‘Hello, Charlie. You’re havin’ a fine game.’
The other participants leaped on to the wall and added their greetings. ‘Hello, Aunt Lot.’ ‘Hello, Aunt Lot.’
Lottie stopped and beamed on them. ‘My, you’re all out of puff.’
‘Where you going, Aunt Lot?’
‘Home.’
‘Is your Jack gonna play for the town today?’
‘Yes, likely, if he doesn’t go and see Newcastle. Eeh! I must be gettin’ along.’
‘So long, Aunt Lot.’
‘Goodbye, Aunt Lot.’
‘Toodle-oo, Aunt Lot.’
She answered this bright spark in his own vein, saying ‘To-dil-loo,’ whereupon the boys burst into roars of laughter, and she went from them with a step like a girl’s and with pursed-up lips which lent further ludicracy to her long, lined face. Bairns were lovely; all bairns were lovely. There were no bad bairns only not-so-nice ones, like Florence’s Monica.
She stopped on the kerb at the foot of Brampton Hill in order to allow a large car to pass. It moved slowly, waiting its chance to get into the main road. It was a long, low-built, powerful-looking car; it had something to draw all eyes, and its colours drew Lottie’s. The thick cream enamel contrasted strikingly with the scarlet upholstery of its interior, and she was thinking ‘Eeh! Isn’t it bonny,’ when her gaze fell upon one of its occupants. In an instant her surprise registered and dropped her mouth into a wide gape. The girl inside the car turned and looked at her. There was no smile on her face, but in the depth of her large eyes there was recognition.
The car, free now to move into the stream of traffic, shot away, leaving Lottie still gaping. Her eyes were stretched to their widest and when her mouth closed on a gasping Eeh! her eyes blinked. Then exclaiming aloud ‘No, no!’ she ran across the road, stopped for a moment, undecided which way to go, then to the amazement of the passers-by, who had never seen Lottie run, she zigzagged among them exclaiming as she went, ‘Eeh, no!’ Then turning up a side street and taking all subsequent short cuts she reached home almost in a state of exhaustion.
Florence Quigley was paying her weekly visit to her mother. She came into the town once a week and dutifully called, as she always remarked, to see if they were still alive. This particular Saturday morning Florence had a grievance. It was an old one, yet it had been dormant for some time, but the sight of Aunt Lot arrayed in all her finery parading the High Street that morning had brought it to the fore again. Of all the Broadhursts it was Florence alone who had always resented her aunt. Perhaps because in appearance she was the only member of the family who resembled her.
She stood now, pulling on her cotton gloves preparatory to her departure, and looking towards her mother who was setting the table for dinner she asked tensely, ‘Look, Mum, aren’t you going to do something?’
Jinny Broadhurst laid out with methodical precision six knives and forks and headed them with six spoons and forks before saying heavily, ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘You could burn those clothes of hers.’
‘It’s too late in the day; she’s been like it too long. Anyway, they make her happy.’
‘Happy!’ Florence compressed her lips. ‘It doesn’t matter about other people’s happiness, does it? I’m ashamed to go down the High Street, everybody saying “Hello, Aunt Lot” and laughing at her.’
‘Well, by the sound of things,’ said Jinny with a sigh, ‘you won’t be in the town much longer to be laughed at, and I don’t think they’re laughing at her anyway, they like her.’
‘Like her!’ Florence jerked back her head. ‘Like her! She’s good for poking fun at, if that’s what you call liking, and we may be here months yet…years. Things like Australia are not fixed in a minute. I’m telling you, Mum, and I’ve told you afore, she’ll stop me coming in altogether. I’ll go to Birtley or Chester-le-Street for I just can’t stand the sight of her in that get-up. Look’—her voice took on a softer note—‘I’ve a couple of frocks, they’re quite good—plain. Take all that lot of stuff of hers away and I’ll fit her out. There, I can’t say fairer, can I?’
Jinny turned and looked at her eldest daughter. She was sorry for Florence and she knew how she was feeling. At one time she had felt something like that herself when she first went courting. The fellow had been a bit uppish and hadn’t taken to Lottie, and because of that she herself hadn’t taken to him and had broken it off. But she felt bitter towards Lottie because of it. Then she had met Frank, and he had liked Lottie and said, ‘Let her be; don’t bother what she looks like, she’s happy.’ And so she had let her be, with regard to clothes anyway. But there were other things about which she couldn’t let her be.
Jinny, shrugging these things off her mind, said, ‘It’s kind of you, lass, but it’d be no use. Lottie could turn a nun’s garb into her own creation in five minutes, you know she could. You could rig her out up to the neck and then she’d come across some old hat and there she’d be, Lottie again. Don’t worry’—Jinny smiled at her daughter—‘she’s harmless.’
‘Harmless!’ Florence’s voice became shrill. ‘Harmless, did you say? I don’t know so much. She wasn’t so harmless with the fiddler, was she?’
Jinny’s smile vanished and she answered tartly, ‘Well, that’s over and done with. She’s promised Larry not to go near Bog’s End again and she’ll do what he says.’
‘Perhaps, let’s hope so.’ There was a moment’s silence, then Florence, with a small wag of the head that spoke of the hopelessness of it all, said, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be going. I haven’t got time to go to our Grace’s now, I’ll miss the bus. Will she be in this afternoon?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Will you tell her then that Sidney wants to see Harry? Ask her can they come over the morrow.’
Jinny’s eyes narrowed, as she turned slowly about and looked at her daughter. ‘What’s afoot now? You’re not putting them up to anything, are you? It’s enough one family going.’
Florence’s head jerked upwards again as she said primly, ‘I know nothing about it. It’s between Sidney and Harry.’
Jinny now glared angrily at her daughter for a moment before saying, ‘Well, you can just tell Sidney not to get at Harry. Harry hasn’t got the mind of a sparrow, he can be led. I’ll get your father to see into this. I will.’
‘See here, Mum. We’re not still children, surely, and what’s more…’ Florence’s voice stopped suddenly and her arm, unusual in its length, pointed towards the window, then in high indignation she cried, ‘Look! Just look at her.’
The question of the moment forgotten, Jinny looked, and through the window she saw her sister Lottie running across the road towards the house; her cape was loose and she was holding it on to her shoulder with one hand, while with the other hand she held on to her large hat. As her high-heeled sandals, already over at the sides, were not made for running in, she had the appearance of someone well gone in drink.
And that’s what several women in the street must have thought, for they turned from their various Saturday morning occupations of cleaning windows, polishing knockers, or lugging home great bags of groceries to stare at Lottie.
Mrs King from across the road went as far as to call, ‘What’s up, Lottie?’ but Lottie did not stop to make any answer.
‘In the name of God!’ said Jinny softly as she watched Lottie thrust open the garden gate, mount the three steps, then wobble up the path at a run.
The living-room window and front door faced the garden and the path led straight to the front door, but even in her distress Lottie knew better than to come in the front way over Jinny’s clean step. But as she passed the window she gesticulated wildly to her sister before disappearing round the side of the house.
‘In the name of God,’ said Jinny again, ‘what’s got her now?’ And she turned and faced the door but did not go towards it. Florence was standing in the middle of the room, and she too faced the door, and when her aunt stumbled in, her lip curl
ed noticeably with her distaste.
‘Oh, Jinny!’ Lottie pressed her hand tightly against her ribs. ‘Oh, Jinny, I’ve got the stitch.’
‘What’s up with you, woman?’ cried Jinny. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘Gone?’ muttered Florence heavily.
‘Oh, Jinny!’
‘Sit down. What’s the matter with you? Just look at you. Has somebody done something?’ There was a note of fear in Jinny’s voice. ‘You haven’t been down to Bog’s End, have you?’ Jinny reared to the extent of her five foot two inches, and her breadth, which gave the impression of equalling her height, seemed to expand still further.
‘No. No, Jinny. I promised, and Larry said…’
‘I know all about that. If you haven’t been down there, what is it then?’
Lottie became suddenly calm. Under the balancing eye of her sister, who could cope with all things, her news did not now hold such ominous disaster. The family peace would be kept because Jinny would see to it; and Larry wouldn’t be hurt, and he would cotton on to Jessie again. Jinny would fix things. Sitting down like a slowly deflated balloon she said, ‘Pam Turnbull’s come back.’
Had Lottie consciously played for effect she would have been gratified at the result of her words.
‘What!’ Both Jinny and Florence spoke together; then Florence added, ‘You’re barmy, you’ve been seeing things.’
‘No, I’m not; no I haven’t, Florence, I saw her…she’s back.’
‘Where?’ asked Jinny quietly.
‘Bottom of Brampton Hill, in a big car, Jinny.’
‘In a car?’ said Florence. ‘Who was driving it? What was he like?’
Jinny, casting an impatient glance at her daughter, said tersely, ‘Does that matter?’
And Florence’s look placed her mother in the category in which she held Lottie, as she said, ‘Of course it does. If she was with her—her husband—there’s nothing likely to start. Lord!’—she pulled at her glove with such energy that the cotton ripped—‘the things that people get up to in this family. If it isn’t one thing it’s another. You won’t be able to show your face in the town next.’
‘And why not, pray?’ Jinny’s face was red and her voice high. ‘If you no longer want to own your family you know what you can do, lass.’
On this rebuke Florence’s mouth became set and she looked again at Lottie, the question still in her eyes, and Lottie said, ‘I didn’t look at him, Florence, just at Pam. She was all dressed up and the car was red inside.’
‘Suitable colour,’ said Florence, turning towards the fire. Then on the sound of the back door opening and a voice bellowing ‘Hello, hello, hello! Where’s everybody?’ she closed her eyes. There followed the rattle of a bait tin being dropped on the scullery table, before the deep voice came up the passage crying, ‘Where’s that fat old Jinny Broadhurst?’
Jinny, going quickly to the kitchen door, called to the youngest of her family, ‘Stop making that row and come here a minute.’
Jack Broadhurst came into the room pulling off his coat. He was of short build, barely five foot five, and in appearance like his mother, but in comparison with her, because of his thin sparseness, he looked of moderate height. His face was square and inclined to ugliness, yet was saved by his eyes. They were the typical Broadhurst eyes. All the children of Frank Broadhurst had inherited his one good feature, deep-socketed, large, black-brown eyes. Yet no pair of eyes in the four children were alike, for each personality had individualised his own; whereas Florence’s were surly, Jack’s were merry.
‘What’s up?’ He looked from one to the other; then his gaze settled on Lottie, and noticing her more than usually dishevelled appearance, he assumed a mock frown, nodded his head deeply at her and exclaimed in shocked tones, ‘Lottie! What now, brown cow?’
‘It’s not me, Jack,’ said Lottie.
‘Stop your carry-on,’ said Jinny. ‘We have enough to think about—Pam Turnbull’s back.’
Jack’s brows drew together and his face sobered. ‘Back? No!’
‘Yes. Lottie says she saw her.’
‘You sure, Aunt Lot?’
‘Yes, Jack. Yes, I’m sure.’
‘But she’s in America. She wouldn’t come back here, not so soon anyway after all that’s happened.’
‘It was her, Jack, and she looked at me an’ all like she knew me.’
‘Look,’ said Jinny, turning to her son with the eagerness born of worry, ‘if it’s her, she’ll be at her mother’s, car an’ all by now. Take a dander down to Powell’s—you could be going for the paper or cigs or anything—and if the car’s outside the shop it’s her all right. Lottie says the car’s red inside.’
‘Yes, Jack, it was.’ Lottie moved her head in small nods.
Slowly Jack put on his coat again, his face looking older in its solemnity—he could have been forty-six instead of twenty-six. ‘I hope you’re wrong, Aunt Lot,’ he said, and then went out.
He went down the back garden and into the lane, his step slow and heavy as if he were reluctant to reach the end and turn the corner. At the bottom of the lane was an open space and across it and bordering the straight main road that ran through the town were the backs of two shops, with flats above them. The buildings looked neat and compact. They were freshly painted and the windows of one of the flats were draped in fine lace curtains, hung crosswise. This distinguished it from its neighbour, whose back window looked what it was, a kitchen window.
Jack walked round the right-hand side wall and to the front of the shops, and there opposite the grocery store stood the car as Aunt Lot had described it. His eyes just flickered over it before he entered the paper shop, where he immediately sensed that his entry was a little disconcerting to Mrs Powell and the customer for they were deep in earnest conversation; and he had no need to guess what the topic was. He picked up the newspaper, handed Mrs Powell the money and walked out. The fact that Mrs Powell had made no comment about the weather or the cost of living was further proof, if that had been needed, that Aunt Lot had not been mistaken.
As he came out again he stood for a moment and stared at the car…The bitch! The brazen bitch, for that’s all she was.
On the spare land behind the shop once again, he stood and lit a cigarette. There’d be hell to pay now. Even saying that Larry didn’t go off the deep end, the whole place would be agog as it had been four months ago, when Pam Turnbull had walked out on him a week before the wedding. He stared at the ground and pulled his ear. How would Larry take it? The concern he felt for his brother was sincere and deep, for as opposite as they were in looks and temperament there existed between them a strong link of sympathy and an affectionate liking, which, as boys, in spite of the four years’ difference in their age, had taken the form of constant sparring. With the years, the sparring had become verbal, which sometimes slipped into hot arguments, for although Jack privately acknowledged Larry’s mental superiority, outwardly he scoffed at it. Yet all that touched his brother touched him.
He moved down the back lane, more briskly now. If he was in Larry’s place, he told himself, he would ignore her, and when her name was mentioned, he’d say damn good riddance. But her name wouldn’t be mentioned, not to Larry anyway—he had a good idea what the general opinion would be: Larry Broadhurst was getting a taste of his own medicine, they’d say. Hadn’t he played the dirty on Jessie Honeysett the minute young Pam Turnbull came on the scene? And had he thought of Jessie’s feelings, and her living right opposite the door and seeing the palaver as the wedding day drew near? No, Jack knew that in a great many quarters there would be little sympathy for Larry now. That was something he had never been able fully to understand, Larry preferring that bitch to Jessie. Why, there was more goodness and soundness in Jessie’s fingernail than in Pam Turnbull’s body—yet who looked for goodness when he wanted a woman? He had only to take his own case and Lena’s…Here, here. He gave a hitch to his trousers and a mental hitch to his thoughts. Lena was all right. A bit short now and
then, but that was her condition. When the bairn was born she’d be OK again. Which reminded him, Peter Cox said there’d be a cottage going soon, off the Lowfell Road. The folks were moving. He’d take a dander with her over the fells this afternoon and see if there was any chance of getting it, that would please her. The very fact that he was making the attempt to find a place should convince her he was willing to make a move. Yet in the back of his mind he knew the chances of getting the cottage were almost nil, and to himself he made no secret of his relief, for he could not look forward to the day when he would have to leave his mother’s table and ordered home for his wife’s less than indifferent cooking and muddled management.
As he opened the back gate his father stepped out of the shed with a pigeon in his hand.
‘Been indoors, Dad?’ Jack asked.
‘No, not yet.’ Frank Broadhurst gently put the bird in the loft on the top of the shed. ‘I’ve just come back from Grace’s…grand mornin’ for a walk.’ He looked up at the sky, then brought his gaze down to his son. ‘I’ve just had a talk with Joe. He says if we could raise the money now we could get Tilly’s smallholding and those three greenhouses for a song. I wish your mother could see it that way and let us borrow a bit and take the risk. It would be better’n scraping and saving for another year or two, then starting from scratch. Life doesn’t get no longer and I want to see the sky a bit.’ He looked upwards again. And Jack, on the point of speaking, was silenced by his father jerking his head and beckoning him to the side of the shed and out of sight of the scullery window, where Frank rubbed his knuckles hard against his blue-veined cheek for a moment before saying in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I was wondering, least it’s just an idea but I was wondering, do you think Larry would come in? He’s always hated the pit, and he must have a bit put by, the way he’s been working lately. He’s picked up something these last few months alone. Do you think you could sound him for me? I don’t want to ask him if he’s not that way inclined. Tap ’im first, and let me know, will you?’
The Menagerie Page 2
