He’d been hurt; she wondered what had caused it. Well, if he had come home to rest, he had some hope. With old Barry for ever on the natter and fight, it was a poor home for a man. She supposed he stayed with them because he was a relation. Perhaps after Phil had gone she herself would take a lodger. Yes, that would be an idea; for she was doubting very much now whether she would find a job outside, and she was becoming desperate within herself to find something that would take the complete emptiness from the days ahead.

  Her needles went on clicking rapidly, then she exclaimed aloud defiantly, ‘Aw, sufficient unto the day…’ Christmas wasn’t so far off. And if her Jack didn’t show up before then, he would show up at Christmas. Christmas was a great healer.

  The needles went on steadily…click, click, click, click, until three o’clock, when they were brought to an abrupt halt by the sound across the street of Mrs Flannagan’s front door opening. Fanny, with darkening brow, watched the slight lady herself, dressed very neatly and not without taste, step into the street and slowly and methodically lock her door and adjust her blue felt hat and matching coloured gloves before moving jauntily away. The lines on Fanny’s face converged to the central point of her mouth, until her face resembled an agitated pumpkin. Lady Golightly. Begod! Did you ever see anything like it? But pride always went before a fall. Fanny nodded after the departing figure, and said aloud into the empty room, ‘If you’re not careful you’ll topple off your horse afore it gets you to hell, me lady.’ Oh, that one made her want to spit! She brought her lips together but did not perform the function; instead, her needles began a ferocious clicking.

  There had been only one other person in her life who’d had the power to arouse her ire as did that lady, and that had been McBride himself—God rest his soul—and if he was getting his deserts she knew where he’d be this minute, and she hoped Nellie Flannagan would one day meet up with him.

  McBride had led her a dance, and no mistake. All their married life he’d been at it. If it wasn’t beer it was bawds. She wondered at times how she had stood it. But if you had a houseful of bairns around you you had to stand it, or jump in the river on a dark night…Aye, and she’d been near that more than once. He had been a waster all his life, had McBride, up to the day he died. And that had been the happiest day of her life. Aye, there wasn’t a better dead man than him; nor one so carefully remembered, for didn’t she have a Mass said for him as regular as clockwork every year. Father Owen thought it was for the release of his soul from purgatory, and she didn’t enlighten him otherwise. But when she paid for and listened to that Mass it wasn’t the release of McBride’s soul she prayed for, oh! no, but that the good God would prevent her meeting up with him in the long eternity, for when the reckoning came and the coming together was accomplished she didn’t want to be saddled with McBride again…she’d had her bellyful of McBride. Aye, she’d had that, and in more ways than one.

  Her reminiscence had brought her to the conclusion that at least she’d had some sort of a square deal in being allowed to survive the tormentor of her days and nights, when her needles were once again brought to an abrupt stop as her eyes took in a figure moving down the steps of the house. She’d heard no-one come down the stairs or pass her door, and that was very unusual. The woman on the steps was from the attics. She was of slight build and fair, greyey fair…dollified, was Fanny’s verdict. This was only the second time she had seen the woman, and her attitude now was something different from the day when she had entered the house…her head was not high now and her nose in the air, but her whole manner was—Fanny searched for a word to describe furtive, and came upon slinky. Yes, she thought, she had gone slinking off there as if she was dodging the polis. They were a funny lot up in the attics. Would she get her shilling back, she wondered? Well, that remained to be seen.

  She watched the woman out of sight, thinking, Aye, she was a slinky piece all right.

  Shortly after four she saw the child from the attics come running down the street and dash up the steps, and heard her footsteps pounding up the bare stairs as if she were wearing clogs. There was nothing ladylike about her feet, anyway. Fanny laid down her knitting and went to put the kettle on. And as she did so she wondered if she should make some griddle cakes in case her grandson, Corny, came over from Howden across the water after school. He often looked in on a Friday. She never could decide whether his visits were prompted by a desire to see her or a treat to the pictures, which he usually received.

  She liked Corny—he put her in mind of Jack. Jack…She screwed up her face again, pushing her wrinkled flesh as a barrier against her thoughts.

  Having decided on the griddle cakes, she was reaching for the ba
g of flour from the pantry shelf when she heard the quick thumping steps on the stairs again almost above her head, and it seemed that at the same moment a double rap came on the door. Putting her head out of the pantry she called, ‘Come in! Who is it?’

  The door was quickly pushed open, and the child stood there. But like her mother, her attitude was now changed, for she did not look the same assured child who had come to borrow a shilling only that morning. So different was her expression and manner that Fanny came from the pantry saying, ‘What is it? What’s the matter? What you crying for?’

  ‘My—my mummy isn’t in.’

  ‘Well now!’—Fanny stopped dead—‘is that owt to cry about?’

  The child turned her head sideways and looked down at the floor, and as Fanny watched the tears trickling down her face she exclaimed kindly, ‘Ah now! Come on now. You’re a big lass…how old are you?’

  ‘Seven.’ She sniffed. ‘Nearly eight.’

  ‘Well, that’s an age.’

  The child sniffed again and sought for her hankie. And Fanny thought, Ah, God in Heaven, she’s only a bairn for all her fancy ways. ‘Come here,’ she said.

  She sat down and waited during the slow approach, and when the child stood at her knee, she asked, ‘What brought you down here? Why couldn’t you wait till your ma came back, or go out to play?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to play in the streets. Mummy forbids it. And I couldn’t wait until she came back because I was afraid. She never goes out, she shouldn’t go…and…and I came to you because—’ She moved nearer to Fanny’s knee and with a tentative finger she poked at the none-too-clean apron—‘I wanted to come before—before this morning. Margaret said I could, but Mummy said no.’

  ‘Why did you want to come?’ asked Fanny, now slightly curious.

  ‘I liked you.’ The voice was small. ‘I think you’re funny.’

  ‘In the name of God! Now would you believe it?’ Fanny’s smile seemed to spread over her whole body at the questionable compliment. This fancy-tongued piece liking her and thinking her funny! This latter description held no derogatory meaning for her when coupled to the first. She took hold of the small hand and was about to pat it when the fingers gripped hers, and the round blue eyes, staring apprehensively out of the plain little face, looked up at her. ‘My mummy will be all right, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes, hinny, why not?’

  ‘She shouldn’t have gone.’

  ‘But she’s only likely gone shopping.’

  ‘No. She doesn’t go shopping. Margaret gets everything.’

  Fanny recalled the slinking attitude of the woman. There was something fishy here. Why was the child so concerned?

  ‘Where’s your da?’ she asked. ‘Have you got a da?’

  ‘No, he’s dead.’

  ‘Ah, well, now, your mother’ll be back in a while. In the meantime would you like a sup tea and a piece bread?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Well, let me up and I’ll get it.’

  The child moved to one side and stood gnawing at her thumbnail while Fanny mashed the tea and cut the bread.

  Fanny was spreading the jam on the bread with a gully large enough to carve an ox when the door was unceremoniously pushed open, and a thickset, black-haired and equally black-browed boy of an age that could have been anything from eight to twelve entered.

  ‘Hallo, Gran.’

  ‘Hallo,’ said Fanny casually. ‘You’re early; you not been to school?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Fanny stopped wielding the knife. ‘Tell me none of your lies now. You’d have to have flown across the water to get here this quick.’

  ‘I asked out early.’ The lad, his head lowered, his eyes stretched upwards under his brows, eyed his grandmother with an open twinkle. Then his gaze flickered to the child who was standing eyeing him, and back again to Fanny as she said, ‘You did?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Well, to come across here.’

  ‘And they let you out for that?’ Fanny’s voice was deep with disbelief.

  ‘No. I said I had to go to a mu-sick lesson.’

  Fanny’s head now jerked back and her laugh bellowed forth. ‘A music lesson! That’s rich.’

  ‘It isn’t, Gran.’ The boy’s tone was huffed, and his chin was up and his lips out, and in this action alone there showed the relationship between them.

  ‘I’ve got a trumpet…a cornet. Me da give it me. I’m goner learn.’

  ‘That’ll be the day…Here.’ Fanny handed the staring and seemingly hypnotised Marian a slice of bread, and added with a nod towards the boy, ‘This is me grandson…Corny.’ She did not make the other half of the introduction, but turned to the lad and asked, ‘You want a piece?’

  ‘Aye.’ Corny was now returning Marian’s stare. Yet ignoring her as if she were a street away, he asked of his grannie, ‘Who’s she?’

  Fanny, answering him much in the same vein, said, ‘She’s from upstairs…they call her Marian.’

  ‘From the attics?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Corny turned his gaze to the table now and traced his finger round the top of the jam jar. ‘I wish Mary Ann Shaughnessy was still there. She was a good sport.’

  ‘Get your fingers off there!’ The gully swung out as if it would take off his whole hand.

  Corny only grinned, licked his fingers and sat down; and as he did so Marian moved to the opposite corner of the table and concentrated her gaze upon him. Her concern for her mother seemed to be forgotten for the moment, for her face had lost its worried look and was now brightly eager as she asked him, ‘Who was she…that Mary Ann?’

  Corny, eyeing her from under his brows, was slow to answer. He had his method with girls, part of which was to make them ask any question at least twice; and he did not now thank his grannie for interrupting this method when she put in, ‘She was a child who lived in your rooms.’

  ‘Was she nice?’

  ‘Oh, aye, she was nice, was Mary Ann.’

  ‘Was she clever?’ The question was eager.

  ‘Clever? Well now’—Fanny chuckled—‘if by clever you mean could she tell the tale, she was clever all right.’

  There was a slight pause before Marian spoke again; and when she did her voice wobbled, bringing Fanny’s eyes sharply to her. ‘I can tell stories, heaps of stories, wonderful stories…better than her.’

  Fanny looked down at the child, whose face was flushed and lips compressed and who could at any moment begin to cry again. What ailed her anyway?

  She was about to say a consoling word when her attention was brought sharply to her grandson on the sound of a baby chant issuing from his unbaby-like mouth.

  ‘This little piggy went to market,

  This little piggy stayed at home;

  This little piggy had bread and butter

  And this little piggy had none.’

  With definitely crossed eyes, Corny was gazing at his grubby hand as he plucked each finger, and the child, her face now expressing fury, cried at him across the table, ‘You!…you! You’re a silly, stupid thing…a…a pig!’

  ‘Now, now!’ Fanny cautioned her soothingly. Then swinging her attention about again she barked, ‘I’ll skelp the hunger off you, me lad, if you don’t stop it.’

  ‘And this little piggy cried, “I can tell stories, I can…I’m a clever…”’

  Fanny’s arm swept a wide half-circle, but her grandson, used to her method of attack and the necessary evasive tactics, ducked under the table to come up at the other side and directly behind Marian. Unfortunately this advantageous position held forth a temptation that Corny was unable to resist. His head momentarily on a line with Marian’s buttocks, his hand followed his eye and acted according to the dictates of his impish will.

  Marian, clapping her hands to her bottom, let out a shrill scream that almost brought Fanny off the floor. ‘He—he pinched me!’

  ‘I never did.’

  Corny retre
ated swiftly as Fanny, advancing menacingly on him, yelled, ‘If I lay me hands on you it’ll be a tombstone you’ll be needing, me boy, this night.’ Suddenly she made a dive towards him, but Corny, whipping open the door, escaped into the hall. At the sanctuary of the front door he stopped, and holding with outstretched arms to each stanchion, he levelled his puckish grin at her and cried, ‘And don’t forget to put me full name on it, mind, Gran…on me tombstone, Frederick Richard Cornelius Bowen.’

  Fanny’s face remained grim for another moment, then her wrinkles quivered and she exclaimed, ‘One of these days I’ll have the hide off you from your scalp to your toes.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘What?’ Corny turned an almost startled face of enquiry to the boy making this polite request, before dropping his arms and standing aside to let him enter. Perhaps it was because the lad was a good head taller than himself and seemingly a good deal older that he checked any mimicry he would otherwise have made.

  Fanny looked at the boy making for the stairs, and he looked back at her, but said nothing. And he was already on the stairs when she remarked, ‘Your sister’s in here along of me…your mother’s out.’

  As if she had hit him with something in the back of the neck, she saw his head jerk forward before he turned.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said your mother’s out, and your sister’s in here with me. She was crying because there was nobody in.’

  The boy moved down one step, and as he did so Marian pushed past Fanny’s bulk and came into the hall. The brother and sister looked at each other, and Fanny looked at them.

  What was it at all? Why should two children be so concerned about their ma being out?

  ‘Do you know which way she went, please?’ asked the boy.

  ‘Up the street towards the town…Now what is there to worry about? Is your ma bad or something? Does she have turns?’

  The boy’s round, brown eyes blinked, and he pushed his hands through his thick sandy hair as he repeated, ‘Turns?…Yes, yes, she has turns.’ Then he looked at his sister, saying, ‘I’ll go for Margaret, you stay here. Can she stay with you?’