Rooney

by Catherine Cookson

  Well, it didn’t look much, although the stones shone nice and red. The chain affair looked like pieces of roughly battered tin with holes punched in them; it certainly wasn’t of much value. It wasn’t gold, and it didn’t even look like silver…tin, he thought, probably Woolworths. And yet not Woolworths, it was too old-fashioned for them. Anyway, he decided, he’d give it to Bill the morrow. Yet as he held it in the palm of his hand he thought, it isn’t a bairn’s piece. The stones were bonny and it would likely show up on a jumper.

  His head turned slowly towards the kitchen door—it might cheer her up.

  No, by gum!—the necklace was thrust into his dressing-gown pocket—he was starting none of that. Although he was sure she would be the last person in the world to get wrong ideas, being so sensible like, he wasn’t going to take any chances.

  As he entered the room again, she stopped the machine and asked quietly, ‘You won’t say anything, will you, about Grandpa and tonight?’

  He looked a trifle hurt as he replied, ‘As if I would.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t think I need ask…But I’m always a little afraid.’

  Always a little afraid. That was the main thing about her. He hadn’t been able to pinpoint it before, but the impression she gave off behind that tightness was of being afraid.

  ‘Well, you needn’t be afraid of anything I’ll say.’

  The machine started again, and awkwardly he went out and up the stairs, and as he went he thought, I wish I’d never come to this place. And he asked himself why should he think that at this particular time, for this evening he had talked to a woman more freely than he could ever remember doing before.

  Chapter Four: The Worm With The Elephant’s Hoof

  During the next two weeks Rooney became well acquainted with the routine of the house. For instance, he knew that Ma’s nights out were Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. In fact, Sunday she classed as her day off. She went to church in the morning and again in the evening. Friday nights were given over to the family. He would have supposed that the little one’s nights off would have been Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, but, apart from Wednesday night, she stayed in the house. It would have been more correct to say she stayed at the sewing machine. And the time she spent there didn’t seem to satisfy Ma, for there had been a shindy last Wednesday before she had gone out.

  He wondered where she went on this one evening, and Ma, expounding on the selfishness of people, told him. She went to the Literary Society. Knowing there was piles of sewing yet to be done for the wedding, she had gone to the Literary Society. Could he understand it?

  No, he couldn’t. But not in the way Ma meant. He had thought she would have gone to the pictures to get away from the drabness of her days. But a Literary Society—it sounded dull and stuffy to him. And he never saw her reading. Well, as far as he could see she never had any time.

  But her taste in pleasure had somehow put a new slant on her; and furthermore, what he couldn’t understand was that he himself no more than Ma took to the idea of the Literary Society. Yet in the little one’s defence, he said to himself, She’s not uppish. But this Literary Society seemed to have suddenly swung her away out of his orbit, out of the category in which he had placed her.

  Doreen’s wedding was to take place on Saturday morning. There was to be a wedding breakfast held in an hotel in King Street; then the couple would leave for Edinburgh for two days. Because of this wedding Rooney had done more thinking around the term ‘class’ than he had done in his life before. Doreen had never spoken to him, but she had shown him plainly and in no tactful way that she considered him an unsuitable appendage to the family, and that the house had certainly lost caste in harbouring him. He knew she was nowt but an upstart, but just how much he didn’t know until he’d had a talk with Johnny in The Anchor last Friday night. He had thought the bloke she was going to marry must be somebody well off, but when he learned he was a tallyman, a door-to-doorer, he had thought, By hat! she’s got something to stick her neb up about. And he was surprised that he should feel angry about this; and his reactions further surprised him when scorn was added to his anger on hearing that the actual wedding garments were being hired…satin gown, trailing veil, morning suit an’ all…By hat! he had thought again, she’s an upstart all right. To his mind the hiring of clothes was equivalent to wearing second-hand things, and because every day he saw so much rubbish he had never been able to bear the thought of second-hand clothes; even though he knew that half the clothes he saw in the shops were the finished product of rags, it made no difference. And on this point Johnny heartily agreed with him. But he added, ‘It’s fashionable now, man. Ye don’t wear somebody else’s clo’es until ye’re somebody, or trying to be.’

  On Friday nights, when the gang, as Rooney called Ma’s family, were assembled as usual in the kitchen, he would make his way out of the front door, avoiding them en masse, and so the only other members of the family he had encountered since that first evening were Pauline, on the night of the doll rumpus, and on one occasion, Jimmy, the fellow with the deep voice. He had seen him coming out of the Town Hall, where he worked, and although there had been quite some distance between them, and Jimmy could have gone on his way without acknowledging him and it wouldn’t have seemed like a cut, he had raised his hand in salute and smiled across the distance, and Rooney had gone his way, thinking, Well, he’s human, anyway.

  And now it was Monday and the wedding was almost upon the house. Ma was in a dither, worked to a standstill, as she put it. Even the choir practice had to be forgone tonight so she could go with Doreen and help her fix the curtains and fittings in the new flat, for, as she said to Rooney earlier, if she didn’t go, Harry’s mother would be along, and as much as she liked her she had no taste, yet was adamant in having her own way.

  On this remark Rooney had resisted looking around the room, for he could see little evidence of taste here; not that he knew a lot about such things, he admitted to himself, but this room was so drab it even affected his stable spirits after he had been in it for any length of time.

  After the door banged behind Ma there was quiet in the house except for the whirring of the sewing machine, which could only be distinguished by its faint irritation on the silence. Rooney had two fresh books. He had come across a new avenue of supply. It was in a shop in Eldon Street. Danny had put him on to it. ‘Why don’t you try for your books there,’ he had said, ‘’stead of trailing right up to Boldon Lane? She only charges twopence a time.’

  ‘Why pay twopence,’ said Fred, ‘when you can get them for nowt at the public library? Isn’t that what we pay rates for?’

  ‘Do you get your books there, Fred?’ Danny had asked with a twinkle.

  ‘I’ve no bloody time for reading,’ said Fred. ‘He’s so lucky, he doesn’t know he’s born.’

  Rooney thought of what Fred had said as, with his feet on the fender and a book on his lap, he stared into the fire. Aye, he supposed he was lucky. At least, he knew what he was coming home to. Fred or Albert didn’t; and Bill knew a little too well. Yes, he had a lot to be thankful for.

  The book promised to be a good one, but somehow he couldn’t get into it, for his thoughts kept straying—the posses and the shooting could not hold his interest tonight and he found himself thinking, She’ll go on turning that machine until she’s an old woman. He could see her down the years becoming a little, shrivelled brown moth, but still turning the handle, sewing for another generation and its weddings.

  He had been staring into the fire for some time before he realised the machine had stopped; and he found himself waiting for it to start again. When it didn’t, he tried to read. But his concentration wavered, and quite suddenly he took up the coal scuttle and went downstairs.

  Nellie was sitting in the armchair, her head back and her eyes closed. Her face was not its usual white but a grey mottled hue and he stared down on her for a moment before asking, ‘Is there anything the matter? Are you bad?’

 
She opened her eyes but did not look at him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve…I’ve been a little sick.’

  ‘Sick?’ he repeated. ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘No. I’m all right now.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’ He put down the scuttle. ‘Let me get you something. I always keep a drop of whisky in, in case of a cold.’

  ‘No. No, thanks.’ She checked his departure by sitting up.

  ‘It would do you good.’

  She shook her head. ‘I never take anything.’

  ‘Well, I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  He did not wait for her consent or refusal but went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the gas stove. When he returned she had her elbows on her knees and was supporting her head on her hands.

  ‘You should go to bed.’ He stood some distance from her. ‘Why don’t you?’ he asked. ‘Look. Go on—I’ll pop the drink outside your door.’

  When she did not reply, he glanced at the machine, and his voice rising, he said, ‘It’s all that sewing—you’re never done. Can nobody else work that thing?’

  The sight of the machine annoyed him, more than annoyed him. He had a swift, startling, almost overpowering desire to chuck it out of the window. The desire itself disturbed him, even frightened him a little, and he rubbed his hand over his face.

  Nellie raised her head and said slowly, ‘I’m all right now.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  He went into the kitchen again, and after a few moments returned with the tea.

  ‘If you’d let me put a drop of whisky in it…’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ she said hastily.

  He stood on the hearthrug watching her as she sipped the tea, and when the colour of her face did not change, he said, ‘It’s nothing to do with me, but I think you’ve about had enough. You’re never done.’

  She sighed, and shivered; then, turning slowly sideways, she looked into the fire. ‘I had enough a long time ago.’

  The few words were like a long, revealing confidence, bringing them together. Suddenly he felt he wanted to help her, that he must help her, and he found himself for the first time in his life offering someone else advice: ‘I’d make a break if I were you. Why don’t you? You’ve got a steady job, haven’t you?’

  ‘Steady job!’ She made a harsh sound in her throat. ‘You don’t have to be told what Bamford and Brummell’s looks like. And it’s worse in than out.’

  ‘But couldn’t you leave there?’

  ‘No. No more than I could leave here. There comes a time when you get frightened to move.’

  He wanted to say, ‘Oh, that for a tale!’ but he suddenly looked at himself. Why had he not tried to make a move? Away from the bins, anyway. Why? Because he felt at home in his job, of course. No, it wasn’t really that. It was because, in the back of his mind, he was uncertain of being able to tackle another job. He could have been charge-hand by now or even foreman if he had done a bit of pushing. He knew more about the work than most of them, but he had never been able to see himself giving other fellows orders.

  ‘Thanks. I feel better.’ She handed him the cup. Then, looking again into the fire, she said, ‘Sometimes I wonder what we’re here for, what it all means. Just living.’ She brought her eyes up to his, and as he had no immediate answer to such a question he turned slowly red.

  ‘You’re happy, aren’t you? I mean in what you do.’

  ‘Well—’ He moved his feet and rubbed his hand up the side of his cheek. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m happy about it, but I don’t grumble. There’s thousands worse.’

  ‘Yes I suppose that’s a way of looking at it. There are thousands worse off than me, too.’

  He wanted to say immediately, ‘Not much, these days,’ for, as far as he could see, lasses and women had gone mad—with dancing, drinking, and clothes. Drinking among the young folk in the town was so bad they were writing about it in the papers. He would put a stop to women drinking altogether, if he had his way—forbid them the bars, especially the young ones. It put years on them. Yet it wasn’t drink that had put years on this one. He had a strong curiosity to know how old she really was. He would have liked to say, ‘How old are you, anyway?’ but he checked this, yet could not stop himself probing with, ‘Why don’t you get out more? You’re young yet.’

  Her eyes seemed to leap up to his. ‘Young!…Do I look young?’ It was a challenge.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re…you’re not old.’

  ‘No, I’m not old. But you’re frightened to say how old. I know. I won’t ask you to guess how old I am…I’ll tell you. I’m thirty-four.’

  ‘Thirty-four!’ He was quite unable to keep the surprise from his voice. But then, he had thought she could be anything between thirty and fifty. Yet now, looking down into her face, into those great brown eyes, he could well imagine he was looking at a young lass. Her face had that odd effect on you. Sometimes it looked so young that the rest of her appeared incongruous, for about her body was the straight shapelessness of an old sack.

  Suddenly, to his deep concern and embarrassment, she began to cry. The brown of her eyes was blotted out, and in a moment her whole face was hidden from him as she turned it into the corner of the chair.

  ‘Aw,’ he said. ‘Aw, don’t…don’t take on. What have I said?…You don’t look thirty-four, more like twenty-four. If you…’ He was about to add, ‘got yourself done up,’ but, again, tactfully changed it and said, ‘If you had a mind you could be younger than any of them.’ And thinking back to the four women of the family he had already seen, he thought, And there might be some truth in that an’ all.

  His hand went out, and for a moment hovered over her arm, but just in time he withdrew it, halted by two distinct views of such an action as a comforting pat. She might imagine he was taking a liberty, and he, off his own bat, didn’t want to start anything. Remembering Kate Sparks, he thought, By lad! no.

  Thinking he heard the backyard door click he turned and looked towards the kitchen door. If that was Ma coming in he’d make himself scarce. It wouldn’t, he felt, do this one any good if he was found talking to her, and her crying. But when there was no corresponding click to the outside kitchen door, he sat down, pulling his chair opposite to Nellie’s.

  ‘Look,’ he said, bending towards her and nodding to her hidden face, ‘if I was you, you know what I would do?’ He never remembered afterwards what it was he was going to advise her to do, for when Ma’s voice struck him from the doorway, crying, ‘Well!’ he left the chair in one guilty spring, which brought him round to her and Nellie bolt upright.

  ‘Well!’ said Ma again, giving to the word so much meaning that guilt weighed Rooney down, and he stuttered, ‘She’s…she’s been…been bad.’

  ‘Bad!’ Ma glared from one to the other.

  ‘She was sick,’ said Rooney. ‘I was just passing through for some coal.’ Why, he wondered, should he have to explain his movements, and why should he feel like this, guilty? It was as if he had been caught in an act of some kind. He had been doing nothing. It was the way she had yelled that ‘Well!’

  He looked into her flaming eyes—the blue had deepened until it was almost black. He watched her tear off her hat, her eyes still on him, and saw her hair spring from her head as if it was alive, like a picture he had once seen of a woman with snakes for hair.

  Lad! she was wild. But why?

  Nellie was on her feet now. She had stopped crying and had dried her swimming face, and in a flat unemotional voice she addressed Ma without looking at her. ‘I had a bilious attack. I don’t feel well, I’m going to bed.’

  Ma made no response but watched her leave the room. Then turning to Rooney, she said for the third time, ‘Well!’

  ‘Well,’ he answered, pulling the cord of his dressing gown so tight it caught his breath, ‘it’s as she said, she was sick. And she did look bad. I thought she was going to pass out.’

  Ma seemed to be m
aking an effort to get hold of herself. She tugged her jumper down viciously all round her; then with her back turned to him, she said, ‘She plays for sympathy, she’s always sorry for herself—she’s eaten up with self-pity. I’m just warning you. She had what she calls a love affair years ago, and she’s never let herself get over it. The man never intended anything, but she made a lot out of it…I’m just warning you.’

  ‘Warning me?’ he repeated. ‘Well, I can tell you straight, you’ve no need to do that.’ And picking up the empty scuttle, he went hastily out of the room, ignoring Ma’s rapid and conciliatory comments.

  In his own room, he stood rasping his hand across his chin. Lord above! What was the matter with him anyway? Why did he always run into these situations?

  The evening was spoilt. He couldn’t read or settle down. He couldn’t even sit staring peaceably into the fire. So he went to bed.

  It was around half-past twelve when he heard the thumping sound again. And as he listened, he thought, The best thing for me to do is to get out of here, and quick. And if she doesn’t get out an’ all, she’ll snap.

  It was on the Wednesday morning that the letter came. The previous morning, Tuesday, no-one had spoken to anyone else, and he had gone to work thinking, There’s nothing for it but to get moving again; I couldn’t live there in that atmosphere anyway. But on his return home last night Ma had been her usual gay self, and with one exception everything had been the same. Ma hadn’t gone out, but he had. He had gone to Danny’s and talked the whole thing over with him and Mrs D.

  When he said the little one worked in Bamford and Brummell’s Mrs D had exclaimed, ‘Why! I know her—she’s worked there for years. A nice little thing. I remember her when she was just a young lass. Bonny she was, as light as a fairy. She’s not the size of sixpennorth of copper, is she?’