In 1877 those who were enlightened by reading newspapers discussed among other things such topics as Disraeli proclaiming Queen Victoria Empress of India and seeing to it that she had the adulation of Indian princes and African chiefs. But for the ordinary man and woman in towns such as South Shields, there were other happenings that struck nearer home, very much nearer home.
The sea which provided most of the inhabitants with a livelihood also created havoc and disaster. There was that awful night in December last year when three vessels were wrecked and the sea, still unsatisfied, had engulfed and destroyed another two later in the day, and all under the eyes of horrified townspeople who could only watch helplessly. Even though the Volunteer Life Brigade did heroic work, many lives were lost.
Such tragedies had the power to unite the townspeople, at least for a time. Rich and poor alike mingled in their sorrow until the poor, once again forgetting their place in God’s scheme of things, protested against their lot. And how did they protest? They protested through societies called trade unions.
Since the first national union of the Amalgamated Society of Engineers had been founded in 1851, in every town in the country where skilled workers were employed trade unions had sprung up, to the fear and consternation of the middle classes who looked upon them as a network of secret societies, whose sole purpose was to intimidate honest citizens, plot to confiscate their property, cause explosions and mob violence and bring the country to total revolution if they were allowed to get the upper hand.
The County of Durham was a hotbed of such people. They agitated in mines, in steel works, in shipbuilding yards, in factories, and it was even whispered they tried to inveigle young women into their ranks; and not only those, let it be understood, from the common herd, but women of education and property.
Such a one who was suspect in South Shields was Miss Charlotte Kean. She wasn’t accused openly of supporting trade unions because then that would be ridiculous, for she not only held shares in some quite big concerns but owned outright a number of small ones. No, they weren’t accusing her of giving her sympathy to the quarter that would eventually precipitate her ruin through business, but what they did say was, she pushed her nose into too many cultural activities in the town, activities that had hitherto been inaugurated and worked mainly by gentlemen, such as the Public Library that had been opened four years previously.
This grand building could boast its eight thousand two hundred volumes only because of generous donations from men like the Stephensons, and Mr Williamson, and Mr Moore. What was more, the library had grown out of the Mechanics’ Institute and the Working Men’s Club, and this joint establishment had its origins in the Literary, Mechanical and Scientific Institution which was one of the earliest mechanics’ institutions in the kingdom, having come into being in the November of 1825.
And who had created such places of learning? Men, gentlemen of the town, not women, or even ladies. Why the efforts of the gentlemen of the town had made The Working Men’s Club and Institution so popular that in 1865 they’d had to seek new premises yet once again, premises large enough to contain now not only a newsroom and library but two classrooms and a conversation and smoking room, besides rooms for bagatelle, chess and draughts, and, progress and modernity being their aim, a large space was set off in the yard for the game of quoits.
For such progress men, and men only, could be given the credit. But now there were people like Charlotte Kean pushing their way into committees und advocating, of all things, that the library should be open seven days a week. Did you ever hear of such a suggestion that the Lord’s Day should be so desecrated! She had been quoted as saying, if the wine and gin shops can remain open on a Sunday why not a reading room? One gentleman had been applauded for replying that God’s house should be the reading room for a Sunday.
Then there was the matter of education. She would have made a ruling that no fee be charged for schooling and that a poor child should have admission to a high-class teaching establishment merely on his proven intelligence.
Some gentlemen of the town were amused by Miss Kean’s attitude and said, Well, at least credit should be given her for having the mentality of a man. However, the majority saw her as a potential danger both to their domestic and business power. To light a fire you needed tinder, and she was the equivalent to a modern matchstick. Look how she was flaunting all female decorum by parading that upstart of a rent collector around the county. Not only had she made him into her manager but she took him everywhere as her personal escort. She was making a name for herself and not one to be proud of. By, if her father had still been alive it would never have happened. He had made a mistake by allowing her to become involved with the business in the first place, because she had developed what was commonly termed a business head. She was remarkable in that way. But they didn’t like remarkable women, neither those who were against her nor those who were for her. No, they didn’t hold with remarkable women. This was a man’s town, a seafaring town; women had their place in it, and they would be honoured as long as they kept their place; but they wanted no remarkable women, at least not the kind who tended to match them in the world of commerce.
Her manager, too, had his reservations about his employer, and the things she got up to. Yet he granted, and not grudgingly, that she was a remarkable woman. Odd in some ways, but nevertheless remarkable.
A year had passed since the news of Janie’s death and the old saying of time being a great healer had proved itself true yet once again, for Rory, over the past months, had come up out of despair and settled on a plane of not ordinary but, what was for him, extraordinary living.
Though Janie still remained in his heart as a memory the ache for her was less. Even in the night when he felt the miss of her he no longer experienced the body-searing agony and the longing for her presence.
Two things had helped towards his easement. The first was the combination of Jimmy and the yard, and the second—or should he have placed her first?—was Charlotte Kean.
When, six months ago, he had taken up the position as her manager she had raised his wage—salary she called it now—to three pounds a week. It was incredible. Never in his life had he dreamed of ever being able to earn three pounds a week. To get that much and ten times more by gambling, oh yes, he had dreamed of that, but never as an earned wage. And did he earn it? Was the work he was doing worth three pounds a week, going to the town office in the morning, then around ten o’clock up to the house and the office there, he at one side of the table, she at the other?
‘What would you advise in a case like this, Mr Connor?’
The first time she had pushed a letter across the table towards him he had stared at her blankly before reading it. It was from her solicitor advising her that a certain new chemical company was about to float its shares, and suggesting that she would do well to consider buying.
Utterly out of his depths Rory had continued to stare at her, for he sensed in that moment that a great deal depended on how he answered her. And so, holding her gaze, he said, ‘I can’t advise you for I know nothin’ whatever about such matters;’ but had then added, ‘as yet.’
She hadn’t lowered her eyes when she replied, ‘Then you must learn . . . that is if you want to learn. Do you, Mr Connor?’
‘Yes . . . yes, I want to learn all right.’
‘Well, that’s settled,’ she had said. ‘We know now where we stand, don’t we?’ And then she had smiled at him, after which she had rung the bell, and when Jessie opened the door she had said, ‘We’ll have some refreshment now, Jessie.’
And that was the pattern he followed on the days he didn’t go to Hexham or Gateshead or over the water to Wallsend to cast an eye over her interests, until two months ago, when the pattern had changed and she began to accompany him.
Journeying by train, they would sit side by side in the first-class carriage. He helped her in and out of cabs, he opened doors for her, he obeyed her commands in all ways, except that he would refuse her invitation to stay for a meal after he had delivered the takings of an evening, or when they had returned from one of their supervising trips. The reason he gave was a truthful one, his brother expected him, he was alone.
When he first gave her this reason she looked at him with a sideward glance and asked, ‘How old is your brother?’
‘Coming up twenty.’
‘Twenty! And he needs your protection at nights?’
And he answered flatly and stiffly, ‘Yes, he does. Only last week a boat he had started to build was smashed up to bits, and it could be him next.’
‘Oh!’ She showed interest. Did you inform the police?’
‘No.’
‘Have you any idea who did it, and why?’
‘Yes, both; I know who did it, and why. There’s a family on the river who run the wherries, three brothers called Pittie . . .’
‘Ah! Ah! the Pitties.’ She had nodded her head.
‘You’ve heard of them?’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard the name before. And I also know of some of their activities.’
‘Well, you know what they’re like then.’
‘Yes, I’ve a pretty good idea. And—’ she had nodded and added, ‘I can see the reason why you must be with your brother at night. But you, too, must be careful. What they’ve done once they can do again.’
His head had jerked in her direction as he asked, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, they could break up another boat.’
‘Oh. Oh yes; yes they could.’
So he had stayed at home every night, including Saturdays, up till recently when, the urge rearing once more, he had joined a game, not on the waterfront, nor in the town, but away on the outskirts in Boldon.
It was odd how he had come to be reintroduced to the Boldon house for he had forgotten he had ever played there. He was in the train going to Gateshead when a ‘find the lady’ trickster took him for a mug. He had followed him into the compartment at Shields, then got on talking with a supposedly complete stranger who boarded the train at Tyne Dock, whom he very convincingly inveigled into ‘finding the lady,’ and, of course, let him win, all the while making a great fuss about his own bad luck, before turning to Rory and saying, ‘What about you, sir?’ It was then that Rory had turned a scornful glance on the man and replied, ‘Don’t come it with me. That dodge is as old as me whiskers.’
For a moment he had thought the pair of them were going to set about him. Then the one who had supposedly just won peered at him and said, ‘Why I know you, I’ve played in with you. Didn’t you use to go up to Telfords’ in Boldon?’
Yes, he had played in the Telfords’ wash-house, and in their kitchen, and once up in the roof lying on his belly.
From that meeting the urge had come on him again, not that it had ever really left him. But he had played no games, even for monkey nuts since Janie had gone.
So he had got in touch with the Telfords again and he went to Boldon on a Saturday night, where it could be simply Black Jack or pitch and toss. Sometimes the Telford men went farther afield to a barn for a cock fight, but he himself would always cry off this. He didn’t mind a bit of rabbit coursing but he didn’t like to see the fowls, especially the bantams, being torn to shreds with steel spurs. To his mind it wasn’t sporting.
His winnings rarely went beyond five pounds, but neither did his losses. It didn’t matter so much now about the stake as long as he could sit down to a game with men who were serious about it.
But now, at this present time, he was also vitally aware that he was playing in another kind of game, and this game worried him.
He looked back to the particular Saturday morning when, having told her he was married, her reaction had made him jump to conclusions which caused him to chastise himself for being a big-headed fool. But he chastised himself no longer.
He saw the situation he was in now as the biggest gamble of his life. There were two players only at this table and inevitably one would have to show his hand. Well, it wouldn’t, it couldn’t be him, it could never be him for more reasons than one. Him marry Charlotte Kean, a woman years older than himself and looking, as she did, as shapeless as a clothes prop, and with a face as plain as the dock wall! True, she had a nice voice . . . and a mind. Oh aye, she had a mind all right. And she was good company. Yes, of late he had certainly been discovering that. She could talk about all kinds of things, and he had realized that by listening to her he too could learn. She could make a very good friend; yet even so there could be no such thing between him and her for two reasons: on his part, you didn’t, in his class, make friends with a woman, oh no, unless you wanted one thing from her: on her part, it wasn’t a friend she wanted, it was a man, a husband.
Oh, he knew where things were leading. And he wouldn’t hoodwink himself, he was tempted all right. Oh aye, he was both tempted and flattered. At nights he would lie thinking of what it would mean to live in Birchingham House in the select end of Westoe and to be in control of all those properties and businesses, all that money. My God! just to think of it. And he would be in control, wouldn’t he? What was the wife’s was the husband’s surely. And there she was, willing, more than willing, to let him take control, him, Rory Connor, once rent collector from No. 2 The Cottages, Simonside. It was fantastic, unbelievable.
And them up in the kitchen, what would they say if he took this step? Lord! the place wouldn’t hold them. No, he was wrong there. It wouldn’t affect Ruth. As for her, his mother, after one look at Charlotte Kean she would be more than likely to say, ‘My God! everything must be paid for.’ She had a way with her tongue of stating plain facts. It would be his da who would brag. Every man in his shop would know, and it would be talked of in every pub in Jarrow from the church bank to the far end of Ellison Street.
But what would Bill Waggett say?
Ah, what the hell did it matter! It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. Anyway, he was all right as he was. Jimmy wasn’t doing so bad; he’d do better if it wasn’t for them blasted Pitties. By, he’d get his own back on them if it was the last thing he did in life. Hardly a day passed but that he didn’t think of them, when he would grab at this or that idea to get even with them. And he would, he would. He’d get a lead one day, and by God, when he did, let them look out! . . . He could have a lead now, right away. With money you had power, and it needed power to potch the Pitties. All he had to do was to say, ‘Thank you kindly, Miss Kean, I’ll be your man,’ and he was home, safe home from the stormy sea, with chests full to the top.
But what would he really say? He knew what he’d say. ‘I’m sorry, miss, but it wouldn’t work.’
And, strangely, he realized that when he should say the latter he would be sorry, for, banter as he would, and did, about her in his mind there was a part of him that was sorry for her, and it had been growing of late. He pitied her lonely state, and he understood it because of the loneliness within himself. But although her kind of loneliness had gone on for years and she was weary of it, she was not yet resigned to it. That was why she had set her sights on him.
But why him? People of her station usually classed the likes of him as muck beneath their feet. And what was more, just think how she’d be talked about if anything should come of it. Lord! any link up with him would set the town on fire.
He was already vaguely aware that sly looks were being cast in their direction. When they were last in Durham to look over some property along the river bank they had gone to an inn to eat. She had chosen it, she said, because she thought he would like it; it was a man’s place, oak-trestle tables, hefty beams, meat pudding and ale. And he would have liked it if it hadn’t been in Durham . . . the gaol was in Durham.
Well, he had done what he could in that direction. He had tried to make reparation; he had given Jimmy ten pounds and sent him up to visit John George and to ask him if he would come and see him when he came out. But Jimmy had returned with the ten pounds; John George was already out and they couldn’t tell him where he had gone. For days afterwards he had expected a visit from him, but John George hadn’t come. So he told himself that the business was closed; he had done his best. It was only in his recurring nightmare, when he would relive the awakening to Janie shouting at him, did he realize that his best hadn’t been good enough and that John George would be with him like an unhealed wound until the end of his days.
But on that day in the inn in Durham, two Shields’ men—gentlemen—had come to their table to speak to Charlotte Kean, and she had introduced him to them. They were a Mr Allington and a Mr Spencer. He knew of both of them. Allington was a solicitor, and Spencer owned a number of small grocery shops. He had started with one about fifteen years ago, and now they had spread into Jarrow and beyond.
After the first acknowledgment, they hadn’t addressed him again until they were bidding her good-bye, and then they had merely inclined their heads towards him. Oh, he knew where he stood with the gentlemen of the town. He was an upstart rent man.
Then came the day when Charlotte Kean showed her hand and brought an abrupt end to the game by laying her cards face up on the table.
They had returned from Newcastle where she had been to see, of all things, an iron foundry with a view to taking a part share in it. The journey had been taken against the advice of her solicitor. The Tyneside foundries, he had said, were unable to produce iron as cheaply as they once had done; the railways had killed the iron trade in this part of the country. But she had explained, and to Rory himself, that she could not follow her solicitor’s reasoning, for, as she saw it, people would always want iron stoves, kitchen grates, fenders, and railings of all kinds, from those that enclosed parks to small private gates; and then there were bedsteads and safes and such-like. She went on to say she wasn’t thinking of competing with Palmer’s and making ships but merely of supplying household requisites. What did he think?
He had answered her bluntly, as always, for he had learned that she preferred the truth, at least in most things. ‘I think that I agree with Mr Hardy; he knows what he’s talking about.’
‘And you think I don’t?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that you know very much about the iron trade.’
‘You are aware that I read a great deal?’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that, but as I understand it it takes more than reading to get an insight into such trades; the workings of them go deeper than books.’
‘The workings might, but I would leave the workings to managers and men, of course.’
He shrugged his shoulders slightly and smiled as he said, ‘Well, I won’t say you know best, but what I will say is, you’ll do what you want in the long run.’
That he could speak to her in this fashion was evidence of how far they had travelled in their association over the past year. He now rarely used the term miss, and although from time to time she would call him Mr Connor, it was usually done when in the presence of servants; at other times she addressed him without using his name at all.
Whatever her servants thought of the situation they treated their mistress’s new manager with respect, even deference, which at one time would have amused him. At one time, too, such subservient attitudes would have given him material for mimicry and a big joke in the kitchen; in fact, his association with Miss Charlotte Kean would have been one big joke. At one time, but not now. Anyway, Sundays were different now. He did not always visit the cottage on a Sunday, he went up only on Jimmy’s urging. He did not ask himself why he had turned against the Sunday gatherings, but he knew that the general opinion was he had become too big for his boots. And that could very well be near the truth, for he admitted to himself that the more he saw of the Westoe side of life the less he liked that in which he had been brought up.
He had, on this day, gone through a mental battle which left him thinking he didn’t know which end of him was up. It was the anniversary of Janie’s death, and there was no fierce ache left in him, and he felt there should be. He should, in some way, have held a sort of memorial service, at least within himself, but what had he done? Gone up to Newcastle, walked blithely by his employees side as she paraded around a foundry, sat with her at a meal, which she called lunch, at the Royal Exchange Hotel; then had waited like a docile husband while she went shopping in Bainbridge’s. He had sauntered with her through the Haymarket, where they had stopped and examined almost every article in the ironmongery store. Then she had said they would go to the Assembly Rooms and he wondered what her object was, until, standing outside, she looked at the building and said almost sadly, ‘My mother once danced in there. She often told me about it. It was the highlight of her life; she was taken there by a gentleman—and they danced the whole evening through.’
When she had turned her face towards him he had ended for her, flippantly, ‘And they married and lived happy ever after.’
‘No, she married my father.’
What could he make of that? Her last call was at Mawson & Swan’s in Grey Street, where she purchased a number of books.
By the time they reached the railway station he likened himself to a donkey, he was so loaded down under parcels, and he thanked God he wasn’t likely to come across anyone he knew. When they arrived at Shields she hired a cab, and they drove through the drizzling rain to the house, and into warmth and comfort and elegance.
Elegance was another new word he had of late added to his vocabulary; it was the only word to describe this house, its furniture and the comforts of it.
‘Ah, isn’t it nice to be home?’ She had returned from upstairs, where she had evidendy combed her hair and applied some talcum powder to her face for her chin had the same appearance as Ruth’s had when she wiped it with a floured hand.
‘It’s an awful night; you must have something before you go, something to eat that is. Did Mr Taylor bring the takings?’
‘Yes; I’ve checked them, they’re all right.’
This was a new departure; he no longer went to the office to collect the rents. Mr Taylor had been promoted and so came each evening to the house.
On the days she did not send him off on tours of inspection he would receive the money from the old man, count it, then check the books, and never did he hand them back to him but he saw himself as he was a year ago, a younger edition of this man. That was the only difference, a younger edition; the old man’s insecurity did not make his own position in comparison appear strong, quite the reverse.
Only a week ago he had felt he could play his hand for a good while yet, but today, the anniversary of Janie’s death, he had a feeling in his bones that soon all the cards would be laid face up, and as always they would show a winner and a loser; there could never be two winners in any game . . .
Why not?
Oh my God! He’d been through it all before, hadn’t he, night after night? He was what he was, that was why not.
Below his outer covering, his jaunty aggressive air, the look that gave nothing away while at the same time suggesting that what it had to hide was of value, behind all this, only he himself knew the frailties of his character. Yet, in this particular case, he wasn’t going to be weak enough—or did he mean strong enough?—to cheat at this game and let her be the winner.
And again he told himself he had to stop hoodwinking himself on this point too, because it wasn’t really the moral issue that would prevent him from letting her win, but the fact that he didn’t think he was up to paying the stake. It was too high. Yet he liked her. Oh aye, it was very odd to admit, but he liked her. He liked being with her; she was good company, except at those times when she made him feel so small that he imagined she could see him crawling around her feet. Once or twice she had done this when he had dared to contradict her on some point with regard to the business. And yet she never took that high hand with him when they were in company. At such times she always deferred to him as a woman might to her husband, or her boss.
She was a funny character; he couldn’t get to the bottom of her. He had never known anyone in his life so knowledgeable or so self-possessed. But then, never in his life had he been in contact with women of her class.
‘You will stay for something to eat?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
‘Good.’ She smiled at him, put her hand to her hair and stroked it upwards and back from her forehead; then she said, ‘Don’t sit on the edge of that chair as if you were waiting to take off in a race.’
His jaw tightened, his pleasant expression vanished. This was the kind of thing that maddened him.
‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry.’
Now she was sitting forward on the edge of the couch leaning towards him. ‘Please don’t be annoyed. I have the unfortunate habit of phrasing my requests in the manner of orders.’ She made a small deprecating movement with her head. ‘I . . . I must try to grow out of it. All I intended to say was, please relax, be comfortable . . . make yourself at home.’ The last words ended on a low note.
After a moment he slid slowly back into the chair and smiled ruefully at her.
Settling herself back once again on the couch, she stared at him before saying, still in a low tone, ‘I’m going to call you . . . No’—she lifted her hand—‘again my phrasing is wrong. What I mean to say is, may I call you by your Christian name?’
He did not answer but stared at her, unblinking.
She was looking down at her hands now where they were joined on her lap, her fingers making stroking movements between the knuckles. ‘You see, I . . . I want to talk to you this evening about . . . about something important, if you can afford me the time after dinner. Which reminds me. Would you mind ringing the bell, please?’
He rose slowly to his feet and pulled the bell by the side of the fireplace, and they didn’t speak until the maid appeared; then she said, ‘Mr Connor will be staying for dinner, Jessie. How long will it be?’
‘Well . . . well, it’s ready now, miss, but’—The girl cast a glance in Rory’s direction, then added, ‘Say five minutes’ time, miss?’
‘Very well, Jessie, thank you.’
When the door was closed on the maid, she said, I have never seen you smoke, do you smoke?’
‘Yes. I have a draw at nights.’
‘My father never smoked. I like the smell of tobacco. About . . . about your Christian name. What does the R stand for . . . Robert?’
‘No, Rory.’
‘Roar-y. What is it short for?’
‘Nothin’ that I know of. I was christened Rory.’
‘Roar-y.’ She mouthed the word, then said, ‘I like it. My name, as you know, is Charlotte. My father once said it was a very suitable name for me.’ Her head drooped again, ‘he was an unkind man, a nasty man, a mean nasty man.’
He could say nothing to this. He was so amazed at her frankness he just sat staring at her, until she said, ‘Would you care to go upstairs and wash?’ He blinked rapidly, swallowed, wetted his lips, and as he drew himself up from the chair answered, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
She did not rise from the couch but looked up at him. ‘The bathroom is the third door on the right of the landing.’
He inclined his head towards her, walked out of the drawing-room, across the hall and up the stairs. This was the first time he had been upstairs and he guessed it would be the last.
After closing the bathroom door behind him he stood looking about him in amazement. A full length iron bath stood on four ornamental legs. At one end of it were two shining brass taps, at the foot was a shelf and, on it, an array of coloured bottles and fancy boxes. To the left stood a wash basin, and to the left of that again a towel rack on which hung gleaming white towels. In the wall opposite the bath was a door, and when he slowly pushed this open he found he was looking down into a porcelain toilet, not a dry midden as outside the cottage, or a bucket in a lean-to on the waterfront, but something that looked too shiningly clean to be put to the use it was intended for.
A few minutes later as he stood washing his hands, not from any idea of hygiene, but simply because he wanted to see the bowl fill with water, he thought, I’m a blasted fool. That’s what I am, a blasted fool. I could use this every day. I could eat downstairs in that dining-room every day. I could sit in that drawing-room, aye, and smoke every day. And I could sleep up here in one of these rooms every . . . He did not finish the sentence but dried his hands, gave one last look around the bathroom, then went downstairs.
The meal was over and once again they were sitting in the drawing-room.
He had hardly opened his mouth from the moment he had entered the dining-room until he left it. Talk about arms and legs; he could have been a wood louse, and he felt sure he had appeared just about as much at home too at that table as one might have done. Nor had it helped matters that she had been quiet an’ all. She usually kept the conversation going, even giving herself the answers, and now here they were and the game had come to an end, the cards were face up.
He felt sorry. In so many different ways he felt sorry, but most of all he knew that at this moment he was feeling sorry for her because he could see from her face, and her attitude, that she, too, was in a bit of a spot, and he was wishing, sincerely wishing that it could have been possible for him to help her out of it, when she spoke.
Sitting perfectly still, staring straight ahead as if she were concentrating on the picture of her grandfather above the mantelpiece, she said, I . . . I really don’t know how to begin, but this thing must be brought into the open. You . . . you are aware of that as much as I am, aren’t you?’ It was some seconds before she turned her head towards him, and now such were his feelings of pity that he couldn’t hold her gaze. He looked down on his hands, as she herself had done earlier and, like hers, his fingers rubbed against each other.
She was speaking again, softly now, her voice scarcely above a whisper. ‘I am putting you in a very embarrassing situation. I’m aware of that. Even if your feelings were such that you wanted to put a certain question to me, you wouldn’t under the circumstances have the courage to do so, but let me tell you one thing immediately. I know that you have no wish to put that question to me. If you agree to what I am going to ask of you, I won’t be under the illusion it is through any personal attraction, but that it will be for what my offer can bring to you in the way of advantages.’
His head was up now. ‘I don’t want advantages that way.’
‘Thank you at least for that.’ As she made a deep obeisance with her head towards him, he put in quickly, ‘Don’t get me wrong. What I meant was—’ He shook his head, bit hard down on his lip as he found it impossible to explain what he meant, and she said, ‘I know what you meant, but . . . but you haven’t yet heard my proposition.’
She turned her face away and once again stared at the picture as she went on, ‘Suppose I were to ask you to marry me, you would . . . you would, on the face of it I know, refuse, forgoing all the advantages that would go with such a suggestion, but suppose I were to say to you that this would be no ordinary marriage, that I . . . I would expect nothing from you that an ordinary wife would from her husband. You could have your own apartments, all I would ask for is . . . is your companionship, and your presence in this house, of which . . . of which you would be the master.’ She again turned her face towards him.
He was sitting bolt upright in the chair now; his eyes were wide and his mouth slightly open. He said under his breath, ‘That would be the poor end of the stick for you, wouldn’t it?’
‘Poor end of the stick?’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Well, if I would be quite satisfied with the poor end of the stick, shouldn’t that be enough for you?’
He shook his head. ‘No! No! It wouldn’t be right, for as I see it you wouldn’t be gettin’ any more out of me than you do now . . . . So why not let things be as they are?’
There now came upon them an embarrassing silence, before she said, ‘Because I need companionship, male companionship. Not just anyone, someone, an individual, someone whom I consider special, and . . . and I chose you. What is more, I feel I know you, I know you very well. I know that you like this house, you like this way of living, I know that you could learn to appreciate finer things. Not that I dislike the roughness in you; no, it is part of your attraction, your bumptiousness, your arrogance. It is more difficult to be arrogant when you have nothing to be arrogant about than when you have something.’
His face took on its blank look. This was the kind of clever talk that maddened him, and he had no way of hitting back except by using the arrogance she was on about. He said gruffly, ‘You seem to think you know a lot about me, everything in fact.’
‘No, not everything, but quite a bit. I’ve always given myself the credit of being able to read character. I know a lot of things about a lot of people, especially in this town, and I know what a good many of them are saying at this very moment—and about us.’
‘About us?’
‘Oh yes, yes, about us. Don’t you know that we’re being talked about? Don’t you know they’re saying—’ she now dropped into the local inflexion which patterned the speech of even many of the better-off of the townsfolk—“What d’you think, eh? Kean’s daughter and the rent collector. And her five years older than him and as plain as a pikestaff. She’s brazen, that’s what she is, she’s buying him. And, of course, he’s willing to be bought. He’s no fool, who would turn down that chance? She should be ashamed of herself though, using her money as bait. You can’t blame the fellow. And you know, this didn’t start the day, or yesterday; they were going at it when his wife was alive”? . . . That’s what they’re saying.’
His face was burning, the colour suffusing it was almost scarlet.
‘Oh, please don’t get upset about it; you must have been aware that our association would cause a minor scandal?’
‘I wasn’t!’ His answer was vehement. If . . . if I’d thought they’d been saying that I . . . I wouldn’t have gone on. I . . . I was your manager. Anyway, if you knew this, why didn’t you put a stop to it? Why did you let it go on?’
‘Oh . . . huh! Why? Well, to tell you the truth, it made me all the more determined to go on. I don’t care a fig for their chatter. What are they after all, the majority of them? Braggarts, strutting little nonentities, men who have clawed their way up over the dead bodies of miners, or of their factory workers. Oh, there are a good many hypocrites in this town. I could reel them off, sanctimonious individuals, leading double lives. You know, you’d think Newcastle was at the other end of the world, and it is for some of them, keeping their second homes . . . It is very strange you know but women talk to me, they confide in me; perhaps it’s because to them I’m unfeminine. But anyway—’ she tossed her head to the side—‘I have no room to speak, at least on the point of clawing one’s way up, for what did my father do for anyone except himself? And for that matter what have I done but talk? But this is where you come in. I have thought that with you I might begin to do things for other people. I—’ her voice dropped—‘I might become so at peace with myself that I could turn my thoughts on to the needs of others, and there are many in need in this town. And you know that better than I do, because you have been on that side of the wall. You have had to say “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” and of course—’ she nodded dt him—‘ “Yes, miss,” and “No, miss,” and it’s only recently and only through you that I have realized how people such as you, in your position, must feel.’
She now rose from the couch abruptly and, going to the mantelpiece, she put her hands on it and looked down into the fire as she muttered, ‘I am not saying this in order to make the future appear more attractive. If . . . if closer association with me would be intolerable to you, very well, you have only to say so.’
‘And what if I did, what then?’ The question was quiet, soft, and her answer equally so. ‘I don’t know, because . . . because I haven’t allowed myself to look into the future and face the desolation there.’
As he stared up at her he thought, She’s remarkable. By aye, she’s a remarkable woman. He had never imagined anyone talking as frankly as she had done; no man would ever have been as honest. He said softly, ‘Will you give me time to think it over?’
‘No!’
The word was barked and it brought him to his feet as if it had been the crack of a gun. He watched her march down the room, then back again towards him. At the head of the couch she stopped, and he saw her fingers dig into the upholstery as she said tersely, ‘It must be now, yes or no. I . . . I cannot go on in uncertainty. I . . . I’m not asking anything from you but to come into this house and stay with me as a . . . a friend, a companion. You don’t believe it now, but you’ll find out there’s more lasting happiness stems from friendship than has ever done from love. I know you don’t love me, couldn’t love me, and never will . . . No! No! Don’t protest.’ She lifted her hand. ‘Let us start from the beginning being honest. When you lost your wife I knew that you must have loved her deeply, and that kind of love only happens once, but there are other emotions comparable with love. A man can have them towards a woman and be happy. That can also apply to a woman, although’—She swallowed deeply in her throat here before ending, ‘In most cases she needs to love even if she’s not loved in return.’
God, he was hot, sweating. What could he say? What could he do? Strangely, he knew what he had the desire to do, and it was scattering to the winds all his previous decisions, for at this moment he wanted to go behind that couch and put his arms about her, comfort her. Just that, comfort her. Nothing else, just comfort her. Then why wasn’t he doing it?
He was surprised to hear himself saying in a voice that sounded quite ordinary, ‘Come and sit down.’ He was holding his hand out to her, and slowly she put hers into it. Then he drew her round the head of the couch and on to its seat, and still with her hand in his he sat beside her, and as he looked at her an excitement rose in him. He seemed to be drawing it from her. Aye yes, that was the other word he wanted for what he felt for her, excitement. It was almost akin to the feeling he got when he was in a good game. He hadn’t been aware of it, but that was why he had liked to be in her company, liked to hear her talk; even when she was getting her sly digs in at him, she was exciting.
If she hadn’t been so tall and thin and plain what was happening now would likely have happened months ago. But now he realized that her thinking, her voice, her manner, the way she dressed, all the things she did were in a way a compensation for her looks. In fact, they formed a kind of cloak over them because there had been times lately when in her company that he had forgotten how she looked. He hadn’t realized this until now. Suddenly he felt at ease with her as he’d never done before. He knew he could talk to her now, aye and comfort her. He bent towards her and said, ‘Can I tell you something?’
Her eyes had a moisture in them when she answered, ‘I’m eager to hear whatever you have to say, Rory.’
‘It’s going to be difficult for me to put into words ’cos you see I haven’t your gift, your gift of the gab.’ He wagged the hand that was within his. ‘You know you’ve got the gift of the gab, don’t you? But there’s one thing, when you open your mouth something meaningful always comes out. That’s the difference between you an’ me . . . and the likes of me. But I . . . I want to tell you, I’ve been learnin’ these months past. There’s not a day gone by when I’ve been with you but I haven’t learned something from you. It mightn’t show, it still hasn’t covered up me aggressiveness.’ Again he shook her hand. ‘And I want to tell you something more. I’ve liked being with you . . . I mean, I do like being with you. You won’t believe this, but well, I . . . I find you sort of exciting, I’ve never known any other woman like you. Well, I wouldn’t, would I, not coming from my quarter? Mind, I must say at this point that Janie was a fine girl and I was happy with her. I’ve got to say that; you said a minute ago let’s be honest. Yet, at the same time, I’ve got to admit she wasn’t excitin’. Lovable aye, but not excitin’. Looking back, I see that Janie had little to teach me, only perhaps thoughtfulness for others; she could get really worked up over other people’s problems, you know, and after all, that’s no small thing, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t . . . Rory.’
‘Yes?’
‘What is the answer you’re giving me? I . . . I want to hear it in . . . in definite terms. You are being kind now but I don’t know whether it is merely to soothe me. I want to hear you say, “Yes, Charlotte,” or “No, Charlotte.” ’
Their hands were still joined, their knees almost touching, their faces not more than two feet apart, and he knew that if he said no, his life would in some way become empty, barren, and not only because he might no longer have admittance to this house.
‘. . . Yes . . . Charlotte.’
He watched her close her eyes. When she opened them they were bright; in any other face they would have been starry.
‘It’s a bargain.’
‘Aye, it’s a bargain.’
As he uttered the words he again had a vivid mental picture of the kitchen. He could see his dad, Ruth, her, and Jimmy, all staring at him, all saying, ‘What, her, Miss Kean! Never! . . . What about Janie?’
He said suddenly, ‘I’m not going to make any excuses about me people; I’m not going to hide them; you’ll have to meet them.’
‘I’ll be pleased to, very pleased to. I’ve never had any people of my own.’
He said suddenly on a laugh, ‘You know something? I’ll never make excuses to you, I’ll always tell you the truth. That’s a promise. It’ll likely not always please you . . .’
‘It won’t.’ She was pulling a long face at him now and her laughter was high, slightly out of control as she said, ‘It certainly won’t if you tell me you are going out gambling every night.’
When his eyes widened and his lips fell apart her laughter increased and she cried with the air of a young teasing girl, which lay awkwardly on her, ‘Didn’t I tell you I know most things about most people in this town?’
His face straight and his voice flat, he asked, ‘How did you know about that?’
‘Deduction, and the one word you kept repeating when you were in hospital. When I first saw you, you said again and again, “Pittie. Pittie. Pittie.” The second time I visited you you were still saying it.’
‘I was?’
‘Yes, and you know when a man gets beaten up as you were there’s nearly always something behind it. A footpad might have hit you on the head and knocked you senseless, but then I don’t think he would have kicked you within an inch of death’s door. After thinking about it, I realized you were telling everyone the name of your assailants, but no one seemed to be taking any notice, they thought you were saying, “lsn’t it a pity?” when what you were really doing was giving them the name of the men who attacked you, the Pittie brothers. The Pittie brothers are well-known scoundrels, besides being dirty gamblers. They were fined for gambling some short time ago.’
‘Huh! Huh!’ A smile was spreading over his face, widening his mouth. He now put his head back on his shoulder and laughed until his body shook, and she laughed with him.
His chest was heaving and he was still laughing when he looked into her face again and said, ‘I’ve thought it, but now I’ll say it, you’re a remarkable woman.’
‘Oh, please don’t judge my intelligence on the fact that I recognized something that should have been staring everyone in the face, the police into the bargain. Yet at the same time I don’t think the police were as stupid as they made out to be, but when they asked you had you seen the assailant or assailants, I was given to understand you said no, you had been attacked while walking down a side street.’
He screwed up his eyes at her now and, his face serious, he asked, ‘But . . . but how could you know that I gambled?’
She stared at him for a long moment before saying, and seriously now, ‘A short while ago you said you’d always tell me the truth. I understood, of course, that you were referring to the future, but now I’m going to ask you: Is there anything further you want to tell me, anything, about your past say?’
For a moment he wondered if she were referring to his birth. He stared into her eyes, then gulped in his throat as he thought, She can’t know about the other business, else I wouldn’t be here now.
‘Think hard before you answer.’
He felt the colour flooding his face again. They were staring into each other’s eyes. His body was sweating; it was as if he were having a nightmare in broad daylight. His voice was a gruff whisper when he said, ‘Well, knowin’ what you know, or think you know, why am I sitting here now?’
Her voice was equally low as she replied, ‘I’ll answer that in a moment when you answer my question.’
His gaze riveted on her, he pondered. If she didn’t know, if she wasn’t referring to John George’s business then what he was about to say would likely put the kibosh on her proposal. But if it was that she was hinting at, then indeed, aye, by God! indeed she was a remarkable woman.
He closed his eyes for a moment, lowered his head, and turned it to the side before he muttered, as if he were in the confessional box: ‘I took the five pounds that John George did time for. I went back that night and helped meself, but like him I expected to be there first thing on the Monday morning to return it. If . . . if I had been there and you had caught me I would have stood me rap along of him, but by the time I knew what had happened I was sick and weak, and petrified at the thought of prison.’ His head still to the side, he jerked his neck out of his collar before going on, ‘I . . . . I have a fear on me, always have had since I was nailed down in a box as a child. I fear being shut in, I can’t stand being behind closed doors of any kind. I . . . I should have come forward, I know, but there it is, I didn’t . . . Is that what you want to know?’
There was a long pause and when she made no reply he looked at her again and said ‘You knew this all along?’
‘No, not from the beginning,’ she shook her head slowly. ‘But in the court I felt the man was speaking the truth and I recalled his amazement when I mentioned that not ten shillings but five pounds ten was missing. He was so astonished he couldn’t speak. But in any case, five pounds ten or ten shillings he had to be brought to book, for, as he admitted, he had been tampering with the books for some long time, and as he also admitted, not only for ten shillings at a time either.’
All this time their hands had been joined and he looked down on them as he asked quietly, ‘Why am I here now? Tell me that. Knowing all this about me, why am I here now?’
She now withdrew her hands from his and, rising to her feet, went towards the fire and once again looked at the picture above the mantelpiece. Then she wetted her lips twice and drew in a long breath before she said softly, I . . . I happen to care for you . . . This, of course, wipes out all my fine talk about friendship et cetera, but you see—’ again she wetted her lips—‘I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you in my father’s office. It was just like that, quickly, the most sudden thing in my life. I remember thinking, that’s the kind of man I would like to marry if it were possible. I knew it was a preposterous desire, quite hopeless, utterly hopeless. My father would never have countenanced it. Strangely, he didn’t like you. But then he liked so few people, and if I’d shown the slightest interest in you, even mentioned your name in a kindly fashion, he would have dismissed you.’
She turned and looked at him. ‘I’m a fraud, but I really did not intend that you should know this. I . . . I was going to acquire you under false pretences. But . . . but it makes no difference to the bargain. That can remain as it stands. But—’ she laughed self-consciously—‘so much for all my fine platonic talk. You know, Rory, the emotions are not measured in proportion to one’s looks: if that were so all the beauties in the world would be passionate lovers, but from what I have gauged from my reading they’re often very cold women. My . . . my emotions don’t match my looks, Rory, but as I said the bargain stands: you give me your friendship and protection as a husband, I will give you what . . . well, what I cannot help giving you.’
He rose from the couch and went slowly towards her, and he stared into her face before he said softly, ‘There must be a dozen men in this town who’d be only too glad to have married you, and would serve you better than I’ll ever be able to.’
‘Doubtless, doubtless.’ She nodded slowly at him. ‘But you see, and here we come to the question of truth again, they would have been marrying me for one thing, my money, and they would likely have been men with whom I couldn’t bargain. In their cases I would most assuredly have wished them to have their own apartments, but in their cases they would assuredly not have complied, for let us face the fact that most men’s needs do not require the stimulus of love . . .’
Slowly and firmly now he put his arms about her and drew her thin form towards him, and when he felt her taut body relax against him, and her head bury itself in his shoulder, he put his face into the dark coils of her hair and murmured, ‘Don’t. There, there, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I’ll . . . I’ll make you happy, Charlotte. I promise I’ll make you happy.’
He didn’t know how he was going to do it. The only thing he was sure of in this fantastic moment was that he’d have a damned good try.
He stood in the kitchen at the end of the long table, while they, like a combating force, stood at the other end, Ruth, his father, and Lizzie. Jimmy stood to the side towards the middle of the table, his face pale, anxious, his eyes darting between them like a troubled referee.
‘Well, you can say something, can’t you?’ His voice re-echoed through the timbers in the roof.
It was his father who spoke. Quietly he said, ‘Janie’s hardly cold.’
‘Janie’s been dead over a year, a year and three weeks to be exact.’
‘Huh! Well.’ Paddy broke away from the group and walked towards the fireplace and, picking up a clay pipe from the mantelpiece, he bent and tapped it on the hob, knocking out the doddle as he said, ‘You’re doin’ well for yersel, there’s that much to be said. Aye, aye. They used to say old Kean could buy Shields, that is the parts Cookson hadn’t bought up. Money grabbers, the lot of them I . . .’
‘It wasn’t the money . . .’
‘Well, begod! it couldn’t be her face.’
Rory swung round and glared at Lizzie. It looked for a moment as if he would spring down the table and strike her. Their eyes held across the distance before she snapped her gaze from his and, swinging round, went towards the scullery, muttering, ‘My God! My God! What next!’
The anger in him blinded him for a moment. Any other family in the town, any other family from here to Newcastle, would, he imagined, have fallen on his neck for making such a match, but not his family, aw no. In their ignorance they thought you must keep loyal to the dead, if not for ever, then for a decent period of years.
His vision clearing, he glared now at Ruth. She was usually the one to see both sides of everything, but she wasn’t seeing his side of this, there was a stricken look on her face. He put his hands on the table and leant towards her now as he cried, ‘You didn’t condemn her da, did you—’ he jerked his head back in the direction of the cottage next door—‘when he went off and lived with his woman in Jarrow after Gran died. He couldn’t wait. Six weeks, that’s all he stayed there alone, six weeks. But you said nothin’ about that. And I’m marrying her. Do you hear?’ He flashed a glance towards his father’s bent head. ‘I’m not taking her on the side. And one at a time’ll be enough for me.’
There was no sound in the kitchen. Paddy hadn’t moved, Ruth hadn’t moved, Lizzie hadn’t burst into the room from the scullery. He stood breathing deeply. Then looking at Jimmy, he yelled, ‘I came here, you know I came here to say that she wanted to meet them. My God! she didn’t know what she was askin’ . . . Well, it doesn’t matter. I know where I stand now; you’ll want me afore I’ll want you, the lot of you.’ And on this he turned round and marched out of the room.
Before the door had crashed closed Lizzie appeared in the kitchen. Paddy turned from the fireplace, and Ruth, putting her hand out towards Jimmy as if she were pushing him, said quickly and in a choked voice, ‘Go after him. Stay with him. Tell . . . tell him it’ll be all right.’
She was now pressing Jimmy towards the door. ‘Tell . . . tell him I understand, and . . . and shell be welcome. Tell him that, shell be welcome.’
Jimmy didn’t speak but, grabbing up his cap, he pulled it tight down on his head, then ran wobbling down the path and out of the gate, calling, ‘Rory! Rory!’
He was at the top of the bank before he caught up with Rory.
‘Aw, man, hold your hand a minute. It’s . . . it’s no use gettin’ in a paddy. I . . . I told you afore we come it would give them a gliff; it gave me a gliff, not only . . . not because of Janie, but . . .’
‘But what?’ Rory pulled up so suddenly that Jimmy went on a couple of steps before turning to him and looking up at him and saying fearlessly, ‘You want the truth? All right, you’ll get it. She’s different, older; plain, as Lizzie said, plain an’ . . .’
‘Aye, go on.’ Rory’s voice came from deep within his throat.
‘Well . . . All right then, I’ll say it, I will, I’ll say it, she’s a different class from you. You’ll . . . you’ll be like a fish out of water.’
Rory, his voice a tone quieter now, bent over Jimmy and said slowly, ‘Did you feel like a fish out of water last night when you met her?’
Jimmy tossed his head, blinked, then turned and walked on, Rory with him now, and after a moment, he answered, ‘No, ’cos . . . ’cos I felt she had set out to make me like her. But I won’t be livin’ with her.’ He now turned his head up to Rory. ‘That’s the difference, I won’t have to live her life and meet her kind of people. I won’t have to live up to her.’
‘And you think I can’t?’
Jimmy’s head swayed from one side to the other following the motion of his body, and he said, ‘Aye, just that.’
‘Thanks. Thanks very much.’
‘I . . . I didn’t mean it nasty, man, no more than they meant to be nasty.’
‘Huh! They didn’t mean to be nasty? My God! You must have ten skins. You were there, you were there, man, weren’t you?’
Jimmy didn’t answer for a while, and then he said quietly, ‘Me ma says she’ll be welcome; you can bring her and she’ll be welcome.’
‘Like hell I will! Take her up there among that bigoted tribe? Not on your bloody life. Well—’ he squared his shoulders and his step quickened and his arms swung wider—‘why should I worry me head, they’re the losers, they’ve potched themselves. I could have put them all on their feet, I could have set them all up, set them up for life.’ He cast a hard glance down now on Jimmy and demanded, ‘Do you know how much I’ll be worth when I marry her? Have you any idea? I’ll be a rich man, ’cos she’s rollin’, and I’ll be in control. Just think on that.’
‘Aye well, good for you, I hope it keeps fine for you.’
The colloquial saying which was for ever on Lizzie’s tongue caused Rory to screw up his eyes tightly for a moment.
I hope it keeps fine for you.
Would he ever do anything right in this world? Would he ever do anything to please anybody? . . . Well, he was pleasing her, wasn’t he? He had never seen a woman so openly happy in his life as he had her these past three weeks. Her happiness was embarrassing; aye, and humbling, making him say to himself each night when he left her, I’ll repay her in some way, and he would, he would, and to hell with the rest of them. The kitchen had seen him for the last time, he’d go to that registry office whenever she liked and he’d show them, by God! he’d show them. He would let them see if he could live up to her or not.
I hope it keeps fine for you.
And Janie was dead!
He let himself in through the front door, but as he opened the door leading from the lobby into the hall Jessie was there to close it for him.
‘What a night, sir. Eeh! you are wet.’ As she took his hat and thick tweed coat from him he bent towards her and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Well, don’t shout it out, Jessie, or I’ll have to take cough mixture.’
‘Oh, sir.’ She giggled and shook her head, then said, ‘The mistress is upstairs,’ and as he nodded at her and went towards the staircase she hissed after him, ‘Your boots, sir.’
He looked down at his damp feet, then jerking his chin upwards and biting on his bottom lip like a boy caught in a misdemeanour he sat down on the hall chair and unlaced his boots. He then took his house shoes from her hand and pulled them on, and as he rose he bent towards her again and said in a whisper, ‘Between you all I’ll end up in a blanket.’
Again she giggled, before turning away towards the kitchen to inform the cook that the master was in. She liked the master, she did; the house had been different altogether since he had come into it. He might have come from the bottom end of nowhere but he didn’t act uppish. And what’s more, he had made the mistress into a new woman. By! aye, he had that. She had never seen such a change in anybody. Nor had she seen such a change in the house. Everybody was infected; as cook said, they’d all got the smit . . .
On opening the bedroom door he almost pushed her over and he put out his arm swiftly to catch her, saying, ‘Why are you standin’ behind the door?’
‘I wasn’t standing behind the door, Mr Connor, I was about to open the door.’
She put her face up to his and he kissed her gently on the lips.
‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘Jessie carried me from the front door to the foot of the stairs, made me put my slippers on, and told me to be a good boy.’
She shook his arm and smiled at him; then she unloosened his tie as she asked, ‘How did things go?’
He now pressed her from him and on to the long padded velvet stool set before the dressing table, and as he stood back from her he took off his coat and tugged the narrow tie from his high collar; then turned and as he walked towards the wardrobe that filled almost one entire wall, he pulled his shirt over his head, saying, ‘Very well. Very well. I’ve enjoyed meself the day.’ He looked over his shoulder.
‘More so than usual?’
‘Oh, much more so than usual.’
He now took from the wardrobe drawer a silk shirt with a wide soft collar, put it on, then divested himself of his trousers and, after selecting another pair from a rack, he stepped into them, while she watched him in silence and with seeming pleasure. Lastly, he donned a matching coat, then returned towards her, saying, ‘I met someone I’ve been hoping to meet for a long time.’
‘Lady or gentleman?’
He gave her a twisted smile now before answering, ‘Gentleman.’
‘Oh—’ She placed her hand on her heart now, saying, ‘My rage is subsiding, please proceed.’
He gave a small laugh, then sat down beside her on the stool. ‘Do you know a man named Nickle?’
‘Nickle? I know two men by the name of Nickle, Mr Frank Nickle and Mr John Nickle, but they’re not related. Which one did you meet?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. This one lives in Plynlimmon Way.’
‘Oh, that’s Mr Frank Nickle. Why have you wanted to meet him? I’m sure you would have nothing in common.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong . . . What do you know of him?’
She put her head on one side as if considering, then said, ‘I know I don’t care much for him, yet I have nothing against him except that I don’t think he was kind to his wife. I met her twice. It was shortly after I came back from school, Mother was alive. We went to dinner there once, and she came here. She was a sad woman. I think she was afraid of him. Yes—’ she nodded—looking back, I think she was afraid of him. I don’t think Mother had much time for him either, but they were all members of the same church and . . . What are you laughing at?’
‘Oh, there’s the bell for dinner. I’ll tell you after.’
‘You’ll tell me now.’
He stared at her for a moment, then said quietly, ‘I’ll tell you later, Mrs Connor.’
She bit on her lip to stop herself from laughing, bowed her head slightly, then, holding her hand out to him, rose from the seat. When he didn’t immediately follow suit she said, ‘Would you mind accompanying me down to dinner, Mr Connor?’
‘Not at all, Mrs Connor.’ He did rise now and gave her his arm, and she laid her head against his for a moment and they went out and down the stairs and into the dining-room like a young couple who were so in love that they couldn’t bear to be separated even while going into a meal . . .
They had been married for five months now and Rory had grown so used to this way of life that it was hard at times for him to imagine he had ever lived any other. He was dressed as became a man of means; he ate like a man of means; he was beginning to enter the society of the town as should a man of means, because twice lately they had been asked out to dinner, and only four days ago he had played host to ten guests at this very table.
As day followed day he became more surprised at himself; he had never thought he would have adapted so quickly and so easily. Even Jimmy had said recently, ‘It’s amazing how you’ve learned to pass yourself. You’ll be hobnobbing with Lord Cole next.’
He had laughed and said, ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised at that either, lad,’ at the same time knowing that while he might have gained access to certain houses in the town, there were still those whose doors would never be open to the one-time rent man, and among the latter were certain members of her church.
She’d tried to get him to church. He should attend for two reasons, she had laughingly said, in God’s cause, and the cause of business. But no, he had put his foot down firmly here. He couldn’t be that kind of a hypocrite. He had been brought up a Catholic and although he had never been through a church door for years, except when the banns were called and on the day he was married, he’d been born one and he would die one, he wasn’t going to become a turncoat.
He was happy as he had never expected to be happy again in his life. It was a different kind of happiness, a steady, settled sort of happiness; a happiness made up partly of material things, partly of gratitude, and . . . and something else. It wasn’t love, but at the same time it came into that category, yet he couldn’t put a name to it. But he liked her, he liked her a lot, and he admired her. Strangely, he had ceased to be sorry for her. He couldn’t imagine now why he’d ever been sorry for her. And strangely too, he was more at ease in her company than he had ever been with anyone in his own family, apart from Jimmy that was . . . He hadn’t always been at ease with Janie. It was funny that, but he hadn’t. No, he couldn’t put a name to the feeling he had for Charlotte, he only knew that he liked being with her and that this was the life for him. He had fallen on his feet and he meant to see that they carried him firmly into the future . . .
The meal over and in the drawing-room, she sat by his side on the couch and watched him begin the process of filling his pipe—This liberty had even shocked the servants. No gentleman smoked in a drawing-room, but there, the mistress allowed it—and now she said, ‘Well, I’m waiting. What have you discovered about Mr Nickle that has filled you with glee?’
‘Glee?’
‘Yes, glee. It’s been oozing out of you since you came in.’
‘He’s a good churchman, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, as churchmen go, he’s a good churchman.’
‘A highly respected member of the community.’ He pressed the tobacco down into the wide bowl of his red-wood pipe.
‘What is it?’ She put her hand out and slapped his knee playfully, and he looked at her steadily for a minute before he said flatly, ‘He’s a two-faced hypocrite.’
‘Oh, is that all? Well, he’s not alone in this town, is he?’
‘He runs a gaming house.’
Now she was startled. ‘Mr Nickle running a gaming house? You’re dreaming, Rory.’
‘Oh no. Oh no, Charlotte, Rory isn’t dreaming,’ he mimicked her. ‘Rory once tried to get into Mr Nickle’s gaming house, but he was politely warned off, then recommended to a house in King Street. And you know what happened to Rory in King Street, don’t you?’
‘You can’t mean it?’ Her face was straight and his also, and his tone was deep and bitter when he answered, ‘I do. And it’s not only gaming he’s interested in when he can frighten little Joe . . .’
‘Who’s little Joe?’
‘He’s a bookie’s runner, you know, one who goes round taking bets. But he’s many more things besides, some things that it would be dangerous to look into. Not that he could do much on his own. But those who hire him could, such as our Mr Nickle. You know—’ he now rose and went to the fire and lit a spill and after drawing on his pipe came back towards her, saying, ‘You know, I wouldn’t have told you. I mean I wouldn’t have given him away, only I met him the day across the water in Crawford’s. He was doing the same as I was, getting the lay of the land, seeing if the place was worth buying, and he talked loudly to Crawford for my benefit about the stupidity of competing against rope works just farther up the river, such as Haggie’s. And all the while he eyed me. Yet he ignored me, completely ignored me. Then Crawford, who’s as blunt as an old hammer, said, “Aw well, if that’s your opinion of the place you’re not interested, are you? So what about you, Mr Connor, you think the same?” “No,” I said, “I’m here to talk business.” And on that the old fellow turned his back on our Mr Nickle and walked with me into the office, leaving his highness black in the face. And that’s whyI’Pm oozing glee, as you call it, ’cos Crawford’s askin’ much less than we thought. I told him we weren’t thinking of rope, but a foundry, at least material from it to make household goods.’
‘Good. Good.’ She put her hand out towards him, and he held it and went on, ‘And later, I saw his highness in the hotel when I was having a meal, and again he cut me dead. Now I could’ve understood such an attitude from any number of men in this town, and took it, but not from him, not knowin’ what I know about him. Because it isn’t only gambling, it’s lasses.’
‘Lasses?’
‘Yes, there’s quite a number of lasses disappear now and again.’
‘Oh no! Rory, he . . . he wouldn’t’
‘He would, and he does. Little Joe, the fellow I mentioned, was very much afraid of our Mr Nickle, and a game on the side wouldn’t have caused him to sweat so much so that he got washed and cleaned up afore going to his back door. I’d never known little Joe so clean in his life as when I saw him that day, the day I found out about Nickle . . . Look.’ He tugged her towards him. ‘I’ve thought of something. Do you think you could invite him here to dinner?’
‘Invite him here?’
‘That’s what I said. Say your husband would very much like to meet him.’
‘But after he’s cut you, do you think . . . ?’
‘Aye. Aye, I do. Invite him in a way that he’ll think twice about refusing . . . Put that something in your voice . . . You can do it.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘Aye. Yes, if you like.’
She began to smile slowly, then she nodded at him. ‘Yes, I see your point. Yes, I’ll invite him. If I’m not mistaken I’ll be meeting him next week; he’s a member of the Church Council. We’ll likely be sitting side by side in the vestry. Yes—’ she laughed outright now—‘I’ll invite him here, and enjoy it . . . that’s if he accepts the invitation.’
‘He will, after you’ve put it over in your own way . . . Huh! it’s a funny life.’ He leant back in the couch and she twisted her body round and looked fully at him.
‘How are you finding it?’
‘Finding what?’
‘Life, this funny life.’
Taking the pipe from his mouth, he said, ‘I’m liking this life fine, Mrs Connor. I never dreamed I’d like it so well.’
‘I wish I were beautiful.’ Her voice was low, and he pulled her suddenly towards him and encircled her with his arm, saying, ‘You’ve got qualities that beat beauty any day in the week. You’re the best-dressed woman in the town, too. Moreover, you’ve got something up top.’
‘Something up top?’ Her face was partly smothered against his shoulder. ‘I’d willingly be an empty-headed simpering nincompoop if only I . . . I looked different.’
Quickly now he thrust her from him and said harshly and with sincerity, ‘Well, I can tell you this much, you wouldn’t be sitting where you are now, or at least I wouldn’t be sitting where I am now, if you were an empty-headed nincompoop.’
‘Oh, Rory.’ She flung herself against him as any young girl might, and he lay back holding her tightly to him.
Hardly a week passed but he had to reassure her with regard to her looks. It seemed that she was becoming more conscious of her plainness as time went on, and yet strangely, he himself was actually becoming less aware of her lack of beauty as the days passed; there were even times when her whole face took on an attractive quality. Then there was her voice. Her voice was beautiful. He never tired listening to it, even when she was in one of her haughty moods, which were becoming rarer.
She was saying, ‘You’ve never asked what I’ve been doing all day today?’
‘What have you been doing all day today?’
‘Nothing. Nothing much. But . . . but I have two things to tell you.’
‘Two things? Well, get on with them. What are they?’
She pulled herself gently from his arms, saying now, ‘Don’t be disturbed, but Jimmy came this afternoon. One . . . one of the boats has been sunk . . .’
He was sitting on the edge of the couch now. ‘Why . . . why, didn’t you tell me this afore?’
She placed her hands on his shoulders, saying, ‘Be quiet. Don’t get agitated. I’ve seen to it.’
‘Where’s Jimmy now?’
‘Where he always is, in the boathouse.’
‘Look, I’d better go down, he shouldn’t be there alone. I’ll . . .’
‘I told you I’ve seen to it. Mr Richardson is staying there with him.’
‘The boat . . . what happened to the boat?’
‘A plank had been levered from the bottom.’
‘And it would have been full. He was transporting for Watson yesterday.’
‘Yes, it had on the usual cargo.’
‘And it all went to the bottom?’
‘They salvaged it. I went back with Jimmy; you hadn’t been gone half an hour.’
He pulled himself up from the couch and began to pace back and forth in front of the fire, grinding out between his teeth, ‘Those bloody Pitties!’ He never apologized for swearing in front of her, nor did she ever reprimand him. ‘If they’re not stopped they’ll do murder. Something’s got to be done.’ He was standing in front of her, looking down at her now, and she said quietly, ‘Something will be done; I’ve seen to that as well. I . . . I called on the Chief Constable. I told him of our suspicions. Of course you cannot accuse anyone unless you have absolute proof, but I knew by the little he said that he was well aware of the Pitties’ activities and would be as pleased as us to convict them. And he said something that I found very interesting. He ended by saying it was difficult of course to catch little fish when they were protected by big fish. What do you make of that?’
He rubbed his hand tightly along his jawbone. What do I make of it? Just that it links up with what I was saying earlier: there are some respectable people in this town leading double lives . . . big fish behind little fish.’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Who would be protectin’ the Pitties? Only somebody who wants to use them. And what would they use them for? What’s their job? Running freight, anything from contraband whisky, silk, baccy, or men . . .’
‘Or maidens? As you were saying earlier.’
He nodded at her. ‘Aye, men or maidens, anything.’ He bowed his head and shook it for a moment before saying, ‘What I’m really frightened of is, if they should go for Jimmy. He’s no match for any of them, although he’s got plenty of guts. But guts aren’t much use against them lot, it’s guile you want.’
‘If you are so worried about him then you must make him come here to sleep.’
He gave a weak smile and put his hand out and touched her shoulder, saying, ‘That’s nice of you, kind, but I doubt if he would.’
‘Why not? He’s got over his shyness of me, he’s even, I think, beginning to like me. It gives me hope that your family may well follow suit.’
He turned from her and went towards the mantelpiece. And now he looked up into the face of her great-grandfather, and he thought, That’ll be the day. That pig-headed lot. Even Ruth was included in his thoughts now.
Jimmy, acting as a kind of go-between, had arranged that he should take her up one Saturday, and because she also demanded it, but much against the grain, he had complied. And what had happened? Nothing. She had sat there trying to talk her way into their good books, and how had they responded? By staring at her as if she were a curio.
Later, she had remarked, ‘I think your mother is a gentle creature.’
His mother. That was one secret he had kept to himself. She knew everything about him but that, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that the slight, quiet, little woman, with a dignity that was all her own, was not his mother. His mother was the woman he had introduced to her by merely remarking, ‘This is Lizzie,’ and explaining later that she was his father’s cousin. Why was it that some things were impossible to admit to? He felt as guilty at being Lizzie’s son as if it were he himself who had perpetrated the sin of his conception.
Damn them! Let them get on with it. It was Jimmy he was worried about, and those bloody Pitties were beginning to scare him. Little fish protected by big fish!
He turned to her. ‘I’m goin’ down,’ he said.
‘All right.’ She rose from the couch. I’ll go with you.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s coming down whole water now.’
‘If you’re going down there tonight I’m going with you.’
He closed his eyes for a moment; he knew that tone. ‘Well, get your things on.’ His voice was almost a growl.
As she was walking towards the door, she said, ‘I’ll tell Stoddard.’
‘No, no.’ He came to her side. ‘You don’t want to get the carriage out at this time of night. And he’ll be settled down. I meant to walk.’
‘All right, we’ll walk.’
‘Oh, woman!’
‘Oh, man!’ She smiled at him and tweaked his nose, then left the room smiling.
Half an hour later they went up the steps and into the boathouse and startled Jimmy and Mr Richardson who were playing cards.
‘Oh, hello.’ Jimmy slid to his feet; then looking from one to the other, he asked, ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Not at our end; what about this end? What’s this I’m hearin’?’
‘Oh that.’ Jimmy nodded, then said, ‘Well, it’s done one thing.’ He was looking at Charlotte now. The river polis have been past here three times to my knowledge this afternoon. That’s . . . that’s with you going down there. Hardly seen them afore. That should warn the bug . . . beggars off for a bit.’
‘Aye, for a bit.’ Rory pulled a chair towards Charlotte. She sat down, and what she said was, ‘Have you plenty to eat?’
‘Oh aye.’ Jimmy smiled at her. ‘Lizzie’s been down this afternoon an’ baked. She feeds me up as if I was carryin’ tw . . .’ He swallowed and the colour flushed up over his pale face as he amended Lizzie’s description of pregnancy, carrying twins for eighteen months, with ’cartin’ coals to Newcastle.’
As he looked at Charlotte he saw that her eyes were bright, twinkling. She had twigged what he was about to say. It was funny but he liked her, he liked her better every time he met her. He could see now what had got their Rory. When you got to know her you forgot she was nothing to look at. He had said so to Lizzie this very afternoon when she was on about Rory, but she had come back at him, saying, ‘You another one that’s got a short memory? I thought you used to think the world of Janie.’ Well, yes he had, but Janie was dead. And he had said that to her an’ all, but what had she come back again with, that the dead should live on in the memory. She was a hard nut was Lizzie, she didn’t give Rory any credit for making life easier for the lot of them. Three pounds every week he sent up there; they had never been so well off in all their lives. New clothes they had, new bedding, and they ate like fighting cocks. If Lizzie kept on, and his ma too didn’t really soften towards Charlotte—he wasn’t concerned about his da’s opinion—he’d give them the length of his tongue one of these days, he’d tell them straight out. ‘Well,’ he’d say, ‘if you think like you do, you shouldn’t be takin’ his money.’ Aye, he would, he’d say that. And what would they say? ‘It isn’t his money, it’s hers’ . . . Well, it didn’t matter whose it was, they were taking it and showing no gratitude. For himself he was grateful. By lad! he was grateful. Three boats he had, but one without a bottom to it.
He said to her, ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you, Jimmy. We . . . we just came to see that everything was all right.’ She smiled from him to Mr Richardson.
Mr Richardson was a burly man in his forties. He had worked in Baker’s yard alongside Jimmy but had gladly made the move to here when Rory offered him five shillings a week more than he was getting there. He was a married man with a family, so the arrangement of keeping Jimmy company at nights could not be a permanent one.
‘We’re grateful for you staying, Mr Richardson,’ she said.
‘Do anything I can, ma’am.’
‘Thank you. We won’t forget it, Mr Richardson.’
The man nodded and smiled widely. Then she rose to her feet and, looking at Rory, said, ‘Well now, are you satisfied?’
Before he could answer she turned her head towards Jimmy, saying, ‘The trouble with your brother, Jimmy, is he won’t recognize the fact that you are a young man and no longer an apprentice.’
Jimmy laughed back at her, saying, ‘Well, we’ll have to show him, won’t we? You tell him when you see him I’ll take him on any day in the week an’ knock the stuffin’ out of him. You tell him that, will you?’
Rory now thrust out his fist and punched Jimmy gently on the head, saying, ‘You’ve always been a daft lad; you always will be.’
‘Daft? Huh! Who’s daft comin’ down this end in the black dark an’ it pouring’. Don’t you think you’re askin’ for trouble yourself, walking along the dockside, an’ not alone either?’ He nodded towards Charlotte.
‘She came along to protect me. Can you imagine anybody tacklin’ me when she’s there?’ He now took hold of Charlotte’s arm and led her towards the door as she tut-tutted and cast a reproving glance up at him.
‘Keep that door bolted, mind.’
‘Aye. Don’t you worry.’ Jimmy smiled quietly at Rory.
The farewells over, they took the lantern and went down the steps and made their way through the stinging rain on to the road and along the waterfront, and as they hurried through what, even in daytime, was known to be an unsavoury thoroughfare Rory thought. He was right, I was crazy to let her come, and at this time of night.
And so he didn’t breathe easily until they emerged into the main street, and there she said to him, ‘Now you can relax.’
He did not reply, only heaved a telling sigh as he thought for the countless time, There’s no doubt about it, she’s remarkable.
His mind more at ease now with regard to Jimmy, he said, ‘There were two things you were going to tell me the night. Well, let’s have the second one now.’
‘No, not now; it will have to wait until we get out of this, the rain is choking me.’
‘Serves you right; you would have your own way.’
‘Far better have my own way than sit worrying until you returned.’
‘You’re a fool of a woman. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know that, I’ve known it now for five months and three days.’
‘Oh, Charlotte!’ He pressed her arm closer to his side.
She had taken a bath and was now dressed in a pale grey chiffon nightdress with matching negligee. It was night attire which one might have expected to see on a picture postcard such as sailors brought over from foreign countries, like France, on which were painted ladies in flowing robes, their voluptuousness alone signifying their lack of virtue.
He had now become used to seeing her dressed, or undressed, like this. His own night attire not only would have caused the women in the kitchen to throw their aprons over their heads, but would have raised the eyebrow of many a smart gentleman in the town, for his nightshirt was of a pale blue colour, the flannel being so fine as to be almost like cashmere.
Moreover, it had cuffs that turned back and were hemmed with fancy braid, as was the deep collar. It, and a dozen more like it, were one of the many presents she had given him. And to hide his embarrassment he had made a great joke the first time he had worn one, but now he never even thought of his nightshirts, even when a fresh one was put out for him every other night.
As he pulled this one over his head he called to her, ‘I’m waiting.’
‘So am I.’
When her flat reply came back to him he bit on his lip, closed his eyes, tossed his head backwards and laughed silently. She was a star turn really. Who would have thought her like it?
He went from the dressing-room into the bedroom smiling. She wasn’t in bed but was sitting on the edge of it, and at this moment she looked ethereal in the soft glow of the lamplight. He had the idea that if he opened the windows the wind that was blowing in gusts around the house would waft her away. He sat down beside her on the bed and, adopting an attitude of patience, he crossed his slippered feet, crossed his arms and stared ahead.
‘Are you feeling strong?’
‘Strong? In what way?’ He turned his head sharply to look at her.
‘Oh, in all ways.’
‘Look, what is it?’ He twisted his body round until he was facing her. ‘Stop beating about the bush; what have you got up your sleeve now?’
She gave a little rippling laugh that might have issued from the lips of some dainty creature, then said, ‘Nothing up my sleeve. No, decidedly not up my sleeve; I happen to have become pregnant.’
‘Preg . . . pregnant?’
As his mouth fell into a gape she nodded at him and said, ‘Yes, you know, “A woman with child” is how the Bible puts it.’
He drew in a long breath that lifted his shoulders outward. She was pregnant, she was with child, as she had said. Well, well. He had the desire to laugh. He stopped himself. She was going to have a bairn. Charlotte was going to have a bairn. And he had given it to her . . . Well, what was surprising about that? With all that had happened these past months why should he be surprised, for if anyone had worked for a bairn she had? He would never forget the first night in this bed. He had thought to treat her tenderly because right up to the moment they had first stood outside that door there, she had given him the chance to take advantage of the agreement she had first suggested; in fact, she had stood blocking his way into the room as she said, ‘I won’t hold it against you. Believe me, I won’t hold it against you.’ And what had he done? He had put his hand behind her and turned the knob. And she had entered with her head down like some shy bride, and he had told himself again that it was as little as he could do to be kind to her, to ease her torment, and make her happy. And he had made her happy. Aye by God! he had made her happy. And himself too. She had been surprising enough as a companion, but as a wife she had enlightened him in ways that he had never thought possible, because she had loved him. Aye, it was she who had done the loving. Up till then he hadn’t been aware that he had never been loved. He had loved Janie. A better term for it would be, he had taken Janie. And she had let him, but she had never loved him in the way he was loved now. Perhaps it was his own fault that things had not worked out that way with Janie, it was the business of John George coming between them on that first night. He had known a few other women before Janie. On his first year of rent collecting there had been one in Jarrow—her man went to sea—but what she had wanted was comfort not love. Then another had been no better than she should be, she had given him what she would give anybody at a shilling a go.
No, he had never been loved until Charlotte loved him. It was amazing to him how or from where she had gained her knowledge, for one thing was certain, he was the first man she’d had in her life. Perhaps it was instinctive. Whatever it was, it was comforting. And now, now she was saying . . . ‘Huh! . . . Huh! . . . Huh!’
He was holding her tightly to him. They fell backwards on to the bed and he rolled her to and fro, and they laughed together; then, his mouth covering hers, he kissed her long and hard.
When finally he pulled her upright the ribbon had fallen from her hair and it was loose about her shoulders and he took a handful of the black silkiness and rubbed it up and down his cheek.
‘You’re pleased?’
‘Oh! Charlotte, what more can you give me?’
‘One every year until I grow fat. I’d love to grow fat.’
‘I don’t want you fat, I want you just as you are.’ And in this moment he was speaking the truth. He now took her face between his hands and watched her thin nostrils quiver. Her eyes were soft and full of love for him, and he said, ‘You’re the finest woman I’ve ever known, and ever will know.’
And she said, ‘I love you.’
He could not say, ‘And me you,’ but he took her in his arms and held her tightly.