As if at the end of some great physical achievement, the old man sank into his pillows and rested now. Rooney looked at the letter lying in Nellie’s hands. It bore her name in large scrawling letters on the envelope: ‘For Nellie Atkinson.’ And as she went to put it into her pocket the old man’s hands moved again, and she said, ‘You want me to read it now?’
Struggling for breath, he brought out ‘Aye.’ And Rooney, from the other side of the bed, watched her slit open the envelope and take out two sheets of paper, and, holding them in one hand while with the other she held the old man’s hand, she began to read.
She must have covered half the page when he saw her eyes lift. They were wide and staring. He watched her mouth fall slack as if in amazement. She sat on staring ahead at the row of furniture against the opposite wall. The old man’s hand moved in hers, and she brought her gaze slowly to the letter again. And as she came to the end of it Rooney watched her head droop lower, and still lower. Then with a choking cry she was on her knees by the side of the bed, her head buried in the coverlet, her arms across the old man.
‘Oh, Grandpa! Grandpa!’
His hands moved on her head and he spoke her name. ‘Nellie.’
She raised her anxious face, and as the old man touched it Rooney felt he could not bear to witness any more, for never in his life, not even when his father died, had he felt like this.
Quietly, he went out and into the living room, and for something to do he put the kettle on, and stood over it, waiting for it to boil. When the tea was made he poured out a cup and took it into her. She was sitting on a chair now, her face buried in the pillow beside that of the old man. And Rooney saw that he was dead.
Putting down the tea he went to her and, placing his hands beneath her arms, took her from the bed saying, ‘There now. Come into the other room. Come on now.’
Her body hung limp in his hands. Her back was to him, and she swayed as she looked down on the old man. Then turning swiftly about she stood with her face buried in her hands, her sobs shaking her body.
It was the most natural thing in the world for him to put his hands on her shoulders and bring her to rest against him, and as he stood in the furniture-cluttered room and looked over her head to the slumped form of the dead old man on the bed he knew that he was experiencing the strangest moment of his life, for in him was a tenderness, such a tenderness that softened the whole of life, the whole world even.
When she drew herself away his being became empty, and as she dried her face he asked, ‘Will I go and get her up?’
She shook her head, then said brokenly, ‘I’ll lay him out myself.’
‘You can’t do that.’ His tone was shocked.
‘Yes. Yes, I can. He wouldn’t want her to touch him.’ She looked up at him through swollen eyes. ‘Would you give me a hand?’
‘Yes.’ He did not hesitate in complying with her request, but nevertheless he did not relish the task, and as the business proceeded he relished it less. But over-weighing this was his admiration for the capability, the deftness, and, overall, the patient love which she brought to this last rite.
Grandpa had died at five minutes to three, and at half-past four he lay dressed for his last journey in the long shirt and stockings he had kept by him for years for this purpose. The room was left as tidy as it could be made, and on the bedside table Nellie had placed the flowers that had arrived in cellophane, and she had lit one ordinary candle. And when the electric light had been switched off Grandpa’s face took on a happiness that the gentle glimmer of the candle seemed to draw from within him. And Nellie, after standing looking down on him for a moment, closed the door and went out with Rooney into the living room.
As if now at a loss what to do, she sat on the edge of the chair and looked at the low embers of the fire. Her face was composed, but her eyes held so much sadness that he found it almost painful to look at her. He stood on the hearthrug, seemingly at a loss, too; then feeling that he must say something he brought up the topic of common irritation.
‘She’s going to get a surprise,’ he said. ‘It’s a wonder she hasn’t been down afore now.’
Nellie did not immediately answer, until the movement of his feet seemed to attract her attention, and then she said, ‘She sleeps heavily. And her surprise will be in more ways than one…Would you read that?’ She withdrew from her pocket the letter she had taken from Grandpa’s coat.
He hesitated. ‘You want me to?’
‘Yes.’
He took the letter from her and having unfolded it slowly began to read.
‘Nellie,
‘I never was much of a hand at letter-writing, but I want you to know one or two things. First, I want you to know that apart from my Elsie you’ve been the best person on earth to me. And if I’d been left to that ’un’s mercy I’d have been dead years since. I hate her, Nellie, I’ve always hated her, and I’ve died hating her. It’s always been my great fear that she’d get a penny of mine. If she had thought I had anything she’d have had it out of me years ago. You didn’t think I had anything either, did you, Nellie? It’s twenty-five years ago since I got the compen. for losing my two toes and the shock that knocked me deaf. That one thought we had gone through it. Both Elsie and me made her think that. But we hadn’t. We spent a bit, but we put the rest by. We didn’t believe in banks, so we kept it hid in a box screwed to the bottom shelf underneath the chest of drawers. You would have had to turn the whole thing upside down afore you could see anything was there. And it’s been there for years. All the hundred and eighty-four pounds. And lately it got to worrying me, for although I’d left a letter saying you was to have it I got frightened of that ’un claiming her lot to be next of kin and doing you out of it. I had thought of giving it to you. But knowing you, you would have spent the lot on me, and I didn’t want that, as I’m past enjoying anything but a good fire…and I can’t get that.
‘Well, Nellie, I thought and thought, and then I got an idea. I took the money and went out one day and went to Mr Pomphrey, the solicitor who fought my case years ago, and told him what I wanted. I wanted you to have the money, anonymous like, and for him to say you were to spend it and have a good time. But there was one condition: you had got to leave that shop. And he was to send you the letter on your birthday. And I asked him to get in touch with the insurance company and for them to pay you me insurance. There was a big snag here, as I wanted no letters sent, and I had to go back and sign a form for the insurance. I didn’t feel too good that second time going out, and I got a taxi back. And Nellie, it did me heart good to see her face when she seen I’d been out again, and to make her pay for that taxi. Well, Nellie, you got the money, and it’s made you young again, and the fun and enjoyment it’s given me watching you will last me the remainder of me time.
‘I’ll be gone when you read this, Nellie, and there’ll be nothing to keep you here any longer. Get away, away from her, Nellie. And you’re to have me furniture, the solicitor knows. I told her you were going to take me away, but I knew I would never leave this house again, not alive anyway. Now, Nellie, you’re not to worry. Take care of yourself and know that you were the only bright spot in my weary days since I lost Elsie.
‘God bless you, lass, and send you happiness, for you deserve it.
‘Grandpa.’
Rooney sat down. He was bemazed. It was incredible. All this business about a man keeping her. Even when he knew the fellow hadn’t sent the letters he himself had still thought there was one. Talk about circumstantial evidence, and giving a dog a bad name. Well, this would just show you.
He sat on, looking at her, the letter still in his hand, and pondering; and it came as something of a shock to him that even now when he knew where the money had come from it made no real difference to the state of affairs, for hadn’t she admitted herself that there was a fellow. By! the old man had started something when he played Fairy Godmother to her Cinderella, and not only to her but to himself, for he doubted if the tight-compressed litt
le one could have brought him, even with his pity for her, to the state of unrest the present Nellie, the outcome of Grandpa’s strategy, was doing. But there was one thing sure: she was going to miss the old fellow more now than she might have done had she not known of his kindness.
‘Well, now you know.’ She was still staring into the fire, and she spoke without turning her head.
He could find nothing to say.
‘And me thinking the money came from Mr Bamford.’ She shook her head derisively at herself.
‘Bamford?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, Bamford, the other partner in the shop. He’s older than Brummell. He used to manage the Wallsend one. They’ve got six shops altogether, and years ago when I was going to leave he came over himself and asked me to stay on. He gave me five shillings rise and told me if I kept things going he would not forget me. A year ago Brummell and he dissolved the partnership. I…I thought because of the condition that I should leave the shop that it was he who had arranged for me to have the money to spite Brummell. And I wasn’t averse to spiting Brummell myself, because he’s a pig of a man.’ She made a derogatory sound in her throat and her lip curled slightly. ‘What a gullible fool I’ve been! Just as if a close-fisted devil like him would give me anything. I don’t suppose for a moment I ever crossed his mind again, only when I wrote, as I frequently did, to say yet again that the assistant had left…No-one in their right senses would have stayed there all those years. As Grace so often has kindly implied, I’m not all there, I’m odd. And I must be, stupidly odd.’
‘You’re no such thing.’
‘Well, looking back now, I don’t see myself as possessed of any powers of reasoning at all, for, lonely or not, I should have broken away. At least I should have got a new job. I could have done that…Well, now I’ve got to get one.’
Yes, he thought, a hundred and eighty-four pounds at the rate she had been spending this past week wouldn’t last very long.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
She rocked herself slightly. ‘I don’t really know. I’ve been looking round. There’s plenty of work in factories and…and the big shops, but’—she put her hands between her knees—‘I’ve worked practically on my own for so long I’m scared of going among crowds. And I wouldn’t like factory work anyway. I’ll get a sewing job of some kind…Oh, I’ll get a job.’
‘You’re leaving here, then?’
‘Yes, that’s one thing I am doing, as soon as Grandpa’s gone.’
‘Nellie,’ he leant towards her, ‘if there’s anything I can do to help you, I’ll do it.’
‘Thanks, Rooney.’ She glanced up at him. ‘You don’t know how much you’ve done already. If it hadn’t been for you…well’—she moved her head—‘I don’t know what I would have done.’
‘I’ve done nothing yet. Look, Nellie.’ He bent still nearer. ‘I would like to ask you something just to get things clear.’
‘Yes, Rooney?’
‘Well, it’s like this…’ He was stuck. Her eyes were on him, waiting, but he couldn’t say, ‘Is there another fellow as you said, or have you just been making him up an’ all.’ This wasn’t the time or place to ask a thing like that. It would really be indecent, and the old man lying dead next door and her in the state she was. He straightened up. ‘It’ll keep. I’ll talk about it later.’ He stood up and her eyes followed him, and at this moment there came the sound of a door opening overhead.
‘Here she comes,’ he said.
Nellie rose slowly and faced the door, and Rooney, who was only a foot away from her, did not lengthen the distance between them but waited, as she was doing, for Ma to enter.
They heard her step on the stairs; then the front-room door opening; and still they waited. Fully two minutes passed before she appeared in the living-room doorway and that she had received a shock was evident.
Rooney had a swift and laugh-inspiring picture of the old man standing outside himself with his thumb to his nose as she looked down on his recumbent remains.
‘You think you’re clever, don’t you?’
Nellie made no reply; and Ma turning her glare on Rooney demanded, ‘And what are you doing down here?’
‘I’ve been here all night,’ said Rooney quietly.
‘What!’ This bold answer evidently took Ma further aback. ‘You’ve what? Well, there’ll be a stop put to this, and I’m telling you.’ She bustled past them. ‘I’d thank you, Mr Smith, to keep out of the household concerns.’
‘I asked him to stay with me.’
‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Ma turned with her usual agility. ‘Whose house is this anyway?’
‘It was Grandpa’s, and, if I choose, it is mine now, furniture, insurance policy, and the rent book. He has left all he had to me. You can contact Mr Pomphrey, the solicitor. He will tell you everything you want to know.’
If Ma had had a seizure there and then Rooney would not have been surprised. He saw that she was finding breathing difficult, and no words would come to relieve her congested feelings. Although he could not rake up a spark of pity for her, yet he could no longer stay and witness her discomfort, so, with a small nod to Nellie, he went out and up the stairs to his room.
Chapter Eight: The Effects of Love
The first thing Danny said to Rooney on his arrival at the depot was, ‘You look under the weather. You all right?’
‘Yes, I’m all right,’ said Rooney. ‘A bit tired…been up all night…The old man died.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that,’ said Danny. ‘Sudden?’
‘Yes, a bit.’
‘I always think death around Christmas time seems worse somehow, puts a damper on things. And have you noticed that all the accidents seem to gather around this time an’ all?’
‘Cheerful Charlie Chester,’ said Bill, mounting the cab. ‘Come on, man, and let’s gang and meet an accident, it’s never been my policy to wait for things to come to me.’
This quip brought a smile even from Albert, and Rooney, pulling himself up beside him into the loaders’ cab, thought, Funny, he’s happy again.
Rooney found himself watching Albert covertly most of the morning, for he was intrigued by the air of suppressed excitement about him. Today was Albert’s last day on the job and tomorrow he was leaving the town. Perhaps it was the prospect of a new start, or…having her back again. Well, whatever it was it was making him easy to work with, just like it used to be.
But that wasn’t much good, seeing it was his last day.
The loader had stopped opposite Honeycroft, and Rooney asked, ‘You going to pay your last respects to old Double-Barrelled, Albert?’
‘Not likely,’ said Albert. ‘I want to finish quiet.’
‘Go on, man,’ said Fred. ‘She might give you a Christmas box if she knows you’re leaving.’
‘You talking of Christmas boxes?’ said Bill, coming up with a bin on his shoulder. ‘Wait a minute…I bet you don’t cap this one.’ He tipped the contents of the bin into the loader. ‘She—’ He nodded towards a house hidden by a tall hedge, and mimicking what was to his mind a superior tone said, ‘“There you are,” she said, “and will you be good enough to remove the rubbish near the gate?”…You know what she offered me? Threepence!’
‘No!’
‘Aye, she did.’
‘What did you say?’
‘What did I say? I said, “Thank you, missus, but you’ll be needin’ that afore me, and we can’t take on all that junk, we’re nearly full, there’s other folk’s dustbins to be emptied.”’
They all laughed, and Danny said, ‘Well, you know, Bill, if everybody you met the day gave you threepence you’d have a bit. You must admit some of them won’t even give you a kind word.’
‘Aye,’ said Bill. ‘Well, she can keep her bloody threepence, and I can tell her what to do with it. Great big hoose like that an’ all. Why, they never offer you threepence in Dock Street.’
‘No, that’s why they’re still living in Dock Street,’ put
in Fred.
They dispersed laughing, and as Rooney went down the sidewalk of Honeycroft he thought he would have had to take the threepence rather than hurt the woman’s feelings. Yet the act of receiving any kind of present always put him on edge, for he had never been able to accept a gift gracefully…he liked giving, but hated receiving. Why, he had never worked out.
When he reached the yard he was surprised to find not the old woman at the kitchen door but a man, a round tubby individual with a pointed beard and almost bald head, which brought back to his mind Danny’s description of the son who lived in France. This fellow looked French all right, and when he spoke the impression was confirmed, for his English had just a trace of something different about it. His tone was polite, even chummy, not a bit like the old girl’s.
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you’d mind taking this stuff?’ He pointed to a pile of cardboard boxes and old clothes lying under the covered way.
Rooney looked at the salvage. It would mean holding up the loader until he came back and collected it, and some oaths from Bill for getting behind, but it was dry stuff, and the fellow was a nice civil bloke.
‘I’ll be back for it,’ he said.
‘Is he going to take it?’
The door the tubby fellow had pulled to behind him was jerked out of his hand, and there stood the old lady.
‘Oh, that one will take it,’ she said; ‘he’s all right…it’s the other one. If you had been here and heard him you would…’
‘You go in, Mama, it’s too cold out here.’
The little fellow’s voice was coaxing, and to Rooney it sounded funny to hear a grown man calling his mother Mama.
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