The Mallen Litter Read online

  She swung round from the window and almost ran out of the room across the landing and into her own room, where she went immediately to the wardrobe. She must put on a thick coat. And there was a waterproof cape in the hall cupboard; she’d put that on too.

  As she pulled the coat from the hanger the bedroom door opened and she had to grab for support at the open wardrobe door.

  ‘What’s the matter, aren’t you well?’ Dan came towards her and led her to a chair. ‘What is it?’ Now he was on his hunkers before her, her two hands grasped tightly between his own. ‘You look as white as a sheet. What is it, tell me?’

  She tried to speak but found it impossible. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.

  Suddenly his grip tightened and he said on a whisper, ‘You’re not…you’re not?’

  Now she did speak and almost vehemently. ‘No, no, I’m not.’

  ‘No.’ The syllable was soothing, yet threaded with disappointment. Of course he knew she wouldn’t be; if will-power on her part could prevent a pregnancy she’d never give him any more children.

  ‘Well, what is it, what’s wrong, do you feel ill?’ There was a slight edge to his tone now.

  ‘I…I felt faint.’

  ‘What were you doing with your coat? He looked towards the coat where it was lying on the floor.

  ‘I…I was going to clear the wardrobe, put in my summer clothes.’

  ‘Clear the wardrobe? Ridiculous! What you want to do is to rest. And also, what I think you need is a change, a holiday. Why don’t you go down to Brigie’s for a few days?’

  ‘Brigie’s?’ She pressed him aside and rose to her feet. ‘What a stupid thing to put to me! You know I hate that place.’

  ‘It was the cottage I thought you hated, not the Hall.’

  ‘It’s all the same, it’s the vicinity.’

  His head drooped and he looked down at the floor, and the nearness of it made him aware that he was still on his hunkers. As he pulled himself upwards he thought, Everything I do is symbolic. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling now as a shrill cry came from the nursery, and the feet bounding across the floor could have been those of a donkey. Ben again with Ruthie in pursuit.

  He gave a half-smile as he said, ‘You can’t rest with that going on. Come on across to the spare room.’

  There were three spare rooms but only one in particular was called the spare room, for it was the one in which he sometimes slept should he return late from a business dinner in the city at which he had imbibed well but not wisely. This was not a new pattern. He had adopted it in the old house when in a less-than-sober state he had got into bed one night only to have her get out at the other side, saying with disdain, ‘You are nauseating.’

  Now she allowed herself to be led across the landing and into the room and helped onto the bed. He arranged the pillows behind her head and drew a light cover over her, then stood looking down at her and said, ‘There.’

  ‘Why are you home at this time?’

  ‘I wanted some papers and’—he sat down slowly on the edge of the bed—‘I wanted an excuse to see my wife…What is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  ‘Have you a pain in the heart?’

  Had she a pain in the heart?

  She took her hand away from below her breast and shook her head as she said, ‘No, no, it is only a little flatulence, I swallowed my meal too quickly. Are you…are you staying long?’

  ‘As long as you need me.’

  She pressed her head into the pillows and closed her eyes. ‘I’m all right, really I am. It…it is only my usual monthly indisposition.’

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ He patted her hand now, then rose from the bed, smiling almost a happy smile. She had spoken openly to him about a natural function; it was almost the equivalent of her standing naked in front of him.

  ‘You rest,’ he said; ‘just rest. I’ll get them to bring you a cup of tea up, eh? And I’ll look in before I go. If you should be asleep I won’t disturb you. All right?’

  She made a motion with her head, then watched him walk softly across the room as if she were already asleep, and this last evidence of his consideration made her want to spring from the bed and cry at him, ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ His solicitude was a torture in itself, and, added to all that he had done for her over the years, it redoubled the feeling of guilt that was already weighing on her.

  Well, it seemed that God or providence, or whatever it was that ruled people’s existence, had spoken. She had been stopped from doing something foolish. Her mind became silent for a moment, until a voice broke into it, crying loudly, ‘Not foolish, not foolish, something wonderful.’ Before she had received Michael’s letter her life had been dull, monotonous, but just bearable. The same existence would never be bearable again, and now she wondered how she was to endure it. She had but to stretch out her hand and there was love, love which she had been born to experience, love that she had been deprived of.

  Her mind became blank, until she asked herself, and quietly now, would she have actually gone if Dan had not put in an appearance at that moment? Up till then she had wasted almost two hours, why hadn’t she gone to the wood straight away if she had been going at all? She had prayed for something to prevent her and her prayers had been answered. She should be satisfied.

  What time was it now? She looked towards the mantelpiece. Ten minutes to three. Another hour and he’d be gone. ‘From noon till four,’ he’d said. But who but a madman would stand for four hours in a wood in this weather? She turned her eyes towards the window where the rain was running down in an unbroken sheet. No-one but a madman, or a man who had been given a second chance to love.

  There was a tap on the door and Ada came in with a cup of tea. She thanked her and gratefully drank the tea, after which she lay back and closed her eyes.

  When the door opened without a tap and the footsteps came softly towards the side of the bed she feigned sleep. She could hear Dan’s breathing and she knew that he was bending over her when his breath fanned her face. She would not be able to bear it if he kissed her. He didn’t. The door closed and she was alone. She lay rigid, waiting for the sound of the front door closing, and the fifteen minutes before it did seemed like an eternity.

  As if it had been a signal, she rose swiftly from the bed and went to the window which looked onto the side of the house, and from there she saw the carriage leaving the yard.

  It was now twenty minutes to four. Before the pointer touched the quarter to she was down in the hall and pulling the waterproof cape from the cupboard.

  ‘You going out, ma’am?’ Ada was standing looking at her with her mouth agape.

  ‘Yes, yes, Ada; I feel I need air.’

  ‘But it’s teeming heavens hard, ma’am, you’ll get soaked.’

  ‘Oh, a little rain won’t hurt me. I…I shall not be long.’

  ‘But, ma’am, the Master said…’

  ‘I know, I know, Ada.’ Her voice was unusually gentle, her tone even friendly. ‘It’s quite all right. Don’t worry, I’ll only be gone a short while. But…but I feel I need air, I need to walk.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Ada Howlett opened the door for her and she went out, her head bent against the slant of the rain.

  When she reached the beginning of the wood, her face was running with water and she couldn’t see very far ahead, but far enough to know that there was no man waiting on the road. Well, she knew it would be madness for anyone to stand four hours in this downpour. Her step slowed and almost stopped, but she kept moving.

  It was at the moment when she was about to turn and make her way back that a figure emerged from the path that she had used the other day. He had his head bent and he didn’t look up until he stepped onto the road, and even then it was merely a glance before he turned right and away from her. And then he was standing still, his shoulders back, his head up; he swung round but he did not move towards her.

  The rain washed him from her vision time a
nd time again before simultaneously they moved towards each other. And then they were standing within arm’s length, blinking, peering, their eyes drawing their images back into the empty years.

  His hand came slowly out towards her. He did not speak, nor did she when she placed hers in it; then like two children who had died and were meeting again in another existence, they walked back to the path that led into the wood, and then on into the wood proper. Their hands still joined but their bodies were well apart.

  When they stopped it was under a large oak. The rain was coming through the branches in great plops and the light was dim.

  ‘Barbara. Thank you. Thank you.’ His first words were low and husky.

  He released her hand and they still stood apart. What she replied was, ‘I’m sorry I…I couldn’t get away before; there were things…’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You…you must be very wet.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘By cab from the city. It’s due to return at four o’clock at the end of the road.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her chin moved upwards.

  Their mundane pleasantries ceased. The rain hissed and spat. The wind whistled through the tops of the trees. The dismal dreariness that only a sodden wood can give off was all about them. They stood gazing at each other.

  She was more beautiful than ever he had imagined. He looked older, so much older. His face had hard lines on it; there was no semblance of Michael the boy; here was a man, a big, strong, blond man. And he was Michael, her Michael. Oh, Michael, Michael, what must I do?

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m quite well.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant. I…I meant, are you happy?’

  How did she answer this question? Well, however she answered, it must touch on the truth. She said, ‘I have three sons, and…and Dan is very good to me, very, very good. Are you happy?’

  ‘No.’ The straight simple answer was their undoing. She said softly, ‘Oh, Michael.’

  Their hands instinctively clasped again, tightly now; the distance between them lessened. He gazed into her face as, his voice breaking, he said, ‘I…I meant just to see you. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry, sorry for everything, but most of all that…that I didn’t run away that time. As I explained in the letter, I scurried because I…I was afraid, afraid of this moment. But it had to be, Barbara. I know it had to be.’

  ‘Oh, Michael.’

  That’s all she could say, ‘Oh, Michael.’ Her heart was bursting. Nothing in the world mattered but this moment and the fact that she was standing here with him and that he was declaring his love for her with every part of him, for his whole body was trembling. But when he said, ‘It’s too late, isn’t it, it’s too late,’ she shivered. She did not know whether it was a statement, or a question, but she answered it as a statement, saying, ‘Yes, Michael, it’s too late.’

  ‘You…you wouldn’t leave Dan and the children?’ She gulped but said nothing for a moment. When she did speak she reversed his question. ‘You wouldn’t leave your child either, would you?’

  ‘They…they would break her, with bitterness and recrimination they would break her.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing more we can do, Michael.’

  ‘Yes, there is. Yes, there is.’

  She could scarcely hear his voice above the hissing rain. ‘We could meet now and then, just now and then. I…I must see you, Barbara. If it’s only once in six months I must see you. I can’t live with the thought of never seeing you again. I…I could have gone on I suppose if I hadn’t caught sight of you that day. But from then, oh!’—he shook his head—‘you’ve no idea of the agony. It’s as if a disease had got into my blood…No, I didn’t mean it that way, I meant…’

  ‘I know what you meant, Michael.’ Her voice was soft, her manner simple. ‘I was born with the disease. I’ll carry it till I die.’

  They fell against each other, and for the first time in their lives their lips touched, gently, reverently at first; then, all restraint washed away, their entwined bodies swayed as if they were locked together in combat.

  The long moment of passion finally spent itself and they leant against the tree trunk. Their arms still entwined, they gazed at each other, and Michael, each word coming out on a gasp, said, ‘It’s done, there’s no going back. I…I can get away now and then, once a fortnight perhaps.’

  She wanted to say, ‘It will be difficult,’ but the words stuck in her throat; she felt tired, utterly spent. For years and years she had waited for this moment, and it had to come like this, furtively in a wood, and both of them wringing wet. What would it have been like if…?

  ‘I…I could come here once a fortnight, on a Friday. I’ve been round the wood, it’s very isolated. Could you get away then?’

  She did not answer, she simply made a small motion with her head, and he drew her towards him again, but gently now.

  ‘It must be past four.’ She looked towards his chest and he unbuttoned his coat and drew out his watch. ‘Ten past,’ he said.

  ‘You must go.’

  They stared deeply at each other again.

  ‘Barbara, Barbara, I’m so happy, you haven’t any idea, you never will have.’

  ‘I have an idea, Michael.’ Her head moved slowly up and down.

  ‘There are so many things I want to tell you.’

  ‘And I want to hear them.’

  ‘I’ll always tell you everything, Barbara, the truth. From now on everything, and the truth. It must be the truth.’

  ‘Me too, me too, Michael, only the truth.’

  It was she who took his hand and led him away from the tree. Where the path joined the road she glanced to right and left, and in a voice that was an imitation of Brigie’s, she said, ‘We must be circumspect.’

  He gave a slight understanding smile. ‘Indeed we must be circumspect. Oh, my love! My Barbara, my dear, my very dear.’ They were embracing once again.

  ‘I’ll…I’ll be here next Friday.’

  ‘Next Friday?’

  ‘Yes, next Friday. Goodbye, my love.’

  She did not reply, but she smiled at him softly, and as softly touched his cheek with her fingers, then turned away and hurried down the road. And she did not look back.

  When Ada helped her off with her cloak she said, ‘Why, ma’am, you’re sodden and right through, your coat an’ all.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right, Ada. I enjoyed my walk.’

  Ada looked at her mistress and thought, She must have; she looks heaps better than when she went out, the air’s done her good. She should walk more often. If she did my tramp of a mornin’ she’d be like a fightin’ cock in no time…

  And Barbara took to walking more often and it seemed to do her the world of good in all ways.

  Four

  Barbara did not have any visits from Brigie and Harry during the next few weeks because Mary was ill, and one Thursday morning there came a letter to say Mary had died and would Barbara be coming for the funeral?

  That evening Dan said, ‘Of course you must go for the funeral, Mary was like one of the family. You needn’t go anywhere near the cottage but you must go back for the funeral. You could leave first thing in the morning.’

  ‘No,’ Barbara said, ‘I…I can’t go until Saturday.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dan.

  She hesitated before replying, ‘It’s the fitting. I have a fitting in town, and Miss Brown doesn’t like it if I alter my time, she’s much in demand. What’s more if I’m to attend the funeral I’ll need to get a black coat, ready made, I’ve nothing black.’

  ‘Well, you’d better send a letter by express and tell Brigie you’ll be there on Saturday. And if I were you I’d make up your mind to stay for a few days, you need change. The boys won’t come to any harm, not as long as they’ve got Ruthie.’

  She ignored his last remark and said, ‘Perhaps you are right. I’ll see,’ but she didn’t look at him as
she spoke.

  Everything seemed so easy; everything seemed to be working towards…What was it working towards? She didn’t allow her mind to probe the future.

  She took a walk on the Friday before going into Newcastle for her fitting; and on the Saturday morning Dan himself put her on the train and he walked along by the carriage until she was out of sight.

  She felt little sense of guilt now, agreeing with Michael that they were hurting no-one; as long as they could keep their meetings secret things could go on as they were.

  It was she who had planned where their next meeting should be, and when she had told him he had held her tightly and whispered. ‘Oh Barbara! Barbara!’

  She had arranged for it to be on the day following Mary’s funeral, and if anything should happen to stop her coming then the day following that, and so on until at last they would be together. She did not question what effect his excursions would have on the occupants of the farm, she left it to him to make his own alibis.

  At one point in the journey, as she sat thinking quietly, she suddenly became overwhelmed by a sense of quite another kind of guilt as there came to her the reason why after all these years she was going back to the Hall. She recalled how good Mary had been to her, putting up with so much from her; and how little thanks too she had received from her. She had been in service since she was a child of eight. She had been at the Hall long before Brigie put in an appearance there. Poor Mary. She should be feeling a deep sorrow at her going, and all she could think was that she was old, sixty-six, or more.

  It was strange, she thought, that she should look upon Mary as old yet not consider Brigie old, and Brigie was near seventy now, but Brigie seemed to defy age. Her body was slim and she still had a presentable bust, and the skin of her face was taut. Brigie would never be old. As Dan laughingly said, they would have to shoot her.

  Dan, Dan. The wheels of the train beat out his name. She mustn’t dwell on Dan. Dan belonged to her other life, her life of duty and loyalty, and he was, she knew, happier than he had been for some time, for she had shown him a great deal of kindness and consideration over the past weeks. Yes, a great deal of consideration, especially with regards to his needs. At such times, in a twisted way, she considered that she was paying the price for Michael. But how she would be able to suffer him on her return she did not know, for after her next meeting with Michael she would be a changed woman.