The Fifteen Streets Read online

  Standing over the gutter, under the high, bleak arches, she vomited, and the comic slipped down from beneath her coat and became fouled with the sick.

  There was a long row of boys and girls waiting to go into confession, for tomorrow was the first Friday in the month, on which day they all attended communion. They nudged each other and fidgeted whilst bending over in grotesque positions in supposed prayer. They whispered and passed sweets, and showed one another holy pictures; yet there was no noise at all, so practised were they. It was three weeks since Katie was last at confession, the longest period between her confessions she could remember. Although the chill autumn air was filling the church she felt hot and sick. She had been sick a number of times since the day she took John’s suit to the pawn—she refused to think of it as the day she stole the comic. But now she had to think of the comic, for she was about to make her confession.

  A teacher, not Miss Llewellyn, came and moved a row and a half of children down to the pews opposite Father O’Malley’s box, which were singularly bare of penitents. This left Katie the next to go to Father Bailey. She was filled with a mixture of relief and fear, relief that she had escaped Father O’Malley’s judgment, and fear that her turn was upon her.

  A small, dark shadow emerged from one door of the confessional box, and Katie stumbled in. But for the faint gleam of a candle coming through the mesh from the priest’s side the box was black dark inside.

  ‘Please, Father, give me the blessing for I have sinned,’ she began. ‘It is three weeks since my last confession.’

  ‘Go on, my child.’ Father Bailey’s voice was like a soft balm falling on her.

  ‘I have missed Mass once.’

  ‘Through your own fault?’

  ‘No, Father. It was me clothes; me ma wouldn’t let me come.’

  ‘Go on, my child.’

  ‘I have spoken in church and I have missed me morning and night prayers.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Three times . . . no, four . . . perhaps a few more, Father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos the lino’s all cracked and it sticks in me knees when I kneel down.’

  The priest made a noise in his throat and said, ‘To strengthen your soul it is important that you say your prayers—prayers are the food of the soul like bread is the food of the body . . . You understand, my child?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Then under no circumstances should you starve your soul.’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Go on.’

  But Katie couldn’t go on. Her clasped hands, pressed against the elbow rest on a level with her face, were stuck together with sweat. The confessional box seemed weighed down with the smell of incense and mustiness.

  ‘Is there anything more?’ the priest asked.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Well then, what is it?’

  Silence followed his question. And after a moment he went on: ‘Don’t be afraid, my child; there is nothing so terrible that God won’t forgive.’

  ‘I stole.’

  The priest’s hand was taken away from his cheek and his face turned towards the mesh, and Katie looked up into two white bulbs. Then the hand was replaced again.

  Katie shivered during the silence that followed; she felt her sin had been a shock even to the priest.

  ‘What did you steal?’

  ‘A Rainbow.’

  ‘A what!’ The hand was dropped again.

  ‘A comic.’

  The priest coughed. ‘Now, my child, you know how it hurts our Blessed Lord when you do anything like that.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And will you do it again?’

  ‘No, no. Never, Father.’

  ‘No, I know you won’t. And if you could find a way to pay the shopkeeper for the comic it would put everything right, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Now, for your penance say one Our Father and ten Hail Marys, and tell Our Lord that never again will you hurt Him; and He will forgive you. And don’t forget to kneel when you are saying your prayers, in spite of the lino; for remember the nails in the cross.’

  The priest made the sign of the cross and said the absolution, whilst Katie murmured, ‘Oh, my God, I am very sorry I have sinned against Thee, because Thou art so good and by the help of Thy Holy Grace I will never sin again.’

  ‘Good night, my child, and God bless you,’ said Father Bailey. ‘And worry no more; He understands.’

  In a holy daze, Katie walked out of the box, and in the same state she said her penance, kneeling in the corner of the dark church, straining her eyes up to the statue of the Virgin and the Child, knowing that her sin was wiped away. And on walking out of the church, there was John, standing under the lamp. It all seemed part of God’s Grace. She ran to him and flung her arms about him, crying, ‘Oh John! Oh John!’ as if she had not seen him for years. Then she asked, ‘Are you going to confession?’

  ‘No,’ John said; ‘I was passing and I thought I’d wait for you.’

  She knew this wasn’t true; he never had to pass this way; he had come to meet her because she was crying when she left home. She seemed to have been crying for weeks. She knew that her mother and John were worried about her, for she couldn’t tell them why she cried. But now she was free again—the dreadful weight was lifted from her.

  John, looking down into her bright face, wondered what had wrought the change. He said teasingly, ‘Has Father Bailey given you a pair of wings?’

  ‘Eeh, our John!’ She shook his arm as she walked by his side. ‘But Father Bailey is nice, isn’t he? He’s so nice he makes me want to cry.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I’ll tell him to go for you the next time I see him, for you’ve done enough crying lately to last you a lifetime.’

  Katie did not speak for a time. And then she said softly, ‘I won’t be crying any more, John.’

  ‘You won’t? Well, that’s something to know. Why have you been crying so much lately, anyway?’

  There was a longer silence before she replied, ‘I stole.’

  Her statement came as a shock, stunning him for a while.

  ‘You what, Katie?’ he asked.

  ‘I stole, and I was frightened. It was a comic from Mr Powell’s. And now I’ve been to confession and Father Bailey says it’s all right.’

  ‘You stole a comic from Mr Powell’s?’ There was incredulity in John’s voice . . . Mick and Molly could thieve; Dominic and himself could lift things from the dock, although his own lifting was a fleabite compared with Dominic’s—Dominic filled his trousers from the yorks up with grain, and sold it to anybody who kept hens; the only thing in that line he himself brought home was a few green bananas for the bairns, or an odd bit of fruit from burst boxes. Nevertheless, they all did it; but that Katie should lift anything seemed monstrous to him. It might only be a comic, but everything needed a beginning. ‘Have you done it before?’ he asked.

  ‘No, only that once!’

  ‘Why did you do it?’ The question was ridiculous; as if he didn’t know why she had done it!

  ‘I hadn’t had a comic for weeks, and I hadn’t a ha’penny.’

  ‘If you want a comic, ask me. Don’t ever do that again, will you?’ He stopped and looked down on her.

  Katie couldn’t see his face clearly, but she knew by his voice that he was vexed, more vexed than Father Bailey had been. ‘Oh no, John, I’ll never do it again . . . never.’

  Yes, she could say that now, but there would be times, many times, when she would be without a ha’penny . . . and he too. What would happen then?

  They walked on in silence, and he told himself it was only a kid’s trick . . . Yes, it might be . . . any kid’s, but not Katie’s. It was this blasted, soul-shrivelling poverty, where a bairn was driven to steal because she hadn’t a ha’penny! The thought persisted that because she had done it once she would do it again, and that by the time she left school and was ready for a pl
ace she’d be a dab hand at lifting. And then there’d be more scope. Nothing big perhaps; just a few groceries, an odd towel, or a hankie . . . Oh, he knew what would happen . . . Well, it mustn’t; not to Katie, anyway. He must try and get more work, or different work, or something. He must see that never again would she be short of a ha’penny. But would that solve the problem?

  He slowed his pace, and Katie, silent and apprehensive, glanced up at him. Suddenly he stopped again and said, ‘What about this exam your teacher’s on about? What have you got to do?’

  She peered up at him. ‘Miss Llewellyn says that if I pass this examination I can do pupil training after I’m fourteen; and do another examination, and perhaps then I may be able to . . . to go to . . . a college.’ The last word was whispered, and John whispered back, ‘A college?’ He sighed, and they walked on again. It was fantastic . . . College! Yet why should it be? What did Peter Bracken say, not only say but lay down that it was a law? Anything to which you applied your thought you could bring into being. Peter had urged him again and again to put some of his methods to the test, but he had laughed at him, saying, ‘No, Peter, I’m a Catholic; a poor one, I admit, but nevertheless that’s my religion, and I’m trying nothing else.’

  But Peter had said, ‘This has nothing to do with religion, John; it’s merely using your thought in a proper way.’

  Well, here was a test . . . Could he think Katie to a college? It sounded as daft as if he had said he would think her into being the Queen of England. Yet hadn’t Peter given him proof of his power of concentrated thought? His mother was living proof. And she was aware of it too; that was why she never spoke of it, or to Peter; to her simple mind it was something too terrible for probing.

  Peter said that once you set your mind and heart on something and concentrated on it day after day, things came to your aid in what seemed a mysterious way but which was simply your positive thought reaching out into the realm of all thought and making contact with its own kind.

  John did not profess, even to himself, to understand half Peter’s words, let alone their meaning, but this much he could, perhaps, believe . . . if you wanted a thing badly enough you could get it. But as Peter warned, beware of what you want, for sometimes that which you felt you wanted most could, in the end, wreck you.

  Well, it would certainly be to Katie’s good if she became a teacher, and he couldn’t see that wrecking anyone. It was a wild and almost impossible dream, yet he would will it. But first he must know what he was up to. He would go and see Miss Llewellyn.

  For the third time he stopped. Was he mad? Go and see that lass! She’d scare the yorks off him. Well, he wouldn’t wear yorks. No, he wouldn’t. To Katie’s astonishment, he hurried on again, and now she had to run to keep pace with him.

  Only Mary Ellen was in when they got home, and Katie stood listening to John with an astonishment equal to that of her mother’s as he said, ‘Look, Ma, there’s fifteen shillings’—he placed the money on the table—‘I was saving it up towards a suit. I want you to pay the seven-and-six off that top coat and get me a new shirt . . . one with a collar.’ He did not look at Mary Ellen when saying this, for never before had he asked for a shirt with a collar; it had always been a striped flannelette one and a new muffler. ‘Get a good one,’ he added, ‘about five shillings. And get me a cap too, a grey one, darkish.’

  ‘What’s up, lad?’ Mary Ellen asked quietly when he had finished.

  ‘Nothing much.’ He turned and smiled at Katie, and punched her playfully on the side of the head. ‘I’m going to see her teacher about that examination, as you asked me, and I want to be decent.’

  6

  The Visit

  John stood sheepishly before Mary Ellen: ‘Now if you tell me I look like the silver king I’ll not set foot outside the door.’

  Mary Ellen didn’t proffer to tell him anything, she merely continued to stare at him. Who would have thought that a coat and a collar on his shirt would have made such a difference. He looked like a . . . well, like one of those adverts in the Shields Daily Gazette . . . no, better; there’s never been a coat like this in Shields, she was sure. And anyway, the name inside the pocket said London. He was big enough, God knew, but the coat made him look even bigger. It was not shaped like those she was used to seeing, but hung full and was as thick as a blanket, with a check lining of fine flannel. A thrill of pride surged through her. Why, he could pass for a ‘big pot’. His boots were shining as they had never done before, and the grey cap matched the dark, heather colour of the coat. She said, with a poor effort of offhandedness, ‘You’ll do. Mind, don’t forget to take your cap off when you go in.’

  ‘Now what do you take me for! I’m not a numbskull altogether.’

  ‘No, lad, I know,’ she said apologetically. ‘Anyway, you’ll likely not find her in . . . Saturday night and all. Why you couldn’t go in the daylight, I don’t know.’

  ‘You know fine enough. Imagine me going down the street like this; the place would be out.’

  Breaking the silence of her admiration, Katie burst out, ‘They would have thought you were going to a wedding and shouted, “Chuck a ha’penny out.”’

  ‘Yes, they would that,’ he laughed. ‘Well, here I go. And if that Miss Llewellyn doesn’t fall on me neck and say, “Oh, John, you look lovely,” I’ll skelp her face for her.’

  He left them both laughing, Katie rather hysterically, her face buried in the couch.

  Now he was outside in the dark street the jocular ease of manner he had assumed before his mother fell from him. He walked swiftly, passing people he knew but who failed to recognise him, and of whom he felt one or two turn as if puzzled and stare after him.

  When he reached the dark stretch of road beyond the sawmill, he slackened his pace and, like a child, fingered the coat. He brought the lapel up to his nostril and sniffed. There was a faint aroma of tobacco mingled with another smell . . . not scent . . . he couldn’t place it. He could only think it was a swell of a smell anyway. But now he must forget about the coat and think of what he would say to Miss Llewellyn. God, what an ordeal! Would he be able to speak to her alone, or would her family be there? Had she a family? He supposed so. Anyway, as his mother said, being Saturday night she might be out. Likely with that Culbert fellow. But it was early, not six o’clock yet, so there was a chance he’d catch her. If he didn’t he could try again on Monday, which would give him another chance to wear the coat. He chuckled to himself: ‘I’m like a bit of a bairn, and as frightened.’

  Katie had told him where the house lay on the outskirts of Simonside. She said he would know it, for it had a lawn in front and two gates, and that one of the gates had a wooden arch over it. He found it all too soon; it stood by itself, lying well back from the road. There was a light in an upstairs window, and the only light downstairs came through the stained glass of the front door. He stood at the gate looking towards the house until the sound of approaching footsteps, which had the ominous tread of a policeman, gave him the impetus to walk up the short drive.

  His ring was answered by a maid, a little slip of a thing, all starch and black alpaca down to her feet. Very much like Katie would be if this didn’t come off, he thought.

  The maid spoke first, after having peered at him. ‘Mr Llewellyn’s not in.’

  He almost laughed. They could titivate her up, but they couldn’t titivate that accent; it was the broadest of Tyneside.

  ‘Neither is Mrs Llewellyn,’ she said, and was on the point of closing the door on him when he found his voice.

  ‘It’s Miss Llewellyn I want to see.’ He smiled at her; he could be at home with her, anyway.

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes grew wider, and she opened the door further. ‘Well, you’d better come in. She’s upstairs; she’s just got back.’

  John stepped past her into the hall, and she went to open a door to the right, then changed her mind, saying, ‘Eeh no, you’d better wait in here.’ She crossed the hall, passed the foot of the stairs and went down a
short passage. And when he followed her she ushered him into a long, narrow room, at the far end of which a fire was burning.

  She left him, only to return before he had time to look round. ‘I forgot. What’s your name?’ she asked.

  A great desire to laugh came over him. It could be Katie . . . no, Molly; Katie wouldn’t have forgotten to ask the name.

  ‘O’Brien.’

  ‘O’Brien,’ she repeated. Then, seeing the twinkle in his eye, her face refused to be uniformed like her body and she smiled broadly. ‘I’m new, I’ve only been here a week.’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m always putting people in the wrong rooms. This is Miss Mary’s.’

  She disappeared, and he stood, cap in hand, looking around him. Well, he was inside, in Miss Mary’s room. So she was a Mary, like his mother. And she had a room to herself . . . not a bedroom either. He thought the Brackens’ furniture wonderful. Then what could he say of this room?

  As he gazed about him, the room took away the ease and self-possession the little maid had momentarily given him. It was a melody of colour. He had never imagined colour as part of a room—good, strong furniture, yes, but the colour never got beyond a shiny brown. Here there was russet and green, gold and white. The room was carpeted to the walls with green. Green curtains hung across the entire wall at the further end of the room, and a russet-covered chair and couch were standing crosswise before the fire. Half of one long wall was taken up with a low bookcase, on top of which stood a number of china figures, gentlemen in ruffles, ladies in crinolines, their delicate colourings reflected in the dark surface of the wood, on which they endlessly danced or bowed. The yellow tone was supplied by early chrysanthemums, rearing with frosty elegance from a tall glass vase standing on a round table . . . And then the white tone. He found his eyes drawn to this, and he walked a few steps towards it. It was a statuette of a woman, dead white and completely nude. The trailing hair covering part of one breast and falling across her stomach and over her womb only emphasised her nakedness. She was standing on an inlaid box by the side of the green curtains and reached just above his waist. She was about two feet tall, but she filled his entire vision, seeming to become alive before his eyes. In the back of his mind, he knew that she was indecent and should not be in a good Catholic home, especially a schoolteacher’s.