Fanny McBride

by Catherine Cookson

  The children’s beds had been moved back upstairs, and once again Fanny had the house to herself. She was not sorry the children had gone. They had been no trouble, the boy was quiet and Marian had been subdued, unnaturally so, for the terror was still with her, yet they weren’t her own, not like Corny, or her other grandbairns, although she seldom saw these except on escorted visits. But bairns, she found now, tired her, and what was more she couldn’t think with folks in the house. She wanted the place to herself to think and wait in.

  Now on this New Year’s Eve she had all the day to wait in, for she was finished at The Ladies. It had been touching how upset Maggie had been at her going, but she had promised to come round and see her.

  She knew she wouldn’t be bothered much with Philip in the house for the next few days, for he’d be up the stairs most of the time if she knew anything. Then there was the time coming very soon now when he’d be gone altogether, and she’d be left alone. It was odd but she was finding that when she tried to think of this now something eluded her. Was it that the fear of loneliness was leaving her? She didn’t know, but somehow she couldn’t see further than the New Year and Jack coming. His coming would decide many things.

  There came a tap on the door, and Mary Prout put her head round, saying, ‘All by yourself, Fan?’

  ‘Aye, come away in.’

  Mary came to the hearth, a strange jauntiness about her that brought Fanny’s eyes to her as she said, ‘Sit yourself down, off your leg.’

  ‘Oh, me leg’s fine now, Fan. By, the doctor was right. Rest, he said, and rest I did, and thank God I’m better again. But as I said, Fan’—Mary bent over Fanny—‘thank God for you an’ all, ’cos I could never have had that rest but for you.’

  Fanny peered hard at Mary, and a twist of a smile came to her lips as she said again, ‘Sit down.’

  Mary sat down, and looked across at Fanny with an oily beam splitting her face as she said, ‘Well, another New Year’s Eve, Fan. By, we’ve seen some together, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes, we have that,’ said Fanny flatly.

  ‘It’s been a week, Fan, hasn’t it? I’ve never known such a week, not all the years I’ve lived in Burton Street. And you know what I heard Nellie Flannagan say the day?’

  ‘It would be nothing new,’ said Fanny.

  ‘It is, Fan, for I heard her meself tellin’ Mrs Peters that she saw it all from her window. The whole struggle and her throwing herself out…what d’you think of that?’

  ‘I think she’s keeping to pattern,’ said Fanny, with unusual calmness. ‘She’s got to say something to keep her name up for being the biggest liar on God’s earth.’

  ‘You’re right there, Fan, you’re right there. And you know what’s more, Fan? She said she offered to have the bairns, but…’ Mary paused and Fanny said, ‘Well, go on.’

  Mary did a little wriggle on the chair, then bending nearer to Fanny she whispered, ‘She said, Fan, you pushed your nose in. That’s what she said, Fan. And you know what…you know what I said, Fan? I ups and told her she was a liar. I did. I did, honest to God, Fan, I did!’

  Fanny looked at Mary stretching her meagre height with the glory of her integrity, and she said, ‘Well, that’s something to your credit. Her have the children! I can see her, when she won’t allow her own child to bring a bairn into the house in case it disturbs the mats. Her have the bairns!’ Fanny lifted up her bulk. ‘I wish I’d heard her.’

  ‘And there’s something else, Fan. You mind me telling you about our Monica working with the lass your Phil used to go with?’ Mary was emphatic in her use of the past tense. ‘Well, Monica came in last night, and she said Phil had had a lucky escape because Sylvia had come to the office, and when the boss sent word to say he was engaged she had rushed in on him and caused a shindy…At first that was. And then what d’you think?’

  Fanny waited, making no comment.

  ‘He left the office with her, her walkin’ with her head up, as brazen as brass, Monica said, and the bairn showing in spite of all her efforts to lace up. Monica said the boss looked green, and when his missus had finished with him he’d likely be black and blue. Monica said she’d never seen anybody look more cowed or guilty. What d’you think of that, Fan?’

  Mary had never paused for breath, and Fanny said, ‘I think she’s had a hard job to father it, but I think her memory’s serving her well, she’s hit on the right one. As for the man, I wish him luck, and the same to all of his kidney.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right, Fan. Is Phil goin’ to marry the lass upstairs?’

  ‘Aye, he is.’

  ‘Well, now…well, now.’ Mary’s tongue set off again. ‘And takin’ on the bairns? He’s a good lad, Phil, but you’re goin’ to feel a draught, Fan, on your own with just your pension. And then being lonely.’ Mary’s eyes took on a sadness and a moisture. ‘It’s no cop being on your own, Fan. Fifteen years I’ve had on me own, Fan. But there, you’re different; you have your family, and your grandbairns. It makes a difference…Has Jack been along yet, Fan?’

  Fanny prised herself to her feet, then took up a bucket of coal standing by the side of the fender and with one swing deposited it onto the back shelf of the grate. Then taking the raker she pulled some lumps down onto the already blazing fire before she answered, ‘I’m expecting him any minute. I’ve heard tell he’s poppin’ in.’

  Not even to her lifelong friend could she say what was in her heart.

  ‘Oh, Fan, I’m glad for you, I am.’ Mary, now becoming recklessly brave, went on. ‘He’s like you, you know, Fan…Now you can say what you like, he is.’ Mary wagged her finger up at Fanny, and she spoke as though there had been a denial to her statement, whereas in fact Fanny had said nothing, nor had her face given her away even as she thought, ‘Aye, don’t I know it, and aren’t I suffering for it. For if he wasn’t such a big chip of meself he’d have been along afore now.’

  When there was still no comment forthcoming from Fanny, Mary said, ‘No offence meant, Fan, no offence meant.’

  Now Fanny stood and looked down on this woman whose nature was fundamentally timid, and suddenly she laughed. She put her head back and she laughed, the first good laugh she’d had for some time, in fact, since Joe had caused the shindy, and she laughed the more when Mary’s laugh joined hers.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d laugh the day,’ said Fanny, wiping her eyes. Then looking down on Mary again she said, ‘You’ve had a drop, haven’t you? You’re so full of Dutch courage at this minute you’d have a job to decide on your nationality.’

  ‘Now, now, Fan. No! No, I haven’t,’ protested Mary.

  ‘Aw, away with you,’ said Fanny. ‘How else would you have stood up to Nellie Flannagan?’

  ‘Now, Fan!’

  ‘And me.’

  ‘Oh, Fan…’

  ‘Aw, be quiet, I won’t give you away for breaking the pledge.’

  ‘Fan, but I—’

  ‘Be quiet, I tell you, and don’t try to hoodwink me.’

  ‘But it was only a drop, Fan, a small port and—’

  ‘I don’t care what it was. Come on and have another sup to wash it down; you’ve given me a laugh that I never expected to have.’ She went to the cupboard and brought out the half-bottle of whisky which was now getting low. ‘We’ll have a drop together for old times’ sake, eh, Mary?’

  And Mary, the beam splitting her face again, nodded a gleeful nod.

  So they drank together and they laughed together and they talked of life as they had seen it, and Mary told Fanny she was the best friend she’d ever had, and her tongue becoming really loosened she told her what she would like to say to Nellie Flannagan, to Father Bailey, and not least to Mrs Funnel, who kept the outdoor beer shop, and lastly to Mrs Proctor of The Ladies. Oh, the things she would like to say to Mrs Proctor! And when at last she took her leave and Fanny sat alone again, she thought, ‘Aye, it’s good to laugh on the last day of the year; it’s good to see it going out on a laugh.’

 
She felt that her laughter would bring luck. She had laughed in the morning of New Year’s Eve, then she would laugh in the evening, and she would see the old year out on a laugh. Yes, something good would happen the day, and what better than…She let it go at that and took another drop of whisky.

  Fanny laughed at Philip when he came in with Margaret. She laughed at their obvious happiness, and when she had succeeded in making them laugh, she laughed the louder.

  To Corny’s delight when he dashed in to see her she let him play his trumpet, with Joe accompanying him, and as she sat with her fingers in her ears, she rocked with her laughter, and the louder she laughed the louder Joe sang. And so the day wore on, and when Corny left she embraced him closely, and he returned her embrace, and she patted Joe, who in turn licked her furiously in saying his own particular goodbye.

  And so the evening came.

  She set her table quite early with all her good things, which was the customary way to greet the New Year. She packed Philip off to where his heart lay, upstairs, with orders not to come down till just on twelve to bring in the New Year. The order had a double motive for she wanted the house clear. She had steadfastly refused the offers of the Quigleys and the Laveys, and various neighbours to come and see the New Year in with them. She had never been out of her house on New Year’s Eve, and nothing short of an explosion would have driven her out this night of all nights.

  The warming influence of the whisky kept the bubble of laughter on the surface of her mind, but beneath she was waiting. She knew, in spite of the veneer of merriment, that she was waiting, and that the waiting had an apprehensiveness about it. She knew that she had taken more liquor today than ever before. She was no whisky addict, she liked a drop now and again when she was feeling low, but she had suffered too much from its effects on McBride to want to indulge in it. But today was an exception, today it had, as she put it to herself, saved her face, for if she hadn’t laughed she would have cried, and she was afraid of crying. She had never allowed herself this indulgence, except in the secret hours of the night when there was no-one to see or hear her. But the hours of waiting would, she knew, have worn her down this day, and she would have bubbled at the first kind word and she would never have been able to live it down. No, the whisky had saved her the day. But she knew when to stop, and she was having no more, only a nip to toast in the New Year with the lass and Philip.

  Then to bring her laughter bursting forth again Maggie came in saying she could only stay a minute but she felt she just had to look in. She held Fanny’s hands as she said, ‘Oh, Fan. Eeh! But I am sorry you’re not comin’ back.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Fanny.

  ‘There’s been nobody like you in The Ladies afore, Fan.’

  ‘And won’t be again,’ cried Fanny, her laughter filling the room.

  ‘What a pity you hadn’t come years ago,’ was Maggie’s last comment, as Fanny thankfully saw her to the top of the frozen steps.

  As she returned to the warmth of her room again, she thought aye, it was a pity she wasn’t goin’ back, for The Ladies had taken her out of the world, so to speak. When she was younger she had washed and scrubbed for the wives at the top end of Jarrow and at times she had thought, ‘Who are they, anyway? They’re no better than meself, the only difference is their bit money. And they’ve only got that through the steady jobs of their men.’ But in The Ladies it had been different. There, there had been no class feeling, if anything she had felt superior. Was she not taking the money and seeing them all at a disadvantage, as it were? Aye, begod! For, after all, nature’s indignity had been put upon rich and poor alike.

  This last thought pleased her and sent her chuckling to her chair to wait and to hope that nobody else would drop in.

  But Don did, not ten minutes after Maggie had gone. He walked up and down the mat and filled the room with his awkwardness. She was aware that he was finding her unusually quiet the night and she enjoyed the sensation and kept it up. She even puzzled him further by sending good wishes to his wife. But unfortunately this had the wrong effect and delayed his departure by several minutes, during which he said he would look in again the morrow and bring Jeanette with him. She didn’t want to see this particular granddaughter, for the child was too much like her mother, but she could say nothing…This is what happened when you weren’t yourself.

  Between ten and eleven o’clock the streets were abustle with life, banging doors and hurrying feet, any pair of which might turn up the steps of Mulhattan’s Hall and into the kitchen.

  Between eleven and a quarter to twelve there came a stillness on the street, as if it, too, was waiting. Then came the sound of voices again, calling now to each other, mostly thick, foggy voices, telling that the loads were already heavy, even before the real drinking in of the New Year had begun.

  As the few first-footers joked in the street below, the ships’ hooters started and the whistles blew, and the church bells rang out and Philip banged twice on the door, and Fanny, opening it to him, said, ‘A Happy New Year, lad.’ And then she did a strange thing; she not only kissed him, but she put her arms about him and held him to her for a brief moment before pushing him with high laughter towards Margaret.

  As they all drank to the New Year just born and Fanny plied them with plates of ham and pickles, mince pies, and cakes, she did not glance towards the door. There was a pause in her waiting now for she knew he would not come at this particular time. As like as not he was being his own first-foot for the first time. But in a little while, when people started to move from one house to another…then.

  At half-past one Philip took Margaret upstairs, and when he came down again Fanny was sitting in the chair by the fire, and he stopped by her side and said quietly, ‘Are you going to bed now?’

  She looked up at him with a kindly smile. ‘Not for a moment, lad, but get yourself away.’

  ‘No, I’ll stay…Listen to the Laveys, they’re going it, aren’t they?’ He laughed.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. Now get yourself away to your bed, I’m goin’ to turn in in a minute, I’m just goin’ to warm me feet.’ She held her feet nearer the fire. She didn’t want him sitting with her when…She rose. ‘Go on, you’ve had a long day…a long week for that matter.’

  He stood before her, tall, good-looking, still making her wonder how he ever came to be of her flesh. Then as she looked up at him, he said, very softly, ‘Thanks, Mother.’

  ‘And what would you be thanking me for?’

  ‘Everything.’

  She turned her face to the fire saying, ‘It’s soft you’re goin’, lad.’

  There was a long pause during which she wished him gone, and then he said swiftly, ‘I want you to know now, you won’t be alone. I’m not leaving the town. And Margaret’s with me wholeheartedly in this, we want you to come and live with us when we’re married…’

  ‘Oh, away with you, man.’ She turned sharply on him, laughing. ‘Now would anyone get me out of these four walls? Go on with you, away to your bed.’ She pushed out her hand but did not touch him, and as he turned slowly from her to go into the bedroom, she said, ‘But thanks, lad, I won’t forget that you’ve asked me. No, I won’t forget that. Goodnight, and a Happy New Year to you…and her.’

  He paused and looked back at her. ‘Goodnight, and the same to you.’

  The door closed. The kitchen now all her own, she pulled her chair closer to the fire in a series of jerks and settled herself to further waiting.

  She was still waiting at three o’clock when Philip’s door opened again and he asked gently, ‘Are you going to stay up all night?’ Then coming slowly towards her he added, ‘It’s no use, you know.’

  When he stood looking down on her, she pulled herself to her feet saying nothing, then angrily pushed the chair to one side and shambled to the light which she switched off before saying shortly, ‘Get yourself to sleep!’

  Without a word now he went into his room, and in the firelight she groped her way to the bed and, sitting
on its edge, she began to rock herself back and forward, back and forward. And after a while her rocking ceased and she was about to slide to her knees on the floor and implore God of His mercy to take this lonely longing from her heart when her whole body was consumed by a furious anger. It rushed through her like a torrent sweeping a gorge. The anger cried out against God, against her entire family, against this son that she loved more than anything on earth. What had she done to deserve such treatment? Hadn’t she given him everything? With every ounce of her flesh and every fibre of her heart she had given to him, depriving the others of love to give to him, and what thanks had she ever got from him? But she had never wanted his thanks, only for him to laugh with her, joke with her, tease her, as if she was a bairn or lass, and for that small return she had given him everything, her life, the whole of her life. Damn and blast him! He was an ungrateful swine…an unforgiving swine. Blast him to hell!…She hoped…she hoped…There was a great lump in her chest like a weight of iron. It rose, pressing itself upwards in her throat. She gripped her neck to suffocate the sound that was endeavouring to escape, then as the tears spilled from her eyes she turned and pressed her face into the pillow. So intense was her emotion that it seemed to her that she was crying through every pore of her body, for the whole of her huge bulk was aching with a queer ache like a cramp, and as a cramp will converge to one spot all the aching gathered itself into a knot in her side where the wind usually was, and so intense did the pain become that it even stilled her crying, and she slowly straightened herself up, her hand gripping at the flesh under her breast. She tried to call out to Philip, but there was no sound in her throat.

  She knew she was in her chair by the fire again, but she couldn’t remember moving from the bed. The pain had stopped. It had been shoved away by a blackness that for a brief moment terrified her and checked her breathing. She was now lying in the blackness. It was as if a mighty hand had been placed over her mouth and eyes and even over her inward sight for she could see nothing, not even in her mind.