A man who cried (14 page)

the yard he stopped for a minute and looked up into the dark starlit night. She was a funny lass,

so young in some ways yet as old as the hills in others. She seemed to be a girl who had never

experienced youth.

Abel had knocked on 109 Temple Street and before the door was opened Hilda Maxwell’s last

words were making sense to him. Even in the darkness he guessed that Temple Street was one of

the poorer streets of Bog’s End, and that was saying something.

”Well! who are you?”

”Mr Donnelly?”

”Aye, that’s me.”

”I’m ... I’m Abel Gray.”
’•

”Aye, well, so what ? What you after ?”

Abel looked down on the thin, undersized man with the outsize voice and he had the odd desire

to laugh. Anyone so different

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from Hilda Maxwell he couldn’t imagine. That this little fellow could ever have fathered Mrs

Hilda Maxwell appeared ridiculous. This raucous unshaven little chap belonged to another world

altogether from 3 Newton Road which was in reality in the Brampton Hill area and Bramptom

Hill was Fellburn at its highest.

”I’ve come with a message from your daughter . . . Hilda.” He felt he had to add the Christian

name and it sounded strange on his tongue. It was the first time he had said it aloud, and it

seemed to have no connection with the person it represented.

”Hilda? Wor Hilda? What’s up with her? Bad is she an’ on her death bed that she sends for

me ?”

”No, she . . . she herself is all right but her husband died suddenly tonight.”

In the light from the dimly lit passage Abel saw the old man’s expression changing. He watched

the man’s mouth open, then close; he watched his hand rasping across his unshaven chin; he

watched him consider a moment before saying in a more moderate voice now, ”You’d better

come away in.”

Taking off his cap as he passed the old man, Abel went into a room which he saw at once was

used as a kitchen, sitting-room, and bedroom combined. The place looked as if it hadn’t been

cleaned for some long time, and yet it had two homely touches, a large battered, once red leather

armchair drawn up before a blazing fire, and a couple of whippets sitting on a clippie mat; and

they must have been so comfortable they didn’t even bother to rise up and sniff him.

”Sit yoursel’ down.” Mr Donnelly pointed to a wooden chair near a square kitchen table on

which were a number of dirty dishes.

After Abel had seated himself the small man did not take his place in the leather chair but stood

confronting him, asking now, ”When did this happen?”

”Around five this evening.”

”Expected was it?”

”No, no; he had just finished a meal when he collapsed.”

”Well -” He now turned from Abel and went to the fire, having to bend over the dogs to spit into

it, then turned back to him and continued, ”She shouldn’t have been surprised at that, he’s been

shaky on his legs for years that ’un. Yet it’s always the creakin’ doors that last out the longest.

Well -” His features

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moved into what could be called a grin now and he rïodded his head slowly at Abel, saying,

”She’s got what she went for quicker than she expected, hasn’t she now ?”

”I don’t follow you.”

”No, you wouldn’t, you’ve only been there a few months. Oh, I know all about you. I know all

about everything. I’m stuck at this end and she’s stuck at that end but I know her every move.

You were on the road weren’t you, you an’ your lad, and you helped old Maxwell when he had a

turn? Oh, you see there’s nothin’ I don’t know. Well, all I can say now is I hope she lives long

enough to enjoy the fruits of her two and a half years’ labour, ’cos my God ! it must’ve been hard

labour. . . . An’ don’t you say, mister” - his arm was thrust out to its entire length now, pointing straight at Abel like a gun - ”don’t you say you can understand her makin’ the move; this hole in

the ground mightn’t be everybody’s choice but her and Florrie never wanted for nowt. Sent her to

typing school I did, same as Florrie. Florrie made a go of it but she didn’t. She didn’t want to

work in an office. No, she didn’t want to be a secretary; she wanted to start at the top, a house

and business all ready made for her. But there were no young lads around here with houses and

businesses to bestow on her. She turned her nose up at every male in Bog’s End. She even left

the Chapel that she’d been to since a bairn and went to St Michael’s, ’cos why ?” He poked his

small head forward and now his voice changed into refined mimicry. ”They were nice people

who went to St Michael’s, refined. There was nobody out of work that went to St Michael’s. The

men usually wore gloves and carried walking sticks who went to St Michael’s, and the women

always wore hats when they went shoppin’, not head scarves, no, and they got up coffee

mornin’s for charity, an’ at Christmas at the masons’ dinner they vied with each other who could

throw in the most to help the poor starving buggers of Bog’s End.”

”Oh ! Oh !” He now flapped his hand at Abel as if to silence him and went on, ”She had her eye

to business had our Hilda, but she didn’t find her path a smooth one there either because mothers

of sons are not bloody fools, not the likes of them that go to St Michael’s, they didn’t want to be

landed with a daughter-in-law from Bog’s End. No. No. Well, when she couldn’t get into that

high-rachy, she had to do the next best thing, she took old Maxwell. Pillar of the church old

Maxwell. Hadn’t been married in his

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life and he didn’t want her as a wife she said. What did he want her for then, eh? Dirty old sod.”

Mr Donnelly now paused for breath; then quickly turning, he again spat into the fire, after which

he stood looking down towards it and, his voice quiet, even sad, he said, ”Well, she’s got what

she wanted, she’s got a start, big house an’ a business that’s goin’ places. I should be glad. Aye, I should be glad for her.” He turned now and looked at Abel, adding, ”I thought the world of her

you know, always have done. From she came I took very little notice of Florrie, put her aside sort

of, hurt Florrie. Aye, I did. Yet Florrie’s worth twenty of her. Still, you can’t direct your feelin’s, can you?” He raised his eyes and stared up at Abel, and Abel, remembering Alice, moved his

head slowly from side to side and answered, ”No, you’re right there, you can’t direct your

feelings.”

Mr Donnelly now walked to the table, saying on a different note now, ”I can’t offer you

anything, haven’t a drop in the house, only tea.”

”That’s all right; I’ve got to get back, at least after I’ve been to to your other daughter.”

”Oh” - there was surprise in his voice - ”she’s sending to Florrie is she, not leavin’ it to me?”

”Yes, she asked me to call and tell her. She . . . she needs company tonight I think, a woman’s

company.”

”Oh aye, aye, this is the time for company. You can’t be alone with the dead no matter what you

thought of them. Well, it’s nice of you to come, mister. What did you say your name was ?”

”Abel Gray.”

”Oh aye, Abel Gray. Well, I suppose we’ll meet again. Not that I’ll ever be a regular visitor,

she’ll have to ask me first, but to show me respects I’ll turn up at the funeral. Then again” - he

turned his head to one side - ”I’ll feel a bloody hypocrite after all I’ve said about ’im. Still, if I don’t go she’ll bear that against me an’ all. Well, I’ll be seein’ you.”

’Yes, yes. Good-night then, Mr Donnelly.”

”Me name’s Fred.”

”Good-night, Fred.”

”Good-night to you an’ all.”

The door closed behind him. He walked for some distance down the street, then paused and once

again he looked up into the sky. Amazing . . . amazing, people’s lives, the things that went on.

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He thought his own was strange enough yet there app$red to be something strange in every life

he touched on.

46 Brampton Hill he found was as different again from 109 Temple Street as it was from 3

Newton Road. It looked the kind of house that had once been an industrialist’s mansion. Now

there were ten nameplates inserted in a mahogany frame on the lefthand side wall of the tiled

lobby. They were set out in sections of three three’s with a single name at the bottom. The

nameplates were grouped in floors, ground floor at bottom he presumed. Starting from the top he

looked for the name Donnelly, but he didn’t come to it until he reached the bottom where it said

”Miss F. Donnelly, Garden Flat.”

He looked about him. Where would he find the garden flat? Outside he supposed. As he turned

towards the main door again the hall door opened and a man came through.

”Excuse me” - Abel turned to him - ”could you tell me how to get to the garden flat ?’

”Oh yes, yes. But you needn’t go outside, it’s rather misleading. You go into the main hall, turn

right along the corridor; it’s the door at the end.”

”Thank you.”

”You’re welcome.”

He went into the hall now and stood gazing about him for a moment. It looked vast; big enough,

he thought, to make three flats. The floor of the hall and the circular staircase leading upwards

were bare of carpet, but as he remarked to himself who would want to cover wood like that. He

turned to the right and went along a corridor. There was a blank wall on one side and a row of

curtainless, deep-bayed windows on the other and there at the end was the door to the so-called

garden flat.

He hesitated a moment before ringing the bell. Of one thing he felt sure, anyone who could

choose to live in a place like this wouldn’t be likely to show much connection with Mr Fred

Donnelly.

When there was no answer to his ring he pressed the bell again, holding his finger on it for some

seconds now, and as he did so he hoped there would be no response to it, for somehow he didn’t

want to meet this sister. The whole situation was too complex, he didn’t want any more surprises

tonight.

”Yes, what is it?” .

He was now weighed down with surprise. The door was open and he was being confronted by a

woman who appeared almost as tall as himself. She was wearing a white woolly dressing-gown,

and her hands were extended above her head as she continued to pin her hair up.

Again she said, ”Well?”

”I’m . . . I’ve come from your sister Mrs Maxwell. I’m the hand there, Abel Gray. She . . . she

sent me with a message.”

In the silent seconds that followed she had arranged her hair in a rough position on top of her

head, then said, ”Oh!” then again, ”Oh!” but she now added, ”Well, come in.”

As she closed the door on him she laughed, saying, ”I didn’t expect anyone at this time, I’ve been

drying my hair. They don’t like doing it at the hairdresser’s, it takes too long, to dry I mean. It’s my only concession to the idea of the old-fashioned girl. Come in. Sit down.” She had gone

before him through a hallway that was as big as his sitting-room above the stables and his

moving glance took in the pieces of furniture standing against the wall. No modern stuff here,

antiques if he knew anything about them, pieces like Lady Parker used to have in her

drawingroom.

And now they were in the sitting-room ; or was it a drawingroom? Whatever one had a mind to

call it, it was an amazing room; even in the subdued light the colours flowed over you. French

grey walls dotted with broad gold-framed pictures; a deep cherry-coloured carpet and on it and

flanking a white marble fireplace, two deep couches upholstered in warm brown velvet.

When she motioned him to sit on one of the couches he sank into the down cushions, and even

when she was seated opposite to him waiting for him to speak his mind was so taken up with the

room that she had to prompt him again. ”You said you had a message from Hilda?”

”Yes.” He smiled at her now and nodded, adding, ”I’m . . . I’m sorry if I seem to be

woolgathering

but. . . but it’s an unusual room, very beautiful.”

”Thank you. But it’s easy to make a room beautiful when the proportions are right; with the

skirting boards and ceilings this high” - she waved her hand upwards - ”you can’t go wrong.”

”Oh, I wouldn’t agree with you there.”

”No? Well, perhaps not.” She returned his smile, then sat waiting, and his face becoming straight

and a conventional tone

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in his voice, he said, ”It’s rather sad news that I brin& Mr Maxwell died this evening.” f*

”What I”

With a quick jerk of her body she had pulled herself to the edge of the couch, and there she

seemed to hover for a moment before saying, ”No!”

”I’m afraid so.”

”How did it happen?”

In a few words he told her how it had happened and when he was finished she sat back once

more and, her head dropping back now on to the cushion, she made a sound between a laugh and

a huh. Then bringing her head forward again, she stared at him as she said slowly, ”And she

wants me round there ?” Her tone had altered, it was now on the defensive. ”You mean off her

own bat she’s asking me to go round there ?”

He returned her stare. The voice she was using now was different from the one with which she

had greeted him and had carried on the introductory conversation. That voice had been the voice

of an educated person, the tone of this voice could be linked with 109 Temple Street, Bog’s End;

he wouldn’t have imagined that she had ever lived there, or that she had been bred by that