The Maltese Angel Read online

  ‘Oh well; Lady Lydia, you know, happens to have a cousin, who happened to go to school with Jane’s mother, and through the beating of the tom-toms it was discovered that dear Jane had married an impecunious and ailing curate, and that they were living in the most awful conditions, almost under the river itself in the lowest part of Newcastle. It simply could not go on. And as there happened to be a small church, and a so-called vicarage next to it, occupied by a very aged pastor who was incapable of even taking the service, and who was allowed to remain there only through the clemency of Colonel Ramsmore, the suggestion was to transfer the old fellow to a cottage and let the poor curate take over. His wife and child would at least have fresh air, if nothing else. And so that’s how it came about.’

  ‘What did you mean, Frank, ailing? Are you ill? You’ve never looked it to me, never spoken of it.’

  Frank Noble now patted the left side of his chest, saying, ‘A touch of tuberculosis. Just a little bit. I don’t even cough any more; I’m really fit. But, and this I’ll confess to you, Ward, as I wouldn’t even to Jane, I’d rather be back on that river front among many more who are in the same boat, some coughing their lungs out because, you see, the people are different there. I’ve always detested villages. I was brought up on the outskirts of one, very like the one here.’ He inclined his head to the side. ‘And there were so many irritations, apart from the marked division in class. There has got to be this division, I know; there always has been and always will be; but narrowness in both sets used to prey on my mind at times, and I had no sympathy with either lot. You know, I still haven’t.’ And now he bent towards Ward and whispered, ‘I don’t know why I’m in this garb…in this job, so to speak. I’ve asked God a number of times, but He never gives me a straight answer. But Jane, now, she’s on much better terms with Him and gets a straight answer every time. You’ve made the biggest mistake of your life in your choice of a career, she tells me at least once a week. And you know something, Ward? If of a sudden I were to decide to leave and go and look for a job in a shipyard or a factory, or down a mine, she would jump for joy. I know she would.’ He laughed before adding, ‘Perhaps not as much now as she would have done three years ago, before the children came. Anyway, you’re coming to supper. Which night?’

  ‘Any night you choose.’

  ‘Say Thursday. A quiet day all round, Thursday, don’t you think? By Wednesday, the locals have chalked up so much on the slate in the inns that Thursday is a comparatively dry night. Friday, everybody’s very busy, getting ready for Saturday’s market, to be followed by a swilling at night in the inn to finish off the week. Of course, that doesn’t include our small band of Methodists. Decent lot, the Methodists. Always thought that.’

  He was backing away now, laughing and waving at the same time, and Ward stood shaking his head and smiling broadly. Frank was a man after his own heart, and to his mind he certainly wasn’t in the wrong profession: he should be in the parish; and he wouldn’t be afraid to speak his mind from the pulpit; and he’d have more than six sermons a year to work on. It was good to feel he had one friend…What was he talking about? He had a number. There was Fred, over the moon about being asked to be best man. And his father, his brothers, John and Will, and Mr Newberry, who had promised to bake a wedding cake. It was supposed to be a surprise, but as Fred wasn’t good at keeping secrets, he already knew it was to have two tiers and the best egg-white icing above an almond topping.

  He stood and watched until the young parson had disappeared along the road, when he turned and hurried into the house.

  In the hall he shouted, ‘Where are you?’ And Annie calling from upstairs, cried back at him, ‘Where do you think?’

  He bounded up the stairs two at a time, shouting as he went, ‘What are you doing up there?’

  Again he was given the answer, ‘What d’you think?’ And her voice led him to the room that had been his parents’; and there, Annie, standing on a chair, was taking down the curtains from the window.

  ‘What are you up to? Get off that chair. With your weight, you’ll go through it and break your legs. Get down, woman!’

  ‘Don’t rock me unless you want me to fall on top of you. And wait a minute until I get this pin out of the ring.’

  When she had accomplished that task, she dropped the heavy curtain, half of it falling across his head. And now on the floor once more, she exclaimed, ‘These should have been down years ago. Your mother liked tapestries. She picked these up at least…oh, twenty-five years ago; in fact, just before you were born, when they were selling off the things at Quayle Manor. It was beautiful stuff then; but now, I bet, it won’t bear the look of water; it’ll drop to bits.’

  ‘What do you propose putting up then?’

  ‘That depends on you and what stuff you buy. I think something nice and light; something that will tone in with the new carpet. Aye, aye.’ Now she was poking her finger at him. ‘Just look down at your feet. That’s been down ever since I was in this house, and it must be claggy with sweat from your father’s bare feet, for, you know, once in the house he would never go round in slippers if he could help it.’

  He stood back from her, saying, ‘Well, that’s a carpet and curtains. Now what about the furniture, Annie? You want all that removed?’

  ‘You know, what I don’t want now is any of your sarky remarks. And in taking this on meself I’m only pointing out your dimwittedness, for if you’d had any sense you would have had Miss Fanny up here and asked her what colour drapes she would like. And that’s what you can do now. Are you going in the night?’

  ‘Of course I’m going in the night.’

  ‘Then I suggest you also go in first thing in the morning and bring her back, for what it must be like sitting in those lodgings all day, I don’t know.’

  He stared at her now as she gathered up the heavy dust-dispersing curtains, but said nothing, until she staggered past him, her arms full, when he suggested, ‘How would it be if I brought her back tomorrow and let her stay in the house for the next three weeks?’

  She stopped and, her chin stretching over the material towards him, she said, ‘Wouldn’t shock me.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it would, Annie. For two pins I would do it, too, for you know what? Old Tracey has refused to marry us in church.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But yes. Frank though, he’s offered to do it along at St Matthew’s. But I said no, we’d have it done at the registrar’s.’

  ‘He’s an old bugger, that, if ever there was one.’ She humped the curtains further up into her arms, then said soberly, ‘But perhaps it’ll work out for the best, because whether you know it or not there’s a civil war goin’ on down in the village. Some are backing you, but others are backing Daisy Mason; in fact, things, I understand, have hotted up in that direction, stirred by the two Mason lads. What they’re goin’ to do, or what they would like to do to you is nobody’s business, but like and actin’ are two different things. That Pete is a big mouth. But Sep, he couldn’t knock the stuffin’ out of a feather pillow. Anyway, we’ll only have to wait an’ see which side comes off best, won’t we? And by the way, I’ve made an egg custard for her; take it in with you. She needs feeding up, and you don’t want to marry a clothes prop with a frock on it, do you?’

  Ward nodded his head, which then seemed to be in answer to her previous comment when he muttered, ‘Yes, we’ll just have to wait and see,’ before he turned and moved towards the brass and iron bed, and he stood looking at it. He had been born in that bed; and his father had been born in it. But it had a different mattress on it then; two feather ticks, they said, and you sank through one into the other.

  He looked about him. It was a large room. The furniture was good solid mahogany, but the walls could do with new wallpaper. Annie was right; it needed brightening up. The whole house needed brightening up; and yes, she must have a hand in it, so he would go in early morning and bring her here every day, and take her back in the evening, and they would plan
the house together.

  He stood holding the bed rail, in one part of him a feeling of joy wanting to lift him from his feet in a great leap, while in the other was a mixture of bitterness and regret, regret that he couldn’t be married in the same church as his father and mother had been, regret that the whole village couldn’t be one with him on the day, as he understood they had been on his parents’ wedding day, regret that the barn down below would not ring to the sound of Harry Bates’ and Jake Mulberry’s fiddles, and Amos Laker’s accordion, with laughter, merriment and high jinks rising as the spirits flowed.

  His head shook as a dog does when throwing off water. What did the village lot matter? He still had friends there. The only thing that really mattered was, she would soon be here…and—his thoughts had rushed ahead—‘in that bed’. He warned himself now not to forget what he had learned from Nell: it was not as if it was Daisy Mason coming to that bed, oh no, but a young girl, fragile, like an angel. Yes, like an angel; but a laughing, kind, wonderful angel, and a different being from anyone he had ever known.

  Yes—he paused in his thinking—different, so different. There was that business of Carl’s back. The morning following the day she had laid her hand on him there was no pus on the lint; in fact, although the strike marks all remained, the scars looked different, paler, as if in time they might disappear. He had been shaken by that, but when he mentioned it to Annie, he was surprised that she should accept it. She had heard of such things, she had said: people with healing hands. Oh yes, she had gone on to explain, at one time they used to burn them for witches. Thank God all that was in the past. At least, most of it, she had added.

  He walked slowly towards the head of the bed and touched one of the pillows lying on top of the bolster, and he spoke aloud at it: ‘I will never hurt you in any way,’ he said. ‘And may God forgive me if I should.’

  Six

  It was done. She was his. And now the wedding party were piling into the brake. As Ward’s farm only harboured vehicles such as the farm cart, the hay wagon, and the trap, Annie had voiced to Ward in Fred’s hearing that he must hire a brake. It was following this that Mr Newberry had offered the use of his brake, which not only held ten people but also had a detachable cover.

  There were nine guests in the vehicle, four of whom were connected with the theatre; and Billy in his Sunday suit and bowler was now shaking the reins and calling, ‘Get up, there!’ which set off Betty into a dignified walk, because it was a heavy load she was pulling.

  The journey back to the farm seemed long but merry. This was brought about by the cross-talk between Fred and the juggler, and Mr Carter interposing the scraps of monologues; so no-one noticed that the newly married couple had little to say; nothing in fact, as they sat hand in hand, and it wasn’t until the brake entered the farmyard that Ward gave vent to a surprised exclamation: ‘Good gracious!’ he cried. ‘Look!’ for there, awaiting them, was an unexpected number of people, and the next ten minutes were taken up with congratulations, handshakes and introductions.

  Ward’s heart was warm: here were people who weren’t cutting him dead, who hadn’t refused to take his milk. The cutting had started when the news of his forthcoming marriage was brought to the village. Billy was delivering the churn to Hannah Beaton’s shop, as he had done for countless years, only to be bawled out by Hannah: ‘You can save yourself the trouble, Billy Compton, an’ tell him we won’t be sellin’ his milk any more. An’ that goes for his eggs an’ all.’

  And she hadn’t been the only one in the village to refuse his milk that day, for four others had done the same, and Annie’s comment had been, ‘Well, what d’you expect? Old Mother Beaton and Mrs Mason are cousins.’

  But now, here was the whole blacksmith’s family, not only Charlie Dempsey himself, but also their two young sons, John and Henry, and Phyllis, one of their married daughters from Fellburn; and there was Fred Conroy, the butcher, a quiet fellow, Fred, and a widower these ten years; but he had brought their Jimmy with him, he who was courting Susie Beaton; and surprisingly, there was Ben Holman the cobbler, go-between man or undertaker, which occupation he was following at this particular time. And lastly, which was no surprise to Ward, there was the Reverend Frank Noble and his wife Jane, and one of their two young children…and the boy Carl, smiling widely now as he gazed at the new mistress.

  Ward stopped, and he turned and looked at Fanny. She was gazing at him, but not smiling: her eyes were large and moist.

  As those from outside pressed in behind him, he gently guided her towards the top of the table, where Annie was standing beaming as if she had just conjured up all this out of thin air; and, impulsively, Fanny threw her arms about her and kissed her on the cheek.

  For a moment Annie returned the hug, but then exclaimed loudly, her voice above the hubbub, ‘I didn’t do all this, ma’am; everybody pigged in. And there’s a table full of presents next door an’ all. Anyway, sit yourself down, ma’am; they’re all dying to get started, ’cos they’ve never had a bite or sup across their lips since this morning.’

  This caused a great roar of laughter, setting the pattern for the enjoyment of the meal which, between eating and toasting, and amid cries of goodwill, went on for the next hour or more.

  Following this, the whole company crowded into the parlour where, to his regret, the juggler found there was no room to perform his act; but Mr Carter’s talents didn’t take up any space, and so he entertained the company with monologues, and to the surprise of those who knew him well, he never touched either on Shakespeare or on Mr Dickens. Nor did he mention the Cornhill Magazine, or any other erudite publication from where he had gleaned his knowledge, but he continually had them in gales of laughter when proving to be an admirable mimic of dialects from Geordie to Cockney.

  And so the afternoon wore on, until it was time for the Newcastle party to take their leave. This they did amidst cheers and invitations to come again, not only to the farm but to the blacksmith’s and the baker’s; and, lastly, a somewhat macabre invitation from Ben Holman, who said, ‘You can come any time to me and I’ll fit you out with a nice box, brass handles thrown in free.’ And so they departed in further laughter.

  Others now began to make their departure, again amidst hilarious chaffing from Rob Newberry when he exclaimed in mock indignation, ‘It’s come to something, hasn’t it, when me family’s got to walk back home because I’ve been daft enough to lend me brake to those barmy actors.’

  When the last trap rolled out of the yard with the young vicar and his wife waving their goodbyes, no-one remarked about the bride standing close to her husband and having her arm around the young lad, who was wearing a new knickerbocker suit and sporting a white shirt, for it had been whispered here and there that he was some relation to the bride: and had he not come on the scene at the same time as she? No-one had mentioned anything to Ward about the assumed relationship because Ward had been very touchy, and he would more than likely have told them to mind their own business. But that was before he had taken a wife…well, a man was always more approachable then, and the relationship to the boy would likely come out …

  Fanny insisted on helping Annie clear the table and put things to rights, and although Annie objected, Ward did not, because what might have been a stumbling block for the harmony of the house between Annie and his wife did not after all exist. And so he walked out into his farmyard; but there was no-one to talk to now except the boy, and he said to him, ‘Well, Carl, have you enjoyed your first wedding?’

  And the boy, looking up at him, did not answer his question, but what he said was, ‘She is so beautiful…bella, bella.’

  At this Ward laughed and, affectionately rumpling the boy’s hair, said, ‘Yes, you’re right. Oh, so right; she is bella, bella.’

  At nine o’clock the house was back to normal, and Annie bade them a smiling but lower-lidded goodnight; after which Ward bolted the door. Then he carried his wife upstairs to bed.

  He had definitely slept in, for the
sun was up and shining through the new curtains. He turned hastily onto his side; and there she was, wide awake and smiling at him; and it was she who spoke first. Putting out her hand, she ran her fingers through the thick hair that was tousled on his brow as she said very softly, ‘I still like you, Mr Gibson; but I must confess the feeling I have for you now is so strange that it might come under the heading of…love.’

  ‘Fanny…Oh, Fanny. Fanny,’ was all he was able to say.

  PART TWO

  One

  The first six months of their marriage was, for both of them, like a fairy tale. To Ward, each day was a joy to wake up to, and each night was a joy to go to their bed. To Fanny it was different types of joy: Ward had been as good as his word and had the vinery re-built and every now and again when she felt like it she would run down to it and dance, at times to an audience consisting only of her husband; at others she would be aware of Billy being in the background, but more often of the boy watching her.

  As she had found her love for Ward, so she came to have most tender feelings for the boy. It was strange, she would tell herself, it was as if they were related; and perhaps they were, because he didn’t really know who his people were. He had, though, definitely hailed from the same part of the world as her mother, for every now and again, spontaneously, he would come out with an Italian word that would surprise himself. But what troubled her about the boy was his nightmares, for Ward had often heard him yelling out from his bed in the loft.

  But her joy wasn’t only in her own dancing, for hardly a week passed but Ward took her into Newcastle. She had visited the theatre there, and had spent an hilarious evening at Balhambras, noted for its variety, much of it bawdy, and whose audience, Fanny felt, would not have received her type of act very well; and nor would Mr and Mrs Killjoy and their family have been as much appreciated as they had been at The Empire. But the occasion she had enjoyed most was the dance at the Assembly Rooms. Yet Ward had said that was their first and last visit there, because she had attracted too much attention.