Rooney

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘This is Nellie, my cousin,’ said Ma.

  Nellie inclined her head. And Rooney murmured, ‘Good evening,’ and found his gaze remaining on her as it had done on Ma. But it wasn’t her hair that drew him, but her eyes, large, brown eyes in a small, dead-white face. He had never seen such large eyes in a woman, nor, he thought, such a tired face. He listened to the others greeting her.

  ‘Hallo, Nellie,’ said Betty. ‘Tired?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Nellie.

  ‘That’s put paid to my jumper then,’ said May.

  Nellie shook her head slowly. ‘No, it hasn’t. I’ll finish it over the weekend.’

  ‘Now, our May!’ Ma’s voice startled Rooney, for it suddenly matched her proportions, becoming large and forceful. ‘You know she’s got all Doreen’s things to finish, and there’s only a fortnight, so your jumper’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Most things have, for our Doreen,’ said May under her breath. ‘She’s going to feel a draught when she’s married.’

  ‘They’ll all be done in time.’ Nellie had taken off her raincoat, and even to Rooney’s uncritical eye she looked drab.

  The same thought must have been prominent in the delicate-looking fellow’s mind, for he said, ‘It’s about time you did a bit of sewing for yourself, isn’t it, Nellie?’

  ‘Well, are you takin’ it?’ Johnny’s voice cut off Jimmy’s, as he addressed Rooney. And Rooney, holding his cap once again in his hands and facing the battery of eyes, could only say, ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll be pleased to.’

  Chapter Two: Ma

  Rooney moved on a Saturday afternoon. Sep Tindall did the job, as always; and as he rolled up the lino at one side of the room he laughingly remarked to Rooney at the other, ‘I know this little lot as well as me own bits. This is the ninth time I’ve moved you, isn’t it?’

  Rooney made no reply; all he wanted was to get the lino into the van and look on Mrs Kate Sparks for the last time. That he was bound to look on her for just once more he knew only too well; she had planted herself in the passage, and she meant to…let him have it. He was well acquainted with the signs. She had cried several times during the past week in an effort to get him to stay. She had even said he had encouraged her to think she meant something…My God! Women were awful. He sweated at the memory of last night, and he blushed for Kate’s brazenness, for Mrs Sparks had made it plain that he would be welcome to the fruits of matrimony even without a ring.

  He had confided the whole business to Danny this morning. He could talk to Danny about these things whereas, as much as he liked his other mates, he could tell them nothing personal.

  Danny had said some women were made like that and when they reached a certain age, round about the middle forties, they went man mad. Danny thought it was a good job he was moving to this new place, for if the woman had had a big family all the interest she would likely show in him would be of a motherly turn.

  Rooney had pointed out to Danny that that was how most of them started, every woman he met seemed to think he wanted mothering. But Danny had insisted that by the sound of things this one was the safest bet yet. And on this point Rooney had agreed with him. Danny had ended their talk as always, ‘You look out for a lass, Rooney. Why, man, you’re wasting your life, and that of some good woman. Any young lass would jump at you…a fine-set-up fellow like you.’

  It was all right for Danny to talk like that, Rooney thought, but where did he go looking for a lass? He couldn’t dance, not a step, nor could he start from scratch and chat to a strange girl, like some of them did. The only women he could have spoken to were the ones that frequented the snugs and bottle-and-jugs, and he had sworn a solemn oath that never would he pick up with any woman he saw in a bar; he would rather remain alone to the end of his days than risk his father’s life over again. It was about the only point on which he thought vehemently. As for being a well-set-up chap, he had no ideas about himself. He had a good strong body, admitted, but his face, he considered, was as plain as a dustbin.

  When they moved into the passage it was to find Mrs Sparks’ matronly figure filling it.

  Sep Tindall stood with the lino on his shoulder, and Rooney, standing at his side, murmured, ‘Well, I’ll be going, Mrs Sparks.’

  ‘You think you’re doin’ well for yourself, don’t you,’ said Mrs Sparks. ‘Filbert Terrace! Oh, I know where you’re going.’ She closed her eyes before resuming. ‘And she won’t do for you what I did, waitin’ on you hand and foot…Well’—her head was wagging now—‘if you can afford to pay for Filbert Terrace you can pay me what you owe me.’

  Rooney’s eyes and mouth stretched, and it was a moment or two before he brought out, ‘Why! I settled with you last night.’

  ‘Yes, you did…up to last night, Friday. This is Saturday, a new week, and I want a week’s money in lieu of notice.’

  ‘But I gave you notice a week last night.’ Rooney was looking completely mystified.

  ‘Yes, I know fine well you did, aren’t I telling you? And that week was up last night,’ emphasised Mrs Sparks. ‘You’ve broken into another week, and I’m entitled to a week’s money.’

  Rooney cast a swift glance at Sep. And Sep, hitching the lino more firmly on to his shoulder, said very pointedly, ‘I’d see her in hell first.’

  ‘Would you?’ cried Kate. ‘Well, I’ll take that lino with me, ’cos if he doesn’t stump up I’m keeping that. And just you try to get it out.’

  The two men looked at each other. Then Rooney, putting his hand in his pocket, drew out a handful of silver, and picking out five half-crowns he handed them to her.

  ‘Thanks for nowt,’ said Kate. Then very reluctantly standing aside she hissed one parting shot at Rooney, ‘You big noodle, you!’

  Safely in the van sitting next to Sep, Rooney wiped the sweat from his face.

  ‘You’re well rid of that ’un,’ said Sep. ‘She’s as bad as you’ve had ’em.’

  He started the engine and as the van rumbled down the street he sent an amused, sidelong glance at Rooney and enquired, ‘What’s it about you, mate, that gets ’em?’

  ‘Aw, shut up, man!’ said Rooney with an unusual tartness. ‘I don’t feel like chaff at this minute.’

  ‘I wasn’t chaffing, man, but all the old wives seem to make a set at you.’

  ‘You’ve said it,’ said Rooney. ‘Old wives.’

  ‘Well, not so old either. What was she…forty-five or so? What’s that these days? What’s the one like where you’re goin’?’

  ‘Past it, I hope,’ said Rooney. ‘Seven of a family and six grandbairns. She’s near sixty and her hair’s dyed red.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Sep gave vent to a gale of laughter. ‘A rejuvenated job! It might be the frying pan into the fire…You watch yersel’.’

  ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake, man!’

  ‘All right. All right.’ Still laughing heartily, Sep swung the van in and out of the traffic; then through the quieter streets until he stopped at 71 Filbert Terrace. And there, jumping out and running to the back of the van, he had the lino on his shoulder almost before Rooney had time to ring the doorbell.

  Rooney had not been near the house since his first visit, and in the daylight it seemed to have lost some of its pomp. The outside needed paint badly and the curtained windows weren’t as spruce as many in the lower quarters of the town. But it still had the power to subdue him, for was it not a large terrace house with its own front garden and electric bell on the door, and the letter box and number in brass?

  Mrs Howlett herself opened the door. She was wearing a green woollen dress, and from the lobes of her ears dangled red earrings, the shade of which was at definite variance with the colour of her hair. Her lips were rouged and the powder was thick on her nose, making it stand out from her face. But her get-up did not disturb Rooney. If anything, it took away any dread Sep’s merriment had aroused, for in the naked light of day Ma looked what she was, a fat old woman, done up.

  ‘Well, here I am, Mrs Howlett.�
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  ‘And welcome, Mr Smith, I’m sure. Come in.’

  ‘Do you mind calling me Rooney?’ he said shyly as he moved into the hall. ‘Everybody does.’

  Ma laughed. ‘Rooney? It’s an odd name, but all right, we’ll call you Rooney. And I hope you’re here for a long stay, Rooney. Well, you know where to go. Just lead the way now and show the man.’

  Quite suddenly at his ease, Rooney went up the stairs. The door of the room was open, and he stood for a moment in pleased surprise. Being empty, it looked even larger that he had imagined it to be, and although all the paintwork was brown it appeared unusually light after the dullness of the stairs and landing. It struck him momentarily that everything in the house was brown.

  Sep dumped down the lino, and together they laid it. But to Rooney’s disappointment it did not cover one half of the floor.

  Next followed the dresser; then the bed and mattress. And when they went down the stairs for the third time a young girl standing at the foot stared up at them. She could have been termed pretty had her face not been marred at the moment with temper.

  ‘This is my youngest, Doreen,’ said Ma, moving forward and taking a firm hold on her daughter’s arm. ‘Doreen, this is Mr Smith. We are to call him Rooney.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Rooney, feeling almost gay, smiled widely. But his smile disappeared and his gaiety vanished when the girl, pulling herself from her mother’s hold, flounced round and dashed into the living room without even a nod.

  ‘Tut! Tut!’ Ma clicked her tongue…‘Young and silly. She’s in a bit of a stew today. She doesn’t think she’ll have her things ready for the wedding.’

  Rooney could not really see the connection, and he felt dampened, but as he returned with a chair from the van Doreen’s attitude was made perfectly clear to him, for her voice came in angry tones from behind the closed door, saying, ‘Old rubbish! That awful bed. And the whole street watching. And my wedding so near. Doris Taylor and all the lot of them’ll be laughing up their sleeves. If you had to let, why take him?’

  ‘Be quiet! Else I’ll ring your ear for you. Mind, I’m telling you.’ Ma’s voice was muted.

  ‘I won’t. A binman! What will Harold’s mother say? You’ve bragged enough to—’

  The voice was abruptly cut off, and Rooney continued his way slowly up the stairs. His spirits now at low ebb, he went into the room and put the chair down. Old rubbish. He looked about him. His furniture might all be odd, but it wasn’t rubbish, it was good substantial stuff. He felt hurt and experienced a rising feeling of…not anger, that would have been too strong a term, but of annoyance. They all acted here as if they were…the last word. And although he knew they were a cut above the usual people he lodged with they were still not the last word.

  In his daily travels from door to door he had in his own way docketed the classes and, to his mind, they were many and various. There were those who were nothing and didn’t care who knew it, and there were those who were nothing and tried to pull the wool over your eyes; then there were those who were something and went to a devil of a lot of trouble to make you recognise it; and then again there were those who were something and pretended they weren’t and tried to be all pals together and made everybody uncomfortable; then there was a section you couldn’t pinpoint, who dressed like one set and talked like another. Like old Mrs Bailey-Crawford, or old Mrs Double-Barrelled as they called her. She lived alone in a big ramshackle house in Westoe Village, and she ordered you about like a duchess, even though she looked like a tramp. There were all types, and Rooney was for giving them all their due, and the occupants of this house in particular. But to talk the way that ’un had done was to his mind getting too much above herself.

  ‘Can I help you fix anything?’

  He turned to the doorway and there stood the little thing with the big eyes.

  ‘Thanks. I’m managing all right.’

  ‘What about your curtains? Will they fit?’

  She looked to where his curtains, rolled into a bundle, were lying on the bed. ‘These are long windows, six foot six.’

  Rooney glanced at the two windows. ‘Aye…yes…well, I hadn’t thought. They’re not that long. A foot out, likely.’

  ‘Have they got a hem?’ She walked to the bed and turned up the edges of the curtains; and after a cursory examination said, ‘They’ll let down top and bottom. I’ll be able to fix them.’

  She lifted the bundle up and, ignoring Rooney’s protest, she went out saying, ‘Grace says there’s a cup of tea as soon as you’re ready…’

  ‘Thanks.’ He stood in the middle of the room looking after her. She sounded offhand, rather curt, but that might just be her voice. It was husky as if she had a cold. But anyway, she was being helpful. He hadn’t thought about the length of the curtains. Grace, he supposed, must be Ma’s name.

  Sep came in with the other chair, saying, ‘If you’ll give me a hand with the dressing table and the chest I’ll dump your case and the boxes in the hall, and then perhaps you’ll manage. I’ve got another little job I’m going to and I want to finish afore dark.’

  ‘All right,’ said Rooney.

  When the dressing table and the Scotch chest had been installed, Sep looked about the room with approval.

  ‘Your things look better here than they’ve done anywhere. You should be comfortable. And’—he leaned forward, pointing his thumb floorwards—‘I don’t think you need fear owt from old red-for-danger. My! there’s hair, and your mother bald. Well, never say die. Huh! That’s a good ’un, eh?’ He nudged Rooney. ‘Never say die.’

  ‘Be quiet, man,’ said Rooney.

  ‘OK, OK. That’ll be fifteen bob. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ said Rooney, once more putting his hand into his pocket.

  As the van rumbled away Rooney closed the front door. But during this short operation he noticed a definite movement of the curtains in the house opposite. It was as the lass had said, they were all on the watch. In Cartham Street, from where he had moved, they would have been at their doors and the kids swarming over the van, but there hadn’t been a sign of a bairn in the street here and not a soul at a door, yet they were on the lookout all right. People were people the world over.

  The last box up in the room, Rooney sat down on it and looked about him. It was as Sep had said: his bits looked good here. When the curtains were drawn and the fire on…by lad! He smiled to himself. He’d be comfortable.

  His spirits were rising again. What did it matter what the lass had said? She’d be gone soon. The old woman was all right, and the little one…Nellie. Well, somehow he couldn’t quite make her out. She was so quiet, like a mouse. Not shy as he knew shyness, but sort of closed up.

  His china arranged on the dresser, his bed made and covered with a bright artificial silk bedspread, his clothes packed away in the drawers, the chairs one each side of the fireplace and his folding table placed under the window, he gave the room a last glance of appraisal before going downstairs and knocking at the living-room door.

  ‘Come in. Come in.’

  Diffidently he entered the room, and was relieved to find only Ma and the little one there.

  ‘Don’t knock,’ said Ma. ‘You must make yourself at home. Come and sit down and have a cup of tea. We don’t have our meal till six. I hope that suits you. And will you be taking your meals with us, or do you insist on them in your room?’

  He would have liked to say, ‘In me room, please,’ but the word insist put him off. So he said, ‘Whatever suits you best. And six o’clock ’ll do me fine. I’ve got a little joint and things for the morrow, but after this I’d be obliged if you’d get my stuff in for me.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Ma, ‘and it’s arranged then that we’ll all eat together. I won’t say it won’t be a big help, there’s so much to do in a house this size. So you like your room now you’ve got your things in?’

  ‘Very much, thanks.’

  ‘Your curtains are nearly finished,’ said Ma.r />
  He looked to where the little one was sitting at a hand-sewing machine rapidly turning the handle. She didn’t look up, not even when Ma placed a cup of tea on the corner of the table for her, but went steadily on, one hand pressing and easing the material under the needle like an automatic machine itself.

  As he drank his tea Rooney glanced around the room, and the same impression struck him here as in the rest of the house…everything was brown. Brown leather couch against the wall opposite the fireplace, brown table and chairs, brown sideboard, brown-painted woodwork, even a brown carpet, which, like the furniture, appeared very much the worse for wear. The room had a miserable look to him. Perhaps it was the fire; there was so very little in the grate. But then it was a close day. Looking at the fire reminded him to broach the subject of heating.

  ‘Is there any place I could keep a bit of coal?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, yes, there’s a shed in the yard. Doreen’s bicycle’s in it, but that’ll be going soon.’

  ‘Thanks!’ he said.

  The machine stopped whirring and Ma asked, ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nellie briefly, folding up the curtains.

  Rooney looked at her in amazement. She had unpicked and done those four curtains in much less than an hour.

  ‘My! You’ve been quick,’ he said.

  Nellie made no reply, but in a tone that somehow robbed the words of praise Ma said, ‘She does all our sewing.’

  ‘Is it your job?’ Rooney spoke to Nellie, but Ma again answered for her.

  ‘No, she manages a drapery shop…Bamford and Brummell’s, off Green Street, you know.’

  Bamford and Brummell’s. Yes, he knew Bamford and Brummell’s. And its name was the biggest thing about it—it was a little one-window place that sold mainly haberdashery; it was a cheap, poor sort of a shop, thirty years behind the times. As for a manageress, well, he couldn’t see the place holding more than two assistants, if two would really be necessary. And as for custom, people had money these days and, he imagined, most of them went to Green Street proper, or down to King Street.