The Tinker's Girl

by Catherine Cookson

  They both started when the door was suddenly thrust open and Bruce entered. His entrance was like that of L.

  somebody about to fight, at least verbally. But then, manner changing abruptly, he looked from Jinnie, who was standing near the table, to his mother in the bed.

  And it was to his mother he spoke as he walked up the room, saying with surprise, 'Not back yet?'

  'No, lad; not back yet.'

  'It's close on seven o'clock.'

  'Yes. Yes, I know.' Then she put in quietly, 'Perhaps he's goin' to follow Hal's pattern and stay down there all night.'

  'Let's hope to God he does. But no such luck.'

  'No, as you say, lad, no such luck . . . Been busy?'

  'Yes.' He turned away from her now, pulling off his cap and coat. However, instead of moving immediately to hang them on the door he looked towards the table, then around the room, and after a moment he said,

  'Somebody's been busy.'

  'Yes, the lass is goin' to be all right. She's a good lass, willing, and a worker.'

  'Good,' he said, and turned to smile at Jinnie standing at the far side of the table, the while saying, 'That's a reference for you. And you've not been in the house five minutes.'

  After hanging up his coat and cap, he turned to her again and enquired, 'How's it been?'

  'All right, thank you. I've... I've got the dinner ready.

  I've mashed the taties; they're on the hob. But I've got to fry the ham. If you'll take the kale-pot off for me, please.'

  Without further ado, he lifted the kale-pot on to the hearth, and immediately she put the frying pan on the glowing embers, and the sound of sizzling filled the kitchen.

  'D'you like it done well or light?'

  He paused for a moment as if thinking, then said,

  'Just as it comes, Jinnie. Just as it comes.'

  Ten minutes later she dished up the ham and the mashed potatoes, and she placed one plate on the tray and another at the far end of the table. The plate with the thinnest slice of all she placed to one side.

  During the frying of the ham, he had been in the scullery, and now he came in rubbing his hair with a coarse towel. His shirt collar was turned in and his face was still wet. He went on rubbing as he watched her take the tray to the bed and place it before his mother, then push a pillow into her back as if to give her support.

  After hanging the towel on the rod that was fitted below the low mantelshelf, he sat down at the table and he stared at his plate of heaped-up potatoes and the thick slice of browned ham. Then, after a further look around, he attacked the meal. At least he had taken a number of mouthfuls before he looked up to where Jinnie was now screwing the kettle on to the fire. 'Leave that and come and eat your food,' he said.

  When she was seated at the table, she did not immediately tackle her dinner, although she was feeling very hungry, but, looking at him, she asked, 'Is it all right?'

  'I'll tell you by the time I finish. If I take a long time over it, it's no good. If I gollop it, it'll be fine.' He was smiling at her now; then once more he was eating, and rapidly.

  He had come to the last mouthful on his plate when his head came up as he heard the neighing of a horse and the grinding of wheels outside. But he didn't rise from the table, nor did he take up the last bite on his plate. Instead, looking at Jinnie who had also stopped eating, he said, 'Carry on. Take no notice; just carry on eating.'

  It was as if the door had been kicked open, and an undersized man entered the room. Jinnie put the name to him straightaway. His small stature was noticeable as was the size of Max.

  He looked towards the table, not at Jinnie, but at his son, and he growled, 'Huh! Huh. It's comin' to somethin'. I'm out of me house five minutes and me place at the table is taken, is it? Get the hell out of seat!'

  When Bruce didn't move the man seemed to take a jump from within the doorway to the side of the table, on which he thumped so hard that the crockery bounced as he cried, 'You heard me, paleface! You heard me!'

  'Shut up!' The words were quietly spoken, but with?

  emphasis.

  'What did you say? Bugger me! we've come to I somethin' else now. Not only me place is taken, but me mouth closed.'

  'Sit down, Pug, or go into the barn and sleep it off.'

  It was the woman who had spoken, and quietly.

  The man looked towards the bed and, his voice changing, but still loud, he said, The missis at me now. Always a warm homecoming. No, " Sit down, Pug, and have a bite," but, "Get into the barn, that's your place."'

  'There's a bite for you in the oven. The girl's kept it.'

  'Oh, aye. Oh, aye, the girl.' Now he was looking across the table into Jinnie's startled face. And after a moment of surveying her, he said, 'The workhouse skivvy. The best they could turn up: not as thick as two spelks, and a shilling a week. Begod! a shilling a week for that.'

  His voice had risen into a bawl. 'If you're here to work, fetch me plate, and round here to the side of the table and not to the head. Oh no! no! Leave the house for five minutes and your place is taken.'

  Jinnie rose hastily and went to the oven to fetch the plate of dinner. Pug Shaleman pulled a stool from beneath the table and had just seated himself on it when Jinnie, by his side, tentatively leaned forward to place the plate before him.

  What happened next came upon them all so suddenly it even brought the invalid up in the bed, her legs hanging over the side, for as Pug Shaleman's hand grabbed Jinnie's buttock, she let out a high scream, before, as if remembering Miss Caplin's advice on how to deal with men who would handle her, her forearm came up in a hard swipe and caught him fully across the face, overbalancing his already rocking body. The next minute he was lying on his back, one leg in the air and supported against the fallen stool.

  Bruce had already sprung to his feet, and now he was pulling Jinnie away from the vicinity of his father, who was endeavouring to haul himself up from the floor by grasping the table leg.

  'Did you see that?' he was yelling to his wife.

  'You must have done somethin' to deserve it.'

  'Oh aye, I deserved it all right; I nipped her arse. She could have blinded me, swipin' me right across my eyes.

  By God!' He now turned to where Jinnie was standing I .near the door, and he yelled at her, 'You'll have more pan your arse nipped before you leave here, me lass.

  Let me . . .' His voice was cut off, as were all of them silenced by the young girl's yelling at him defiantly, 'You were going to say, "Let me tell you". Well, let me tell you, mister, you'll not handle me, drunk or sober, 'cos

  I'll not stay here to be handled. I'm here to work, and that's what I'll do. I'll look after your missis, but you touch me again and it won't only be me arm you'll get.'

  She could hardly herself believe what she was saying; but she knew that at the end of her tirade, her mind was reminding her that she had a knife in her dada's dinner set. Yet she was also asking herself: what had come over her?

  The man was standing utterly silent now, swaying slightly, but blinking at her as if he were seeing something he couldn't really believe was real; an oddity.

  His wife had drawn her legs back under the cover and was lying down, her head turned away from the room, her face buried in the pillow. Whether she was laughing or crying, could not be determined, but the heavy quilt that covered her was in motion, more so than from her usual tortured breathing.

  Taking hold of Jinnie's arm Bruce propelled her through the doorway, saying, 'There's work to do out here.' But when they were outside she moved away from him and stood biting on her thumb-nail as she looked across the open land and into the gathering twilight. Up to then, everything had been nice, because she liked her mistress and she liked the son, and she had promised herself that tomorrow morning the mistress wouldn't just have a flannel around her face, she'd get that tin dish on to a stool near the bed and she'd give her a wash down. In the workhouse there had been a time when she had had to assist in seeing to admissions, when they all h
ad to be bathed and their heads inspected for dickies and nits. And she had planned that she would comb her mistress's hair and tie it up on top of her head. That's if she had any hairpins. She hoped she would have some, because she hadn't enough to keep her own hair up, the plaits were so heavy. She had considered asking her mistress if she could wear her plaits hanging down. But all these plans would be for nothing now because of that awful little man in the house. She already knew that she disliked him; she had known even before she had struck out at him. And he was lying when he said he had nipped her . . . backside.

  He had grabbed a whole handful of it, and so hard she had nearly capsized herself before toppling him.

  'Look, forget about it.' Bruce broke into her thoughts.

  'You'll find he's a different man in the morning. He always plays the big fellow when he's drunk and carrying more than usual. Anyway, come along and help me clear the cart.'

  The cart was similar to the one at the house farm, the one Max had driven. As for the horse, it looked much older than the animal the workhouse owned.

  He was pointing things out now. 'The taties, they go in the barn, you know. That sack's flour; you keep that in the scullery; it's cooler there. Oh' - he pulled a piece of hessian towards him - 'he's managed to get some yeast. It's gone a bit dry, but it'll be all right tomorrow. And there'll be tea and sugar in that parcel there. Here! You take them; and the yeast and the flour.

  I'll see to the rest,' and he indicated some bales of hay and some further sacks. Then he turned towards her and in a low voice he said, 'Take it in the side door, and then get up to bed. 'Tis early, I know, but you've had a long day.'

  'What. . . what about the dishes?'

  'I'll see to the dishes; and if I don't, they'll still be there in the morning for you. And, I promise you, things will be much quieter tomorrow.'

  She made no reply.

  As he piled the things into her arms, she asked tentatively, 'Can . . . can anyone get into me?'

  'No; and nobody would want to. Anyway, put the bolt in the door leading out here, then anybody who wants to get... at you, would have to come through the kitchen, wouldn't they? And, I can assure you right now, I have no intention of ... getting at you, even going as far as to nip your backside. Does that surprise you?'

  Yes, it did, really. She peered at him through the fading light. He was different. That little man back there and that sickly woman were his parents, but he was like neither of them; somehow he was different.

  She couldn't say he was a gentleman, not like those in the town who wore collars and ties and had walking sticks and high hats, or the workhouse guardians who were supposed to be gentlemen. But as Miss Caplin had once said, gentlemen is as gentlemen does. No, this man was certainly not any kind of a gentleman; but he was different. And what was more surprising, she felt she could believe what he said . . . whatever he said, which, in a way, was more surprising still when she had known him only a matter of hours.

  'Good night, Jinnie. Sleep well.'

  'Good night, mister.'

  Before she had reached the scullery door he was at her side again, saying softly, 'There's a candle in a stick in the cupboard to the side of the trough. Light it to see your way up. But, for God's sake, put it out as soon as you get your things off. Whatever you do, don't go to sleep with it on. We nearly had one disaster that way not long ago. You understand?'

  'Yes. Yes. I'll put it out as soon as possible.'

  'Good. Good.'

  After dropping the parcels on to the table, she found the tin candle-stick and some matches.

  The glow from the tallow candle illuminated the rough working room and gave to it a homely touch; it could do nothing for the staircase but emphasise the fact that there was no rail at the open side. When she had taken her bundle up earlier on to change her clothes, it had been something of an achievement, both the mounting of the steps and the changing, for it was impossible to stand up under the roof unless you bent your back double.

  She had found it easier to kneel. The roof space was as wide as the room below but much longer and she guessed that it must also cover one of those outhouses at the back. Her bed was a straw-filled tick, and the pillow was the same. And when she lay down on it she thought back to the workhouse and the flock-filled pillows which were a luxury compared with this one, for the straw here and there was pricking her face, as was the straw from the tick piercing even her calico nightdress.

  And she wondered why, until she realised the straw had been chopped into chaff, presumably to make it more comfortable for sleeping. But she wasn't finding it so.

  She had been staring into the deep blackness of the roof space when, drugged with tiredness and almost

  on the point of sleep, she heard her mistress's voice almost yelling in her ear, as it were. During the few hours she had been in this house she had imagined that her mistress was not strong enough to shout; but she was shouting all right now. She had, earlier, been aware of a murmur of voices rising and falling; but now, quite clearly the words came, 'You'll . . . you'll not get in this bed tonight, Pug Shaleman. I've told you till I'm sick and tired, I suffer you when you're sober, and I repeat, suffer you. But I've warned you time and again not to come near me when you've got a skinful and act like a frustrated ram. I haven't much strength left, but I warn you, you attempt to lay your hands on me this night and I'll gather enough in me to tear you to shreds. So, you have your choice, as usual: it's the mat in front of the fire or the barn.'

  She was sitting up on the tick now, her head almost touching the rafters, and once more she was biting on her thumb. Her mind was telling her that all this was to do with what Miss Caplin had been talking to her about. It wasn't absolutely clear, but in some way it was connected. This was a very odd house, poor, yet full of strange life, and at this moment she felt strangely close to her mistress, because she was another one who didn't want to be handled.

  Why did men always want to touch you . . . why?

  The next morning she was woken, not by the sound of the cock, for it must have been crowing for some time, but by the grating sound of the pump being used. At the far end of the roof, streaks of light showed that it was daylight. And now, bending forward, she leant over the hatch and looked down into the scullery, there to see Bruce, his body naked to the waist, sluicing his head and shoulders under the pump. For a moment she watched his one hand blindly pumping, the other rubbing at his thick fair hair. When he straightened up she quickly withdrew her head, only to make contact with a beam, which made her eyes water. Then she was kneeling on the pallet, pulling off her nightdress and scrambling into her cold shift and the rest of her clothes, which were equally chilled, whilst telling herself that tonight she'd pack her underclothes all round her. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before.

  She waited until he had left the scullery before she descended the stairs, keeping tight against the wall as she did so. Then she, too, was sluicing herself under the pump, though not her head.

  She had no real idea of the time, and wondered whether she might have slept in and felt she must ask at what time she had to rise in the morning.

  She opened the door into the kitchen very quietly and, to her surprise, saw the table laid out roughly for breakfast, with Bruce standing at the fire and staring at the pot that was bubbling on the hob. He turned an smiled at her, saying, 'Sleep well?'

  'Yes. Yes, thank you.'

  'Good. Porridge'll be ready in a minute.'

  She looked towards the bed. There was a stool close to the side of it and on it was the big tin dish from the!

  scullery which, yesterday, she had used for washing up the dishes. The woman was bending over and washing her arms up to her elbows, and she looked towards Jinnie as she picked up a towel from the coverlet to dry herself, and she asked, 'Had a good night, lass?'

  'Yes, thank you, missis. But I don't know what time I should get up.'

  'Oh, a little afore this, but not all that much. It's half-six now. Anyway, sit down and
have your porridge and eat your fill because that's all you'll get till noon, except for a drink. And I'll tell you now, sometimes we have our main meal in the middle of the day. But other times not until the night. It all depends on the work that's got to be done. You understand?'

  'Yes. Yes, missis, and . . . and I'll get up earlier tomorrow.'

  Bruce turned from the fire, saying, 'You haven't got a clock. Well, I'll be your clock: I'll hammer on the bit of ceiling below you. That should make you jump.

  The only thing is, don't jump too quickly and come down the steps in your shift.'

  When he laughed and her mistress joined in, she was forced to smile, but was slightly surprised. She hadn't expected him to say a thing like that; it didn't seem the kind of remark he would make. And yet, what did she know of him? Again she had to tell herself, this time yesterday morning she hadn't known he was alive, nor his mother, nor anyone else in this strange house, which wasn't like a house at all when she came to think of it.

  'Sit down. Sit down.' He was pointing to the table.

  'And don't look so bewildered. The sun's shining, it's warm and there's no wind. And although it isn't a good day for running, it's a good day for the ordinary human being.'

  'Oh, Bruce' - this came from his mother - 'you and your running.'

  'D'you like to run?'

  Jinnie shook her head before she said, 'I've never run, well, not really; just when somebody's shouted for me.'

  'Oh, that isn't running, that's obedience. Some afternoon when things are slack and there's nothing to do, you want to lift up your petticoats and take to your heels and run across the hills. Try the one behind the house first.' His head was bobbing backwards now.

  Then quickly he said, 'Oh no, you'd better not, for you were out of puff coming up the little inclines, weren't you? And that was just walking at a steady pace. You'll have to break yourself in. Try running back to where you stood and said you thought the view was bonny.'

  'Toilet's Ridge?'