The Menagerie

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Larry.’

  He made no answer, but moved his arm as if to shove her off.

  ‘Larry, don’t take on. I had a job to get her to come, but Jinny wanted to see her, and she won’t think worse of you seeing you change Betty.’

  He moved his head from side to side but did not turn on her demanding that she should be quiet, and so she went on, ‘Jessie’s smart and looks nice now…lovely, and her name’s been painted on the flower shop next to Miss Barrington’s, but she still wears a green overall in the shop and she’s not stuck up about it or anything. She’s always the same, is Jessie; she’s always lovely to me and I know she’s the same inside.’

  ‘Aunt Lot.’

  His voice sounded tired, but there was no reprimand in it, and she said, ‘I know. I know, Larry, you’re bad and that’s why you went for Jessie, and she’s upset. But she’s done nothing, only been kind.’

  ‘All right, Aunt Lot; all right.’ His head moved in a rocking motion downwards towards the table.

  ‘Jessie still loves you, Larry; that’s why she wouldn’t marry the minister.’

  His head stopped moving; it was as if he were listening.

  ‘She nearly cried the night I let on you stopped me coming across, but she didn’t. But I knew she would have a good cry after I went, like I do in bed at nights after Jinny’s been on at me. And now Jessie won’t ever come back over here, not again she won’t. It’s as Jinny said, she’s the same Jessie but she’s different. You know what I mean.’ She waited, looking down on his beloved head. Then softly she brought out, ‘But you, Larry…you could go over on the quiet, and you could tell her you didn’t mean it.’

  There…she had said it, and he hadn’t turned on her. She waited for him to bounce up knocking the chair over as he did so, but instead his head fell quite suddenly onto his arms, and to her complete amazement, Larry, her Larry, began to cry, a crying that you could hear, not the quiet kind that he had done over the accident, but a noise that filled the room and spurted from his mouth and eyes with such intensity that for the moment she was afraid. She watched him bite on his arm, and her face twisted up and her own tears flowed. ‘Larry, Larry, don’t.’ Her arms went around him and she pulled his head to her, and he hid his face on her breast. And she held him tightly to her, trying to stifle the terrible sound, and she talked as she would have done to Betty: ‘There now, there now, it’s all right,’ only this time she added, ‘When you go over you’ll feel better, I know you will. I know you will, Larry.’

  A faint trace of light was coming into the sky. He watched it through the frame of curtains. It was the longest night he had experienced in his life. He had woken out of a feverish doze about half past one and being unable to sleep again, had got up and sat by the window…and thought. And his self-inflicted dissection had been anything but pleasant. Now he was waiting for a light to appear across the road. It would come on about half past six, and when it did he knew what he must do.

  During the war, when waiting for orders to attack, he had known this empty sick feeling, and the crossing of the road to Jessie’s cottage would be an attack that would need courage, more courage than he possessed.

  When the light came on in the upstairs room he rose and, going very quietly downstairs, made himself a cup of tea. He did not put on a collar and tie, but as when he had slipped across the street years ago so he went to go now, his shirt neck open, his coat thrown over it. Once outside the back door, he stood uncertain, and looked up at the sky and shivered. Then, pulling the collar of his coat over the bare skin of his chest, he slowly went down the path, out of the gate, and across the road.

  After a long, fear-filled moment of hesitation he raised his hand and knocked once on the door.

  And when there came no immediate answer he experienced a temporary feeling of relief and thought, ‘Thank God, I couldn’t face it anyway.’ And shivering, he went to turn quietly away when the door opened, and Jessie stood there. She was wearing a thick, warm-looking, rose-coloured dressing gown and her hair was tousled from the bed. She did not utter a sound, nor when he attempted to speak did any words come. His mouth was as dry as sand and his tongue seemed swollen. He could not remember saying ‘Can I come in?’ but slowly, as if in answer to a request, she stood back, pulling the door with her, and he, with head bowed, stepped into her house once more.

  Chapter Sixteen: No Compromise

  His heart, thumping against his ribs, demanded air, and he drew in a long slow breath and raised his head. He was in the kitchen, a room, he would have said, he knew as well as the kitchen of his own home; but even the shape of it seemed altered; it was as transformed with light and colour as was the woman before him. Somewhere in his mind he recognised that he had been building on finding the old Jessie, that once he was within the walls that had held her for so long she would reappear. But these walls were different walls, this house was a different house.

  He looked at her with as much humility as he could gather, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Jessie.’

  She did not answer but returned his look, and her whole attitude baffled him. He had been a fool to come. It was as he’d thought, she was crowing…But Aunt Lot had said…Damn Aunt Lot! Suddenly he felt dizzy, and the room for a moment turned up end in a black sweep.

  ‘Sit down.’ She pulled a chair towards him, and he groped at it and sat down and put his hand to his head.

  ‘I’ve got a cold coming on…I had to come over. The way I spoke to you’—he kept his hand over his eyes—‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  The words sounded calmly indifferent. What more did she want him to say? What did she want him to do? Through a haze he looked up at her. She had not fallen on his neck with an ‘Oh, Larry! Oh, Larry!’; this woman…this Jessie was not the old Jessie Honeysett, and the road back to her was going to be difficult, and in this moment all the resolve of the night vanished—he didn’t want any more difficult roads, what he wanted were arms to hold him, hands to soothe him, and a voice to foster his self-pity, someone to mourn with him for his lost life, someone to tell him of the great things he could have achieved had he had the chance to travel, for how could a man write unless he travelled; he wanted someone to look after the house and those in it, to take the burden off his mind and shoulders…oh yes, he wanted someone to look after the house. And then he wanted someone to love him, love him just for himself like the old Jessie had done…God, he was going to pass out. No, by God, he wasn’t, not here he wasn’t, not in front of her…he must get over home.

  ‘Here…drink this.’

  He took the cup from her hand. He hadn’t been aware that she had left the kitchen. It wasn’t ordinary tea he was drinking, but was laced with something…brandy. Jessie with brandy in the house! That proved there was nothing left of the old Jessie. It was a wonder her mother didn’t haunt her.

  ‘Jessie.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you hate me?’

  He was looking down into the cup, and the answer when it came was not a definite no, holding forth promise, but a no that was calm, without emotion, and it caused him to think, Hell! I’m not doing it, I’m not going on my bended knees. What does she want anyway? I’ve come over, haven’t I?

  He thrust his hand out to put the cup on the table preparatory to rising, and was amazed to see it fall onto the floor and break into pieces. The table had seemed near enough.

  Words of apology came into his mouth, but he couldn’t speak them. His mind began to chant one word, Pam…Pam. Over and over it went…Pam…Pam. Getting louder…Pam…Pam, until it became a scream, and he put up his hands to stop it. But the chant engulfed him; it took on form and swirled about him in tongues of flame and fire…Pam…Pam…Pam…until in one great sweep of flame it bore him to the floor.

  The bed was near the window—there was more light there should he wish to read or write. It had been Jessie’s idea, and the curtains were not pulled so close as usual; he had only to turn his head and he could se
e across the street, past Mrs King’s door one way and beyond Willie’s the other. He still thought of the door of number ten as Willie’s. He glanced at the clock. It said five minutes past one. In another few minutes she’d be here. He was feeling a bit hungry…It was odd to feel hungry; he hadn’t bothered whether he ate or drank during the last five weeks. Had he been lying here only five weeks? It seemed like five years, so much had happened within his mind, so much torment, so much loneliness, so much longing. And these feelings had been worse than any such he had experienced when he was well. He knew that they had been the aftermath of delirium, when he had fought to hold Pam in his arms and pin her beside him in the bed, when in nightmares of sweating he screamed for her and woke to find Jessie, her hands on him holding him down. It was then he would cry out to her in his aloneness, ‘Don’t leave me, Jessie!…Don’t leave me, will you?…You won’t leave me?’

  He could never clearly remember her answer, only that what she had said made him feel safe. Sometimes he would wake to find Mrs King or Mrs Patty by his side…but they weren’t Jessie. He found himself watching the door for her coming; and then the street as he had done years ago; and he didn’t question why.

  Last week the doctor had said, ‘In another week you’ll be on your feet; and then a couple of weeks’ convalescence at one of the homes and you’ll be yourself again.’ It was strange and frightening when he realised he did not want this week to pass. He did not want to leave this bed, he wanted to lie here forever in this new calmness. He knew, without being told, he had just escaped a serious mental breakdown; he seemed to have worked it out in the severe bout of influenza. He had now a feeling of being drained; any effort, mental or physical, tired him. Jessie had said to him yesterday, ‘Why don’t you write?’…Write! He had felt hurt, slighted in some way—he wasn’t well enough to write. And anyway, what was there to write about?…‘Write?’ he had said. ‘What can I write about?’

  He had asked the question like a child, and he had kept his eyes fixed on her back as she moved around the room.

  ‘Write a novel about Aunt Lot and everything.’ Her voice was very level.

  ‘About Aunt Lot? Who’d want to read it?’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘What could there be of interest in it?’ He had merely asked this question to hold her attention, to keep her in the room talking; he was not interested in what would be the substance of her answer. But when she had said, ‘It’s a way of life’, he had thought, yes, there’s something in that. And then she had gone on, her back still to him, ‘If you were to write it all down, you’d get it out of your system, you’d feel better…Write everything.’ She had paused. ‘Everything about me, yourself, Aunt Lot, Willie…and Pam.’ She had brought in the name as if it was of no more consequence than the others, then had gone on, ‘Start with Aunt Lot. I feel that life revolves around Aunt Lot…And then the explosion.’

  He had stared at her and said, ‘Jessie. You don’t mind any more?’ And she had answered, ‘No, I don’t mind any more.’

  But what had she really meant by this? He didn’t know now whether she still loved him or not. There was a strange elusiveness about her that constantly troubled him; it seemed to him as if she were waiting for something. But what was she waiting for? For him to say he wanted her? Well, couldn’t she see he wanted her? He couldn’t see life without her. The house…everything had altered because of her—she only went to the shop in the mornings now, while the rest of the time she cleaned and cooked and put things in order. He knew that he couldn’t go back beyond five weeks ago when the burden of his mother, Aunt Lot, and the child lay on him, not to mention the house.

  There she was, coming down the street now, looking younger than ever he remembered her. And his eyes came with her to her door, and when it closed on her he moved restlessly.

  Lottie came into the room. She was panting slightly and laughing.

  ‘You know, Larry, what I’m laughing at?’

  ‘No.’ He lay deep in his pillows looking at her lazily.

  ‘He’s kicking. He’s been at it all morning. And Jinny says he’s gonna be a footballer, and I should go and see about having him signed up.’ She bent her long length forward and giggled and pressed her hands to her stomach; then added, ‘Jessie’s in. I’ve done all she said. The shepherd pie’s lovely and brown on top, and the lemon sole’s for you…Oh, the pie smells lovely. I put it in dead on eleven. She cooks lovely, does Jessie…You better, Larry? You’ve got some colour.’

  He smiled at her and said, ‘I feel a bit hungry.’

  ‘Oh, do you, Larry; I’ll tell Jinny. She’ll be pleased to hear that.’

  She went out, and he turned his head and lay looking out of the window. And as he did so a man came down the street and stopped at the door opposite. He was tall and slim and vital-looking, and the sight of him brought Larry up in the bed. It was the minister fellow.

  When the door opened he saw Jessie’s face, and she was smiling as she never smiled at him, and her hands were out, both of them, in welcome.

  When the door shut them from his gaze he lay back. The indolent feeling had gone; his body was taut and his face tight. What could he be after? And the way she had looked at him, with her hands out…What if…? No, no, not Jessie now. Jessie wouldn’t do that…let him down. Not like Pam; Jessie was made of different stuff. He flung round in the bed. So was he. A few years ago he’d have knocked the man down who would have suggested that he would play the dirty on Jessie Honeysett.

  It was fifteen minutes before Jessie’s door again opened. He watched her come hurrying across the road, and when he heard her voice downstairs he waited with open impatience for her appearance. He was feeling all worked up, but that no doubt was weakness, the result of the illness—the doctor had said he mustn’t worry about anything, just to let things slide. Well, he wasn’t going to worry, he wouldn’t mention the fellow. Yet—the sweat broke out on his forehead—what if she went off with him? What would become of them all? The sweat rolled down his face, and when Aunt Lot came into the room with his tray he sat up and demanded, ‘Where’s Jessie?’

  ‘She hasn’t time to come up yet a bit, Larry. She’s got a visitor, she’s goin’ over home for a bit. But she said she won’t be long. Enjoy your dinner. I told Jessie you were hungry.’

  Left alone with the tray he stared at it. The sight of the fish made him sick. Or had he been feeling sick before he saw it? He pushed the tray onto the table and lay looking at his hands clutching at the eiderdown—they hadn’t the strength to grip. They were white and boneless-looking; that fellow looked young and full of life…The thought brought a still greater feeling of weakness to his body. But Jessie wouldn’t do that on him…she couldn’t…That’s exactly what she must have said about him when he was going mad over Pam Turnbull. Had he ever gone mad over Pam Turnbull? Yes…yes. Why start that hypocrisy; was there not a scar in his heart that would never be erased? But the wound pained no longer. At least not in the daytime; only sometimes in the night when there was no antidote to loneliness and he would see her standing cool and aloof looking at him. Jessie, too, was cool and aloof.

  He brought himself up sharply in the bed. That was it. That was why she had given him no encouragement—there was the other fellow all the time. She had looked after him, as she would after anyone who threw himself on her mercy. And he had literally thrown himself on her mercy that morning he had passed out at her feet. And in showering her mercy on him she had thought to heap coals of fire on his head…He could see all her actions now smacking of the minister’s influence.

  When he heard the back door close he looked through the window, and there she was hurrying down the path, out of the gate and over the road. He waited until Lottie took the tray away, exclaiming loudly on the uneaten fish; then tentatively he put his legs over the side of the bed. There was only one thing for it, he’d have to go and see her, face that fellow and get things straight. He couldn’t let her do this. If he was let down for the third t
ime it’d drive him insane. He didn’t deserve this; hadn’t he suffered enough for what he had done to her?

  With the aid of the bedrail he stood on his feet, and felt so weak that he immediately sank down again. God, he never thought he would feel like this. Is this how he looked to her…a weakling? But once he got into his clothes he’d be all right.

  The wardrobe door swung open at a touch, almost knocking him off his feet, and he grabbed at it, and for the moment was in peril of bringing the whole thing down on top of him. The effect of getting into his trousers tired him so much that he became afraid. Even after four days at rescue work he had never felt like this. He was forced to lie back on the bed again, and as he lay he had the desire to drop off to sleep.

  With a great effort he roused himself. He had done enough sleeping…enough lying; the bed had become like a drug; he didn’t want to give it up. Dimly he realised he had dreaded getting better, really better, for then he would have to talk…and act, really talk and really act. As it was now, she said to him ‘Lie still’ and he lay still, ‘Don’t worry’ and he didn’t worry, ‘Go to sleep’ and he went to sleep, and that had suited him, for deep within him he had a kind of dread of the day when he’d be forced to say, ‘Jessie, will you marry me?’ He knew he’d never be able to go really back and say ‘Jessie, I love you,’ yet in this moment he was fully aware that if Jessie took that fellow he would make an end of it, for he couldn’t go on alone, he wasn’t any longer sufficient unto himself. He did not think of her now as a housekeeper, someone to take the worry off his shoulders, but as a vital stay to his own life. He needed her.