The Menagerie

by Catherine Cookson

  Willie had started wisecracking under his breath, ‘Aye, aye! Who comes here? Me lady Turnbull. Bet you what you like she turns her nose up.’

  He himself had not expected her to speak, but in an open, almost friendly manner, she had bidden them the time of day.

  Gruffly, they had both returned the salute, and when she had passed, Willie, who in spite of his glibness was shy of all girls but who liked to appear knowledgeable in that direction, said, ‘Whew! Don’t tell me you’ve got to be born with blue blood…she’s the lady of the manor all right. Fancy her speaking!’

  Larry had not mentioned the New Year’s Eve incident to anyone, and as he listened to Willie’s chatter the image of the girl stayed vividly in his mind and he found himself thinking sardonically, Unless she finds some bloke with money she’s going to have a thin time. He couldn’t see what she was going to get out of her years of polishing here; there was no-one in Fellburn for the likes of her, unless she hooked somebody from the Hill. He couldn’t see her fitting permanently into a flat above the grocer’s shop, no matter how posh the flat might be.

  It was nearly six weeks later when he saw her for the third time. It was at the end of February. There had been a light fall of snow followed by a hard frost. He was on night shift at the time, and went down at five and rode just after midnight. It was a rotten shift, for he saw Jessie for only a few minutes at dinner time. But it enabled him to get some sleep and yet left a reasonable part of the day free for his writing.

  The sun, though, had been shining that day and lured him onto the fells. The air was thin and clear, the sky high, and he had tramped past Fatfield right to Lambton Castle, and it was there that he had met her. It was she who had stopped first. After an exchange of greeting which centred around the weather, they had walked on together. Not to have done so would have appeared stupid—the fells were as deserted as a barren desert, and who would expect two people to walk their separate ways while journeying across a desert? And before the walk had ended she had become for him a being apart, someone so far removed from Fellburn’s women as they themselves were from the moon. The way she talked fascinated him; no long uncomfortable pauses; no waiting for openings; no pauses at all in fact, not like when he and Jessie tramped together. Her talking flowed from one topic to another, it was challenging and stimulating. He had told her that he wrote a bit, and he had felt immensely gratified at her interest, and in spite of the fact that her attitude, as she rattled off authors and their works, could have been that of a professional for an amateur, it inspired him with a warmth and a desire to do something big, which the blind adulation and open praise of his family had never done.

  They had walked more slowly as they neared the town, and as if they both were aware that they must not be seen together, they parted while still on the fells, she to take a bus and he to walk the remaining two miles home with a step made buoyant by her parting words, ‘It’s the first time I’ve enjoyed myself since I came home.’

  It snowed heavily the next day, but he had walked on the fells again, and she had walked there, too, and they had stood under the shelter of a barn wall out of the driving snow, quite close but not touching.

  That night his output was down, and at seven o’clock the next morning he had been up and in Jessie’s kitchen before she went out.

  ‘Look here,’ he had said, ‘we’ve got to get married right away.’

  She had been puzzled and definitely unhappy, and had gazed at him long and hard before asking fearfully, ‘What’s the matter, Larry?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he had said; ‘only we have waited long enough. Look, Jessie, let’s fix it up now. Please.’

  She had stared at him in silence, then she had said quietly, ‘She’s worse, much worse—it would kill her. I don’t want her on my conscience for the remainder of my life. We have waited so long now, it can’t hurt us a few more months. Imagine a wedding with her like this…I want to start our life clear. But I’ll promise you this; if she’s still here at Christmas, I’ll do it. I promise you. I do, Larry.’

  That day, lost in a desolate ice-bound world, he kissed Pam Turnbull. They clung together swaying like two drunks, straining to bury each in the other, and when they drew apart they were not exhausted by their efforts, but intensely alive and thirsting for more. He did not say ‘I am sorry’—he knew there was only one person to be sorry for, and that was Jessie Honeysett. Jessie was twenty-seven and this girl was eighteen, yet Jessie appeared the younger now. It was as if her youth had never matured and therefore called up no fierce fire in him. Not the wealth of her bust nor the curve of her hips had ever excited him like the flat firm body of this girl. If at times, as he had done, he had felt the need for fulfilment with Jessie, some feeling akin to tenderness had checked him. And he had soothed himself with the thought that he did not wish to saddle her with anything, that she already had enough on her plate, for instinctively he knew that had he pressed his need, Jessie would have met him and taken the consequences had they transpired. And that was the puzzle of the two natures he had never been able to work out: Jessie, good right through, would have done that for him, but Pam, having taken him to the point of madness, would shy away.

  For a month he had kept up their secret meetings, then, almost on the point of illness, he had made a clean breast of things. The mental stress that followed had now a haze over it, for it would have been impossible to live remembering Jessie’s face when he had told her. But the reactions of all the others put together had fallen far short of Mr and Mrs Turnbull’s. They had threatened him; then used persuasion; then pleaded, appealing to his honesty, his manhood and lastly his pride. Was he not a pitman and would always be a pitman? Had he wanted to be anything else he would surely have taken the opportunities offered when he was at school. How long did he think a girl with Pam’s advantages would put up with his way of life? To which he had replied that he was not going to remain a pitman, that he had other ideas, he was going to write. He could still feel the hot humiliation that had suffused him when they actually laughed in his face. But this attitude on the part of her parents only made Pam the more determined that he should succeed. She kept his hopes high and made his confidence in himself boundless; she made him take a University correspondence course in English, and herself helped him with his studies. In fact, from that time, she tended to direct all the operations of his life.

  And his love and wonder of her had grown each day, for through time she not only soothed her parents to some degree, but she conquered his own family. His mother received her in the house—she was not always very pleasant, but nevertheless she received her—and for one whole year life was ablaze with living, marred by only two things, Jessie’s presence across the road, and Aunt Lot’s chattering tongue.

  But looking back now he could see that he had been deceived by everybody except Jessie and Aunt Lot, for when the smash came, although it upset weeks of preparation, relief ran through the house and could not be hidden from him, and he saw, too, that if the Turnbulls had appeared to accept him, that had been part of their cleverness, Mrs Turnbull’s in particular. And how her cleverness had repaid her, even coming up to her own lifelong visions for her daughter. And the torturing part of it was that it had been he himself who had persuaded Pam to please her mother by going to the dinner in Newcastle with them and Mr Hinnery, the commercial traveller.

  He had seen this traveller—a man of over fifty and safe. The dinner was being given for an old fogey from America, so Pam said, and would be dull and unbearable.

  It was since the unbearable dinner that she had changed. There had been nothing to notice at first; then came the trips to Newcastle, to Carlisle, even to London—this last supposedly to meet a friend from France—and all the time Mrs Turnbull getting nicer and nicer to him, more disarming. And then one evening, as he himself had told Jessie it was all over, so his mother told him…Pam had gone off with an American. An American! He wouldn’t believe a word of it, but had torn up the street like someone mad. The s
hop was closed, and at first he was unable to get an answer at the house door, but he had banged until Mr Turnbull let him in. Both of them had pretended concern and said they had known nothing whatever about the matter. But they had been unable to hide their triumph. Pamela had made a catch beyond their wildest dreams, she had married the man who had been the honoured guest at the big dinner, the head of an American export firm.

  She had gone, without leaving one word of explanation or regret, and he could obtain not the slightest clue to her whereabouts. But a week later, when he heard that the Turnbulls had both left the shop in care of a relative for two days, a madness had possessed him. He knew where they had spent the two days. And on their return he had stormed in on them. The shop had been full, and when neither of them would go upstairs with him he had, with two sweeps of his arms, scattered bottles and cartons right and left. Women customers had screamed and a crowd had gathered in the street.

  Afterwards he had waited for the threatened summons, hoping it would come. But it had not, and he was forced to continue in the old routine of his life in a white heat of pain which filled his thoughts with a corroding hate. And his feelings were not eased by the knowledge that every man jack who knew him was saying, ‘Serves him right.’

  The past recalled now brought with it a fear—what if, when he should see her, he could not keep his hate alive? He rose from the bed. He’d keep it alive all right. If nothing else would preserve it, the knowledge that she had come back so soon to make another laughing stock of him should do it. He squared his shoulders. No-one was going to laugh up their sleeves at him. He’d see it out, he’d put a face on it. And he’d get even—by God, he would. How, he didn’t know, but a way would be shown him. He looked towards the desk, where were stacked piles of his writing ready for burning. If he went off now, they would say it was cold feet. Well, he wouldn’t give them the chance. A week or so more would make no difference, he’d stay and face it. He looked in the mirror, and his eyes, almost black in his grey face, stared back at him and asked the question: ‘How long was she here for?’ There was an urgency in him to know. He picked up his hat, dragged open the door, and went out.

  Across the landing, in the best bedroom, Lena checked the low rapid flow of her entreaty to listen to Larry’s steps going down the stairs, but she made no comment on her brother-in-law, the time was not opportune. Later she’d get in a dig or two at the big head. But about to resume the delicate subject of Aunt Lot she was forestalled by the look on her husband’s face. To her, Jack was as soft as clarts, and equally as malleable. She had never questioned her power to make him do what she wanted…sulks, a little bit of temper, a wriggle of her body in the right places, and he would be all over her. But now his face looked set, he had the ‘Stonewall Jackson’ look. And why? Just because she had asked him to do something about Aunt Lot. That old wife would drive her barmy soon, and then there’d be two of them.

  ‘You’re not serious, Lena.’

  The tone of her husband’s voice was unlike any she had heard him use.

  ‘I was never more serious.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why? Are you daft an’ all, or deaf? What have I been saying for the last half hour? She gets on me nerves, I want to scream.’

  ‘Well, that’s your condition. Women al—’

  ‘All right, all right,’ she cut him short. ‘Say it’s me condition. Well, in my condition I can’t stand her. She’s quite loopy, she’s up the pole.’

  ‘She’s not up the pole.’

  ‘What!’ Lena rose from the bed. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t think she’s barmy!’

  ‘Yes I do. Of course I do. She’s not barmy, she’s a bit odd at times.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Lena clapped her hands to her head. ‘If she isn’t barmy then I am.’ Fiercely she turned on him. ‘Are you going to ask your mother to send her away for a few weeks?’

  ‘Where could she go?’

  ‘She’s got a brother in Hexham, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s never bothered about her.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time he did.’

  Jack stared at his wife. There was an uneasy feeling in him that this attitude was not entirely due to her condition. This might be Lena, the real Lena, and he would have years of similar scenes, like Wally Mitcham two doors down. His ma and da had had their tiffs, too, but his ma had never nagged. They had been a happy family, a jolly family, and the funny thing was, he thought, it was Aunt Lot who had gone a long way towards making it so. You couldn’t help laughing with Aunt Lot, or at her. And now Lena wanted him to ask his mother to send her away. He knew the reception he would get should he dare make such a suggestion. His mother might forever be on at Lot for one thing or another, but she was fond of her nevertheless.

  Lena, seeing no signs of softening on her husband’s face, changed her tactics. She sank onto the bed again, her hand pressed to her breast, her body slumped, and as her face crinkled ready for tears her voice came in a small whimper, ‘I’ve given in to you all ways. Look at the nursing home. Peggy Robson, that cheap slut, can go to one, but not me. Private one an’ all.’

  Jack’s response was as anticipated. He sat beside her and put his arms about her, saying, ‘Well, you know why that was, honey. It’s because…well, I explained it all. I think a fellow should see and hear his bairn right away, especially the first. Look’—he lifted her face to his—‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You can have seven out of the next fifteen in the nursing home. How about that?’

  She sniffed and smiled weakly, saying, ‘You’ve got a hope.’ Then laying her head on his shoulder, she whispered, ‘Will you ask her, Jack?’

  ‘No, lass. I’m sorry, I can’t do that.’ His voice was gentle but his tone was final.

  ‘No!’ It was almost a scream. ‘You’ll do anything for any other sod in this house but me. I’ll ask her meself.’

  She was up, out of his arms and out of the door before his expression had time to resume its former stiffness, and as she cried ‘Out of me way, you, you barmy bastard!’ he saw through the open door Aunt Lot staggering back against the wall, and from the frightened and bewildered look on her face he knew she had been listening. And he went slowly to her saying, ‘It’s all right; it’s all right.’

  But Lottie was not to be reassured, and she fled from him down the stairs, her face full of terror.

  Chapter Three: Jessie

  Born with a different temperament Jessie Honeysett could have been glamorous. She had the build that was acknowledged as being complementary to this difficult-to-define and elusive quality. She had a fine bust and broad hips. When in her teens, her straight firm body and upright carriage could have been likened to that of a Negro girl, an uncivilised one. Her face was large and inclined to squareness, the bone structure being prominent and too bold for beauty, yet with the magic transformation that rightly applied make-up can achieve, Jessie’s attractions would undoubtedly have lifted her out of Fellburn had she possessed the necessary touch of personal vanity and selfishness. But it was only because Jessie’s carriage was a natural and unrecognised part of her that she managed to keep it as long as she did, for from the time she could walk Jessie had been trained to fetch and carry. Even at four years of age, because she was a big child and looked more like seven, the duties that could have been given to a child of that age had been thrust on her. But for knowing and loving Larry Broadhurst, Jessie’s life, large though it was within the frame of her body, would have been shrivelled to a dry kernel before she had reached twenty. It was her love acting like a spring which, without the aid of make-up, good clothes, or even normal rest, achieved for her, beauty. Now, although the love remained, the beauty was gone. At twenty-nine there was no spark of the girl left, nor yet of the young woman. The straightness had gone from her back—she could have been a woman of forty, tired with the burden of life and work; her body seemed to have given up, its slumping spoke of dead hope. Only in the far depths of her brown eyes could be glimpse
d at times a look that puzzled those who knew her. It could have been the look in the worm’s eyes, had it possessed them, before it turned. But no-one in his wildest surmise thought of Jessie Honeysett turning. She had, everyone knew, been a doormat too long. Her mother had made of her one kind, and she had made of herself another for Larry Broadhurst.

  She stood now looking down on the dying woman who had sucked her life away. Mildred Honeysett lay against the hill of pillows gasping for breath. The water of the dropsy had swollen her once slim body to a great bag. With a thick stubby finger she now pointed to the floor and in between her gasps for breath she brought out the word…box.

  Because obedience had become automatic and was not governed by her feelings Jessie immediately went down onto her hands and knees and pulled from below the high iron bed a brown tin trunk, such as would have been the proud property of a maid in the last century. She had over the course of years moved the trunk hundreds of times, but never had she seen inside it, for it was kept locked with a small padlock. She had always imagined that it contained the personal letters that had passed between her father and mother during the 1914-18 war, but her curiosity had never really been aroused. There were so few places in the house where one could keep anything private and so her mother, she thought, had resorted to the tin trunk for her letters.

  Mrs Honeysett turned her head slowly and gazed down on the box. Her large, pale blue, glazed eyes moved over it then lifted to her daughter where she knelt by its side. She motioned with her hand, then slowly brought out, ‘Promise…me…you’ll…’ A renewed fight for breath cut off her words and Jessie rose from her knees and eased the panting woman into a more upright position. And as she went to move back from the bed the hand, strong, even in its dying, clutched at her arm, and a clear penetrating light shone for a moment through the opaqueness of the eyes and into her.