Colour Blind

by Catherine Cookson

  As he walked towards her she turned to the canvas again; and when he stood behind her and she felt his coat against her shoulders a painful stillness filled her.

  ‘Do you like it?’ His voice was unsteady.

  Still she could utter no word. His hand came down on her shoulder and moved slowly to her chin, and as her head was tilted back the stillness vanished; the waiting was over, and wave after wave of trembling happiness washed through her as she looked up at his great tousled head.

  Now his other hand was on her face, cupping it. ‘You know, Rosie, don’t you?’

  She closed her eyes against the light in his and felt herself swung round and to her feet.

  ‘You know I love you. For God’s sake say something! Stop me making a fool of myself. I know I’m a damned fool, but I can’t help it. God knows I’ve tried.’ He pressed her clasped hands into his chest. ‘Tell me I’m not a fool…tell me, Rosie.’

  Still she could release no words; it was as if her happiness had locked all expression of itself within her; but she leant towards him and all that her being held was in her eyes, and he kissed her, kissed her with a fierceness that met and satisfied the deep demand that lay hidden beneath her calm exterior. She stood crushed in his arms, pressed into him, almost crying from sheer happiness.

  ‘Rosie; Rosie; Rosie—’ With each murmur of her name he rocked her gently. ‘How I’ve longed to do that. For months and months I’ve longed just to do that…even from the very first day. Do you know you’ve driven me nearly mad?’ He held her from him. ‘I’d sworn never to paint another woman, and you see what I had to do?’

  Dimly she registered the fact that he had at one time painted women; and a woman was likely the reason why he had stopped. But what did anything of his past matter? He was hers now…hers…hers.

  She was in his arms again and he was murmuring into her hair, ‘“What’s your name?” I asked you that first day. Do you remember? “Rose Angela Paterson”, you said. Rose Angela. There has never been anyone more like their name, half flower, half angel.’

  She lifted her head and laughed at his flowery exaggeration, such a gay, happy, free laugh that she could not believe it came from her; and with a naturalness as if she had spoken it instead of merely thinking it every day she said his name…‘Michael.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Michael.’ Her lips shyly framing the word seemed to hold it while she drew fresh joy from the utterance. As she was borne away on his emotion, part of her questioned the reality of what was happening. But reality or dream, it did not matter as long as she remained in this state.

  ‘Come’—he took her by the hand and led her to the door—‘I’ve something to show you…something that you asked for.’

  But at the door he stopped; and there was laughter in his eyes. ‘What do you want most, Rosie? Tell me. But this time I want the truth, mind.’

  And when she gave him the answer she had wanted to give him that night in the kitchen he swung her off her feet and up into his arms and carried her down the stairs.

  She made no protest, but lay against him; and as he sat her down in the drawing room, saying like a boy with his first love, ‘I’ll never let you walk up or down those stairs again—it will be an excuse to hold you,’ she dared to say teasingly, ‘Even when you bellow for me?’

  His face became serious. ‘To think I ever bellowed at you!’

  Diffidently she put up her hand and touched his cheek. ‘I used to long for you to bellow so that I could come up to you.’

  He was on his knees, his arms about her again. ‘You love me, Rosie?’

  ‘Yes…oh yes. I’ve always loved you, right from that first day when you looked down on me from the window and said, “I don’t want a model.”’

  ‘And all the time you put me off, by looking either frightened or aloof…You’ll never look afraid again; from now on I’ll make your life such as no fear will touch it.’

  She moved her hands through his hair. ‘It all seems too good to be true.’

  ‘Nothing will be too good for you…I’ll take you travelling—I’ll show you the world. Not that I think much of the world at the present moment, but you must see places. We’ll go through France to Germany, and through the Black Forest…you’ll like that.’

  She answered slowly, ‘Yes, perhaps…but I don’t know. I can think of no better life than to stay here in this house with you.’

  ‘Rosie, your humility is painful, but I love you for it. Where’s that damn box?’

  He patted his pockets and dragged the greatcoat that he had flung on to the carpet towards him. ‘There’—he thrust the small parcel into her hands—‘that’s what you asked for.’

  She undid the wrapping, and she flashed him a look of gratitude before opening the black box lying in the palm of her hand. It would be the brooch. It was the brooch, but such a one as she had never seen before. In an oval of finely wrought silver lay a rose worked in stones glinting with red and purple lights. She had no knowledge of precious stones, but she knew that in this exquisite setting lay something of great value, something that she was afraid to accept.

  ‘Well, what do you think? You asked for it, you know; though what you want a brooch for God alone knows. You shouldn’t wear jewellery—you have all the jewels you need.’ He moved his fingers round the circles of her eyes.

  ‘It’s beautiful; but it’s too much.’

  ‘Too much!’ he scoffed. ‘Rosie you are the only beautiful woman I have met…in fact the only woman, beautiful or otherwise, who didn’t think she was worth the earth. You must put a greater value on yourself.’ He pressed her face tightly between his hands. ‘After you’ve lived with me for a while you will—I’ll make you know your own value…Oh, my love!’ He laid his head on her breast; and his voice took on a touch of sadness. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done for me. I never thought I’d allow a woman into my life again. Years ago I received a nasty knock and it turned me against all your kind, but from the moment I first saw you, you changed that. And then to find you possessed a sense of fair play—you seemed too good to be true.’

  He lifted his head, and she looked down into his eyes, the blue now dark and soft, and her mind was awhirl with the wonder of him and his love for her that was making him tremble. At last. At last life was coming right. You only had to wait and be patient and happiness came to you. Oh, Holy Mary! She felt she wanted to go down on her knees and pray. But the thought of praying brought a self-consciousness with it; if he didn’t mention marriage—and she was sensible enough to know that there was very little likelihood of him doing so—and she went to him, as she knew she would, what about praying then? It didn’t matter…nothing mattered but him. What was marriage and religion, anyway? Look at the lives the married people led in the fifteen streets…good Catholics, too! She would let nothing come between them. She would take this love whichever way it was offered and stand the consequences. But the consequences could only be good. And as she listened to his voice she felt the certainty of this.

  ‘That day you told our enterprising Mr Pillin what you thought of him, you didn’t know I was in the boat alongside the wharf, did you?’ She shook her head. ‘I had started up the river, but found there was some gear missing, and when I came back you were in the thick of it. You did something for me that day, Rosie: you more than saved me nearly two pounds a week; you gave me back my faith in human nature—the female side, anyway. It was surprising to know that a woman could be honest—a beautiful woman—and just for the sake of honesty, with no ulterior motive behind her action. Oh, Rosie, Rosie, I love you for so many things.’ He gazed at her tenderly. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  The onus was on her, and it brought the colour flooding to her face. She shook her head and swallowed, and he asked gently, ‘Would you…would you come and live with me, Rosie?’

  Her eyes fell away from his and she said simply, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rosie! Oh, Rosie, my dear!’

  He held
her gently, and a silence fell on them that was not entirely devoid of embarrassment.

  He rose from her side, saying, ‘We’ll have a drink, then dinner, eh?’ But he hadn’t reached the cabinet before she was on her feet, protesting, ‘Not tonight! I’d forgotten the time…I must go home.’

  ‘What! Now?’ He turned in surprise. ‘But you can’t, Rosie.’ He came towards her, his heavy brows gathering into a furrow. ‘You don’t mean to go yet.’

  ‘I’ll have to. Look, it’s quarter to seven. He…they’ll be worrying.’

  ‘Surely not for an hour or so? Stay and have something to eat with me, and then I’ll take you home. I’ve always wanted to take you home…next to keeping you here.’ He stood close to her, not touching her, but his eyes tracing each feature of her face.

  ‘Oh, I’d love to stay…you know I would.’ She took his hand and held it to her cheek.

  ‘Then why don’t you?’ He covered the hand that held his with his own.

  ‘Because they’re expecting me.’

  He remembered it was Friday and she had been paid, and he surmised it was for this they would be waiting.

  ‘All right, then, but I’m taking you home.’

  At this her mind whirled into a panic, and saying she must get her things she turned from him…He thought she was going to the fifteen streets. What would he have to say to her living in Holborn? And what further would he say when he knew the Negro was her father? He would have to be told, but not tonight. Anyway, she must hurry. What on earth would her da be thinking? He’d be lying worrying. But how was she going to put Michael off?

  ‘It’s raining, and you’ve still got that cold…don’t come out again.’ Even to herself, her effort sounded feeble.

  ‘Don’t go out; but let you go alone, and over that road too?’ He was his bustling self again. ‘I don’t know what I’ve been thinking of all along to allow you to go alone in the dark through that jumble of debris. God knows what might have happened to you.’

  She was forced to smile at his solicitude. For months now she had walked through the debris and she doubted if he had even thought of it.

  But his next words brought a tenseness to her body. ‘I would have seen you to the tram, in any case, tonight, for I had to warn off one of those damned Arabs as I came in. I found him standing at the edge of the clearing, apparently surveying the house. Have you had any trouble with them coming here when I’ve been out?’

  ‘No.’

  As he was shrugging himself into his coat again he said, ‘I’ll break the first one’s neck I find with his foot on my ground—I can’t stand the oily blighters.’

  Poor Hassan. At one time she had felt that way too. She still did towards most of the Arabs, but towards Hassan she felt nothing but sympathy. But she guessed this feeling would be hard to explain to this love of hers, who in many ways was a law unto himself. She would explain her acquaintance with Hassan after she told him about her da—it really shouldn’t come as any great surprise to him to know that her father was a Negro, for he must see she had coloured blood in her veins. It was always a matter of amazement to her that the likeness in the eyes had escaped him. Yet her da had sat for him every day for a week, and he hadn’t noticed.

  As he insisted on buttoning a mackintosh of his over her coat she probed his feelings on the matter of her colour by asking shyly, ‘Michael, do you mind about me being…coloured?’

  ‘Coloured? Oh, my dear, I wouldn’t mind if your father was an orang-utan as long as you were you. He drew her to him. ‘Never mention that again. I adore you…I always shall. Right from the day I first saw you I knew what would happen to me. Coloured! Where you are concerned I’m colour-blind.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, how funny. You’re like God, then.’

  ‘God?’ His eyebrows shot up into his hair. ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, I think you must be the only one besides him in all the world who is colour-blind. Our priest told me when I was a child that God was colour-blind; I’ve never found anybody else who is. Oh, and I love you for it. Oh, Michael, Michael!’

  She kissed him with a fervour that prolonged the departure and made him plead again, ‘Stay a little while…just a little while.’

  ‘I can’t. Tomorrow night I will, I promise.’

  Yes, she would stay later tomorrow night. She would tell her da and he would understand.

  As soon as they were outside she began to talk, as a warning to Hassan, whom she knew would be waiting. Stanhope held her by the arm, her elbow pressed into his side and her fingers laced tightly through his own; and going up the dark bank towards the market place he pulled her into the deep shadow of a wall and kissed her, a silent, wordless kiss. But as they walked across the steel-glistening empty market place to the tram it took all her gentle persuasion to counter his voluble insistence that he should accompany her home, and she did not feel safe until she stood on the platform of the tram as it jogged out of the market place, watching him receding into the distance, the blueness of his eyes seeming to pierce the darkness until he was lost from her sight.

  The tram stopped four times before she alighted; then she stood, uncertain for a moment what to do. She must give him time to get well out of the way before she ventured back to the Mill Dam again.

  When she did come to the bank she kept to the shadow of the wall until she entered Holborn and, although she now breathed more freely, her steps became slower, for she had never before traversed these streets alone in the dark.

  She had hardly covered the first deserted street when she heard quick padding footsteps behind her and a well-known voice call softly, ‘Rose Angela.’ She stopped in relief and laughed into the darkness, ‘Oh, Hassan! I am glad to see you!’

  Hassan made no reply, but walked quietly by her side; and because of his silence she knew that he was aware of what was between her and Stanhope. He would have seen them; perhaps he had followed them. Thinking of the dark bank leading to the ferry, she blushed and decided to bring the matter into the open. It would be the best way.

  ‘Mr Stanhope set me to the tram tonight, he doesn’t know that I’m living down here.’ It was difficult to go on, for Hassan’s displeasure was as visible as the wet darkness, and as cold. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, but he doesn’t know James is my da. After painting him, too! It’s odd, isn’t it?’

  Still Hassan made no comment, and they walked in awkward quietness until they reached the house, but in the darkness of the hall he spoke softly and rapidly, holding her gently by the arms as he did so. ‘Rose Angela. You know I have a great love for you. No, don’t say anything yet…I am not as others. I want one woman and one only, and that woman is you. I have money—much money. I can take you and your father away from here and send you both to Switzerland, where the healing air will prolong his life. But above all things I want to make you my wife…I want to marry you. The painter will never marry you—he comes of a class that scorns any colour but their own.’

  She said nothing. The darkness hid his face from her, but she was filled with pity for him.

  ‘Think it over. I don’t want to hurry you, Rose Angela, but…’ He did not finish, and they stood in silence again. He was waiting for her to speak; and as they stood it was brought to both of them that their silence was part of an unusual quietness that pervaded the whole house. Usually at this time of night the house was alive with clatter and noise. Only when danger threatened the inhabitants or something unusual was afoot would there be this silence.

  Hassan drew closer to Rose Angela and whispered, ‘Something is wrong. Go up and stay in the room, I’ll be up later. Don’t come downstairs again, not until I’ve found out what the trouble is.’

  He gave her a gentle push towards the stairs, and she ran quickly from him, and each door she passed showed no light, nor gave forth any sound. Only from the bottom of her own door did a light shine. She paused, and the ecstatic happiness of the evening became submerged under the weight of a dread. Reluctantly her hand went to the knob, and she
turned it slowly and went in.

  For the past hour James had lain watching the door. Soon she would be here, and his day would begin. His days for the past two weeks had started at half-past six in the evening, when his Rose Angela came through the door, and ended at half-past seven in the morning when she left him. All day long he lay quiet, reserving his strength for her. He had little to say to Murphy or Pete, or even to the generous Hassan, while they sat with him giving him the news of the river. Only when they commented on the change Rose Angela had wrought in this room did he allow himself to be roused. Yes sir, by Jove…she wonderful.

  He looked now to the corner where her shakedown was curtained off with a piece of gay chintz, and at the window to the side of him where the same material shut out the sight, if not the sound, of the torrential rain; even the rusty bed rail was removed from his gaze by her neat draping. His hands, long and bony, with the nails startlingly pink, moved lovingly to the glass jar of yellow chrysanthemums on the bamboo table by the bedside…she thought of everything. Flowers for him! And the food she brought him, food that now he couldn’t eat. Two years ago he could have eaten it; how he could have eaten it. If he’d had food then there might have been a chance for him. Or if he had waited a little longer and hadn’t sailed in that hell ship, with short commons and rotten boilers that sweated the flesh off a man. But hadn’t he waited too long, years too long, always hoping that he would strike the money and come back and shower gifts on his Rose Angela?

  It was strange how the thought of his once beloved Rose had been thrust into the background by the love for his child. Had he always known that Bridget wouldn’t wait for him? He supposed so. Yet it came as a shock when he knew it was Tony she had chosen…Tony, the boy who had taken Rose Angela from his arms that night long ago; Tony, who had always liked him. He did not blame Tony. Women were the devil—they had always been the devil, all except his Rose Angela. Yet she played the devil with men, too, tenfold more than her mother had been capable of doing. Hassan…Hassan was mad about her. But he was glad she no want Hassan. He was good fella and kind, but he was not for his Rose Angela. He did not want her to marry any coloured man. No sir. She was mostly white and he wanted a white man for her. If she married coloured man all her life she’d be in trouble, inside of her and outside, whereas if she marry white man she be protected by his colour alone. The painter man he like his Rose Angela, there were many signs of that. He bellow a lot, but not at her; he look at her when she not looking, and his voice soft and kind when he speak to her. But would he marry her? Liking and marrying were two different things. And him a swell…And his Rose Angela. How did she feel about the painter man? She no say nothing, not even last night when he noticed strange light in her eyes when she came in, and he say to her, ‘You happy?’ and she replied, ‘I’m happy to be back with you.’