The Mallen Girl Page 9

  ‘I’m making a convenience of no-one. John proposed coming with me.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have been allowed over if he hadn’t.’ She pressed her lips tightly together as she stared at him, and then she said verbally, ‘Your advanced education was intended to give you the cloak of a gentleman…’

  When his head went back and he burst out laughing she jumped to her feet, and he now looked straight into her face and answered her, also verbally, saying, ‘You sounded just like Brigie; and you know, you are like Brigie; under the skin you’re just like her.’

  ‘I’m like no-one but myself.’

  The light in his eyes changed, his face took on a stiff look for a moment as he stared at her: that is just what he had said a short while ago to his father. The mischievous glint returned, and now he nodded at her as he said, ‘You’re right, you’re like no-one but yourself, you’re very leggy.’ He looked down her length, over her slight bust and narrow waist, to the long flow of her riding skirt, and he said, ‘You’ll soon have to have a bigger mount than the cob, else your feet will be trailing on the ground, like the picture of Christ in the nursery where He’s riding the donkey…’

  Now she was shocked, he had really roused her. ‘You’re being blasphemous, and it isn’t amusing. You never succeed in being amusing, only aggravating, and now you have to resort to blasphemy.’

  His whole attitude changing, he said contritely, ‘I’m sorry; I am, I’m really sorry.’ But when he put out his hand to touch her arm she slapped it away, saying, ‘One of these days you’ll be sorrier still’; and on this she turned and marched out of the room.

  He stood staring at the closed door. One of these days he’d be sorrier still. He couldn’t be sorrier than he was at this moment, and about a number of things: Manchester, the mill, his mother, the frustrated desire to roam, and then this other thing, this other hopeless thing, this thing he had mismanaged for years, this thing without hope. This thing that was perhaps the main reason for him wanting to get away.

  Once again he went to the fireplace and put his arm on the mantelshelf and rested his head on it.

  Miss Brigmore automatically smoothed down each side of her hair and straightened the skirt of her grey cotton dress before tapping on the bedroom door and entering. It was many years now since she had waited to be bidden to enter.

  ‘Aw, hello there.’ Matilda’s voice greeted her from the window. ‘You see I’m up; she’s got me up afore me clothes are on.’ She jerked her head towards where the nurse was making the bed; then added, ‘Come and sit down. Come and sit down.’

  As Miss Brigmore took a seat opposite her she asked, ‘And how do you feel this morning?’

  ‘Oh fine, fine; can’t you see? I was just sayin’ to ’Arry there, that if this weather keeps up he’s going to drive me into Newcastle and I’m goin’ to buy a complete rig-out, maybe two, and stay in one of them big hotels. Didn’t I? Didn’t I, ’Arry?’

  ‘Aye, you did, lass; and just you say the word and we’ll be off any minute now.’

  ‘There, what did I tell you? And how are you yourself?’

  ‘Oh, I’m very well, thank you.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t help be otherwise, could you, on a mornin’ like this. Just look out there, isn’t it grand? Look at those hills. Eeh! You know, the times I’ve promised meself I’d climb those hills. Just one of them. I’ve said to meself, go on, just climb one, just to say you’ve done it; but the most climbing I’ve done is to get into the carriage. Laziness it is; that’s what it is, nothing but laziness. Isn’t it, ’Arry?’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there, Tilda. As lazy as you’re long, you are. Never done a hand’s turn in your life as far back as I can remember.’

  As their laughter joined, Miss Brigmore looked from one to the other. They could laugh about it. Never done a hand’s turn in her life, this woman who started to work when she was six years old, walking the dark muddy streets, her eyes gummed with sleep, the only guide her mother’s skirt. Six o’clock in the mornng till seven or eight at night. As lazy as she was long! This woman had told her tales that had actually brought the tears to her eyes, of how her sister had lost her hand when she was nine years old. Running between the machines, she had been so overcome with sleep that she had fallen forward and put her hand out to save herself, and, as Tilda had said, it was God’s blessing she hadn’t put both out. It hadn’t come off right away, she said, it was just mangled at first, but when they got her to the infirmary they had chopped it off.

  Over the years Miss Brigmore had come to realise that her wisdom gained from the reading of books had not increased half as much as had her knowledge of human nature which she had gained from listening to Matilda Bensham.

  ‘John’s just been in to tell me he’s ridin’ over to the farm with Barbara. If we keep our weather eye open we’ll see them passin’ the end of the drive there. By! she looks a picture on a horse, does Barbara. Not like our Katie; a real bundle of duds our Katie looks on a horse. Did he tell you about the visitor we had yesterday?’ She nodded again toward Harry, and he replied, ‘No, I didn’t. What time have I had; she’s just come in, hasn’t she? And anyway, I’ve spent the mornin’ talking to those two numskulls of yours, tryin’ to knock some sense into them, at least into that Dan.’

  ‘Oh, Dan’s all right, he’ll get by.’ A warm smile spread over Matilda’s pale bloated face. ‘But about our Katie and the visitor’—she nodded to Miss Brigmore—‘that Mr Ferrier called yesterday.’

  ‘Really! I didn’t know he was home.’

  ‘Oh, he’s home all right. He took her for a short dander, as he calls it, on the horse, and he’s callin’ for her the day again. He’s bringing the coach this time an’ takin’ her into Hexham. Now what do you make of that? I ask you, what do you make of it? I thought nothin’ of it last year when he went to the school in Hexham and picked her up, but now he comes a callin’, and this is the second year runnin’ you know. Oh, what am I talkin’ about? More than that; he’s called every year since he’s come back from abroad since the first time he met her on the farm. Now what do you make of it?’

  What did she make of it? And what would Constance make of it when her secret hopes—that weren’t so secret—were dashed yet again?

  When Pat Ferrier first returned to England from abroad he stayed only a matter of weeks, but during that time he was very attentive to Constance, and she regained her youth, hope acting like an elixir on her, but when he told her of his departure through a letter, as Will Headley had once done, the elixir lost its effect and she reverted to the farmer’s wife, and the loving mother, and the very, very irritable aunt. When the following year he reappeared on the scene he again paid attention to her, if not court, and so it had gone on for nearly five years, until now she felt that the hope that lingered in Constance was but a dim spark, yet nevertheless was lying waiting to be kindled. But if she were to hear that he was visiting the Hall with the precise intention of seeking the company of Katie, then the spark would be finally quenched, and what would the dead embers do to her character? A marriage such as she had made, and then to be spurned by two would-be suitors, because spurned was the correct word. Oh! It wasn’t to be thought of.

  ‘He’s all of fifteen years older than her, but it would be a good match, grand. Don’t you think it would be a good match? Imagine our Katie with a house in London, and one in Paris. France, and a manor in Westmoreland. My! My!’

  ‘That means nowt.’

  They both turned and looked toward Harry. ‘We’ve got a house here in Northumberland, we’ve got one in Manchester. I could take one in London the morrow and another in Paris and it wouldn’t make a dent in what we’ve got. It isn’t the property a body wants to consider, it’s the man.’

  ‘But you like him?’

  ‘He’s all right, aye, I like him; he hasn’t acted like the rest of them, too big for his boots. But still who’s to know whether we would’ve seen hilt or hair of him if he hadn’t been after something, and
that something Katie? Aye, let’s face up to it; he wouldn’t have come knockin’ at our front door if it hadn’t been for our Katie.’

  ‘Well, that’s the way of things with any lad, isn’t it? Any road, he seems set on her.’

  ‘Now don’t get ideas, Tilda. Two visits an’ you say he’s set on her. Why, I know some folks who’ve courted ten years and then it’s fallen through. Set on her!’ The sound he made was a definite pig snort.

  ‘Look, there they go, Barbara and John. And look, they’ve stopped; our Katie’s runnin’ up to them, likely giving Barbara her news. Oh, they’re a pair, those two; been like sisters, haven’t they?’ She turned to Miss Brigmore and Miss Brigmore nodded and said, ‘Yes, indeed, like sisters.’

  ‘An’ they’re fond of each other; different as chalk from cheese but very fond of each other, you can see it.’

  ‘Yes, they’re very fond of each other.’

  ‘By! as I said, she looks well on a horse, does Barbara. An’ so does our John; he’s well set up is our John. Don’t you think he’s well set up, Brigie?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, he’s a very smart young man.’

  ‘They make a nice-looking pair.’

  ‘Yes, they do.’ Oh yes, indeed, they made a nice-looking pair, and they were suited. Miss Brigmore endorsed this firmly to herself. John was kind, gentle, and thoughtful, and he could handle Barbara. He had the knack of talking her out of her tantrums; but such exhibitions had been replaced of late by moods. In the beginning, she had called them thoughtful periods, moods, but now she thought of them as black spasms, for when Barbara was in them she would neither speak verbally nor communicate on her fingers but would go out and walk the hills, very like her mother had done when she was carrying her. Sometimes Miss Brigmore would find her staring fixedly at her, a question deep in her eyes, many questions deep in her eyes, but as yet she hadn’t asked them with her lips, nor with her fingers; but increasingly Miss Brigmore felt that the day was not far off when she would be confronted by a young woman who would want to know the whole truth.

  She started slightly when Matilda shouted across the room, ‘Would you go and get us a glass of wine, nurse?’ That was one thing she had never been able to do, instil into Matilda the fitness of things, the manner in which to address a servant. The nurse was a new addition to the household and was looking slightly indignant when Harry said, ‘Don’t worry her, I’ll ring for Brooks.’

  ‘No, ’Arry; she’ll go and get it, won’t you, dear?’

  The nurse looked from Matilda to Miss Brigmore and when Miss Brigmore made an almost imperceptible movement with her head she turned away and went out of the room.

  ‘That’s it. I just want to get rid of her for a minute, we can’t talk in front of her. It’s not policy to let everybody know your business, now is it? Sit down, ’Arry, and stop gallopin’ about, you’re actin’ like a dray horse that’s been let loose in the cellars. Tell her what we were talkin’ about last night, go on.’ She looked at her husband and pointed at Miss Brigmore, and Harry, seating himself with unusual obedience, said, ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time for that, Tilda.’

  ‘There’s no time like the present, that’s what you’re always sayin’; you said that to me years ago remember? There’s no time like the present, you said; get your hat and coat on and we’ll go an’ get married.’ She threw her head back and her sagging cheeks wobbled with her laughter, and Harry smiled as he looked down and nodded his head, then said, ‘Aye, aye, I remember, there’s no time like the present. Although mind’—he nodded and glanced toward Miss Brigmore—‘it wasn’t done nearly as quick as that, it took us almost a week.’

  Again Tilda’s laughter filled the room; and then ceasing abruptly, she put out her hand toward Miss Brigmore and, gripping her wrist, she said, ‘We want to do that something for you, lass, we talked about ages ago. Something permanent like, something that’ll put you over in the meantime until the next lot’s ready for you to have a go on.’

  Looking her bewilderment, Miss Brigmore turned her face toward Harry and as her eyes questioned him he said with a grin, ‘She’s meaning when they get married an’ their bairns start comin’ up and you take them on.’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ The syllables came out on a shaky laugh. ‘Oh, I doubt if I shall ever take on any more children, not in my lifetime.’

  ‘Why not? Why not? You could have another thirty years afore you, twenty of them workable ones.’ It was Harry speaking directly to her now. ‘You don’t look anything near your age, not by a long chalk, does she, Tilda?’

  ‘No, not by a long chalk; an’ I’ve always said it, haven’t I? I have, I have.’

  ‘Well, let’s get down to brass tacks.’ Harry’s manner was brisk now. ‘It’s like this; let’s put our side of it first. We want you to come along here every day, as usual, but not any settled hours, just please yourself, but just pop in and give Tilda a hand here and there with the running, as you’ve always done. But if there’s days when you don’t feel up to it an’ don’t want to bother, well, that’ll be all right with us. And so’s you can feel independent like we thought about settling a sum on you.’

  ‘Oh no! No!’ The movement Miss Brigmore made caused the chair leg to slip over the edge of the carpet and to scrape against the polished boards. ‘I have been well paid, very well paid, you have been over-generous. Look what you have done for Barbara, and the horse and trap; and caring for the horse too. I could never repay your generosity. Oh no! No! I couldn’t accept anything more.’

  ‘It isn’t what you could accept or what you couldn’t accept.’ Harry Bensham was on his feet again, his usual manner to the fore. ‘A hundred and fifty pounds a year you’ve got to live on, oh I know, I know; an’ the three of you were cheeseparing out of that afore you came here.’ He swept his hand in a wide motion toward her as if wiping away her denial and went on. ‘And if Barbara gets married, who knows but that she’ll want that hundred of hers; it all depends on who she takes. Aye’—he nodded—‘it all depends on who she takes.’ He was not so cruel as to add, ‘or who takes her,’ but instead said, ‘There’s many a slip, an’ then where will you be? You’d have a house over your head and a pound a week for two of you to live on.’

  As she looked at him she thought: the incongruity; he was pitying her for living on an income of a pound a week, yet that was almost three times as much as he paid some of his hands. He was an odd man, an intractable man, but a generous one, and she knew in her heart that no matter what protestations she made, as courtesy demanded, she should be glad to accept his offer, for even now finance was a constant problem to her because Barbara had tastes that went far beyond their income.

  But when she heard him say, ‘Three thousand, that’s what we thought, Tilda and me, three thousand; and I’ll invest it for you. That’ll bring you in nearly as much as you’re getting now, if not more,’ she did protest. But he silenced her with, ‘Now don’t start,’ pointing his finger at her as she rose hastily to her feet, and he went on. ‘I’m not going to hear one word from you for, knowin’ you, if you open your mouth you’ll come out with something that’ll floor me. So it’s settled. I’ll be away downstairs. And you sit still.’ He nodded towards his wife, and she nodded back at him, a quiet smile on her face as she said, ‘Aye, ’Arry, aye, I’ll sit still.’

  ‘As for you’—he was again looking at Miss Brigmore, but now as if she were a culprit—‘if you can spare me a minute in a while or so, I’d like to have a word with you about something.’

  ‘Yes, very well.’ Her voice was small.

  ‘Well then’—he nodded from one to the other—‘that’s that.’

  ‘Won’t…won’t you stay for a glass of wine?’

  He turned from the door and looked toward Miss Brigmore. ‘Aw, there’s plenty of time for that; wine never troubles me. Nobody’s going to accuse me of having a belly.’ He patted the front of his trousers, jerked his head, then went out.

  Uncouthness, kindness, love: this house was a mixture of tho
se.

  Sitting down again, she now put out her hands and gently took hold of those of Matilda and murmured softly, ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Nowt, lass, nowt; about that anyway. About other things, do as you always do, give it straight from the shoulder an’ in your proper English, an’ without fear or favour. That’s what ’Arry says about you, you speak without fear or favour. He thinks you’re a lady, ’Arry does, and he’s right. By aye! he’s right, and I’m glad to have known you. So, talkin’ of getting things straight, tell me, lass…how much longer do you think I’ve got?’

  ‘Oh, Matilda.’

  ‘Now, now, don’t you give way. You see I know me time’s short, but I don’t know if it’s a week or month, an’ there’s things I want to do, set right.’

  Miss Brigmore bit deeply down into her lower lip and for once words failed her.

  ‘Do you think he knows?’

  ‘No, no,’ she lied firmly.

  ‘He’s been quiet lately, an’ soft like, you know. I thought he might have a glimmer.‘

  ‘No, no; he’s kind because he’s concerned for you. He thinks of you very, very dearly.’

  ‘Aye, aye, he does. But an outsider wouldn’t think it ’cos of the way he used to go for me. But it was like water off a duck’s back, ’cos that was his way. And I aggravated him for I was always a bit of a numskull where learnin’ was concerned. He wanted me to learn ’cos his first wife was learned but as I said to him once’—she was smiling faintly again—“‘She didn’t do much bloody good for you with her learnin’, did she?” Eeh! There I go, I shouldn’t swear afore you, but that’s what I said to him, an’ he laughed and slapped me on the backside, and he said, “No, you’re right there”; and that’s the last time he tried to learn me. And you know, lass, I’ve thought to meself over these past years, if you couldn’t learn me nobody could ’cos you’re marvellous at learnin’ people…I…I don’t want to die, Brigie.’