Cotter's England

by Christina Stead

  "Is it cancer?" said Camilla.

  Nellie turned away for a moment, took a puff, said, "It's cancer, pet. And there they are traipsing around the country after quacks. It's all illusion: there's no reality to it."

  "I'm sorry for him."

  "Don't be sorry for him. His life is nothing but a dancing in a hall of mirrors."

  Camilla looked at her, not understanding.

  "And so I must go to see my family now. My brother's let me down."

  She went out, came back again and leaned against the doorpost. She had put on a pair of blue overalls to chop some wood in the yard. She smiled at Camilla and an old-fashioned expression came into her face, like the charm of the delicate-faced crop-headed stage stars of the early twentieth century. For the first time she had a lick of beauty. She went and chopped the wood.

  Presently, she came back dressed to go out and implored Mrs. Yates, "Don't think badly of me, Camilla, for leaving you alone. The house is yours, chick. Have some lunch. Mrs. McMahon will be along after lunch to clean up a bit. She's an angel and she'll beg you for work to do. She's a real friend, chick, remember. Her life's hard, poor soul. Married to an older man, a good man, but it's not happiness. And this is her home away from home. And yours too, Camilla."

  "Well, I'll stay to finish this, and leave it for you. I may go away next week to see my father-in-law; he may do something for the children; I'll leave them with Edmund. They obey him like a father. They don't obey me."

  Nellie gave her a sweet, open, doubting look, "Eh, Camilla, you're a damn good woman. I don't know how a man can leave you."

  "Well, they say they can't. But he did," Camilla remarked in good humor.

  "Were you hard-hearted to him?"

  Camilla laughed.

  Nellie went away shaking her head, "You're my idea of a beautiful woman! I wish my poor brother had fallen for a woman like you, pet."

  Before she left, she came back with a book in her hand. She placed it beside Mrs. Yates.

  "I know you've seen the world, Camilla. I'd like your opinion on this woman. Was it injustice? Was she guilty or not? She says they hounded her. We don't know what is a criminal, or how the criminal suffers do we? The law will never tell us who is a criminal. When I see someone branded I hear the hounds baying. I can't shake it from my mind. I'd be grateful for your opinion."

  She took a little canvas bag, her shoulder bag and left. When she had gone Mrs. Yates looked at the book. It was the account of a murder trial at the beginning of the century; the trial of a French woman, Madame Steinheil, for poisoning her husband. A French President, Felix Faure, a friend of hers, she said, died of an overdose of aphrodisiac in a brothel. There was also trouble over a diamond necklace she said was given to her by Monsieur Faure. Mrs. Yates glanced through it and put it on the shelf. On the shelf was a book by Frida Strindberg about her life with the dramatist. On the flyleaf was written in Nellie's flowing hand,

  I thank God every day for George, for a man of genius who is human and tender and great. What if I had. found one like this? Read it again and again and bless the fate that traced my lines. I was spared all suffering. From him only goodness.

  When there was trouble in the industrial north, Northumberland, Durham, Nellie's newspaper sent her up there. She was able to get a week there now, some of the Tyne shipyards being struck; and after getting news along the River Tyne, she went home to her people, the Cotters, in Bridgehead. She had a cup of tea at the Bridgehead Station refreshment room and made for the hill leading to Hadrian's Grove, a long suburban road above the river, and lined on each side with small brick houses, all alike, with bow windows, picket fences and roomy attics in the sharp tiled roofs. Whistling, striding, her shoulder bag flapping, she passed the church and came to Number 23. In the front yard was a grass patch, a tree; a few springs of parsley grew by the doorstep. The multiple curtains in the bow window were drawn. She tried her latchkey. The door was bolted; she rang. A dog barked and Nellie called, "Eh, Tom! Where's Peggy?" When the door opened, there was a struggle. Nellie edged in with the door against her, while a furious young sheepdog jumped up and down snapping at her gloves and scarf. He got a glove and tore it quickly. Nellie called soothingly, "Eh, there, Tom man, down man, eh, ye dumb dog, how are ye, Peggy darling? Where's Ma? Stop it, Tom then man, sure he knows his old Nellie! Eh, Peggy darling, call him off, pet!"

  Peggy, a short doughy woman with dark eyes and brows in an oval face, and in apron and pink rubber gloves, said she was just doing the silver. "I didn't hurry," she explained, "because I thought it was Pop; and I thought if he can choose his time, I'll take my time."

  "Well, sweetheart," said Nellie cheerily, "so old Pop Cotter's going to come home early? It must be the year of the comet. And where's me old sweetheart, where's Mary Cotter, where's me Ma?" She pushed open the door of the front room, where as well as the piano, the expensive leather suite with sofa and smoking chair, the little tables, the sideboard stacked with bric-a-brac and books, there was a double bed in which lay old Mrs. Cotter.

  Simon Pike, a little lean man of just on eighty was bowed over the kitchen fire reading the Daily Mail. The kitchen was a small narrow room with one window looking on a little tree and asphalt patch under a high wall. Opposite the window was a large fireplace with an old stove and boiler in it. There was a gas stove alongside, cupboards and a dresser in the corners, a kitchen table under the window. The hall door and the back door made a through draft. The brass rails and fender, the stoves, table and sink, and all things but the window were very clean. A ceiling clothes rack had been let down nearer the fire and the damp clothes touched Uncle Simon's head. He sat in a straight hard armchair in which he could not fall asleep and which almost filled the space between the fender, the kitchen table and the sink. When anyone used the sink, he was spattered and said sharply, "Don't splash me!" His chair was placed with its back to the back door which led to the pantry, scullery, vegetable racks and the back yard. When this door was opened the cold wind blew on his back and he muttered, "Shut the door!" Next to his seat were the coal scuttles, a pile of wood which he had split, the firedogs; high on the mantelshelf were bundles of lighters made by him and in the oven a few newspapers to dry. Uncle Simon made, tended, mended and raked out the house fires.

  It was about nine thirty at night. Simon heard a sound, got up, a bowed and cramped little man, with his spectacles on, half-opened the hall door and sat down again, looking towards the door. Someone came in by the front door. Simon shrugged slightly. Mr. Thomas Cotter, Senior, hung up his hat and coat on the hall stand and said, "Well, well, well, well, well," in a fine loud baritone. There was no answer. He came down the hall to the kitchen door. "Where's Mrs. Cotter?" said he.

  Simon looked him up and down, a long look for Thomas was just on six feet tall, and very broad; and then he said, "She's been in bed all day and she's asleep now or ought to be, if ye didn't wake her." He went back to the Daily Mail.

  Mr. Cotter, in the door, turned cheerfully to call, "Are you there, Peggy? Where's Peggy?" He turned back, came in saying, "And me, a hungry man." Simon looked at the hall door. Cotter came in, pulling it to, and looked down at the fire. "Good evening," said Mr. Cotter.

  "Good evenin'," said Simon; "your dinner's in the oven. It'll be warm."

  Cotter said, in a jolly tone, "Must I get it myself with women in the house?"

  Simon said, reading his paper, "It's been waitin' for ye."

  Mr. Cotter sat down and at this moment the dog Tom came through the hall door and after growling a little at Cotter and a little at Uncle Simon, but only for the form, he looked in his various saucers, drank some water and came to the fire. Cotter said to the dog, "There's a bad dog, there never was a worse dog than that. Like dog, like master. If they'd given you to me, Tom, you'd be a different dog tonight." The kelpie turned round and barked at Mr. Cotter.

  Quickly Peggy came in scolding, "What are ye doin' to him, man?"

  "Well," said Cotter, "it's the gaffer! I'm hun
gry, gaffer. She's the gaffer now and we all have to watch our P's and Q's. Where's my dinner, lass? Do you mean to say a man comes in late and nothing waiting for him, eh?"

  "You could have come before, we all ate hours ago."

  "And a house with women in it and I must serve myself, is that it," said Cotter tenderly, looking round.

  "If it's the women's food you're eating as well as your own, I don't see why not," said Peggy, at the same time getting plates out of the oven. "Will you eat here tonight?"

  "Thomas Cotter eats in his own dining room," said he graciously; "and I hope you haven't let the fire go out; don't say you haven't laid the cloth for me?"

  "Now don't get excited man, I'll lay it," said Peggy, "but you leave the dog alone, Mr. Cotter."

  Mr. Cotter said, shaking his head, "It's a bad dog, that dog.

  If you'd give him to me, gaffer, I'd make a dog out of him; but that's a bad dog, he's spoiled. Look at him now." He flicked his clean pocket handkerchief at him.

  Peggy said, "He's a bad dog because he sees you're bad, that's all, Thomas Cotter; a dog knows a man. Now don't tease him man, or I'll make you regret it to your dying day."

  As she entered the hall with things on a tray, there were steps running downstairs and Nellie's lively voice called out, "Is that you, Pop Cotter? How are you, me bold lad?" Half smiling, Peggy went into the unlit dining room where the fire still burned and a snowy starched cloth was laid for the man of the house. Nellie skated down the hall to the kitchen.

  Mr. Cotter sat monumentally in his chair and, as his elder daughter entered, calling, "Hello, Pop Cotter!" he said, "Ah, Mrs. Cook, that was a bad thing you did, there was never a blacker day for this house, than the day you brought that dog in the door. You know what I think about that dog? It's a bad dog! But if the gaffer would only give him to me, I'd know how to treat him. He needs training." Meanwhile, he had fished a red handkerchief out of his trousers' pocket. He flicked it at the dog who growled at him, so that Mr. Cotter was able to kick out with his large boot and prod him.

  "Couldn't you see Mother, Pop," said Nellie. "She's waiting for ye, pet. You know she doesn't sleep till you come in."

  "Yes," said Mr. Cotter, "that's a bad dog and that was a black day, Mrs. Cook, when you brought that dog across the threshold, Nellie. You never did a worse thing."

  Nellie laughed loudly to oblige him.

  Peggy came back to the kitchen and said to her father, "Now you leave that dog alone, man, and I'll leave you alone." She opened the drawers of the dresser and asked good-humoredly where the silver was. "I had it all out this afternoon; and I suppose Mother took it away."

  "Look for it in the grandfather clock, pet," said Nellie, "that's where she had her shoes this afternoon."

  "Then that's where it'll not be; it is vexing."

  "Do go and see Mother, Father," said Nellie. "She should have been asleep long ago; but she stayed awake for you, now go on."

  Mr. Cotter heaved himself up and went along the hall to the front room where his wife had been sleeping since her fall on the stairs. She now spent her days there, sometimes walking about a little in her nightgown; he slept upstairs still in the fine front bedroom. They could hear him crooning and cajoling, "How are you, Mary, are you better? Are you feeling better now, this evening, Mary my girl? Are you going to sleep? Now that's right then, sleep now, my girl; are you going to sleep now? Now, that's all right, now will you sleep if I tell you, will you promise?"

  Peggy had found some knives and forks done up in a parcel in the cleaning drawer, had laid the tray and got the dish from the oven, a full plate of meat. "It's still hot," she said, "that's good; the fuss he makes! He thinks the whole henhouse must wait up for him."

  "Now then, pet," said Nellie, "it's his right, he's the head of the family." Uncle Simon laughed at this and read his paper.

  Peggy said, "As a father of a family, he's a disgrace. Why should he get it when he's spending it all in the pubs?"

  "Hush, pet," said Nellie, "he's the head of the house and you must be grateful because he's always kept a roof over our heads."

  Now Mr. Cotter could be heard in the hall, still crooning, "Are you all right for the night, then, Mollie? Are you comfortable, Mollie? That's right then, dear. Sleep now, sweetheart, have a good night now and please me."

  Nellie smiled, "Ah, he's a pet."

  Peggy said, "If he worried about her, he'd stay at home and entertain her at nights."

  "Now then pet, it isn't the custom of the men in this town as you know; you can't blame the puir old lad for doing what the others do."

  Peggy hrmphed. "I know he can't do any wrong with you, but he can do wrong with me. He can do wrong with her. And you can all do wrong with me, for I know what's under it all."

  Nellie said, "No, you don't, darling. You don't know that."

  "I know," said Peggy, "it's selfishness, it's nothing but self. The dog there has a better heart than you all."

  Nellie said, "Now then, pet, now there he goes into the dining room. I'll take it in, pet, and you'll bring the tea."

  As soon as Nellie went out with the tray, the dog began to torment Uncle Simon, by barking rowdily and snatching at his hand. Peggy said meaningly to the dog, "Don't do it, man, don't do it, man!"

  Simon said sarcastically, "Don't do it, don't do it, do it!"

  "If you didn't torment him man, he'd let you alone. He knows what's what."

  Simon said, "Knows what's what."

  Peggy cried, "Don't mumble there at him, man; it drives him silly. He's not responsible. He knows you mean harm, man! He's a young dog and he's sharp; and he knows what ye mean. Besides, doesn't he know as I know, ye kick him in the darkness of the hall? I'm on to you. Don't play so hypocritical, Uncle Simon, man. I see through you, man. Let's have a bit of peace, for God's sake."

  "A bit of peace for God's sake," said Uncle Simon.

  Peggy continued, "Now he doesn't mean anything. That's just his fun. He's got to play, man. He's young. He's not old and shriveled up and ready to die like you. Man, remember when you were young." And this she said in a didactic scolding voice.

  Old Simon Pike replied, "When A was young, aye! A wudna be here if A was young." He laid down his paper and began to straighten his back. "When A was young A was oop before six in the marnin'. At six in the marnin' and before A set oot for wark. A was at wark at Armstrong's at six. We all were then. It was different then. Ye wudna see a hoose aboot here then, but wan or two. A've seen snaws here for six weeks, but A was oop every marnin' at five and off to me wark before six. A was a canny lad. Ye wudna catch me here if A was young and if your puir mother wasna so sick and Thomas never in the hoose."

  Peggy laughed cheerfully at this, "It's yourself you're thinking of, man. Sitting by the fire and reading your paper; it's not a hard life, is it? That's why you're here and getting everything, your fire and your food and all for only your pension. It suits your pocket, too. Don't make a martyr of yourself, man. It doesn't suit you: you're not a martyr, man. You're selfish like them all. All are selfish and you most of all. A man who was always a bachelor, that's a selfish man, isn't it?"

  Simon said, "No, it isn't; perhaps A had me reasons."

  "Aye, reasons for spending nothing and keeping warm and cosy, and never taking a chance. You'll understand yourself, man." She cackled. "It's funny to see how the man regards himself. As a fine man. And maybe you saved the family, too, with your savings?"

  Simon was still straightening himself and now he rose very slowly from his seat where he had been since suppertime. Peggy looked at him and laughed, "Now, there's no need to rise to the occasion, Uncle Simon, man."

  Simon said, "A'm no risin' to the occasion. If A cud rise to the occasion, ye wudna see me heels for dust. A'm risin' slowly to straighten me back and get goin' oopstairs if A'm no welcome here."

  Peggy crowed, "Look at the man, now. That's a new act, that's a new song and dance. Now, he's a martyr. Take yourself off, you're more bother than you're worth
with your bit of money. No one wants you, you'd be better gone to St. Aidan's churchyard, you would, no one wants you and no one needs you. Puir thing, you think so highly of yourself and you're only a man that has no family and that has been a hanger-on all his life."

  Simon was now as straight as he could get and looking not at her, but into the distance, out into the hall, but seeing nothing, his voice shaking out loud, he said, "If it hadna been for me, ye'd all have been on the street wance or twice, ye don't know that." He was trembling and he looked for understanding to Nellie, who had just come from the hall to the kitchen. "There wud ha been no food in this hoose, but for me savin's which A gave ye twice." He looked at Nellie.

  She said brightly to Peggy, "Now, what is it, pet? Come in, Peggy, darling, and talk to Father. He's askin' for ye. What is it, Uncle Sime, sweetheart? Sure, ye were always good to us, a guid man. We were always glad to have you, sweetheart. What would home have been without Uncle Sime in the attic? You made the fires for us every day of your life, Uncle Sime, didn't ye?"

  Peggy had gone out with the teapot, and Nellie began disarranging her blouse to wash at the sink. Uncle Simon looked at her and she, with a bold daring grin at him, fully bared her starved breasts, which she held in her hands and she said in dialect, grinning, "A'm goin' to wash." She went to the sink.

  Uncle Simon was not straight now. He was bowed and looking downwards. When she returned from the sink, Uncle Simon still stood in the middle of the floor by his chair by the fire. She came and stood in front of him, her breasts lying loose, tempting the ragged old man. He lifted his large faded blue eyes to her sternly. She burst out laughing loudly. 'Ye mustn't take the puir girl seriously, Uncle Sime, pet." She swaggered back to the sink, "She's not to blame, pet: we are. We're all guilty, you and me too. We're all guilty."

  Uncle Simon sat down and bent over the fire. He tried to control the trembling of his body and hands as he put a coal on the fire.

  When Mr. Cotter had finished the plate, he said to Nellie, "Is this all you've got in the house? And what about the roast from Sunday? I need a bit of meat. I wasn't brought up on bits and bacon like you."