Fanny McBride

by Catherine Cookson

  When she opened the kitchen door Philip was putting a woollen scarf inside his coat. The scarf, she noticed, was new and matched the grey coat he had bought last month. This was another thing that always kept them divided. He had, since he was a lad, insisted on choosing and buying his own clothes. Right from when she was married she had bought McBride’s clothes and for all the others, too, until they left to be married. Sometimes she had drawn as many as six five-pound clubs together, especially at Easter, to get them rigged out. But my lord Philip would have none of them, and he would madden her further in this direction by always making his clothes last twice as long as the rest of them. Looking at him now, she wondered yet again how he could have any connection with herself. He was dressed like a bandbox, and if you were judging on looks alone, was as removed from her as was royalty.

  The scarf discreetly hidden, the coat buttoned up, Philip stood under the light, his head bent as if he were contemplating his shoes.

  ‘It’s cold enough for snow,’ he said.

  She looked at him covertly. The weather topic was out of order, he dealt with it coming in, not going out. For the first time in their long association, Fanny recognised it as a symptom of nervousness, for she saw now that he was definitely uneasy. Her agitation ebbed somewhat and to her surprise she heard herself saying, calmly, ‘Aye we’ll be gettin’ it.’ And she added by way of conversation, ‘I’ll have to see about gettin’ some coal by me, before there’s a run on it.’

  ‘I’ll get you a ton before I go.’

  She looked up at him. ‘You’re really going then?’

  He blinked in surprise. ‘Why, yes. I told you, didn’t I?’ But when she made no remark to this he went on, ‘Yet it’s odd, for I don’t know whether I want to take the job or not now…Mother.’

  Fanny waited a moment, then said, ‘Aye? Well, what is it?’

  He was looking down at his shoes again as he said, ‘I’m in a bit of a quandary.’

  Whatever quandary might mean he was saying he was in a fix. So it was right then what Mary had suggested. Her lips tightened.

  ‘It’s about Margaret. I suppose it won’t come as an entire surprise to you, but I’m fond of her.’ He now picked up his hat from the chair and examined it.

  This was beating about the bush. There was nothing Fanny disliked more than beating about the bush, but she said as calmly as she could, ‘There’s no law against that. How does she feel?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I thought that…well, that she wouldn’t be averse, and then she started avoiding me. When I was away at the interview the other day I knew how it was with me and I had to get back. I went to meet her and she seemed pleased, but when I asked her if she would come out with me, she said “No”…I don’t know what to make of it.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s the mother…You’d be takin’ on something if she did have you. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve weighed everything up.’

  ‘You’ve been damned smart, then,’ said Fanny tersely. ‘And there’s those two bairns to be looked after for years yet.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, too.’

  ‘The lass has told you nothing about herself?’

  ‘No, she’s close there. I thought she might have confided in me after the night she fainted down here. There’s something I can’t get to the bottom of.’ His eyes lifted from his hat. ‘There’s nothing very much that escapes you, what d’you think?’

  Now this kind of directness was up her street. This was how she liked it, but for the life of her she couldn’t give him an immediate answer.

  He stared at her, then moved towards her, saying, ‘I feel you know something…tell me.’

  ‘Look, lad.’ She felt more kindly disposed towards him at this moment than she had done in her life before. ‘All I know is hearsay, gossip.’

  ‘Well, tell me.’

  Fanny pushed up her breasts.

  ‘It’s not about them upstairs.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, it’s about the other one.’

  ‘The other one?’

  ‘That one, Sylvia.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Have you finished with her?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. It couldn’t be otherwise.’

  ‘But she still waits for you, at the top of the street.’

  His colour mounted as he said, ‘I can’t help that. I’ve told her.’

  ‘What have you told her?’

  ‘It’s finished.’

  ‘Do you know she’s goin’ to have a bairn?’

  She watched his eyes become almost lost behind his screwed-up lids, and she saw his lips leave his teeth bare. It was as if he had suddenly been confronted by something terrifying. She did not need to be told that this was news to him, and of a frightening kind.

  ‘Who told you this?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I got it from Mary Prout. Her brother’s lass knows the other one…When did you see her last?’

  He seemed to be raking in his bemused mind to pinpoint the time, then he muttered, ‘Nearly a fortnight ago.’

  ‘Well, she’s been round here since then. Mary Prout said she was at the top of the street the other night.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, but I evaded her.’ He wetted his lips, and his eyes slipped back and forth across the room.

  Then Fanny, speaking quietly but abruptly, said, ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘No. Good God, no!’

  ‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ Even as she said it, she knew how far it was from the truth. If that piece wanted a father for her bairn he had everything to worry about.

  With a helpless gesture that robbed him of his poise, he sat down opposite to her and said words that drew out of her the first feelings of protectiveness towards him. ‘I’m scared,’ he said; ‘I don’t mind telling you, I’m scared. She’s…Sylvia’s an odd girl…determined. I never really found it out until recently.’

  And Fanny saw he was scared. This gentleman son of hers was scared. If it had been one of the others, they’d have cried, ‘Aye, well, let her try to hang anything onto me…just let her try.’ But not this one. His reading, his copying fine ways, like standing up when even Mary Prout came into the room, his fussiness about his clothes and his eating had left him, she considered, a bit soft inside. Certainly it hadn’t equipped him to deal with a situation like this.

  ‘Has she hinted at anything?’ she asked.

  ‘No. No, of course not, there was no reason. I’ve never …’ His colour rose and he moved on the chair. ‘No!’

  ‘Look, I’m your mother and there’s no need to get delicate-minded with me. If your conscience is clear in that direction, what are you worrying about?’

  He became still and looked at her. ‘She’s been saying odd things. I thought…I thought she was going a little funny, but now I see where it was leading.’

  ‘Have you ever promised to marry her?’

  ‘We did talk of it. Then I had my suspicions there was somebody else—she let me down once or twice—we had words and I broke it off, that’s all.’

  Fanny wondered for the moment if she should say anything to him about the girl’s previous boss, but she thought better of it. This wasn’t the time. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘go out and about your business, and should she waylay you, you put a flea in her ear. But if you can, I’d keep out of her way.’

  He sat for a while longer before rising and as he gathered up his hat and gloves in silence a tap came on the door, and Fanny called impatiently, ‘Who is it?…come in.’

  When Margaret appeared in the doorway Fanny exclaimed in a lighter tone, ‘Oh, come away in, lass.’

  The girl came slowly to the centre of the room, looking at Philip as she did so. ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hallo,’ he replied, without returning her glance. Then with a flustered gesture he pulled his hat onto his head and turning went abruptly out.

  Fanny could see that the girl was completely taken off her guard by his manner an
d sudden departure, and she watched her turn and look at the closed door, and saw her composure slip from her like a silk vest.

  ‘Come and sit down, lass,’ she said kindly.

  ‘I…I can’t stay.’ A tremor passed over her face, and she bit at her lip before going on. ‘I just came to see if you’d do me a favour, Mrs McBride.’ She now forced to her face a little smile as she added, ‘I’m always asking you for favours.’

  ‘I will if I can, lass. What is it?’

  ‘Tony’s gone to choir practice, and my mother isn’t too well, she’s in bed, and I’ve put Marian to bed, too, for she has a touch of cold, but she won’t stay in the room by herself, and…and I don’t want her to…to disturb my mother. Would it be asking too much of you to stay with her, I mean Marian, till I come back?’ Now the words came tumbling out in rapid succession. ‘I’ve got to go to the doctor’s, he gives me some special tablets for my mother’s head. She has dreadful headaches…dreadful.’

  After a pause in which Fanny thought, I’m not goin’ to relish this, she said, ‘Not at all, lass. I might as well be sittin’ up there as down here. I can knit anywhere.’

  ‘It was the stairs I was thinking about.’

  ‘Oh, when I can’t manage them stairs that’ll be the day, they’ll carry me out then.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Now Margaret’s voice was trembling and her eyes were cast down and her fingers picking at each other in a distraught fashion.

  ‘Kind? There’s not much kind about that. Look, lass…aw, come on, what is it? Don’t cry. Now…now.’ She went to where Margaret stood, her face covered with her hands, her body shaking, and putting her arms about her she pulled her to her ample breast, saying softly, ‘Come on, lass, come on…what is it?’

  For a moment Margaret leaned against Fanny’s comforting flesh, then groping for a handkerchief, she dried her eyes quickly, exclaiming, ‘It’s nothing, I just felt like that for a moment.’

  ‘Now look, lass.’ Fanny nodded her head. ‘I’ve seen a bit in me time, and I know you’re carrying more than your share. You can tell me and it’ll go no further, and it’ll ease you. Tellin’ always eases you. Every time I go to Father Owen I say thank God to him who invented confession. Anyway, lass, I’ve drawn me own conclusions already.’

  Now Margaret looked up at her, her eyes steady, and she asked, ‘Have you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘They won’t be right, Mrs McBride.’

  ‘You seem sure of that, lass.’

  ‘Yes…yes, I am sure, and I wish I wasn’t, but if I could tell anyone in the world I would tell you…do you believe that?’ She put out her hand to Fanny, and Fanny took it between her two bloated ones, saying, ‘Well, I’m always here, bear that in mind, lass. But there’s one thing I’m goin’ to ask you outright.’ She brought her chin into the rolls of fat in her neck as she said, ‘Do you like my lad?’

  On this question Margaret withdrew her hands and her colour slowly mounted and her eyes moved away from Fanny as she answered with a semblance of Marian’s primness, ‘Yes…he’s very nice.’

  Fanny sighed impatiently. ‘That’s not the answer. And you must forget how he went off just now…we…we’d been having a few words.’

  Turning quickly towards the door and with her back now to Fanny, Margaret said, ‘I can’t give you any other answer.’

  ‘No?’ Fanny gave a small laugh. ‘Well, that’ll do to go on with. I’ll just bank me fire down and then I’ll be up. Go on and get yourself ready.’

  Five minutes later when Fanny mounted the stairs Miss Harper’s door opened just a fraction, and then, on the sight of Fanny, just a little wider, and the tall, thin, and ever-curious lady, putting her head out, asked, ‘Is it trouble, Mrs McBride?’

  ‘Trouble?’ said Fanny without pausing, as she turned round the landing and onto the attic stairs. ‘There wouldn’t be any trouble without yourself knowing it, Miss Harper…No, there’s no trouble.’

  ‘Oh, I just thought …’ Miss Harper’s voice faded away, and Fanny commented privately, ‘Aye, you’re like a lot of other folks, troubles are your amusement.’

  Margaret was ready when Fanny unceremoniously entered the attic. She was placing a drink on the table by the side of a single bed which stood in the corner of the room, and when Marian on the sight of Fanny began to toss about excitedly, Margaret said, somewhat sternly, ‘Now, mind, I’ve told you to behave. And don’t attempt to get up.’

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Fanny said. ‘Get yourself away, and don’t rush.’ And when Margaret moved towards the door she followed her, saying quietly, ‘I’d ask him for a tonic for yourself while you’re there. You need something. Not that I meself hold with tonics.’

  Margaret smiled but said nothing, and when the door had closed on her Fanny walked slowly to a chair by the fire, and without looking again towards the bed, said, ‘You read your book, hinny, I’m goin’ to knit.’

  Marian, after eyeing Fanny’s set profile for a few minutes, reluctantly drew a book over the coverlet towards her and began to read.

  When Fanny had had a glimpse of this room before, such had been her annoyance at the time that she hadn’t carried away with her any impression of it whatever. Now covertly she began to take in her surroundings. She knew these two rooms as well as she did her own, and during the occupation of their various tenants she had visited them, but she had never seen them looking as they did now. In Lizzie Shaughnessy’s time the place had been neat and clean, but it hadn’t looked like this. There was a different air about the room now. What was it exactly? Fanny looked slowly about her. Perhaps it was the effect of the curtains hung cross-wise, as the child had said, French-style, or the entire absence of even one picture on the wall. But the place nevertheless wasn’t without comfort, for there was a carpet covering the floor, and that must be a strange feeling indeed for the attic floorboards. And the round table in the centre was of shining mahogany with feet like claws jutting from a pillar in the middle. The couch, which was a match for the chair she was now sitting on, was well covered in good leather, and against the far wall was a glass-fronted cabinet, full, not of china, but of books. But nowhere, Fanny noted, not even on the mantelpiece, was there a knick-knack or an ornament. Except for a heavy marble clock, the mantelpiece was as bare as a moulting hen’s backside.

  ‘Mrs McBride?’ The voice was a whisper.

  ‘Aye, hinny?’

  ‘I’ve got a cold.’

  ‘That’ll soon be better.’ Fanny’s needles clicked…click-clack, click-clack.

  ‘Mrs McBride?’

  ‘Aye, hinny?’

  ‘You know that girl you told me of who lived here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where does she live now?’

  ‘In the country on a farm.’

  ‘I wish I lived in the country. I don’t like living here. I hate this house.’

  The statement was delivered with such bitterness that Fanny immediately turned her attention to the child, who was now leaning back against the bed rails, staring straight in front of her.

  ‘You don’t like Mulhattan’s Hall?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Oh well, I meself think it’s a grand house, towering above the rest of the street with their potty two storeys.’

  ‘It isn’t a proper house, not like we had.’

  ‘Had you such a grand house, then?’

  Marian picked up the book, then threw it down again saying, ‘It was better than this. And we had a garden, a real garden, and window boxes…and we grew mustard and cress.’

  ‘Well, you don’t tell me. Mustard and cress?’ Something in Fanny’s chest softened. She hadn’t really much time for this little madam, but after all, what was she but a bairn, so she added conversationally, ‘And did you have it for your tea?’

  ‘No, it died,’ said Marian flatly.

  ‘The mustard and cress died?’ Fanny screwed her face up in simulated interest.

  ‘Ye
s, the whole window box full.’ Marian brought her eyes to Fanny’s. ‘The cats did it, they used it.’

  ‘Did they an’ all, the varmints. But there’s one thing, the cats won’t get up as far as this. What’s to stop you having a bit window box up here? Oh, it would be a grand sight, so it would.’

  ‘You couldn’t grow a window box here.’

  ‘And why ever not?’

  ‘They’re only attics and the windows are too small.’ The child’s voice was full of scorn now. ‘I don’t want to do anything here, nothing, nothing.’ Two small fists thumped into the bed, and Fanny cautioned quietly, ‘Now, now, we’ll have none of that,’ and returning to her knitting she added, ‘If Mary Ann Shaughnessy had gone on like that nothing special would have ever happened to her. Mary Ann swore these attics were enchanted.’

  ‘Enchanted?’ The word held Marian’s attention.

  ‘Aye, enchanted. That’s what she used to say. She used to say, “You know, Mrs McBride, there’s something special about the attics, they’re enchanted.”’

  Begod, she was becoming nearly as good a hand as Mary Ann herself at telling a tale. But it was funny, when she came to think of it, the things that had happened to the folks who had lived up here during the years. They came here when they considered they had reached rock bottom and in each case they had bounded up again. Look at the Ironsides, they’d had the attics before the Shaughnessys, and look what happened to them. Thomas Henry Ironside would neither work nor want, and every day of her life poor Peggy had to go out and earn the bread because he was ailing with one thing or another. It was his feet that had kept Thomas Henry Ironside down, so to speak, and then when they wouldn’t pay him any more dole or sick pay, he had to take a light job. And what should happen on the second morning on his way to his light job? What indeed? A crane loading a ship with crates in the docks slipped a chain and a crate fell right on top of him, and he had no more trouble with his feet from that day on for the crate cut them off at the hips. But they gave him a grand lump sum for his legs, and now Peggy was living in a nice house up near the ‘Robin Hood’ and having the time of her life.