Slinky Jane

by Catherine Cookson

  Looking at her he knew he should be thinking, ‘She is hard-boiled. This isn’t the first time by a long chalk that she has done this’; but the face before him set up a defence for itself. In spite of the look of age or knowledge that the eyes possessed, the face below his was young—there were no lines of calculation, the mouth was generous, and it spoke silently to him now telling him to delude himself no further for whatever his opinion of her might be his answer to her was inevitable.

  His lips fell to hers, hard, tight, demanding, and hers yielded hungrily. Their bodies pressed fast, they swayed together oblivious of time, and when at last they drew apart their eyes held the bond they had sealed.

  His arm about her, they moved to the bank, and when they sat down it was in a single movement so close were they.

  For a long while they said nothing but sat, their cheeks together, staring across the water; then of one accord they turned their heads and gazed at each other. At first their faces showed only the light of their happiness, until Leo, dropping her cheek against his again, began to chuckle. It was soft at first and Peter’s smile widened with it, then with a sudden burst she laughed outright, as she had done the first evening, and between gasps she cried, ‘Oh, Peter! Peter—’ She pressed against him, and his arms held her tightly and he did not try to check her mirth as he had done on Monday night, but he joined his laughter to hers, and it spread through the wood until its echo reached a pop-eyed Miss Collins in the vicarage garden; and Mavis, too, as she patrolled the main road. But Florrie, where she stood within listening distance a short way along the bank, it hit with its full impact and caused her to bite her lip until the blood came. And when the laughter died away each had her own mental picture of what was happening now and was urged to put a stop to it.

  Chapter Five

  While subjects varying from politics to the Church can raise hot blood in a town, the village verdict as a whole, excluding the Women’s Institute, would be ‘Let they get on with it,’ but the contrary happens when the fundamental urge of life is touched upon. Whereas sex can be indulged in without undue comment in a town, in the village it stirs up a strange and strong reaction…let it be admitted, mostly in the women. But even in them, passions come under a certain control if the offender be one of themselves, but should she not be of the village or thereabouts their feelings are liable to rise and flood over. Virtue is outraged where virtue never was, enemies are for a time linked together, and life before the particular event appears to have been good, almost holy. And this feeling touches the mildest of women.

  To the extent it had touched Rosie can be guessed at, for she was no mild woman, and it had brought her on this Saturday morning to a stand behind the curtains in her bedroom, waiting to see ‘her’ come out of the Hart, and where she would make for when she did come out. But after half an hour, owing to the pressure of her house duties, Rosie was forced to give up her watch, but going downstairs and into her front room she approached Grandpop aggressively and without any prelude whatever ordered, ‘Keep your eye on the Hart and if you see that—that Miss Carter come out, let me know.’

  ‘What for?’ Grandpop turned sharply and in doing so set the screws in his legs working, which caused him to explode with a ‘Damn and blast them!’ And then he added in much the same tone, ‘What you want to know for?’

  ‘Never you mind, just you call.’

  Rosie, stalking into the kitchen, decided flatly that if ‘she’ was going to the garage she wouldn’t get there alone. She wasn’t going to stand by and see her lad made a fool of; she knew that type, unsettle him for life that one would. There had certainly been something in the wood business. Eel! Really! What did he take her for? He must think she was simple. Which just showed how simple he was and how easily he could be caught.

  Grandpop watched Rosie out of the room, and then he thrust his head out of the window and called, ‘Joe!…Here! D’you hear? Joe!’

  But not until Grandpop’s third bellow had filled the square did Joe appear, and Grandpop, almost foaming at the mouth, bawled, ‘You stone deaf?’

  ‘No,’ said Old Pop testily. ‘Who could be with you around? Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘Aye, if I’d eyes that went round corners I might. Here!’ He beckoned his son nearer to him, and when Old Pop stepped over the flower bed and brought his head close to his father’s, Grandpop, his voice now as near as he could get it to a whisper, said, ‘Feel owt?’

  Old Pop’s eyes narrowed and his face screwed up into folds.

  ‘Feel owt?’ he repeated. ‘What do you mean? About it being sports day?’

  ‘Sports day! Don’t be so pluddy gormless,’ admonished his father. ‘You know as well as me, summat’s up.’

  ‘You mean with the lad?’

  ‘Aye, and with ’ole village. Look at yesterday, Miss Florrie going past and never a “Hallo there”—made on horse was mettlesome, didn’t turn her eye, she didn’t. First time in her life. Then old Ma Andrews comin’ sittin’ outside the shop.’ Grandpop nodded in the direction of the post office. ‘Never done that for years, she hasn’t six or more. Then Pluddy Bridget goes in twice in afternoon again. And who else waddles in but Katie Booth? What Harry ever saw in that old sow. Flabby, fat—’

  ‘Shut up man!’ said Old Pop sharply.

  ‘She’s in kitchen’—Grandpop jerked his head backwards—‘she’d have to hoick her ears out to hear me.’

  ‘She could be as far gone as Hexham but she’d hear summat like that, so let it drop.’

  Reluctantly Grandpop let it drop and reverted to the condition of his feelings. ‘I tell ee summat’s up…feel it…all this week I feel it.’

  ‘It’s yer screws.’

  ‘Screws be damned!’ Grandpop reared and made an effort to straighten out his rheumaticky joints. ‘And don’t start talkin’ pappy. Ain’t no screws inside here,’ he tapped the top of his cap, ‘nor here,’ he nudged the centre of his waistcoat. ‘Couldn’t sleep last night, thinkin’. Mind went right back years. Funny it was, as if it was yesterda’.’

  ‘’Twill do at your time,’ said Old Pop, aiming to soothe, ‘it’s what to expect.’

  For a moment it looked as if Grandpop was going to lift his arm and land a backhander on his son, but he changed his mind and bawled at him instead, ‘I ain’t dead yet.’

  ‘Who’s a-sayin’ you are?’

  ‘Then don’t talk as if I’d been screwed down. Pay some in this village if they’d a head clear as mine.’

  ‘Yes, ’twould that.’ Old Pop agreed readily now for he could see that his father was on his high horse. And there was no doubt that he was right about summat funny being up in the village, and he knew who was the cause of it. Yet she was a civil-spoken Miss, as pleasant as you could hope to find in a day’s march—she made you feel young, she did. There was no denying that she had that queer something that made an old ’un feel young and a young ’un feel old—old enough to matter at any rate. And that’s how the lad now felt.

  Old Pop suddenly rubbed his hand over his eyes as if trying to shut out all he knew. Who would have thought it? The apple of Rosie’s eye—him that was so far removed from the rest of her menfolk. It would serve her right in a way and level things out a bit if she was to know that her lamb was the fastest worker of them all and he’d like to bet that included the old ’un himself.

  ‘Get your head out of the way.’ Grandpop suddenly pushed at Joe to get a view of the Hart, then exclaimed in excited tones, ‘’Tis the Miss comin’ out and makin’ for this way. That’s another thing, she’—he jerked his head towards the kitchen again—‘she’s been on the lookout for her. Spent God knows how long upstairs she did at window, heard her creakin’ on boards. Then down she come. “Tell me when Miss comes out Hart,” she says. She didn’t say, “Tell me if she makes for garage,” but that’s what she meant all right.’

  Old Pop looked narrowly at his father. ‘You gonna tell her?’

  ‘Not damn likely—what d’you take me for? What�
��ll she do if I tell her, eh? Skip down garage and say to Miss to leave him alone, as if he was Wee Willie Winkie. No; lad’s to have his fling…’ole time he started. She’s had him lashed to her back for years. If he don’t make a move he’ll end up with that sick cow’—his head moved violently now in the direction of the Mackenzies’ house—‘and what she’d give him wouldn’t tint the white innards of a black beetle.’

  With a chortle of laughter in his throat Old Pop was about to make for the gate to watch the approach of Leo when Grandpop said angrily, ‘You make off round back; you ain’t got the sense you were born with. What if she stops for a word? Rosie’d be on her like a wasp on jam.’

  Ignoring the insult to his intelligence, Old Pop turned away muttering, ‘Aye, aye. Perhaps you’re right,’ and with some reluctance went round the back, leaving Grandpop apparently immersed in the scraping and filling of his pipe. His good eye appeared to be in attendance on this occupation while the one with the cast seemed to be roving at will. Whether this was an illusion or not, Grandpop was able to discern the Miss as she looked towards him and at almost the same time he followed the approach towards the post office of both Miss Collins and Mrs Booth, walking side by side. And the excited rumble in his stomach, translated, would have said, ‘Never happened afore in my time, Church and pub together; summat’s up somehow or I’m a Dutchman.’

  It is true that Mrs Booth and Miss Collins had come through the village together, but that was five minutes ago. Now within the cramped space of the post office they were standing as wide apart as they could possibly get, and Miss Collins was endeavouring to widen the distance even farther. But only at the risk of stepping into a box of oranges could she do this, and so she turned her outraged expression down onto the fruit, then back to Mrs Booth, and that lady, her fat moving gently with satisfaction, said, ‘Well, I was only pointing out that she doesn’t even leave a minister of God alone, I wasn’t suggesting anything. But Mrs Armstrong here can tell you it’s all over the place. Isn’t it, Mrs Armstrong?’ She appealed to the red face of the postmistress. ‘Aren’t they saying that the Reverend forgot to call on old Taplow all through him talking to her? Walked right past the door he did, so they’re saying. And as I was saying, I wasn’t looking for it nor yet thinking about her—I’ve better things to do with me time—but I just slipped down the bottom of the garden for a bit parsley and there I saw them. There’s no mistaking the minister, is there, Miss Collins?’ Mrs Booth smiled a little smile before torturing the minister’s sister still further. ‘There he was, like any gallant, and as perky as you like, helping her over the stile, bottom of Reed’s cottage, and held her arm right to the wood he did. As jaunty as a cricket he looked. But that’s over an hour gone, and now she’s just gone up to Peter Puddleton. Allots her time seemingly. You should hear what they say in the bar.’

  Mrs Booth stopped for want of breath, but Miss Collins did not nip in as might have been expected and deny the implications being levelled against her brother, and a very uneasy silence fell on the shop. When it could be borne no longer, Mrs Armstrong busily rearranged some of her merchandise on the counter, and remarked in a sad voice, ‘It’s getting awful, it really is…even Tony Boyle. All the years I’ve been in the village I’ve never known anything like it.’

  The eyes of the two women turned now on Mrs Armstrong, those of Miss Collins somewhat reluctantly, as she appeared to have to drag her attention away from the turmoil of her mind.

  ‘Tony Boyle?’ said Mrs Booth, her face screwed up.

  ‘Yes, Tony Boyle. It’s right. Stan Dolton saw her yesterday, nearly at the crossroads they were, walking hand in hand.’

  The faces of the women now all showed a tinge of horror and disgust.

  ‘With Tony Boyle?’ repeated Mrs Booth again.

  ‘With Tony Boyle,’ said Mrs Armstrong in sad, awe-laden tones. After nodding significantly she continued, ‘And Stan stopped the car and spoke to them, for, as he said, he thought he’d better. He said perhaps she didn’t know about Tony. He even offered them a lift, but she said no, they were looking for the twins. The twins that far, huh! And he said Tony was laughing his head off. I told Mrs Boyle when she was in not long since. I told her “If you don’t want no trouble you look out.” Say he turns on her, she’ll have you up, her kind would.’

  ‘You did quite right. What did she say?’ asked Mrs Booth.

  ‘She said she’d give him his hammers, and she will an’ all, she’ll lather him.’

  At this point the glass door leading to the living room opened and old Mrs Andrews, with the aid of two sticks, made her appearance. But her daughter did not look overjoyed at this interruption and she called loudly to her mother, ‘Now, Ma, what you about?’

  Ma, hobbling round the counter, grunted, ‘Gonna sit out front.’

  When the old woman came to Mrs Booth’s side she tried to straighten her back and look up into her face, but this being too great an effort her words were directed floorwards as she said, ‘Nice folks you’re housin’.’

  Apparently Mrs Booth had not to ponder to find out what the old lady meant, for she answered immediately, ‘We’ve no choice, we’re an inn.’

  The old woman gave a long significant sniff, then asked, ‘Where’s she this mornin’?’

  Mrs Booth now bent down to her and jovially shouted, ‘Gone up to garage. What do you make of her, Gran?’

  ‘Whore.’

  Mrs Booth’s body jerked up and her head went back and her laugh rang out, but Miss Collins did not laugh, for the word, besides shocking her, conveyed to her the complete seduction of her brother, and she looked for the moment as if she would collapse.

  The old woman, conscious of all eyes on her, now said with authority, ‘Wondered who she minded me of, an’ it just come up in me mind not five minutes gone.’ She turned her eyes towards her daughter. ‘Connie, her that caused riot. More your time it was…same type as this ’un. They ducked her they did. Had no more bother with her after that. Saw it meself, I did.’ She chuckled.

  ‘Who ducked who?’

  They all turned towards the open doorway and there stood Florrie, sombre and haughty-looking this morning, with the steely light of battle in her eyes.

  ‘Oh! Good morning, miss,’ said Mrs Armstrong, with just a touch of obsequiousness.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Armstrong.’

  ‘Good morning.’ The greeting moved around the shop as Florrie came in, and Mrs Booth, with a wiggle of her body preluding the slightest narrowing of her eyes, said, ‘We was just talking of a certain lady, and Gran here says she reminds her of somebody that was like her…Connie Fitzpatrick. Perhaps you’ve never heard of her though?’ The suggestion was malicious, to say the least, for it had been Florrie’s great-grandfather who had built the cottage for the same Connie.

  ‘Why should you imagine I haven’t heard of her?’ Florrie did not like Mrs Booth. She looked down on her for various reasons and her feeling came over in her tone.

  As usual, it was not lost on Mrs Booth, and her quick reply held her retaliation, ‘Oh, well, if you’ve heard of her that’s all right then, you’ve nothing to learn. Only Gran here says my visitor’s another like her and ’twould seem she’s right, with Peter Puddleton at the head of her calling list.’

  Florrie stared at the big woman for a moment and her slim body seemed visibly to lengthen, then with a small drawing together of her brows she went towards the grille that denoted the post office section, and with her head slightly turned she threw a question over her shoulder: ‘Do you know where your husband is this morning, Mrs Booth?’

  In spite of the polite way in which the question was asked Mrs Booth was not unaware that this was an attack, and she thrust out her bust and advanced a step towards Florrie’s back, snapping, ‘In bar, getting ready for opening. That’s where my husband is, miss!’

  ‘There you are mistaken, Mrs Booth.’ Florrie’s eyes flicked round and met those of Mrs Booth before turning to the grid again.

  ‘
What you meaning, miss?’

  ‘Do you know where Miss Carter is?’

  ‘She’s up in garage with Peter Puddleton by now. I told you.’

  ‘She’s not, you know, Mrs Booth.’ There was a vicious snap in Florrie’s words. ‘She didn’t go to the garage, she turned up Wilkins’ cut, and there I saw her meet and speak to your husband. It seemed as if he were waiting for her. And you know where Wilkins’ cut leads to; it leads to the wood, Mrs Booth.’

  It looked as if Mrs Booth might explode, but for once she could find nothing to say, mischievous or otherwise, and old Mrs Andrews who could not have heard all that was being said but who judged the substance, from the expressions of those about her, gave Mrs Booth one long look before moving towards the shop door, and there she cast her eyes towards the clear, hot sky and stated, ‘Rain—smell it. Always rains sports day, an’ it’ll rain the day. And more besides water it strikes me. Aye, it will that.’

  Back in the shop, Mrs Armstrong, with feverish haste, was trying to attend to her customers all at once. She had an urge to be rid of them, for, as she told herself, she liked a bit of gossip as well as the next but Katie Booth was looking as if she might get rough with Miss Florrie at any minute, and she didn’t want that, not in her shop she didn’t. Let her do what she liked outside, and good luck to her. ’Twas as her mother said, it would rain more besides water afore the day was out.

  Chapter Six

  Peter tried desperately to hold on to his temper as he looked from the older to the younger Mackenzie. Taking yet another deep breath he said for the countless time during the last half-hour, ‘I’m not selling.’ Then in staccato tones he added, ‘I’ve told you I’m not selling; nor am I letting out any shares, do you hear?’ He thrust out his chin. ‘I’m not selling, and I don’t want to hear any more of it. And you needn’t worry about the agent if that’s any solace to you. I’m not selling to him, an’ I’m not selling to you. I’m not selling at all, I’ve told you. Why should I? Would you? I’m not a damn fool altogether, you know.’