Cotter's England (16 page)

They went upstairs, knocked, begged and shouted, but only got a few sprightly or angry responses. "It's Uncle Sime's fault," she shouted laughing. "He will rake the fire out front and fill the room with smoke, so I've made a good bright flame backwards."

"Listen," said Tom, "if you set the place on fire in mischief, Peggy, you won't get insurance."

"They have to pay you," said Peggy.

"No, they don't. Do you think they won't find out about the paraffin. You won't get a shilling. That's what the spotters are for. You'll lose everything, your money in your moneybox, your insurance and everything."

"We've got our moneybox with us," said Peggy laughing; "eh, don't rack your brains, man."

"Come out ye little fool," shouted Uncle Simon, "your money will burn up with ye."

"I'll come out in time, don't worry about me, go to bed and have pleasant dreams," she began to singsong.

"What aboot ye puir old mother, ye daft thing, no one's worried about your skin, you're safe enough."

Peggy shouted at being called a daft thing.

"How much paraffin did she put on?" asked Tom.

"She emptied out her mother's night light."

"I put some on out of the can too," said Peggy listening to them behind the door.

The dog barked behind the door. "The bright intelligent young woman has got her dog in there and he'll be burned up hair and hide, and good riddance," shouted Uncle Simon, hovering about, jingling the keys and trembling.

"Eh, I'm sick of ye all. I wouldn't count the cost of a cup of paraffin to burn ye all up, you're shriveled up like dried-out Christmas trees, ye old rubbish," called Peggy. "I should worry. It's not me, but yourself you're worried about: and your savings."

"Listen, lass," said Uncle Simon firmly, "now listen to what A'm tellin' ye. Oopstairs in the back attic is me toolbox; in me toolbox is me savin's." Peggy was listening. "A never kept them in the bank like A said: they're oop there. This family owes me three hundred pounds from when you were kiddies, but A'm not countin' that. But A've still got a bit there and it's in notes: and it's more than two hundred pounds. If ye don't come out this instant and give us the key, A'll take that money and give it to Tom and that'll be the end of it. Ye'll never get a smell of it. A'm sick and tired of dancin' the dance of death round ye. A mean that."

"I'll come out," said Peggy at once, "if ye'll take me right up and show me the money, so I'll find out if ye're a liar ye old rascal, I'm on to ye."

"Come out and come quick."

She unbolted then unlocked the door immediately. She was fully dressed as if to go out and looked as usual, rather sharper and more blooming than usual, perhaps. They argued about whether she should be shown the money first or should give up the key first, and they were obliged to give in. They went upstairs, Uncle Simon slowly, to the freezing attic, where in the corner lay a toolbox that looked like an infant's coffin, with a catch and a lock. Uncle Simon unlocked it with a key taken from his chest-warmer and going carefully through the bedded tools of wheelwright, ironworker and general handyman, he got out a large envelope addressed to Tom and an old wallet with an elastic round it. "That's the wallet ye made for me when ye were learnin' leatherwork as a lad, Tom," he said nodding. "A appreciated it. A never got a gift in all me years in this house but that." Tom stood by, holding the bunch of keys and Peggy looked down into the box with a glittering look. She bent down and picked up a large screw-wrench, "What's that for?"

"Put it down," said Tom. She put it back again with a sly smile at Tom and looked greedily at the other things there.

Uncle Simon stood up slowly and angrily facing the girl, with trembling hands he undid the wallet and showed the money. "There ye are, gel, it's all there. Now give oop the key."

"I'll give it up, Uncle Sime; now don't put on the tragedy act."

Uncle Simon bent down and put the money back, fixed the tools. Peggy stood there with an awful smile. "That's a canny thing," she said, "that screw-wrench. Now what would it be for?" Uncle Simon locked the box. Looking very old, he stood and faced Tom.

"But there won't be much for ye, Tom, for the money there is for the unforeseen for Mary and meself: the funerals are paid for. A don't want a young feller to be stuck with the expenses of puttin' away two old bodies. It's not fair to burden the young with the old; and there's too much of it." He took the key off the greasy cord hanging in his chest-warmer, and handed it to Tom.

"I suppose you think I'll be coming into your room late at night, Uncle Sime, the only woman was ever in your room, eh? and take it off your neck and kill you for your bit of money?" Peggy said. "Well, don't worry, man, I wouldn't go into your room, no one could, it's a hole an animal would be afraid to crawl into."

"Give me the key, Peggy," said Tom. The three of them went slowly down the stairs and when they reached the landing, the old woman was there with a shawl round her shoulders, looking wonderingly at the stairs filled with people coming down from the attic. She went back into her room without a word.

When the fire was out and the house fixed for the night, they all went to bed and Tom rapidly imagined scenes in which he rescued his mother, Peggy, Uncle Simon, the dog, the moneybox, the toolbox, the insurance policies. He felt the toolbox key in his pocket by the bed, got up and locked the door. Uncle Simon had left his door open, as always; but the pill had put him to sleep: he snored.

"Well," said Tom to himself, "I always expected to see this house in Hadrian's Grove in the
News of the World
and it's surprisingly long coming to it." He lay in bed and thought about Market Orange, the town where he had lived so long with Marion and Constantine. He became too tired for that but remained awake. He could not read, could not move, lay there in an empty delirium. About half past two, he was sure he was awake when he heard a door open and someone go downstairs. He waited awhile, no one returned. Shortly after, a car stopped outside the house, he thought; or was it next door? The people next door were gay; night owls. A car door slammed. Then it seemed to him their own front door opened and shut. At this, he struggled out of bed and went to the window. A woman was getting into the car; it did not drive off; it remained there. Tom waited and waited, freezing and tottering with insomnia. He unlocked his door and listened: everyone was asleep. When he looked over the banisters, he saw new firelight shining faintly through the back-room doorway. He went down to the back room and sat there in the chair waiting for Peggy to return. There he suddenly fell asleep. He awoke after an interval, with someone on the stairs. He got up quickly and seemed to see a head over the banisters at the top which quickly withdrew. He raked out the fire and went up: the car was gone. In the morning he asked himself several times if he had dreamed it. He did not wait for them to rise, but went out and got a chimney-sweep and a new electric fire for his mother's bedroom. Peggy was very excited. Uncle Simon had committed an indiscretion by informing her that Tom was not penniless, but was living off his car. Peggy told him they needed a new vacuum cleaner and a hot-water boiler in the kitchen sink.

There was great talk of selfishness and in the end Tom agreed to take Peggy and her mother out for a ride to Aunt Bessie in Wallsend in a rented car. "Though I don't know what you expect to see in joyless Newcastle!" He drove them around for several hours, as far as Two-Ball Lonnen which Peggy had not seen for seventeen years, since they used to go out over the towns and the moors in bike parties; he drove around Tyneside and as far as Whitley Bay, Cullercoats and Tynemouth.

Peggy was touchingly joyful, proud. He took them to a tea-shop where they had a large tea and Peggy bought two postcards: the two women kept giggling and exchanging jokes and allusions. But he was sorry for them and when he set them down at the gate, he invited his sister to the cinema for the day after. To his surprise, she hesitated and said she'd let him know. The next day, she made an excuse for staying at home: she could not leave her mother in the evening. He desisted and went back to his aimless wandering. He had his "businessmen's lunch," sat on the moor and came home, coming past the cinema to see the program. On the other side of the road, he noticed a pale middle-aged woman with spectacles, a strained face, a kerchief on her head, hurrying forward with a shopping basket. "What a typical Bridgehead woman she is," he thought, his heart drawn to her by her look of indoor privations, all of which he understood. Then he saw that again it was his sister Peggy. He was going to shout, when he saw her turn very sharp and go down a long residential road away from their shopping district. She had come out without the dog, although she was always afraid to leave it at home, saying that her mother or Uncle Simon would thrust it out of doors and lose it. He followed her. At the end of the long road, she turned into another busy thoroughfare where she went into a shop.

Idling along, thinking he would get some cigarettes and thinking, too, that Uncle Simon's two hundred pounds would just about cover his cigarettes for one year, if he didn't give the amount to Peggy, he came near the shop and saw that it was the painter's. He thought he'd just go in and find out what the man was going to charge; for though Peggy was good at calculation, far-sighted, cunning, even miserly, he didn't know how far she'd go for a man's company. He dawdled at the door observing things and people, in his way, and turned towards the shop. It was an old-fashioned little place running back a long way with old flooring, counters on each side, a large skylight at the back, where there were stands of linoleum and wallpapers. The man he had seen at the gate was standing close to Peggy, who was talking eagerly into his face. He was dark, pale-skinned, listening with a slight satisfied smile, but uneasy. He put his hand on her upper arm: she kept talking to him, more softly.

Tom went back home and after a while insisted on taking the dog out with him. "It's getting dark and I'm going to get Peggy: where is she?"

"She's gone for some bread."

"And A think maybe she's gone to see that painter again: she's not used to the excitement, Tom," said Uncle Simon reproachfully: "we lead a quiet life here and it keeps her steady." Tom took the dog and met her halfway along the street.

"Where were ye taking him, man?"

"He's just leading me to you."

"Well, give him up, man: he's not easy with anyone but me."

When they got home Uncle Simon started to nag about the painter and the cost; there was a scene. Tom took another walk. He went down to the river, stood by it a long while, crossed it, went to a pub down by the waterside, walked to Bridgehead Station and wondered what he should do. It was getting bitter cold: the air was jags of ice. Bridgehead! Here the rose in his heart had folded its leaves. All the pleasant things in the old days had folded themselves up. He had been married here, secretly, for Pop Cotter would have none of it. He spent his first married night with his young wife in a hayrick in midsummer; and then he went back to his engineering course. He was working his way through. He had no money for a wife. There were two people in their thirties who had been good to him; the wife had liked him and then that rose had withered too. He must get away. It was wicked to leave the old people, but he was leaving them. Coming back, he looked at the drawn curtains through the cracks at the people inside, no longer with yearning, wanting to talk to them. He shuddered and thought, "What wretches! What real wretches!"

He opened the house door. His mother was sitting on the bottom stairs, laughing to herself. "He's getting more than he bargained for, Jack," she said to the newcomer.

"Will ye learn, man?" shouted Peggy in the kitchen above the dog's barking: "will ye learn to be decent with women about?"

Uncle Simon was making short coughing and hiccoughing sounds and saying, "Ye'll be punished in the end, hi-hi-hi, ye wicked woman. Mary!"

"What's going on, Mother?"

The old woman laughed to herself. Tom roared like an elephant. Peggy turned with the loop end of the leash in her hand. "I'm teaching the man good manners," she said firmly: "he'll not expose himself before women any more or I'll go straight to the police."

Tom took the leather from her and pushed her across the room.

"I've had enough of you," she said. She insulted him; but she had had enough of it. "Don't touch me, Tom Cotter; I've had enough of ye all for a lifetime. I do wish I was somewhere else and didn't know any of ye. Stop laughing like an idiot, Mother man, it's more than a soul can bear." She rushed into the back room.

Uncle Simon was standing by the sink where Tom had seen him first, bending over and holding his loins in both hands. "She hit me on the belly," he said to Tom: "she knows what she's doin'. It made me trouble come back. Help me to the chair. A can't walk by meself." Tom picked him up, in his arms and carried him upstairs, Uncle Simon saying, "Be careful of yourself or ye'll get me trouble."

"I'm strong," said Tom.

"Aye, A was strong too, a ball of muscle, once; but A'm eighty now and no one seems to remember it." Tom put him on his bed with his knees bent and asked if he would get the doctor. "No, thank ye, A know how to doctor meself." It was a bitter cold evening and somehow he did not feel like going out to the yard to the closet. Supposing them safe and sound in the back room by the fire, he had shut the door and relieved himself in the waste bucket under the sink; and Peggy, always spying to find some fault, so he said, had found him out, crept back like the sly woman she was, for the dog's leash, rushed in on him while he "was still a naked man" and suddenly beaten him back into the corner by the sink, beat him in the face and nose and all over him, "from me knees to me forehead, A was savagely beaten all over, she has a strength in her revenge and malice: she's broken me belly and poor Mary sittin' there laughin' and bobbin' at the end of the hall: A'm afraid her wits are far away takin' a journey."

"The house can't go on like this," said Tom.