He stood between her and the woman now and, looking at her boots, he said, ‘You’d better take them off afore you get on the bed.’
There was no space to walk up between the partitions at either side and the mattress, so she sat down on it and took off her boots and laid them at the foot, only to see Manuel pick them up and toss them towards the head as he said under his breath, ‘You don’t want to go barefoot the morrow, do you?’
Hitching herself back over the prickly straw-filled tick, she rested against the wall, her head touching the bottom of the low window sill, and, her eyes still stretched wide, she watched Manuel take off his boots. Then he too was sitting with his back against the wall and within inches of her.
‘Don’t worry.’ His voice was a low murmur. ‘You won’t catch anything. I’ll push the window open to give you air.’
She wished she could turn on him and say, ‘I’m not afraid of catching anything,’ but she couldn’t because she was deadly afraid. She remembered her mama warning her never to go near people who ‘were in decline’. She remembered two years ago one of the maids had started to cough and she was sent from the house in a matter of days. ‘If you are forced to be near anyone with a cough, suck a lozenge,’ her mama had said, ‘and keep the greatest distance between you and them, and never, never on any account touch them, or anything belonging to them.’
The man now came and stood at the foot of the bed. He was a short man, wiry looking. He said to Manuel, ‘Where you makin’ for?’
‘Oh,’ Manuel hesitated. ‘Manchester, that way.’
‘Manchester. Got anybody there?’
‘No.’
‘Oh by, then you’re going to find it hard; they’re pushing out the rats they say to make room in the cellars. Plenty of work, at least there was until last year, but no place to bide. We were there two years and then the wife got this.’ He thumbed his chest. ‘They said to get her into the country, it was her only chance, so I did. Country? I’d say it was country, Plenmeller Common. Godforsaken place, if ever there was. Do you know it?’
‘No,’ said Manuel. ‘I haven’t been that far.’
‘There’s a farm near there, Skillen’s. They can’t get nobody to stay. The summers are bad enough but the winters are hell, at least that’s what I’m told. We didn’t stay long enough, he wouldn’t let us. He got scared about my missus.’ He jerked his head back. ‘There’s a bairn there. I was for gettin’ work at the lead mine near. Bridget’ – he again jerked his head – ‘she wouldn’t have it. She didn’t mind me being down the pit; I was down for ten years; you stand a chance with coal. But lead, God it’s “bring out your dead!” every day. What’s your missus do?’ He now looked at Annabella, and Manuel said quickly, ‘Oh. Oh, she cooks.’
‘Oh, does she?’ He nodded at Annabella. ‘Funny, my wife was a cook an’ all until she got the cough; then that put paid to it ’cos some people get particular.’
The woman started a bad bout of coughing again and the man shook his head as if to say, ‘Oh, dear me!’ then before he turned away he said, ‘She’ll settle down in a little while; she won’t keep you awake long, and we’ll be off in the mornin’. We’re making our way to Blyth, that’s where she was born. If she gets her native air it’ll pull her to again.’
Annabella turned and looked at Manuel and he at her, and he shook his head slowly. Then tugging the blanket from underneath him, he said softly, ‘Wrap yourself in it,’ and when she made no move to do as he suggested, he said still low but harshly, ‘Do as I say, wrap yourself in it.’
So she wrapped herself in the blanket and lay down, and he knelt up and opened the window, then he lay down on the extreme end of the mattress.
Again, as in the haystack, she was covered with shame and confusion but more so, oh much more so, and she knew she would never sleep.
But she did sleep; she was so weary that she slept through the woman’s coughing and the noise of late revellers coming from the street outside, and she didn’t wake up till midnight when the occupants of the other beds made their entry and terrified her for a moment with their singing and language and noise, and personal sounds which shocked and nauseated her. But this, too, died down after a while and there was only the woman’s intermittent coughing and the heavy snores; and again, in spite of them, she went to sleep.
It must have been around three o’clock in the morning when she woke up. Half the cubicle was filled with moonlight. She felt warm and snug and relaxed and she lay in this state for a few moments until she realised how it had come about. Then, only the fact that the reason for the snugness was sound asleep and breathing heavily stopped her from springing up.
She was lying with her back to Manuel, her body sunk into the curves of his, one of his arms was across her waist, the other arm was above his head lying on the straw pillow and the fingers of his hand were entwined in her hair close to her scalp.
Wide awake now, and like Rosina would have done, she brought reason to the situation. Manuel had not done this consciously, he had in his sleep turned towards her. Likely it was the position he took up when he was with – her mind skipped a mental paragraph. And it also skipped back from Manuel and down the years, and she saw again her father chasing the naked woman round his bedroom. She saw him pushing the strawberries into her mouth, the fruit still looked soft and luscious. She saw him bathing the woman; then finally there appeared before her the contorted figures on the bed. This was always the end of the nightmare that wasn’t a nightmare. But why was she thinking of this now; why?
Manuel stirred in his sleep; his fingers moved in her hair; he sighed deeply and rested more heavily against her, and life as she knew it was suspended for the moment. She was floating in a sea of comfort, of restfulness, even joy; then as if the sea had been sucked away she fell on to the rock of Crane Street, into the house in Crane Street where the women wore loose clothing and girls laughed in the passages, and her mother, yes her own mother, took money for their services.
The reason why she was enjoying the close proximity of Manuel’s body was because she was the daughter of her mother. She wished she was dead, she wished she had the courage to die. But she knew herself to be a coward; if she wasn’t she would have ended her life when she came out of that house that night and walked on the sands by the sea.
She began to wonder now what would happen should he awake and find himself in this position. If that should come about then she must pretend to be sound asleep. Yes, that’s what she must do, she must pretend to be sound asleep. But she had no intention of going to sleep again.
She didn’t remember at what time she fell asleep and she didn’t know whether she dreamed that Manuel’s hand moved from her waist and cupped the bowl of her stomach, or that it actually happened at all, but when she next felt his hand on her shoulder she started upright in the bed, staring at him as if he were the devil.
‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’ He was handing to her a mug of black tea. ‘Drink this,’ he said; ‘it’ll wake you up. We’d better be on our way.’
She took the cup from his hand as she still stared at him.
He was fully dressed, he looked clean and fresh. He said, ‘There’s a pump in the yard and a bucket, you can have a wash down. And there’s a dry scrubbing brush on the window sill; use it to get the mud off your things. Look.’ He held his arms out and indicated his coat and trousers. ‘I’m like a new pin.’
He seemed different this morning, happy, like the Manuel she had once known. The tea was sweet and hot and it brought her awake, and a few minutes later she tiptoed from the room carrying her boots in her hand and keeping her eyes directly ahead and away from the huddled figures on the mattresses.
She found it difficult to wash without soap, and the coarse towelling hurt her skin. The early morning air was chilly and the water cold, but after she had done what she could in the way o
f washing herself and brushing her clothes she felt strangely refreshed. Her heels were hardly hurting and she was hungry and the thought now wasn’t where they would eat but when they would eat, and so she was somewhat deflated when Manuel, joining her in the passage, said, ‘We’ll stock up with some food and get out of the town and make a meal.’
Although it was just turned six in the morning a number of shops were open, and after buying bread and steak and pigs’ fat, they walked out of the town, cut across open fields and past orchards until they came to a clear burn, and on the bank he built a fire. He fried all the steak and the remainder of the bacon, and packed half of it away for later in the day, then divided the rest between them. After she had cleared everything on her plate he asked her, ‘Can I cut you another piece of bread?’ and when she said, ‘If you please,’ he smiled at her as he remarked, ‘You were hungry.’
‘Yes, yes, I was.’
‘That’s a good sign.’
‘Is it?’ She didn’t ask of what, and she didn’t punctuate everything she said with his name now either. This latter fact wasn’t lost on him and he stared at her. She, too, looked different this morning; it wasn’t that she was on her high horse or playing the lady, she was just different, more ordinary like. It must be the good night’s rest. He’d had a good night’s rest. He didn’t know when he’d had a better; he’d woken up feeling a new man, and if he could keep Lagrange’s face out of his mind he’d remain so.
They kept to the South Tyne until they reached Beltingham and there Manuel asked the way to Plenmeller Common and Skillen’s Farm. After being told to follow the river as far as Melkridge he was to cut off south in the direction of Whitfield and halfway between he’d come to the farm.
His enquiry was the first indication to Annabella that he was making for any particular destination and she said to him, ‘Why are we going to this farm?’ And he replied, ‘You heard what the fellow said last night, he had worked there and got the push. I’m sorry for him, but it’s work I want and by the sound of the place it’s off the beaten track, and there won’t be many as yet know that there’s a job goin’.’
To this she had said with the fear in the back of her eyes again, ‘But . . . but if you get work, what will I do?’
And he had smiled and replied, ‘Well, I don’t suppose his wife sat down all day; there’ll likely be a job for a woman an’ all, that’s if you’re still of the same mind. It’s up to you.’
She had not answered anything to this, and they had gone on. He had said that the place was off the beaten track and she wanted to find some place to hide, some place where she wouldn’t run the risk of meeting people like Mrs Ferguson, though as Manuel had said she doubted if Mrs Ferguson would have recognised her, and she thought, with some slight bitterness, clothes maketh the man, and certainly the woman. Also, that when you were foot weary and mortally tired you did not appreciate beautiful scenery.
They had passed through some wonderful country; they had climbed hills as high as mountains; they had walked through wooded valleys; they had, in the heat of the day, sat in the mouth of a tunnel that led to a disused ore mine, where they could hear the water dripping in the black depths behind them, and Manuel had picked up a handful of blue copper-sulphate crystals, and some of a beautiful violet colour, and she had marvelled at them.
Now they were standing on the top of a scree cliff and Manuel, pointing into the distance to a grey flat stretch of land, said, ‘That must be the Common, but there’s no sight of a farm.’
She let herself slowly down to the shale as she said heavily, ‘Didn’t the man say it lay between the Common and Whitfield? It’s more likely to be over there, towards the Dale of Allen.’ She lifted a heavy arm.
‘You know this part?’ He was still gazing ahead.
She shook her head. ‘I know the lay of the county from my geography.’
His brows moved slightly upwards. He looked down on her hair. The hood had fallen back and the auburn mass, which was no longer combed and banded into neatness, shone in luxuriant disorder. He saw the weariness of her and he said, ‘Would you like to stay put until I go and look round?’ Whereupon she pulled herself to her feet, answering briefly, ‘No.’
Slipping and sliding, they went down the cliff side to the valley again; they rounded the foot of it and were walking along what looked like an animal track when quite suddenly they came upon the end of a rough quarry-stone road. The road was definitely in the process of being made and Manuel turned to her and smiled as he said, ‘I think we’ve hit it.’
Following the road, they passed a dense thicket, then came surprisingly into open pastureland with large numbers of cows grazing on one side, while the other was taken up with small walled fields, some holding vegetables and potatoes, but the greater proportion of them were filled with gooseberry bushes now stripped of their fruit.
The road bent sharply around a clump of trees and in a field right in front of them there was a man driving two horses and a plough. He reached the end of the field as they came up and Manuel, his hands on the drystone wall, said, ‘Is the farmer hereabout?’ and the man, coming towards the wall, said, ‘I’m the farmer. What is it?’
‘Oh, good day to you.’
The man didn’t answer but waited, and Manuel said, ‘I hear you’re lookin’ for a hand.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Makes no matter, is it true?’
‘Aye, I’m lookin’ for a hand. What can you do?’
‘Anything with animals.’ Manuel smiled while he thought of horses alone.
The man said, ‘Where you from?’
‘The Tyne.’
‘What did you do there?’
‘Worked for a Mr Lagrange for six years.’
‘And why aren’t you working for him now?’
‘Bad business hit him, it’s hit all the houses, all the staff was dismissed.’ For a moment as he spoke he saw Lagrange’s white face lying on the stones and as remorse was about to overwhelm him again he thrust it aside. He was alive, he had to eat, he had to work.
The man now said, ‘I’ve eighty cows.’
‘Oh!’
Something about the exclamation made the man say, ‘Well, you can milk?’
‘Truth is I’ve never milked, but what will take one man a day to learn I can do in half the time. I’ve dealt mostly with horses.’ He looked towards the animals, poor specimens in his eyes.
The man surveyed him up and down, then said, ‘I’ll give you a try. Four shillings a week, your cottage, dinner an’ what milk you need . . . Your woman’ – he nodded at Annabella without looking at her – ‘will work indoors, a shilling a week.’ He waited.
They were both staring at him, Manuel thinking, God, four shillings. Those Tolpuddle men had suffered in vain. What good had their Union done them? Thirty years and more gone by and still only four shillings a week. And Annabella was telling herself that the man was surely jesting. The lowest creature in their establishment, the scullery maid, had received two shillings a week and her uniform and her allowance of beer, or tea and sugar, and Manuel, he had been receiving at least ten shillings a week, together with excellent food and splendid livery.
‘We’ll try it.’
The man then said, ‘I’ll give you a month to see, then I’ll bond you. Go down to the house.’ He pointed.
Manuel turned away without further words, and when they were out of earshot Annabella said under her breath, ‘But, Manuel, only four shillings a week!’ She did not add, only a shilling for me. And, his gaze directed straight ahead, he replied, ‘It’ll give us a roof and breathing space; what’s more, it’ll give you an insight into what’s afore you.’
He did not know how true his words were to prove.
It looked to them as if the farmhouse and outbuildings were resting in an island of mud. The
yard facing the cow byres was a morass, hoof patterned and ankle deep in slush, and this went right up to the farmhouse door, and the only evidence that it wasn’t welcomed indoors was a boot scraper let into a niche in the grey stone wall.
A girl answered the door. She was about the same age as Annabella. She had a thin, white face, a thin body but bulging breasts. She was wearing a coarse apron over a blue print dress, and her sleeves were rolled up about her elbows.
It was Manuel who spoke. He had said to Annabella a few minutes earlier, ‘Leave the talking to me and remember what I said a while back, about ta and aye.’ He said now, ‘Your master sent us; we’re set on.’
The girl stared from one to the other. Then, putting her head back on her shoulders, she looked at someone and said, ‘Mistress, there’s a couple here.’
The mistress came to the door. She, too, was thin but it was a boney hard thinness and the hardness was reflected in the depth of her eyes, which gave no indication of what she thought of the new employees, but she said without any preamble, ‘He’s set you on then?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Your cottage is round the corner.’ She pointed. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’
‘Thank you.’
They turned away, went round the corner and saw the cottage. It looked little more than an enlarged hut. The door was low and there was one tiny window on each side of it. Manuel had to stoop to enter. Then they were in a room ten feet by eight with an open spit fire and a bread oven taking up one wall. A table and two chairs stood against the other. The wall facing them held shelves, on which was an assortment of old crockery and pans. Next to it was a door leading into the other room. They both stood in the doorway and looked at the bed. It was merely a straw palliasse on a rough wooden frame. At the bottom of the bed two patchwork quilts lay folded. Annabella turned away, her head not bent but thrust forward on her shoulders as if on the point of a run. Manuel continued looking at the bed for some minutes, and when he turned he saw her standing leaning over the table, her hands flat on it, and he said roughly, ‘I’ll make a ticking with the skins.’ He kicked the pack where he had dropped it on the floor, then added, ‘Filled with straw I bet it’ll be more comfortable than that.’
The Glass Virgin Page 25
