The Menagerie

by Catherine Cookson

  Lena made a noise like a gurgle. ‘Is love ever?’ she said skittishly.

  This brought Jack’s gaze on her, and his doting expression caused a boiling in Jinny’s inside. Slush…they’d make you sick. What had come over their Jack? He’d always been the one in the family for joking, but nevertheless he had been sensible and cool-headed. What had come over everybody, for that matter, in the past two years? Her eyes moved to the window and to the cottage opposite. If only Larry hadn’t gone mad and thrown over a girl like Jessie, and their Jack hadn’t gone soft in the head and been taken in by that fat piece.

  ‘I could tell him.’

  ‘What!’

  All eyes were on Lottie. And she said again, ‘I could tell him.’

  ‘Huh!’ Lena let out a laugh; and Jinny turned on her angrily. ‘Be quiet, will you?’

  ‘Well!’ Deeply offended by the rebuke, Lena rose, and piloting the bulk of her fat and the added high bulk of her stomach with exaggerated dignity between the chairs, she sailed from the room.

  ‘You shouldn’t have spoke like that, Ma.’ Jack’s head moved from side to side.

  ‘And you be quiet an’ all,’ said Jinny. ‘I’ll speak how I like in my own house. When you get one of your own you can do the same.’

  ‘Well, if that’s how you feel…’

  Jack followed his wife, and Jinny called loudly after him, ‘Yes; that’s how I feel.’ Then turning to her husband she said, ‘You don’t blame me, do you?’

  ‘No, lass,’ he said. ‘I don’t blame you.’ Then they both looked at Lottie and she looked from one to the other and said eagerly, ‘I can talk to Larry. You know I can, Jinny.’

  ‘What’ll you say?’ asked Frank. ‘How’ll you go about it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Frank, but I’ll just talk and tell him easy like. I can do it with Larry, I know I can. It’s not like when I talk to other people. Can I, Jinny?’

  After a moment, during which she looked at this sister whom she had mothered from the day she was born when her own mother had died and whose simpleness alternately aroused her anger and pity, she said, ‘Go on then.’

  There were some things that Jinny knew and understood in her mind but she had no words with which to express them, so when Frank said, ‘I hope you’ve done the right thing,’ she did not answer. There was a simplicity in Lottie, she knew, that had nothing to do with her simpleness; at times the simplicity seemed to erupt the muddled layers of her mind and express itself in words that were wise and whose meaning was beyond her ken. As Lottie went upstairs she sat down by the table and waited …

  ‘Can I come in, Larry?’ Lottie bent her head close to the door.

  ‘Yes, come on.’

  As she opened the door and saw him sitting at the little writing desk, set crosswise in the corner, to the side of the window, she said, ‘You writing, Larry?’

  ‘No, clearing out,’ he said. And he thought, There’s truth in that all right.

  ‘Well, I would have done it for you, Larry.’

  He was forced to smile. She could not be trusted even to wash a cup without breaking it; as for dusting or tidying up, she created more chaos with her attempts than half a dozen children would have done. He let his smile linger on her and put out his hand and gave her a gentle push. It was odd, but of all of them it would be her he would miss most. His mother had tended to his wants and although he knew her love for him was strong it had always been guarded—no making flesh of one and fish of the other, had been her maxim. But Aunt Lot had openly poured her love and affection over him.

  ‘Are you going to start on a new story, Larry?’

  ‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Just that, Aunt Lot—a new story.’

  ‘Eeh, you’re clever, Larry.’

  He did not contradict her; it was nice for someone to think he was clever. But weren’t they all under the illusion that he was clever? He had been under it once himself. At fifteen he had been so sure of his cleverness that he had left the grammar school. In his case, he could not blame his parents for urging him to go down the pit, for they had been dead against it, but he had wanted money and had convinced them that the school could teach him nothing more.

  He had been a fool, a big-headed fool. And he hadn’t to go down the pit to realise the mistake he had made—a week working up top had given him enough proof. The few years spent at the grammar school had apparently done little towards educating him—the benefit to be derived from it was generally felt only by the boy who stayed on until he was seventeen or eighteen—but there was one thing he had acquired, at least the elementary ingredients of it, and that was the questionable power of self-diagnosis, and through it he knew that his ignorance was abysmal. But more so was he aware of the ignorance around him, and particularly among those of his own family. Yet in spite of this knowledge with regard to himself he had attempted to write. He did not read in order to aid his writing, but wrote from the untutored pictures in his mind. And he got nowhere. But his self-analysis did not point the reason for this, until two years ago when life had suddenly blazed forth and showed him the reason for many things.

  ‘There’s Willie; he mustn’t have gone to the match.’

  ‘Willie!’ Larry turned quickly to the window, and sure enough there was Willie hurrying down the street. What had brought him back? He was about to lift up the window and call, but the fact that he always kept clear of the window now checked him. At one time, the desk had been set right in front of the window so that he could keep an eye open for Jessie coming in from work, but, now he kept the curtains almost closed, and although these would have been shield enough, he had moved the desk into the corner. It was likely Jessie that had brought Willie back; he must have done some thinking on the back of that bike. It said a lot for how he felt if he was foregoing a match to make a start on her.

  ‘Larry—you know when you stopped me going down…you know where?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I cried for nights. ’Cause I wasn’t doing no harm.’

  ‘Now, Aunt Lot.’ His voice was stern and he thrust a finger towards her. ‘Now, we don’t want that again.’

  ‘I know, Larry; I’m not asking anything.’

  He bent over the desk. ‘Is he back?’

  ‘I don’t know, Larry.’

  ‘Then why are you on about him?’

  ‘I was just saying—’cause I was upset when you said I hadn’t to go. I used to like to stand and watch him playin’. I didn’t go in the bars, and I wasn’t doin’ no harm.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but Bog’s End’s no place for you, inside or outside a bar, watching an old busker.’

  ‘Aw, he’s not old, Larry, and he talks nice…refined.’

  Larry turned on her again. ‘I thought you told me that he had never opened his mouth to you.’

  ‘He didn’t…he hadn’t. It was when he was saying, “Thank you, Madam”, or “Thank you, Sir”. He never said Mister.’

  Larry shook his head and smiled faintly. ‘What’s to be done with you, Aunt Lot? But don’t you forget’—he again pointed at her—‘you promised me faithfully you wouldn’t go near him.’

  ‘I know, Larry. I know I did. And I won’t. But it hurt, ’cause I wasn’t doin’ no harm.’

  He smiled at her broadly now and put out his hand, and this time patted her arm. She didn’t take advantage of this sign of affection as she usually did and grab hold of his hand, but turned and looked out of the window once more, and then in a muttering tone she exclaimed, ‘There’s Jessie goin’ in. She looks tired, but she’s still bonny is Jessie. There’s nobody like Jessie.’

  There was no comment whatever on this from Larry, and Lottie continued her muttering. ‘Her mother’s very bad again. The doctor was there twice yesterday. She’ll die this time, they think, Larry.’ She turned from the window and came and stood near him. ‘Larry, I don’t want you to get upset, ’cause I know what it’s like, and when you’re doing no harm…’

  Larry closed his eyes for a moment. He had found f
rom experience that when Aunt Lot started to talk about Jessie the wisest plan was to say nothing, and then she would stop.

  ‘And if you love somebody and they do something, it makes you feel awful. Jessie must have felt awful but she doesn’t hold any spite. Some might. She’s still got lovely hair, and she’s still bonny. I think she’s bonny.’

  ‘Aunt Lot!’

  The command made her jump, and she gasped and blinked down into his set face. ‘Oh, Larry.’

  ‘Now stop it.’

  ‘But Lar…’

  ‘Go on downstairs. Go on this minute.’

  ‘No, no, Larry; I’ve something to tell you. Don’t be mad.’

  ‘I’m not listening.’ He went to the door to open it, and she shambled after him crying, ‘No, Larry, no. Not for a minute.’

  At the urgency of her tone he turned to her and rasped, ‘Well, no more of it, mind.’

  They looked at each other for a moment; then noisily he banged the chair into place again opposite the desk, and sat down.

  As Lottie stared at his back her fingers went to her mouth, and with the action of a child she bit at one nail after the other. Then in a whisper she said, ‘I’ve been trying to tell you somethin’, Larry, so it wouldn’t hurt…Pam’s back. She’s in a big car, and it’s red inside.’

  He made no move, his head didn’t lift, nor did his back straighten. Her words might have shut off his breathing and locked his body, so still did he appear.

  Lottie’s eyes began to run. Without puckering or moving the muscles on her face the tears spilled down her cheeks with the silent immobile crying which at times emphasised her oddness. She touched Larry’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers, and after a long while, when he still made no response, she crept to the door and went out.

  Larry, unlike the others, had not questioned Lottie. He knew what she had said was true. His mother’s concern; the laughter in Lena’s eyes; the restraint of Jack, and his father starting again about the union; and the car—red inside. After a long while he drew in a deep gulp of air. He was staring down onto the desk, his eyes fixed on a part where the veneer was chipped. With a sudden movement of his hands he inserted his nail under it. There was a sharp, thin, splitting sound, and almost a foot of the veneer leaped from the table into the air. As it fell noiselessly onto the bedside mat he rose and went to the wardrobe, and wrenching open the door pulled down a suit. He undressed, flinging one article after another onto the bed, and when he stood clothed in his best, his tie adjusted and his trilby in his hand, he did not wrench open the door and with a step matching the dark fury on his face stride down the stairs and out of the house, but with a sudden heavy movement he turned and sat on the bed.

  Fierce anger, mixed with pain and amazement and a reborn longing, were churning in him. He’d kill her. If he set eyes on her, he’d kill her. As sure as God was alive, he’d kill her, and the fellow with her. His hands, already clenched, tightened into knots, the bones straining through the skin. The fellow—he’d punch him to a pulp. Already he could see himself challenging the man to the quarry. There they could fight and only one of them would ever be able to walk up the steep bank again. The pain of his love coming uppermost for the moment relaxed his taut limbs, and his head drooped forward and his eyes looked into the mirror of the dressing table and he asked of his image, as he had done a thousand times these past weeks, why she had done it. He was young, virile, a man with more about him than most, and she had loved him. Yes, she had loved him. The answer came to him as before…money, to which was added…her mother.

  That Mrs Honeysett should have considered him unsuitable for Jessie had angered him, but Mrs Turnbull’s attitude had been perfectly understandable to him, for hadn’t she and her husband worked up an excellent business with one object—to give their daughter a chance in the world? He could remember the time, just after the war, when Mrs Turnbull’s aspirations had aroused caustic comments, not untouched with envy, from the neighbourhood…sending her daughter to a boarding school out of her war profits, the folks had said. What did they expect for her…that she should marry a lord or some such? You didn’t make silk purses out of sows’ ears.

  There had never been anything resembling a sow’s ear about Pamela Turnbull, but she was the daughter of a woman who had started a shop in her front-room window and who now not only owned a large store, but could buy property. Like the prophet who is never recognised in his own country, prosperity, even through hard work, aroused in Mrs Turnbull’s neighbours nothing but envy. But in spite of the mother’s attitude towards him, from the first he himself had felt nothing but admiration for her. It was she who had made Pam what she was, but it was precisely because she had done so that she was determined her efforts were not going to be buried in Fellburn. Pamela Turnbull had come to his horizon like a brilliant star appearing in daytime. At that period he had thought he was fully awake to life and that his days were bright, but the finished product of Pam Turnbull had showed up his days as dull and his life as commonplace, his brain mediocre and his ambitions without vigour.

  It was on a New Year’s Eve that he had met her, when he was playing first-foot. He had, to please his mother, been first-foot since he had come out of the Forces. The darker the man, the better the luck. So on that particular New Year’s Eve he had left the house just on twelve o’clock with a bottle of whisky in one pocket and a piece of coal in the other. There had been few people out in his street, for the custom was not kept rigorously nowadays, although most people held or went to parties. He had called a ‘Hello’ here and there to a voice in the darkness, and when he reached the top of the street and a car drove crazily off the main road and pulled up opposite the Campbells’ doorway and the laughter bespoke of at least three of the Campbells being well away in their cups, he had moved onto the spare ground; for he didn’t want to be dragged into the Campbells’ house, which would have happened if they’d caught sight of him. They were a mad lot, the Campbells, harmless, but mad. Standing in the shelter of the Turnbulls’ shop-yard wall, he had lit a cigarette, and stood for a moment out of the cutting wind, drawing on it. He’d had just enough drink in him to make him feel happy and at peace with the world. It had been a grand night and was only then just starting. He had laughed until he was sore. Willie was a fool. He had mimicked Norman Wisdom to a T. There was something not unlike Wisdom’s fool character about Willie. He was a fumbler and a little pathetic at times, was Willie, but he could make you laugh. There had been no feeling of irritation towards Willie that night, for the whiskies had mellowed him. He had been about to move away from the door when a movement behind the wall made him pause. Someone was in the Turnbulls’ backyard. The storeroom of the shop had been broken into only a week previous, so he stepped back quietly and glanced up at the windows of the flat. They were all in darkness. But Powell’s, the paper shop, windows next door were ablaze with light. It was likely that the Turnbulls were seeing the New Year in with them. There came the sound of footsteps in the yard. They were distinct, yet quiet and seemingly cautious, and as the light from a torch streaked through a crack in the door he had thought, Someone’s up to no good. Rotten trick to pick on this time. Yet it was the best time from a thief’s point of view, for if a house was in darkness at twelve o’clock on a New Year’s Eve in this town you could almost bet your life that house was empty.

  When the figure stepped swiftly into the open he had grabbed at it and caught a handful of loose coat, and, before he could make any comment, the light from the torch was flashed full in his face and a throaty cultured voice had said, ‘Let me go.’

  He had not let go, but swiftly turned the hand that held the torch on to the speaker. And so he met Pam Turnbull.

  In this first glimpse of the finished article he saw nothing of the Pam Turnbull that had been a bit of a lass of twelve in nineteen forty-seven, yet he recognised her. The close-fitting, shining black hair, that looked like wet sealskin; the pale transparent skin; the large oval of the eye-sockets tending downwar
ds, from which all the lines of the face seemed to take their cue. It was an unusual face, striking in its contrasts of black and white, but in that moment he only took in the outline. He hadn’t yet looked into the clear grey of the eyes. Nor had his gaze lingered on the mouth. He had laughed deeply in his throat and said, ‘Sorry and all that, I thought you were a burglar.’

  She hadn’t answered for a moment, but had stood back from him shrugging her coat onto her shoulders, and when she said, ‘You are Larry Broadhurst, aren’t you?’ he had laughed again, and replied, ‘That’s me. Larry Broadhurst.’ And even a bit fuddled as he was, he had scorned himself for making such an answer. He should have used his best twang and said something polite in answer to a voice like hers…definitely la-di-da. That’s what keeping a shop did for your bairns…culture. Oh, even in the darkness he knew that Miss Pamela Turnbull had it. He was amused at his thoughts, and when the church bells began to ring it was with a happy perverseness that his tone took on the pitmatic, as he said, ‘A Happy New Yeer.’

  ‘A Happy New Year,’ she had said, then turning quickly from him had gone into the Powells’ backyard.

  Later, when he pulled Jessie behind the kitchen door and kissed her and felt her clinging to him, he had thought, This time next year we’ll have a home of our own. Here I am thirty-one. Time’s not standing still…look at that Turnbull girl.

  He had next seen Pam Turnbull when he was coming home from work. You might have had a bath at the pithead, there might be no trace of coal dust on you, you could be wearing a collar and tie and a decent mac over an equally decent suit, but you were still coming from the pit and everybody knew it. And yet he had never thought this before until he had seen the girl coming towards him. It was not only the boyish slimness of her figure, the lift of her chin, or yet her clothes which at first glance appeared to him plain and most ordinary until he came abreast of her that made him acutely aware that he was a pitman, an ordinary pitman, coming home from the pit, but the remembered tone of her voice. She was wearing a costume of dull grey. The rest of her attire was black, and it looked as if she was without a hat, so close-fitting and so akin to her hair was the tiny, black straw cap. Her whole attire looked as her voice had sounded…uppish.