Colour Blind

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Cassy’s Wharf? Aye, I know where that is, but it’s a job to get at. Why d’ya want to get there?’

  ‘I’m after a job.’

  ‘Funny place for a job—a lot of queer characters around this quarter, you know, lass—although it isn’t as bad as it used to be in my young days, except for the bloody Arabs. They’re swarming like flies here. But now let me see, which is your best way.’ He ruminated for a moment. ‘Aye, look. Go down that street there—it’s the only street you need touch if you follow where I tell you. At the end of it you’ll see a narrow cut between two warehouses. Go down there, it’ll bring you to the river bank; then turn right and keep straight on…well, you won’t be able to keep straight on, for you’ll have to dodge between trucks and things, but keep as near the river as you can and you can’t miss the wharf. They tell me there’s still a house along there. Is that where you’re going?’

  Rose Angela said it was, and, after thanking him warmly, followed his directions. All the doors in the street were closed; the blinds of the windows were still drawn, and the bright morning sun intensified the blackness of the passageways separating every other house. The place seemed entirely dead; the only live thing was herself, and the only noise the heels of her shoes on the pavement. She came to the cut between the warehouses, and this was as dark as the passageways, for the towering buildings seemed to meet above the narrow slit. She couldn’t see the end of the cut, only where it curved in the dim distance. But as she rounded the curve she saw coming towards her a man with lowered head. He was walking slowly and was merged in the duskiness of the passage. It was well he wasn’t fat, she thought, for the breadth of the cut was hardly wide enough to allow two people to pass. It was with an inward shrinking she realised that the approaching man was an Arab. She could see him peering at her across the narrowing distance. He stopped, and, standing with his back to the wall, waited for her to pass. She did not look at him or alter her pace, but as she passed him her coat brushed him and her heart thumped in agitation. He did not speak, but she knew his eyes were fixed on her, and as she walked on she was conscious of his gaze on her back. She wrinkled her nose in distaste—that sweet-scented smell peculiar to most Arabs hung in the air. When as a child sitting in a tram she had first smelt this heavy aroma she had wondered if her father too had that kind of smell, only to dismiss it as impossible.

  Immediately beyond the passage she came to the river, and turned right; but as the old man said, she was unable to keep straight on for long—the banks seemed a graveyard for old trucks, some wheel-less, some on their sides. An old railway carriage, also without wheels, and sunk in coarse sea grass, attracted her attention, and she glanced through a window, only to hurry quickly on again, for two men fully dressed were lying in huddled positions on its floor.

  Climbing over piles of stacked rails, walking in and out of the maze of wagons, she felt she was entering a sort of waking nightmare, and this feeling leapt into certainty when she saw the house. The jumble of debris stopped suddenly, and there ahead of her was a clear space of about thirty feet, with a narrow red-brick house at the end of it, the windows and door shining startlingly white. She stopped, and for no accountable reason a surge of happiness welled in her. She knew she had never seen this house before, yet it was familiar. It was as if she had known it, and through knowing it had been happy. She entered the clearing and began to walk slowly towards the house…Would he be up? It wasn’t yet eight. She had better find the back door.

  As she turned round the side of the house the river, too, turned, seeming to follow the line of the bright golden beach pathway; and when she came to the back she stopped again in pleased surprise. There lay the wharf not eight yards from the house, with the sun thick and warm on the fawn-coloured planks of the landing and lining the black water-marked piles of the jetty with silver streaks. A vivid splash of blue moving gently on the sparkling water drew her to the jetty edge, and she looked down almost tenderly on a little boat with a white furled mast lying down at its centre…how lovely! If only the man himself turned out to be all right and she could work here.

  ‘Well, and what do you want?’ The deep grunt of the voice, and the unexpectedness with which it came, nearly caused her to topple into the water. She gripped the jetty post, and, turning, looked towards the house. Her first jumbled impression was that the whole back of the house was made of three huge panes of glass, the widest being the top one, out of which was thrust the wildest looking head she had ever seen. She opened her mouth to explain her presence, but his next words halted her, and she experienced a faint tingling of pleasure at them.

  ‘I don’t want a model—I have more than I can cope with.’

  She looked at his eyes sweeping over her, but felt not the slightest embarrassment. She could not name the expression they held; she only knew they were without that look she had come to fear in the eyes of man.

  ‘I don’t do women, anyway.’

  ‘I am not a model, Mr Stanhope—I came to take Mrs Grant’s place until she’s better…that’s if I’ll be suitable.’

  He blinked down on her as if recalling who Mrs Grant was.

  ‘Oh yes, the blasted woman hurt her foot. Well, come in.’

  Breathing quickly, she moved towards the door, set back in a little porch, and entered the house. If only he would take to her! Oh, Holy Mother, let me get this place.

  She stood waiting for him in the most beautiful kitchen she had ever seen. The woodwork, she noticed, wasn’t white, but of the palest blue. There were cupboards all along one side of the room and the little fireplace was blue-tiled, and never made for cooking, she thought. She turned to the window. The wharf and a large stretch of the river was framed in it like a picture. She had never imagined the Tyne looking like this…and the sight of a boat moving swiftly, with the grace of a dancer, across the middle of the pane intensified her prayer; Dear, dear God, let me get this place.

  ‘What’s the matter with your legs?’ The bellow, coming from somewhere inside the house, startled her.

  Was he shouting at her? Who else, if he lived here alone? She moved towards the half-open door and stepped into the hall, which for all its whiteness appeared dark after the sun-filled kitchen. Before her was the side of the staircase, and she looked up, but could see no-one, so she asked softly, ‘Were you calling for me, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Are you deaf?’

  Quickly she mounted the stairs, her steps making no sound on the thick dark blue carpet, but when she came to the landing it was empty. She looked at the four closed doors, then at the second flight of stairs, and went hurriedly up these; and there he was, standing in the doorway of a room, seeming to fill it not with height so much as with breadth. He was not much taller than she, but his solidness made him appear like a giant to her. Her eyes went to his hair, which looked like a tangled matting of coarse rope. She couldn’t tell what colour it was, for the light behind him made it a mixture of red and brown, while the piece hanging over his brow appeared black.

  ‘There’s nothing the matter with your legs, is there?’ He looked at them with close scrutiny, but his gaze did not offend her.

  She shook her head slightly; and he turned into the room, saying, ‘All the women I had before Bessie had legs—bad legs, swollen legs, stiff legs. They had a job to get here, and when they did the stairs were too much for them. Are stairs too much for you?’ His voice was staccato and his eyes held an angry look, as if he was indulging in a row.

  ‘No, I’m used to stairs.’

  She was now in the room, and the scene bewildered her. From floor to ceiling the walls were covered with paintings. The sun, pouring through the great window, merged them into one rainbow whole, but apart from the window seat there was not another fixture or article of furniture in the room—not even an easel stood on the bare floor. He walked to the window and turned there, his back to the light; and she stood in the centre of the room, facing him. The sun was dazzling her eyes and he became indistinct, only the vivid blue of hi
s eyes remaining clear.

  ‘How long is Bessie likely to be? Can you cook?’

  ‘I don’t really know—yes, yes, I can do.’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ He held out a hand, short-fingered and square, in protest. ‘Plain cooking! Floating cabbage and fries!’

  She smiled, in no way offended. ‘They tell me I’m a good cook.’

  ‘What wage do you want?’

  She was nonplussed at the question—to be asked what wage she wanted! She’d be sleeping out, so dared she ask for…twenty-five shillings? No, she’d better make it a pound. But then he might come down.

  ‘Could I ask a pound?’

  ‘A pound!’ His face was wrinkled in the light.

  Now she had done it. She began, ‘Well, I…’ when he cut in, ‘Bessie got thirty-five shillings; you’ll have the same if you suit.’

  Thirty-five shillings! She could only swallow and say, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rose Angela Paterson—I’m called Rosie.’

  ‘Well, all right.’ Half turning, he blinked into the sun, and stifled a yawn. ‘I’m hungry and I want a meal. But listen’—he swung round on her again, his manner more aggressive than before—‘I don’t want my breakfast at nine, and dinner at one, and tea at six. If you don’t think you’ll like that arrangement, say so now. And I knock down when I want a meal—I don’t have bells, I don’t like them. And when I say I don’t want to be disturbed I mean it. When I want you I knock, you understand?’

  Still she said nothing, knowing he wasn’t finished.

  ‘And I want the rooms dusted every day, not with a duster but with a wash-leather. Why do I want unused rooms done every day? Because I hate dirt and muddle. Get rid of the idea that any old thing or condition does for an artist. Another thing—I don’t mind being robbed, but I don’t want it overdone.’ He paused, waiting for some response; and when none came he went on, ‘Why don’t you bridle and say that you’re an honest woman and don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you?’

  She regarded him steadily, and said, ‘Because I know it’s done.’

  ‘Oh, you do?’ He nodded his great head at her. ‘Well, you’re honest about it, anyway, that’s more than most of them are. Where were you last?’

  Dear Lord, here it came!

  ‘At Mrs Spalding’s in Paddington Road. But that was three weeks ago—I haven’t been well.’ Would he ask for her card? If he did she would tell him the truth and chance it.

  But he didn’t ask for the card.

  He said, ‘We’ll try it a week and see how it goes. And now I want a meal—a big meal, a dinner. And strong coffee. You’ll find plenty of stuff downstairs. I’ll have it in the drawing room.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She turned quickly away, only to be pulled up by his next words, ‘And take that frightened look off your face, there’s nothing to be afraid of here.’

  She wanted to say, ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ but after a pause she went on her way without saying anything. Her body was feeling inflated and light with relief. She had got the place, and he was nice. Her mind questioned how anyone so abrupt and who said such unorthodox things could be nice, but he was, and she knew she would like working for him in this lovely, quaint house.

  She ran down the last flight of stairs to the kitchen. He wanted a dinner. What would she make him? Something tasty and quick. She tore off her coat and opened one door after another. The cupboards in the kitchen were well stocked, and in the larder was a half chicken and a piece of cooked fresh salmon—a salad, yes—but something hot before—soup. Lentils, an onion and a little curry powder. After searching at frantic speed she found all that she required.

  The soup was simmering and the fruit pie baking, and she was standing at the table by the window arranging the salad when her hands became still and her eyes widened…her master, for she thought of him as that already, was walking, practically naked, towards the end of the wharf, his body looking even broader without clothes. His hair was still on end, and as she watched him she had a great desire to laugh. When he dived he became lost to her view, and she resumed her hurried preparations. But when the squat lumbering line of a tug ploughing up the centre of the river caught her eye, she stopped again, for in line with it she saw the shining lift of an arm cutting the water with regular precision. A figure leaning over the side of the tug waved, and a hand from the water answered the salute, and a faint call that could have been a greeting came to her. The atmosphere was homely, and she felt a warmth growing inside her…he must swim often, the tug men knew him. And he’d be hungry…If only he liked the dinner…

  Half an hour later she was standing dropping little squares of bread into boiling fat, to serve with his soup, when she heard his footsteps in the hall. Oh, if only he didn’t bang or call for a minute, and then everything would be ready.

  There was neither bang nor call, and when she took the soup in to him her knees were trembling so much that she felt her body was about to fold up, the consequences of which would be disastrous.

  He was lying fully dressed on a divan; his eyes were closed, and as she said quietly, ‘Your dinner, sir,’ he opened one eye and looked at her.

  ‘Dinner?’

  For one moment she thought that his order had been a joke, for his tone was full of surprise, so that when he got up at once and went to the table her sigh of relief was almost audible. But if she expected any word of praise for her quickness or the quality of the meal she was disappointed.

  She left him with his coffee and prepared herself a cup of tea, for she could eat nothing—excitement being her food at this moment.

  She had barely finished the tea when his voice came to her, not from the drawing room but from the upstairs window. Was he calling her? She sprang up, but stopped on her way to the open door, for there, in the middle of the wharf, looking upwards, were two men, one tall and thin and the other a dwarf, whose head was sunk deep into his shoulders and whose features were so strong and shapely as to give the impression of a sculptor’s cast.

  ‘I told you I didn’t want you till three o’clock!’

  ‘Yes, guv’nor.’ It was the tall man who spoke.

  ‘Well, what the hell’re you nosing round for?’

  ‘Just takin’ a walk, guv’nor.’

  ‘Walk be damned! Then walk some place else—this is my backyard, or front yard. It’s private, and you know it.’

  ‘We were just thinkin’, guv’nor…we were just wondering—’ The man broke off. He was still looking up, and the stretched sinews of his neck cast their own deep shadows. The silence continued until the man raised his hand and grabbed at the coin flashing through the sunlight. He touched his brow with his finger, saying, ‘Thanks, guv’nor—we’ll be here at three.’

  There was no response from the upper window, and Rose Angela watched the men shambling off, ludicrous in their different heights, and pitiable in their crumpled threadbare clothes. Why hadn’t they come and asked for a bite or something? She guessed these were the two men who had been lying in the railway carriage.

  As she returned to her cup of tea her master’s voice again startled her.

  ‘Pete! You, Pete!’

  The dwarf reappeared from the side of the house. He did not speak but stared up at the window.

  ‘Seen anything of that fellow yet?’

  ‘I asked him. He won’t come.’ The dwarf’s voice was guttural and the words strangely clipped.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He says he don’t want to be painted.’

  ‘Did you tell him I’d give him two shillings an hour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  There was a slight pause before the dwarf answered, ‘I dunno.’

  ‘You’re a liar—you do.’

  The dwarf remained silent, gazing upwards.

  ‘Murphy!’

  As if being produced from a gigantic hat, the tall man sprang round the corner. ‘Ye
s, guv’nor?’

  ‘Where does that fellow live?’

  Murphy dropped his gaze from the top window to the dwarf’s face, then he lifted it again. ‘I dunno, guv’nor.’

  ‘You’re a liar, too.’

  ‘Yes, guv’nor.’

  ‘Look, I’ll give you a pound if you get him here.’

  ‘A quid!’ Again Murphy dropped his eyes to the dwarf, but whatever he saw there wasn’t reassuring. ‘I’ll try, guv’nor, but I ain’t promising owt.’

  ‘I’ll make it two.’

  They both stared upwards in silence, then turned slowly away; and once again it was quiet on the wharf.

  Offering them two pounds just to get a man to come and sit for him! He must be made of money. Rose Angela went into the drawing room to clear the table, and as she looked about the room she thought again: He must be made of money.

  In her various places she had come to recognise good furniture from shoddy imitations, and although her knowledge of antiques was limited she knew that every piece in this room had been specially picked, for here, with the air of age and elegance, was comfort. The main tone of the room was brown, a deep patina brown, relieved in the upholstery by a shade of green that was almost blue. The window of this room, which ran the whole length of the house, looked out on to a white trellis, constructed to shut off the jumble of debris beyond. She would have liked to linger and examine the room further, but the desire was checked when she remembered what still had to be done with the wash-leather.

  By midday she had finished the ground floor and the four rooms on the first floor. One of these had taken very little doing, as it was another studio belonging to the ‘other one’, whom her grandfather had referred to as being ‘madder by the week’ than her master. In contrast, the bedroom adjoining this studio was, to Rose Angela’s mind, more like an overcrowded sitting room, and unlike her master’s, which was practically bare, without even a carpet on the floor, a large orange rug being the only covering on the bare polished boards.