Cotter's England

by Christina Stead

  "Haven't you somewhere to go?"

  "Well, if you don't mind, I must go over and have tea with a girl and come straight back. Nell wanted me to go and see Bob but I won't do it; I'll come back to you."

  She made him lunch; he got ready to go and standing in the hall with him, she said in a troubled way, "You know, Tom, I've fallen for you! I'm not myself."

  "I knew that," said Tom.

  He opened his mouth wide and pressed it round hers.

  She felt faint, "Eigh!" said Eliza.

  He went with a clap of sound, closed the door. Eliza was busy with the house, then went for a walk. I like to breathe, Tom always said, I can live if I breathe. He was a mere boy.

  A boy bending over his bike scooted past; his thin back looked like Tom's. Another boy coming down the opposite side of the road, nicely dressed for Sunday, shaved, the hairs down his neck gleaming, a clean collar, must be going to see his girl. There seemed to be streams of children in the streets, of ages from four to eleven, a tide setting towards the future, like a swarm of birds migrating in a wide open broad sky. She had not noticed them for years.

  When Tom came back, he was full of beauty. She tried to fix for him a little red and blue waistcoat he wore and which had shrunk.

  He took her hands and kissed them; "Dear Eliza! I hurried back."

  She could not help smiling at him, to see how much at ease and natural he was in being loved. He understood women because he had been loved so much. She finished the sewing, fastened the wool, and he looked at himself in the glass.

  "It's a funny little jerkin," she said.

  But he didn't like that; "Marion made it for me. She could do anything. She could make a man's overcoat."

  Nellie could not accommodate herself to Rome, though she fancied the Italians, a friendly people, who liked to spend a couple of hours before a half bottle of wine in a café, who would say anything to please, as she did herself, who were demonstrative and dramatic. But Nellie caught a bad cold the first night there and could not shake it off. George wore her out taking her to see the sights over the stony pavements. She had not the least interest in the river, the buildings, the galleries. So she came home to Eliza, Tom and Caroline.

  "Eh, pet, London's a Rome, too, since the blitz. I see no difference."

  She could only get tea in tea rooms for English tourists, used by a sort she was not used to.

  And as for the language, "English is a world-wide language, you'd think they'd speak it. They cheat you, telling you everyone speaks English abroad. I felt like a foreigner. You'd think they would have got away from Latin long ago: it's a dead language. At school they told us that Italian is just a sort of Latin, a Latin that came through the army camps; and so is French. I don't understand why they use dog-Latin."

  She could have had a job, but only as a typist in George's office; and she didn't want that grind. There were other things; but she never said them all.

  "I didn't think I could stick it and told George I'd go home, if he'd try to get a job at home. He said he would and he saw me off very affectionately."

  He had given her the house in her name, though it meant she would be responsible if he did not return; but he wanted her to have a roof over her head. He would try to send her money.

  "I always said that where George was, there was me fatherland; but it proved me wrong. Ah, George is very active there; but they won't see his point of view; they're feather bedded, asleep, smothered in tradition. And would ye know, the lively ones want to get away to South America, or anywhere. They don't like it either."

  She had to get a job; she worried about the house. Perhaps Tom could get a London job and live there. They could all look after him. Eliza said she could give up her little room with her Irish friends: they could easily let it to one of the Irish workers who are always coming in.

  Nellie was delighted. She said joyfully, "Eh, it will do George good to hear his Eliza is back again. Why shouldn't you find refuge in his house? In our house? It'll be lovely to have the family together again, with you and Tom."

  Eliza smiled.

  Nellie coaxed. "Would you mind Tom around? He's harmless, the lad."

  Eliza said, "Don't call him harmless: that's wrong of you. He's a fine working man; he had three hundred men under him at the last place and here he'll have eighty and a gang of twelve fitters and they're relying on him for everything for two factories. Why do you always paint him as daft?"

  Nellie opened her eyes; she said gently, "Well, no, pet; it's just me way of speaking."

  "Tom's a fine lad. You're lucky to have so good a brother. I've got to know him while you were away and I see you've just been carrying on the family story. Bridgehead is a queer place. The women sit around backbiting the men and the men take it."

  Nellie said, "So the lad's been here?"

  She began to make enquiries about him, where and how long and when.

  "And I thought him safely tucked away at Bob's for the weekends. Ah," she said philosophically, "Ah, he's cunning; he's been playing on your maternal heartstrings, lass. He's a great lad for the older women. I'm afraid I formed him to obey an older woman and that's what he's looking for, the sister to the brother; and I'm afraid it's not been for his good."

  Eliza said firmly, "You're no good, running a man down for your own vanity. I won't listen to it, Nellie; you'd better know right off. I have the greatest respect for the man and I love him, too."

  "Well, that's all right, chick, he's a fine fellow, and he's me brother. He's got a great way with him; he's very taking; and there's no real harm in him. Ye've seen life, you have your experience of men and the poor lad will be grateful to you: he's so lonely. He makes contacts with reality, he can't make a go of it. It's a terrible injustice, a punishment for the sins of the fathers: it's not his fault, Eliza, but he has caused suffering and misery. He's ruining homes and mischief-making all around, and it's all a shadow show, pet. Ah, don't speak to me about it: it's a sore spot in me heart. Bless ye, pet, bless you."

  She smoked her cigarette hard and smiled at Eliza.

  "Will ye come here, then, chick and share George's roof with me? That's good of you, Eliza. The hard time's coming for me, I'm afraid. George made his handsome promises, but I'm not sure it wasn't to speed the parting guest. And he's given me the house, which is good of him, too, but it has a resemblance to a division of the estate. I know it, but I said nothing: for after all, he may lose the job and then he'll have to come back to his home, and so I'm glad to have it. I'm not a fist at business, Lize, but I'm going to make a will and I'm going to leave the house to George and then to you. You're getting on, Lize, you're a hard-worked woman. I've seen you at it ever since we were young people; and what future is there for us when the poor old horse has done his day? Who can live on the old-age pension? You've got nowhere to go; I know ye, you'll not live on others. You're the salt of the earth and I can't help thinking about you, chick: I love you, Eliza! I've got nothing else so I'm leaving it to you, chick. I made up me mind on the train; George first, for it's his, or ours, and then you: there's no one else in the world means a jot to me."

  "That's not quite right," Eliza said, "I wouldn't rob anyone, Nellie. Do what's right, but don't forget your own family. The Pikes are a very loyal family."

  "My own family!" said Nellie bitterly. "I can't begin to tell you and I won't, but I've been betrayed over and over again only by my own family. They deserve nothing of me. I've killed myself ever since I was sixteen working for them and they sit up there talking about how ungrateful I am that I'm not going straight there, now that I've lost me husband. There's only Peggy that I give a damn for and she's a lost soul; aye, it must have a dark end. That's all. I need you, chick, and you owe it to me. We'll damn George's eyes together."

  She laughed and getting up patted Eliza on her plump back. "Forgive me for a quick temper, chick! I've got the sun in me blood, chick! I never could stand the climate. It's the wrong time to go to Italy and George looks like a boiled lo
bster half the time, but he insists he likes it and he's got himself up in pleated shirt-fronts and colored ties: he'll be wearing a silk band round his waist next and dancing the tarantella. He's got the sun in his blood and spots before his eyes, the bugger. Eh, but it's a pleasure to see him blooming. A shower bath of Chianti daily, too, me dear: it's worth it I suppose, but I tramped me feet off thirsting for an English cup of tea and I was disappointed, I expected to see the Mediterranean laid out before me. I'm not one for monumental bric-a-brac and I can get an eyeful of blasted masonry here in old London if I want it. My idea is to spend a blissful morning on a café terrace tasting me tea and letting the world go by. Come, I'll take ye abroad in the autumn, to see your wandering George, Eliza, what do you say? I'll spend the last of me savings on it."

  She put her arms round Eliza and hugged her, "Bless you, Lize, you're the girl for me! You'll come and keep me company and we'll have high old times."

  Eliza questioned whether she wasn't likely to get a job in Geneva if George tried for her: they said it was quite cold there in winter.

  "No, no," said Nellie: "it's their world—they made it, I don't feel right living on the crust. It's England for me, England without George hey-ho."

  She said George had paid everything for her and bought her a blouse, and she herself had brought a blouse and a necklace for Eliza, knowing she had a weakness for them, "Aye, I've got a fat woman's love for gewgaws," said Eliza. "I like striped clothes that make me look wider and tight shoes and trinkets: I'll be the circus fat lady in a year or two."

  Nellie rushed in and got the blouse, which had in fact stripes on it, and a handful of cheap jewelry, like a handful of berries. "Take your pick, take it all, chick, if you want it."

  Eliza chose and Nellie insisted upon her putting on the blouse and the jewelry immediately. She helped her, pulled the blouse this way and that; it needed perhaps a stitch in the back where it was cut too large, but the embroidery in front was nice: "It shows me red neck," said Eliza.

  "You've got a beautiful firm woman's flesh and that's all," said Nellie. "You're shy, chick: it's a pleasure to see a shy woman."

  They had a jolly time and Nellie insisted upon getting some beer and lemonade to make Eliza her favorite drink, "Bridgehead shandy." On top of that they had some cognac which George had sent home and they took their chairs out into the back yard to doze and chat. They slept together in the big bed downstairs that night, so that they could have a "glorious long chat" and Eliza was persuaded to give notice to the family she was living with, for that day next week, "or sooner, if they have someone; your home's here, Eliza. A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath than George Cook's girl Elizabeth. You've cheered me up so much, Eliza, I never thought I could be happy again. There must be something rare in the Cooks. It must have been you in your George that drew me to him first, for he was a fine martinet when I met him in a class of his. The next time I saw him he was giving someone a black eye in a street struggle. There's little of your sweetness about him, Eliza."

  "And I think," said Eliza, "there's something rare in the Cotters: you're both wonderful, you and your brother. I don't wonder you love Tom."

  After a meditative pause, Nellie said, "Poor lad, he's like a child playing with things he doesn't understand, releasing terrible forces: like a child that opens a sluice and lets the flood waters pour through. It's imitating me. I've got myself to blame. I meant to ask you before pet, but I felt bashful, but now we're friends and going to be housemates, we'll be real pals and I have confidence in you, I can trust you. Ye've seen a lot of cases of sickness, Lize, would you know a skin condition if you saw it or heard about it? Now I've been worried about the lad, he's got a skin covered with red spots, what do you think it is? Would it be a nervous condition, or would it be in the blood?"

  "He's very tired, it's just a heat rash; anxiety," said Eliza.

  "Aye, would it be? Did he mention it?"

  "Yes, he showed me," said Eliza.

  "The lad's born for misfortune, an unlucky star shone on his cradle: he was a canny—" She stopped and double-tracked, "Aye, a man's reasons are his own; he's caused too much tragedy already. I'm glad he's leaving the marriageable women alone and that he's made his confession to a sensible woman whose sorrows are over and done with. Am I boring you, Eliza? Am I treading on delicate ground, chick? I'm a bloody fool if I hurt you. Eh? you're a working-class girl, Lize, not one of these bloody bourgeois; I feel at home with you. We can talk and never get goose-flesh. You're a real friend and you can only have one real friend. I feel it in you. I love you, Eliza pet. That makes it all even, doesn't it? Do you forgive me chick? I didn't tread on your corns?"

  "Why?" said Eliza frankly. "Because you said I'm getting on? I am getting on. I'm thirteen years older than you and twenty years older than Tom. I remember it. I let my head and my heart both have a go, that way they're healthy and keep a respect for each other. I fell for Tom, he's a dear lad, he could be my son but I fell for him like a girl and love him, that's the truth. It's my old age, Nellie; I never thought it would happen to me. I thought it was a bourgeois weakness, as you'd say. It's a hopeless love, he can't marry me and I'm not free. I have someone, and if I were free he wouldn't have me, and I couldn't have him. Would I be going out and having people looking at us and then asking us with a lark in their eyes, How is your nephew, or your son? I'd have more self-respect, though perhaps he wouldn't; for my boy Tom is an angel, he has no feelings but kind ones. He'd do anything for a woman: and I'd do anything for him."

  "Your boy Tom," said Nellie, thoughtfully, looking at Eliza. "Bless you, darling."

  She smoked a bit and remarked, "Aye, he's a fine lad, the poor lad. He should have had better luck. Or maybe he's better as he is. He would have cut a wide swathe; his victims would have stretched from Moscow to Peru. He's walked on hearts to where he'll be now, the wailing spirit of the Brecklands."

  "He's just a plain workingman, like many another," said Eliza indignantly. "He's honest and true."

  "Not so plain, chick, not so honest." And Nellie continued to smoke; "He's got a lot of his mother in him. She was a wily old spider sitting there in the glimmer of the hearth, a helpless complaining little body and drawing it all out of you, word by word, question by question, getting behind you. She made him what he is, afraid of his own shadow, starting at every word, full of deceit and shamming. Aching for love, for she never had a true love, the poor body: and he learned that of her too. He was always mother's boy. She adored him, Eliza; it was pitiful. She groveled before him, as she did before every man of her own. We're a pathetic breed, believing in the men, groveling before them: it's a pitiful sight. When he came into the house from his playing on the moors, his boyish tricks, she'd be after him. Do you want this, love; can I do this for you, hinny? He couldn't bear the house on Sundays because of the smell of cooking; whatever she thought the men would like, pies, and joint and two veg. as they say; the soup and the gravy, the puddings and the dumplings. It made him sick. Give me bread, I'm a plain man, he said: but she couldn't understand it, the love. The weekend had to be a family feast; it was all she had to look forward to. So you can see how it is that now he says, All I ask is to be let alone, I'm a man who is better alone. Give me bread and tea and a lonely walk and I'm myself again. I'm afraid it's like Uncle Sime he'll end up."

  "He says he was starved as a child," said Eliza, "and I know it's true; don't I know Bridgehead?"

  "Aye, but did you ever meet a boy who wasn't starved?" said Cushie. "I wasn't starved, for I had more to think about; but Tom was always a vapid thing. The boy will do anything to get immediate satisfaction, and then he forgets it like a young dog. He's good at promising and he knows how to promise more with a look than a word."

  "I'm not a mad, old woman," said Eliza, "I know he's looking for a job and a girl and that is right and I'm for it."

  Cushie asked her, "You'll forgive me won't you, pet, treading on your feelings. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I don't do it to hurt you. I don't wa
nt you to be taken in by an angel-faced lad. He's black, Eliza, as black as me; we were in the tar pits, all that Jago corruption together. We thought it was knowledge, darling! What the bourgeois was afraid to do, we did."

  Eliza said, "I didn't hear of this Jago circle till I met you and Tom again in London; and then Tom said nothing: hard liquor and dope, he said, and ignorant adolescents playing at vice. There may have been such goings on among the people I knew but I never heard of it. My sisters and I had to scrub, wash and sweep from children; and when I got political ideas from George, or we both got them together, I don't know which, I electioneered and pamphleteered, and did everything they asked me including washing the floor of the hall and knocking planks together and holding the horse's head while they were waiting for the procession to begin to the Town Moor, because my father was a brewery drayman, and I knew about horses. I went out in the usual Bridgehead weather, and my mother graduated from a shawl to a cheap overcoat and felt she was getting on in life, and that's all I know about it. I never would have credited that there was a lot of youngsters getting boozed up, or smoking doped cigarettes or whatever it was you did. What, in Bridgehead?"

  "You're right there. And it was a scarlet on the gray that Jago tried to patch. I'm not blaming him. He was only a Bridgehead man; he probably thought he was bringing a little London to our doorsteps. He was forty, Violet says, and it was a shame. But I say, poor human being, he was fighting a pitiful struggle against frustration and failure. He wanted to be a painter, but whoever was an artist on the Tyne? So his bent and twisted impulses tried to create something in us."

  "I have no use for devils," said Eliza.

  "You're hard and passionate—you're unforgiving. I can't help but pity. Tom is like you; you are both stern angels. But I can't help putting the rosy veil of pity over their pitiful human weakness. I see their struggles. I forgive them. There's good stuff in everyone. Judge not, for the stern judge is a criminal: he does not take into account the terrible struggles: he is sacrificing to the Baal of his selfish pride."