Fanny McBride

by Catherine Cookson

  In the fading light she looked around the room. The old couch with the colourless cushion stuffed neatly into the hole where the springs had come out; the dresser, as usual, cluttered with objects. She saw that the kitchen chairs needed a good scrub and the grate an equally good blackleading. Everything wanted a clean up. Her eyes went to the mantelpiece and travelled over the six brass shoes alternating with flower vases of varying sizes and shapes and full of oddments and rubbish. She looked around at her pictures. There were thirty-five in the room, and they ranged from a Persil advert to a huge picture of all the Popes from Peter. There the Popes stood right opposite to her, in a number of half circles, each with his name at the bottom of the picture. Fanny believed that picture to be of great value and she had been known to tell people that it was priceless; moreover, even if she should be in want of bread she wouldn’t part with it. But she never enlightened her hearers that the value she was referring to was spiritual. She was wise in people and knew that anything of spiritual value that she could show them would not impress them.

  The upholstery on the armchairs was lost under a layer of dirt and grease made by countless impressions of dirty hands and feet. The pair of them, meaning the chairs, she decided as she looked at them now, were very nearly like herself…past it. She eased her seat off a familiar spring and leant her elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her head on her hand. She would be glad when the morrow came and she could get back to work. She prayed her legs would carry her that far. Yet what, she asked herself, would happen when Mary got better? Would the days be all like this one? They had been long enough and lonely enough before she got the job, but the loneliness would be of a deeper intensity once the job was finished. What you’ve never had you never missed was the phrase, but she’d had it, it being company, and liked it these past few weeks, and it had taken her mind off herself and her worries. When she lost her job, and should Phil go, there’d be nothing to do. No need to go out, no meals to get ready, no shirts to wash, no-one to grumble at or listen to, nobody to do anything for, except herself, and she’d just sit here waiting for Corny coming and the occasional visit of the others. She shook her tousled grey head slowly, and asked again, ‘Would the days be like this one until the end?’ Quiet like the grave. Even the noises in the house today and the bairns yelling from the street were different noises, muted by the dread on her…they were not intimate enough. She wanted the noise and bustle about her, tiring her, making her wish that she was rid of it for five minutes so that she could sit down in peace. How often over the years had she longed for just five minutes alone, the house all to herself, to be quiet in. Now she had all the quiet she wanted; perhaps years of it ahead. Dear God, no! She rose hastily from her chair. She was low the day, it was that faint she’d had. She’d make herself some tea. Yet with her hand on the kettle handle she stopped. Should she wait to see if Corny came? He might show up. He hadn’t been for some days, not since the day of the odds and sods. The suspicion of a smile touched her wrinkles. She hoped the measles hadn’t caught him. She should have gone across the water last week to see how things were but the truth of it was she was scared to leave the house in the evenings now. Aye, it had got as bad as that. She was scared to move away from the door after six in case Jack should show up, for she knew his heart would soften one night and he wouldn’t be able to wait another minute; he’d come tearing round, and she knew exactly what would happen. There’d come a rap on the door—oh aye, he’d knock this time—and she would go all unsuspecting like and there he’d be, and the pain in her side would increase until she’d think she was going to die.

  ‘Hallo,’ he’d say; ‘can I come in?’

  She’d make her face blank of all expression and she’d turn from the door saying, ‘It’s open.’

  Slowly he’d follow her into the room, taking off his trilby. Oh, aye, he’d have his trilby on just to show her how far he’d advanced since he’d got out of her clutches.

  There’d be one thing certain, she’d have to sit down. But first she’d pick up the teapot from the hob and pour herself out a cup of tea, and all the while he’d be standing there in the middle of the room looking at her, uncertain just which way she was going to jump. Then, ‘How you keeping?’ he’d say.

  She’d take a long drink of tea before answering, ‘As you see.’

  She’d watch his hands uneasily moving round his hat, pulling its good brim all out of shape, and she’d chide herself, ‘Let up. Let up, or else you’ll be sorry.’ Then she’d say, as offhand as she could, ‘If you want a cup of tea you know where the cups are…you don’t want me to run after you, do you?’

  On this she’d see the tenseness would go out of his face, his eyes would crinkle at the corners and almost like an obedient child he’d go into the scullery and return with his own special pint mug in his hand. And that would mean he was coming back. No, no! She shook her head at this thought. Somehow she didn’t want that, for that would mean everything had gone wrong for him. Oh—her head actually wobbled on her shoulders. Dear God, please understand her, for she couldn’t understand herself. She had done all in her power to stop him marrying the lass and now here she was afraid of a split between them. Anyway, she’d say to him, ‘Can’t you sit down?’ And he’d sit down with the mug of tea in his hand and a silence would fall between them, a silence that screamed to fling itself into words. And at last he’d bring out, ‘I’m sorry, Ma,’ and she would be unable to answer.

  Then he’d say, ‘I meant to come sooner.’

  Still she wouldn’t be able to answer.

  ‘It was all my fault, Ma,’ he’d say. ‘You always played square with me; I should have told you how things were going and it wouldn’t have come so hard on you.’

  Then she’d draw herself up from her chair, and going to the fire and taking the poker she’d rake vigorously, while lifting her apron to wipe away the sweat from her face. And then, perhaps, she’d turn to him and say kindly, ‘What’s done is done, it’s no good raking over the past. Will you have something to eat?’ And they’d eat together. And likely as not, they’d laugh. Oh, aye, they’d laugh.

  She almost leapt from her chair when the knock came on the door, and with her hand pressed tightly against her ribs under her left breast she went slowly towards it. And when she opened it and saw Margaret standing there, she felt physically sick for a moment.

  ‘Aren’t you well, Mrs McBride?’ Margaret was in the room now, leading her back to her seat.

  ‘I’m all right, lass. I get the wind now and again. Sit down.’

  ‘Sit down yourself. Perhaps it’s cold you’ve got, it’s such a raw day.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is cold. Will you have a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes. No, don’t get up, I’ll pour it out.’

  When she had poured out the tea, Margaret sat down on the other side of the hearth, and sipped at the tea slowly, not speaking. As she looked at the girl the pain in Fanny’s side ebbed away and with it the shock she had felt when she had imagined her wishful thinking to have taken concrete form.

  ‘Is there anything wrong, lass?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Margaret’s eyes dropped as she went on, ‘Mother’s in bed and the children are out…at Sunday school.’

  ‘Philip’s out an’ all.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Margaret’s eyes were still cast down.

  Which meant, thought Fanny, that she wouldn’t have come down if she had known he was in, for she had been evading him. He hadn’t said a word about it, but his manner had spoken clearly enough. Nor had he heard from the other one, she had asked him point blank about this. The next news she would glean about Madam Sylvia would come through Mary Prout, no doubt.

  Margaret caught her interest sharply by saying, ‘I’ve got to go away for a couple of days shortly, Mrs McBride. I wondered would it be too much to ask’—she hesitated—‘would you give an eye to them?’

  ‘I’ll—I’ll do what I can, lass, but you know I’m out half the day.’

  �
��Yes, I know, but if you could just—’

  ‘Have you got to go away?’

  Not only Margaret’s gaze, but her head dropped now until her chin was touching her chest, and she looked almost as young as Marian. But when she said, ‘Yes, I’ve got to go,’ she made the statement definitely, and it did not encourage further enquiries, for she rose to her feet. But Fanny, not to be put off so easily, looked up at her and asked, ‘Are you goin’ to see a friend or someone?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m going to see a friend.’ It was a parrot-like repetition.

  Fanny’s gaze did not waver from Margaret’s averted face as she persisted, ‘Would it be a man you’re goin’ to see?’

  Now she was looking at the girl’s back, and as Margaret once again almost repeated her words, saying, ‘Yes, it is a man I’m going to see, Mrs McBride,’ Fanny felt a quick surge of anger against her. She liked the lass well enough, she liked her more than a good many she had seen, but there was something fishy about her, and, she said so bluntly in her own fashion. ‘Then if that’s the case you should tell my lad, because as you well know he’s got notions about you. But I may as well tell you here and now, although I’ve got nothing against you, lass, I’m not for him saddling himself with your family.’

  Fanny’s tone brought Margaret round, and although her voice was low there was a sharp note in it as she replied to the first part of Fanny’s statement. ‘And he had notions about that other girl, hadn’t he?’

  Fanny spoke kindly, as she said, ‘Well, you need take no heed of what that one said. That was over and done with long afore you came on the scene. That one’s a scheming piece, tryin’ to palm something onto him. I know my lad, no-one better.’

  But even as she said this Fanny was asking herself if she did know people, especially when they were men. Weren’t men made for the precise purpose of bringing trouble to women? Legally or otherwise, it was all the same.

  ‘Well, it makes no difference really, Mrs McBride, for there’s nothing can come of it.’

  There was a listlessness apparent in both Margaret’s voice and body now, and Fanny, easing herself to her feet, said, ‘You don’t know with things like that. I happened to hear what you said to your mother the other night, lass, and what she said to you. You were quick enough in his defence that time.’ She watched the colour creep over Margaret’s face, then added, ‘I wasn’t at the door when you started, I had no intention of listenin’. It was thrown at me as it were. But you see, I’m a bit puzzled when I hear you say one thing one minute and the opposite the next, so to speak.’

  Margaret walked slowly to the door, and when her hand was on the knob, Fanny said, ‘Can’t you tell me who it is you’re goin’ to see?’

  Margaret did not turn around as she muttered, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs McBride, but I can’t.’

  The door closed and Fanny was alone again and as she sat down once more she asked herself if the girl was lying about her age. She might be nineteen, but she could be twenty-three or four. Marian could be hers after all and she was going to see the father. Yet in that case why should she have spoken up that night as if she wanted their Phil? As she’d said earlier on, there was something here that would need a lot of digging down to.

  But the interest in the girl’s affairs could not really hold her, and within a moment of being alone again she was thinking, ‘My God, what a shock I got with that knock on the door. Another dose like that and it will finish me.’

  After another half-hour, she asked herself should she go to Benediction, to make a break in the monotony. But she dismissed the idea almost as it was born. You never knew, he might turn up, Sunday night or no Sunday night. This was the main night for the Salvation Army, the night it banged its brains out on the drums. This might be the one night he’d had enough and come home.

  Chapter Nine

  As Fanny punched the tickets behind the glass partition and eyed each customer, she thought to herself, ‘Begod, the town’s out!’ Four times this morning there had been a queue as far as the door. And the morrow, without a doubt, they’d be longer, it being Christmas Eve and everybody running around like scalded cats getting in their last-minute shopping.

  Fanny had been put on mornings this week and she didn’t like mornings. They were always much busier in the mornings, not that that mattered, but it was the getting here. And then again, this wasn’t the whole of it, it was a long time from half-past one until she went to bed at night. True she had her work to do and a bit shopping, but the afternoons at home didn’t seem to pass as quickly as the mornings. And her legs seemed to have got into their swing and ready for taking a walk by midday, whereas first thing she could hardly get her shoes on. Even so, if it hadn’t been for the gnawing ache in her heart she would have said she was enjoying herself, for there was Maggie, running up and down the corridor, quipping with the regulars, exclaiming loudly at some untoward happening such as a toilet roll missing or a wet floor; there were the people passing, ever passing before her window, short ones, skinny ones, ones as big as herself, all carrying the exciting aura of Christmas around them. And, believe it or not, she’d had eight tips this morning, amounting to four shillings altogether. Now who would believe anybody would tip you in this place? It had both tickled her and pleased her.

  At home, too, everything was set for Christmas. Everything, including her heart, was full of expectations. The house was all cleaned up in a very special way that the event of Christmas alone warranted. Last week she had done her top. Defying all Philip’s entreaties to leave it till he got home when he would do it, she had covered what furniture couldn’t be shoved into the bedroom and with the help of Sam Lavey, who held the bucket, she had stood on the table and slashed at the ceiling with whitewash. It had been almost an easy matter while the table and herself had the support of the walls, but the centre patch left by the uneven square was another matter. A nerve-racking matter, that called for such ejaculations from Sam as ‘Oh, m…my G…God, Fan, you’ll be…be over…Oh! m…my G…God, Fan, you’ll break yo…your neck! W…watch your pins, Fan, f…for if you fall on them, that’ll be…be the f…finish, they’ll never c…carry you again.’ And finally he had cried, ‘F…for God’s s…sake! Fan, l…look w…what you’re up to or you’ll f…fall on me and the bl…bloody bucket!’

  With her ceiling finished, Fanny knew one thing—that was the last ceiling she’d ever do, for it had set her all a-tremble and brought on the wind in her side. But tomorrow was Christmas Eve and she was all done. The cupboards were turned out, the furniture had been scrubbed—there was no polish left on any of it—and the range was showing a depth of shining blackness that gladdened her eye when she opened her door. Her cake was made and she had two puddings in the pantry. She had a chicken ordered for Christmas Day and a piece of sirloin; she had a pretty full cupboard of odds and ends, which alone, in the past, would have been enough to gladden her heart. But now the terrifying feeling, and it was a terrifying feeling, that perhaps, just perhaps, her youngest son, being made of the tough stuff of herself, might carry his stubbornness too far and not show up was casting a dark shadow over everything. During the past days she had said he’ll come the morrow, it would be the morrow he’d walk in. Every day it was the morrow, and now the morrow was Christmas Eve.

  There came a cry from Maggie declaiming another toilet roll gone. ‘It’s always the same at Christmas and the summer holidays, they’ve got their families comin’ or visitors and they want to swank. They forget that the name’s on every piece. The things people do…it’s a good job the pans are screwed down.’

  ‘Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Fanny, as she picked up another sixpence, ‘and thank you.’ People were kind. If she went on like this, who knew, she’d likely gather a pound or more by the morrow, and together with what Maggie picked up the split wouldn’t be too bad at all.

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

  When the old lady pushed the threepenny-piece at her, she replied, ‘Me
rry Christmas,’ and was about to push the coin back towards her, for, God help her, the poor soul looked as if she needed all her threepenny-bits herself, but the face was so kindly that Fanny could not hurt her, and so she said, ‘Have a good time, lass.’

  The smile broadened and the donor said, ‘By!…aye, I’m gonna enjoy meself, life’s short.’

  Aye—Fanny nodded to herself—there was no truer saying. It was short and it slipped away unknowing, and you found yourself one day…old, old inside and not able to stand up to things, not able to say, ‘Oh, to hell!’

  She was punching the next ticket when a voice said, ‘May I wish you a Merry Christmas?’

  Before she looked up Fanny knew who was speaking, and her eyes were hard as she stared at this girl who had taken her son and brought anxiety on her and the constant pain under her ribs. Her commonsense told her that her best policy would be to say, ‘Aye, you can wish me a Merry Christmas and the same to you,’ for the lass would go back and tell him, and if nothing else would bring him that would, that she had been civil to his wife. But at the moment her commonsense was at a low ebb, and she retorted bitterly, ‘You can wish me nothin’, you have done me all the harm you can. I’ll thank you not to speak to me, and you can tell me son that if he thinks I’m sitting waitin’ for him he’s sadly mistaken. We can all be done without…there’s better fish in the sea than’s ever been caught, tell him that. And I didn’t know it until he left the house.’