The Branded Man

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Sarah shook her head.

  Then briskly now, he said, ‘Mattress, bedding, furniture, the lot and the best of stuff. Oh aye, not meant for the shop, just private deals.’

  ‘Well, let’s see it.’

  ‘As you say, miss. As you say.’

  He led the way down to the ground floor where a young man was helping another to extract a complete iron-framed fireplace from among the jumble and he called to him, ‘I’ll be in the far store, Barney,’ and the man called back, ‘Right, Mr O’Connell.’

  Paddy O’Connell unlocked the double gates of the storehouse. He then ushered them along a narrow passage, put a key into another door, stood aside and let them enter a very large room. Within a few steps they both stood still and looked about them in amazement. The room wasn’t packed like the storehouse next door: all the articles were arranged as if for inspection, and they all looked new or newish. Without a word Paddy O’Connell passed them to go to a cupboard and, pulling open the double doors, pointed to shelves full of linen.

  Six

  The two sisters stood side by side in the middle of the room and Sarah said, ‘Well?’ And Annie said, ‘God in heaven! It’s all new.’

  ‘Well, nearly.’

  ‘And it’s beautiful stuff; it’s transformed this place. I’d never have believed it. And look! Look at your mats. But they’re not mats, they’re rugs. You’ve even got your fire alight; but you’ll have to get some blacklead on that stove, mind. I’ll come up and do it for you one day, for you’re past dirtying your hands like that, aren’t you?’ She dug her elbow into Sarah’s side, then looked towards Marie Anne, who was standing near the bedroom door. She was wearing a blue woollen dress and her brown hair was hanging about her shoulders, and she was smiling as she called to Annie, ‘Isn’t it lovely, Mrs Annie? Come and see the bedroom.’

  As Marie Anne turned, Annie whispered to Sarah, ‘Well, well! She looks a different lass. By! I can see why you think her bonny.’

  ‘Aye, she is a bonny piece, Annie. Go on; look at the bedroom.’

  In the bedroom, Annie again exclaimed, ‘Well, you couldn’t get much more in here, and such stuff, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a dressing table, and all to match. Saints alive! I’ve never clapped eyes on such furniture since I was in service years ago.’

  ‘But you’ve seen nothing yet; look at the sheets,’ said Marie Anne excitedly as she pulled down a blue, quilted eiderdown with its matching undercover; then two fleecy blankets and exposed the sheets. They were lawn sheets, and as Marie Anne fingered them she said, ‘They’re not worn and there’s not a patch on them, except that someone has burnt a hole in the hem. We got three pairs; and they’re all alike, aren’t they, Sarah?’

  ‘Yes, dear, yes; they’re all alike.’

  ‘And the same with the towels. Some of the towels have pieces cut out of the ends. Now don’t you think that’s strange, Mrs Annie?’

  Annie turned and looked at her sister and one eye seemed to wink; and after a moment, she confirmed, ‘Strange indeed. Somebody must have been smoking in bed.’

  ‘But why should they cut pieces out of the towels?’

  ‘Oh girl! There’s some funny people in the world. But my! You’ve got it splendid up here. If only there was taps in the flats. We can manage lugging the coal up and taking the ashes down but it’s the bloomin’ water.’ She now walked back into the living room, saying, ‘A kitchen dresser an’ all! Oh, I’ve always wanted one of them.’ Then when she knew she was out of earshot of Marie Anne, she looked at Sarah and whispered, ‘Am I thinkin’ the same as you about the bedding and such?’

  ‘Aye, I shouldn’t wonder, Annie. Exactly. Every damn thing in that store I bet had been pinched. Paddy said at first there wasn’t any cutlery, but he threw some in. He said it wasn’t silver, but the next best thing. Anyway,’—she poked her face against her sister’s and said, ‘I’m not going to confession about this or anything else he’s likely to offer me,’ a statement which caused them both to laugh.

  ‘But how much did he rip you for it?’

  ‘Six pounds.’

  ‘Oh my God! That was a price. He’s charged, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, Annie, what’s six pounds for this lot? No, Annie; whoever he’s rooked before, I don’t think he’s rooked us. And you were talkin’ about the water and the coals. Well, I’ve thought about it. Now look; I’ll give each of the lads sixpence, one for bringing the coal up and taking the ashes down every day, the other for bringing up the water and taking down the ordinary slops. The other kind I’ll see to meself. How about it?’

  ‘Oh, they’d be glad to do it. Michael’s dying to make a copper. Oh yes; they’ll be glad to do it.’

  While they talked, Marie Anne had seated herself in the small basket chair that was wedged between the head of the bed and the wash-hand stand, and was gazing at the bare window. Tomorrow they’d have the curtains up and they’d go back to Paddy O’Connell’s and see if he had a lamp or two. They had forgotten about the lamps. There were gas lamps in the streets, but Annie had said they wouldn’t put gas up here, because some day and in the near future the whole block was to be pulled down; and yet, as she had added, they had been saying that for ten years, to her knowledge.

  She felt happy and she shouldn’t be feeling happy: she was still carrying a baby, and there was still the shock that her grandfather and Pat would experience when they read her letter. She’d tried to reassure them that she was all right and was working hard at her drawings. But she must be careful never to let slip the address, or within hours they would be here, only to be completely shocked by her condition.

  Within a week the occupants of the garret had fallen into a daily routine. Of course, there had been a few obstacles to surmount. As Sarah put it to herself, some things were bad now, but they would get worse for Marie Anne as time went on. However, at the moment, with her easy chair to one side of the fire, looking at Marie Anne at the other, her feet resting on a lately acquired steel fender, her knee supporting a drawing board, she wouldn’t call the Queen her aunt.

  She stopped scanning the situations vacant columns on the back of the newspaper for a moment and, looking across to Marie Anne, she said, ‘Are you nearly finished with that lot? Why can’t you let me have a look at them?’

  Marie Anne did not raise her head as she answered, ‘Another few minutes or so,’ to which she added, ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘Nothing that I could take: housekeepers, cook-generals, parlourmaids—’ she laughed now, saying, ‘Cook and Clara should go after such. And there’s plenty for night work. That means washing up from ten til two in the mornin’. Annie once had to take a job like that for three ha’pence an hour. She said it was hell. But I’ll have to find something soon; we can’t live on air.’

  This statement stopped Marie Anne’s hand, and she said, ‘We’ve still got seventeen pounds left. The rent’s paid for a month, and so it’s only the shilling a week to the boys and—’

  ‘And it’ll cost six shillings a week to feed us at the least,’ Sarah put in now; ‘more, I should imagine, the way you’re eating, miss. And then have you thought about a doctor and clothes for the coming child? By the time it is due, if we both sit on our backsides here doing nothing, you’ll have said goodbye to that seventeen pounds.’

  ‘I mean to get work, and soon. Look!’ She thrust the drawing-board towards Sarah, who could only gasp, ‘My goodness me!’ and begin to chuckle, before saying, ‘Good Lord! Well, I never! They wouldn’t know themselves. How can you remember their faces? And what’s this you have written at the bottom…huh!…table manners.’

  Marie Anne had drawn Annie’s children, nine of them sitting round a table, all eating in a guzzling fashion. Shane was recognisable, with a mutton bone held in his mouth as if he were playing a mouth organ; Michael, whose mouth was stuffed with a suet dumpling, was slapping Joseph’s back and Mary was wiping her fingers in Callum’s hair. The one-year-old baby was in the
wash-basket under the table with what looked like the black stew-pan between its knees.

  Sarah was laughing heartily now, saying, ‘Eeh! That’s funny, that really is. But surely they didn’t really look like that to you, now did they? Annie makes them behave themselves as much as she can. True there was a bit of an uproar last night. Maureen started it. She’s a starter. She’s always pulling the lads up, and they do things to aggravate her. But oh my! That is funny. Yet it’s a good job Annie will never see it, ’cos she would recognise them, even with the funny faces you’ve given them.’ She stepped back now and, shaking her head, said, ‘You have a gift, you know, Marie Anne, not only on the piano but with a pencil; you have indeed.’

  ‘And I’m going to use it,’ Marie Anne emphasised, nodding her head. ‘I’m going to sell these.’

  ‘Ah now, now! Hold your hand. Where d’you think you’re goin’ to sell stuff like that?’

  ‘To the newspapers…I told you: Punch and The Illustrated London News, and the daily newspapers, The Times and the Daily Telegraph and papers like that.’

  ‘And will you tell me, me dear, how you’re goin’ to get in touch with anybody who works in those newspapers?’

  ‘By going there. By going to the offices. And I am going. Well, I mean we’re going; you’re going with me.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marie Anne’s voice was not so definite now. ‘Well, Sarah, I…I’ve got to do something. Don’t you see? Like you, I, too, have to earn a living.’

  ‘You, like me, me dear, have not got to make a living. If you’d only be sensible…but it’s no good talking along that line again I suppose; yet I’ll keep on.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be wasting your time.’ Marie Anne’s voice was flat now, and it was a minute or so before she picked up another drawing, only for Sarah to exclaim again, ‘My! My! That’s Paddy O’Connell standing among his junk; and you show the four floors above his head and all his junk spillin’ out of it. Eeh! Girl, how d’you do it, and with just a couple of strokes of a pencil? Eeh my! That is good. Well, after seeing that I take back all I’ve said. And what have you written underneath? life’s litter. That is wise, it is indeed; because everything he’s got is what’s left of somebody else’s life.’

  Sarah looked down into the deep brown eyes gazing up into hers and, putting her hand out, she touched Marie Anne’s cheek gently, saying, ‘There’s much more in you, miss, than meets the eye. I’ve thought that from the beginnin’ of our acquaintance.’

  Now Marie Anne, quick to take advantage of Sarah’s appreciation, said, ‘And you’ll come with me if I go to the newspaper offices?’

  Sarah straightened up and in her usual terse tone, she said, ‘Now would I be lettin’ you go on your own? Will you be takin’ all your stuff with you?’

  ‘No; just a few samples.’

  ‘And, of course, those two,’ Sarah pointed to the last two drawings, and Marie Anne said, ‘Oh yes; they’re my pièces de résistance.’

  Sarah stared at her for a moment but didn’t ask her to translate the saying, for she had got the gist of it.

  The November day was dull, cold and damp. Everyone prophesied there’d be a bad fog that night. Marie Anne—in fact, both of them—were experiencing the same feelings as the atmosphere was giving off: they felt dull, very cold and very damp. They’d had short shrift from the clerks in the offices of Punch and The Illustrated London News. They had been asked if they had an appointment. When Sarah said no, but this young lady had something to sell, that they were marvellous drawings, they were told they had a number of artists already on the staff who did marvellous drawings. Good day.

  In The Times office they had enquired if she was from an agency and when Marie Anne said no, that she worked for herself, she was told they weren’t taking on any more freelance people at the moment.

  At the Daily Telegraph, Sarah took charge and asked if they could see the editor.

  Had they an appointment?

  No. But her companion had some splendid drawings she would like him to see.

  She was informed that the editor didn’t see anyone without an appointment, and then never artists. That was a special department.

  Then could they see someone from the special department?

  No, they couldn’t; they must write in.

  Write in to whom, asked Sarah.

  ‘The head of the Art Department,’ the man emphasised; ‘that’s if you want to sell drawings. I’ll make an appointment.’

  Sarah came to the conclusion that she hated Fleet Street and that they had better go home; they were both getting wet.

  It was as they turned down a side street and saw the offices of the Daily Reporter that Marie Anne now almost beseechingly said, ‘Just let’s try one more place; let’s try here.’

  The door led into a small square hall which led into a larger hall. Behind a counter were a number of desks at which men were working, and no-one took notice of their entry until they moved to a counter at the end of the room, where a man rose from his desk, asking, ‘Yes? Well, what can I do for you?’

  It was a case of who was the more surprised, the man or Sarah Foggerty, when Marie Anne, whipping out the drawing pad from her bag, placed it on the counter, flipped back the cover and, pointing to the top sketch, said, ‘I want to sell these.’

  The man did not immediately look down at the drawing but kept his gaze on Marie Anne. The dampness outside had brought colour to her alabaster skin and for a moment it seemed he could only stare into the strange pair of eyes that were staring hard at him. When he did lower his gaze it was to see a conglomeration of children sitting around a table. He looked at it for some time, moving it first one way, then another. Presently he let out a short laugh and smiled from the young woman to the older one, saying one word, ‘Funny.’

  Marie Anne and Sarah glanced at each other and managed to suppress a smile. The next drawing was of Paddy O’Connell and his emporium, and this elicited another single word: ‘Clever,’ the man said.

  ‘Worked long in this line?’ he asked Marie Anne, and she swallowed as she answered, ‘Some time.’

  ‘Sold anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, ’tis a pity, but we never do anything like this.’ He lifted another page to show a woman possing at a tub. She was standing in a littered yard and the caption was ‘cleanliness is next to …’

  The man made a noise in his throat and said, ‘Hang on a minute.’ He picked up the three drawings and was about to move away when Sarah put in quickly, ‘Where are you going with them?’

  He took a step backwards and, leaning on the counter, he pushed his face towards her, saying, ‘I’m going to reproduce them and sell them for a mint. All right, missis?’

  As he left, Sarah muttered, ‘Cheeky monkey,’ and she grinned at Marie Anne, although she was watching the man disappear into another office.

  After five minutes or so he reappeared, accompanied by another man. Ignoring Sarah and Marie Anne he went through a doorway at the far end of the office. Soon afterwards he beckoned to them and raised a hinged part of the counter and ushered them into a large office. The man to whom they were introduced as the editor was elderly, with white hair around the temples and he had bushy eyebrows. Almost peremptorily, he said to Marie Anne, ‘You did this work?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ And her own tone surprised the first man for it was so different from that of the older woman.

  ‘Are you a freelance?’ the elderly man continued.

  Marie Anne blinked rapidly. ‘You could say so,’ she said.

  The man now moved his head as if to get a better view of her, and he then asked, ‘How old are you?’

  Without hesitation she said, ‘Eighteen.’

  He nodded. ‘How long have you been at this kind of work?’

  ‘Since I first recall holding a pencil.’

  ‘Really!’ His tone was an imitation of her own now. ‘What’s your name?’

  She gulped and glanced
towards Sarah, who was amazed to hear her say, ‘Marie Anne Foggerty.’

  When the second man turned to his companion, saying, ‘Now what d’you think? Would that be an Irish name,’ and the latter replied, ‘Surely, surely,’ their supposed senior muttered, ‘Quiet!’ Then addressing Marie Anne again, he said, ‘This paper doesn’t do anything in this line; at least, it hasn’t done up till now. But we’re not against trying something new. You know what I mean?’

  The man now peered at her, saying, ‘It’ll be a try-out. We won’t be able to pay much; say, four shillings each.’

  ‘Five.’

  The three men turned as one to look at Sarah, and she stared back at them, ‘They’re worth more than that. They’re brilliant drawings.’

  ‘Well, if they’re so brilliant, why haven’t you sold them before?’

  ‘We haven’t tried,’ Sarah lied. ‘You’re the first we’ve visited.’

  Again there was an exchange of glances between the men, and now Marie Anne put in quickly. ‘I would have liked five shillings each, but I’d be willing to take four.’

  The elderly man and Marie Anne exchanged a long glance. Then by way of introduction, he said, ‘I’m the editor. My name is Stokes, John Stokes, and this is my assistant, Mr Mulberry.’ Then nodding towards the man they had first encountered, he added, ‘Doulton, my clerk,’ and went on, ‘Now I’ll take these first three drawings you have shown me. You have more in your portfolio, I guess, but I don’t want to see them at present, because I have an idea about these three and if it works out I shall let you know. Where do you live?’

  When Marie Anne hesitated, Sarah put in, ‘Top Floor, Ramsay Court, off Bing Road.’

  The editor and his assistant again exchanged glances and when he said, ‘You’re in the deep East End there,’ it was Sarah again who answered, saying, ‘I suppose you could say that, sir, but only for the present.’

  John Stokes looked hard at Sarah as if he found it difficult to make out her position. Then with a little shake of his head he turned his attention back to Marie Anne, saying, ‘You accepted four shillings apiece but you could do with five, you say. Well, what’s a shilling here and there in a new enterprise, eh? We’ll say five shillings each, Miss Foggerty. How about that?’