Kate Hannigan

by Catherine Cookson

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, have a cup of tea then,’ she pleaded.

  ‘All right, a cup of tea then,’ he said.

  While he drank the tea Peggy and Peter exchanged bewildered glances. ‘Anything wrong, Rodney?’ asked Peter.

  ‘No, no,’ Rodney replied, twisting his mouth into a smile.

  ‘How are you finding the new life?’ Peggy enquired.

  ‘Oh, all right, Peggy.’

  ‘Glad you went?’ Peter questioned.

  ‘Yes…Yes, I’m glad I went.’

  The almost monosyllabic answers, so unlike Rodney, both puzzled and alarmed them. They sat talking to him, covering up his silences. When he suddenly got to his feet they rose with him, deeply concerned. ‘I’ll have to go; I’m not very good company tonight. See you both soon.’

  Peter set him to the door: ‘What is it, Rodney?’ he asked. ‘Surely you can tell me.’

  ‘Yes, I could tell you, Peter…Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, running his hands through his hair. ‘I feel so boiled up with hate that I…Have you ever thought of killing a woman, Peter?’

  Peter stared at him: ‘You’re not going home tonight, man,’ he said quietly, putting his hand on Rodney’s arm; ‘you’re staying here.’

  ‘It’s no use, Peter…I’ve got to go. I’ve got to see her; I’ll not rest until I do. And there’s a dam’ dinner on!’

  ‘What has she done?’

  ‘She’s…’ But he was unable to put into words what his wife had done to him. ‘I’ll tell you another time,’ he said and was gone.

  ‘What do you think I’d better do, Peggy?’ asked Peter, some minutes later.

  ‘Follow him,’ she answered.

  ‘But she has one of her dinners on,’ he said, pointing to the clock. ‘It’s half-past seven now, they’ll just be sitting down…He can’t do anything with people there.’

  ‘Never mind; you go. You can always pretend you haven’t seen him, and say you heard he was home and called…He’ll understand.’

  ‘He’s walking. I’ll give him time to get there, and then I’ll take the car,’ said Peter.

  The company had just finished dinner and settled themselves in the drawing-room, Stella, three other women and four men. The women, who were all unusually plain, were not the wives of the men, but were very pleased to be there in any capacity. The men were very glad to be there too; for what could be more pleasant than to eat one of Stella’s dinners, and then to sit and look at her for a whole evening.

  For each of the men she had a peculiar charm. She spelt romance, and romance always beckoned. That the beckoning was becoming an irritation, Herbert Barrington was forced to admit to himself; he was heartily tired of promises. Only once had he experienced anything with Stella that could be given the name of an affair. And then it had been very disappointing, petering out to nothing, leaving him without the stimulus of his urge for her; quite a dead thing, yet full of live irritation…She had promised it would be better next time, but there had never been a next time. And now there was Swinburn, and she still kept him dangling on…promising…and he was unable to free himself.

  He was thinking of all she had told him about her husband, and not for the first time a vague mistrust of what she had said entered his mind, when Rodney himself walked in. He watched Stella’s eyes dart to him, and he knew her well enough to know she was uneasy behind her polished smile. He rose with the other men and joined his greeting to theirs. It wasn’t until the ladies were introduced that Barrington realised that Rodney had neither spoken nor smiled, but had merely acknowledged the introductions by a nod.

  They all sat down again, Rodney taking a seat opposite Stella. A strange silence, which no-one seemed to have the power to break, fell on the room. He’s heard about Swinburn, Stella thought, and as usual is acting like a fool…she had heard from Mary of their meeting earlier in the day and of his rejected meal…He looks ghastly. But she felt the thrill of power rise in her with the knowledge that she could still make him feel like this. For lately she had been piqued by his indifference…She had got what she wanted, a life free from what she called his sexual pesterings, but it had turned out to be less satisfying than she had thought. Well, by the look of things, she could alter it any time. She smiled, and addressed him, for the benefit of the company, as if they had met but a short while ago, instead of nearly three months: ‘We didn’t wait dinner for you, dear; I didn’t know what time you would get back.’

  He made no answer, but sat looking at her, his face set.

  Her poise began to slip away, she felt uneasy…He hadn’t taken his eyes from her for a second. What was everyone thinking?…She turned to Herbert…you could always rely on him to keep the tone of the party just right…‘Will you begin reading, Herbert?’ she asked sweetly.

  But Herbert was being awkward too. ‘You begin,’ he said. ‘Let us hear some of the latest prose poems.’

  ‘Yes!’ chorused the ladies, glad to hear the sound of their own voices, for since the husband had come in things had become decidedly strained.

  Without further ado, Stella took up a slim volume from the table at her hand, settled herself in her chair, gave one quick glance at the company, and commenced to read:

  Let the beauty linger in my soul

  Of a rose just bursting into bloom,

  Of a bird in flight,

  Of the moon, new born into the night,

  Reflecting on a sea of gentle ripples.

  Let the beauty linger in my soul

  Of a winter morn draped in patterned frost,

  Of air like wine,

  Of sunlit snow on limbs of trees,

  Of black, brown trunks bare to the winds that

  sweep the woods.

  Of drifts of crisp brown leaves,

  Swept, now here, now there, with the breeze.

  Let the beauty linger in my soul

  Of firelight in a darkened room,

  Of kindly words,

  Of lovers’ laughter coming through the night,

  Until, at last, I know no greater peace nor ease

  But to remember these.

  The company was startled and shocked by a harsh sound: Rodney, his head leaning against the high back of the chair, was laughing. He stopped abruptly and bent towards Stella: ‘I like that; so full of feeling; so much understanding of the simple things of life, especially that part: Of lovers’ laughter coming through the night.’

  Stella stared at him, anger and fear fighting each other in her face. The women looked distinctly shocked, and the men indignant. Swinburn stood up and impulsively took a step towards her. Barrington, watching him, thought, I would have done that at one time, and wondered why he did not do so now. His mind was suddenly distracted from the scene before him by steps on the gravel outside the french window. He was sitting close to the heavy velvet curtains, and when the sharp rap came on the window he started, as did the rest of those in the room; thankfully, it would seem, as the tension was unbearable.

  They all turned towards the window, and Stella, gladly clutching at this distraction, said: ‘Someone’s knocking; who on earth can it be? See who it is, Herbert; but do be careful of the lights.’

  Barrington stepped within the closed curtains and opened the window: ‘Who is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I want Doctor Swinburn. I’ve been to his house, and they said he was here. I couldn’t find the door, then I saw a bit of light,’ the childish voice floated into the room.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Barrington, ‘or the light will show.’

  When Annie stepped through the velvet curtain she brought a sense of unreality with her. Everyone, including Rodney, sat or stood perfectly still, looking at her as she stared from one to the other, blinking in the strong light.

  ‘Christ!’ said the poet to himself. ‘What a picture!’ He looked at her hair, springing away from the crown of her head and floating down to her waist in sheer silver lines, at the deep fringe which curved inwards just above
her dark eyebrows, and at her slanting green eyes, set in skin so delicate as to appear artificial…Here was beauty!

  Annie’s frightened eyes searched the faces before her, looking for Doctor Swinburn’s. They passed over a face that seemed familiar; then darted back to it: ‘Oh! she cried, and ran towards Rodney at the same time as he stepped towards her. ‘Oh, Doctor!’ She flung her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek hard against his waistcoat. Rodney stroked her hair and held her close, oblivious of the incredulous eyes upon them.

  ‘What is it, Annie?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Kate,’ said Annie, recalling the urgency of her errand and gazing up into his face. ‘My granda hit her with the belt. He hit her and hit her, and the sharp prong stuck in her neck. And it won’t stop bleeding, the blood’s all over the place. Oh, come quickly!’

  For one startled moment, Rodney looked down on her face, then turned and hurried out of the room. Annie followed him into the hall, keeping close on his heels. He was getting into his coat when Swinburn and Stella came out of the drawing room.

  ‘You’re not going!’ said Swinburn. ‘Surely I’m the person to deal with this!’

  ‘Have you gone mad, Rodney?’ asked Stella, with deathly calm. ‘What will people say? And how dare you place me in the position of having to explain, your behaviour to my guests! I think you are out of your mind…I’m sure you are,’ she finished.

  Without a word Rodney buttoned his coat; then slipped into the cloakroom off the hall and a small case with necessities from a medicine cupboard. When he returned he said to Swinburn, with studied politeness, ‘I would like a word with my wife, if you don’t mind.’

  Swinburn, with compressed lips, went into the drawing-room.

  Before Rodney could speak Stella said under her breath, ‘What is this girl to you? How dare you insult me…for a maid, a common servant!…You shan’t do it, do you hear? I’ll have her hounded out of the town.’

  ‘Will Barrington and Swinburn go with her?’ Rodney asked calmly, as he picked up his hat and took Annie’s hand. He felt quite calm now.

  It was years since he had uttered a prayer; but when Annie had stepped into the room, she had appeared like an angel sent to stay his hand and calm his mind; and her arms, as they went around him, seemed to extinguish that blaze of hate which had urged him on to Stella’s destruction; and he had offered up a silent prayer to a God in whom he had not believed.

  Rage flashing from her eyes, Stella gazed at him. That she should be overlooked, in any capacity, for a maid was unthinkable. She turned her furious glance on the child…that’s why he had always liked this child; the mother was his mistress…But for how long? Not so long…it couldn’t have been. He had been all hers until three years ago, she knew that. Well, he would be hers again…Suddenly she wanted him back, wanted him as she had never done before. His charm, which had been dead to her, sprang to life again, and she saw him as he must appear to other women.

  The anger died out of her, and she seemed to melt to a clinging softness before his eyes.

  ‘Darling, don’t go,’ she pleaded. ‘Or if you must, hurry back.’ She touched his arm.

  Rodney looked from her changed face to the hand on his arm, and laughed softly.

  ‘Wait,’ he said to Annie; ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  Then to Stella: ‘I have something for you. You’d better have it now, as I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

  She watched him take the stairs two at a time, and return, hurrying still, with a box in his hands. She was looking at his face, thinking: No common slut will get the better of me, so she did not see his gift until he had placed it in her hands.

  Slowly the blood drained from her face as she saw the familiar mother-of-pearl box. She raised her eyes to his, and for a moment they stood looking at each other. And in that time she knew he was gone from her for ever, and a destructive hate was let loose in her.

  He left her without a word.

  When they were outside, Rodney gripped Annie’s hand.

  ‘Can you run?’ he asked. ‘We’ll catch a tram; it’s no use me tinkering with the car, it hasn’t been used for weeks. Come, keep tight hold of me.’

  They ran down the garden and out into the lane.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, as they ran.

  ‘My granda said I had to go back to the Borough Road school,’ panted Annie, ‘and Kate said she wouldn’t send me. He’s been on about it ever since Kate came home…Oh, Doctor, will she die? the blood was all over the place.’

  Rodney gripped her hand tighter and increased his pace.

  They were nearing the end of the lane when they almost ran into a figure.

  Rodney gave an exclamation.

  ‘That you, Rodney?’ asked a familiar voice.

  ‘Yes, Peter,’ said Rodney, surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you running for?’ asked Peter anxiously. ‘Are you all right?…What’s happened?’

  The reason for Peter’s presence flashed on Rodney, and he put out his hand and gripped Peter’s arm.

  ‘Nothing’s happened, Peter. But thanks for coming, all the same…Have you got your car here? Something’s wrong with Kate; old Hannigan has been beating her. Annie here came up to the house for Swinburn, and, incidentally, brought me to reason again…Will you run us up to the fifteen streets?’

  Peter did not question why Swinburn wasn’t seeing to the case, nor why Rodney should be so concerned about Kate Hannigan. Enough that he was himself again.

  When they reached the end of the fifteen streets, he dropped them, not offering to accompany Rodney to see what the trouble was. Although he didn’t believe for one moment that Rodney was the father of Annie, there was something here he could not understand, but something into which, he felt, it was not his business to probe.

  So he left them, saying, ‘Come up tomorrow, Rodney…come to dinner…Mind, don’t forget ours is at one o’clock,’ he added, laughing.

  ‘I will,’ said Rodney. ‘Many thanks, Peter.’

  And, taking Anne’s hand again, he hurried off.

  It was Mr Mullen who opened the door to them, peering at them in the dim light.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s you! You’ve been quicker than I thought.’

  Then, on closer inspection, ‘Begod, if it isn’t Doctor Prince, himself!…Well, I didn’t expect to see you, Doctor; I thought you’d be across the water by now. But I’m glad to see you, all the same…Mind how you go,’ he admonished; ‘this place is in a hell of a mess.’

  Rodney looked at the kitchen aghast. The table was end up near the window, the floor was strewn with broken crockery, Lord Roberts had been ruthlessly torn from his frame, and from his horse, which, with his black bodyguard, was now lying on top of a pile of brasses in the far corner of the room. The mantelpiece, which the brasses had adorned, was bare; the chiffonier door was splintered, as if a foot had gone through it; and the wall near the staircase was spattered with blood.

  ‘Yes, just look at it!’ said Mr Mullen. ‘He should be put bloody well inside. I wanted to go for the bobbies. But would Sarah hear of it? No! Didn’t want the disgrace of fetching the bobbies. But I told her that if anything happens to that lass, there’ll be more than a bit of disgrace…he’ll swing!…‘Bout time too, I say; bloody maniac!’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Rodney.

  ‘Oh, he’s cleared out. He always does after a bout like this. You won’t see him for days; goes to his sister’s in Jarrow, I think. Hope he breaks his bloody neck in getting there. That’s my prayer…Can you see your way?’ he asked, as Rodney went up the stairs, and added: ‘You stay here with me, Annie, and we’ll see if we can get this place straight.’

  Sarah, sitting beside Kate’s bed, gave a start as Rodney entered the room, and her fingers went uncertainly to her mouth, and Mrs Mullen, looking up from the fire she was tending, exclaimed in surprise: ‘Why, Doctor!’

  Rodney gave her a nod and bent over Kate,
whose face was ashen except where it was spattered with blood. A towel, pressed to her neck, was red and wet.

  He stripped off his coat.

  ‘Come,’ he said to Sarah gently. ‘You must go to bed; you shouldn’t be up, you know.’ Whatever had to be done, he couldn’t do it with her sitting looking at him, with that pained and frightened expression.

  ‘Will she die?’ asked Sarah, letting him help her to rise.

  ‘Not if I can help it…you know that,’ he added softly.

  She turned to him at the door, looking up into his face: ‘You’ll not hurt my Kate?’ she pleaded…‘Oh, Doctor, don’t hurt her.’

  ‘I’ll never hurt Kate,’ he answered, after a moment. ‘You can rest assured.’

  She sighed and turned away as if satisfied. Mrs Mullen, taking her arm, put her own construction on the conversation. ‘Of course he won’t hurt her, Sarah. You know that. If anyone can put her right, it will be the doctor.’

  ‘Pray God you’re right,’ murmured Rodney, as he set about examining Kate.

  She lay quite still, her eyes closed. When he lifted up an eyelid he saw she was conscious, but she gave no sign of recognition.

  He took the towel gently away from her neck and examined the wound, his eyes narrowing as he did so. What an escape! Another fraction and it would have been a jugular vein. As it was she had lost a lot of blood.

  She was still in her clothes - what was left of them. Her blouse was torn in shreds, disclosing the weals on her breast and shoulders. The flesh was torn in places, and was now beginning to discolour. His jaw stiffened, even as his heart melted with pity.

  ‘Can you help me, Mrs Mullen?’ he asked, as she came back into the room.

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can, Doctor,’ she answered.

  ‘That’s good. Then just follow what I say and we’ll get along fine…First get me some boiling water, and then we’ll start.’

  ‘You’ve missed your vocation, Mrs Mullen,’ said Rodney, some time later. ‘You should have been a nurse.’

  Her homely face flushed at his praise.

  ‘Never had no chance of being anything like that, in my time,’ she said…‘Will I try to get her clothes off, Doctor?’ she added.