by Muriel Spark
Nevertheless he was back again next week. Poor Kathleen had brought him in her car. She left it at the top of the street, and got out with him, holding him tight by the arm. It grieved me to see Kathleen ignoring the spread of scintillations on the stalls. I had myself seen a charming Battersea box quite to her taste, also a pair of enamelled silver earrings. But she took no notice of these wares, clinging close to George, and, poor Kathleen — I hate to say how she looked.
And George was haggard. His eyes seemed to have got smaller as if he had been recently in pain. He advanced up the road with Kathleen on his arm, letting himself lurch from side to side with his wife bobbing beside him, as the crowds asserted their rights of way.
‘Oh, George!’ I said. ‘You don’t look at all well, George.’
‘Look!’ said George. ‘Over there by the hardware barrow. That’s Needle.’
Kathleen was crying. ‘Come back home, dear,’ she said.
‘Oh, you don’t look well, George!’ I said.
They took him to a nursing home. He was fairly quiet, except on Saturday mornings when they had a hard time of it to keep him indoors and away from the Portobello Road.
But a couple of months later he did escape. It was a Monday.
They searched for him in the Portobello Road, but actually he had gone off to Kent to the village near the scene of the Haystack Murder. There he went to the police and gave himself up, but they could tell from the way he was talking that there was something wrong with the man.
‘I saw Needle in the Portobello Road three Saturdays running,’ he explained, ‘and they put me in a private ward but I got away while the nurses were seeing to the new patient. You remember the murder of Needle — well, I did it. Now you know the truth, and that will keep bloody Needle’s mouth shut.’
Dozens of poor mad fellows confess to every murder. The police obtained an ambulance to take him back to the nursing home. He wasn’t there long. Kathleen gave up her shop and devoted herself to looking after him at home. But she found that the Saturday mornings were a strain. He insisted on going to see me in the Portobello Road and would come back to insist that he’d murdered Needle. Once he tried to tell her something about Matilda, but Kathleen was so kind and solicitous, I don’t think he had the courage to remember what he had to say.
Skinny had always been rather reserved with George since the murder. But he was kind to Kathleen. It was he who persuaded them to emigrate to Canada so that George should be well out of reach of the Portobello Road.
George has recovered somewhat in Canada but of course he will never be the old George again, as Kathleen writes to Skinny. ‘That Haystack tragedy did for George,’ she writes. ‘I feel sorrier for George sometimes than I am for poor Needle. But I do often have Masses said for Needle’s soul.’
I doubt if George will ever see me again in the Portobello Road. He broods much over the crumpled snapshot he took of us on the haystack. Kathleen does not like the photograph, I don’t wonder. For my part, I consider it quite a jolly snap, but I don’t think we were any of us so lovely as we look in it, gazing blatantly over the ripe cornfields, Skinny with his humorous expression, I secure in my difference from the rest, Kathleen with her head prettily perched on her hand, each reflecting fearlessly in the face of George’s camera the glory of the world, as if it would never pass.
The Black Madonna
When the Black Madonna was installed in the Church of the Sacred Heart the Bishop himself came to consecrate it. His long purple train was upheld by the two curliest of the choir. The day was favoured suddenly with thin October sunlight as he crossed the courtyard from the presbytery to the church, as the procession followed him chanting the Litany of the Saints: five priests in vestments of white heavy silk interwoven with glinting threads, four lay officials with straight red robes, then the confraternities and the tangled columns of the Mothers’ Union.
The new town of Whitney Clay had a large proportion of Roman Catholics, especially among the nurses at the new hospital; and at the paper mills, too, there were many Catholics, drawn inland from Liverpool by the new housing estate; likewise, with the canning factories.
The Black Madonna had been given to the church by a recent convert. It was carved out of bog oak.
‘They found the wood in the bog. Had been there hundreds of years. They sent for the sculptor right away by phone. He went over to Ireland and carved it there and then. You see, he had to do it while it was still wet.’
‘Looks a bit like contemporary art.’
‘Nah, that’s not contemporary art, it’s old-fashioned. If you’d ever seen contemporary work you’d know it was old-fashioned.’
‘Looks like contemp —’
‘It’s old-fashioned. Else how’d it get sanctioned to be put up?’
‘It’s not so nice as the Immaculate Conception at Lourdes. That lifts you up.
Everyone got used, eventually, to the Black Madonna with her square hands and straight carved draperies. There was a movement to dress it up in vestments, or at least a lace veil.
‘She looks a bit gloomy, Father, don’t you think?’
‘No,’ said the priest, ‘I think it looks fine. If you start dressing it up in cloth you’ll spoil the line.’
Sometimes people came from London especially to see the Black Madonna, and these were not Catholics; they were, said the priest, probably no religion at all, poor souls, though gifted with faculties. They came, as if to a museum, to see the line of the Black Madonna which must not be spoiled by vestments.
The new town of Whitney Clay had swallowed up the old village. One or two cottages with double dormer windows, an inn called ‘The Tyger’, a Methodist chapel and three small shops represented the village; the three shops were already threatened by the Council; the Methodists were fighting to keep their chapel. Only the double dormer cottages and the inn were protected by the Nation and so had to be suffered by the Town Planning Committee.
The town was laid out like geometry in squares, arcs (to allow for the by-pass) and isosceles triangles, breaking off, at one point, to skirt the old village which, from the aerial view, looked like a merry doodle on the page.
Manders Road was one side of a parallelogram of green-bordered streets. It was named after one of the founders of the canning concern, Manders’ Figs in Syrup, and it comprised a row of shops and a long high block of flats named Cripps House after the late Sir Stafford Cripps who had laid the foundation stone. In flat twenty-two on the fifth floor of Cripps House lived Raymond and Lou Parker. Raymond Parker was a foreman at the motor works, and was on the management committee. He had been married for fifteen years to Lou, who was thirty-seven at the time that the miraculous powers of the Black Madonna came to be talked of.
Of the twenty-five couples who lived in Cripps House five were Catholics. All, except Raymond and Lou Parker, had children. A sixth family had recently been moved by the Council into one of the six-roomed houses because of the seven children besides the grandfather.
Raymond and Lou were counted lucky to have obtained their three-roomed flat although they had no children. People with children had priority; but their name had been on the waiting list for years, and some said Raymond had a pull with one of the Councillors who was a director of the motor works.
The Parkers were among the few tenants of Cripps House who owned a motorcar. They did not, like most of their neighbours, have a television receiver, for being childless they had been able to afford to expand themselves in the way of taste, so that their habits differed slightly and their amusements considerably, from those of their neighbours. The Parkers went to the pictures only when the Observer had praised the film; they considered television not their sort of thing; they adhered to their religion; they voted Labour; they believed that the twentieth century was the best so far; they assented to the doctrine of original sin; they frequently applied the word ‘Victorian’ to ideas and people they did not like — for instance, when a local Town Councillor resigned his office Raymond
said, ‘He had to go. He’s Victorian. And far too young for the job’; and Lou said Jane Austen’s books were too Victorian; and anyone who opposed the abolition of capital punishment was Victorian. Raymond took the Reader’s Digest, a magazine called Motoring and the Catholic Herald. Lou took the Queen, Woman’s Own and Life. Their daily paper was the News Chronicle. They read two books apiece each week. Raymond preferred travel books; Lou liked novels.
For the first five years of their married life they had been worried about not having children. Both had submitted themselves to medical tests as a result of which Lou had a course of injections. These were unsuccessful. It had been a disappointment since both came from large sprawling Catholic families. None of their married brothers and sisters had less than three children. One of Lou’s sisters, now widowed, had eight; they sent her a pound a week.
Their flat in Cripps House had three rooms and a kitchen. All round them their neighbours were saving up to buy houses. A council flat, once obtained, was a mere platform in space to further the progress of the rocket. This ambition was not shared by Raymond and Lou; they were not only content, they were delighted, with these civic chambers, and indeed took something of an aristocratic view of them, not without a self-conscious feeling of being free, in this particular, from the prejudices of that middle class to which they as good as belonged. ‘One day,’ said Lou, ‘it will be the thing to live in a council flat.’
They were eclectic as to their friends. Here, it is true, they differed slightly from each other. Raymond was for inviting the Ackleys to meet the Farrells. Mr Ackley was an accountant at the Electricity Board. Mr and Mrs Farrell were respectively a sorter at Manders’ Figs in Syrup and an usherette at the Odeon.
‘After all,’ argued Raymond, ‘they’re all Catholics.’
‘Ah well,’ said Lou, ‘but now, their interests are different. The Farrells wouldn’t know what the Ackleys were talking about. The Ackleys like politics. The Farrells like to tell jokes. I’m not a snob, only sensible.’
‘Oh, please yourself.’ For no one could call Lou a snob, and everyone knew she was sensible.
Their choice of acquaintance was wide by reason of their active church membership: that is to say, they were members of various guilds and confraternities. Raymond was a sidesman, and he also organized the weekly football lottery in aid of the Church Decoration Fund. Lou felt rather out of things when the Mothers’ Union met and had special Masses, for the Mothers’ Union was the only group she did not qualify for. Having been a nurse before her marriage she was, however, a member of the Nurses’ Guild.
Thus, most of their Catholic friends came from different departments of life. Others, connected with the motor works where Raymond was a foreman, were of different social grades to which Lou was more alive than Raymond. He let her have her way, as a rule, when it came to a question of which would mix with which.
A dozen Jamaicans were taken on at the motor works. Two came into Raymond’s department. He invited them to the flat one evening to have coffee. They were unmarried, very polite and black. The quiet one was called Henry Pierce and the talkative one, Oxford St John. Lou, to Raymond’s surprise and pleasure, decided that all their acquaintance, from top to bottom, must meet Henry and Oxford. All along he had known she was not a snob, only sensible, but he had rather feared she would consider the mixing of their new black and their old white friends not sensible.
‘I’m glad you like Henry and Oxford,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we’re able to introduce them to so many people.’ For the dark pair had, within a month, spent nine evenings at Cripps House; they had met accountants, teachers, packers and sorters. Only Tina Farrell, the usherette, had not seemed to understand the quality of these occasions: ‘Quite nice chaps, them darkies, when you get to know them.’
‘You mean Jamaicans,’ said Lou. ‘Why shouldn’t they be nice? They’re no different from anyone else.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s what I mean,’ said Tina.
‘We’re all equal,’ stated Lou. ‘Don’t forget there are black Bishops.’
‘Jesus, I never said we were the equal of a Bishop,’ Tina said, very bewildered.
‘Well, don’t call them darkies.’
Sometimes, on summer Sunday afternoons Raymond and Lou took their friends for a run in their car, ending up at a riverside roadhouse. The first time they turned up with Oxford and Henry they felt defiant; but there were no objections, there was no trouble at all. Soon the dark pair ceased to be a novelty. Oxford St John took up with a pretty red-haired bookkeeper, and Henry Pierce, missing his companion, spent more of his time at the Parkers’ flat. Lou and Raymond had planned to spend their two weeks’ summer holiday in London. ‘Poor Henry,’ said Lou. ‘He’ll miss us.
Once you brought him out he was nor so quiet as you thought at first. Henry was twenty-four, desirous of knowledge in all fields, shining very much in eyes, skin, teeth, which made him seem all the more eager. He called out the maternal in Lou, and to some extent the avuncular in Raymond. Lou used to love him when he read outlines from his favourite poems which he had copied into an exercise book.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity,
Sport that …
Lou would interrupt: ‘You should say jest, jollity — not yest, yollity.’
‘Jest,’ he said carefully. ‘And laughter holding both his sides,’ he continued. ‘Laughter — hear that, Lou? — laughter. That’s what the human race was made for. Those folks that go round gloomy, Lou, they …’
Lou loved this talk. Raymond puffed his pipe benignly. After Henry had gone Raymond would say what a pity it was such an intelligent young fellow had lapsed. For Henry had been brought up in a Roman Catholic mission. He had, however, abandoned religion. He was fond of saying, ‘The superstition of today is the science of yesterday.’
‘I can’t allow,’ Raymond would say, ‘that the Catholic Faith is superstition. I can’t allow that.’
‘He’ll return to the Church one day’ — this was Lou’s contribution, whether Henry was present or not. If she said it in front of Henry he would give her an angry look. These were the only occasions when Henry lost his cheerfulness and grew quiet again.
Raymond and Lou prayed for Henry, that he might regain his faith. Lou said her rosary three times a week before the Black Madonna.
‘He’ll miss us when we go on our holidays.’
Raymond telephoned to the hotel in London. ‘Have you a single room for a young gentleman accompanying Mr and Mrs Parker?’ He added, ‘A coloured gentleman.’ To his pleasure a room was available, and to his relief there was no objection to Henry’s colour.
They enjoyed their London holiday, but it was somewhat marred by a visit to that widowed sister of Lou’s to whom she allowed a pound a week towards the rearing of her eight children. Lou had not seen her sister Elizabeth for nine years.
They went to her one day towards the end of their holiday. Henry sat at the back of the car beside a large suitcase stuffed with old clothes for Elizabeth. Raymond at the wheel kept saying, ‘Poor Elizabeth — eight kids,’ which irritated Lou, though she kept her peace.
Outside the underground station at Victoria Park, where they stopped to ask the way, Lou felt a strange sense of panic. Elizabeth lived in a very downward quarter of Bethnal Green, and in the past nine years since she had seen her Lou’s memory of the shabby ground-floor rooms with their peeling walls and bare boards, had made a kinder nest for itself. Sending off the postal order to her sister each week she had gradually come to picture the habitation at Bethnal Green in an almost monastic light; it would be bare but well-scrubbed, spotless, and shining with Brasso and holy poverty. The floor-boards gleamed. Elizabeth was grey-haired, lined, but neat. The children were well behaved, sitting down betimes to their broth in two rows along an almost refectory table. It was not till they had reached Victoria Park that Lou felt the full force of the fact that everything would be different from what she had imagined. ‘
It may have gone down since I was last there,’ she said to Raymond who had never visited Elizabeth before.
‘What’s gone down?’
‘Poor Elizabeth’s place.’
Lou had not taken much notice of Elizabeth’s dull little monthly letters, almost illiterate, for Elizabeth, as she herself always said, was not much of a scholar.
James is at another job I hope that’s the finish of the bother I had my blood pressure there was a Health visitor very nice. Also the assistance they sent my Dinner all the time and for the kids at home they call it meals on Wheels. I pray to the Almighty that James is well out of his bother he never lets on at sixteen their all the same never open his mouth but Gods eyes are not shut. Thanks for P.O. you will be rewarded your affect sister Elizabeth.
Lou tried to piece together in her mind the gist of nine years’ such letters. James was the eldest; she supposed he had been in trouble.
‘I ought to have asked Elizabeth about young James,’ said Lou. ‘She wrote to me last year that he was in a bother, there was talk of him being sent away, but I didn’t take it in at the time, I was busy.’
‘You can’t take everything on your shoulders,’ said Raymond. ‘You do very well by Elizabeth.’ They had pulled up outside the house where Elizabeth lived on the ground floor. Lou looked at the chipped paint, the dirty windows and torn grey-white curtains and was reminded with startling clarity of her hopeless childhood in Liverpool from which, miraculously, hope had lifted her, and had come true, for the nuns had got her that job; and she had trained as a nurse among white-painted beds, and white shining walls, and tiles, hot water everywhere and Dettol without stint. When she had first married she had wanted all white-painted furniture that you could wash and liberate from germs; but Raymond had been for oak, he did not understand the pleasure of hygiene and new enamel paint, for his upbringing had been orderly, he had been accustomed to a lounge suite and autumn tints in the front room all his life. And now Lou stood and looked at the outside of Elizabeth’s place and felt she had gone right back.