The Mallen Litter

by Catherine Cookson

  From then on he had understood her more, yet he had been unable to forget her years of neglect which at times had been cruel because of the open love she had shown to the other two. He still longed for some sign of affection from her, the touch of her hand, a kind look from her eyes. Sometimes he thought he would bring it all into the open and say to her, ‘I’m not to blame for being born; and remember I’m of your flesh too.’ But he could never bring himself to take that step because if she still rejected him after that his second state would be worse than his first and life would really become unbearable.

  He often wondered how he and his father would have fared if it hadn’t been for Ruthie. The only comfort his father had had for years had come from Ruthie and the only mothering he had ever known had come from Ruthie. But Ruthie wasn’t his mother; this tall, beautiful being looking at him now was his mother. If only she wasn’t so beautiful. She was turned fifty and there wasn’t a line on her skin, and if she had grey hairs she had them well hidden. Yet in spite of her beauty she had the unhappiest face he had ever seen on a woman, and this was like salt to his own wounds, for, in spite of what she had done to him, she had done equally as much harm to herself, for her lover, the farmer in the Northumberland valley, could not have given her much satisfaction over the years or else there would have been times when her expression would have shown some signs of pleasure if not delight; but even when she must have thought she was unobserved it remained the same.

  Once when on a visit to Brigie he had gone along the road to the cottage and, having forced a window, he had gone in. Although it was kept aired by the Hall staff it smelt musty and full of decay, and everything looked old-fashioned.

  When he had stood before the picture that still hung over the mantelpiece in the living room and had looked at the old white-haired man with the bulbous stomach smiling down from out of the frame, he had thought, My God! Will I come to that? Yet he could see a resemblance to himself in the face, and the way the hands were placed on the knees; he nearly always sat like that himself.

  He had gone from room to room thinking that this was where it all started, the love and the hate, and only the hate remained. And then, since the day was fine, he had walked over the hills, seven miles over the hills to Wolfbur, and he had gone down into the farmyard and asked for a cup of milk, and a woman on a crutch had given him a large mugful and offered him some bread and butter. But he had refused it. He had thanked her, and touched his hat but hadn’t raised it; he did not want the streak to give him away. An older woman had come to the door and looked at him hard. She must once have been tall but was now slightly stooped, her hair was white and her face was lined, and he had thought, That’s Constance, and the other is Sarah. But where was he, his mother’s lover?

  They met as he was leaving the farm. In the gateless gap in the wall they both stopped and looked at each other, and although the man had changed he recognised him as the person he had seen kissing his mother in the wood and he knew he should take his fist and bash it into this man’s face by way of repayment for the hurt he had done both to himself and to his dad. But as he continued to look at the man he thought, If people hadn’t interfered he would have been my father and my mother would have kissed me.

  The man said, ‘Where are you from?’ He lied and said, ‘Hexham,’ and when he turned from him and walked away, the man called after him, ‘There’s a nearer way than that,’ but he took no notice and walked on.

  Life was crazy, the world was crazy, mad crazy; war was crazy and he was going into it. He didn’t want to go into it; no, he wanted to stay in the warehouse. He liked the business; he liked travelling back and forth between Newcastle and Manchester; he liked staying with his Uncle John and his Aunt Jenny. And there was a woman in Manchester who was good to visit, and there was another in Newcastle who was good to visit. He didn’t want to join the blasted army. Let the politicians do their own damned work because that’s all wars were for, to clear up the mess of politicians.

  ‘Where will you be going?’ She was speaking to him. He answered very coolly, ‘I’m not sure; it’s they to command, me to obey from now on.’

  Jonathan and Harry laughed, and Harry said, ‘That’ll be a change. But it won’t remain long that way, I bet. What d’you say, Jonathan?’ and Jonathan replied, ‘I’ll lay my bet with yours.’ Then they both grinned at Ben.

  As Barbara rose hastily from the seat they all moved back, and when she said, ‘You’d better have some tea, don’t you think?’ Jonathan and Harry, as if they were still young boys, answered, ‘Yes, yes, we’d like some tea,’ and they followed her out of the room and downstairs, Benjamin coming last.

  Two

  Benjamin was the first to leave the house. He put his head round the drawing-room door, called, ‘I’m off then. Be seeing you,’ and left. But he got only as far as the steps leading down to the drive when Harry caught him up and, pulling him round by the arm, demanded, ‘Look! What is it?’

  ‘What do you mean, what is it?’

  ‘Something’s up.’

  ‘Nothing more than usual. You saw what happened, you were there. Has she spoken one word to me except to say, “When will you be going?” since I came in?’

  Harry sighed, gave one shake of his head and said ‘It’s a special night. You could have stayed your time out.’

  ‘She’s much easier when I’m out of the house.’

  ‘Aw, man’—Harry was again shaking him by the arm—‘when are you going to get over that? Look, it’s because of her deafness…And look…’

  ‘No. Now don’t let’s go over it again, boy. I’ve lived with it since I can first remember and I don’t mind now, I don’t, honest.’

  ‘She doesn’t mean it.’

  ‘What do you mean, she doesn’t mean it? Can you tell me what she means?’

  They stared at each other in the deepening twilight and Harry said, ‘I’m going to miss you; we’re all going to miss you.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Aw, hell’s flames!’ Harry flung his head from side to side. ‘Come off your perch. You know, you’re as bad as she is, you are, you are; you get on your high horse and there’s nobody can do anything with you. You’ve got no room to talk. And tonight was special. We agreed before we came in, in a sort of unspoken way, that it was special. And you know something, you know something, Ben?’ Harry’s voice now dropped to a whisper and took on a note of deep sadness. ‘This might be the last time we’ll see each other for God knows when. I don’t know what’ll happen to us when we get up there, I only hope we’re not separated. I asked if we could be together and you know the answer I got from a big-mouthed ignorant slob? “Aye,” he said; “you’ll have the same nurse to put your nappies on you.” I could have belted him, I could.’

  Ben put out his hand and gripped Harry’s shoulder, saying, ‘You’ll be all right. You’ll likely be in dry dock until it’s over. And that won’t be long so they say. If I don’t see Jonathan before we’re off give him a dig in the ribs for me. Bye, Harry.’

  ‘Bye, Ben.’

  ‘Bye.’

  They shook hands, stared at each other for a long moment, then Ben turned and walked briskly away down the drive. But he didn’t reach the outer gate before Jonathan’s voice came at him now shouting, ‘Hi you!’

  Ben stopped, and when Jonathan came up with him he demanded, breathlessly, ‘What do you mean, going off like that?’

  ‘Duty calls.’

  ‘Well, she can wait.’

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m going to Ruthie’s.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘She’d be pleased if you’d drop in.’

  ‘Well, time is running short.’ Jonathan looked at his watch. ‘But I’ll put it to Harry; we’ll see.’

  They stood, as if slightly embarrassed, looking at each other until Ben said, ‘Take care of yourself. And mind what I told you; ask to be put on a painting job, preferably doing the captain’s portrait.’

  Jonathan’s head went b
ack on a laugh. ‘I’ll say those very words. “Chief,” I’ll say, “I ain’t goin’ to slap no paint on no ship’s backside, no sir, not me. Cap’n’s portrait or nothing, that’s what me big brother said. Take it or leave it, Chiefie, take it or leave it.”’

  They thrust at each other with their fists; then, their hands clasping, their gaze held.

  ‘Look after Harry,’ said Ben.

  ‘And you, give those girls a break,’ said Jonathan.

  Then Ben was walking out into the road and Jonathan back up the drive.

  Ruth Foggety lived in the corner house of Linton Street on the outskirts of Jesmond Dene. It was a respectable neighbourhood. All Jesmond Dene was respectable. But in Linton Street the houses were small, two down and two up, self-contained yard with its own tap, and gas in all the rooms, not merely downstairs. Some people called Ruth Missis, and some called her Miss, generally she was known as Ruthie, but no matter by what name they called her she was known to be a kept woman. As, however, the man was said to be a gentleman, and he was the only one who called, a lot was forgiven her.

  Very few people had ever seen her man, for he rarely visited her in the daylight, even in summer.

  She had an enviable life of it, had Ruthie, so the neighbours said. Who else, even in this street that supported an insurance agent, a chemist’s assistant, a shopwalker, and four clerks, who among them could take their family away, two or three times in the summer, for a week at that?

  She had only the one child, and she had grown up into a fine girl. Everybody had a good word to say for Mary Ann Foggety, and Mary Ann had a cheery word to say to everybody she met.

  Few people had been invited into the end house of Linton Street but those who had said that it was better and more tastefully furnished than any other in the street; in fact, some said that Ruthie had her house furnished quite a bit above her class.

  There was never any speculation about the young man who came to the corner house for he had called there since he was a young lad in short trousers. Sometimes he had brought another two lads along with him, but mostly he came on his own; and he had continued to come as he grew older. Some said he was a distant relation of Ruthie’s, others that he was her fancy man’s son. But then, surely, it wasn’t likely her fancy man would let his son visit her an’ all, was it now, and him just a little boy?

  No-one dared to ask Ruth outright who her young visitor was, or, later, the young man, or the big fellow as he grew to be, because they knew she had a tongue that would clip clouts and they might get more than they bargained for by way of answer.

  When Ben knocked on the door Ruth opened it to him, stared at him for a moment, then her head moving at first in small nods was soon bouncing on her shoulders and she turned from him, leaving the door open, and walked through the sitting room into the kitchen, saying loudly, ‘Well! You’ve done it then?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve done it.’

  In the kitchen she turned and faced him and her head now shaking slowly from side to side, she said, ‘And of course the other two have gone into the navy?’

  ‘Right first time…Have you a drop of anything in?’

  ‘Did you ever know the time I hadn’t? Sit yourself down. By the look of you, you won’t do the British army much good. You’re a fool, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Ruthie, I know that. If I remember rightly, you’ve told me the same thing at odd times before.’

  ‘An’ it won’t be the last time either.’

  From a substantial rosewood sideboard flanking the wall opposite the open fireplace she brought out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, and as she handed him a good measure she asked, ‘What did she say?’

  ‘What do you think?’ He looked up at her.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Next to it. She got out of it by saying, “Shall we have tea?”’ He took a sharp gulp of the whisky; then, putting the glass on the table he smacked one lip over the other before looking towards the fire and saying, ‘You know, she frightens me at times, she’s so calm.’ Now his body swung round to her and he ground out, ‘So bloody calm.’

  Taking a chair opposite him, Ruth sipped from her glass and sighed, ‘It’s all on the surface; she’s no more calm than you are. There’s a volcano inside of her I would say, always has been. Anyway, don’t expect me to sympathise with you, either about that or’—she dug her finger towards his uniform—‘the mess you’ve got yourself into. You could have waited, couldn’t you?’

  ‘And be conscripted?’

  ‘Where you bound for?’

  ‘They didn’t tell me. They haven’t started to confide in me yet.’ He grinned at her. ‘It’s early days but rumour says down south somewhere. I wouldn’t mind seeing France again. It’s hard to believe I was born there. I’m a French citizen by rights.’

  ‘Parly voo frongsay? An’ that’s not all you are…’

  He put his glass down so quickly on the table that the remains of its contents sprayed over the edge, and he flung back his head and let out a roar. Her Irish-cum-Geordie accent mouthing the French tongue was too much.

  ‘Aw you!’ Laughing with him, she rose to her feet and made to pass him on her way to the scullery to put the kettle on, but paused, her face just a little above the level of his—for she had developed, as she had promised in her teens, into a round, comfortable little woman—she gazed at him and their laughter suddenly stopped and instinctively her arms went about him and his head fell onto her breast, as it had done all those years ago in the summer house. And they held each other tightly for a moment, until she said thickly, ‘I’m gonna miss you.’

  It was some seconds before he mumbled, ‘And me you, Ruthie.’

  He disengaged himself from her embrace—she was never the first to break away, a rule she had made over the years—and turned to the table and, looking at the glass, said, ‘I can see the bottom again,’ to which she replied, ‘Well, you’re not getting any more, not yet anyway. We’re having a cup of tea and a bite to eat. I’ve got some finny haddy in the oven, can’t you smell it? An’ I’ve baked the day.’

  He called to her now in the scullery, ‘Where’s Mary Ann?’

  ‘At a dance.’

  ‘With Joe?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. It could be Tom, Dick or Harry now, anything in uniform. She’s got no more sense than all the rest. I told her the night if she wasn’t careful she’d get more than her eye in a sling. She said they’d all be gone soon. What I said to her was, there was still no need to lay herself out on the butcher’s slab, there’ll always be flies around to settle on the meat.’

  Oh, Ruthie! He rubbed his hand hard across his chin. Always be flies around to settle on the meat. What would he have done without her all these years? She had been the one person who had kept him from going really sour; and not only him. He asked now, ‘Are you expecting Dad?’

  ‘I expect him when I see him.’

  She expected him when she saw him. Her retorts, as always, were colourful, taken from the esoteric language of the Tyne. He had listened to it—and her—more than to his parents. Oh yes, because as far back as he could remember the conversation between them had been almost nil, as had his own conversation with his mother.

  ‘Does your dad know you’ve gone and done it?’

  ‘Yes; I could hardly have left him in the lurch. But he’s got Alec Stonehouse. He’s a good fellow is Alec.’

  ‘What about Jonathan an’ the school, and Harry an’ the office, will their jobs be kept open?’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’ll matter much to Jonathan if he never sees the school again. I think he was going to branch out on his own in any case. He’s good you know, Ruthie, very good, especially with portraits.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’

  ‘And Harry’s place will be all right. If it isn’t, he won’t worry; they’ll always want accountants…Ruthie.’

  ‘Aye, I’m listenin’.’

  ‘I was thinking last night, if I was to peg out who would mourn
me, I mean besides you?’

  She appeared at the scullery door, a plate of bread in her hand, and she stood there looking at him as she cried, ‘Now you look here, you great big galoot. Now you snap out of it. Who’d mourn you? Your dad for number two, or I’d say number one, and meself second, and Mary Ann, and the lads. You don’t realise how much those two think of you.’ She walked towards the sideboard, put the plate down on it, opened the drawer and took out a cloth, and as she swung it across the table she said, ‘You’re a big outsized numskull. You can see nowt beyond her, nowt or nobody beyond her, can you? What you want to get into your head, lad, is that you’re not the only fellow whose mother hasn’t broken her neck over him. You go on like this simply because she hasn’t made a fuss…’

  ‘Shut up, Ruthie.’ He had risen to his feet. ‘For God’s sake don’t you give me that line, not at this stage. It isn’t that she hasn’t broken her neck over me, but that she hates me. All my life I’ve asked myself what I’d give for one kind word from her, and the truth is I would have given anything, everything, Dad, you, the lads, aye even at times life itself, if she had once put her hand on my head as she did on the others. If she had once said to me ‘What are you doing, Ben?’ as she did to the others. If she had once taken an interest in anything I was doing, any damn thing. But no, no. Do you know what it’s been like living with the other two thirds of yourself, seeing them comforted and cosseted while you had to look on? She started a canker in me years ago, even before the day I saw her with her fancy man. The only thing I’m grateful for is the other two never took her side against me.’

  Ruth brought the plate from the sideboard and put it in the middle of the tablecloth, then she went back into the scullery and from there she said, ‘You should have left years ago, I told you.’