‘That’s it. Now let me see you smile—you don’t smile enough. Ah, that’s better. Now off you go.’ With a push he helped her on her way, and she ran the whole distance home, her feet just skimming the pavement, so light was her body with relief.
Arriving at the corner of the fifteen streets, she again met Janie Wilson, accompanied by a new crony this time. Janie had acquired a large slice of bread, and she almost choked herself in gulping a mouthful when Rose Angela, with a hitherto unheard of assurance, said, ‘You were wrong, Janie Wilson, I will get in, Father Bailey said so…so there!’ And with a lift of her head she was about to walk on when a violent push landed her against the wall.
‘Who’re you settin’ your old buck up to?’ Janie’s face was purple with indignation and the dry bread wedged in her gullet. ‘Take that, you cheeky bitch. And that!’
Rose Angela took the smacks on the face, and instead of the blows, as usual, frightening her, they aroused a strange exhilarating feeling in her, the feeling of wanting to strike back. She knew she could never hope to stand up to Janie, so she used her school bag. With a swing of the long strap she brought the bag in contact with the side of Janie’s head. The manoeuvre was very effective, for Janie screamed and kept on screaming. Rose Angela did not stop to enquire why she screamed, but ran off, thinking, I’m glad I hit her…I’m glad…I’m glad.
It was a strange feeling; never could she remember standing up to anyone before. She had always been aware that the other children made use of her, and imposed on her; somehow she knew that because her colour was not exactly like theirs she qualified for all the dirty work of their play. She always allowed them to make her the finder in ‘Deady-one’, and when broken bottles and jars and other glassware had to be smashed still further to provide the imaginary contents of sweetshops it was she who had to sit before a stone, with another in her hand, breaking the glass, often with bleeding fingers. They liked her when they could use her; and she hadn’t minded being used, for it made them happy, and she wanted people to be happy and laughing. But now she was going to stick up for herself: she was as good as them. The priest had said so hadn’t he? Well…he said she would get into the same heaven as them, and that was the same thing, wasn’t it? But her mind refused to dwell on this point; it didn’t matter, anyway. If anyone hit her again she would hit them back, and if Miss Flynn got at her she would say…What she would say to Miss Flynn she never told herself, for as she reached her backyard door she heard her grandmother’s voice, shouting as usual. It slowed her running to a walk, and she entered the house unsmiling and serious.
Her mother and Uncle Tony and her grandmother all turned and looked towards her. Rose Angela’s eyes came to rest on Tony. Why, she had forgotten it was Wednesday and his half-day—fancy forgetting that!
‘Go on, stare at him!’ her grandmother rapped out at her. ‘Go on, worship him. If ever there was a mean sod in this world it’s your Uncle Tony. But go on, stare at him and put him to shame.’
Rose Angela looked swiftly from one to the other. Her mother was ironing at the table and didn’t raise her head; her Uncle Tony was staring at her grandmother, and, as always when he was angry, his nose was twitching.
Kathie was sitting entirely obliterating a wooden armchair, and each movement of her body was creating still more bulges of flesh. Her eyes, nestling in two full pouches, fastened themselves on her grandchild, and she went on, ‘What would ye say if I told ye yer Uncle Tony had come into a house and a fortune?’
‘It’s no fortune, I’m telling you, it’s forty pounds.’
Kathie, dismissing Tony’s protests with a wave of her hand, went on addressing herself to Rose Angela. ‘What’s forty pounds but a fortune in these times? And a house, mind, a grand house with six rooms. And an estate around it.’
‘Oh my God!’ Tony held his head. ‘A bit of a garden…look here.’
‘An estate, I said, with trees and flowers and vegetables—taties and cabbages an’ everything an’ all.’ She thrust her finger into Rose Angela’s chest. ‘He could sell the house, and get God knows how much for it…but will he? Be God, no! And will he let us go there to live in it? Eh?’ Her eyes rolled sideways to Tony, and he, using her full title as he had done from a child, cried, ‘Look, Mrs McQueen! I’m going to have no more of it…I’ve told you…and don’t keep on.’
‘There we are, five grown-ups stuck in two bug-ridden boxes, and never a sight of a big tree for miles, as ye well know yerself, child. And him that I brought up and treated as me own refusing to give us houseroom. I could understand him not jumping at Terry’s scheme to start a grocery business, but to refuse us houseroom, packed as we are…!’
‘Well, I’ll soon alter that!’ cut in Tony. ‘I can make one less any day.’
‘That’s it, threaten to walk out on us.’ She turned her attention from Rose Angela. ‘The fix I’m in, with only Matt workin’, and him on half-time, and not knowing where the next bite’s coming from. That’s gratitude for you.’
Although Kathie still shouted, her eyes were wide, and showing in them was anxiety. Tony saw it, and blamed himself, but, oh God, if she’d only give over! She would try the patience of a saint. Why, oh why, he asked himself, had he not moved at the end of the war when they were all working, and she had money to squander but never to save. He was heartsick of sharing the same room with Matt and Terry and of eating with them all, for now there was Eva and her growing brood to share the table.
When he received the letter three weeks ago asking him to go to Denver’s, the solicitor in King Street, and there being told that his mother’s only sister, she who refused to have him as a boy, had died, leaving him the money and the house, his first thoughts were, I don’t want anything of hers, the upstart; she would have let me go into the workhouse! On reflection, however, he saw that this could be an answer to his unspoken prayers. Hadn’t he longed for enough money to buy a special boot? Time and again he had saved the few pounds that would be necessary, only to hand them to Kathie ‘just as a loan’ to pay the rent, or the coals, or the tallyman, or, more recently, to buy food. When asking for fresh loans, Kathie’s conscience never seemed to trouble her about the dozens of unpaid ones, and Tony had come to think that all his life he would have to pay for her past kindness to him. But with regard to the unexpected legacy he was standing firm. When he had bought his boot, and perhaps a suit of clothes, and rigged Rosie out, then he’d see to Mrs McQueen, but he’d be damned if he was going to let her get her hands on the whole of the money. He knew what it would mean—a grand bust-up to show off to the neighbours, clothes for them all…so that when the money was gone there’d be plenty to pawn!
Kathie was still talking, addressing her remarks once again to Rose Angela…How wonderful it would be not to hear her voice ever again…Well, the choice was his…he had a house now, all his own, packed with good furniture and linen, and a little garden, the like he had not even dreamed of. He could go there and live, there was nothing to stop him. Of course it would be a long way to travel to the shop, right from High Jarrow to yon side of Harton village, but he would soon get used to that.
He stared at Bridget’s hands moving the iron back and forward, back and forward, into the gatherings of Rose Angela’s dress…What was he thinking about? Why was he playing games with himself? He could no more leave the vicinity of Bridget than he could walk without limping. There was only one way he could live in that house, and that dream was as impossible as…He was recalled sharply to Kathie again.
‘Yer Uncle Tony thinks the world of ye. Then why don’t he let ye and yer ma rent his fine house; and then she can let us have this ’un.’
Bridget, putting her iron quietly down, looked at her mother. ‘I’ve told you before, Ma, I’m not leaving this house.’
‘No.’ Kathie jumped up with surprising agility. ‘Ye’re as mean a swine as he is. Four rooms for ye and the bairn…ye could let us share this and we’d all have lived as happy as larks. But no. What ye keeping it for, may I
ask? Hopin’ for yer black man to come back? Well, God speed him to ye! And it’s meself that’ll escort him to clink, and make sure that he gets ten years for making my lad look like a beast…As for you’—Kathie turned her venom on Tony—‘standing there like a weakly bull gaping at a cow—whatever ye’re keeping yer house for, remember…what God has joined together let no man put asunder…she’s married till she knows the nigger’s dead!’ The door banged and she was gone.
After a moment of surprised silence Tony hopped for the door, crying, ‘She’s not getting off with that!’
But Bridget checked him, her voice quiet and even. ‘It’s no use, Tony, the less said the better.’
He turned to her, his face scarlet, and Bridget, picking a fresh iron from the heart of the fire, spoke to Rose Angela, ‘Go upstairs and change your pinny and wash yourself up there…there’s water in the jug in my room. And your tea’ll be ready in a minute or so.’
Without a word Rose Angela went upstairs; and Bridget, testing the iron by holding it near her face, said, ‘Don’t worry, Tony; you know my mother doesn’t mean half what she says…she never stops to think.’
He stood watching her across the table. He was as tall as her if he supported himself on the toe of his short leg, and now he wanted every centimetre of his height. He squared his shoulders to give him breadth. In the next few minutes she must see him as other men. He said slowly, ‘She did mean it, she’s not blind…I supposed nobody is blind enough not to notice how I feel about you, Bridget.’
There, it was out; and with the voicing of what seemed to him the feelings of a thousand lifetimes his courage grew. ‘She was right. Your mother’s no fool; she knows that the only one who’ll get that house will be you and the bairn.’
‘Tony!’ Bridget stopped moving the iron. Her calmness was probed and her face now showed her concern. ‘Don’t be silly; you’re no longer a boy!’
‘I’m glad you’ve noticed that, anyway.’
She flicked her head impatiently. ‘Well, act like a man and have some sense…Look, Tony; use that house, and use it now. It’s a gift from God. Don’t sell it.’ She leant across the table towards him. ‘Tony, there’s Molly Cullen; she’s a nice girl and she dotes on you. Now here’s your chance. Be sensible, and get away from here. Molly’s a cut above the rest; she’ll live up to Harton, given the chance, and…’
He waved his hand at her. ‘Bridget, save your breath, there’ll be no Molly Cullen nor anybody else for me, and you know it.’
‘And you know nothing can come of this’—her voice was harsh—‘so why do you keep on? If you think I’ll go and live with you in your house…’
‘Who asked you? There’ll be plenty of time to refuse me when I ask you. I’m offering you the house, with no tags to it.’
As they stared at each other, the look in her eyes and the excited churning of his stomach told him that at least she regarded him as a man.
Bridget resumed her ironing again. ‘Have you forgotten Jimmy?’ she asked quietly.
‘No.’
‘And you still believe what you’ve told her for years?’ She indicated the stairs with a nod.
There was a slight pause before he answered, ‘I used to; but now I don’t know…Bridget, look at me…If there wasn’t Jimmy, would you have me?’
She remained silent, her eyes fixed on his.
‘Answer me.’
‘I don’t know…I’ve never looked at it that way, because…Anyway, I’m so much older than you. Oh, it’s all so mad. Don’t let’s start any of that talk. All I want is peace and quiet; I’ve had enough.’ She turned abruptly away from him and the table.
‘Listen here!’ His voice compelled her to stop. ‘You’ve got to look at it that way! Jimmy might come back the morrow, and he mightn’t come back for years…or never; but one way or the other I’ve got to know how you feel. Do you want Jimmy to come back?’
The direct question startled her, and she stood gripping the rod and staring at the maker’s name on the iron front of the fireplace: Greave & Gillespie, Jarrow-on-Tyne. Over the years the blackleaded words had formed a focus point for her thinking. Did she want James to come back? At times, yes. At times she longed for him, and had she known where he was she would have gone to him. But when these times passed she knew that the longing had been mainly of the body; most of the time her mind was filled with recrimination of herself for the trouble her folly had wrought. Father O’Malley foretold that retribution would fall on her for making such a marriage. It had fallen, and was still falling. Each day she paid. At first it was the stigma of the colour; but when James removed that with his flight he saddled her for life with Matt, with his twisted face and mind.
The first sight of Matt’s face and the knowledge that his hold on her was greater than ever had made her resort again to the refuge of the bottle. But half a dozen glasses of whisky were not enough to shut out all her trials and to give her a brief feeling of gaiety; whereas before, two had done so. Rather, the effect of the whisky was to accentuate her troubles. But even though she knew its numbing effect was gone, she still retained the desire to drink. The habit was strong, and it needed an independent fight to conquer it. And only during the past few months had she known any real respite. She had never blamed Matt for making her drink, for it was her belief that no-one could make you do anything you didn’t want to do. And because of this opinion, she had also pointed out to herself time and again that some part of her must have wanted James enough to have married him. The only question she had been unable to answer was: would she have done so if she hadn’t been afraid of having a baby?…And likely as not in the workhouse, for she would never have come home.
And now Tony was asking did she want James back. If it would mean living quietly, as they had done during the first few months of their marriage, yes—even if it meant bearing the stigma of his colour again. But should he come back, her mother and Matt would see that his liberty was short; and knowing he was in jail would be worse than not knowing where he was…But she must not go on thinking of James, she must answer Tony. If she said she wanted James back, would Tony go away? She turned quickly and looked at him, as if to assure herself that he was still there, and in a revealing moment she knew that life without him would become unbearable. Up till now she had not known how much she relied on him, on his kindness and his patient devotion and steadfastness; and on the buffer he made of himself and placed between her and Matt. And in this moment, too, she realised that the feeling he bore her was no ordinary one; it had stood the iron test of witnessing her maudlin drunk. Her head drooped at the thought. Not once had he seen her drunk but many times, and yet here he was offering her his house, and all he was asking in return was to know she cared for him. If need of him meant caring, then she realised he was her life. For the first time she saw him, not as Tony, the boy, but as a man who loved her. She looked at his deep-set eyes, at his mop of light-brown hair, which seemed too weighty for the delicacy of his face, at the uneven slope of his shoulders that did not mar his bearing but lent to it an air of nonchalance, and she wished from the depths of her being that they had been of the same age. Then, in spite of Matt, she might never have left home; for at this moment she knew it would have been an easy thing to love Tony. But now it must not come about, it was too late. She had made her bed and she must lie on it alone; she must not drag him into the mire of her life. He must get away from the fifteen streets and all that they stood for. If he could not see Molly Cullen now as a mate, perhaps he would later, or find someone else; but under no circumstances must he remain invisibly tied to her. At least she would do this decent thing.
She watched the pain come into his eyes as she said harshly, ‘Isn’t it natural I should want him back? I married him, didn’t I?’
She returned to the table and proceeded to force out the creases from her blouse with a partly cold iron, knowing that his eyes were on her.
‘It’s all right, Bridget, it makes no difference’—the quietness of his voic
e brought a smarting to her eyes—‘the offer still stands. If you don’t take the house, it’ll stay there. I’m not selling it—nor living in it.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Tell Rosie I’ll be round for her after tea.’
She could not restrain her tears as she watched him limping down the yard. She was filled with relief, while at the same time despising herself. He wasn’t going…he wouldn’t go, no matter what she said. Oh, it was wrong, all wrong, but—oh God—she was thankful that he felt as he did. He was like an anchor to which she could tie herself to stop the drift towards drink and, she sometimes thought, towards madness.
Rose Angela came quietly into the kitchen. ‘Has Uncle Tony gone?’
‘He’s coming back for you after tea…I won’t be a minute, I’ll just finish this. The kettle’s boiling.’
Rose Angela stood looking at her mother. She saw that Bridget had been crying; but it hadn’t been the kind of crying that was caused by the whisky bottle, so she was filled not with fear and revulsion but with a feeling of blinding love, which caused her to go to Bridget and shyly put her arms about her waist. As she hid her face under her mother’s breast Bridget slowly placed the iron on the flat tin lid. The feeling from her child seeped into her, and, putting her arm about Rose Angela, she said gently, ‘What is it, hinny?’
Rose Angela moved her face against her mother, and the action was so like that of James that Bridget took a deep breath to steady herself.
‘It doesn’t matter if we don’t go and live in Uncle Tony’s house…I love you…I love you, Ma.’
Bridget pressed the child to her. Her emotion, a mixture of remorse for having withheld her love from this child and the tenderness now flooding her, was almost unbearable. She was searching in her tear-flooded mind for appropriate words to express this tenderness when a commotion in the backyard caused her to push Rose Angela from her.
Colour Blind Page 9
