The Fifteen Streets

by Catherine Cookson

  He nodded again to Culbert in farewell, and Mary escorted him to the front door. The feel of his coat about him did nothing to allay his renewed feeling of gaucheness.

  ‘Well, thanks,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s been kind of you to . . . to help me about Katie.’

  They stood regarding one another, and she too seemed to have lost some of her ease of manner. ‘I’ll do all I can for Katie, I’m very fond of her. And she’s a clever child . . . Good night, Mr O’Brien.’

  She held out her hand, and after the merest hesitation he took it. Firm and cool, it gripped his, conveying a sense of breathlessness and urgency. The feeling hung between them; even when their hands parted and he passed through the doorway it was there . . . a breathlessness.

  He walked away down the path with her parting words acting like an opiate to his brain. ‘If you feel there is anything you would like to know, at any time, please come and see me again.’ It was odd, he thought, but she was the kind of person he could ask questions of.

  But once out in the cold night air, the old brake of ‘Steady your keel’ thrust its reality upon him, and he said to himself, ‘Well, that’s that! It went off all right; Katie’s set.’

  As he reached the bottom of the Simonside bank, he deliberated whether to go into Shields and the market or walk slowly back home. If he did the latter it would mean thinking and going over every second of the past hour. No. He would go into Shields where there were lights and people . . . But what about being seen in this coat? Well, what about it? It seemed that within the past hour he had lost and regained his self-confidence a number of times, but, each time he regained it, it was stronger, for now he didn’t mind being seen in the coat; it was the portent of things to come . . . he would have things . . . his mother and Katie would have things. How, he didn’t know; but they would.

  His decision to seek company in the shape of crowds did not immediately have the desired effect, and he found himself again thinking of Mary Llewellyn, but with a forced detachment. Fancy a lovely lass like her going to marry that . . . skinny-malink! Well, it was certainly no business of his. She had been very nice to him, more than nice; and she would help Katie; that was the only thing that mattered.

  As he entered the first arc of Tyne Dock a well-known figure, shambling towards him, brought him back with a bump to his own world. It was Nancy; and he could hear her snivelling when she was still some distance away.

  ‘Hallo, Nancy. What’s the matter?’ he asked her.

  She hesitated, shuffled off the pavement in uncertainty, then shuffled back when she recognised him. ‘Eeh, John. Eeh, John.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked again.

  ‘It’s our Annie. She left me in the market—she run away, and she had me tram fare. An’ me ma said she had to look after me and put me on the tram for me place.’

  ‘Have you walked all the way from the market?’ he asked her gently.

  ‘Yes . . . It’s our Annie. She run away, she did. An’ me ma’ll skelp me when I get in, she will, cos Mrs Fitzsimmons said I had to be back to clean the shop out when they closed. An’ me ma said our Annie had to put me on the tram.’

  John put his hand in his pocket and gave her threepence. ‘Now stop crying. You’ll be back in plenty of time. There’s your tram fare and a penny to buy some bullets. Stand over there’—he pointed back towards the bottom of Simonside Bank—‘the Jarrow tram will be along in a minute.’

  ‘Eeh! I can’t get on the tram there, John. There’s a bar there an’ me ma says I’ve got to keep away from bars, cos the men come out.’

  John could see the tram in the distance swaying towards them. He held out his hand to her: ‘Come on, I’ll put you on it.’

  The tram jolted to a stop, and he helped her up, saying to the conductor, ‘Put her off at the corner of Ferry Street, will you?’

  As the conductor rang the bell, a figure leant forward from the end of the long wooden seat: ‘Why, is that you, John?’

  He recognised Mrs Bradley, and answered rather shortly, ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘Why lad, I hardly knew you . . . Well I never.’

  The tram rumbled away, and the last John saw was Nancy showing the coins in her hand to Mrs Bradley. The picture did not remain in his mind an instant, but he was to remember it, and, unimportant as it seemed, it was to assume such proportions that although it happened on this day of emancipation, when he had first worn a fine top coat and taken tea with Miss Llewellyn, its ugly significance was to blot them out.

  7

  Christmas Eve

  Mary Ellen hummed softly . . . it was many, many Christmases ago that she felt as happy as she did now. The morrow was Christmas Eve and she was really looking forward to it. She worked at the table in the middle of the kitchen, cutting out pastry for mince pies. Above her head hung a large, honeycombed paper ball, suspended from the paper chains crisscrossed under the ceiling. The kitchen was quiet and warm with an unusual air of cosiness about it. As she worked she planned for the morrow. She’d get up earlier than usual and blacklead the stove before lighting the fire; and then, after she’d got them all off to work, she’d get done and put everything shipshape; then she’d get the dinner ready, and have the afternoon clear . . . to go and get the coat.

  Aye, it was a long time since she’d had a coat, a new shawl would have done her; but no, John had a bee in his bonnet, and she was to have a coat for Christmas . . . What had come over him lately? He was the same lad to her, yet somehow he was altered. It wasn’t only the new suit he had, although that made him look fine; no, it was in some other way he’d altered. Well, never mind, he was still her lad, and the best on God’s earth. If only the other one was like him.

  The thought of Dominic caused her to stop humming. Why hadn’t he gone away, as he’d been hinting of doing for some weeks past? Then Christmas would have indeed been grand. She knew he had been enquiring after jobs in both the Liverpool and London Docks; anywhere, he had said, to get away from this hole.

  When she came to think of it, Dominic too seemed changed. It was all that lass next door she supposed—he was set on her; but he didn’t seem to be making much headway. Was John his stumbling block? This was another thing which puzzled her. John was always in next door, and often she heard his laugh joined with that of the girl’s. But there it seemed to end. If he were courting her, he was doing it in a funny way; for he never took her out. Pray God he wouldn’t either. No, no, that would be terrible if John really took up with her. Well, she wasn’t going to think about it; she was going to enjoy this Christmas. She already had a piece of brisket and an aitchbone, and if John went down to the market last thing the morrow he might pick up a duck or something cheap. They sold them off for next to nothing rather than have them left on their hands. By, it’d be grand if he could get a duck! And on Christmas Day they’d have Christmas cake and the rice loaf she’d made. Nobody knew yet, but she was going to put icing on the cake. By, they’d have a grand do.

  A tap on the door broke in on her thoughts and she called, ‘Come in,’ and Peggy Flaherty, after kicking her boots against the wall, stumbled into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh God above, it’s enough to freeze your liver! It’s at it again, Mary Ellen—won’t be able to stir hand or foot outside the door shortly.’

  ‘It hasn’t started to snow again, surely?’

  ‘It has so, Mary Ellen. As if it wasn’t bad enough with everywhere frozen solid. God’s truth, I’ve never seen anything like it! We’ll have to be after watching the tap in the yard, Mary Ellen, or it’ll be a dry Christmas in one way we’ll be having. Oh, ye’re lovely and warm in here, lass’—she wriggled her fat inside her many coats—‘and the smell’s good enough to eat. And did ye ever see such a picture of a kitchen, with all those bonny chains!’

  ‘Sit down and warm yourself, and have a pie,’ said Mary Ellen.

  ‘I will an’ all, for I’m chilled to the bone. I’m just back from Shields. Look’—she pulled three small packages from
her bass bag—‘some bits of things for the bairns’ stockings.’

  ‘Now, Peggy’—Mary Ellen compressed her lips—‘that’s madness, that is! You know you haven’t got it to go and buy presents.’

  ‘Why haven’t I then? I haven’t got a bite of sup to buy for Christmas or Boxing Day, because out of the goodness of your heart ye’ve asked me down . . . so why haven’t I? There they are’—she laid the packages on the mantelpiece—‘we’ll say no more about them. There’s only one thing I regret, and that is I haven’t got it to buy you all something. But business isn’t what it used to be; divil the pennorth of advice I’ve given out this past three weeks. What’s the matter with people, Mary Ellen? ’Tisn’t as if there were no rows; God alive, they followed each other like flies down at the bottom end last week? If it wasn’t for running me clubs I’d be hard set at times; but as long as I get my rent I’m all right. And God’s good. There was last weekend I didn’t know which way I was going to turn, when, coming up the yard, that blessed lad of yours slipped me sixpence. By, Mary Ellen, I think if ye lost everything in the world and ye’d only him left, ye’d get by . . . Is he courting, Mary Ellen?’

  ‘Courting?’ Mary Ellen turned and with a blank face looked at Peggy. ‘Not that I know of. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Only I’ve seen him a number of times, three to be exact, and the last no later than this dinner-time, talking to the same lass. And a bonnier piece I’ve never seen. And mark ye, she wasn’t from around these doors either. Today she had a fur coat on, and the tails hanging from the collar alone must have left a number of poor animals feeling cold around their backsides.’

  ‘A fur coat?’

  ‘The same. Tall she was, and strapping looking. And a voice like the gentry, for I heard her as I passed. And it’s me that knows how the gentry talk—ye know that, Mary Ellen—for Mr Flaherty spent his life rubbing shoulders with them. And it’s the same process, ye know: as ye can’t touch pitch without becoming defiled, so ye can’t mix among the gentry without picking up their lingo.’

  Mary Ellen surveyed Peggy. ‘You must have made a mistake.’

  ‘Not a bit of it, Mary Ellen. John called out to me himself. “Hallo there, Peggy,” he said, as true as I’m sitting here.’

  Mary Ellen turned back to her baking board . . . John talking to a lass with a fur coat on. Who could it be? And three times. He wasn’t a one to stand talking to lasses at any time, only that one next door. She turned to Peggy again: ‘It wasn’t—’ she nodded her head towards the fireplace.

  ‘No. I may be short in the sight, but I’m not that bad. This was a big lump of a lass, in fact she was a woman; and twice the size of that scrag end next door, bless ye.’

  Mary Ellen could question Peggy no more at the moment, for there was another knock on the door; it was Hannah Kelly.

  She had a coat over her head, and she shook the soft snow off it before coming into the kitchen. ‘What weather! The only ones enjoying it are the bairns. Hallo, Peggy. Is this where ye are? By! they smell good Mary Ellen.’ Hannah nodded towards the pies.

  ‘Help yourself, lass,’ said Mary Ellen.

  ‘Not now. Thanks all the same. I only came over to see you a minute . . . about something.’

  Peggy, taking the covered hint with the abundance of her good nature, said, ‘I’ll off up, Mary Ellen, for I must make a start; I’m up to the eyes upstairs.’

  ‘She never said a truer word,’ said Hannah, when Peggy had gone. ‘How she lives among that junk, God alone knows. I came over to tell ye about our Nancy, Mary Ellen; but I couldn’t do it with her sitting there—she’d be offering me advice, and I’m not in the mood to take Peggy’s advice the day.’

  ‘Is anything wrong, Hannah?’

  ‘It looks like it; I’ve had a letter from Mrs Fitzsimmons about her. She says she’s getting more queer every day, and she’s getting that way she won’t work; she just stands staring at her and says she can’t. Ye know, Mary Ellen, that isn’t like Nancy. As bad as she is she can do the rough work of half a dozen. Mrs Fitzsimmons says I’ll have to bring her home if it keeps on . . . Oh, Mary Ellen, there’ll be hell to pay again with our Joe if she’s in the house all the time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, lass. But perhaps you’ll get her in some place else.’

  ‘Not if she won’t work. Ye don’t mind me coming across and telling ye, Mary Ellen? Ye’ve got enough on your plate, I know, without my troubles stacked on top, but ye’re the only one I seem to be able to talk to about her.’

  ‘Why, lass, I only wish I could help you.’

  Hannah sat down by the side of the fire and stared into the glowing coals for a moment. ‘It’s an awful thing, Mary Ellen, to know that a bairn ye’ve given birth to isn’t all there.’

  Mary placed her hand on Hannah’s shoulder. ‘We all have our loads, lass; if it isn’t one thing it’s another.’

  Hannah gnawed at her lower lip. ‘You and John are the only two who treat her like a human being. I know I don’t. Sometimes I can’t stand the sight of her. Oh, ye don’t know, Mary Ellen, it’s awful. But then, when I hear Joe going for her, I get a sort of feeling and want to protect her somehow.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Well, the only thing I hope is she doesn’t come home till after the new year. Joe’s banking on a little bit of a do on New Year’s Eve, but it’ll be knocked completely on the head if she’s home; he’ll do nothing then; likely stay out most of the time.’

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Mary Ellen persisted, ‘don’t worry. Look, let’s have a cup of tea.’

  Mary Ellen bustled about making tea. In the face of the tragedy of having a partly imbecile daughter her load seemed very light. She had poverty and drink to put up with, but not that, thank God. Hers were all right up there.

  The two women drank their tea and talked on . . . about Bella now. Hannah wasn’t speaking to Bella, for whenever she did Bella made some excuse to come downstairs and ferret out her business. And Bella’s constant presence in the house maddened Joe. Mary Ellen could well understand this, for she had no use for Bella Bradley, who was never happy unless someone else was in trouble . . .

  As the snow thickened and the light vanished earlier than usual the kitchen was lit only by the glow of the fire—through necessity the gas was never lit until it was almost impossible to see, and Mary Ellen worked on, after Hannah had gone, more by feel than anything else. She began to sing softly to herself—her mother and grandmother had sung the song before her—the simple words expressing the tragedy of at least one phase of their love:

  Love, it is teasing,

  Love, it is pleasing,

  Love is a pleasure when it is new;

  But as it grows older and the days grow colder

  It fades away like the morning dew.

  Mary Ellen wasn’t thinking of the words, or how they applied to her own life, but that she had much for which to be thankful: Shane had not been really drunk since she was bad that time, and his twitching had eased. There had been no row in the house for months either. Well, they said it was a long road that had no turning, and hers had turned.

  On these pleasant thoughts the kitchen door was thrust open again. She turned towards it, but could not distinguish who was standing there. It could have been John, Shane or Dominic; but she was expecting none of them for another hour.

  ‘Why can’t you light the bloody gas!’

  Mary Ellen groped for a piece of paper, which she lit in the fire and put to the mantle, then turned and looked at Dominic. She had seen his face portraying many moods, contorted with passion or anger, drawn tight with cunning; but his expression now was one she had never seen; his eyes were wide and hard, and to her mind, had the thick, dull shine of a beer bottle. He seemed to be spread in a new kind of anger, wide and high with it.

  ‘I want me tea now. I’m going out!’

  ‘Well, get in first, can’t you! It isn’t ready yet. Can’t you get changed and have it with the others?’

  ‘No, I can’t! And anyway, you
wouldn’t expect God Almighty to sit down with me, would you?’

  She stared at him. Had he gone off his head? She watched him fling his cap across the table on to the couch, pull off his coat and fling it after the cap. The coat, in its flight, whipped a number of pies on to the floor and sent a cloud of flour off the board.

  ‘Here!’ Mary Ellen cried, ‘what’s up with you?’

  He did not answer, but grabbed the kettle from the hob and emptied it of hot water. He also emptied the pail of cold water, and proceeded to wash, the water splashing over the side of the dish and up the wall as he did so.

  Mary Ellen cleaned up the mess from the floor; then picked up the kettle and pail and went cautiously down the backyard. The ashes on top of the ice were already covered with a layer of snow. The tap was running in a thin trickle and she stood on the fringe of ice and water, steadying herself against the wall as she filled the pail . . . Always something to spoil things. What was it now?

  She hunted around in her mind, but could find nothing. Whatever it was was connected with his work, for he was home early. And him saying, ‘You wouldn’t expect God Almighty to sit down with me.’ Did he mean John? She couldn’t fathom it.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Dominic was in the bedroom, and she hurriedly cleared the table and set some bread and dripping and mince pies out.

  When he eventually came to the table he stared down at the food. ‘That’s a fine meal for a man, isn’t it!’ His voice seemed to be torn from his throat.

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t wait. I’m going to fry.’

  ‘You’re going to fry!’ he mimicked raspingly. ‘Well, see that you do plenty of it; the big pot’ll need it to fill his swelled head.’

  Then his anger had to do with John. But how? What could have happened at work?

  After having eaten all Mary Ellen had placed before him, Dominic left the house by the front way. As soon as the door banged behind him Mary Ellen went hastily into the room, and stood listening. Then, as she expected, came the muffled knock. He was next door.