The Mallen Girl Read online

  ‘You must see a doctor, Mrs Bensham.’

  ‘Do you think so, lass?’

  ‘Oh yes, very definitely, if you’ve had the pain all this time I think it was very unwise of you not to have it attended to before now. It might be some simple thing.’

  ‘Such as what, lass?’

  The question was quiet, it even conveyed a hint of calm resignation.

  ‘Well—’ Miss Brigmore rubbed the tips of her fingers together and paused as if thinking, then said, ‘It could be colic, caused by the bowel twisting.’

  ‘The bowels can get twisted?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. If for instance there has been any undue strain owing to…to constipation.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Tilda looked over the foot of the bed and nodded then said, ‘Well, you might be right, lass, you might be at that…Twisted bowel.’ She brought her eyes to Miss Brigmore again. ‘They could cure that!’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. I’m sure they could cure that.’

  ‘Would that cause bleedin’?’

  ‘Bleeding?’

  ‘Aye, from inside like.’

  Miss Brigmore wetted her lips and said. ‘Well, yes; through…through inner haemorrhoids.’

  ‘Piles you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that puts a different complexion on it, doesn’t it, as they say in upper circles?’ She was laughing widely now, showing a mouthful of strong, short teeth, with two overlapping at each side of her mouth. ‘You’ve cheered me up, lass; it’s true what our ’Arry always says, you’re the only sensible bug…sensible one in the house. You always know the right answer, the right thing to do, you always have. Aye, I’ve often thought of how handicapped I’d have been right from the start in this place if it hadn’t been for you. You were a godsend, a real godsend. You know something?’ She leaned toward Miss Brigmore now, her voice low. ‘’Arry’s got plans for you.’ She nodded her head once. ‘Now mind, don’t let on about this either, else he’ll leave me black and blue from head to foot, but he’s going to see that you’re all right when you finish here, you’ll be able to live better’n you’ve lived afore, apart from with us.’

  Miss Brigmore felt the colour rising to her hairline. What could she say! She felt so ill at ease, yet she must not take this offer amiss; these people were kind, embarrassingly so. Reluctantly, she had to admit that they were far kinder than the previous owners of this establishment, far kinder.

  It was in a surprisingly broken one that she voiced her thanks. ‘You are very kind, Mrs Bensham, very kind.’

  ‘Aw, lass, it’s not me, it’s him. He’s always been a kind man, always, not only just now. By! no. Oh, the things he’s done for people; even the bloomin’ Irish. Eeh! Mind they’re a dirty lot, them Irish. Him and me were brought up next to each other. You know that, but did I tell you there were eleven of us in two rooms, while in ’Arry’s house there was only five of them? They were lucky. But both our houses were clean as new pins. Me mam would be up at five o’clock in the mornin’ gettin’ us and herself off to the mill. In the beginnin’ we were there until nine at night, but if it had been twelve o’clock she would have done her fireplace and shook her mats. The fireplace was black-leaded once a week until she died…But the Irish! When ’Arry and his people left from next door we got a family in. Eeh! by, you never see anythin’ like it. They brought a pig with them, they did.’ She made a deep obeisance with her head and began to laugh. ‘That’s the Irishman’s bank in Manchester, a pig; soon as they got a bit o’ money in those days, if they didn’t drink it, that is, they bought a pig. There were two families of them in those two rooms, seventeen there were; they didn’t only sleep head to tail, they had to stand up against the walls.’ She was doubled forward with laughing now, and Miss Brigmore found herself laughing with her, while at the same time her mind was appalled at the conditions described.

  ‘Eeh!’—Matilda dried her eyes—‘me mother did work hard. Her only pleasure was her pipe. Twelve o’clock at night she would take it out and have a draw. You know, lass’—she lay back on her pillows—‘I’ve been in bed since Friday. Just after you went I came up to bed, and it seemed a long weekend ’cos I’ve gone back over those days, an’ you know I just cannot believe I’m sittin’ here in this house with umpteen servants to wait on me. I…just…cannot…believe…it. And how many years have I been here now? Nearly nine. Aye, well, they say a leopard cannot change its spots, an’ I suppose they’re right ’cos I’m still not at ease. You know that, lass, don’t you? I’m still not at ease.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Bensham, you must feel at ease; this is your home and…and every one of your staff respects you, and your family love you.’

  ‘Aye, aye, I suppose they do, I mean the family lovin’ me ’cos they haven’t turned into upstarts yet. But still, there’s plenty of time, they’re still young. What’ll they think though when they start courtin’ and bringin’ their lasses home, an’ Katie her lad…or should I say finnances? Will they love me then, d’you think? Aw’—now she tossed her head—‘why am I worryin’, we could all be dead the morrow, couldn’t we?’ She stared at Miss Brigmore and Miss Brigmore looking back at her, said, ‘That’s very unlikely; you’ll live to see your grandchildren, and very likely their offspring, too, running around the house.’

  There was a short silence before Matilda said softly, ‘No, lass; no I won’t.’

  As they continued to stare at each other Miss Brigmore swallowed deeply, then she whispered, ‘Oh, Mrs Bensham.’

  ‘Don’t you think you could call me Tilda just for once?’

  ‘It…it would be very difficult.’ Miss Brigmore’s voice was still soft. ‘And…and it would be out of place. But…but I want you to know that I regard you very highly and…and think of you as Matilda even if I don’t allow myself to call you by your Christian name.’

  ‘You’re a funny lass.’

  ‘Yes, I realise I am, in the way you imply. My manner must be very irritating to you at times, as it is to Mr Bensham.’

  ‘WHAT! Oh, you don’t irritate him. An’ you don’t irritate me. Now, don’t get that into your head ’cos I’ve said you’re a funny lass. What I should have said was you’re a grand lass.’

  Miss Brigmore felt at this moment that she could not stand much more of the emotional stress being forced upon her this morning. Here she was at the age of fifty-four, nearing fifty-five, and being termed a lass, but in the most complimentary fashion, and from this woman, this dear woman, and she could think of her as dear in spite of her ignorance and uncouth manner, for she was bravely facing the fact that she was carrying a disease inside her which was likely to terminate her life within a short period of time. As she went to rise to her feet Matilda said, ‘There’s something you can do for me, lass.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Willy was up, an’ he told me about Mrs Fairweather sending a letter off to the Dochertys. Do you know about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s all right then. Well, I told him to show it to the boss and let him deal with it but not let on that I knew anything about it, for I knew that once ’Arry saw that letter he’d want to get rid of her, and I want to an’ all but I’ve never had the pluck to tell her. Do, do you think you could see to it for me, lass?’

  Miss Brigmore did not pause a moment to consider the unpleasantness of the task before she answered, ‘Yes, I’ll deal with it. Don’t worry yourself, I’ll deal with it.’

  ‘Aw, ta, thanks. Did you see the letter? Did you ever see anything like it in your life? The Dochertys live in a warren. The men are good workers but the mother is hopeless. The last time I saw them the lice was carryin’ them around, an’ Mabel, the one that ’Arry wants to take on, she was just a bairn crawlin’ in the filth of the gutter, and when I say filth I mean filth. They died like flies around there. They tell me they’ve pulled Cods’ Row down, an’ not afore time I say, not afore time. Anyway, you tell her, lass, eh
? You tell her.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell her. Now rest quietly; don’t attempt to get up; I’m going to send for the doctor.’

  ‘Aw…’

  ‘No aw’s.’ Miss Brigmore shook her head, and there was a reprimand in it; it was as if she were speaking to the girls. ‘You’re going to see the doctor, and as soon as possible.’

  ‘It’ll worry ’Arry if I have the doctor.’

  ‘It’ll worry ’Ar…Mr Bensham…if you don’t have the doctor.’

  The room was filled with a great guffaw of laughter now as Matilda, holding her head, lay back among the pillows, saying, ‘Eeh! Eeh! you nearly said ’Arry. You did now, you did; you nearly said ’Arry.’ Miss Brigmore tried to suppress a smile but she failed. She turned quickly about and went out of the room, but once on the landing she stopped and pressed her hand over her lips, for now she was on the point of weeping. Really, really, such courage. But she must not give way like this. She had two things to attend to immediately; first, she must send the coachman into the town for the doctor, then she must go into the library and from there she must send for the housekeeper and inform her that she had been given permission to dismiss her. What a morning!

  Three

  ‘What are these Bensham fellows like, Mother?’

  ‘Now you know as much about them as I do.’ Constance Radlet turned out a great mould of brawn onto a side dish before she went on, ‘I only know what your Aunt Anna tells me. John is sixteen, Dan fifteen, and the girl, Katie, is fourteen.’

  ‘And you’ve never seen any of them?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Constance turned and looked at her son, where he was sitting at the end of the long white scrubbed kitchen table, and as always when she gazed on him a smile came to her lips, for as his grandmother, Jane Radlet, was fond of saying in her Biblical way, he was good to look upon. His hair was a corn yellow, his eyes were a clear grey, the lids inclining to be overlong, giving him a slightly oriental look; his nose was large and his mouth full, but it was a firm fullness; and the firmness was expressed in his chin which had a squareness to it; yet his overall nature gave the impression that he was an easygoing, indolent type of boy; his movements were slow, his laughter came slow and deep, but when it reached its full pitch it was an infectious bellow. He was nearing thirteen years old and was tall for his age, but he had bulk with it; he was going to be a big man. Yes, he was good to look upon.

  ‘Why do they want to come over, they’ve never been before?’

  ‘Likely that’s the reason, because they’ve never been before.’ Constance’s smile widened.

  ‘They go to boarding school, so you say?’

  ‘Yes, and so do you.’

  ‘But likely theirs is a very stylish affair; the father’s rich, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, and common and ignorant from what I gather.’

  ‘They say he’s good to his staff.’

  Constance turned to where her mother-in-law, Jane Radlet, was sitting peeling potatoes near the fire. She had her feet on a cracket and a large tin dish on her knees, and from it she kept dropping the peeled potatoes into a black kale pot on the floor at her side. She nodded at Constance as she smiled, and Constance returned her smile with cocked head now, saying, ‘Well, he’s not the only one, so are we.’

  They both laughed and it was a harmonious sound as between friends.

  Turning back to the table and pushing the plate of brawn away from her, Constance called across the room to a plump little girl standing over the sink washing pots. ‘Bring me a clean side dish, Sarah, please.’

  The girl came hurrying to the table, drying the dish on the way, and she placed it before Constance; then looking up at her, she said, ‘They don’t hunt; they say they don’t hunt, not even the hares or partridge, not like the gentry.’

  ‘Who said they didn’t hunt, Sarah?’

  ‘Me…my dad.’ Sarah always called her uncle Dad.

  ‘Well, that doesn’t make them any better, or worse than the next. Bring me the ham from the pantry.’

  The girl turned immediately to do Constance’s bidding. But she did not, as would be expected, say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ A stranger would have found the situation very curious that this orphan girl should be allowed to speak without first being spoken to unless she wished to convey something absolutely necessary, but in this instance she had casually joined in the conversation with her mistress and young master and the young man’s grandmother.

  And Sarah Waite’s position was unusual in that the mistress of the house, besides teaching her to read and write had shown her all the big towns in England on a map, and made her learn what they produced, and for a full year she had allowed her to sit by the young master’s side when doing her lessons, until at seven years old he went away to the school at Hexham, only returning at the weekends, and during his absence she had continued to teach her head man’s niece.

  If anyone had dared to tell Constance that her philanthropy had a selfish motive she would have denied it while admitting its truth to herself, for although most of her time was taken up with farm affairs, there were long hours in the evening especially in the winter, when her mind craved for some other outlet besides those of making clothes, darning, and tapestry. She was slow to admit that she had imbibed some of Miss Brigmore’s character while being taught by her, for she also had the desire to impart knowledge. When she reluctantly decided on the course of sending her son to a boarding school where he would come under influences other than those of the farm labourers, there was left in her a gap that could be filled only by the moulding of another character. Then indeed, she knew that she had imbibed more than general knowledge from Miss Brigmore.

  And there was also the necessity at that particular time of covering up her disappointment—she refused to acknowledge it as a dashing of her hopes. Although she had said more than once that she would never marry again, she had not rejected the advances of Bob Armstrong, the younger of the two farming brothers who lived but three miles away. From the night of that first harvest supper she had given in ’66 he had openly shown his admiration for her. He had called in when passing, and when not passing he had made a point of visiting her, giving her advice, joking with her, letting his eyes tell her what was in his mind. And this silent courtship had gone on for three years.

  It was when she had almost decided to give him enough encouragement to speak that his visits ceased abruptly. He even avoided her on market day. It was from Peter, his honest but shambling brother, that she learned he was going to marry a Miss Fanny Winters, a farmer’s daughter. The farmer had died, and his wife was oldish, and Miss Fanny Winters, a bit long in the tooth, as the forthright Peter had put it, had in a way offered. It was a big farm, and Bob had always hankered after a big farm. He would miss him, Peter said, ’cos he was good company was Bob.

  But twenty-five miles was twenty-five miles and you couldn’t keep running back and forward all that way, now could you?

  Constance hadn’t cried at the news, she had been too angry, too humiliated; although she hadn’t a doubt that he had desired her, nevertheless his need for a big farm had been greater. Wolfbur hadn’t apparently been a large enough attraction.

  So this was another reason why it was desirable for her to have a pastime, and Sarah Waite filled the need. It also deepened the gratitude of the entire Waite family toward her.

  Sometimes when Constance looked in her mirror her reflection showed the inner panic that filled her, a panic created by the mounting years, for was she not thirty-two? And the question of age would engender in her the special terror that one day when Michael took a wife she might be brushed aside, discounted. That she was all-in-all to him now she was fully aware, but she knew that this emotional state couldn’t last; another four, five years and he could marry.

  When her mind touched on him marrying her nerves almost jangled into hysteria. What if he should choose Barbara? As things stood Barbara’s father and Michael’s grandfather were one and the same man, at least in
the eyes of the world, and she would gladly have left the situation like this in order to prevent Michael bringing her niece into this house as his wife; but there were two others who knew the true situation, Anna and Jane, and Anna, she knew, would move hell and earth to make that girl happy; and Jane would do the same for her grandson. She could, in times of such panic, see their combined efforts forcing her to reveal to her son the real truth of his beginnings.

  And Michael, where did he stand in all this? The fact that Barbara was deaf would be no impediment to him taking her; rather the reverse, he would be drawn to her out of compassion. She was well aware that he had, since a small child, maintained a fondness for her. Although he teased her and called her Madam, and grumbled about her following him around, nevertheless she sensed that deep within him he had a strong emotional leaning toward his cousin. What she constantly hoped and prayed for was that with the years he would grow out of this feeling for there was bad blood in Barbara, she being part Mallen.

  ‘How will they get back if there’s no moon?’ Michael asked.

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I say how will they all get back if there’s no moon?’