The Thursday Friend

by Catherine Cookson

  Again they were staring into each other’s eyes, both unsmiling now. Hannah’s lips were trembling and she felt her face burning, in fact her whole body felt as if it was burning; but when she heard herself say, ‘Yes, I’d like us to be friends,’ her words sounded so calm, utterly without emotion. So much for the mirror of her childish thoughts. Yet the expression of her real feelings became evident when she thrust out her hand towards him and found it gripped; and now they were both smiling at each other again, and when he said, ‘Thursday night friends, at least,’ their smiles turned into laughter.

  Following this they were quiet for a moment, until he pointed to the group of children again, saying, ‘They’ve stopped their racing, they’re off somewhere else.’

  And when she put in, ‘Yes, to grow up,’ he responded, ‘Yes; yes, perhaps,’ and his voice had a faraway sound as he ended, ‘And find happiness somewhere. I’ve always believed it was there – happiness, I mean – just waiting to be found and picked up; and that brings me to you again. I seem to know all about you, but not quite. Are your parents still alive?’

  ‘Well, my mother died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t be. We were never very fond of each other and after Janie’s escape with her barrow boy I had to leave school. I was nearly seventeen anyway. I became a non-paid help in the house, and I had to revolt before I was allowed to take evening classes in secretarial work. But after she died I was promoted to unpaid housekeeper until my dear Papa – I have to laugh at that now; there was no father and mother in our family, they were Papa and Mama, on Mama’s insistence, I may say – decided to give me another Mama, and that wasn’t so very long after my mother had died. So I up and go to Janie’s, and I worked as a temporary secretary. That’s how I met Humphrey; and when he asked me to marry him I felt I was the luckiest girl alive. He already had a house and life promised to be good.’

  She stopped speaking, and he did not question her further until she said, ‘Perhaps I was very childlike at that time. I know only that I was so grateful to anyone who was kind to me. I’ll always be grateful to Janie and Eddie.’

  ‘What happened to your father and his new wife? Don’t you see him now?’ he asked.

  ‘No; they live in York and I have no desire to see either of them.’

  Now she turned to him, saying, ‘Well, I’ve given you the events of my life, which would just about cover a postage stamp; may I ask about yours? Of course, I know you’re in the book trade and a friend of Mr Gillyman’s, and that you also have friends like Micky McClean.’

  Here she laughed, and he with her as he repeated, ‘Yes, I have a friend in Micky McClean; but I have others too, at least one who’s like a father, mother and nurse to me. You must meet Peter. Look; I’ll tell you what.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s just on four o clock now. It’s Saturday, the cafés will be packed, and the theatres not yet open, and I don’t know about you but I don’t feel like any more sightseeing. Now, would you like to come and meet my friend Peter and also see where I hang out and how I hang out?’

  For a moment she paused, then said, ‘No etchings?’

  He laughed briefly and turned to her. ‘No etchings. I can assure you, no etchings. Right?’

  ‘Right!’

  They took the bus to Oxford Street. ‘My flat’s hardly a stone’s throw from where you were the other morning,’ he told her. ‘It used to be one of Gilly’s storerooms, which was such a waste because it’s a lovely little flat, or a big one, however you view it.’

  As they passed Jason Gardens he pointed along it, saying, ‘You never expected to be this way again so soon, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  They had walked on for what could only have been three or four minutes when he turned into a short road at the end of which was what looked like a factory. And that was exactly what it was: ‘That’s a dress factory,’ he said, ‘where they turn them out by the second. These four houses are Gilly’s property, all rented like mine.’

  He turned into the iron-railed enclosure leading to the first house. To the right, steps led down to a basement; ahead were three steps leading to the front door. He put his latchkey into the door. The door open, he now turned round, put out his hand and drew her inside, and she was amazed to find herself in a large room. He was pressing her forward when a door opened at the far end of it and a white-haired man appeared, paused a moment, then said, ‘Oh, you’re back, sir. Good afternoon; madam.’

  ‘This is Mrs Drayton, Peter.’

  ‘How d’you do, Mr Peter?’

  David laughed now, saying, ‘Not Mr Peter, Peter. If you want to be correct, he is Mr Miller, but I’m sure Peter doesn’t want you to be correct, do you, Peter?’

  ‘No, sir; no. Not at all.’ He had been gazing intently at the young woman; then he turned to David, saying, ‘Shall I get you tea, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Peter; that’s what we’ve come for.’

  Smiling, the man left them and now Hannah, looking about her, said softly, ‘What a remarkable room!’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? And to think this was stuffed practically to the ceiling with books of every size and description. But at that time it was three rooms, not one, as now. I had the partitions taken down. There were five rooms altogether on this floor: a small kitchen and a small bedroom, a dining room, a small sitting room and a larger sitting room. Well, the dining room and the two sitting rooms are now what you see.’

  She was gazing around, looking from one colour to another. She had never imagined what a room would look like with doors painted a bright golden yellow. The walls between were a soft grey, and here and there were pieces of furniture, old furniture, very like those in Mrs Gillyman’s room. But on the wall between what she supposed were the kitchen and a bedroom there was a painting of a huge bird. As she stood staring at it he said, ‘D’you like it? It’s what they call a roseate tern. They’re beautiful in flight.’

  She moved closer to the painting, saying now, ‘Is it actually painted on the wall?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. Higgledy-piggledy in parts, as you’ll see on closer inspection.’

  Something in his tone made her turn and say, ‘You . . . you painted it?’

  ‘I have the honour, madam. A latent talent from my schooldays. Never been developed. Stumped, I think at times, by the remark of my art master, who said, “Don’t worry, Craventon, you could always take up paper-hanging with your painting. It’ll get you by!”’

  ‘How cruel!’ She smiled as she made the remark, and he, looking back at her, said, ‘Yes, how cruel. I was to find that only sadistic men took up schoolteaching as a career. Well, I mean many of them, anyway. That’s why I gave it up. I couldn’t get the hang of real sadism.’

  ‘You were a teacher?’

  ‘For my sins, yes, for a time; but I’ll tell you about all that later. Come and sit down.’

  She did not immediately respond, but she said, ‘Did you design . . . I mean, all the colours and furnishings?’

  ‘Again I must confess: yes, I did.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is, that art master didn’t know what he was talking about. I find it incredibly difficult to match colours. For instance—’ She pointed to the long pale rose-pink curtains, with their fringed pelmets, draping the two large windows at the far side of the room, and she said, ‘Now, I would have thought that that colour would scream at the yellow doors and the green carpet and black rugs, not to mention’ – she was pointing now to a long Chesterfield – ‘upholstery in what I suppose you would call light tan?’

  ‘Its correct title, madam, is rosy brown.’

  She laughed as she repeated, ‘Rosy brown. Anyway,’ she added, ‘it’s a most beautiful room. Mrs Gillyman’s room I found . . . well, delightful, charming. I never expected to see again anything to come up to it, but th
is is different somehow. I can only think of the word “stimulating”.’

  ‘Oh, what a pity! I thought you were going to say “restful”.’ He now took her arm and led her towards the couch, saying, ‘Would you be surprised if I told you that I took all these colours from one flower?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It was a huge poppy, almost six inches across, and it was dying, and its outer rose-coloured petals were all crumpled with yellow, like a fringe. There they were, drooping, one petal after the other, with the tiredness of life. At least, that’s how I saw it, and I made notes and all the colours of that poppy are represented here. All except the roseate tern. I put him in because I was fascinated by his flight and, where all the rest were dying colours, he was full of winged white life.’

  Hannah was sitting on the Chesterfield now and staring at him. His way of describing the room was holding her spellbound, more so than the actual place itself did. His words flowed, making strange patterns. She had been so used to Humphrey’s precision all these years that she felt she was listening to a man who had been bred in some distant place, one where they spoke a different language. He was saying, ‘When decorating, one can very rarely imitate nature: the colours just don’t work out. Even in my case’ – he spread his hand widely, indicating the room – ‘I feel it’s a little bizarre at times.’

  ‘Oh no, no!’ – she was quick to contradict him – ‘anything but. It’s unusual and beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, yes; but it isn’t soothing. I had hoped, like the poppy, it had picked up some of that flower’s benevolent drug potion, but apparently no. Ah!’ – he turned – ‘ah! here comes the cup that not only refreshes but gives you indigestion, heartburn and hiatus hernia.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a long time in killing you, sir.’

  ‘It does its best, Peter. You know what happens after I’ve eaten meat.’ He turned to Hannah: ‘I daren’t touch tea for twenty-four hours. It kills me.’

  ‘That’s because, sir, as I’ve told you, you drink it too strong with too little milk.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what you always say, but in me, at least, it acts as poison on top of meat. I’ll have coffee now, after those sausages. Oh—’ he pointed to a plate on the lower shelf of the tea trolley, saying, ‘You’ve been baking?’

  ‘A little, sir.’

  He now turned to Hannah, saying, ‘Peter makes the most delicious scones. He’s hopeless at pastry, it’s like leather, but scones . . . ’

  Hannah exchanged a smiling glance with the white-haired man, whose skin looked so smooth until he smiled, when his real age was depicted by the myriad lines round his shaven lips and chin. He had no jowls and he was thin, almost as thin as his master, and almost as tall.

  When he said, ‘If you should need me, sir, just ring,’ and David responded, ‘I’ll do that, Peter, I’ll do that,’ she noticed the sly grin that was exchanged between them. Then they were alone again . . .

  When, a few minutes later, she bit into one of the scones she exclaimed, ‘Oh, how delicious! And so light. If he makes scones like this he must surely be able to make pastry.’

  ‘It’s odd, I admit, but his pastry isn’t good. I sometimes think he uses dripping in it, as perhaps his mother did years ago.’

  ‘Is he old? His hair is a beautiful colour, and so thick.’

  ‘No, not really. I don’t know exactly what age he is, only that in the war he was my father’s batman and, after the Army business, they stuck together. I remember first seeing him through a haze of an asthmatic spasm, and also through a feeling of real terror, for it was happening in front of my father. Apparently I’d had these bouts from early childhood, when brave fellows didn’t give way to such things. I remember that particular day, for Peter – Miller as he was known then – rubbed the sides of my throat and my back, only to be told, “Now, none of that, Miller! No coddling! Get him on to a horse and get the air through him. That’s what he wants.”

  ‘I was put on a horse!’ – he smiled now – ‘and Peter used to trot me smartly out of the yard; but, once through the wood, he would slow down the horses to a walk then amuse me by telling me some far-fetched tale about his travels. He wasn’t widely travelled, but he made me think he had been all over the world.’

  He looked away from her now and, taking up the silver teapot, he refilled her cup before he went on: ‘Apart from the nanny I had until I was eight, Peter was the kindest person in my young life. I had a few friends about my own age, but even friends at the age of twelve or thirteen or fourteen aren’t capable of being kind and understanding towards a pal who, for no apparent reason, starts to choke and can’t get his breath. Well, it isn’t done, is it? Anyway, as the years went on the attacks lessened but they didn’t disappear . . . Another scone?’

  ‘Thank you; they’re lovely.’

  He himself took another scone and there was silence between them as they sat munching them.

  Hannah’s voice was quiet now as she asked, ‘Do you still have the asthma attacks?’

  ‘Yes, but not very often. The weather sometimes plays havoc, but it’s more often because of an emotional upset. Since I haven’t had one of those for a long, long time, I’ve been pretty free of late; but of course they vary in severity. When the ceiling blew off my home – I mean when my father and mother broke up, he going off with a young miss half his age and leaving a pile of debts behind him, which only the selling of the house and stock barely covered – I went with my mother to her people in Dorset. And Peter . . . she brought Peter with us. I’ve always liked to think she did it for my sake, but I know it was mainly to get me off her hands, because Peter was very good with me, especially when I had my attacks. The fact that I’d been ready for Oxford went by the board: What was to be done with me?

  ‘My grandparents, although not horse-mad themselves, liked riding, the hunt and such, but their neighbours, the Busbys they lived on their horses. I think they slept with them at times, led by their father. There were three brothers and the sister, and all about my age, so for about a year I entered into a different kind of existence. I didn’t get to win rosettes at shows, but I learnt how to hold my port and dance until three in the morning. That spell was really very short, though, which when I look back now I realise was perhaps a good thing, because my mother, after her divorce, married again and my grandfather said, very wisely, “Young man, you’ve a living to earn. What can you do?” And the young man said, “Nothing, Grandpapa, really nothing.”’ David was laughing now as he looked at her. ‘I actually said that to him and he didn’t think it was funny. Oh no, not a bit of it. What he said was, “Well, young man, we’ll see about that. They’re looking for a pupil teacher over at Blakey School, so I heard at a meeting yesterday. This is for children seven to ten, and, after your long education, I should imagine you will have enough left in that head of yours to instil the rudiments of English into petrified youngsters, for that, from what I remember, is the condition of all who experience the first year at boarding school.”’

  Hannah was laughing now and he with her. ‘Believe me, I’m not exaggerating one word,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what he said. It became imprinted on my mind, especially during the following months. The only thing he was wrong about was the petrified youngsters; I was the only petrified one there, and they knew it. Following three months among them, I went on to teach, if you can call it that, at three other private schools, until I was twenty-two. The only break was the holidays and going mad with the Busbys for a few weeks.’

  His expression and his tone now becoming sober, he said, ‘I was at home on holiday when my grandmother died. I was twenty-two. She was a dear old thing, but had been ruled by my grandfather all their married life, I think. Yet within six weeks of her going, he too died. There I was, left with a house and no money with which to keep it up, because prep schools then were notoriously bad payers, especially to untrain
ed teachers such as I. Anyway, my grandpa had left a will to the effect that the house was to be sold and I was to be paid a monthly sum for the rest of my life. Fortunately, it’s enough to satisfy my modest needs.

  ‘In the meantime, Peter had been acting as yard man to the Busbys, seeing to their horses and doing odd things, for which he was receiving a good wage. My relative poverty was quite a joke among the Busbys, but I must say they were very kind to me during that period, so much so that I became engaged to Carrie.’ He put his head back now and, shaking it, he laughed. ‘I can’t tell you to this day how that came about. Who proposed to whom . . . ? I can’t see myself having the nerve. Anyway, I was engaged to Carrie Busby, and after a suitable period of mourning, which was rather short, there were high jinks with parties and races and dancing until dawn. Then, often, racing again. It was very noticeable during this period that I avoided any contact with Peter. He tried to get at me two or three times, and somehow I knew what he would say and I didn’t want to hear it. A year later I married Miss Clarissa Busby, and shortly afterwards I returned to teaching. Four years passed, by the end of which we were legally separated. So there you have my life story.’

  As she sat looking at him in silence she wanted to say, Not all of it. She wanted to ask, Why did it last such a short time? Why did you separate?

  ‘Do you still teach?’ She gave a toss of her head now, saying, ‘What a stupid thing to ask! Of course you don’t; you work for Mr Gillyman.’

  ‘Yes’ – he nodded at her, smiling – ‘I work for Mr Gillyman; and do you know what the first job he gave me to do was?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘To clear this very house of books. It was another one of his dumps, and most of the rooms were stacked from floor to ceiling; you could hardly get in, and he said if I could clean it up and stack all the stuff down in the basement flat, then renovate it myself, I could rent it. He had given me the post of assistant and I was living in semi-furnished rooms. It’s odd, you know, how a small kindness can change one’s life. His twelve-year-old son was at a day prep school where I was teaching, and he had the same complaint as I had when I was young; and boys can be cruel about it. Don’t I know it! If you have an attack you’re accused of trying to dodge a lesson, not only by the boys but very often by the master, and so I used to speak to him whenever I could. Then he was absent for some weeks, and during that time Gilly came to the school and asked to see me. It was to request that I visit his son in hospital. It seemed that the boy had told his father what I did for him at odd times, which was really nothing.