The Blind Miller

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Mammy! Mammy!’ The cry came from almost above her head and she turned and, picking up the tray of tea, went into the kitchen.

  David had half risen from his chair. ‘I’ll see to her,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s all right. Leave her to me.’

  ‘She’ll keep you going. She’ll have you up there until dawn.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She put the tray on the corner of the table and went out and up the stairs, and when she entered her daughter’s bedroom the child was sitting up in bed waiting for her.

  ‘Paul didn’t read me a story, Mammy.’

  ‘Well, he was helping you with your spelling, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He wasn’t. I was reading to him and when it was his turn Auntie May called.’

  ‘Come on, lie down. What do you want?’

  ‘Oh.’ The child snuggled down into the bedclothes. ‘Henny-penny and Cocky-locky and the sky is going to fall.’

  Sarah pulled a chair towards the bedside, and, reaching out, picked up a thick-backed nursery book from the table. She had no need of the book, she knew the story word for word, but she flipped the pages over until she came to the story of Henny-penny and Cocky-locky going to tell the King the sky was going to fall. But before starting on it she cast a smiling glance down on her daughter and the child smiled back at her. Every now and again during the reading they would do this. Sarah would lift her head and look at the child and they would smile at each other. Almost from the day she was born it had been like that. They would look at each other and smile and become one.

  Every time Sarah looked at this child of hers she knew she was the luckiest woman alive, for she not only had the child, she had its father. In this tiny world of hers she had everything, everything to make a woman happy. Was not David one of the few men in work? They had four meals a day, they owed no-one, they had everything, everything that made for joy…that was David’s phrase. He had said to her, ‘I just can’t understand about you having nerves, honey, you’re not built like that. And we have everything, haven’t we? Everything that makes for joy. Is there anything you want? Tell me. Tell me, is there anything in the world that I can give?’ And then he had added quickly, ‘That’s a silly question on three pounds fifteen a week.’

  On that occasion she had thrown herself into his arms and assured him with all her heart that he had given her the world. Then why had she got nerves? Why had the doctor said she was suffering from nerves? The doctor had said he thought she was worrying about something…What was she worrying about?

  Again she had reassured him that she hadn’t a worry in the world. Perhaps, she had said, something had happened to her when she was carrying Kathleen, for it was from when she was first pregnant that she had felt this way.

  Yes, David remembered it was from the night she had the nightmare, the night following the day she had told him about the baby coming.

  She came to the end of the story.

  ‘There now, go to sleep.’ Sarah closed the book.

  ‘I haven’t said my prayers, Mammy.’

  ‘Yes, you have. You said them before you got into bed. You know you did.’ She patted the plump cheek, then, bending over, she laid her mouth to it and was imprisoned by two podgy arms.

  ‘Mammy.’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘Paul says he loves you.’

  ‘Does he? That’s nice. I love Paul too.’

  ‘Paul says that when he grows up he’s going to have a house with fifteen rooms and a big car.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad to hear that; we’ll have to go and stay with him…Leave go, darling.’

  As Sarah disengaged herself Kathleen said, ‘I want Nancy, Mammy, to keep me warm.’

  ‘Oh, Nancy’s too hard, you might roll on her and hurt yourself. Have Peter, he’s soft.’

  ‘He kicks me, Mammy.’

  ‘I’ll tell him not to.’ Sarah went to the corner of the small room and from a shelf attached to the wall she took from among numerous toys a dilapidated velvet rabbit, and, holding it at arm’s length as she walked to the bed, she said, ‘If you kick Kathleen, Peter, you’ll get your bottom smacked in the morning.’ She placed the rabbit in the child’s arms, kissed her once again, then saying as she put the light out, ‘I’ll leave the door open,’ she went from the room and down the stairs.

  Dan was in the kitchen now, sitting at the table shuffling a set of dominoes. He turned his head at Sarah’s entry. ‘Hello, there, how’s it going?’

  ‘Oh, all right, Dan.’

  ‘Is she asleep?’

  ‘Yes, she’ll be off in a minute…I hope.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘You go to the doctor’s today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, nothing fresh, but he gave me a different bottle, it’s very bitter.’

  ‘That’ll be for your appetite.’

  Sarah picked up her sewing from the dresser again and seated herself in David’s leather chair to the side of the fire and continued with the smocking. The dominoes clicked, and the two brothers and their uncle, all looking of a similar age now, played their nightly game. It had become almost a ritual, this gathering together each night from seven o’clock onwards. If, as they sometimes did, David and she went to the pictures, they would find Dan and John sitting at the table on their return. The key was always kept in the wash-house in between the legs of the poss stick which stood in the middle of the poss tub.

  And Dan played on a Thursday night too now.

  Sometimes they played Lexicon, or cards, but for the most part it was dominoes, and it was seldom that the evening did not end in some form of discussion. That their discourse kept clear of heated argument was due entirely to David’s even temper and Dan’s humour.

  The only reason why David played games, Sarah thought, was to keep his fingers moving, for he missed his piano-playing. She had tried in every way she knew to persuade him to continue his practice, but his answer was always the same. When she was welcome next door he would start practising again. She had learned in her six years of marriage to David he could be stubborn, and it was surprising to her to realise that he could carry this stubbornness to great lengths. She knew that neither Dan nor John would have been so tenacious with regard to his principles. Although David still visited his mother his visits were short and they had become shorter with the years. The reason for this, Sarah knew, was that Mary Hetherington had not taken to her granddaughter. Although David had not put this in actual words, she knew that he was aware of it.

  David’s voice now brought her attention to the table, and Dan, as he said, ‘What’s up with you the night, Dan? That’s the seventh game you’ve lost, and you’ve doubled twice. That means you owe me…’ He consulted a piece of paper in his hand, then looked up and laughed. ‘Four pounds seven-and-sixpence. I’ll let you off with the sixpence.’

  ‘Will you have it now or wait ‘til you get it?’

  ‘I’ll wait ‘til I get it.’

  ‘Aw.’ Dan scraped his chair back from the table, and, lifting his thick hair from his scalp with his spread fingers, he said, ‘To tell you the truth, me mind’s not on it, it’s miles away…in the shop.’

  ‘In the shop?’ John looked up from shuffling the cards. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. It’s like this.’ Dan leaned forwards his forearms on the table again, and looked from John to David. ‘The old man made a proposition to me today and I don’t really know what to do. It’s like this. He’s up against the wall now, like all the others; four shops have closed in the last month down the street and our books are so full of tick there isn’t any margin left. One of the main snags is that some of them when they’ve any money go elsewhere, down to Shields Market or some such place. I’ve said to them, “Look, you can have what tick you like as long as you bring your little bit of ready in.” Some of them do, but you just can’t keep going on the few. Well, he called me upstairs this morning, and there was the wife sitting. I tell
you it was awful, but he put it to me plainly. He said he would have to shut up unless he could find a bit of ready to meet the bills. He’s a proud old devil you know, but straight as a die. He’s got his faults, but he’s honest, and there he was, near tears. And the old woman, she was in tears. And he said to me without any palaver, “Well, Dan, what about it? What have you got left of your winnings?” “Well,” I said, “I’ve got just over four hundred.”’

  Sarah’s hands became still, the needle poised, and involuntarily she repeated, ‘Four hundred?’ And Dan, turning and looking at her, said, ‘Yes, from me winnings. You know, out of John Bull.’ Then, jerking his head round to David and shaking it, he muttered, ‘Don’t tell me you never told Sarah about it?’

  ‘No, I never told her. There was no need. It’s years ago you got it. I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘That’s him.’ Dan was looking at Sarah now, smiling. ‘Yes. I won six hundred in John Bull…Fashions, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ Sarah smiled. ‘Fashions?’

  ‘Yes, I was a dab hand at fashions. I knew absolutely nothing about them, so I came up…Well, there it is.’ He looked at the men again. ‘The old boy’s offered me a partnership if I’ll put me money in the shop. But he warned me, mind, that it might be like throwing it down the sink. If things don’t turn in another year, well, we’ll be like the others, we’ll be shut up. But the other side of it is that if I don’t go in with him we’ll be shut up in any case and soon, and I’ll be out of a job. And if I don’t get another, I’ll have to live on the four hundred, won’t I? They won’t give me dole with that gold mine in the bank, not likely. So it’s really as broad as it’s long. What do you say?’ He looked from one to the other.

  ‘You could start up on your own on four hundred,’ said John.

  ‘Oh no you couldn’t, except in a huxter’s shop; not a place like Campbell’s. It’s a well-established shop and it’s got a licence too, you see. He’s had that place thirty-eight years; in 1921 he could have retired, for he was sitting pretty then. And there’s another thing that needs thinking about. He said that if we can keep the place going he’ll leave it to me, that’s if his wife goes before him. If she doesn’t, then I’ll have to make her an allowance, but in the end it would be mine…It’s not to be sneezed at, is it? What do you say, Davie?’

  ‘I think it’s worth taking a chance on, Dan, for in the long run you’ve got nothing to lose. Anyway, you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?’

  Dan’s hand came out and he pushed at Davie, saying, ‘Aye, I suppose I have. But I wanted to know what you think.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said David. ‘And all the luck in the world. You won’t sink. I couldn’t imagine you ever sinking.’

  Shuffling the cards, John put in quietly, ‘If you want an errand boy remember charity begins at home, I’m ready any time.’

  Sarah, rising from her chair, looked at Dan. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea, and we’ll drink to it,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘That’s the ticket, Sarah. And look…’ He grabbed at her arm. ‘When I have me…me chain of shops running from Shields Pier to the Swing Bridge in Newcastle, you know what? I’ll buy you a car and a mink coat.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ She was laughing now. ‘But I’d rather have a wireless set.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re getting a wireless set; John’s making you a…’

  ‘Your big mouth!’ John slapped out at Dan, and Dan said, ‘Aw, I’m sorry.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘It was to be a surprise.’

  Sarah looked at John. He was dealing out the cards now. She did not say ‘Thank you’ immediately, but, turning to David, she asked, ‘Did you know about this?’

  He nodded at her and she said, ‘And you let me go on talking about wirelesses…Oh.’ She ruffled his hair, then, glancing towards John’s still bent head, she said, ‘I didn’t know you could do wirelesses. Thanks, John.’

  ‘That fellow can do anything,’ said Dan, laughing. ‘Anything he puts his hand to. He is a blooming genius.’

  Sarah’s words had sounded grateful, but as she went into the scullery the thought in her mind was, Why had he to be the one to give her things? He had made nearly all their furniture, except for the bed, the couch, and the armchair. And what would May say about this? Very likely nothing, but she would think and look all the more.

  As she put the kettle on she found herself feeling sorry for anyone who had to live with May, and she dared now to say to herself, I’m sorry for him. Every day for the past six years she had suffered because of John. There were times when she hated him and her feelings would come out in her attitude towards him. And most of the time she was on her guard in case she would say something to him that would bring comment from David. Yet besides all her submerged feelings concerning him, she was sorry for this big, bustling, bumptious, and frustrated individual. And he was frustrated in so many ways. Unemployment to him was a disease that was eating into the very core of his being, and it wasn’t lightened by the fact that his father, his uncle, and his brother were all in jobs. He was the one that could least suffer unemployment. There were times when, seeing him in the depths of depression, she had wanted to put her hand out and touch him, to give him comfort, but the fear that accompanied this desire almost paralysed her body, and she was thankful that it did. There had been one particular occasion during the past few years when she had been grateful, yes grateful that she was being blackmailed because of him; for if anything could prevent her softening towards him it was this weekly trial on her nerves. The situation had arisen when one day John had returned hungry and tired from a fruitless workers’ march, to be greeted by May and her barbed tongue. He had come over into the kitchen here—she had been alone in the house and he rarely came in when she was alone now—and with the sadness of an aged man, he had asked, ‘Can I rest awhile here, Sarah? I’m dog-beat and May’s playing hell.’ She had made him a meal, and then he had fallen asleep in David’s chair, and it was as he slept that there came on her an almost uncontrollable desire for her hands to touch him. And she had flown upstairs and stayed there until David came in…

  As she made the tea she thought, Him always making things for me, David must be blind. Then she attacked the suggestion with, Well, you don’t want his eyes opened, do you? Oh, my God! No, no, never that. Rather the nauseating sight of her father, the parting weekly with the precious five shillings, and her visits to the doctor for her nerve tonic.

  But how much longer could it go on? She could see her nerves as worn wires, and the strength of a wire at its weakest part. What was her weakest part? There was no answer to this, and she mashed the tea and took it into the kitchen to drink to Dan’s success.

  Two

  Over the years Sarah and Phyllis had met once or twice a month. If the weather was fine they took a ride on the ferry across the river. At other times they would walk down towards the sea. They had never reached the sands, for the time they spent together as the years went on grew shorter. Phyllis had now three children to see to, and Sarah always wanted to get back home to be in when David returned from work. Neither of them visited the other’s home. Their homes were rarely mentioned. Sarah’s decision, years earlier, had come to nothing. She had too much on her mind.

  On this Saturday morning Sarah stood in the shelter of a doorway in the market place looking over the stalls in the direction of Waterloo Vale where Phyllis was now living. They, as a rule, never met at the weekends—weekends were for the family and were a busy time—but this morning was an exception and it was Sarah who had written to Phyllis making the appointment.

  The market was almost deserted except for the stalls and their owners. The cutting wind was carrying on it a thick rain almost like sleet, and it was only early October.

  When she saw Phyllis moving rapidly with her light step across the cobbles towards her, she went to meet her. After both exclaiming about the wretchedness of the weather, Phyllis said, ‘Let’s go in here and sit down.’

  ‘Her
e’ was a working-man’s cafe, and when they had taken their thick cups of dark-looking tea from the counter they sat in the corner of the dismal and almost empty room. After sipping from the steaming cup, Phyllis, holding her hands over it, said, ‘Do you know any more? Have you heard anything?’

  ‘No, nothing, only what’s in the papers…Phyllis.’ She leant towards her sister. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘Me?’ Phyllis pressed herself against the back of the chair, repeating, ‘Me? No. No, I don’t, but by God I wish I’d thought of it years ago. Is he going to live?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just saw me mother for a minute yesterday. We hadn’t got the paper on Thursday night, I knew nothing about it until she came in; she had just come back from the hospital. She said he was in an awful state.’

  ‘Hell’s cure to him. He’s got what he’s been asking for for years. Some bloke likely caught him snooping and beat him up. I only wish the pollis hadn’t come across him so soon; if he’d lain out all night he might have died from exposure…that’s what they said in the paper an’ all.’

  Sarah bowed her head. The feeling of guilt lifted from her for a moment; she hadn’t been the only one to think along these lines. But she doubted if Phyllis had prayed for him to die. She herself had prayed every minute since yesterday morning that he wouldn’t regain consciousness.

  ‘The paper says his arm’s broken and he’s got injuries to his head. Oh’—Phyllis took another quick sip of her tea—‘if anybody’s got their deserts he’s got his. It said in the paper a pair of binoculars were found near him that he used for bird-watching. My God, that’s something…bird-watching. Birds all right. You wouldn’t think a reporter would be so daft as to put it in. Him! A man like him bird-watching. But me mother told them that. She said she had to say something because of him going round with a spyglass. I wonder where he got the money from to get it because he hadn’t got the guts to pinch. But what made you think I’d ’ad a hand in it?’