Eva had always envied Bridget; and rightly too, Kathie thought; but now she refused even to speak to her sister. And so Kathie had taken Bridget’s marriage lines and held them under Eva’s nose. But Eva, with an air that nearly drove her mother mad, had pointed out that a Registry Office marriage was no marriage; so besides the awful disgrace of having a black man, Bridget was also living in sin, and she’d soon have Father O’Malley on her track. And, blast her, she was right, too…about the priest, anyway, for he had never been off the doorstep since he’d got wind of the affair.
He had managed to corner Bridget but not him…Kathie couldn’t bring herself to call her son-in-law James. To his face she addressed him as ‘Mr Paterson’; and time and again she wondered at the ordinariness of such a name for such an extraordinary man, and wondered too what in the name of God made her Bridget marry him. She couldn’t get a word of explanation out of Bridget. When she asked her, Bridget just drooped her eyes and clasped her hands on her lap, and sat still and tense, until Kathie cried, ‘Then why did ye come back?’ And to this Bridget answered simply, ‘I wanted to be near you all when he’s away at sea…and the bairn coming.’
A bairn coming. Kathie held her head between her hands. A black bairn. For it would be a black bairn, she was sure; there was too much of him in comparison with Bridget’s whiteness. The child would be black both inside and out, and her Bridget would have to push a black bairn around the streets. Mother of God! How could a daughter of hers stand up under the shame of it? She rocked her head with her hands. But Bridget didn’t seem to be ashamed: there she was, away now in Shields, walking openly with him in the broad daylight! Hadn’t she watched her go down the street with never a look to right or left, her head held high as if she had something to be proud of? What had come over her? Why had she done it? Kathie beat the top of her head with her fist. Would the good God tell her why she had done it?
Something of the same question was passing through Bridget’s mind as she faced the look of ill-concealed scorn in the eyes of the shop assistants. She had watched her husband put down the five pounds deposit and sign his name with a proud flourish on the form which was an open sesame to a choice of oil-cloths, of beds and bedroom suites, of half-sets of china and Nottingham lace curtains. Never had she dreamed that she would be able to set up house with thirty pounds’ worth of furniture. She should be mad with the joy of it; but there was no spark of joy in her, only pain and pity, and gratitude and abhorrence—the pain and pity and gratitude were the feelings that the bulk of towering blackness evoked in her; the abhorrence was for herself and the thing she had done.
When they left the shop it was her husband who showed her out. Taking the door from the hand of the shopwalker he stood aside to allow her to pass. But the closing of the door did not shut out the tittering from the shop, and its sound brought an angry flush to Bridget’s cheeks, and a higher tilt to her chin. They laughed at her because he treated her like a queen! If she had married one of them she would have been made aware of her inferiority for the remainder of her life, and if she had married one of her own class never would she have known the meaning of worship—not to speak of consideration; never would she have known what it was to be loved as this man loved her. Then why was she ashamed of him? Why did it take all the rallying of her forces to brave the streets with him at her side?
When they were together, closed in by four walls, with no eyes upon them, the shame would fade, and then a strange tenderness for him would fill her. Even at times a feeling she thought might be love for him would sweep over her. This often happened in the night when he woke her with his loving, for even with his passion, which lifted her into realms hitherto unknown, his lovemaking never lost the adoring quality that gave to it a gentleness. But she wished again and again that he would not show this gentleness to her in public, for it was this as much as anything that brought the guffaws and smiles of ridicule upon them. She wanted to tell him, but she could not bear to hurt him. She had soon found that she could hurt him with a look or a word; and she knew that she must never do this…she must never hurt him more than she had done by marrying him. She did not blame him for marrying her—if she had been in her right senses it would never have come about—Matt had always warned her…Matt…She shuddered. She had Matt to face yet. Oh God, give her strength for the day when Matt would speak to her, and drag from her the reason why she had done this thing.
Her husband’s hand in her arm pulled her closer to him, and his thick bell-toned voice, speaking his short-cut English, fell on her head. ‘You cold?…You shivering?…Me, I’m big selfish beast. I take you home right away, eh?’ He bent down and looked into her face. ‘Eh, honey? We go home, eh?’
She smiled at him. ‘I’m not cold—someone was walking over my grave.‘
‘Someone on your grave?…Sh!’ He pulled her still closer. ‘You don’t talk of graves; you make me have creeps too. No grave will get my Rose…By way, your mam don’t like me calling you Rose, do she? But you Rose all through…Bridget, it is hard sound—like—like a swear, eh?’ He laughed, his head thrown up and his massive shoulders shaking.
His laugh was infectious, but the passers-by did not join in as they would have done had he been alone…a black man and a white girl was something not to be condoned in any way. In the unmoving depths of his mind James Paterson knew this, but in the conflicting groping layers nearer the surface, where his thoughts jumped and clung to anything that would bring him a level nearer to the white man, he told himself that the looks of the women were jealousy of his Rose’s beauty, and those of the men, envy of himself for his luck in possessing her.
He believed in luck…he believed he was born lucky. Had he ever starved like other black men? No. Hadn’t he been to school? Couldn’t he read and write?…By God, yes! And hadn’t he always had any woman he wanted? Again, by God, yes! There were times when he had to push them off…white women liked black men; and they weren’t all women of the bars, either; no, by God, they weren’t. But one thing he never had until he took Rose; and that was a virgin. He knew then that Rose must belong to no man but him. It had been hard work getting her, and he’d nearly lost his boat. It would have been the first time he had missed a trip, either through drink or women, but he had been prepared to do it for Rose…The nagging thought came again…would she have married him had she not discovered there was a baby coming?…Yes; yes, she would. For his Rose loved him; and the colour of his skin meant nothing to her.
He pulled her even closer to him until he bore her weight on his arm. He wanted to lift her up and carry her through the streets; he wanted to show all men by some definite sign that she was his; he wanted to touch her and caress her. He said softly, ‘We call at our own house—what you say?’
She consented readily, for anything was better than going home when Matt would be in, and have his eyes avoid hers and his silence beat at her.
As they turned into Dunstable Street James spoke a cheery ‘good evening’ to a small group of men standing at the corner. They answered him in low growls, turning their heads away and becoming engrossed in each other’s conversation.
And Bridget felt a desire to stop and shout at them, ‘He’s as good as you—he’s better than you. He wouldn’t let his wife trail round the bars after him to get what was left of his pay; nor yet have his beer if the bairns went naked—you lot! What are you, anyway?…Scum…scum.’
She was shivering again when they entered the empty house; and James, all concern for her, said, ‘I know you got chill, honey—come, we go to your home—there’s big fire there.’
‘No, it’s all right; I want to stay here awhile.’ She smiled at him. ‘We’ll plan where we’ll put the furniture.’
He responded to her, as pleased as a child: ‘Oh, my, yes. Tomorrow when it all come—my!’ He shook his head. ‘We have our home—my Rose has a beautiful home…And me…between watches I sit on deck and think of you sittin’ here thinkin’ of me—eh?’ He took her chin in his great black hand and
tilted her face up to his. Her grey eyes were moist with the pity that was foremost in her mind at that moment, and he said, ‘You not sad?’
She turned from him and went into the little bare kitchen, and he followed her in concern. ‘You not like the house and the pretty furniture?’
The expressive, appealing gesture of his outstretched arms wrenched the words out of her! ‘Oh yes, yes—it’s only that I’m happy.’ She sniffed and blew her nose. ‘I always cry when…when I’m happy.’
As his laughter resounded from the bare walls she knew that in a way she had spoken the truth, for she would be happy in this house with all her lovely furniture. She would have four rooms all to herself, and a backyard to herself, and she could bolt the door and be shut away from people. Apart from those looking down on the yard out of the windows opposite, no-one would see her if she did not wish it. And she would have the added comfort that her people were near if she wanted them. Oh yes, she would be happy. She was happy. She could believe it; for now they were alone together.
The soft light that had been the magnet that first drew him was in her eyes, and he pulled her away from the window to the dark corner near the fireplace.
‘You love me, Rose?’
She nodded.
‘Always?’
She nodded again.
‘No other man, ever?’
She shook her head.
‘Not when I’m away at sea, like some white women?’
‘No, no, never that!’ Her protest was vehement.
His enormous lips slowly traced the outline of her face. The moving black blur filled her with such conflicting emotions that she became faint under them. His unfinished words ran into one another, forming a lulling drawl. ‘Rose love…my beautiful Rose. No other woman in world like you…You marry me ’cause you love me. You don’t mind colour, and our baby…my baby, she be a girl; we call her Angela, eh? like angel…Rose Angela.’ His fingers moved down the waistband of her skirt and pressed gently on her stomach. ‘I feel her heartbeat…she’ll be like you, Rose…white and beautiful with long limbs and…’
The sound that checked his words was of someone breathing. The both remained still, pressed close against each other for a second longer, listening to the hiss of the indrawn breath. James turned slowly, but Bridget almost jumped into the centre of the kitchen at the sight of the priest standing in the front-room doorway.
If it had been an ordinary man, James would have demanded, ‘What the hell you up to, eh?’ before, perhaps, whirling him through the air into the street. But a priest to him was not a man, so he said with laughing irony, ‘Why, sir, you near scared me white.’
The priest looked from James to Bridget, and the expression in his eyes bore down her courage. Her head drooped and the old childhood fear of him overcame her.
‘I told you to bring him along to the vestry.’ Father O’Malley might have been speaking of an animal, and his words seemed to have been pressed thin in their effort to escape his tight lips.
‘I…I didn’t tell him, Father.’
James looked enquiringly from one to the other. Although he didn’t like the tone the priest was using to his wife, nor the way he was looking at her, the smile still hovered about his face. Bible-punchers were funny; all bible-punchers were quaint men.
Father O’Malley again addressed Bridget. ‘You have told him what must be done?’
She shook her head, her eyes still directed towards the floor. ‘No, Father.’
The priest adjusted his thick glasses and brought the pinpoints of his eyes to bear on James. ‘You must be married; and you must take instruction.’ He separated each word, and the effect was very much that of James’ stilted English. ‘I will marry you on Saturday morning at eight o’clock.’
‘Marry?…Me?…We be married?’ James looked in perplexity at Bridget’s bowed head. The smile had left his face, and his body was stretched to its fullest height, making the small priest appear like a dwarf in comparison. ‘What you mean, married? I got paper all signed—we married.’
‘Not in the eyes of God. A Christian marriage cannot be performed in a Registry Office; and you must take instructions to become a…’
‘But me am Christian.’ A patient smile began to hover around James’ lips; he felt he knew now why the priest was so concerned. ‘Why, sir, I was baptised—yes, yes, I know all about Christ Jesus…Mr Edwards, he very good missionary—splendid fellow, he learned me Jesus Christ all through, and what those bloody Jews did for him. A good man, Jesus Christ…Yes, me Christian all right.’ James’ smile widened, spreading the corners of his mouth to meet the expanse of his broad nostrils. ‘You no need worry ’bout me.’
‘The missionary wasn’t a Catholic—it isn’t the same. This is your fault!’ Father O’Malley hurled the accusation at Bridget.
‘Here, here! You no speak to her like that.’ James stepped to his wife’s side and placed a protecting arm around her shoulders. ‘You man of God all right, but you no speak like that, please. You mean me isn’t Christian ’cause me not Catholic-Christian? Christ Jesus all kinds Christian. The Catholic Father he came and play chess with Mr Edwards, and laugh fit to bust over jokes. They both Christian men. Once Catholic Father say to me I am name same’s Christ’s brother, and I should be fisherman. Always that stay in my head. An’ one day I leave my home for the water. Me was never fisherman, but me always on water…That Catholic Father was good man. He know me Christian all right.’
‘Be quiet!’ The sharpness of the command whipped the returning smile completely from James’ face, and his scalp moved, shifting his mop of wire curls from side to side. The priest went on, looking now with open contempt at Bridget, ‘This is no marriage and you know it. You have sinned enough already, and naturally as night follows day retribution will come upon you. Your only atonement can be to ensure the safe keeping of the soul of your child; and God knows it will need that to be in safe keeping. Be at the church at eight o’clock on Saturday morning; and I will take him for instruction whenever he is in port.’
‘You what, by God!’
James made to follow the priest as he went through the front room, but Bridget clung on to him, crying, ‘Please, James…James. Don’t for my sake…James, we will see Father Bailey…he’s different…he’ll explain to you.’
James became still. His eyes were puzzled and sad as they looked down into hers. ‘You no want us do this thing—to go be married again? If we do this, no dignity left. Mister Edwards always say “Keep dignity”, and here I feel’—he pointed to his chest—‘dignity be gone if we do this. We married all right in here’—he pressed his hand on his heart—‘I know we’m married all right…Very much married. But him, he say we not married at all.’
Bridget’s mind suddenly cried at her, Oh God, if only Father O’Malley was right, and it was no marriage! But it was a marriage all right. The night she had slept with James hadn’t made it a marriage; but when a man with a greasy collar had mumbled some scarcely intelligible words over them and they had written their names in a book, that had made it a marriage. Why? but why? The cry against man’s social order that had rung through unhappy unions down the ages found only one answer in her mind: You’ve made your bed and you’ll have to lie on it.
She said to James, repeating the formula that had been drilled into her at school, ‘The Catholic religion is the only one true religion.’ Then she added, ‘You’ve got to be married in the Catholic Church before—before it’s all right with God.’
It was a bright Saturday morning and the streets were warm, and women, the respectable ones, were kneeling on the pavement washing their steps. Some were covering a large half-moon of the pavement with bath brick, taking care to get a smoothness in the distribution, regardless of the fact that within an hour, perhaps less, the feet of the children would have stamped it black; clean patches seemed to draw children like magnets. But this morning the women turned from the daily sign of their respectability to stare at Kathie McQueen and her man Cavan
, all dressed up…and Kathie in her funeral coat too! One after the other, after answering Kathie’s loud greeting, they knelt back on their heels and stared after her swaying figure encased in the tight black satin coat, and at Cavan, who from the back appeared like a boy walking with his mother, and silent, too, like some boys who are forced to walk with their mothers on some disagreeable errand, for he gave no greeting to the women, nor yet cast a glance at them.
‘We are off for a jaunt with me daughter Bridget and her man.’ Kathie threw this information to the last remaining women in the street, before they turned into the main road.
‘And what better morning for it, eh?’
And the women answered back, ‘None better.’
In the comparative quietness of the main road Cavan, still looking straight ahead, said, ‘Ye’re foolin’ nobody but yersel’.’
And after a moment’s silence Kathie replied, ‘That’s as may be; but I’ll not have their pity…see?’ She turned her head aggressively on him. ‘They’ll think as ye want them to think, in the long run…I’ve seen it afore…it’s always the way.’
They walked on in silence again, and Kathie adjusted her large satin-covered hat that had once been black but was now a variety of shot greens, then hitched her coat into an easier position under her breasts, and hoped as she did so that the button wouldn’t give way; and she cursed Father O’Malley at the same time. If he had to marry them again he could have waited a bit; and with Cavan in work she might have got herself a coat, for this one had seen its day. Eighteen years it had been on the go, and it second-hand when she got it. She’d had her nine-and-six worth out of it, and many a proud moment it had given her, for hadn’t it come from a big house and been worn by a lady? You only had to smell it to know that. But she never thought she’d wear it to go and see her daughter married a second time to a nigger. The humiliation weighed her down and caused her greetings to the step-washers in Dunstable Street to be even louder. And when she knocked at Bridget’s door the satin of the coat was rippling and changing its greasy hue with her laughter.
Colour Blind Page 3