The Mallen Girl Read online

  Miss Brigmore continued through the gallery, through another set of double doors, across another landing at the end of which were two sets of stairs, one mounting to the second floor, the other descending to the corridor that led to the kitchen quarters.

  The nursery floor, as it was called, had changed little over the years except that the room that had once been Miss Brigmore’s bedroom was now a sitting room. When she had first taken up her duties she’d had her meal and Barbara’s served in her sitting room; but this hadn’t lasted for long. At the repeated requests of both the master and mistress she had joined them at their table, while Barbara had hers with the children. It is true to say that because of this arrangement Miss Brigmore’s own education was advanced if not improved, for in the early days she learned the type of conversation that went on between two ordinary people, and she found it anything but edifying.

  Having taken her outer clothes off in her room she smoothed her hair from its centre parting over her temples and her ears to where it was fastened in a knot at the nape of her neck. Then she looked Barbara over, puffed up the shoulder frills of her pinafore, and smiled at her before she said, ’Come.’

  When they entered the schoolroom Katie Bensham, who had been reclining, not sitting, in the old leather chair near the fire, sprang to her feet, pulled her pinafore straight, smiled brightly and said, ‘Good morning, Miss Brigmore.’

  ‘Good morning, Katie.’

  The two girls now exchanged a glance that had a conspiratorial quality about it before they gave each other greeting.

  ‘Good morning, Barbara.’

  ‘Good morning, Katie.’

  After which they both walked sedately down the long room and to a bookcase on the far wall, where from her own particular shelf each of them extracted a book, returned to the table, and stood behind her chair.

  Miss Brigmore was already standing behind hers. She bowed her head, joined her hands together, and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Amen—Amen.’

  They sat down. The girls, with their backs tight against the rails of the chairs, looked toward Miss Brigmore, waiting for her instructions, for they both knew it was no use their turning to the last lesson they’d had in English Literature, for she jumped about like a frog from one period to another; it was nothing for her to spring on you when you were in the middle of George III and demand to know where Boccaccio came in the Renaissance; if you hadn’t linked him up with Dante and Petrarch you were lost; or she would throw Erasmus at you, and that was usually only the beginning. When she was in one of her memory moods she’d run the gamut of the Renaissance, finishing up with Marlowe and Shakespeare.

  Katie Bensham had long ceased to wonder how Miss Brigmore came by such knowledge. She didn’t believe what John had said last holidays that she was like the masters at his boarding school, she read it up the night before. No-one, she imagined, could read up Miss Brigmore’s knowledge; it seemed as innate in her as if she had been born with it and never had to learn it. She admired Miss Brigmore, but she could laugh at her, and did, because she wasn’t afraid of her. Funny that; everybody else seemed afraid of her in some degree, except perhaps her father. She prided herself that she was like her father, afraid of nothing or no-one. But Brigie was speaking.

  ‘We shall waive our lesson on the poets this morning and touch on the subject of educationalists. Of course, as you already know, Katie’—she cast her glance toward Katie while keeping her face in full view of Barbara—‘in your home town of Manchester there was founded in 1515 a grammar school that has grown into a very large school. But who founded it? And why was it founded? That is a much more important question…why? Eton College was founded by Henry VI.’ She seemed to be speaking pointedly to Barbara now, her lips moving wider.

  ‘Why was it founded?’ Although she paused they did not answer, for they knew from experience that she was far from finished. She now looked from one girl to the other as she went on: ‘The Sunday school movement was started by Robert Raikes; why? And only five years ago there was formed a compulsory system for education for all children; why? That is the question, why? The answer is because of a need…This morning we are going to deal with this question of need, and we’re going to begin in France. Yes’—she nodded from one to the other—‘in France, and with a priest, whose name was Abbé de L’Épée, who lived in the eighteenth century. He began a particular kind of school; again why?’ She divided her glance once more between them, and they stared back at her, their interest aroused, their faces holding a keen look, until she said slowly, while looking now straight at Barbara, ‘Because he felt compassion for the numerous deaf children, deaf and dumb children…really deaf and dumb children, children without hope, children who were tied up like animals, hidden away in dark rooms, put into asylums because they could neither hear nor speak.’

  Barbara was staring back into Miss Brigmore’s eyes. She seemed in this moment completely unmoved. But not so Katie; her face had gone red with indignation. Brigie was really playing The Brigadier with a vengeance, she was being cruel.

  At this point there was a sharp knock on the door and Armstrong, the first footman, entered, and looking toward Miss Brigmore he said, ‘The master would like to see you, miss, if you can spare the time.’

  Miss Brigmore drew in a deep breath that clamped down on her impatience, then paused a moment before saying, ‘I shall be down,’ then repeating to herself, If you can spare the time! Mr Harry Bensham would never have added those last words, not if she knew anything about him.

  As she rose from the table Katie’s glance caught hers. The child looked angry, and she understood why. Katie had a big heart and considered that she was being cruel to Barbara. In her ignorance, like that which pervaded her family, she, and by far the majority of the population, were in fact of the opinion that the inflictions of deafness, dumbness, and even blindness, should be ignored out of kindness; and as for any malformation of the body or defectiveness of the mind, that should be locked tightly behind barred doors.

  She now picked up the book that had been to her hand on the table and said, ‘This book is in French; it tells of the struggle that the Abbé had to establish his system of teaching of the deaf, the teaching which, I may say, has been reviled and is questionable to this day. Nevertheless he was a good man, with good intentions; as also in a way was Monsieur Sicard. You will note’—she now again spoke pointedly to Barbara—‘the Abbé advocates sign language. Bring your chairs together and read this book diligently until my return. I shall expect to hear what you know of these men, and others you come across, all bent on the same purpose, that of assisting the deaf to hear and the dumb to speak in their own language.’

  When the door closed behind Miss Brigmore, Katie sat back in her chair and on a long, slow letting out of breath, she said, ‘We-ll! we-ll!’ Then, putting her hand over Barbara’s, she added, ‘She’s cruel, she is. I can’t understand her; she’s supposed to love you and yet she’s…’

  ‘I understand her.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes; and she’s right. I should know about myself, about my disease.’

  ‘It’s not a disease.’ Katie poked her face forward. ‘And don’t start washing yourself in self-pity.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Barbara’s denial was harsh. ‘And it is a disease. Do you know’—she stopped and her lips trembled slightly before she went on—‘I…I can barely hear my own voice, even when I shout.’

  ‘You said you heard the bells ringing last week.’

  ‘Yes, but I was near them.’

  ‘And when I scraped the knife over the glass you heard that.’

  ‘They’re unusual sounds. Just a short while ago I could hear the cry of a bird when it was startled. I can’t now.’

  They looked at each other. Then Katie, her face sad, murmured softly, ‘Oh, Barbara. Mightn’t it just be your imagination?’

  ‘Now, now.’ Barbara leaned back in her chair and, her voi
ce high and strident, said, ‘Who’s talking of pity? Don’t do it, because you know I can’t stand it, it makes me feel like a cripple. And don’t suggest, either, it’s my imagination.’

  They stared at each other in silence for a time until Barbara asked flatly, ‘What happened this weekend, did the boys come? I looked for them downstairs but didn’t see anyone.’

  Katie nodded. ‘Yes, they came; but they went back last night. They missed you. They told me to tell you they missed you.’

  ‘Did they?’ Barbara smiled slowly.

  ‘Dan said it was awful having no-one to fight with.’ They both laughed; then leaning forward, Katie said, ‘Do you know who’s here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Willy.’

  Barbara screwed up her face and her lips formed the word slowly, ‘Woolly.’

  ‘Willy. Willy Brooks, you know. Of course you do.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Brooks’ son?’

  ‘Yes’—Katie drew back—‘Brooks’ son, Willy.’

  For the moment there was a look on Barbara’s face very like one would expect to have seen on Miss Brigmore’s had she been told that the daughter of the Hall was excited because the butler’s son had arrived. Quick to notice this, Katie pushed Barbara none too gently with the flat of her hand, saying, ‘Don’t be so priggish; Willy’s nice, and Dad thinks a lot of him. He’s promoted him, and he’s got the idea of making him manager later on…And don’t you think he’s good-looking, handsome?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Not very! You must be…’ She almost said blind, but that would have been awful; you had to be careful in a way what you said to Barbara; so she reverted to her mother’s idiom and said, ‘You must be daft; he’s the best-looking fellow I’ve seen; he’s better looking than either our John or Dan.’

  ‘He’s not; John’s very good-looking.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But not so good-looking as Michael Radlet.’ Now Katie’s tongue was hanging well down over her lower lip, the teasing light was deep in her eyes, and it was Barbara’s turn to push at her; then they both sat with their heads together for a moment as they laughed, before turning in a concerted movement to the book on the table.

  Miss Brigmore heard the master of the house before she was halfway down the main staircase. His loud bellow was coming from the library, which room he also used for his office, not because he wanted the proximity of books, for she had never seen him read one, but because, he would have her understand, he liked the light from the tall windows. But her own opinion of why he preferred to work there when he was at home was because it was the one room in the house free from folderols, as he termed the over-ornate furnishings and decorations chosen by his wife. If a room had any dignity about it, Mrs Bensham had the unfortunate knack of making it homely by adding bobbled and scalloped mantelborders, antimacassars, and numerous ‘nice’ pictures and hideous ornaments.

  As she approached the library door Harry Bensham was yelling, ‘Why the hell didn’t you bring this matter up afore, lad? On the point of leavin’ and then you tell me this. ’Tisn’t my business, ’tis the missus’ by rights…Come in, Come in.’ This was in answer to Miss Brigmore’s knock on the door.

  When she entered the room she saw that the lad in question was Willy Brooks, the butler’s son, a tall young man, and she wondered what he was doing here at this time on a Monday morning. Her attention was brought from him, where he was standing at the side of the long table that served as a desk to Harry Bensham, who was seated in a leather chair behind the table. His bullet head thrust forward, each of his short unruly grey hairs that never showed a parting seemed to be standing up in protest from his head; his face had a blotchy grey look, a sure sign that his temper was reaching its highest peak, for temper, in Harry Bensham’s case, did not heighten his colour but usually drained the natural redness from his face. In his hand he had a letter, and as she came to a stop before the desk he thrust it out at her, saying, ‘Have a look at that; go on, have a look at that. Tell me what you think on it.’

  She took the letter from his hand and she read:

  To Mabel Docherty: In reference to your application for the post of kitchen maid in High Banks Hall the mistress has consented to engage you. You will present yourself at twelve o’clock on Saturday, the fifteenth day of May, bringing with you two print dresses for weekday work, and one extra and of superior quality for Sunday, when you’ll attend service; one pair of light boots, one pair of heavy boots; four pairs of black stockings, three changes of underclothing with two pairs of extra drawers, preferably woollen. Your duties will commence at six in the morning and will end at seven in the evening, except on Tuesdays when you will have a half-day free starting at one o’clock and finishing at eight o’clock. You will have one Sunday off in three and you will receive three pounds eighteen shillings per year together with an allowance of extra tea or beer.

  Signed

  Hannah Fairweather (Mrs), Housekeeper.

  Miss Brigmore’s mouth was slightly open when she looked back at Harry Bensham.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What do you expect me to say?’

  ‘What do I expect you to say!’ He was on his feet now, his two hands flat on the desk, leaning toward her. ‘I expect you to say, the woman’s a bloody fool. I expect you to say, how did she come to write that? I expect you to say, who gave her authority?’

  Miss Brigmore’s mouth was tightly closed. She could not stand to hear the man swear; not that she was unused to a man swearing. When Thomas Mallen had been master here he had done his share of it, but then Thomas had sworn in a different way altogether from Mr Harry Bensham. When she opened her lips she said stiffly, ‘Shouldn’t you be putting these questions to Mrs Bensham?’

  ‘No, I should not. Anyway’—he jerked his head to the side—‘she’s off colour, she’s bad this mornin’. But it was you who picked this one.’ He now grabbed the letter from her hand. ‘Housekeeper? Huh! bloody upstart. Fancy writing a letter like that to the Dochertys an’ not a bloody one of them can read. They took it to Will here.’ He thumbed toward the young man. Then he turned his furious gaze on the letter again and read, ‘Two pairs of woollen drawers. God! I don’t suppose the lass has had a pair of drawers on her in her life. As for two pairs of boots, the whole lot of them’s run barefoot since they were born.’ He now banged the letter down on the desk, ending, ‘I’ll break that buggerin’ woman’s neck. I will that. An’ you’re damn well to blame.’

  ‘I’ll thank you, Mr Bensham, not to swear at me, and also to get your facts right.’

  Harry Bensham now bowed his head, gnawed hard on his lower lip, banged his doubled fist once on the table before looking up at her and saying in a more moderate tone, ‘Aw, woman, I’m sorry. But I’m…I’m real narked, I am that.’ He put out his hand as if appealing to her now for understanding. ‘The Dochertys. All right, they’re Irish an’ they’re feckless, like all their kin in Manchester, but Shane Docherty’s worked for me for years, and Pat, his father, worked for mine. All right’—he flapped his hand at her as if checking her protest—‘they drank nearly all they earned and lived on tatties and oatmeal for the rest of the week, but what they did with their money was their business, what they did for me was another. They were good workers, an’ still are, but Shane’s worried about young Mabel, she has the cough. He wants her out of the mills an’ the place altogether, an’ I left word with Tilda last week to tell that Fairweather woman to write a note to the priest to tell him to what kind of place the child was comin’. Priests!’ He again bit on his lip and banged his fist on the table. ‘It’s fantastic; they rule the bloody lot of them. As I said at the merchants’ meeting last week, if we had half the power of the priests we’d…’ He stopped suddenly and looked toward the young man. ‘I’m sorry lad, I forgot.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, Mr Bensham, it’s all right by me; you couldn’t say nothin’ that I haven’t said meself about ’em.’<
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  ‘That so, lad?’ Harry’s face slowly relaxed, his eyes crinkled into a deep twinkle; then he said softly, ‘Well, I never! We’ve never got down to religion, have we? We’ll have to think on’t eh? ’cos it’s always riled me, the power they’ve got. Some of the poor buggers are frightened to breathe without the priests’ say-so.’

  ‘Aye, Mr Bensham, you’re right there. By! you are; you’re right there.’

  Miss Brigmore drew in an audible breath that brought their attention sharply back to her and she said stiffly. ‘Are you finished with me, Mr Bensham?’

  Harry Bensham looked at her, then he sat down slowly before he said, ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Then may I ask that our further business be discussed in private?’

  Harry Bensham now stared at her under lowered brows. Then looking toward Willy Brooks, he said, ‘I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready, Willy.’

  ‘Aye, Mr Bensham.’

  As the young man moved from the table he turned his head and looked straight into Miss Brigmore’s face; it was a bold look, the look of someone who had never known subservience.

  Not until the door was closed did Miss Brigmore speak, and then coldly she said, ’If you wish to reprimand me in the future, Mr Bensham, I’ll be obliged if you refrain from doing it before subordinates.’

  ‘Subordinates! Willy’s no subordinate, not to nobody. And he’s a good lad into the bargain, is Willy.’

  ‘I must take it then that you consider him my equal?’

  Harry Bensham now screwed up his eyes and wagged his hand toward her, saying, ‘Aw, sit down, woman, and ease out of your starch; for God’s sake let it crack for once.’

  It was some seconds before Miss Brigmore allowed herself to sit down, and when she did her back showed no indication of her starch having cracked.