Hannah massey

by

catherine cookson

"In an age when so much rubbish is published and writers are two a penny, Mrs. Cookson comes as a boon and a blessing. She tells a good story. Hercharacters live ...."

Yorkshire Post

"The story is a compelling one ... a well-balanced, well- written novel" -Books and Bookmen

Hannah Massey was proud and canny. She was also intensely ambitious.

In true North-Country tradition, she ruled her family like the despot she was. Her ambitions centred on Rosie, her favourite daughter, for whom she would cheerfully have sacrificed the rest of her family, but not that terrible, dangerous pride. And Hughie, no-account,

taken-in-out-of-kindness Hughie, who had lived for years on the fringe of the raucous, brawling Masseys, watched and waited as the tension mounted.

U.

K.

3op SBN426 120442

TANDEM

When the door opened and Rosie saw her brother standing there she did not move or speak and he, for a moment, did not recognise her. Then he yelled, "Ma! Everybody! Look who's here. Just look who's here."

The hall was packed now, filled with big men and one woman, a big woman too. Hannah Massey came forwards towards her daughter; her eyes wide and unblinking, crying, "Rosie! Rosie! Lass, you're sodden. Get that coat off you. And you're white as a sheet, girl. Tell me, are you all right?"

"I've had the' flu

"I can see you've had something, for you look like a ghost." She cupped Rosie's white face in her hands, and as she stared at her

daughter her expression changed.

"It's just struck me," she said in an awesome whisper.

"You wouldn't ... you wouldn't be in any sort of trouble ? You coming home on the hop like this, it's just come tome.. "

"I'm not going to have a hairn, Ma." Her words were cold, but she felt the old fear rising in her, the fear of her mother. This woman who loved her, this strong, irrational, masterful woman. Also by

Catherine Cookson the garment Tandem edition 25? slinky jane Tandem edition 25?

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise disposed of without the publisher's consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

Catherine Cookson

14 Gloucester Road, London SW7

CONTENTS

The Arrival

Tuesday Wednesday ii4

Thursday

The Aftermath i6i

THE ARRIVAL

As she came slowly through the doorway into the snow-covered street she paused for a moment and put her hand against the wall near where the cards that gave the names of the flat- dwellers reposed in three slots one above the other. But, as if becoming aware of the proximity of something dirty, she snatched her hand away and put it in her coat pocket, then went slowly down the street.

She was a tall girl with- very long legs, a flour-white face topped with thick, dark auburn hair, which had been cut to bouffant style but which now fell from jagged partings over each side of her high

cheek-bones. She had large, slightly slanted grey-green eyes, and a wide straight-lined mouth, but what could have been a set of perfect features was marred slightly by her nose which was a little too long and a little too thin. Altogether she looked rangy. She was wearing a knee- length brown coat with a broad belt that swung loosely below her buttocks, and she carried in her hand an open-woven basket; she didn't look adequately dressed for the weather, she looked like a young woman who had slipped out hurriedly to do some shopping. And this was

apparently her intention.

Walking slowly past four Victorian houses, similar to the one she had just left, she came to a row of shops. The first was a baker's. She passed this without looking in the window, but by the butcher's shop next door to it she paused for a moment before going on. She paused again in front of a chemist's shop. But thereafter she did not stop until she reached the large all- purpose store at the end of the block.

Here again she paused and scanned the contents of the window before entering. Her journey down the street had been slow, even leisurely, and her whole attitude, if judged by her back, could have been one of boredom; yet immediately she was within the store her manner changed.

She did not pause at any counter, but walking hastily around the

perimeter of the store she made for a side exit, and having gained the street once more she took to her heels and ran.

I The street opened into a main thoroughfare thick with traffic, but she made for the other side of the road with the assurance of someone used to London's traffic. Once across, she left the main road and cut down another side street, not running now but hurrying at the point of a trot. Ten minutes later she stopped outside a small pawn shop and stood for a moment inhaling deeply before entering.

There was no one in the shop except the man behind the counter. He was in his fifties and looked unusually spruce to be in a pawn shop. Pawn shops were dusty places, even those like this one that sold new stuff such as silver and rare china. Men who worked in pawn shops seemed to take on the patina of their surroundings and it usually gave off a dull sheen, but even this man's smile looked clean and bright.

"Good morning, madam," he said.

"Good morning," she answered. Her voice sounded rough, almost rasping, as if she had a bad throat or her mouth was dry.

"What can I do for you?" He inclined his head towards her, as if he had known her a long while and wanted to be of service to her.

She groped into the, single deep pocket of her coat and brought out a ring, which she placed on the counter.

He did not immediately touch the ring but looked at her. He watched her swallow twice, then waited for her to speak.

"Could you ... could you give me ten pounds on it?"

"Ten pounds!" His eyebrows moved up slightly towards his smooth hair.

He picked up the ring and reached out for a small black eye-piece.

After a moment he looked at her again;

his expression had changed. It could have been the expression of a man who had found something out, something detrimental about someone he loved. He said again, "Ten pounds?" His words were a question, and in answer she moved her head.

He looked at the ring once more; for an eternity he looked at it, and she grew old the while.

"Yes." He let out a long breath.

"Yes, I can give you ten pounds on it. Yes. Yes. Well now, would you like to sign?" He pulled a book towards her and offered her a pen. As it passed from his hand to hers it fell to the counter and he

apologised, saying, "Oh, I'm sorry," although they both knew it wasn't he who had dropped the pen. When she had signed her name he turned the book towards him.

"Rose Massey," he read aloud, then glancing up at her he proffered gently, "You have forgotten the address, madam."

She stared at the book for some seconds before writing in it again.

When the pawnbroker turned it towards him he studied it a moment before saying quietly, "Eight Brampton Hill.... Brampton Hill?" He put his head back on his neat shoulders and, looking up towards the age-smoked ceiling, said musingly, "I can't quite recollect... Brampton Hill?"

"It's on the outskirts, Lewisham way."

"Oh. Oh, Lewisham way." He was nodding at her. Then he smiled, and picking up the ring he placed it behind him on a piece of glass, and from a drawer he took a bundle of new notes from which he pulled off the elastic band and counted ten out to her.

She folded the notes twice, then again, until they were a tube squeezed in her fist.

"Thank you. Good morning," she said.

"Wait... you will want a ticket."

"Oh, yes." There was another eternity while she watched him write out a ticket, and when he handed it to her he smiled again as he had done when she came in.

"Thank you." She did not return his smile but inclined her head.

"Thank... you." There was deep emphasis on the words.

She was conscious of him watching her walking to the door, and her legs shook and her feet in the high stiletto-heeled shoes wobbled slightly.

In the street she hesitated a moment, looked to the right, then left, then once again began to hurry towards the main road, but when, at the corner, she saw a taxi coming towards her, the "For Hire" sign up, she hailed it.

"Can you take me to King's Cross?"

"Certainly, miss."

"I mean could you get me there for about ten to one? The train leaves at one."

"Ten-past twelve now... I don't sec why not, if the traffic jams arc kind to us. Hop in."

In the taxi she sat bolt' upright, gripping the handle of the basket on her knee with both hands.

When they were stopped by traffic lights for the third time she leant forward and asked, "Will it be all right?"

"Eh?" he said.

"Will it be all right? Will there be plenty of time?" "Yes, yes, we'll make it and likely twenty minutes to spare."

She sat straight again, staring unblinking at the constant movement ahead.

"There you are," said the taxi-driver.

"What did I tell you? Just two minutes out."

Standing on the kerb she hesitated on his tip, whether to give him a shilling or two shillings. She could make it two shillings, she'd have enough. Yes, she'd have enough.

She had just crossed the pavement towards the entrance hall when the taxi-driver's voice hailed her, and she turned towards him.

"You've left your basket, miss." He jerked his head towards the back of the cab. She glanced downwards before running back, pulling open the door and grabbing up the basket.

At the ticket office she said, "A single to Newcastle, please."

She ran again, weaving in and out of the throng towards the platform.

At the barrier she said to the ticket collector, "How long before it goes?"

"Ten minutes," he replied.

She withheld her ticket.

"I won't be a minute." She turned from him and, running once more, went into the ladies and fo the lavatory. She did not sit down but waited a few seconds before she left the basket at the side of the pan, then hurried out.

She was crossing the waiting room when a voice hailed her from the door. The attendant stood there with a large duster in one hand, the basket in the other.

"You forgot this," she called.

Her eyes dropped again before she moved towards the woman, and taking the basket she said, "Oh, thanks."

As she approached the train she held the basket at an angle so that its emptiness would not be noticed.

After walking the length of the train she stood in the corridor. She had known she wouldn't get a seat, not this late. It didn't matter, it didn't matter. With the first shuddering movement of the train she leant against the partition and, her lids slowly closing, she allowed her muscles to unwind.

When a voice said "Excuse me," she opened her eyes and pressed herself back to allow a man with a suitcase to pass her, and when he looked at her and smiled his thanks no muscle of her face moved in response, but as he put down his suitcase and took up his stand against the door she moved slowly away. Walking down the corridor she crossed over the

jangling connecting platform, and. stood in the corner of the nex

coach.

It wasn't until the train reached Doncaster that she found a

I

geat, and when she placed her basket on the rack it drew the attention of the two men and the woman sitting opposite. Time and again their eyes would lift to the basket, incongruous between the suitcases,

before dropping automatically down to the girl with the bright hair and the white face and the long legs, which she kept pressed close to the seat. She didn't look the type to travel with a basket.

When at Durham she was left alone in the compartment with one

passenger, and he a man, she went into the corridor and stood looking out into the whirling darkness.

Before they reached Newcastle the man came out of the compartment, and as he passed her he looked at her with open curiosity. A girl who was travelling with an empty basket and without a hat or a handbag. no girl ever travelled without a handbag.

Just before the train reached Newcastle she tore up the pawn ticket and put it down the lavatory, and when she left the train she left the basket on the rack.

Again she was hurrying, now into the main thoroughfare of the city.

All the shops were still brightly lit, but most of them were closed, even the one that advertised late closing on Friday night was about to shut its doors when she entered.

"It's five to, we're closing, miss," said the doorman.

"Please." She looked up into his face.

"I won't be a minute, I just want a case."

"All right," he said, "go on." His voice was kindly, and broad and thick with the northern inflection, and told her she was home.

On a counter to the right of her were some suitcases. An imitation crocodile, priced at twenty-one shillings, brought her hand to it, and handing the money across the counter she said, "I'll take this. Where are the hats?"

"On the first floor, miss."

They had covered up most of the millinery in the hat department, but, glancing swiftly around her, her eyes alighted on a grey felt. Pulling it on and with hardly a glance in the mirror she said, "I'll take this one." The price was twelve and eleven.

As she turned to go down the stairs she saw a notice proclaiming "The Bargain Counter" A model with wire arms extended towards her showed a three-piece suit in charcoal edged with dull pink braid. It looked exotic, and therefore

Y

wasn't everybody's buy. The price had been slashed three times. The tag hanging from the lapel showed thirteen guineas in large red

letters. This was scored out and underneath was ten guineas, then eight guineas, and now the black figures stated that the garment had been reduced to five guineas.