Slinky Jane

by Catherine Cookson

  Ignoring this latter remark, Peter answered his question, ‘You had decided against giving me any more advice.’

  The man gave a short laugh and through narrowing eyes said, ‘You’re not such a fool as one might think. You sound as if you’d been around yourself, country boy or no country boy.’

  Peter’s lips fell into a tight line, and he kept them there for a moment before saying, ‘Your kind always underestimate the other fellow. There’s no country boys, as you call them, left. There was a war on, remember? But if there were any they’d still be able to show you a thing or two. You don’t like that lot over there’—he nodded at the merry group at the bar—‘because they see through you, because they won’t stand for you and your sharpshooting car deals or, given the chance, they can outshoot you any day in the week. And they’re young.’

  This last remark seemed to sting the man more than anything else Peter had said. His eyes narrowed considerably as he got to his feet, and it was evident to Peter that he was going to make a parting shot, one which wasn’t going to be softened by any pseudo-paternal feeling. Knowing it would surely be connected with Leo he braced himself for its impact by getting to his feet, too, but as he did so a loud command came from the leader of the group at the bar, and such was its tone that it had the power to draw their attention.

  ‘Order! Order! You are now about to hear the golden voice of Brother Tiffy.’ The small fellow endeavoured to hold the blond young man’s hand up as far as his reach would allow, which seemed to convulse Tiffy.

  ‘Order, for Brother Tiffy, the star of the theatre—Steven’s Theatre!’

  On this last remark the other two men, now known respectively as Max and Shaggy, turned to each other in a paroxysm of laughter. Their arms hanging around each other’s necks they roared, until the small man cried, ‘Stow it, you two, you’re holding up proceedings! This is to be a major operation. Brother Tiffy is about to show his larynx as never before.’ He turned to his widely grinning and befuddled friend, and after crying once more, ‘Order! Now order!’ he said, ‘All right, Tiffy, off you go, it’s all yours. Take it away.’

  The room became still. Max and Shaggy broke away from each other and stood supporting themselves quietly against the counter. The only noise was the background din from the saloon; all faces in the room were turned on the great blond man as he straightened himself, took a deep breath and soared without prelude into Samson and Delilah.

  ‘Softly awakes my heart, as the flowers awaken

  To Aurora’s tender zephyr.

  But say, O well-belov’d, no more I’ll be forsaken.

  Speak again, O speak forever!

  O say that from Delilah, you will never part!

  Your burning vows repeat; vows so dear to my heart!

  vows so dear to my heart!’

  At this point Peter forgot about the man at his side; he even forgot himself and his churned-up feelings long enough to think, My God, what a voice!

  ‘Ah! Once again, do I implore thee!

  Ah! Once again, then say you adore me!

  Ah! I here implore thee,

  See, I implore thee.’

  And it could have been Samson, the giant himself, singing to his Delilah, and in a voice so pure and strong that his love was forced into the ears of his hearers. A power was filling the room, and without exception it had caught the attention of everyone present; every face was focused on the singer. So fine was the voice and so unusual the range of tone that even movement was captured and held enthralled, for not a hand went towards a glass. And within a few minutes even the noise from the saloon was stilled. And it seemed to the onlookers that the singer’s voice had enraptured even himself, for although he would turn his head here and there his eyes looked unseeing, or were seeing beyond the walls, as on and on he sang:

  ‘So sways my trembling heart, consoling all its pain,

  To thy voice so dear, so loving.

  The arrow in its flight is not swifter than I,

  When, leaving all behind, to your arms I fly!

  Unto your arms I fly.’

  Mr Booth, content for the moment to stop adding to his till, stood behind the bar, his hands characteristically touching the edge of the counter. A little way to the left of him Mrs Booth had allowed her buttocks to rest against a barrel and her face had taken on an almost tender look, and who knew what thoughts were ranging through her mind as she gazed at the Adonis-like profile of the entertainer. He looked to her too good to be true, and she sighed.

  Oddly enough, Peter was thinking much the same thing. The blond man seemed to be possessed of everything—looks, voice, and charm, but most of all, a voice. He was likely some big actor—a star, and this was just a lark, they were all out on the spree. His eyes were riveted on the mobile face. One minute he saw the singer’s mouth wide open, sending passionate words out on golden notes, but the next moment, the mouth still open, the song had abruptly ceased and the expression on the singer’s face was not far away and lost in the realms of love but was showing wildly delighted surprise. He was looking over the heads of the others towards the door leading into the passage, and as Peter’s eyes flashed in that direction the blond fellow’s arm shot out and he cried, ‘God Almighty! See what I see, fellows—look!’

  Standing in the doorway was Leo. She looked fearfully white and slightly spellbound, but when, as if recovering herself, she turned to make a hasty retreat her escape was cut off by those behind her, and with a loud scuffling and whooping she was immediately surrounded by the four men.

  So unusual was the scene that the other occupants of the room and those in the passage remained quiet as if witnessing another part of the entertainment set up by these strangers. Nor did Peter move, he seemed fixed by his unblinking stare.

  ‘Leo! Why, Leo! Well, who would have expected to see you here.’ The small man’s voice could be picked out now from above the rest. He was holding one of her hands, her other being lost in the two great paws of the singer, who was crying in an emotional voice, which was undoubtedly aided by the load he was carrying, ‘Aw Leo! Leo, my love. Aw Leo!’

  A pain, like a thin blade piercing his chest, struck Peter as he watched Tiffy, with his arm about her now, draw her to the counter. He was still effusing maudlinly for all to hear, ‘My day is complete, my life is complete. Leo of all people! Leo!’ He looked around his companions for confirmation of his pleasure, and Max, walking backwards in front of her, cried, ‘What are you doing here, Leo?’ But before she could answer, Tiffy cried, ‘Breaking hearts, I bet. What do you say, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re drunk, Tiffy.’ Her voice was low, but it seemed to be caught up by everyone in the room.

  ‘Yes, I’m drunk, Leo. I’ve been drunk all day—we’ve all been drunk. Come on, you have a drink, anything you like, it’s an occasion…Let me look at you.’

  The silence fell heavy on the room as Tiffy, holding her at arm’s length, stared down into her face. Then in an even louder voice, he cried, ‘You’re looking grand—grand.’

  On the face of her appearance this seemed rather a strange remark to make.

  ‘Quiet, Tiffy. Let her have a drink. Is it grapefruit, Leo?’

  It was the small man again, and Leo turned to him and said, ‘Still keeping order, Roger?’ And he, smiling somewhat soberly back at her, answered, ‘Someone’s got to do it in this outfit, Leo. How are you really?’ This last question was hardly audible to Peter, even in the silence.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Peter watched the little fellow as his eyes lingered on her. Then Roger, his voice louder now, asked, ‘You passing through?’

  ‘No. I’m staying here for a time.’

  There came a quiet uneasiness among the four men following this statement. Max and Shaggy drank; Tiffy, his eyes on her all the while, took occasional sips from his glass and made occasional unbelieving movements with his head while repeating her name from time to time, as if he still couldn’t believe his eyes.r />
  As the room came slowly back to normal Peter, his gaze riveted on Leo, willed with all his might that she should look at him, and when turning with her grapefruit from the counter to answer a remark of one of the group her eyes came to rest, not on him, but on the man standing at his side, he saw that she was startled and he watched her turn quickly to the counter again.

  His companion’s face, he now noted, looked grey, and he, too, was holding her with his eyes. In spite of Peter’s concern for her, a sudden revulsion of feeling against her came over him. She could handle drunks, that was evident. Four of them, all milling round her! And how many men had she known like this fellow here beside him? The question did not shout in his mind but probed him with deadly insistence, more powerful than flashing anger. It was like a slow injection of blood, proving itself as it ran through his veins, gradually giving him strength to reject this mania that had come upon him. Perhaps he wasn’t a blasted fool altogether…Perhaps they were right. He forgot that just a short while ago he was worried sick because he thought that she was ill.

  People were beginning to drink and talk again in a somewhat desultory fashion. Remarks could be heard about the rain, and when another crash of thunder came some weather sage propounded, ‘Travelled ten miles, the storm has, since that last crack.’

  It was just when people were seemingly falling back into the tempo of the room as it had been before the appearance of the group at the bar that Tiffy’s voice ringing clearly out aroused their interest more so than before as it cried, ‘Aw, come on, Leo. Come on, sing. Remember Christmas Eve? That was a do. Come on. The duet? Come on, love.’

  At this moment Peter’s view of the bar was suddenly blocked out by the bulk of his father and Bill. They were standing dead in front of him, and Harry’s voice said quietly, ‘Let’s go, lad. We could get the bus into Allendale, or go Blanchland way—it’ll be passing in a minute.’

  ‘Aye, do that Peter,’ urged Bill. ‘This place is too crowded the night by half—no enjoyment in it. Come on, lad.’

  ‘Kiss me—come on, give me a kiss.’ This demand, shutting off the chatter like a soundproof door, caused all eyes to turn in the direction of the counter again, and Mr Booth, thinking it time to assert his authority, cried, ‘Now, gentlemen! Gentlemen!’

  ‘Come on, Leo…my love.’

  It was a slow, drawn-out plea, and although it sounded laughable no-one laughed, there was not even a snigger.

  The little man, Roger, intervened quickly now, his voice no longer merry. ‘Don’t act the goat, Tiffy. Stop it! D’you hear?’ He pulled at his friend’s arm, but was pushed laughingly aside, and Tiffy, encircling Leo with his arms, pleaded again, his voice filling the stillness as he lisped, this time in baby talk, ‘Just a leetle peck—just a weeny, teeny little peck. Ah, kiss Tiffy, Leo!’

  Tiffy was apparently unaware of the scuffle going on near the window, and not until he was dragged round from Leo did he show any surprise, and then he was still full of good humour.

  ‘What’s up? Who are you?’

  ‘You’ll know in a minute. Get out!’

  ‘Oooh!’ Tiffy’s face seemed to brighten with knowledge as he blinked heavily at Peter. ‘You a friend of Leo’s?’ He nodded his head in great bounces, denoting his understanding. ‘Well, I’m a friend of Leo’s an’ all! We’re all friends of Leo’s, aren’t we, ducks?’ He looked towards Leo, where he held her at arm’s length now with his big white hand. ‘But me, I’m a special friend, aren’t I? You see—’ he leant forward and with his free hand thumbed Peter in the chest—‘I know Leo as you don’t know her, nor nobody else…Oh! You would, would you!’

  In spite of the drink Tiffy knew when he was going to be hit, and ducked, and as Harry, grabbing at Peter’s raised arm, cried, ‘Give over, lad,’ Tiffy’s smile vanished completely. His brows darkening, the whole expression of his face altered and he said thickly, ‘It’s like that, is it? It’s a fight you want. Well, I’m game—game for anything. Stand back!’ He pushed his friends aside.

  ‘Stop it! Do you hear! Stop it!’ It was Leo’s voice high and pleading, but it was not directed towards Tiffy but to Peter. And to it was now added the man’s. He was standing by her side and he cried in anger, ‘Yes, stop it! I should damn well think so. You’re taking too much on yourself, you are, far too damn much. I’m the one to deal with this.’

  ‘Oh, you are, are you!’ Peter’s furious glance swung from Tiffy to the man, but Harry, tightening his grip on his son, urged sternly, ‘Come on out of it. Come on, lad.’

  The man, with his hand on Leo’s arm as if to protect her, now set the spark to Peter’s fury when he addressed himself pointedly to Harry, saying, ‘That’s it. Get him off home before he gets ideas about himself and his capabilities.’

  In that moment no-one could have stopped Peter—his father, nor Bill, nor yet the combined efforts of three of the four merrymakers, not Mr Booth, who with the agility of a gazelle had leapt the counter—for his arm swung up and out, and under the blow the man was flung back among the tables. Immediately, there was pandemonium. Two women sitting nearby screamed, and to their screaming was added more from the passage; there were cries from Mrs Booth, who, as she saw the man righting himself preparatory to making a dive for Peter, yelled, ‘Get outside! Outside, the lot of you!’

  She was herself unable to get into the room for the crush of men blocking the let, and this infuriated her further. Her eyes searched out Leo where she stood with her back pressed against the counter, and rushing towards her she grabbed at the back of her shoulders, twisted her round and screamed into her terrified face, ‘You! This is you! Get out! Go on, before I knock your bloody jailbird face in for you, you dirty—!’

  Mrs Booth’s elucidating epitaph was lost in the fury of her voice as with a ferocious shove across the counter she pushed Leo almost into the mêlée of shouting, swearing, struggling men. It was only Harry, separated for the moment from Peter where he was now being held by Bill and Roger, that saved her from falling to the floor. Grabbing at her, Harry steadied her against him, and she clung to him, gasping.

  The room now seemed to be divided into two groups: those around Peter and the rest hanging on to the man; only Mr Booth seemed separate and only his voice could he heard crying repeatedly, ‘Get on outside with you. Outside! Outside! I’ll call the police, mind. Outside! Get them outside!’

  There was no escape for the girl, Harry saw, through the passageway. But his mind, as confused as anyone’s at that moment, was clear about one thing: he knew he must not leave her with Katie Booth or else there’d be trouble of perhaps a more serious nature. The girl looked scared, almost petrified. She no longer looked the miss he had got a kick out of knowing, she looked as if she would collapse at his feet.

  ‘Come on.’ He drew her round the outskirts of the shifting shouting mass and to the window, where just a few minutes before Peter had been seated. Thrusting up the sash he assisted her over the low sill and out into the rain-swept porch. Then a quick glance back into the room showed him that Mr Booth, with the use of his own brawn and the help of the locals, was persuading the combatants into the passage. So he followed Leo through the window.

  The shouting and yelling filled the street as the men came struggling out of both the main and saloon bars and milled about under the porchway, reluctant to be pushed into the downpour. And Peter’s voice came clearly above the din when in a roar that would have done credit to Grandpop, he yelled, ‘Leave go of me! Leave go, do you hear!’

  Shaking himself like an enraged bull, he flung himself clear of the hands holding him. It was unfortunate that in doing so one of his thrashing fists should contact Bill. In a twinkling Bill was measuring his full length in the road.

  The sight of the momentarily prostrate figure with the rain beating down on him seemed to inflame still further the tempers of those directly concerned, for Tiffy, taking up the cudgels of the man lying on his back, now pushed his way to Peter, and lifting his huge fist, aimed a blow at him.
It was as well that the direction of the blow was drink-controlled or Peter, too, would have joined Bill, but the blow, skidding past him, incensed him as much as if he had met its full force, and he struck back with such ferocity that within a second Tiffy and he were in the road bashing it out, blinded with rain and rage.

  Harry had left Leo against the wall at the far end of the porch to rush to the aid of Bill, and he had just managed to get him to his feet when two things attracted him simultaneously: his lad was fighting in the middle of the road with the singing fellow, and the man, who, in Harry’s mind, had started all this, had broken away from those who were trying to deter him and was making for the combatants, not, Harry knew, to assist Peter.

  ‘No you don’t!’ Harry left the dazed and rocking Bill and practically threw himself at the man, and in a second he, too, was engulfed and hitting out in desperate self-defence.

  The road outside the Hart now showed a scene that had never before been witnessed in Battenbun, and every door and window that could look upon the inn was filled with its shocked spectators, and it seemed to them that their village had suddenly gone mad. For the peacemakers who had been endeavouring to separate the combatants were themselves drawn into the mêlée, and blows, whether used for attack or defence, are hardly distinguishable to the lookers-on.