Colour Blind

by Catherine Cookson

  She did not venture to the top of the house, and as the afternoon wore on she began to await anxiously the summons for another meal. It was close on three o’clock when it came…a dull thumping from above. With fast-beating heart she mounted the stairs and knocked on the studio door, and entered, only to find it empty. Staring along its length, she saw a crumpled rug lying on the boards by the window. Had he been sleeping on the floor?

  Her conjecturing was interrupted by his voice coming through a partly-opened door to the right of her. ‘Rosie!’

  It was as familiar-sounding as if he had used her name every day for years. There was none of the harshness of the morning in his tone.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She went into the room and saw him standing at a table, stretching some canvas over a frame. He did not lift his eyes from his work, nor speak further, until he had taken some tacks from his mouth and hammered them home.

  ‘I’ll have a pot of tea. Make it strong. Nothing to eat; but you can make me a meal about six. You needn’t stay to clear—do that in the morning.’

  ‘Is there anything particular you would like, sir?’

  He walked to an easel, with a full-length empty canvas set on its pegs, and moved it to the side of a dais which ran the breadth of the room.

  ‘No—as long as it’s nothing hashed up, it’ll do…I like fresh food.’

  ‘Yes, sir. About the ordering, sir—do I do that?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Bessie always did. But mind’—he swung round and faced her, and his tone took on the edge that she associated with him as natural—‘sixteen pounds a month’s my limit—not a penny more.’

  ‘Sixteen pounds a month for food!’ Her expression carried further the surprise of her voice.

  ‘Yes, for food.’ His eyes narrowed and their blueness became intensified. ‘What do you think? It’s not enough?’

  Sixteen pounds a month to keep one man and a daily maid in food. Was he a fool? No, she dismissed the idea. Had Bessie been charging him all that? If so, it was absolute robbery. It was understandable her wanting to make a bit extra, with the family to feed, but four pounds a week for food!…Yet Bessie would be coming back, she must be careful what she said.

  His narrowed, concentrated gaze remained fixed on her, and she met it. ‘It will be more than enough, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad of that.’

  He turned to his easel again and she went out. Was there a touch of sarcasm in his voice? One couldn’t blame him if there was—as he had said that morning, he knew he was being robbed. But four pounds a week!

  She had just reached the bottom of the stairs when his voice came again. ‘Rosie! Tell those two men to wait for a quarter of an hour or so. I’ll shout when I want them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As she reached the kitchen there was a tap on the open door, and there stood Murphy and Pete…she thought of them immediately by their names. On closer inspection they looked more disreputable than they had looked on the wharf.

  ‘You can come in and sit down. Mr Stanhope will knock when he wants you.’

  ‘Thank you, miss. You’re new, aren’t you? What’s happened to the other one?’ It was Murphy who did the talking.

  ‘She’s hurt her foot.’

  She made the tea, conscious of the men’s eyes gravely watching her movements, and as she went out of the room with the tray she said, ‘I’ll make you a cup when I come back.’

  But when she returned to the kitchen Murphy spoke again, hesitantly and sadly. ‘I’d better tell you, miss—he doesn’t like it, the guv’nor don’t. He don’t like us getting anything.’

  ‘Has he said so?’

  ‘Aye; at least he told Mrs Grant we weren’t to come begging here or he’d stop us sitting.’

  ‘Has he ever said anything to you himself?’

  ‘No.’

  Would a man who knew he was being robbed by his servants begrudge a bite and a cup of tea to these half-starved men? If Bessie wouldn’t give them anything, it would be for reasons of her own.

  ‘He hasn’t said anything to me, so until he does you can have what’s over—he doesn’t like things hashed up.’ And with a feeling of one in authority Rose Angela went to the pantry, and Murphy’s long furrowed face gazed down on Pete with an almost angelic smile. But Pete did not return the smile. His eyes were riveted on the door, waiting for Rose Angela’s return; and when she motioned them to the table his gaze did not flicker from her.

  As hungry men will sometimes do, they began to eat the food in small bites, with a seeming finickiness—it was the habit of making a little go a long way; and they were only halfway through their plates of food when a hail from above brought them to their feet.

  ‘Look, miss, we are much obliged. Could we put it in a bit paper and take it with us?’

  ‘Yes, go on, I’ll see to it.’

  Murphy went into the hall rubbing his mouth vigorously, but Pete, standing in front of Rose Angela, asked abruptly, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rosie.’

  ‘Your other name—full name?’

  ‘Rose Angela Paterson—why?’

  The dwarf did not answer, but hurried after Murphy; and about a minute later, when passing through the hall, Rose Angela was amazed to see them still standing halfway up the stairs. They both looked silently down on her and she up at them.

  ‘What the hell you doing down there, Murphy?’

  At the bellow from the upper landing they turned and sprang up the remaining stairs, and Rose Angela went on her way to the drawing room, wondering if she had been wise, after all, to break Bessie’s rule. For what were they up to, she wondered, looking at her like that and whispering on the stairs?

  Chapter Nine: Awakening

  It was eighteen days since Rose Angela came to Wharf House, and she knew now that one of the main things she wanted from life was the opportunity to manage a house; not just to work in one, but to control it—to be able to say, as she was doing now, ‘I’ll order this today,’ or ‘I’ll make that for dinner the morrow.’ Never could she remember being so happy; yet the eighteen days had not been without their worry.

  She disliked fighting or arguing of any kind, and, on such occasions, had always found herself strangely backward with her tongue; yet the way she had stood up to the grocer had been gratifying, even if the meeting with Mrs Grant had still to be faced.

  The barefacedness of the twisting that Mrs Grant and the grocer’s man worked incensed her—four pounds’ worth of groceries, fowl, meat and fish were certainly bought, but only half the amount was delivered to the house. The rest was divided between the two of them. She had wanted to change to another shop, but was afraid of doing so in case this particular shop had been the master’s choice; but she was firm in her ordering, and with ham at sixpence a pound and streaky at threepence, and eggs a penny each, while cooking ones were twenty-four a shilling, not to overlook the fact that one pound of steak with a rabbit thrown in was little more than a shilling, a great deal of food could be bought for two pounds. She knew her refusal to co-operate with the man would make it awkward when she met Mrs Grant, but she could feel no regret. In any case, Mrs Grant would likely return to her own system, for it was doubtful whether the master would notice any difference, since so far she had given only one order of her own and perhaps she would not give another, for only yesterday Cavan had regretfully told her that Mrs Grant’s ankle was considerably better.

  Slowly she crumpled the pastry in the bowl as she looked out of the window towards the wharf. The sun had gone in and the river was lead-coloured and choppy, but it was still beautiful. Soon she would no longer be able to look at it, in either sunshine or shadow. As she was staring at the water the blue boat ran alongside the wharf, and for the moment Mrs Grant and her impending return were put aside. The scones would be done—perhaps he’d like one with his coffee; it would have been cold on the water.

  As he entered the kitchen she trembled a little, as always when in his presence; yet she wasn’t afr
aid of him.

  ‘There are some scones just out of the oven, sir. Would you like one with your coffee?’ She turned her head towards him, her hands still rubbing the pastry.

  ‘Yes…yes, I would—nice smell.’

  He sniffed the air, and she said, ‘I won’t be a minute, sir, I’ll bring it up.’

  She was clapping the flour from her hands over the bowl when he said, ‘I’ll have it here.’

  He pulled a chair to the table and sat down, and so great was her surprise that she stood with her palms pressed together and stared at him.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Oh no, sir—no.’

  ‘Cold on the water.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  In spite of his abruptness, she knew he was trying to be pleasant, and a little whirl of happiness went through her.

  ‘How old are you, Rosie?’ The question was brusquely put, as were all his enquiries.

  She turned, and for a flash of time looked directly into the blue eyes surveying her before answering. ‘Twenty, sir.’

  ‘You look older.’

  ‘Yes, I know I do, sir.’

  He pulled off his top boots and placed them by the side of the hearth, asking as he did so, ‘What have you done all your life? This kind of work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What have you wanted to do?’

  ‘Just this, sir—look after a house.’

  ‘My God! Nothing more?’ He twisted round and looked up at her incredulously.

  ‘It isn’t everyone who’s lucky enough to do even that these days.’

  Her voice was serious, and he answered more curtly still, ‘Yes, I know all about that; but you…haven’t you wanted something different—to be a dancer or get on the films? Or be a mannequin, or an artist’s model?…you’d make a good model, you know—not that I want to do you.’ He raised his hand as if pressing her away. ‘No, no; but there are plenty who would.’

  She waited until she returned from the scullery with the coffee before saying, ‘I can’t see myself getting such work around the Tyne, sir.’ And she smiled ruefully as she placed his coffee on the table.

  ‘The Tyne! You don’t want to stick around here all your days, do you? Get up to London and you’ll be snapped up.’

  ‘You think so, sir?’ Her voice held no belief, but her smile broadened and she gazed for a moment on his bent head as he stirred his coffee briskly. London, and mannequins and artists’ models! Who would want such things if they could work in a house like this, with the river flowing by and him up there painting away and thumping occasionally on the floor, and the peace that prevailed even when he was bellowing down the stairs. And now him sitting here talking to her! She experienced a feeling of satisfaction as she watched him bite into one of her scones—his mouth was full-lipped, and wide, like the rest of him; his hair still bore its numerous partings, and even without the sun’s misleading light was of different colours. She often tried to guess how old he was, for on different days he looked a different age. Today he looked youngish, about thirty. Tomorrow, painting like mad, his hair standing up on end, he would look anything up to forty-five. She couldn’t tell what his age was.

  A knock on the kitchen door checked something further he was about to say, and Rose Angela, opening it, found Murphy there.

  ‘Can I see the guv’nor, miss?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Stanhope called.

  Murphy sidled into the kitchen, cap in hand and his long body swaying.

  ‘Well? What you after?’

  ‘I’ve got him, guv’nor.’

  ‘The fellow?’ Stanhope rose to his feet, his excitement evident.

  ‘He’ll come the morrow.’

  ‘Why not today?’

  ‘Well…ye see he’s been bad.’

  ‘Bad!—Pah! You’re just stalling to push me up a bit, like you’ve done all along…I’m not rising, Murphy.’

  ‘No, guv’nor, honest to God! Just when he said he would come, he took bad—week afore last he was took bad.’

  ‘Well, I’m giving you nothing on account this time…I want to see the fellow first.’

  ‘Yes, guv’nor.’ There was disappointment in Murphy’s voice.

  Stanhope sat down again and looked at Murphy, at the long, shambling length of him—By God, he had got him on to that canvas—every undernourished pore. And the little fellow too. It should shake them up, there…but he wouldn’t send it until this other fellow was done…Now he should make a picture, especially if he could get him to look as he had done that day when he first saw him gazing across the river. He’d get him all right; he’d work on him night and day.

  His attention was drawn to Murphy’s working mouth and the saliva at the corners of it. ‘I suppose you could squeeze a cup of coffee into that fat carcass of yours, eh? Well, you’d better get round Rosie—she makes quite good coffee…or perhaps you know that?’ His eyes were crinkled at the corners and he threw a quick glance towards Rose Angela, and as a tinge of colour mounted her cheeks he laughed and scraped his chair back from the table, but his rising was checked by the abrupt opening of the door. He turned, with Rose Angela and Murphy, and stared at the young woman surveying them. The door in her hand, she looked from one to the other before coming into the kitchen; then she advanced with such a proprietary air that even Stanhope for the moment seemed in a subordinate position.

  Rose Angela, strangely enough, had never met Bessie Grant, but the faintness in the pit of her stomach told her who this plump, fair woman was. She wasn’t much older than herself, but she had all the assurance in the world.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Oh, hallo, Bessie. You’re better then, I see.’

  ‘Yes…yes, I’m better.’ The look she threw towards Murphy said plainly ‘and not before time’.

  Stanhope rose and walked towards the hall saying, ‘Come upstairs a minute, Bessie, will you?’ His voice had lost the harsh note usual to it—it was now soft, and even pleasant. Perhaps he was glad to have her back, Rose Angela thought, with an accompanying pang.

  Bessie, in the act of unbuttoning her coat, stopped. She looked at Rose Angela, and Rose Angela managed to smile at her and say, ‘I’m glad you’re better, Mrs Grant.’

  To this pleasantry Bessie made no rejoinder, but with the same air of being in command she followed Stanhope.

  Rose Angela turned to the window. She was finished, then. She hadn’t thought it would be like this, like a bolt from the blue—she had imagined there would be a little warning, such as her granda saying, ‘Bessie’s better. I think she intends starting next week, lass.’ But this suddenness, and coming at a time when everything was so wonderful…him sitting there drinking his coffee at the kitchen table, much the same as her Uncle Tony or her granda would have done…and poor Murphy and Pete—there’d be no more bits and pieces for them…and herself—there would be the round again—the humiliations, the despair. He said she could get a job as a model any day in London. Should she try? She knew it was a stupid question to ask herself, for she had not the courage to leave the small security of her home, and Bridget, Tony and her granda, for a life she thought would be just as hostile towards her as this one was, together with added dangers.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  She turned towards Murphy. ‘Well, I was only temporary, you know, Murphy.’

  ‘You’ll be goin’ right away, then, this mornin’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll miss yer, miss.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, too, Murphy, and Pete…I’ll miss everything.’ She turned blindly towards the window again. It would have been better if she’d never got the job…oh, a thousand times better.

  ‘Look, miss’—Murphy came up behind her—‘could ye pop this way the morrer? Round about eightish.’ He was whispering now. ‘Pete and me—we’ve got something for ye—a surprise, like. If ye could come just to the carriage, round about eight, miss—could you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Murphy…
it’s very kind of you…but—’ She turned to him and her refusal was checked by the look of utter disappointment on his face. ‘All right,’ she added listlessly, ‘I’ll come.’

  It would be a chance to see the house again, even if only from the outside, and she’d have to be out early going the rounds, anyway.

  As Murphy, turning to go, muttered, ‘I’m dead sorry you’re going, miss,’ she remembered the drink she had been about to get him, and she said, ‘I forgot your coffee, Murphy. Just a minute; I’ll get it.’ But as she went into the scullery the sound of a door closing overhead reached them, and Murphy whispered, ‘Never bother, miss. Thanks all the same, but I’d best be off.’

  ‘No—wait.’ If it was the last drink Murphy was to have here, he should have it, in spite of Bessie.

  Suddenly Rose Angela found she heartily disliked Bessie. She had disliked her before she met her, because of her blatant robbery and her meanness towards these half-starved men.

  She listened to the quick, soft padding on the stairs, and as she handed the cup to Murphy her eyes turned towards the kitchen door, awaiting Bessie’s entry. But it didn’t come. Instead, the front door banged with such violence that the window panes rattled, and Murphy almost dropped the cup.

  Rose Angela and he stared at each other; then Murphy, putting down his cup, went quickly out of the house. He was back again in a minute, his body jangling with excitement and his enlarged Adam’s apple jerking inside the loose skin of his neck.

  ‘She’s gone, miss…in a tear too—like the divil was after her. What d’ye make of it?’

  What could she make of it? She shook her head and watched Murphy gulping the coffee, his face crinkled and happy—she dared not think of what she could make of it.

  Murphy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, beamed on her. ‘It looks as if ye might be set, miss.’