The aside came from Lizzie and as Ruth went to admonish her with a quick shake of her head Rory turned on her a look that could only be described as rage, for it was contorting his features. He did not shout at her, but his low tone conveyed his feelings more than if he had bawled as he said, ‘Will you hold your tongue, woman, an’ mind your own business for once!’
Strangely Lizzie did not turn on him, but she looked at him levelly for a moment and countered his anger with almost a placid expression as she said, ‘I’ve spent me life mindin’ me own business, lad, an’ me own business is to take care of those I’m concerned for, and I’m concerned for John George there. That uncle and aunt of his live off him. And what I’m sayin’ now I’ve said afore to his face, haven’t I, John George?’
‘You have that, Lizzie. And I like you mindin’ me business, it’s a comforter.’
‘There you are.’ She nodded towards Rory, who now had his back to her as he made his way down the long narrow room towards the ladder at the end that led into the loft, which place was Jimmy’s and his bedroom and had been since they were children, one end of it at one time having been curtained off to accommodate Nellie.
With no further words, Lizzie now went into the scullery, and Janie began saying her good-byes. When she came to Nellie she bent over her and said below her breath, ‘You all right, Nellie?’
‘Aye. Aye, Janie, I’m all right.’
Janie stared down into the peaked face; she knew Nellie wasn’t all right, she had never been all right since she married. Nellie’s marriage frightened her. Charlie Burke had courted Nellie for four years and was never off the doorstep, and Sunday after Sunday they had laughed and larked on like bairns in this very room. But not any more, not since she had been married but a few months. It was something to do with—the bedroom. Neither her grannie nor Lizzie had spoken to her about it and, of course, it went without saying that Ruth wouldn’t mention any such thing. But from little bits that she had overheard between Lizzie and her grannie she knew Nellie’s trouble lay in—the bedroom, and the fact that she had not fallen with a bairn and her all of three years married. Charlie Burke rarely came up to the house any more on a Sunday. Of course he had an excuse; he worked on the coal boats and so could be called out at any time to take a load up the river.
Janie now went into the kitchen to say good-bye to Lizzie.
Lizzie was standing with her hands holding the rim of the tin dish that rested on a little table under the window, which sloped to the side as if following the line of the roof.
‘I’m off then Lizzie.’
Without turning and her voice thick and holding a slight tremor, Lizzie said in answer, ‘He’s a bloody upstart. Do you know that, Janie? He’s a bloody snot. I’m sorry to say this, lass, but he is.’
‘He’s not; you know he’s not, Lizzie.’ She shook her head at the older woman. ‘An’ you’re as much to blame as he is. Now yes you are.’ She bent sidewards and wagged her finger into the fat face, and Lizzie, her eyes blinking rapidly, put out her hand and touched the cream skin that glowed with health and youth and said, ‘Lass, you’re too good for him. And it isn’t the day or yesterday I’ve said it, now is it? He’s damned lucky.’
‘So am I, Lizzie.’
‘Aw, lass.’ Lizzie smiled wryly. ‘You’d say thank you if you were dished up with a meat puddin’ made of lights, you would that.’
‘Well, and why not? And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve eaten lights.’
They pushed against each other with their hands; then Janie said, ‘Remember that starving Christmas? How old was I? Ten, eleven? No work, strikes, trouble. Eeh! we had lights all right then. Me grannie cooked them seven different ways every week.’ She paused and they looked at each other. ‘Bye-bye, Lizzie.’
Spontaneously now Janie put her arms around Lizzie and kissed her, and Lizzie hugged her to herself. It was an unusual demonstration of affection. People didn’t go kissing and clarting on in public, it wasn’t proper; everybody knew that, even among engaged couples kissing and clarting on was kept for the dark country lanes, or if you were from the town, and common, a back lane or shop doorway; the only proper place for kissing and darting on was a front room, if you had one; if not, well then you had to wait for the bedroom, as every respectable person knew. She was going to wait for the bedroom, by aye she was that, even although she wasn’t all that taken with what she understood happened in the bedroom.
She now disengaged herself and went hurriedly from the scullery, leaving Lizzie once more gripping each side of the tin dish.
Rory and John George were already dressed for outdoors and waiting for her, Rory, although not short by any means, being all of five foot ten, looking small against John George’s lean six foot.
John George wore a black overcoat that had definitely not been made for him. Although the length was correct, being well below his knees, the shoulders were too broad, and the sleeves too short, his hands and arms hanging so far out of them that they drew attention to their thin nakedness. There was a distinct crack above the toecap of one of his well-polished boots and a patch in a similar place on the other. His hard hat was well brushed but had a slight greeny tinge to it. His whole appearance gave the impression of clean seediness, yet his position as rent collector in the firm of Septimus Kean was superior to that of Rory, for whereas Rory had only worked for Mr Kean for four years John George had been with him for eight. Now, at twenty-two years of age and a year younger than Rory, he showed none of the other’s comparative opulence for Rory wore a dark grey overcoat over a blue suit, and he had a collar to his shirt, and he did not wear his scarf like a muffler but overlapping on his chest like a business gentleman would have worn it. And although he wore a cap—he only wore his hard hat for business—it wasn’t like a working man’s cap, perhaps it was only the angle at which he wore it that made it appear different.
Looking at him as always with a feeling of pride welling in her, Janie thought, He can get himself up as good as the master.
‘Well then, off you go.’ Ruth seemed to come to the fore for the first time. She escorted them all to the door and there she patted Janie on the back, saying, ‘Until next Sunday then, lass?’
‘Yes, Mrs Connor, until next Sunday. You’ll give a look in on her?’ She nodded towards the next cottage and Ruth said, ‘Of course, of course. Don’t worry about her. You know’—she smiled faintly—’I think she’ll still be here when we’re all pushing the daisies up.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder.’ Janie went out laughing, calling over her shoulder, ‘Ta-rah. Ta-rah everybody. Ta-rah.’
Out in the black darkness they had difficulty in picking their way in single file down the narrow rutted lane. When they reached the broader road they stopped for a moment and Rory, kicking the snow aside with his foot, said, ‘By! it’s thick. If it goes on like this we’ll have a happy day the morrow, eh?’
‘I’d rather have it than rain,’ John George replied; ‘at least it’s dry for a time. It’s the wet that gets me down, day after day, day after day.’
‘Here, hang on.’ Rory now pulled Janie close to him and linked her arm in his. It’s comin’ down thicker than ever. Can’t even see a light in the docks. Well find ourselves in the ditch if we’re not careful.’
Stumbling on, her side now pressed close to Rory’s, Janie began to giggle; then turning her head, she cried, ‘Where are you, John George?’
‘I’m here.’ The voice came from behind them and he answered, ‘Give me your hand. Come on.’
As she put her hand out gropingly and felt John George grip it, Rory said, ‘Let him fend for himself, he’s big enough. You keep your feet, else I’m tellin’ you well be in the ditch.’