Then the restlessness of everyone upset her. They kept coming in their numbers, knowing what the food situation was; and then kept out of sight, feeling themselves unwanted; they went up the stairs, kept close in the attic, made no sound. She did not want them to feel unwanted and felt she had to offer them something. It was hard for them to come and stay up there overnight, or for a few days and be out of work, or sick; and not be offered a bit of food. At least, she could offer them tea and biscuits or cake. But there weren't always such things, unless it was the weekend and the order was in; or Nellie and young Tom had sent the money. Uncle Simon had his pension; but she had never applied for hers, for she would have been obliged to tell her true age, which she had concealed at her marriage; and what would Thomas Cotter think, coming home and finding that he had a wife older than himself? Nellie spent freely and was always broke by the middle of the week, but she brought or sent plenty of things at the weekends. Nellie was here today and gone tomorrow; and then young Tom was never at home. The young people of today were very restless, she told Simon; they didn't know whether they were coming or going.
In the afternoon, there was Nellie in the house again, stamping and blowing. Mrs. Cotter had often said to her that men didn't like that behavior in a woman; and a big, scrawny, screechy fowl she was, thought her mother, chuckling to herself at her own funny ideas; a queer bird, more like a rooster or a turkey than a girl, traipsing about, tearing up and down the street running, hallooing beside processions, walking in processions, shouting, yodelling and yelling, climbing fences and telling lies and teaching the others to lie; though Mrs. Cotter always wormed it out of them and of Nellie too, with her nose in the air and her rowdy-dowdy ways. "To think that Thomas Cotter could have a daughter like that," her father said one day; and he stretched her out on the dining-room table and looked her over from head to foot. "Let me look at you," he said. "Anyone would say a flatfish at the end of a fishing rod; but you've got the Cotter nose!"
Mrs. Cotter laughed to herself when she saw Nellie go past the fence, just like he said. She was sitting in the bow window of the front room, waiting for her husband. He was coming home at very irregular hours, she knew, because he had been ill; and probably for the moment, he just took the air a bit and went to the football club, and the pub of course; and then he would come home to see how she was getting on. He had been very attentive to her since her accident, which showed how good he was at heart.
"Are ye there, Mary, pet?" cried Nellie, in the front door and Mary Cotter sat there smiling; she could hear the father in the daughter's voice. Nellie in her bit of velvet toque, on her ear, her topknot, her earrings, her cigarette, her high spot of rouge, her long legs like a stork, stood grinning at the door. "Are you coming, pet? Your tea's waiting for you," said her daughter.
She got up smiling, looking her daughter up and down. "Isn't your hem down, Nellie? You'd better put a stitch in it." "Aye, I will, Ma, don't fret about it," said Nellie in the tone which meant it could be hanging down next week still. Mrs. Cotter could see her rampaging around there till she was forty or fifty with her ways, not settled down. "Now come along, that's the style," said Nellie, "that's the style, pet. What were you doing, watching the world go by, Mary?"
They went into the back room and there, to her surprise, were her sisters, Bessie and Jeanie, who had come in without saying a good day to her and now were installed at the tea table as if at home. But she was very cordial as usual, since she was in her own home. She looked curiously at the furniture which had changed its place—or else—no, no, there she was losing her memory she knew and she was now—probably gone visiting with them; that was it. She remembered that she had been sitting in her own window, someone had come for her and then she had come out—forgotten something and—now of course, there was Nellie with her hat on. They were visiting. She herself had left her hat and coat in the hall. Here she was in her house-dress! She sat down in painful embarrassment and tried not to look at her dress. How absent-minded she was getting that she actually had come to visit her sister in her house-dress. They would never forget it; it would be a family joke for years. She sat there, vexed.
"Sit there, that's the style, chick, that's the girl, that's the way," cried Nellie. "Now then, that's it, eh, she's fine, you'll be dancing a jig yet, Mary, pet."
"Aye, she's doin' all right," said Bessie.
"What are ye worried about, Mary?" asked Jeanie; "I can see she's worried about something."
"Now eat your egg, Mary pet, and we'll all sit and watch ye," said Nellie.
"But you can't spare an egg, you need your own," said Mrs. Cotter to her sister Bessie. "Aye I can spare you your own egg," said Bessie, laughing.
Nellie said, "You've got to get strong pet, go on now, that's the style! What, Peggy? Where's the butter, darling? Have you got some bread cut out there, pet? It's all right. Don't bother then, I'll get it myself. You were afraid of Uncle Simon's sermons, is that it, pet?"
Peggy said dryly, "The tea's made; there's bread cut from lunch, the butter's in the kitchen."
"Aye, is it pet? I'll get it then. But you should have put it on the table: we've guests to tea. Have your egg, then Mary, me sweetheart, and we'll go and get the butter and cut some bread with instructions on the use of the bread-saw from Uncle Simon." And Nellie went to the kitchen.
Peggy said, "The cloth's on, the tea's made and you're strong enough to pour out your own teas, I suppose."
"Now, lass," said Aunt Jeanie, "there's no need to take offense. I'll do it if you don't feel like it."
"You invite yourselves to tea every other day now," said Peggy; "and I'm sick and tired of waiting upon ye. Ye aren't visitors, you're in and out of the house as much as we are. We pay the rent and you come and make merry."
"Aye, the girl's all right," said Mrs. Duncan, a neighbor who had dropped in with some cakes; "it's all right, Peggy, it's no great matter; don't fuss, we'll manage. I should have brought some tea, I had it: aye, the girl's all right."
"I think that's very rude, Peggy," said Aunt Bessie, a round little woman, getting red and bouncing up, "when I've come all the way from Sunderland. I didn't come for you but for Mary and you ought to be ashamed, putting people out of the house."
"It's nothing to me whether you're in or out of the house making a nuisance of yourselves," said Peggy gaily, picking up her knitting; "it's nothing but tea, tea, tea all day long. I'm fed up with tea."
Nellie returning, caught this and she soothed her, "Aye, but we've got to have it, pet, we've got to get things done."
Mrs. Cotter laughed suddenly and said, "Done to a T."
Nellie laughed. "That's it, pet, that's the spirit, now you don't call that eating, do you? Come eat it up. Why I thought when I came back, there'd not be a speck of egg left. Now, eat it up while I go and get the butter, while me back's turned. Eat your egg, Mary."
The old woman said deliberately, "I do-ant want no more egg-"
The dog, lying across the doormat began to bark, leaping up and down. "Let him out," cried Peggy to her aunt, "let him out, man, can't you move? Are you paralyzed already with the paralysis of the Pikes? I see," she continued; "I see, man, pet, what it is: it's only Uncle Sime teasing you. Open the door, Simon Pike, man, you fool. Nellie! Uncle Sime's standing behind the door teasing the animal. I know his ways."
Uncle Simon and Nellie together opened the door and Nellie said, "Come in, Uncle Sime, pet, are you taking your tea with us, then, Sime?" Uncle Simon was unkempt and disordered. His coat, waistcoat and shirt hung open, showing his thin hairy pigeon-breast. He had a week's growth of beard. He was haggard, his eyes dirty and red. He said, "A got me tay in the kitchen, thank ye kindly. A'm bringin' youse the butter."
Peggy said, "You needn't bother, if that's it. We've got legs to walk. Don't come nosing in, man, where you're not wanted."
Nellie said, "That's kind of you, Uncle Sime. Sit down with us a minute, sweetheart; there's a pet."
"A'll not, thank ye," said the uncle.<
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His sister Mary laughed and in a cooing voice enquired, "Who wud he sit by? There's no room to sit by himself. It's a long time since Simon took a bath and he lets you know it."
Peggy said, "Though he spends an hour and a half or two hours in the bathroom every day, worse than Mrs. Riggs in Race Week, going up to see who's strolling on Newcastle Town Moor and to catch a man in front of the Eastern Harem sideshow."
"That's enough, Peggy: you don't know what you're talking about," said Nellie.
Simon said, "A've got no one to get meself oop for; A'm not a young gel and it an't worth the trouble for you here."
Peggy said, "And if ye got up at a reasonable hour, but he's there in his bed to all hours."
Simon said, in a broken tone, "And who sets the fire for ye? Who gets the tay for ye in the marnin'? Isn't it me, takin' ye a tray oop in the marnin' for ye both, when ye're in bed? It's for you, Mary, A do it: for she won't get oop." He turned to his other sisters, "She lets her poor old mother lie there withoot a cup o tay."
"And why should I get up?" said Peggy. "Isn't it allowed to sleep in this house? And what should I get up for? Two old invalids, that's a pleasure for a young woman? Do you think I want to look at your face, Uncle Sime? Go away with ye, man. There isn't and never was anyone wanted to look at ye, man, let alone a woman; and even the very dogs bark at ye. No wonder, Tom, poor man, barks at ye. He hates ye: he can't stand the sight of ye."
Mrs. Duncan said good-humoredly, "Well, there's a good girl, Peggy; now don't get yourself excited. Never mind your uncle, Peggy."
Mary, who had been sitting for some time with a dim smile, spoke up, "And what wud ye be doing in your bed, Simon, so late and so early?" She laughed quietly.
Simon said firmly, "Do ye know what A do every night, Mary?" Mary laughed at this. Peggy listened hungrily.
Aunt Jeanie said to Mrs. Duncan, "You know us well, and you'll gather, too, what it is, why he can't get up. He's been at it for years, eh, he's a character, he is, he's a funny fellow: there's a man for ye. No wonder he likes his bed"; and all the women broke into accustomed laughter, while the angry, half-naked old man looked at them without flinching.
"Every night before A get to me bed, Mary," he said, "A go down on me knees and A pray to God for ye, Mary. A pray for me poor old sister and pray he'll take care of ye and not let ye suffer; that's what A do."
"Pray for me," Mary cackled, "it's a fine prayer, that."
Peggy said, "I can't stand his nonsense."
Mary enquired, "Why wud you pray for me?"
Simon said, "A pray for ye to get rid of your fancies, and that you'll be right in your mind again, Mary, and have a quiet end: and that's the words A put in me prayer. And A'll stay here till that day to see ye're all right and then A'll go meself. A often wish," he said bitterly, looking at his sisters, "when A get up in the marnin' with me coughin' that it was me last day. A can hardly crawl up and down the stairs and sometimes A'm seized with a fit in the middle of the stairs—oh, A'm afraid of breakin' me neck. And she wishes it too," he said, looking at Peggy, "she's only waitin to be shet of us both, for that girl is not a normal girl, she's a mad girl: or she wouldn't stand that daft dog."
Jeanie cried, "Simon, Simon, none of that language here."
Peggy stood up and shrieked, "I'll not let him say that of me and no one has the right to say that of a dog that he's daft. That is a wicked word: you're a criminal, Uncle Sime, and it's daft and mad you are to say that word: no decent man that hadn't a heart full of blood would say that word. I'll not hear it, I'll not hear it—"
Aunt Bessie said, "There, there, now, girl, sit down, Peggy—"
Nellie said, "He didn't mean it, pet, ye know that not one of us would use such a word."
Mary scolded, "Shame on ye, Simon, don't dare say a word like that here to the poor girl. Hush! Shame! That's no word to say to a young girl. Peggy, come here to your mother."
"Well, well,", said Simon, "A take it back. Ah, stop it, damn the dog—"
Peggy had begun to sit down but shrieked again, "Leave him alone; he's more sense than you. He knows what he's barking at: he knows what's in your mind, he has more sense than any of you and let him do what he wants, he knows what he wants, he knows what you all are!" They hushed her, much concerned, while she screamed, "Get out, get out, get out."
"A'm gannin'," said Uncle Simon.
Mary said brightly, "I'm gannin' too. Let's go now, Peggy. Where's me hat? Where's me hat, where's me jacket?" She got up and looked over the sideboard where Bessie had put her hat: she tried to make her sisters move on their chairs. "Where's me things?"
"Now what do you want your hat for Mary?" said Bessie.
Cushie said, "Eat your egg, sweetheart. Go out, Uncle Sime. You've upset us all. You don't mean it, Sime, but we're not often honored by your presence, you see."
"A'm goin' then," said Simon; "Peg'd be better, A'm tellin' ye, if she wasn't so coddled, if she was made to behave. She was better when she was goin' out every day. She's a smart enough girl."
"And where would I get a job having to stay at home looking after two old dying people who should be dead long ago? A young woman shut up with two corpses that are on their feet and won't lie down still?"
The aunts protested under their breaths at this; and meanwhile Mary was getting more and more anxious and now she held out her hand to her sister Jeanie saying, "It was very nice, thank you, but it's getting late and I must go home now. My husband'll be home soon, it's getting on to his time and I've got nothing ready and he's always such a hungry man." She gave her sister a tea-party smile, "Where's me supper, he says, I can't eat you! Where's me meat? You're nothing but skin and bone, not a mouthful in you, you won't do!" She tittered. "I ought to know where I left them," she said fussily; "where did I put them, Nellie? I can't remember"—a society smile—"My memory's so bad now, I'm getting old: old age is creeping over me." She laughed self-consciously and whispered, "Where are me things, Nellie? Let's get them and run out." She took a parcel off the sideboard.
Her sister Bessie laughed, "Where would you be going with that, Mary?"
"I'm taking me things and I'm going home."
"Aye, ye'll be goin' home," said Simon, watching her.
Cushie said, "Now, Mary, pet, this is your home and you're not going home anywhere else."
Mary whispered to her nodding, "Show me me things, Nellie and I'll slip away. Did I leave them in the hall?"
"Never mind your things," said Bessie laughing, "come and finish your tea, Mary. Eh, she's a scream!"
"It's so late. I've been here so long. I can't remember when I came," she simpered at the women. "I'm afraid he'll get home first and find no supper. What's that?"
"It's nothing, pet, it's the wind," said Cushie.
"Who's there?" said Mary, much struck, looking towards the hall.
"It's nothing, Mother: come and sit down and finish your tea. My head's bursting with all this clatter. I never saw such people for making a noise about nothing," said Peggy. "Sit down, Mother, for the love of Mike: it's enough to drive a body from home."
Mary heard nothing of this: she was still listening and she said, "Did you hear, Nellie? It's his step!"
"There, sit down there, Ma, and never mind what you hear."
Her mother began nervously tying a string round the little parcel, "I've got to go, I've got to go, Nellie. Don't stop me. I must go. Suppose he comes home and I'm not there? It's never happened. I never stayed out late. He knows that about me. He'll begin to think something's happened. He'll worry."
Simon was upset, "He's not worryin' about ye now, Mollie!"
"But he will! There always was a woman in the house when he got home."
Cushie sighed, "Aye, that's the truth; too many women waiting for to serve him. You wore yourself out for him, Mary. You're right at home now, Mother and it's here you must wait for him." The mother, half-convinced and puzzled, sat down and looked round at all the faces. Simon went out to the kitchen and
a few minutes later Mary came out into the hall where she began arguing with her two daughters. She ran down the hall, laughing foolishly, and said to her brother, "Let me past you, Simon, I'm going the back way. They won't let me out. It's a queer house I'm in. He's home now, it's dark. I must see him."
Simon said, aye, he was home now but she wouldn't be seeing him yet a while.
"I'm goin' to him," said the widow.
"You're not goin' and ye'll never find him. It's dark and dreary, it's blowin' up cold. How would ye find your way to him by yourself in this night?"
"Surely I know me way home after living in one house for forty years and more since my wedding day: I never was away from it except to go round the corner to visit Lily, in all my life. I'm the old-fashioned woman." She laughed at herself, "If you won't let me go, I'll go and get Lily to take me with her. I know the way that far, surely."
"Aye," said Simon, "but ye don't know the way to St. Aidan's churchyard which is where she is tonight, and he too: and they're not expectin' ye or wishin' for ye to join them. Leave them in peace, woman, and go and finish your tay like anyone else."
Mary burst into healthy laughter. "St. Aidan's churchyard? You're daft, man. What are they doing in St. Aidan's? Are they courting in the churchyard?" She turned round hurriedly and said, "Where's my parcel? I can't stand talking daft here. I'm going round to see Willie. He'll understand me. You were always silly, I could never talk to you, Simon."
"He's not there and he hasn't been there for a long time."
"Don't be daft, man: I've no patience with you, saying such a daft thing," she cried out angrily.
Peggy came along the passage with her dog and said, "Lift up your foot, mother, man, lift up your foot, like I tell ye." Her mother, in surprise, lifted her foot, "Don't ye see, man," said Peggy, "that you're wearing one brown and one black shoe?" She quickly slipped off one of her mother's shoes and said, "Here, Tom man, go play!" tossing the shoe to the dog. The wild dog seized the shoe, dashed off down the passage and up the stairs where he stood panting, while Peggy called, "Don't be daft, ye daft dog, drop that shoe, man!"
Cotter's England Page 7