Kate Hannigan

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Me, Kate?’

  ‘Of course. I should have never met the Tolmaches but for you.’

  ‘They are grand folk, aren’t they, Kate?’

  ‘The most wonderful on earth.’

  ‘Don’t you think she’s grown into a very grand young lady, Rodney?’

  ‘Very grand indeed!’ said Rodney, not taking his eyes for one second from Kate’s face. ‘And she’s going to be married!’

  ‘Married! And this the lucky young man?’ said Peter, turning to the man, who now stood a little apart, uncontrolled jealousy burning in his eyes. ‘I should know you, shouldn’t I? You’re a Jarrowite like myself, surely?’

  Somewhat mollified by the personal note, the young man replied, ‘Yes, Doctor Davidson; I’m Alec Moran. I’m the agent for The New London Insurance.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I thought I should know you. So you and Kate are to be married. Well, I hope you’ll both be very happy.’

  ‘And what does my little girl say about all this?’ said Rodney, stooping down to Annie. Annie’s fingers traced themselves over the white scarf hanging from his neck, as she said, ‘Santy Clause is bringing me a doll and a shop.’

  ‘Have you got our box, Doctor?’ Herbert Barrington’s voice broke in, with studied politeness.

  ‘Be with you in a minute,’ said Rodney without looking up, his tone expressing total indifference.

  ‘This way, sir,’ said the manager to Barrington; ‘if you’ll just follow me.’

  Stella, with neither a glance to right nor left, passed the group at the foot of the staircase. Rodney looked up from Annie’s glorified countenance to the cold beauty of his wife, whose displeasure was evident from the point of her fine kid shoes to the floating tulle on her head…Great lady, he said to himself; she couldn’t be expected to speak to the common people…His eyes hardened.

  Turning to Annie again, he said, ‘That’s not all Father Christmas is going to bring you. I saw him this afternoon, and what do you think he told me?…You don’t know?’

  Annie shook her head, her eyes, like dark green pools, adoring him.

  ‘“Well,” he said, “I’m away off now to Africa to see if I can get a black baby for Annie Hannigan!”’

  ‘A black baby?’

  ‘Yes, with curly hair.’ Peter made accompanying sounds of delight.

  ‘Doctor, it was most kind of you; it’s really beautiful,’ said Kate softly.

  ‘Nonsense!’ His eyes came back to her face again.

  ‘We must go now,’ said Kate hurriedly. ‘Good night, Doctor Davidson. Good night, Doctor Prince. Say “Good night, and a merry Christmas” to the doctors, Annie.’

  Annie suddenly flung her arms up and around Rodney’s neck; her young mouth pressed on his, and then she laughed in high delight, ‘Your beard tickles.’

  ‘Good night,’ said Kate again, forcefully dragging Annie away to where Alec, now glowering, awaited them from a distance.

  Rodney and Peter walked up the stairs to the circle. Rodney was strangely stirred by the child’s kiss; it opened the old desire, the ever-present desire for a child of his own…By God, he would have a child! He would make her have a child!

  ‘Kate’s quite a grand-looking girl, isn’t she?’ Peter remarked. ‘The Tolmaches think the world of her. I heard old Bernard had ideas for her, but this marriage will knock them on the head.’

  ‘He looks a surly devil; I can’t see her being happy with him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t see why not; the most odd-assorted couples generally make the best go of it. Anyway, it’s the best thing for her, and he’ll be a father to the child.’

  A deep, inexplicable sadness enveloped Rodney…a new sadness, a new emptiness. For some time now he had felt that he owed nothing, possessed nothing, beyond his work; but it would seem there were still things which could be taken from him…‘He’ll be a father to the child!’ he repeated to himself.

  4

  The Ride

  Peggy Davidson sat hunched up on a lop-sided pouffe in front of the fire between her husband and the dark, sombre man who had, in some strange way, become part and parcel of their joint lives. The busy day was nearly over, and for the past two hours they had sat, talking in spasms or sunk in companionable silence. But as the time of quietude was almost spent and she must arouse herself to get ready for her journey into Jarrow she returned to the attack she had waged on and off all evening: ‘Why be so pig-headed, Rodney? You have no need to go home. Now, have you? You can telephone Mrs Summers and tell her you are staying the night, and, as you are coming to dinner tomorrow, doesn’t it seem silly to go back to an empty house?’

  ‘Woman, won’t you be convinced? You cannot talk me round,’ said Rodney. ‘If I were to stay, old Peter there would miss Midnight Mass, and there I’d be, sitting in torment, knowing I had imperilled his immortal soul,’ he laughed; ‘and the face of Father O’Malley would haunt me for weeks afterwards.’

  ‘Isn’t he a fool!’ said Peggy to her husband.

  Peter laughed at the seriousness of her thin face, and nodded.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Rodney; there are no Father O’Malleys in Jarrow church. If you met Father Patterson, you’d change your mind about priests,’ said Peggy.

  ‘Nothing will make me change my mind about one priest, at least. Do you know, Peggy, I’ve had three cases of hysteria in children during the past month. And I’ve traced it all to the fear of Hell and Purgatory that damned priest has put into their little heads. Of course, the parents are staunch Catholics, and they won’t have that it is anything to do with the church at all. It’s no use trying to explain even the weakest psychology to adults who are eaten up with fear and superstition, which they call faith. That old fellow’s got something to answer for, if he believes what he preaches.’

  ‘Now, now! I shouldn’t have given you that last drink,’ laughed Peter.

  ‘You know what I’m saying is true,’ said Rodney earnestly, hoisting himself from the deep, leather arm-chair and leaning forward. ‘You two are Catholics, and enlightened ones, at that, but can you honestly say that, at some time or other, the tenets of the Catholic faith have not scared you stiff?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Peter said. ‘You’ve been dealing with a type of person who would have hysterics in any case.’

  ‘You know, Rodney, I’ve always found the greatest comfort in my religion,’ said Peggy seriously.

  ‘And, honestly, I’ve never known fear of a priest…just the reverse.’

  ‘Well, tell me,’ persisted Rodney, ‘do you believe in Purgatory, as it is preached? Do you believe that some of the poor devils around these towns are to be made to suffer for a period of time after death for the actions they do, named sins, mostly the result of the squalor in which they live? I’ve yet to meet a delinquent of another religious body troubled by the same fear. It would appear that Catholics can commit sins, any sins, for which they will be forgiven if they obey the rules: mass every Sunday, and confession and communion at least once a year. But let them break the rules, and then comes the penalty - Purgatory, Hell! Their misery of the present is nothing to what’s in store for them. I tell you, Peter, the majority are Catholics through fear.’

  ‘It’s a wide question, and neither of us knows much about it, but I admit you are right, up to a point,’ said Peter, with urbanity.

  ‘No, he’s not!’ put in Peggy vehemently.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ went on Peter quietly; ‘but only up to a point. There are a number of people who attend mass mainly out of fear, and it’s all to the good; that very fear is a preventative. For what control have the civil authorities over men like Pat Donovan, say? and Danny McQueen of Jarrow? or Micky Macgregor of Shields? and of Tim Hannigan of the fifteen streets? A priest can manage men like these, where a policeman would be knocked flat for looking at them…I admit it’s the old fear of the supernatural; but if they had no fear of something, or someone, if they thought they would not suffer personally after death for their misdeeds now, can you im
agine, Rodney, what life in these few towns would be like? Let us hope that education in the coming generations will erase the necessity for fear.’

  ‘But the number of bad hats is few compared with the number of ordinary people; don’t forget that, Peter!’ said Rodney. ‘And, anyway, I’m not concerned with men like McQueen and Hannigan, I’m concerned mainly with children. The religion is crammed into them, the fear is crammed into them; they don’t stand a chance.

  ‘You talk of education erasing fears; do you think it will ever be allowed to? When I proposed seeing the headmistress of the Borough Road school and the priest, because I had been called three times in one week to a child of eight who had had screaming nightmares of the Devil coming to take her to Hell, the mother almost had hysterics too, and said, oh, I mustn’t go to the school; it was nothing to do with the school, or the church, for she had had the same spasms when she was young - it was her stomach! Stomach, yes; racked nerves playing on the digestive organs! Doesn’t that speak for itself?’

  ‘Christmas Eve,’ said Peggy, ‘and peace on earth; and you two having a theological discussion.’

  ‘Sorry, Peggy. And you, too, Peter. It is very bad form of me, and at this time too. But you’ve yourself to blame,’ Rodney said, wagging his finger at Peggy.

  ‘Carry on, carry on!’ said Peter. ‘We’ll convert you yet.’

  ‘So that’s your game, is it?’ said Rodney, getting up. ‘Well, I’m off!’

  ‘Sure you won’t stay, Rodney? The children would love you to be here in the morning.’ Peggy made one last effort. ‘Come on, do!’

  ‘Temptress!’ Rodney laughed down at her.

  ‘By the way,’ said Peter, ‘speaking of the children, don’t you buy my bairns more expensive presents than I can afford to give them. You have estranged their affections enough already.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ laughed Peggy. ‘Do you know, Rodney, we listened to Michael and Cathleen talking? They were on about Santa Claus. Of course, Cathleen is well aware of his identity, but Michael is not quite sure; so he said to her, “What do you think Santa will bring us, Cathleen?” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Cathleen, “but I do know that Uncle Rodney will bring us something worth while. He’s the only one who does!”…Now what do you think of that?’

  ‘See what you’ve done? Made them mercenaries,’ said Peter. ‘And we’ll have to watch him, Peggy,’ he said to his wife, with mock sternness, ‘or he’ll be giving them talks on religion next, for they are two very scared children.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Rodney.

  ‘Have one more before you go,’ laughed Peter, going to the sideboard.

  ‘No more for me, I’m just right. I’ve had about as much as I can carry,’ protested Rodney, ‘and I’ve got to drive a car.’

  ‘Here, drink that! You’re too sober for my liking.’

  ‘All right. But, you see, you are judging me by my legs only.’ Rodney raised his glass: ‘The very best in life to both of you. And thank you for all your kindness to me.’

  Peter looked over his glass, his eyes crinkling with a warmth and affection. ‘The boot’s on the other foot,’ he said.

  ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ said Rodney, as he got into his coat.

  For a moment the three stood on top of the house steps; the sky was high and ablaze with stars, the light of a pale moon was reflected in the river below them. ‘Look!’ cried Peggy, ‘it’s started to snow, just the slightest bit.’

  It won’t be much,’ said Peter, sniffing the raw air. ‘Good night, then, Rodney.’

  ‘Good night. Good night. Happy Christmas.’

  They watched him drive away; then turned indoors. ‘Oh, I could shoot that woman!’ cried Peggy. ‘It’s the second Christmas she’s gone off and left him on his own. Her and her house parties and literary dinners! He’s so unhappy, isn’t he? Doesn’t he say anything?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘He looks as if he were burning up inside, and he’s working too hard.’

  ‘Well, he’s got one of the biggest practices on the Tyne, and it’s growing every day. He’ll soon have to have help.’

  They stood on the hearthrug, shoulder to shoulder, looking down into the fire. A silence held them. The shabby room, with its Christmas tree and paper-chains, was seeped in peace. ‘You don’t think he knows what they say about him?’ asked Peggy quietly.

  ‘Good gracious no!’

  ‘But that’s why all the women went daft over him.’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’

  ‘And you still think there’s nothing in it?’

  ‘Certain of it.’

  ‘Does he ever speak of her?’

  ‘Kate, you mean? No, never.’

  ‘But he does make a fuss of the child, doesn’t he?’

  ‘So he does of Michael and Cathleen. So am I to understand you’ve misbehaved yourself?’

  ‘Oh, Peter!’

  He laughed, and pulled her to him gently.

  ‘I often wonder, though, how he accounts to himself for his sudden popularity,’ mused Peggy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Peter. ‘But it’s certainly not because he’s suspected of being the father of Annie Hannigan. And I shouldn’t like to witness his reactions should he ever hear it. Of course, he never will.’

  Rodney followed the road of the Don, around by St Bede’s church, then past Bogie Hill, past the fifteen streets and the New Buildings, and along the stretch of the East Jarrow slacks. The tide was high and the lights were dancing on the ships at anchor in the narrow strip of the river Tyne, where it left the docks and meandered before expanding between Jarrow and Howden. Tram cars, on their way to Jarrow, clanked by him, full to the steps, and stray groups of people, loaded, inside and out, shambled on and off the pavement in their walk, all making their way to Jarrow. One man, with the coaldust of the pits still on him, clung to a lamp-post for support, a Christmas tree trailing from his hand into the dirt. Going in Rodney’s direction were more orderly groups; Midnight Mass bent to the Borough Road or Tyne Dock church, he thought. It said a lot for Peter’s argument…they had a goal of sorts, something to cleave to; at least it made Christmas mean something.

  Conister House loomed up vividly before him. No Christmas tree there, no paper chains, no stockings in the morning. He felt a great reluctance to return, and was tempted to keep to the arrangements of a week ago, before the last row with Stella, and drive straight on to Jesmond; the party would be on until four o’clock at least, and he could drive back tomorrow. But that would mean meeting Herbert Barrington. No, it would be wise to keep away from that gentleman, feeling as he did; and if he were to go, naturally he and Stella would have to share a room…he thought with bitterness of the room she had prepared for herself across the landing. No, he wouldn’t go. As long as he could bear it he wouldn’t force himself upon her; he had made up his mind on that score, he told himself, adding whimsically that the mind hadn’t much say in it at times. She was a devil, he thought, like some evil temptress, a mythological figure, beckoning, then rebuking with disdain…He prayed for strength for the next time she should beckon.

  He had almost reached the Tyne Dock arches when he passed a lone figure, walking with a free stride, the skirts of her long coat swinging from the hips. She was walking in the shadow of the dock wall, but as she passed in, then out of the weak rays of a street lamp he knew she was Kate Hannigan.

  Kate Hannigan and Christmas Eve! They seemed to be linked together. He didn’t often see her, but when he did it seemed to be on a Christmas Eve. He would stop and speak to her. Why not? he questioned himself. Why not? She had not married that fellow, after all. Peter hadn’t known why; something had gone wrong, but what? He was curious. Anyway, he hadn’t liked the fellow. Of course he would stop and speak to her!

  Pulling up the car to the kerb, he waited. He swivelled round in his seat and watched her coming towards him. She spoke first, without a trace of embarrassment: ‘Happy Christmas, Doctor.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Kate.’<
br />
  ‘Thank you so much for Annie’s present. But you really ought not to do it; she is being spoilt.’

  ‘Annie being spoilt! Nonsense; you couldn’t spoil Annie. Anyway, I get much more fun out of buying the toys than Annie gets in receiving them. It’s a part of me that’s never grown up. How are the Tolmaches, Kate?’

  ‘Oh, quite well. Only Mr Bernard’s had sciatica rather badly. But it didn’t stop him from going away.’

  ‘Where are you off to at this time of night, Kate, a party?’

  ‘No; Midnight Mass.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, of course. Well, jump in and I’ll give you a lift!’

  Kate looked up at him, perched above her. His black eyes seemed unnaturally bright. He’d had one or two, she thought, or he’d never have suggested such a thing. Imagine how the tongues would wag if she drove up to church in a motor car, sitting beside the doctor.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she said; ‘but I’ve never driven in a motor car; I’m a wee bit afraid. And they make such a noise. Traps are more to my liking.’

  ‘You’ve never driven in a car?’ said Rodney. ‘Oh, come on then, Kate; you must, you simply must.’

  He drew up his long legs and stepped down onto the pavement beside her. ‘Go on, up you get, Kate!’

  ‘No, Doctor, no.’ She glanced back uneasily up the road. Dim figures were approaching, likely people from the fifteen streets. Anyway, people who would know them both; and it would not take much to set tongues wagging. Oh, why hadn’t he just gone straight on? They’d be on them in a minute!…She was too wise to argue with a man who had had a few. If she persisted in her refusal he’d only stand talking. So she said, ‘I’ll go for a short drive, Doctor, but not to church.’

  ‘Up the Newcastle road then, Kate!’ He helped her in; then swung the starting handle vigorously, and hurried around to his seat.

  As the car swung out of the main road and up the narrow, steep incline of the Simonside Bank, Kate gasped. Rodney’s dark eyes laughed at her. The moon, gleaming on the frost-covered road, reflected a pale light through the high glass windscreen on to her face. She looked dewy and warm, like a soft summer morning, he thought.