When her mother said to her father, ‘I told Emily,’ Susan rose to her feet; she just couldn’t sit and listen to another debate on Emily.
‘Do you think that was wise?’ Jonathan Ratcliffe looked at his wife under gathered brows.
‘Yes, I do. You see, she took the call from Mavis Herring, and as usual she had her ears cocked, and when Mavis said point blank that her Rona had stated that Angus Cotton was one of the men, well, I inadvertently repeated the name Angus Cotton. I said, just like that, Angus Cotton? Are you sure? And there was Emily standing at the kitchen door all eyes and ears, so I just had to tell her. But, as I said, I think it was best; she has heard our side of it now, and when she gets home and hears Angus ranting off because he was hauled over the coals she’ll understand why. Oh!’ She pursed her lips and her left eye twitched in a nervous fashion. ‘It’s all so annoying. Why do we have to be bothered with such things at a time like this when I’ve so much on my mind and Brian’s people coming at the weekend? By the way, you didn’t really go for Angus, did you?’
Jonathan Ratcliffe now bent his head forward and hunched his shoulders up, and the action told her that he was deeply irritated, and this came over clearly in his voice as he snapped, ‘Yes, I went for him. But not as much as I would have liked to. It maddens me to think that I have to put up with that ignorant upstart’s attitude simply because we cannot do without his mother…Look, Jane.’ He now stabbed his finger towards her. ‘I’m sure if you put yourself out and went around the agencies you’d come across someone.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Jonathan.’ Jane Ratcliffe drew herself up to the limit of her five feet four inches. ‘You know for a fact that I need another two in the house and can’t get them.’
‘Well, you should do what Irene is doing.’ He jerked his head backwards in the direction of the Brett house. ‘Take an au pair girl.’
Jane Ratcliffe turned her head towards the French windows and focused her eyes on a white-painted, wrought-iron chair standing on the terrace, and she surveyed it for almost a minute before she said, ‘We’ve had all that out before. I’m not having any more foreigners in the house; I’m not going through that again and I think it very tactless of you, to say the least, to re-open the subject.’
Oh my God! Jonathan Ratcliffe almost said the words aloud but his Chapel training prevented it. He could blaspheme and swear in his mind, but not even his wife’s finickiness, nor her narrow outlook with regard to pretty Swedish girls would permit him to take the Lord’s name openly in vain. He turned and left her without further words, and as he reached the top of the broad shallow stairs he saw his younger daughter coming out of her bedroom. She turned her head in his direction for a moment, then turned it away again. There was something defiant in the action; there was something defiant in the way she walked to the bathroom; her whole body was expressing defiance. He wasn’t startled when the desire came to him that he wished it were possible to take a horsewhip to her. Fifty years ago he could have done it. He remembered his mother saying that her father had horsewhipped her because she had committed the deadly sin of entering a theatre. It didn’t matter if the play was Uncle Tom’s Cabin, she had disobeyed his wishes, and she carried one of the marks of his anger visible on her neck for the rest of her life. He had never felt sorry that his mother should be so treated; he had been in entire agreement with his grandfather’s attitude. A man had to stand by his principles, he had to be master in his own house. It might be considered an old-fashioned adage, but he thanked God that it still held true in some families.
As the bathroom door closed and he opened his bedroom door he thought, ‘Yes, one of these days I will chastise you, madam.’ But as he took off his coat he remembered her saying she was sixteen and a half years old. Soon she’d be beyond the age of open chastisement. Well, he would see, he would see.
24 RYDER’S ROW
Looking down on Ryder’s Row from the embankment you could well imagine you were viewing the efforts of a model railway enthusiast who had stuck a short row of houses next to the goods yard at the foot of the embankment to give a natural touch to his layout.
The cottages were surrounded on three sides by the accoutrements of the railway company, the embankment, the goods yard, and the cleaning sheds; the end of the row fronted the main road that ran between Fellburn and Newcastle.
Over the years the occupants of the Row had become immune to the clanking and clashing of wagons, to the hissing of steam, and now the thunder of diesel engines. Some of them had been born amid the noise, and Emily Cotton was one of these.
The Cottons had always considered themselves fortunate that they lived in the last house because their backyard was twice the size of any other in the Row, and they had only one wall through which could permeate their neighbours’ conversation and their own loud interchange.
Saturday morning was usually the time when their interchange was at its loudest and most penetrating, for on a Saturday morning neither Angus Cotton nor his sister, Rose, nor Emily was at work. But on this particular Saturday morning the intermittent exchange between Angus and Rosie had been comparatively quiet. Although neither of them would admit it openly, they thought the house dead when their mother wasn’t in it. Without her, there was no incentive to have a bust-up, or a cracking laugh. They sometimes said, ‘Coo! In’t it peaceful without her,’ then they would look at the clock and wish the hours away until she burst in on them.
‘She’s late, isn’t she?’ Angus put his head into the narrow scullery and looked at Rosie where she was emptying two tins of soup at once into a pan.
‘I bet she’s gone to the jumble on the way back; trust her not to miss that.’
‘Workin’ Saturday mornin’! They’ll have her there on Sunday after this. Why the hell doesn’t she give it up? There’s no need for her to stay on there; she’s done enough, she’s past it.’
‘Don’t you tell her that.’ Rosie jerked her black hair out of her eyes. ‘She’d scalp you.’
‘Well, let’s face it. She can’t do it all. Just look at this place. It’s like a pigsty; she’s had enough by the time she gets in, and she doesn’t need the money now. I’m goin’ to have it out with her.’
‘Don’t be so bloomin’ daft, our Angus, and use your loaf. You know old Ratcliffe would wangle you out of the shop if mam left there…You know it.’
‘I bloody well know nowt of the sort.’ Angus thrust his square chin aggressively towards her. ‘That’s what I’m wantin’ to put to the test. What do you think I feel like, being carried on her shoulders…at least that’s what they think. But let me tell you, I got into that shop through my ability. Mark you that, through my ability.’
‘All right; don’t bawl your head off, I can hear you.’ The clank, clank, clank of shunting wagons filled the silence between them, until Rosie said, ‘Here she is.’
As the back gate opened there came the sound of a train whistle and it seemed to pipe Emily Cotton into the house. She came in backwards, thrusting her thick, firm buttocks against the door and from her arms she dropped on to the table an assortment of garments, exclaiming, ‘There! What do you think of that lot?’
‘Oh, Mam! Look at the bread.’ Rosie retrieved the loaf from underneath the clothes, then swiftly began picking up one article after another. Holding a jumper up in front of her, she said, ‘Oh, this is all right. What did you give for it?’
‘Threepence. Here, I got you a couple of shirts; they’ll do for work for you.’ Emily threw two garments towards her son and he caught them, and without looking at them he threw them onto a chair, saying, ‘I’ve told you, Mam. I don’t like wearin’ other blokes’ gear.’
‘You were bloody glad to wear other blokes’ gear, let me tell you, once on a time.’
‘Well, I’m not any more, Mam; so don’t get them for me.’
‘God!’ Emily Cotton lowered herself into a straight-backed chair and lifting one foot slowly up onto her knee she stroked her swollen ankle vigor
ously, and it was to it she addressed her remarks as she said, ‘Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire, I’ve spent most of my bloody life with upstarts. That lot along there; their noses in the bloody air so much they have to have their necks massaged. And now I come to me own house and me son tells me that he’s got too damned big to wear another bloke’s shirts. Let me tell you,’ she lifted her head to him, ‘you’ll never be able to buy shirts of that quality in your lifetime. Let me tell you that.’
Angus stared at his mother for a moment. Then, the corner of his mouth moving upwards, he went towards her and, leaning forward, put his big hands on her shoulders and brought his face down within an inch of hers and said, ‘Emily Cotton, that’s where you’re wrong. One of these days I’m goin’ out and I’m goin’ to buy six of the best bloodiest silk shirts in all this bloody town, and I’m goin’ to wear them for work just to let them see.’
As Rosie’s laugh burst forth Emily put her hands up and grabbed handfuls of her son’s hair and, shaking his head none too gently, she grinned widely back into his face, saying, ‘Aye. An’ you will an’ all.’ Then giving him a push, she ended, ‘But in the meantime, you’ll bloody well wear these shirts for work else I’ll know the reason why.’
The three of them were laughing unrestrainedly now, Angus with his hand covering his face, Rosie leaning over the table, her forearms buried in the pile of old clothes, while Emily, her head back, her mouth open, thumped her broad knees with her clenched fists; then, wiping the back of her hand across her nose and mouth, she exclaimed, ‘Well, this won’t do. We don’t get paid for laughin’. Get that clobber off the table and let’s get somethin’ to eat. What you got ready?’
Rosie lifted up the assortment of clothes and threw them into an old armchair, saying, ‘Soup, and fish and chips. They’ll be soggy by now; I got them nearly an hour ago. An’ some Ambrosia rice. By the way, what did you pay for that lot?’
‘Four and six.’
‘Go on! There’s three dresses and two skirts there.’
‘I paid four and six, I tell you, I didn’t pinch them.’
‘That’s because you didn’t get a chance. Who was on the counter?’ Angus cast his eyes sideways at his mother, and she said, ‘Old fat arse Flanagan. Nobody’s going to pinch much when she’s around; although I saw Alice Brownlow stuff somethin’ in her bag. Eeh, she’s barefaced, that one! Did you hear that Millie Taylor was caught again yesterday in the supermarket? She’ll go along the line as sure as life this time. This must be her tenth nap. Well, it serves her right; you can be too greedy.’
‘Oh, aye. Well, you remember that, Mrs Cotton, when your fingers start to itch…now remember.’ As Angus turned to go out of the kitchen Emily threw an old woollen tea cosy at his head, saying, ‘Snotty young bugger!’
A few minutes later, when they sat down to their meal at the small square table in the middle of the kitchen, Rosie remarked, on a laugh, ‘You know, Mam, I’ve often wondered how you manage not to come out with something up there.’
‘Oh, you have, have you? Well, I’ll tell you, Rosie.’ Emily’s voice took on a pseudo-refined note. ‘It’s because I know how to pass meself. I always suit me language to the company I’m in—when in Rome they say—an’ I’m tellin’ you there’s nobody can act more refined than meself when I like.’
As Angus drew his hand slowly down his face her voice suddenly changed and she bellowed at him, ‘You take the bloody mickey, me lad, and I’ll skite you out of that door.’
‘Who’s taking the mickey?’ His brown eyes were dancing as he looked at her. ‘Of course you can pass yourself. You wouldn’t have survived so long up there if you hadn’t been able to. But, you know, there’s somethin’ I’ve often wondered an’ all, Mam; I’ve wondered what effect a real good mouthful of yours would have on them.’
Once more they were laughing, spluttering over their soup. When the laughter subsided Angus asked, ‘Did you hear anything more about yesterday’s business?’
‘Not much,’ said Emily. ‘Only she informed me that the master was very vexed at the whole affair.’ She inclined her head deeply towards Angus, and he inclined his back and said, ‘Oh, aye.’
‘She was at her most buttery this mornin’. She impressed on me that the master didn’t hold you responsible; it was them awful common fellows that you work with.’
‘What did you say to that?’
‘Nothin’, I kept me silence. I find it pays with her. Say nowt and speed the work up and she gets into a tizzy. Oh, don’t you worry, I can manage her all right. You don’t live with somebody five days a week for eighteen years and not know them inside out. I’ve been along of her more than I’ve been with either of you.’ She nodded from one to the other. ‘That’s strange to say, isn’t it?’
‘And you don’t like her?’
Emily looked at her son and said slowly, ‘I don’t dislike her. I sort of understand her. She’s a damned upstart, but she’s got it from him, because he’s a sanctimonious, hymn-singing, big-headed nowt. An’ that’s only half of it, because he’s deep and calculating into the bargain. An’ that Susan takes after him. An’ I’m another one that’ll be delighted when the wedding comes off, for then she’ll be away from under me feet.’
‘Have you seen much of her fellow?’ asked Rosie.
‘Oh, he’s been in twice this week. He’s not a bad sort…I’ll tell you somethin’. He’s not got one quarter of the side they have. Although he has one uncle a lord and one an admiral, he acts just like any other fellow. “Hello, Emily,” he says. “How goes it?”
‘He doesn’t; you’re kiddin’.’ Rosie flapped her hand at her mother.
‘I’m not kiddin’. An’ don’t you start mickeying either. That’s what he said. He came into the kitchen when I was gettin’ lunch, and that’s what he said. “Hello, Emily. How goes it? What you hashin’ up?”’
‘He did?’
‘Aye, he did. An’ I’ll tell you something else. He said I was a fine cook. An’ that’s more than me family’s ever said to me.’
‘But your family never tastes your cookin’, so how are we to judge? I ask you. How are we to judge?’ Angus spread his hand out, palm upwards, giving emphasis to the question, and he expected her to laugh or come out with a mouthful at him. But when she dropped her fork, which was halfway to her mouth, back onto her plate and, looking at it, said dully, ‘I’m sorry I’ve neglected you,’ his face showed utter dismay.
‘In the name of God, woman!’ He scraped his chair back. ‘Don’t be so bloody soft. You know I was only pulling your leg. If you don’t cook at the weekend it’s our fault because we won’t let you. Isn’t it, Rosie?’
‘Aye, Mam. Look.’ Rosie put her hand gently on her mother’s thick arm. ‘You’re tired, that’s what it is. He was only pullin’ your leg. You neglect us! As Angus says, don’t talk so dippy; where do you think we’d have been if it hadn’t been for you goin’ out to work. We’ve never wanted for anything in our lives, an’ it’s thanks to you.’
Emily bowed her head and closed her eyelids tightly, and as the tears welled up they came one to each side of her. Their concern making them tender, they put their hands about her shoulders.
‘Look,’ said Angus; ‘you’re in need of a holiday, a break…a long one.’
‘I’m in need of no holiday.’ Emily’s voice was quiet.
‘Well, you want a change, Mam.’ Rosie stroked the blatantly dyed black hair. ‘What about going to the club the night; you haven’t been for weeks. That’s an idea, isn’t it?’ She looked up at Angus. ‘I’ll get Stan to come along. We were going to the pictures, but he doesn’t mind where he goes as long as he can have his slap and tickle.’ She pressed her lips together and giggled, then said, ‘What about it, eh Angus, the club?’
‘I’m game. It should be a good night. We’ll have a knees-up, eh?’ He brought his face down to his mother’s, and she blinked rapidly and sniffed, then smiled and said, ‘Aye, that’ll do me good, a knees-up, even if I
can’t get me feet off the floor.’ She looked at her swollen legs. ‘Anyway, I think I’ll go and put them up for an hour now.’ She rose stiffly to her feet, and Rosie went with her along the narrow passage and watched her mount the stairs before returning to the kitchen. There she looked at Angus and said, ‘Funny. I’ve not seen her like that afore.’
‘She’s tired.’ Angus’s voice was low. ‘I’m tellin’ you, she’s tired, she’s worn out.’
‘But she’s not old,’ said Rosie sadly; ‘she’s just fifty odd.’
‘Well she’s had enough in the last twenty years to make her feel eighty. I wonder she hasn’t cracked up afore now.’
‘But I’ve always thought she was as strong as a horse.’
‘Horses get old. Don’t you know that? Even horses get old and tired…Go on up and see how she is.’
When Rosie entered her mother’s room Emily was lying on the bed, her stockinged feet showing the prominent hump of bunions. Her stomach was pressing up a hillock under her skirt band and her square, heavy face looked pallid in contrast to the colour of her hair.
‘You all right, Mam?’
‘Oh aye, lass; just a bit tired.’
Rosie sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Anything worryin’ you?’
‘Aye.’ Emily stared at her daughter for a full minute before saying, ‘Yes, there’s somethin’ worryin’ me.’
‘What then?’
‘Angus.’
‘Angus? Why you worrying about him? He’s all right. He’s fine and fixed.’
‘Aye, he’s fine, but he’s not really fixed, not securely fixed. Do you know something?’ Emily pulled herself up on the pillows and, supporting herself on her elbow, she leant towards her daughter and whispered, ‘If I was to leave up there the morrow he would have Angus out of that shop afore you could blink.’
The Round Tower Page 3