A Grand Man Read online

  A GRAND MAN

  Catherine Cookson

  Table of Contents

  The Catherine Cookson Story

  A Grand Man

  Chapter One: A Bit of Imagination

  Chapter Two: Mulhattans’ Hall

  Chapter Three: Saturday

  Chapter Four: The Blindness of Father Owen

  Chapter Five: Mr Flannagan, The Coronation, and Mike Shaughnessy

  Chapter Six: Sunday

  Chapter Seven: The Last Straw

  Chapter Eight: Some Call It Auto-Suggestion (It’s Their Ignorance, God Help Them)

  Chapter Nine: The Lord

  Chapter Ten: The Truth, and Nothing But…

  The Catherine Cookson Story

  In brief:

  Her books have sold over 130 million copies in 26 languages throughout the world and still counting…

  Catherine Cookson was born Katherine Ann McMullen on June 27th, 1906 in the bleak industrial heartland of Tyne Dock, South Shields (then part of County Durham) and later moved to East Jarrow, which is now in Tyne and Wear.

  She was the illegitimate daughter of Kate Fawcett, an alcoholic, whom she thought was her sister. She was raised by her grandparents, Rose and John McMullen. The poverty, exploitation, and bigotry she experienced in her early years aroused deep emotions that stayed with her throughout her life and which became part of her stories. Catherine left school at 13, and after a period of domestic service, she took a job in a laundry at Harton Workhouse in South Shields. In 1929, she moved south to run the laundry at Hastings Workhouse, working all hours and saving every penny to buy a large Victorian house. She took in gentleman and lady lodgers to supplement her income and took up fencing as one of her hobbies. One of her lodgers was Tom Cookson, a teacher at Hastings Grammar School, and in June 1940, they married. They were devoted to each other throughout their lives together. But the early years of her marriage were beset by the tragic miscarriage of four pregnancies and her subsequent mental breakdown. This took her over a decade to recover from, which she did, often by standing in front of a mirror and giving herself a damn good swearing at!

  Catherine took up writing as a form of therapy to deal with her depression and joined the Hastings Writers’ Group. Her first novel, Kate Hannigan, was published in 1950. In 1976, she returned to Northumberland with Tom and went on to write 104 books in all. She became one of the most successful novelists of all time and was one of the first authors to have three or four titles in the Bestseller Lists at the same time.

  She read widely: from Chaucer to the literature of the 1920s; to Plato’s Apologia on the trial and death of Socrates (she said that here was someone who stuck to his principles even unto death); to history of the nineteenth century and the Romantic poets; to Lord Chesterfield’s Letters To His Son and the books and booklets that abounded in her part of the country dealing with coal, iron, lead, glass, farming and the railways. She disliked it when her books were labeled as ‘romantic.’ To her, they were ‘readable social history of the North East interwoven into the lives of the people.’ For the millions of her readers, she brought ‘an understanding of themselves’ or perhaps of their dear ones. Her stories do not bring in a realism in which the worst is taken for granted, but a realism in which love, caring, and compassion appear, and most certainly, hope. ‘This type of realism does exist,’ Tom Cookson said of her writing. There is nothing sentimental about her writing; she is unrelenting in the strong images she invokes and the characters she portrays. They were born of her formative years and her personal struggles. Many of her novels have been transferred to stage, film, and radio with her television adaptations on ITV, lasting over a decade and achieving ratings of over 10 million viewers.

  Besides writing, she was an innovative painter, and she believed that her father’s genes fostered the strength to work hard, but also, in rare moments of freedom, to strive to better herself. Catherine was famed for her care of money but had given much to charities, hospitals, and medical research in areas close to her heart and to the University of Newcastle upon Tyne, who set up a lectureship in hematology. The Catherine Cookson Charitable Trust continues to donate generously to charitable causes. The University later conferred her the Honorary Degree of Master of Arts. She received the Freedom of the Borough of South Tyneside, today known as Catherine Cookson Country. The Variety Club of Great Britain named her Writer of the Year, and she was voted Personality of the North East. Other honours followed: an Officer of the Order of the British Empire in 1986, and she was created Dame of the British Empire in 1993. She was appointed an Honorary Fellow at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford in 1997.

  Throughout her life, but especially in the later years, she was plagued by a rare vascular disease, telangiectasia, which caused bleeding from the nose, fingers, and stomach, and resulted in anemia. As her health declined, she and her husband moved for a final time to Jesmond in Newcastle upon Tyne to be nearer medical facilities. For the last few years of her life, she was bedridden and Tom hardly ever left her bedside, looking after her needs, cooking for her, and taking her on her emergency trips, often in the middle of the night into Newcastle. Their lives were still made up of the seven-day week and twelve or more hours each day, going over the fan mail, attending to charities, and going over the latest dictated book, with Tom meticulously making corrections line by line, for Catherine’s eyesight had long faded in her 80s.

  This most remarkable woman passed away on June 11th, 1998 at the age of 91. Tom, six years her junior, had earlier suffered a heart attack but survived long enough to be with her at her end. He passed away on 28th June, just 17 days after his beloved Catherine.

  Catherine Cookson’s Books

  NOVELS

  Colour Blind

  Maggie Rowan

  Rooney

  The Menagerie

  Fanny McBride

  Fenwick Houses

  The Garment

  The Blind Miller

  The Wingless Bird

  Hannah Massey

  The Long Corridor

  The Unbaited Trap

  Slinky Jane

  Katie Mulholland

  The Round Tower

  The Nice Bloke

  The Glass Virgin

  The Invitation

  The Dwelling Place

  Feathers in the Fire

  Pure as the Lily

  The Invisible Cord

  The Gambling Man

  The Tide of Life

  The Girl

  The Cinder Path

  The Man Who Cried

  The Whip

  The Black Velvet Gown

  A Dinner of Herbs

  The Moth

  The Parson’s Daughter

  The Harrogate Secret

  The Cultured Handmaiden

  The Black Candle

  The Gillyvors

  My Beloved Son

  The Rag Nymph

  The House of Women

  The Maltese Angel

  The Golden Straw

  The Year of the Virgins

  The Tinker’s Girl

  Justice is a Woman

  A Ruthless Need

  The Bonny Dawn

  The Branded Man

  The Lady on my Left

  The Obsession

  The Upstart

  The Blind Years

  Riley

  The Solace of Sin

  The Desert Crop

  The Thursday Friend

  A House Divided

  Rosie of the River

  The Silent Lady

  FEATURING KATE HANNIGAN

  Kate Hannigan (her first published novel)

  Kate Hannigan’s Girl (her hundredth published novel)

  THE MARY ANN NOVELS

  A Grand Man

  The Lo
rd and Mary Ann

  The Devil and Mary Ann

  Love and Mary Ann

  Life and Mary Ann

  Marriage and Mary Ann

  Mary Ann’s Angels

  Mary Ann and Bill

  FEATURING BILL BAILEY

  Bill Bailey

  Bill Bailey’s Lot

  Bill Bailey’s Daughter

  The Bondage of Love

  THE TILLY TROTTER TRILOGY

  Tilly Trotter

  Tilly Trotter Wed

  Tilly Trotter Widowed

  THE MALLEN TRILOGY

  The Mallen Streak

  The Mallen Girl

  The Mallen Litter

  FEATURING HAMILTON

  Hamilton

  Goodbye Hamilton

  Harold

  AS CATHERINE MARCHANT

  Heritage of Folly

  The Fen Tiger

  House of Men

  The Iron Façade

  Miss Martha Mary Crawford

  The Slow Awakening

  CHILDREN’S

  Matty Doolin

  Joe and the Gladiator

  The Nipper

  Rory’s Fortune

  Our John Willie

  Mrs. Flannagan’s Trumpet

  Go Tell It To Mrs Golightly

  Lanky Jones

  Bill and The Mary Ann Shaughnessy

  AUTOBIOGRAPHY

  Our Kate

  Let Me Make Myself Plain

  Plainer Still

  A Grand Man

  “Me da’s a grand man!” Mary Ann Shaughnessy has spoken; question her who dare. For although Mary Ann may look quite an ordinary small girl from a dockland tenement, always hot in defense of a ne’er-do-well father, she is in fact a one-man army, armoured with faith and possessed of formidable qualities.

  Set on Tyneside, the part of the world which Catherine Cookson knew and understood so well, this heartwarming and humorously observed book skillfully weds an authentic and unsentimentalized background to the kind of fairytale story that we all like to believe could come true and which the Mary Ann Shaughnessys of this world know to be true.

  The moral of A Grand Man is simply that faith can move mountains, but the delight of the book lies in the telling and in the character of its heroine as she battles, connives, and bargains to get a better way of life for those she loves and especially for the “grand man” himself.

  A Grand Man is the first of the Mary Ann stories and was made into a film, Jacqueline, in 1954.

  Copyright © The Catherine Cookson Charitable Trust 1954

  The right of Catherine Cookson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form.

  ISBN 978-1-78036-075-1

  Sketch by Harriet Anstruther

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described, all situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  Published by Peach Publishing

  Chapter One: A Bit of Imagination

  In the quiet corner of the school yard Mary Ann stood surrounded by a little band of open-mouthed, silent admirers. With waving movements of her thin arms she drew them closer about her, and when they were pressed near she warmed to her theme.

  ‘And besides the great big house,’ she said, her eyes moving from one to the other, like revolving saucers, ‘we’ve got three servants and two cars and two horses…galloping ones.’ She curved her arms into what she considered was the shape of the horses’ legs, and she jerked them at a great speed to indicate the velocity of the steeds. ‘And,’ she finished in a voice weighed with awe, ‘some day I’ll show you them; and our house, and the car besides, some day when I have a party.’

  The children stared at her in admiration. Then one after the other they put forth tentative offers that might act as a sprat to catch a mackerel.

  ‘Would you like a stot of me ball, Mary Ann?’

  ‘I’ll lend you me thick skipping rope at the weekend, Mary Ann.’

  ‘When I spent me penny on Saturda’ I’ll save you some, Mary Ann.’

  Whether Mary Ann would have accepted any of these offers cannot be known, for at that moment an indignant figure came rushing round the corner of the school wall and startled them all by crying, ‘Oh, you big liar, Mary Ann Shaughnessy! I’ve been listening behind the wall. You don’t live in a big house, and you ain’t got no servants or cars or horses. Oh, was there ever such a liar as you?’

  The little crowd turned its eyes from the black-haired, vicious-faced accuser back to Mary Ann, and expectantly awaited developments.

  Mary Ann felt no immediate anger against her enemy…Sarah Flannagan was always spoiling people’s fun. And anyway, it wasn’t lies she was telling, it was more in the nature of a story. Yes, that was it. This soothed her conscience, but she couldn’t tell them that it was just a story. No, oh no. She felt a sudden spasm of pity for them; they had listened to her so intently—they were the best lot she had talked to for a long time. Looking back into the eyes of her audience, she realised that she owed them something, a show of defence at any rate. So she cocked her elfin face on one side and blinked her large brown eyes at Sarah Flannagan, and said quite calmly, ‘You know nothing whatever about our house, or me da’s car, Sarah Flannagan; and I’ll thank you to mind your own business.’ She nodded at the children, and the nod said, ‘There, that’s settled her hash.’

  The dark spoiler of dreams gasped, and for a moment was struck speechless; then sucking in her lips and making a sound that was a good imitation of frying bacon, she turned to the eager group, her head wagging as quickly as her tongue as she cried, ‘Why! Of all the whopping liars she’s one. She lives right opposite us; and not in a house like ours either, but in Mulhattans’ Hall. They’ve only got two wee rooms and a cupboard of a kitchen. And as for her da having a car…why! My! Huh! He can’t even keep down a job ’cause he’s always on the booze.’

  Knowing she had played her trump card, Sarah Flannagan’s vituperation ceased, but her chin, thrust out towards the slight, quivering figure of Mary Ann, was defying her to get over that shattering piece of integrity.

  Now the poised calm of Mary Ann had vanished, and her eyes were blazing with an anger that lent to her little frame the energy of lightning. She almost sprang on the indignant stickler for truth, stopped only, it would seem, by the jutting chin of her enemy. Her voice shaking with an emotion that could only be classed as uncontrollable rage, she shouted, ‘You! You pig face! You wicked thing. I’ll slap your face, so I will, if you dare say me da drinks. Oh…h!’ She cast her eyes heavenwards. ‘It’s a wonder God doesn’t strike you down dead. But you’ll go to hell for your wickedness…Oh, yes you will.’ She pointed an accusing finger, and had only to add ‘I’ll see to it’ to give the stamp of absolute authority to this last statement.

  Sarah Flannagan was not in the least intimidated by this threat to her future, but turned her fishy eyes onto the group that had widened and spread itself away from Mary Ann.

  Mary Ann too looked at her late admirers, and beseechingly she entreated them, ‘Don’t believe a word she says. My da’s a lovely man. He gets sick at times but he never drinks. And he tells the loveliest stories. Look, some day I’ll take you…home…’

  The words trailed away as Sarah Flannagan laughed: ‘She thinks she’s safe with you lot that comes from the Fifteen Streets; she doesn’t tell them lies to anybody living round our way.’

  The faces, whose attention Mary Ann had held so eagerly a few minutes ago, now looked at her in silence and condemnation, for to partake in the make-believe world of childhood is not to lie unless the word lie is actually uttered, but once it is then make-believe is wrong; it immediately becomes a sin—another weight to be carried
on the head until the priest removes it in confession; lies were connected with penance and purgatory. Mary Ann Shaughnessy had been found out.

  With one accord they backed away. Then turning together like pigeons in flight, they went hitching and skipping around the personification of truth as she walked triumphantly out of the school yard with a backward leer to where Mary Ann stood with trembling lips and the burning sting of tears in the backs of her eyes.

  The blazing indignation had died out of her as quickly as it had arisen, and after waiting in order to give her tormentor a good start, she too walked out of the yard and made her way home. And to comfort herself, she decided that if she could cover the whole distance homewards without once stepping on a crack in the pavement any wish she might make would be bound to come true.

  To this end she began a series of hops, jumps and long and short strides, of stepping into the gutter when confronted by a paving stone so cracked that it was impossible to hop, jump or stride over it. It was when confronted by such a stretch of pavement that she was knocked right into the middle of it by two boys rushing out of Stanley Street. Their wild stampede carried her before them and left her staring down at her feet lying bang across a crack.

  Her face worked and her lips trembled, and she could have cried with vexation. She had so wanted a wish, just another wish to make doubly sure of the weekend. She couldn’t have too many wishes to…keep the weekend right. And the weekend started tonight, because it was Friday night and her da got his pay packet the night. She stood uncertain for a moment, plucking at her lip. Then her face brightened and she hopped clean off the diseased pavement onto a whole but greasy slab. She knew what she would do; she’d go and have a talk with The Holy Family. If anybody could make sure of the weekend, they could.

  This decision made, she hurried back along the main road, charitably forgetful of the times when the Holy Family had slipped up in their duty and the weekends had been a failure.

  As she neared the church, its external severity filled her with nothing but hope and its interior gaudiness lifted her heart and clothed her with peace.