Pure as the Lily

by Catherine Cookson

  They were both laughing now and she said, “Oh Mr.

  Walton, something that comes with spots! Poetry! Oh Mr. Walton! You know something, Mr. Walton? I like poetry; I read poetry, there’s bits by Ella Wheeler Wilcox in the paper and I read them. Oh, I do like a bit of poetry. “

  “I’m glad to hear that, Mrs. Briggs, I... I....* At this point he was thrust forward by the door being opened, and there entered Betty. She stopped and stared from one to the other.

  As if addressing a friend, Mrs. Briggs said on a high note, “Oh hello, Mrs. Walton,” but Betty, turning on the big blonde woman a look that was meant to floor her, passed by her husband, took out her key from her bag and opened the door . and left it open. And now Jimmy, as if he had as many legs as an octopus, found difficulty in turning round and away from Mrs. Briggs; but as he did so he gave her a weak smile and a nod, and she returned his salutation with a broad smile and a nod.

  sven. “

  Yes, well! Now what can you make of it? “ He forced himself to smile.

  “Caught red-handed in the hall with a blonde!”

  Don’t be facetious. Why do you speak to her? Common, low slut of a woman! “

  “How do you know she’s a common, low slut?”

  “Anyone who can use their eyes can see that. But of course you couldn’t.”

  Jimmy stared at his wife as she tore off her outdoor things. He had known her three years and he had been married to her for two, but at times he felt he had known her from the beginning of his first memory, and that memory took him back to the day when he was three years old and was struggling to get out of his mother’s arms and down on to the floor, and she wouldn’t let him but held on to him and kept kissing him. Why hadn’t he seen his mother in her? There was a psychological thing here. It was explained in Freud;

  put in a nutshell it was, that, although he had resented his mother and had always wanted to get away from her, she

  Al

  had emphasized the tie between them so much that he couldn’t loosen it. In choosing Betty or in Betty choosing him he realized now, although with her skittish ways he had imagined her as being the antithesis of his mother, that somewhere in the mysterious depths of him he had been willingly marrying his mother. It was like an act of self—abnegation, a voluntary giving up of liberty.

  “Standing gossiping to her and not a cup of tea ready and on six and you being finished since four! Where’ve you been?”

  “Trying to get drunk.”

  “Stop being so childish. Do you know’—she turned her small tight slim body towards him and gazed up at him with open disdain as she continued ‘you’re utterly childish, immature. God only knows how you teach.”

  He had the desire to take his hand and with one swipe knock her flying. That would settle it; once he hit her that would settle it.

  But he couldn’t do that, no. No, he wasn’t going to start being another Briggs.

  He watched her prance into the kitchen. He heard the kettle being banged on the stove, and her voice came at him, saying, “If it’s not too much trouble, set the table.... Coming home after a day on me feet and not a bite ready!”

  As he set the table he thought that cordite actually poisoned some people, they just couldn’t stomach it. She packed cordite all day, and it never seemed to do her any harm. Oh he jerked his head at himself the quicker he got drunk the better. Friday night, he was generally lucky at the Ellison for a drop of hard; it would soften his attitude to the whole world.

  As she came into die living-room with the teapot she said, “I saw Mam as I was getting off the tram. She’ll be around about half past six.”

  “I’ll be gone by then, I’m on fire watch at seven.”

  ‘you know something? “ She stared at him.

  “You’re the most ungrateful sod I’ve ever met in me life.”

  It was funny about her and swearing. She was so small, so refined looking, until she opened her mouth. Her swearing grated on him. He could stand men using language that would raise the roots of his hair, and he had heard some women that were good second-bests, but their swearing, even their obscenities, didn’t affect him as when he heard her swear. She had a way of saying ‘sod’ that caused his stomach muscles to contract.

  ^Your mother’s worked for you all your life and you haven’t really got a good word for her. Where would you be without her, I ask you? You and your sister are tarred with the same brush. The things your mother’s had to put up with from you two! An’ then your da. “

  He looked down at her, his face stretching slightly, his eyes widening. It was odd, oh more than odd, really strange, mystifying, but she liked his mother. She was about the only person he knew who liked his mother. And his mother liked her. After threatening what she was going to do to him if he married, as soon as she saw Betty they were like that—in his mind he entwined his fingers. It was said that people who were really alike didn’t get on, but under the skin there wasn’t a pin to choose between his mother and Betty, and they got on so well they had almost become one; when he saw and heard one, he saw and heard the other. It was uncanny. Why had this happened to him?

  Now if he had only married someone like Mary, or—he gave a hie of a laugh inside himself Mrs. Briggs! Now Mrs. Briggs wouldn’t have nagged from morning till night; she might have spent all his money.

  But didn’t Betty? What did he get out of his pay? She grabbed his cheque as soon as he got it, and from the first she had seen to the finances. She allowed him three pounds a month, and that was for bus fares, cigarettes and . beer. She arranged their financial life like any first-class accountant. There was a box for everything in the house from coal to candles. Yes, candles;

  they had to have a store of them in for when the lights failed. He had been daft to put up with it; he had been daft from the start. Was it too late to change? Aw, what was the use?

  He’d go and have a drink, do his fire-watching stint and, if there was time, have another. That would see him over tonight; tomorrow he’d be in a better frame of mind. And he had enough money left over from the sweep to keep him going. Good job he had the sense to keep that to himself. He was lucky at sweeps. Three this year he had won, forty-five quid in all.

  “Mam’s coming here to live.”

  ‘what! “

  “You heard.”

  “Oh, by God, she’s not.”

  “I say she is.”

  “Well, let me tell you: if she comes here there’ll still only be two, for when she comes in permanent I go out. Now, have it your own way.”

  “Where you going?”

  “To get drunk. To get bloody well drunk. I needed a drink before, but now I’m gasping for one.”

  “Sit down and get your tea, and don’t act so stupid, like a kid!” Her voice was full of disdain.

  “Don’t call me stupid ... or a kid, Betty.” He took a step towards her, and although she didn’t back from him she pressed herself against the table, and again he said, Don’t you call me stupid! There was only one time when I was ever stupid and I’ll give you a guess as to when that was. “ And on this he turned round, grabbed up his coat and hat and went out.

  Before he went on fire-duty he managed to get a pint and a double whisky; and after, just on closing time, another two pints and two doubles. He was on his way home, warm inside and happy, when, just after leaving Ellison Street, he met Mrs. Briggs coming out of the fish-shop.

  “Aw, Mr. Walton, is that you?” She peered at him. The moon had come out from behind a group of scudding clouds and for a moment the street was illuminated and everything was softened and mellow. Doffing his hat, he said, “It is, Mrs.

  Briggs, it is. “ And at this they both laughed and turned and walked up the street together.

  “I’ve been lucky, I got some fish and chips, Mr. Walton.”

  “And I’ve been lucky, I’ve got slightly tight, Mrs. Briggs.” He bent right over her, and again they laughed, they even leant against each other for the fraction of a second.<
br />
  “Oh, you are funny, Mr. Walton.”

  T)o you think so, Mrs. Briggs? “

  “Aye, but nicely funny. You know what I mean? No offence?”

  ‘you couldn’t offend me, Mrs. Briggs. You know something, Mrs.

  Briggs? “ He stopped and swayed gently like a tree above her as he said solemnly, “ I like you, I think you are a very nice person, Mrs.

  Briggs. “

  “Eeh! Mr. Walton, thanks. An’ I like you an’, all. An’ do you know what I think you are?”

  “No. Tell me, Mrs. Briggs.”

  The clouds were still scudding across the moon, sending dark patterns over their faces. She seemed to be floating before him, Just a little off the ground, and her voice came to him softly, saying, “Well, I think you are a gentleman, Mr. Walton.”

  The clouds obliterated the moon now and he couldn’t see her face. He put out his hand and found her arm, and felt the warmth coming through the paper of the fish and chips.

  When the moon showed him her face again it was no longer smiling, nor was his when he answered, ‘you are a very nice woman, Mrs. Briggs.

  You’re very kind, and. and you are the very first person who has called me a gentleman. I shall not forget it, tight as I am. “ He now dropped his chin on to his chest.

  “And I know I’m tight, but I shall not forget it, Mrs. Briggs. You know what I’ll do? I’ll write a poem about you. Yes, I will.”

  “Oh! Mr. Walton.”

  “Yes, I will. The very next time I’m on fire-duty I’ll write a poem to you. I, I wrote one tonight I, I wrote it ‘cos I’m inadequate. Yes, yes, I’m inadequate. An’ not only in one

  way, for I cannot write real poetry. Poetry, you know, Mrs. Briggs, is not just rhymes. Oh no. That’s where people, ignorant people, make the mistake; they call rhymes poetry. “ He was flapping his finger at her face now, which he could just see faintly, and he went on, “ Real poetry is made up of metrical com . composition, you know, and so many, many more things. Oh, yes. “

  “Really, Mr. Walton?”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Briggs. Real poetry, real poetry is composed of prosody an’ stanza, an’ feet. Now a foot, let me explain, Mrs. Briggs, is what they Crcall... a metrical unit. Aw, Mrs. Briggs, there’s a lot more in p-poetry than da-de-da, you know; for example, Mrs. Briggs, you know that little piece that goes:

  Tiger, tiger burning bright In the forests of the night.

  Well, did you know that this is a very, very good piece of poetry?

  It’s composed of tetra meters You know what a tetra meter is, Mrs.

  Briggs? Of course you don’t, Mrs. Briggs, so don’t be ashamed, Mrs.

  Briggs, ‘cos so few people know about tetra meters Well now, pay heed. “

  He now laid one hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s the lifting and falling of the voice like, you know, the inflection short, and long, or long and short: Tiger Get it? Long-short. Tiger tiger burning, long-short, bright.... Oh, Mrs. Briggs, I’m boring you to death.” His face was now close to hers; the smell of his whisky-laden breath was mixing with the fumes of the fish and chips, and she laughed gently and said, “No, Mr. Walton, I love listenin’ to you. Mind you, I ... I’ve to confess I don’t understand about it, but I like listenin’ to it.”

  He straightened up now and began to walk along the street again, and after a moment he said solemnly, “You are very, very kind, Mrs.

  Briggs,” and to this she answered, “ Not at all, Mr. Walton. “

  They were in darkness when she said, “Eeh! you can’t see a stime.”

  He stopped and stood swaying and, looking up towards the sky, cried, “Come out! come out, you mad orb!” and when the moon came from behind the clouds she burst out laughing and held on to his arm, saying, “Oh!

  Mr. Walton. Oh! Mr. Walton, that was funny. “

  “Ah, Mrs. Briggs, when I’m in me cups I can command the heavens. I’m a god when I’m in me cups.” He stopped again and, gazing at her in the bright moonlight, he said solemnly, “When I’m in me cups I forget about everything: people, war, children, everything; except one thing, Mrs. Briggs;

  one thing I never forget, an’ that is I want to write poetry, real poetry, you know. Not that I want to use great. long bewildering stanzas, no Rubaiyat with its decasyllabic rhyming, no, I don’t want to do anything in a big way. I just want to write poetry that the ordinary man or woman c . can understand. Would, would you like to hear what I wrote tonight, Mrs. Briggs? “

  Ves, Mr. Walton. Oh yes, I would Well then, you shall. “

  He now drew from his pocket a piece of paper; then looking up at the sky again, he cried, “Keep shining,” before he unfolded the paper, and in deep and sonorous tones read:

  From areas of longing That fill my life with strife To stretch my intellect To those I read, And express my thought In high flowing screed That would bewilder all, In turn, as I am By minds That bum To impress, Thus transgressing i37

  The art to convey, I pray you, God of words, Keep me simple For this day.

  There! Mrs. Briggs. “

  “Oh, Mr. Walton, that was luvly.”

  “But it wasn’t po ... poetry, Mrs. Briggs.”

  “No, be-buggered! you’re right there, mate, it wasn’t.” The two men passing, one an air-raid warden, laughed uproariously and Jimmy, looking after them, shouted, “I abhor the unhallowed mob and hold it aloof!”

  “Good for you, chum,” they called back.

  “Never mind, Mr. Walton. It sounded poetry to me.” Her voice was consoling.

  “They’re ignorant.”

  “No, no, Mrs. Briggs.” He was shaking his head widely from side to side now.

  “They’re right; it’s not even rhyme ... blank verse is the only name you could give it, but that’s what the books say there isn’t any of. And you know what there isn’t any of? ... Poetic prose, they say there isn’t such a thing as poetic prose.... Your fish and chips will be getting cold, Mrs. Briggs.”

  “I can always warm them up, Mr. Walton. But you know something? I was lucky to get them. It’s the first time Pearson’s been open this week. Mr. Fielding tipped me off, I didn’t know they were open and there was only ten afore me, I was lucky.”

  It was as if they both had decided they’d had enough culture for one night.

  “Yes, you were lucky, Mrs. Briggs. You know, I think you’re very lucky in all ways, Mrs. Briggs.”

  “What makes you say that Mr. Walton?”

  “Oh’—he was swaying and when he tripped off the kerb she put out her hand quickly and drew him on to the pavement again, and he said, “ Because the Gods that be made you kind. “ His voice faded away into a whisper as he finished; his

  head drooped on to his chest again, and as they turned into Haven Terrace the moon was obliterated by the clouds and they were shoulder to shoulder as they groped their way up the street. And when they opened the door and stepped into the dim, blue-painted, bulb-lit lobby he made a dramatic gesture in placing his fingers on his lips and whispered, “Good night, Mrs. Briggs, it’s been a pie ... pleasure’;

  and she whispered back at him, “And for me an’ all, Mr. Walton.” Then he was tip-toeing to the door.

  The door opened straight into the passageway and there, at the far end, stood his mother and Betty, and they were both staring at him as if with one pair of eyes.

  “What did I tell you?” Betty was looking at Alice, and Alice, coming slowly up to him, glared at him as she said, You’re in a nice pickle, a picture you are. A schoolteacher, and look at you! To think I’d see the day. “

  “To think you’d see the day, Ma.” He shook his head sadly at her.

  “Aw! what have I done to be made to suffer, this an’ all?” She turned her head and looked at Betty.

  “One after the other of them, and now this, a sot!” She glared back at her son. “Cos that’s all you are;

  that’s all you are a sot, a drunken sot. An’ where d’you get the money from? “


  Tes, Ma; that’s all I am, a drunken sot. An’ where do I get the money from? Why, Betty, Betty, Bett’s kind, Betty is. “

  As he turned to go into the sitting-room Betty cried after him, “We’ve been waiting for you to take your mother home’; then, “ Come’on, Mam,” she said.

  “By! I’ll have something to say to him in the morning When the door banged he sat down and stared through the open sitting-room door into the passage. They had gone, the two women that were one; funny, he’d never be able to get over that mystery. Of all the people in the world that he could have chosen, or could have chosen him, he had to pick on Betty, Betty who was his mother, and his mother who was Betty. As he stared towards the far door he seemed to see

  E-^’ ‘

  |j’ir , through it and across the hall, into the house opposite where Mrs. Briggs lived, and he had the greatest desire to get up and go to her. But then there was Mr. Briggs, and Mr. Briggs was big, very big.

  He stood up now and said aloud, “Mr. Briggs is very big. Remember that. Jimmy; Mr. Briggs is very big.”

  Chapter Two

  it was Saturday, and a week before Christmas. The queues outside the outdoor beer shops were as long as those outside the butcher’s, longer. Everybody was trying to stock up for Christmas and, of course, for what was much more important, the New Year.

  It was half past one and Jimmy had managed a couple of whiskies and two pints and he was feeling very mellow as he went upstairs to Mary’s.

  “Hello there.”

  “Oh, hello, Jimmy. Fancy seeing you at this time! We’ve just finished dinner but there’s plenty left, like some?”

  Tike some? Fancy asking me such a silly question. Why do you think I came? Where are the nippers? I’m going to take them down to the Market; who knows what we might pick up. “