Kate Hannigan's Girl

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘No, for me ma; she’s across there.’ He motioned with his head to the line of public houses. ‘I’ve got a penny,’ he said, opening his palm and showing the penny pressed into the flesh by the iron railings.

  ‘Oh, you’re rich,’ she said. ‘Here’s another. Now what will you buy?’

  ‘Pork dip, or pie and peas,’ he answered.

  A man who was standing near, with a whippet on a lead, said, ‘Aye, that’s reet, look after yer belly, son. The Earl here likes his belly, and his drink.’ He bent and patted the dog. ‘Watch,’ he said, and pulling a bottle from his pocket he poured some spirit down the dog’s throat. The dog shivered and its bones could clearly be seen rippling under its skin.

  The little boy laughed, but Annie didn’t; she didn’t like those dogs. She remembered going with Rosie one Saturday afternoon to the rabbit coursing at East Jarrow. The poor little rabbits had been kept in boxes and let out for the dogs to chase. When the gun went off she tumbled down the bank and fell into a ditch full of water. She was sick, and did not go again.

  The little boy left the railings, crying, ‘Here’s me ma!’ and ran straight into the road towards two women and a man who were coming across. One of the women, who looked enormous, even at a distance, clipped his head and shouted at him, and he turned and ran back to the pavement again.

  Annie stared at the approaching woman, and felt her eyes widening in surprise. It was her cousin Connie—well, Kate’s cousin Connie from Jarrow, who always smelt of scent, nasty scent. She hadn’t seen her for years. Connie often used to visit their house when they lived in the fifteen streets, but after she married Pat Fawcett she came no more…Why hadn’t she? Annie never found out, but she knew it was something to do with Pat, because Kate had been going to marry Pat. Pat was killed in France during the war, and now Connie was a widow, and oh, wasn’t she fat! Could she be the boy’s mother? Annie stared at the child again. Now she knew why she thought she had seen him before. He looked exactly like Pat, except that his face wasn’t red.

  The man and the women stood on the kerb, and it was evident they were drunk. The man kept leaning towards Connie, emphasising each word he was saying with a pat of his hand on her enormous breasts. Connie would throw back her head and laugh, and Annie was fascinated by the size of the cavity, all grey and wet, behind the blackened teeth. Annie stood behind the man with the whippet, for she didn’t want Connie to see her; she was ashamed of her being drunk. If she hadn’t been drunk, she would have spoken to her, for she liked the little boy. She could see him now, pulling at his mother’s skirt. And she heard Connie say, ‘Blast yer! What is it, eh? Who give yer a penny?’

  The boy pointed, and the man with the whippet moved aside to speak to two iron ore men who had just come out of the docks, and Annie found herself looking into Connie’s bloodshot eyes. A terror filled her. She felt a fluttering in her stomach; it was light and seemed full of wings. Her legs, too, became weak under her, and she could not have turned and run away even if she had not had the basket to carry.

  ‘Huh! By God, if it isn’t the Countess’s daughter! Well!’ Connie’s eyes narrowed into slits that showed red glints as she looked Annie up and down. ‘Jesus! That’s what comes of marrying yer fancy man. Nellie! look’—she nudged the other woman—‘that’s Kate Hannigan’s bastard, y’know, the one I told yer about. That’s her. She’s got her up, ain’t she? They’re livin’ among the toffs now. It’s money yer want, Nellie…Yer can get off with any damn thing if yer pick one with money. Why ain’t you got money, Jake?’ She gave the man a punch in the ribs that sent him reeling. The three of them laughed. But Connie’s laugh held no mirth, and she turned once again towards Annie.

  Groups of men were standing by the dock gates, and people were gathering in twos and threes for the Jarrow tram; they seemed to Annie to have stopped talking and were listening to Connie Fawcett saying terrible things. Annie was burning with shame, it made her hot and sick. Why had she to be ashamed of so many things? There was always something of which to be ashamed: of her grandfather who had been wicked and bad, of not having a da, of the pawnshop, of Kate not being a Catholic, and now of Connie Fawcett.

  ‘Look, Pat,’ Connie was saying to the boy, ‘that’s yer cousin. Take a good dekko at her…Ain’t she nice? I could dress you up to the eyes too if I had a mind. All yer want is a bit of education. That makes the tart business pay.’

  ‘I never knew it mattered, Connie,’ the man spluttered, his hand falling once again to her breast. ‘That’s a new un on me. By God! Ain’t that funny, Nellie? Education for a tart! You can keep yer education, Connie; you just give me—’

  ‘Here! I think that’s enough o’ that,’ a woman standing near shouted towards them. ‘You should be damn well ashamed of yersels…with bairns about.’

  Annie felt faint. She kept her eyes on the pavement and clutched the railings behind her. Oh dear, dear Jesus, make her stop. Oh Holy Mary, make her go away. Please. Please.

  ‘You mind yer own bloody business; this is a family matter,’ Connie shouted back at the woman.

  ‘I’ll call the polis from over there,’ said the woman, nodding angrily towards the dock policemen’s cabin.

  Annie’s head dropped still further: Oh St Anthony, guide me. Oh St Anthony, guide me away from her. Dear, dear Lord, help me.

  From under her downcast lids Annie saw two feet coming rapidly towards her. They stopped in front of her. A hand lifted the basket and another took hold of one of hers. Oh thank you, St Anthony, she thought, before she looked up. Then she almost cried out aloud: Oh, why had you to send him? Oh, not him! Oh, the shame of it! He must have heard all Connie said. Oh St Anthony, why couldn’t you have sent someone else? I’ll never be able to look at him again.

  She let him lead her through the scattered groups of people. They crossed the road and walked through the arches. Her head still drooped and she could think of nothing clearly, only that this was another shame to add to the many others, and that it was rather mean of St Anthony to send Terence Macbane, because now she was going to cry and she just couldn’t help it.

  He said gently, ‘I shouldn’t worry.’

  She didn’t answer, and they walked on in silence, he still holding her hand.

  They had passed through the five arches before he spoke again: ‘I have an aunt like her…In fact, she’s worse than her.’ Annie turned bright, burning eyes towards him. He went on: ‘She’s terrible. Everybody in…in Glasgow knows her. We’re dreadfully ashamed of her, so I know how you feel. That woman…well, she isn’t a patch on my aunt.’ He smiled inwardly at the image of his creation, and added consolingly, ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of…not a thing; everybody has relations like her.’

  The dry brightness of Annie’s eyes softened into a mist; the tight pain in her chest lifted into her throat and seemed to burst from there with a loud report. She turned, her hands covering her face, and leant against his chest. He stood taut for a moment, staring straight over her head. She had knocked off her hat, and it lay on the greasy pavement. He put the basket down, and slowly his arms went about her. They were standing in the deserted road leading to the sawmill; it stretched empty for half a mile ahead. He bent his face above the shining silver mass of her hair, and for a moment his lips hovered over it. Then he dropped his arms from her and stood stiff again.

  His thoughts raced, tumbling and fighting each other…This was how things started between fellows and girls. Well, it wasn’t going to happen to him, now or ever. She was only a child, but why had she to look like that? When she looked at you she made you feel…Oh Lord, he’d have to get away! He told himself vehemently: I’ve my work to think about. Nothing’s going to touch that! Yet I’ve never felt like this before. It all started that blasted night a month ago that I saw her at the window…But how can it be? She’s only a child. It doesn’t matter, it won’t start.

  Sniffing and smiling apologetically, Annie picked up her hat, thinking: Oh, he’s nice! And I don’t care what Summy s
ays, he’s not one of those people who would ride to…you know where, if you put him on a horse.

  4

  Mr Macbane got up from the table and walked to the fireside. He took a spill from the Toby-jug on the mantelpiece and a clay pipe from a pocket of his sleeveless cardigan, and sat down in the wooden armchair by the side of the fire. He sighed as he lit his pipe, and his wife and son exchanged smiling glances across the table.

  ‘That was a good dinner, missis. I always do say the leftovers make a better meal than the beginnin’s; there’s always something about Boxing Day meals that’s satisfyin’…What do yer say, lad?’

  ‘All Mother’s meals are satisfying.’ Terence rose from the table and took the armchair on the other side of the hearth. He put his slippered feet on the fender and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Aye,’ went on his father, ‘I don’t suppose ye got any better up there.’

  As so often in the last four years, Terence assured him he hadn’t.

  ‘I didn’t tell yer that that Jimmy Toonsend an’ Bill Swain were quizzing me about yer, did I?’

  ‘No,’ said Terence.

  ‘“That lad o’ yours is nearly finished at that Oxford,” Jimmy Toonsend said. “What’s he going to be? Prime Minister?”

  ‘“No, man. Summat that needs brains,” I said. But yer should have seen ’em with their lugs cocked when the undermanager came up to me. “I hear yer son’s passed,” he said. “Aye,” I said; “he’s got a first.” Yer should have seen those two numskulls; they didn’t know what a first meant. “And aye,” I went on, “he does pure an’ applied maths.”’

  Terence threw back his head and laughed. It was very funny, his father talking of pure and applied maths and firsts…No, it wasn’t funny; it was pathetic. It was pathetic that men like his father could only bask in the reflection of the education of their offspring. They had to grub all their days, while some voice cried out from deep within them for a different way of life, for knowledge of the things that only the young could grasp. Let youth pass, and no matter what opportunities presented themselves, the capacity to build the broad base required to support the structure of learning was gone. He said gently to his father, ‘What else did you say?’

  ‘Well, I said, “He’s going to take a teaching course now.” “Really!” said the under-manager. “He must have a heed on his shoulders.” “Aye,” I said, “he has that. And he’s got ideas, has my lad. He’s going to teach lads like he was himself. He’s going to show ’em that there’s brains in the workin’ class. Aye, more brains than among the moneyed lot. He’s going to push lads on.” “Good luck to him,” said the under-manager to me. “He’s a credit to yer.” By, Terry lad! Yer should have seen Toonsend and Swain! That shut their gobs up.’

  Mrs Macbane brought a chair from the table and sat down between them.

  ‘Here, sit in the armchair.’ Terence made to get up, but she pushed him back.

  ‘Sit where y’are, lad, I’m all right here.’

  ‘Yes, take it easy now you’re home,’ said his father.

  Take it easy! Terence looked at his mother, and saw the grey hair, the wrinkled skin, the knotted hands, and he thought: She’s never been able to take it easy; he’s never spared her, or himself. From morning till night for as far back as I can remember she’s been at it. He used to drive me too, but now when I do nothing all day he tells me to take it easy. It’s a case of ‘To him that hath shall be given.’

  His mother said to him, ‘Won’t yer come down to Mrs Plum’s with us, lad? They’ll be so glad to see yer. Come on, just for a cup of tea.’

  He shook his head. ‘You go along; you know the Plum females terrify me.’

  His father laughed boisterously, and his mother leant towards him and whispered, ‘Won’t yer go down to the house then? They’ve asked yer. Miss Annie’s havin’ her little bit party today.’

  ‘Will yer stop calling the lass Miss Annie, as if she wor class!’ Mr Macbane glared at his wife. ‘You know,’ he said to his son, ‘she gets me goat. She always treats ’em as if they were blue blood, just ’cos they’re rotten wi’ money.’

  ‘’Tisn’t that at all,’ said his wife. ‘You can go on how you like. I like ’em; they’ve always been nice to me.’

  ‘Patronisin’!’

  ‘No, they aren’t, they’re just kind.’

  ‘So can anybody be, wi’ money.’

  ‘But everybody isn’t. I should know, I’ve worked for some…Look at the money the doctor’s spent on that clinic. And that place for the nurses. And he could have asked us to get out of here to make room for ’em. Don’t you forget that.’

  ‘I’d like to have seen him.’

  ‘You couldn’t have done anything.’

  ‘Couldn’t I? I would have told him a thing or two…And I’d have told him into the bargain he was a fool, at that, bringin’ that lass up as if she was a duchess. Swimmin’-pool! Tennis court!’

  ‘It hasn’t done her any harm; she’s grown into such a nice lass. It must be a year since you saw her.’

  ‘About that,’ Terence said.

  ‘Yes, she was on holiday in the summer when you got back from that walkin’ tour.’ She nodded to herself, then turned to him again: ‘Won’t yer go down there, lad? I hate leaving you here alone.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, there’s piles of things I can do.’

  ‘Aye. And where did he get his money?’ Mr Macbane began again. ‘Out of the poor steelworkers’ sweat, durin’ the war. They say he owns half the bloomin’ steelworks now.’

  ‘Well,’ said Terence, ‘that’s not doing him much good now, the way things are.’

  ‘He puts his money to good use; that’s somethin’,’ Mrs Macbane chirped.

  ‘Do you call pamperin’ half-daft kids a good use? Why don’t he spend it on ones that’ll be some good? Hours every day he and them nurses spend, just tryin’ to get a bit lad around seven to play ball. And there the bairn stands, for all the world as if he was in a trance.’

  ‘So you watch them every day?’ said Terence, with a sly smile.

  ‘Me? No. I just happen to be passin’.’

  His wife burst out laughing. ‘Watch them? Why, he’s always watchin’ them…They got three of the bairns to walk last year, didn’t they?’ She leant towards her husband. ‘And cured nearly ten from stammerin’, didn’t they?’

  ‘I’ll give yer a skelp round yer lug in a minute,’ he growled.

  She got up, still laughing. ‘Aye, he doesn’t know anything that goes on down there. Yer da minds his own business, he does that. Well, I’ll get washed up,’ she added.

  Terence rose, saying, ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘No, lad,’ his mother said. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Aye, sit down,’ added his father. ‘What next! Washing the dishes!’

  Terence took no heed of them, but began to gather the things from the table.

  ‘Listen!’ cried Mr Macbane suddenly. ‘D’yer hear that?’ They all remained quiet, listening. Faint squeals and laughter came to them from outside. ‘They’re at it again! Snowball fights! They want their heads lukkin’ at; the whole job-lot of them’s barmy, from him downwards!’

  In the tiny scullery, mother and son laughed quietly together. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘yer can’t get a word out of him for weeks on end, but come Christmas or any time he has a glass, then it all comes out. But,’ she added, ‘it’s only his way. And he really thinks a lot of the doctor, for all his talk.’ She glanced up from the sink to her son: ‘You mustn’t mind how he talks about yer, lad, he’s rare and proud of yer.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Terence said.

  ‘Yer seem sad, lad. What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh, there’s something…I know.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, after a while, ‘it’s the different lives people have to live. When he talks it sort of hurts; I get all churned up inside. And I want to smash all the things up at Oxford, the things I have grown to love. A
nd hit out at the people that take them all for granted…It’s so different, Mother; you don’t know, you can’t imagine.’

  ‘I often try, lad…But don’t feel bad about it. Why, yer being up there has brought something into our lives…colour and excitement…And him. Why, he just lives in a sort of glory about yer. Come on, cheer up. Come on an’ tell me what’s happened lately. Do yer still have talks with that lord chap, and the Chinaman with the limp? And have yer had any more invitations from those women? Come on, tell me. We haven’t had the chance of a crack since ye came home, me out nearly every day and ye away trampin’ the roads.’

  So he told her, as he dried the dishes, of Lord John Dane Dee, who had money to burn, and burnt it; of the Chinese called Larry; of the feats of Dane Dee as a cross-country runner; and of Larry’s love of books and the quiet simplicity of the very learned. When he spoke of the ladies who sent pressing invitations to members of the university cricket team, he laughed.

  ‘Do any of the lads go?’ asked his mother.

  ‘Oh yes; they give them rattling times.’

  ‘It’s bare-faced, trying to get the lads for their lasses.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t worry about those fellows, they know their way about.’

  ‘Did you ever want to go to them swell parties?’

  ‘Sometimes, just to see what they were like. Mere curiosity.’ He didn’t say that he had been afraid to go; afraid of the difference in himself showing. Men, on the whole, accepted you; but women, they knew by just looking at you. They had no need to check up. They knew whether it had been a prep or an elementary school; they knew whether there was the supporting wall of an allowance at the back of you, or an uninterested world in which to job-hunt in the future. And what they didn’t know, you, with your self-consciousness, thought they did. You imagined they had but to look at you to see the three-roomed cottage; and your father, washing himself in the tin bath before the fire and taking his clothes out of the oven where they had been put to air; they saw your mother, an old woman at forty-five, who sat down only when she had something to mend, who got up in the flesh-chilling blackness of a winter morning and did a load of washing before going out to work; and often it was your washing, to be sent back to Oxford in a parcel, c/o a newsagent’s shop. You jibbed at this necessity, but college scouts had sharp eyes for seeing through parcels.