Love and Mary Ann

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Has everybody been wiped out by a plague or something?…Shaughnessy!’

  They were standing in the yard now.

  ‘It’s no use shouting for me da, he’s not there. He’s gone into Jarrow, to the wharf, about some timber. Him and Tony. Tony’s driving the lorry because he hadn’t to go into the office this morning, and our Michael went with them to help load.’

  Mr Lord looked down on her. He stared down on her, and she did not know if it was because she had said him and Tony went, instead of Tony and he, or that he was vexed at her da and Tony going off together. She knew he didn’t like Tony spending so much time in their house and talking to her da.

  Three years ago, when Mr Lord had been very ill and unable to do much shouting, everything on the farm had been lovely. But since he had got better he had gone around looking for trouble. You always knew he was well when he shouted; he only talked quietly if he was bad or very angry about something. In a way she preferred his shouting. And now he shouted at Mr Johnson, who was coming out of the cowshed.

  ‘Is everybody asleep around here?’

  Mr Johnson came quickly towards him. He was a biggish man, and thick with it, and he was always smiling, and Mary Ann didn’t like him. Her mother said Mr Johnson’s smile was smarmy, and she supposed that was why she didn’t like him. She didn’t like any of the Johnsons—Mr Johnson, Mrs Johnson or their Lorna. Lorna worked in Newcastle in an office and thought herself the last word. She was always wearing something different and whenever she could she talked to Tony…This was the main reason why she didn’t like Lorna. The reason why she didn’t like Mrs Johnson was because her ma didn’t care for Mrs Johnson. Every time Mrs Johnson talked to her ma she was always telling her what a wonderful worker Mr Johnson was and how clever he was with animals, and how highly everybody thought of her daughter. Her mother said she talked as if Lorna had just to raise her finger and all the men in Newcastle would fall on their knees.

  ‘Oh, it is nice to see you back, sir. And how’re you feeling? Have you enjoyed your holiday?’

  Mr Lord did not return Mr Johnson’s beaming smile, nor answer his kind inquiries, but asked abruptly, ‘Where’s everybody? Jones? Len?’

  ‘Well now, well now.’ Mr Johnson pursed his mouth and made a motion with his fingers as if to pluck his lips off his face. ‘Jones…well, Jones is down in the bottom meadow, Mr Lord; he went down there half an hour gone. And Len…Len is mixing meal in the storeroom at this minute. As for the boss—’ Here Mr Johnson paused. ‘Well, he’s taken a trip, as far as I know, into Newcastle.’

  ‘He hasn’t. He’s gone to Jarrow to see about some timber.’

  Mary Ann looked up into Mr Johnson’s now unsmiling face, and, turning her gaze on Mr Lord, she said, ‘He hasn’t gone into Newcastle. He’s gone to Jarrow, as I told you.’

  Mr Lord did not answer her, nor Mr Johnson, he just looked at the man before turning away. And Mary Ann looked at Mr Johnson before she, too, turned away. That’s the kind of thing Mr Johnson did…A trip into Newcastle. It was just as if her da had gone off on a jaunt. Oh, she didn’t like the Johnsons.

  Mr Lord was now striding towards the farmhouse, and Mary Ann hoped fervently that her mother would have some coffee ready and would ask Mr Lord to sit down and have a cup and he would get over his temper. As she made her wish she drew a quick pattern of the Sacred Heart on her flat chest. And, as often before when she had made this magic sign, her wish was granted, for her mother had just made some fresh coffee, and it was in the new percolator her da had bought at Christmas.

  Her mother’s face was flushed because she had been at the oven turning some scones. She always looked bonnier when her face was flushed; it set off her blonde hair and made her look like a young girl again. Her ma had got bonnier and bonnier this last three years. And she had some nice clothes an’ all, not like Lorna Johnson’s flashy things, but nice.

  Lizzie Shaughnessy turned to her husband’s employer with a sincere warm greeting, saying, ‘Oh, Mr Lord, I’m glad to see you. Come in and sit down.’ And when he was sitting by the kitchen table she said tactfully, ‘We weren’t expecting you so soon, but,’ she added quickly, ‘nevertheless it’s good to see you. I didn’t hear the car.’

  ‘No, I had a puncture coming out of Pellet’s Lane. I left it there.’ And now his thin shoulders went back and he looked at her as if she was in some way responsible for the farm appearing deserted, for his voice was harsh as he said, ‘And here I come home and not a soul to be seen.’

  ‘Mike’s gone for some timber, Mr Lord. The others are about at their work.’

  ‘Yes, yes, so I understand.’ He flapped his hand at her. ‘But that’s not all…I’m annoyed, Mrs Shaughnessy, not so much about the place being deserted, but about this one here.’ He put out his arm and indicated Mary Ann.

  Lizzie looked at her daughter, her own face expressionless. What had she done now? Mary Ann’s indignant countenance was telling her quite plainly that in her own opinion she had done nothing, nothing to merit Mr Lord’s censure. Lizzie knew that Mr Lord’s censure was always for Mary Ann’s own good, but, oh, it could be trying to everybody. He had this bee firmly fixed in his bonnet about moulding her into a little lady. Well, everything was being done to this end. Her daughter was attending the best convent school in the county, she was mixing with the better-class children of Newcastle and Durham and thereabouts, but…Lizzie paused on the but. Was there any noticeable impression of all this on Mary Ann? Her school reports said that she was making good progress in all subjects, particularly English. At school Mary Ann evidently proved to the teachers that she was making good progress, and when in company and on her best behaviour Lizzie herself had evidence of it, but once she was on the farm and running loose she seemed to revert back to the child she had always been. English and grammar had become the bugbear of their lives—she wished she could take Mike’s view and laugh at it. Mike was all for Mary Ann being educated; he was paying for her school fees himself, not allowing Mr Lord to spend a penny on her, yet at the same time she knew that her husband took a covert delight in the fact that the convent polish was not adhering to his daughter. Mary Ann, like her father, was an individual. She wished at times she wasn’t so much of an individual. Yet she knew that if it hadn’t been for her daughter’s character she wouldn’t at this moment be in this kitchen, happy as she had never been in her life before, nor would Mike be in the position of manager of a farm, with a bank-book behind him and a settled future before him. Everything they had they owed to this child and her individuality. Had she been other than she was Mr Lord would have passed her by. It was because they had one particular trait in common that he was attracted to her; the trait of tenacity. Mary Ann’s tenacity had taken the form of working towards her father’s security, and because of her tenacity in this direction she had captivated Mr Lord. The Lord as she had called him until recently.

  Never was a man, Lizzie thought, so well named, for he was not only lord of all he surveyed, he was lord of all their lives; particularly was he lord of her daughter’s life. Deep within her she was aware that Mary Ann’s destiny lay in his hands. She did not express this view to Mike, for it would have aroused his anger. Three years ago, when Mr Lord had acquired a grandson, he had on the surface relinquished his deep interest in Mary Ann, but Lizzie knew the letting go was only on the surface; he was as determined as ever to shape her life. She said quietly, ‘What has she done?’

  ‘She was entertaining the cattle with a bawdy song.’

  ‘A bawdy song?’ Lizzie looked at Mary Ann, and Mary Ann, her small mouth drawn into a tight line, turned cold, accusing eyes on Mr Lord. Bawdy meant nasty. Well, whatever it meant, ‘He stands at the corner’ wasn’t that kind of song. She snapped her eyes from him up to her mother and said primly, ‘It wasn’t. I was only singing “He stands at the corner”.’

  Lizzie lowered her eyes for a moment before looking at Mr Lord. She knew ‘He stands at the corner’, she knew it as a child, but she
had never heard Mary Ann singing it and she didn’t know where she had picked it up. Certainly not from anyone in the house.

  ‘Do you know this song?’

  ‘I…’ Lizzie hesitated. ‘I heard it years ago. It’s a very old song.’

  ‘And in my opinion most unsuitable for a child.’

  There followed an uncomfortable silence until Lizzie asked, ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee? I’ve just made it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’

  Mary Ann sat on the wooden chair near the fender looking into the fire. She was filled once again with a feeling of being the sole recipient of injustice. This feeling was not new, oh no. And she said to herself, If it isn’t one thing with him, it’s another. The last time, just before he went away, he had been on about ‘Those are they’. She had been invited to tea with him and before she could eat a bite he had made her say twenty times, ‘Those are they’, instead of, ‘Those are them’. It had happened because when he had asked her what she would like she had said, ‘A squiggle.’ ‘A squiggle?’ he had repeated. ‘What are they?’ And she had pointed to the thinly rolled slices of brown bread and butter and stated, ‘Those are them.’ So there had followed ‘Those are they’ twenty times. And then there was the day she had said ‘was you’. She thought he had been going to have a fit that time. She had known well enough that it was ‘were you’, but when you didn’t have time to think it just came out. Oh, she was fed up with grammar and everybody who talked grammar, so there! On this thought her mind was lifted to her two best friends, Beatrice Willoughby and Janice Schofield. They had lovely voices and talked ever so nice, and when she was with them she talked ever so nice too, and this afternoon, when she went to Beatrice’s party, she would talk ever so nice…But who wanted to talk ever so nice on a farm? Her mind was suddenly brought from the uselessness of grammar on a farm to something Mr Lord was saying. He was asking her mother what she knew about Lorna Johnson. Why was he wanting to know about Lorna Johnson? She looked towards him now and her mother, turning sharply to her, said, ‘You can go out to play again, Mary Ann.’

  She slid off the chair. She knew the technique. Her mother did not want her to hear what Mr Lord was going to say about Lorna Johnson. But why should he want to talk about Lorna Johnson, anyway?

  She was going through the scullery when she decided to wash her hands. The kitchen door was open, and if she were to hear anything while washing her hands, well, she couldn’t help it. The kitchen door closed abruptly, and as she dried her hands she sighed.

  She had just reached the back door when everything unpleasant was forgotten in a loud whoop of joy, for there was the lorry stacked high with timber turning into the farmyard gate. Tony was at the wheel and next to him sat her da and their Michael. She raced down the path, along the road and to the yard, and greeted them all as they climbed down from the cab.

  ‘Hallo, Da. You’ll never guess who’s back.’ And before any of them had time to comment she went on, ‘Mr Lord, and he’s in a tear.’

  ‘He’s back? But he wasn’t expected until next week.’ This comment came from Tony, and Mary Ann watched him and her da exchange quick glances. But they had no time to do anything more because Michael, speaking under his breath, said, ‘Here he is now.’

  They all turned and watched the old man approach them, and when he reached them his manner suggested that he had seen them all not longer ago than that morning, for he did not even stop to speak but addressed his grandson as he passed, ‘The car’s in Pellet’s Lane; there’s a puncture; see to it, will you, and then come up to the house.’ His voice was quiet.

  He was away out of the far gate and going up the hill towards his house before they looked at each other again, and then Mike, using the hook that replaced his lost hand, scratched at his thick, vigorous red hair and said under his breath, ‘Well, that speaks for itself. What’s happened now?’ Slowly he turned his eyes down on his daughter. ‘You been up to something again?’

  Mary Ann blinked, her head bowed slightly, as she said in an offended tone, ‘Well, I was only singin’.’

  ‘Singin’?’ Three pairs of eyes were levelled on her, and Mike repeated, ‘Singin’? What were you singin’ to put him in that mood?’

  Mary Ann’s head went lower. ‘“He stands at the corner and whistles me out”. I was just singing it to meself as I fed Penelope, and I was dancin’ a bit, and then he barked at me from the gate.’

  When the silence around her held, Mary Ann, looking up into the face of this beloved man, saw to her joy that his countenance was cracking. First his lids drooped and then his mouth moved from one side to the other. Then his big, straight nose twitched at the end, and to her immense delight he flung back his head and let out a bellow of a laugh that surely must have carried up the hill to Mr Lord before he managed to stifle it.

  Mary Ann, her face wreathed now in one wide grin, clapped her hands over her mouth, and when Michael asked, ‘What song is that, Dad?’ Mike said in mock surprise, ‘You don’t know “He stands at the corner”? Where’ve you lived all these years? Listen…it goes like this.’ And placing his hooked hand on Michael’s shoulder and his good arm around Mary Ann he walked them out of the yard singing under his breath, ‘He stands at the corner and whistles me out, with his hands in his pockets and his shirt hanging out.’ But when he came to ‘Still I love him’ he changed it to ‘Still I love her’, and the lift of his arm brought Mary Ann’s feet from the ground and her laugh bubbling out again.

  But before they reached the road Mike stopped and, looking round, seemed surprised not to see Tony following them. Tony was still standing looking in the direction his grandfather had taken, and Mike, calling to him, said, ‘Come away in for a minute and have a drink of something.’ And they stood waiting until he came up.

  Tony, a young man of twenty-three, was, outwardly at least, a very good copy of his grandfather. He had the same leanness of body, the same thin features; he also, like Mr Lord, carried his chin at an angle, and also, like his grandfather, he had a temper, but strangely he had shown very little of it in the last three years. His one concern seemed to be to please his grandfather, and, as Mike was not above saying, the old boy took advantage of this. Tony looked at Mike now and said in a voice which denied any connection with Tyneside, ‘I can’t understand it. Why has he come back? I had a letter from him just this morning saying to expect him next Friday. There’s something wrong somewhere; it can’t just be her singing.’ He looked down on Mary Ann now and smiled, and Mike said, ‘You worry too much. I’ve told you afore, take him in your stride. He nearly had my hair white the first year I was here. I’ve got more sense now, and, anyway, he doesn’t mean half he says…Come on, come in and have a cup of something and listen to this, what she was singing, it’s a grand ditty…edifying.’ Mike laughed. Then, nodding his head slowly towards his daughter and raising his index finger, he beat time and counted, ‘One, two, three’, and on the word three she joined her voice to his and, grabbing his hand, went singing and swinging into the road and towards the house, with Michael and Tony coming up in the rear laughing.

  ‘Well!’ Lizzie exclaimed as she looked at her husband and daughter as they marched into the house still singing, and before she could voice any further opinion of the display, Mike, his deep and musical voice ringing out the words ‘Still I love her’, swung her around the kitchen floor.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it this minute. Oh, Mike, don’t be so daft, leave go.’ When at last Lizzie had disentangled herself from Mike’s arms she looked with disapproval on him and said sternly, ‘It’s all right you playing games and laughing, you should have been here a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is, if he was upset by a thing like that, then God help him. And don’t look at me in that way, Liz, you can’t lay it at my door. I never learned her that one.’

  ‘Perhaps she learned it from…my friend Beatrice.’ Michael was mimicking what he called Mary Ann’s Sunday voice, and she turned on him in wrath, crying, ‘Oh
you, our Michael! Beatrice never learned me…taught me!’ She bounced her head at him to emphasise her use of the correct grammar. ‘Beatrice doesn’t know songs like that.’

  Michael, throwing his head back in a similar attitude to that used by his father, laughed, ‘You’re telling me…dear Beatrice is too dumb to know anything like that.’

  ‘I’ll smack your face if you call Beatrice…’

  ‘That’s enough! That’s enough!’ It was Lizzie speaking. ‘Stop it, Michael. And you, Mary Ann, not so much of the smacking faces or we might finish up with the other end being smacked. And, anyway, who did you hear it from?’

  In deep indignation Mary Ann looked at her mother, and in a voice and manner that once again spoke of the indignities of her life she said primly, ‘Corny.’

  ‘Corny?’ Lizzie’s eyes were screwed up in questioning perplexity when Mike put in, ‘Don’t be so dim, Liz…Corny. You know Corny…Corny Boyle. That’s who you mean, isn’t it?’ He turned and looked towards Mary Ann. ‘Mrs McBride’s Corny.’

  Lizzie’s face was no longer screwed up but stretched wide now as she looked at her daughter and demanded, ‘When did you see him?’

  ‘When I was at Mrs McBride’s a week or so ago.’