Alone with her, Danny having gone into the backyard to get some more coal and Mrs D being occupied in the scullery, he smiled at her, and said, ‘They’re nice, aren’t they? I’ve known them most of me life. They’re the best friends I’ve got.’
‘Yes.’ To him the syllable had a funny cracked sound, his smile faded. She continued to look at him, then, to his utter consternation, she began to cry. In almost as much distress as herself, he watched her gripping her throat as if to cut off the sound trying to escape, and he rose hastily, exclaiming in a helpless fashion, ‘Don’t, Nellie, don’t!’ His hand went out to her shoulder, but instead of a tentative touch quietening her distress, it acted as a spring for its release. Her face now buried in her hands, the sound of her sobbing filled the house and brought Mrs D from the scullery.
‘There, there, that’s the best thing you could do. Just cry it out, hinny. And you know what I think?’ Mrs D. was holding Nellie to her now. ‘Bed. Bed’ll be the best place. And in the morning you’ll feel a new woman. There now, there now.’
‘I’m…I’m so sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, lass. Have another cup of tea. Pour one out, Rooney.’
As Rooney hastily did as he was bidden, Nellie said between gasps, ‘It’s…it’s the kindness. You’re…all so kind.’
‘Kind? We’ve done nothing yet. Here now, drink this.’ Mrs D took the cup from Rooney and continued, ‘I’ll fix the couch in the front room for you. It’s fitted Rooney, so it’ll fit you all right. There now, that’s better.’ She stood back from Nellie as she drank the tea, and turning to Danny, who had come back into the kitchen, she said, ‘Give me a hand, will you?’
‘Aye. I’ll just wash me hands.’
Two minutes later Danny followed his wife out of the room, and Rooney slowly and deliberately pulled up a chair to face Nellie. He took a deep breath, pulled at his collar, and opened his mouth. But to his utter consternation the oiled words filling his brain refused to flow. He knew now what he wanted to say—aye, he knew all right—but there they were, sticking in his throat. He could have said them pat at the police station, for the glow of high adventure was still on him then, and Nellie had just been snatched, as it were, from danger. But now things had simmered down and the words just would not come.
‘I’m sorry I went on like that,’ Nellie said softly.
‘That’s all right.’
‘I suddenly felt’—she handed him the cup, then clasped her hands tightly in her lap before adding—‘so lost…of not belonging anywhere. That awful feeling of aloneness. You know?’
This was a good enough cue, but he couldn’t take it, for he suddenly thought of Mrs D and Danny next door…what if they should come in in the middle of what he had to say. That’d be worse than never starting at all.
‘It’s…it’s the loss of Grandpa,’ he said, ‘making you feel like this.’
‘Yes, that’s it, I suppose.’
‘And…and being in that place all day. Were they awful?’
‘Oh no, they were rather kind. But the place was awful. Something about it.’
‘Why…why did you do it, Nellie?’ He leaned slightly forward. And she looked down at her hands, and her voice was small as she said, ‘You had been kind to me, it…it was nice to be able to do something for you. At least I thought I was doing something. But it’s like Grace says, I’m a fool.’
‘You’re not…Her!’ At the sound of Ma’s name, his new self erupted to the surface again, making him feel as he had done earlier in the evening, capable of conquering the world…if it was only with his fists.
‘By!’ he said, ‘it’s a wonder I didn’t hit her an’ all the night.’
Nellie’s head came up. ‘You hit someone?’
‘Dennis.’ There was a quirk to his lips and a sly smile in his eyes. ‘It was a nice feel.’
‘Oh, Rooney.’
The gentle chiding made him lower his head.
‘He went out like a light.’ His eyes lifted and met hers, and their glances held and mingled as he went on sheepishly, ‘I’m a bit scared of going back; I might be tempted to try it on again…with Ma.’
‘Oh, Rooney.’ The little smile broadened; then suddenly died away, and making a small movement with her head she said, ‘I’ll have to go back; I’ll have to get my things. I saw the undertaker about Grandpa this morning. They’re burying him on Tuesday. I must get my things away before then…I couldn’t go back after he’s gone.’
‘What are you going to do, I mean, after?’
‘I’ll get a job.’
‘Nellie…’ He moved on to the edge of his chair. ‘Nellie, would you mind doing a job like…like service, looking after someone?’
She was staring at him, her face soft now and full of shy youthfulness. Gently she answered, ‘No, I wouldn’t mind, Rooney.’
He watched her lips as they rounded his name. He had never heard that daft name sound so sweet. He swallowed and moved restlessly. ‘Well…you know the…the old lady who owns the necklace, Mrs Bailey-Crawford…well, her son wants somebody just to keep an eye on her. And they can have the coachman’s house. The son was telling the inspector the night. Would…would you take it?’
He watched the brightness fade from her eyes, and when she said, ‘Yes,’ her voice was flat and heavy with weariness.
‘I just thought,’ he said lamely, ‘it might suit you.’
‘Yes, yes it would. Oh yes, I’m sure it would.’ He saw that she was making an effort. She was tired out; he couldn’t expect her to appear over the moon about anything the night, anyway.
‘I’ll have to find some place for meself, an’ all. Later on, I’m going along to the chap who usually moves me. I’m putting me things in store with him until I look round.’
There fell a silence between them, and he was almost glad when Danny and Mrs D came out of the front room.
‘There then, it’s all ready when you are.’ Quite abruptly, Mrs D took hold of Nellie’s arm and raised her to her feet, saying, ‘Come along, my dear.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Nellie quietly.
‘Goodnight,’ said Rooney.
‘Good night, Mr Macallistair, and thank you.’
‘Goodnight, lass. And sleep well.’ Danny watched his wife and Nellie out of the room; then going to the mantelpiece, he took up his pipe, knocked it on the hob, and exclaimed, ‘Well, you didn’t get it over then?’
‘Get what over?’
Danny turned round. ‘Rooney, I’m not given to swearing, but I’m going to say now, you’re a bloody fool. I thought after you had the spunk to push Bill off…Oh, what’s the use!’ He turned to the fireplace again.
The colour mounted to Rooney’s hair. They had been in there waiting, listening…his two friends. He pushed back his shoulders and buttoned up his coat, but all he said was, ‘I’m off to the phone.’
Bloody fool, was he? Now, remembering the almost dead look on Nellie’s face, he supposed he was. ‘Would you like to look after someone?’ he had asked. But Danny and Mrs D listening! He wouldn’t have credited it. What if he had asked her? The sweat ran down his face at the thought.
Chapter Ten: As You Were
At half-past nine the following morning Rooney walked out of Danny’s with Nellie, feeling a variety of emotions, not the least among them, irritation. And this against Mrs D of all people. She knew he had to be at the Bailey-Crawford’s house afore ten, and there she had been, for the past half-hour, with Nellie in the front room. Natter, natter, natter. He had listened to her voice going on and on until he had positively begun to dislike the sound of it. His restless night, spent rolled up in blankets on the mat, had not fortified him for today, and now he was feeling at an acute disadvantage walking under the cold hard sunshine with Nellie, and her got up in her best.
On the other hand, Nellie seemed to be fully recovered. In fact, her whole manner was a trifle disconcerting. She seemed almost like she was when she had first come into the money, except for the
pain of Grandpa’s loss still in her eyes.
He said, for the second time that morning, ‘I feel I should have gone back to seventy-one and changed.’
‘Oh, you look quite all right. And I doubt whether you’d have got in. If she guessed it was you she’d have pretended to be asleep.’
‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’
They boarded a bus and sat in silence until they came to the Fountain, but when they had alighted Nellie said, ‘It’ll be odd if I get this place, for I’ve always had a longing to live in Westoe.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes.’
He quickened his step, almost causing her to trot alongside him. It would be just like the thing, wouldn’t it, if someone had stepped in afore them. But the son had said last night on the phone that he’d be only too pleased to see her, and that if his mother took to her it’d suit everybody…Still, you never knew.
‘There, that’s the house…the top of it, behind yon trees.’
‘It’s big.’
‘Yes, and it’s in a mess inside…I’d better warn you.’
‘Oh, that won’t matter.’
‘Well, here we are.’ He rang the bell, not of the back but of the front door, as he spoke; then smiled at her. And she smiled back at him. And somehow he felt better.
‘Oh, hallo, Smith. Come in. By!’ Mr Bailey-Crawford stopped Nellie as she passed him, ‘you’re small, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am rather.’
‘Make me feel quite a giant. Look, come into the kitchen, will you? I’ll tell my mother in a minute.’
When they were in the kitchen and the door closed, he looked hard at Nellie, saying, ‘You’re a surprise, you know. I had imagined some great bustling dame’—his eyes slipped to Rooney—‘someone who could manage mother. Well, not exactly manage her—no-one will do that, I’m afraid—but…’
‘I’m used to looking after people. I’ve seen to my…my grandfather for years.’
Mr Bailey-Crawford laughed. ‘He, I feel, wouldn’t come up to my mother. I’d better warn you she’s rather a tartar; I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. Smith here has met her.’ He turned to Rooney. ‘She’s no docile old lady, is she?’
‘Well, sir, no…But I rather took to her.’
‘Yes, that’s funny, for she likes you too. Well, now, Miss…?’
‘Atkinson.’
‘Well, Miss Atkinson, there’s not a great deal of money in it—two pounds a week and the coach house free. It will make a nice flat, but it wants seeing to. But if you shouldn’t like sleeping there alone you can sleep in the house…’
‘And who, may I ask, is going to sleep in the house? Didn’t I tell you to let me know when she arrived?’
The old lady, aided by a silver-topped cane, sailed into the kitchen, immediately filling the room with her presence and bringing on it a silence. She fixed her gimlet eyes on Nellie. And Nellie returned the look quietly but unsmiling.
‘You’re small…you look like a child.’
‘I’m quite strong, madam.’
‘Have you been in service before?’
‘No, madam.’
‘Then how do you know you can do what is required?’
‘I can but try…I have looked after my grandfather…’
‘I don’t want to be looked after.’ The old lady glanced fiercely at her son. But what retort she was about to make was checked as a pain attacked her leg, causing her to wince. Whether her son or Rooney would have dared to aid her to a seat cannot be known, but Nellie did. Quietly she put her hand on the back of a dusty wheel-back chair, and turning it about, placed it near the old lady.
Mrs Bailey-Crawford stared at her for a moment before sitting down. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘You don’t look it. What’s your name?’
‘Nellie. Nellie Atkinson.’
‘Hm…Well, let’s get some points clear.’ She nodded her white head briskly. ‘I’m not in my dotage. Also I might inform you there are no more valuables left in this house to steal. Moreover, no matter how nice you are or what you do, you’ll be left nothing in my will, for I have nothing to leave…but this old house, which will be turned into flats the minute I’m gone.’
Rooney’s heart sank; he lowered his eyes away from Nellie…she’d never stick the old girl.
‘What do you consider the most important thing in a house?’ The old lady’s voice sounded like that of an army commander.
‘Warmth.’ Nellie’s tone was full of deep sincerity as she made this statement, and Rooney glanced up to find her looking at the old woman with the kindly light in her eyes that she had kept for Grandpa, and he thought, with surprise, she likes her.
‘What are you two to each other?’ The old eyes flicked between them, and as Rooney searched wildly to give an answer, Nellie replied quietly, ‘Friends. We’re friends.’
‘Pity; I’d have liked him round about. It’s a nice coach house; he could have done odd jobs.’
Rooney’s colour had reached his hair when the son took pity on him. ‘I’ll show Miss Atkinson the rooms, Mama, and let her decide.’
‘She can’t sleep over there all alone, she’ll have to sleep in.’ There was a command in both voice and eyes.
But Nellie replied quietly, ‘I’d prefer a…a flat, madam, if I may?’ The small wrinkled eyes and the large brown ones held. Then the old lady’s switched away. ‘Very well. Go and see it. You won’t like it; the rain comes in, and the fire smokes…Go on…’ She waved them all out.
In the yard Mr Bailey-Crawford wiped his perspiring brow. ‘You see what I mean?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Nellie, with what to Rooney appeared to be alarming frankness. ‘I only see that she is old and very lonely and’—she paused—‘so vulnerable.’
The little bearded man stopped and looked at her before saying, with something of a shamefaced look, ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. I hope you decide to stay. She took to you, although you mightn’t think it. I should stay with her, but I can’t, and she won’t leave the house.’ Quickly he turned away and moved on ahead of them to the coach house.
Here he unlocked the door by the side of what appeared to be a converted garage. ‘Mind,’ he warned, ‘the staircase is dark and a bit cobwebby.’
The staircase leading to the rooms above was dark and cobwebby, but when they stepped from the top of the stairs directly into the centre of a large room they both stood and stared about in surprise, for windows on two sides flooded the room with light, and on the side opposite the courtyard they looked directly on to a roof of tangled trees that had once been the orchard.
‘This could be your living room. There are two other rooms, but the unfortunate thing is they all run out of each other. The last is the kitchen…through here…This is the bedroom—’ He stopped in the second room. ‘It is a fine view, that is if you like trees. In the spring it’s a picture. And here’s the kitchen. It’s not bad really, although it doesn’t look much at the present moment. The water has been coming in a bit.’ He pointed to the corner above the sink. ‘It was a stopped gutter, but I cleared it. I think you’ll find it all right now.’ He addressed his remarks to Nellie, and Rooney stood back from them, looking about the kitchen. There was an open range, besides an electric stove; the sink was good and the floor was covered with red lino. The room only wanted a coat of paint to make it look grand. It was large enough for a couple of easy chairs and a good-sized table…and a dresser.
‘Well, there it is.’ Mr Crawford now looked from one to the other. ‘Do you mind if I leave you to have a look around?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ said Nellie.
‘Call in when you’re finished.’
‘Thank you.’
As they heard his steps going down the stairs they turned to each other, and Rooney was the first to speak. ‘It’s fine, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
He couldn’t make much of her reply. And when, abruptly, she moved
out of the kitchen and through the centre room into the big room, he followed her, thinking, She’s not taken with it; it’s not modern enough for her. And he recalled her enthusiasm for the furniture in the magazine…He watched her walk to the window and look down into the garden for a moment, before turning to face him. There was almost the width of the room between them now, and suddenly, there was the width of the world, of taste, of temperament.
‘It’s not very modern,’ he said quietly.
‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not.’
There came a dull hurt ache beneath his ribs. He was filled with a sadness that almost made him sick. To him the place was wonderful, like a palace dropped from the sky and come to rest on the treetops, but to her…it wasn’t modern. It just showed how different people could be. The ache became an acute pain. No two people could make a go of it, thinking like that. She was different. Hadn’t he known she was? That night in the kitchen with the magazine, he knew then that she aspired to things, things that he would never possess, because he would never want them.
He made himself say, ‘Perhaps you could make it do until you look out for something else?’ His voice was as cold as his heart now.
‘Yes, perhaps I could…Rooney?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you blind?’
‘Blind?’
‘Yes, blind…Or don’t you want to see? Can’t you see I don’t want a modern house…or anything? All I said about modern furniture that night was just talk, don’t you know that? I love your brass bed, and your chairs and your dresser, and everything you have, don’t you see?…’ Her voice dropped to a whisper, but a clear whisper. ‘All I want is you, Rooney.’
The floor dragged at him, staying the wild leap of his body to her, but the space between them widened, making room for what he had to say, what he must say. Even in this moment, his cards must be put face up on the table.
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