Colour Blind

by Catherine Cookson

  She was conscious that her mouth was agape, and she felt dazed and stupid as if she had received a blow. She drew slowly aside and allowed him to step into the kitchen, and in his moving his eyes never left hers and hers became fixed in their amazement. She closed the door and stood with her back pressed to it and her hands gripping the sides of her apron. She was aware of the Negro’s mouth working and his lips forming words that gave no sound. She saw his eyes glaze and a tremor pass down his body; then, outside herself, she heard the quick padding on the stairs again, and part of her mind shouted at her, ‘Be careful!’ But she still stood where she was, even when Stanhope entered the kitchen. He, however, did not notice her, for he was looking at the Negro, and when he spoke his voice was quiet, almost tender.

  ‘There you are, then. So you got here.’ Stanhope’s eyes were devouring the Negro, moving over him with an ecstatic look such as a dealer would bestow on a rare gem.

  ‘Yes, sah.’

  The sound of the voice lifted Rose Angela immediately to the slack bank; the darkness was again around her, and she was smelling the rough smell of the jacket, a mixture of tar and mothballs and brine, and the voice that had lived in her mind only by the feeling of warmth its memory aroused was in her ears, speaking now, ‘My Rose Angela—she mine.’ She had never been able to remember one word from that night, but the simple ‘Yes, sah’ was the unlocking of the door, closed all these years, on the dim yet cherished memory. This was her da…the eyes had told her, and the voice wiped all doubt away.

  ‘Come this way.’ Stanhope held an arm out as if to guide the Negro, and added, ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘Yes, sah, thank you.’

  He did not look at Rose Angela again, but went into the hall, guided by Stanhope’s hand, and Rose Angela leant against the door, repeating stupidly to herself, ‘After all these years…after all these years. It can’t be. And to come here!’ She could think of nothing clearly, her thoughts were racing and tumbling about. Only one impression stood out in the jumble of her mind—she was shocked at the sight of this man. If he was her da, and she had no doubt about it, he could not look more unlike what she had imagined. Only his eyes remained true to her picture of him, the picture her Uncle Tony had kept bright for years by saying, ‘Your eyes are the same as your da’s.’ Her Uncle Tony…oh, her mother and Uncle Tony! What would her Uncle Tony do if her mother went back to her father? But would she go back? This wasn’t the man she had married, not with all those pockmarks and that ear. But the eyes must be the same as those her mother knew—gentle, with the gentleness lying deep in their warm brown…He mightn’t look the same, but he was the same. Somehow she knew this. She looked up to the ceiling—up there was that great battered man who was her da. A faintness overcoming her, she groped her way to a chair and sat down. Mr Stanhope was painting him. What would he say if he knew? Would he look into his eyes and notice the resemblance? No, she doubted it. He would see the Negro as a whole…she shuddered…or what was left of the whole. The master was only interested in one thing, she thought—getting on to his canvas the last dregs of life. Yet Murphy had seen…or was it Pete? Yes, Pete’s eyes saw everything. But he must have had something to go on. What? She would likely know later. Was this Murphy’s surprise? He had asked her to come back this morning. What must she do now? Her thoughts raced again. What would happen when her Uncle Matt got to know? There’d be murder, for her Uncle Matt would surely overpower this great shadow of a man.

  She sat on, her hands stretched out before her on the table and joined as if in prayer, until she was startled by two simultaneous sounds—the hall clock striking ten and a thudding from above. As she mounted the stairs she had to hold on to the banisters for support, and after she had tapped on the studio door she was thankful for the pause before Stanhope’s voice called, ‘Here!’

  She went in, telling herself not to look towards the dais, but immediately her eyes were drawn to it. There he was sitting on the platform, his legs slightly apart and his hands lying palm upwards, one on each thigh. His back was supported by a cunningly contrived rotten hulk of a boat, kept in place by packing cases; and the double effect of decay was such as almost to make her cry out.

  Stanhope was standing before a full-length canvas, and as he softly called her to him his hand, moving the charcoal in swift, broken lines, did not stop, nor did his eyes stray from their darting back and forth to the platform.

  ‘Make some coffee, Rosie, and bring some brandy up. And about twelve o’clock make a meal—something good. I’ll have it up here. Bring enough for two.’

  His voice stopped and she moved away without emitting the usual, ‘Yes, sir.’ As she reached the door she knew the Negro’s eyes were following her, yet he was apparently gazing straight ahead. It was like the picture of the nun she had in her bedroom—wherever you moved the eyes followed you.

  In the kitchen the old feeling of sickness threatened to overcome her, and it took all her will-power to conquer it. When she took the coffee up, Stanhope stopped work, and, pouring a generous amount of brandy into the cup, handed it to the Negro, saying, ‘Drink this and have a break. How’re you feeling?’

  ‘All right, sah.’

  The sound of the voice sent a pain through Rose Angela, and she knew a sudden longing to be alone and to cry. She stumbled uncertainly downstairs, and in the kitchen she had to upbraid herself, saying, ‘It’s no use going on like this…pull yourself together—he wants a dinner for twelve o’clock, and when he says twelve he means twelve; you know that.’ But the upbraiding did little good and she commenced the preparations like a sleepwalker.

  Once, going to the corner of the house where the dustbin was, she saw Murphy and Pete. They were standing looking speculatively towards the house from the edge of the clearing. She withdrew sharply from their gaze, for she wanted to talk to no-one yet about this thing…not until she had first talked to him. How long would the master keep him? As long as he could sit or stand, she supposed.

  She made three journeys in all when she took the dinner up, but never once did she allow herself to look towards the Negro; yet when he rose and slowly stretched himself she was conscious of his every movement. Nor did she look at the master, for part of her was daring to question his gay mood—did this man’s presence call for gaiety and bantering jokes?

  As the afternoon wore on she wondered when she would get a chance to speak to him—she shied from using the word da, even to herself. Would she manage it when he came downstairs?

  But she did not speak to him when he came downstairs, for Stanhope was with him, shepherding him as if indeed he was a precious jewel. He even walked out to the wharf with him, solicitous to the last moment, saying, ‘Now are you sure it hasn’t been too long? We’ll cut it down tomorrow if it has.’

  His gentleness and consideration sounded strange, this manner being utterly unlike that which he showed to Murphy and Pete. The Negro seemed to have adopted the tone Stanhope had set, for his voice sounded quite gay as he replied, ‘No, sah. No hard work ’bout that—jus’ settin’.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you think so. You’ll be here the same time tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes sah, same time.’

  Through the window Rose Angela watched him walking away until he disappeared round the corner of the house. Stanhope, too, watched him until he disappeared from sight; then he came slowly into the kitchen, rubbing the palms of his hands together as if savouring his day’s work.

  ‘Well, what do you think of him? Marvellous specimen, isn’t he?’

  She turned towards her master—that’s all he was to him, a marvellous specimen. For a second she felt a strong feeling of resentment against this man who saw misery only as something to paint; then it was replaced by a feeling of dread which his next words evoked.

  ‘Poor devil, he’s not long for the top…he’ll be lucky if he sees the winter out.’

  She put her hand up to her lips and closed her eyes, and his voice, for a moment, receded from her.
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br />   ‘What is it, Rosie? Are you ill? Come and sit down.’ He placed a chair for her and she walked unsteadily towards it. His hand hovered uncertainly over her shoulder as if about to touch her. ‘What’s upset you today? Are you still thinking about Bessie?’

  She gave a slight nod, and he went on, ‘You’re a silly girl. Look here, go and lie down on the couch in the drawing room for a while, and go home as soon as you are feeling fit again.’

  ‘I’m all right, sir.’

  She rose to her feet, and he said harshly, ‘You’re not all right, but you’ll do as you like, I suppose. You want to get this into your head—your life will be one long hell if you take notice of what the other fellow says—in this case the other woman.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t agree with everything I say. And don’t keep saying “Yes, sir”.’

  She marvelled at her own audacity when she asked quietly, ‘What do you expect me to do—contradict you?’

  His lips twisted into a smile that brought a boyishness to his face and his eyes twinkled at her. ‘That would stagger me, wouldn’t it?’

  As he laughed she thought how she would have enjoyed this little exchange yesterday, or more probably the day before, but now she could think of nothing but what he had recently said. When she gave no reply to his bantering he went out abruptly, saying, ‘Do what I tell you and get off home.’

  He’s not long for the top…he’s not long for the top…the phrase kept repeating itself. Her da was not long for the top. She had scarcely met him, yet already she knew he was marked for death by the words that had always created pity in her—old so-and-so’s not long for the top. Now pity for this great, battered, grotesque man began to rise in her; it obliterated the disfigured face—all she could see were the eyes, looking at her with love and pleading in their depth, and all she wanted now was to meet him and confirm the certainty of the kinship.

  At six o’clock, as usual, she gave a last look round, adjusted the cloth cover on the supper tray and went out, closing the kitchen door behind her. She tried not to hurry, and her step was unusually slow as she entered the chaotic jumble of wagons. She felt he would be waiting for her somewhere along here…but where? She must not miss him.

  He was sitting on the step of the railway carriage; and at the sight of her he rose, and she went towards him, still walking slowly. When within a few feet of him, she stopped, and they took their quiet fill of each other.

  ‘You know me, Rose Angela?’ The appeal in his voice brought a pain to her heart.

  ‘Yes.’ She wanted to say ‘Da’, but she felt shy of the word.

  ‘Long time, Rose Angela.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You remember me, way back?’ His voice was deep, yet had a hollow ring.

  She nodded.

  ‘All the years I want to see you…I think of you. But you more beautiful than I think.’

  His voice cracked and the wet mist was in his eyes again, and she could bear no more. Her arms went out, and with a sound that was forced out of the suppressed depth of him he flung out his own, and they held each other. Their tears mingling, they stood pressed face to face, and as her lips touched his pock-marked cheek he let escape a cry as he had done on the day of her birth, but this time there were no words to it. After a time, during which neither of them spoke, she began to feel the shaking of his limbs as if the bones beneath his skin were jangling, and she said anxiously, ‘Sit down.’

  Like a child he obeyed her and sat down on the step again. ‘You’re cold,’ she said, bending over him. ‘Go inside.’

  ‘No, I’m all right. Inside not very clean, but they not help it. Them good fellows…good fellows,’ he repeated. He put up his hand to her. ‘Sit down here, close by me, and you talk. All years I wait to hear you talk, Rose Angela.’ His voice slurred over her name, making it sound like a caress.

  She sat below him on the block of wood that formed the step, but she could not talk. Her feelings could not be interpreted into speech, but she bowed her head and pressed it against his knee and held his hands tightly with her own; and slowly the feeling was born in her that although she looked like and loved her mother, she was not of her, she never had been…she was of this man. Were he ten times as black, it would be the same.

  He’s not long for the top. As Stanhope’s words came to her she sat up and looked into James’ face. ‘You’re not well, you haven’t been well—what’s wrong?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Oh, that.’ He shook his head and gave a laugh that was punctured by a little clicking sound in his throat that couldn’t be called a cough. ‘I was sick for time…but now me get like fighting cock.’

  ‘What were you sick with?’ she asked with concern.

  He pointed silently to the pockmarks on his face; then said, ‘’Fore this I was big fine fellow, go round with fair and boxed twice a day—twenty rounds I could take. But you wait’—he held her face lovingly between his hands—‘you wait. Now nothing stop me getting fit again.’ So convincing was his tone that she believed him…She would look after him and get him well; she would spend on him the ten shillings a week she had intended saving to buy Christmas presents and clothes; she would feed him and feed him.

  She asked suddenly, ‘How did Pete and Murphy know who I was?’

  He said again, ‘Them very good fellows—them best fellows.’

  ‘But how did they know?’

  He turned his head away and looked across the river. ‘I been in lower part of town three months, but I been sick. I want to go to fifteen streets, but no know how land lie. Pete, he scout for me; he talk to men around docks.’ James paused, then looked at his daughter again. ‘Matt still bad…still hate me…I no want to go to gaol before I see you little time.’

  ‘Oh, Da!’ the word escaped her.

  ‘Long time I wait to hear that.’ He stroked her cheek and went on, ‘You no worry, I not go.’ He touched the corner of her eyes with a gentle trembling finger. ‘Pete, he say he knew you by your eyes—they like mine. When he think you my girl he ask your name, then Murphy, he make sure and follow you home. Me, I near mad ’cause I not come right away—I laid up with little cold.’

  Not one word had he said about Bridget, and as Rose Angela gazed up into the eyes so like her own she knew why, and a hot flush covered her body. Murphy, in his scouting, would have heard more than just how her Uncle Matt felt—he would have heard, too, of the relationship that existed between Tony and her mother. That relationship would now have to end—her mother must be told. Her da couldn’t return to the fifteen streets as long as Matt was there, but her mother could come to him here—he must want to see her so much. She forced herself to mention Bridget’s name. Gently she said, ‘My mother will get a shock, but she’ll be glad.’

  James looked away again to the river: ‘No tell your mother, Rose Angela. She might come down here, and Matt, he guess. No tell anyone I here.’

  For a moment she believed the reason he gave, and unwittingly said, ‘But Uncle Tony…I could tell Uncle Tony; he would be safe.’

  By the stillness of him she knew she had made a mistake, and she murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’

  He turned quickly towards her, reassurance in his tone. ‘You no worry; I have all I want now I have you. We not be parted again, eh?’

  The question had a timorous sound; and he inhaled deeply and slowly when, shaking her head, she said, ‘Never again.’

  After a silence, during which they each seemed to be savouring the other, James went on, ‘Tony always good boy…him quite a man now.’

  There was no bitterness in his tone, so she could say, ‘He’s always been very good to me.’

  ‘Yes…that’s what he promise: Me, I look after your Rose Angela, he said. Me, I tell her what a fine fellow you are…’ His smile took on a piteous twist.

  ‘He did—every Sunday for years he took me to the slack bank and talked about you.’

  ‘He did?’ There was some amazement in James’ voi
ce.

  ‘Yes, for years; until I think he thought I was too big.’ She did not even admit to herself that the Sunday walks had stopped from the time she happened upon her mother and Tony in the front room in each other’s arms.

  Again a silence fell between them; until James said sorrowfully, ‘Me, I never thought I’d come back to you like this; always I dream I have pots of money, and always I see myself decking you out…I think I make so much money I even square Matt.’

  As Rose Angela listened, her throat tight with tears, she knew that in a thousand lifetimes James could never have made enough money to placate Matt’s hate—that was something beyond the bounds of bargaining or reasoning.

  ‘You know I try and take you with me that night?’

  He watched her nod.

  ‘Yes, and I always mad I not do it. I could have got you away all right—not even old man know I was on board, and you were good child, quiet and making no trouble. You would have been all right in chief’s cabin till ship got clear; then old man if he did find you not do nothing. Things been different perhaps if you with me.’

  He shook his head musingly towards the river, and Rose Angela asked, ‘What became of the chief?’