As Bridget sent up this fervent prayer Johnnie’s voice came screaming up the yard, ‘Aunt Bridget! Aunt Bridget!’ And Bridget turned sharply as he burst into the kitchen, crying, ‘Stop that yelling, you!’
‘But Aunt Bridget’—he stood panting, the saliva running over his loose lower lip—‘there’s hell on at me grannie’s; she’s burnt all the books an’ me granda kept putting his hands in the fire and he’s crying.’
‘What! What you talking about?’
‘They’ve been fightin’. Me ma’s not in…oh, come on Aunt Bridget!’ he pleaded. ‘I tell you me granda’s cryin’.’
Momentarily Bridget’s personal worries were thrust on one side; but she looked suspiciously at her nephew, and, remembering his tendency to practical jokes, said, ‘You’re not having me on, Johnnie, are you, for I can’t stand your games the day.’
‘No, no, Aunt Bridget, strike me dead. They were rowin’ and me granda went out and me grannie threw his books on the fire, and now she’s cryin’ an’ all.’
Her ma crying! Bridget ran up the stairs for her coat, and when she returned to the kitchen Matt said, ‘It’ll be a damn good job if she has burnt the lot of them; he’s been dotty since he got them books.’
If what Johnnie said was true, Bridget realised it would be nothing less than a catastrophe for her father, and as she hurried through the streets, Matt shuffling at her side, her own trouble was obliterated for the moment. If her da’s books were gone, life would be finished for him. There were thousands of other books, she knew, but the motley assortment with their fund of varied topics were his books, even though sometimes she had been a little scornful in her own mind regarding his attitude towards them, thinking that he showed signs of senility in his treating them like children.
As they neared the backyard door Matt exclaimed, ‘By God, she must have done it…smell that?’
The yard was full of the smell of burning and Bridget’s uneasiness grew; and when she entered the kitchen she was appalled at the sight of her parents sitting one each side of the table in utter dejection amidst the chaos of the room, but more so was she shocked by the look of her father. His already small body seemed to have shrunk and he now looked a tiny old man; and her heart was wrung when, lifting his brimming eyes to her, he said with the simplicity of a child, ‘She burned me books, Bridget; she’s burned all me books, lass.’ It was as if he had said, ‘She has burned all I hold dear in life; I am finished; there is nothing more to live for.’
That his dejection should then cause a slight irritation to assail her surprised Bridget. She knew her mother had done wrong in taking her spite out on him by burning his books, but need he take it like this? It wasn’t as if he’d been a great reader all his life, and she doubted whether he understood one quarter of what he read. He remembered interesting facts and outstanding episodes, and delighted to relate his knowledge, also to pass on that which he gleaned from Ted Grant. But then again Bridget recalled that he had been happier during the past few years than she had ever known him to be, and her irritation vanished—he’d be happy no more.
She looked at her mother, pitiable with age and slobbery fat. She hadn’t laughed so much lately. Strangely, in contrast with Cavan, she had seemed less happy these past two years. Was this why she had destroyed the books, because they had brought him happiness? But she was old, and she shouldn’t feel like this. Yet, as Bridget continued to stare at her mother, the thought came to her that age brought no respite—there still remained the worries, the fears and hurts…the tearing of one human being to shreds by another. Life was ruled by emotion, and when emotion was frustrated this was the result—people died while they still breathed. And although, of the two, Bridget liked her father best, her sympathy at this moment went to her mother.
Rose Angela had been at Wharf House four months now. At times she could not believe this; it seemed like four years, or even fourteen, for the events before she came here were dim and dreamlike in her mind, and no day up till today had been long enough for her. She wanted the hours to spread themselves so that she could savour the two great things that had come into her life—her father’s return and their nightly meetings; and this other great thing, which she would not admit openly to herself but which made her days joyous and coloured her dreams at night with what might be if miracles could happen. But this latter had been thrust into the background and now only the thought of her father filled her mind. For last night she had left the house as usual at six o’clock and made her way to the spot where she always met James, near the railway carriage. But he was not there.
It was their custom, if it was dry, to walk along the river bank, but if a gale was blowing they shared the shelter of the railway carriage with Murphy and Pete. The railway carriage had been turned into winter quarters, the windows being covered at night with pieces of sacking nailed on to frames to hide the light of the fire in the home-made stove, and more recently, the light of a little lamp supplied by Rose Angela. Into the company sometimes came the Arab, Ali Hassan; and the contrasts of the men gave Rose Angela food for thought as she sat, silent mostly, listening to their individual tales—the Arab, the Negro, the dwarf who was half-Russian, and Murphy, born of an English mother and father unknown and brought up in the workhouse. And she often marvelled that never once in all the talks she had sat through was a swear word used in her presence. The courtesy with which they each treated her often brought a lump to her throat. It was as if she were someone of note—even a queen, she sometimes thought, could not receive more respect than she did. And the many sore places in her heart were soothed.
But last night her father was not waiting for her, nor was there any sign of Pete or Murphy, and she was filled with panic.
Hassan, waiting at the entrance to the cut, quiet and patient as always, seemed to her, at that moment, like a comforting angel, and she ran to him, crying, ‘Oh, Hassan, where’s me da?’
And he replied soothingly, ‘Don’t worry; he’s a little sick and can’t get out, but I’ll take you to him.’
When she asked where Murphy and Pete were he said he understood they had gone that morning across the river, where, they’d heard, lay the chance of some odd work.
Rose Angela did not know where her father lodged. On this he had been firm. When she had asked him to tell her in case an emergency such as the present one arose, he had laughed and said, ‘Me, I be ill no more now.’ Nor did she know exactly what was wrong with him, for he would not talk about himself.
Hassan had called into his eating house and collected some food, and as he led her along narrow streets and through short, black alleyways where she could see nothing but felt that in the thick depths figures were standing, she began to understand why her father had refused to bring her here; and on reaching the house, his firmness on the matter was made absolutely clear to her. The house was one of a number which led out of a yard, and the yard was approached by a passage from the street. The ground floor was in darkness and silence, but on the first landing pale shafts of light came from beneath numerous doors, and voices in strange tongues came to her. They passed another landing and mounted yet another flight of stairs, and the air, after the freshness of the river, almost stifled her. The prevailing smell was of dirt, dirt such as she had never yet encountered even in the worst part of the fifteen streets. Even before she followed Hassan into the room she was sick at heart for her father, but when she saw him in the rusty iron bed, his back supported against the bare rails, pity and love overwhelmed her. He grasped her outstretched hand, but he did not speak, for he was holding a rag over his mouth.
The beating of her heart stopped for a moment as she saw the red streaks on the cloth—consumption! Oh God! Yet he had no cough, just that little tickling sound in his throat. She imagined all consumptives coughed and spat, like that man who travelled on the Jarrow tram and spat into a bottle. She could never make up her mind which was the worst, spitting on to the floor or into a bottle. But her father to have consumption…and spitti
ng blood with it! As his eyes looked into hers with unbearable love and tenderness she knew what she must do—she must come and live here and look after him.
During the past four months she had grown to love him with a love so deep it amounted to worship; and each day she was made more poignantly aware of what she had missed by being brought up without him, and of the unnatural load of fear that had been bred in her because of his absence. But now, the knowledge that he was near was building up in her a courage that had already ousted much of her fear. Yet there were always new fears waiting to be born. She had imagined he was getting better, for he looked better and talked as if whatever was wrong with him was now cured; but this—she knew what consumption meant, especially bleeding from the mouth.
They mustn’t be separated again…for the time that was left to him she must be with him, even in this house.
She drew his head to her, and as he leant against her she felt him sigh, and a fresh surge of strength, like the strength that had once been his, flowed into her, and she knew she would need this strength if she was to stick to her decision. First, her mother must be told. To face Bridget and say, ‘I am leaving home, I am going to sleep in,’ would be the final confirmation in her mother’s mind that she had ‘gone wrong’; but far rather let her think she was living with Mr Stanhope than she was living in Holborn.
The simplest course for her, she knew, would be to tell her mother the truth, but there the simpleness would end, for she felt she knew her mother enough to know that even were there no Uncle Matt to be considered the return of this gaunt Negro into her life would fill her with nothing but pain and embarrassment, to say the least. It would also deprive her of what happiness she had with Tony…Rose Angela felt a separate pang of sorrow for Tony; he had been so good; he had lived his life just to serve her mother and her. No, things must remain as they were. Her father was wise—he knew the situation was only bearable as it was now. She could not tell whether he harboured any bitterness towards Bridget, for he never spoke of her, but she guessed there were a number of reasons why he did not want her mother to know of his whereabouts.
After a while, when she told James what she intended doing he became agitated, saying, ‘No, Rose Angela, me better tomorrow. She not do this, Hassan, eh?’
Although Hassan said no and that it would be unwise to do so, his eyes were telling her that above all things he wanted her here, not in this house, but in Holborn.
Rose Angela was well aware of Hassan’s feelings towards her, but so well had she come to know him that she no longer feared him, or resented the fact that he should love her; and at times she thought it a waste and a pity that he should care for her as he did, for never could she return a spark of such feeling. Even if this other great love had not come into her life, she would have never considered Hassan.
To soothe James she had complied with his wishes of last night and had gone home, but she had been borne down with anxiety. This morning she’d had to wait until word was brought to her regarding his condition for she could not have found her way to the house alone. Murphy came in the middle of the morning, and his words, ‘I’m afraid, miss, he’ll soon kick the bucket,’ had decided her. She told Murphy that as soon as she was finished work she would go home and get her things, and she asked if he would meet her at the cut and take her to the house. She also asked him if Hassan had sent for a doctor, and Murphy said he had.
There were still two more hours before she could leave. She longed intolerably to get away, yet she shivered at the thought of facing her mother.
She was brought from her thinking by her master entering the kitchen. He had not ‘thumped’ for his afternoon tea—at least she didn’t think he had. ‘You didn’t knock, sir?’ she asked.
‘No—I thought I’d have it down here—it’s warmer. Not in your way?’
‘No, sir, of course not.’
She began immediately to get his tea, thinking that if only she hadn’t so much on her mind she could enjoy this moment. Twice before during the past few days he had taken his tea with her and talked to her, and she had lain awake at night thinking over the things he had said. She looked at him now, sitting in the basket chair by the little blue stove, and it came to her that he seemed lonely; and another phrase was added to that feeling which she thought could not be enlarged.
He startled her by turning his head suddenly and holding her gaze. ‘You look pale today, Rosie. Are you overworking?’
‘Oh no, sir.’
‘You don’t still take notice about that wash-leather business I barked at you when you first came, do you? I always used that technique on the types they sent me from the agency. You see, I was a lone man and I found they always wanted to run me as well as the house; that wash-leather was a very good way of putting them off.’
She smiled and said, ‘You mustn’t have been fierce enough, sir; it had no effect on me.’
‘I’m glad of that.’
She turned from his eyes and began to set the tray; and he looked into the fire again, and a quietness that was weighed with peace filled the kitchen; and Rose Angela forgot for the moment what lay before her this evening.
‘Rosie, would you mind coming in on Christmas Day?’
‘Not at all, sir. I expect to.’
‘If Mr Collins is here I won’t ask you, for then we’ll go out somewhere.’
‘It won’t matter in the least, sir. I’ll come in.’
‘Rosie’—he was still looking into the fire—‘what do you want most? Is there something that you’ve longed for and never been able to have? Tell me—I want to give you a Christmas present.’
She stopped in the act of pouring his tea out. What did she want most? That her father should be better. He couldn’t give her this; but the other great desire he could fulfil, and him only. Her face began to burn and although his eyes were not on her she turned away in case he should look up and see what madness she had come to. It was one thing to surrender her soul to him in the deep privacy of her being, but it would, she thought, destroy itself through exposure.
‘I’ve…I’ve never wanted very much, sir; I have all I want—a job, a very good job,’ she added.
‘Oh, Rosie, for God’s sake don’t be so humble.’ He was aggressive again, his jaw thrust out and his eyes glinting. ‘You shouldn’t be humble; there’s nothing about you to create humility. Why, you could—’ He paused. ‘Look; tell me truthfully; is there anything you’ve ever dreamed about?’
What words he used! She pushed the little trolley up to the fire, and now she was near him, looking down into his face, into those startlingly blue eyes. What could she say? Could she say a wireless? But that would be so expensive. A fur? Oh no…some little thing—a brooch.
‘Perhaps a brooch, sir.’
‘A brooch!’ His tone ridiculed the word. ‘You’re a disappointment, Rosie.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sit down and have some tea with me.’
She hesitated for a moment, and he yelled, ‘Go on, sit down, woman! There, you’ve got me bellowing again…you shouldn’t cross me.’
As she sat down on the opposite side of the hearth to him she caught the glimmer of a twinkle in his eye, and her own was forced to respond, and they laughed together.
‘You must think me a funny old man.’
‘I don’t think you old, sir.’
‘Well, I am; I’m nearly twice your age. I’m close on forty.’
‘You don’t look it, sir.’
‘Nice and polite of you. Why are you not married, Rosie?’
The abruptness of the question caused her to stammer, ‘Well…well…’
‘I suppose you’re waiting until you have enough money.’
‘No, I am not waiting.’ To herself her voice sounded cold and unemotional, giving no indication of the inner turmoil. She was conscious of drawing herself up, as if to defend her pride, as she went on, ‘I’ve never been asked.’
He continued to look at her for a time before saying soft
ly, ‘There are more damn fools in the world than I thought.’ Then he returned to his previous question. ‘Now, tell me the truth, what would you like for Christmas?…Besides a brooch, that is. By the way, I hate brooches, and I can’t stand women who plaster themselves with jewellery.’ He looked so aggressive as he said this that she was forced to smile again, thinking it was well she knew him.
‘There’s nothing really, sir.’
‘Well, I’m not buying you a brooch. I’ll give you the money and you can get what you like.’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’ She turned to the table to hide her pleasure at this, for above all things at the present time she needed money.
‘You know, Rosie, you are the most formal individual I have ever come across. Tell me, are you afraid of me?’
‘Oh no, sir.’ Her assurance was so sincere that there was no doubt that it was true; but he went on, ‘Then if you’re not afraid of me you are of someone or something.’
Rose Angela looked down at her plate and broke her cake into small pieces. ‘I have been afraid of many things in my life, but lately they have all gone, or nearly so.’
Colour Blind Page 18
