Kate Hannigan

by Catherine Cookson

  She extracted a letter here and there, taking six in all, and she was back, sitting beside Sarah, within a few minutes.

  The idea had first entered her mind some months ago, but when he had been reported missing there was no sense in doing it. But now…well, things were just as they were before, but she wasn’t letting on.

  Mary Dixon’s brother had given her the idea. He was a postman, and he had remarked, ‘That Kate Hannigan’s bloke out in France does some writing; she stands on the doorstep waiting for letters every post…and she gets them. He must have nowt else to do.’ And when Mary Dixon got her the job, mornings, at the doctor’s, after their cook had left, she began to hear things, and see quite a bit, too. It was then the use to which some of the letters could be put had entered her mind.

  It was another score she held against him, that she had to go out charring and cooking, and her a midwife. For never a case had she had in years, and all through him…and now she was working at his house! What would he say to that, if he knew? Her time would be short, she guessed. Well, he wouldn’t know; he was nicely set for a long time yet. God blast him and keep him there!

  She liked his wife no better than she did him…snotty bitch! And she was having a nice titty-fal-lal with the other doctor, wasn’t she now. And another bloke in the offing, Mary said. Thinking this over, it had occurred to Dorrie that her mistress might find her husband’s letters to another woman useful, should things become too hot for her with her couple of fancy men. And she would likely stump up a pretty penny to get them…by God, yes! She would stump up, if she had anything to do with it!

  Ah! She sighed contentedly; she’d waited a long time to get even with him…but God was good.

  She was sitting placidly on the chair, her hands folded in her lap, when Annie returned.

  ‘That’s a good lass. Now I’ll have to go, I’m afraid…Yer granny hasn’t woken up so I won’t disturb her. Tell her I just popped in.’

  As she went out, Annie thought, Oh, Kate will be vexed. But what could I do? I don’t know whether to tell her or not.

  It was late in the afternoon, and Kate was cleaning the brasses when Annie said, ‘Dorrie Clarke came to see grandma this morning, when you were out.’

  ‘What!’ Kate turned on her.

  ‘I couldn’t help it…I couldn’t stop her; she came into the bedroom without knocking.’

  ‘You should have said…oh, you couldn’t, I suppose.’

  She put the candlestick down slowly on the table. ‘How long did she stay?’ she asked flatly.

  ‘Not long, about five minutes…or ten.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Not much. Just how was grandma…and she said her legs were bad too. She asked me…’ Annie stopped. Should she tell Kate that she had gone a message for Dorrie Clarke and left her in the house with her grandma? No, she wouldn’t; perhaps it would make her more vexed.

  Kate looked at her sharply. ‘Well, what did she ask you?’

  ‘Only about grandma.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  “No.’

  Kate stood for a moment looking out of the kitchen window…What did it matter, anyway? Dorrie Clarke could do no more harm.

  Saying to Annie, ‘Will you finish these for me?’ she washed her hands and went upstairs.

  In her own room, she sat on the foot of the bed and leant her head wearily on the brass rail. She felt suddenly tired, not the exhausting tiredness that the end of each day brought to her body, but a tiredness that seemed to drain the very spirit from her…Why, oh why had she to go through all this? One thing after another piling up…no respite…The fact of Dorrie Clarke being in the house had created another dread. But what, she asked herself, need she fear from Dorrie Clarke now? If he were still alive there might be cause to worry. She gripped the bedrail…But he wasn’t dead…he wasn’t! Oh God, don’t let him be dead! she prayed. I’ll do anything, anything. Jesus, save him! Do what you like with me, only don’t let him die.

  The old bargaining was in her prayer. She recognised it, but was too weary to scorn it. She slumped down, her hands dropping into her lap.

  Was God paying her out for all her questioning, for all her probing? she wondered. No; God, as she saw Him now, wasn’t that kind of a god. He said, ‘I have given you a life and a conscience by which to steer it. Whether you arrive at your destination by way of the Catholic religion, the Protestant religion, or by way of no recognised sect whatever, as long as you recognise you are steering for me, that is all that matters.’ She knew He understood all things, her sickness of heart now, her burning desire of a few weeks ago.

  Was it only a few weeks ago since she had stood in this room, clasping Rodney’s letter to her? It had said: Seven days, beloved…Seven days! In a short while, seven days. I can’t believe it. We must spend every minute together. Arrange for someone to look after your mother and Annie; offer any sum you like, only get someone. Now don’t be silly about this. I read your special letter every night. You’ll never really know all it means to me…

  Her special letter! The letter which had taken so long to write; hours of thinking and rewriting when a look would have conveyed all there was to say. There had been nothing restrained about that letter; her battered-down emotions had overflowed; and when his reply came the house had become bright with her singing and happy laughter, except when Tim was in.

  She had set about preparing herself for their meeting; for nearly two years there had been no time to spend on herself. Each moment was taken up with nursing and work and with washing to eke out their existence. So she had feverishly tried to make up for lost time; her weekly bath had become a nightly affair, the work it entailed on top of the grind of the day becoming a pleasure. After the washing she would fill the boiler with clean water, and a dying fire would heat it sufficiently. The tin bath had to be carried to her room, then the water, bucket after bucket.

  Years before she had swung the cracked mirror back and forth and had seen that she was beautiful. Now she swung it again…but more shyly, for she swung it with the knowledge of what she was searching for. It was eleven years since she had desired to see the reflection of her body. But, as she looked at it now, she knew it had much more to offer than when she was seventeen. It was firm, and moulded like live ivory. From her breast, over the curve of her stomach, down to the rise of her thighs, was a continued modulation. Her face was thinner, but still without a line, and her hair was alive and winging. Only one thing marred the whole, her beauty stopped at her wrists. Her hands were red and coarse - cinders and soda water had taken their toll of them. Nightly, before getting into bed, she sat and rubbed grease into them. In the morning they would look paler, but by evening they were white, with the skin crinkled into little folds. Then, freed from the water and pushing the flat iron, they would harden and redden once more.

  Annie hurried into the room.

  ‘The priest’s downstairs, Kate.’

  ‘Well,’ answered Kate, shortly, ‘he certainly knows his way up.’

  ‘But it’s Father Bailey, Kate.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kate rose and went downstairs.

  ‘Hallo there, Kate!’ said Father Bailey. ‘I thought I’d look in and see your mother; Father O’Malley is laid up with rheumatism.’

  ‘Oh yes, Father. Will you come up?’

  She held the door open for him. Before mounting he turned and faced her: ‘You’re having a hard time, Kate, aren’t you?’

  She didn’t answer; his sympathy was more unnerving than Father O’Malley’s censure.

  ‘Won’t you come to mass and try to find peace that way?’

  She shook her head: ‘I can’t, Father.’

  ‘Why not, Kate?’

  ‘I don’t believe in any of the things I used to.’

  He looked at her, long and steadily.

  ‘You’re passing through one of the bad patches, aren’t you? And you think you’re alone; you don’t think anyone’s ever been through your particular kind of misery be
fore. But it happens to most of us…I know, for I’ve been through it.’

  Kate looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Don’t let suffering make you hard, Kate. Let it rather be an academy of sympathy…No man dare look God in the face and say he has never doubted Him, Kate.’

  ‘It isn’t that I doubt the existence of God, Father…it’s…oh, I can’t explain it!’ She put her hand wearily to her head.

  ‘I know, I know. It’s the Catholic way of looking at Him that you are doubting…Yes, if you think at all, that comes too, sooner or later. But if you’ll only keep on praying, Kate, He’ll put that right. Keep knocking and the door will be opened…He’ll give you the faith to see clearly and to trust simply, and you’ll find that the way He dictates is for your own good. If you rebel against life, struggle against the tide, time and again you will find yourself thrust into black despair. It is as if God wants you to work along certain channels, and either through obstinacy, misdirection of will, or fear, you will not allow yourself to be led. Kate, He knows what makes for your ultimate good…for the good of the soul, that must live on, if we believe in anything…Stop fighting, and come to mass, Kate.’

  ‘I can’t, Father.’

  ‘What’s made you like this, Kate? I’ve known and watched you since you were a child.’

  She was about to answer, ‘Priests and teachers have made me like this,’ but then she thought, I would likely have come to this way of thinking in the end, in any case. So she remained silent.

  He read her thoughts nearer than she guessed, for his patience, too, was tried daily. Sometimes he felt he was earning a saint’s halo simply by living with Father O’Malley.

  ‘God bless you, Kate,’ he said, and went upstairs.

  She stood biting her lip, the tears stinging her eyes; understanding made things worse, it made her ask herself about this question, Can I be right and millions of people wrong?

  She thought of Master Bernard’s words: ‘If you find faith in God through the Catholic religion, hang on to it with all your might, for the greatest disaster in life is to lose one’s faith.’

  She was trying to follow the truth, as she saw it; and she had wanted life, full, pulsing life; she had been willing at last to barter all for life. But now she had neither life nor religion, and she was lost.

  ‘Oh, she couldn’t think…Why bother to think! What did anything matter? The end was near, she felt; something must happen soon; she couldn’t fight this unequal battle against poverty and fear much longer.

  ‘I’ve finished the brasses, Kate,’ Annie said. ‘Can I do anything else for you?’

  Kate looked at her, and, seeing the anxiety in her face, thought, I’m forgetting about her; I mustn’t. I mustn’t give in. What would become of her? It would be my early life over again. Place, twelve hours a day, ten if she were lucky, for there wouldn’t be any Tolmaches for her…they happen only once in a thousand years…She stared at Annie fixedly, thinking, She’s too beautiful, she’d be dragged under right away.

  ‘Kate!’ said Annie. ‘Kate, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, my dear, nothing; I was just thinking.’

  Kate shook her head and jumped towards the fire. ‘Go on out to play for a while if you like.’

  ‘Oh, all right. I’ll go round to the shops for one more look before they pull the blinds down.’

  Kate nodded, and Annie hurried out.

  Christmas, and not a thing to give her! If only she could have got her some small thing…Oh, what was the use of thinking about it; she must conserve every penny she had received for the watch as there was nothing more left in the house which she could pawn. What she would do when the money was gone, she did not know. She would never ask him for any, and she felt she had imposed enough on Mrs Mullen. There were other neighbours, but she couldn’t bear to think of their looks of satisfaction were she to humble herself to borrow from them…She would know what they were thinking…‘Lady’ Hannigan, brought off her perch at last. She knew that was how they referred to her, and that not an action of hers escaped their notice. With the exception of a few here and there, it was as if improvement or difference in another bred hate in them. They were waiting for her to snap…There was a street near the docks where it was easy to make money…My God!

  She was in a flurry as she set about laying the tea…God above, what had put that into her head? What had made her even think of it? Yes, she knew, it was what most of them were hoping would happen.

  She had just finished getting the tea ready when Tim came in. She put the teapot on the table and went into the front room and busied herself there.

  A little later, hearing his chair scrape, and thinking he had gone to wash himself and that she would be able to slip upstairs without having to pass close to him, she went into the kitchen.

  But he was standing in front of the fire, his eyes on the door.

  She hesitated for a second. Then, as she went to walk between him and the table, he held out his hand. In his palm lay a number of half-crowns. She stared at them, fascinated but unable to touch them.

  He waited; then said gruffly, ‘Go on.’

  But terror filled her, and she could not move.

  Swiftly, he took one of her hands and put the money into it, his fist closing over hers as he did so, and, as swiftly, his other hand moved and pressed hard against the front of her thigh.

  She gave a scream and sprang back from him, letting the money fall to the mat.

  He was standing staring at her, his lids drooping over his eyes, his hands working a slow movement up and down his trouser legs, when the stair door opened. He turned and gaped in surprise at the priest, having been unaware of his presence in the house, and Father Bailey saw the evil, raw and uncovered, that oozed from him, and the stark terror in Kate’s eyes.

  The expression on Tim’s face fought between resentment and the look of penitence he was wont to keep for the priests, but something in Father Bailey’s face showed him the uselessness of pretence.

  He gathered up the money from the mat, switched his cap off the back door and went out.

  The priest stood looking at Kate pityingly for some moments, then, shaking his head in perplexity, hurried out after Tim.

  Not a word had been spoken.

  Kate sat down heavily, her legs refusing to support her. She was trembling from head to foot…Something must happen soon…Something had got to happen soon.

  At half-past six Annie came in and asked if she could go to the Baptist Chapel hall with Rosie. The soldiers were there, and were giving a party and presents, and one was dressed up as Father Christmas. And Rosie said they’d get in because they didn’t ask if you were a Catholic or not…

  She suddenly stopped, and before Kate could answer said, ‘Oh, it’s all right, I don’t want to go.’ She saw that Kate looked very white and that the needle in her hand with which she was mending her socks was shaking.

  She took off her outdoor things and sat down near Kate.

  ‘The postman’s doing a late round, he’s loaded with parcels and things,’ she said.

  Kate looked at her, and Annie hung her head. She didn’t know what had made her say it. ‘I didn’t mean to say it, Kate,’ she whispered, her lip trembling.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear, but he won’t be coming here.’

  It was just then the knock came: rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. They looked at each other, startled.

  ‘I’ll go,’ cried Annie, and was through the frontroom in a flash.

  Kate stood, awaiting her return; the socks lay on the mat.

  Annie came running back into the kitchen: ‘It’s a card, Kate,’ she said.

  Kate read the printed buff-coloured card. She read it again. She turned it over, and back, and reread it.

  She sat down in a chair: ‘It’s the doctor, Annie. He’s safe,’ she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper; ‘he’s a prisoner.’

  Annie shivered. She had forgotten what it was like to feel that shiver of delight; the
greyness went out of the day, out of all the things that made up her life; everything was bright and shining again.

  ‘Oh, Kate!’ she cried, and flung her arms about her. ‘Oh, Kate, he’ll be coming back! Oh, Kate!’

  ‘Yes, my dear, he’ll be coming back,’ she said, pressing Annie fiercely to her and rocking her like a child.

  Rosie Mullen opened the back door, unobserved. She stood for a moment wide-eyed before closing it again.

  She ran into her own yard, calling, ‘Kate and Annie’s howling the house down, ma.’

  ‘Oh, my, that’ll mean Sarah’s gone!’ Mrs Mullen hurried out, with Rosie at her heels.

  ‘Is it Sarah?’ she asked, bursting in on Kate.

  Kate shook her head: ‘No, Mrs Mullen…it’s…Look!’ she handed the card to Mrs Mullen.

  Mrs Mullen read it laboriously. ‘Oh, lass, I am glad. A prisoner! Oh, I am glad. You’ll be AI again now.’

  She put her arm about Kate’s shoulder and pulled her head to her much-used breast: ‘There, lass, there! Have a good cry, it’ll do you good.’

  Rosie watched her mother in bewilderment; she wasn’t only telling Kate to cry, but she was starting to cry herself. Never before had she seen as much as a tear on her face; they weren’t a crying lot, the Mullens; only the babies cried, and they soon had that knocked out of them. She didn’t cry; not even at that time when her mother had swiped her lug so hard that she had turned a somersault and landed upside down in the bottom of the cupboard…She looked at Annie…she was howling awful.

  Rosie began to experience a queer feeling, like pins and needles, in her nose, and a bit of brick seemed to have stuck edgeways in her throat. Her face crumpled up, and, try as she might, she was unable to straighten it out.

  Mr Mullen came in, saying, ‘Anything I can do, lass?…Is it Sarah?’

  Mrs Mullen shook her head at him. ‘No, it isn’t Sarah…Kate’s had a bit of good news, that’s all.’