The House of Women

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Dear Lord! Dear Lord! What’s come over this house?’

  Lizzie repeated the words as she got into the car: What’s come over this house? Well, there would be more coming over this house, if her gran only knew it, because she would be leaving it, please God, at the first opportunity…

  Henry was propped up on his pillows. The tubes had been taken away, but his head was still bandaged, as was his arm. But he was more lucid than he had been for days. He held tightly on to her hand as he said, ‘Well, you’ve got it over.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve got it over. But apart from that, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Better, except when I move. I never knew there were so many bones and muscles in one body.’ He smiled wanly. Then the smile disappearing, he added, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know who did this to me.’

  ‘And I know, too.’

  ‘What! How?’

  ‘I found his clothing all bloodstained.’ She shook her head. ‘To think he could have killed you—he meant to—just because you got that place. It’s all Gran’s fault. At bottom, it’s all Gran’s fault.’

  He squeezed her hand tightly, saying, ‘It wasn’t…it wasn’t only because of that.’

  She remained silent, staring at him for a moment before she whispered, ‘No?’

  ‘No. It was because he had found out about us.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘Well’—he turned his head slowly on the pillow—‘after you had gone, I remained downstairs doing a little bit of work. My mind wasn’t really on it. I was thinking of us. And then there was the heat. I had taken my shirt and trousers off and was sitting in my pants; in fact, I was on my way upstairs when I heard the rattle outside. It was as if something was at the dustbin. I thought it was the fox, and I wanted to see her again. You know, I had a fox that reared her cubs in the hillock not ten yards from the back window and I used to watch her. She used to bring them out around twilight, three of them, and they would play, and she would cuff them. I thought it was she making the noise, that she’d come back. I was so pleased. She had become a sort of distant companion to me, but I hadn’t seen her for months. Well, it was dark but it wasn’t black, and I guessed I should be able to make her out, so I didn’t take a torch, and opened the front door and stepped quietly onto the path. And then it came at me, something…well, all I can say now it was like something black. As the blow hit me on the head I swung round and glimpsed his stockinged face, and then after something hit my arm I could feel myself falling. I tried vainly to strike out as I fell, but the last thing I remember was the stockinged face staring at me and then of being lifted from the ground, as if I was being pulled up by the shoulders; then the face talking as if through a long tunnel, yelling, “Lizzie. Your dear Lizzie. You stole my job and now you’ve taken her. But I’ll deal with her.” I just faintly recall the word “her” echoing down the tunnel. Then something hit me again and the next thing I remember was waking up in this bed. I can’t recall phoning or even how I got into the house. But there’s one thing sure, he not only used a blunt instrument on me, he used his feet too. It’s a good job he’s dead, Lizzie, because I would have certainly had him up for this. He didn’t intend only to knock me out. The doctor tells me it was touch and go for the first two days…Don’t cry, dear. Don’t cry.’

  Lizzie swallowed deeply, then said, ‘But…but how could he have guessed?’

  ‘Likely you changing your pattern; and going out at night. Or perhaps he just came out to see where I lived and saw your car. We’ll never know. There’s only one thing I know now and that is, I’m glad he’s dead, because if this had been brought to light, and it would have, the scandal would have been too much for you. Nor would I have been able to stay at the works. And if you had married me then…well, you know what people are, we would have had to move, because round here we would have been hounded. But now—’ He drew in a long breath before he ended, ‘You won’t consider proprieties now, will you, Lizzie? I mean, making us wait?’

  ‘No, no; never, Henry! As soon as you’re well enough, I’m ready.’

  ‘They’ll get a shock; I mean, your people.’

  She nodded. ‘It won’t be before time,’ she said.

  Lizzie looked from her grandmother to her mother, then to her daughter. They were all gaping at her. And when, after a long pause, her grandmother said, ‘I knew there was something going on,’ Lizzie came back at her: ‘Well, as always, you were right, Gran.’

  ‘You mean to say you’re going to be married almost straight away?’ It was her mother speaking, and she answered her, ‘Yes, Mother, as soon as Henry is on his feet. By the look of it, it won’t be for some weeks, but it will be as soon as he can possibly make it.’

  ‘Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie. You should show a little respect. I know he wasn’t nice to you, he wasn’t nice to anybody, but he’s dead and gone and it isn’t proper.’

  ‘Shut up, Mother! No, it isn’t proper, and it wasn’t proper for him to attempt murder.’

  They were all gaping again.

  ‘It was he who attacked Henry and he meant murder, nothing less. What would have happened to me afterwards we’ll never know, because he had found out. Like you, Gran’—she now looked at her grandmother—‘he smelt a rat, as you would say. And let me tell you, he did the best thing he ever did in dying, because otherwise he would have gone to prison, and for a long stretch. Henry was determined to name him and’—she thumbed to the ceiling—‘up there is a case with the evidence, which I would have produced. Oh yes, I would.’ Her head was nodding to emphasise her words. ‘There’s a bloodstained suit up there that he hadn’t been able to get rid of. So what about your proprieties now?’

  No-one spoke for a moment; then her grandmother again said quietly, almost in a whisper, ‘You’ll be leaving us, leaving the house?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be leaving the house, Gran. And not before time. I’ve been a slave to it and you, all of you, from the day he brought me back here, hoping that he’d be greeted with open arms. Even before that, it was the house, wasn’t it, Gran? Always the house.’

  When no-one spoke, she said, ‘I’ve had a very tiring day, I’m going to bed.’ And on this she walked out of the room, leaving her mother crying, her grandmother fuming, and her daughter silent.

  Peggy walked slowly across the yard to the annexe. In the kitchen she sat on a high stool and placed her forearms on the table and joined her hands tightly together. Her mind was in a turmoil, amazement, anger, bitterness, all churned into one thought: She’s been doing this, carrying on, yet she made me get married for respectability. She didn’t at this moment consider the pressure that had been applied by her great-grandmother; no, only her mother’s attitude to the disgrace of an illegitimate baby.

  With a sudden jerking movement she got off the stool, hurried into the dining room, from there into the sitting room, started to go towards the stairs, but then stopped. If she went up there she knew what she would do: throw herself on the bed and cry. She thought of Andrew, and gave vent to her feelings: Why had he to go to his art class tonight! He could have missed for once. He had been art mad ever since doing that poster. And look what that had done. It had killed her father…But her father had tried to kill Mr Brooker. Not without cause, though. Oh no, not without cause. Of a sudden she could see her father’s side, of his attitude to many things and people, especially to her great-gran! Oh yes, especially to her great-gran. She felt she must talk to somebody or explode.

  She stopped running as she approached the woodland, because it was almost dark in there now, cool and fresh with rain still dripping from the trees.

  Before she knocked on the kitchen door, she could hear Charlie playing his guitar in his room. After her second knock the playing stopped and she heard a voice yell, ‘Mam! There’s somebody at the back door.’

  When May appeared she said, ‘Why, it’s you, lass! Why didn’t you come straight in? I had the wireless on: I�
��m following a play. Come in. Come in. Come through and into the sitting room. Frank’s at a meeting; he won’t be back for another hour or so.’ She glanced towards the kitchen clock. ‘It’s that kind of a meeting: all old boys together; Charlie’s upstairs practising.’

  As Peggy followed her out of the kitchen she knew that her Auntie May was telling her they’d have the place to themselves for a time if she wanted to talk. And so she had hardly entered the room before she started. She gabbled first, saying, ‘I felt guilty when I saw the coffin disappear, ’cos I’d never loved him. Mam said he loved me, but he had a funny way of showing it, Auntie May, hadn’t he, when he nearly throttled me? I can’t understand her.’

  ‘What can’t you understand, lass? What has she done?’

  So, gabbling again, she gave May an account of the one-sided conversation that had taken place in the drawing room a short time ago. But the disclosure brought no immediate response from May, and Peggy went on, ‘I needn’t have got married, need I, Auntie May? But she kept on about illegitimate children and disgrace, nobody would want me, while all the time she was having an affair.’

  May’s voice was not condemning, just quiet, as she put in, ‘She may not have been having an affair at that time, dear,’ while her own mind was practically pinpointing the time when Lizzie’s affair had begun. It was when she had noticed the change in her, a carefree attitude that wasn’t in line with her character. ‘I don’t really think it had begun at that time,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it must have, Auntie May. Anyway, Dad found out and tried to murder Mr Brooker, who I thought was a nice man.’

  ‘What did you say? Your father tried to murder him? It was he who attacked Mr Brooker?’

  Peggy nodded.

  ‘Oh, my God! Well, all I can say, lass, is, it’s a good job your father went the way he did, because if Mr Brooker had charged him he would have been in for trouble. Oh, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘You won’t tell anybody else, will you, Auntie May? Except…except Frank, I mean Mr…’

  ‘Don’t worry about that: of course I won’t; the less said about this the better. And your mother’s going to marry him, Henry…Henry Brooker?’

  ‘Yes; and she said as soon as possible, as soon as he’s able to get up. And she’s leaving the house.’

  May got to her feet, walked to the fireplace, put her foot out to press a log of wood further back into the open grate: then turning quickly, she wagged her finger towards Peggy, saying, ‘You know what the next move’ll be? Your great-gran’ll want you and Andrew to go and live in that house proper. Don’t do it. Now, I’m telling you, girl, don’t do it, because that’ll mean you would have to take your mother’s place and shoulder the lot. I don’t blame Lizzie for leaving. No, I don’t. But I do blame her if she’s leaving knowing that you’d have to take her place over there. They’re two old women, both your gran and your great-gran, and they’re like leeches. Oh, they’re nice old girls in their way. Well, I can say that for your gran but not so much for your great-gran, because she’s a dominant old bitch at bottom. But if you and Andrew want any life of your own and peace in which to bring up the child that’s coming, stick out and don’t go over there. Let them get a housekeeper in. Anyway, they look after themselves now, except for the cooking. They’re their own servants. Your great-gran’s too mean to employ a couple of girls, and it needs a couple.’

  Peggy was on her feet now and saying, ‘Oh, surely they wouldn’t want that. Anyway, I’m too young to run that place.’

  ‘You’re a married woman. You’ll soon be a mother. Your mother before you wasn’t much older when she had you. But mind, I think you’ll have a single-handed fight to wage because Andrew won’t mind going and living in the big house, will he?’

  No. Her Auntie May was right, Andrew wouldn’t mind living in the big house. He was already well in with Great-Gran. She had even accused him of sucking up to her, and they’d had a row last week. Great-Gran had paid him to do another poster.

  May had implied that her great-gran was free with her money only when it pleased her. And apparently Andrew pleased her. Andrew was sly. No, no; she mustn’t think that way; he was only trying to keep the peace.

  On an impulse she flung herself into May’s arms, and for a moment her sobs filled the room until May said, ‘Now, now! Stop that; it’ll upset the child.’

  At this moment, however, Peggy couldn’t think about the child’s welfare, only that it had let her in for this. She was gabbling again, saying, ‘I…I didn’t want to be married. I could have looked after it if Great-Gran had only been a bit kind; she could have seen to us both until I got a job. And Mam said nobody would want to marry me. But Charlie would have married me, wouldn’t he, Auntie May? Charlie would have married me; and I would have loved to be married to Charlie.’

  She found herself suddenly thrust from May’s embrace, although May still had her hands on her shoulders and was actually shaking her now and her voice was hissing as she said, ‘Never say that! D’you hear, girl? Never say that. You’re a married woman now and Charlie’s got his own life before him. I want him to marry, too. I want grandchildren. I can’t bear to think of him being wasted. He’s older than his years. He thinks deep. So don’t, I’m telling you, girl, ever say that again. Don’t even think it. You’re married to Andrew and that’s your life. In the annexe or in the house, that’s your life.’

  ‘Oh, Auntie May, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ She had never seen her Auntie May look as angry or upset as she was now. ‘I…I didn’t mean it, I just meant…’

  ‘I know what you meant.’ May’s voice was quieter now. ‘I know what you meant all right, and there’s nobody would have liked to see it more than me, but it can’t be; the pattern’s been cut out in a different way. You’ve got your life and he’s got his. Some day he’ll be a famous musician. I know he will. He’ll be able to travel the world, like Mr Reynolds has done. He’s lucky to be taught by a man like that; Mr Reynolds doesn’t usually take pupils. He’s got a chance, I mean, Charlie has, of a good life. Now go on back home, girl, and think over what I’ve said, not only about staying put in the annexe but about the other thing an’ all. You know what I mean.’

  Yes, she knew what Auntie May meant. She turned from her, saying again, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be sorry. Go on now.’

  She went out into a deep twilight that wasn’t as dark as the feelings inside of her. She felt alone, really alone, as she had never done before. She was in the middle of the wood when she stopped and gasped aloud as the figure moved from the trees and stood before her. And peering at it, she said, ‘Oh! Charlie. Oh! You did give me a fright.’

  ‘I’ll never marry. D’you hear me, Peg? I’ll never marry. I heard it all. Mam’s going to be disappointed. For as long as I can remember I’ve loved you and have known I always would. All right, you’re married, but it makes no difference to how I feel; in fact, it only makes it worse, the feeling. She was right about one thing: I’ll be a musician one day, a good one, although probably not as great as she imagines. But with regard to you, I’ll always be here, Peg; and…and thank you for what you said.’

  ‘Oh! Charlie, I shouldn’t have. I…’

  She didn’t mean to fall against him and he didn’t mean to hold her; but there they were and their mouths were tight together. Then he pushed her from him, saying, ‘I won’t do that again. Never fear, I won’t. But if you ever need me, I’ll be next door. I know Dad waited years for Mam, and I can do the same.’

  ‘No, no, Charlie. No; please, don’t say that. Your mother was right, you’ve got to have a life of your own. You must marry. You’ll…you’ll feel different when you’re married.’

  ‘D’you feel different?’

  She paused before answering, ‘In one way, yes; in another, no. Some days I still feel I should be running to school, and others that I’m grown up and’—her head drooped—‘and soon to be a mother. So…so Charlie, do as your mother says, Auntie May�
�s right. She nearly always is. I must go now.’

  He made no further movement towards her, nor did he speak, and she sidestepped, hesitated for a moment, then went on through the wood, one hand outstretched as if groping her way…

  Andrew came in at half past nine. He was very bright, and full of talk, until he realised that she was not taking any notice of what he was saying.

  ‘What’s up? What’s the matter?’ he asked her.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter.’ Then she contradicted herself by saying, ‘Yes, there’s a lot of things the matter.’ And she told him, ending with, ‘And one thing is for sure, we are not going to live over there. Do you hear me?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Never mind, “but”, Andrew Jones, we are not going over there, and that’s final.’

  ‘Talking very firmly, aren’t you, all of a sudden?’

  ‘Yes; and that’s how it’s going to be.’

  Three months later Lizzie married Henry Brooker, and Peggy and Andrew moved into the big house. It would be more correct to say that Andrew moved, drawn there by Great-Gran, and that Peggy had to follow.

  So it should happen in December, 1968, that Peggy gave birth to a daughter in the bedroom which had once been her parents’.

  Within a few minutes of her birth the child, to be named Emma, was placed in her father’s arms because her mother was too weak to hold her. Thirty hours of intensive labour had taken its toll. But at this moment Andrew Jones was giving his wife’s condition very little thought, for he was experiencing a feeling that could only be termed as ecstatic: he was holding something that he had made. He was telling himself that he had made this little thing, this live, kicking, beautiful little thing that had a tuft of black hair similar to his own, whose features, he told himself, were his except perhaps for the mouth, which looked like a tiny rosebud. He had owned nothing in his life, and he had never known what love was until this moment, and this was his, his baby, this mite of a girl. He had made it; it belonged to him and always would.