The door was opened instantly, as if Bridget had been waiting for her knock, and Kathie was unable to keep up her laughter to cover her annoyance when Bridget, without a word, stepped into the street, and James, looking more massive and black than ever because of the stiffness of his body and the sombreness of his face, followed her. He, too, gave them no greeting; but locked the door; then, taking his place by Bridget’s side, walked down the street, Kathie and Cavan following.
Kathie yelled at Cavan; she yelled to the step-cleaners again; she yelled to no-one in particular; and some of her words, even to herself, were unintelligible…To be turned back at the door like that; not to be asked in and given a drop of something to help things along a bit. God knew that at ordinary funerals and weddings you needed something; and this was no ordinary wedding; yet not a drop of anything. What were things coming to, anyway…
The church was empty when they arrived, and self-consciously they filed into the back seat after genuflecting towards the main altar; all except James, who did not bend even his head; nor did he follow the others’ example and kneel down, but sat with his arms folded across his chest and his cheekbones making tight the skin of his face with their pressure.
Presently an altar boy, trying hard to cover his amusement, came with an order from the priest; and they rose and filed down the aisle to the altar rails. They had barely reached them when Father O’Malley appeared on the other side, his face as stiff as his vestments. With a peremptory finger he motioned James and Bridget to kneel down. And so the service began.
The priest’s voice was not even audible. There was a hurried guttural mumbling of words, the flicking over of leaves of the prayer book, the passing from one hand to the other of a penny, then the flinging of the words at James, ‘Will you have this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?’
James flung the responses back in a voice that made the priest start in spite of his grim control; but so low was Bridget’s ‘I will’ that the priest accepted it without having actually heard it.
It was over, and Cavan and Kathie followed the couple to the vestry. Cavan’s face was the colour of chalk and Kathie’s so red as to appear on the verge of apoplexy.
Once the register was signed it was as if Father O’Malley couldn’t get rid of them quickly enough. Scrambling up the aisle ahead of them, he led the way to the church door, and without a word watched them file past him into the street, his eyes, like rapier points, piercing each one of them in turn. James was the last to leave, and the door was allowed to swing behind him, almost catching his heels.
‘Of all the rotten holy Joes in this world, he’s one!’ Kathie could contain herself no longer. ‘I hope he finds himself dead in his bed one of these mornings, and God forgive me for sayin’ such a thing; but that’s me curse.’
‘Shut up!’ Cavan’s voice was deep and angry. He was hurt to the very soul with the indignities his daughter had brought upon herself. ‘We’ve reached rock-bottom when you curse the priest; we’ve had enough bad luck; hold your tongue!’
‘I’ll not hold me tongue; one of these days I’ll tell him me opinion of him to his face, and chance Hell’s flames for it, ye’ll see.’ Kathie talked at her husband all the way to the fifteen streets; but she did not laugh; nor did she address her daughter or son-in-law; she allowed them to walk well on in front until they reached their own street, where they stopped and waited for her. Then all she said was, ‘I’ll see ye later.’ Her laughter had failed her.
Bridget and James entered their house in silence, and as Bridget made to go upstairs James pulled her to him and stared at her fixedly; and Bridget was hurt by the look on the usually laughing face of her husband. Compassion for his bewilderment overcame her, and she laid her hand on his cheek. ‘I’m sorry, James; it had to be done. Perhaps you’ll understand later when you’ve had instructions.’
His face softened, and she was surprised at the relief she experienced with the sound of his voice; but for his answers at the altar rails he had said no word to her since leaving the house; it was as if he were striving to keep the dignity he prized so much.
‘Now you feel we married?’
She nodded dumbly.
‘That’s all right then.’ He drew her into his arms and held her gently for a while in silence. Then holding her away from him, he smiled at her, saying, ‘Now we can be happy; for two more days we can be happy. You sorry I’m sailing Monday, Rose?’
‘Yes.’
‘Truly?’
‘Yes—yes.’
‘You don’t want me to leave you?’
‘No.’
‘You know I don’t want leave you. I don’t want leave you ever.’ He sat down and drew her on to his knee and, taking off her hat, ran his hands over her hair. ‘Most beautiful hair in the world. My Angela have hair like this…Rose—’ He buried his face between her breasts.
‘Yes?’
‘I want ask you something…If German get my ship and I not come back, you not let her forget me…you tell her about me?’
‘Please, Jimmy, don’t say that. Never fear, you’ll be all right.’
She felt the strong conviction within herself that God would make her suffer all her life for her mistake, and that James would be immune from danger so that her punishment might be meted out to her. She repeated, ‘Never fear.’
The broad sweep of his eyebrows lifted, showing more white to his eyes. ‘Me? I don’t fear nothing or nobody - not for me I don’t. But for you, yes. I won’t tell no lies ’bout what I fear: two men I fear for you, ’cause they both make you afraid. One is that goddam priest, and the other is…’ He stopped; then went on slowly, ‘… your brother. He like me worse than the others. When I am here he can’t touch you, for he knows I would break him like that.’ He clenched his huge fist until the knuckles showed pink beneath the black skin. ‘But when I’m gone, you very afraid of Matt.’ The last was a statement.
‘No—no I’m not—I won’t be; he’s all right.’ She avoided his eyes and screwed nervously at the bottom of his waistcoat.
‘No lie, Rose. Your brother mad because you marry black man—your brother like you very much. Me, I know. Your mother, da and others all right, but Matt…he black inside. Me, I know men. From twelve years I work with men—all kinds of men—down stokehold. Eight years I been in same ship, and the Chief he say to me, “New bunch this trip, Jimmy. What you make of them?” The Chief, he think lot of me. I would have been his donkey-man many times over but for this.’ He tapped the skin of his hand. ‘Chief ask my opinion of men, not ’cause he don’t know men. He big Geordie fellow. But he like talk with me, and he know I know men…Oh! you no cry. Rose. Please you no cry.’
She leant against him and her sobs mounted; and he beseeched her, ‘You no cry. Me, I am sorry, Rose; but I am full of fear for you—don’t—don’t. Why you cry so?’
She continued to sob and he swung her up into his arms; and as he rose to his feet with her she gasped out, ‘Don’t go, James; don’t go away.’
‘I got to go, honey, you know that.’ He smiled down on her. ‘But I mighty glad you don’t want me go. And you no worry any more; I see that brother and I fix him ’fore I go. We go upstairs now, eh? And you put on pretty dress and new hat with feather, and we go out and make everybody look at my Rose, and fellas turn and say, “Him lucky fella…him marry twice same girl.”’
He smiled down on her; then opened the stair door with his foot and walked sideways up the stairs, hugging her closer to him.
Chapter Three: Matt
James had been gone three days and Bridget was feeling strangely lonely. After the first flush of relief she began to miss him and his deep broken speech telling her how wonderful she was; she missed the feeling of strength and protection he gave her; she missed him at night, and this caused her to feel wicked. In the night she lay tossing and turning, fighting the feeling of wanting him; in the night she never thought of him as black, for the night made all colour one. It was in the daytime, going about the work
of the house, that the barrier of his colour would loom up and terrify her. She knew that in marrying James she had committed a sort of outrage, and that this had lifted her in one sweep off the plane of her people; but it had not dropped her on to the plane of James’ people; it left her in a no man’s land where, as far as she could see, there was only herself.
As hour added to hour, she felt less inclined to leave her house, for she knew she was vulnerable to the hostile looks of the men and women of the fifteen streets, and for once she felt thankful and glad that the war was on, for in the excitement and sudden rush of prosperity they would, she thought, have less time to give to the scandal she had created; not that they would miss taking some action should the worst among them give tongue. So, for the time, she stayed within the precincts of her own four small rooms, and some part of her was rested with their sanctuary.
That she must soon face the people and even work among them she knew, for James’ monthly half-pay note of two pounds fifteen shillings would scarcely keep her for four weeks and pay the rent, coals and light, which came to eight shillings a week. Then there were the instalments of five shillings per week to pay on the furniture. Although James had provided for this by leaving with her the remainder of his fortune, fifteen pounds, she had the desire not to touch a penny of what was to her a vast sum, but rather to add to it. She knew that he must have spent a great part of his earnings on women and drink, but the habit, started by the missionary, of saving a little of his earnings had stuck, and not a penny James had put into the Post Office in eighteen years had he withdrawn; until he met her. Thirty-five pounds he had saved, and the feeling of the growing wealth, Bridget felt, had in no small way added to the dignity he so greatly prized.
Only once during the past three days had Bridget visited her mother, for Matt was on night shift and she was afraid of encountering him without the shield of James. She sat now beneath the gas mantle that sported a pink porcelain shade, sewing at a minute flannel petticoat. Her expression was a mixture of tenderness and apprehension, and unconsciously her lips moved as she repeated the prayer that was never long out of her mind; and now it was almost audible; and as she murmured, ‘Please God, make it all right!’ the knocker of the front door banged once, and after a moment’s hesitation she rose slowly and laid the petticoat on the table; then stiffening her body she went through the front room and opened the door.
Her relief made her exclaim in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, ‘Why, Tony! Come in…I’d been wondering when you were coming.’
Tony limped over the step and into the dark room, and Bridget, her hand on his shoulder, guided him to the kitchen. ‘Come and sit down; have you had your tea?’ She pulled a highly varnished wooden chair towards the glowing fire.
‘Yes.’ He sat down without taking his eyes from her face.
She sat opposite to him and for a while they smiled at each other. Then she said awkwardly, ‘It’s funny me having a house, isn’t it?’
He nodded, and the broken peak of his cap jerked further down his brow. He pushed it up and continued to stare at her.
‘Do you like it?’ She made a small motion with her hand around the room.
Reluctantly he took his eyes from her face, and screwed round on his chair to take it all in. ‘Eeh, it’s fine, Bridget.’ Stretching out his hand he shyly touched the fringe of the green chenille cloth covering the table. ‘It’s lovely!’
‘Come on, I’ll light the gas and show you the front room.’
She ran from him, and he followed more slowly, his grey eyes wide with wonder, for she appeared to him now like the girl he saw when he first came to their house.
In the front room she pulled down the new cream paper blind, with its edging of imitation lace, and lit the gas. Tony looked from one piece to the other of the suite: four single chairs, two armchairs and a couch, each one defying comfort with its stiff back and red plush seat. He looked at the bouquets of flowers forming large diamonds on the linoleum; at the plant-stand before the window, holding a fuchsia which was actually in flower; then at the mantel border, an elaborate piece of black satin on which were pen-painted three large and unreal birds, and there was genuine admiration in his voice and in his eyes when he said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, Bridget; it’s beautiful.’
‘Come on upstairs.’ She was as eager as a child. ‘Wait until you see the dressing table.’
On the way upstairs he stopped and touched the corded stair carpet with his hands; but his wonder was suddenly covered with embarrassment when he entered the bedroom. He had to walk close to the great iron and brass bedstead to get to the dressing table, and as he did so he realised for the first time that Bridget was no longer the Bridget of the McQueens’ laughter-filled kitchen; she was married…she was a married woman, and she was married to a nigger.
‘Look,’ Bridget was saying, ‘it has three mirrors, and the two side ones swing back and forward—like this. Have you ever seen anything like it?’ And when he made no answer, Bridget turned to him and looked down on his lowered eyes, and his embarrassment reached her.
They went down the stairs in silence, and now Tony knew that in some way Bridget was aware of what he was thinking, and there was an agitation in him to reassure her. Bridget mustn’t be hurt—she mustn’t think he was like the others. He said suddenly, ‘I like Jimmy—I like him better than anyone I know.’
She smiled sadly, and his heart twisted inside him as he saw the wet mist cover her eyes.
He began to talk with unusual rapidity. ‘I’ve got a job, Bridget…I’m starting at Crawley’s grocer’s shop the morrer—I’m going in the back first, weighing up spuds and flour. He’s giving me five shillings a week, and I’ll soon get a rise if I do all right, he says. I would have got more if I’d been able to go out with the orders, but it’s me…Anyway, I’ll soon be serving in the shop. I’m glad the war’s on; I wouldn’t have got it if the war hadn’t been on.’
‘Oh, I’m glad for you, Tony—oh, I am!’ Bridget was mashing the tea. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea…you’d like a cup, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, Bridget. Yer ma’s going to get me a pair of long trousers…new ones…as soon as I get a pay.’
‘Oh, that’ll be grand.’
‘I’m dying to get into long trousers…Bridget, you know in six years and ten months I’ll be twenty-one; and you’ll be twenty-six. You’ll only be five years older than me then.’
She turned to him, puzzled and wondering at the odd turn of his thoughts. ‘But I’m five years older than you now—I’ll always be five years older than you.’
‘Yes, yes, I know’—he wrung his cap between his hands—‘but I’ll be grown up then…I’ll be able to do things…if people…’ He took his gaze from her, and his dark lashes cast a long shadow on to his thin, pale face, giving to it an almost girlish delicacy.
Bridget, looking at his bent head, read his unfinished words wrongly. ‘Nobody will ever say anything about you, Tony—your limp isn’t really noticeable, and you’re growing now. Why, you are nearly as tall as me. And, you know, you’re nice-looking—yes you are.’
As he gave an impatient shake with his body, saying, ‘Oh, it wasn’t that,’ Bridget exclaimed, ‘Hush a minute!’ and they both stood listening to the rattling of the backyard door latch.
‘Is it locked? Will I go and open it?’ he asked.
‘No; drink your tea.’
He drank it, standing near the table, his eyes watching her listening as she moved about the kitchen. When the front door knocker banged he put down his cup and asked, ‘Will I go home, Bridget?’
She answered him on her way to the door, ‘Yes, Tony, you’d better; but come again—come often.’
Matt stood on the pavement, the distant light of the street lamp emphasising the piercing blackness of his eyes. He did not even glance at Tony sidling past him, but stepped into the room and closed the door.
With the first sight of him Bridget had returned to the kitchen, where she now s
tood, staring down into the fire, her hands gripping the brass rod. She waited for him to speak until she could wait no longer, and she turned to where he stood just within the kitchen door, surveying her.
‘You needn’t think you’re coming round here to frighten me, our Matt, because you’re not…James told you—I know he told you what would happen if you did anything.’ Her voice trembled with the fear she denied, and she went on, throwing her words at him, ‘You always wanted everything your own way—well, you can’t run my life. I would never have left home if it hadn’t been for you.’ She had said all the things she had told herself she wouldn’t say.
‘Why did you do it?’ Each word was thin and had a piercing quality that cut deep into her.
She shivered, but rapped out, ‘That’s my business.’
‘You were drunk, weren’t you?’
Her bust and shoulders lifted in an attempt at denial, but no words came. Their eyes fought each other’s; then her head drooped and she flung round to the fire again.
‘I warned you, didn’t I, to keep off it…I always told you it made you a sloppy, dribbling sot. You can’t carry it…I told you, you bloody young fool.’ Every syllable dripped with his contempt of her.
‘Well, you nor nobody else will have to pay for my mistake.’ Her head was resting on the rod now, and her voice was flat and quiet.
‘Won’t we?’ He took three rapid steps forward which brought him to the table. ‘We’re just the laughing stock of the streets, that’s all! Our street was raised yesterday, with Cissie Luck making that fat swine of hers stand aside to let her into her front door; he put his toe in her backside and she screamed up the street, “Now me next bairn’ll be khaki.”’
Colour Blind Page 4
