“Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old moustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?”’
‘“Cock-o-doodle”, for God’s sake!’ cried Rosie, and after a moment’s hesitation Bill was playing ‘Cock-o-doodle’ and Emily and the others were singing. But Emily’s voice was louder than the rest.
‘Cock-o-doodle, cock-o-doodle,
I’m the cock of the North.
Cock-o-doodle, cock-o-doodle,
I’m the cock of the North.
Me faather went out on a Saturda’ night
After giving me ma a bairn;
He filled up with rum
And came doddering back
And tried to give her mairn.’
With the quickness of a freak wave, anger rose in him. Grabbing hold of Vanessa, he pushed her past Alf Piggott’s chair, then in front of Stan, and to his room door, and, thrusting it open, he went inside with her, saying grimly under his breath, ‘It’ll be all right. Stay there.’ When he returned to the kitchen his mother was singing,
‘He killed five thousand Irishmen
In the battle of the boiling water.’
Over and over again he had told her that it wasn’t the boiling water, it was the Boyne Water, but now he was boiling. He yelled at her, ‘Stop it! Do you hear me? Stop it!’
‘What! It’s a weddin’, isn’t it? It’s a weddin’. Everybody’s merry at a weddin’. What do you say, Bill? What do you say, Rosie? We know it’s a weddin’, don’t we?’ She punched her daughter on the shoulder, and Rosie punched her back, crying,
‘You wouldn’t take your mother’s device,
You wouldn’t take your faather’s device,
But you took Barney Rooney’s device,
And now you’ve got your belly full of Barney Rooney.’
As the company, with the exception of Stan, howled their appreciation of this quip, Angus’s hand drew back above his sister’s head. It was only Stan catching at his arm and crying, ‘Steady on! Steady on, Angus,’ that checked the blow.
‘Get out! Do you hear me?’ Angus now swept the Piggotts and Wilsons with a look that brought them swiftly to their feet, and when he added, ‘Quick, the bloody lot of you!’ the male in Mr Piggott rose and he turned on Angus, and shouted, ‘Now look here, lad, don’t try any of your big—’
‘OUT!’
‘Whose house do you think this is, eh?’ Emily grabbed at the back of Angus’s coat, and he swung swiftly round, almost sending her to the floor as he said, ‘Shut your mouth, you!’ Then he turned his attention to his sister who was standing by the table blinking at him. ‘Get up the stairs. Go on now.’
‘By damn, you won’t tell me what to—’
Stan, now pulling Rosie to the door, said, ‘Give over. Give over. Look, go on up. Do as he says. I’ll see you the morrow.’
‘You’re as bad as him. Why, you bugger, you’re as bad as him!’
‘Go on.’ Stan pushed her into the passage and towards the stairs. ‘Go on now.’
There was only Angus and Emily left in the kitchen, but the walls seemed to be pressing outwards with the bitterness between them. Emily was sitting by the table, her forearms on it; she was staring at her hands and her head was moving in small, pathetic jerks. He stared down at her, love, compassion and understanding all fighting for a place in his thoughts, fighting against the words of recrimination he wanted to pour on her, fighting against his hate of her. Bending his big head down to hers, he gritted out below his breath, ‘That was a bloody dirty trick to play.’
Slowly she lifted her eyes to his and her fuddled gaze swept over his face before she brought out thickly, ‘I take after me son, playin’ bloody dirty tricks.’ He straightened up and her eyes were still holding his when he said, ‘I’ll talk to you in the mornin’ when you’re sober.’
She rose unsteadily to her feet; her eyes had never moved from his face and she took two unsteady steps away from him as she muttered, ‘I might be sober in the mornin’, lad, an’ in me right senses, but not you; things’ll happen to you from now on like as if you’d taken to drugs. Mark my words. You think she’s taken your name but she hasn’t, lad; you’ve taken hers, and you’re going to break your bloody neck tryin’ to keep up with her. Well, you can go on breakin’ it, I’ll leave you to it.’
She shambled past him and he said nothing, but he turned and watched her go out of the passage and up the stairs. He watched her until he saw her grotesquely swollen feet and ankles disappear from view through the stair railings; then turning to the fire he stood staring down into it, until, with a swift movement, he brought his clenched fist hard against his forehead. The action caused him to screw up his eyes tightly and he held his fist motionless for some minutes before he dropped his hand.
The house was quiet now and he looked towards his room door. Then the habit of years taking over, he followed the nightly pattern and went down to the bottom of the yard.
When he returned to the kitchen he stood confounded for a moment as to how he was going to tell her to do the same. How different it would have been with May; there would have been no feeling of delicacy in mentioning a lavatory to May; rather it would have evoked laughter. He went into the room.
Vanessa had not even taken her outdoor things off. She was sitting on his chair near the little table; her bag was on her knee and her cases were standing near the wall, where he had left them last night. He went to her and said softly, ‘It’s all right; she’d had a drop.’ He refrained from saying that it was rarely she did anything like this, it would only have worsened matters. He made his lips move into a smile as he added, ‘She’ll be herself in the mornin’.’
‘She won’t, Angus.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean…We couldn’t…?’
‘No, we couldn’t, Van.’ He bent his head down until his face was on a level with hers. ‘We’ve had this out. I’ve got to look after her; not only with money, you understand. Oh, I dare say she would get along with supplementary and one thing and another, but she needs me here; she’s always needed me. I explained it all to you about me father. I’ve been the man in her life, if you can put it like that. She’s had nobody else, and she’s just lived for me. Whatever happens now I’m stuck with her, whether I like it or not. Sometimes I like it fine, other times, like the night, I don’t like it one bit.’
Vanessa sat looking at him. She was sick and weary, weary in her mind and body. She wondered vaguely why this should be happening to her, why she had ever let herself be talked into marrying him. She was finding things out about him all the time, things that repulsed her secretly; the depths of his crudity, the depths of his ignorance; yet there were other depths, such as his depths of loyalty, the feeling of responsibility he had towards Emily, which feeling she imagined outweighed all others in his life, even his love for her.
Intuitively, because he had never put it into words, she knew that he was in love with her, that he had always been in love with her, and that although he had found her when she was at rock bottom, he was nevertheless flattered that she should consent to marry him. But he covered this up with his off-hand and casual attitude towards her. She also knew that she was afraid of him, afraid of his body and what it might do to her.
‘Come on.’ He held out his hand, pulling her up. ‘You’re tired. It’s been a day. Get ready for bed.’
Perhaps it was the small jerk of her fingers within his grasp that made him say brusquely, ‘Oh, it’s all right, don’t worry. There,’ he pointed to the opposite corner from where his bed stood, ‘That’s yours. At least for the time being.’ He did not add ‘until the bairn comes’. Although why he was considering the bairn he didn’t know; they said it thrived on a little action, and women liked it at this time; brought them a sort of comfort. Well maybe. And that was all right if they had been at it from the beginning, but to take her now, no, he couldn’t. He looked at her
blankly for a moment. She looked neither Vanessa Ratcliffe, Miss Van, nor Vanessa Cotton. She was a girl with a protruding stomach and a weary face, and eyes with a sadness in them that seemed to be drawn from the very pit of her.
When he turned from her and said, ‘By the way, if you want it, it’s down at the bottom of the yard,’ her head drooped and she went towards the door, pulling off her headscarf as she did so. It was this act that brought a deep embarrassment to them both, for as she flicked the scarf downwards it caught at one of the little ornaments on the mantelpiece and she was only just in time to save it. The ornament was of blue Venetian glass; it was six inches high and stood in a base of silver, so tarnished now as hardly to be recognisable as such. From its narrow base the vase mounted outwards to a fluted top, and as her fingers gripped the scalloped edge she remembered that her mother had always considered it a nice little vase for roses; they didn’t topple out. The vase’s disappearance had been noted after one of the dailies had left. Over the years the household had come to look on dailies as members of a pilfering gang, for always, after their departure, something was missing, and, as Emily had said to her mother, ‘It’s not a bit of use going after them, they’ve likely sold it, and you’d have to pin it on them anyway.’
She placed the vase slowly back on the mantelpiece among the bric-a-brac. When she lifted her head Angus was looking at her.
‘God blast her!’ He had forgotten about all her perks, because she hadn’t brought home anything of value for some time as there hadn’t been anybody to pin the blame on; not that she would have let them stand the racket if there had been any possibility of them being caught. She was thoughtful that way. But the house was dotted with bits and pieces from up there. Why the hell hadn’t he thought about it? If she had thought she had purposely done nothing about it. She hadn’t thoroughly cleaned this room for weeks now; all she had done was to lick a duster over it. But he himself should have remembered and got rid of the things. There was that silver teapot and jug in the chiffonier in the kitchen. He’d put that in the dustbin first thing in the morning. God! What more could happen?
He went to the door and watched Vanessa walking across the kitchen, and when she went out into the yard he followed into the scullery and put the kettle on. A cup of coffee might help. After making it he put the cups on a tray and took it back into the room; then he waited. It was after he had been waiting ten minutes that it suddenly came to him that she had been a long time. The back door! She could have gone out the back door. He almost leaped across the kitchen, and when he opened the scullery door and saw her standing there about to enter he leaned against the stanchion for a moment and closed his eyes. It took him a few seconds to pull himself together, and then he said, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m all right.’ She smiled faintly at him.
‘I’ve made a drink.’ He led the way into the room and closed the door.
As they drank their coffee he made several light remarks in order to cover up the awkwardness that lay between them. It was an awkwardness that had nothing to do with sex; it was the awkwardness of two diverse personalities thrown into close proximity. After a while he rose and hung his coat up on the back of the door, saying, ‘It won’t look so bad when you titivate it up a bit, new curtains and things. She didn’t do anything to it because she thought you’d like to have it your own way.’
She, too, rose to her feet. She felt better, quieter inside. She thought the hot coffee must have done her good. She stared at him as he turned towards her. He looked bigger without his coat. The muscles of his arms bulged through his shirtsleeves, his arms looked long and powerful, as did his hands and shoulders; an Irish navvy, one of them had called him. Well, she supposed he did look like an Irish navvy, but he was being kind and thoughtful and she was grateful for any kindness. When he stood in front of her, saying, ‘Don’t worry; it’ll be different in the morning. I mean,’ and jerked his head towards the ceiling, she didn’t answer, but on an impulse similar to that which had brought her lips to Brett’s cheek with the result that she was now married to Angus Cotton, she leaned forward and placed her lips lightly against the corner of his mouth.
It was the first time their faces had come into contact, and the effect was electrifying. The next minute he had her pressed tightly to him. Her body slightly askew, he held her in a vice as his mouth covered hers. But within a minute they were standing apart again and she was gasping for breath while he wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he said. ‘It was all right until you did that. Asking for trouble, aren’t you? What do you think I am, eh? Well,’ he strained his neck up out of his collar, ‘when I want you I’ll take you, in me own time. Get that. In me own time.’
She was unable to speak; all she could do was stare at him. She had only meant it to be a sort of thank you for all he had done. She had never really thanked him; he made it so hard. She watched him go to the switch and put the light out. Then his voice came out of the darkness, saying, ‘Get to bed.’ And she got to bed. Like a child who had been whipped and was afraid of the lesson being repeated, she scrambled out of her clothes, and because she hadn’t unpacked anything she got into her petticoat again, and, groping at the bedclothes, she slid down between the sheets and lay stiff and taut, listening to her heart as its beat thumped in her ears. It was so loud that it shut out the sound of Angus’s breathing.
But six feet away Angus listened to her breathing as he lay on his back staring upwards. His mother had been right; he had been a blasted fool, he should have got a double bed. He needn’t have touched her; she could have just lain by his side and he could have held her hand. Aw, God, he was kiddin’ himself, wasn’t he? Lying by her side and holding her hand, when that peck she gave him set him off like a starter gun! But, nevertheless, his mother had something.
Into the silence now there permeated a sound that didn’t come from the bed to the left of him but from the ceiling at which his eyes were directed. It was a sound that he hadn’t heard for many years, not since the night his dad had died; it was the sound of his mother crying. With a heave he turned on his side and pulled the clothes over his head. Had there ever been a wedding night like this, ever? No! He bet his damned life there never had.
Six
Why no-one liked the month of November had always, up to now, puzzled Vanessa. She had said once to Susan that it was just a different kind of weather, and all weather was nice. She liked walking in the rain, she liked wind, she liked to lie in bed and hear it whine and moan through the tall chimneys. She particularly liked November, December and January because she associated them with roaring open fires both in the drawing room and dining room. She had always had more time to read in the winter. After she had done her homework she would curl up before the fire, preferably in a room which she had to herself, and munch crisps and chew caramels—she didn’t care for chocolates.
Now, again, it was November, and she was seeing it as most people saw it; a month of rain, fog, cold, sleet, snow flurries and half-light that bore you down.
At ten o’clock on this particular Wednesday morning she stood in the middle of the kitchen and thought, not for the first time by any means, ‘I’ll go mad, I’ll go insane and they’ll put me away.’ She had been married just over three weeks and, mentally, she had gone through more torment during this period than during all the weeks since the night in the summerhouse with Brett. She was learning that there were different kinds of torment. There was the torment of this tiny house, where every word you said above your breath could be heard upstairs, and vice versa, where five steps one way and four the other were all you could do in the privacy of your room.
She knew every square inch of the ground floor of this house, but she didn’t know anything about upstairs. Even when she was alone in the house, and that was pretty often, she didn’t venture upstairs; upstairs was Emily’s and Rosie’s rooms, and she didn’t want to get any nearer to them than s
he must. Their resentment of her filled the air when they were indoors, and it stayed with her long after they left the house in the morning, because now Emily was again going to work.
For the first week after Angus had brought her here she was, most of the time, alone with Emily, and Emily would speak to her only when it was necessary. ‘Well, aren’t you goin’ to get him his tea ready?’ she had said to her on the first Monday.
‘I—I don’t know what he likes; I’ll leave it to you, Emily.’
‘Oh no, begod, you won’t, lass. You’re his wife; you’ve got to cook for him.’
She had felt an anger rising in her against Emily, but she had tried to control it. Yet in spite of her effort her voice took on a slight hauteur as she said, ‘You know for a fact I can’t cook, Emily.’
‘You should have thought of that afore. And don’t use that tone to me; I’m not up at the house now.’
‘I’m not using any tone to you, Emily.’ Vanessa was beseeching now. ‘I just want you to help me, show me how to cook.’
‘I’m sorry; I’ll have no time for that, I’m going after a job the morrow,’ said Emily flatly.
Vanessa had groaned inwardly. That’s what Angus feared she would do, go after another job.
But this was only the beginning. There were the evenings when Angus came in and she put before him what she had cooked, and he rarely ate it; but he soon went through the things she hadn’t cooked, such as fish and chips, or peas and pies. She said to him, ‘I’ll go to cookery classes once it’s over,’ and he had nodded and smiled at her but hadn’t said, ‘You’ll have other things to do besides cookery classes once it’s over.’
As much in an effort to make conversation as to find out his tastes, she had said to him, ‘What is your favourite dish?’ and when he replied, ‘Steak and kidney pudding,’ she had said, ‘Oh!’ There was as much chance of her making a steak and kidney pudding as there was of her making crêpes Suzette, in fact she might have had more success with the latter as she had tried her hand at pancakes.
The Round Tower Page 20
