Rooney Read online

  The furniture had been bought piece by piece over the years until two rooms had been completely furnished, and the buying of each piece had been in the nature of an adventure, among second-hand shops tucked away in side streets, in stables, even in front rooms of houses. From among these troves of conglomeration they had acquired a bed, a fine brass one without a dent or mark on it, and an equally fine feather mattress, a Scotch chest of drawers of good quality, an odd tub-shaped dressing table with swing mirrors, a drop-leaf table, two kitchen chairs and two armchairs, all of different styles, a Welsh dresser, plus various pictures, linoleum, and mats. He was a man of twenty when his father died, yet he grieved for him as a child would have done. He ached inside for the closeness that was no more. All he had missed in his mother’s care his father had made up for. They had been like brothers, pals; they had comforted each other in a wordless way for the nightmare of life they had been forced to endure. And once deprived of this comfort the past had leaped back into Rooney’s present. It was as if his mother had died but yesterday instead of seven years previously, and he saw all women as prototypes of her.

  ‘Get yersel’ married, man,’ Danny Macallistair had said; ‘there’s nowt like it. There’s plenty of lasses around, good lasses. You only have to look. Don’t take no notice of them what’s always on about their women, it’s only talk half the time.’ Danny was in his forties then and had been married only three years. The three years had since grown to eighteen, and Danny’s attitude had not changed in the slightest.

  But what, thought Rooney, was Danny’s life to go on compared to all the others: Bill, with his six bairns and his periodical rows, Fred with a real sloven of a wife, and Albert, whose wife lived in dance halls. Even without the memory of his mother to deter him, Rooney’s cautious nature would have found sufficient deterrence against marriage in the lives of his workmates. And it wasn’t as though he had never been tried by the arch-temptress herself. He had, twice. First, in his great loneliness, and then again at the age of twenty-five. It was the lass who had backed out of the first effort, but in the second it was himself, for he had discovered in time that although the lass had thought quite a lot of him she had thought very little of his job and was determined to force a change once they were married. Rooney did not like change in any form, and the only thing he would have changed then and now in his life was the place that housed his furniture. His idea of heaven was a house with his own key to the front door. He might be called upon to share the backyard, but to have his own front door was the summit of his ambition. But as Bill had said, what chance had he?

  ‘Rooney!’

  Stoddard, the bar manager, was beckoning to him, and he rose and went to the counter.

  ‘Hear you’re on the hunt again, Rooney?’ The manager spoke under his breath and smiled quizzically.

  ‘Yes. That’s about it,’ said Rooney.

  ‘Do you know Johnny Casson, him over there, near the dartboard, beside old Foley? He’s a newcomer here.’

  ‘No,’ said Rooney. ‘I’ve seen him about, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, as far as I can gather his mother-in-law’s letting rooms. I heard him on about her last night.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Will I call him over?’

  ‘Aye, do.’

  ‘Johnny!’

  A small, dark man turned and looked towards them. Then handing his dart to the older man he made his way over.

  ‘This is Joe Smith, better known as Rooney,’ said the manager.

  Rooney and the slight dark man nodded.

  ‘He’s lookin’ for a room. Can you do anything for him?’

  The manager drew a cloth over the counter before moving away to attend to his customers.

  ‘Me name’s Casson…Johnny Casson,’ said the little man. ‘And aye, I know of a room. Me mother-in-law’s startin’ to let. In Filbert Terrace.’

  At the mention of the street name Rooney’s eyes widened just a fraction. He knew every inch of the layout of the town, and Filbert Terrace, although not up to Westoe or the Harton end by a long chalk, was quite a way above the streets in which he usually sojourned. Yet this Johnny Casson looked a very ordinary type of bloke.

  ‘It’s a fair biggish house,’ said Johnny. ‘Seven rooms and an attic. The old girl’s got to let, her youngest’s gettin’ married next month. And if she wants to keep the house on she’s got to do something, you see.’

  Rooney asked no further information about the room, but very quietly put forth two tentative questions.

  ‘Will she be livin’ alone? Is she a widow?’

  Johnny’s brows contracted a little. ‘Aye. She’s a widow, but she’s not livin’ alone. There’s old man Howlett, her father-in-law, and Nellie, her niece. They’ll still be there when the young one goes…Why? Do you want a widow on her own?’

  Rooney, jerking back his hair, exclaimed, ‘No fear! No fear!’

  ‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ Johnny’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well, you need have no fear of owt like that. She’s had seven bairns, five lasses and two lads. The lads were killed in the war, and the last of the lasses, as I said, is gettin’ married. The old girl’s over sixty, although you wouldn’t think it; she’s still quick on her pins.’

  ‘It’s an unfurnished room I’m wanting.’

  ‘Well, you could have that, I think. Doreen, that’s the one what’s gettin’ married, she has her things stored in one and she’s taking them next week. She’s got part of a house up Westoe end.’

  ‘It sounds all right,’ said Rooney. ‘But there’s one thing. You know I’m on the Corporation…collecting?’

  ‘Oh, that. Well, beggars can’t be choosers. I work in the docks meself. But between you and me the old girl fancies herself; she would like to be something. And so would the rest of her tribe. My Betty’s about the only one who doesn’t think she’s the cat’s pyjamas. And I can tell you she’s gone through it because she married me. Old Ma Howlett wanted them all to have white-collar types. I can tell you I was a comedown…Have a pint?’

  ‘No. Thanks all the same,’ said Rooney. ‘I’ve got a pal over there.’ He nodded towards Albert. ‘When could I go and see Mrs…your mother-in-law?’

  ‘Ma? Well, I suppose I should warn her first. I’m on me way round there now. Friday night schedule…all the gang of them except the eldest one, Queenie, call in on a Friday night.’ Johnny paused and rubbed his hand over his mouth as if wiping froth away, then, with the twinkle in his eye deepening, he added, ‘Take you round now, if you like.’

  Rooney looked down at himself. He wasn’t in his working clothes, but he wasn’t wearing his good suit, just the odd coat and trousers he wore of an evening. But commenting to himself that if he went to live with these people they’d certainly see him worse than this, he said, ‘All right. I’ll just tell me pal.’

  Going back to Albert, he said, ‘I’ve got the chance of a room, I think, Albert.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Albert without much interest.

  ‘Filbert Terrace.’

  ‘Filbert Terrace? Goin’ up, aren’t you? They won’t have your bits and pieces there, man.’

  ‘Well, I can only go and see. So long.’

  ‘So long,’ said Albert.

  Rooney joined Johnny at the door, and they walked out into the dimly lit street and into the late November drizzle. Coming to the crossing at Laygate, they made their way to the Chichester, up Meldon Terrace towards the Infirmary, then turned off and walked through a number of short streets until they came to Filbert Terrace. And here even the darkness could not hide the difference of this terrace from its immediate neighbours, for jutting from the foot of each tall house was an iron railing encircling a square of ground inside of which could be sensed rather than seen patches of green, broken in some places by crazy paving, and even bird baths.

  It was with definite trepidation that Rooney stood behind Johnny as he rang the bell; and had not Johnny’s very ordinariness kept itself apparent in his chattering, Rooney would
surely have beaten a stealthy retreat.

  ‘This’ll startle her for a start,’ said Johnny over his shoulder. ‘I usually come the back way.’

  As Johnny rang the bell again, the front door was suddenly pulled open to reveal in the dim light from the hall the large bulky figure of a woman.

  ‘Hallo, Ma. I’ve brought a fellow, a Mr Smith. He’s lookin’ for an unfurnished room. Come on in.’ Johnny rattled on as he crossed the threshold. And Rooney, after a moment’s pause, followed him, passing the woman with his head slightly bent.

  As the door closed behind him he pulled off his cap. The woman had not spoken, but she switched on another light, and Rooney, raising his eyes to her and on the point of bidding her the time of day, found his words hanging stupidly on his lips. His eyes became fixed on her head; he could not tear them from it, for it subdued into drabness every colour in its vicinity. Her hair was like a miniature busby, and its colour was that of a freshly scraped carrot. And to Rooney’s startled eyes it looked almost afire.

  Seemingly not at all unpleased by his scrutiny, Ma returned Rooney’s gaze, but her eyes did not stay on his hair, they wandered over him, taking in his thick but well-set-up figure, his fresh complexion, and square blunt face. She smiled.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said formally.

  ‘Evening,’ said Rooney.

  ‘Well.’ She paused as if uncertain of her next move, then added, ‘You’d better come in and sit down a minute. You see, my daughter’s got her stuff in the room. She’s getting married soon, and she’s taking it next—’

  ‘I’ve told him,’ put in Johnny, moving towards the second door along the hallway. ‘Come on—’ He beckoned to Rooney and led the way into the room.

  Anything but happy, Rooney went to follow him; then paused to let Ma precede him, which she did with a jauntiness that put him in mind of a young lass and made her appear slightly ludicrous.

  The room into which he stepped seemed to him to be packed with people, and Ma, sweeping a plump, jumper-encased arm around it, said, ‘This is my family.’

  Rooney nodded once to include the three women and two men.

  The men with different motions of the head returned the nod, as did one of the women, but the other two fixed on him expressionless stares that immediately put him, as he thought, on hot bricks.

  ‘Sit down.’ It was Johnny who pushed a chair towards him. Johnny seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘This is me wife, Betty,’ he said.

  Rooney inclined his head to the young woman who had favoured him with a nod. He had somehow guessed that this one would be Johnny’s wife. She wasn’t got up so much as the other two—in fact she looked none too spruce, and it surprised him that she was a relation of the others at all.

  ‘Mr Smith has come to see the room,’ said Ma. ‘I’ll just go up and see if I can get in.’ Ma turned her eyes on Rooney again. ‘My daughter’s got her stuff in there, and—’

  ‘I told you,’ put in Johnny with irritating emphasis, ‘I explained it to him…He knows.’

  Ma cast a look at her son-in-law that should have silenced him, or at least put him in his place. But what Johnny’s place was, Rooney was finding it difficult to understand. If he had been in Johnny’s shoes he would have been sitting with his mouth shut, among this lot.

  Ma left the room, and Johnny, seating himself next to his wife, asked a question of her in two words, ‘All right?’

  ‘All right.’ She smiled at him. Then, leaning forward to see past her husband, she looked at Rooney and remarked, ‘It’s been a nasty day.’

  ‘Yes, it has,’ said Rooney.

  ‘Do you work inside?’

  ‘No…out,’ said Rooney. ‘I work on the Corporation.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Uneasily now, Rooney realised that he had the entire company’s attention. But it was a polite attention. Working on the Corporation could mean anything from Parks and Gardens to…dustbins.

  Rooney swallowed. ‘I’m on collectin’…ash-bin man.’

  ‘And likes it,’ put in Johnny, thrusting out his lips and wagging his head. ‘What do you think of that? Wouldn’t change, would you?’ Johnny was going on the conversation they had had on the way here, and although it was perfectly true that he wouldn’t change his job, hearing it from Johnny made it sound something of a disgraceful admission.

  One of the two men sitting by the fire, after looking at Rooney under lowered brows, slowly got to his feet. He was a tall man, thin, with a querulous expression and fast-growing baldness, and, as he made his way somewhat casually towards the door, Johnny looked at him and remarked quietly, ‘If she doesn’t let that room, Dennis, it’ll be ten bob a week off each of us as soon as Doreen goes.’

  ‘Really! You get worse. You’re…you’re past bearing.’

  The woman who got sharply to her feet Rooney surmised to be the tall man’s wife. She was glaring now across the room at Johnny. But Johnny was in no way intimidated.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Betty, his wife, ‘and come off it, our Pauline. If Mr Smith’s going to live here he’ll soon know how things stand. What d’you say, May? And you, Jimmy?’ she appealed to the other couple.

  The woman addressed as May made no comment, although her face showed displeasure, but Jimmy, her husband, in a deep bass voice, which was in sharp contrast to his delicate-looking face and slight figure, said, ‘True. True. But there are ways of approaching these things, Betty. And Johnny always favours the bull-at-the-gap tactics. He delights in it. Makes you feel good, doesn’t it, Johnny? Getting one over, sort of.’

  ‘Would you come up now?’

  All eyes were turned towards the door where Ma was standing, but Rooney did not rise immediately; he looked towards the bald man, giving him a chance to have his say. But when Dennis turned and sat down again Rooney got to his feet and left the room on the heels of Ma. And as he did so he determined definitely that this was no place for him. He would look at the room, and no matter what it was like he would say he would let her know, and that would be the end of it.

  The stairs led up from the right of the hallway on to a large landing with a number of doors leading off, all brown-painted.

  Ma walked briskly across the landing towards one of the doors.

  ‘This is the room. It’s a front room, and lovely in the mornings when the sun’s on,’ she said.

  Rooney did not point out that that was the least of the attractions he looked for, as he wouldn’t be in in the mornings.

  The room was packed with a dining and bedroom suite and various oddments, but he could see it was a big room and had a fine fireplace.

  ‘It’s nice,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it’s a lovely room,’ said Ma. ‘And cheap.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Seventeen and six a week.’ Ma looked straight at him.

  Rooney remained silent. He was only paying twelve and six where he was, but of course this was a much better room. Yet likely the rent of the whole house wasn’t much more than what she was asking him.

  ‘You’d want me to cook for you?’

  ‘Er…aye…yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do that for…shall we say seventeen and six? That would make thirty-five shillings a week. It’s very cheap when you think…?’

  Ma did not go on to say what she thought, but she stared at Rooney with her round, doll-like, pale-blue eyes. Then, adjusting her skirt and smoothing down her jumper over her swelling breasts to fill in the pause that Rooney was creating, she added, ‘I’m sure I’ll do all in my power to see you are comfortable. Are you a widower, Mr Smith?’

  ‘No,’ said Rooney. ‘I’ve never been married.’

  ‘And you’ve got your own furniture?’ She gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Well, it’s about time you were. When Doreen gets married in a fortnight’s time she’ll be the last of mine; I’ll be lost for something to do. Well there it is, Mr Smith. I’m sure you’d be comfortable.’

  �
��Yes. Yes, I feel I would, but I think I’d better tell you I’m on the Corporation…collectin’…the bins.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ma’s mouth, wide in a fixed smile, slid to a straight line and remained there for a second before stretching again.

  ‘Well now, are your clothes very dirty? That wouldn’t include your washing, not the thirty-five shillings.’

  ‘No. My clothes aren’t very bad at all. I change my top things at the depot. And I understand about the washing.’

  She moved out on to the landing, and he gave one last look at the room. He could see all his bits here and himself sitting afore the fire of a night-time…But that lot down there—he couldn’t put up with them no more’n they could put up with him.

  ‘There’s the bathroom.’ Ma pointed to the door opposite. ‘You could have a bath when you wanted one. And that’s something…the fire’s always on in the winter. It’s a back boiler.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, that would be something.’ And it would, too, he thought, to have a bath in a house without having to go to the public baths to get clean.

  At the foot of the stairs he paused. He didn’t want to go back into that room; but he had left his cap there, so he could do nothing but follow Ma again. Immediately, he noticed that the miserable-looking fellow and his wife had gone. But another woman had come into the room. She must have made her entry from the kitchen doorway almost at the same time as Ma and he had come in from the hall, for she was still holding on to the door handle when Ma said, ‘Oh! It’s you, Nellie. You’re late, aren’t you?’

  The girl turned. At least Rooney thought she was a girl because of her height and the slightness of her figure, until he saw her face, and then he realised that she was a woman. But of what age he found difficult to place…she could be anything from thirty to fifty.