Colour Blind

by Catherine Cookson

  He left her, and from the window she watched his shank-like legs running across the wharf…Her being set would mean a lot to Murphy and Pete, but what would it mean to her?

  She worked on in a daze, awaiting a summons upstairs, but none came. His dinner was ordered for two o’clock, and when she took it into the drawing room he was there waiting. But he did not speak until she was leaving the room; then, quite briefly, he said, ‘Bessie isn’t coming back. Would you like to stay on?’

  After a moment of silence, during which he turned his head and looked at her, she said quietly, ‘Yes, sir, thank you.’

  That was all; but as usual after any nervous strain she wanted to be sick, and she stood in the closed scullery, retching and asking herself what had happened. What could have happened? Surely Bessie hadn’t come to give her notice in. She dismissed the idea—when Bessie came through that door it was into ‘her kitchen’. Every particle of her declared it. Whatever had happened, she would likely have to wait until Ted told her granda before she knew.

  At half-past six she closed the kitchen door—her kitchen door now—and went home. She had never felt so gay in her life before, nor so free. She had a job that she could see stretching on for ever; she could look ahead and say, ‘I’ll save up and buy things…I’ll save up for Christmas and buy things for me ma and granda, and Uncle Tony. And perhaps some day I’ll be able to buy a fur…Oh to have a fur!’ She’d always wanted a fur—a long one…As she hurried over the sleepers and around the wagons she kept her mind from the man who had made this possible. Later tonight she would think of him and the events of the day, but now to get home and tell Bridget, and talk of the things she’d buy in the future.

  Coming out on to the piece of clear ground before she entered the passage, she saw the Arab. He was standing as usual leaning against the broken wall surmounting the river bank, and as usual on her approach he took a step or two from the wall and awaited her coming. She had ceased being actively afraid of him; and now she wondered curiously if he was dumb, for since their first meeting in the passage she had encountered him both morning and evening, rain or shine, and always in the same place—against the broken wall. And never had he spoken, but tonight, adding to the events of the day, he said, ‘Good evening.’

  Her present happiness held down her fear of him, and she answered, ‘Good evening,’ but quickened her step as she did so.

  ‘Excuse me…please don’t be afraid. Can I walk with you?’

  His hand came out to check her flight, but she swerved aside, saying, ‘No—no thank you.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  The words reached her as she entered the passage. He was making no attempt to follow her, and she breathed more easily. She could even smile to herself about it. It was like something one read in a book—‘Good evening—may I walk with you?’ Not…‘Goin’ my road?’ or ‘Who’s tyekin’ ye hyem?’ His precise English was surprising, for the Arabs one heard talking in the trains jabbered, and he looked so different from any of the others in his tight blue suit, except perhaps a bit taller. All Arabs looked the same to her, of medium height and extreme thinness.

  But if, at any time, he should attempt to walk with her, what would she do? There was plenty of time to meet that when he tried it. Anyway, all she’d have to do would be to tell Mr Stanhope. Yes, she’d tell Mr Stanhope, for he didn’t like the Arabs, and one bellow from him would scare a dozen Arabs. She laughed to herself—it was like a child saying, ‘I’ll tell me ma, mind!’, or ‘I’ll tell me da, mind!’—only she had never said the latter.

  The journey to Jarrow seemed interminable, and when she alighted at the fifteen streets the sight of Matt standing with a group of men at her Grannie’s street corner did not, as usual, stiffen her with apprehension. She would be afraid of nothing or no-one today…she was happy…she had a permanent job, and what a job! The sound of someone spitting followed her. She knew it was Matt, and that it was meant for her, but what did it matter? She walked on, her head high, her step free and swinging, and her face alight, but the moment she entered the kitchen the light was quenched, for there, sitting facing her, was Bessie Grant. On the other side of the hearth sat her Uncle Tony, it being Wednesday, and her mother sat by the table. They were all three quiet, but it was a quietness that any moment could have snapped with extreme tension.

  Bridget rose and said, ‘I suppose you know why Mrs Grant’s here?’

  ‘Oh, she knows, all right.’ Bessie uncrossed and recrossed her thick legs.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Bridget put out a gently suppressing hand towards Bessie. ‘One story’s good till another one’s told. We’ll take one thing at a time. Rosie—did you tell Mr Stanhope about the—the grocer?…You know…about Mr Pillin?’

  ‘No, not a word. He knows nothing about it. I only cut down one week, and he hasn’t seen the bill.’

  ‘Hasn’t seen the bill!’ repeated Bessie, with utter scorn.

  ‘He hasn’t,’ said Rose Angela heatedly, ‘for it’s in my bag. I’ve kept it here all the time.’

  ‘Sh!’ said Bridget, silencing them both. ‘Then how was it, Rosie, that Mr Stanhope could tell Mrs Grant that she had been…well…getting a bit too much stuff?’

  ‘Not through me. I tell you I’ve never said a word to him, and he couldn’t have heard what I said to Mr Pillin because he was out. He was up the river at the time.’

  ‘Then,’ said Bessie, emphasising each word with a nod of her head, ‘it’s merely a damned excuse, as I said it was.’

  ‘You’d better be careful what you’re saying, Mrs Grant.’ Tony rose to his feet. ‘You can be made to pay for such statements.’

  ‘Made to pay!’ Bessie rounded on him. ‘What with, eh? When she’s even taken the bread out of me bairns’ mouths because she’s low enough to supply Mr bloody Stanhope with something that I wouldn’t! I might have known—but that’s what you get for helping people.’

  At this moment Bessie was cursing her husband for persuading her, as she liked to think, to let her job to old McQueen’s girl, who had been up against it. She was forgetting that at the time she thought it was a good idea, for had she asked any of her friends to take over, they would have known a little too much of her business—and Mr Pillin’s, and she didn’t want that. But she had considered McQueen’s granddaughter would be so grateful she’d keep her mouth shut. Yet what had happened? Yes, what had happened? It was as plain as a pikestaff—she knew now why this young bitch couldn’t keep a job with a mistress. It had been easy going for her with no mistress at Wharf House. The Stanhope bloke was supposed not to like women, but he was a man, and that type of bitch would soon let him know how much of a man he was.

  She looked at Rose Angela, and said with insinuating quietness, ‘I wouldn’t do what you’re doing, not for thirty-five bob a week, I wouldn’t. But perhaps you’ve come to some arrangement, eh? You can call the piper now. The lot of you here’ll be decked out soon, and be moving, for he’s rotten with money.’

  Bridget, with set, white face, moved towards the door. ‘You’d better be going, Mrs Grant.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll go…but mark you, don’t think she’s heard the last of this. Oh no, I’m not taking this lying down—I’ll see me day with her, if it’s the last thing I do.’ She nodded, emphasising her threat as she passed Bridget.

  The door closed, and Bridget turned towards Rose Angela, saying quietly, ‘Now let’s hear what you’ve got to say.’

  ‘You don’t believe her—do you?’ Rose Angela stood supporting herself against the table edge.

  ‘I don’t know what to believe.’

  ‘Ma!’

  ‘Well, why has he kept you on when she’s been with him over a year, if he knew nothing about her doing him? She’s known to be a good, clean worker.’

  ‘He didn’t know from me.’

  After a moment, during which Bridget’s eyes bored into her daughter’s, she turned to the fire, and took up her attitude of staring at the grate, her hands moving slowly
back and forth along the rod. Her voice sounded muffled as she murmured, ‘Mrs Grant said she found him in the kitchen with you this morning—you were having coffee together, and laughing; and all the time she was there he never came into the kitchen half a dozen times—he always used the front door.’

  Through the righteous anger that was rising in her against Bessie Grant and her mother, and anyone who should think this of her, streaked a feeling of pleasurable surprise that he should have altered even slightly his habits since she had come to live in the house. But the pleasure vanished as quickly as it was born, for here was her mother half-believing Bessie Grant’s implications. If Bridget believed this, what could be expected of others?

  ‘I’d rather you left there,’ said Bridget softly, ‘rather than get yourself a bad name.’

  Leave the house, and the river…and…and him…leave such a job, all because of Bessie Grant’s spite. ‘I’ll not leave the job…I’ll not leave there until he sacks me. As for what people believe—who’s going to stop them if I leave tomorrow, when you believe what she said.’

  Bridget turned in surprise at Rose Angela’s tone. ‘I don’t want to believe it; but can’t you see yourself it looks fishy? Why has he kept you on?’

  ‘I don’t know…I only know I’ve found a job I like, and I’m going to stick to it. And you can all think and say what you like.’

  So finishing the most forcible words of her life, Rose Angela swung round and went upstairs, leaving Tony and Bridget staring after her.

  Nothing could have confirmed her guilt so much in Bridget’s eyes as this bold stand…her shy, timid Rosie to speak out like that! She could have come to such courage, Bridget reasoned, through one thing only—she was no longer a girl, she had been with that man. Bessie Grant had been right. The Rosie upstairs now was a different Rosie from the one who had returned so often from other places. A great sadness settled on Bridget…it wouldn’t even be her own case over again, for such a man as the artist was, with money an’ all, he wouldn’t marry her. And if there was a bairn…Bridget was unaware of wringing her hands together until she felt Tony’s hands gently unloosing her fingers. Impatiently she pulled them away from him. Here she was blaming her girl for what, all things considered, it was a wonder she hadn’t done years ago, for even as a child she must have been aware of what was going on in the house between Tony and herself. Bridget dropped into a chair and bowed her head, saying dully, ‘I’m to blame for this.’

  Tony looked down on the beloved head and his face fell into lines of sadness. ‘You mean, because of us, Bridget!’ She did not answer the appeal in his voice, nor raise her eyes to his, and he went on, ‘She could have been brought up a thousand times worse. You have nothing to blame yourself for—any blame there is rests on me; I badgered you into it. But I’d do it again and again if need be…Bridget, look at me.’

  When she did not raise her head he took her face gently between his hands and lifted it to his. ‘Don’t worry, love’—he smiled down on her the gentle, comforting smile that had warmed her heart for years—‘she’s your girl—she’ll be all right. Do you know’—his smile broadened—‘looking at her just now I had the feeling she’s coming into her own, somehow—she’s been awakened.’

  His artless words had other than the desired effect—Bridget groaned. ‘Aye, she’s been awakened all right!’ she said.

  Chapter Ten: The Return

  There was a wind blowing from the river, a cold, damp wind. It seemed to fill the cut with a solidness that had to be forced apart. Rose Angela pressed against it, head bent, and her coat hugged tightly to her. She was so cold that she felt she would never be warm again. All night she had been cold—the only warmth that was in her life had been wrenched out last night, not by Bessie Grant’s accusations but by her mother believing it so rapidly. ‘How could she?’ was the question she kept asking herself. Hadn’t she left place after place to avoid that very thing? Her name now, she knew, would be so much dirt in the fifteen streets, not because she was suspect of being ‘thick’ with her boss so much as of having done Bessie Grant out of her job by it. What if the rumour should reach her master’s ears? She shivered, imagining the violence of his reaction. Thank God the fifteen streets were miles away. To her knowledge he had never been there, nor was he ever likely to go.

  Why was life like this? No little joy or happiness lasted; only the fears and hurts lasted, and the feeling of inferiority. And now the old tormenting questioning was upon her again: why, being a half-caste, were you credited with inheriting the lowest traits of both parents? The injustice had been hard to bear before, but now, since her mother, of all people, was holding her suspect, life looked black and hopeless. She could, of course, prove to her mother that she was wrong by giving up the job; but that would be madness—it was the best place she’d had since Mrs Kent’s, and she knew, anyway, that now the job was hers she would never leave it until he sacked her.

  After passing through the cut she again saw the Arab standing, sheltering from the wind, close against the wall. He made no move towards her, but said, with a strangely pleasant smile, ‘Good morning; the wind is cold.’

  Here was a coloured man in a foreign land who likely felt very much as she did. It should be natural to feel in sympathy with him, but all she felt was revulsion, yet so courteous was his greeting that she could not but answer him civilly, ‘Yes, it is cold.’

  ‘Can I speak with you a moment?’

  ‘No, I’m late.’

  ‘I won’t keep you a minute. Don’t be afraid—I mean you no harm.’ He moved from the wall. ‘Won’t you let me talk to you?’

  ‘No!’ she shouted back at him, her walk on the verge of becoming a run.

  Talk to an Arab! She had only to be seen doing that and…Once your name was coupled with an Arab you were…taboo. The word was associated in her mind with two girls she knew of who had ‘taken up with’ Arabs. One had married an Arab and gone to live in Holborn, the other wasn’t married but just lived there—they were both taboo. Having heard the word connected with the disgrace of going with an Arab from her childhood, she now put no other construction on it; and she had plenty of fears in her life, she told herself, without a taboo being realised. To be accused of having a ‘fancy man’ was bad enough, but it was an entirely separate and pure thing compared with having your name coupled with that of an Arab. For a moment she thought of her mother, and, knowing the temper of the fifteen streets, she wondered at her ever being allowed to stay there with a black man. And she had been married.

  Pete was outside the railway carriage, protecting a fire built in a hollow scooped out of the earth—he was kneeling, his back to the wind, holding the sides of his coat about it. He glanced up at her, but gave her no greeting, nor did the sombre expression on his face alter. Yet she knew he was very much aware of her, and had been before he glanced up. If, like Murphy, he was pleased she was being kept on he certainly didn’t show it. He was a strange man, she thought, for only once had he spoken to her—the time he asked what her name was.

  She wished that Murphy was about, for she felt that if she told him about the Arab he would walk with her to the Mill Dam each night, especially as the nights were cutting in. She remembered now he had asked her to be here at eight o’clock; yet he wasn’t here. But when she reached the wharf she saw him talking to the guv’nor. They both turned at her approach and she shuddered at the dripping nakedness of ‘the master’—he had just come out of the river and was pressing the water out of his hair with both hands. And once again she had the impression of immense strength. Her eyes barely touched him, yet in their flicking she was more acutely aware of Bessie Grant’s accusation than she had been before.

  His tone was unusually gay as he called to her, ‘Breakfast, Rosie; and plenty of it.’

  She surmised he was excited about this man coming, who must be even worse than Murphy and Pete to arouse his interest like this. Murphy had been strangely reticent about the new model when she questioned him shortly a
fter her coming here, so she had not brought up the subject since. Doubtless she, too, would have been interested in the man’s coming, but for last night—and her mother’s reaction.

  At nine o’clock the breakfast was over and the dishes washed, and the master was upstairs waiting for the man. She had orders not to leave the kitchen until he came. At quarter past nine he had not arrived, and Stanhope came into the kitchen, his good humour decidedly strained.

  ‘Nine o’clock sharp he was to have been here. No sign of him, eh?’ His laughter of yesterday was as if it had never been.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I’ll break that blasted Murphy’s neck—he did this to me once before. It’s my own damn fault—I shouldn’t have given him a penny until I had the fellow here.’

  Rose Angela made no comment, and he looked at her, his eyes narrowed and scrutinising. ‘What’s the matter? You all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Not bad or anything?’

  ‘Oh no, sir.’

  ‘Did you…have you come across Mrs Grant?’

  Rose Angela replaced three plates on the delf rack before answering, ‘She came to my home last night.’

  ‘Ah!’ The sound was expressive. ‘Well, don’t let her worry you—her notice was coming to her anyway. I was only waiting. If it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else.’

  She could find nothing to say, and as he left the kitchen muttering to himself about Murphy she thought that even the knowledge that Mrs Grant would have been dismissed in any case wasn’t going to be much consolation to her now, for her mother wouldn’t believe it.

  Stanhope couldn’t have reached the top of the stairs when a tap came on the back door. With hardly any interest, and with not the slightest emotion that could be indicative of a premonition, Rose Angela opened it.

  The man confronting her was tall; he could at one time have been described as massive. He was still big, but it was merely the framework of bone. He was hatless and his frizzy black hair was greying to a whiteness about the temples. His neck, chin and the lower part of his cheeks were badly disfigured with deep pockmarks; and one ear was distorted out of all semblance to an ear, and was twice its normal size. Rose Angela saw all these things at a glance—they were part of the dreadful and pathetic whole—yet her ready sympathy and pity was not touched by them, for she was filled with an incredible emotion. It had not come into her being at this moment at the sight of the man; it seemed to have been born when her body was born and to have lain waiting, to be touched into life on looking into this Negro’s eyes. For the eyes resembled those she saw when she herself looked into a mirror.