The Round Tower

by Catherine Cookson

  When they entered the house Emily greeted them with, ‘Oh, there you are. Going out in ones and coming in in twos. I suppose you want a cuppa.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’ He nodded at her.

  Then she said to him, ‘I think you should see she goes and lies down; she’s out of sorts.’ She jerked her head towards Vanessa.

  ‘Now, does she ever take notice of anything I say?’ He was keeping things light.

  Vanessa went into the room and took her coat off, and a few minutes later he joined her. He had a cup of tea in his hand and, sitting down and crossing his legs, he looked at her and asked casually, ‘Who were you phoning?’

  He watched her mouth open and close again and her expression changed, her face becoming even paler; and he uncrossed his legs and said, ‘Well, who were you? I saw you coming out of the box.’

  She was so taken aback that she hadn’t a lie on her lips. He got to his feet and moved slowly towards her, the cup of tea still in his hand, and after surveying her for a moment he asked thickly, ‘What’s the mystery?’

  ‘There’s no mystery.’

  ‘All right then,’ he inclined his head towards her patiently, ‘who were you phoning? It’s as simple as that. Give me a straight answer. Who were you phoning?’

  When she didn’t answer at all but made to turn from him he put the cup down noisily on the table, grabbing her arm at the same time. Then pulling her round to him, he looked deep into her face as he said, ‘You weren’t in the telephone box to rob it, were you? And you weren’t in there to do wilful damage, were you? You were in there to phone…Who were you phoning?’

  ‘A—a girl in the shop.’

  ‘But the shop’s closed this afternoon.’ His voice was very low and ominously quiet.

  ‘I know the shop’s closed this afternoon. I—I phoned at her home.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  This was easy. ‘Teresa Bumpstead.’

  ‘And her number?’

  Could she think of a number? Of all the thousands, the millions of numbers in all the directories in the country she couldn’t think of one number. All she could remember was that all Newcastle numbers began with 53, and she stammered, ‘Five, three…’

  ‘Don’t think too hard,’ he said. Then, his voice rising slightly, he added, ‘Are you going to tell me the truth?’

  If she said, ‘I was phoning Mrs Brett,’ he would say, ‘What the hell did you want to do that for? She’s on my side.’ And he would believe this until tomorrow, when he found she wasn’t.

  ‘You were phoning your house, weren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, no! No, Angus.’ Her voice was high with relief. ‘No, I wouldn’t do that.’ She watched his face relax for a moment, then tighten again as he said, ‘Well then, it was some bloke…Fowler. You were phoning Fowler?’

  ‘Oh, Angus!’ She closed her eyes and put her hand to her cheek and smiled faintly. ‘Why would I want to phone Mr Fowler?’

  ‘Because he’s breaking his neck to help me, and all the while I’m wondering why; and I tell meself I haven’t far to look for the reason. Why would he want to help me if it wasn’t for you being a sort of distant family connection?…And mind,’ he stabbed his finger at her, ‘I’m being kind when I think along those lines, because he’s got an eye wide open, he has.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Her voice was harsh now; it was a woman’s voice showing impatience with an unreasonable man.

  ‘All right.’ He turned and walked to the fireplace. ‘If it wasn’t Fowler, then tell me who it was. Look.’ He swung round and glared at her fiercely. ‘It’s as easy as that. Just tell me who you were phoning, because I’ll not let up on you until I know. I’m made like that. It’ll niggle and niggle at me mind, getting bigger and bigger every minute. I’ve got a mind that makes mountains out of molehills where you’re concerned. You know that already, don’t you, and you’re playing on it?’

  ‘I’m not, Angus. That’s unfair; I’m not. I don’t play on people’s emotions.’

  Dropping down into the chair, he said, ‘All right, I’ll be reasonable. Let’s start from the beginning, eh? You went to the phone; I saw you coming out. You must have gone to phone somebody. I’ve asked you a simple question and you can’t give me a simple answer. Now this is how I look at it. If you’ve nothing to hide why can’t you tell me truthfully who you were phoning?’

  She stared down into his face; then said slowly, ‘All right, Angus; I’ll tell you who I was phoning…tomorrow dinner time.’

  He screwed up his eyes at her. ‘After the case you mean? Is it to do with the case?’

  ‘Yes and no. There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘But why did you…? Who did you get in touch with? Look. I’ll be all right; you’ve got no need to worry.’ He got to his feet and gripped her arms. ‘If you’re worrying about me, stop it. I’ve got a good solicitor. And there’s our Mr Fowler.’ He smiled a tight smile and made a deep obeisance with his head. ‘And above all, I’ve got somebody on the right side of the bench, Mrs Brett.’

  She lowered her head slightly and she kept her eyes shadowed with her lashes as she said, ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. Have patience with me, Angus. As I said, there’s more in it than that, I mean the case. I—I promise you I’ll tell you tomorrow.’

  After staring at her bent head for a moment his grip on her arms tightened and he shook her once before grinding out below his breath, ‘You’re not going to walk out on me, are you? That’s not what you’re going to tell me?’

  She was looking at him, half-smiling now, as she said quietly, ‘No, Angus, that’s not what I’m going to tell you.’

  He drew in a deep, shivering breath, and after a moment he said, ‘Reprieved. For a while at any rate. But one of these days you will, won’t you, Van? You’ll say to me: I’ve had enough, I’m going back…And you know what I’ll do on that day…do you? Do you know what I’ll do? I’ll kill you. I mean it.’ He nodded his head at her.

  She gave a little huh of a laugh and unwittingly her smile held derision as she said, ‘Well, I won’t have to tell you, will I, because now I want to stay alive at least a little longer.’

  He couldn’t stand being laughed at, or taken lightly. He turned away and punched his fist into the palm of one hand, then went to the little table in the corner and sat down, and, picking up the letters that had come that morning, he read them once more. One was a request for his estimate on clearing a building site. It had been sent to him direct, and not to Fred—although Fred always passed any correspondence on to him—and he felt he had Andrew Fowler to thank for it. A lot might depend, he knew, not only on his estimate, but how he got it out and also on the accompanying letter.

  He put his hand slowly up to the little bookcase and lifted down Fowler’s King’s English, and opened it at a page on which the heading read: ‘On sustained metaphor’. A page of Egyptian hieroglyphics would have posed no greater problem, and he did at this odd moment what he had been wanting to do for weeks, but had been too proud to voice his need. ‘Will you take me through this?’ he said. He lifted up the book to shoulder height but did not turn round, and when she did not answer he moved his head slowly until he had her in the corner of his eye. Then he said, ‘It’ll be a laugh for you. I’ve made so many bloomers you could fill a book. “Those are them” won’t be in it. I’ve got some prize ones.’

  She was standing by the side of the table now, and she looked into his face, saying softly, ‘Don’t, Angus.’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  She did not add, ‘You know what I mean,’ and he pushed it no further.

  Taking the book from his hand, she looked at it, saying softly, ‘I’d love to help you, you know that. There’s a lot I don’t know, although English was my best subject. We,’ she glanced down at him, ‘we could learn together.’

  He covered her hand on the book, pressing it hard, saying, ‘You know, this is only another ruse to keep you, you know that, don’t you? Everything I do is aimed at keepi
ng you.’ He was looking at her in a way he sometimes did, like a small boy who was asking to be needed, and loved. But he wasn’t a small boy, he was a man, a rough, arrogant, bumptious man, who would, as he said, kill her if he thought she was going to leave him.

  The issue seemed to have moved away from the telephone box to the region of raw emotions, but she could cope with this. And so she turned from him, saying, ‘Go and put the lorry away. I haven’t had any lunch yet; I’ll get it, and then we’ll go out.’ She half turned her head. ‘You were thinking of going out, weren’t you?’

  ‘Who told you that? Oh, me mam. She can’t keep her mouth shut, that one.’ He rose swiftly and stalked out of the room, and she heard him crying to Emily, ‘You and your big mouth, Ma Cotton; you can’t even let me spring a little surprise on me own.’

  He was covering up the things that hurt and embarrassed him. During the past half hour he had been the questioning, jealous husband, the young man pleading for education, two kinds of small boy, one loving, one rough, loud-mouthed, but threading all his attitudes was a man with a deep need.

  There came, in the region of her heart, a restricted feeling that turned into an ache. The ache spread until her body was filled with it. If he went to prison, what would she do? She’d be lost. Yes, without him she’d be lost. She—she was in love with him. No; not just in love, she loved him. How had it come about that she should love Angus Cotton because he was…? She didn’t tell herself all the things he was, but she went over all the things he wasn’t. Was, or wasn’t, it didn’t matter; what did matter was that if he went to prison she wouldn’t live until he came out again. She loved him.

  They shouted to Angus as he and Vanessa went down the street the following morning: ‘Good luck, lad.’ It was as if they had been waiting behind their doors for him. One wit cracked, ‘See you at the assizes, Angus,’ and Angus turned a laughing face towards the man and shouted, ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised at that an’ all, Jim.’

  ‘Ten years’ hard, you’ll get, Angus, ten years, not a day less. You might as well have been in the train robbery.’

  ‘Aye, Mrs Grant, you’re right there; I might as well.’

  When they were on the bus he turned to her and said, ‘They were enjoying themselves, weren’t they?’ There was a kind of pain in the back of his eyes, and she answered softly, ‘I don’t think they meant to be unkind.’

  ‘Huh!’ He jerked his chin up. ‘You defending “me ain folk”? Oh, I know them, I know them all like the back of me hand. They’ll all come round and help you when you’re in trouble, but that doesn’t stop them being happy that you are in trouble, somebody else is getting it, not them…Do you follow me?’

  Yes, in a way she did follow him, and she was surprised at the depth of his knowledge concerning his…ain folk, as he called them.

  He kept on talking. ‘Human nature all over, that is. If you move away from the street you’re a nowt, an upstart; if you stay in the street you’re a stick-in-the-mud, you’ve got no gumption. You can never be right. I used to worry about it at one time.’ He turned his face fully towards her. ‘Can’t imagine me worrying, can you?’

  ‘Yes, Angus, yes, I can imagine you worrying.’ She had a desire to take his hand; he was worrying now. He had been worrying since he got up. He had never stopped talking, which was proof that he was worrying.

  ‘I used to worry because I couldn’t get Mam into a better house. I used to worry because I hadn’t got a decent job; then when I got promoted I used to worry in case I got demoted. Still do. And the more I worry the louder I yell.’ His mouth was wide now and his smile cynical. ‘I’ve been yelling since I got up, haven’t I?’

  She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. She touched his fingers and found her hand grasped painfully tight.

  They got out at the market square and walked across the open space which, tomorrow, would be packed with stalls, and went through the iron gates that guarded the flower-decked space in front of the Town Hall where the Court was being held, and at the bottom of the steps he said, ‘Are you sure you want to come in?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I want to be there.’

  ‘You’ve a stronger stomach than me mam. Funny isn’t it, she just couldn’t stand to come and hear it. You’d think I was going to get the long drop. Oh, there they are,’ he said under his breath, as he saw the solicitor standing in the distance talking to Andrew Fowler. And he added, ‘I hope they look as happy when it’s all over.’

  The two men were laughing together as Angus and Vanessa came up to them, but they stopped immediately, and when Angus introduced Vanessa to the solicitor, he inclined his head deeply and said, ‘How do you do, Mrs Cotton?’

  She always felt it strange to be addressed as Mrs Cotton.

  ‘Our—our opponents are already seated,’ said Andrew Fowler to Angus, ‘and our Mr Cornell’s face is still showing signs of the fray.’ He slanted his glance sideways at Angus. ‘It’s a good job old Cargill’s indisposed and you have Mrs Brett to deal with.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, indeed,’ said the solicitor. ‘Although when I saw her upstairs a few minutes ago she looked as if it was a murder charge she had on her hands. Likely suffering from indigestion. But usually she’s fair, except for desertion or maintenance, and then, oh dear, does she jump on them. But as you’re up for neither,’ he glanced with a thin smile at Vanessa, ‘I think we’re fairly certain of having her on our side.’

  His tone changing, he now spoke directly to Angus, saying, ‘The main issue as I see it is: you were protecting your wife; he was making a nuisance of himself and he did it repeatedly…not once, but repeatedly. You had warned him, but he would take no heed. You know the line to take. You were protecting your wife from being annoyed. Mr Fowler, here, will vouch for all that; we have been all over it. Ah, here we go.’ He answered the summons of a policeman standing before two double doors at the far end of the hall and he went forward. Angus followed, walking at one side of Vanessa, while Andrew Fowler walked at the other. And so they entered the Court.

  Half an hour later they re-entered the hall and they stood in a circle, and looked at each other; then Mr Millard said almost angrily, ‘It’s preposterous, ridiculous. She was utterly bitchy.’ He looked from Andrew Fowler to Vanessa, and then to Angus again, and repeated, ‘Utterly, absolutely bitchy. Old Cargill wouldn’t have made it anything near as stiff as that even at his worst. It was the maximum.’

  Angus said nothing. He felt stunned. He was remembering how Mrs Brett had looked at him as she said, ‘You’re lucky I am not passing a prison sentence on you. I am dealing with you leniently this time, but should you come before this court again on a similar charge then there’ll be no option of a fine, I can assure you of that. This town can do without your sort. Too long we have put up with big-heads and bruisers: it has got to stop. Decent people can’t have an evening out, or approach an old friend, but they are punched in the face. Their teeth are knocked out…’

  It was as if she had got the wrong fellow. All she had said to him she should have said to Cornell. And he wasn’t the only one who thought so; the whole court seemed confused. Even Cornell was surprised. Pleased; oh aye, pleased, but nevertheless he was surprised…Mrs Brett! Angus couldn’t understand it. He had spoken to her numbers of times since he was just a lad; and it was her husband who had pushed him on. He just couldn’t understand it. It was as if she had hated his guts. One hundred pounds and costs! It was unbelievable. And besides that, she could have sent him along the line for six months. She had said so. What was the matter with him anyway? Everything was hitting him. It was coming at him from all sides.

  He looked along the hall now to where his solicitor and Cornell’s were chatting amiably together, quietly and amiably together. Somehow he thought that shouldn’t be. Yet they did it on the telly, try to cut each other’s throats in the courtroom and pat each other on the back when they came out of it, like ‘The Defenders’.

  He wanted to get home out of this; he wanted to think. He fel
t he had been dealt a dirty deal somehow. He thought again: Mrs Brett! Mrs Brett! All right, she could have fined him, but to slam into him in front of everybody like that as if he was one of the local tearaways, why? Why? He said abruptly to Vanessa, ‘Come on, out of this.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ It was Andrew Fowler touching him on the arm. ‘I know you’re puzzled,’ he said soothingly. ‘So am I. So are they all. But it’s over and done with…Listen, did you get a letter this morning from Fenwick?’

  ‘Fenwick?’ Angus had to think, and Vanessa put in quietly, ‘Yes, yes, about estimates.’

  ‘Oh aye, I’ve got a letter.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be OK,’ said Andrew Fowler; ‘I’ll see to it. Make yourself a good margin. You might have to hire a couple more lorries and more men. Pop in tomorrow and we’ll have a word.’

  ‘Aye, all right. Thanks.’ He spoke as if in a daze, and his ‘Thanks’ was desultory, and Vanessa, looking at Andrew Fowler, said firmly, ‘Thank you, Mr Fowler.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  He watched them going down the steps. The smile had gone from his face now and he was nipping his lip. There was something fishy here. Why had Mrs Brett flayed him like that? Evidently he didn’t know, he had looked flabbergasted. Cotton had counted on her being on the bench—her husband had apparently been a kind benefactor to him when he worked at Affleck and Tate’s. Had she taken that attitude because her neighbour’s daughter had stepped over the rails? But that was nothing to her, surely. There was something here he would like to get to the bottom of. He liked to get to the bottom of things. Knowledge was power even if you didn’t use it. He wondered how he could go about finding out. Well, something would happen that would give him a lead; it usually did.

  Three days later not only had he a lead but the whole reason why Irene Brett had come down like a ton of bricks on Angus Cotton.

  Eleven

  ‘It’s a bloody shame!’ everybody said. They called to him across the main road; ‘Just heard, Angus. It’s a bloody shame.’ They said it in the street: ‘A hundred quid and costs! It’s a bloody shame, Angus.’