Slinky Jane

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘She’s a good girl.’

  ‘She’s too damn good. Sanctimonious little hypocrite. She makes me sick. And you do, too!’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you feel like that, but as I said last week, me mother would have a fit if she thought I was making up to you.’

  ‘Let her, it’s about time she realised you are grown-up. You know, when I look at Old Pop and Grandpop and your father, I can’t believe you’re a Puddleton. Why, they’ve got more of what it takes in their left eyes than you’ve got in your whole body.’

  A pink hue crept up under the dark stubble of Peter’s face; his head moved slowly from side to side; which other woman or man for that matter, of his acquaintance, would refer openly to the Puddleton morals and the family cast in one sentence? What could a fellow do? All he could think to say was, ‘By! You are coarse, Florrie.’

  ‘Coarse!’ Florrie’s scorn was vigorous: ‘It wouldn’t surprise me to know that you’re an hermaphrodite!’

  ‘Florrie!’

  Although Peter wasn’t sure in his own mind what an hermaphrodite was, he knew, by the way she had said it, it was bound to be something indecent.

  ‘I’m going to tell you something.’ Florrie was now stabbing her finger at him. ‘If you hide from me behind Mavis Mackenzie you’re in for fireworks. Once that little cat has her claws into you you won’t be able to get them out, and now that the road’s going through, as I suppose you know, her dear papa and brother, for business reasons alone, will see that she keeps them tightly fastened on you. They’re not going to let the only garage for miles slip through their hands. They’ll have it, with her help, and you. You’ll see.’

  ‘Will they, be damned!’ Now there was no nervousness in Peter’s voice or manner. ‘Will they? That’s where you’re mistaken. There’ll be no Mackenzie get a foot in here, not even over my dead body. The garage, as you know, belongs to me mam and me, and she, like me, would sooner see it go up in smoke than the Mackenzies get it.’

  ‘That’s what I couldn’t understand. I just couldn’t understand—’ Florrie was now staring up into Peter’s tightly drawn face—‘you hating the Mackenzies like you do and then taking up with Mavis. I just couldn’t understand it. Until the reason jumped at me. You hoped to put me off, by doing it. That’s the truth, isn’t it? You thought I’d have too much dignity to come back at you. Daughter of the major and all that…You don’t know me.’

  ‘No, now, see here, Florrie.’ Peter’s fiery countenance was abetting his guilt. ‘I—I can’t explain.’

  ‘No, you can’t explain, you haven’t got the guts to. You’ll dance at the hops with me, ride with me, but you won’t walk with me. I’m too young.’ She mimicked his voice. ‘Ten years makes a lot of difference. You don’t say you haven’t got the spunk to face Mammy, or the village.’

  In hopeless desperation Peter closed his eyes. But when he opened them his attitude immediately changed and with a quick gesture he turned his attention hastily to the engine again and whispered, ‘Here’s Miss Fowler coming.’

  ‘Damn Miss Fowler!’ Florrie’s voice was low, but not low enough that Peter didn’t hear her add, ‘and you, too!’

  Florrie and Miss Fowler passed each other at the entrance to the garage, and no-one would have believed that Miss Carrington-Barrett had just been fighting for a place in the garage-owner’s affections, for her voice was airy and not without a little condescension as she said, ‘Good morning, Miss Fowler. Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is a lovely day,’ replied Miss Fowler. ‘But the lawns are parched, really parched, I wish we could have some rain.’ Whereupon they parted with nods and smiles.

  As Peter filled Miss Fowler’s can with petrol he, too, nodded and smiled at her as she chattered, but his mind was not on the one concern of her life, namely, the job of keeping her lawn green, nor yet—although she both worried and scared him with her young, ardent and unmaidenlike pursuit—on Florrie. But it was agitated, and very much so, by what she had insinuated about the Mackenzies. He knew he had been a blasted fool to take Mavis out, and Florrie had been right about his reason for doing so. He had thought it would put her off, for she was getting beyond a joke. The whole place would soon be talking about him making up to his dad’s boss’s daughter, and he didn’t want that. Why, in fact, the way she had been going on lately, he could see himself waking up one morning in the Little Manor house having to call the major ‘Dad’ and his old battleaxe, ‘Mum’, and that scared him properly. Florrie was young and spoilt, and up to now had had her own way in everything. And if she were to yell loud enough the Major and Mrs C-B might consent even to her latest whim. That had made him desperate and he’d had to do something. There being no-one of his own age unattached in the village, or nearabouts, he had, against all his better judgement and in a moment, so he told himself, of great necessity, asked Mavis out. The damn fool that he was.

  In a sweating bother he tackled the car, and half an hour later he knew all there was to know about it, and none of it was good.

  After applying more tow to his hands, straightening his shirt, and trying to flatten down his wiry hair, he gave a hitch to his belt and made his way through the village in the direction of the Hart.

  A few doors down below the garage, Wilkins, the baker, was lowering full sacks from the loft, and he turned his white-powdered face to Peter and called cheerily, ‘Good news, eh, Peter, lad? This’ll set the ball rolling, eh?’

  ‘It will that, Dan.’ Peter’s voice was equally cheery. Dan was one of them who wanted the road to go through. ‘It will that.’ He nodded total agreement. But when he came opposite Miss Tallow’s shop he could hear, through the open doorway, her thin, piping voice bemoaning the fate of her beautiful village. Miss Tallow was all for beauty—she was a rustic poetess was Miss Tallow. Beauty, said Miss Tallow, rose above everything. Even the Spraggs’ cesspool, brazenly fighting its own battle, could not convince her otherwise. Beauty must be preserved with the help of Jeyes’ fluid. And she wasn’t the only one who thought this way, either. There were a whole number of them in Battenbun, Peter knew only too well, who would rather see the village die a long, lingering death than have one inch of its beauty disturbed.

  A shining yellow brake slowed up sufficiently to allow its driver to thrust his head out of the window and with a broad grin yell, ‘Happy, Peter?’

  ‘Hallo there, Brian. Aye—aye, I’m happy. Who wouldn’t be?’

  The car moved on, and Peter, with an inward glow, thought: I like Brian, he’s all right. Now why can’t Florrie see sense and marry him? He’s nuts about her, and no social barrier to worry about there. Farm, money and name. The lot.

  ‘Hello, Peter lad.’ It was Bill Fountain, still not in his shop, but standing now across the road on the post office steps talking to Mrs Armstrong, the postmistress. ‘Feeling like a millionaire?’

  ‘Well, not exactly yet, Bill. I’ll let them get started first.’

  He nodded happily in their direction but noticed that Mrs Armstrong did not nod happily back. She was another one of them, for besides the post office she had the only grocery business in the place.

  Bill’s next shouted remark was lost in a bellow that filled the street, and Peter turned quickly to confront his great-grandfather where he sat in the window of the cottage, the living origin of the cast, hook nose and big mouth; all, in fact, that went to make up the questionable handsomeness of the Puddletons.

  ‘What’s pluddy well goin’ on? Whole place gone mad and me not hearin’ a word. Come here a minute, can’t ya!’

  ‘Now look, old ’un.’ Peter went through the gate and across the narrow strip of garden to the window. ‘I can’t stop now, I’ve got a job in. You would see it coming in.’

  ‘Aye, I saw it, I’m not blind. But I don’t want to know about no pluddy car, what about road? Harry’s goin’ runnin’ round as if he’d suddenly found God or summat and Joe, as usual, has made himself scarce. Always was a dab hand at that, he. As for your mother, you
try to get her to shut that mouth of hers when she’s got nowt to say, but when there’s summat to talk about the ornery bitch goes mute.’

  Peter smiled tolerantly down on the old man. ‘Well, old ’un, you know as much as me. I hear it’s going through, and that’s all I know.’

  The old man’s attitude underwent a lightning change; a softness came into his face and his big, bony hand clutched at Peter’s arm, and shaking it gently, he said, ‘Lad, you’re on to summat now. You’re set for life…you’re made…thousands and thousands you’ll make out o’ that garage. I’m tellin’ you’—he raised a finger and wagged it in his great-grandson’s face—‘that’ll be a gold mine, a real gold mine. But mind—’ his attitude changed quickly back to its former truculence, and in what he thought was a low tone, but in a voice that would have carried to the neighbours in question, he added, ‘But mind you, lad, you look out for them lot.’ He thumbed in the direction of the Mackenzies’ house. ‘They’ll be after you like flies in a midden, you’re on to a good thing, and anybody that’s on to a good thing has the Mackenzies in their way. What do you think?’ His voice did drop a shade lower now. ‘Joe tells me this mornin’ that old Mackenzie’s bought shares in the mill—took them by way of payment for repairs. Just like him, ain’t it? And Cuthbert’s in Allendale is selling their contracting business, and he’s after that an’ all. I tell you, lad, look out for yersel.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, old ’un, I’ll look out for meself where the Mackenzies are concerned.’ Although Peter’s voice was a whisper it held strong emphasis, and Grandpop nodded and said, ‘Aye, aye, you do…but lad…Here a minute.’ With a backward jerk of his head he beckoned Peter even closer, and his deep-set misty eyes fastened on his face and his voice was thick and rumbling in his throat as he demanded, ‘Not true what I’m hearin’, is it, you takin’ up with their dry cow?’

  Peter’s eyes dropped, his shoulders drooped, and he sighed, and Grandpop, his voice returning to normal, cried, ‘Well, lad, you must be up the pole. Dodged her for years you have. Laughin’ stock she’s made of hersel, trailin’ after you. What’s come over you? My God! Do you expect to bundle with that ’un? I’m tellin’ you you’re in for a disappointment, for if ever I saw a dry—’

  ‘Now look here, old ’un.’

  ‘Ah! Don’t you start arguefying with me about she, no arguefying in the world’ll put any blood into that ’un.’

  Peter straightened up and was about to turn away, knowing the uselessness of argument, when old Grandpop, giving the final stamp to his displeasure, whirled his old lips round and spat towards the bunch of phlox at the gate. Perhaps because of his disturbed state of mind his aim was not so good today and he missed. A suppressed squeal coming from behind him on the pavement gave Peter the desire to duck and dive round to the back of the house.

  ‘You dirty old man!’

  The indignant words were almost spat back at Grandpop, and Peter, his expression a mixture of sheepishness and dismay, turned and looked, not without sympathy, at Miss Collins, the vicar’s sister. Grandpop’s ammunition had not hit her, but that had been only a matter of luck.

  Miss Collins’s tight-lipped, narrow, sagging face was pink-hued as, trying to ignore the old man who would not be ignored, she addressed herself to Peter. ‘Something should be done…one can’t walk the street. At least, this particular section of it. It’s a disgrace!’

  ‘Yes, miss. I’ll speak to him.’ Peter’s voice was very low.

  ‘Speak to him! He should be—’

  What Miss Collins would have liked to do to Grandpop seemed too big to get past her gullet, for her neck, after jerking up and down a number of times, only allowed her to swallow hard, and she walked away, her body twitching.

  ‘Pity it didn’t hit she. Who does she think she is? Like to run village, she. Pluddy Bridget!’

  ‘Now, old ’un, you’ll do that once too often. What’s going to happen when me mam hears?’

  ‘Never mind yer mam. She’s another of ’em. All women should be smothered.’ Grandpop blinked rapidly, champed his lips, then demanded, ‘You on your way to Hart?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Bring me a wet, I’m near parched.’

  ‘I can’t now, old ’un, I’m going to see a client about the car.’

  Peter walked out of the gate and the old man’s voice, now low and wheedling, followed him. ‘Ah, Peter lad, bring me a wet. Go on, man.’

  Peter smiled to himself as he walked on. By, the old ’un was a tartar! But there’d be the devil to pay as usual when his mam found out, as she would from Miss Collins, about the spitting.

  Before he got to the Hart he was hailed a number of times, and he thought, By, the place is like London the day! Never had he known such bustle before, and on a Monday, too. Saturday might see the village street a bit busy like, but the rest of the week it could be dead.

  He went into the bar of the inn and Mrs Booth, from behind the counter, asked without any preliminaries, ‘You come to see her?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Booth.’

  ‘She’s in the livin’ room, havin’ a bite. Here’—she leaned across the counter and whispered confidentially—‘what d’you make of her, eh? Some piece that. What d’you say?’ She poked at him with her finger. ‘I bet you what you like she’s just come out of jail. That skin of hers looks like it hasn’t seen daylight for months. She looks a type, doesn’t she? And what do you think about the road, eh?’

  Peter blinked. He’d never had much time for Mrs Booth, never got on with her somehow. Perhaps that was because his mother couldn’t stand her. Some talk of her making up to his dad at one time. So without commenting upon her observations of either the girl or the road he said, ‘Can I go in?’

  ‘Aye, go on.’ Mrs Booth swept the counter clean with her ox-like arm, and he went along the passage towards the ‘private’ room.

  When he reached the open doorway he could see the girl sitting at the end of the table, and she lifted her eyes from her plate and looked at him for a moment before drawling, ‘Oh, hallo. You’ve been quick.’

  ‘Well’—he moved uneasily and gave a little laugh—‘I haven’t done anything to her yet.’ He went slowly into the room and stood looking across the table towards her. It was as Mrs Booth had said, her skin didn’t look as if it had seen much daylight lately and it wasn’t the usual pallor associated with blondes either, yet jail! Trust Mrs Booth to jump to the worst conclusion. Likely, as he’d thought earlier, it was just smart make-up.

  ‘Sit down, won’t you?’

  Peter glanced back towards the door. Mrs Booth was of a funny temper; you never knew how you had her, and him in his dirty clothes. This one here was as easy in her manner and invitations as if she had a share in the place. He smiled to himself and sat gingerly on the edge of the chair before beginning, ‘Well, I’d better tell you what I think. You see I could fix her up but it would cost you a tidy bit, so my advice is for you to get another second-hand one. But mind’—he gave a short laugh—‘I haven’t got one for sale; I’m not trying to sell you one or anything.’

  She was leaning back in her chair, and she looked and sounded very tired as she asked, ‘How much would it cost to repair her?’

  He bit on his lip as he stared at her, then said hesitantly, ‘It’s difficult to say at the moment. The big ends are gone. They’ll have to be rebored. She’ll have to be stripped and reassembled. And the engine’s on its last legs. You see, it’s hard to say to the shilling what she’ll cost. About sixteen pounds, I should think. Perhaps a bit more.’

  She stared at him, her dark brown eyes, in sharp contrast to her hair, looking almost black. And then she stood up, and turning her back to him she walked to the window.

  He, too, rose to his feet and added haltingly, ‘And I’m afraid it’ll take some time to get the big ends done an’ all.’

  ‘How long?’ She spoke without turning round.

  ‘A fortnight. Perhaps three weeks. They have to be sent to a depot. As I said, I t
hink you’d better call her a bad debt and get another. But, of course, it’s up to you.’

  When she did not answer he thought, you’re a blasted fool, doing yourself out of a job. What’s up with you? Not a thing in for a week and turning this down. He shook his head at himself and looked at her back and commented privately again. By, she’s thin!

  As he continued to look at her he saw over her shoulder running from the green towards the bar the twins, with Tony Boyle jangling after them, and Penelope the tame duck; as always, endeavouring to catch them up.

  Tony’s garbled words came through the open window, crying, ‘Le’ me Jimmy!…Jimmy!…Johnny, le’ me!…Petter…Tell Petter.’

  ‘It’s beautiful country here.’

  His eyebrows moved up a trifle. They had been talking of cars, but he smiled and said, ‘Aye, it is fine…Yes, there isn’t better. At least, that’s what I think. It’s wonderful country. Once you’ve lived here you can’t settle nowhere else.’

  ‘I’ll stay till she’s ready.’

  Her abruptness slightly nonplussed him.

  She still had her back to him, and he said with a kind of naive surprise, ‘Here?…But the car, it’ll be a fortnight, even three weeks, as I said. It could even be longer, you never know.’

  She turned now and looked at him, and her face seemed wiped of all expression, telling him nothing. And when she made no effort to speak he went on, lamely, ‘But if time doesn’t matter’—he didn’t add ‘and money’—‘it’s up to you.’

  Her eyes held his in an odd way until he became uneasy, and there came back to him Mrs Booth’s comment regarding time, to be thrust aside quickly, and he heard himself asking, ‘Are you on holiday?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am, sort of.’ She walked to the table again and sat down. ‘They take boarders here?’ She was looking intently down on her half-eaten dinner.

  ‘Yes, they can take two. There’s nobody staying at present.’