Into his body again came the stillness he had experienced a few minutes before and which had enabled him to answer Mr Fraser, at least once, with quiet reasoning. And he reasoned again that if there was any truth in what they were saying about Beattie and he gave her up, the men would believe in him again, more than ever, because, having been tempted, he had been strong. They would even like him better for having been tempted as men are. And his mother and Mr Fraser and all those who were praying for him would believe with a smugness that God had answered their prayers. By giving her up he’d please everybody, except…himself…and God. Yes, and God. He felt now that it was God’s wish that he love Beattie, that he stand by her, for she had need of him. Of this latter he was positive.
He straightened his back…only by loving her could he please God. Even if he never touched her body he knew it was destined that he love her always…He walked quietly out of the room and up the stairs, and Nellie, after closing the door on Mr Fraser, listened to his steps above. She looked at the clock. She would wait half an hour to see whether he was going out or going to bed. If he went to bed she would go to the Boswell Cottages.
Chapter Ten: Boswell Cottages
Nellie put on her best clothes, her navy-blue melton cloth coat with the neat fur collar and her new shoes, a pair she had bought with part of her last Store dividend, and her hat, a sedate, steady hat that gave way to gaiety only in its coil of navy and fawn velvet set on its flat brim, and lastly, her fawn gloves. These she carried in her hand, and from time to time she would pull at their fingers.
She was walking in the low part of the town now. She went down Barley Yard and across the railway bridge and past Mason’s brickyard; then on past the old Ropery. A little farther on she came to another yard with a high wall and iron gates. It bore on its wall a newly painted notice: Christopher Taggart, Scrap Iron Merchant. For a moment she was brought from her worry and distress. Christopher had not mentioned taking this yard; nor had Maggie. By, he was getting on like a house afire. If only he were happy; if only Maggie would be ordinary, if she would stop fighting herself. She was swung back into her worry. Could any woman stop fighting herself? Maggie was fighting for her son…for his love. Perhaps she was going the wrong way about it. But who should say how a woman should go about fighting for her son’s happiness? Perhaps she herself was wrong in going to this woman to put an ultimatum before her. Some would say it wasn’t her business. But whatever touched her son was her business.
She reached a labyrinth of streets that were new to her, and she pondered that she had lived more than thirty years in this town without ever having been to this quarter. She had never roamed far afield from her own home, except to go to chapel or the shops, with an occasional run into Durham or into Newcastle. She thought dully: What have I done with my life? Nothing. Only lived it for the bairns…But lived it mostly for him. Yes, she had only really begun to live when Tom was born. And now he was almost dead to her. Had she ever imagined a time when he would come through the door and not greet her? When she would put down his dinner and he would eat it in silence? Never.
She stopped a woman and asked her the way to Boswell Cottages.
‘Why, you’re nearly standing on them,’ said the woman. ‘But mind,’ she added laughingly, ‘don’t stamp too hard or else they’ll fall down.’
It started to rain as Nellie stood looking at the remains of the row of one-storey cottages, whose neighbours had one by one fallen into ruin, leaving only the small squares of their foundation stones to tell of their past existence. The rain added to the air of desolation, and it drove Nellie nearer to them. And as she knocked on the first door she realised only in this moment that she did not know whom to ask for. Was it likely that the girl would live here with a man under her own name?
The quick answering of the door startled her, and as she gazed down at the child standing there she was lost for something to say.
But the child was not, for she said promptly, ‘Me ma’s out an’ we don’t want to buy anything, an’ you can’t come in.’
Nellie smiled faintly, for the child had recited most of the warning she herself used to give to Ann before leaving her for even a short time.
‘It’s all right,’ she said to the child. ‘I just wanted to know if you could tell me the house where—’ She hesitated. ‘Do you know anyone by the name of Watson who lives here?’
‘Beattie Watson, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, she lives in that one.’ The child leant out of the doorway and pointed to the third door down.
The eyes of the little girl followed Nellie in curiosity, and when after a moment of staring at the door Nellie knocked sharply upon it and received no answer, the child shouted to her, ‘She’s in, ’cos I saw her come.’
Nellie did not again look towards the child, but knocked once more upon the door. And she had scarcely done so when a voice called, ‘All right! All right! Wait a minute, can’t you!’
The door was pulled open and Nellie’s face was forced to show her astonishment. She gazed up at the tousled head of the girl before her. She did not really know in what condition she had expected to find her, but certainly she had not expected to find her doing such an ordinary thing as washing clothes. Her face was flushed, and over a tight-fitting jumper and skirt she was wearing a fancy apron, such a thing as Ann had made for herself before she was married. It was not a thing that any sensible person would wash in, and Nellie’s surprise turned to hard criticism. What could you expect from the likes of her!
She looked at the white soap bubbles blotting themselves out one after another on the girl’s arms, and again her thoughts momentarily softened. There was nothing about her that openly pointed to the whore. For one thing, her face wasn’t clagged up with paint; it looked an ordinary lass’ face, almost. Nellie would have said it could have looked a nice jolly face. But now it had taken on a look of sheer fright.
‘What do you want?’ The question was scarcely audible.
Nellie heard it but she found she could not answer it; and the girl said again, but impatiently, ‘Well, what you after?’
Her face was colourless and her lips looked almost blue.
‘You’re Beattie Watson, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, you know I am.’
Nellie took a deep breath and drew in her chin, and said, ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’ Whereupon Beattie looked around her wildly as if she was surrounded on all sides and could see no way of escape. Then her gaze returned to Nellie, but rested on the top button of her coat. And she said, ‘Well, I can’t see you now, I’m busy like. You see, I’m washing.’
‘It must be now,’ said Nellie, and her tone brought Beattie’s eyes up to meet hers.
Their eyes were holding each other’s when the child’s voice came from behind Nellie, saying, ‘I told you she was in.’
This interruption caused Beattie to step aside, and with a jerk of her hand she silently motioned Nellie over the step and into a room furnished with a complete bedroom suite. A double bed sporting a pink silk-covered eiderdown drew Nellie’s attention, and she immediately thought, the couch of the harlot.
‘Go right through.’
She passed into the other room, and two things registered themselves on her mind. First, that the roof was leaking badly; a pail stood to the side of the window and from a large black patch on the low ceiling four drops ran and forgathered before following each other in quick succession into the pail. Second, the place was clean. The furniture was all new and cheap, but it was shining, and the hearth was not full of ashes but tidily brushed up.
Nellie stood for a moment watching Beattie wipe her arms free from suds, and she shut her mind to everything but the essential thing that had brought her here.
‘You might as well sit down.’ Beattie pushed a chair forward, and because of a sudden feeling of weakness, but much against the grain, Nellie sat down.
For a moment she pulled at the fingers of her gloves before saying abruptly,
‘You know why I’ve come?’
‘Yes…I’m not daft.’
‘No, but you’re wicked!’ The words had followed on the thought and were out before Nellie could stop them, and they plunged the two women into a barrage of words.
‘It all depends upon what you mean by wicked.’ Beattie’s face was set to match Nellie’s own, stiff and hard with anger. ‘There’s worse than me about. And you chapel lot are among them. Give a dog a bad name and hang him.’
‘Do you deny you are living here with a man?’ Nellie pointed one finger, taut as a stick, about the room.
‘No, I don’t. I deny nowt. He’s a single fellow, and I’m hurting nobody. And it’s me own business.’
‘You’re hurting nobody? What about my lad?’
At the mention of Tom the anger sank from Beattie’s face, and she sat down abruptly as if she had been pushed, and resting her elbow on the table she dropped her head on to her hands and began to mutter unintelligible words. Her head moved restlessly from side to side for some time; then she turned and faced Nellie again.
‘I tried to tell him…honest to God I did. I tried to put him off but he wouldn’t take any notice. I broke it off twice, I did honest, but he wouldn’t let me be.’
‘He wouldn’t?’ Nellie’s eyes were round and staring. ‘You had only to tell him you were living with another man, and I can assure you that would have been enough.’
‘But I wasn’t. He had gone then…I mean back to sea…and I was on me own.’
‘But you were taking his money as his wife, weren’t you? And are still?’
Beattie rose swiftly and looked down on Nellie. ‘You know a lot, don’t you? Well, what money I get has got nowt to do with you.’
‘It’s got everything to do with me; it concerns my lad.’
‘Oh, my God! Your lad!’ There was scorn in Beattie’s voice. She stepped back from Nellie as if to give herself greater distance from which to throw the words at her. ‘Lad! He’s a man! If you’d let him be one, he’d be a man. You mothers, you’re all alike. You never let go, do you? But there’s one thing certain, you can’t keep them forever.’
Nellie experienced a fresh rush of anger as she listened to the girl, yet she was puzzled at the tangent her defence had taken, until she remembered where Christopher had received the information about her in the first place. It was from the other man’s mother. And strangely, too, Beattie’s attitude brought Ann before her, Ann saying, ‘No mother should think she can do what she likes with a son.’
The recollection added to her fury, and leaning towards Beattie she burst out, ‘He’s my son, and I’d be a poor mother indeed if I didn’t try to protect him from the likes of you!’
‘The likes of me! Who are you to say what I’m like? Let me tell you this. There are respectable, or so-called, women in this town who I wouldn’t touch with a bargepole…I’ve had two men in my life. Aye, you can look astonished, but that’s the truth. That’s all I’ve had. But I could name some houses in your quarter where even a young gas man daren’t go in. They’ve got to send the old ’uns. And they’re your respectable married women an’ all…chapel-goers!’ She stood panting and alert, waiting for Nellie’s attack.
But Nellie was silent. Her astonishment was not being registered at the smallness of the number of men Beattie owned to having, but at the frankness of the admission; she had spoken of it as one would speak of having had two glasses of beer…How in the name of God had her lad come under this influence! But, why did she ask? They had power, these women, the power of the Devil. Hadn’t she suffered from it all her married life? They polluted men.
Beattie was staring at her with eyes narrowed to slits, and Nellie said, ‘Your sins won’t be lightened by laying the blame on others.’
‘My sins!’ The derision brought a smile to Beattie’s face.
‘Yes, your sins. And your last is all the greater because you knew he was preaching.’
‘I didn’t, not until long after I met him; and then it was too late. What do you think I am to get myself mixed up with a chapelite knowingly? And when I did know I tried to finish it. Anyway, who’d think of a pitman going round preaching?’
‘And now you’re satisfied because you’ve stopped him preaching.’
Beattie put her hand to her head and sat down again, and she closed her eyes as if in bewilderment. Then looking at Nellie with a completely changed expression, she asked quietly, ‘Can’t you give me credit for one decent action? Look, I’ll tell you. I knew it wasn’t fair, but as I said, he wouldn’t take no. Then—’ She looked down at the pail with the water now pinging against the side of it and spraying on to the linoleum, and she said softly, ‘I got to care for him. I tried not to but I did. And when I knew for sure how I felt I wrote to Bill.’ She raised her eyes from the pail and looked down on her hands. ‘He’s the fellow. I told him I wanted to end it, but he wouldn’t take no either. He said if I wasn’t here when he…Oh well’—she raised her eyes—‘that’s how it is.’
Nellie, steeling herself against the pleading in the eyes and voice of the girl, said harshly, ‘Well, it must end. And right away. You must tell him.’
‘No, I can’t do that. No.’ She shook her head. ‘Look, give me time; I’ll get rid of Bill.’
‘You’ll what!’ Nellie rose to her feet, her head nearly reaching the ceiling with the stretching of her body. ‘You expect my lad’ll have you after living with another man?’
‘He needn’t know. Well’—Beattie moved her hands helplessly—‘if we start afresh…I mean. I’ll tell him there’s been somebody else…but after Bill’s gone. Give me a bit of time and I’ll manage it.’
For the moment Nellie was too dumbfounded to speak. Then she burst out, ‘But you’ve got a cheek! The cheek of the Devil. You’ve been with these men and you expect to have my lad, a clean, God-fearing boy.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, shut up! You’d think to hear you talk he was still in nappies!’ All Beattie’s softness was lost again under her anger. ‘Let me tell you, from the minute a lad goes down the pit he’s a man. I’ve six brothers and I know.’
‘Be quiet!’
‘I won’t be quiet. This is my house.’
They stood glaring at each other. Then Nellie seemed to lift her body and throw it towards the door. She flung herself through the bedroom, but before she reached the front door Beattie was beside her, and catching hold of her arm, she asked, ‘What are you going to do?’ The fear was in her voice again.
Nellie looked at her coldly. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’
‘Don’t tell him. Oh, don’t tell him. Give me this one chance…please.’
Nellie continued to glare at the girl. Yet when she answered her her voice was quieter. But it lacked no firmness. ‘You know that’s impossible; he’s bound to get to know. How do you think I found out? Other people know. The best thing you can do is to move away.’
Beattie withdrew her hand slowly from Nellie’s arm. She reached out and pulled back the sneck of the door, and then watched Nellie step into the driving rain. She watched her until she had crossed the clearing and became lost in the streets beyond. Then she closed the door, and walking slowly back into the kitchen, she went to the galvanised bath standing on a side table and putting her hands into the suds began mechanically to rub the clothes. Even when the suds became blotted from her sight she kept her hands in the water, as if drawing comfort from its warmth.
The same child who had directed Nellie to No. 4 Boswell Cottages now looked at Tom. She knew he was a stranger to this part; she had seen other strange men about here, mostly in uniform; but they had not stood as this one was doing, stock-still and staring. They had gone into the Printer’s Arms on the far corner, or to the pictures that loomed its blank back wall up behind the cottages, to which if you pressed your ear you could hear the machinery that made the pictures go. This man was too early for the bar and the pictures. She first noticed him when she was let out to play after the rain stopped. He was sta
nding then as he was now…staring. She had passed him to get to the pond, which wasn’t really a pond at all, only a puddle swollen with the rain. And she nearly stopped and asked him to shape the bit of wood she was carrying into a boat…an Air Force man had once whittled her a sculler out of a littler bit of wood than this.
She had paused for a second by the man’s knee, but he hadn’t looked down on her; he had kept looking towards the cottages. And he wasn’t blinking; his eyes were open, like the blind man who’d had his eyes hurt in the air raid.
She hitched away now towards the water, singing:
The big ship sails through the alley-alley-o,
The alley-alley-o,
The big ship sails through the alley-alley-o
On the fifteenth of September.
Then she pushed her piece of wood towards the centre of the puddle, and lashed the water with a stick until her boat dipped and bobbed. And she became excited and looked about her to see whether there was another child to share her joy and to play at being on the sands at Shields. But she saw no-one, only the man. The sight of him still standing motionless took her interest from her boat, and she left it and walked slowly back to him. She would ask him if he was lost. She was lost once in Whitley Bay, and the bobby took her to the pollis station. And one of the bobbies had given her taffy, and she talked to them and they all laughed. And when her mother came for her she didn’t want to go home…she liked bobbies.
Maggie Rowan Page 17