The Fifteen Streets

by Catherine Cookson

  The girl, Mary Ellen knew, was possessed of a devil. This was the only way to account for her laying the blame of the bairn on John without actually saying so, and for her turning on Hannah and standing up to Joe. Mary Ellen knew that she, too, had become possessed of a devil. It entered into her the night Dominic and John fought, and when John stayed out all night, wandering the streets, after Joe Kelly had followed him into the house, demanding to know what he was going to do about supporting Nancy. The devil had frightened Mary Ellen, for he urged her to do Nancy a physical injury, and she prayed constantly to be relieved of all temptation. But from the night her lad told her he was going to America, she prayed no more, and the devil took full possession of her. She watched Nancy at every available moment, and there were times when she actually lifted the sneck of the front door with the intention of making a dash at the girl and tearing her limb from limb.

  Nancy stood now scratching her head. She was doing it systematically, working over first one section then another; and Mary Ellen wondered for the countless time how anyone in their right senses could imagine her lad touching that thing . . . But they not only imagined it, they voiced it. Since Bella Bradley had set the ball rolling, at least half the fifteen streets would swear to having seen John with Nancy Kelly in some questionable place.

  She could have borne it all, Mary Ellen thought, if only it wasn’t driving her lad away. What would she do without him? The day he left the house, it would be as if she were laying him in his coffin, for she would never see him again. It was all right him saying he would send her money . . . he’d want all his money if he was going to marry that lass. And anyway, she didn’t want money, she only wanted him. What would life be like when, cooking, washing and mending, she wasn’t doing it for him?

  She moved from the window and leaned against the wall, and pressed her nose tightly between finger and thumb, meanwhile taking great gulps of air—she mustn’t start crying now, it was close on twelve o’clock, and John and Shane would be in soon, it being Saturday. Dominic was already in, sitting over the fire, picking his toes.

  In spite of her efforts, tears started to flow. Unless Dominic got that job in Liverpool she’d be left with him and his beastly ways. John never sat over the fire, picking his toes . . . he washed his feet in the scullery. But not Dominic; he’d sit picking at the hard skin on the soles of his feet, or lifting the dirt from his toenails with his fingernails. There was nothing so ugly, Mary Ellen thought, as feet, and none so repulsive as Dominic’s, big and broad and well-shaped as they were. She knew, with an overpowering certainty, that once John was gone and she was left to suffer Dominic, the devil would have his way. And there would be no door standing between her and Dominic, as there was between her and Nancy, acting as a deterrent to her uplifted hand. And the devil alone knew what she would have in her uplifted hand. Oh, if only her lad wasn’t going to that America. Oh, God, if only something would happen to prevent him! She groaned and rocked her body . . . Ask and Ye Shall Receive. Yes, but there were so many things she had asked of God, and had she ever received them? Perhaps she hadn’t asked properly. Or she may not have wanted them as she wanted this one thing. If there was only somewhere she could be alone and kneel down, she’d pray to Him and ask Him. But the minutes alone were few and far between, especially at the week-end . . . But she was alone now. She moved swiftly to the room door and closed it. Self-consciously she knelt down close by it so that she wouldn’t be taken unawares if Dominic made to enter, and should anyone happen to glance in the window through the narrow aperture of the curtains it would look as if she were scrubbing.

  Almighty God, she began, Almighty Lord of Heaven and earth, grant me this one prayer and I swear unto You that never until the day I die will I miss Mass. Almighty and powerful God, grant me this plea . . . She did not at once voice the plea, even mentally, but searched about in her mind for other words to denote power with which to adorn the name of God. But she could think only of Great and Almighty. She discarded the set prayers—she wanted something more powerful with which to contact Him. So she began again . . . Great and Almighty God, Ruler of our lives, You who can do all things, do this for me I beseech Thee . . . don’t let my lad go to America. Make something happen to stop him. Only You can do this, Almighty God . . . only You.

  Her joined hands were pressed tightly between her breasts and her chin above them quivered with emotion. As she rose trembling from her knees, Katie’s voice called from the scullery, ‘Ma! Ma, I want you.’

  Mary Ellen smoothed down her hair and rubbed her face over with a corner of her apron before going into the kitchen. She knew Katie must have seen Dominic and would not pass him, fearing lest his fingers were pushed beneath her nose.

  Katie was standing in the scullery, trying to tidy her windblown hair before replacing her hat.

  ‘What is it, hinny?’ Mary Ellen asked heavily.

  Katie whispered, ‘Sh!’ and pointed towards the kitchen. She pulled the door to, before going on in hushed tones, ‘I just wanted to tell you I’m going to the slipway with Christine.’

  ‘The slipway?’ said Mary Ellen. And Katie again cautioned her. ‘Sh! Ma.’

  ‘What are you going to do there?’ asked Mary Ellen softly.

  ‘The boat’s there . . . Mr Bracken had it fetched from the quay this morning on a cart. It’s all painted up. David did it all himself. Oh, it looks lovely, Ma.’

  ‘It’s too windy, hinny, you’ll get blown off the wall.’

  ‘I won’t go on the wall, Ma. The boat won’t be on the wall’—Katie chuckled at her mother’s ignorance—‘it’ll be in the water!’

  After a pause during which Mary Ellen adjusted Katie’s hat, she asked, ‘Who’ll be there?’

  ‘Only Christine and David.’

  ‘Not Mr Bracken?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’d better not go, hinny. There should be no messing around with boats unless a man’s knocking about.’

  ‘But Christine knows all about boats . . . she can row! But anyway, Ma, it’s tied up, and Christine’s not going out in it, she says it’s too windy. She says, maybe the morrow if the wind goes down we’ll have a sail . . . there’s a sail in it too, Ma!’ She looked up at her mother with a mischievous smile. ‘We’ll take you out for a sail, Ma . . . right to where the big ships are. And the boat’ll rock, and you’ll be sick.’

  The picture of her mother being seasick tickled Katie, and she leaned against her, and put her arms round her mother’s ample waist, and shook with laughter as she moved her from side to side, imitating the rocking of a boat.

  ‘Stop it, hinny!’ Mary Ellen felt far from laughter, but she smiled at this canny bairn of hers, and she had the desire to fondle her. She took off Katie’s hat again and reached for the broken comb lying on the scullery window-sill, and began to comb the top of her plaits.

  Katie made a protest, ‘Ma, Christine’s waiting!’ But she still leaned against her mother, and the pressure of her arms tightened about her.

  When Mary Ellen replaced the hat she patted Katie’s cheek. Then, awkwardly, she stooped and kissed her. Katie’s arms came up swiftly about her neck, and she returned the kiss with an ardour that seemed strange in one so young. Kissing was an uncommon ritual in the house, and Mary Ellen said, ‘There, there. Now off you go.’

  But although she told Katie to go, she still held on to her, buttoning her coat, lifting her plaits from off her shoulders, and yet again straightening her hat. When at last she closed the door after Katie, she stood for a time thinking of her, and the thoughts brought her a modicum of comfort . . . she’d always have Katie. For years and years yet she’d have Katie, and they’d cleave together even more so when John was gone . . . That was another thing . . . Katie had to be told that John was going. What would her reactions be, for John was to her as a god?

  A new fear entered into Mary Ellen . . . Would it create an aim in Katie’s life, and that aim to be to go to America to join John? She shook herself. This was goin
g too far . . . this is what came of thinking . . . Let God’s will be done.

  She steeled herself to go into the kitchen and to the oven where a hot-pot was cooking, for Dominic would be still on with his poking—she knew he prolonged it merely to tantalise her. But when she entered the kitchen he wasn’t there; and further to her surprise, he came out of the bedroom, pulling on his old mackintosh. He had changed his trousers and was wearing his good boots. And he passed her without a word and went out, slamming the door after him.

  Where was he off to in such a hurry? Surely he couldn’t have heard what Katie said. If he did hear, he was off now to corner the lass at the slipway. It was quiet there, and nobody to stop him . . . only Katie. Well, Katie was as good as any.

  Dominic’s chase of Christine had aroused little interest in Mary Ellen of late. Under other circumstances the fact that Peter Bracken had forbidden him the house would perhaps have aroused in her a feeling of shame that a son of hers should have acted in a way to merit such treatment. At times, she did wonder at Dominic’s persistence, and wondered too what it was about the lass that made him half demented for her. These past few weeks he had been drinking more than he had done since the Brackens came to live next door; not getting blind drunk, but just enough to arouse his temper and make him more detestable still. He was close on that stage now, having spent the best part of the morning in the bars.

  Shane came in, and to her surprise spoke first.

  ‘Lashing itself out,’ he said gruffly.

  It was some time before she answered, ‘Yes, and about time too.’ There was a change in Shane that bewildered her; he had almost dropped the drink, and he sat with her at nights instead of going to the corner. It began, she felt, when she was ill . . . or was it when John was made the gaffer? She knew that in his own way Shane was proud of that. And the change was more evident still since this trouble of John’s. She felt dimly that he was trying to comfort her for what she was suffering on account of the lad, and dimly also, she felt a bigness in him for doing this, for it was John who had the affection that should have been his.

  ‘Will you have it now or wait for John?’ she asked, indicating the dinner.

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  It was strange that she should ask him this and that he should comply. Not long ago he would have bellowed, ‘Who the hell’s boss, him or me?’

  When John came in she did not glance towards him, for she knew how he would look—his face would be straight and lean; the flesh had dropped from the bones these past weeks; the brown of his eyes would be darker, and in their depths would be a look she could not bear to see.

  Mary Ellen’s heart lifted towards Shane when, seated at the table, he said to John. ‘We got her out in time all right, didn’t we?’ He was referring to the unloading, and her emotion almost choked Mary Ellen as she realised that her husband was trying to get on a friendly footing with his son; for never before could she remember him speaking in such a way, not only acknowledging John as an equal, but as his superior . . . it was how a man spoke to his gaffer; it was also how a father tried to convey his faith in his son.

  John looked hard at Shane, then said quietly, ‘You did that.’

  They ate on in silence, and Mary Ellen went into the scullery to try to suppress the choking in her throat. As she stood, her hands pressed tightly against her neck, Molly’s voice came screaming from the back lane. ‘Ma! Oh, Ma! . . . Ma!’

  What could she do with that lass? Would she never grow up?

  ‘Ma! Ma!’ Molly’s voice came nearer.

  Was she mad, screaming like that! By, she’d box her lugs for her when she got her inside.

  Molly’s cries effectively suppressed Mary Ellen’s emotion, and she pulled open the back door with an angry jerk . . . She’d give it to her; she’d swipe the hunger off her!

  ‘Ma! Oh, Ma!’ Molly tore up the backyard and flung herself on her mother, ignoring the upraised hand: ‘Ma! it’s Katie . . . Katie and Christine.’

  She stopped and gasped for breath as Mary Ellen gripped her shoulders.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Mary Ellen asked with strange quietness; then called over her shoulder, ‘John!’

  As John reached the door Molly was gasping out, ‘They’re in the boat; they haven’t any oars . . . It’s going round and round down the gut. It was our Dominic; he tried to get in the boat with Christine, and she pushed him back and Katie loosened the rope . . . I was behind the railings watching. Katie wouldn’t let me go with her, but I sneaked down, and I saw our Dominic come. Oh, Ma! and David’s screaming in the slipway.’

  John was running down the yard with Shane on his heels, calling, ‘Make straight for the slacks; don’t go down the slipway, it’ll be in the main gut by now.’

  Mary Ellen, with Molly at her side, followed them, whispering as she ran, ‘What is this now? What has come upon us now?’

  On the main road, passers-by stopped and gaped at the two great men in shirt sleeves tearing along as if the devil was after them, the old man behind the young one, and the little woman and the lass behind the old man.

  Someone called, ‘What’s up? Is it a fire?’ But the running men took no heed, and one after another, the passers-by appealed to the woman and girl. And sometimes the girl answered, ‘It’s me sister . . . she’s in a boat an’ being carried down the gut.’

  Children tacked themselves on to Mary Ellen and Molly, and men turned in their tracks to run back down the road towards the slacks.

  When John came to the open space of the slacks his heart almost stopped. Without looking towards the gut he knew the boat was there, for the bank was lined with people. At this end of the slacks was the double tram line, where one tramcar had to wait for the other to pass. They were both standing empty, and their drivers were calling to the people, ‘We’ll have to go’; but none of the passengers attempted to leave the bank.

  As John ran down the pavement towards the middle of the slacks where the gangway of timbers led from the bank to the edge of the mud, he had to push his way through the people now pouring out from the streets known as the New Buildings that faced a part of the slacks. He thrust at them with his arms, knocking them aside and calling forth hot exclamations. Those standing on the gangway jumped clear of him, and he took the timbers four at a time. The noise from the bank died down and there was only the wind, on which was borne thin wails, and the squelch of the water between the timbers beneath his pounding feet. Automatically he paused at the cabin, which was mounted on a platform of lashed timbers in the centre of the great square, and grabbed up a long pole with a hook on its end that the timber man used for pulling the timbers together. Now the race was to reach the end of the timbers bordering the gut before the boat came abreast of him. He could see it was being held stationary at the moment; but by what he couldn’t tell. If it was stuck on the other side of the gut on the great mud flat that extended to the river then it was almost a certainty that it would be sucked into this oozing morass.

  Arrived at the end of the roped timbers, he had to take to the narrow planks that formed a precarious gangway to the gut. Here, he couldn’t run, but had to pick his way over the green slimy wood. The pole impeded him still further; and once he slipped and the water swirled about his thighs before he could pull himself up again. He had managed to retain his grip on the pole; and as he regained his footing a great ‘Oh!’ came to him from the bank. The sight of the boat speeding towards him lent wings of sureness to his feet, and within a matter of seconds he reached the gut.

  Clinging to the great post that was the last support of the foot timbers he shouted madly to the approaching boat, ‘Grab the pole!’ But the wind tore at his voice, carrying his words away from him and them.

  The boat was now making swift circles; one second, he would see Katie’s face over the gunwhale, her eyes staring in terror, the next he would be looking at the back of her head, her hat still on it. Christine was sitting in the middle of the boat, her arms stretched taut, her hands gripping the sides
in a pitifully vain endeavour to steady the tiny craft. She had seen John, for each time she fronted him her eyes held his for the second before they were torn away again.

  It was not the wind that was driving the boat down the gut so much as the tide which was in full ebb; the locked waters between the floats of timbers were rushing madly back into the gut to meet the water draining from the mud flat beyond. Added to this, the suction of the cross channel, bordering the sawmill on the far side of the slacks, made the main gut a frothing, boiling mass of water.

  As the boat came abreast of him, John bellowed, to the very limit of his lungs, ‘Catch the hook, Christine!’

  Perhaps she heard him and was afraid to loosen her grip on the sides of the boat, or perhaps his voice became only part of the wind, for when he cast the crooked end of the pole towards the boat it fell close to it, and anyone on the alert could have grabbed it; but the fraction of time during which this could have happened was lost. The boat gave another mad turn and was away, past him. He saw Katie stand up. She seemed to stand perfectly straight and still, and he experienced the odd sensation that her face was floating to him . . . imagination! But it was not imagination when he heard her voice coming to him against the wind . . . ‘John! Oh, John!’

  The boat was now flung into the vortex of water where the channels of the gut crossed. It heaved and whirled. Then like a ball, held by some mighty hand, it became still, and John saw clearly the two figures, their arms wound tightly about each other, crouched together; the hand was lifted, and the boat like a ball, was thrown up and over.

  As John raised his arms to dive, two hands clawed at him and grabbed his belt. He half turned, screaming at the man behind him, but in wrenching himself free he overbalanced and toppled into the water. When his head broke the surface Peter Bracken grabbed his hair, and Peter’s agonised voice screamed at him, ‘It’s no use! It’s no use! They’ve gone. Don’t make another.’