Peggy said, "Uncle Simon has a right to his little bit of the roast and you've had all the rest. The rest of us, mother and me, don't touch the stuff. It's not good for us. And it's not good for you or your stomach, except that your stomach's ruined by your firewater and it doesn't matter with you."
Cotter said, "You see what I say? You must look after yourself in this house. In this house you must take thought for yourself, for no one else will bother about you." He examined the butter, spread it on some bread, "It's every man for himself—in this house. Now haven't you got an egg for me? Haven't you got some cheese? Where are your pretty manners, gaffer? Aren't you the gaffer?"
"There's an egg for mother and one for me in the morning," said Peggy continuing to knit.
Cotter said angrily, "I came home the night before last and found no meat on my plate."
"Where would I get meat every night for your plate? Don't you eat all the meat off the joint?"
"Yes, you do, Pop Cotter," said Nellie; "you get more than your fair share, pet; you must think of others."
At this attack, Cotter turned to Peggy and said thoughtfully, "You see, gaffer, times aren't what they were and the money isn't coming in as it was. You must cut your cloth, gaffer—you must cut your cloth—"
Peggy cried out, "Cut my cloth! It's like your cheek, Pop Cotter, to talk about cutting my cloth. It's you who's cutting a big swath in the cloth and no cloth for anyone else. It's like your cheek."
"Now, you say it's like my cheek," he returned graciously, "now it isn't like my cheek. You must cut your coat according to your cloth, now that's well known."
Peggy said, "If forty-five shillings comes into this house, you spend fifty in drink."
Cotter went on, philosophically, gently, "You must cut your coat, gaffer. You, you, Mrs. Cook there," he said appealing to Nellie, "my daughter, you, Nellie Cotter, that's known as Cushie Cotter, now. Do you know what happened to me last week? I was down in the—football club—and a young fellow there said to me, Mr. Cotter, there's a C. Cotter writing in the papers, in the labor papers, is that your daughter? She's got an article saying that over in Sunderland there's a family—a couple with eleven children living in one room and when the beds are made for the night there's no room to walk. Now that's a libel on us and it's printed in London. Is that your daughter? No, said I, that's Cassie Cotter, she belongs to those other Cotters who live near Newcastle, she's not a daughter of mine, she's no Durham Cotter, Mr. I don't know your name. There was your article, Mrs. Cook, as large as life for every man to read, with your name in type at the top, C. Cotter. Now you could have used the name Cook; but I'm not against your using the name Cotter, Miss Cotter; it's a matter of principle. Now you listen, Mrs. Cook, you don't understand. When you've had my experience, you'll understand, Mrs. Cook, that that's a very bad thing. You can do as you please, think as you please, think what you like; but keep it dark. That's good sense and good manners, Mrs. Cook; don't wear your heart on your sleeve."
"Ah, Pop Cotter, you're talking rubbish," said Nellie.
He went on in his deliberate, gentle manner, "There you were earning fifteen pounds a week in that housing business, that Roseland Development there, and you had your principles in your pocket with you and no one asked you what you thought. You could write articles on the side; and now, look where you are. You're getting five pounds a week. We could have used the margin here at home, if you could do without— and you've got nothing for it. Don't wear your heart on your sleeve! Now a fellow asks me, Is that the same C. Cotter, my daughter and I say, No, my name's Thomas Cotter and I have no daughter of that sort. What I'm thinking, he doesn't know and doesn't ask. That's a matter of principle only; don't wear your heart on your sleeve."
Nellie said, flicking away her ash, "That's all right, Pop, that's all right."
Cotter went on with the calm power of a tall strong man, "Now I'm not against your having opinions; a man and a woman's got a right to opinions; this is a free country, isn't it?—but it's just humanity not to wear your heart on your sleeve for daws to peck at. They don't care about your principles. You listen to your father, Miss Cotter; he'll give you good advice. What good did it do, your wearing your heart on your sleeve and dropping ten pounds a week? No, said I, I'm Thomas Cotter and every man knows me; but that Cotter's another family over Newcastle way that I happen to have met, I said. But I don't know that C. Cotter."
"All right, Pop Cotter," said Cushie.
Cotter said more directly to her, "I'm not arguing for your turning your coat; I'm arguing for your not wearing your heart on your sleeve. I'm not the man to say a man hasn't a right to his opinions. And so you see. Miss Cotter—you see—the money's not coming in and I don't know if there will be a fresh newlaid egg for your mother's breakfast; for the gaffer there has not learned to cut her cloth. You see what you've done, Mrs. Cook? Now wasn't that a fine thing to happen to me right down in the-"
Nellie said, "The football club; all right, Pop Cotter."
He continued, as if he had not heard her, "This young fellow comes up to me. Are you Thomas Cotter, said he. I am, sir, I said, that's my name—"
"And you said, Don't wear your heart on your sleeve. I'm sick of your blather, Pop Cotter," said Peggy.
"Now, that'll do, pet," said Nellie to her young sister.
Peggy continued cheerfully nagging, "And when you set the police on us to bring us home when we were young here, you didn't like our opinions."
Nellie said, "Hush, sweetheart; we were eating his bread."
Cotter said blandly, "Now what you're referring to, gaffer, is just what I was saying. You wore your heart on your sleeve and that was for daws to peck at, a danger to the community, so a loving father with my experience, I—"
Peggy said, "You set the police on Nellie and young Tom and me: that's the kind of father you were."
Nellie said, "Now, hush, pet, you'll not speak to father that way. He's our father and he kept a roof over our heads, no matter what; and in the blackest days he fed us."
Nellie had…
NELLIE HAD brought some money with her to buy a new pair of shoes in a Bridgehead shop that suited her; and when the money started to go for the family needs, she thought she'd get her shoes cobbled at the reliable old family cobbler's; but that money went too; and she returned to London, to her paper, in the same queer broken-soled shoes with the twisted heels.
As soon as she had turned in her material, she took a few drinks and then hurried home. She had written again from Bridgehead to her friend at Roseland Development, Caroline Wooller, to throw up her job, to come and spend a few days with her and look for a room. Caroline could get a room near the Cooks', get a job in housing, if she was still interested in that, and Nellie would guide her.
Nellie said to herself as she went along, "I love that girl; I'm so susceptible, aye. I hand out my heart like a blooming throw-away."
She rushed into her house on Lamb Street, with parcels in her arms, a cigarette in her mouth, cheerily calling out; but it was too early. No one was home from work. There were letters from George: he was traveling south, hoping to get a job in Rome. There was a little scratch from her brother, three lines, which made her angry; and one signed Johnny, and written by a woman she had known long ago up north, a ragged, dirty, big-faced, black-haired woman who hated the world and was determined to live on it for nothing; a bold, harsh, fearless tramp whom Nellie admired. Johnny was on her way south and expected to stop with Nellie when she reached London; but she was vagabonding and might not be in for months. Johnny wrote once every four or five years.
Nellie stretched out on the bed, shook off her shoes and lay smoking. She was flattered that Johnny had not forgotten her. She thought of Johnny and what Johnny had taught her, of a girl who had died for Johnny; and of others, a person called Jago, a man of forty who had taught Nellie what the world was, when Nellie was sixteen; and of an Indian boy in the Jago circle who had died a terrible death; and of things that would never come out now. Yet s
he suddenly began to tremble. She jumped up, "Ah, no! Ah, no!" She was loyal to comrades in the unnamed rebel battalion she marched in, outcasts, criminals, the misunderstood, women not one of whom could show a clean record; but she wished Johnny were not coming. Johnny did not believe in marriage. Nellie had not seen her since before her marriage to George. George would not tolerate the tramp woman; and what if he found out, suspected something? George was aboveboard, intolerant, and had no use for castaways, for the aimless refractory suffering bohemian. But Johnny's contempt and wrath were sufferings Nellie could not endure, either.
She walked up and down, went downstairs, presently got a bottle from a locked cupboard and began to drink. The cupboard was locked only against herself, because she was short of money at present and liked to have a drink for visitors.
Someone opened the street door. Nellie washed the glass, put away the bottle and called from the kitchen. It was Caroline Wooller. Nellie at once became joyful, told Caroline to go upstairs, she'd be up in a jiffy with tea and sausage rolls, and she lifted a gay tender face to Caroline as she went upstairs.
Caroline was a tall sober-faced woman, with thick loose fair hair, blue eyes and a small mouth.
Nellie came up to the front room in the attic with her tea tray, sat down and told about her family in Bridgehead, putting everything in a dramatic light; and then while Caroline lay back on the bed, seeming very tired, Nellie began smoking furiously in silence. Caroline sighed.
"Well, chick, what happened to you? Were you all right while your Nellie was away?"
Caroline exclaimed, "Nellie, I've got a job! Right away! Joseph—that man—recommended me and I got a job at once with the Rehousing Committee. It happened they needed someone at once."
Nellie was not pleased and said nothing.
A strange thing had happened. Caroline wondered what Nellie would think of it. Her friend Belle Coyne thought it very strange. It happened through Belle Coyne. Belle who was, she said, descended from a bastard son of one of the old English kings, was a girl in the Roseland office who had befriended her after Nellie left. She knew Caroline was looking for a room in London and brought in a newspaper with a remarkable advertisement in the ROOMS TO LET. It said, special low terms and homelike conditions for colonial and dominion girls; and quoted a very low rent.
"Belle came to London with me. I could never have found it without Belle. It was in a street, a broad street with villas running down to the Thames; but I can't tell you where, except that it was near a bridge. It was a big dark red house of brick with four stories and a slate roof and with a lot of ground in front. There was no front door. The entrance was at the side, a flight of steps under a glass canopy. You see, as I had been out to America, Belle thought I could say I was from overseas. I had my tartan silk dress on."
She paused, thinking about the event.
"Aye, pet."
"The woman who opened the door was not what we expected. She was handsome, dark, proud, well dressed—she looked us over and told us to go upstairs, peremptory, like the headmistress of a girls' school. She said she had one room, one for me: and showed us up to the second floor. I was rather pleased that she was a lady. She didn't seem to like Belle. The second floor was nearly all ballroom, with a number of small plain doors opening out of it; another staircase going up."
"Go on, pet."
"The woman showed us into a little room at the side, very plain and small with a skylight, no window. It must have been over the entrance. It was too small. I said it wouldn't do. She said, I might get a bigger room later on; but for the rent it was good. There was no running water. I said, But I will never get my luggage in here. She seemed surprised and said, Have you a lot of luggage? I said, Yes, I brought my whole trousseau back with me from overseas. This is true."
"The woman hesitated, then said she would go downstairs and find what room they had for luggage. While she was away Belle said to me, Why is there no lock? Why is there just a bolt outside the door? I looked and saw that's how it was. When the woman came back, I asked, Why is there a bolt on the outside of the door and no lock inside? The woman was angry. She said it had been a closet and anyway, no one locked the doors there; they were all friends. So we left and said we'd let her know. She was very angry and said I must let her know at once, she had plenty wanting the room. But when we got into the street Belle said it was very funny about the door; and only a cubicle with a skylight. So I have stayed on here, till you got back, Nellie."
"Aye, I'm glad you did, chick," said Nellie dryly.
"What do you think of it?"
Nellie said curtly, "I don't know, pet; it beats me."
After a short pause, she suddenly became very gay, cajoling and sweet. She told Caroline that she needed a friend, not someone like Belle Coyne, who though no doubt kind, would get her into trouble.
"I see, I see very well, you need me."
Nellie said she'd get some drinks, they'd have supper and a nice long talk. But after tea they went out to a local tavern where Nellie was known; and there she was busy exchanging jokes with customers, or arms akimbo, head cocked, watching the men playing darts. The men talked, laughed and glanced sideways at the women. Coming home, Caroline said they were very nice people. She had only been in a public house once or twice in her life.
Nellie was bored, murmured, "Aye, chick; she's a strange old witch, London is. Look at her now, glamorous with a veil of mystery, the long sameness of the streets end in a soft dream. We need the mists here."
Caroline laughed, "Then she would be handsomer in a pea-souper."
"Ah, no, none of your cynicism. Don't tear down my illusions and my loves. I love London because it's all trial and error like my life; terrible mistakes and blind turnings, beautiful prospects and when you look at some stony reality you can glance aside at a beautiful broken dream."
Caroline laughed a little, but said, "You're fey, I suppose, coming from the north?"
"Ah, no, not that. I'm not fey. There's one crowd that despises the fey Scot and that's the plain Scot. And we're only half Scots. I'm a mixture of the soft and the hard, though the soft dominates; and so I lose what I've gained. Aye, that's me."
Caroline said that she felt much better since coming to London. "The dreariness out in Roseland at night! The long country street, a few housefronts, go to the movies, come home early, sit in your bedroom reading a library book by the dim light. Now I know I will be able to write again. I see people. I went to the Rehousing Committee for my interview and sat with the people waiting for homes. Oh, Nellie, what I saw and heard!"
Nellie said good-naturedly, "You're all alike, you amateurs. Everything is grist to your mill. You don't see the warm natural human material. You see a subject."
"Isn't it a subject for you? A news story?"
"That's different. They have great faith in the press; a lever to move things for them."
"But today one of the men said to me, Write about this, what you see, write a book about us. I told him I wanted to. He said good."
Nellie, not heeding, broke into a blackbird whistle, a headless and tailless motif and went striding along. After a while, she slowed down and said protectively, "I understand the urge. But you'll need more experience. That's not enough, the seamy side. You can't butcher them to make a holiday in print. Writing's not just a case of self-expression or conscience clearing. The muckrakers did their work. Now we want something constructive. You see, sweetheart, just to photograph a refuse yard with its rats, that wouldn't help the workers one tiny little bit. It would only be glorifying your own emotions."
"What would you write about, I mean given your experience? Of course, I can never rival your experience."
"No, I've been up to my ears in it all my life. I always knew reality."
"Well, what would you begin with, say?"
"You just write what you see, Caroline sweetheart. Stick to reality; and when you've got the hang of it, you'll be all right. I knew I had something to say when I started out, pet; but w
hen I saw the paper-spoilers, I said, I'll never do that, so perhaps something great is lost; but that's my feeling."
"I have to see it myself, I know."
"Aye, but you don't want to dress it up in romantic illusion or disillusion. You want to give stark staring reality, straight in the face. And no destruction, nothing depressing. The lives of the workers are depressing enough. You want to cover it with a rosy veil, a mystery."
"No destruction. Yes, I said to myself I never heard talk about retreat and failure from Nellie Cook. And I wanted to come and learn from you."
Nellie was charmed, "Did ye, pet? That was wise and good of you, sweetheart. The workers, pet, were walk-ons in all this glorious history. Their play has got to begin."
"That's well put."
Nellie declared with false melancholy, "No, pet, I haven't fulfilled my promise to myself. Let's go in and get a beer at the Queen's Head. Caroline, I'm dry! And I've got to take a pee."
She rapped Caroline on the shoulder, pushed her into the next pub, and ordered for herself, first a sherry, then a whiskey, then a gin.
"You'll be ill."
"No, I'm just beginning to come round. The social quack Robert Peebles, me editor, blue-penciled half me article. What are ye doing, I asked him, tailoring reality closer to your theories? The air here is thick with theories; you want to get out into the fresh air of dockside: it's a long time since you were there. Ah, pet—give me a minute."
For a while Nellie worked on some notes she had to take in in the morning. She then slapped her book together, gave a huge laughing sigh and ordered for herself a whiskey and a gin.
"And now let's have a good talk. Are you hungry? Or can you hold out for a bit so I can get to know you."
Caroline looked round the room, said it was nice and friendly. "My parents would think it sinful to be here. But here they're just nice ordinary people, kind."
Cotter's England Page 4