The Maltese Angel Page 9

  He had laughed when saying this, but she wasn’t displeased that he had meant it.

  Ward’s consuming love seemed to have touched everything he owned, for his crops were blooming and his cows had never yielded so much milk; yet all the happiness seemed to be contained within the precincts of his land. It was a different story when he went into the village.

  Within a few days of his marriage he knew where he stood there. He wasn’t in favour in The Running Hare, because Sam Longstaffe and his little wife Linda were churchgoing. However, at The Crown Head he had been made more than welcome by Michael Holding and members of his family; not that he frequented the inn often, but on his return from Fellburn or Gateshead, he might step in for a pint of ale. He had laughingly said to Annie that as long as he had the barman, the baker and the blacksmith, and the shoemaker and the undertaker on his side, he would get by. Nevertheless, it annoyed him that most of the church folk could hardly bring themselves to give him the time of day. And yet it was because of this that it seemed he had found favour with Pastor Wainwright of the Methodist Chapel: he and his four sons would nod to him and bid him good day. The two younger lads even raised their caps to him.

  It was now the beginning of March 1887, and the month was living up to its reputation, with the wind raging and sending sprays of iced rain against the windows on the day when Fanny told him she was carrying his child.

  The farmyard was a sea of mud and Annie was once again yelling at him, ‘Will you take your boots off! I’m not getting down on me hands an’ knees today again and scrubbin’ this kitchen or that hall, so I’m telling you, Master Ward. And anyway, if you could lay a concrete floor in that dancing room for the missis, you could put one in that yard. They tell me that Bainbridge’s farm is as clean as a whistle now that he’s had the whole place laid with slabs cemented together.’

  To this, he had said, ‘Annie, if you say another word to me about mud or boots or wet clothes, either to get them off, or not put me boots on your floor, I’ll take up the first thing to hand and I’ll let you have it.’

  After a moment of silence between them, he asked, and quietly, ‘Where’s the missis?’

  ‘The last time I saw her she was up in the attics. She’s taken it into her head to scour them out. I can’t stop her, so see if you can. See if you get the same answer as I get. She must keep busy. If it isn’t her feet going it’s her hands,’ saying which, she herself continued to be about her own business, whilst he padded across the kitchen floor in his stockinged feet, went into the hall and up the stairs, and on the first landing he called, ‘Where are you?’

  After a moment, her voice came faintly to him: ‘I’m up among the gods, sir. I’ve got a good seat, and it’s free.’

  He took the steep stairs to the attics two at a time, and when he saw her on her knees before an open trunk and scattered around her, pieces of material and old albums, he said harshly, ‘Now what are you up to? You’re not thinking about washing out the trunks now, are you?’

  ‘Yes; that’s just what I am thinking about doing, sir.’ She laughed at him, then added, ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘I’m not going to sit down. You get up.’ He pulled her to her feet; then held her at arm’s length, saying, ‘Look at you! Your skirt’s covered with dust and…’

  ‘Well, that shows that this place has never had a clean out for a long, long time, and’—she looked about her—‘you know, a lot of use could have been made of these rooms. There’re three good size ones besides the small one along the passage.’

  ‘I know the number of rooms that are up here, but we’ve got enough downstairs to see to.’

  She now pulled herself from his arms and, going to an old basket chair that was propped against the wall, she sat down on it, then beckoned him to her, saying, ‘Bring that box and sit down; I want to talk to you.’

  When with a loud sigh he carried out her bidding, she caught hold of his hands, then began to rub them, saying, ‘You’re cold.’ To which he answered, ‘Of course, I’m cold: it’s freezing up here, it’s raining outside, the wind’s howling. I’ve been wet through; Billy’s in a temper; the boy’s got a cough and has been in bed all day. As for Annie, no…no, don’t let me talk about Annie. And now here’s you.’

  ‘Yes, here’s me.’ She nodded at him. ‘And I, sir, I must confess, am…well, I think the word is devious, I’m a devious woman.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What’s the matter with you? Come on downstairs.’

  ‘Ward—’ Her voice checked him, because there was no banter in it now as she said, ‘Not knowing about these things and having no-one to talk to, even Mrs Killjoy didn’t discuss her personal matters, I…I had to be sure, and now I am. I am going to have a baby, Ward.’

  He sat motionless; but when eventually he moved it was not to thrust out his arms and pull her roughly to him, but slowly to lean forward and to rest his head on her lap and as slowly to place his hand gently upon her stomach. There was no way he could speak, for at this moment it was impossible for him to express what he was feeling: he had been married six months and he had felt that his loving would surely have created a child long before now, and there had been times when she had lain asleep in his arms and he had wondered if there might be something lacking in his make-up: he himself had been the only offspring of his mother and father, and they themselves had each been an only child. And so he had asked himself, was the line running out? Did these things happen? But now she was carrying his child, this beautiful, beautiful girl, as he still thought of her, because sometimes he just couldn’t believe that she was his wife, a young woman of twenty now. She was so slight, even ethereal. At times, when he watched her from a distance it looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away. All her movements, too, were quick and light. Often he was surprised by the way she spoke: her voice didn’t match her body, or her face, and there was a surprising and unaccustomed depth to her mind.

  As she stroked his hair, there was a strong desire in him to cry as any woman might. She didn’t ask the silly question, ‘Are you pleased?’ but rather, with that practical side of her, she said, ‘You are cold. Let us go down. I…I want to tell Annie, too.’

  He rose from the box; and now he picked her up in his arms as he often did; but at the top of the attic stairs she began to laugh and shake in his hold, saying, ‘You had better not try to go down there, because we’ll get stuck.’

  At this, he joined his laughter to hers and put her onto her feet. Still he hadn’t spoken, not a word, and not until they were opposite the bedroom door did he push her slightly away from him, saying, ‘Well, go down now and tell Annie.’ And with this, he turned from her and went into the bedroom; and wisely and without murmur she went down the stairs to the kitchen.

  The door shut, he stood with his back to it, his hand pressed tight across his eyes, and there was, at this moment, a deep shame in him, for he had never cried in his life; nor had he seen his father cry, not even when his wife died. He’d have to take a hold of himself, because this was an event that occurred every day to some man somewhere, and surely few men would react to such news as he wanted to do, and cry like a woman.

  He must have a drink, and a strong one …

  It seemed that from this glorious day the outside world began to impinge on Ward’s happiness. On the day she broke the news to him, Fanny must have been two months pregnant. And it should also happen that a few days later Annie was seized with a pain in her side, and Ward called the doctor to her. While he was there, he spoke to him about his wife’s happy condition and asked if he would see to her health.

  Doctor Wheatley not only saw to her health and advised her cheerily to carry on as if nothing had happened, but he apparently informed someone in the village, and in his usual coarse way, that Ward Gibson had got results at last; he was beginning to think the young fellow had taken on a dud. When this was repeated in The Running Hare there was great laughter, except from the Mason brothers …

  The first worryi
ng incident occurred towards the end of March. The routine of the farm had been changed, though not to everyone’s satisfaction, no. As Billy stated bluntly, he could neither read nor write, but the cows didn’t take it out on him for that, nor did it interfere with his ploughing, or the gathering in of the crops, so he reckoned he had all the skills necessary for a farmhand, and that’s what the young lad was going to be, wasn’t he? And so he didn’t see where readin’ and writin’ was going to help him. Besides which, it was taking an hour out in the morning, and another in late afternoon at that; and count that up for five days, and that was ten hours work lost a week. And hadn’t he, the master, said himself that the lad was almost as good as a paid hand; better, in fact, than either one of the Regans or the McNabbs from the Hollow that could be called upon at times, for ‘them two Irish lumps’ liked work so much they could lie down beside it. But if it was the mistress’ wish, well, he supposed he must put up with it. But to his mind, book learning was for them who hadn’t the sense to use their hands.

  Frankly, Ward himself had been a little surprised and taken aback by Fanny’s request, which at first was that the boy should be sent mornings to the village school. And he had quickly pooh-poohed this, reasoning that they would want to know his particulars. But to this, Fanny had laughingly reminded him that if they were to believe the gossip brought to their notice through Annie, Carl was a relation of hers, for hadn’t he appeared on the scene at the same time as herself?

  No, no; Ward wouldn’t hear of the village school, for that would have meant having to tell the boy he would have to pose as a relation, and that would be going too far. But all right, she could have him for a working hour at the beginning of the day and at any slack hour in the late evening. At this, she had rewarded him with some spontaneous kisses, and this openly in the hall with Annie passing, trying to look the other way. And then he was being told that she would need some books, one on arithmetic, another on history, and another on geography.

  Privately, he was amazed that she was so learned when she had openly confessed that she had never been to school; but it appeared that her schooling had been very much of the same pattern as she was planning for the boy, for both her father and mother had taken a hand in her tutoring. They had not always been on the road, and had themselves both received some sort of education.

  Fanny had fitted up a small room at the back of the house. It was sparsely furnished, and it had been used mostly for storing lumber. It now housed two wooden chairs, a small table, a shelf to hold the books she had requested, and two slates and lead pencils. But to her mind there was one book missing, and as yet she couldn’t ask Ward to get it for her, because he would want to know what she meant to do with a book on learning Italian.

  Her own knowledge of the Italian language was sketchy indeed because her mother had spoken the language only when they were alone together; apparently her father did not like the language, or, as she had come to suspect later, he was jealous of it, fearing that his wife might, in spite of all her protestations, be secretly homesick.

  She was leaning across the table now and smiling at her young pupil while admonishing him: ‘You must pay attention, Carl. Look at your book, look at your slate, you are doing a sum.’

  The boy returned her smile as he answered, ‘I’ve done the sum, mistress. The answer is twenty-two sheep.’

  ‘Ah. Ah.’ The smile went from her face now. ‘That is where you are wrong, sir. The answer is twenty-four sheep.’

  ‘Oh. I’ve missed something out?’

  The boy looked from his slate to his book. Then said, ‘Yes. Yes; I can see…twenty-four sheep. You are right.’

  Fanny covered her eyes with a hand for a moment, before leaning across the table again, and now her voice held an earnest note as she said, ‘Carl, you must pay attention to your school work. Or would you rather not have lessons? Would you prefer to work outside?’

  Before she had finished the last word his head was wagging: ‘Oh no, no, mistress. Oh n’n’no. I promise I will pay attention. I will look at the book more.’ He could have added here, ‘But I can’t stop looking at you,’ for this lady sitting across the table appeared to him really as an angel; no-one had ever been so kind: no-one had ever spoken to him as she did; no-one he had ever seen in his short life looked as she did. He would die for her; which is what he often told himself at night as he buried his face in the straw tick in the dark room above the stable.

  ‘I…I promise, and I promise also to repeat the words I read at night. I can do it now: The cat sat on the mat. The dog barked at the cat. The cows give milk.’

  She held up her hand, saying, ‘That’s splendid. That’s splendid. Now you’ve got that far I will read you this little story. And then you will read it, eh?’

  ‘Oh yes, mistress. Yes, mistress.’

  She was checked as she took up the book to begin the story, for the door swung open and there stood Ward. His face looked grave. He spoke to her direct, saying, ‘I want you a moment. Put your coat on, it’s cold. I want you over in the shed. And you, boy, get about your work.’

  As the boy scampered from the room, Fanny went hastily to Ward, saying, ‘What is it? Something wrong?’

  He pushed the door half closed as he looked at her, and speaking slowly, he said, ‘Yes; very wrong, to my mind; and to any decent person’s. Somebody’s set two traps in the pasture. A cow…Maisie got her foot caught. She was bellowing; and there they were all standing round her. Billy heard the commotion, even in the yard here. I’ve never seen him run for years. I was in the bottom field.’

  ‘A trap? What kind of trap? A mantrap? They’ve been abolished. It’s punishable.’

  ‘No; not a mantrap. These are home-made ones, on the lines of rabbit ones. You know—’ He moved his hands as if to explain them. ‘Some are just so big, enough to catch a rabbit’s paw, but others are bigger.’ His fingers spread. ‘To get its neck. I’ve made them myself when I was a lad. We were swarmed with rabbits at times. But these were big enough to take a cow’s hoof. Somebody knew what they were about. Anyway, come and see what you can do.’

  For some time now, ever since she had healed the boy’s back, he had accepted that she was one of these people who had healing in their hands. His mother used to talk about an old woman who had lived in the Hollow; and of the farmers who had come from far and wide for her services. Yet she was feared and held at arm’s length by the majority of the villagers. However, she had never been known to cure any humans; it was just animals that responded to her touch.

  As they hurried through the kitchen Annie, who was scrubbing the seat of a wooden chair, did not straighten her back, but commented to no-one in particular. ‘It’s started.’

  As Fanny turned questioningly towards the woman, who now was not only the servant in the house, but a friend, meaning to ask the reason for the statement, she was actually pulled towards the kitchen door, then pushed through it.

  The cow was in her stall. Billy was holding the animal’s injured foot, and there was a large bowl of hot water placed on the box to the side of him.

  Fanny did not immediately go to the back of the animal, but she touched its face and said, ‘Hello, Maisie! That’s a good girl. You’re going to be all right. Do you hear me? You’re going to be all right.’

  Ward, standing to the side, turned his head away for a moment, for he did not like this side of the proceedings. It was all right her dressing a wound or holding it, but she had a way of talking to the creatures before she did anything. It was a bit off-putting…he did not use the word ‘weird’. Still, she had marvellous hands. She was marvellous altogether; but…His voice was slightly terse as he said, ‘Have a look at it.’

  She stroked the cow’s face twice before she turned away and joined Billy. Then looking about her, she said, ‘Where’s the stool?’

  Almost instantly it was handed to her by Ward; and as she sat down on it, Billy straightened up, saying, ‘Do you want to bathe it, mistress?’

  For answer
, she lifted the cow’s hoof and looked at the cut made by the wire. It was deep, likely caused by the animal’s struggles to release its limb. Her hands around the heel and without looking at Billy, she said, ‘Would you please go and ask Annie for the bandage box?’

  When Billy left her side Ward said, ‘It’s almost to the bone. She was nearly going mad; she could have snapped her hoof off.’

  ‘Why should people do this to animals?’

  He looked down on her head and found it impossible to say, ‘I don’t know;’ and more so to answer, ‘Because I married you.’ He had never told her about Daisy Mason, but he knew that at times she must have felt something wasn’t right between him and the village, such as when she expressed a desire to go to a service, he’d had to counter it with, ‘Well, not in St Stephen’s; we’ll go to St Matthew’s, Frank’s place, one of these Sundays, when he has time to take a service there, when old Tracey’s done with him. If ever there was a false minister of God it’s that man, for to me he expresses the two main sins, gluttony and sloth.’ What he said now was, ‘Do you think you can do anything with it?’

  She turned and glanced up at him, her hands still holding the animal’s heel: ‘I don’t know; it’ll be as God wills, not me.’

  He felt his shoulders stiffening, his head going back on them. Why was the tone of her voice different when she was treating animals? At such times she was different altogether; she was like someone he didn’t know, not his wonderful, warm, loving Fanny, his beautiful, beautiful Fanny. Sometimes he wished she hadn’t this…whatever it was, for it was like a part of her that didn’t belong to him; and he knew she was all his, entirely all his. Yet, no, not when she was doing what she was doing now.