Kate Hannigan

by Catherine Cookson

  She didn’t buy her books, but instead took the tram back to Tyne Dock; the Jarrow tram terminus was within a few yards of the dock gates. A tram was in, and she hurried towards it, dodging the groups of men so carefully that she didn’t know how she managed to knock the case out of the young man’s hand as he, too, hurried towards the tram. Kate’s apology was laughingly brushed aside, the young man saying there was certainly nothing to be sorry about. He sat beside her on the long wooden seat. ‘Mild weather we’re having for the time of the year,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ answered Kate.

  ‘I like to see a bit of snow myself at Christmas; don’t you?’ said the young man.

  ‘Yes, it’s more seasonable, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re Miss Hannigan, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am Kate Hannigan.’ She wished he would be quiet and would stop talking…It was with relief when she stood up and said, ‘Goodbye, and a happy Christmas.’

  He was a little taken aback at the coolness of her; he had not expected her to be so composed…After all, she’d no need to put on airs. Anyway, he’d made a start, and she’d likely be at Midnight Mass tonight…He stretched his five feet four inches, patted his bow tie, and pulled down his celluloid cuffs. Together with the interested spectators of the little scene, he watched Kate alight from the tram and, lifting her skirt, step lightly over the puddles in the road and onto the pavement.

  Now, Kate thought, as she walked slowly up the street, I must say they hadn’t the books I wanted, and that I’ve got a bad head; she’ll believe that. But, whatever I do, I mustn’t spoil her Christmas.

  The front door was ajar. She pulled up abruptly at the kitchen door. Her mother was by the window, with Annie in her arms, and, standing near the table, drawing on his gloves, was Doctor Prince.

  The last time Rodney Prince had seen Kate she had looked what she was, a very young girl, and one who had narrowly escaped death. Staring at her now, in unfeigned amazement, he vividly recalled that night a year ago when he had had to put up a stiff fight for her life, only Davidson’s help preventing him from losing. How they had worked on her! Now he felt grateful to her for being the medium through which he and Davidson had become such firm friends. And he wondered how he would have got through the past year without Davidson and his wife and the haven the grim-looking house on the Don had become.

  But this girl, Kate Hannigan; she looked amazing…and so utterly out of place in her surroundings…What was it?…Not only her warm, glowing face, or that hair…Of course, it was her clothes! Good Lord, she was got up in style; and good style at that!…But where?…A sadness crept into his eyes…What a pity! Oh, why couldn’t some man take her and marry her?…Instead of that! She was so fresh, so unusually beautiful, and she looked…yes, unspoiled, in spite of the fact…

  ‘Good day, Doctor.’

  ‘Good day, Kate!’ He finished drawing on his gloves. ‘You’re looking well, Kate.’ To himself he sounded pompous.

  Sarah came forward; she hadn’t missed the doctor’s scrutiny any more than the priest’s. ‘She does look grand, doesn’t she, Doctor? And it’s all thanks to Doctor Davidson for getting her that place; her mistress bought her that whole rig-out for a Christmas box.’

  Rodney suddenly smiled. He had heard of the Tolmaches and their kind eccentricities from Davidson. ‘You look very smart, Kate.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Kate, walking to her mother and taking Annie into her arms; the child bounced and gurgled with glee. Kate knew why her mother had informed both the priest and the doctor so quickly of the source of her new clothes, and felt both hurt and annoyed…I’m not bad…I’m not, she thought. I could never do a thing like that for money…or anything, but…she couldn’t even say to herself the word ‘love’.

  ‘She’s a lovely child, Kate.’

  ‘Yes, she’s growing, isn’t she?’

  ‘Your mother has her hands full with her, haven’t you, Mrs Hannigan?’

  Sarah smiled. What a grand man he was! She had been a little afraid of him at first, but not now. And he loved children; he had even nursed Annie, here in the kitchen.

  ‘She gave me some trouble a year tonight, did this little madam,’ he said, bending towards the child and poking her playfully with his finger. Annie opened her mouth wide, showing six white stumps, and beat her fists delightedly on Kate’s face. Then, with a swift movement, she bent towards the black head, so temptingly near, and burrowed her two hands in its depth.

  ‘Oh, good lord, you little imp!’

  Rodney eased his head towards her and put up his hands, trying to unclasp the tiny fingers.

  ‘Annie, let go this minute, you naughty girl!’ said Kate.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ cried Sarah. ‘Who’d have believed she’d be so sharp. Oh, dear me! Pull her off, Kate!’

  ‘No, don’t pull her off,’ pleaded Rodney; ‘you’ll hurt her hands.’ He went nearer: ‘Unclasp one hand at a time, Kate, and I’ll hold it.’

  As Kate’s fingers moved in his hair they touched his, and he felt their cool firmness.

  Sarah stood irresolute, her hands wavering…Not to save her life could she have touched the doctor’s hair.

  The three of them were so engrossed that they did not hear the knock…if there had been one…nor the kitchen door opening.

  But when they heard a familiar voice say, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hannigan, I’m sure; I didn’t know you had company. I’ll give you a look in later,’ they turned as one.

  Rodney screwed round his head to look at the figure in the doorway; his hands were covering one of Kate’s. As she turned, their faces were within an inch of each other, with the laughing face of the child behind.

  They stared at Dorrie Clarke; and she stared back, genuinely surprised at the domesticity of the scene before her…By God, she had stumbled on something now! Would you believe it? Carrying on openly like that…Jesus strike her down this minute, she never suspected it. No wonder the upstart had ordered her about. No wonder!…Canoodling openly in the kitchen here, brazen as brass the both of them! And look at the way she was got up…He could spend money on her yet he’d deprive another woman of an honest living…Big Dixon was the first case she’d had in months, and she wouldn’t have got her if he’d had anything to do with it…Why’d this carry-on not struck her before?…By the God above, she’d make it hot for him! So damned hot he’d be sorry he ever crossed her.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Sarah.’ Her eyes darted a malevolent glance at Rodney, and she withdrew her grim-lipped, fat face and closed the door.

  In making Rodney the father of Kate’s child, Dorrie Clarke did not dream that she was defeating her own object; for he would become, for the mass of the people, a lad…someone human; in spite of him being a toff and different he would be one of themselves; various sections of the poor community would view his action in different lights, but most of them would want his attendance on them…and the reasons would have horrified some of the more respectable of them had they faced the truth, in their minds; her scandal was to enlarge his practice as hard work would never have done.

  ‘That was Mrs Clarke,’ said Sarah lamely. She had an uncomfortable feeling, although she could not explain why. ‘Are you all right, Doctor? Would you like a comb?’

  ‘No, thanks, Mrs Hannigan; I have one…And, yes, I noticed that was my friend, Mrs Clarke,’ he laughed, as he ran the comb through his hair; ‘but we’re not on speaking terms. And it’s all through you, madam,’ he said, pointing the comb at Annie. ‘You lose me a friend, then you pull out my hair…Well, I must be off.’

  He took up his case. ‘A happy Christmas to you, Kate. And to you, Mrs Hannigan.’

  ‘A happy Christmas, Doctor,’ they both said.

  As the door closed behind him they looked at each other.

  ‘Isn’t he a lovely man?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Yes; he seems very nice’, Kate replied quietly.

  ‘I wonder what brought Dorrie Clarke here’, mused Sarah;
‘she’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘Nor of him, by the look she gave him,’ said Kate.

  3

  The Drawing-Room

  A narrow lane off the rural Harton road led to Conister House; at least, to one of the walls which surrounded it. A wrought-iron gate in the wall led out of the lane into the lower garden, a long sloping lawn, studded with ornamental trees. The upper garden, which was also on a slight rise, was another lawn, with a lily pond in the centre and bordered by flower-beds. Shallow steps led from this to a terrace, on to which two sets of broad french windows opened from the house. But so gentle was the rise of the ground and so high the surrounding creepercovered walls that nothing but the garden was to be seen from any part of the ground floor of the three-storied, red-brick house. This, Stella Prince told herself, was the only thing that made life bearable in this vile town. When they had first arrived in Shields there had been no suitable house vacant in the best end of the town. Some that were offered were open to the gaze of passers-by or of neighbours; these were not to be even considered. So, when she saw Conister House, although not actually in the upper quarter, she felt that, in all this cesspool of ships, coal mines, mean streets and impossible people, this was an oasis. Here, in the summer, she could sit in the garden and write, as undisturbed as if she were a thousand miles away from all this grimness; only the far-away sound of ships’ horns penetrated the garden, the soot and smuts which dared to invade it and the house being soon dealt with by two gardeners and three maids. She was determined that if she had to live here it was going to be bearable.

  Stella had spent a lot of thought and time on the inside of the house, but most of all on the drawingroom. The walls were of a delicate silver-grey, not a picture marring their virgin surface, and the woodwork was painted black. The windows were draped in long straight folds of dull-rose velvet, and the plain carpet, of heavy pile, was a tone darker. Standing on the carpet, one at each side of the bogoak fire-place, were two superb Heppelwhite elbow chairs, and two occasional chairs, oozing preserved antiquity, rested nonchalantly at given distances. A Queen Anne walnut bureau bookcase stood against one wall, while a china cabinet of the same period stood against the other. The black wood of the mantelpiece lent a deeper lustre to the three Bow figures which had its long length entirely to themselves. A cabriole-legged settee faced the fire, and opposite the french window stood a seventeenth-century writing-desk.

  The room at any time would have appeared unusual, but at this period of chair-backs, mantel-borders and heavy mahogany it was rebellious. Visitors to Conister House were impressed, as they were meant to be. The order of the room was rarely disturbed. If there were more than six people present, chairs were brought in from other parts of the house, to be removed immediately the visitors had departed…a little subdued at the splendour and more than a little awed by the creator of it all; for who would think a gentle, fragile creature, such as Mrs Prince, could arrange a house like that, and give such dinners! But of course, she wasn’t just an ordinary woman, no-one who wrote poetry was.

  Stella knew herself to be absolutely in line with the room; she herself had chosen each article in it, replacing the more homely pieces she and Rodney had chosen together at the beginning of their married life.

  She sat now at her desk and read again the letter she had received by the mid-morning post. Her deep-set eyes glowed, and the creamy pallor, usual to her heart-shaped face, was tinged with the flush of excitement.

  What would Rodney, who had thought her writing only a pose and who had no belief in her ability, say to this? At first he had called her his clever little girl and had treated her work as a joke, or, at best, as a hobby. But lately he had been absolutely hostile to it; even going so far as to say she spent too much time scribbling, and hinting that there were more useful occupations. She hadn’t put the question, ‘Such as what?’ telling herself she was too wise to make that mistake; one of his answers might have been, ‘Raising an adopted family.’ She had enough to endure, she thought, without this horror. Of course, had she known that Rodney would insist on practising in these slums, she would never have married him; she had thought it would have been Harley Street at least, and then, perhaps a title. Her sister had managed that for herself, and she had always been inclined to look down on Annabel. She knew she could certainly have done better for herself than she had done; but it had been the two Prince boys constantly fighting over her that had seemed so exciting at the time, and Rodney had appeared so romantic when he had returned from college with that beard. Still, Frank, she now realised, would have been the more sensible choice, especially since at that time she liked him nearly as much. She felt certain he would have been easier to manage, much easier; for one thing, he was staunch to his class, he had no revolutionary ideas; and for another, she couldn’t imagine Frank being beastly in the same way as Rodney was…Frank was more…yes…more cultured; there was a coarse streak in Rodney. Still, she smiled inwardly, she had managed very well to avoid all unpleasantness, such as children. After all, men were such fools, and Rodney, a doctor too, was no exception. In fact, the whole thing was laughable; it paid one to finish off abroad. Of course, the knowledge had been of little use to her there, for she wasn’t inclined that way. But it had stood her in good stead since her marriage, and Rodney had never guessed. He had always underestimated her intelligence; it was just as well, in that direction, at any rate.

  Hearing the ‘chunk-chunk’ of his car behind the house, she rose and went out of the drawing-room, across the hall and into the dining-room, opposite. A glance at the table told her everything was in order. She rang a small hand-bell, and when a smartly dressed maid appeared she said, ‘Tell cook not to serve lunch for fifteen minutes, Mary.’ She returned to the drawing-room, picked up the letter from the desk, and stood near the fire-place, waiting. As she listened to the side-door opening, she was at a loss to account for what she heard. Who on earth was he talking to?

  ‘Here we are, then. Let me take your hat and coat off. What a fine young lady! Now we’re all ready.’

  When Rodney stood in the drawing-room doorway, holding by the hand a child, the most startling blonde child she had ever seen, her surprise could not have been more genuine had he appeared sprouting horns out of his black head.

  ‘I’ve brought a little lady to see you, Stella.’ He advanced across the room, suiting his steps to the child’s.

  ‘Who on earth…?’ began Stella.

  ‘Now, Annie, say, “How do you do, Mrs Prince?” Go on; like Kate showed you.’ Rodney squatted down beside the child, his head level with hers. Annie gazed at him, her green slant eyes full of trust and adoration; her flaxen hair, dropping straight on to the shoulders of her white, frilled pinafore, lay in little tendrils; her mouth was wide, and when she smiled two gaps showed in her lower set of teeth.

  She turned from him, quick to obey his command, and, thrusting her hand up to the very clean lady, said: ‘How…do…you…do!’ in a soft voice, thick with the Northern accent.

  ‘There! Isn’t she a clever girl!’

  As Stella’s fingers touched those of the child, she thought, ‘Of all the impossible incidents! What does he mean?’

  Seeing the expression on his wife’s face, Rodney straightened himself, and, under pretext of poking the fire, murmured, ‘Just thought I’d give her a treat, Stella. Hope you don’t mind me bringing her; she waits for me nearly every day at the end of the fifteen streets; its pathetic. And if you could see where she lives! The surroundings are dreadful…’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Kate Hannigan’s child; you know, the one I nearly lost four years tonight…in fact, I nearly lost the pair of them.’

  ‘Won’t her mother miss her?’

  ‘Oh, she’s in service in Westoe; I told the grandmother I was bringing her.’

  Stella looked at her husband in amazement…Of all the unorthodox, undignified people!…‘What do you intend to do with her, now that she’s here? You can’t let a child
run wild around the house!’

  Rodney’s black brows contracted, and his beard took on a slight forward tilt. ‘I intend to give her some lunch!’ he answered, in what she termed his stubborn voice.

  ‘Very well! I’ll ring for Mary to take her into the kitchen.’

  ‘She’s not going into the kitchen.’

  ‘You don’t propose to sit her at table with us?’

  ‘That’s just what I do propose!’

  ‘Doctor!’ Annie was gripping the bottom of his coat and staring up at him, the laughter gone now from her face, her eyes timorous. She sensed the warning element; her granda’s voice was sharp like that when he pushed her out of the way or frightened her grandma.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear. It’s all right,’ said Rodney, picking her up in his arms.

  Stella’s eyes were like pieces of blue glass. ‘There is a hand-worked lace cloth on the dining-table; there is cut-glass and Spode! Why, even I wasn’t allowed in the dining-room until I was ten, and then only on…’

  ‘All right! all right!’ he snapped. ‘Say no more about it.’ He walked out of the drawing-room, down the passage, and into the kitchen, forcing himself to laugh and chat to take the look of fear from the child’s face. The look had wrung his heart, for he knew that she had had, and would have, many occasions for fear in Tim Hannigan’s house; but that she should have it in his was unthinkable!

  The three women in the kitchen were not unprepared for his entry, for they had stared, in various degrees of astonishment, some minutes earlier when they had watched him, from the kitchen window, lifting the child from the car. Mary Dixon had simply gaped…Kate Hannigan’s bairn!…and him bringing it here! Dorrie Clarke mightn’t be so far wrong with her hints and ‘My, there are things I could tell you if I had a mind!’ She hadn’t taken much notice of her, for she was a bitter old pig, and a Catholic at that, so you couldn’t believe a word of what she said. But now, when you put two and two together…and all the grand clothes of Kate Hannigan’s…well, what a kettle of fish!…She looked at the doctor through new eyes.