‘No,’ said Rooney. ‘Five foot two, I should say.’
‘That’s the one.’ said Mrs D. ‘I haven’t been in the shop for years though. And she’s still there? Fancy.’
After two hours of chatting and various cups of tea Danny had offered his advice, which was to stay put for a while, and to take everything the old ’un said about the little ’un with a pinch of salt.
And then the letter had come. It was part of the morning routine that Nellie did the step and the front-door brass, and it was generally while she was doing this that the postman came. As a rule she brought the letters through when she was taking the pail to empty. She would drop them on the corner of the table where Ma or Doreen could flick through them should there happen to be more than one. This morning, the procedure was as usual. There were four letters, and Doreen, coming out of the kitchen, made straight for them. She picked out two; then with no small surprise she exclaimed, ‘Why! This one’s for you, Nellie.’
‘Me?’ Nellie put down the pail and came back to the table; then taking up the letter she turned it slowly over then back again. Doreen and Ma were watching her, and Rooney, just at the end of his breakfast, felt his interest to be as keen as theirs. It was evident to him that her letters, like those he received, were very few and far between.
‘Aren’t you going to see who it’s from?’ asked Doreen, her curiosity making her more civil than usual.
Nellie looked towards her before taking a knife from the table and slitting open the envelope. The letter, whatever it contained, was short, and, as she read, her neck took on a pink tinge, which spread to her face and over her eyes. It was the first time Rooney had seen colour in her face other than when she had been crying.
Ma went to the table and began to gather up the plates, and from there she asked casually, ‘Who’s it from?’
‘That’s my business.’
For all Ma’s size her movements could be swift, and she swung round now with the agility of a young woman. ‘Don’t you speak to me like that!’
‘Then don’t ask questions.’
Rooney watched Nellie walk to the bucket and pick it up; then stand stock still with it in one hand and the letter in the other, looking towards the kitchen door. Then as quickly as she had picked the bucket up she put it down again, and turning slowly about she looked straight at Ma. But what her eyes said only Ma could read. But Ma did not say a word until the sound of Nellie’s door banged overhead. And then, addressing a mystified Rooney, she exclaimed, ‘Now I ask you! Was there any call for that? It’s likely just an advert.’
‘It wasn’t an advert,’ said Doreen under her breath.
‘How do you know?’ asked her mother.
‘I don’t. But didn’t you see her face? I’ve never seen her look like that. It wasn’t an advert.’
‘What else could it be? She hasn’t had a letter for years, eight or more.’
Ma’s face looked pained as she said to Rooney, ‘Every now and again I have this business. Look at the other night about that doll…Oh! you don’t know.’
‘Ma!’ Doreen checked her mother, making Rooney conscious of his presence. ‘There’s no need to go into that.’
But Ma had no intention of being silenced, and she exclaimed to her daughter, ‘Why should I keep my mouth shut? Rooney should know all there is to know, else she’ll play on his good nature. She’s odd. Her mother was the same, although she was my own sister. She went to the devil with pride…men and money, that’s all she thought about. She married a waster. She thought he had money, but she was sucked in…Oh, I could tell you some…‘
‘Ma!’ The syllable was significant of Doreen’s total disapproval of her mother lowering herself to take the lodger, and such a lodger, into her confidence.
Rooney relieved her of any further anxiety on this point by rising, but he looked her full in the face before saying, ‘It’s all right, I’m going.’ He wished that he was a different kind of chap, ready with his tongue. He would have, at this moment, liked to level half a dozen words at her which would floor her.
That Doreen was now getting it he could hear as he went upstairs. He had just reached the landing when Nellie came running out of the bathroom, actually running, and more so than ever now she looked like a young lass.
At the sight of him she stopped, and, pushing the wet hair back from her brow, she came towards him, so close as almost to touch him, and straining her face up to his she whispered softly, ‘It may not be too late after all.’ Then darting away she went into her room. And he went into his, to stand blinking down at the dead fire and untidy hearth.
What did she mean, it might not be too late? Did she mean that she was contradicting what she had said last night, that it was too late to make a move? It was that letter. There was, as that ’un downstairs had said, there was something in that letter.
He left the house in a thoughtful mood, and he found himself wishing it was half-past five and he was coming in again, for he had a mounting curiosity to know about the letter. He gave himself a few guesses. Perhaps the fellow who had given her the go-by had come back again. Or perhaps she had won the pools. No, it couldn’t be the pools—the chap would have come to the door. And yet not if she had stated she wanted to keep her name secret. But there were no pools done in that house. Perhaps she had been left some money by a rich relative. But she had no relatives, nobody in the world, Ma said. No, the most likely guess was that the fellow had turned up again—that look on her face seemed to point to it being a fellow…it had wiped the years off her in one go.
It had rained all morning. Fred had the toothache; Bill couldn’t open his mouth unless he swore; Albert did not open his mouth at all; and Rooney, never the one to lead the conversation, remained mute. So it lay with Danny as usual to ease the situation. They were finishing their bait in The Anchor, and Danny, taking up last night’s evening paper from the table, remarked to Rooney, ‘See that about old Double-Barrel?’
‘No,’ said Rooney. ‘Is she dead?’
‘Dead? No. Her place has been robbed.’
‘Go on.’
‘Aye, it says so here. I saw it last night.’
‘When?’
‘Monday. They broke a window and got off with quite a bit of stuff, silver mostly. It says here’—Danny read—‘some George the Third silver, cruets, a canteen of cutlery, a complete tea-service, two gold watches, and some jewellery.’
‘Good luck to them. Why the hell should she have all that stuff!’
‘A collection of snuffboxes,’ continued Danny, ignoring Bill’s remark, ‘Nankin China and twenty pieces of…Severs.’
‘What’s Severs?’ asked Rooney.
‘Damned if I know,’ said Danny. ‘Probably the name of the china.’
‘They should have cleared the bloody house oot.’
‘You’d have run the paper van round to help them if you’d known, wouldn’t you, Bill?’ put in Danny, laughing.
‘Aye, I would an’ all. There’s the old bitch with twelve rooms, if she’s got one, an’ all to hersel’.’
‘Well,’ said Danny, with patient toleration, ‘I don’t suppose she’s very happy in them, not on her own.’
‘Then why doesn’t she move to some place smaller? There’s too many like her.’
Danny swallowed the last two mouthfuls of his dinner before saying, ‘If you was born in a house, Bill, and married out of that house, and if you lived nearly all your married life in it, and your son was born in it and your man buried out of it, well, I suppose you’d want to die in it yersel’.’
‘Is that a fact?’ asked Rooney. ‘Has she lived there all that time?’
‘Aye, she has,’ said Danny. ‘And I’ll tell you something else…me mother was kitchen maid there when she was a lass. And the old girl then was a bright spark, riding, dancing, and all the rest.’
Rooney had last seen Mrs Bailey-Crawford on the Monday morning. Albert had said, ‘You go down to that ’un. I’m not goin’ in there, for if I do
I’ll give her a mouthful.’
The bin had been in the same condition as it had been the week previous, and he was standing looking down at it when she put her head out of the scullery window and barked, ‘If you don’t take it I’ll report you.’ Then she had screwed up her eyes and exclaimed, ‘You’re not the other one.’
‘Mam,’ he had said, ‘I told you last week you must keep the bin dry, ashes and stuff.’
‘I’m not putting the tea leaves down the sink.’
He wanted to suggest that she should drain them, but looking at her old face, the flesh wrinkled, sagging and half washed, he had summed up her condition to himself with, She’s past it, poor old soul. And as he emptied the bin and saw the quantity of tea leaves he thought that she must have been bathing herself with tea. Now recalling the sight of her at the window, there was nothing left to suggest that she had ever ridden or danced, or even that she had ever been young.
‘Has she no family left, no-one?’ he asked of Danny. ‘Aye. She has a son. I don’t know whether she has two or not, but I know she has one. He was something in the war, and he married a Frenchwoman. And as far as I know, he lives over there.’
‘That’s the moneyed lot for you,’ said Bill. ‘Let their old folk rot. I wouldn’t see me mother in a mess that one’s in. Something should be done. It’s months since she had any help there.’
Danny let out a roar. ‘For an ordinary puzzle-headed mule, let me have you, Bill! I bet the next thing I hear, you’ll have taken the side-loader up there and have carted her down to your house.’
‘To hell with you, Danny!’
‘Same section to you, Bill…Come on.’
With the exception of Albert, whose face these days wore a perpetual scowl, they all got to their feet laughing, and as they made their way out into the road and towards the depot three young lads on their way to school passed them, kicking a small football from one to the other along the gutter. The tallest of them, putting all his weight behind his foot with the intention of lifting the ball high over the heads of his chums, drove it straight into the side of Albert’s head. Had this incident happened a few weeks ago, Albert would have cried, ‘Aye! aye! Is that your game?’ and would have kicked the ball sky-high himself. But now, his face contorted with fury, he dived at the young lad and having seized him by the collar was raising his hand to cuff him when Rooney grabbed him by the arm.
‘Steady on, Albert, man. He didn’t mean it.’
‘Leave go of him,’ said Danny, pulling at the other arm. ‘What’s got into you? Leave go!’
The boy, once released from Albert’s grip and recovering a little from his fright, backed away from the men and joined his pals. Then running to the end of the street, they turned and in a concerted shout yelled, ‘Hit one of your own size, you dirty muck pusher, you!…MP! Muck pushers! MPs! Mucky muck pushers!’
The men walked on, silent now. Albert was wiping the clarts from his cheek, but the look of fury still remained.
Inside Rooney was a sore feeling, as if some part of him were aching. Albert would have struck that lad, and hard; and he solid and sober. He didn’t seem to be in his right senses…he wasn’t. And all through a woman, and her no good. Why did he bother his head?…The soreness became touched with a slight feeling of humiliation. Those kids calling them muck pushers! Whenever kids shouted after them it always brought on this feeling. Not that he was ashamed of his job, he wasn’t; yet, on the other hand he knew it was nothing to be proud of. Then why didn’t he get out? He could, nobody was stopping him. There were the pits, the shipyards, the factories, all calling out for more men. He stuck, he supposed, because he liked working outside. And somebody had to do this job, hadn’t they? Bill had a theory that in a hundred years’ time the people who would be drawing the highest pay would be those who did the dirtiest work. And so the binmen would come into their own then. But it wouldn’t do them much good then, would it?
He glanced at Albert. He was a nice bloke, really, not like he looked now. But this business made him feel a bit ashamed for him. That’s what being married did to you. It was as they all said, he himself had a lot to be thankful for.
Then, sitting in the loaders’ cab, as the van swung into Fowler Street, Rooney saw the little one. She had just stepped out from a doorway, and with her was a man. The question of whether he was ‘the man’ did not arise, for he was an old fellow. But what struck Rooney as being strange was not that she was in the centre of the town when she should be either in the shop or at home for her dinner, but that she was laughing, with her head back and her mouth stretched wide. And why the sight of her laughing with an old fellow should make him feel more depressed he was unable to answer. And he thought, What’s up with me? I’ve got the hump these days meself, without being married.
It wasn’t until he almost reached Filbert Terrace that evening that he remembered it was Wednesday. Wednesday was half-closing day. That could account for the little one being in the town, but it still didn’t account for her being merry. Merriment and the little one didn’t seem to go together somehow.
As soon as he entered the back door, the kitchen door was pulled open and Doreen, after ascertaining who it was, withdrew sharply. And as he was taking his boots off, Ma came in saying, ‘It’s been a dreadful day, hasn’t it? Are you very wet? You’ll be glad to get in.’
‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘But I’m not wet, I changed me things at the depot.’
‘I got a neck of mutton for you today and made some broth with it. Is that all right?’
‘Yes…fine, thanks. Nothing could be better the night.’
‘Is it still raining?’
‘Yes. Worse than ever.’
Ma was going back into the living room when she paused, closed the door, and came over to him, and under her breath said, ‘You get about the town, Rooney. Have you seen anything of Nellie on your travels?’
She did not await his answer, and he had time to think as she continued, ‘She went out as usual, but came back at ten. Ten, mind you. And wouldn’t say what she wanted. She went upstairs for a minute. And we haven’t seen her since. And it’s Wednesday. She’s always in by ten past one.’
He wanted to keep clear of this, whatever was in the wind, so he said, ‘No, I haven’t seen her.’
Ma drew in a deep breath which expanded her already large chest to alarming dimensions before muttering between her teeth, ‘And so much to do.’
She flounced out of the kitchen, and Rooney followed her into the living room. Doreen was sitting by the fire sewing. She looked anything but happy, and as he passed her on his way upstairs he thought, Well, it’s a change, anyway, to see somebody else with a needle.
After washing and changing he went downstairs again, and he had hardly entered the room before Doreen gathered up her sewing and made to leave. She was on the point of making some remark to her mother who was seated at the table when the back door clicked, and she turned and stood waiting for the door to open. Ma had risen quickly from the table, but she didn’t wait for the door to open. Pulling it wide, she cried, ‘Where d’you think you’ve been?’
There was no answer from the kitchen, and Rooney, although he was facing the door, could not see past Ma, but he could imagine the little one slowly taking off her wet things.
‘Do you hear me! Where’ve you been? Everybody worried to death.’
‘I’ve been to the pictures.’
There followed a silence, during which Ma turned and with popping eyes looked at Doreen, and as Nellie came into the room she stood back and surveyed her as if she wasn’t sure she had heard aright.
‘That’s a dirty trick!’ said Doreen.
‘What?’ Nellie said this word softly, with a sort of quiet enquiry as she turned towards Doreen.
‘All my things to be finished; and only three nights left. And you going to the pictures! You’ve never gone to the pictures before on a Wednesday.’
‘No,’ said Nellie, still quietly, ‘I haven’t. But I’ve turne
d over a new leaf.’
‘What’s up with you?’ cried Ma, who was evidently finding it impossible to understand this attitude. ‘What you should do, as I’ve said before, is to see a doctor.’
‘Very likely,’ said Nellie, still quietly.
‘It’s spite…spite!’ cried Doreen, her voice breaking on tears.
‘Spite?’ Now Nellie swung round on her, no longer calm. ‘Spite? You dare say it’s spite! I’ve sewn nearly every stitch you’ve worn for the past ten years, and every night for weeks past I’ve sat at that machine and sewn and sewn and sewn. Spite! How dare you say it’s spite?’
Her face had lost its new serenity, and the old white tight look was back. ‘Have you ever asked yourself why I should sit there and sew for you? Do you pay me for it, with even a kind word? No, you’ve been led to expect that I am here just to serve you all, to make whatever you want. It wasn’t your fault in the beginning, but you’ve been old enough for years now to think for yourself…Well, now you can sew for yourself. Your dresses are finished, and if you want to disport yourself in lace housecoats and fine lingerie you can sew them, and if you’re too busy that’s just too bad. You should have married a man more fitted to your ideas of luxury.’
‘You’re possessed, that’s what you are. You’ve become possessed!’ cried Ma.
‘Yes,’ said Nellie, now turning on her. ‘Yes, I’m possessed. Possessed of courage, and it’s a wonderful feeling.’ She stared at Ma, and Ma stared back at her, but this time she did not speak. Her lips were moving, forming words, but no sound came.
When Ma did not voice her thoughts, Nellie gave a look that could have held scorn before turning from her and leaving the room.
‘The little cat!’ cried Doreen. ‘The old cat! Would you believe it! Her!’
Ma, still temporarily speechless, sank into a chair; then slowly she lifted her eyes to Rooney and with her face crumpling, she said, ‘I ask you.’
Rooney tried to keep a level expression, but what he really wanted to do was cheer. By lad! it had been an experience to see the little one standing on her feet. He wouldn’t have missed this for worlds. Talk about a worm turning—she had turned all right.
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