Colour Blind

by Catherine Cookson

  Bridget winced as if in physical pain; and Matt went on, ‘And then Pat Skinner linked with his seedless piece when they were passing the corner, and the chaps nearly cracked their sides with laughing. They were yelling, “Give her the Paterson touch, lad”…Nobody paying for your mistake!’ He spat past her into the fire. ‘By God! We’re all paying for it, every damned one of us. And let me tell you this—we’ve only just started. As for you, you can thank your lucky stars there’s a war on. If there hadn’t been, they would have hounded you out of the place; and they’ll likely do it yet. Some of the men in the Barium were throwing their quips at Terry yesterday; they were saying why should black swines have the houses when they’ve got to travel across the water each day.’

  He was standing behind her now and the gusts of his breath were on her neck: ‘Do you know what me ma heard that Dorrie Clarke say? Do you?’

  Bridget remained silent and still.

  ‘She was spouting in the shop that you should be sent down to Holborn, among the Arabs. And do you know what the others said—that the Arabs wouldn’t allow a dirty nigger among them.’

  Bridget swung round on him, almost knocking him over. ‘Shut up you, shut up! Don’t you dare call him a dirty nigger. He’s better than you or any of them around these doors—he’s too good for me. Yes he is, yes he is.’ She was screaming now. ‘He knows how to treat a woman, that’s more than the men here do. If they bring in their wages they think they’re gods, and the women have to wait on them hand and foot from the day they marry them; and even when they are giving them bairns and wearing them out they are pawing at whoever will let them. They’ve got room to talk—they have, the men around here! And the women too, for that matter—dirty-mouthed lot.’

  ‘At least they have white bairns.’ As always when he had succeeded in arousing her anger, his own subsided. He spoke quietly now, but his mild barbed words had more effect on her than had his rage.

  Bridget put her hand up to her throat and tore at it; and moved her head from side to side as if trying to free herself from some fearsome grip. Matt saw the colour drain from her face; and when she staggered and groped for a chair, he stood watching her, fighting the torrent of feeling that was pouring back into his veins now that they were together again, and as she slid from the chair on to the floor he sprang to catch her, crying, ‘Bridget!…here, Bridget!…what’s up?’

  For a few minutes she lay lifeless on the mat, while he gripped her bloodless face, still entreating, ‘Bridget; here, come on—what’s up with you?’

  It was strange, but never before had he seen a woman in a faint; women of his knowledge didn’t faint, even when carrying bairns. So he kept calling to her, and when at last she opened her eyes his voice was soft with his anxiety. ‘Brid, what’s up? Are you all right? Can I get you something? Have you anything in the house—a drop of anything?’

  The shake of her head was almost imperceivable.

  ‘Come on, get up.’ He lifted her into a chair and supported her with his arm, and she pointed weakly to the teapot, saying, ‘Give me a drink.’

  The tea did nothing to revive her, and he stood over her, his voice harsh again, yet threaded with his anxiety. ‘You take the damn stuff when you shouldn’t, yet when you need it you haven’t got any. Will you be all right till I go and fetch you something?’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  The weakness of her voice only strengthened his determination. ‘You’ve got to have something to pull you round. I won’t be a minute. Lie on the mat if you feel bad again.’

  He was gone and she was left alone. The fear of him, too, was gone: it was ousted by the fear he had brought to the surface, the fear that she would have a black baby. Her mind was sick and her body shivering with the fear…and all because she had got drunk.

  She had known Matt knew how she had come to marry James and would make her admit it. The twice he had seen her drunk was at New Year parties. The first time, when she was seventeen, she only took two glasses of whisky, but those were enough to make her throw her arms around Len Bryant and kiss him in front of everyone. She could never remember doing it, as she disliked Len Bryant because he was always trying to touch her, and she wouldn’t believe Matt; but she believed her father when he told her.

  It was the following New Year’s Eve before she again touched whisky…her previous reaction to it having faded from her mind. She only knew that the smell of whisky held a fascination for her, and she liked the cutting taste, and in spite of—or perhaps because of—Matt’s scowling eye she took a proffered glass. This time she lifted up her skirts and danced, and Frankie Flanagan, whose house the party was in, lifted her on to the table…and his wife punched him in the face; and she herself had been slapped sober in the wash-house by Matt.

  It was after this she swore to herself never to touch whisky again, for she knew she couldn’t carry it. But looking back now she saw that the chain of circumstances that led to her next being drunk could not have been foreseen by even the most wary of individuals; for who would have thought getting friendly with another house parlourmaid in London would have been the main link? This girl’s sister had recently married a man who was managing a public house in Liverpool, and they had written asking her to work for them. Soon Bridget herself received a letter from her friend, with a glowing account of the highly paid jobs to be had in Liverpool; and it was no time at all until she found herself in such a daily post; and getting half as much money again as she had been receiving in London, but paying out much more than the half for an attic room above a stable attached to the public house; and it was the simplest thing in the world to grant the request of the sisters to help in the rush-time on a Saturday night; also the simplest thing to get merry in the back room afterwards with a few of the regular seafaring clients—the honour of being called into the back room being an inducement to the men to empty their pockets again at the end of the next trip. There she met James…but she couldn’t remember taking him to her room, she could only remember the horror of her awakening; and from then till now seemed but four hours instead of four months.

  Her mind raked up again the humiliations that attended her marrying James; the scorn of her one-time friends; the order to get out by the supposedly outraged sister; the expressions on the faces of the many landladies; until she felt she could bear it no longer and that she must brave the shock that James would be to her people and go to them. She had imagined, too, that once inside the fifteen streets she would find a measure of peace and protection among her own kind; but when she thought this, the enormity of her crime in all its entirety had not been brought fully home to her…it needed the return to her own class to do this.

  ‘Here, drink this.’

  She had not been aware of Matt’s return. The smell of the whisky from the glass held close to her face brought her to herself, and she turned her head away, saying, ‘I don’t want that.’

  ‘Don’t act the goat—here, get it down you!’

  ‘I tell you I don’t want it…Matt, I don’t want it!’ She gazed up at him pleadingly. ‘I promised I wouldn’t…’ She broke off and shook her head. ‘I’ll be all right; this’ll pass.’

  Matt stood staring down at her, his lower lip pressed out. Who had she promised? That dirty black swine? She had promised him she wouldn’t drink, had she!…after he had dropped her! Well, the nigger had got her through drink; then, by God, it would be through drink that he would lose her! He gripped the back of Bridget’s head; then, putting the glass to her lips, forced the whisky between them.

  Chapter Four: The Birth

  In such communities as that of the fifteen streets there is often found an outstanding personality, a personality that is respected for its self-sacrificing and good qualities, or one that is held in awe or fear for some power it is credited with possessing—mostly evil. Such a personality was Nellie Milligan. She was known as a fixer. Despairing women, realising that once again they had fallen, would immediately turn their thoughts to Nellie Mill
igan and wonder how the sovereign could be raised; but raise it they would, even to the extent of pawning every bit of bedding a pawnshop would accept, to enable them to pay for having the burden removed.

  The days of the twelve or fifteen in a family were past; but to see up to half a dozen children with hungry eyes was more than enough for some of the women; so, ironically, many called God’s blessing on Nellie Milligan, while here and there a woman, trailing out the remainder of her life only half alive, cursed the day she had seen her.

  No-one knew Nellie’s age…some of the old women said she was ‘getting on’ when they were young. She was known to possess various powers; she was a wart-charmer and she could also mix a concoction that would remove hair from the faces of women suffering ‘the change’—that the new growth was stronger only called for a stronger potion; she was also known to possess powers which could overcome sterility; but these supposed powers she was chary of using. Apparently the most propitious time for using these powers was after she had fixed somebody; and when, some years ago, Maisie Searle, who had never shown the sign of one during the ten years of her marriage, found she was carrying, and that after going to see Nellie who had just fixed Mrs O’Leary of her ninth, Nellie’s reputation was itself fixed, and both the priest and doctor were powerless against her.

  Nellie never did anything straightforward…all her jobs were surrounded by mystery. Even when she told the cards, it would be behind drawn blinds and before a coke fire, winter or summer; and all her fixing jobs were attended, at least on the patient’s part, by drinking bottles of evil-smelling liquids. Most of the women did not mind this, as after drinking the prescribed doses they had little or no recollection of what followed.

  It was rarely a woman went to Nellie with a first child; although sometimes a bride, finding herself flung into the maelstrom of life and seeing herself fast becoming like the child-weary women about her, would become fear-stricken; and she would pay Nellie a visit on the quiet.

  Of all her jobs it was really only the first ’uns that brought Nellie any satisfaction; and nearly always she was cheated out of these. If it wasn’t a young outraged husband threatening to strangle her for attempting to deprive him of the visible evidence of his manhood, it would be the older women themselves threatening to split on her if she did it. They would remain blind and dumb should she help one of them; but with a first, almost to a woman they would be against her. But none of them knew about Bridget Paterson. Nellie herself hadn’t thought about it until a week ago, when she had been telling Kathie McQueen her cards…and then with no intention of fixing it…that had been Kathie’s idea. Never before had she been called upon to do a job like this, not when the bairn was just on being born; and she wasn’t quite easy in her mind about it.

  She made her way now up and down various back lanes on her way to Dunstable Street. She was thankful that it was snowing, for other than a few stray children playing there was no-one about…but even if she were seen, who would dream she was going to fix a nine-months one? She reached Bridget’s back door, and like a thin black shadow on the white snow she sidled up the yard and tapped on the kitchen door.

  The door was opened with the utmost caution, and Kathie peered at the black-shawled figure standing in the yard. She held a warning finger to her lips before pulling the old woman over the threshold into the scullery.

  ‘Not a sound above a whisper out of ye, for God’s sake, Nellie.’

  Nellie let the shawl fall from her head, to disclose an almost bald scalp, and she stared at Kathie with small, bird-like eyes, while her toothless jaws champed together as if she were munching something tough.

  ‘Have ye got everything?’

  The old woman nodded.

  ‘Oh my God, I hope ye know what ye’re doin’.’

  The small figure bridled, and her jaws stopped their munching. ‘Ye want it done? And anyway, is she the first I’ve tackled?’

  ‘No; I know.’

  ‘Are ye sure she’s for havin’ it away? She’s late in the day in thinkin’ about it.’

  ‘Of course I am…only she’s too proud to say so. What do ye think she’s been on the bottle these past months for? She’s scared of the thing being black.’

  ‘But I thought it wasn’t due for two or three days yet?’

  ‘So did I, but ye know what first ones are. I wouldn’t have known she was even bad, but the boy Tony was here, and he came back and told me she had gone to bed. So I sent him straight to you.’

  ‘Ye think it’s near?’

  ‘As near as makes no odds…have ye got the stuff?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But how’m I gonna get her to take it, all in a hurry an’ all, like this?’

  ‘I’ve bought a bit of horseflesh.’

  ‘Horseflesh! What in the name of God for?’

  ‘To burn…there’s nothing smells like burnt horseflesh. Fry it in the frying pan till it burns and waff it up the stairs, then run up with the drink to her. She’ll be so parched she’ll gulp down anything. And by the way’—she knocked a drop off the end of her nose with the back of her hand—‘it’s a drink we’ll be needing ourselves, to get through…have you got owt?’

  ‘I’ve got a wee drop of rum. But will the stuff knock her off?’

  ‘Enough for me to do what I’ve got to do.’

  ‘Ye won’t use the crochet hook on her, Nellie? Ye won’t hurt her?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, there’ll be no need…it isn’t an abortion you want.’

  ‘And ye won’t do owt to it, Nellie, if it’s white, will ye?’

  ‘No; but haven’t I told ye? I saw it in your cards as plain as the nose on your face…‘Aye.’ Kathie rolled her head on her mountainous chins. ‘Aye, ye did tell me, and I’ve never known a minute’s rest since. And it won’t look as if it had been…?’

  ‘Not a sign…it’ll be stillborn.’

  ‘But if she knows it’s you up there—’ Kathie wrung the corner of her apron. ‘She hasn’t been near me since she saw us together a week past.’

  ‘She’ll not know a thing once she takes the stuff; and if she does, she’ll think it’s a doctor fiddling about with her…Now come on and get me the pan.’

  As Kathie watched Nellie bring a thick collop of horseflesh from under her shawl she shuddered. ‘God protect us! Where d’ye get it?’

  ‘Never ye mind…it’ll cost ye a shilling…And, Kathie’—the beady eyes closed still farther—‘it’s a pound, mind, when the job’s done!’

  ‘If it’s dead.’

  ‘It’ll be dead all right.’

  ‘But mind, not if it’s white, mind, Nellie…don’t touch it if the colour’s all right.’

  As Nellie was about to place the pan on the fire she turned to Kathie, saying, ‘Look, before I start: ye’re sure she hasn’t sent for the doctor, or the nurse or somebody? I’ve me name to think of, and it’s late in the day.’

  ‘How could she? I was round here within five minutes of the boy telling me. And she hardly knows what it’s all about, anyway…it’s her first, isn’t it? No, she couldn’t have sent for anybody; and she’s never been one for making neighbours, thank God for that! She’s kept herself to herself for months now.’

  The horse steak sizzled on the hot pan, and Nellie stood silently watching it. For a moment the terrible cold menace of the shrivelled old woman was borne home to Kathie, and she had the urge to fling her out of the door; but the dread of being a grannie to a black bairn was too strong. So she, too, stood silent and waiting, until the stench began to fill the kitchen, forcing her to go to the back door. As her hand went to the latch Nellie’s fingers, like cold steel, gripped her arm, and without a word she was drawn back into the kitchen again, choking and spluttering. And Kathie’s fear of Nellie increased when she saw that the choking fumes were having little or no effect upon the old woman.

  ‘Here, take the pan up on the landing and waft it about while I get the stuff ready.’

  Kathie, her eyes streaming a
nd her apron held across her mouth, took the pan and groped blindly for the stair door. Never before in her life had she smelt anything like this, and she had smelt some smells. God, why had she got herself into this? She crept up the stairs, the pan held at arm’s length, but before she reached the top Bridget’s voice came to her.

  ‘What’s that smell, Ma? What are you doing? Oh, what’s that smell?’

  ‘A bit of steak…it dropped in the fire.’ She coughed and spluttered. ‘It’ll be all right in a minute, I’m gonna open the window.’

  Not being able to stand any more herself, she went hurriedly down the stairs again, and as she burst into the kitchen she let out a squeal like a trapped rabbit, for standing in front of Nellie, like some threatening giant, was Dr Davidson. The pan tipped in her hand and the charred steak fell on to the mat.

  ‘So it’s you, is it?’ The doctor’s eyes struck fire at Kathie. ‘Giving her a hand, are you?…My God! Now listen to what I am saying.’ His finger stabbed her in the chest. ‘If anything goes wrong with that child up there, I’ll see you both behind bars.’

  For a moment Kathie was unable to utter a word, and her head rolled as if it would drop off her shoulders; then, sick with fright, she began to bluster. ‘Behind bars, is it? And what, may I ask, am I goin’ behind bars for…for burning a bit of meat?’

  ‘Burning a bit of meat…!’ The doctor turned his attention to Nellie again. She had not uttered a syllable, but her eyes, stretched to their small wideness, had never left his face.

  ‘You…you fiend of hell! I’ve wanted to catch you red-handed for years. And now I’ve got you…with your’—he coughed—‘damned incantations.’

  Still Nellie said no word; but her eyes slid to the table; his followed, and he said, ‘I’ll relieve you of that.’

  His hand reached out to the unstoppered bottle, but, as quick as lightning strikes, Nellie was there before him. She grabbed up the medicine bottle; and whether by accident or design, Kathie, stooping in front of him to retrieve the steak, blocked his way; and Nellie, minus her shawl, escaped through the front room.