Slinky Jane

by Catherine Cookson

  He stood braced with his back to the wind, sheltering her. The water was pouring down his neck as if from a spout but he was not conscious of it.

  ‘Leo!’ He shook her gently. ‘Say something, for God’s sake. Do you hear?’

  When she made no effort to answer he looked wildly about him. They were on the main road just clear of the fields, but so dense was the downpour of rain that he could barely make out the banks on either side. He held her to him, and at that moment a car, turning from the field path, moved slowly past them. It was, he saw, packed to capacity. Naturally it did not stop. After one more moment of hesitation he stooped and, picking her up bodily in his arms, stumbled along the road.

  The wind, really at gale force now, drove him into the ditch, and it took him all his time to save them both from falling headlong. Fortunately the ditch was shallow, and propping one leg on the bank he rested for a moment, holding her inert form tightly to him. He was frightened, filled with panic. He couldn’t ever remember feeling like this. He peered down into her face. But there was no movement from her, even her breast wasn’t rising as it had done, so hitching her up to him again he went on.

  He was now nearing the vicarage gates when another car coming from behind rounded slowly in front of him and turned into the drive. It, too, was packed, and through the opaque windscreen he could just make out Florrie at the wheel. He knew, too, that she had recognised him, but he had ceased to care what she or anyone else might think. He yelled out to her, but if she heard she took no notice, and the car within a moment was lost in the gloom.

  He had covered another few yards or so when Leo moved and spoke. Although her lips were against his ear he could not make out what she said, but the movement of her body indicated that she wished to be put down.

  Almost faint with the feeling of relief he gently eased her onto her feet, and his arms still about her he mouthed the words, ‘Are you all right?’

  There was no change for the better in her face, and she made no effort to speak but inclined her head once slowly, then dropped it against him.

  ‘Can you walk, or shall I—?’ He made a motion to carry her again, but she put out her hand to check him, and leaning heavily on him she moved forward.

  He wasn’t conscious that his own shirt was clinging to his back and his trousers sticking to his legs, but he was very much aware of her wet body beneath her soaked clothes, he could even feel the squelch of the water as he moved his hand at her waist. A terrible crash of thunder rending the heavens brought her round to him, and he stood pressing her face into his neck. They were within sight of the Hart now and after a moment he urged her gently on again, and at last brought her to the side porch. Once under its shelter, and prey now only to the slant of the driving rain, she stood leaning against the wall gasping for breath, but she made no immediate effort to go in through the side door and up the stairs. It seemed as if she were fighting, besides for breath, for composure before entering the inn.

  He took her hand and, holding it between his own pressed it gently to his chest. ‘Are you ill, Leo?’

  She made a small movement with her free hand, and he said, ‘Look, go straight up to bed.’ It took some effort for him to offer this advice which would send her to her room, for once she was there, how could he know just what was happening to her?

  She dragged her eyes up to his face, then murmured, ‘I’ll…have…a bath.’ There was a considerable pause before she added, ‘I’ll try…to come down…later.’

  He released her hand, and she touched his arm, saying, ‘Don’t worry…I’ll—I’ll be all right.’ He could say nothing, so full now was his heart of an odd fear, but he pushed open the door for her and helped her into the passage, then watched her go slowly up the stairs. And not until he heard her door close overhead did he turn away and make for home.

  Free now to run or gallop as he wished, he did not tear along the street towards the house but walked through the deluge at much the same rate as that which had brought him to the inn.

  At the house, Grandpop, opening the window just the slightest, yelled, ‘You aiming to become a duck?’ And when Peter passed him without as much as a look in his direction the old man blinked, banged the window and said over his shoulder, ‘I wouldn’t stand there with me mouth wide open, I’d get a tub of hot water ready. Strikes me he’s in for summat.’

  For once Rosie did not retort in her usual vein to the old man’s orders, but turned away and went into the living room. He was in for something all right! For the past few minutes she had been standing at the window behind Grandpop watching his coming. The twins’ account of the sports, and their Peter and the Miss, had worked her up to fever pitch. She’d had enough and was going to put a stop to this business or else she’d know the reason why.

  The light was on in the living room, and on one side of the flower-filled hearth sat Old Pop reading, and on the other side was Harry. He too was reading, but evidently just to while away the time until the storm should ease and he could go out, for he was fully dressed even to his cap which lay on his knee. As Rosie bustled through the room towards the kitchen, the two men lowered their papers and glanced in her direction, then looked at each other before resuming their reading again.

  Rosie reached the kitchen as Peter entered from the back door and she looked at him as he stood on the mat, while the water ran down him and made a pool at his feet. He returned her look and saw that she was in a fury of a temper such as, at times, he had seen his father arouse in her. And strangely enough it hardly disturbed him, for his mind was full to overflowing with a feeling of anxiety that was utterly new to him—something was the matter with Leo; what, he didn’t know. She was young and she didn’t run, and when he had forced her to, it looked for the time as if he had killed her. He was worried, puzzled—and frightened, and so his mother’s reactions at this moment touched him hardly at all. And she sensed this in his tone when he said, ‘Will you bring me some dry things down?’

  Rosie’s bust swelled and she answered meaningly, ‘Yes, I’ll bring you some dry things down.’

  As she stalked again through the living room, Harry lowered his paper and followed her to the foot of the stairs, and there, standing with his palm covering the knob of the banister, he said under his breath, ‘If you take my advice you’ll keep your tongue quiet.’

  ‘I don’t want your advice, thank you.’

  Harry punched at the paper as he watched her mount the stairs, then returned to his seat in the living room, and after giving his father one significant look he punched at the paper again. They both raised their eyes ceilingwards to where could be heard her voice going at the twins, ordering them to stay up in the attic and play. When, within a few minutes, she again passed through the living room they were both deeply engrossed in their reading.

  In the scullery Rosie placed the clothes slowly on a chair and said with deep emphasis, ‘Now!’ Then joining her hands tightly at her waist she waited.

  Peter, already stripped of his coat and shirt, was rubbing himself with a towel. He did not stop, and Rosie, keyed up to bursting point, cried, ‘It’s no use you stalling. I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘I thought you knew…everybody else does.’

  Did Rosie hear a chuckle from the living room? Her eyes flashed in that direction for a second, and she said as if she were still speaking to her lad and chastising him for backchat, ‘Now, I’ll not have any of that.’

  ‘Look here, Mam, leave me alone.’

  The words crisp and cutting, so unlike Peter’s and so like her husband’s, left Rosie with her mouth wide, and when she saw him grab up his dry clothes and go swiftly past her she could say nothing; she just gaped at him, seeing, she felt, the death of the only joy in her life.

  Slowly she walked to the window and stood staring out at the driving rain. And ten minutes later she was still standing there when Peter, in mac and cap, came through the kitchen and went out without a word to her. The lump that came into her throat threatene
d to choke her, and when Harry, following almost on Peter’s heels, stood behind her and said quietly, ‘I told you, you’ll never learn’, she rounded on him, her expression teeming with words. But all she could bring out was, ‘Damn you, Harry Puddleton!’ Then diving past him she ran through the living room and up the stairs, leaving Harry standing, turning his cap in his hands, his face showing a concern that would have surprised her had she seen it. He wanted to go and tell her to have patience, that this business was only a bit of fun, an affair if you like, but one that would fizzle out. These things always did. No man took a girl like the Hart miss seriously. She and her like were to Harry’s mind the type that gave a man that…that lift that was so necessary to his self-esteem, but as for getting serious about them, no fellow would—well, certainly not country-reared blokes who had inbred in them a sense of the fitness of things, and by that he meant the choosing of a mate for life. If he had dared he would have said to Rosie, ‘She’s the type I meself liked to have a lark with. But lark was the limit. And it’s the same with the lad.’ But he knew it would be no use. Rosie saw indecency in a laugh if there was another woman present. And if she went on in this way at the lad she would, as she had done with himself, make him give her something to worry over.

  Harry looked down at the cap; he turned it over and examined it without seeing it. He was himself worried, but he would not admit that there was really anything to worry over. He told himself he was as bad as her, yet he was not at all happy in his mind about the business and the way it was going. Slowly putting his cap onto his head, he pulled the peak well down and went out.

  Chapter Seven

  Peter did not go straight into the Hart but stood looking at one of the two cars parked in front of the inn, and as he stared at it more confusion was added to his already overburdened feelings. He had seen the car before…twice. It was—the car. That meant…What it meant he did not explain to himself but entered the bar, his eyes flicking about him, and almost immediately they found what they sought. The man was standing at the bar counter with his back to it and holding a glass of spirits in his hand, and although everyone in the packed room seemed to be immersed in conversation he was neither talking nor listening to anyone in particular but rather was he taking in all that was going on around him. And he took in Peter immediately and whereas he had appeared somewhat bored, his manner now showed a spurt of interest, for as Peter made his way to the counter he purposely pushed to one side to make room for him, and over a number of heads he nodded and called, ‘Hello, there.’

  When Peter, not taking advantage of the offer of space, merely nodded in answer to this greeting, the man jerked his head and said, ‘Here a minute, will you?’

  Skirting a little group, Peter joined him at the corner and looking levelly at him asked pointedly, ‘What is it?’

  ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Nothing thanks, I’m joining…’ His vague indication could have been meant for anyone in the room behind them.

  ‘Well have one with me first.’ The man threw off his whisky and, calling to Mrs Booth who was serving along the counter, said, ‘A whisky and…’ He glanced at Peter, and reluctantly Peter added, ‘A beer—small.’

  ‘A small beer. There now.’ The man leant his elbows on the counter and nodding backwards towards the window said, ‘Hell of a storm, this.’

  ‘Yes, pretty bad.’

  As Mrs Booth placed the drinks before them she looked at Peter with a look that was more in the nature of a glare, and it did not go unnoticed by the man, who dropped his gaze to his drink, which he picked up. Then turning his back on the counter, he muttered, ‘That’s what’s commonly known as a cow, and udder no circumstances to be trusted.’ He gave a silly sounding giggle at his own joke.

  Peter made no comment. But when the man went on, ‘The Sunday rags aren’t in it—thinks she knows the lot,’ he knew that Mrs Booth had been talking, and about him and Leo. And this was immediately verified when the man in a soft, insinuating tone, added, ‘You both got wet?’

  Peter, in the act of taking a drink, stopped. ‘Anything wrong in that?’ It was a challenge.

  But the man did not take it up; his voice was even conciliatory, as he said, ‘No…no, but not very wise of her. But then’—he sipped at his whisky—‘Anna was never very wise. She might give you that impression—oh, yes, she would—but she never was, and never will be.’ He shook his head sadly.

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Me? Nothing.’ He half turned away and looked about him as far as he could see; then almost eagerly he exclaimed, ‘Look there’s two seats in the window. Those people are just off. Must want to get home badly to go out in this, but that’s their lookout. Come and sit down.’ And not waiting for any answer, for or against, he pushed through the throng and Peter, determined now that he had got this far to know all there was to know, followed him.

  When they were seated on the broad sill the man said, ‘There now, what were you saying, son?’

  ‘I wasn’t saying anything, you were doing the talking. And I’m not your son.’ The last sounded petty and childish but he could not restrain himself from, as he put it, getting at this fellow.

  The man, after looking steadily at him, gave a short laugh and said, ‘Only a saying, no harm meant, and as you said I was doing the talking…you were quite right. Well now’—he leant forward until his face was near to Peter’s—‘you won’t believe it but I’m going to try to do you a good turn. Oh, I knew you wouldn’t believe it, nobody would—I wouldn’t meself in your place—but nevertheless I am, and it’s this advice I’m going to give you.’ His voice dropped. ‘Keep away from Anna.’

  Although Leo had already said that this man was not her husband Peter found he was doubting the truth of it now, so much so that had the man claimed to be her husband he would unreservedly have believed him. As if sieved through his teeth, he brought out the questions, ‘Why should I? What’s it got to do with you? Who are you anyway—her husband?’

  The man’s eyebrows seemed to move up into a point before he said, ‘No, I’m not her husband…well’—he wiped his trim, short moustache with the tips of his fingers and his eyes slid sideways to Peter—‘not in name. Now, now! Look here.’ His manner underwent a lightning change and he put out a restraining hand and said under his breath, ‘Don’t get on your high horse, lad, for let me warn you I can shoot as straight a left as anyone for my age. Don’t let this deceive you.’ He patted his flabby paunch. ‘What I’m saying to you is for your own good. You asked a question and I gave you a straight answer. I was her husband of sorts, but that’s over. Even so, she’s not for you, and if you’ll take my advice you’ll cut loose and save yourself some heartache.’

  ‘And leave the field to you?’

  The man drew in his breath. ‘I don’t want the field, as you call it, but I happen to know it better than you. Anyway’—he threw off his whisky with a touch of impatience—‘why the hell am I bothering! I’m just wasting my breath and—’ His words were cut short by the screeching of brakes as a car was brought to a standstill almost in the porch itself, and swiftly turning his attention to the rain-smeared window, he cleared his vision somewhat by rubbing vigorously at the misted pane, then exclaimed, with definite anger now, ‘Blasted fools! Ripping her guts out.’ He kept his eyes on the blurred outline of the car as it backed from the porch and disappeared into the yard. He seemed to have forgotten Peter and the very personal topic in hand, for he turned his eyes towards the door and waited, the look on his face much darker now. And when four internally soaked young men came into view, debating loudly in the passageway whether to go into the bar or the saloon, he muttered, ‘Bloody young fools!’

  ‘In here, fellows.’

  ‘No, in here.’

  ‘No, come on in the bar—beer, skittles, girls and victuals.’

  So hilarious was their laughter, so loud their shouting that in one after the other of the groups around the bar the talking died down and smiling and
interested faces were turned towards the young men.

  The newcomers seemed to be between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, and all except one were far advanced in their cups. This one happened to be the smallest among them, and although he was apparently in the merry stage he was still in command of himself, and also, it seemed, of his companions, for he hustled them now bodily into the bar and to the counter, but not regardless of the human obstacles in the way, for the people who moved aside he thanked with courteous and even elaborate thanks.

  Peter’s angry mind was momentarily drawn from the man at his side to the tallest member of the party, who stood well over six feet. He was blond and big-boned and could, when sober, have represented a travel advertisement for Sweden, and it soon became evident, not only to Peter but to the entire room, that this young man’s name was Tiffy.

  ‘Come on, Tiffy, sing,’ the other two urged, while their apparent leader between giving the orders for drinks, added his plea, ‘Yes, Tiffy, you show ’em. You show ’em.’

  Tiffy, his body swaying and his face one great beam, appealed to the entire company, ‘You want a song?’ And when there were a few restrained murmurs and nods from one or two quarters, Tiffy received these as wild acclaim and cried, ‘All right! All right! What d’you want, eh? Come on tell us. Rock an’ roll to Rigoletto—come on, what’s it to be?’

  But there seemed a reluctance on the part of the company to put forward their requests, and one of the men, addressed as Max, turned to the bar, saying, ‘Aw, let’s drink. They wouldn’t recognise good music if you injected it inta them—let’s drink.’

  Whereupon, with much laughter and embracing of shoulders, they turned to the bar and drank. And over on the window seat the man, too, drank, throwing off his drink as if in disgust. It was evident that he had no use at all for the types at the bar, and he said so, taking Peter into his confidence as if they were buddies: ‘That kind makes me sick. Ah, don’t I know them. Meet ’em every day in life, without a penny to rub against the other. Get to colleges on grants. My money, and your money. Then look down their bloody noses.’ He snorted. ‘Ah well, the quicker they get out of here the better I’ll like it.’ He turned his attention fully to Peter again, and, pulling his neck out of his collar and squaring his shoulders as if to regain his poise, he said, ‘Well, where were we, son? Oh, sorry, I’d better say lad, eh?’