The Silent Lady

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘I’ve lost count of the days it took me to reach the big city, and also,’ she added grimly, ‘of the number of men who wanted to be kind to me.’ Her voice was slow and low. ‘I’d been brought up among drink and squalor, and all those around me lived by their wits, so now I put mine into practice. But when I think back, I must still have looked like a lost schoolgirl, except for my face. It was old. It was old then, and it has never seemed to change.’

  Her smile widened here. ‘But I must tell you how I came to own this house and the fruit business, and about Hamish McIntyre. I had learnt how to live rough and exist for days at a time on rotten fruit or what I could scavenge from dustbins, those near hotels. But you had to fight your way to get at them because the ones near the big hotels, as I said, they had what the posh people called their own clientele. You had to be there pretty early in the morning to pick out anything worthwhile, and one day a cop almost nabbed me. I’d gone into a cook shop and pinched a couple of pies and I almost ran into him head-on as I left the shop and he gave chase. The shop had been near the fruit market and I dashed through there and passed what I now know is the Opera House and up some alleys. In and out I went until I lost him. But,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘I suppose I’d lost him in the market. I was just one of hundreds of kids on the same game. Anyway, I wasn’t to know that then, and I wove in and out, in and out, then up through a narrow roadway, and I recall there were shrubs on one side of it. Anyway, I was gasping when I saw a pair of iron gates and, beyond, a yard littered with boxes and rotten fruit, and I did what you did, lass: I went in and I hid in a corner behind some boxes and I waited for that bobby comin’. I could’ve waited till next week, had I known it, but I was so exhausted and weak with hunger that I fell asleep. I sort of dreamt that someone came and stood over me, then went away, but when I woke up there was nobody about.

  ‘Then I did wake and looked about me. There was squashed fruit of every kind that had been swept into piles here and there, but though I was very hungry and I’d eaten worse I couldn’t touch them, ’cos I wanted to be sick; and I was. I vomited but it was mostly water. After a while I sneaked out, and when I got past the gates I saw just a few yards away a man selling fruit from a stall, and again I made a run for it. But that night, not bein’ able to find anywhere to kip, I thought of that yard and that pile of boxes, and when it was dark I made my way there. The gates were shut, but they weren’t locked, and I carefully lifted the latch, went through them, closed them gently behind me, and took my sleepin’ quarters among the boxes.’

  Again she stopped. ‘You all right, dear?’ she said. ‘Shall I go on?’ When the head made a movement, she said, ‘All right, then. Well, to cut this bit of the story short, I stole what I could to eat during the daytime. I’d found it was no good offerin’ your services to anybody, there were so many in the same boat as meself, but each night I went back through those gates and slept behind the boxes. That was until one morning when I tried to get out and found the gates locked. Eeh, lass, was I in a pickle! The place was walled in. There was a kind of stone buildin’ at the end of it, which looked as if it was droppin’ to pieces, like most of the houses round about. In panic I started to shake the gates. Then there was this man. He’d come and stood in front of the gate and said, “Well, now, what can I do for you?” His voice, I recognised, was Scots. A thick Scots. “Let me out,” I said, “else I’ll bloody well scream!”

  ‘“Oh, yes? Do that,” he said. “By all means. That’s what I want you to do so I can bring the polisman, and he can take you where you should be, behind bars.”

  ‘“I’ve done nowt,” I said.

  ‘“No,” he answered, “only used my premises as sleepin’ quarters for the last week or so.”

  ‘Eeh! I began to tremble, lass. So he had seen me that first night, but why had he left me alone till now? When he suddenly unlocked the gate and stood before me I backed from him and got me knife out. I said, “You come near me, mister, and you’ll be sorry. If I do nothin’ else I’ll leave a mark on you.”

  ‘“Yes, I suppose you would, miss,” he said. “But let me tell you, I wouldn’t touch you, my dear, with a ten-foot bargepole if I had one in my hand this minute. But seein’ that you’ve used my premises for sleepin’ quarters I don’t see why you shouldn’t pay for your night’s rest by some work, like sweepin’ up this yard.”

  ‘Well, Reenee, I stood and gaped at him. Then, me wits returnin’, I said, “What’ll you give me?”

  ‘“Give you?” he said. “It’s you who owes me, miss. I’ve told you, you’ve got to pay for your sleepin’ quarters.”

  ‘I glared at him. Then, as if I had any power to bargain, I said, “I’ll do it if you give me a bite of food.”

  ‘“Oh! Oh, I see. You’re not only askin’ for a bed you’re askin’ for board too, is that it?”

  ‘I nodded at him and said, “Aye.”

  ‘Now in that thick voice of his, he said, “I’ll give you a meal,” he said, “about ten o’clock, after I’ve seen what work you do. You see that buildin’ down there?” He pointed down the long yard. “Well, there’s a hut next to it, and it’s got tools in it. You’ll find something that you can use to clear up. And don’t attempt to do a bunk, because if you do you won’t find any sleepin’ quarters here tonight. The gate will be locked. Understood?”

  ‘I didn’t answer him, but I turned away and went down the yard to find the hut with the tools in.’

  And now Reenee smiled as Bella went on, ‘My cleanin’ up wasn’t like anything you did, me dear. But he gave me a meal, and it was a good one. Of course, he bein’ Scottish, it was a bowl of porridge, and with it a slice of bread and pig’s fat. Also a can of black tea – neither milk nor sugar in it, but I can tell you, it was like wine to me. And that state of affairs went on for almost a week, because after I’d done my stint and eaten the food I went out and about my scroungin’. But I always returned hungry and longed for the mornin’ and that porridge. Then one day he said to me, “Where’re you from?”

  ‘“Liverpool,” I said.

  ‘“How old are you?”

  ‘I recall lookin’ from one side to the other before I said, “Sixteen.”

  ‘“You’re not.” His words came back like a shot. “You can’t be more than fourteen. Why are you here? Haven’t you got any people? Are you from a home of some sort?”

  ‘“Aye, mister.” I was from a home of some sort. Yes, you could say that all right. And I didn’t know I was cryin’, actually cryin’ – me!

  ‘He bawled, “Oh, for God’s sake! Don’t come that. I’ve never been softened by tears before, and I’m not likely to be now.”

  ‘You know what I said to him in reply? “Who’s askin’ you to be bloody well softened. I don’t want any of your sympathy or kind words, if you have any in you, that is. I’m me own boss and always will be. So there. Nobody’s goin’ to tell me what to do; if I don’t want to do it, I don’t do it. Get that, mister!”

  ‘And you know what he did, Reenee? He put his head back and he laughed. He was a man, I found out later, who wasn’t given to laughter. He had to have something really to laugh about. That morning I heard him laugh until he nearly choked. And then he said, “D’you want a job?”

  ‘“What?” said I.

  ‘“You heard. You heard, big woman. I said, d’you want a job?”

  ‘“Depends.”

  ‘“On what?”

  ‘“On what you’re gonna pay me.” I saw him swallow deeply before he said, “A shillin’ a week, and your food and board. You see that buildin’ down there next to where you got the brushes? Well, it’s a wash-house. The first thing you do is clean it up. There’s a good boiler in there. You fill it with water from the pump just beyond it. Then you chop up some of these boxes and put the fire on. You’ll have to chop enough to keep it goin’ because it eats wood. Then you can kip there. But first this yard’s got to be cleaned as it should be, not played at like you’ve been doing these last few days. That
wash-house is to be clean in order that you can do my washing in there, and this includes the bedding. Have you ever done any washing before?” When I didn’t answer, he said, “Well, you’ll learn. And if it’s all to my satisfaction you’ll get a shilling a week and your grub.”

  ‘Well, lass, in the next six months I learnt what work was. Aye, I did it for six months, and then one day he said to me, “Don’t you think it’s about time you went along to Ginnie’s and got a change of rags? If you come out lookin’ decent I’ll take you on as me housekeeper. Can you cook?”

  ‘“No.”

  ‘“Well, that doesn’t matter very much,” he said; “except you’ll have to learn how to make porridge. I generally eat out anyway. But what about it?”

  ‘“What wage?” I said.

  ‘At this he laughed again: “Half a dollar.”

  ‘“Your housekeeper?” I repeated, lookin’ up into his big hairy face.

  ‘“Yes,” he said, “my housekeeper, and” – he thumped me in the chest – “you won’t need to bring out your knife. Be quite sure on that point, Bella. What did you say your second name was?”

  ‘“Morgan.”

  ‘“Well, Miss Bella Morgan, you will be safe with me. Even when you grow up I can’t see you lookin’ much different from what you do now; so you have no need to worry on that score.”

  ‘I recall now, lass, how hurt I felt. I knew I was small, with a thick-set body, and me face was plain. But, anyway, that’s how it started: I became his housekeeper. I must have been just turned fourteen at the time and I worked for him sixteen years – the last three he spent a lot of time ill in bed – and I knew as much about him at the end of his life as I did when I first saw him. I can only put it like this: he was a man of many parts. His routine never changed in all those years until he took to his bed.

  ‘He didn’t always attend the stall; he had a man who would come in and take over. At such times he’d be up in his bedroom. He had a little desk there and he was always writing down notes or figures. I got that much from the torn-up scraps that were in the wastepaper basket. But I also know that he didn’t deal in much second fruit, it was nearly all good stuff. I understand it hadn’t always been like that: he had started very much on seconds, and that’s why he hated old Frankie next door. One day they had an awful row and Frankie said, “You’re nowt but a bruised-fruit vendor.” Anyway, as I was to find out, he had a number of different suits in his wardrobe and they were all good ones.

  ‘He had a pattern like a timetable. The stall was cleared at five. He never did it himself, not while I was there anyway. By six o’clock he’d be washed and dressed for out. Some nights he’d be back about nine. Others he would say to me, “Don’t wait up. I won’t want anything.” I don’t think he had ever said please or thank you in his life, and he always made me feel I was of no importance, just someone to clean the house, do his washing and get his breakfast. There were nights I knew he didn’t get back till twelve o’clock, and I used to wonder what he got up to. But in all those years I never saw him the worse for drink, though of course I didn’t see him when he came in that late.

  ‘At the end he had a doctor to him, who told me he had a sort of wasting disease. I’ve learnt since it must’ve been what they call leukaemia. Something to do with the blood. Another thing that was odd, he wouldn’t let me wash him except to put a flannel round his face on bad days.

  ‘Shortly after he had taken to his bed—’ She stopped here and said, ‘You interested, lass?’ and when Reenee made her usual nod of confirmation, she went on, ‘Well, that’s all right. As I said, he hadn’t been long in his bed when he called up the man who saw to the stall and told him to carry on; but first, he gave him a letter to take to the warehouse for a Mr Weir. That very night he said to me, “I want you to get to your room and stay there. I’m going to have a visitor. He will be able to let himself in, he’s got a key.” I just stared at him and then he croaked at me, “D’you hear what I say? I’m sayin’ to you, make yourself scarce. Keep to your room until my visitor goes. Your lugs will be wide open and you’ll hear him leave. You understand me, now?”

  ‘I never said a word but I went out. It was over an hour later when I heard someone coming up the stairs; it was over two hours later when the footsteps went down the stairs. Through the window I could see no sign of a cab or anything. The next day he sent for his solicitor, who brought two clerks with him. Well, as they were up there a long time I went and tapped on the door, opened it and was about to ask if they would like a cup of tea when there was a bawl came from the bed, “Get out!”

  ‘At a glance I could see that the bed was covered with bits of paper and things like parchment rolled up, and the solicitor man was sitting on a chair to the side of the bed with the clerks standing beside him.

  ‘I closed that door none too quietly. Sometimes I considered him a pig of a man, and that was one of the times. I forgot he had been kind in givin’ me house room; yet he had never broken his neck over paying promptly for my services. Anyway, it was the very next afternoon when I went into his room that he handed me a closed envelope, and on it was simply the name “Mr Weir”, and he said, “Get that to the warehouse as soon as possible.”

  ‘I went downstairs and I was about to pick up my coat and put it round me, when the bell rang and there, outside, stood the doctor. He was a nice, civil man, middle-aged and kindly, and I led him upstairs, opened the door and stood aside for him to pass. Then we both let out an exclamation. There was nobody in the bed, and to my knowledge Mr McIntyre hadn’t been able to move out of it for weeks. But there he was, all crumpled on the mat at the foot of the bed and in his hand, of all things, was an open clasp knife. It was one of those, you know, like Scouts have that hold a screwdriver and a file as well as a knife. Well, on this occasion only the blade was showin’, and it was still in his hand, and when the doctor turned him over he said, “Dear God, he’s had a stroke! What on earth brought him from the bed?”

  ‘I helped to carry his twisted body back to the bed, and it was no lightweight, and the doctor said, “This’ll finish him surely.” Then he said, “Now give me a hand. I have to get him on to his side to examine him.”

  ‘The examination proved that Mr McIntyre had certainly had a stroke all down his left side, and his face was twisted and he was unable to speak.

  ‘“You can’t manage him on your own any more,” the doctor said. “He’ll have to have a nurse. I’ll see about it first thing in the morning. He’ll take no harm lying as he does now. Don’t agitate him in any way by trying to get him to talk. Will you be all right by yourself tonight? Perhaps you know someone who will stay with you?”

  ‘“No, I won’t need any help,” I said; “I’ll be all right, Doctor. I’ve seen to him so far.”

  ‘“Yes, indeed you have,” he said, “and it’s been too much for anyone, let alone someone of your size.”

  ‘I tell you, Reenee, it was the most uneasy and frightening night I’ve spent in me life, and even before I left Liverpool, and after. I can tell you I had some frightening nights. On that road I was scared to death many times but nothing like the night I watched him die, because that’s what he was doing and I didn’t know. He kept opening one eye and staring at me as if willing me to do something, and I recalled the past two or three days when he had been struggling for breath. Time and again he would point through the iron bars at the foot of the bed, and twice he distinctly said the word “lino”; once I thought he said, “Lift the lino.” So after he fell asleep I quietly pulled up the mat that lay across the foot of the bed. There was no break in the lino there. Then I looked around the edge of it where it was all tucked neatly underneath the skirtin’ boards, which were agape with shrinkage for nearly half an inch. There was no break at all in the lino. Definitely, though, he had been trying to get at the lino with that knife, but why? Then I thought of the way he had been lyin’: he might have pointed to the window. Something under the window-sill? Well, I examined that; and there was
a kind of gap between the bricks and the bottom of the wooden sill, and I put my fingers into this, but there was nothing there. Anyway, I must’ve dozed and when I woke up I had no need to ask any more questions: his head had fallen to the side and I knew he was dead. I wasn’t sorry, no, I wasn’t; although I still felt I owed him something for giving me the job. Four days later he was buried, and during that time I’d been sweating, wondering what was going to happen now. I had a few shillings saved up, but most likely I’d be on the streets again, because I couldn’t imagine he would have left me anything in his will.

  ‘He was a mean man, and those, Reenee, are the very words the solicitor said to me the day of the funeral. He said, “Your master, Miss Morgan, was a mean man, I’m very sorry to say.”

  ‘“Oh, I know that,” I said.

  ‘“Well, come and sit down, my dear,” he said, and I can remember the kindly man leading me to the kitchen table, and we both sat down. “He hasn’t left you entirely bereft,” he said. “I don’t know whether you’ll be pleased or not, but he has left you this house.”

  ‘I gasped and said, “He’s what? He’s left me the house?”

  ‘“Yes, he’s left you the house, but not a penny with which to support it. He feels that there’s the vegetable and fruit business outside and you should be able to make enough to keep the house going. I even dared to suggest to him that he could leave you a little something, but he bit my head off, saying you wouldn’t know what to do with money.”

  ‘I think the kind man was withholding something, for I’m sure Mr McIntyre would have added, because she’s a numskull. You see, I couldn’t talk to him. I couldn’t tell him what I thought or even anything I’d read in the papers. He didn’t stop near me long enough for anything like that. Then the solicitor surprised me. He said, “You might not believe it but he has died a very rich man.”