The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  The next entry read: Tailor, a hundred pounds.

  This sum would act merely as a sedative to the man who, he knew, didn’t want his custom but who nevertheless was afraid to refuse it, knowing that a word from him would reduce his clientele considerably.

  The next scribble on the page read: Blunt, two hundred guineas.

  Blunt was the name of his cook and his cook’s husband was his blacksmith, and his blacksmith was a man who used his fists. Edmund Lagrange had great respect for James Blunt. Over the years he had won him some tidy sums and in a fortnight’s time he was to fight Bull Cragg from Shields. They were equally matched and they might go fifty rounds; but fifteen or fifty, he was backing his man to win.

  He made one more entry on the paper. Slowly he wrote the name Jessie, and against it he placed the sum of one hundred pounds. Then, his head on one side, he smiled for a moment before he changed the sum to two hundred. He was always generous to his women; that was one of the reasons why they fought for his favours.

  After reckoning up the amount he burnt the paper in the flame of the candle; then, sitting back in his chair, he nodded to himself. He would be left with a clear thousand; he’d have to get by with that for the time being.

  He felt as sure of the money as if it were in his hand; that was until the thought of his daughter pricked his mind again.

  Tomorrow morning he would rise early and take her birthday presents in, and he’d get her that pony whether Rosina liked it or not; it was high time she learnt to ride. And he must make a point of seeing her more often, and show his affection for her. He would have to put himself out in some way to erase today’s picture from her mind.

  As he stared towards the window and the now dark garden it came to him with not a little surprise that this afternoon’s business had disturbed him; the thought of losing his daughter’s love – he did not put the feeling under the heading of respect – caused a small tide of fear to rise in him, and it was a strange sensation, for he and fear had never yet become acquainted. The child had certain feelings for Rosina, he knew, but himself she adored, and he wondered now that, if what she had witnessed this afternoon should change her feelings towards him, how he would react. And when the answer came he pooh-poohed it; yet he was startled by his self-knowledge because he knew that those who did not love him, or were no longer of use to him, he kicked out of his life and made sure that the kicking, whether aimed at the high and mighty or the lowly, had, in some way, a crippling effect.

  Three

  Annabella was still at breakfast when her mama came into the room followed by Alice, who was followed by Cargill carrying a number of packages.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling!’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mama.’

  ‘Happy birthday, Miss Annabella.’

  ‘Thank you, Alice.’

  The greetings over, she began to undo the packages. Childlike, she opened the big one first and was delighted with the beautifully dressed doll her Aunt Emma and Uncle James had sent her. She exclaimed on it, ‘It’s beautiful, beautiful, Mama,’ yet at the same time knowing that she preferred the little Negro boy whose eyes blinked when you pulled a string. Her papa had come to her room before she was awake and brought her a musical box that played Ring-a-ring-of-roses, and Here-we-go-round-the-mulberry-bush, and the Negro doll. The effect of seeing her father so early in the day had at first made her speechless, that was until he made her laugh when he whispered to her, ‘I mustn’t stay; it’s time for the servants rising and if they saw me at this hour they’d drop dead.’ He had pointed backward towards the door. ‘If Watford comes out she’ll swoon right away.’ The picture of Watford swooning and all the servants dropping dead because they had seen her papa up early made her clap her hands over her mouth to suppress her gleeful laughter; and it was as her body shook with suppressed mirth that her papa had said a very odd thing. ‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘laugh long and loud at everything, don’t give God a chance; be gay.’

  He had waved to her from the door and left her with mixed feelings, still wanting to laugh but wondering why she shouldn’t give God a chance. But the feeling of laughter won and she played happily with her new doll and musical box until Watford came to dress her and give her her breakfast . . .

  Now she opened her mama’s presents. First, there were half a dozen beautifully embroidered handkerchiefs – Rosina excelled in this art – next, a book of stories by Hans Christian Andersen. The third gift was a diary bound in red leather with a silver ornamental clasp and key.

  ‘Oh, Mama!’ She kissed Rosina. ‘They’re lovely, beautiful.’

  Then Alice presented her present. It was a bible. The strange defiant feeling that had been born in her before her bath yesterday prompted the naughty thought that, of course, Alice would give her a bible, but she became afraid when she felt the inclination to laugh at this thought as she had laughed with Papa earlier.

  From the background Watford now stepped forward with her gift. It was a pen wiper made of red flannel and edged with fancy stitching, and not only did Annabella thank Watford most kindly but Rosina also thanked her. It was a most thoughtful present, she said, but it wouldn’t be put to use today because it was a special day and a holiday, and first of all Annabella was to accompany her as far as Grandma’s.

  It was always as far as Grandma’s. Annabella never went into Grandma’s house; once they were within a short distance of the house, her mama beckoned to Watford and they would play games until her mama returned. Her mama said that Grandma was an old lady and not very well; yet she went to the chapel twice a week, she had heard Watford say so, but she wasn’t there on a Sunday when all the household were present.

  She had seen her grandmama only twice in her life. She was a tall lady dressed in dark clothes and had a white face. She had worked it out for herself that perhaps children weren’t allowed to see their grandparents until they were of a certain age, perhaps ten years old . . .

  At eleven o’clock she was dressed and ready for her journey across the park. The day was beautiful and warm but she wore a cream coat over her plain blue silk dress, and on her head was a straw hat with a large brim so the sun wouldn’t catch her face.

  It was as she sat on the gold upholstered chair in the drawing room, her toes just touching the ground and her hands folded one on top of the other on her lap waiting for her mama coming from her business room, which was the room where she consulted with the staff, that she thought again of the strawberry field and the poor children. Perhaps when Mama went into Grandmama’s it would be nice if she could go and see if the children were there and give them some pennies so that they could get some food from Cook. She wondered if she should go and consult Watford who was waiting in the hall, and then she remembered that Watford had said that the children were bad, so she decided she’d wait for her mama to come in and ask her for some pennies.

  And this is exactly what she did, and by this action set into motion the events that were to shape her life.

  ‘There you are, my dear. I’ve been a long time, haven’t I?’

  ‘No, Mama. I didn’t think it was a long time because I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Oh! And what have you been thinking about?’ Rosina was easing a white silk glove on to her long hand.

  ‘About poor children, Mama.’

  ‘Poor children?’ Rosina’s head came forward enquiringly.

  ‘Yes, the poor children who eat the strawberries because they are hungry. Mama, may I have some pennies?’

  Rosina, about to button the glove, stopped and asked, ‘Why do you want pennies? Is there something you wish to buy?’

  ‘No, Mama, they’re for the poor children, because if they had pennies they could come to Cook and get some food.’

  ‘Come to Cook and get . . . ’ Rosina’s voice trailed away, and slowly she sat down on the edge of the spindle-legg
ed couch and, looking at Annabella, said, ‘Tell me about these poor children, my dear, and about Cook.’

  Now the situation was becoming difficult. It meant involving Watford, and she didn’t want Mama to be angry with Watford so she began, ‘I was very naughty yesterday, Mama; I was in the gallery and I saw some children in the strawberry field and I ran out because I thought it would be nice to play with them, but they were frightened and very hungry and I told them to come to Cook and she’d give them something to eat, and they said they couldn’t because they hadn’t any pennies, Cook only gave food to those who had pennies, and so I thought it would be nice on my birthday if I gave them some pennies . . . ’

  Now her voice trailed away; her mama was angry. She put out her hand and gently touched Rosina’s knee, saying, ‘I’m very sorry, Mama; I’ll never go out without Watford again.’

  Rosina gently took the small hand and patted it, saying, ‘It’s all right, my dear. Don’t worry, you’ll have some pennies for the children, but just wait a little while longer, I’ll be but a minute or so.’

  So this was it, this is what happened yesterday. The child must have been missing for some time – they had all likely been searching for her. But the selling of food. How atrocious! How absolutely atrocious!

  ‘Bring Mrs Page to me.’ She was addressing Harris, who was standing ready at the door to see her out.

  She had just seated herself at the desk in her business room again when Mrs Page appeared at the doorway.

  ‘Come in and close the door, Mrs Page.’

  ‘Is . . . is something amiss, Madam?’

  ‘Very much amiss, I should say, Mrs Page. Are you aware’ – she paused here and stared at the housekeeper before going on – ‘and I want a truthful answer, Mrs Page. Are you aware that the cook sells food, our food, to poor people?’

  To answer this truthfully, Mrs Page would have had to say, ‘Yes, Madam; I know she does a bit on the side, but so does everybody else in the house, from Harris downwards. Surely you’re aware of this. It’s part of the workings of an establishment; without perquisites you’d find it difficult to run any staff.’ But what she said was, and stammering, ‘Se-selling food? Cook, Madam? Never to my knowledge. No, Madam.’

  ‘Then all I can say is that you, Mrs Page, have been remiss in your duties, part of which is to know what the female staff is about. Cook, I must inform you, sells food by the pennyworth to the starving wretches who, from time to time, find themselves forced to live on the open fells.’

  ‘Oh, Madam!’ Mrs Page, whose face was now stiff and grey, murmured, I don’t believe it. Somebody has been lying, I’m sure.’

  ‘My daughter doesn’t lie, Mrs Page.’

  ‘Miss Annabella?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Annabella, who was left to run wild yesterday and who found some starving children in the strawberry field. So, therefore, you will understand, Mrs Page, that you receive your information from the source itself . . . Fetch the woman here.’

  ‘C-Cook, Madam?’

  ‘Yes, Cook, Mrs Page. No – better still, call Harris, and don’t go further than the door.’

  When Harris appeared in the doorway Rosina said, ‘Bring me Cook, Harris, please.’

  Harris almost repeated what Mrs Page had said, ‘What! Cook, Madam?’ But he refrained. Nevertheless, he looked indignant; for such a message Reeves, Faill, or Cargill should have been summoned. Nevertheless, he hurriedly departed and a few minutes later Cook, evidently bemused, stood before her mistress.

  ‘You sell food to the people from the fells, Cook?’

  The cook was dumbfounded. How did one meet such an attack? What had Mrs Page said? She opened her wide, slack mouth, closed it, then opened it again and managed to bring out, ‘Now and then, Madam.’

  ‘What do you sell?’

  ‘Just the scraps that would go into the pig bucket, Madam.’

  ‘And for the scraps that would go into the pig bucket you charge these homeless people a penny a time?’

  ‘Well, well, Madam, if you didn’t charge them . . . well, they’d come in by their droves.’

  ‘Indeed! And how do they get in in the first place? Does Horton let them through the lodge?’

  ‘No, Madam; they come in by the east drive, the back way.’

  ‘Indeed! Well now, Cook, go to your room, pack your things and be out of my house by noon. Mrs Page will give you what is due to you.’

  ‘But . . . but, Madam.’ It was the housekeeper who was daring to speak. ‘What . . . what about the dinner? Who . . . I mean at such short notice.’

  ‘You have a kitchen maid and a scullery maid, have you not, Mrs Page? And they have both been in the kitchen for some years I think; if they have learned nothing from Cook in that time then I think they should be dismissed too. Riley, is it not, who is the kitchen maid? Then tell Riley that she has to cook the dinner. That’ll be all.’

  Stunned, the two women departed, Cook so forgetting herself as to walk out in front of Mrs Page. And, what was more, neither of them bent her knee.

  Almost on their heels Rosina entered the hall and, saying to Watford, ‘Bring Miss Annabella,’ she moved with her accustomed slow step towards the door, and when she had passed through the conservatory and reached the front step she waited until Watford came up to her holding Annabella by the hand.

  Rosina now took hold of Annabella’s hand and together they walked across the gravel drive and through the pagoda. Watford, walking at a distance of thirty paces behind, wondered uneasily what the schemozzle was about, and was greatly agitated by the thought that she was in some way connected with it. Of this she was given practical proof when the mistress stopped in the usual place and, beckoning to her, looked at her grimly and said, ‘I have given Miss Annabella three sixpences. She’s to give them to the children she met yesterday.’ There was a long pause here, during which Watford’s eyelids fluttered downwards and her throat became dry. Then her mistress went on, ‘See that she doesn’t touch the children, they may be verminous; let her put the sixpences on the ground. And I wish you to give them a message from me. Tell them that on Tuesdays and Saturdays they are to come to the west lodge where they will be given food for which they will not be asked to pay. You understand that, Watford?’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  There was another pause, and Watford stood still with her eyes downcast waiting to be dismissed. But Rosina said, ‘Do you know how many families are living on the fells, Watford?’

  ‘About a dozen, Madam, I think.’

  A dozen, and that likely meant dozens of children. She could quite easily give the order that all the children had to be fed as long as their parents were out of work, but that would mean that Mr Rosier would come striding over and likely as not accuse her of prolonging one of his numerous strikes, because it was only through starvation that the men were driven back into the mines. She detested the Rosiers, as her father had done before her; they were mine owners but they were poor class. She compromised slightly now by saying: ‘Tell the children that there’ll be enough food for six of them . . . And Watford.’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’ The eyelids fluttered upwards.

  ‘I will want to see you in my business room when I return.’

  When, almost two hours later, Rosina returned to the house she felt as worn out as if she had battled physically, as well as mentally, with her mother and she longed for a respite. But it was not granted her, for, notified of her return by Constantine, Lagrange sought her out immediately, and although her news meant that he was sure of the money the conditions made him furious. Her mother, Rosina said, had agreed to advance the eight thousand necessary not as a loan, but in the form of shares.

  Now the Conway-Redford glass works was a family company. John Redford never had any wish to supply quantity instead of quality, and he lived by the maxim, as his father a
nd grandfather had done before him, that if you were to preserve quality then you had to give to the product personal supervision. And so Redford’s works had remained small in comparison with firms like Cookson’s, but it had also remained exclusive in both its products and its management.

  The shares of the firm were divided at present between Constance Redford, her brother James and Rosina, Rosina holding sixty per cent. The suggested arrangement would now give Constance and James control. Lagrange found the idea monstrous, and he said so, while Rosina sat, her back straight, and held her peace until he had finished; and then into the rage-filled silence she said evenly, ‘These are the only conditions under which you can have the money; moreover Mama stated emphatically that it will be the last she will loan me.’

  He cursed her mother, and openly, then demanded, ‘What is the earliest I can have it?’

  ‘I will arrange for Pollit to come tomorrow with the necessary papers. A week hence, I should say.’

  He left her. She had not for a moment expected thanks so why should she feel so devastated. Somewhere within herself she was crying bitterly. She was twenty-eight years old and life was a great burden; the only comfort she had in it was that derived from the child. More often of late she felt that God had some special reason for making her suffer, and that one day it would be disclosed to her.

  She was deep in her thinking when the door burst open and her husband startled her by re-entering the room.

  ‘What’s this I’m hearing? You’ve dismissed Cook?’

  After a moment she said, ‘Yes, I’ve dismissed Cook.’

  ‘What the hell for?’ His face suffused with anger, he glared at her.

  Now she got slowly to her feet and confronted him. Her chin high, she said, ‘Since you are aware that she’s been dismissed you’ll likely also be aware of why she was dismissed.’