by Annie Murray
‘Look for Tiger!’ Norman snorted with laughter. ‘Yer don’t want to bother with that! Cats can look after themselves, that they can.’
‘I’m tired,’ Sal said quietly. ‘I think I’ll just go to bed, ’stead of playing.’
Norman laid his hand on the back of her chair. ‘Oh, I don’t think a game of cards’ll hurt before yer turn in, Sal.’ His voice was soft, but Maryann heard a firm edge to it which always meant Norman wasn’t going to be crossed. ‘Young girl your age shouldn’t be tired this early. Come on – help yer mother clear up then we can get to it the sooner.’
They had no choice but to do as they were told, as was the case with all his ‘treats’. His taking them to church every Sunday, visits to the pictures, walking down the street all together, usually to see something that was too old for Tony and Billy, who would sleep or fret through it all. Maryann did like the pictures, but she loathed sitting anywhere near Norman.
Before going in for the dreaded card game she opened the back door into the little yard.
‘Tiger! Come on, puss – where’ve yer got to?’
Nothing. No sign of him. She was filled with unease. He’d never done this before. What if he’d got under a train – or a car like her dad. Or what if he’d fallen in the cut?
Sal stuck her head through the door from the front. ‘Come on – ’urry up. Let’s get it over.’
‘Coming,’ Maryann said reluctantly.
Norman had pulled out the little table and was sitting shuffling his dog-eared packs of cards.
‘Come on, our Maryann,’ he said in a jolly voice as she slipped into the room.
Maryann sat down next to Tony.
‘We’ll ’ave a game of rummy,’ Norman said, licking his thumb and dealing the cards. He paused to light a cigarette.
‘You play with me,’ Maryann whispered to Tony. Flo sat yawning. She wasn’t the least keen on card games, but if Norman said they were going to do something there was no arguing.
‘I’m not used to being a family man,’ he’d said to her. ‘I’m out of practice, Flo. But I’m doing my best . . .’
He jollied them along through a couple of games, laughing loudly at the least thing except at one moment when Tony picked a card to play and he frowned and said, ‘Stupid boy . . .’ and Tony turned his dark eyes on Maryann, looking worried about what he’d done. He lived in constant nervousness of Norman and his exacting ways. His lisping voice and tense face only seemed to aggravate Norman further.
‘S’awright,’ she told him, loud enough to be heard. ‘You ain’t stupid, Tony.’ She put her arm round his shoulders, avoiding looking at Norman. Apart from that, and Norman’s efforts at thawing them out, they barely said a word, all waiting for the moment when they could go.
Finally, Norman sat back at the end of a game and said, ‘Well – that’s enough for one night, I’d say.’
Maryann jumped up. ‘Come on, Tony!’ she said, and they ran upstairs, anything to get away from him.
By the time they went to bed, Tiger had still not come back, although Maryann had been to the door several times to check if he was waiting out there.
‘What if ’e comes back in the night and wants to come in, Mom?’ she said. ‘Can we leave the back door open for ’im?’
‘You mad?’ Flo said. ‘It’s perishing cold. ’E’s a cat, Maryann – ’e knows ’ow to fend for hisself without you coddling ’im!’
But Maryann lay in bed that night, miserable without Tiger’s warm shape at her feet.
Six
Sally Nelson sat behind the desk in the austere office of ‘N. Griffin’s, Undertaker’s’. In front of her lay two open ledgers and a small pile of newly printed death cards, almost identical to the ones they had had for her father. On another pad on the desk were Norman’s various tottings up of the prices of coffin, hearse and cards. It was Tuesday evening.
Sal’s demeanour was anything but relaxed. She sat chewing hard on the end of her thumb. Every so often she got up and tip-toed over towards the staircase leading down to the double cellar which ran under the building, and stood, head cocked, listening. After waiting at the top of the staircase for a long time on one occasion, she crept halfway down and stopped. She could hear Norman Griffin’s voice, talking to Fred, the lad who worked down there building coffins. The last boy had left not long back and Norman was training Fred up. On Tuesdays he sent Fred home early.
‘Shall I put all these away now?’ Sal heard Fred say.
Then Norman’s voice. ‘No – leave that to me. I keep that cupboard locked, with the chemicals and that about. You can get off now.’ She heard the clink of a key. Fred was about to leave. Her heart beat even faster. She opened her mouth to speak but her throat had dried out and she had to swallow before she could get any words out.
‘Mr Griffin?’ she called downstairs. She knew it was futile, but she had to try it. She felt she was going to explode inside. ‘I’ll be off ’ome now – our Mom’ll be needing some help.’
Norman Griffin’s face appeared round the cellar door, pale and moonlike in the gloom as he looked up at her.
‘No, Sal – yer not to go yet. There’s a few things want finishing.’ He spoke in the low, respectful tone Sal and Maryann called his ‘Undertaker’ voice.
‘But—’ She tried to protest.
He closed the cellar door behind him, and then came another of his voices. ‘No, Sal.’ Now the voice was soft, wheedling. ‘Yer to stay a bit longer. Don’t want yer going home yet – or you know what’ll happen, don’t yer?’
Sal returned to her chair upstairs, trembling from head to foot. She was in such as a state she felt as if her throat had closed up, that she couldn’t swallow. Oh God! She could run out and down the road now. But she daren’t. Couldn’t. Sooner or later she’d have to go home. And when she got home he’d be there. And she couldn’t tell anyone and she’d have to come back to work with him and then he’d . . . he’d . . . She dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
They were coming up the stairs, Fred clumping along in his boots. He was none too with it, Fred wasn’t. Gangly, greasy brown hair, big feet, yes, Mr Griffin, no, Mr Griffin, everything Norman wanted.
‘G’night then—’ He nodded at Sal, and Norman Griffin stood at the door as he went out.
Norman pulled his watch up from his weskit and squinted at it.
‘Ah yes – time to close up.’ He locked the door, pulled the blind down over the door and windows and turned to look at her.
‘Don’t do that again, will you?’ He spoke casually, but she could hear the threat underneath.
‘What?’ She could only manage a whisper. The tension in her was like a crushing sensation in her chest.
‘Don’t talk back to me in front of my employees like that,’ he said, as if he had a whole empire of workers, not just herself and Fred.
‘I’m sorry.’ She kept her gaze on the desk in front of her, hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.
Then the wheedling voice was back. ‘Come on then, Sal. You know what will please me, don’t yer?’
She didn’t answer, just kept her head lowered, and she heard him moving towards her. Sal squeezed her eyes tight shut. When he reached down and took hold of her hands she cried out, startled.
‘Oh, don’t get in such a state,’ he said impatiently. His voice became clipped and cold. ‘You know what yer ’ave to do – and then it’s over and yer can go home. Simple. It ain’t asking much.’
Much, she thought, as he pulled her towards the stairs. Ever since that first time, the start of it, when he had come up behind her and pressed his hands over her breasts, hurting her, it had been much. Far too much.
The cellar was a double one, extending under the premises behind. At the back end, through a white door, was the chapel of rest. The walls in there were plastered and distempered and it was kept very neat and clean. It contained a long trestle table and a small side table on which were a Bible, a candle
and an arrangement of dusty silk flowers. There was access to it from the street behind, and any visiting bereaved were escorted in through there and all hammering silenced while they were there. Tonight, on the long table in the Chapel of Rest, a Mr Alfred Johnson lay in his coffin. His family hadn’t wanted him at home taking up the room. The front end, under the shop, was much more workmanlike: unplastered brick walls, cobwebs trailing under the grating through which only shreds of light filtered from the street so that it had to be lit by gas lamps all day long. At one end, abutting the wall of the Chapel of Rest, was Mr Griffin’s cupboard, but most of the space was taken up by a workbench and a long table. On the workbench tonight sat the almost completed coffin which Fred was due to finish the next day.
Mr Griffin was breathing rather fast. He reached up and made some adjustment to the light so that it burned less brightly. ‘Now then, Sal, my dear.’
‘No,’ she begged, starting to cry. ‘No – please. Not today. I’ll do it tomorrow, but not today – I feel a bit bad today and I can’t . . .’
‘Sal—’ He was speaking in his soft, fluid voice. ‘You’re just not used to it, my dear. You’re young – you have to learn to enjoy it.’
She was shaking her head, wretchedly, unable to stop the tears from pouring down her cheeks.
His mouth was right close to her, his hot breath wafting the words into her ear. ‘And if you don’t, you know what’ll happen, don’t you?’ He pointed to the far end of the cellar. ‘There’s my cupboard.’ He patted his pocket. ‘And here is the key. And you know what’s in my cupboard, don’t you?’
Sal nodded, gasping.
‘Right then.’ There was nothing wheedling about his speech now. It was icy, clipped. It made Sal wither inside. He pulled at the buckle of his belt with one hand, reaching out with his other to grasp her by her long hair, yanking her close to him.
His other hand was under her skirt, tugging, tearing.
‘Let’s get on with it.’
When Maryann got home from school that day she ran straight in shouting, ‘Mom – Mom! Is Tiger back? Has ’e come home?’
Flo Nelson shook her head. She hadn’t given a thought to the flaming cat. ‘No – I ain’t seen ’im all day.’ She saw the hope drain out of Maryann’s face. Maryann had been so sure he’d gone wandering and would be back by now. Her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears.
‘Tell yer what.’ Flo saw an opportunity for a few more minutes peace. ‘Yer could go and ask up and down the road if anyone’s seen ’im – the neighbours and that. Someone might of done. ’E might be asleep by the fire in someone’s ’ouse just along the street, yer never know. Or maybe ’e’s sloped back off to Garrett Street. And take our Tony with yer, eh?’
A little cheered by being able to do something, Maryann called Tony. They went to Garrett Street and called at the Blacks’ house. Blackie came to the door and the usual stink of urine and soiled baby’s napkins assailed their nostrils as it opened. He stood blearily in the doorway, not seeming to know who they were. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down and she could see black, springy hairs on his chest.
‘’Allo, Mr Black,’ Maryann said. ‘It’s me – Maryann Nelson.’
‘Oh ar,’ Blackie said. For a second Maryann felt sorry for him. He looked such a wreck. But she had more urgent things on her mind.
‘’Ave yer seen my cat? ’E’s a little tabby with a face like a tiger . . .’
‘Cat? No – I ain’t seen no cat . . .’ He stood looking at them, as if thinking what to say next.
‘Maryann, is that you?’ Nance came running downstairs. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Tiger – ’e’s gone missing.’ Maryann felt a lump come up in her throat again. ‘’E never came in last night and I dunno where ’e is. Our Mom said to come looking over ’ere.’
‘I’ll ’elp yer,’ Nance said. She’d changed out of her school clothes and put on a grubby pair of boy’s trousers.
Maryann was pleased to have some more company for the search besides Tony who kept saying ‘Where d’yer fink ’e’s gone, Maryann?’ until she wanted to scream at him. They asked round some of the backyards in Garrett Street, Maryann saying hello to some of their old neighbours who asked a bit sniffily how they were getting on. Flo hadn’t been back to visit a single one of them. Then they went back to Anderson Street. As the afternoon wore on, Maryann grew more and more dispirited. No one had seen Tiger.
‘Ow can ’e just’ve disappeared into thin air?’ she said to Nance. ‘Someone must’ve seen him.’
‘Yer never know with cats, do yer?’ Nance said. She grinned, showing her wonky teeth, trying to cheer Maryann up. ‘Knowing ’im ’e’ll be back large as life. P’raps ’e’s gone and got ’imself a lady friend!’
Maryann tried to smile. ‘I ’ope so. It’s lonely at home without ’im. Come on, Tony – we’d best go back. D’yer wanna come round ours for a bit?’
‘Will yer dad be there?’
‘’E ain’t my dad.’
‘No, I know. Sorry, Maryann. I daint mean anything by it.’
They went back to the house where Flo put out a plate of broken biscuits for them. ‘Ooh!’ Nance cried, her face lighting up. This was sheer luxury by her standards. She tucked in as hard as she could and sat at the table chatting away happily to Maryann and Tony. Then Tony went to the back door, trying to open it, clutching himself urgently at the front with his other hand.
‘D’yer need a wee?’ Maryann opened the door as Tony nodded emphatically and ran out to the privy in the yard and pulled the door squeaking shut.
A few moments passed, the back door swinging open into the darkening afternoon, then they heard Tony shouting, ‘Maryann, Maryann! Come ’ere – ’s a nasty fing!’
He was standing at the end of the yard, his eyes wide, fascinated, beckoning urgently.
‘What’s up, Tony?’
Maryann and Nance both went out and looked along to see what he was staring at. Between the privy and the low wall at the back was a gap of almost a yard, which had a load of rubbish chucked into it by the last occupants. It was smelly down there, the corner of the yard best avoided. But Tony’s gaze was fixed on the pile of refuse. What had caught his eye was a little patch of white, the white of a small, furry throat.
It was Nance who went down the gap and very carefully picked up the cat’s cold, rigid body. She kept her head down as she came back, and only when she was standing right in front of her did she look at Maryann.
‘Tiger?’ Maryann whispered. ‘No – not Tiger!’ She just stood and looked, dumb with horror. Then she shouted, ‘What’s happened to ’im? Oh, Tiger!’
Beside herself, sobbing, she took him from Nance, who also had tears in her eyes, and hugged him to her.
‘Oh, Tiger – my poor little Tiger!’
She held him away from her, looking for signs of blood, of injury. There was nothing to see, but as she did so, his head flopped back all at the wrong angle.
‘Oh my God – look! His head’s all – oh look, Nance!’
Tony was crying as well then and Flo Nelson came out of the back door to see what the matter was with them all. As she did so, Nance said, ‘Someone’s broke ’is neck. They must’ve throttled ’im and broke ’is neck.’
Maryann started running then, still hugging the cat’s body to her, through the house and out of the front door .
‘Maryann – where’re yer going? Wait for me!’ By the time Nance reached the front step Maryann was off down the road, disappearing into the dusk.
Her eyes were blurry with tears so that she could barely see, but she knew the way well enough. Every so often she slowed and looked down at the precious friend she was carrying in her arms. For a second each time there was a flicker of hope. It was all a mistake. Tiger wasn’t dead. He’d look into her face and purr at her and close his eyes as she stroked the side of his head, then he’d wriggle around because he wanted to be let down to play. But Tiger didn’t raise his head. His fur was bunched i
nto damp points from lying out in the wet. In the half-light, just for a second it seemed his eyes opened and she gasped. But of course it was a trick of the light and her own wishes. His eyes were two tight, pained lines and his face didn’t look like him any more. All the cheeky, fiery life that was in him had gone. Maryann could hardly stand to look at him, with his poor, floppy neck. She ran along the street sobbing her heart out.
‘Oh, Tiger, my little Tiger!’ She didn’t care who saw her. And mixed with her grief she could hear Nance’s words in her head, ‘someone’s broke ’is neck . . . throttled ’im and broke ’is neck’ and the terrible knowledge, as she ran along, that she knew who that someone was. Someone who kicked Tiger out of the way with his shiny boot every time the cat crossed his path, the someone who liked to have clean hands and clean nails, who had sat making them play cards with him when all the time he knew where Tiger was because he must have put him there. She thought she might burst with her rage and hatred of Norman Griffin.
She ran down Ledsam Street and tore across the yard to her Nan’s cottage, pushing in urgently through the door.
‘Nan, oh Nanny – look what that bastard’s done to Tiger!’
But Nanny Firkin was not in the kitchen and the place was as cold as ice, no fire in the range. Maryann had been in such a state she hadn’t noticed the unusual darkness of the windows. There was a rank smell of cat urine and as Maryann burst in the three cats all rushed at her, tails up, miaowing for food, their fur appearing to be standing on end in the gloom. Walt the parrot shifted silently on his perch. There was a dish on the table containing the dried-up remains of porridge.
‘Nan?’ Maryann wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, the eerie feel of the place breaking through her grief over Tiger. The other cats were rubbing against her legs. ‘Nanny, where are yer?’ It was unheard of for her Nan not to be in her kitchen. Then she remembered Nanny Firkin was ill, that she’d had a cough and her chest was bad. Hadn’t her mother been in that day? The cats were acting as if they hadn’t eaten for a week.
Maryann went to the stairs. ‘Nanny? It’s Maryann.’
