Rooney

by Catherine Cookson

  His approach to Filbert Terrace was from what he called the bottom end, and to get to the back lane he had to pass the front street. The terrace was no better lighted than any of the surrounding streets, and figures walking twenty yards away were hardly discernible, but he checked his step and peered through the dim light when, from halfway along the terrace, he heard a gate shut and saw a slight figure merging into the distance. He stood peering up the street. Was it her? Well, if it was, he should catch her up; there mightn’t be an opportunity like this again.

  He went up the street, hurrying now. But he still couldn’t be sure if it was Nellie, for the figure ahead was hurrying too.

  There was a bicycle leaning against the railings of No. 71 and he had gone but a few yards farther on when he heard the door open. He did not turn to see who was coming out, but pulling up the collar of his mac and tugging his cap farther on to his head he cut across the road. The figure ahead was now walking into Deans Road, and as she passed a lamp-post he saw that it was Nellie all right. He did not look behind him until he was about to turn the corner of the terrace, when a quick glance told him what he already suspected. The tall hurrying figure was Dennis and he was pushing the bike.

  Nellie was almost opposite him now on the other side of the road. Rooney watched her pause at a bus stop and look back up the street, before moving on again. Then quickly, as if changing her mind, she recrossed the road and was walking within a few feet of him. He slowed his pace, for he was now in a quandary. If he were to speak to her here Dennis would imagine he had solved the problem—it would all tie up very convincingly with Betty’s story. He didn’t want that. But what, he wondered, would be Dennis’ next move if she got on a bus. Follow it until she got off, he supposed. That was what the bike was for. Without implicating himself he could not see what his own next move should be…She must not get on a bus, for he too would have to get on it, and he would not escape Dennis’ eye. An idea came to him. Waiting until he came to a quiet stretch of the road, he self-consciously moved nearer to Nellie, but still keeping behind her he said softly, but definitely, ‘Nellie…don’t turn round. It’s me, Rooney. Dennis is behind us; he’s following you.’

  She had given a start and had almost stopped at the first sound of his voice; but after a moment her step quickened.

  Passing her without turning his head, he murmured, ‘Make for the park, round the bottom, into Stanhope Road.’ Then he hurried on briskly ahead. And as he heard the sound of her heels tap-tapping behind him, he thought, I’m daft. What’s it got to do with me? It would come out sooner or later, anyway. But the thought of Dennis slinking behind made him add, Well, not this way, if I can help it.

  Coming out of Stanhope Road he was confronted with the question, Where next? Automatically he turned right, making for the direction of Tyne Dock. But as he neared the top of Stanhope Road, he thought, This could go on forever. He had constituted himself leader of this evasive action, and he wasn’t, he knew, cut out for a leader. No brilliant escape tactics filled his mind. Nor were there any byways around here where a man with a bike could not follow. He had already made sure that Dennis was still following. He went on, down the slope past St Peter and Paul’s church to the foot of the Tyne Dock station bank, and it was here there occurred to him an idea that might be classed as strategic. Farther on was a very steep incline; it branched off the pavement and doubled back towards the station, and at the top was a piece of open ground connecting with Hudson Street and another entrance to the station. If Nellie were to go up to the station bank, under the arch, and up the steps to Hudson Street, there would be nothing to stop Dennis humping his bike that way and keeping her in view. But if she went past the station bank up the incline and on to the dimly lit land she could, if she were quick, turn either right and go down the station steps, or left and into the Crown Picture House. And Dennis would be unable to tell which way she had gone.

  When he neared the station bank he stopped and fumbled in his pocket, pretending to feel for a cigarette, and as she came abreast of him he said, ‘Go farther on, up the incline, and run. Go into the Crown.’

  She did not pause now, and when a little way along the street she reached the opening off the pavement she turned sharply, and like a puff of wind went up the slope.

  Rooney walked steadily on past the incline. But in order to see what Dennis was up to now he looked from side to side under the pretext of crossing the road and he saw Dennis’ long legs carrying him and the bike up the slope at a surprising pace. And he estimated that if Nellie was to cross that patch of land and get down the street to the Crown, then she’d have to be going some.

  He himself was almost running when he came out into the bottom end of Hudson Street and made his way back to the picture house. There was no sign of Dennis, but there was the sound of a train leaving the station, and he wondered if Dennis was watching it and thinking Nellie was on it.

  At the door of the Crown he paused. He had often come here when he lived in this neighbourhood, for he had felt more at home here than in the flashier places in Shields. Upstairs was comfortable, and he had been on speaking terms with the manager. He looked down at himself. He couldn’t go in like this. But there was nothing for it, he’d have to if she was in there waiting for him.

  Feeling hot now for a number of reasons, he walked into the little lobby, and there she was, standing well back from the door. She was looking now neither amused nor pert, but her face showed deep concern and a touch of the old sadness. He went slowly over to her and when they confronted each other neither of them seemed to have anything to say. When Nellie did speak, it sounded to him a silly thing to say at the end of a chase.

  ‘You’ve never had your tea yet, have you?’

  ‘That’s all right’—he rasped his prickly chin with his hand—‘I’ve a better appetite for it now.’

  ‘It was good of you, but how did you know?’

  ‘Jimmy met me coming out of work and asked me to give you the tip-off what Dennis was up to. I saw you leaving and made to catch you up when that…he came out of the house, with pretty much the same idea.’

  She linked her fingers together, then pulled at them as if straining to get them apart. ‘I wouldn’t have believed Dennis would do such a thing.’

  ‘Well,’ he went on, still rasping his chin, ‘I suppose they’re all curious.’

  She looked quickly about the little hall. A few people were at the box office, but they hadn’t reached there without having eyed them first.

  ‘Do you think we could go outside now?’

  ‘I wouldn’t risk it if I were you, not for a bit anyway. I’d go in and see the picture, or some of it.’

  ‘I want some place to talk to you.’

  He remained silent.

  Her voice was scarcely audible when, looking intently up into his face, she asked, ‘Do you believe I’m living with a man…Brummell or any man?’

  His eyes fell from hers to his boots. She was placing him on a spot. He felt a quick rising irritation and he wanted to say, ‘I’d rather have you say you were outright than have you standing there lying to me.’

  ‘I’m not, Rooney. Won’t you believe me?’

  ‘Look,’ he lifted his head again, ‘I didn’t do it intentionally, but I heard what you said to Ma last Sunday night.’

  Her eyes screwed up and she repeated, ‘What I said?’

  ‘Aye. Yes. You don’t want me to tell you, do you?’

  The colour mounted to her face and her head drooped.

  ‘Yes, I remember. And it’s quite true, all of it…but I’m not living with him. Rooney, it’s difficult for me to make you understand.’ She raised her eyes suddenly to his face. ‘Look, meet me tomorrow night and I’ll give you proof, will you? I can show you the proof. You remember that first letter I got?’

  Letters. That was another thing. And then trying to open her door…Lord, why had he got himself into this? How could he put it without hurting her? How could he say, ‘Stop writing letters
to yourself?’

  ‘Letters,’ he cut in. ‘That reminds me. Jimmy says that Ma means to get into your room. She’s been raking round for keys.’

  He had to turn his eyes away from her face. Her hand was on her lips, patting them like a child in distress. ‘Could they find anything?’ he asked lamely.

  ‘Yes…No. Not unless they’ve got a key to the drawers…I’d better get back. I’ve been silly…foolish.’ She drew in her breath and tried to recover herself; then added, ‘But what can she find? Nothing. Only…Oh!’ She joined her hands together again, and he said, ‘If I was you I’d not send…well, what I mean is I’d get the fellow to stop…’

  ‘There’s no fellow,’ she said quickly, almost harshly; ‘haven’t I told you! And don’t look like that as if I was the world’s worst liar. Anyway, he didn’t send me the letters. Oh, dear God!’ She moved her head from side to side; then patted her mouth again. ‘If you weren’t you, I could tell you everything. But I can’t, I can’t bring myself to.’

  He could not understand what she was really driving at, but he could believe her when she said the letters hadn’t come from a fellow. He could believe that all right, and he said so. ‘Don’t worry yourself about that, only don’t keep it up…the writing, I mean.’

  He knew before her eyes began to widen that he had said the wrong thing.

  ‘I mean…well, what I mean is…’

  ‘You mean,’ she whispered, ‘you know that…I…I…’ Her humiliation filled the vestibule. She seemed to become smaller with it; and her clothes lost their touch of class as her body slumped within them.

  ‘It’s all right, don’t take on like that.’ He was talking to her bent head, and he watched her shiver as she whispered, ‘But how…how did you know? How could you?’

  ‘Watching you write notes to the old fellow. You always made two dabs with your pencil at the end of a line. I saw them on the envelope. I’m no detective, but it just struck me, that’s all. One of those things. It seemed, well, sort of part of you when you did it. I didn’t think I had noticed it until I saw the dots.’

  ‘O…o…oh!’ She was groaning audibly. ‘I was mad, but I wanted to give her something to think about…I…’

  ‘Look. Come on. Aw! don’t cry…not in here.’

  ‘You must think I’m not all there…insane.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Now look, don’t give way like that. Go on in and see the picture, that’s your best plan.’

  ‘No, no.’ Discreetly she wiped her eyes. ‘I must go back, just in case…I never dreamed they’d try and get into my room.’

  She turned her back on a group of people entering the door, then very softly she asked, ‘Will you meet me tomorrow night?’

  It was a long moment before he answered, ‘Yes, all right. Where?’

  She seemed to consider, then said, ‘I don’t know. Here, at the bottom of this street. At…at seven o’clock.’

  ‘All right.’ He nodded. ‘At seven. Go on now, and I’ll let you get in first. I’ll say I’ve been doing overtime.’

  She looked up at him, not only into his eyes, but at his hair, which was as usual, he knew, sticking out from beneath his cap; at his collar, and lastly his rough, red, blunt hands. Then without saying a word of farewell, she turned abruptly away and walked into the street, leaving him very conscious of himself and the eye of the cashier upon him.

  What should he do now? He’d have to pretend he was waiting for her coming back, then slip out.

  This is what he did do. And once in the street, he began to retrace his steps the way he had come, but leisurely now, giving her time to get well in. Outside the back door of No. 71 he hesitated long enough to rehearse his piece.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he’d say. ‘Had to do a spot of overtime. If…if you don’t mind I’ll take me tea up; I’m in a bit of a hurry the night to get out.’ And he would be too, for the less he saw of Ma from now on the better.

  There was no-one in the kitchen, or in the living room, but when he reached the hall Ma came hurrying out of Grandpa’s room. She looked agitated, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, I thought it was Dennis.’

  She took her apron and wiped the sweat from her face. ‘He had a seizure…upstairs. I was all on my own until Dennis came in. He’s gone for the doctor.’

  She made no reference to Nellie, but he could hear a movement in the room, and knew she was in there. He could also hear the sound of the old man’s laboured breathing.

  Ma made no mention of his lateness but went into the kitchen, and he went slowly up the stairs. And as he washed and changed he wondered what had brought Grandpa upstairs. He would know Nellie was out, for she always went into him before leaving the house. Yet it wasn’t likely he could have heard Ma at Nellie’s door, for he was as deaf as a stone. Or was he? Perhaps he wasn’t as deaf as he made out.

  Rooney returned to the living room, and, as Ma set his meal before him, Nellie came from the kitchen carrying a kettle of hot water. Her face under the make-up looked bleached. She did not look towards him, but he knew she was aware of him.

  The door had hardly closed behind her when Ma exclaimed, ‘Brazen piece! Gallivantin’, that’s all she does. She’s brought this on, telling him she was going to take him away with her! Took him out in a taxi, weather like this an’ all. She’s got a lot to answer for…Is your steak all right?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘You were late.’

  ‘Yes, I had to work overtime.’

  The back door opened and Ma got to her feet. ‘That’ll be Dennis,’ she said.

  She went into the kitchen, and Rooney, reluctantly leaving the last piece of a very tender and well-cooked steak, went quickly out of the room and upstairs again, for it wouldn’t do, he told himself, to meet that bloke face to face the night.

  A little while later a ring at the doorbell and the subsequent bustle spoke of the doctor’s arrival. After ten minutes the front door closed again and the house became quiet.

  As he sat before his fire drawing quick puffs on his cigarette he found he was anxious to know just how bad the old man was. But he refrained from going downstairs until he felt absolutely sure he would not meet up with Dennis. So when he again entered the living room it was to find Ma preparing to go up to bed.

  She looked him up and down as he stood in the doorway.

  ‘I just wanted to know how he was,’ he said.

  ‘Oh! The doctor says he could last weeks…it’s his heart. You never know…She’s making herself a martyr, sitting in there.’ Ma bounced her head towards the wall. ‘That won’t do much good now. She’s to blame…she should never have taken him out.’

  ‘Perhaps it was him climbing the stairs.’

  ‘The stairs! What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you said he had the seizure upstairs.’

  ‘I said no such thing, you must have been dreaming!’ Ma’s face showed a purple tinge. ‘It was in the hall he had it.’ She turned her back on him and gathered up a small clock from the mantelpiece, a glass of water from the table, and her glasses and prayer book from the sideboard, and saying stiffly through pursed lips, ‘Goodnight,’ she left him.

  If anything could have proved that she had said the old man had had the seizure upstairs, this, Rooney thought, was it: to leave himself downstairs with Nellie, the dangerous woman.

  Having waited a while to make sure that Ma was well in her room, he tip-toed to the front-room door and gave the gentlest of taps.

  After a moment it was opened by Nellie, and he saw that she was no longer the Nellie of Friday night, nor yet the one of tonight, nor any Nellie he had seen, for her face was twisted and drawn with anxiety.

  ‘How is he?’ he whispered.

  She shook her head. ‘Very ill.’

  ‘He’ll likely get over it?’

  She shook her head again. ‘No, not this time…he’s going.’ She seemed to find talking difficult, and he stood at a loss what to say. But as he looked at her he knew he couldn’t leave her here alo
ne all night, with no-one to turn to should anything happen.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll be next door. I can sleep just as easily in a chair. Just give me a tap if you want me.’

  She did not refuse this offer, but murmured, ‘Thanks, I’d be grateful.’

  Using some duplicity he went upstairs, none too quietly. Then after waiting a while he descended again in his stockinged feet, carrying two blankets and a book, and having settled himself in the armchair he proceeded to read to keep himself awake.

  He had no idea at what time he had dropped off to sleep, but when he felt the tapping on his arm he woke, feeling cold and cramped.

  ‘Will you come in? I…I think he’s going…I can’t hold him up.’

  He was on his feet in a moment, and still only half awake he followed her into the room.

  If he had never before seen a man die he would have known that Grandpa was coming quickly to the end of his time. Following Nellie’s directions, he put his arm under the old man’s shoulders and raised him up on to the pillows.

  Grandpa’s cheeks were hollowed and moving like bellows as he fought for breath. His eyes were fixed on Nellie, and between his gasping he made several efforts to speak.

  ‘What is it, dear? What is it?’ She hovered over him tenderly.

  Again he made an effort, and his mouth formed a word, but no sound came. Then lifting one trembling hand he motioned with it towards a chair.

  Nellie turned her head and said, ‘Your coat? All right, I’ll get it.’

  She left his side and brought the coat to him. And when she laid it on top of the bedcover his hand fell on it and rested there for a moment. Then with an effort he pulled at one side of it and exposed the lining.

  ‘Something in your pocket?’ Nellie took a number of small pieces of paper and a calendar from the pocket and spread them on the bed, but the old man did not look at them. He waited a moment, and then put his hand into the pocket again and his trembling fingers pulled back the torn lining, and as he did so his eyes looked into Nellie’s. And she, following his hand with hers, put it down the lining and pulled out a letter.