Hannah Massey

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘They are for somebody like you.’ Her mother smiled fondly at her, so fondly it was unbearable.

  As she left the house, with Hannah bidding her a loud farewell from the top step, the third door to the right of them opened and a woman came out. She was wearing a cheap fur coat and a blue felt hat, and Hannah hailed her with, ‘Oh, there you are, Jessie. You haven’t seen Rosie here since she was back. Are you away down the town? So’s she. You can go together. Where are you off to?’

  The woman paused on her step, and looking over the railings, she answered Hannah in a voice prim and tight-sounding by saying simply, ‘Hello there, Rosie.’

  ‘Hello, Aunt Jessie.’

  ‘Where you off to?’ Hannah called again. And Jessie MacFarlane replied in a tone edged now with superiority, ‘The ladies of the bazaar committee are having a coffee morning.’

  Hannah’s natural retort to this should have been, ‘Are they, begod! There’ll be some throats cut there this mornin’,’ but what she said was, ‘Oh, that’s nice, that’s nice. Enjoy yourself.’ And now she turned her attention to Rosie again, saying, ‘Away you go now, Rosie, an’ have a grand day, an’ have another look at that fur stole. You know…’ She pointed her fingers down the steps at Rosie’s back. ‘The one you were admiring on Saturday. Go in and try it on.’

  Rosie did not bother to ask her mother ‘What stole?’ but she went down the street towards the plump-faced woman, who was waiting for her, and said, ‘Isn’t it cold, Aunt Jessie?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Jessie MacFarlane. And with this they walked down the street side by side.

  At the corner Jessie MacFarlane said in a tone she attempted to make light, ‘And how long are you here for this time, Rosie?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Jessie,’ said Rosie; ‘I may get a post nearer home.’ As she said this she felt the woman pause in her walk, but she didn’t look towards her and she added kindly, ‘But not too near; Fellburn seems to get smaller every time I see it.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we’re rather a backwater.’ It was a statement without bitterness.

  Again they walked on in silence, until Jessie MacFarlane could contain herself no longer and she began to talk rapidly under her breath. ‘Ronnie’s settled,’ she said. ‘He’s got a good wife, she’s not my choice, but she’s a good girl and she’s going to have a child. Things are going smoothly. I…I would sooner have had you than anybody, Rosie, and I think you know it, but you saw it otherwise. My Ronnie was a man when he was going with you and he’s still a man, although now when he’s got responsibility he’ll be different. Yet men are men, you know what I mean?’ She was staring ahead, her lips scarcely moving as she spoke. ‘What I’m trying to say, Rosie, is you…you’ll not get in his way?’

  When Rosie answered she, too, looked ahead. ‘I can promise you, Aunt Jessie,’ she said quietly, ‘I’ll not get in his way.’

  ‘Thank you, lass.’ The voice was no longer prim, it was ordinary and thick with the North Country inflection. ‘When your mother rushed in on Friday night full of the news that you had come home it was as if she was pushing a knife in me, and she took the same pleasure in it. Your mother’s a queer woman, Rosie. I’ve said it to her face, so I’m sayin’ nothing behind her back. You were hardly indoors but she had to come and tell me. It was the same when you came home last year. And after knowing all the trouble that there was, and the lads fighting like maniacs in the lane after they had all been brought up together. Ronnie could hold his own with any two of them, but with the four of them it’s a wonder they didn’t murder him.

  Rosie could have said at this stage, ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t murder me,’ but her Aunt Jessie, like all mothers, wouldn’t think along those lines. Again she said, ‘You needn’t worry; if I get a job anywhere near, I won’t live in the town, I’ll live well away…’ She turned quickly and looked at the older woman. ‘But don’t tell that last bit to me mother, she…she thinks I’ll be living at home.’

  Jessie MacFarlane stopped; a thin smile spread over her features and she nodded at Rosie. ‘Never fear, I won’t. I’ve got to leave you here,’ she said, ‘the cafe’s just down the road. You were always a good lass, Rosie. I wish things could have been different.’

  ‘Me too, Aunt Jessie.’

  ‘Goodbye, Rosie.’

  ‘Goodbye, Aunt Jessie.’

  The world seemed full of worried and troubled people. She wasn’t the only one with things to hide. Her Aunt Jessie had always hidden the fact that there was something raw and ravenous about Ronnie. She had hidden the fact that he had attacked a girl when he was fifteen, in much the same way as he had attacked her, in a blind fit of lust.

  It had started to snow again when she reached the main road, and as she stood waiting for the bus she could see, between two rows of houses, the rising fells, snow spread, clean, beautiful, untouched by the slag heaps that decorated both sides of the town, where at one end stood the Phoenix pit and at the other the Venus pit. She hadn’t been on the fells for years, not since that Sunday when the two men had pulled Ronnie from her and he had fallen onto the grass, crumpled and sobbing like a whipped child, while she had crawled and stumbled like some terrified animal up the dell, and then had run until she came to the first house, where the woman who had been working in the garden caught hold of her and took her indoors and covered her with a coat. And she and her husband had taken her home in their car.

  Then Ronnie, driven by his love for her, that was a thing apart from his desires, had come to say he was sorry and the lads had attacked him like a pack of wolves. It had happened in the back garden. If Ronnie had not been of the size and stamina he was, and if her father had not intervened with a pick shaft in his hand, there would have been murder done that day.

  Her mother had really been glad that it was finished between her and Ronnie, for, as she had said comfortingly, she was worth something better than a miner. That was until she had heard she was leaving home, and then she would have given her sanction to the dustman to come courting her daughter, if it meant keeping her within sight and sound…

  When she reached the agent’s in Newcastle it was to find that there were a number of typists required but all for junior positions, and these at a wage rate that made her raise her brows. Did she want to try for them? asked the clerk.

  No, she said, she would wait. She had two years London experience working in a big office. Her shorthand speed was one hundred and twenty words a minute and her typing speed eighty words a minute, and she had been used to working with an electric typewriter.

  The clerk’s nostrils had dilated as he said, ‘Well, we’ve got electric typewriters here an’ all. We’re not still in the Dark Ages, you know.’

  She had apologised and said she hadn’t meant anything, but the facts were she had started in London at nine pounds a week and had risen to twelve, and she had been next to the head in her department. She thought there was no need to explain that the staff in her particular department numbered four.

  ‘Well,’ said the clerk, ‘there might be something in your line in the new factory they’re building yon side of Jesmond. It’s a way out from the centre of town though.’

  ‘I’ll try it,’ she said.

  It took her half an hour to get to the factory and another fifteen minutes walking around frozen humps of brick and machinery before she found an office with someone in it. The man was busy and abrupt. He said they were interviewing people for the clerical staff on Wednesday afternoon. She could come back if she liked. She thanked him and returned to the town, outwardly freezing with the cold, and inwardly feeling so lost, so alone, that she could have leant her head against the wall and cried.

  Since yesterday morning when she had broken down in front of Hughie, the tears had never been far from her eyes. She seemed to be crying inside all the time now and wanting to give vent to it. Her body and mind felt sore, so sore that she recoiled from human contact. A man sat down beside her in the bus, and her body shrank inside her clothes a
nd she was fearful that it would be evident and the man would look at her and say scornfully, ‘You needn’t move away, Miss, I’m not lousy.’ He would have said something like this because he was wearing greasy working clothes; a mac that had once been fawn and was now black, a cap that had lost its shape under grease and dirt. Nevertheless, it was an enviable uniform, one that signified he was at work in some yard.

  When she reached the city she was too late for lunch, so she went into a cafe and had a cup of tea and a sandwich. Afterwards she walked round the stores until the light faded. She had no desire to hurry home, at least not before the men came in; she didn’t want to be alone with her mother again…

  It was half past five when she entered the house, and the brightness and the smell of fresh baking brought its own comfort. Hannah greeted her with, ‘By, lass, I thought you were never comin’. Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  Hannah was placing plates, piled high with bread, on the table. Her father, Arthur and Shane were already in the room, and it was Shane who said, ‘Any luck, Rosie?’

  ‘No, Shane; but there may be on Wednesday. They’re taking on clerical staff at the new factory.’

  ‘Come and get yourself warm.’ Her father held out a crooked arm towards her, and when she went to him he pulled her into its circle and squeezed her waist. ‘By, you’re cold, you’re froze. Just feel your hands.’ He took her hands in his and chafed them together, rubbing warmth into them.

  ‘I’ve made your favourite,’ Hannah called over her shoulder as she went towards the kitchen, ‘apple puddin’. Did you have a nice lunch?’

  ‘Not bad, Ma.’

  ‘Aw, you can’t get a decent bite in them cafes and places. I’ve done you some plaice cooked in butter, t’would melt in your mouth.’

  ‘Begod!’ Broderick bounced his head at Rosie in mock anger. ‘Plaice done in butter, t’would melt in your mouth, and apple pudding, at teatime at that. She never puts herself out like that for us, does she?’ He appealed to his sons, and they grinned at her and Arthur said, ‘Bread and scrape, that’s us.’

  It would seem that they had all regained their good humour, that there was no issue about Brampton Hill, and that the incident at Sunday dinner had never happened.

  ‘Lucky if we get the bread sometimes from the old faggot.’ Shane spoke loudly so that his mother should hear, and he pulled his head into his shoulders and slanted his eyes towards the kitchen like a child waiting for a clout.

  ‘I can hear you in there; I’ve got me ears cocked to your slanderin’.’

  Rosie looked at her father, and he smiled warmly back, and leaning his face in an endearing gesture against hers, he whispered the familiar phrase, ‘She’s over the moon, over the moon to have you back to do for.’

  ‘Now if Jimmy and Barny will put their noses in the door, we’re all set.’ Hannah came marching into the kitchen carrying a great soup dish of stew, and as she placed it on the table the sound of the back door opening made her turn her head, and she cried, ‘Is that you?’

  Barny’s voice answered her, saying, ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s Barny,’ she said. ‘Jimmy won’t be far behind. Come on!’ she called. ‘The tea’s ready.’

  Hannah was dishing out the stew when Barny came into the room, and it was the way Arthur’s face screwed up as he looked at his brother that made her turn towards her youngest son. In a glance, she took in trouble. She placed the ladle in the dish and, facing him, said, ‘What’s up?’

  He passed her without speaking, and he passed Broderick, with his arm still round Rosie’s waist, and he went to the fire and held his hands out to the blaze before saying, ‘I’ve got the push, a week’s notice.’

  The whole room was alerted, and there were exclamations from them all, except Rosie, but Hannah’s was the most strident. Questioning and commanding at the same time, she cried, ‘Turn yourself about and tell us what’s happened. They didn’t come here. Did they find anythin’ on you?’

  ‘No.’ Barny was looking at her.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Somebody must have croaked.’

  ‘So that’s it!’ Her jaws pressed themselves through her thick skin, and as she nodded her head Broderick asked Barny, ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘It’s one of five. Well, you could say four. Creeping Jesus wouldn’t split. But he’s been kept on with the other four.’

  ‘Twenty-five of you got it then?’ It was Arthur asking the question, and Barny nodded. ‘Aye, the whole shop’s closed. They’ve been talkin’ about reorganising for months now, and they’ve taken this opportunity to do it.’

  ‘You can’t be sure, man,’ said Broderick. ‘They might be re-forming the shops at that.’

  ‘Aw, hell, Da.’ Barny shook his head impatiently. ‘Every man jack that got his cards was in on it.’

  ‘Did they find anythin’ out?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘They searched two places. Old Riley’s, him whose son-in-law has the wireless store in the market.’

  ‘Did they find anythin’?’

  ‘Plenty, but nothing that Riley couldn’t prove he had bought as seconds.’

  ‘How was that? You made up and sold him sets yourself,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Aye, but all that stuff is packed away in a little warehouse he’s got down near the docks.’

  ‘It’s as well for him.’ Broderick nodded slowly.

  ‘Well, it hasn’t saved him or any of us,’ said Barny bitterly.

  ‘What are the others doin’ about it?’ asked Hannah now. ‘Aren’t they standin’ by you?’

  ‘Huh, don’t make me laugh! The other shops have all become so bloody virtuous of a sudden they make you want to retch. Two years ago, even a year this time, an’ they would have been out to the last man if one of us had got our cards, but now,’ he pulled his chin into his neck and finished scornfully, ‘They’re so bloody scared of losin’ their jobs, it’s who can suck up the hardest and fastest.’

  ‘What about Fred Ward? He’s your shop steward, isn’t he?’ asked Shane, and for answer Barny turned round and spat into the heart of the fire. ‘That’s for him,’ he said, ‘him and his parables, I’ll push one down his bloody throat the first chance I get. “You weren’t content with tiddlers,” he said, “but must try to ram carp into your jam jars.” I’d like to carp him, begod, I would!’

  ‘Is that all you got out of him?’ Hannah’s voice was bitter.

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Well.’ Broderick had loosened his hold on Rosie, and now he looked down at the hearthrug and swung his head from side to side before saying, ‘You couldn’t expect the chap to do much more about it, could you now?’ Then lifting his eyes to his son, he asked, ‘And what did Mr Nicholas say?’

  Barny looked away from his father before he answered, ‘He said nowt to me, but he told Harry Brown that if the boss hadn’t been a fair-minded chap who didn’t like trouble we’d have been up in court, every damned one of us.’

  ‘So they were onto it really?’ said Arthur.

  ‘What do you think?’ Barny replied bitterly. Then squaring his shoulders he added, ‘Aw, to hell, it might be the best thing that’s happened to me! I’ve had an idea in me head for some time, and now I’ll likely do somethin’ about it.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Hannah. Then turning to the table again she picked up the ladle, saying, ‘You can talk while you eat, there’s good food being wasted. Come, sit up all of you.’

  When they were all served and Hannah herself had sat down, she looked at Barny and asked, ‘Well, now, what’s this idea of yours? Spit it out. Unlike me family, I welcome new ideas.’

  Barny did not pick up this last remark but said simply, ‘It’s Leonard’s shop, you know round in Brookland Street, just off the market.’

  ‘The electric shop you mean?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Aye.’ Barny nodded. ‘Well, he died about three months ago, and since then his wife’s been trying to sell. It would have gone like hot cakes a
few years ago but now things are tight. And there’s another thing, most people who take on places like that know damn all about the inside of the things they sell, but me being able to make most of me own stuff, well I’ve always felt if I had the chance I would make a go of it. I know I would.’ He turned and looked at Hannah, and Hannah looked at him for a moment before dropping her eyes to her plate and beginning to eat.

  ‘You don’t think much of it, Ma?’ Barny’s voice was nervous, quiet.

  ‘Well, I know nowt about it yet, do I? But a shop. Aw, shops are tricky businesses.’

  ‘But people make good livin’s out of them. Look at them in the main thoroughfares with their fifteen hundred pound cars changed every year, and their trips abroad. Look at the Parnells that started just after the war with that little furniture shop; they’re rolling in it now; they’ve got a chain of over twenty of them.’

  ‘We’re far past the war, boy.’ Hannah went on eating steadily.

  ‘I think it’s an idea.’ Broderick wagged his fork towards Barny. ‘I do indeed. There’s no-one cleverer than you with the innards of wirelesses and televisions.’

  Barny smiled at his father. ‘It’s only a small place, but it’s got a good stock. I’ve been in once or twice lately, just looking round.’

  ‘How much do they want for it?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Well, the shop’s on lease.’ Barny swallowed. ‘The rent’s four pounds a week and rates.’ Again he swallowed.

  ‘But what will she want for the stock?’ said Shane.

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’ It was a bald statement.

  ‘Five hundred pounds!’ The sound seemed to shoot from the top of Hannah’s grey hair.

  ‘It’s not a lot really, not to get a start.’ Barny’s voice was low and his tone slightly on the defensive. ‘Anyway, I could raise a bit, I dare say, if it’s necessary. How much have I got put by, Ma?’

  ‘How much have you got put by!’ Hannah screwed up her eyes at him as if she didn’t quite take in the question.