The Mallen Litter Page 15

  ‘Oh, it’ll be some time. Mr Bensham wants the children here. Dan is bringing them at the weekend…’ When her voice trailed off he said, ‘I’m sorry if I’m hurting Dan but…but I can’t help it.’

  ‘I know.’ Her head was down. ‘I’m sorry too that I’m hurting him, but I can’t help it either. And…and I should say at this point’—she raised her head and looked into his face—‘I should say that I’m sorry I’m hurting Sarah, but…but we said we’d always be truthful to each other, and I can’t say I’m sorry for her because…because she has you.’

  ‘She hasn’t me, Barbara. She never had me. She had to be compensated. I’m sorry, darling.’ He caught her hand.

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. What I did was dreadful. We must speak of it, bring it into the open. And I say again it was dreadful, but I paid for it, almost in a way as much as she did. I lost my mind for a time. Did you know that, Michael?’

  ‘Yes, I heard you were ill.’

  ‘It was your marriage that brought me to life again.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Yes, yes, it was. And Jim Waite gave me back my hearing.’

  ‘I heard in a roundabout way that you could hear again. You know I’ve grown to dislike Jim Waite. I think it began when he kept on bragging about lathering you. I know it did. I really hated him.’

  ‘Don’t. It was a day of truth all round…Does Sarah hate me?’

  He could not answer that, but his colour rose and she looked away from him and said, ‘It’s no wonder. In her place I’d feel the same. But, oh Michael’—she was clinging to him again—‘if only I were in her place; I wouldn’t mind losing both my legs if I were your wife…’

  Some minutes later, their arms entwined, they walked along the narrow path. As they neared the broken gate she asked softly, ‘When will you be able to come, tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, I only wish I could. Oh, how I wish I could, and every day, but I promised to take Hannah into Hexham.’

  ‘The following day?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be here Thursday, the same time. Yes, Thursday. Oh, my dearest, my love…’

  They had gone a little way further on when he said, ‘I’d better leave you here.’

  ‘No, walk with me to the bend, no-one can see us from there. And anyway, no-one ever comes this way.’

  ‘Oh, yes they do.’ He nodded at her cautiously. ‘They must, or the path wouldn’t be as open as this. But mostly at night, I suppose, poachers on their way to the estate.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, of course.’

  They walked to where the path began to widen and give onto open ground, and here they kissed passionately again and clung to each other.

  Their hands were still joined as they left the path, but after a moment they separated, pausing only to gaze at each other, before he started back towards the foothills whilst she made towards the road which she would have to cross before she entered the grounds again.

  So steeped in her happiness was she that she looked neither to right nor to left at the point where she left the moor and crossed the road. If she had she would have seen Harry Bensham standing in the shadow of the hedge open-mouthed, gaping at her…

  He knew it, he knew it. By God Almighty, he knew it! He was no fool; he had never been taken for one in his life until now. She wouldn’t believe him. Brigie wouldn’t believe him. Had she known about it all the time? By God, he’d soon find out! Poor Dan. Poor bugger. And after all he had done for her. As soon as he got back to the house she’d go; she’d be out of there in a brace of shakes if he knew anything; he’d kick her backside down the drive himself, he would that.

  With each step he took towards the cottage his temper rose and his heart beat faster. Their Dan was being made a monkey out of. He could see it all now, he could see why she had given in so easily about bringing the bairns here; after her refusing for years to let them near the place. The scut! The whoring young scut! But she wasn’t young, she was no longer a young lass, she was a married woman with three bairns, and a husband who had always been a damned sight too good for her. Oh, the whoring bastard! And that was no understatement.

  He had never liked her, he had seen through her even when she was a bit of a bairn. He had said to Brigie once, ‘You worry too much about that one, she’ll go her own road and to hell with everybody who stands in her way.’ Well, here was one she wouldn’t send to hell, and by God, he would get in her way, Michael Radlet’s and hers! After all that had happened: his wife crippled, his mother estranged from Brigie, and after Brigie having brought her up and slaved for her; and that blasted Mallen bloke for years afore that. It was as everybody hereabouts said, there was a rotten streak in the Mallens, and that bitch was a Mallen all through.

  When he crashed open the kitchen door of the cottage and stalked into the hall, yelling, ‘Where are you? Where are you?’ Brigie came to the top of the stairs and cried in concern, ‘What is it? What’s the matter? What has happened?’

  ‘Come down here and I’ll tell you.’

  When she reached the foot of the stairs she said again, and in deep concern now, ‘Oh, what is it, Harry? What is it?’ She saw that he was unable to speak; his face was scarlet, even his scalp, where his hair receded, was scarlet. She watched him straining his neck up out of his collar, which he then began to pull from his throat as if trying to get air.

  When he did speak there was froth around his lips, and his head wagged as if on a spring before he brought the words out, not rapidly as was his usual form of speech, but slowly, and punctuated with gasps. ‘That…that one of yours…A bitch she is, a brothel…bitch.’ His head was still wagging. ‘On the hills with…with the farmer…Radlet.’

  When her head moved in denial he thrust his hand out to her, his forefinger stiff and stabbing. ‘It’s true. Just seen her…them.’ He gulped now and pulled harder at his collar. ‘Lovers. Lovers. Do you hear?’ He stammered now, ‘K…kissin’, kiss…kissin’. Him one road, her the other. Goin’ for walk she said. By God! I’ll walk her, walk her out of the house. Sh…show her up. Our Dan…our Dan.’

  As he dragged out the name he pressed his two fists into his chest and his body doubled, and she gripped him, crying, ‘Harry! Oh, Harry!’

  When he fell slowly to the floor she knelt beside him and tried to straighten his bent body, crying all the while, ‘Harry dear. Oh, Harry, what is it? Speak to me. What is it?’ But even as she asked she knew the answer, for Mary’s death had been preceded by a similar seizure. ‘Oh, Harry. Harry…Oh, my dear. My dear man. Oh, Harry.’

  When she got him onto his back he lay still, his eyes wide, staring up at her, and she still beseeched him to speak, saying, ‘Harry. Harry.’ Then she looked around her as if searching for someone to ask for advice, but there was no-one, and she was a mile from the Hall and alone here, and he could die at any minute.

  He mustn’t die, he mustn’t. She’d nurse him. Oh Harry. Her Harry. Her dear Harry. She must not give way like this. She mustn’t.

  She regained control of herself and, her voice endeavouring to be calm, she bent over him and said slowly, ‘Lie still, perfectly still, don’t move. I’ll…I’ll be back with help.’ She nodded at him while she rose to her feet, and she backed slowly from him and opened the front door. She looked at him once more, then turned, and lifting her skirts high up to her knees, raced down the path and into the road.

  She did not stop and look either up or down the road to see if anyone was coming, so few people travelled this way except the carrier cart at stated times, and a carriage now and again. As she ran she thought, There must be a curse on Barbara Bensham—no, not Bensham, Mallen, for she was a Mallen through and through and like all Mallens she brought trouble to everyone she touched, disaster, heartbreak and trouble. But if this time she brought death she would never forgive her, never, not as long as she lived.

  Six

  Dan came without the children, and John and Jenny came, and Katie and Pat came, and for three days one or another crept into the room and stood by Harry’s be
d.

  Dan would hold the hand with the two twitching fingers and thumb which, other than the eyes, was the only sign that there was any life left in his father’s body. He found it unbearable that this man who had been so vital, who had bawled and thrust his way through life, who had been fearless in his opinions and steadfast in his loyalties should now be reduced to two pain-filled eyes and three twitching digits.

  On the night of the third day they all tried to persuade Brigie to go to her room and rest. She had not even changed her clothes, and she was wearing the same dress she wore on the morning she had gone to the cottage. The only time she had left the bedside in three days was to go to the water closet. She dozed at intervals in the chair by the bed, even in the daytime now.

  In a family conclave in the drawing room they said to Barbara, ‘You go up and try to persuade her. You’re nearest to her, she’s more likely to listen to you. If she doesn’t rest soon, well…’ They left their thoughts unspoken.

  So Barbara went up to the bedroom. She tiptoed past the nurse and towards the bed where Brigie was sitting, and she bent over her and put her hand gently on her arm and said, ‘Let me take your place just for an hour. Please, please, Brigie.’

  What Brigie did was to lift the hand from her arm and push it aside, and she did not look up at her once-beloved Barbara, but she kept her eyes on the man who had given her the dignity of marriage, who had made her mistress of the house in which she was once a servant, and in whose company over the past years she had known an enjoyment of life she hadn’t experienced before, and she saw that he was agitated, and the cause of it was evident. She bent forward and took hold of the twitching fingers and looked into the live eyes moving restlessly in the dead face and said softly, ‘It’s all right, my dear. It’s all right,’ and without moving her head she added, ‘Will you please leave us, Barbara?’

  Barbara did not feel repulsed by Brigie’s words, nor had she been by her previous attitude; Brigie was greatly distressed, she was at the end of her physical resources. And so she went downstairs and told them she had failed.

  When Dan next went into the bedroom he drew up a chair beside Brigie’s, and after looking at his father for a moment he said under his breath, ‘He seems to be wanting to say something.’

  Brigie did not answer Dan, she made no movement, but she thought, Yes, yes, he wants to say something, and say it to you, Dan, and I will in no way prevent him should he recover enough to do so, even knowing it would mean the end of your happiness.

  She was amazed at the clearness of her mind, at the calmness of it. Her body was very tired, but her mind was clear and working, motivated as it were by a light, a light that was showing her the true values of those around her. She, who had prided herself on her perspicacity, had, she knew now, been blinded by her own selfish needs of frustrated motherhood and had endowed her adopted daughter with all the qualities she would have wished a child of her own flesh to possess. But Barbara had not been born of her flesh, she had within her the flesh of a Mallen, and though Thomas himself had not been a really bad man he had undoubtedly passed on the traits of viciousness and weakness that had always smeared the Mallen name. Yet, such was her reasoning, she knew that later when all this was over, her mind would say to her, what had Barbara done after all but turn to her first love, the man she should have married. Well, if her mind said that to her, she told it now, it would be talking to deaf ears.

  ‘I…I feel sure he wants to say something, Brigie. Look at his fingers. It’s as if he were writing. Do you think he could write?’

  She did not take her eyes from Harry’s as she answered, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll get some paper.’

  When he had gone from the room Brigie said pityingly to herself, ‘Oh Dan, Dan; you’re digging your own grave.’

  He was only gone a minute before he returned with a leather-bound writing pad and a pencil, and holding it above his father’s face he said slowly and with compassion, ‘Do you think you could write, Dad? Is this what you want?’

  He put the pad on the coverlet and placed the pencil between the twitching finger and thumb, and when he saw them grip onto the stem he cast a bright look at Brigie and said, ‘This is what he wanted.’

  Brigie said nothing. This was to be the one time, the very first time that she wasn’t prepared to sacrifice herself and those around her for her beloved Barbara.

  ‘He’s writing, Brigie. Look, he’s writing. That’s an M. Yes, it’s an M.’ His voice was excited. ‘I…C.’ He repeated each letter slowly as the finger and thumb guided the pencil erratically over the paper. ‘K. No, an H. I don’t know whether it’s a K or an H. What do you think?’

  The fingers dropped heavily onto the paper. Harry’s eyes pierced those of his son’s. The lids blinked, then closed. When they opened again the pencil moved once more.

  ‘He’s starting over again. M…I…C…and now an R. Or is it an H? M again. But this is an N. Now…what is this? What is he trying to do now? Look, Brigie. Is that a T?’

  Brigie moved her head once before she said, ‘Yes, I think it’s a T.’

  Harry now showed clear signs of acute agitation. His eyes blinked rapidly; he was irritated by their stupidity. Once more the pencil moved.

  ‘He keeps doing that M,’ said Dan. ‘And, now this looks like H…I…L. I can’t make it out.’

  The pencil suddenly dropped from between Harry’s finger and thumb. He closed his eyes and Brigie, leaning towards him, said, ‘Rest, dear, rest. You can do more later. You’ll feel better tomorrow, and then, then…’

  She stopped as Harry’s eyes looked straight into hers. They were willing her to complete what he had begun, and now with tears in her voice she said, ‘It’ll be all right. Don’t worry, my dear, dear Harry. I’ll see to it. I promise you, on my word…’

  ‘What is it?’ Dan had come round to her side again. ‘Is there something on his mind?’

  When she didn’t answer but continued to stare at his father, he said, ‘Look at this. What do you make of it?’ and she looked at the paper and the scrawl. The jumbled letters spelt MICK MOUNT then HIL. He whispered now, ‘Do you know anyone called Mick Mount?’

  Slowly she shook her head.

  His voice a mere whisper, he said, ‘It must be somebody at the works. I’ll go down and ask John.’

  When Dan had left the room she leant over the bed and said softly, ‘Oh, my dearest Harry, that you should be troubled like this. And you have been so good, so good to everyone, but especially to me. And I thank you, Harry, I do, I do thank you from the bottom of my heart. And I want you to know I love you as I’ve never loved anyone. Believe that, will you? Please believe that. You are my very, very own dear Harry, and don’t worry any more about this, this other business. I shall clear the matter up. I promise you. I give you my word.’

  His eyes were glazed with water and when his fingers gripped hers she repeated again, ‘I give you my word, Harry. I do.’

  Now, hand in hand, they remained looking at each other until his eyes closed. After a time he made a vain attempt to open them, but found he was being overwhelmed by a great tiredness; being the man he was, he fought against it; he wasn’t ready for the long sleep yet. There was something he had to do, or see to it that his Brigie did it for him.

  As the rain of Brigie’s tears fell on his face he finally gave in and went into a coma. It was four days later when his spirit left him.

  Seven

  Harry was buried in the same grave as Matilda. Brigie had not waited for the family to propose this, she herself had made it clear that it was her wish even before the funeral arrangements were discussed.

  Afterwards the family gathered in the library to hear the reading of the will. It was to the point, as Harry had been in life. No mucking about, as he would have said. The mill in Manchester and the warehouse business in Newcastle were to be divided equally between his three children, leaving Katie’s share in trust with reversion to her brothers or their descendants on h
er death. To his wife he left High Banks Hall for her lifetime and three thousand pounds a year for its upkeep, this amount to be found from the profit of the mill, and on her death the estate would pass to his three grandsons, Benjamin, Jonathan and Harry Bensham, to be divided equally, either through sale of the same, or in agreement reached through the trustees. Should any of the three die before marriage, his share would go to the surviving brothers or brother.

  There was no mention of Katie’s son, and the will had been made out only last year.

  Katie showed no rancour about this, nor about the reversion clause. If not quite inured to pain she accepted it as something inevitable. Moreover she had understood her father; like most of his type abnormality in any way frightened him. He could accept people so affected outside the family. Armless and legless monstrosities being pushed around in barrows with tin mugs around their necks imploring alms aroused his compassion, but when such touched on his family they frightened him. They brought alive old wives’ tales of evil, and of spells and curses handed down. She knew that he had looked upon her son in this way.

  But Pat did not take the omission as she had, and as they drove home he said so. ‘It was very small-minded of him,’ he said. ‘Thank God the boy will never need financial help, but apparently it would have been all the same had he done so.’

  She put her hand in his and looked at him softly as she did, ‘Don’t let it worry you, it isn’t worrying me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ The question was gentle.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure. There’s only one thing that worries me.’

  ‘And that?’

  She looked fully into his eyes as she said in all seriousness, ‘That you should ever stop loving me.’

  ‘Oh Katie! Katie!’ He shook his head at her. ‘Then I can assure you you haven’t a worry in the world.’

  She leant against his shoulder and they both looked at the upholstered back of the carriage seats opposite, and their thoughts ran along the same channel, repeating the same words: Not a worry in the world. Their son, four years old, who could walk only with stumbling step, and talk as an infant, and who looked strangely inhuman, not ugly or frightening, just strangely inhuman, and who was already classified under the heading of ‘mongol imbecile’, and they could speak of not having a worry in the world.