The Menagerie

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘I’m…not going…yet.’ The stare became fixed. ‘Mr Dobson…get him. The box…the key.’

  ‘Mr Dobson had to go away, he told you.’ Jessie spoke quietly, flatly. There was no feeling in her voice, yet no sign of impatience.

  ‘Get…him. Go on…send for him.’

  It was the same kind of order that had sent Jessie scurrying up and down stairs since she could remember. There had never been such a thing as a request from her mother, always an order topped with ‘go on’. Now as always she went, but more slowly than usual, and when she reached the kitchen she stood in the overcrowded stuffy little room and looked about her. Wherever her eyes alighted on the walls they were confronted by a scriptural text of some sort, large ones, small ones, framed and unframed: God is Love; I am the Way, the Truth and the Life; Repent Ye for the Hour is at Hand; This certificate is presented to Jessie Honeysett for regular attendance at Sunday School, Baptist Hall, Cromlin Street, Fellburn; This certificate is presented to Jessie Honeysett; This certificate is presented to Jessie Honeysett. Her gaze moved over them all. The largest of the selection was an illuminated text which hung above the mantelpiece. The words were wreathed by large white lilies and trailing ivy, and the ornamental script read, ‘The Angel of Death is galloping on you today. Are you ready?’ She sat down opposite to it. The Angel of Death had knocked at the door a number of times during the past years and Mrs Honeysett had stubbornly refused him admission, but now he had forced his way in and was upstairs standing by her bed. There was no denying him this time, yet a fear that even now he might leave the house alone brought Jessie’s hands together, and gripping them between her knees, she spoke to the tract, appealing to it as if it had a life and power of its own.

  ‘Take her,’ she said. ‘For God’s sake take her this time. Take her before I do something.’ She stared at the lilies and trailing ivy and whispered, ‘If you don’t take her something will happen. I can’t bear it any longer. I can’t! I can’t! Not another day and night.’

  Slowly her head drooped and her burning eyes looked down on her clenched hands. Then flinging herself from her chair she dropped onto her knees before it, and burying her face in her hands she implored of God, ‘Keep my hands clean, O God. Don’t let me have her on my conscience. Oh, keep my hands clean. What’s coming over me, God? What’s coming over me? I’m frightened. Don’t let me do anything. Oh, don’t let me do anything.’

  A crash behind her brought her to her feet with a start, and she stared in actual terror at the text. It had fallen from the wall, knocking two brass candlesticks from the mantelpiece in its descent to the fender. Glass was sprayed all over the mat. The text itself was ripped right through the middle and the cord that had held it snapped clean in two. Yet she had replaced that cord only last year.

  The fear still in her eyes, she cleared up the mess, and when some minutes later she mounted the stairs to the room above her heart was beating wildly, and although the fear was still on her her body seemed strangely light. She felt as she had done years ago when, for all her size, she used to run like a deer over the fells, with Larry Broadhurst after her. She paused on the landing and put her hand to her throat, then gulping for air as if she had actually been running she entered the room.

  Her mother was lying in a twisted position, her body half out of the bed. Her arm was hanging limply down and on the lino and where it had dropped from her fingers lay the key to the trunk. Her mouth was wide open in what looked like a surprised gape, and on her face was no soft light such as death brings.

  Rocking on her feet, Jessie walked to the bed and looked at the woman who had borne her, and as the realisation came that never again would she hear her voice she had the crazy desire to laugh, to sing, even to dance. For many years now she had rejected the idea of a devil, but it seemed to her in this moment that he had entered in, for it was an unholy joy that filled her. Turning, she fled into her own room and, throwing herself on her knees again, she begged of God to keep her sane; not to let her laugh; to take the strange, almost mad feeling away; to watch over her and help her.

  A voice calling gently but urgently up the stairs brought her to her feet. She went across the little landing and down into the kitchen again, and saw Lottie standing there, and in spite of her own distress, she recognised Lottie’s agitation and said, ‘What is it—what’s the matter?’

  ‘Can you spare a minute, Jessie?’

  Jessie sat down heavily before saying, ‘As many as you like, Aunt Lot.’

  ‘Oh. Is she asleep, Jessie?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Lot, she is asleep.’

  ‘Well’—Lottie put her fingers to her lips and tapped them—‘it’s about Lena, Jessie.’

  ‘Lena? Is she ill or something?’

  ‘No. But you know what she’s trying on, Jessie?’

  ‘No, Aunt Lot.’

  ‘She’s wanting Jack to get Jinny to send me away. Would you believe it? Send me away, mind.’

  Jessie, resting her elbow on the table and dropping her head onto her hands, said wearily, ‘She wouldn’t do that. Why should she? You heard wrong.’

  ‘But she is, Jessie. She’s on about it now in the scullery. She says I’m up the pole. I’m not, am I? She said it in the bedroom to Jack. I heard her through the door. I’m not up the pole, am I, Jessie? Nobody’s never said that afore, everybody likes me.’

  ‘Of course you’re not, Aunt Lot.’

  ‘But, Jessie, suppose…’cos she’s havin’ the baby she got me sent away. I’d die, Jessie. I couldn’t leave home, Larry and Jinny and Frank an’ all.’

  ‘Don’t worry. If they should want you out of the way because of the baby coming, you could come and stay here.’

  ‘Jessie! Could I, Jessie? Oh, I’d like that. Oh Jessie, I wouldn’t mind that. It’s like home here, I’ve always come over here.’ Lottie’s face relaxed and spread into a smile. ‘And I could help you, couldn’t I? Look after your mother and that.’

  Jessie gave no answer but smiled faintly, and Lottie, assuming her former troubled look as she went on, said, ‘Why do they want me out of the way ’cos of the bairn coming? I’m good with bairns, everybody knows that. I’ve minded all the bairns in the street, and I minded all our bairns…Larry, Florence, Jack and Gracie an’ all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Aunt Lot. It’ll be all right.’ Jessie rose slowly from the chair.

  ‘Will it, Jessie? Well, I’ll go, ’cos you’re busy. Everything’s happened today. Pam Turnbull coming back and everything…Eeh!’

  The look on Jessie’s face brought the long-drawn exclamation from Lottie. ‘I shouldn’t have told you, but everybody knows now. She’s in a posh car and it’s all red inside. But she’s married and she can’t have Larry, can she?’ She smiled weakly and then mumbled, ‘Eeh! Jessie, I’m sorry. It’s me tongue, it’s as Jinny says. Yet she let me tell Larry, ’cos none of the others would. Eeh! I’ll go. I’m sorry, Jessie.’

  As the door closed on Lottie, Jessie sat down again. The magenta patch of wallpaper above the fireplace, standing out from its faded surround now that it had been relieved of the tract, gaped down on her as a symbol of her release, but as yet the release was so fresh that her mind had not erupted to the surface the buried hope that had grown steadily in the dark locked recesses of her being during the past four months, the hope that, once freed by the death of her mother, Larry would turn to her again, if not with the old love then with need. It had ceased to matter to her how he came as long as he came. Without him the spring of her life had dried up. Only the touch of his hand on hers and the passage of his eyes brushing roughly across her face could start its flow again…And now Pam Turnbull was back.

  ‘No! No!’ She brought out the protest loud and harsh, and again she cried, ‘No!’ Then, her voice sinking but still aloud she whispered, ‘She couldn’t. Not now; not just when…’ Her eyes moved to the stairway that led directly from the room. Then, silently now, she said to herself, ‘It doesn’t matter. She’s married, she can do nothing.’
And because of her own experience of pain, she thought, Poor Larry. If only he had brought himself to speak to her before this happened and she could have gone to him now.

  Impelled by the thought she moved into the front room and stood by the window. She could go over to the house now and break the long silence. She had an excuse, a good excuse—her mother would have to be laid out. Ma Broadhurst, together with Mrs King next door, usually did the laying-out for the street. She stared across the road, not conscious of the trend of her thoughts until her shoulders, slowly straightening, brought her carriage to a semblance of what it once was. No. She’d ask neither Ma Broadhurst nor Mrs King to do what was needed, she’d do it herself. She would be unable to believe that her mother was dead unless she herself did it. Moreover, as kind as the neighbours were, she did not want any of them in the house—there’d be enough talk soon when she stripped these rooms of the clutter and hypocrisy of years, for even if she should be left with only a table and a chair she meant to rid the house of its suffocating rubbish. And her mind, returning once more to the pain of her life, told her that if there was any move to be made with regard to Larry Broadhurst it must come from him, for she knew that all the moves in the world on her part would be useless. She turned from the window, went into the kitchen and taking a kettle of boiling water from the hob she went up the stairs, this time without a pause.

  It was half an hour later when the tap came on the back door. Jessie let it be repeated three times before she went downstairs. With the empty kettle in one hand and a pile of dirty linen mounted on the other arm, she came into the kitchen, and through the window that looked onto the small square of backyard she saw Willie Macintyre, all dressed up.

  The sight of him brought a swift aching fear—something was wrong with Larry. He had done something; the return of Pam Turnbull had made him do something. But when, depositing the clothes swiftly inside the copper in the corner of the scullery, she opened the door, Willie’s approach did not suggest that his errand concerned Larry. He was both jovial and ill at ease.

  ‘Hello, Jessie. Now don’t have a fit at seeing me.’

  ‘Hello, Willie.’

  ‘How are you, Jessie?’

  ‘I’m all right, Willie,’ she said quietly.

  He fidgeted and ran his hand up and down the door stanchion. ‘Can I come in a minute?’

  Jessie stared at him, then said, ‘Yes, Willie. Come in.’

  She had always liked Willie Macintyre because he had shared her adoration of Larry. Yet at times the adoration had irked her and she had thought, Why is he always hanging about? Why can’t he get himself a girl and leave Larry be?

  Now inside the house and standing in the kitchen, Willie’s joviality suddenly left him, and twirling his best cap in his hands—he had never been able, like Larry, to rise to the heights of a trilby—he said seriously, ‘I was wondering if I could help you in any way, Jessie, with your mother being bad an’ all? Get the coal in an’ things.’

  More than bewildered now, she stared at him. There were two sides she knew to Willie Macintyre. She had seen the reverse of the clown when Larry had left her. His pity for her then had brought him to her door, but for the most part he had been wordless. The bewilderment suddenly lifted and she knew why he was here. He had heard of Pam Turnbull’s return and once again he had come to offer his condolences, for like herself he may have imagined that, the way being clear, Larry and her would eventually come together once again.

  She said, ‘It’s all right, Willie.’

  ‘But I could do something, surely…an errand or something. Could I go for your mother’s medicine?’

  ‘She’s dead, Willie.’

  ‘What!’ He seemed to leave the ground with surprise. ‘Eeh, lass, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. When?’

  Jessie looked at the clock. ‘Twenty-seven minutes to three.’

  ‘Twenty-seven minutes to three?’ he repeated. Then screwing his eyes up, he too looked at the clock. ‘That’s nearly an hour ago, Jessie. Is…Mrs King upstairs? I’m sorry I came, Jessie, at this time.’

  ‘It’s all right, Willie. I didn’t send for Mrs King. I’ve done it myself.’

  ‘What!’ Again he started. ‘You laid your mother out?’

  If the words had implied that she had achieved this with the aid of a sledgehammer he could not have registered more surprise.

  ‘I had to do it myself, Willie.’

  ‘Have you had the doctor…the undertaker?’

  ‘The doctor was here at twelve. He gave her forty-eight hours. But you could do something for me, Willie, if you wouldn’t mind. You could drop a note in to Farrows the undertakers and ask them to come. And you could tell the doctor.’

  ‘I’ll do anything, Jessie, anything. I’ll go now. And you must have company. There’s nobody in our house, me ma’s gone off to Birtley to see my Aunt Flo, but I’ll get Mrs King and Ma Broadhurst.’

  ‘No, no, Willie, don’t bother; I’m all right.’

  Thrusting his cap onto his head he looked at her. All right, was she? She wasn’t if he knew owt…she had just laid out her own mother. My God! What a thing to do. And—he glanced swiftly at the windows—the blinds weren’t down. The years of strain had told at last. ‘Sit down,’ he said; ‘you must have somebody here. Now sit quiet.’

  She did as he bid her. When he had gone she sat quiet with her thoughts. They would come pouring in now; there would be knocks on the door and flowers; there would be condolences—the harsh things that had been said about the woman who had made herself into an invalid would be forgotten; she would be spoken of as Poor Mildred, and people would remember nice things about her. But it would soon be over. A week, then she would have the place to herself, clear and stark. It would take perhaps years to refurbish out of her meagre earnings the four little rooms, but no matter how long it took, she would do it. She put her hand to her head. It was odd, but the clearing of the house, the ridding it of every semblance of her mother, seemed at this moment about to take precedence over everything; the thought of it even was balm over the pain that was always in her heart. She felt nothing, no ache for Larry, no sweating fear of Pam Turnbull and burning jealousy of her elegance, and realising this, she thought, Perhaps I am ill. This numbness…I don’t feel anything any more. Well, if this was being ill she wouldn’t mind it; it could last forever if it kept the pain of living away.

  As the back door and the front door opened simultaneously, and Mrs King came in one way and Jinny Broadhurst in the other, she knew the ritual had begun.

  It was half past nine when Mr Dobson, the minister, came into the kitchen. He had just returned from Newcastle, he said, and his wife had told him the news. Poor, dear Mrs Honeysett, how she had suffered. And her patience…well, she would now be reaping her reward. She had been a good, God-fearing woman. Hadn’t her life proved that? And her home. Well, in a way he was glad she was gone while he was still in harness to minister to her needs, for now, although his spirit was still young, his flesh was getting old, and he would be glad to rest. Yet, he was glad he had been able to see so much of her. They had been great friends. Great friends. How had she been at the end? Peaceful, he was sure; peaceful. Had she left any word for him, any last message? Oh, how he wished he could have been with her in her last moments, but he had been forced to attend the Church Conference. Yet he wouldn’t have left her had he known the end was so near.

  Jessie looked down on the rotund, smooth-faced minister as he talked. She had always disliked Mr Dobson; she had come as near to hating him as she could hate anyone. At first, because, following his visits, life in the house had become more difficult for her father and herself; and these latter years because of his constant ranting. Rarely could he speak without reverting to the Old Testament. Hellfire and brimstone were his preventive medicines for sin, and it sickened her when, during his long visits to her mother, the droning of his prophecies would float down to the kitchen. But even then she had supposed he was good at heart, to give up so much time to s
itting with the moaning invalid. It had been within the past few hours that her hate had really escaped into life. Her eyes hard now with knowledge, she stared at him. She knew now why he had spent so much of his time upstairs, and she had a strong desire to cry out at him ‘You crafty, scheming old scoundrel!’ But she restrained her desire. He imagined that she was as dense as her mother had no doubt made her out to be, and with that denseness now she would match his craftiness. So, keeping her voice as calm as she could, she said, ‘No. She left no word.’

  Mr Dobson did not take his eyes from her face. ‘Was she conscious to the last?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she left no word—no message for me?’

  Jessie made herself appear puzzled. ‘Message?’ she said. ‘No. What kind of a message were you expecting? What about?’

  ‘Nothing…nothing. Just a word to an old friend. Ah…er…’ He moved the length of the hearthrug and back. ‘What are your plans, my dear? You know I am here to help you. You know you just have to call on me. I am used to deaths. Births, marriages and deaths, and all the trouble they entail. Now, will I see to the business side for you? The undertaker and the insurance people?’

  Jessie found it difficult to speak quietly. ‘Thank you all the same, but Mr Macintyre along the street is seeing to things.’ Her tone gave to Willie’s name the dignity of a city businessman. ‘And the insurance won’t take much seeing to. There are two policies and together they come to £38.’

  Mr Dobson’s eyes were now boring into hers, and during the silence which he seemed to enforce she stood their scrutiny without blinking. Then with a sharp movement he took his glance from her, and turning his back on her, he picked up his hat and went through the front room to the door. But there he stopped, and this time, without looking at her, he asked, ‘Did your mother leave a will as regards her property?’