Harold

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Oh, thanks, Gran.’

  ‘It’s not cheap stuff mind, it’s a good make.’

  ‘Of course I know you wouldn’t buy anything but a good make.’ I now said, ‘You must have had to leave early.’

  ‘Aye,’ George nodded, ‘just after seven. But we were up from half past five or thereabouts.’ He jerked his head towards his mother. ‘If she’d had her own way we wouldn’t have gone to bed in case we missed the train. And don’t those trains move! And now that we’re here I thought it would be a good idea to take her round London.’ He again jerked his head towards his mother. ‘She might get to like it.’ And as he laughed she put in, ‘Never on your life.’

  ‘There are some beautiful parts, Gran,’ I said quietly, ‘and so much to see.’

  ‘There might be, lass, but it isn’t places I’m concerned with, it’s people. To my mind you get no response from big houses and palaces, it’s the people that matter.’

  ‘Well,’ I felt forced to say, ‘there are some nice people live in the big houses and palaces. There’s the Queen for instance.’

  ‘Aye, there is,’ George said with a grin. ‘Now that’s something, Mam, we might look in on her ’safternoon, an’ she might give us a cuppa, save us having to spend out.’

  Surprisingly Gran answered, ‘She might an’ all. I wouldn’t put it past her, for she seems to be the only canny body in this neck of the woods.’

  Although it caused me pain in my chest and in my rearranged guts, as Mike had called them, I joined my laugh to George’s.

  But the next minute there was almost an explosion when he said, ‘If you want a lesson in bigotry you come to the north-east, especially from types like this ’un.’ He now dug his elbow towards Gran. ‘I’ve travelled the country in me time, as you know, lass, and what I found was, if you look for the bad ’uns you’ll find ’em. And she needn’t look any further than her own street, silly old jenny.’

  ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘A jenny.’

  ‘That isn’t me name. What you up to?’

  ‘I know it isn’t your name, Mam, it’s another name for an ass.’

  I didn’t listen to Gran’s explosion, but I looked at George. He didn’t change; he held no animosity: he had lost three fingers in the fire, burnt off to the bone, but he held no bitterness towards me. He didn’t say, as his wife had done, if it hadn’t been for my letting them have the house to live in they wouldn’t have suffered as they did in the fire, and her youngest daughter wouldn’t have been scarred for life …

  As I had done once before after they left, in order, as Gran said, to have a meal before they got on the train, ’cos they weren’t paying train prices, I criticised myself for feeling relieved of their presence, at least of Gran’s; no, not of George’s, never George’s.

  I must have been very tired following their visit for I went to sleep and I remember little of what followed that day except Tommy saying ‘Sleep, dear.’ And that’s what I did for the next three days: I ate and I slept and my mind stopped working. I think this must have been the outcome of the numerous pills they had given me to swallow …

  Towards the end of the week, however, I was feeling different, brighter, more alert. I no longer had a headache and, too, on the Friday morning the bandage was taken from my head, and although this had revealed that I was bald above one ear, I quite readily agreed with the doctor that all I had to do was to alter my parting.

  It was on the Friday afternoon that I had another visit from the Mohican. I could never think of him by any other name; not that there was any resemblance to him in the very smart young man who took his seat beside my bed, saying, ‘What a difference! You look marvellous.’

  Why did people always say I looked marvellous? I’d never looked marvellous in my life. And so the answer I gave was, ‘Not even the term exaggeration could fit that remark,’ to which he replied, ‘And the remark proves that you are yourself again.’ Then a little hesitantly he went on, ‘I thought I’d call in to say goodbye, at least for the present. I’m being sent home to my old station, but as soon as the case comes up I’ll be back. It’s amazing what’s been unearthed: one thing’s led to another.’

  ‘Are they going to make you Chief Constable?’

  There was a touch of sarcasm in my tone, and he answered it, ‘Not yet. No, not yet.’ He pulled a face at himself. ‘Undercover men are just undercover men. There are a number of us.’

  ‘Are you taking Hilda with you?’ I asked.

  I saw the expression on his face change and his lips purse before he answered, ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well’—he shrugged his shoulder now—‘Hilda belongs to a chapter that is past, or is passing.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Leviston, you know Hilda, you’ve seen her, you’ve heard her. Anyway, she understands. Even as … the Mohican, she realised there was nothing permanent in our association, there never is with the Mohican types.’

  ‘Or other types, I should imagine.’

  ‘You’re condemning me?’

  ‘I … I think Hilda’s very fond of you and you used her.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Well, not in the way you mean; she picked me out. And anyway, look at us as we are now, chalk and very much cheese. Now, if she had a mind like yours … We, for instance, recognised each other, didn’t we, even when I was the Mohican?’ His head had come forward; he was looking at me in an odd penetrating way. ‘How old are you?’ he asked. And I just prevented myself from saying, ‘What?’ but answered, ‘Thirty-five, hitting thirty-six. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-seven, hitting twenty-eight. There’s not much difference between us age-wise, or any other way that I can see, and I recognised it the first time we met.’

  I pressed myself back into the pillows. What was this? Yet I knew what it was, and I knew he was right. Yes, I had felt something in him the first time we met. It was in his voice. I had felt my heartbeat quicken as it didn’t do when Tommy was near me. Oh my God! This was silly, stupid really, ridiculous. I forced myself to turn my face to him and say in a heavy tone, ‘I have one adopted son, I don’t want another.’

  ‘Oh … oh, don’t be silly, my dear … Mrs … Leviston … Maisie.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Don’t you be silly.’

  ‘Are you going to marry Tommy Balfour?’

  ‘That’s … that’s my business.’

  ‘Then you are not sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure of what I mean to do, but again I say that’s my business. And … and now I’m very tired.’

  He stood up and looked down at me, saying, ‘End of act two, that’s a good line to finish on, but the play has some way to go yet. Goodbye, my dear.’ Then quickly and before I could prevent him, he kissed me. And now he was smiling as he said, ‘And we’ve got that in common, too: we’ve both got bald patches behind our ears.’

  I did not look at him leaving the room. My heart was beating against my still painful ribs. What, in the name of God, was the matter with me! What was it that people saw in me so much that they could hate me to death, or love me? Nardy, Tommy, and now this attractive young being. There was something weird about me, there must be. It had come out with the horse. But this latest business; no; no, never. Pull yourself together. Yes, yes, I must, and when Tommy comes tonight I’ll tell him … I’ll tell him that I’ll marry him. Definitely I’ll tell him.

  Tommy came as I knew he would, but I didn’t tell him I would marry him.

  Three

  In whatever way my emotions were affected by the Mohican they were definitely put in their place the following day when I had a surprise visit from Hilda. The first part of the surprise was that she was no longer wearing her extraordinary get-up that had matched the Mohican’s but was dressed in a green skirt and a three-quarter length coat to match. The white blouse had a bow at the neck and the whole outfit looked so simple, and so unli
ke Hilda that at first glance I did not recognise her; even her hairstyle was different, soft, hanging down onto her shoulders.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Leviston.’

  ‘Hello, Hilda. Oh, how nice to see you.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me comin’ in?’

  ‘Of course not. Of course not. Sit down.’

  As she sat down to the side of the bed she said, ‘I haven’t brought you anything. Well, you see, I didn’t think I would come in, have the nerve like.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t be silly; why shouldn’t you come in and see me?’

  ‘Because of me mum. Not that I said I was comin’. She stopped May and Max. He wanted to bring Harold. And you know Max, or at least you don’t, Mrs Leviston, but he’d make a cat laugh at times and Mum said it pains you to laugh.’

  ‘Oh, not any more; and it’s good to laugh.’

  I was smiling widely now but Hilda wasn’t, she was looking down at her hands and the two fingers that were seemingly picking another hole in the white honeycombed bedcover.

  I waited for a moment or so before I asked, ‘Is anything wrong, Hilda?’

  She lifted her head. Her eyes were blinking, and she looked away to the far window as she said, ‘I shouldn’t have come, an’ he’d go for me right, left’n centre, if he knew, for … for he likes you. He … he thinks you’re very clever and understandin’, and I thought—’ she swallowed deeply before she brought her eyes to mine and ended, ‘you might have a word with him and persuade him like. I know we are different and I’m not up to his standards, I’m dim, like, I know I am. I know I am.’

  ‘You’re not, Hilda.’

  Her eyes were blinking more rapidly now and her voice was slow and definite as she said, ‘Oh, yes I am, Mrs Leviston. Not if I’d been like May, things would’ve been different. But he’s … he’s a gentleman. He is, you know, you know he is, Mrs Leviston. You saw the difference straight away. He always said you could see below the skin.’

  She was again looking down at her fingers which were plucking more quickly now at the bedspread and her voice was a mere whisper as she said, ‘I love him. I’d die for him. I’d do anything for him. I’d keep in the background. I told him I would as long as he would let me be there near him. I said I would try to learn to speak proper an’ all that, and how to act and … ’

  My short arm came out and almost dragged her fingers from their plucking and my voice was harsh as I said, ‘Don’t denigrate yourself like that, Hilda! You’re as good as he is any day.’

  ‘Oh no, Mrs Leviston.’ Her head was shaking.

  ‘I mean it, Hilda. There’s more things in life than being able to talk properly, as you say, and act as if you were somebody you’re not. You’ve got what many people would envy, capacity to love, and that’s a great thing, Hilda.’

  ‘You think so, Mrs Leviston?’

  ‘I don’t just think so, I’m sure of it. Now you get it into your head that you are worth loving, and you tell him so. Don’t crawl, Hilda. Don’t crawl.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Leviston, I’ll always crawl where he’s concerned; he’s just got to open his mouth. And … and Max is always singin’ “Less than the dust ’neath thy chariot wheels”. He sings it funnily, but … but I’ve often thought that’s how I feel with regards to John. I can never think of him by any other name but John. And things would have been different if he’d let me keep the baby … ’

  She finished this sentence with her mouth agape; then, her hands linking together, she shook them as she said, ‘Mum warned me, I’ve only to open me mouth and I’d get somebody hung.’

  ‘You have a baby?’ I’d pulled myself now from the pillows without any effort and was bending towards her.

  And she muttered, ‘I could have had, I wanted to, but … but I had an abortion.’ Her eyelids lifted and she stared at me for a moment. ‘He wanted it that way. An’ … an’ Mum an’ all, ’cos as she said, he’d never be able to work to keep it, an’ what a life it would have had. Of course we didn’t know then that he could have worked and was already workin’ sort of. Anyway, it had to go. And … and I was bad after. I couldn’t stop cryin’. I was sent away for three weeks so I could pull meself together. He was nice about it.’

  Gran’s retort was in my mind. ‘Bloody hell!’ she would have said. ‘He would be nice about it.’

  ‘I … I think if I’d had the baby I wouldn’t have minded so much, I mean about now, being left. May’s been a brick. She’s taken me in an’ looked after me ’cos I started that cryin’ bout again. But I’m over it now. Well, I mean, I’ve got to face up to it like, haven’t I?’

  She had forced a smile to her face, but at this moment it was I who wanted to cry.

  ‘May was for me comin’ to you about him, but Mum nearly went round the bend. She swore what she’d do to me if I did. But’—her smile widened a bit—‘here I am, and I know I’ll get it in the neck but I had to try. Do you understand, Mrs Leviston?’

  ‘Yes, Hilda, I understand. And you know something? And I mean this: I think you are too good for him, far too good for him.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, Mrs Leviston; he’s educated an’ … ’

  ‘Damn education!’ The jerk I gave made me take my hand from her arm and hold my neck, and she said, ‘Oh dear! There I am upsettin’ you.’

  ‘Oh, no, of course you’re not; it’s just when I jerk my head I think it’s coming off. But to get back to what I said, or to say something further. I could only wish that you’d get over your feeling for him and find a nice young man who’d make a home for you and you for him. How old are you?’

  ‘I’m on twenty-five.’

  I was again surprised for I had thought she was nearer the Mohican’s age … The Mohican. How could I ever have thought … ? What had I thought? Again the pain went down my back as the movement of my head denied my thoughts. He was a snob, an upstart. Who did he think he was, anyway? After all, he was just a policeman.

  ‘Will you speak to him if you see him, Mrs Leviston?’

  I had to force myself to say, ‘Yes, yes, I’ll speak to him, Hilda.’ I had not said in which way I would speak to him.

  ‘I’d better be goin’ now.’

  ‘You aren’t at work?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve been off these last two or three days. I wasn’t feelin’ up to the mark. The doctor gave me a note. Nervous debility, he said. Well, goodbye, Mrs Leviston, you’ve been so nice. Mum says you’re always nice. She thinks the world of you, does Mum. She says it was a lucky day for her when you married Mr Nardy. She’s meanin’ about you takin’ Harold. None of us can get over how you handle him, because he’s a holy terror.’

  ‘Is he not behaving himself?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, he’s all right now, because’—she laughed now—‘he knows he’s got to be, else Mum’ll tell you. An’ you know, he’s terrified of not comin’ back to you. An’ you know somethin’ else?’ She bent over me now. ‘It had the lads in stitches at first until Mum said, the next one that laughed she would kick his ar … smack his face for him, ’cos you see Harold says his prayers at night.’

  ‘He says his prayers?’ My smile was soft, my voice was soft.

  ‘Yes. Yes, he does, Mrs Leviston.’

  Harold saying his prayers. I had never made him kneel down and say his prayers … That must be the school. Bless them. Of a sudden I longed to be home with Harold and Tommy. Oh yes, with Tommy. My mind had strayed from Tommy … Damn that Mohican.

  ‘Goodbye, Hilda. And just a moment.’ She was turning away, but I caught her hand again and said, ‘You won’t believe this, but you’ll get over him. I know you will. And you’ll meet a nice fellow one of these days. You’re too warm and kind to be passed over. He’s a fool. Oh yes, he’s a fool and he’ll find it out one day.’

  She was unable to speak, her lips were moving in and out as she attempted to swallow, and hastily she turned from me.

  She’d had a baby. He had made her have an abortion. And she had wanted a baby, especially his baby. Some men we
re cruel and cruelty didn’t only come through ignorance, it came through education and the feeling that because of it you were different, superior, and of a class that wouldn’t deign to marry beneath it. Make use of it. Oh yes, make use of it, as he had done of Hilda to help him complete the picture of the dropout. I hoped I never set eyes on him again.

  And I didn’t for a week; and then I was sitting up and had more strength with which to speak my mind.

  In the meantime I had another visit from a member of Janet’s family, and this one not only surprised me but amazed me after I’d got over the fright of seeing her walking into the ward with her son … my son.

  The only name for Maggie Stoddart was blowzy: she was big-busted, big-hipped, and with a wide face and mouth to match; her hair was dyed inky black, and her eyes were deeply mascaraed. What age was she? She could have been thirty or fifty. She had a bouncy air about her, and in the following half-hour I came to know that it would always defy whatever age she reached.

  When Harold had tugged his hand from hers and run to the bed I put my arms about him but said nothing. Nor did he speak, he just looked up at me as I now turned my gaze towards his natural mother, who said, ‘S’prised to see me, Mrs Leviston? I’m … I’m his mum.’ And she thumbed towards Harold.

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Well, take a look.’ She patted her stomach none too gently. ‘I do seven and a half months.’

  What could one say to that except, ‘Do sit down.’

  She sat down, then said, ‘Don’t look so worried; I’ve not come to try an’ get him back. Oh, no, not me. Anyway, he wouldn’t come. Would you?’ She leant across the bed as she demanded an answer to this question from her son … our son. And he replied simply, ‘No, Mum.’