The Mallen Streak Read online

  The Bank had put a reserve price on the estate and no bidder had touched anywhere near it. The auctioneer had at one time become impatient and as he looked at the men he would have liked, very much, to say, ‘Gentlemen, I know why you hesitate, as on such occasions of distraint on property, beggars can’t be choosers, you’re thinking. But you are mistaken in this case. The Bank wants its money and it means to have it, and is prepared to wait. Oh, I know you gentlemen of old, you think if the estate doesn’t go today you will tomorrow put in an offer and we will gladly take it. Oh, I know you of old, gentlemen.’

  What he did say was, ‘Gentlemen, this is a very fine estate and I’ve no need to remind you what it contains, you have it all there in your catalogues; five hundred acres of land containing two productive farms, and then this house, this beautiful and, I will add, grand house. You could not build this house for sixty thousand today, and gentlemen, what are you offering? Twenty thousand below the asking price. We’re wasting each other’s time, gentlemen. I’ll ask you again: what am I bid over the last bidder of thirty thousand?…Well now, well, come, come, gentlemen…No? Then I’m afraid that today’s business is at an end, gentlemen…’

  Thomas Mallen took the news with a deep sigh, but Dick stormed and ranted until his father turned on him angrily, saying, ‘Stop it! Stop it! Anyway, what good would it do you if they had bid twenty thousand over the asking price?’

  ‘None. I’m well aware of that, none, but it riles me to think they’re harping over a few thousand. Pat tells me the Hamiltons were there from Edinburgh; also the Rosses from Glasgow; they’re weighed down with it but both as mean as skilly bowls…And God Almighty, how you can sit there and take it calmly!…’

  ‘Blast you to hell’s flames, boy! Stop your stupid ranting, and don’t say again I’m taking it calmly. Let me tell you this, I’m neither taking the loss of my house calmly, nor yet the way my son has conducted himself in this predicament. And I will say it, although I told myself I never would, but for your trying to play the injured master we wouldn’t be in this position today. You’re weak-gutted underneath all your bombast, boy, you’re weak-gutted. Only the thought of penury prodded you, but too late as it turned out, to ask Fanny Armstrong, whereas if you’d had any spunk you’d have clinched the matter a year gone, for you were up to your neck then…’

  The altercation had taken place in the study on Thursday evening, and Thomas’ roar had easily penetrated into the children’s bedroom above, where Anna was putting them to bed.

  ‘Uncle’s vexed,’ said Constance. ‘Perhaps he didn’t like his supper, I didn’t like it much. We don’t have nice meals now, do we, Miss Brigmore?’

  ‘You have good plain food, that is all you require. Now lie down and go to sleep and no more talking. Goodnight.’

  Anna turned and looked down at Barbara; then she put her hand out and pulled the sheets over the child’s shoulder. ‘Goodnight, Barbara,’ she said softly.

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Brigmore.’

  Anna looked down for a moment longer on the child. There was something on her mind; she had changed of late, perhaps she was missing the house. She had never been gay like Constance, she was of a more serious turn of mind, but lately there had been an extra restraint in her manner. She must give her more attention; one was apt to talk more to Constance because Constance was more responsive. Yes, she must pay her more attention.

  She left the night light burning and, lifting up the lamp, went out and into her own room, and there, taking the coverlet from her bed, she put it around her and sat down in a chair.

  Things had not turned out as she had imagined they would. There had been no cosy nights sitting before the fire in the drawing room, Thomas Mallen on one side of the hearth, herself on the other, she doing her embroidery, he reading; or she had seen them talking; or again laughing down on the children playing on the hearth rug before the fire.

  The hour that held the picture would always be the hour between six and seven o’clock in the evening. It was an hour that in most cases was lost in those preceding it and those following it, an hour before dinner or supper according to the household; or yet again the hour after the main meal of the day as in some poorer establishments; the hour before children retired, the hour when the day was not yet ended, and the night not yet begun.

  But she had never visualised herself sitting huddled in a bedcover in a cold room during any part of that hour. Yet that is what had happened night after night. However, she made use of her time to collect her thoughts, trying to see the outcome of this terrible business. One outcome that didn’t please her at all was the possibility that Master Dick might be found guiltless at his trial, for this would mean that he would take up his abode here permanently, until such time when he should perhaps find something better. She had asked herself if she could put up with such a situation, for Master Dick’s manner to her was most uncivil. But she never answered this question because she knew that as long as Thomas Mallen needed her she would stay, and she had the firm conviction inside herself that she was the one person he would need most from now on.

  Life could be so pleasant here, so homely. The children would thrive better here than they had at the Hall. They had lived as much in the open air these past weeks as they had done indoors and it hadn’t troubled them, much the reverse. And the food, as Constance had so recently complained, was very plain, which in a way was all to the good of one’s health. It had already shown to good effect on the master, for he had laughingly said his breeches were slack. Also he walked without coughing so much. But no doubt this had been aided by his drinking less wine.

  It was strange, she thought, how wine was considered a natural necessity in the lives of some people. The master had had two visitors over the past weeks who had brought him a case of wine; one was the young Mr Ferrier, the other was Mr Cardbridge. The Cardbridges came from Hexham. They weren’t monied people, more poor upper class, she would say, and Mr Cardbridge was merely an acquaintance of the master, but she knew that his visit had given the master pleasure solely because he had brought with him a case of wine. In her estimation the money that the wine had cost would have been much more acceptable; but that, of course, was out of the question. The master would have taken a small gift of money as an insult, but the equivalent in wine he had accepted with outstretched hands.

  The question of values, she considered, would make a very interesting topic of conversation one of these nights when she conversed with him; if she were able to converse with him, for this would only come about if Master Dick got his deserts, and she prayed he would…

  After supper Thomas went to bed with a glass of hot rum and sugar. He had courteously excused himself to her, saying his head was aching, but she knew that it wasn’t his head that was troubling him but his temper. During supper his face had retained a purple hue. He had not spoken to her, nor had Master Dick, but then Master Dick never addressed himself to her at the table, or anywhere else unless it was to give an order.

  She was relieved when Master Dick too retired early to bed. While Mary washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen, she herself put the dining room to rights and laid the breakfast for the following morning. She also put the covers straight in the sitting room, adjusted the rugs, and damped down the fire.

  She was still in the sitting room when Mary opened the door and said, ‘I’m away up then, Miss Brigmore.’

  ‘Very well, Mary. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Brigmore.’

  As Mary went to close the door she stopped and added, ‘Is it me or is it getting colder?’

  ‘I think it’s getting colder, Mary.’

  ‘You know I had the feeling the night I could smell snow.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised, Mary.’

  ‘Nor me. I remember me mam tellin’ me that one Easter they were snowed up right to the window sill; they didn’t roll any of their paste eggs down the hill that year.’

  Anna smiled slightly before she said, ‘Put another bl
anket on.’

  ‘I will. Yes, I will, miss. I was froze last night. Will I put one out for you an’ all?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you could do, thank you. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, miss.’

  When Mary had closed the door Anna looked down at the fire. The top of it was black where she had covered it with the slack coal, but in between the bars it still showed red. Slowly she lowered herself down onto the rug and, her feet half tucked under her, she sat staring at the glow. Mary had said she would put another blanket on her bed. Another blanket wouldn’t warm her; once you had been warmed by a man there was no substitute.

  This was a cold house. It was still an old maid’s house. Strangely, up till a few weeks ago this title could have been applied to herself but she no longer considered she qualified for it. Given a chance she could make this house warm, happy and warm. She could act as a salve to Thomas Mallen’s wounds. She could fill his latter years with contentment. If never given a child herself, and oh, how she longed for a child of her own, she could find satisfaction playing mother to the children and turning them into ladies; and who knew, some friend might present them at court, as Miss Bessie had been, and they would make good matches. Yet under the present circumstances it was all too much like a fairy tale, something from Mr Hans Christian Andersen or the Grimm Brothers.

  She leant sideways and supported herself on her elbow and drooped her head to her hand. Still staring at the red bars she felt her body relaxing. She knew that she was in a most un-Miss Brigmore pose; she hadn’t sat on a rug like this since she was a very young girl, because since she was a very young girl she hadn’t known what it was to have a fire in her room—part of a governess’ training was austerity and fresh air.

  When her elbow became cramped she put her forearm on the floor and laid her head on it. What did it matter? Everyone in the house was asleep. If she wasn’t careful she’d fall asleep here herself, it was so warm, so comfortable, even although the floor was hard. Should she lie on the couch? She could pull it up to the fire and sleep here all night, no-one would know; and she was usually up as early as Mary in the mornings.

  She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but being a light sleeper the opening of the door had roused her. She lay still, blinking towards the faint glow between the bars which told her that her dozing hadn’t been a matter of minutes but an hour or more.

  She felt the pressure of the footsteps on the carpet rather than heard their tread. The person who had entered the room was either the master or Master Dick. Her mind told her that if she were discovered she must pretend to be asleep, it would be most embarrassing to explain her position to either of them; especially as she realised she was lying flat on her back.

  When a light spread over the ceiling her eyes opened wide; then turning her head to the side, she saw a pair of booted feet walking on the other side of the couch towards the davenport in the corner of the room near the window. She did not hear the lid of the davenport being lifted, but she did hear the slight squeak of a drawer being opened and something scraping against the wood. The feet now came down the room again; they didn’t pause, but went straight to the door.

  She counted up to sixty before she moved; then rising, she silently groped her way up the room to the davenport. And now she lifted the lid and opened the drawer. It was empty; the Louis miniatures and the snuff box were gone. She stood for a moment, a hand gripping her throat. If she were to call out instantly she could raise the master. Master Dick would have a horse and carriage waiting, but it would likely be some distance away and he would have to get to it. There was still time to stop him.

  Of all the pieces she had brought from the house she knew that Thomas Mallen treasured most the three articles he had placed in that drawer. He hadn’t locked them away, or hidden them underneath the floorboards again, there was no need; if the bailiffs had suspected anything was missing they would have searched the cottage long before this. The three pieces, she knew, would have brought another thousand pounds, enough to ease his way of living for a year or two until he became quite used to the change; enough to get him a case of wine now and again, a few choice cigars, and some delicacies for high days and holidays. She had seen those three pieces as an insurance against his despair.

  But she did not shout and raise the house; instead, she groped her way back to the couch and, sitting on it, she stared at the dim embers as she thought, this is the answer to my prayers. By the time Thomas gets up tomorrow morning—in this moment she thought of him quite naturally as Thomas—his son will be miles away, and by the time the authorities find he is missing he will no doubt be across some water, either to France or to Norway.

  To get to France he would have to ride the length of the country southwards; on the other hand he would have no distance to go in order to catch a boat to Norway. And yet the seaways to Norway might still be too rough and dangerous. Anyway, whichever way he had chosen, and he must have had it well planned and had help, he was gone, and at last now there would come the time when she would sit on one side of this fire and Thomas on the other. And better still, she would be warm at nights.

  If he had raved and shouted she knew that in time he would recover from the blow, but on the discovery that his son had gone, and that the miniatures and snuff box had gone with him, he did not even raise his voice.

  He had been cheery at breakfast. ‘Good Friday, Anna,’ he said, ‘And a sprinkling of snow.’ He always addressed her as Anna when they were alone together. ‘I remember one year when they had to dig a pathway up the drive on Easter Monday for the carriages.’

  ‘Really!’ she said, as she wondered if it was the same time as Mary’s mother had been snowed up to the window sill.

  ‘You look tired,’ he said.

  ‘I am not at all,’ she replied.

  ‘You are,’ he said; ‘it’s all too much, teaching, housekeeping, and playing housemaid, butler, and nursemaid to a doddery old man.’

  When she did not deny any of this jocular remark, and in particular contradict his last statement, he stopped eating and asked quietly, ‘What is the matter? Something is wrong with you. It’s odd, but I’m more aware of your feelings than of anyone else’s whom I can remember. Sit down and stop fidgeting,’ he commanded her now.

  She now sat down opposite to him at the table, and her hands folded in her lap, her back very straight, she looked at him as she said, ‘Master Dick has gone.’

  He did not say ‘What!’ He made no comment at all. All he did was sit back in his chair, jerk his chin upwards, and wipe the grease from it with a napkin.

  After he had placed the napkin on the table he asked quietly, ‘When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Why…why didn’t you let me know?’

  ‘Because—’ Now her lids veiled her eyes for a moment and she directed her gaze towards the table as she replied, ‘You couldn’t have stopped him; he must have had a horse or carriage waiting.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I…I don’t know, not rightly. I…I had been asleep, I was awakened. I heard a movement on the stairs. I thought it was Mary going down because of something connected with the children. Then I saw him leave stealthily. He had a valise with him.’

  How easily one lied, but she could not admit to the fact that she had seen his son stealing from him and had done nothing about it. He might have understood the reason for her silence because he was very much a man of the world, and of the flesh; but at the same time he might have considered the price he was being called upon to pay for their companionship together as much too costly.

  At least that is what she thought until, rising from the chair, he walked slowly out of the room. It was some seconds before she followed him into the sitting room. He was standing at the davenport. The drawer was open and he was staring down into it, and when he turned and looked at her she felt the urge to run to him and fling her arms about him. But all she did was to walk sedately up to him and say, ‘I’m sorry. So ve
ry sorry.’

  ‘I too am sorry, very sorry.’

  He suddenly sat down on a chair near the window and she knew a moment of anguish as she thought he was going to weep; his head was bowed, his lips were trembling. She watched him pass a hand over his face, drawing the loose skin downwards, then nip the jowl below his left cheek until the surrounding skin was drained of its blood.

  It was a full minute before he looked up at her, and then his voice had a croaking, throaty sound as he said, ‘I’m sorry for many things at this moment but mostly for the loss of the miniatures. I had the idea that one day, in the near future, I would hand them to you as a token of my thanks for all you have done for me and mine during this very trying time. The snuff box I intended to keep for myself, merely as a matter of pride. But now, well now—’ He spread his hands outwards and in this moment he looked old, helpless, and beaten.

  He had meant her to have the miniatures! Really, really. The kindness of him, the thoughtfulness of him! He was a self-indulgent man, she knew this only too well; he was flamboyant, bombastic, and few people had a good word for him. Even his friends had proved to be his worst critics in this time of trial, yet there was another side to him. This she had sensed right from their first meeting. A few others knew of this side too. Dunn, she suspected, had been one of them, and Brown, his valet. Yet she wasn’t sure about Brown. Brown should have stayed with him, put up with the inconveniences; he could have slept on a makeshift bed in the loft. She’d had it in her mind to contrive something like this when he had informed her that he had a new proposition. She had been vexed and disappointed with him, but her common sense had told her it would be one less to feed—and anyway, how would he have been paid? Her mind was galloping about irrelevant items. She felt upset, so upset.