‘Ten minutes,’ he replied.
She withheld her ticket. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ She turned from him and, running once more, went into the Ladies and to the lavatory. She did not sit down but waited a few seconds before she left the basket at the side of the pan, then hurried out.
She was crossing the waiting room when a voice hailed her from the door. The attendant stood there with a large duster in one hand, the basket in the other. ‘You forgot this,’ she called.
Her eyes dropped again before she moved towards the woman, and taking the basket she said, ‘Oh, thanks.’
As she approached the train she held the basket at an angle so that its emptiness would not be noticed.
After walking the length of the train she stood in the corridor. She had known she wouldn’t get a seat, not this late. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter. With the first shuddering movement of the train she leant against the partition and, her lids slowly closing, she allowed her muscles to unwind.
When a voice said ‘Excuse me,’ she opened her eyes and pressed herself back to allow a man with a suitcase to pass her, and when he looked at her and smiled his thanks no muscle of her face moved in response, but as he put down his suitcase and took up his stand against the door she moved slowly away. Walking down the corridor she crossed over the jangling connecting platform, and stood in the corner of the next coach.
It wasn’t until the train reached Doncaster that she found a seat, and when she placed her basket on the rack it drew the attention of the two men and the woman sitting opposite. Time and again her eyes would lift to the basket, incongruous between the suitcases, before dropping automatically down to the girl with the bright hair and the white face and the long legs, which she kept pressed close to the seat. She didn’t look the type to travel with a basket.
When at Durham she was left alone in the compartment with one passenger, and he a man; she went into the corridor and stood looking out into the whirling darkness.
Before they reached Newcastle the man came out of the compartment, and as he passed her he looked at her with open curiosity. A girl was travelling with an empty basket and without a hat or a handbag…no girl ever travelled without a handbag.
Just before the train reached Newcastle she tore up the pawn ticket and put it down the lavatory, and when she left the train she left the basket on the rack.
Again she was hurrying, now into the main thoroughfare of the city. All the shops were still brightly lit, but most of them were closed; even the one that advertised late closing on Friday night was about to shut its doors when she entered.
‘It’s five to, we’re closing, miss,’ said the doorman.
‘Please.’ She looked up into his face. ‘I won’t be a minute, I just want a case.’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘go on.’ His voice was kindly, and broad and thick with the northern inflection, and told her she was home.
On a counter to the right of her were some suitcases. An imitation crocodile, priced at twenty-one shillings, brought her hand to it, and handing the money across the counter she said, ‘I’ll take this. Where are the hats?’
‘On the first floor, miss.’
They had covered up most of the millinery in the hat department but, glancing swiftly around her, her eyes alighted on a grey felt. Pulling it on and with hardly a glance in the mirror she said, ‘I’ll take this one.’ The price was twelve and eleven.
As she turned to go down the stairs she saw a notice proclaiming ‘The Bargain Counter’. A model with wire arms extended towards her showed a three-piece suit in charcoal edged with dull pink braid. It looked exotic, and therefore wasn’t everybody’s buy. The price had been slashed three times. The tag hanging from the lapel showed thirteen guineas in large red letters. This was scored out and underneath was ten guineas, then eight guineas, and now the black figures stated that the garment had been reduced to five guineas.
She said to an assistant who was watching her as she looked at the suit, ‘What is the waist?’
The girl said, ‘Oh, the waist? The hips are thirty-four.’
Before the assistant could pull the tag from the inside of the skirt to ascertain the size, she said, ‘I’ll take it.’
‘There’s no time to try it on.’
‘I know.’
‘You won’t be able to get it changed, not at this price.’
‘I know.’
The assistant was smiling as she whipped the suit from the model. ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right; you’ll be able to carry it.’ She smiled a complimentary smile.
After she had handed the girl the money, she took the parcel and put it into the case, and when she passed out of the shop the doorman said, ‘I see you’ve got what you wanted, miss.’ He smiled at her as men mostly did.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, but without answering his smile.
Once again she was walking back to the Central Station, without hurrying now. In the restaurant she bought a cup of tea, and from the bookstall a paper; then going to the booking office she asked for a single to Fellburn. Out of the ten pounds she had received for the ring and the pound she had in her pocket when she entered the pawn shop she had only a few shillings left, but it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter; she was nearly home.
Half an hour later she stepped out of the train onto the platform at Fellburn Station, and edging her way through the crowd in the station hall waiting for the buses she went out into the driving, skin-searing sleet. She had one more thing to do before she could go home.
She went down Marlborough Road. This cut off the main part of the town and the new shopping centre, for even at this hour the street would be thronged, it being Friday night and pay night for both the pits and the factories. Even if the shops were closed the coffee bars would be doing a trade, and the clubs…the clubs roared on a Friday night, and who knew who she would run into.
She came out near the park and past the road that led to Brampton Hill; Brampton Hill where the elite of Fellburn lived, those that were left of them; Brampton Hill, the name she had put on the pawn ticket. Why had she put ‘Eight Brampton Hill’ on the pawn ticket? Perhaps because she had heard of ‘Eight Brampton Hill’ since she had heard of anything. She passed by St Vincent’s Catholic Church and the Convent, and next to the Convent the school which she had attended until she was fifteen. Then she crossed the road and went down a dark alleyway. She had always been afraid of going down this alleyway, even as recently as two years ago; now she was afraid no more. What was it? It was just a cut between a factory wall and a railway siding. And the dark? The dark was no longer terrifying; it was something that you could lose yourself in…sometimes.
The alley led her into an open plain. Once or twice she slipped, her high heels slithering over the snow; but all the time she was making her way towards the faint blur given off by a lamp in the far distance. When she had almost reached the lamp she stopped and peered at the white-capped hills of builders’ rubble. Stopping, she picked up a stone, weighted it in her hand, then discarded it as being too light. Then selecting a rough, chipped-edge house brick she laid it near her feet and searched until she found a similar one. When she found it she opened the case and took out the newspaper, and wrapping the bricks in it she put them in the bottom of the case, placing the bag containing the new suit above them.
The sleet, nearly all rain now, was full in her face and almost blinding her, but had she been blind she would have known the way to Grosvenor Road.
The houses in Grosvenor Road were large terraced houses; they were all old and looked respectable and dignified, even crowned with dirty melting snow as they were. Age alone had not brought these qualities to them; these had been built into the façade at the end of the last century. Each house had an iron-bound square of garden and the front door was approached by four steps, and number forty-nine, the third house from the top, was unique in that its steps were made up of red and ochre-coloured tiles.
As she reached the top step she leant against
the framework of the door for a moment. She wanted to get her breath, gather her wits together, say all the things she had rehearsed in the train. When there came to her the buzz of voices beyond the door, loud harsh voices, and the deep roll of laughter, she knew indeed that she was home. She straightened up and rang the bell.
PART ONE
ROSIE
Friday
When the door opened and Rosie saw her brother Jimmy standing there she did not move or speak, and he, for a moment, did not recognise her, for being six foot two the light in the hall beyond him diffused its rays from the back of his head.
‘Aye?’ he asked. ‘Who…?’ then bending forward he exclaimed in a quick, breathless whisper, ‘Name of God! Is it you, Rosie?’
‘Yes, it’s me, Jimmy.’
She was in the hall now; Jimmy had one hand on her shoulder, the other still grabbing the door. As his voice, spurting up his long length like steam from a geyser, yelled, ‘Ma! Everybody! Look who’s here. Just look who’s here,’ he shook her.
‘What is it? What’s up?’
‘No, no, begod! ’Tisn’t true.’
‘Rosie!’
‘Where have you sprung from?’
‘Rosie…Rosie.’
The hall was packed now, filled with men, all big men; and one woman, a big woman too. She came forward towards her daughter like a sleepwalker, her eyes wide and unblinking, and when she was a yard from her she flung her arms wide and gathered the girl into her embrace, crying, ‘Rosie! Rosie! Aw, Rosie!’
Had Rosie wanted to speak she would have found it difficult for the breath was being squeezed out of her, but she, too, clung to her mother, hiding her face in her thick, warm, fleshy neck until she was pushed to a distance as Hannah Massey, looking round at her four sons, cried at them, ‘Well, what are we standing here for like a clutchin’ of dead ducks? Come on with you and into the room where it’s warm…But lass’—her hands were moving over her daughter now—‘you’re wringin’, absolutely sodden. In the name of God, have you walked all the way from the station?’
‘I missed the bus.’
‘Then why didn’t you get a taxi?’
‘I wanted some air, it’s a long journey.’
‘Aw, child…just to hear your voice again, it’s lovely, lovely.’ Once more she enfolded her daughter in her arms; and now there was a derisive cry from one of the men.
‘Away to the room she said, away to the room where it’s warm…Go on with you; go on, old ’un.’ He put one hand on the massive back of his mother and one on the thin shoulder of his sister and pushed them amid laughter and chaffing out of the hall and into the sitting room.
‘Here, get that coat off you.’ Hannah was behind her daughter, and when she had pulled the coat off her she stopped and surveyed her with surprise, as did the men.
As Rosie stood self-consciously pulling down the skimpy jumper over the tight skirt a trace of colour came into her face and she said, ‘There was no time to change. I made up me mind on the spur of the moment. My other things are being sent on.’
‘You haven’t got enough on you to keep a rat warm, either in clothes or flesh.’ Hannah was standing in front of her again, feeling her arms. ‘And you’re as white as a sheet, girl. Tell me, are you all right? I’ve never seen you like this in your life afore.’
‘I’ve had the flu.’
‘I can see you’ve had something, for begod, you look like a ghost! A puff of wind would send you flyin’. Come, sit yourself down here by the fire until I get you a meal.’ She led her forward as if she was old or an invalid, then asked, ‘How long you down for, lass?’
‘Oh, a…a week or so.’
‘You’ll be longer if I get my way…Just wait till your da sees you. Oh, begod, he’ll be over the moon, over the moon he’ll be!’
Hannah Massey now pressed her daughter into the easy chair by the roaring open fire, and with her hands resting on its arms she bent above her, her big broad face stretched and softened in tenderness, and she stared at her silently for some moments. Then reaching out and gently patting the white face she turned away, overcome with her emotion.
When their mother had left the room the four men who had been standing at a distance like spectators now gathered around Rosie and they chipped and teased her as they always had done; and to one after the other she put out her hand and touched them, and each of them returned her touch with a gentle pressure of their big rough hands, and their open affection blocked her throat and dimmed her gaze.
Of her nine living brothers Rosie knew these four the best. Jimmy, the eldest at home, who had opened the door to her, was thirty-three. He was tall and black and handsome. Arthur was thirty. He too was tall but had not Jimmy’s bulk or looks. His hair was the colour of Rosie’s, only a darker hue. Then there was Shane. Shane was twenty-eight and six foot, big boned and thin, and he took after his father.
Barny was the youngest of the eleven sons born to Hannah Massey; he was twenty-six but could have been twin to Rosie herself, who was three years younger.
As she looked at these men, the lads as she thought of them, the warmth that emanated from them became almost unbearable. Up to two years ago they had teased and petted her…and had been proud of her. Yes, they had been proud of her. But two years ago they had not appeared to her as they did now. Then she had secretly seen them as big, blundering, narrow-minded bigots. Then she had longed to get away from their deep laughter, laughter that the weakest joke could elicit. Then, God forgive her, she had looked upon them as common and coarse, men without a thread of refinement among them. How dared she have thought that way about them!…How dared she!
Barny, touching her wrist with his blunt, hard fingers, said, ‘By, you’ve lost weight; you’re as thin as a rake.’
‘Well, you couldn’t say she was ever fat.’ Arthur pushed his fist gently against the side of her head. ‘All thoroughbreds are lean, eh, Rosie?’
‘Why didn’t you let us know?’ put in Shane, peering at her through narrow, thick-fringed lids out of a face that looked as Irish as his name. ‘You been bad or something…I…I mean afore you had the flu?’
‘No. It was just the flu.’
‘Just the flu,’ said Jimmy, straightening up and adjusting his tie while he looked down at her. ‘Just the flu. It’s enough for, begod, it pulls you down. I should know: I had it, an’ that bug, diarrhoea and sickness. It’s been going mad round here. It was only four days I was down, but Christ!’
‘Not so much of your Christing.’ Hannah came marching into the room with a laden tray. ‘I’ve told you, our Jimmy, we’re going to have less blasphemy round here…now mind, I’ve said it.’
The four men looked at their mother, a wide grin between them, then turning to Rosie almost as one Barny and Shane cried simultaneously, ‘Hear that, Rosie?’ while Arthur put his head back and laughed; and Jimmy, bending above Rosie again, said in a mock whisper, ‘Talk posh now; that’s the latest. Live up to our best shirts.’ He pulled at the front of his well-cut nylon shirt. ‘Bloody and bugger and Christ’s taboo…abso-bloody-lutely.’
‘Jimmy!’
‘All right, Ma, I’m only having you on.’
‘Well don’t.’ Hannah Massey’s back was straight, as was her face; her head was high, which brought it almost on a level with Shane’s, who stood near her, and as she allowed her gaze to rest condemningly on Jimmy she spoke in an aside to Shane, saying in a tone of command, ‘Fetch the dish out of the oven, you, and don’t spill it.’
‘OK, captain.’ Shane pressed his shoulders back, made a salute with a wavering hand, winked broadly at Rosie, did a smart about-turn and marched, knees up, feet pounding the floor, towards the kitchen. This act brought great gusts of laughter from the others and a compressed smile to Hannah’s lips. Then as she moved towards Rosie her face broke up as it were, and fell into soft warm folds, and she said, ‘You see, they don’t get any better, do they? They won’t learn, not one of them. Brawn, that’s all they’ve got. Could anybody on G
od’s earth refine this lot? I ask you…Now could they?’
‘Oh, Ma.’ Rosie smiled faintly and shook her head, and Hannah said, ‘Come away, sit up; it’s just something to be going on with. If you’d only let me know you were coming I’d ’ave had a spread for you.’
‘Aye, begod you would at that.’ Arthur nodded at her, his brown eyes twinkling. ‘And we’d all ’ave been on our toes. Spit and polish it would have been for every one of us, an’ sitting here like stuffed dummies waiting for your entry, like last time. Do you remember, Rosie?’ He laughed at her. ‘The house full of us all, like Madame Tussaud’s we were, all set up. Here’s one that’s pleased, anyway, you’ve come on the hop.’
‘Where’s your things, Rosie?’ said Barny now. ‘If they’re at the station I’ll get Phil next door to pick them up in the car.’
‘Aye.’ Hannah, pressing Rosie into the chair at the table and, bending over her and looking into her face, said, ‘I was just going to mention your things. Are they at the station?’
Rosie picked up her knife and fork. ‘They’re going to be sent on. I, I came on the spur of the moment, and just threw a few things into a case.’
‘But…but that in the hall; that isn’t your good leather case. Why did you travel with that thing? They’ll bash the good one to smithereens on the railway, you know what they are…’
‘…And after meself paying nine pounds ten for it.’ Arthur was leaning across the table imitating his mother’s voice. ‘You’ll not get another present out of me; begod, you won’t.’
Hannah struck out at her son; then cried at them all, ‘Go on, the lot of you, and get going; you were almost on your way.’
‘She’s pushing us out,’ said Shane. ‘She’s got our money.’ He nodded to the other three. ‘Friday night; she’s got our packets and now we can get to hell out of it. She’s got Rosie, so she doesn’t want us. She wouldn’t care if she never saw a hair of our heads…except on Friday nights. On Friday nights you’re as welcome as the flowers in May to Hannah Massey’s home.’ He touched his trouser legs and went into a little jig, which his brothers applauded.
Hannah Massey Page 2