Nest of Sorrows

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I dare say. And I’m a woman of standing too, and I’m standing my ground. I want Santosh and Hamida there; if she wasn’t a Hindu or whatever they call it, I’d ask her to be my matron of honour. Still, that would be pushing Katherine’s nose out, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Have you told that daughter of yours yet?’

  She sniffed in a significant way. ‘No, I haven’t, ’cos there’s nowt to tell. And there won’t be either if you carry on about Indians at my wedding. I am very bigoted against bigots, Arthur. You might not be the right man for me after all.’ He was, but she didn’t need to let him know that. This piece of small-mindedness was just a tiny flaw; he was generous of spirit in spite of his concern about what people might think. ‘Happen you should marry someone nearer your first wife, somebody who does as she’s told.’

  His head dropped. ‘My Emily never did as she was told, Rachel. If she had, she wouldn’t have died so young, she’d have looked after herself proper. Aye, and I might have had a son to carry on in the business after me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Nay, I’m the one that’s sorry, lass. Poor little devil, you are, marrying a crusty old crab like me. I’m set in me ways, see? And there’s all this talk about immigrants . . .’ He raised his shoulders in a gesture of despair.

  ‘What talk?’

  ‘Well, they’re getting pitches on Bolton market, selling stockings with no feet in them, making a bad name for other traders.’

  ‘Really? Well, you just listen to me, Mr Bottomley. If you want me helping on your market stall, don’t you be talking like that. It’s not that long since we had a war, and there was a million black marketeers selling bad stuff, every last one of them an Englishman. So put that with your Virginia and smoke it. I will not be told who to like. And stop tarring everybody with the same brush. And while we’re on about it, you can see to getting Santosh a proper job, summat away from the mill.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Never mind “but I”. Just do it. Get him set up as a clerk or one of them others as works in an accounting shop, same as an apprentice. He’ll not be mithered if they treat him as a starter, there’s no false pride in him. I want him out of that factory. Sharpish!’

  ‘Yes, miss. You should have been the teacher, not your daughter.’

  ‘I know that. But education was a luxury in our day and age, as you well know. So, are we having this wedding, or what?’

  ‘We’re having it.’

  ‘And Hamida can come in her sari?’

  ‘Course she can, you daft duck.’

  ‘Right, then. Give us a kiss, then put that kettle on, I’m fair clemmed. Then I’ll have to go and see our Katherine. I won’t do nothing without her blessing, even if she is a mess herself at the moment.’

  ‘OK, OK, keep your shirt on.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, I will. I shan’t even take me coat off, not till I’ve got me wedding ring!’

  Kate opened her back door a fraction ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, you daft bat! Let me in, I’m fair witchered.’ Rachel dragged her dripping umbrella into the kitchen and stood it in the sink.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about “witchered”,’ mused Kate as she cast an eye over her bedraggled mother. ‘That and a few other Boltonisms. Witchered probably comes from “wet shod”. If you say wet shod quickly, it comes out as witchered.’

  ‘It’ll come out as a case of double blinking pneumonia if you don’t shape, girl. What’s got into you at all?’ She glanced round. ‘Not a bad kitchen, but hardly up to Beech Gardens’ standards, eh? What’s up them stairs?’

  ‘Another flat, I’m not allowed up there. This side of the house was servants’ quarters – see the bell discs over the door? When the gentry rang for service, a little marker dropped to show the maids which room. Come through, I’ll switch the fire on.’

  Rachel steamed gently in front of the electric elements while Kate made coffee. It was a lovely room, and Kate had added little touches of her own; pictures, posters, a Paisley shawl draped across a worn chair. On the wall over the bed hung a huge collage made up of photographs of Melanie, some taken recently, others going right back to babyhood.

  In the alcove below the window stood a table on which rested a large pad of art paper, ink, pens and brushes. A completed cartoon of Boothroyd in all his colourful glory was propped against a table leg. ‘What’s that for?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘What’s what for?’

  ‘All this here paper and stuff.’

  Kate shrugged. ‘Oh, that, it’s KAZ at work, I suppose. KAZ is my cartoon name, the name I draw under. It’s Katherine Anne Saunders, only I changed the S to a Z. The duck, or rather the drake, is called Boothroyd. His son puts in an appearance in Boys’ Laughs from time to time.’

  Rachel swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee. ‘You’ve been . . . published?’

  ‘Well . . . yes. I’ve been doing it for a year or so now.’

  ‘I see.’ The short spine straightened in indignation. ‘And you never bothered to tell me, of course.’

  ‘Oh, Mother! I didn’t want to tell anyone. I mean, who’s going to brag about having a strip in a comic? I didn’t want to say anything until Boothroyd Senior got off the ground, and that hasn’t happened yet. There’s a new national starting up soon, the Mercury, and the editor’s interested in a daily cartoon. Political stuff. No words, or very few words. Just Boothroyd being the government or whoever. I’ve sent some samples in and I’m waiting . . .’

  ‘Well! Aren’t I always the last to find out? Now I’ll have to order Boy’s Laughs every week just to see what my daughter’s up to.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘That’s very nice, I must say. Here I am, taking a normal interest in your doings and you tell me to shut up.’

  ‘Well.’ Kate bowed her head. ‘I don’t want any interference or advice. I’m streamlining my life.’

  ‘I can see that. No washing machine, no fridge . . .’

  ‘I manage.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose you do. Any problems? Has he found you yet?’

  ‘Not that I’ve noticed. Anyway, he knows where I work. If there’s a problem with Melanie, he can always phone school, or he can contact me through you.’

  Rachel placed her cup on a small table and studied her daughter covertly. She seemed slightly ill at ease, as if she had something on her mind. But then she probably did have more than enough to think about. Leaving home was not an easy thing to do, Rachel knew all about that. ‘Do you worry about her?’

  ‘Silly question, Mam. Of course I worry about her. You don’t give birth to someone without fretting over them forever.’

  ‘Ooh! Listen who’s talking! To use my own mother’s words, you have had the heart scalded out of me every minute since the day you were born. Not that it finishes there, mind. You still get a lot of worry over grandchildren. I hope that blinking Dora isn’t turning our Melanie as potty as herself.’

  ‘Mel has a lot of good sense in her head.’

  ‘She’s spoiled rotten.’

  ‘I know. But brains will out in the end.’ Kate lowered herself into the Paisley-shawled chair. ‘Well? What brings you out at half past four on a wet Wednesday? Are you on your way to somewhere?’

  ‘Yes. I’m on my way to here. Anything in for tea?’

  ‘Bacon, eggs, I can rustle up a few chips if I’m pressed.’

  ‘You’re pressed – I’m stopping.’ As if to emphasize this intention, Rachel slipped off her damp shoes. ‘Wet shod, witchered, you’re likely right. You always were right when it came to English. Remember all the prizes? And the letters in the Bolton Evening News? Happen you should have been one of them reporters, going round mithering folk for their life history. You were like that as a small child, very embarrassing. Always asking questions, you were: “Why has that lady got feathers on her hat?” and “why does that man walk funny, has he got a war wound like G
randad?” Murder, it was, especially when you asked them to their faces. We were on the Daubhill bus once, and this woman was sitting opposite next to the door. You kept staring at her ’cos she had a skenning eye. Then when we came to our stop and we stood up to get off, you told her she was very clever and asked her how she’d learned to look both ways at once. I could have died on the spot! We flew out of that bus, couldn’t get away quick enough. In fact, a few of us got stuck in the doorway fighting to get off, because there wasn’t a straight face to be seen. Except for the poor skenning woman, of course.’

  ‘How awful for you.’

  ‘Aye. And, of course, I couldn’t tell your . . . couldn’t tell anybody about it.’

  ‘You couldn’t tell my father.’ This came out as statement rather than as question.

  Rachel sighed heavily. ‘I never told him anything.’

  ‘You used to hide the housekeeping in a tin under the bedroom floorboards.’

  The older woman’s jaw sagged for a fraction of a second. ‘Eh? Well, I’ll eat my hat. How did you know about that?’

  ‘There was nothing in that house I didn’t know about. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I knew you were frightened of having any more children even though the doctor had said it wasn’t likely.’

  ‘Katherine!’

  ‘And that’s why he beat you. And raped you. More than once, too.’

  Rachel’s hand strayed to her face. ‘Dear Lord!’

  ‘Well, you can’t live in a two-bedroomed house without knowing these things. Mind, Judith managed to sleep through everything including the Second World War.’ Kate paused, her head nodding slightly. ‘My father was a fool of a man. He didn’t realize what he had in you, or in his children. I hated him, Mam. I was glad when he died, because I didn’t like you being alone with him.’

  Rachel’s hand covered her eyes now as she said, ‘We are terrible people, you and I, Katherine. Because – oh Lord in heaven have mercy on my sinful soul – I was glad when he left us too. Mind, if he hadn’t died, I did have some ideas. I thought once I was sure that you and Judith were settled . . .’

  ‘We were settled. You could have left him.’

  ‘Aye.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘But he was ill, wasn’t he? It’s all very well meaning to go off and leave a man once your children are independent, but I couldn’t leave a dog with what he had. It was all through him at the finish. There wasn’t one part of him healthy.’

  ‘Rotten to the core, Mam.’

  ‘More ways than one.’ This was almost whispered. ‘Isn’t it funny how close we’re getting since you left yon queer feller? It’s like having a friend as well as a daughter. So, friend and daughter, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘All right, spit it out.’

  Rachel giggled girlishly. ‘It’s not summat as will come out easy. Happen a drop of sherry would hasten it up a bit?’

  Kate walked to the drinks trolley and Rachel noticed how much more relaxed her daughter’s movements sometimes were, how pretty she looked these days. There was a new bloom to her skin, a bright sheen in her hair, lightness in her step. Yes, in spite of some misgivings and worries, Kate was better off.

  They sipped their Harvey’s slowly until Kate, on the edge of her seat, could bear the suspense no longer. ‘Well?’ she cried. ‘Will it take a scotch and a crowbar?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t you come the innocent with me, Mother. These things work both ways, you know. Just as you can always tell when I’m up to something, I know when you’ve a weight on your mind. Unload! Immediately, if not sooner!’

  Rachel hesitated, then drained her glass in one gulp. ‘Right,’ she gasped. ‘I’ve met a bloke, a nice bloke. He wants to marry me.’

  Kate’s face was a picture of surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. I’m not that bad a catch, you know. He’s a man of substance too, a dealer in hardware goods. Arthur Bottomley.’

  ‘What? Bottomley’s big shop down Derby Street? That one with two fronts? Bottomley’s off the market too?’

  ‘That’s him. He’s a good chap, a bit on the big side, heavy like but ooh, he is good-hearted and pleasant company. A bit of a change from . . . from anybody I’ve known before. His wife died and they never had a kiddy, so he’s lonely.’

  Kate pondered for a while. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why is he lonely? Because he’s stuck on his own all the while.’

  ‘No, I mean why are you getting married?’

  Rachel raised her shoulders in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Because I like him. Because he asked me, and he’s Catholic . . .’

  ‘Are you running, Mam? From a house with no bathroom, from your own loneliness?’

  ‘Eeh, well.’ Rachel leaned back in her chair. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m running, not like some folk I could mention. No. Arthur’s like an old friend. Like a glove I might have lost years back, and it turns up still a good fit. We’re a matching pair, him and me. He likes crosswords and reading, a nice ride out in the country. And he loves cats. I have to sign a paper about cats.’

  ‘Oh? What paper’s that?’

  ‘It might be called a dis-claimer or summat of that sort. Anyroad, it boils down to this: if he dies before I do, I’ve to sell up and give half to stray cats. He’s got nobody to leave it all to anyway. Except a nephew who’s usually half-cut, up to his ears in beer every other day. So I agreed to sign.’

  Kate tapped the base of her glass against the chair arm. ‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

  ‘No more sudden than you were, lady.’

  ‘And look where it got me. I don’t want you suffering, Mother. In fact, I won’t have it.’

  ‘Ah.’ Rachel grinned very broadly. ‘The shoe’s on a different foot now, isn’t it? What did I say to you when you brought soft lad home? “You’ll regret it,” I said. But now you’re trying to stop me and you haven’t even met Arthur . . .’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’

  ‘It’s true enough though, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes, yes, it’s true. A mother threatening to get married is as frightening to a daughter as vice versa must be to a mother. I mean, what if he’s not good to you? What if you’ve only seen his best side?’

  Rachel giggled. ‘Arthur hasn’t got a best side. In fact, there’s no side at all to Arthur Bottomley. He smokes a pipe, breeds Persian cats and sells paraffin heaters and firewood.’

  ‘And pots and pans and shovels.’

  ‘Exactly. With Arthur, you get what you see, no more and no less.’

  Kate thought for a moment. ‘Does he drink?’

  ‘He likes a pint, but not every day. Don’t be thinking of the past. And he never goes near the greyhound track, never haunts the betting shop. He’s a good lad.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Fifty-nine. And he’ll be here in ten minutes, so get cracking with the eggs and bacon.’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’

  ‘If you say “oh mother” again, Katherine, I’ll belt you one. I asked him to come because I know you’ll like him. And because I trust you too. There’s no side to you either, our Katherine, never was and never will be. If you were the sort that needed advance warning of a visitor, you’d be no daughter of mine.’

  Kate’s mouth hung open for a second or two. ‘But, there’s only three eggs,’ she declared finally.

  ‘One each. Shut your gob, there’s a tram coming. Look at you! Your mouth is hanging as wide as the Mersey tunnel. Stop fretting.’

  The younger woman pulled herself as near together as she could manage. ‘Hang on a minute. I think I’ve a couple of slices of gammon left. And I can do a bit of cauliflower cheese. Does he like cauliflower? Shall I go out and get some beer? And just look at my hair, Mam. Ooh, I could kill you, really I could.’

  ‘Get away with your bother! We can just as soon send Arthur out for fish and chips, he’ll have his car or the van. And there’s nowt wrong with your hair – shove a com
b through it and spray some of that glue you’re so fond of.’

  Kate rushed off to the kitchen to search her sparse cupboards. Just as she was debating about whether or no to add tinned tomatoes to her proposed gourmet feast, the back door was pushed open.

  ‘Hello? I’ve got no hands. Anybody in?’ Arthur Bottomley’s beaming round face gazed benignly upon her. ‘I’m loaded up with curry and chips three times, your mother seems keen on Indian cooking. You’re Katherine, I take it?’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Oh.’ He juggled with his parcels and removed a flat check cap. ‘I’m Arthur, the intended. Though what she intends to do about me, well, I really couldn’t say. Get some plates, love.’

  Rachel stayed where she was, an ear cocked towards the next room.

  ‘They’re not warmed,’ muttered Kate lamely as she took three plates from a rack above the cooker.

  ‘Never mind, this here stuff has its own central heating. Ever had curry?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, you brought some rice too. I’m fond of boiled rice.’

  ‘Good.’

  They stood in awkward silence, each eyeing the other across the table. Kate liked what she saw. He was a tall man, large of build and with a smile that meant something, a smile that didn’t reside on his face permanently. His hair was thinning and his cheeks were ruddy, while his clothes, though of good quality, were those of a working man. She smiled. ‘Hiya, Arthur.’

  ‘Hiya, Kate.’ They shook hands solemnly. ‘I’m glad we’ve met at last, lass. She goes on about you something murderous, nothing bad, just endless chat about “my Katherine”. Aye, she thinks a lot of you, does Rachel.’

  ‘And I think a lot of her.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes.’ He flushed a darker colour and cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Will I do? Do I come up to muster? Or shall I go out and come in again backwards?’

  ‘No, you stay where you are, Mr Bottomley. I think you’ll do very nicely for my mother. What’s more, she’ll do nicely for you. You’re getting first prize with my mam, you know. I wouldn’t let her go to any old bidder in the auction room.’

  They turned simultaneously to see Rachel standing in the doorway. Kate stared at her mother and remembered the silent, cowed little woman Rachel had been, and her heart felt it would burst with joy, gratitude or some similar emotion as she watched the bustling new-born woman taking over the situation – just as Mother usually did these days. Women, Kate decided in that moment, were capable of changing almost indefinitely, for here stood the evidence, full of life where there had been none, full of love where little had been allowed to show in the past. Oh, Mother! No wonder Kate said those two words so often of late.