Katie Mulholland

by Catherine Cookson

  When the clock struck four he was finishing his fifth glass of brandy. Slowly now he rose from the chair and, taking from the mantelpiece a candlestick that held a new waxen candle, he lit it from the embers of the fire, blew out the lamp and went from the room.

  His gait was not unsteady; except once when his stockinged feet slipped on the highly polished surface of the hall floor, and he laughed to himself as his hand went out and gripped the huge round knob of the balustrade. Slowly now he mounted the stairs and, having reached the gallery, he was about to cross it when he was brought to a dead stop by the sight of a leg being thrust out between the folds of the window curtains. Another leg followed. They were white-stockinged right up above the knees. Then the curtains parted and he saw a pale face peering out. It was there for a second; then both the face and the legs disappeared as quick as a flash of lightning.

  Slowly now he approached the window; slowly he parted the curtains and, raising the candle high, looked down on to the crouched figure and staring face of a young girl. The buttons of her dress were open and showing the top of her calico shift, and this was rising and falling rapidly over her sweating flesh.

  As he continued to stare down into her face that was now without movement, her body odour came to him. It was neither an unpleasant smell nor a pleasant scent; it was what some women gave off more than others. He had always been sharp to detect this odour, and it had in the past played tricks with him. He put his hand out and, placing it on her shoulder, brought her from the sill, and as she stood on her feet staring up at him through the candlelight the tremors from her body passed through his own.

  Slowly, and still staring down at her, he turned her about and pressed her along the gallery. Almost opposite the stairs was a table with a lamp on it. This lamp was kept burning at low ebb all during the night. It augmented the solitary candlelight and showed the way more clearly down the broad passage to the bedrooms.

  When Katie realised that she wasn’t being pushed towards the far passage that held the green-baize door her body stiffened, and at this the pressure on her shoulder tightened and she was pushed rapidly forward. The next minute she was standing in a big bedroom. As yet there was no power in her to protest; she was dazed with sleep and petrified with fear. All the muscles of her body felt stiff and out of her control; even when she watched, out of the corner of her eye, Mr Bernard place the candle on the table near the four-poster bed, it was as if her eyes were stuck in her head and she could only move them with an effort.

  Then as her terror heightened to an intensity that brought her muscles into play and her mouth open to scream Bernard’s hand came tightly over her stretched face; his other hand, gripping a handful of her clothes about her chest, heaved her, with one lift, into the centre of the big feather bed.

  For a moment he held her there with only one hand, and that across her mouth. It kept her head and shoulders deep in the bed, but her limbs flayed wildly, until a weight dropped on her body and hell opened and engulfed her. The hell she had read about in the Bible, the hell Mr Burns talked about in the chapel, the hell into which sinners were thrust for their everlasting life. Her body was being rent in two; she was screaming but could make no sound. Then for some seconds she was aware of nothing, nothing at all, no pain, no fear, no terror. But all too quickly this passed and she was crying through every pore in her body. Her eyes were gushing water, her pores oozing her tears through sweat. The weight rolled off her and she lay sunk deep in the centre of the soft downy coverlet, limp and drained of life, her crying soundless.

  After a time, and of a sudden, his hand came on her again, this time giving her a great push that thrust her to the edge of the bed. But before she could fall to the floor he had stayed her; he remembered just in time that she might even yet cry out and rouse Rodger next door. He raised himself up and looked at her sprawling, part-naked limbs with distaste. Then his eyes travelled to her hand which was clutching the bedclothes; it was red and smeared, the nails broken and the cuticles encased with dirt, black dirt. He heaved himself up and away from her and on to the floor. Gripping her shoulders again, he pulled her to her feet; then, jerking her head up, he stared down into her twisted, wet, terrified face and, lifting his forefinger, he wagged it at her.

  He had taken her without the slightest endearment, not even bothering to caress her limbs, which courtesy he bestowed on the meanest of his women. He had taken her with less feeling than a dog would a bitch, and he hadn’t deigned to open his mouth to her from beginning to end. But the wagging finger spoke volumes and she understood his meaning.

  Now he was again pushing her towards the door, but before he opened it he once more wagged his finger cautioningly before her face; quietly he turned the knob and glanced into the corridor, then pulled her forward and thrust her from him.

  Her hand pressed tightly over her mouth, her feet dragging, but soundless, on the thick carpet, she stumbled along the passage towards the gallery. Once there she turned to the left and groped her way to the dimmer passage until she felt the green-baize door.

  When she had been pushed from the room Katie’s head had been bent, and she had kept it so; yet even if she had raised her head her terror was blinding her so much it is doubtful whether she would have noticed the woman standing in the gallery near the head of the stairs.

  Theresa had been sick again and had gone to the toilet room for a potion and she was returning, a bottle in her hand, when she heard a door click open and saw a head come poking out, which she recognised as Bernard’s; then before her amazed gaze she watched Katie Mulholland come stumbling down the corridor, her body crumpled, her hand across her mouth, and apparently in great distress.

  The only reason her brother hadn’t seen her, she concluded, was that she was standing in the shadow of the pedestal that held the bust of her grandfather. She had also, from the moment she heard the door open, remained still. Now she was still no longer. A rage that was deaf to reason and decorum, even the decorum required of a sister to a brother, flooded her, and on its wave she was swept to Bernard’s door, and without even knocking she thrust it open and entered the room, taking him unawares and catching him in a very undignified position as he completed his undressing.

  ‘What the hell!’ He turned towards her, not bothering to cover his nakedness, at least not for a moment. Then, pulling a dressing gown towards him, he strode towards her where she stood with her back to the door and hissed at her, ‘What the hell do you want coming in like that!’

  ‘You’re a fiend.’

  ‘What!’ All the muscles in his face moved upwards, almost closing his eyes as he peered at her in the dimness. For a moment he was unable to understand her rage. It didn’t dawn on him that she was here on behalf of his late visitor; sisters minded their own business, that was part of a woman’s duty. But Theresa, although still his sister, was no part of the household now; she had nothing whatever to do with what went on inside it. Never having had any affection for her, he had always considered her utterly lacking in feminine appeal. He had even voiced the opinion to Rodger that the best place for her would be a convent. He had at one time likened Ainsley to a jocular Mother Superior and Theresa as her doting novice…He bent towards her now and whispered hoarsely, ‘What’s the matter with you? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’ She thrust her face so close to his that their noses were almost touching. ‘You’re a fiend. That child…Katie Mulholland, she’ll be another Maggie Pratt, I suppose, pushed out and into the poorhouse, and someone else blamed.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ He was glaring at her now, his rage equal to her own. ‘You mind your own business.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll mind my own business. I’ll make Katie Mulholland my business. I’m warning you, if anything happens to her she’ll be my business.’

  He gripped her by the shoulder, his fingernails digging into her flesh, and she growled at him, ‘Take your hands off me at once!’

  ‘You’ll mind your ow
n business, do you hear? Promise me. Promise me.’ His breath was on her face.

  With a twist of her body and thrusting at him with her two hands, she freed herself and, grabbing the door handle, she said under her breath, ‘I’ll promise you nothing; I’ll just warn you, and also at the same time remind you that that child has parents, and menfolk, which Maggie Pratt hadn’t.’

  His hand came out to make a grab at her again and she said quickly, ‘You put a finger on me and I’ll raise the house. One last word. I’m leaving tomorrow, or today rather, but I’ll be back.’ With this she pulled open the door and went out. Her body was still shivering with her anger.

  Back in her own room she sat down on the side of the high bed, her feet resting on a footstool, and rocked herself. That poor child, that poor child. Yet in this particular moment she was not seeing Katie Mulholland under the hands of her brother but herself on her wedding night.

  Then Katie, in all her utter dejection, was before her eyes once more, as Maggie Pratt had been three years ago. She was supposed to know nothing about Maggie Pratt. Maggie had been second chambermaid. She was an orphan, plump and pretty. She was sixteen, she became pregnant, and she had named the man as Bernard. Bernard had denied it indignantly, and Maggie was sent packing. With no home to go to, no reference, she ended up in the poorhouse, and there she was yet, and there she would remain until her child was of an age when it could work and earn its own living.

  But that it should happen to Katie Mulholland, that beautiful, beautiful girl…child. How old was she? Fourteen, fifteen at the most. How had this come about? What was Mrs Davis up to? She suddenly stopped the rocking movement. She had an impelling urge to go to the housekeeper’s room and demand to know what she was doing, not to see that the junior staff were safely in their rooms before she retired; that was part of her duty, an essential part which had been emphasised by her mother since the Maggie Pratt affair. But what good would that do now? It was done, and only time would show if there were to be consequences.

  Katie, sitting on the edge of her pallet, was also thinking about Mrs Davis. She had not been to bed, and she hadn’t taken off any of her clothes. She had a fear on her; it was new, different. She didn’t know much about fear, except of the dark, and Cook going for her, but this fear was strange, making her sick, for all of a sudden she was afraid of her body. She wished she could throw it off, get outside it and take on the body that was hers yesterday, but the strange fear told her that that body would never be hers again. She wanted to fly home to her ma and get rid of the fear by telling her what had happened; but she couldn’t tell her ma without her da knowing, and her da mustn’t know about this. Her da was quiet and even-tempered, except at times, and at these times, which she had witnessed only twice in her life, he forgot himself and shouted and threw things. The last time she had seen him like that was when the cavalry charged the men in the village and the police and mine officials turned the Monktons and the Hepburns and a lot more families into the road, and threw their furniture after them, breaking it in the process. It was on that day that her da had attacked two policemen and one had hit him on the head and left him senseless in the ditch. The other attackers weren’t so fortunate; they had been taken and locked up and brought before the magistrates. Five of the men had been banned from the pit and had taken to the road with their families…So, if she told her ma about this and her da got to know he…he could do things that would make him lose his job…but she’d have to tell somebody; she’d have to tell somebody…Mrs Davis? Yes, she would tell Mrs Davis, because if he came after her again she would scream this time; she would even scream at the sight of him.

  As she rose from her bed Dotty turned over in her sleep and her loud snores were checked by a succession of snorts. In the faint light of the dawn she looked awful with her spotty face, wide gaping mouth, and tangled hair, but Katie envied her.

  Her body was shaking and the tears were raining from her chin as she groped her way down the dark stairs and along the short passage and down the three steps and through the door that led to the landing and Mrs Davis’ room, and she had her hand actually raised to knock when she heard a voice. It came from within the room and it was a man’s voice, and although it was speaking very low she recognised it. Then there was a movement on the other side of the door. One minute she was gaping at the door, the next she was flying up the steps again, and she just reached the foot of the attic stairs when she heard the passage door being opened gently. Halfway up the stairs she stopped and, pressing herself against the wall, she stood rigid, looking downwards to where a man had paused on the landing below and now stood buttoning up his trousers. He was wearing only his undervest and carried his coat over his arm. With a quick movement he swung the coat behind his back and thrust his arms into it; then, taking a few noiseless steps forward, he dropped from her view.

  Katie was now experiencing another feeling, shame mixed with revulsion, and added to it was a strong element of surprise. The surprise kept her lips apart. Her Mrs Davis, the woman whom her mother said was a natural lady and as good as any she served, was up to things with Mr Kennard. In this moment it was made clear to her why Cook dared to sit in her presence, why she dared to speak as she did; why Mr Kennard rarely came into the kitchen and, when he did, never spoke to the cook.

  She could never tell Mrs Davis now. She could never tell anybody, but she was resolved that if Mr Bernard came near her again she would scream, and fight, and kick. She would know what it was all about next time. She would never let it happen again. She stopped crying and, lifting up her dress and taking the rag pinned to her petticoat, she rubbed it round her face, then softly blew her nose. She’d better get washed. She wouldn’t go to the pump because somebody might see her, and it was still very early. No, she’d go down into the boiler room and lock the door and wash herself. Yes, she’d wash herself all over with hot, hot water. Scrub herself all over until she got rid of the feeling.

  Chapter Five

  ‘What is it, lass?’

  ‘Nothing, Ma.’

  ‘But, child, you’ve been like this on your last few days off.’

  Catherine had brought Katie into the bedroom and they were sitting on the side of the low bed looking at each other. Catherine put out her hand and stroked the soft hair from Katie’s brow. ‘And you’re so white and peaked lookin’.’

  ‘It’s the cold, Ma. I couldn’t get rid of it; me eyes and nose were runnin’ all the time.’

  ‘But that’s weeks ago, child, as far back as the ball. Is…is the other all right?’

  Now Catherine bent towards her, and Katie, lowering her lids, said under her breath, ‘It hasn’t come yet, Ma.’ She didn’t say it hadn’t come the last two months either.

  ‘Aw, that’s it.’ Catherine straightened herself up and pulled her chin into her neck, saying knowingly, ‘There’s nothin’ that makes you feel more off colour than that. And you were never really regular; that’s it. Oh, I’ve been worried about you, but I never gave that a thought. But that’s it,’ she repeated. ‘An’ we’ve all missed your chatter. Meself, I just live for your Sunday.’ Again she was leaning forward, and gathering Katie’s hands between her own she shook them gently, saying, ‘Once that gets goin’ you’ll be your old self. And you know’—she dropped her voice—‘I forget you’re growing up, you’re no longer a child. You’re just on sixteen. I can’t believe it; it seems but yesterday since I had you on me knee.’

  Katie’s head drooped over her swelling throat. In another minute she would be on her mother’s knee again, her head buried in her neck while she poured out this dreadful fear that was filling her and told her of the sickness that was always assailing her, and her absolute horror of the future. She pulled herself from the bed, saying, ‘It’s nearly time, Ma; I’d better be going.’

  ‘Yes, lass.’ As Catherine followed her to the bedroom door her brow puckered, and her face showing once more a look of bewilderment, she said, ‘The wedding will soon be on you, an’ you’ve nev
er told us anything about it.’

  ‘I’ve been so busy, Ma, and Cook keeps at me.’

  In the kitchen she picked up her cloak and put on her straw hat, then tied a band round it and under her chin, for the day was windy and wet; then she stood watching her da put on his coat and tie his muffler. And when he was ready she went to the side of the fireplace, to her granda. William’s face looked yellow and drawn; the hollow cheeks were sucked in, as were his lips. He put his arms about her, saying, ‘I’m sorry, me bairn. This is the first time I’ve never set you along the road.’ There were tears in his eyes and she kissed his stubbly chin. Then, patting his hands, she whispered brokenly, ‘Get better soon, Granda…Soon.’ She stood looking at him, nodding her head, while his eyes held her face as if drawing each feature into himself.

  And now she was kissing Lizzie, and Lizzie, as always, laid her head against her. But she did not speak to Lizzie, telling her to be a good girl, as she usually did. Then she turned to where Joe sat, and as usual they touched shoulders, but today he did not immediately relinquish his hold but mumbled under his breath, ‘Watch that cold, Katie.’

  ‘Aye, Joe, I will.’

  At the door, as she bent to kiss her daughter, Catherine thought, She looks like Jimmy did afore the fever got him—all her other children had died with the fever. She pressed her tightly to her; then, again looking down into her face, she said, ‘Now if you feel bad you go and tell Mrs Davis. Promise me?’

  Katie did not look at her mother as she said, ‘Yes, Ma.’

  Now putting his hand on his wife’s shoulder and pulling her back into the room, Rodney said, ‘Keep in, woman; you’ll get soaked.’ And Catherine, looking at the tall spare figure of her man, at his threadbare coat, said softly, ‘Put a sack over your shoulders,’ to which he replied, ‘I can do without a sack on a Sunday, lass.’