Maggie Rowan

by Catherine Cookson

  His mother had paused here, and looking at him closely had said, ‘It’s her I came to ask you about. Why has she gone running up on the fells?’

  ‘Who?’ he had asked.

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘Maggie on the fells!’ he repeated dully.

  ‘Yes, your Maggie,’ she said emphatically.

  He could never accustom himself to hearing the possessive ‘your’ applied to himself indicating his ownership of Maggie, for nothing could be further from the truth.

  ‘I was coming out of Nellie’s—I haven’t been in much lately as you know, since your business’—she nodded significantly—‘but hearing Ann go on like that I just had to. And as I was coming out I ran into Singy Baker. Humming away to herself as usual she was, she had just got off the Newcastle bus. And she said they were passing Brampton Hill when she saw Maggie. She was taking the road to the fells and suddenly she started to run as if the devil was after her.’

  ‘But was it Maggie?’

  ‘There isn’t two Maggies.’

  On this cutting truth he lowered his gaze to the counter.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ his mother asked.

  What could he make of it? Women didn’t run unless they had to. Young lasses might; but married women didn’t run, unless it was after a bairn. And why should Maggie want to run across the fells? She wasn’t given to taking walks. Why was she on the fells at all? The fells were for courting couples or Sunday-afternoon jaunts.

  After his mother left he went into the back shop, and sitting down, tried to make something of the whole business. And this much he did make. Like George Rowan, he believed that Maggie had taken Ann down the pit for some purpose of her own. During the few months they had lived together her hatred of Ann had made itself apparent to him. He had gauged it from nothing she had said or done; it puzzled him how he knew, but know he did. The feeling of bitterness seemed to emanate from her when she was in Ann’s presence.

  He looked at the clock. Three o’clock and she wasn’t back yet. What could she be doing? Surely she wouldn’t still be on the fells.

  At this point the shop doorbell rang, and he went to serve a customer, and as he handed the man his change the bell rang again and Maggie came into the shop. This in itself was unusual, for she never came in the shop way, but more unusual was the look on her face. His first thought was that she was drunk, for the cold green of her eyes was thawed into an expression he had seen only in the eyes of a drunk—the happy, bemused, glazed expression.

  She went into the back shop and he followed the man to the door and slipped the bolt in. When he reached the back room Maggie was standing waiting for him. She did not speak, and he told himself that there was something up with her; she was drunk, or something. For a moment he assumed the right of a husband and asked, ‘Where have you been?’

  Her lips moved slowly, as if she hadn’t full control of them, and then she said, quite softly, ‘On the fells.’

  ‘On the fells!’ he repeated. ‘What for?’

  She turned from him and looked up at a shelf piled high with cardboard boxes, and still softly she answered, ‘I was running.’

  She’s going off her head, he thought, and repeated her words again, ‘You were running?’

  ‘Yes, running! Running!’ Her voice rose and her face widened into a smile as she continued to stare at the boxes, and he knew she was gone from him and this room and was where she had been while she was running. Then slowly she turned to him again and said, ‘I was happy. For the first time in my life I was happy, and I had to run and run until I could run no more. I knew what it was to feel joy; I was a woman. Yes, can you believe that?’

  Her head bent towards him and her tone changed, and for a moment she became the old Maggie. ‘I’ll likely never speak to you again in this way. But for these few minutes I’m not Maggie Rowan or Maggie Taggart; I’m myself, and this is my day.’

  She swung round from him in the manner of a young frisky girl, and her voice became thick again and soft. ‘It was down in the pit it started. The pit is like me in some ways, or I’m like it, deep and dark, always clutching at something to lighten the darkness, like the white stuff on the props.’

  She looked over her shoulder at him with an almost coy look that made her face repulsive. ‘You think I’ve gone barmy, don’t you? Don’t worry, I haven’t. And you’ll never see me like this again.’

  I hope to God not, he thought. She’s off her head in some way; they always say they aren’t when they are.

  Her mentioning of the pit recalled Ann to his mind, and although he felt it wasn’t much use bringing up the matter now, he said, ‘Why did you take Ann down the pit?’

  ‘Ann! Ann!’ The name seemed to bring her fully to herself, and it was the old Maggie speaking again as she swung round on him: ‘Ann! Huh! The wonderful Ann, who’s not even fit to be a miner’s wife. She hasn’t the guts of a chicken. If you could have seen her.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have taken her down. She’s bad, she’s had to have the doctor.’

  ‘Poor soul!’ Her voice was mocking. ‘But at present we won’t talk about Ann, we’ll talk about us…about me!’

  Her voice was dropping again, and he looked at her apprehensively. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she went on. ‘Anybody but you would have guessed. But you haven’t guessed, have you?’ Her voice changed suddenly and she bit out the words now: ‘You’re like her, you didn’t think I could manage it, did you? Well…I have. I’m going to have a baby. I’ve been to the doctor’s.’

  He stared at her, silent and shocked. He wasn’t shocked at the fact that she was going to have a baby, although he was amazed that this should have come about through one weak effort, but he was shocked at her reactions.

  Now she was standing with both hands inside her open coat, covering her stomach, in an attitude that he was sure no woman, even in Bog’s End, would dream of doing. She looked triumphant and brazen, and for the moment he was appalled that in spurring himself to that effort a seed of life, his seed, was living and growing behind that uncomely and almost fleshless wall of her body…Without love, without passion, even without lust, a child had been created.

  ‘You don’t say anything, you even look scared.’ Her voice was taunting.

  ‘What is there to say?’

  The shop bell jangled; and when it rang for the third time, she said, ‘Go on, you’d better open it.’

  He made no move; and she went on, ‘The bargain’s more square now. You’ve got the shop, and I’ve the child. It’ll be my child. You understand that? Mine!’

  There followed a silence during which each looked deep into the other’s eyes. Then turning from him she said, ‘Go on. Open the door.’

  He watched her go up the stairs. She was gone, but her words still vibrated round the room: ‘My child, mind. Mine!’

  The bell jangled violently again, and staring wide-eyed as if awakening from a dream he went to answer it. As he walked through the shop he looked about it with new eyes, and he saw that it didn’t amount to much; its glamour, all of a sudden, had faded.

  PART TWO

  TOM

  Chapter Six: Maggie’s Son

  ‘Hell, but it’s hot.’

  ‘Aye, I bet it is down there.’

  ‘Come off it, Tommy, and don’t start preaching at me.’

  ‘You’re the last bloke on earth, Davie, I’d dare to preach to. I was only stating a fact. It will be hot down there.’

  ‘You really believe there’s such a place?’

  ‘Aye, Davie, I do. If I didn’t I couldn’t believe in God and His justice. For instance, fancy thinking that Hitler’ll get off for what he’s done, and is doing, and at this very minute.’

  ‘Aye, there’s that in it.’ David hesitated with the water-bottle to his mouth. ‘I wonder if they’ve got them all off.’

  ‘Aye, I wonder.’

  ‘They say the trains were crammed yesterday, and with Frenchmen an’ all. It’s worse for them, I thi
nk. Fancy little boats that’s done nowt but hug the coast all their lives daring the Channel.’

  ‘And the waters were stilled for them!’

  ‘Aye, an act of God, eh, Tommy?’ David knelt back on his hunkers and drew his forearm across his brow. ‘I wish an act of God would finish this shift. What’s the time, there?’

  Tom screwed round and looked along the face to the legs of the men moving in the dim light beyond. ‘How’s the time going, Will?’

  ‘Ten to four.’

  ‘Ten to four,’ repeated Tom. ‘Ten to four on a Sunday morning.’ He moved to the side of the cutting machine, and David said, ‘Preaching the morrow? Or should I say the day?’

  ‘Aye, in Lumley.’

  ‘You should have been a parson.’ Only the narrowing of the whites of David’s eyes and the furthering of the gleam of his teeth showed that he was smiling tolerantly.

  ‘No. No, I’d be no good as a parson. I’m doing what I was intended to do.’

  ‘You like the pit? You’re a funny bloke. If I had your napper I wouldn’t stay down the pit.’

  ‘Yes you would, for you know as well as me it’s not the pit, it’s the chaps—being among your own kind.’

  ‘Aye, perhaps you’re right. Well, there’s no denying but you’ve got a way with your own kind.’ David laughed again. ‘By! They’d want to lynch many a bloke who says the things you say to them.’

  ‘Instead, they laugh at me.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s all in good part, man. You don’t take any notice of that, do you?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t. It wouldn’t be any use if I did, would it?’

  ‘No; you’re right there.’

  For quite a time no more was said. Their tolerant laughter was cut short by the machine starting up, and as the blade tore through the seam even their thinking was made subordinate to the noise. When it again stopped David asked casually, as if the conversation had not been interrupted, ‘You ever think of getting married, Tommy?’

  Tom reached out and grabbed a small pick and for no apparent reason threw it away again before answering quietly, ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Aye. There’s plenty of time. I had to wait years and years afore I could marry Ann. It’s a different kettle of fish now though for the young fellows. I had to stew my guts out for years for six and six a shift, and offtakes off that, but now you young ’uns can call the tune; I could have married Ann comfortably on what the screeners are getting now. When I was screening I got eight and tuppence a week. Not that I don’t think they should get it, mind…and more—it’s not afore time—only at times I think life’s a bit unfair; not so much to each man but to a generation like, for men will never toil again for a mere existence, like my dad and yours. And now there’s money to be made wholesalely, an’ more to come, they’re nearly past it. Their lungs are so full of dust, they pant like cross-country runners. Ah well, why worry? I bet a few of those poor blokes left on Dunkirk would like to change places with them at this minute.’

  The machine whirred again, and when it next stopped David said with a nonchalance that was evidently forced, ‘Oh, by the way, Ann wants you to come round to tea the day. Rosalind’s coming. Nice lass, Rosalind. Ever think seriously of her, Tommy?’

  Squatting on his hunkers, his back towards David, Tom remained still, his eyes staring at the bare, blackened flesh of his legs. So Davie knew…he must know. That’s what he had been leading up to…all this talk. Could he have seen him and Beattie together? But how, when they never met except on that desolate part of the fells? Well, what did it matter? All creatures great and small…everyone was alike in God’s eyes, and if he hoped to follow in His footsteps he must make no distinction either.

  ‘Did you hear what I said to you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She’s a nice enough lass; but not that way for me Davie.’

  ‘What do you want? You’ll not get a better-looking girl, or a nicer, I’m telling you.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But you see, Davie…Well it isn’t that way with me.’

  ‘Somebody else?’

  He turned on David.

  ‘What you asking the road you know for?’ Both his voice and attitude were on the defensive.

  David ran his forearm over his face, and said slowly, ‘Aye; it’s better to come out in the open and be above board. The fact is, Tommy, Ann’s seen you twice with the Watson girl, and she’s nearly worried to death. You’re not serious, are you?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  David peered at Tom, and in astonishment answered, ‘Why, I’d call you a bloody maniac straight away. I told Ann you must be trying your converting business on her, or something. But I can see I’m daft to think any fellow goes out with a lass to convert her. Have you thought what this means?’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Why, don’t be so damn soft, man! You know it’ll cause ructions with the family. Have you thought of what your mother’ll say? And then there’s other people. How long do you think you can go preaching in chapels if you go around with the likes of Beat Watson? You can’t stay on the fells forever. And I can tell you this much straight, the chaps won’t stand for any of your philosophy talk when it gets around, they’ll send you to hell as quick as lightning. Aw, Tommy, man!’ David put his hand on the wet shoulder and gripped it. ‘Have your fling, but not with the likes of her. Come on, man, see sense.’

  Tom made no answer, but turned sharply away…It had started, as he knew it must sooner or later. He had told himself he must meet the inevitable censure with calmness, and here he was boiling inside at the first slight attack. Oh, it was no use applying parables, either to himself or to them, he wasn’t out to convert Beattie to God or to anyone else, but to himself. He had fallen for her, and that was that! If they only knew her, as he did. Anyway, he didn’t care two hoots what any of them thought, except…

  His body, without losing its tenseness, lost its firmness and seemed to slump over the loose coal. If he could only make his mother understand the others wouldn’t matter.

  As a voice shouting ‘Up!’ came along the face David’s hand brought him a playful punch in the ribs. ‘End of another, man. Come on,’ he said. The matter was closed for David; he had done as Ann urged and spoken to him. Tom would, he hoped, see sense.

  They said no more but crawled along the face and into the mothergate. Here they put on their clothes before hurrying to the haulage road, and again in his good-humoured way David nudged Tom with his elbow, saying, ‘Come on, man.’

  And Tom was forced to respond. He glanced at his brother-in-law and gave a jerk of his head, which signified more than words that everything was all right.

  As they arrived at bank Pat was waiting to go down with the incoming shift. ‘Hallo, there,’ he said, motioning David to one side. ‘Here a minute.’

  David stepped away from Tom and asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘You heard the latest?’ whispered Pat.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Wor Chris.’

  ‘No. What is it now? Maggie isn’t getting him to sell motor cars, is she?’

  ‘Better than that, by God! He’s got one of his own. Well, not a motor car but a lorry.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ The brothers stared at each other, David’s brows lifting.

  ‘It’s a fact. He came round home and told me mother yesterday. It’s for to cart the scrap.’

  ‘But who’s going to drive it?’

  ‘He’s goner learn, but he’s hired a bloke for the time being.’

  ‘But how could he?’

  ‘From the Ministry, man.’

  ‘From the Ministry?’

  ‘Aye.’ Pat was enjoying David’s astonishment as his mother had enjoyed his own. ‘Maggie’s seen to that. Scrap’s priority. I tell you, man, they’ll be rolling in it afore the end of the war.’

  ‘Fancy our Chris.’ David’s voice was hushed with incredulity.

  ‘Aye, wor Chris. Who would have
thought it? But look who’s aback of him.’

  The cage clanked once more, and David said, ‘So long. I’ll have to hear more of this.’

  In the bathhouse David imparted the news to Tom, who, although he showed surprise, gave the impression he already knew of it.

  While under the shower, David shouted, ‘Funny if our Chris beat the lot of us, wouldn’t it?’ And Tom answered, ‘Why should it be funny? If you ask me, a lot of people have underestimated Chris.’

  ‘Aye. It looks as if they must have.’ There was no tinge of jealousy in David for his brother, but he could not help being amazed that he, of all of them, should show evident signs of progress. He had imagined that he himself would be the first of the Taggarts to get on, when he got his deputy’s ticket…or if he got it.

  The thought of going home now and having to read up and then write up answers to questions that might be put to him at the coming examination depressed him. He reckoned he knew as much about the pit as the next, and more; but it was this written work and oral business that was getting on his nerves. There was a list as long as his arm to be faced…air measurements, gas testing, knowing about the properties of the atmosphere. He knew about the properties of the atmosphere down there all right, but it was getting them on to paper and speaking about them to blokes sitting behind tables up at Chester-le-Street that was giving him the jitters. Ah well, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof…By lad, he was thinking like Tom now. He looked round towards him, but he had gone.

  In the yard, Tom stood watching the sun as it came up over the great mound of slack. It was touching the grimy peak with silver and rose. Sunday morning and the sun shining. His spirits rose. After all, life was good. He was going home to a good breakfast, his mother would be waiting for him; he would go to bed and sleep until two o’clock, when she would waken him to his dinner, his Sunday dinner, with piles of Yorkshires, as only she could make them; then he’d put on his best suit and go out.