Madame closed at four on a Saturday. Jessie had entered the shop at half past three. At five thirty she was still there, sitting in a dressing gown much too small for her and drinking tea and eating cake at a delicate Cabriole-legged table. She had talked during the past two hours as she had never talked before. For the life of her, she couldn’t tell what had made her do it. She had told this little fat stranger all kinds of things; but of course, not everything, not the important things.
But Madame Fonyer had filled in the gaps in Jessie’s narrative, not at all inaccurately. She had taken to this big, soft-voiced, tender woman, who had been used and hurt, and who was on the point of fighting back. Madame Fonyer did not often get people like Jessie in her shop. Most of her clientele were forceful, sturdy and bumptious, made so, she surmised, by the harsh Northern environment. Part of her religion was that for a woman there was no morale builder to compare with clothes. But not always did she go out of her way as she was doing today to press this point. She was intrigued by this big gauche woman who had crept into her shop on a very slack afternoon, so much so that she had called in her fitter from the workroom, not to take measurements and let the alterations take their turn, but to do what was necessary now, such as letting out the waist of the skirt and dropping the hem on the matching coat. Madame, biting deep into a piece of cream-filled sponge, said playfully, ‘Don’t let this be the last time you pay me a visit.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Jessie, ‘I won’t.’ Then she added naively, ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for years…I don’t think ever, not like this. I never thought buying clothes could be like this.’
‘Well’—Madame wiped her fingers—‘see that you repeat it…this enjoyment.’
‘Oh, I’ll come back again,’ said Jessie, and she meant it. She had parted with forty-nine pounds as if they were shillings, and for it she had received a costume, a coat, a hat, and a pair of gloves. Twenty-five pounds the costume had cost. She knew she was mad, but it was a wonderful madness, as the mirror had shown her. The colour of the costume had made her skin look so different, and Madame Fonyer had taken a lipstick and with a few strokes made her mouth look different, too. But she’d rub that off, once she was outside, for in make-up she had never gone beyond cream and powder. Her mouth was large, and she thought that lipstick would certainly not enhance it. She only hoped it was dark when she left the shop.
But it was still light when Madame saw her to the door, and there she looked down at her shoes. ‘Now, don’t forget, plain navy colour…but plain. Half heel, and fine leather. And a new blouse too you must have; soft, mossy-pink, very pale. And come and see me when you have them, yes? Goodbye, my dear.’ She shook her hand. ‘You go out a different woman…and keep that back straight. And don’t forget to come and see me again.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, I will, and thank you, thank you for a wonderful afternoon. I’ll never forget it…it was such a surprise. Goodbye, goodbye.’
‘Au revoir,’ said Madame.
Like a ship being launched from the stocks, Jessie moved into the street, and like a ship when it first contacts the water, she rocked a little. She was exalted and frightened at the same time. She had to go to the bus stop and she’d have to stand in the queue, and there’d be sure to be someone who knew her.
On the pavement a man made way for her, and as he did so, his eyes moved over her, and she became hot. It was the lipstick, she’d rub it off. She moved the striped box that housed her old clothes to enable her to get to her handbag. Then with her handkerchief to her lips she hesitated, for before her mind’s eye there had flashed a picture of Pam Turnbull, poised and painted. Her chin jerked, and with a definite movement she returned the handkerchief to her bag, and remembering the wonderful woman’s injunction as to her shoulders she kept them back as she neared the bus station.
Self-consciously she took her place in the queue, and she had not been standing long when from behind her came two well-known voices. If she had been recognised, their owners, she knew, would have hailed her immediately. But it wasn’t until they boarded the bus and were seated on the opposite side to her and she smiled at them that one of them exclaimed, ‘Why, it’s you, Jessie. Why, lass, I didn’t know you. And yet I thought I recognised that build and that hair. Well, well.’ She nudged her companion. ‘It’s Jessie.’
‘Jessie?’ The woman leant forward and said, ‘It is an’ all. Why, lass, we didn’t know you.’
That was all. Jessie sat back, and time and again during the journey she felt their covert glances upon her. There would be talk. Well, let them talk. When they were on about her, they’d be leaving someone else alone.
It was dark when she reached home, and as she turned the key in the lock Mrs King came out of her own door.
‘Is that you, Jessie?’
‘Yes, Mrs King.’
‘She’s not with you then. Have you seen owt of Lottie?’
‘Lottie? No. Why?’
‘She hasn’t turned up from being out, and Jinny’s nearly bats. She got back at five and Lottie wasn’t in then, and there’s been no sign of her, and Lena’s bairn’s coming. I’m just on me way over. They’re in a right pickle over there. She had to get the doctor straight away, and there’s a nurse there an’ all. It looks like a hospital job if they can move her.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Troubles never come singly. I’ll tell Jinny you haven’t seen Lottie. It was her last hope that she’d be along with you…Been gettin’ some new things?’ By the light of the street lamp she peered at Jessie. ‘Not black…well, nobody goes in for black these days. You’re wise. I can’t see very well in this light, I’ll have a look at them the morrow. If you hear owt of Lottie, let Jinny know, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Inside the house, Jessie switched on the light, and she paused with her hand on the switch. It was funny about Aunt Lot. Where could she have got to? She was such a gullible creature. Anyway, there was one thing certain: she’d get it when she came in.
She drew the blinds, then took off her coat and laid it gently over the settee. And she was making to remove her hat when she muttered aloud with a gesture almost gay, ‘I’ll go up and see what they look like.’ She picked up her coat again and was at the foot of the stairs when she heard a scraping on the scullery door, and a voice calling her name. Startled, she stood still. No-one could get into her yard unless they climbed the wall—the yard door was locked and bolted. Stiffly and quietly she moved into the scullery.
‘Who’s there?’ she asked.
‘It’s me, Jessie.’
‘Oh…Aunt Lot.’ Jessie gave a relieved laugh and quickly unlocked the door. And almost immediately Lottie fell into her arms.
‘Aunt Lot! What is it? Look, stand up. Stand up.’ But Lottie wouldn’t stand up, and practically dragging her, Jessie got her to the couch. She had forgotten about her coat, and when she released Lottie, it dropped to the floor. She snatched it up quickly, shook it, and laid it over a chair; then she turned to Lottie saying, ‘What’s the matter, Aunt Lot? Where have you been? How did you get into the yard?’
Lottie was panting as if she had been running, and she reached out and clung on to Jessie’s hands, and she mouthed at her words before they came out. ‘Oh, Jessie, I’m frightened…I am, I am. Jinny’ll kill me.’
‘No, no, she won’t. Be quiet now. How did you get into the yard? I didn’t lock you in, did I, as I went out?’
‘I got over the wall from Kings’ side. There’s boxes in their corner, but I fell on this side and hurt me leg, me foot. It’s paining, Jessie, something awful, and I’m frightened. Oh, Jessie, what’ll Jinny say? And me frock all torn…and me other things. Look…look. Eeh!’
The long, tear-stained face twisted up still further, and she cried, ‘She’ll put me away now, like Lena said.’ And she let out a wail and clapped her hands over her mouth, so that Jessie said sharply, ‘Now, now, stop it, Aunt Lot.’
Lottie made no reply, but with her hand
s still held to her mouth she rocked herself. That something was terribly wrong was quite evident. Lottie was without her hat, her dress was torn, and a strip of embroidery from an old-fashioned white petticoat was dangling from below her dress. But in her face was the greatest evidence of her trouble—her eyes were terror-stricken. She began to moan and whimper through her fingers, ‘She’ll send me away…she’ll have me locked up. She said she would…if ever I…Eeh!’ She turned to Jessie, clutching at her. ‘You won’t let her do it, will you, Jessie? You said I could come and live with you.’
‘And you can, Aunt Lot, you can. Look, sit quiet for a minute, and I’ll go and see if Willie’s in. He’ll tell Jinny, for she’s worried about you.’
‘No, no, Jessie, don’t leave me, I’m frightened.’
‘But what about? Where have you been? I thought you were going for a nice walk on the fells.’
Slowly Lottie leaned back; then she slumped sideways, and Jessie, thinking she was going to faint, cried, ‘Put your head down and I’ll get you a drink.’
‘I don’t want none,’ Lottie whispered. ‘I did go on the fells, Jessie.’
‘Well, tell me,’ said Jessie soothingly, ‘did something happen there? Come on now, tell me what happened.’ She stroked the tangled hair from Lottie’s wet brow.
It was some time before Lottie spoke again, but when she did it was not in her usual disjointed way, but almost coherently clear, as if the incidents of the afternoon were passing before her mind as a series of pictures which were plain to see and equally easy to describe. And the first part of her disclosure struck Jessie like a blow between the eyes.
‘It was after I saw Pam Turnbull…she was waiting for Larry. And he came, and they got into the big red car and went off.’
Gone was the armour of the new clothes; ripped away was the uplifting pleasure of the past few hours. It couldn’t be starting again…it couldn’t. He wasn’t…he wasn’t…He wouldn’t look at her after what she had done to him…and she married. What could she be to him now?
In answer to this question a feeling, new and almost terrifying in itself, reared up in her. The rage filled her head as if it were a white heat…it pressed on her eyes, misting them. He would sell his soul for her. The knowledge was so bitter that for a moment she forgot Lottie and her plight and made to rise, but was stayed by Lottie’s hands plucking at her again.
‘Let me tell you, Jessie, so’s you can tell Jinny…tell her for me, Jessie. It was when I was upset ’cause of Larry, and was standing looking over Quarry Hill saying to meself, “I mustn’t let on to Jinny about them, about them kissing and that”, when the dog came. It was a nice little dog and I stroked it. And then he came up, the fiddler.’
At the mention of the fiddler, Jessie’s attention was dragged from herself and she said dully, ‘Go on.’
‘Well, the dog got me cape, Jessie, and dashed off with it, and he went after it. And when I found them at the bottom of the lane it was right near where he lived, and me cape was all torn.’
‘But he lives in Bog’s End, Aunt Lot,’ said Jessie.
‘No, Jessie, not now. Behind it, this side, near the allotments, in a caravan. He rented it off the stall woman in the market.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, me cape was all torn and he said he would mend it. And he did…look.’ She unfastened the cape and went to pull it off her shoulders when Jessie said harshly, ‘Never mind that, go on.’
‘Well, he sewed the cape, and he made me some tea, and then he played the fiddle. He played lovely, Jessie; it was beautiful sitting and listening to him, and the caravan was lovely and clean. He showed me the cupboards and everything. Oh, Jessie.’ Her hands clutched again on the sleeves of the new costume. They were dirty and sweaty, but it didn’t matter—the hope that the clothes had inspired was dead.
‘I’m not bad, Jessie, am I? I’m not, Jessie…say I’m not bad. Jinny’ll say I’m bad.’
‘No, no, she won’t. Go on.’
‘He kissed me, Jessie, the fiddler kissed me…I forgot about Jinny and everything. And then I remembered Jinny and what she’d do if I didn’t behave meself, and I was coming home—I was, Jessie, I was. Honest to God, I was. And…and’—her eyes fell to her torn dress and petticoat and her head moved pathetically from side to side—‘I cried, Jessie…after…I cried and carried on. I was frightened to come home, and he hit me, and when it was dark he pushed me out. And I came to you, and I got over the wall and hid in your shed, waiting for you.’
Jessie herself was trembling now. The pity of it…the poor, lovable creature who wouldn’t hurt a worm and who had for years been a source of anxiety to her sister had now brought Jinny’s fear to fruition. The very thing that Jinny had dreaded for her from a young girl had happened. And she was forty-two. Yet for a fleeting second Jessie found it in her heart to envy this simple creature. Her own mother had repeatedly warned her against sin, but she need not have worried, Larry had been firm for them both. But would he be firm with Pam Turnbull? No. No, he wouldn’t—she was married and safe. The words suddenly screamed in her head, bringing her to her feet.
‘Where you goin’, Jessie?’
She was unable to reply for a moment, and Lottie begged again, ‘Where you goin’, Jessie?’
‘For Willie. He’ll bring Jinny over, and I’ll tell her. Don’t worry, only sit quiet.’
She pushed Lottie back onto the couch and went into the front room, and there paused a moment, and she said what she had thought she could never bring herself to say, no matter what he might do. ‘I hate him! I do, I do.’ Savagely, she pulled open the front door and went into the street, and she had moved only a few steps towards the Macintyres’ door when she became aware of Larry. He was stepping off the road onto the kerb, making for the same place as herself.
This was the first time they had come face to face for over two years. Jessie stopped within the range of the street lamp, Larry was on the fringe of it. The revolt had brought her head up and she was no longer conscious of her clothes. They were now secondary to her figure, gaining from it, not it from them, and the effect was startling.
For a moment Larry could not believe that he was looking at Jessie Honeysett. Jessie had never had any dress sense—even his mother had said, ‘Well, anyway, there’ll be one thing sure, Jessie will never ruin you with what she’ll spend on clothes. Her mother’s laid that foundation.’
Now, side by side with the feeling his conscience was creating and which he thought of as terrible, was a feeling of actual amazement. Jessie in this new guise was a creature he had no knowledge of, yet this was the woman he had cast off. And as he stared at her the terrible feeling increased.
‘Hello, Jessie,’ he said gently.
She did not reply but looked straight into the eyes that had held the world for her and whose caress could melt her bones, and she refused to be torn to shreds by the sight of them again…or of those arms, fleshless under the coat like steel bands. Even in this moment she could feel them still. But they had been round Pam Turnbull today, holding her, crushing her. Her fixed stare nonplussed him, and he said haltingly, ‘Aunt Lot’s missing. Dad’s out looking for her…I’ve just come in.’
‘Aunt Lot’s with me, she’s got a sprained ankle.’
‘Well’—he sighed, then gave an uneasy laugh—‘thank God for that.’
‘You needn’t be so quick in thanking God,’ said Jessie. Even to her own ears her voice was foreign, for it was harsh and hard and belonged to this new being struggling painfully to birth.
Its brusqueness, so unlike her quiet, rather lazy tones, made his brows gather as much as did the significance of her words, and he stared at her through narrowing eyes, waiting for her to go on.
And she kept him waiting, extending her own torture, before saying, ‘She’s been with the fiddler…in his caravan. Her clothes are torn off her back, and as far as I can gather, she was there two hours.’
‘God Almighty!’ Quick anger flooded his face now, and h
is hand went to his chin, gripping it, and he brought out between his teeth, ‘She promised.’
‘Promised!’ The low clear word held so much scorn that she saw him flinch, and slowly and with deep emphasis she added the next words: ‘She went with the fiddler after she had witnessed the meeting between you and your lady friend on the fells.’
Never had she seen a look such as was now on his face. Amazement, shame…yes, and fear were there. Her head went higher. For once during their association she was on top, the situation was in her hands. She wanted to hurt him, cut him to the heart as she had been cut. She wanted to lay some burden on his conscience, for she felt that the hurt he had done her had made no impression on it.
‘If she hadn’t been standing worrying about how she could keep what she had seen to herself, it’s likely the fiddler would never have come across her; and even if he had, her fear of your august displeasure would have checked her.’
As she spat the words out she was more and more surprised at their sound. It was as if the old, meek, acquiescent individual was standing aside listening to this being who looked and sounded as if it knew no fear. Certainly the fear of displeasing this god had fallen from her, and as she watched the creature that had come to life under the fingers of Madame Fonyer she realised that in her love for this man had been a great element of fear—fear of displeasing him, fear of not being good enough for him, or clever enough—oh, certainly not clever enough. And what she had feared had come upon her.
Her thoughts came back to Jinny and Aunt Lot and brought pity into her being again, and after one long look at his shamed face she turned on her heel, and keeping her head up and her back straight, she marched to the door and entered the house.
The Menagerie Page 11