Cotter's England (46 page)

"Where am A to go, a poor old man like me?" cried the aged workman. "You're out of your senses with pride, Peggy. Why, no one will let ye put me out! They'll bring me back again!"

"Aye, I've got me pride. But you've got none, aren't you ashamed of yourself, a whole lifetime spent in other people's furniture? Now get going, or I'll set the dog on you. I'm only holding him in: he's impatient to get at you."

"No," he cried. "A'm not goin', ye mad girl. Ye don't know what you're doin'." He resolutely picked up his bundle of clothes and made towards the kitchen.

She laughed, "I'm crazy you say. Why, man, well, hadn't ye better take to your heels and leave me your toolbox? You don't want me to do something desperate to you, do you? It's all coming to me, isn't it? You'd do better to let me have it now, when I want it. If I'm tormented and worried by the thought of it, when I need it for the house, why I'll hate you, I'll have to get rid of you some way: and isn't this the better way? I'm being kind to you. Now clear out, Uncle Sime, get over to Jeanie's, or where you like, don't bother me. I've work to do."

"A'll go to Tom. He'll take care of me. He's the only decent one of ye," said Simon, turning towards the door.

"Well, that'll be a pretty picture. For when all's said and done, he's just half a man himself and together you'll make less than one. I'd like to be there, the two of you taking a walk on Sundays."

With this, she opened the door. In the door, he said, "Peggy, you're going to get into trouble. The house'll be in the papers yet. Now you mind your step. A've never said the truth about your goin's-on. A've been true to ye; now don't you let those men into the house. A've not opened me mouth to your aunts and A won't, but A'm warnin' ye. You're only a lass alone; ye don't know what you're doin'. Ye need a man here, Peggy, A'm old but A can protect ye; A'm a man."

She pushed him out onto the path with a joke and put his bundles after him. "You can leave them there to be called for, no one will run off with them," said she and closed the door.

Simon Pike stood for some time in front of the rented house where he had spent forty years and the rent of which he had paid since the beginning. He had shared the house with his sister after her marriage, filling the empty rooms, shared a bed, a blanket and an old army coat with young Tom in the hard times, in the attic, and given his wages over and over again to help them. The fine furniture that Thomas Cotter had bought in his pride and that Nellie talked about, that his poor sister Mary had struggled and pinched to keep, pinching even the children's bellies to keep it, those fine sitting room and back room and bedroom pieces would have been sold many years before if he had not paid their debts. He had once been a respected, highly-paid man. He was not a man to whine. He thought for a while where to go. Spare beds were rare. Aunt Jeanie's daughter had married but that did not make much room in the crowded little flat. Still he had to go and talk to her. While he stood there, he heard Peggy turn the key and bolt the door. He put on his overcoat and hat and looked neat, respectable, almost dapper. He straightened himself, felt for his pocket-book and papers, and as alertly as he could, he went down the street towards his sister Jeanie's; she lived about fifteen minutes' walk away.

Peggy did not answer the front door or the back yard door that day, though they heard the dog barking at one time. At another time, doubtless she was out, for there was no sound. The next day, it was obvious that there was painting going on and when Jeanie rang, Peggy appeared at the door in overalls, looking very merry; and the dog beside her barking savagely. "There are painters in, I'm sorry I can't ask you in," said she.

"You have got to take Uncle Simon back," said Aunt Jeanie, "I never heard of such a thing in my life, turning out an old man when you've got an empty house. I can't keep him."

"Why," said Peggy merrily, "I wonder what sad tale he's been pitching. It's only that I've got painters all over the house, Aunt Jeanie, man, and I'm going to let rooms. You've no objection to my becoming independent, I hope? But you've got to keep him till I'm ready. The paint will be bad for his asthma; and I can't have his terrible bedclothes in the house, what will the painters think of me? Hang them out for a few weeks on your clothesline, Aunt Jeanie, do that for me and I'll take the poor old man back when I'm ready. I wonder now what tale he's been spinning? Eh, the poor old lad, he's not quite right in his senses any more; he's got a persecution mania, ye'd better put him away in the old men's home. The strange things he said to me. I was quite frightened to stay with him here alone. I'm only a girl alone, Jeanie, you've got to think of me too; you can't think only of yourself. You've got to get over the selfishness, Jeanie, and look at reality. Now just keep the silly old man till I'm ready and then I'll take him back. You know me, I'm soft and I'm used to him and I need the help, though he's more trouble than any money he ever brought into this house."

"Where did ye get the money to paint the house, lass?"

"I've got my ways and means. I don't throw money away like some people. I'm practical; I've got the money, so don't worry and I'll never be short."

"Simon says you've kept his savings, Peggy."

"Why, didn't I tell you he's foolish? It's paranoia, Jeanie, man. Does he look like a man of means? Eh, you'd believe anything. Now get along, woman, man. I've got work to do and I must get lunch for the painter."

Aunt Jeanie went hurrying along to see Mrs. Duncan and ask if she had a spare bed. "Eh, that Peggy, that Peggy!" she muttered to herself.

They wrote to Tom, who came on a weekend.

"I shall have to take him with me; but my heart is stone cold," he said.

"And what about Peggy?"

"I can't give up this job. You'd think there'd be somewhere to put a harmless enough girl and a decent old man. I've been all over town. They all just look blankly at me."

He went back to Hadrian's Grove to see his sister. This time she let him in. She had a strange, glad, lecherous smile.

"I'm letting rooms. I'm taking only men. Women are trouble washing their smalls and running in for pots of water; and bringing in their boys. There are no morals nowadays. But men I can look after. Do you think I'll find myself a husband? I think so. You can't blame me for looking out for myself. What would I do with Uncle Sime? He'd only be against everything. I know him. He wants his old age in comfort, and nothing happening and nobody living. You must manage otherwise, man. Don't count on me. I've done my bit."

But Tom had won a white lace scarf in a raffle, given it to a girl he met at a factory dance. Now he was engaged to her and looking for a couple of rooms. So he went to the family doctor and asked him to get Uncle Simon into a home. And this is what was done in the end.

Peggy went her way, Tom looked for rooms for himself and his wife-to-be and Uncle Simon sat with fifty others, whose stories were not much different, in the old men's home. They went to bed early, for the cold; and hoped for the present of a quarter of a pound of tea when visitors came.

George for the third time had gone to Geneva. Nellie and Eliza saw him off at the airport and he had a few words with Eliza alone. Then he asked them both to promise to go and see Mrs. McMahon. He did not think she was as fit as before.

"I know you can't afford to have her now, Nellie; and I gave her a little money; but I've written to my old friends to take her back; the ones I got her from. And you," he blustered to Nell, "try to keep calm for once; and get rid of that old crow Johnny. Stay away from her. I can't bear a dirty woman."

She said, "It's me blinking gregariousness, darling. I've got to run about raising Cain and I'm the first to suffer."

On the way home, Eliza said, "What is the matter with Gwen McMahon? Did you quarrel? George says you did."

"Yes, we had a few words."

"What about? George wouldn't say."

"He didn't know, Lize. It was a women's quarrel."

Eliza went over to see Mrs. McMahon on the way home and the following day, a Saturday, when she was free, Eliza came and said Gwen looked very queer; she didn't like the look of her. She had caught a chill perhaps and gone to bed the day before George left. The doctor said she was run down and needed a holiday. He might get her into hospital for her legs; she had bad varicose veins. Her husband earned ten pounds and she about two pounds a week. Georgiana was delicate and they had to pamper her. Besides, she liked to keep her looking nice; it made the child happy. Just now they were having folk dancing at school and the child needed a clean pair of white socks every day, sometimes twice in the day. When Gwen had done the outside work, she worked at home, of course. She had said, so faintly, turning her head away,

"I have a good husband, he's a good man," as if she were speaking in an empty room. He wore cast-off clothes cheerfully, said they were good. The landlady let him work in the back garden for vegetables when he came home. But she had ended, "It's only the child that keeps me alive. Georgiana needs me."

Eliza said, "What is wrong with her? I remember her as such a lovely looking woman, quite healthy. She's not quite thirty."

"Aye, she was a fine looking girl. Your bloom washes off in the wash pail, pet."

Eliza said, "I say malnutrition. She eats nothing and works too hard. But it's not that: something has got at her. She looked wan, she tried to smile and kept looking away as if she had no expectations."

"Aye, pet, aye: it's a tragedy."

"She said to me twice, I'd like to do what I promised Mr. Cook but I don't see how I can." But she said it in a low voice as if she were just telling me because she didn't want to fail me. So I dropped to it that George had told her he'd send me; I asked her and she said, Yes, Mr. Cook was always very kind. But again with that worn hopelessness. I think George seemed a big man to her. She kept saying, How kind, how good!"

Eliza looked at Nellie.

"Aye, pet, he's very good. He always praised her to her face with his courtly Bridgehead grace, the old humbug. I'm afraid, pet, she took it seriously; she's not a woman of the world."

"Ah, I thought so. It's a damned shame!" cried Eliza.

"Eh, pet, you can't blame the lads; the girls run after them when they're fine and big and butter with both sides of their tongues. The temptation's too great. He thought she saw him as a hero; she asked him how to vote, she depended on his judgment, and she would have given up the Catholic Church if he'd asked her. And that's the story. Aye, I knew it before you. It's a damn shame, Eliza. For she never meant a thing to him. He brought sunshine into her back-street life. It's a case of misunderstanding, chick. Aye, poor woman, poor woman."

"I said you'd go to see her."

"She thought she was going to step into my boots!"

Eliza searched Nellie's face.

"I had it out with her, Lize. To see me would not cheer her up; and I wouldn't want to see her. She tried to take my man."

"You're sure?"

"She was here in tears. I should be Christian, pet, but I'm not."

Nellie then said she was going over to see Vi. "Eh, that's the girl for me when I'm blue and depressed, darling, excuse me for leaving you, pet. You're wonderful company, you're me heart's darling, but I haven't seen Vi Butters to cheer her up since before me bold sailor came home and she doesn't know the latest news on deserted wives. Will you forgive me, chick? I'll be galloping home again to see you as soon as I eat the bread and salt over in Carpentaria Grove, one of the sweetest rat-perfumed groves we sport in this glittering metropolis. A stirrup cup, my lass, and I'm off."

With an enthusiastic smack on Eliza's lips and a manly pat on the shoulder Nellie loped round the corner, but only to the next street, where she called upon Mrs. McMahon.

Miss Rose McMahon, the sister-in-law, let her in and seemed surprised, but Nellie, taking no notice, strode in swinging her postman's bag and puffing out her smoke.

"How are ye, pet? How's the world treating you? Well, well, well, here's my darling Georgie, here's me little sweetheart? And how's your mother, pet? Is she better, pet? That's too bad, chick."

She stopped in the doorless doorway, quickly eying her rival, who lay in bed against a pillow. The three-quarter bed, in which the couple slept, was pushed into a corner of the room between a wall and the small chest of drawers, which was given over to Georgiana's innumerable treasures. There was no rug. Next to the door, beside the window, was Georgiana's bed. Both beds were of the institution sort. Mrs. McMahon was in a plain white nightdress with a rose-colored sweater pulled over her shoulders. The broad and long wool Shetland scarf George had once given her was stretched over the bed, as a blanket.

"Hello, Gwen," said Nellie, fixing her sparkling eye upon her.

Mrs. McMahon smiled. "Hello, Madam."

Nellie straddled her way in puffing smoke. She reached for her cigarettes and offered Mrs. McMahon one.

"I'd be glad of it," said Mrs. McMahon; "I don't often get them. Mr. Cook brought me two packets," she said trustingly to Nellie, "he's very kind, very thoughtful."

"Aye, pet, he's a good man."

At this Mrs. McMahon looked aside in one of those strange wan pauses mentioned by Eliza.

"Eliza was here to see you then, pet?"

"Eliza? Yes, Miss Cook—she was very kind. She's a very nice woman."

"Aye, pet, she's a jewel, aye, she's a precious jewel, aye, she is that. Now chick, are ye going to get up? Are ye going to get better, are ye, chick? Now that's the spirit, me love. Now what's this lying about Gwen, chick? Eh, ye'll take a little rest and then ye'll get up, won't ye? Ye'll get up and sing and chirp like ye did before, won't ye?"

"Yes, Madam," said Mrs. McMahon smiling.

"That's the spirit. Why, Gwen, I never saw ye so weak and so pale. It won't do, Gwen. Eh, life's difficult to take but ye must take it. Ye can't go dying on us, can ye pet? Eh, now there's a good girl, ye'll do that to please me, won't ye?"

Mrs. McMahon looking a little more ordinary, smiled but said nothing.