Maggie Rowan

by Catherine Cookson

  David left the house about half-past seven. He did not call in at his mother’s but went straight into the town. The war was over, everybody was seemingly going mad, it was a night for jollification, and he was feeling as miserable as sin. And all through that damn lad. Where would it lead? He could only see it getting worse…she could think of nothing but him. And it was wrong, for she was taking him away from Maggie; and she couldn’t see it. After all, he was Maggie’s son. And he could understand Maggie’s attitude. But he couldn’t quite understand their Chris. He was as bad as the lad at times, never away, and always bringing her something. My God! Was he going barmy, or what? What track was his mind on now?

  ‘Hallo, there, Davie, man. Come and have a game.’ The hail came from a side street that was packed with children, and organising a game was one of his men. David stopped and shouted back, ‘Why, Phil, this is a new line, isn’t it?’ He laughed as he moved through the press of children and women, and Phil called, ‘Aye, it’s harder work than hewing, this.’

  ‘Hallogalee-galee-gle again, Mr Potter. Aw, come on, play it again.’

  The children plucked at the man’s coat, and he said, ‘All right, just one more then.’

  He in turn pulled at David’s sleeves, saying, ‘Come on, do your bit.’

  But David backed away. ‘No, not me.’

  ‘Come on man.’

  ‘Why, no, man, I’m daft enough.’

  It was then he found his hands grabbed from both sides, and amid screams of laughter he was drawn round in the large circle; and he himself laughed as he sang:

  ‘Hallogalee-galee-gle, hallogalee-galo,

  Hallogalee-galee-gle, upon a Saturday night-o,

  This is the way the farmer stands,

  This is the way he claps his hands,

  This is the way he holds a lass,

  And this is the way he dances.’

  David was behind in his pantomiming of the farmer, and the child on his left sat down on the kerb and laughed.

  ‘Let’s have it again,’ came the cries, and once more he was in the ring, this time with a young woman on one side of him. He merely glanced at her as they started. Her head was thrown back and her mouth was wide open. He liked the sound of her laugh…gay, somehow, and free:

  ‘Hallogalee-galee-gle, hallogalee-galo…’

  He stopped singing and brought his head round to her:

  ‘This is the way the farmer stands,

  This is the way he claps his hands,

  This is the way he holds a lass…’

  He turned and swung her round. She was still laughing; but in the press he trod on her foot and she let out a wail and hopped comically, hanging on to him with one hand. And the children near joined in the laughter, and they too started to hop.

  When she let go of David’s arm she cried to them, ‘London Bridge, eh?’ And they shouted back, ‘Yes. Oh yes. London Bridge.’

  ‘London Bridge is falling down,

  Falling down, falling down,

  London Bridge is falling down,

  My fair lady.’

  David moved through the press, making his way to the other end of the street He should know that lass; her face was familiar somehow. What odds. He shook his head, then halted in his stride…Beattie Watson! That’s who she was. Good Lord! He turned and looked over the heads of the children. Well, who would believe it? But she was changed. She used to be plump, now she was as thin as a rake. And she even seemed shorter than he had imagined her to be. Beattie Watson! What had brought her back? He would have thought after that affair she wouldn’t have the face to come back to this town. Still, it was her home…What if Tom saw her? He gave an inward laugh. Well, she would have a different Tom to deal with now than she had five years ago. That was certain. There was none of the soft lad left in Tom. Why, lad alive, and he had danced with her. My, that was a good ’un.

  At the far end of the street another game was in progress, blocking the road and the pavement, and he had to stand for a minute or so. The children, again in a ring, were singing to a smirking girl and the embarrassed boy of her choice:

  ‘Now you’re married I wish you joy,

  First a girl and then a boy;

  Seven years over, seven years after,

  Now’s the time to kiss and give over.’

  ‘Go on, kiss her, Billy; you won’t get out till you do.’

  David squeezed by the wall past the players…Seven years over, seven years after. He had heard that rhyme from a child. He could remember it since he could remember anything. But now, for the first time, it struck him as a bit advanced for bairns. Still, they didn’t know what it was all about. They would, though, all too soon. Seven years over, seven years after. It was ten years and a month since he and Ann were married.

  How people could change in ten years. But he hadn’t changed. And Ann hadn’t, really. It was just her nerves, and not having bairns when she wanted them so badly. But when she cried on his breast in the night she was his old Ann again.

  He suddenly turned in the direction from which he had first come and hurried homewards. He’d make her come out, and they’d have a bit of jollification…that would do her good. But when he reached home the house was locked. He opened the coalhouse door and saw the key was on the ledge. She had gone to her mother’s. He felt piqued and hurt. She had refused all his entreaties to come out with him, saying she was going to lie down; but she had gone to her mother’s. Well he wasn’t going there for her. Not that they said anything; it’s what they didn’t say that made him feel awful, as if he was to blame for her nerves or for her not having a bairn! Well, perhaps he was to blame. Their Pat had advised him to go and see a doctor. Go and see a doctor about a thing like that! No fear.

  He made his way to Pat’s now, having decided against going to his mother’s because one of the Rowans would surely see him and he would then have to go in. No, Pat’s was the place to go the night; he wanted a bit of jollification on a night like this.

  Arrived at Pat’s, he found their house closed too; and a neighbour, on her way out, called over the fence to him, ‘They’ve all gone up on the fells. There’s a band and dancing, and they’re making a big bonfire.’

  He walked disconsolately back into the town again. It looked, in the failing light, like a seething antheap, except that these people lacked a direction, being content, for the present, to laugh and jostle and be jostled.

  He made his way out of the town square to where he knew was a little public house in the hope of finding it less crowded than those surrounding the square, but this too was full to overflowing, and it was impossible to force his way into the bar. He went round the side to the best end. Here was the same press of people, and he was just about to turn away when the voice that had hailed him not an hour before hailed him again from the centre of the room.

  ‘Hi, there, Davie! Are you lost the night?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you again, Phil. Any chance of getting anything?’ he asked across the heads of the crowd.

  ‘Aye, man, if you can crush in.’

  David did as he was bid, apologising, as he went, to the women he had to shoulder, but feeling, as he did so, that they had no right to be there. Best end or no best end, he didn’t hold with women in bars. It was all right for them to have a bottle in the house, but bars were no place for them. Yet, when he reached Phil, who greeted him with ‘You haven’t met the wife, have you?’ and he shook the little barrel of a woman by the hand, he had to admit she looked a decent body.

  ‘Where are all your lads?’ asked Phil.

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ said David. ‘I think this is the first time I’ve ever been in the town in me life and not run into one of our lot…What you going to have?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have a little drop of hard while it’s going,’ said Phil. ‘It’s about the only place in the town that’s got any the night.’

  ‘And you, Mrs Potter?’

  ‘Well, I’m much obliged, Mr Taggart, but I always have a sm
all port.’

  ‘Aye, and the number of small ports she can carry would sink a battleship,’ laughed her husband, ‘so look out for your pocket, Dave.’

  It was some time before the men got their whisky and Mrs Potter her port wine, and when they were brought Mr Potter, making sure of the next round, ordered again; and before David, making his apologies to the Potters, left the saloon he’d had two whiskies and two beers and was feeling quite warm and mellow inside.

  Pushing through the laughing, gabbling crowd filling the passage, he had almost reached the door when a concerted movement from the press pushed his bent arm sharply, and his hand swung forward and knocked against the hand of a young woman, tipping up her glass. The electric bulb of the passage still sported its blackout shade, and David bent above the woman as she brushed the liquid from her coat. ‘Oh, missis, I’m sorry, it’s the crush. Has it spoiled your coat? Look, I’ll get you another drink.’ He peered down at her coat. ‘Is it spoiled?’

  The face that was raised to his bore a sad look that dissolved into a smile under his astonished gaze.

  ‘Why, it’s you again!’ she said.

  He jerked himself upright.

  ‘Hallogalee-galee-gle. Mind, you’ve got big feet.’

  ‘Aye, I have.’ He returned her smile weakly. ‘I’ll order you another drink. What was it?’

  ‘Gin and it. But don’t bother, I’ve still half of it left. And I was going, anyway.’ She lifted the glass and finished the drink, and having asked a woman to pass the glass to the counter, she looked up at him and smiled again; and he found himself opening the door for her, and they were in the dark street standing side by side. For a moment the situation sobered him completely. God alive! He had only to be seen with her and his number was up.

  ‘It’s a lovely night,’ she said, ‘and the town’s going mad. Have you been up on the fells?’

  ‘No…No. I’m looking for my brother; I’ve got to meet him. I’m sorry about that drink. I hope it hasn’t stained your coat.’

  ‘No, that’s all right.’

  ‘I’m glad of that…Well’—he backed away from her—‘goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  She made no move to accompany him, and as he turned round and hurried away he felt foolish; but he had his work cut out to stop himself from running. Phew! Lord! What if she tagged on to him! He cut through side streets to avoid the main crush, and took the road to the fells.

  It was a good two miles to the fells proper, but now the press of the people, their noise and their laughter, instead of impeding him, seemed to be carrying him there in a matter of minutes, and although he would not admit it, at the back of his mind he was wishing that the distance was ten times the length, for on no account did he want to run into her again.

  It was close on nine o’clock before he met up with Pat and his family. Alec too was there, and Bert. And they hailed him as if it was years since they had met.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Where’s Ann?’ called Pat’s wife.

  ‘Do you know me ma’s here?’

  ‘No. Where?’ asked David.

  ‘You’ll never believe it. Dancing with the old man in that crowd.’ Alec pointed to a large whirling group, looking like demons as they danced to an accordion band in the light of the bonfire.

  ‘Never!’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Aye. By lad, she’s enjoyed herself. It’s made her forget this morning—we had a job to get her out—it’s no use sitting crying now.’

  For a moment no-one spoke, and the silence was seen by the closed lips rather than felt, for the voice of the crowd was deafening.

  ‘Had a drink?’

  It was Bert shouting to David. The breach between them had been healed for years now.

  ‘Aye, two.’

  ‘I bet you haven’t had a drop of this.’ Bert triumphantly brought a flat bottle from his pocket. ‘Real Scotch! Where’s that glass, Betty?’

  Alec’s wife handed Bert a glass from her bag, and David said, ‘Not for me; I’ve had two, I tell you.’

  ‘You’ve had nowt like this; it’s the real Mackay. Get that down you.’ He handed David a small tumbler full to the brim.

  ‘No, man,’ David protested, ‘that’s more than a double. D’you want Ann to throw me out? Here, you take half, Alec.’

  ‘Not me. Get it down you; we’ve all had a go. And I’ve another bottle.’

  ‘Well, not the lot, I couldn’t carry that with what I’ve had.’

  ‘We’ll carry you home. Go on, man. You’d think you were a nipper and had never had a drink.’

  ‘Never four whiskies in one night, that I haven’t. Whisky isn’t my drink.’

  ‘For God’s sake shut up and drink it!…Look out!’ yelled Bert as a young couple racing madly round the groups, jostled Betty and pushed her against Alec, who in turn just saved himself from falling against David.

  ‘Get it down you,’ said Bert, grimly. ‘It would break my heart to see that spilled.’

  So David threw back the whisky, gave a mighty shiver, and laughed. And as the night wore on he continued to laugh, at everything and everyone; at Bert and Alec doing the sword dance; at them all standing in a ring, their arms about each other, singing everything from ‘Sweet Adeline’ to ‘The Eternal City’; at them sitting on their coats on the grass watching the twins—young men now—doing a turn; at the whole family dancing away into the crowd for one final fling.

  He sat now, his back against a hillock. He was too fuddled to dance; all he wanted to do was to sit where he was amid the coats and belongings of his family and be glad that everyone was happy. He did not even think of Ann. He knew he was wearing a perpetual smile; and the smile was not only on the outside of him, it was on the inside as well. It was a long time since he had felt like this, the feeling that nothing mattered, not a damn thing in the world. And he began to think of his achievements with a smugness that flowed like oil over him. He was a deputy. Who would have thought that a few years ago, him a deputy? And he would rise higher than that…overman next. And there’d be no more slumps, no more dread of being stood off; Bevin would see to that; and no more working five shifts for one pound sixteen; no, by God! It took a war to straighten things out. Would they nationalise the pits if they got a Labour government? No, that was all talk; he could see the companies standing for that…not them. But they wouldn’t get off with things as they had before the war. No, by God; they’d be made to put some of their millions back into the mines…and give higher wages. Aye, higher still. When he was young he didn’t know what he knew now…too full of fear to open his mouth, anyway. But everything would be put right now, they only had to stick together.

  ‘Well, you certainly look happy. Do you feel it?’

  ‘What?’ He raised his head and looked up as if through a haze at the speaker, and his hands, which had been dangling between his knees, went to his sides on the grass to support him.

  ‘We seem fated to meet.’

  He nodded stupidly.

  ‘Some crowd here, isn’t it? You’d think you couldn’t possibly meet the same one twice in this town the night. Yet here we are, three times!’

  He nodded again.

  ‘It’s heavy on the feet…mind if I sit down?’

  ‘No…yes.’ With an effort he stood up and shook his head violently, trying to clear it. If they came back and found her sitting with him! God in Heaven! They were broad but they weren’t that broad, not where the Beattie Watsons were concerned. He’d better tell her flatly to get to hell out of it.

  He shook his head again and his vision cleared, and he saw her face. It had on it, as if lightly painted, a little smile, a lost sort of lonely little smile, and he found himself saying, instead of ‘Get going, lady’, ‘How is it you’re on your own?’

  The smile seemed to shrink, and she answered, ‘Sometimes one wants it that way. Times like the night I feel I can’t be jolly. I keep thinking of other things. Yet when there’s n
owt to laugh about I laugh.’

  Her face wore a sober look as if she had just given him a confidence, and he nodded at her; and suddenly she smiled again, and, looking down at the backs of her shoes, said, ‘These aren’t heels to walk in.’

  The suggestion in the words that she might sit down spurred him into action. He buttoned up his coat, saying, ‘I was just going.’ He moved a few steps across the grass and added, ‘Coming?’

  He was still making great play with his coat, and she watched him as she hesitated. Then, with a laugh that had no trace of softness in it, she said, ‘Well, I’m making for home, anyway, if my feet’ll let me.’

  In silence they cut through the crowd. But David’s mind wasn’t silent, it was in a muddled turmoil. How could he give her the slip? What would his mother and all of them think when they found him gone and perhaps half their clothes and things gone too?

  ‘You going by the main road?’

  ‘No, by Tollis’ Cut.’

  He may be half seas over, but he was no fool to go on the main road with her. Perhaps they wouldn’t be noticed very much in this crowd where you were walking with Tom, Dick and Harry half your time, but on the main road…

  ‘You live round Brampton Hill way then?’

  ‘No…Aye, yes. Yes, round Brampton Hill.’ He laughed at the thought.

  ‘The nobby end of the town?’

  ‘Yes, the nobby end.’

  ‘Well, I can go that way. I turn off at the foot of the hill. What’s your name?’

  ‘Dave.’

  ‘Dave what?’

  ‘Oh, just Dave.’

  ‘You don’t want to know mine?’

  He didn’t answer, and she said, ‘I’m Beattie Fuller.’