Maggie Rowan

by Catherine Cookson

  So he turned from his mother’s eyes and said, ‘I’m serious all right.’

  Nellie rose to her feet. ‘You’ve taken leave of your senses! Do you know what this means? Have you gone mad?’

  She waited for some reply; but all he did was to put his foot on the fender and his hands on the mantelpiece and rest his forehead against them.

  She stared at his bent head, and went on, her voice like her face, sharp and hard now, ‘What about the chapel and all the services you’ve taken, and the things you’ve said? Remember your last one? Remember how you started? You’ve got to be able to face man before you can face God…Remember?’

  Tom moved his head back and forward on his clenched hands.

  ‘What will it be like going down the pit in the morning? The men will spit on you. Even the godless ones listened to you. And because they thought you were good they must have thought there was something in having a God after all. But what’ll happen now when Tom Rowan openly shows he has taken up with a whore, and the daughter of a whore?’

  ‘Mother!’ He swung round on her, his face blanched white, leaving a blue weal across his temple standing out as if painted on the skin.

  ‘That’s what she is.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘She’s nothing more.’

  His nose was pinched thin and his lips trembled as he said, ‘And that’s your charity! Carrying out the sins of the fathers.’

  Nellie put her hand to her throat, and for a moment her shoulders slumped and her eyes looked at him vacantly. Then she straightened herself. ‘The sins of the fathers carry themselves out as surely as night follows day.’ She nodded at him. ‘But I’m not blaming her for what her mother is or her father, but for what she is. She’s a known…’

  ‘Don’t!’ He thrust his hand towards her. ‘If you say that again I’ll leave the house and not come back.’

  Her eyes widened, and the startled look in them was as though she had seen him transformed into some strange being. Her head shook and she whispered, ‘Tom.’

  But her pleading did not touch him, and she flicked her finger and thumb together, saying, ‘It’s just like that…you’ve forgot all the years and what we planned.’

  ‘I’m a boy no longer.’

  ‘No’—she looked at him blindly—‘you’re a boy no longer.’

  Her lips trembled; and her distress was too much for him, and he grabbed at her hands and held them closely pressed against him. ‘Mum, try to see eye to eye with me in this. It’s no idle fancy. I would do anything on earth not to hurt you, but I cannot give her up…Mum!’ His eyes bored their pleading into hers. ‘See her…let me bring her home.’

  ‘No!’ Nellie pulled herself away, her face grim once more. ‘You want me to give my sanction to a living hell for you? Look. I would rather a bomb drop clean on you and blow you to smithereens. Or I would wish you to be trapped down below’—she thrust her stiffened fingers towards the floor—‘and never see the light again. Yes, I would wish that rather than I would see you joined to a woman of that tribe.’

  At this moment George’s figure passed the window in the deepening twilight, and his knock came on the front door. And it was repeated before either of them moved. Nellie turned heavily to answer the impetuous summons, and Tom flung himself out of the room and up the stairs, and into his own room.

  As of habit he immediately took off his best clothes and put them away; and the movements of his hands as he pushed them into the cupboards or drawers were thrust metaphorically at his mother and anyone else who would try to separate him from Beattie Watson. His clothes away, he stood looking helplessly about the little room as if looking for understanding from some familiar object. But even the familiarity of the room seemed to have deserted him.

  With a hopeless gesture he beat his clenched fist into the palm of his hand. If only they would let her speak for herself; if they knew her; the bigness of her. Look at this morning when she was cut by his mother and the Taggarts. Did she storm? No, she laughed. But it was a hurt laugh; and she had looked at him and said, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And that’s only the beginning, mind.’

  And then once again she had appealed to him, ‘Let’s call it quits, Tommy. I’m not worth it, and that’s a fact. If you knew everything…’

  But he had silenced her. Yet now her words came back, pricking his mind and recalling the name his mother had dared apply to her. He began to pace the room in his stockinged feet. If he even harboured the thought he would be as bad as the rest. Women! They were all alike where scandal was concerned. Even his mother had become a ferocious creature under the influence of it.

  He was standing in his pants and vest when without any warning knock his father entered.

  George looked at his son, and the comeliness of him tore at his heart—his strong thinness, the finely chiselled face without a spot of guilt in it. He was his mother’s son all right, and she had fought to build about him a barrier against evil. But just a moment ago she had said, ‘He’s your son. Never was it more right, like father like son.’ By God, that had hurt. Would she never forget? No. And certainly not while the attraction for the harlot type that had played havoc with his own life was rising into action in her son.

  He had paid dearly for his weakness. By God, he had that. And he didn’t want his lad to land in the same boat. He mustn’t land there! If it was only for Nellie’s sake, he mustn’t land there, for she had suffered enough. It was odd, he thought, how good women acted like magnets for trouble, trouble of this sort that turned them into martyrs. And martyrs weren’t the easiest to live with…But he must think no harsh word against Nellie. What he had to do was to find a way to prevent her suffering any more, and to save his lad from trouble. But knowing the fever that scorched the blood when desire was loose in it, he was hard set to know what line to take with his son. One thing he must not do, he must not lose his temper. He might not have much sense about some things, but this much he knew from experience, open opposition on a matter of this sort was the quickest way to drive a fellow to the end of the road.

  ‘Can we have a crack, lad?’

  Tom turned searching eyes on his father. He had expected some kind of understanding from his mother, but from his father none. Yet here he was, fully aware of the state of affairs, and evidently not going to land out at him about it.

  ‘What’s there to say?’

  George sat down on the edge of the bed and stared intently at his hands, examining the myriad blue marks covering them. He turned his palms upwards, then downwards again, and went on scrutinising the insignia of the mine for some moments before saying, ‘Only this…You’re old enough to know what you’re about.’

  Tom looked at the bowed head. This attitude was most unusual. He always thought of his father as a breezy individual, blustering at times, and often trying with his stale jokes; and he had suspected him of weakness, for how otherwise would such a man allow his wife to have the final say in things that were not of her province? He had been very young when he first realised who ruled the house. But this side of his father was quite new; and this understanding and toleration bred new hope in him.

  ‘Dad.’ With the eagerness of a young boy about to solicit parental sanction for some beloved scheme he pulled the bedroom chair up to the bed and sat down opposite his father. ‘Look, Dad. If only she would see her. If you would talk to her and get her to let me bring her here.’

  George’s head did not lift, but he raised his lids and peered up at his son as if over the top of spectacles. ‘Don’t lay any stock on her doing that, lad.’ His voice was flat. ‘I can’t help you there. Women are queer cattle.’

  ‘But, Dad. If only she got to know her, she’d see for herself how…I mean…well, what a good sort she is.’

  ‘Aye, lad. She may be a good sort—her type often are…’

  ‘Her type! What d’you mean?’ The polished linoleum squeaked under the movement of Tom’s chair.

  ‘What I say, lad.’

&
nbsp; George’s head was lifted now and his eyes were on a level with those of his son.

  ‘Because her family’s rotten you think she’s tarred with the same brush…I tell you…’

  George lifted his hand. ‘Don’t shout, lad. Let’s try and keep cool heads about this. Now she’s only been back in the town since the war started, hasn’t she? And has she told you what she did afore she came back?’

  Tom’s face tightened. ‘What you getting at? She was in Newcastle, she worked in a café. Anything wrong in that?’

  ‘It all depends, lad. Why not ask her point blank what she did there?’

  The chair squeaked again across the linoleum, and Tom was on his feet. His chin was pressed flat with the tightness of his teeth. ‘It’s a good job you’re my father.’

  George looked up at him. It was funny what a woman could do to a man. It didn’t seem possible that this was the same lad of whom he had been just a little afraid because he was so damned good. Strangely, he was finding he hadn’t liked the saint as much as he was now liking the sinner.

  His voice was even quieter now than it was before, but his words came firm and were weighed with intent. ‘You can believe me when I tell you, lad, I know just how you feel. The same thing as is happening to you happened to me…Aye, it did that. The only difference is I knew what she was; I did it with me eyes open. There was no excuse for me. And I carried on with it…’

  He stopped and passed his hands across his eyes, and the room became silent and the air heavy with his remembering, until, with an abrupt movement, he swept his hand from his face and, leaning forward, said bitterly, ‘I only know this much: you’ve got to pay for things like that; you can’t have feelings like we have, lad, and not pay for them. I’ve paid for years…your mother saw to that. She put my sin afore my eyes, and there it’s been and still is, and likely to be till one of us dies.’ He paused, then added, more to himself than to Tom, ‘Some men seem to get off with that kind of thing, others don’t.’

  Tom’s brows gathered in perplexity, and George rose slowly from the bed and shook his head. ‘I’ve no right to talk like this; I’ve said more than I ought. But for your own sake, remember it, lad. And for my sake, forget that I’ve said anything.’

  He stretched out his hand and patted Tom’s arm once. ‘Goodnight, lad. Sleep on it.’

  The door closed, and Tom stared at it, his brows gathering into deeper ridges. What did he mean? What was he hinting at? He stood for a time in puzzled thought. Then with a toss of his head, like that of a mettlesome horse, he exclaimed aloud, ‘Oh, what does it matter, anyway!’ He turned and sat down heavily on the bed. His father was an old man, nearly sixty; what could he know or remember of the feelings that a girl like Beattie aroused? Likely, he’d had an affair with some woman before he was married—it would most certainly have been before he was married, for under no stretch of imagination could he see his father looking at another woman with his mother around. They were old, the pair of them, and both past even remembering what love had been like, and because love had died on them, as it seemed to have done on countless other people, because they had been unable to preserve it, they unconsciously set themselves out to kill it in others. But nothing and no-one could kill the love he had for Beattie Watson. Nothing that anyone could say or do would separate him from her. If God could not do it, then man could not.

  Chapter Nine: Mother and Son

  Before leaving the shop Christopher gave one more order to his new assistant. ‘Keep those spares for our regulars,’ he said.

  In the street, while walking quickly towards his mother’s, he pondered over the strangeness of circumstances which had placed him in the position of a master giving orders. Only a little over a year ago he had spent most of his days setting out his wares to attract the non-regulars. Then the shop had still been his life. But now, strangely, it had come to be merely a sideline, for he made more in one day from the turnover on scrap than he did in a month from the shop.

  This morning he was feeling well. He always felt well now…in body, at any rate. And he reckoned it was getting out in the open air on the lorry that was doing it.

  Two men, black caps ludicrously straight on their heads, hailed him from across the road. ‘How’s the profiteering going, Chris?’

  ‘Not bad, ‘ he laughed back at them. ‘I didn’t quite reach me thousand last week.’

  ‘Never fear; you will, lad. And mind, there’s many a true word spoke in a joke.’

  ‘Aye, I hope so.’

  ‘And here’s us gannin’ doon below for a clarty quid a shift.’

  ‘More fool you.’

  ‘Aye, more fool us. But they’re still being born every day, you know. So long.’

  ‘So long.’

  A warmness spread through him. Only when you had men’s respect did they joke with you like that. It was funny. He was the same fellow inside as he had been five years ago, but now, because he had hit on a good thing and was making money, he was being shown a comradeship and respect that he had not experienced before. Sometimes he even forgot his hump long enough to feel the equal of his brothers. Yet was it because of himself the respect was being shown? Was it not because of the money? The light of his self-esteem dimmed then brightened again…he had made the money, hadn’t he? And about being the same fellow inside—he wasn’t the same inside by a long chalk. Five years ago he had been afraid of Maggie, now he was holding his own with her…about most things, anyway, even if she had got her own way at last over the move…The foot of Brampton Hill! Good God! Who would have thought that he, Chris Taggart, would ever live at the foot of Brampton Hill and have his son going to a fancy school nearby? That was another thing. Five years ago he hadn’t been a father. But even now he couldn’t think of himself as a father.

  The child had been formed by the desire of Maggie, in the same way as a sculptor would take a piece of clay and mould it. Aye, it was just like that. And because the created did not adore his creator Maggie’s frustration was greater than before. And her efforts, too, were greater, for with every living breath she tried to extract love from the child.

  He remembered the scene of just a week ago. He had returned home to find Maggie behaving like someone demented; for a time he had been afraid she was going off her head; and all because she had found Ann holding the bairn in her arms and kissing him.

  At that moment, pity for Maggie rose in him again. The child never kissed her, he always wriggled and turned from her caresses. God knew that must be awful for her when he was her very life. And his pity swelled when he’d thought: Nobody likes her. He couldn’t think of a soul that he knew who liked her; nor yet anybody whom she liked; the only one that mattered to her was her boy; and he hated her. Good God! The revelation turned him cold. Yet it was a fact that she must soon become aware of herself, and when she did who would be blamed for it? Why, Ann. Yes, Ann would get the blame.

  Ann wasn’t happy either. She had Dave, but she wasn’t happy…because she hadn’t a bairn. It was odd when he came to think of it that Dave couldn’t give her a bairn, because he reasoned, surely if a woman like Maggie could have a bairn, Ann could. The blame, if any, seemed to lie with Dave. But then, who dare put blame on anybody for a thing like that?

  What was the matter with everyone lately? Was it the war? The whole Rowan family seemed at sixes and sevens. George had been pulled over the coals for shouting his mouth off at the pit—if he wasn’t careful they’d be saying he was a fifth columnist—and Nellie, of all people, had gone for Ann, and told her to stop encouraging Stephen, saying that he was Maggie’s son, and Maggie could do what she liked with him. Nellie had always supported Maggie’s treatment of the lad. She had definite ideas about mothers and sons, had Nellie. It was a good job she hadn’t their lads to deal with. But, anyway, he could understand her being upset over Tom and the Watson business. Who would have thought that could happen to a fellow like Tom, who did preaching an’ all…the damn fool.

  If ever there was a fool it was h
im. A good-looking, strapping, nice fellow like that wanting to marry a tart like the Watson piece! Now, if a thing like that had happened to him, who could neither pick nor choose, it would have been understandable, but not with Tom.

  It was because of him he was going towards home this morning when he should really be on the road to Hebburn with that load. But he liked Tom. Next to their Dave, he liked him better than anybody he knew. And he had a bit of information that might make him see sense, if somebody could tell him. He wouldn’t be any good at the job, fumble it, most likely, and make Tom want to bash his head in. No. He reckoned the best one to handle it would be Nellie; women could always deal with women better than men could…on this point, anyway.

  He decided to go to the Rowans’ front door so that his mother shouldn’t see him, because she mustn’t know about this. He laughed to himself…the old girl was as good as The North Mail for spreading news; and this was something to be handled quietly.

  When she opened the door to him Nellie looked her surprise.

  ‘Hallo, Chris. Anything wrong? Come in. It isn’t the bairn, is it?’ she asked as he passed her.

  ‘No; he’s all right.’

  ‘Sit down, Chris. Sit here by the fire; it’s a bit nippy this morning. Quite a change.’ She patted the hanging pads on the back of the rocking chair, and he could see she was puzzled by his visit so early in the morning as he was by the best way to make an opening for this delicate matter.

  ‘Thanks, it is nippy.’ He sat down, and more for something to do than for a desire for warmth he leaned forward and held his hands towards the bright blaze. ‘This is something I’ll likely miss when we move,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to buy our coal then.’

  ‘Won’t one of the cartmen be able to drop you a load?’