The wooden floor of the bar was kind to him. Possessing some magnetic quality, it attracted his feet from out of the air to it, but once outside, the cold, hard, greasy pavements began to play tricks on him, and nothing would convince him but that some damn fool on the road gang had set the paving stones at different levels. Leaning on Bill’s shoulder, he endeavoured to explain the situation, yet he knew this to be a waste of words, for Bill was drunk and he was taking Bill home.
Tentatively he stepped out, hanging on to Bill, and when he tried to speak he again came to the conclusion that somebody had been up to something, for all the words in his head were tied into knots. There were lots of things he wanted to talk about. About life and marriage and women. It was all in his head—he had never imagined he could think such things. Gradually the cold night air undid the knots, and the words began to flow in long, quick-moving lines through his brain. He could see the sense of them as they passed, although many of them were strange, highfalutin words which he had only read and never spoken and which filled his mouth so much when he tried to speak them now that he choked on them and coughed.
At one time during the journey home he could have sworn he was walking down King Street with a lass on his arm and feeling so happy he wanted to sing. Until Bill swore, and he knew it was Bill on his arm and he was taking him home because he was drunk.
‘For God’s sake if…not…not for your own, keep your trap shut else the old girl’ll not let you in. Come on! Come on!’ Bill tugged at him.
He didn’t like being tugged…he resisted.
‘I’ll leave you here, mind. Here at the gate, mind. I’ll ring…the bell. Look—get this. I ring the bell, she’ll open the door and you…you make a clean crack for the stairs. Get me? Come on.’
‘Gracie, Gracie, gie me your answer, do…’
‘For God’s sake, man, don’t start singing now. Where’s the bloody bell?’
Rooney heard Bill say, ‘Evenin’.’
He heard himself say, ‘Evenin’’; then lifting his foot over the step, which had risen higher than any paving stone he had yet encountered, he stumbled past Ma and into the hall, shouting, ‘…Night, Bill.’
The door banged, cutting off Bill’s final farewell. Rooney was too far gone to appreciate the look on Ma’s face, but he saw her skip…like…like—his mind told him what she skipped like—like a water buffalo to the room door and close it.
‘You’re like a…a water…’
‘Go on! Up those stairs.’ Ma’s voice came in a sibilant whisper from the depths of her stomach. ‘How dare you come into my house in this condition!’
He looked at the line of words passing through his mind and discarded buffalo for hog. ‘Hog,’ he said, ‘wa…ter hog!’
‘Get upstairs this minute…or get out!’ It was a petrifying hiss, but it slid off Rooney.
‘Out?…Me furniture.’
Suddenly he was seized by what appeared to be a herd of water hogs and propelled bodily to the stairs and up them. The hazardous climb was over in a twinkling—it seemed as if he had flown. He was on the landing…there was his door. But he was going to it himself—no woman was going to push him about. With a jerk he threw off Ma’s hands and made a straight line for his room. But through no fault of his the line swerved and he banged into Nellie’s door, and as Ma pulled him back the door opened and through a veil of mist he saw the little one.
Ah, there she was…she was the cause of all this. She had put her hands on him. Pert, that’s what she was.
‘You!’ he began. ‘You…’ He was jerked away and Nellie left his vision, and the next second he was in his room, lying back in his chair with Ma standing over him.
‘You move out of here again tonight and I’ll have you thrown into the street. Do you hear me?…Mind, I’m warning you…you move.’
Silently Rooney stared back at her, until her face disappeared. The door closed and he turned his head towards it. His nose twitched like a rabbit’s and his face became contorted as he grabbed at words now moving much more sluggishly through his mind.
‘Bossy bitch! Who…she…talking to? Walrus face! Not move…out of here? I’ll show the fat old dyed…dustbin.’ He reached the door and pulled it open. His mouth too was open, ready to shout.
‘Go on, get in. Get in now.’
He was back in the room and in his chair again, and Nellie was by his side. ‘Don’t talk,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t, Rooney, that’s a good fellow, don’t talk.’
She seemed to be pleading with him, and he, not unchivalrous even in his drink, whispered back, ‘No…all right. She’s an old cow.’
‘Yes. Be quiet now. Let me get your collar off.’
‘No, no, you’re not. Don’t you touch me collar.’
‘Please,’ she entreated. ‘Lie back and don’t talk. There now’—she pulled his hands away from his neck—‘you’ll feel better with it off.’
He did feel better with it off. ‘Nellie…tell me sumthin’…Will you tell me sumthin’?’
‘Yes.’
‘Leave me shoes alone’—he tried to stay her hands—‘I wan’ you…tell me sumthin’.’
‘Be quiet…don’t talk now.’
‘Aye, now. Yes, now.’
‘In the morning.’
‘Albert’s wife…Albert’s wife went…went off with a nigger, an’…an’ he…he took her back…You went off with…No! No! Get by. Leave me coat alone…No!’
‘Sit up till I get it off.’
He pressed harder back against the chair.
‘Rooney, listen to me.’ Her hands were holding his face. ‘Listen to me, will you?’
Her hands felt nice. He tried to look up at her, but he couldn’t see her face any longer, for it kept coming and going, coming and going. When for a brief second he did see it, it brought the queerest feeling to him, the queerest feeling…he wanted to kiss it as he did that lass’ hand in his dream. It was funny…funny. He began to laugh, a deep, low, rumbling sound. The laughter rolled about inside him.
‘Sh! Rooney, please. Please listen. Listen to me. I spoilt things for them downstairs last night—please don’t you do it tonight. Try to understand.’
It was something in her voice like the sound of crying that got through to him, and he whispered, ‘All right. All right…Let me be. Go on.’ The lines of words were becoming more difficult to see and grasp and he could hold on to none of them. He wanted to sleep. He lay back but was pulled upright again.
‘Come on, get on to the bed; you can’t lie there all night. Come on…up! Up!’
He was on his feet, rolling like a top-heavy ship.
‘Take your coat off. There…that’s it.’
With an effort he reached the bed, and with a heavy relaxed flop fell into its pillows.
Her hands were on him, covering him up. She touched his face again, bringing words back into his mind.
‘Nellie…’
‘Yes?’
‘Nellie…’
‘Yes. Go to sleep now.’
‘I’ll be like Albert. It woon’t…it woon’t matter what…’
‘All right. Go to sleep.’
‘Nellie…Nellie, in the morning…I want to talk…to…’
‘Sh! Sh! Go to sleep now,’ she whispered; and he went to sleep.
Chapter Six: And Whatsoever Things Are Pure
In the deep dark of the night that had pressed its blackness into his head Rooney woke feeling past description. For some time he did not realise where he was, and to find himself in bed, still in his trousers, added to his confusion. In a thick daze he got up, supporting his head the while, took off his clothes, had a long drink of water, then flung himself back into the bed again. Thought was painful, so with his face half buried in the pillow he went to sleep again.
The room was in dim light when he finally awoke, but the sun was shining outside, for a bright golden strip from the side of the curtain lay across the dressing table. Thinking was still painful, but he made an attempt at it. What h
ad happened last night? He could remember seeing Ma in the hall, but from then his doings remained blank.
He looked at his watch. It was half-past ten. He wanted a drink…a strong cup of tea. The desire for a strong cup of tea got him out of bed.
He held his head in his hands. God, but he felt awful. Why had he got like this? He had been tight before but never with this after-effect. It wasn’t worth it; it wasn’t worth the candle; all the drink on earth wasn’t worth feeling like this. He’d give it up…he could if he liked, he only drank for company…God in heaven! his head was going to burst.
He dragged on his dressing gown and switched on the light, but the glare hit his eyeballs like a spray of acid, and he switched it off again. He’d have a wash…a bath. He’d have to before he went down, for if he looked anything like he felt, he looked pretty awful.
He was going round in circles trying to find his towel and soap when a tap came on the door…Ma…my God in heaven! couldn’t she wait until he could think?
He let her knock again before going to the door and pulling it open. Nellie stood there with a tray in her hands, and she was smiling with a sort of mischievous smile that did nothing but irritate him in this moment.
‘I thought you might like a strong cup of tea…I had to wait till she went to church. Feeling awful?’
‘A bit,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’ Then, ‘Oh, thanks. I’ve been praying for this.’ He took the tray from her, but to his concern she did not turn away but, putting out her hand, switched on the light and walked into the room saying, ‘I’ll light your fire…I’d have a bath if I were you.’
He looked at her already kneeling on the mat. The tray was still in his hands. Funny how she repeated his thoughts.
He poured himself a cup of tea, and then another, before asking the question that was foremost in his mind. ‘What happened last night? Did I…?’ He paused, not being able to name whatever type of rumpus he had caused.
She looked up at him over her shoulder, her eyes still merry. ‘You did. It’s becoming a habit, me one night, you the next.’
‘I kicked up a row?’
‘No, not really.’
‘How did I get upstairs? I can never manage stairs when I’m…’
‘She pushed you up, or dragged you or something. Anyway, she got you up.’
His face began to burn. ‘Did…did she come in here?’
‘Just to see you were safely in.’
He let out a long-drawn breath, then said, ‘In any case I’ll be for it.’
‘You’re not afraid of her?’ Nellie’s brows drew together.
‘No, no.’ He didn’t know whether he was lying or not. ‘But I don’t want any trouble with her.’
Nellie rose from her knees, the pan of ashes in her hand. ‘I don’t think you need worry. She’ll likely forgive you and read you a lecture…she won’t miss the chance to try and reform you.’
He gave a weak smile. ‘That’ll be as bad.’ They looked at each other, like conspirators against a common enemy. Then they laughed.
They were still looking at each other when she asked, ‘Who is Albert?’
‘Albert? Did I talk about him?’
‘Yes. And his wife.’
‘Oh.’
‘She went off with a Negro.’
‘I told you that?’
She nodded, smiling tenderly at him.
‘When you’re drunk you can’t mind your own business…I’ll have to watch out. It’s a fool’s game anyway.’ He wanted to add, ‘And don’t forget that.’ But what he said was, ‘What else did I say?’ But having said it he found himself suddenly afraid of knowing, so added quickly, ‘I’d better have a wash. Thanks for the tea; it…it saved me life.’
The ashpan in one hand, the tray in the other, she went out. What had he said last night? And how did she know what he had said, if it was Ma who had brought him upstairs and pushed him in here? He looked slowly around the room, and his eyes came to rest on the dressing table. On it lay his collar and tie. The tie was folded in four, and reposing on the top of it were his studs. He had never folded a tie in his life.
At the foot of the bed stood his shoes, side by side, unfamiliar in their military position. His coat was not over the back of a chair but on a hanger on the back of the door.
The heat from his face spread over his body. She must have…put him to bed.
Clamping down on further thought, he went to the bathroom.
Nellie was proved right about Ma’s attitude, for when Rooney put in an appearance downstairs, round about one o’clock, she did not go for him but with a pained expression she surveyed him across the length of the room. Then, as if she were admonishing a favourite child, she said, ‘Rooney, I’m surprised at you.’
He moved uneasily and strained his neck out of his collar.
‘I’m surprised at meself…I’m sorry for coming in like that.’
‘Well, I hope it’s not going to happen again, Rooney.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it won’t.’ He did not add, ‘If it does, you won’t see it.’
He wished now that she had gone for him and given him notice; it would have saved him a lot of trouble in the long run.
‘Well?’ Her bust rose with a great intake of breath. ‘We’ll say no more about it then. I hope things are going to settle down…everyone seems to have gone mad at once. Come and have your dinner so that I can get cleared away. That one hasn’t done a hand’s turn…I came back to find everything just as I left it. She can afford to eat out now that she’s in the money…on the ill-gotten gains of sin.’
Rooney hadn’t heard Nellie go out, and the knowledge that she was gone made the house more alien to him. In direct contradiction to this he was experiencing a mounting feeling of irritation towards her…She had been going to explain things to him yesterday. Why hadn’t she? And then this morning, when she’d had the chance, she had said nothing, nothing that threw any light on the subject anyway. But hadn’t he made up his mind that he didn’t want to know? Oh, blast everything!
‘There.’ Ma put his meal on the table. ‘I’ve had mine. But I’ll sit down a minute, because I feel there’s a need to talk to you.’ She lowered herself slowly into the chair. ‘You know, Rooney, you’re like my own son and I don’t want to see you…’
No; he just couldn’t stand this, not at the present moment he couldn’t. So he didn’t sit down, but with forced courage faced her, saying, ‘If you don’t mind I’ll…I’ll take it upstairs. Me head’s splitting, and I’m no company to meself or anybody else.’
Ma’s surprised look also held a touch of indignation. Her lips pursed and her whole face tightened, bringing a group of lines from her nose that made her mouth appear corrugated.
‘Well! If that’s how we feel, very well. But we must have a talk, and soon. And we’ll both feel better for it.’
This was no request but an order.
He escaped with his dinner. But in the privacy of his room he found what little appetite he’d had for it had vanished, and he sat before the fire smoking, his mind not on Ma now but on Nellie again, out eating with the fellow.
About four o’clock he heard some members of the family arrive for tea, and this gave him the needed impetus to get ready and go out. Fifteen minutes later he reached the hall, when, as if he had been awaiting him, Grandpa’s door opened.
‘Hallo, there,’ said the old man. His eyes were twinkling, and his whole manner jovial.
‘Hallo,’ said Rooney.
‘Going out?’
‘Aye.’ Rooney nodded.
‘So am I…the morrer. Nellie’s getting a taxi and taking me out. All round the places I know. Cleadon, Frenchman’s Bay, right to Sunderland…Have you seen Nellie?’ This was a whisper.
Again Rooney nodded.
‘Ain’t she bonny? Just like when she was a lass. Come into some money, Nellie has…Has she told you? She’s had some money left her.’
Rooney shook his head.
‘She will. She’s happy
now. Doesn’t she look grand?’ The room door opened and Pauline came out into the hall, where, ignoring Rooney, she said briskly, ‘Come along, Grandpa, come along.’
‘Now you leave me alone, madam. I’m just havin’ a word…’
Rooney made his escape, but he could still hear Grandpa’s protests after he had closed the iron gate behind him.
What, he wondered as he walked along the streets which Sunday seemed to strip of people and make desolate, would the old fellow’s reactions be when Ma informed him just how Nellie was getting her money? He’d likely hit her, as he himself had been going to hit Johnny when he suggested it was he who was supplying it…
He reached Fowler Street when this thought came to him, and although it did not stop him in his tracks, he turned aside and stood looking into the window of a sweet shop piled high with Christmas attractions. That had been the start of it, he could remember it all now…Johnny coming across to him and saying…What had he said? That he had been keeping Nellie.
A faint echo of his rage returned. He had wanted to strangle Johnny. But why had he felt like that, like…like this…this churned-up feeling inside, wanting to bash somebody? He was as bad as Albert. But it was Albert’s wife that had made him like that—he himself had no wife to get worked up over.
He looked at his reflection in the shiny cover of a box, expecting to be confronted by a different being, but he looked the same as ever. Yet he wasn’t the same, and he knew it. He’d have to pull himself together and get away from that house as soon as possible, and in the meantime keep clear of the little one, and let her keep all the explanations to herself. It was none of his business, anyway.
He was turning briskly from the window when he thought of Ma and the element of forgiveness in her attitude; and his decisiveness vanished and worry settled on him again, for knowing Ma, he knew that there would have been no touch of forgiveness for him had she been made aware of the tie incident and his resulting handling of Johnny. That retribution was something surely to come.
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