Rooney

by Catherine Cookson

  Ma delivered this information in short staccato gasps, then sat down. And there was another pause. She had folded her hands on her lap, and was staring into the fire. She seemed to be thinking of her eldest daughter and her grand house, and Rooney did nothing to disturb her reverie but went on quietly eating.

  He was telling himself it was a good shepherd’s pie, as good as any he’d tasted, when Ma suddenly exclaimed, apropos neither of rows, nor of Nellie, Queenie, or beautiful houses, ‘Do you go to church at all, Rooney?’

  It was such an unexpected question that Rooney swallowed, almost gulped. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘You’re no denomination?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever thought about it?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say I have…No, to be honest, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, it’s never too late. I’m Low Church myself, and I find it such a help. I’ve been sustained all my life through the Church. I’ve sung in the choir since I was a young woman, at the same church, St Jude’s, Francis Street.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You must come in some night to one of the fellowship meetings, they’d be pleased to welcome you, they’re all so friendly and chummy.’

  Rooney ate hurriedly. ‘It’s very kind of you. Thanks all the same.’ He began to sweat. If it wasn’t marriage or money they were after, it was to get you to God. You were never safe.

  ‘Well’—Ma rose—‘I’ll have to be making a move. We’re starting tonight, practising for the carols. There’s just over three weeks to Christmas. Doesn’t time fly? I’ll have to get ready, not that I feel like going out tonight. Are you going out, Rooney?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m meeting a friend.’

  He’d had no intention of going out, but he wasn’t going to leave any loopholes that might lead to him being roped in for a meeting. With a certain amount of irritation he thought there was always something to spoil an enjoyable evening. He’d got a good book to finish, a good cowboy yarn. Moreover, he was feeling tired…he’d done some humping in one way and another during the day.

  The room door was pushed slightly open, and Doreen’s voice came from behind it, saying, ‘I’m off, Ma.’

  ‘All right, dear. Give my love to Harry.’

  There was no response to this, only the banging of the front door.

  With an apology for leaving him, Ma left the room. And Rooney, having finished his meal, took the dishes into the kitchen and washed them up. He was in the process of drying them when Ma appeared again, dressed, as he termed it, up to the eyes. She was wearing a fashionable, heavy grey tweed coat with a deep roll collar and a close-fitting brown felt hat. He was set wondering how she had managed to get all her hair underneath the hat, but she had, and the result was, in his opinion, a turn for the better. And as he watched her preening herself before the little mirror at the side of the sink, he thought, The old girl fancies herself, and no mistake.

  ‘I’ll be in before you, I suppose, about half-past nine.’ She spoke to him through the mirror; then turning towards him, she smiled. ‘Is your fire all right?’

  ‘Oh!…Yes. I forgot to thank you for lighting it. It looked grand when I came in…homely.’

  ‘I’m so glad. It’s nice to have a man in the house to do things for—you know, Rooney, you put me in mind of my eldest son.’ Ma looked down. ‘He was killed in the war.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rooney.

  ‘It was the second cross God laid on me—but He also gave me the strength to bear it. Well—’ Ma managed to smile brightly. ‘Well, I must be going. I’ll be seeing you. Ta-ta.’

  His reply would have been ‘Ta-ra,’ but it would have sounded a bit too familiar by half, so very politely he said, ‘Goodbye.’ His only reaction to having been placed in the exalted position of resembling Ma’s son was to make him think, She makes me hot under the collar.

  He went upstairs and reluctantly changed all his clothes. The fire was burning brightly, the room was warm, and the chair was calling to him…Damn! Why must he go out? There was no must, he could just say he changed his mind. But he was supposed to be meeting a fellow.

  ‘Nellie! Nellie! Open the door.’ For the second time that evening he was startled by a voice, the old man’s this time, and coming from the landing.

  There followed a series of raps, and his voice again: ‘It’s me. It’s only me, Nellie. Can you hear me?’

  The rapping became louder, and for a moment a disturbing thought crossed Rooney’s mind. Of course she could hear him, if she could hear at all. He recalled her face again, and as he did so he went out on to the landing.

  The old man turned to him. ‘Oh, it’s you. She won’t answer. Push the door open and see if she’s all right.’

  ‘She might be asleep,’ said Rooney softly.

  ‘What?’

  Rooney shook his head.

  ‘One of these days she’ll do something. She’ll drive her to it. Come on, push the door.’

  Rooney was relieved of the trying necessity of coming to a decision by the opening of the door and Nellie appearing, her face no longer white but red from crying.

  ‘You all right, Nellie?’ The old man spoke tenderly.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded her head and then catching sight of Rooney she pulled the door closed behind her. Then, taking Grandpa gently by the arm, she said under her breath, ‘Come on.’

  But Grandpa did not move under her guidance; instead he put his hand to his left side, then reached out and supported himself against the wall. Now that he was relieved of anxiety his strength seemed to have failed him, and he muttered, ‘Let me get me breath, Nellie.’

  Her back to Rooney, Nellie waited a moment. But the old man made no effort to relinquish the support of the wall, and his breathing became even more laboured. ‘I’ll…I’ll have to sit down, Nellie.’

  ‘Bring him in here,’ said Rooney, pointing to his door.

  Nellie seemed to hesitate. She glanced towards the stairs: then easing the old man from the wall, she gently propelled him past Rooney into the room.

  Rooney pushed the big chair forward, and with a sigh the old man sank into it. Then bringing the other chair up to the fire, he said to Nellie, ‘Sit down.’

  Without a word she sat down and took hold of Grandpa’s hand, and after a moment the old man smiled at her. ‘Long time since I did them stairs, Nellie.’

  She nodded.

  He looked at the grate full of glowing coals; then his head moved slowly about, taking in the room. ‘You’re comfortable,’ he said. ‘Lovely fire.’ He held out a hand to the grate. ‘I used to have a fire like this when my missus was alive. But not for years now. Nellie’—he turned to her, seeming to forget Rooney’s presence—‘why don’t you do it, like you were going to? Get some place, and take me.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘In the right place I’m good for a few years yet. Me breath going is only because of the stairs—why! look at a week gone—I went out, didn’t I? By!’ he laughed, ‘that put her into a stew, to find me been out.’ His voice became quiveringly eager. ‘We could do fine, Nellie, on our own.’

  Again she shook her head, and Rooney realised she hadn’t her pad with her and knew it was no good answering.

  ‘Then why don’t you go off yourself?—don’t mind me. I’ve told you time and again.’ He looked up at Rooney. ‘They’ve used her all these years, workin’ for the lot of them. And that one will drive her off her head yet. Look what she did over Queenie.’

  As if she had been shot to her feet, Nellie was standing. ‘Come on.’

  ‘No, Nellie. Let me stay a minute,’ he pleaded. ‘All right. I won’t say no more. Just’—he disengaged her hand from his arm—‘just let me sit here a minute, near this fire.’

  Nellie turned her back on the old man and looked at Rooney. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘That’s all right. What’s there to be sorry for? He can stay as long as he likes. It’s nice having him—he’s company. Sit do
wn.’ He touched the back of the chair, then added softly, ‘There’s nobody in. Doesn’t matter where you sit, does it?’

  She looked up into his eyes, staring into them. And he did not drop his gaze from hers when she said, ‘Do you think I’m odd…mad?’

  ‘That’s daft talk,’ he said emphatically.

  ‘Is it?…No…I know what I would think if someone went on as I do…not speaking. You mustn’t mind me not speaking when…when Grace is there. You see…Oh!’ Her head drooped, and she swung it from side to side. ‘It’s no use trying to explain, it would all sound so silly.’

  ‘There’s no need to explain anything.’

  She raised her head again, but turned her eyes sideways, looking towards the dresser as she spoke. ‘About the doll. I must have seemed like someone demented to you. But you see, you can’t keep anything. I know it was only a doll, but—’ She brought her teeth sharply down on to her lip and stopped.

  And he, affected by her embarrassment, rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘It’s all right, I understand,’ he said.

  He didn’t understand; he understood nothing; he couldn’t understand the people in this house, nor the things they did. Why Ma could be religious and treat the old man, there, as she did. For there was another side to the old boy, he could see, and he was beginning to think that Ma had asked for all she had got from him. Nor did he understand about the doll. Not for anyone to get into such a stew as the little one here had done.

  He was surprised to realise that he had not yet been in this house three days.

  ‘I’ll go down now, Nellie. I’d better get to bed.’

  Together they went to him and helped him to his feet, and as they walked him to the door he began to tremble. He was going to have a worse job getting down the stairs than he had up, Rooney thought. And so, on the landing, when the old man paused again, he said, looking at Nellie, ‘I’ll carry him.’

  ‘Can you?’

  He smiled quizzically and added, ‘He’s no heavier than a dustbin.’

  It wasn’t a smile that came on her face in answer to this comparison but a soft, relieving light that was closely akin to it. It was the first time, as he put it, that he had seen her let up.

  After a ‘Here! Here! what you up to?’ the old man relaxed against Rooney, and in a matter of seconds was sitting in his own room.

  The sharp contrast from the bright warmth of the room above with this one struck Rooney immediately. But nothing could be done, he saw at once, about arranging the furniture into comfort, for there was too much of it. It lined the walls, piece touching piece. Sideboard touching wardrobe, wardrobe touching dressing table, and that close-pressed against a large dining table. Chairs in a double row, and the bed, full-sized, sticking out into the room.

  ‘I’ll get him a drink,’ said Nellie, and when she had gone the old man beckoned Rooney’s head close to his.

  ‘Here!’

  ‘Yes?’ said Rooney.

  ‘Do you go in a pub?’

  Rooney nodded. And Grandpa, pushing two trembling fingers into his waistcoat pocket, brought out half a crown. ‘Could you get me a drop of hard?’

  Rooney nodded again and took the half-crown.

  ‘On the quiet, mind. Don’t let her know…the other one. Nellie gets me a drop at the weekend, but I’m all of a dither the night and need a glass. The other one would see me dead first. And she collars me pension. Half-crown, that’s all I get, and me baccy coupon. Bad ’un, that. Hypocrite. She would have had me in the workhouse…Harton. Aye, she would, but for Nellie. And she’s treated her cruel. You don’t know, lad.’ The old man shook his head. ‘I could tell you some things, but Nellie gets vexed. But she’s gonna get a shock one of these days, that ’un is. And this is my house, the rent book’s in my name. I came here when I was first married. Fine house I had. Happy an’ all. I had the best wife in the world. And then my only son had to go and take her! Of all the women he could have had he had to go and take her. And she led him a life. Pushing him from one job to another, trying to live big. An upstart, that’s all she was. D’you know something? I was glad when he died. Aye, I was. It’s an awful thing to say, but I was. For he was at peace. He was a quiet lad, and if it hadn’t been for Nellie, I’d have been with him long since. You’ll get me that drop, will you?’

  Rooney mouthed, ‘Aye, yes,’ nodding the while. And when Nellie came into the room, he went upstairs, put on his mac and cap, and went out. It must, he thought, be many a long day since the old man had bought any whisky himself…four-and-six a glass, it was now. He paid nine-and-a-penny for a quarter-bottle, and when he was once again in the house he waited in the living room until Nellie should come in.

  She must have heard him, for she came out of the front room immediately and said, ‘He shouldn’t have asked you; I’d have gone.’

  When he handed her the bottle, she looked at it. ‘He only gave you half a crown, didn’t he? You mustn’t do this. Once you start he might expect it to go on…he’s old.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Rooney.

  ‘I’ll give you the rest of the money.’

  ‘No, it’s on me. I had a win on Saturday, I’m flush.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you.’ She looked up into his face, and repeated, ‘Very kind,’ before turning away and going out.

  He stood in the room feeling at a loss. He didn’t know whether he should go out again or go upstairs. He could go upstairs and say truthfully, should the old girl ask him, that he had been out. He decided on this course, and in the room he donned his new dressing gown, took up his Dawn Came to Benders Creek, and sat down before the fire.

  But the combination of the fire, the dressing gown, and the book had not the soothing effect they would have had an hour earlier. For one thing, he thought he’d been a damn fool over the dressing gown. What did he want to go and pay all that money for? The three-pound one would have done just the same, and suited him better because he wouldn’t have minded messing it up a bit at that price, but with this one he’d have to watch out how he used it. Anyway, why had he let himself be driven to buy a damned dressing gown at all? Dressing gowns weren’t for the likes of him.

  It had been a funny night. All this to-do starting from a doll. But the little one appeared different altogether when she got talking to you; the stiffness went and she didn’t look so lost and sort of alone like. It was a funny house this and no mistake. He didn’t think he’d been in a funnier. Why had she wanted so much to keep that doll? He couldn’t work it out. Unless she wanted it because she hadn’t got a…He checked his thoughts and moved uneasily; but his mind had touched on bairns and refused to be jolted away from the subject in any rush, so he wondered how Bill’s bairns had received all the junk their da had stuffed into his pockets, which immediately reminded him of the beads. They were still in the inner pocket of his coat, and that was hanging up in the kitchen.

  He was out on the landing before he realised he was about to go downstairs in the dressing gown. Well, that’s what it was for, wasn’t it?

  Almost defiantly he went into the room. Nellie was at the machine, and she looked up as he came in and her eyes stayed on him, and the surprise showing in them made him feel hot.

  He pulled the cord tighter about him as he crossed the room, and when he was abreast of her he stopped and asked, ‘Do you never leave that machine alone?’

  ‘Hardly ever.’ She smiled wistfully. And he said with sudden daring, ‘Why don’t you leave here, as the old man says?’

  Her eyes dropped to her hands, and it was a long moment before she said, ‘It’s too late now.’

  He could find nothing to say to this, but stood looking at her. After an awkward pause, she said softly, ‘Twice I was ready to go. The first time just before the end of the war. I had got a house and everything. And then Wallace, her eldest son, was killed. That was two, in just over a year. She was ill…I couldn’t go.’

  ‘Was her man alive then?’

  ‘No. He died in nineteen-forty. The
re was no money from any of them—her husband died of TB, and the boys were married. If we had gone, Grandpa and I, it would have gone hard with her. And then later, when things were better, I was going to leave again.’ Her head moved downwards now, and she shook it. ‘Things hold you and you find you can’t. You hate to stay and you’re frightened to go…It’s too late.’

  He was quite at a loss for any suitable reply. The only thing he could think of was the old tag, ‘You know what they say, it’s never too late.’

  She did not take this up but started the machine again, and self-consciously he moved away into the kitchen, and going to his coat he took out the beads.

  Now that he could look at them, he saw to his disappointment that they weren’t really beads, not beads a bairn would like. There were only six of them, and each was hanging by a little chain from a main chain. And it didn’t look like a chain either. The whole thing was stuck up and it would be impossible to make out what it was until he washed it.

  Taking it to the sink, he ran the tap on it, and finally had to use the nail brush to get the dirt out of the crevices. Then, having dried it on a towel, he laid it on the table.