There was no-one in the MPs’ corner when Rooney arrived in The Anchor; but Johnny was at the bar.
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Squeezed through the mob?’
‘Just about,’ replied Rooney.
‘Full house, the night, eh? Our Queenie and Big Tim there yet?’ he asked, mimicking Ma.
‘Yes,’ said Rooney. ‘It seems they’ve arrived.’
Johnny took a long drink. ‘By, she gets me goat, that one. Going to hell with swank. And how that big swab dare come back there I don’t know…But he’s soft, soft as clarts. And as miserable as hell. Queenie sees to that. But to my mind he’s getting his deserts. I bet he’s rued the day he let Nellie go. By lad! I bet he has.’
‘Nellie?’ Rooney, about to order his drink, paused and turned to Johnny.
‘Of course, you wouldn’t know nowt about it. Queenie pinched him off Nellie, her and the old girl.’
‘That big fellow?’
‘Aye, that big fellow. That’s part of what done it—him being big and Nellie little. Scoffed the lugs off him, they did…never let up—all the time. And Queenie buttering him up and slobbering over him on the quiet. And the old girl…Oh! the old girl—how she worked on that business.’
‘But was he engaged or something to the little…to Nellie?’
‘Sort of. He was a traveller what called at Bamford and Brummell’s. That’s how he met Nellie, just after the war. It appeared they had been going strong for nearly two years afore she let on to Ma. It would have been better if she’d never brought him back there at all. Ma had Queenie and him tied up within six months. It was a “give me child a name” job—she had one in the oven.’
Rooney ordered his beer and one for Johnny, paid for them, and sat down. So that was it. But why had she stayed there all these years? Why had she slaved at that machine for them? Why hadn’t she stood up to them all and got herself somebody else? There were better blokes, surely, than that big soft goof. Why hadn’t she showed them? But she hadn’t…she had, to use Ma’s words, let herself go.
The thought came to him from nowhere that Ma hated her, with a deep hatred. Very likely she was a weight on her conscience, the shabby sight of her being a constant reminder of her own connivance in breaking her life.
Rooney had not touched his beer when he asked, ‘Why has she stayed there?’
‘Beats me really. But I suppose it’s the old man…she was always fond of him, and he dotes on her. Ma would have had him put nicely away behind the iron gates long afore now but for his pension. And without Nellie he’d have been a damn sight better off there. But give old Nellie her due, she’s looked after him.’
But the old Nellie was gone…things had changed since Wednesday. ‘Have you been there this week?’ Rooney asked.
‘No. But Ma came dashing round last night and went on about Nellie something chronic. Says she’s going barmy. They’ll both go barmy, if you ask me. This wedding’s goin’ between Ma and her wits. Well, here’s one who’s not losing half a shift the morrow. Not for Miss Doreen, I’m not. And there won’t be a lick of hard, not so much as a smell. Shabby wedding, eh? Ginger beer and buns!’
He threw off the remainder of his beer, and rising, said, ‘Well, here I go to be sniffed at. But it doesn’t affect me. You know summat?’ He leaned towards Rooney. ‘I like these Friday nights. Wouldn’t miss ’em for the world. I get one or two in on the quiet…So long. Be seeing you. I suppose it’ll be a long session the night.’
‘So long,’ said Rooney.
Later, when Bill, Fred, and Albert arrived, the conversation swung from the Chief Constable getting the liquor licence stopped at the Christmas British Legion dances to the latest news of the union affairs in the GMW Journal. Albert made no contribution to the conversation, not even to comment that all dance halls should be closed; and Rooney, for the most part, sat quiet. For he couldn’t get Nellie and the big fellow out of his head. He kept thinking, Poor soul, poor soul. And the more he thought ‘Poor soul’ the more his dislike of Ma grew.
‘Come on, Brother Rooney,’ cried Fred; ‘snap out of it. The old wife after you now?’
‘Oh, be quiet, man,’ said Rooney.
‘All right, Brother…!’
‘Brother!’ put in Bill. ‘All this brother business. You’re talking like a bloody journal. It gets up my nose. It strikes me as if we were a lot of bloody communists…Comrades and brothers! Brother this, Brother that.’
‘Well, they’ve always done it,’ said Fred.
‘They’ve always done lots of things they shouldn’t have,’ answered Bill. ‘When I hears some of them on the platforms calling us Brothers when they want their own way, I think, Brother, me Aunt Fanny! I’m telling you this—the trade unions plus the Labour Party’s in a brother of a bloody state, and if one or t’other doesn’t soon do something, Brother, we’ll be extinct.’
Rooney suddenly laughed. You couldn’t help but laugh at Bill. He never stayed on one subject long enough to get anywhere. But as the evening wore on and the conversation jumped from Labour to Tory via the trade union, Rooney found himself possessed of the feeling that could only be termed as boredom. He often had it in a lesser degree when Danny wasn’t present in the company. He now found the one-sided talk of Fred and Bill more than a trifle wearing, so nearly half an hour before closing time he rose, saying, ‘I’ll be off, fellows.’
‘What? You going, mate?’ Even Albert protested.
‘I’ve got a thick head. Cold or something comin’, I think.’
‘Take a glass back with you,’ said Bill, ‘and have it hot. That’ll sweat it out of you. I thought there was something up with you the night.’
‘I’ve got a drop in,’ said Rooney. ‘I’ll do that…So long.’
‘So long,’ they said.
It was a calm night, a bit nippy, with the sky high and star-sprayed, and as he walked through the almost deserted street—the bars and the pictures had not yet turned out—Rooney found, not a little to his surprise, that running through his mind were words that the little one in her misery had spoken.
‘Sometimes I wonder what we’re here for,’ she had said. ‘What’s it mean…living?’
His eyes lifted to the sky, far away and impersonal, not understandable.
Aye, what did it mean…living? For himself, did it mean going on like this, year in, year out, never able to get a house, living in somebody’s room, feeling neither particularly happy nor sad, clinging to his bit of furniture, evading women, meeting the fellows in The Anchor, going to the dogs?…Well, the dogs hadn’t done him badly, had they?…But that wasn’t the point. Well, what was?…Oh, he didn’t know. All he did know at this moment was that he didn’t want to go through that blooming room tonight. Nor did he want to encounter Ma, or any of her family.
Because he was so averse to passing through the room, he went to the front door, hoping that he might see someone leaving and so get in that way. But No. 71 was fast closed, and to ring the bell would assuredly bring Ma. So he skirted the terrace, went down the back lane and into the yard.
The buzz of talk reached him even here, and when he opened the kitchen door it flooded on to him. Betty, May, and Pauline were in the kitchen washing up, and their earnest conversation stopped as they greeted him with varied hallos.
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Busy?’
‘Yes, busy,’ answered Betty.
Pauline, with a tea towel in her hand, went into the living room, and Rooney heard her say, ‘It’s…it’s Mr Smith.’
The buzz of conversation lessened, and Betty asked him, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ But without waiting for his answer, she went on, ‘If I know anything, you wouldn’t.’
‘Surprise you if I said yes, wouldn’t it?’
She laughed. ‘By, it would.’
‘Well, goodnight.’ He nodded to May and her, and together they answered, ‘Goodnight.’
When he went into the room, he saw at once to his dismay that, with the exception of Doreen, all Ma’s lot were there, and their
men, Johnny, Jimmy, Dennis, and the big fellow, Tim. Queenie was lolling in one armchair and Ma sat opposite her in another. But Ma wasn’t lolling, and she didn’t entirely look her bright, breezy self.
‘You’ve got back in then?’ she said.
He did not answer the obvious statement, but returned Jimmy’s and Johnny’s nods. Dennis did not nod. The big fellow said, ‘Hallo.’
Rooney did not answer this greeting; in fact he made a point of ignoring the salute, and the man.
When he was almost at the door, Johnny, as if they had not met earlier, said, ‘Had a good night?’ And Rooney, looking over his shoulder to give a brief reply, halted both his words and his departure, for the back door had clicked open and a very audible gasp was coming from the kitchen—a gasp which said, ‘Nellie!’
What the gasp indicated, Rooney had no idea, except that it concerned the little one. She would soon come into the room and she would have to look at that fellow and his wife and see in her, materially at any rate, all the things she had missed…and that wasn’t counting what she might still feel for the bloke. Even with her new defence she would probably feel it pretty bad. He wondered when she had last seen him—they must have met during the past eight years. And how did the big fellow feel about the shabby little creature she had become?
His hand was on the doorknob when Nellie entered the room, and the gasp, like sound carried over a long distance, was repeated.
Rooney’s lips parted and his head lifted backwards in surprise. There she stood framed in the doorway. He knew it was her by her eyes, but they were the only instantly recognised thing about her, for she looked, as he phrased it, as near as dammit to the woman in the magazine she had pointed out to him last night. Only the colour of the clothes was different. Her costume was a dull brick colour, and her coat the flecked yellow-brown of an autumn leaf, and on the back of her head was fitted a tight velour hat, matching the colour of the costume. And her hair…her hair made Rooney gape. Gone was the pot-pie basin cut. He couldn’t imagine that there had ever been one, for it now lay in shining careless quiffs on her brow and about her ears. And if this wasn’t enough, her face was made up, really made up. And to bemuse him and everyone else further, she appeared taller by an inch or two. Two other things struck him, one pleasurably, the other with dismay. First, he noticed she was wearing the necklace, and secondly, she was drunk. Well, if not drunk, pretty far gone. He was too well versed in seeing a woman in drink to make a mistake. He prided himself he could practically tell how much they were carrying from the film in their eyes. Never before, even remembering the torment caused by his mother, had a woman in drink hurt him as this one was doing. And as Ma gave her usual war cry of ‘Well!’ he heard a new and unused voice crying from within him, ‘Aw! no, Nellie, you shouldn’t have done that. Why had you to go and do that? Aw! Nellie.’
He could have cheered her for slapping them all in the face with her fine get-up. But to get drunk…she had spoilt it.
‘In the name of God!’ It was Johnny. ‘Why, Nellie! Well, I’ll be damned!’ He was on his feet, as was Ma. The others were all sitting upright in their seats, showing different expressions of incredulous amazement; while behind Nellie, in the kitchen doorway, stood Pauline, Betty, and May.
Slowly, Nellie returned their gaze. One after the other, she looked at them…all except the big fellow. She did not turn her head in his direction although his eyes were fixed upon her. Then with her head cocked to one side, a little smile on her face, and moving circumspectly, she crossed the room. Her intention, Rooney saw, was to pass through without speaking.
But Nellie had counted without Ma, for, like a prancing hippopotamus, Ma bore down on her, and grabbing her by the arm, swung her about.
‘You!…You hussy!’
There was the immediate sound of a ringing slap as Nellie’s hand came in sharp contact with Ma’s fleshy arm. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ Her voice was thick and uncertain, and it caused Ma to step away from her.
Unlike Rooney, Ma was not versed in the effects of drink, but the combination of Nellie’s voice and the smell of her breath was patent proof of the horrifying truth, and that Ma was truly horrified was evident, for she was temporarily deprived of her voice. When, with an effort, she regained it, she gasped, in a whisper, ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Not quite.’ Nellie’s voice was quiet again; there was even a touch of laughter in it. ‘No, not quite. He assured me that you couldn’t get drunk on four ports and two advocaats. That’s all I’ve had…four ports and two advocaats. Have you ever had advocaat?’ She poked out her head towards Ma. ‘It’s nice…thick…custard with a kick. No, you’ve never had advocaat.’ Her voice rose sharply on a bitter note. ‘Vitriol’s your drink.’
‘It’s made your old gig-lamps shine anyway,’ put in Johnny quickly. ‘Have you won the pools, Nellie?’
‘No. No, Johnny, I haven’t won the pools.’
‘No!’ Ma cried, her face almost purple, ‘but I’ll tell you where…’
‘Be quiet, Ma!’ Stepping quickly to her mother’s side Pauline took hold of Ma’s arm. ‘Don’t upset yourself. As for you’—she turned to Nellie—‘if you had to show off your finery and your emancipation, you could have picked some other time.’
‘Why?’ It was a blunt if slightly fuddled demand.
‘Why? You know why. The wedding and everything.’
‘Oh, the wedding!’ Nellie’s eyebrows moved up and her nose moved down. ‘I wasn’t asked to the wedding. So…so I can sleep in the morning…I wasn’t asked to stay back and look after things in this old mausoleum…I wasn’t even told to do it…It was just taken for…for granted…Nellie’s there. Nellie’s always there…Wedding? I’ve worked for months for that wedding, like I did for all your weddings. I sewed for that young upstart—’
‘You dare call—’ Ma was prevented from descending on Nellie by both May and Pauline.
‘Yes, I dare!’ Nellie lessened the distance between them by stepping forward. ‘They’re all upstarts, every one of them, thanks to you. And thanks to you they’ve looked upon me as an unpaid servant for years. You’ve done a lot of harm in your time, Gracie Howlett, but the greatest harm you’ve done is to them…what you’ve turned them into.’
‘I hope you’re not including me, Nellie?’ It was Betty who, although she used a smarmy tone, was, like Johnny, trying to make light of the situation.
‘Yes, you an’ all. If you’re human you’ve got Johnny to thank…And he isn’t much cop, when all’s said and done.’ The last was uttered by way of an afterthought.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
Rooney could have laughed aloud at the sudden change in Johnny’s countenance, but his attention was turned towards Nellie again. She was pointing to Jimmy with an unsteady finger. ‘There’s the only one among you who’s any good…Jimmy…him. He’s the only decent one among you. The only one who thinks. You think, don’t you, Jimmy?’
If this remark had been addressed towards Rooney, however merited, he would have become suffused with embarrassment, and it was with something akin to envy that he saw Jimmy smile and say easily, ‘Well, now, Nellie. To the last I’ll say, Yes, I try to, although it isn’t always easy. And I will return your compliment and say you’re looking very nice tonight, Nellie. In fact you’re what they would call a…smasher.’
Jimmy leant towards her as he said this as if he were addressing a soothing remark to a child, and with almost childlike enjoyment Nellie’s face lit up for an instant, and her lips were parted to speak when Ma’s voice cut in, not loud this time but weighed down with an emotion that could only be classed as venom.
‘Smasher! Whore, more like it. I know where you’ve got your money. I went to the shop. Miss Tanner knew nothing. But I met old Brummell, and he couldn’t look me in the face. None of his business, he said. He’s been living with a woman for ten years, and now he goes and leaves her for you! An old man, sixty-seven if he’s a day…You dirty—’
‘Ma! Ma! Be qu
iet.’ The request came from several quarters of the room.
‘I won’t be quiet. Let me be!’ She flung off her daughters and faced Nellie.
Nellie did not move, but glared up at Ma, her face drawn and tight, the old Nellie under the make-up. Then, as if something was tickling her from inside, her body slumped, and with a swift movement she turned from Ma and with both hands on the table she leant over it and very gently began to laugh.
It was the most painful sound Rooney had ever heard. It did not touch on mirth, and held neither joy nor gaiety, nor even ribaldry; it had an empty, lost sound, that made him want to go to her and lead her from the room.
‘Laugh…That’s it, laugh! You! You…’ Ma resorted to her Bible and brought out, ‘Harlot!’
The laughter rose, and Rooney, finding it unbearable, was being impelled from within to do something and was actually on the point of moving towards her when Jimmy signalled to his wife, and May, going to the table and gently pressing her mother aside, said, ‘Come on, Nellie. Come on up to bed.’
With unnatural suddenness, the laughter stopped, and when Nellie turned and faced the room again it was as if she had laughed herself sober. Hitching her coat up on to her shoulders, and ignoring May’s hand, she looked at Ma and said, ‘Your detecting got you so far but not far enough. It isn’t Mr Brummell—I turned down that offer a long time ago, for I felt with a little effort I could do much better for myself should I feel so inclined…What do you say, Tim?’
She had moved her head quickly round, and Rooney, looking at the big fellow, found it in his heart to be sorry for him. His face was a reddy purple, except for his lips, which appeared bloodless and dry. And his tongue began to flick over them as Nellie, moving from the table towards the door, came nearer to him.
The room became quiet; even Ma’s spleen was forbidden voice for the moment. Within a foot of him, Nellie stopped. Nor did the big fellow drop his eyes from hers when she said, ‘It’s eight years gone Wednesday since we last spoke, Tim…Far too long, isn’t it?’
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