The Moth, page 2
Robert blinked, straightened his shoulders and gathered his thoughts together before answering, ‘I helped me da.’
‘Anything here you’ve made yourself?’
‘Yes, I made the chairs you’re sitting on.’ He nodded towards his aunt and the girl, and as he did so the thought came to him that it was funny to think he had a cousin like her and an uncle and aunt like these two. It gave him the feeling of not being entirely alone, although, going on his uncle’s manner, the time mightn’t be far ahead when he would tell himself it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to be without relations for he was stiff-necked was this new uncle. But still, they’d soon be gone, and afterwards, apart from an occasional visit from them, if they felt so inclined, he would see very little of them, he supposed.
He looked at his uncle, who was now examining one of the chairs. Then he started slightly as John Bradley said abruptly, ‘You satisfied with the job you’ve got?’
He stared back at the man for a moment as if considering, then he said, ‘I’ll always be satisfied as long as I’m working with wood.’
‘You fit the ships?’
‘Yes. Aye, that’s what I do, along with a few other chaps.’ He grinned now as he looked towards his aunt, and she smiled back at him but didn’t speak. She had hardly said half a dozen words since they had met. She seemed to have been put in her place all right.
‘I’ve got a good business: I’m supplying a shop in Newcastle with high quality chairs and tables. I’m taking on another man. How about it?’
How about it? The offer came almost as a shock. Leave these two rooms and move into the country, into the house where his father had been born, and his father and his father afore him, and still be able to work with wood? It seemed too good to be true. Away from the hustle and the noise, away from the swarms of kids making a racket in the street till all hours of the night. He often thought that the number of children from both sides of the road outnumbered the rivets in the plates of an entire ship, for after the lamplighter had been they would emerge like hordes of ants. But then ants were quiet, whereas the noise the kids made outside the doors was sometimes deafening.
He was used to the noise in the shipyard but it was a different noise. Ships were built on noise; but his part in their construction was made up more by sounds, the sound of a saw going through wood, the gentle jabbing of a plane along a plank, and the soft plop as the curl of wood fell among its mates. And there was a kind of music in the sound of sandpaper working along the grain. And that final hidden sound: you knew it was there because you made up the click in your own mind as one piece of wood dovetailed into another.
And to work to these sounds without the background of steel plates being hammered was something to think about, to consider deeply. But there were always snags. How would he like working for this man, living on the spot? As it was now, he did in a way leave his work behind when he was through the gates, but for twenty-four hours of the day he would be near this bloke. And as yet he didn’t know how to take him. What he also had to consider was that once he burned his boats the oars would be gone too, so to speak, for he couldn’t expect to get another house or another job in the yard; there was always somebody ready and waiting to jump into your shoes, and things at the moment were a bit tricky, international like. But they were always a bit tricky international like.
Then there was the Mechanics’ Institute. He’d miss that, and his books. Well, he had more than two dozen of his own that were worth re-reading, and he could always go into Birtley or Chester-le-Street, or even as far as Durham. There were bound to be reading rooms there. But, taking all this into account it still left the man.
‘Well, what do you say? You’re taking some time to think about it.’
He really didn’t know what to say. But his mind at this point was made up for him, for the door leading from the scullery into the living room was thrust open and Mrs Hinton put her head round it, saying, ‘Well, everything’s clear and tidy in here, Bobby. Polly’s gone to change; she’ll be in later to see to your supper and things . . . I’ll say goodbye, Mrs Bradley. Goodbye, Mr Bradley.’ And she nodded from one to the other. Her last nod she kept for Robert and it was accompanied by an expression of deep sympathy, as the occasion warranted.
The door hadn’t closed on her before Robert, looking at his uncle, said, ‘I’d be glad to. Aye, I’d be glad to take you up on it.’
When you were between the devil and the deep sea, it was wiser to latch on to the devil, he had more substance.
Two
‘Who would have thought one would ever see the wood loft turned into a home. And it is a home, Robert, isn’t it? Homely, at least at this end. And you don’t notice the wood stacked along there.’ Alice Bradley waved her hand towards the far end of the long room that ran above the workshop.
Robert agreed with her: nodding, he said, ‘Aye, Aunty, it is homely. And it’s all of three times the size of 122, Upper Foxglove Road. As for the wood, why, I think that adds to me comfort, for there’s nothing I like better than the smell of wood . . . seasoning wood, like yon is.’
‘And to think it was Carrie’s idea. She’s got an eye for wood too, you know, Robert.’ Alice turned to her daughter, smiling broadly now, and Carrie, her fair head wagging slightly, looked at Robert, saying, ‘Well, I thought it was a shame you letting all your nice pieces go and for next to nothing, after all the work you had put into them. I still think your neighbour had a nerve to offer five shillings for this table.’ Carrie now stroked her hand up and down the patina of the small mahogany dining table as she added, ‘Dad would get ten pounds for a table like this, wouldn’t he, Ma?’
‘Oh yes, at the least, ’cos this quality would sell in Newcastle at anything up to twenty. It’s the big houses that buy such, you see. Of course, for a full dining table of this quality you could ask almost anything, up to thirty pounds. That’s if it had two leaves. Well now’ – Alice looked around her in obvious admiration – ‘it looks as good as my sitting room, this part anyway. And you know, if you like, Robert, you could make a sort of partition here to hide your bed.’
‘Oh, there’s no need for that, Aunty, because for what time I spend up here I’ll be asleep anyway . . . well, most nights.’
‘You like reading, don’t you, Robert?’ Alice’s face was now straight, her expression serious, and she moved a step towards him, her voice low now as she went on, ‘That’s the only thing Mr Bradley’s worried about, the lamp,’ she pointed; ‘he’s afraid you might go to sleep and leave it burning . . . and with all the wood . . . ’
‘Never you fear about that, Aunty’ – Robert put out his hand in a tentative motion towards her – ‘I’m always very careful. And I promise that that’ll be me main concern to see it’s out afore I even go to bed. I’ll make it a habit not to read in bed, so that’ll ensure there’s no danger of anything happening through the lamp.’
Alice smiled at him now and she turned to make for the door which led on to the landing of the house proper, but Carrie, hurrying to her side, whispered something, and on this Alice said slowly, ‘Oh yes.’ And then, turning to Robert again, she looked at him and sighed before saying hesitantly, ‘I . . . I know from a little you’ve said, Robert, that you follow . . . well, no line towards God, but . . . but Mr Bradley would be obliged . . . and pleased’ – she nodded her head at him now – ‘if you would accompany us this morning to church.’
Robert looked into the face that he had come to like. She was a nice woman was his new Aunt Alice – he still thought of these relations as new – she had shown him nothing but kindness during the few days he had been here. He had discovered that she had some strange ways with her, such as always referring to her husband by his surname and never sitting down if he was standing unless he told her to do so. These actions made her appear to be very subservient; yet he had noticed, at least on one occasion when she had answered her husband back, that her voice was firm, and his uncle had made no further comment on what she had said.
The matter had concerned Carrie going to the church Bible Class unaccompanied. It would appear that Gladys Parkin, the daughter of their only close neighbour in the small hamlet, had caught a chill and was in bed, and as Gladys’ sisters Mary Ellen and Nancy were past the Sunday School age, there was no-one for Carrie to walk with.
There were only six cottages altogether in the hamlet itself, but there were farmhouses here and there with their accompanying cottages, and a few miners’ rows. Then there was the village of Lamesley and, beyond, the township of Birtley. But of all the residents near at hand, there was no young female among them whom John Bradley considered fit enough to accompany his daughter. And as it would have been slightly ridiculous for him to have been seen taking her to the vestry door of the church, he had therefore ordered his wife to be her companion, whereupon on this particular occasion his Aunt Alice had stated it would be as equally ridiculous for her to take her daughter by the hand, so to speak, the girl coming up sixteen.
So last Sunday Carrie had for the first time walked to the Bible Class and back on her own. A thrilling experience for the poor lass, he thought.
And now here was this kind woman acting as mouthpiece for her husband, his stiff-necked, bigoted, sanctimonious uncle, because that’s what he was. His word was sacrosanct in the house. There was grace before and after meals, at which unpunctuality was seemingly a sin. And under this same banner of sin came swearing, a simple damn being enough to make him look grim; and should the word God slip out of context his face would turn purple. So much he had learned in the short time he had been here. And now here he was being put to the test. Well, it was really no test, for he did not have to think about it, his answer was a definite no. But he couldn’t put it like that to this kind woman, and so he said, ‘I’m sorry, Aunty, but I think . . . at least I thought I had made it clear to Uncle that I’m not inclined that way. Never have been.’
‘It’s not too late to start, Robert.’ Alice’s voice was gentle and had a pleading note in it, and he bowed his head against the appeal as he muttered, ‘It’s no use, Aunty.’
‘You never know until you try. Have you ever tried?’
‘Yes, I suppose in a way, until I started to read.’
‘But reading doesn’t surely close the door to God?’
‘In a way it does, Aunty, because so many people have so many different ideas of God, not only in this country, like the Protestants and the Catholics and the Baptists and the Methodists and so on, but in other countries where Jesus Christ is not even recognised . . . ’
‘What did you say?’
The door had been thrust open and the side of it caught Alice and would have knocked her backwards had not Robert steadied her with a quickly outthrust hand. And then he turned and looked at his uncle and slowly he repeated, ‘I said that in some countries Jesus Christ is not even recognised.’
‘How dare you blaspheme in my house! Do you know what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, and it’s true, Uncle.’
‘’Tis not! They are heathens out there. They haven’t heard the word of God through the Lord Jesus Christ, and when they do . . . ’
‘They’ve heard the word of their own gods, and they are many and of all kinds.’ Robert’s voice had risen and now he watched his uncle swallow deeply; he watched the colour sweep upwards into the bald patch above his forehead and it even seemed to tinge the sparse grey hair that was brushed flat behind his ears. When he spoke it was seemingly with an effort, and the words came out as a growl, ‘You disappoint me, boy.’
‘Uncle.’ Robert’s voice was deep now and his words were slow as he said, ‘First of all I’m no boy, and not being a boy, I’m not to be swayed in me way of thinking or intimidated or frightened whichever way you put it. And I’ll say this now, Uncle: if I’m to continue working for you, I must be free after working hours to lead me own life. I think we’d better get this straight afore we go any further. Perhaps we should have had it worked out afore I made the move.’
John Bradley stared at the young man who was looking him straight in the eyes. He saw him as the son he had longed for. But as he had just said, he was no boy: he was a man of good height, all of five feet ten, with broad shoulders, a firm short neck and a face made square by his jawbones; his nose was on the large side and his eyes were round and brown, looking almost black now because there was anger behind them; his brows above them were high as if raised with his anger. His hair like his eyes was brown; it was thick and unusually long for a man, for at the back it came to the top of his shirt collar. That was another thing he meant to speak about, but all in good time, for now, here he was confronted as if by an equal, more than an equal, and for the first time in his married life his wife was seeing his authority being lessened. Even his daughter from now on would view him through different eyes, for her love would be no longer tinged with fear, righteous fear, like that which is claimed by God, who is the loving father of all.
In one movement he swung his body round, then with outstretched arm he thrust the door wide again and went out into the corridor; and Alice, one hand gripping the neck of her outdoor cape, the other pressed tightly over her mouth, gave one glance as though in awe towards Robert before running after her husband.
Robert turned now and sadly he looked at Carrie. But Carrie wasn’t looking sad; there was a smile on her face, suppressed, but nevertheless there; and her small babyish mouth was quivering as if it wanted to burst into laughter. And approaching him now on tiptoe she looked up at him and her pointed chin moved slightly from side to side before she said in a whisper, ‘You’re very brave.’ And having said this she turned and ran from the room.
He stood looking through the doorway along the passage that led on to the landing where the four bedrooms were, and he thought, God in heaven, what have I let meself in for now!
Tim Yarrow, his uncle’s assistant who lived over in Lamesley village and had worked below since he was a lad, had hinted at something like this on Friday. ‘How are you farin’ upstairs?’ he had said. And when he had replied, ‘Fine. Oh fine,’ Yarrow had then added enigmatically, ‘Come Sunday we’ll see.’
Well Sunday had come and he had seen, and so what was he going to do? He walked down the room to his bed, and there, his hands gripping the wooden rail at the foot of it, he leant forward and stared down on to the patchwork quilt. Should he up and go, or should he stay and see what transpired? It all depended on how his uncle would take his stand.
After a moment he turned and walked to the low window that went right down to floor level and, dropping on to his hunkers, he looked out over the countryside.
It was a very warm day for mid-September and the sun was shining on the roofs of the cottages down in the vale. Some distance away to the left he could just see the outline of the old church of Saint Andrew in Lamesley.
This was a bonny place. All around was bonny, that’s if you didn’t include the pit heaps. But there were plenty of places free from them, and up till half an hour ago he had been looking forward to taking a long dander over the countryside and perhaps meeting up with people that he could talk to, because he had already faced up to the fact that this was one thing he was missing, the talk, the backchat, even the ripe language of men at work.
Down in the shop below there was only the voice of the wood interspersed with staccato remarks from his aunty and grunts from his uncle; grunts were the only signs he made of approval even of a finished piece. When he was giving orders he had little to say: he would sketch what he wanted on a piece of paper and hand it to you, with the cursory inquiry: ‘Can you manage that?’
He straightened his back. Well, what was he going to do? What could he do but wait and see what transpired. Anyway, he had the day before him and he wasn’t going to waste it.
Five minutes later he went down the bare shallow oak stairs into the little hall. Here he paused for a moment as he looked towards an antlered hallstand with the usual square compartment for umbrellas and walking sticks. There was a walking stick reposing in it now and as he looked towards it he told himself that’s what he must make next, a walking stick. He had never thought about a walking stick before. Well, who but a cripple would use a walking stick in Jarrow?
He turned to his left, went through a door and into the kitchen. Everything here was as spruce and tidy as his aunt herself. But there was no smell of Sunday roast cooking. They’d had their hot dinner yesterday. And now he knew why. Anyway, what did it matter? He’d have a pie and half a pint in some inn.
Out in the yard he walked slowly to where the ever-open gate gave on to the road; and here he paused and looked to the right and the left. The little hamlet was quiet. He wondered if all the Parkins were at church too, or did some go to Chapel? Whatever they favoured. It was funny when you came to think about it, him saying all the Parkins. Families hadn’t really much option when it came to picking a religion, they had to follow the parents. He was living with a good example of that, wasn’t he?
Aw, let him forget about his uncle and his damned religion. It was a lovely day, not a day for thinking below the surface but one for thinking above it, looking up into the sky, breathing deeply, feeling your limbs move. Aye, he liked to feel his limbs move. On this thought he stalked off down the road, and as he was nearing the end of the Parkins’ yard which ran by the side of the house, a voice said to him, ‘Good morning, Mr Bradley.’
He stopped and looked at the young woman who had a tin dish in her hand in which reposed two cabbages, and he smiled as he answered, ‘Good morning to you.’
He watched her now moving slowly towards the railings. She walked jauntily, her hips pushing her striped skirt from one side to the other, and when she came within a yard of him she said, ‘I’m Nancy Parkin.’
