Rooney

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘What’ll happen the night,’ asked Rooney, ‘if she comes back?’

  ‘She won’t. D’you know what he did when we got him back home?’

  Rooney shook his head sadly.

  ‘Took the poker and smashed everything he could hit. Look’—Bill pushed up his coat sleeve to reveal a great black-and-blue weal—‘that’s what you get when you try and stop a fellow with a poker. Danny got a welt on the shoulder. And he nearly knocked Fred out altogether. He’s got a lump on his napper the size of a turnip.’

  ‘Where’s he now?’ asked Rooney.

  ‘Danny took him to his place. Best place he could be. Mrs D’ll see to him. But boy, it’s been a day! You’ve missed something.’

  Without further comment Rooney went to the counter and ordered two pints. The glow of his winnings had dimmed somewhat. These four men with whom he worked were a sort of family to him. What happened to them affected him. He became filled with a sadness, and at the same time a strange feeling of relief and thankfulness that he wasn’t in the heartbreaking, temper-trying, pocket-clearing state of matrimony, for being the kind of fellow he was, he felt sure that had he tried to pick a lass she would surely have turned out like either Bill’s, Fred’s or Albert’s wife, not Danny’s.

  When Rooney returned to the corner, Bill remarked, ‘You looked pleased with life when you come in. Got some place to suit you at last?’

  ‘It wasn’t that, although the place is all right,’ said Rooney, ‘but I had a win the night.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye. Over thirty pounds.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Aye, I did.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!…By God, you’re a lucky bloke, Rooney.’ Bill leant across the table and pushed his pug face nearer to Rooney’s. ‘Do you know that? Do you ever realise just how lucky you are? Nowt ever happens to you, nowt bad.’

  ‘I don’t know so much. You try keeping clear of women who are out to get your blood.’

  ‘Aw, that! If it was me I’d treat it as a pastime. But you are a lucky bloke. We all say it. And now thirty quid! Well’—Bill leant back and stuck his feet out—‘you can pay for all the drinks the night.’

  ‘I’ll do nowt of the sort,’ said Rooney. ‘Things’ll be as usual. But here’—he put his hand in his pocket—‘here’s a quid for the bairns. Give it to the missus to buy the bairns something. And mind, give it to her. I’ll ask the bairns on Tuesday.’

  Bill smiled slowly, then took up the note from the table.

  ‘They’ll get it. And thanks, man…What do you say we go along to Danny’s and see how things are?’

  ‘Aye. Just as you like. It’s dead here the night without the pair of them.’

  Having finished their beer in one draught, they left The Anchor and walked to Eldon Street. Here the houses flanked the main road which ran into Tyne Dock. It was broken here and there by long streets shooting off into drab sameness. Yet about most of the windows and doors of this main road was a sparkle that shone through the lamplight and defied the dust and muck from the docks beyond. If the painted window sills, polished doors, bath-bricked steps were any indication of the interior of the houses, then most of them in this street would have been little palaces. And Rooney thought they were, for he judged every house with a bright exterior on Danny’s. And yet he didn’t often go to Danny’s, for it unsettled him somehow. And now when Mrs Danny opened the door and the cream-painted passage formed a setting to her neatness, the old feeling, that could have been envy, returned.

  ‘Oh. Come in. Danny thought you might be round. Oh, hallo, Rooney.’ Her greeting was full of sincerity. ‘Where’ve you been all this time?’

  ‘Dodging women, Mrs D,’ put in Bill. ‘That’s all he does. He spends his time dodging women.’

  ‘Go on with you.’ She pushed them along the passage and into the kitchen. And here Danny rose from his chair.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hallo,’ they both said.

  ‘He’s gone back home,’ said Danny.

  ‘No,’ said Bill.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs D. ‘But he’s comin’ back…he promised. Sit down.’ She pushed chairs forward. ‘He felt he must go and see if she turned up. But he’ll be back. Now I know you’ve both been drinking beer, but would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks. No thanks, Mrs D,’ they replied together.

  The conversation centred around Albert and what line he should take. And as words repeated themselves and as the same thing was said over and over again with hardly a variation, Rooney’s eye and mind wandered and took in the kitchen. This was the kind of place he would give his ears for. It was alive with colour and brightness. Not that the furniture was anything to crack on; there wasn’t a piece as good as his dresser here—but it was the way Mrs D had things set out. And the light paint everywhere. And the bits of brass. And the hanging plant on the corner of the mantelpiece, with its green leaves flowing down the pink-ground wallpaper like a picture to be seen in some fashionable magazine…She had everything lovely…Then he put a rein on his thoughts. Even if he ever managed to get a house it might never look like this, for he was no hand at arranging things. He could put a bit of paint on, but it had taken more than paint to make this room look as it did.

  ‘So you’ve moved again, Rooney, Danny tells me?’

  ‘Aye. Again, Mrs D.’

  ‘When are you goin’ to get married and move to a house of your own?’

  ‘Aw!’ Rooney moved his head from side to side. Then shyly he brought out, ‘The truth is, Mrs D, I’m waiting for somebody like you.’

  There was a burst of laughter, and it included Rooney’s, for he was amused and as surprised as any of them at his own gallantry.

  ‘Ah! He’s learnin’. What d’you think, Danny?’ said Mrs D.

  ‘I think he’s a damn fool,’ said her husband. ‘And I’m tired of telling him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know so much,’ said Bill. ‘Lucky, I would say. Do you know he won thirty quid the night?’

  ‘No!’ said Danny.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Mrs D. ‘And mind you look after it, Rooney.’

  The conversation turned and turned again. And at ten-thirty, when Albert had not put in an appearance, Rooney and Bill rose to go. And as Mrs D led the way to the front door, Rooney stayed behind for a moment and stuck a note in the leaves of the hanging plant.

  ‘Here! What you doin’?’ said Danny.

  ‘It’s just a bit to get some flowers or something for herself,’ said Rooney.

  ‘You start doing that with everybody you meet,’ said Danny, ‘and your thirty quid’ll soon go. You get dafter, you know. But thanks all the same. And she’ll put it to good use and be as pleased as punch. But I wish you’d have some sense.’

  Outside and having parted from Bill who lived nearby, Rooney, making his way to Filbert Terrace, thought, Danny’s right. I wouldn’t have much left if I went on like that. Yet the pleasure he had got from making the two gifts stayed with him, and the desire also to buy something for somebody still lingered. The quicker he got the money into the Post Office the better, he told himself. He didn’t know what was the matter with him the night. It was likely the result of a funny day, him moving, then winning that money, and Albert’s do. It would be just as well when Monday came and he got back again into the old routine.

  When he entered the living room, Ma was sitting exactly where he had left her. It could have been that she had never moved since he went out. The little one was at the machine, her arm moving like a piston, her fingers pushing at a mass of grey material. She did not raise her eyes or give any greeting whatever. But Ma’s greeting, covering a number of points in one breath, dispelled any feeling of awkwardness Nellie’s attitude might have caused him.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Have you had a nice night? Now do you want any supper, or have you had it? I was just saying I’d leave you something out in future so we wouldn’t wait up. And you could make yourself some tea.’

>   ‘I don’t want anything the night,’ said Rooney. ‘I’ve been to a friend’s house and had a bit of supper. Thanks all the same.’

  As he spoke he threaded his way across the room, quietly, as if he might disturb someone. And at the door he turned and said, ‘Goodnight, all.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ said Ma. ‘And I hope you sleep well.’ The little one said nothing. And if he hadn’t remembered her gentle handling of Grandpa and the old man’s evident liking for her he would have considered her at this moment the worst of the bunch.

  He was just dropping off to sleep, his mind sinking into the layer where, to use his own term, daft thoughts struck him, where he sometimes heard himself reciting bits of poetry from his schooldays and where he sometimes saw himself doing the most extraordinary things, such as leading a lass down a fine staircase and on to a ballroom floor, or walking down a road dressed up to the nines in a trilby and wearing gloves, and a lass on his arm…or even kissing a woman on the palm of the hand—that was the daftest bit of all and the one he experienced most often. It was just starting, this one. There was the hand, palm upwards. He could see the lines on it; and it was lying in his big fist. And there he was, getting nearer and nearer to it, when the most odd thing happened…somebody swore. It seemed to be the owner of the hand. ‘Hell!’ it said. ‘Damn and blast! Damn! Damn!’ The hand leapt away from his palm and made a thumping noise.

  Rooney was wide awake, staring into the darkness. From behind his head came the sound of a soft thump! thump! as if someone was beating their fists into a mattress. He raised himself on his elbow and looked towards the wall. That was funny. He’d been dreaming. Yet that thump, thump, that wasn’t in his dream.

  Then to his amazement he heard the sound of sobbing, low, smothered sobbing. It did not last for long, yet he waited, wondering what he’d hear next. But there was no further noise. And when his elbow got the cramp he lay down again.

  Who was next door? He couldn’t imagine Ma lowering herself to use such words, or yet her daughter, who fancied herself. That only left the little one…He must have been dreaming. Yes, of course he was dreaming. Who could she have been swearing at? But he hadn’t dreamed that he heard someone crying—no, he hadn’t dreamed that.

  It was some time before he went to sleep, and when he did he dreamed he ran off with Albert’s wife, and she was a coloured woman with white hands, which just showed you, he told himself the next morning.

  Chapter Three: The Beads

  On Monday morning, Bannister, the foreman, came up to them in the depot and, addressing Danny, said, ‘You’re to take number four rear-loader the day and hook on a trailer for the waste paper. And by the way, there’s been a complaint sent to the office that some bloke from your district refused to pick up a box of paper and a bag of rags.’

  Danny looked round at them, and they looked back at him blankly, almost stupidly. ‘Hardly makes sense,’ said Danny. ‘’Twould be cutting off wor nose to spite wor face.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way,’ said the foreman.

  ‘There was that iron bedstead and flock mattress. But I told you about that,’ said Danny. ‘We couldn’t get them on at the time and I told her to contact the office.’

  ‘No, this wasn’t beds or mattresses. But what you blokes have got to remember is it’s all salvage.’

  He turned away and Fred, looking around the great open sorting room, said, ‘Salvage! Salvage! You get sick of the bloody sight of it.’

  Rooney’s gaze followed Fred’s, but the conglomeration of stuff did not disturb him one way or the other; he was so used to seeing old John Crawley on the paper press that the surprising thing would have been if he had not seen him there. Sometimes they would return with the loader five times in one day to drop the salvage before going on to the controlled tip to dump the refuse, and each time old John would be stuffing the paper into the press, switching on the machine and adding another two-hundredweight bale to his stock. Ned Harvey would be doing the same with the rags; Jack Llewellyn would be sorting metals, aluminium kettles and pans, lead from iron; Tom Paisley would be stacking mattresses or bundling up the threadbare remains of mats and carpets, or doing the brain-softening job of packing feathers; Con Rainton would be sorting the woollen rags from the cotton and spreading anything wet out to dry; while a number of young lads would incessantly be tearing up cardboard boxes to feed old John’s press; and all working in a through draught that almost wiped the lugs off you.

  It was all part of the pattern of the job, and it did not affect Rooney, only sometimes to make him think, By! who’d think there was money in this muck? For he, like every other man dealing with the collecting and sorting of the refuse, knew just what money there was in the salvage part of it…they received quite a bonus from the Corporation after their wages had been paid, the maintenance of the lorries seen to, and other expenses connected with the work were paid. So naturally they made themselves conversant with the prices. Every man Jack of them knew the current price of each material, at times discussing the rise and fall of these prices in the manner of stockbrokers. For instance, it was to be regretted that wool was at the moment only bringing a hundred and fifty pounds a ton, compared with three hundred just after the war; rags were fetching thirty pounds today; paper eight; where copper would bring two hundred and seventy-five pounds, brass bedsteads and bicycle frames brought the handsome sum of two pounds ten. There was seldom much copper kicking around, so, as Danny said, if you didn’t pick up paper and rags it was cutting off your nose to spite your face. Besides, there were so many blokes rag, bottle, and paper-collecting in the town to sell to the private firms that they’d run miles to get the stuff. More than once Rooney himself had been approached by chaps to see if he’d drop stuff, particularly wool, on to their barrow for a backhander. But that he considered would have been a mug’s game, although Bill argued till he was blue in the face with Danny that material thrown into the dustbin was classed as abandoned material and was therefore nobody’s property because the dustbin belonged to the householder, who had thrown away the stuff that was in it. Danny would always come back and say the lorry was the property of the Corporation, and once the stuff was in it the Corporation was responsible for it, so if it cut one way it also cut the other. If the Corporation were to be held responsible for the refuse then it should be classed as theirs.

  The top and the bottom of it was, Rooney thought, there was more in muck than met the eye.

  In the garage, they all made for number four, and Fred, pulling himself up into the driver’s cab, sang softly in a ragman’s call, ‘Any rags, bottles, or bones? Any rags the day? Any rags for ruddy rubbystone?’

  Climbing up beside him, Danny chided, ‘It’s not funny, Fred. I don’t want any complaints about our lot.’

  Rooney, Bill, and Albert got into the loader’s cab immediately behind, and Bill, tugging his cap farther on to his head, muttered, ‘Salvage! You’d think wor lives depended on salvage.’

  ‘It pays wor wage,’ said Danny.

  ‘Who paid wor wages when it all went in the incinerator? We had to be paid then. They’ve got to have us.’

  Danny, speaking over his shoulder through the let in the dividing partition, said, ‘You’d grumble in heaven, Bill. You’re young yet. You should have been on in the days when we were known as scavengers and classed below the muck we moved. They don’t think much of us now, but they thought a damn sight less of us then. Long shovels and open carts it was in them days, and the stink would knock the devil down. No dustbins. You don’t know you’re born, lad.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have worked on the job in them days, Danny,’ said Bill in a somewhat quieter tone.

  ‘No, perhaps you wouldn’t, Bill, but there was no pick and choose then…we had to eat.’

  There was a strong reprimand in Danny’s voice, and Bill became silent. But Rooney thought, Nor would I; I wouldn’t have worked like that, not even for to eat. The job now was still dirty and unpleasant, and you were often soaked to
the skin, and in the frosty weather your hands almost froze to the bins, but if you were strong and liked outdoor work the job was bearable; if you weren’t so strong but stuck it like some did, it broke your health and your heart.

  The lorry swung out of the yard, across the town, and up to Westoe Fountain; then into Westoe Village itself, which was but another section of Shields, the good-class section. Once the place of residence of shipbuilders and big business men of the town, now many of the big houses were turned into offices. Still, Westoe Village managed to retain its superiority.

  The first two hours went by without a word from Albert, and Rooney, who was paired off with him, found the time a little trying. He felt that if Albert would let off steam in some way he would feel a lot better. He was saying as much to Bill as they tipped their respective bins into the container when Albert’s voice was heard from the end of a long sidewalk that served as the tradesmen’s entrance to Honeycroft, the home of Mrs Bailey-Crawford.

  ‘He’s talking all right now,’ said Bill; ‘you’d better go and see what’s up. Likely having a row with the maid. Anything female will do for him to get his teeth into at present.’

  ‘Can’t be a maid,’ said Rooney. ‘That’s old Double-Barrel’s place. She’s got no maid now.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Bill. ‘By lad! Don’t say he’s goin’ for her.’

  Rooney, leaving his empty bin by the grass verge, hurried down the tree-lined sidewalk, past stables as big as a house, and across the brick and grass-strewn yard to a glassed-in covered way, where stood Albert, pointing to the bin. His face was red and his voice high with anger.

  ‘You report me? It’s me that’ll do the reportin’!’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that! Go away this minute, and take that bin with you. And I promise you you’ll pay for your insolence.’