The Menagerie

by Catherine Cookson

  When Willie made no reply to this, the minister turned to Jessie, smiling at her, saying, ‘Well, Jessie, I’ll have to be on my way. I’ll see you in the morning, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come to the vestry after the service and I’ll give you those books. Being my own, I don’t put them on the shelves.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  ‘And thank you for the tea, Jessie; it was a godsend. Goodbye.’ The minister nodded to Willie, then added, ‘Is there any hope of seeing you tomorrow, too?’

  ‘No,’ said Willie definitely.

  The young man’s laugh filled the room. ‘Well, that’s straight anyway. That’s how I like it. Goodbye. Goodbye, Jessie. And you too, Bill.’ He patted the dog’s head as it sat by Willie’s feet. Then laying a detaining hand on Jessie’s arm, he said, ‘No; don’t come; I can let myself out the back way. Goodbye.’

  As Jessie watched the minister walk down the backyard, Willie watched her, and when she turned to him and said, ‘He’s a wonderful young fellow, a sight different from Mr Dobson,’ he said, ‘Aye, I can see that.’

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea, Willie?’

  ‘No; I’ve just had me tea. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Well’—she paused and rubbed her upper arm with the palm of her hand—‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘Jessie…’

  ‘Yes?’

  He looked for a moment at a small gilt-framed picture on the wall, which he hadn’t seen before. ‘Dutch Interior’, it said, ‘by Pieter De Hooch’. It was all reds and browns and seemed dull to him, but when his eyes once more alighted on her face, he couldn’t for the life of him say, ‘Look, Jessie, it’s for your own good. I wouldn’t say anything, but you know what women are.’ And so on. Instead, he said, with a motion of his head towards the wall, ‘A new picture?’

  ‘Yes. Do you like it? Mr Ramsey told me of them. There’s a number. I’ll get them gradually. It looks like a real painting, doesn’t it, but it’s only a print.’

  He went towards the door, and she said, ‘I won’t be long, Willie…about twenty minutes.’

  He did not turn and smile, nor was there a usual chirpy word from him; all he said was, and then dully, ‘All right.’

  His manner caused her too to stand and watch him as he went down the yard. What was the matter with him? Something was wrong. Perhaps he’d had words with his mother. Yet he rarely, or never, had words with anyone, and not with his mother.

  She went upstairs and into the front room, which had become so changed in the past four weeks as to be unrecognisable. It was now papered in green, and the woodwork painted cream. It held a small, dark-oak bedroom suite and a single divan bed, and these stood on a russet-coloured carpet. She had done the room entirely herself, which had added greatly to her satisfaction. It had taken her nearly three weeks of nights to complete, but the self-imposed task had a twofold mission: she had begun to make the house fit to live in, and in doing so, she was giving herself no time to sit down and think. She worked until the early hours of the morning, and when, almost dozing on her feet, she went to bed, sleep soon came to her. Even when her mind, escaping from her hold, wandered down the pain-filled channels again, her physical weariness would come to her aid. And in the mornings too, there was no time to think—it was only in moments like the present, when she was donning her new clothes, that her heart cried pitifully for what might have been. But before the cry could reach her lips, the new Jessie would take control and the longing be pressed down, and she would say, ‘That’s over and done with. You were a fool long enough, and just look at what’s happened since you took a pull at yourself.’

  Willie was courting her. She was, even now, not quite over the surprise that he should want to. When he had asked her on Wednesday if she would go to Newcastle with him tonight, she had replied, ‘It’s all right, Willie, there’s no need to be sorry for me. I’m not worrying any more.’ ‘Sorry?’ he had said. ‘Sorry? I’m not sorry in that way. I’ve been wanting to ask you out for years, but I wasn’t in the running.’

  This knowledge had given her a strange feeling and brought comfort to the self that she was endeavouring to displace. It was odd, but with Willie she felt she could be nothing but the old Jessie, while with the minister she could be nothing but her new self.

  Two days after Mr Ramsey had called with Mr Dobson and stood silent while that enraged man had told her just a few of the calamities that were going to befall her for stripping the house, particularly the walls of its tracts, he returned. He had been awkward at first; then said in a boyish fashion that suited his face and manner, ‘I think you were right, you know, about scrapping those pictures and things. Clutter. It’s no use, inside or out of you. Do you read much?’ he had ended.

  ‘I’ve never had the time,’ she had replied, ‘but I’ve always wanted to.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m starting a library in the church hall, and I want customers.’

  ‘But I don’t come to church any more. I haven’t done for years.’

  He had looked at her, his smile gone and his face showing the seriousness with which he took his vocation and, which was more evident to her, the unsureness of himself.

  ‘By what I have gathered in the short time I’ve been here, I’m going to need new customers very badly soon. If I’m to be true to myself, things are going to be pretty awkward for me from a number of quarters.’ He had paused and stared, half shyly, half frankly, at her. ‘I’d like to think of you as one of my staunch supporters. When I saw how you made that stand the other day, I thought, I’ll be all right if there’s only a few like her to back me. Will you come?’

  Never had Jessie been given credit for firmness; never had anyone suggested that they would be better having her behind them. But at that moment, the man standing before her, who had held a parish in the south for nearly three years, had appeared like a young lad, a young lad who somehow, she sensed, was as lonely as herself.

  That was the beginning. The following Sunday she had gone to listen to him, and each Sunday since. In fact, twice last Sunday. It was, she felt, as if God had sent her a source of strength, making, in the new minister, a spring from where she could draw the antidote with which to inject the humiliation that had bowed and beaten her these past two years. He had a way of making her—she was even now still hesitant in allowing herself to think such a term—like herself a little bit. Larry had never encouraged her to imagine herself intelligent, but the minister did, and she found that she not only liked the books he loaned her but that she was able to discuss them with him. Just a few minutes ago, before Willie had come in, she had experienced the same feeling which had first come to her when drinking tea with Madame Fonyer…there were different ways of living. Different people opened up new avenues for you. They might be just escape avenues, but better that than no escape at all.

  Would she feel like this if she married Willie?

  She was staring into the mirror, buttoning the delicate, mossy-pink blouse, and she did not give herself an answer, but thought, I’ll pop in next Saturday, and show her the blouse. I think she really meant that I should go back. Then with her finger on the top button, she stopped and said, ‘No, Willie could never make me feel like this.’ Willie could never make her feel other than she was; he could open up no new avenues.

  There came a knocking on the back door and the sound of voices coming from the backyard, and she went down the stairs putting on her costume coat as she did so and thinking, I hope it isn’t Aunt Lot. I’d hate to have to push her off. But to her surprise it was Mrs Macintyre at the door, and Willie. Willie’s face looked grim, and he was standing in the scullery barring his mother’s entry.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jessie in perplexity.

  ‘I want to have a word with you, that’s all,’ said Mrs Macintyre over her son’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Willie, ‘it’s none of your business. I’m telling you, Ma, if you go on I�
��ll walk out. I’m telling you.’

  ‘I’ll chance that,’ said Mrs Macintyre stolidly. ‘Can I come in?’ She looked past her son to Jessie.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. But what is it?’

  ‘Look, Jessie,’ begged Willie over his shoulder, ‘go on upstairs, or come on out, and don’t listen to her.’

  ‘Be quiet a minute, Willie. What’s the matter? If it concerns me, I must know.’

  With a sigh and a shrug, Willie gave up and let his mother pass. Then before going out, he turned to Jessie, saying, ‘Mind, I’ve got nowt to do with this. Don’t hold it against me, mind, Jessie.’

  Bewildered, Jessie said, ‘Hold what?’ then turning to Mrs Macintyre, she asked, ‘Will you sit down?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Macintyre. ‘What I’ve got to say had better be said standing up, lass.’

  ‘Well, go on.’ Jessie’s voice was now flat; she knew the symptoms, she’d seen other mothers fighting because their sons were showing signs of leaving them. But, nevertheless, she was surprised, for she had always thought that Mrs Macintyre liked her, or, to put it more correctly, was sorry for her.

  ‘It’s just this, lass…there’s talk. I know Willie’s old enough to take care of himself, but I’m his mother. I want you to answer me one question. Is he buying your stuff for you?’

  Mrs Macintyre’s small bright eyes took in the room.

  So that was it. She should, she supposed, get on her dignity and cry, ‘How dare you!’ but instead she said dully, ‘No; he’s not.’

  ‘Well’—now Mrs Macintyre sighed a long significant sigh—‘if he’s not, who is, then, lass? I think Willie and me’s got a right to know—you know how things are with him. He should have asked you himself, but he’s too blooming soft.’

  Jessie stared at the woman. ‘Who is?’ she repeated. ‘Nobody…I’m buying it myself.’

  ‘All this?’ Mrs Macintyre’s voice lost its conciliatory tone as her arms swept about the room. ‘And upstairs an’ all? And all ready cash? Oh, yes, I know. It’s funny how things get about. Look, lass, I wasn’t born yesterday, so don’t think you’ve got a fool on. You never bought nearly two hundred pounds’ worth of stuff yourself. You get four-fifteen a week and you’ve only had that for a little over a year. And don’t tell me you’ve saved it either.’

  ‘Then where,’ asked Jessie slowly, ‘do you think I got it?’ Staring the older woman in the eye, Jessie waited.

  ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me that.’

  ‘I’ve told you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, lass.’

  ‘Well, where, Mrs Macintyre,’ Jessie repeated, ‘do you think I got the money?’

  There was quite a pause before Mrs Macintyre spoke again. ‘You hadn’t any money before your mother died, and the insurance money only covered the funeral.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jessie.

  ‘Oh—’ Mrs Macintyre turned away. ‘You make this hard for me, Jessie. But I don’t want to see my lad made a fool of, he’s a good lad.’

  ‘Where do you think I’m getting the money then?’ Jessie’s voice was low and flat, but persistent.

  ‘Well, since you won’t speak up and you force me to, that young minister. It’s the talk of the place the number of times he’s in here, and you neither daft, sick nor dying. It wouldn’t have mattered how many times he came, if you hadn’t suddenly got all decked out in new things, expensive things. And the house an’ all. Don’t you see, lass, two and two go together. And to see him go out just now and the look on my lad’s face, I just couldn’t stand it.’

  Jessie slowly sat down. Her face was drained of its colour. She looked up at Mrs Macintyre, her mouth opening and shutting, but she made no sound.

  These past two weeks, when she had continued with her buying, she had ceased even to wonder what the neighbours were thinking. Previously she had thought they would, like Mrs King, think she was getting them on the installment plan. But now her heart began to race. That young lad. She did not actually look old enough to be his mother, but inside herself she felt old enough. It may be there was a matter of only two or three years’ difference in their ages, but their worlds were on widely separated planets. And the folks were thinking, and not only thinking but saying—oh, my God—she felt she was going to be sick—if he should hear. Oh, anything but that. She’d tell them about the tin box and even give Mr Dobson what was left.

  ‘Mrs Macintyre’—she leaned forward, appealing with her whole body—‘I’ll tell you where I got the money. From…from my mother. She left it…she had been saving.’

  There had been a reluctant sympathy in Mrs Macintyre’s eyes for this lass she had known since she was born, but in a flash it was gone, and indignation was in its place. It was Mrs Macintyre’s proud boast that it was impossible for anyone to hoodwink her, and now Jessie Honeysett was about to try it on. Well, let her take what she got.

  ‘Your mother! Jessie Honeysett, do you think you’re talking to somebody from Sedgefield? Your mother! Why, I never thought it of you. Let the dead rest, lass, and be what she was, good, bad or indifferent. It’s wicked of you to try and pin something on her. Do you want me to believe that she was saving, pounds, hundreds, when you often had hardly a bite to put in your bellies? You were only getting three pounds a week all during the war, and your mother told me with her own lips, after your Da died, that she had to spend every penny of the bit she got on keeping the house going, as you wanted to save up for your wedding. She said she had to eke it out.’ Mrs Macintyre stood back from Jessie. ‘I hate to have to throw this up to you, Jessie, but there’s hardly a house on this side of the street that hasn’t kept you both going with meals one time or another.’

  ‘I tell you, Mrs Macintyre, she did. Pounds and pounds.’

  ‘Be quiet, Jessie! Don’t sin your soul. Earn your money which way you like—you’re not the only one these days—but don’t smirk the dead.’

  Jessie looked into the small, hard eyes, and what she saw there brought fear back into her life. Not so much for herself, but for that kind, young fellow. No-one would believe her about the money in the box; she had left the telling too long. But, but he was a minister…they wouldn’t dare to say such things about him! She stood up, crying, ‘You daren’t say such things about him! He’s a minister. He’s young and kind. That’s his only fault, he’s kind.’

  ‘A minister? He’s a man, isn’t he? A minister! Remember old Conway, the deacon…the dirtiest old swine alive. And I’ll grant you he’s kind’—her eyes indicated the room again—’but if you want him to keep down his job, then keep him out of your house.’

  Like a stone Jessie dropped back onto the chair, and bowing her head, she began to cry. And Mrs Macintyre, seeing in the fast-flowing tears the confession of guilt, turned and went out, convincing herself she had acted for the best and stopping her ears to the voice of her conscience, which was saying, If it had been Joe after her you wouldn’t have troubled your head. Joe was never free with his cash like Willie.

  Chapter Eight: Decision

  As fast as her rotund body would allow, Jinny bustled up the stairs. Half past eight here and neither of those two lazy lumps out of bed yet, and she herself been up since five, with the kitchen all cleaned and the ironing half done. Pausing on the landing for breath, she looked first towards Lena’s door and then to Lottie’s; then making her way to her daughter-in-law’s room, she knocked and opened the door in one movement, and on the sight of Lena’s great, relaxed body lying sprawled across the bed, she sucked in her lips. Then, casting her eyes towards the cot, she exclaimed angrily, ‘Whew, the smell! Lena!’ she called.

  There was only a wriggle from Lena.

  ‘Lena, get yourself up. Come on.’ She shook her by the shoulder.

  ‘Here, who you pushing? What you think you’re doing on?’

  ‘It’s after eight o’clock, and that child stinking to high heaven.’

  Lena pulled herself up on the bed
, pushed back her hair, and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. ‘If you don’t like the smell, why don’t you clean her?’

  This last remark deprived Jinny of speech. After one long stare, she marched to the door, and there, regaining her tongue, she cried, ‘Well, if that isn’t the limit. And it’s the end…do you hear?’ She did not wait for Lena’s reply, but went out, banging the door after her.

  Of all the cheek…the brazen piece! Well, something would have to be done; things were going from bad to worse. Since they had taken the child to the doctor’s, Lena had neglected it shamefully. But she had put up with a lot because of her son. He was in a bad way about the bairn, and oddly enough he made more of it now, since he knew there was no hope for it. The doctor had said he was afraid it was a mongol type—it was early days yet, but they had to be prepared to see her always as she was now. If she had been a cretin they could have tried iodine or thyroid. There had been fair successes with cretins, but he was deeply sorry and could hold out no false hope.

  Mongols and cretins…Jinny had never heard of such names, but she had known, as well as the doctor, from the start that the child wasn’t right. And she had known, before they took the bairn to him, what his verdict would be.

  Well—she pulled at a busk in her corset that was probing her breast—it was their responsibility, and they would have to shoulder it. And in a place of their own, too, for she couldn’t stand it any more. One thing on top of another.

  She did not knock on Lottie’s door but thrust it open, and in her present frame of mind she was prepared to haul her sister out of bed. But Lottie was already up. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed, and she looked apprehensively at Jinny, and said apologetically, ‘I’m sorry I’m not down, Jinny, but I feel sick.’

  The words almost caused Jinny to collapse. She gripped at the door stanchion and stared at the thin angular body of this woman, whom she had sheltered and protected in her own brusque way for forty-odd years. She raised her eyes to the long, grotesque face. No, no; God wouldn’t allow such a thing to come about. Women, good married women, would give their souls for a child…and been married years, and never seen the sign of one. But her! Only once with that dirty little fiddler and she was going…No, no; it was something she had eaten.