The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  What about Spain? It was Margee’s face in the flame that was looking at him, and her voice seemed to shut out the laughter and chatter that surrounded the fireplace, and he answered her within himself. To the devil with Spain! I’ve come into a good harbour, I’m not sailing out of it unless I must, so prod me no more, Margee, and worry over me no more. Go now and rest easy.

  Four

  The Plane Farm was so named because it was situated on an open piece of ground and had little or no shelter from the winds from whatever direction they came.

  The farm carried a hundred and fifty head of cattle, at least two-thirds of them milking cows; sheep, pigs, geese and hens; there were fields that gave potatoes and beet in plenty and other vegetables to meet the requirements of every month in the year.

  The farmhouse itself and fifty acres had been in the Fairbairn family for eight generations and these were stated in the bible that lay in the centre of the table in the parlour, but Mr Fairbairn maintained there had been a cottage here for hundreds of years before the farm took shape, and it had housed Fairbairns.

  The rest of the land which ran to three hundred acres was leased from Lord Stonebridge, whose home was Falcon House two miles away, built on the moors above the River Wear and within galloping distance of the town of Stanhope.

  Within three days Manuel had got the lay of the land. He had fallen into the daily routines of the work as if he had been at it for years, and his liking for the Fairbairn family as a whole had deepened. The sons he termed grand fellows. Their ma he would have liked to address as mother, as he had done Amy. Her daughter he termed a fine lass, and his employer himself a man, a real man.

  What added to his pleasure a thousandfold was the fact that there were six horses on the farm altogether. They weren’t animals to be classed with those he had left back at the House, but nevertheless there were horses, each with its own characteristic likes and dislikes; four were big bushy-footed shires; one, an eighteen-year-old grey, ungainly and nothing to look at by horse standards, still retained the temperament of a sprightly young lady. The sixth was a young horse scarcely broken to farm work. But each gave him a particular joy, and Michael, whose job it was to see to the horses, was pleased and grateful at Manuel’s interest and both amused and surprised at the way the animals responded to him, especially when he made the sound in his throat.

  And then there was his house. It was a farm labourer’s cottage, but to Manuel it was a house for it was twice as big as the hovel that Skillen had provided, having four decent-sized rooms, all wood-floored except the kitchen, and a loft space into which, he surmised when looking along its length, you could get four beds, children’s beds.

  The last two nights he had lit the fire in the kitchen and Annabella had come over and given him his lesson. There was no set meal at night except when Mr and Mrs Fairbairn went to market. The usual procedure was breakfast at half-past seven, a snack and a drink at eleven, and a dinner at half-past two, which was so good and plentiful that it made you feel disinclined for work afterwards. Then in the evening there was a pan of broth always simmering on the hob from which you helped yourself, and from the cold meat, cheese and new bread that was left on the long shelf below the delf rack.

  He was finished at six each evening, but every other evening he was on call until ten o’clock. His personal routine was that he would wash himself and change his shirt, placing his dirty one in a bucket of water which he would rinse out later. Then he would go across to the big kitchen and into the family atmosphere that warmed it. But after the second night sitting on that settle smoking his pipe he knew that he was wasting his time, and so he startled the whole family when, addressing Mrs Fairbairn, he said, ‘Would it be in order, Missus, if Annabella came over to the house of a night for an hour or so to give me me lesson?’

  They had all stopped what they were doing, talking, laughing, sewing, and stared from him to Annabella, who herself was sewing the beginning of a new work dress, for Mrs Fairbairn had said the thing she was wearing would insult a scarecrow.

  ‘Lessons?’ Mr Fairbairn’s upper lip had squared from his teeth, and Manuel explained, ‘I’m learnin’ me letters, Sir.’

  ‘But you signed a good hand to your bond?’

  ‘That’s only a beginning, Sir; I’ve a long way to go yet.’

  ‘Well, I never!’ Agnes stared at Manuel; then gave a little giggle, only to be chided sternly by her mother, who, her needle still flying, her eyes attentive on her work, said, ‘Suit you better if you had all stuck to your lessons. Twenty books there are in the parlour and not one of them been touched for years. What books you reading, girl?’

  Annabella swallowed before answering, ‘We . . . I haven’t any books, only a news-sheet, an old edition, and a slate and pencil.’

  ‘Well, if those in there are any use to you, you take them, girl.’ The eyes had not moved from the needle and Annabella getting to her feet, said, ‘Oh, thank you, Missus. Thank you so much.’

  They had all watched her go hurriedly across the room and into the parlour and Sep, muttering to no-one in particular, said, ‘She makes me sort of nervous that one, you know; every time she opens her mouth she makes me nervous. Aw’ – he glanced quickly at Manuel – ‘I don’t mean no harm, I just mean . . . ’

  Manuel smiled at him, saying reassuringly, ‘I know what you mean. I feel the same at times.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Aye, sure.’

  They both grinned at each other now.

  ‘Fancy being brought up in a convent and then having to . . . ’

  ‘You get on with your shift, our Agnes, unless you want to go naked across the moors come February.’

  At this there was a loud burst of laughter from the men and a protest from Agnes, saying, ‘Oh, our Ma, fancy!’

  And the young men had all cried together, ‘Fancy!’ followed by another roar of laughter.

  Manuel realised there was a liberty in this family that was unusual and refreshing.

  When Annabella came back into the room she had two books in her hand and it was Mrs Fairbairn who, still without looking up, said, ‘What did you pick, girl?’ and she answered, ‘Gulliver’s Travels, Dean Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, and the fairy tales of Grimm.’

  Now it was Mr Fairbairn who cried, ‘Ah, Grimm. My father, he bought me that, one Christmas. Gave it as if he were giving gold dust. Cost a penny or two that I can tell you. Children’s book it was supposed to be; scared the innards out of me. I was howling in the night until my mother threatened to light the fire with it. This lot—’ he waved his hand around his family. ‘Don’t think one of them’s opened it.’ He now nodded towards Annabella, saying, ‘Get you to read a story out come Christmas, girl. Snow on ground and fire roarin’, plenty to eat and drink inside you an’ listening to a story, like those old pictures. Yes, come Christmas, we’ll do that.’

  Annabella inclined her head towards her master; then amid silence they had gone from the room.

  When Annabella first saw Manuel’s house she had been as delighted as he was with it. ‘Wouldn’t it have been wonderful,’ she said, ‘if this had been at Skillen’s?’ And he agreed with her.

  They sat through one whole candle, and he scratched on his slate: rat, bat, cat, mat, sat and fat; then she made him use his tongue as he had never used it before when he said the word cat, clicking it, snapping it, like a cat’s claws themselves, at the roof of his mouth, not dawdling on the word with a gentle pat against the roof as when he pronounced it in his own way, as caat. She also gave him a short homily on the use of teach and learn, saying, ‘I can teach you, but only you can learn. I cannot learn you, you understand?’

  He stared into her eyes as he nodded. Then he watched her lips as she went on, ‘Repeat, you teach, I learn.’ And automatically he had said, ‘You teach, I learn,’ but somewhere in the back of his mind a voi
ce was saying firmly, ‘It should be the other way round, I teach, you learn, learn the things I know of, the things you need to know to become whole, to become a woman.’ She was beginning to worry him when he had time to think about her, as now, and when he was abed.

  The following night the boys chided them, saying to him, ‘Can’t you learn here? Good light, everything, table there,’ and he had laughed back at them, saying, ‘Me face is red enough repeating cat, mat and sat to the teacher’ – he thumbed towards Annabella – ‘I’d be dumb afore you all, or split me sides laughin’.’

  They went out on a gale of laughter.

  Then came the dinner hour when Annabella caused the greatest gale of laughter that already merry house had ever known. It happened that one of Annabella’s duties was to carry the vegetables from the side table where Mrs Fairbairn scooped them from pans into covered dishes. The biggest dish of all was one that held about twelve pounds of potatoes. Filled for the first helping, Annabella hurried with it to the top of the table, intending to place it between her master and Mr Willy, but as she bent forward Mr Fairbairn in high good humour cried, ‘Ah, that’s it, girl,’ and at the same time did a little manipulation with his fingers on the part of Annabella’s anatomy that had never before been touched, except by old Alice or the nursemaid. With a squeal like a cat whose tail had got caught in the mangle – this was Michael’s description later – she seemed to throw the dish of potatoes up into the air causing them to rain on the heads of Mr Fairbairn and Willy, then catch it again, after which feat she leaned against the table, shivering amid the cries and shouts.

  ‘What ails thee, girl? Did you ever! Stop that cursing, Mr Fairbairn. And you, Willy, you’re not dead.’

  ‘No, Ma, only scalded silly.’

  ‘Out of the way, girl. What happened to you anyway?’

  ‘Not her fault. Not her fault.’ Mr Fairbairn was now knocking the last remnants of potato from his shoulder as he stated flatly, ‘Pinched her backside; not used to it likely.’

  ‘P-p-pinched her b-backside.’ Sep, from the bottom of the table, looked at Annabella, his face contorted with glee; then slowly there rumbled up out of his thick chest a great laugh, and as it mounted he pointed to the top of Willy’s head on which still reposed, embedded in the thick sandy hair, a piece of potato.

  They all now looked at Willy and as his fingers extracted the last segment his body, too, began to shake.

  Then Michael joined in.

  Mr Fairbairn fought against it for a few minutes but soon he, too, was leaning on the table, his head in his hands.

  Now Agnes was roaring, her mouth wide. Then to cap all, Mrs Fairbairn, dropping on to a chair, lifted her apron up to her face to smother her laughter.

  But the last person to let go was Manuel. To hear of anybody nipping Miss Annabella Lagrange’s backside would have been funny enough, but to be present at the incident, it was the most laugh-provoking thing he had seen in many a year. But because she was no longer Miss Annabella Lagrange and because he knew just how she was feeling at this moment he had tried to restrain his mirth. But now, the whole family convulsed, he dropped his chin on his chest and, covering his eyes with his hand, he joined them.

  It was too much for Annabella. She hurried from the room through the scullery and into the wash-house, and there she pressed her hands over her face, her fingers on her eyeballs to stop the rush of tears that threatened and which she considered would strip her of all dignity. For the moment she forgot about the kindness of her new employers, she forgot that this very morning she woke up thinking, I could be happy here, that is as long as Manuel stays, for now she couldn’t visualise a situation where Manuel wouldn’t be present. Why had this happened to her, she asked once more? Not just the fact that her master had taken a liberty with her, but that she had been put in a position where this could happen. Oh, she wished it was a year ago and she could have died before she was brought to this humiliating experience.

  The latch of the wash-house door lifted, but she didn’t turn round. She knew by his silence that it was Manuel. When, taking hold of her arms, he turned her about she would not look at him.

  ‘Come on, he meant no offence. He’s more troubled than you are and . . . and just as surprised.’ The ripple in his voice made her want to tug her arms away from his hands, but she remained still. ‘Come on; they’re waiting for you.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t want any dinner, thank you.’

  ‘Now look.’ His tone became serious. ‘They’re good people, but they’ll be offended, and you must remember we’re in no position to offend them. They’re wantin’ their dinner; they’re hungry but they’re waiting for you, so come on.’

  His tone brought her eyes upwards. There was no vestige of laughter on his face now; he was telling her who she was, and retaliation in any form was not for her.

  After a big intake of breath that swelled the white skin of her neck above her collar, she turned from him and went out, and when she entered the kitchen she saw that they were actually waiting for her, and this very fact humbled her.

  As she took her seat, Mr Fairbairn looked down the table at her, saying, ‘No offence meant, girl,’ to which she answered, her head bent again, ‘I’m sorry, Sir; it was my fault.’

  ‘Well, no more talk, get on with your dinners.’ Mr Fairbairn was in command again, and they all ate their dinners. But Annabella was aware that the laughter, although not in evidence, was still rumbling through the bodies of the three sons, if not of the father, because, should they happen to look at her, they would flick their glances quickly away and, their shoulders hunched, they would attack their food with vigour.

  But before the day was out she was even smiling at the incident herself; smiling, not laughing. It was when Agnes, going through the daily routine of the work with her, showing her the ropes, and this being Friday was parlour day, they were brushing plush chairs, shaking antimacassars, dusting dozens of little ornaments, and finally sprinkling the carpet liberally with wet bran; after which, starting from each end of the room, they swept it up again, so cleaning it and bringing up the pile. It was during this labour when they met in the middle of the room that Agnes turned her big body from her knees and, sitting down, began to rock herself, saying, ‘I’m still seeing you, you know. It was the funniest thing ever happened in that kitchen. If Betty had done that every time me da’s pinched her backside we wouldn’t have a dish left. Was it first time you had your backside pinched?’

  Annabella stopped her sweeping; she became still on her hands and knees as she looked at Agnes, then slowly she began to smile, then just as slowly she admitted, ‘Yes, it was the first time.’

  ‘Fancy that now. Wait till I tell Betty. Aw, I wish Betty could have been there; she would have laughed louder than any of us. You’ll like Betty. Nice girl, Betty; jolly and willin’.’

  They finished the carpet. Then Agnes demonstrated how she cleaned the mantelpiece. ‘Strip everything off first,’ she said; ‘all the vases and the miniatures and be careful of the miniatures because Ma wouldn’t mind how many vases got broken, but she’d go mad if one of these were scratched.’

  The miniatures, Annabella saw, were small paintings of children. There were thirteen of them and because they all had a similarity about them, she asked, ‘Are these relatives?’ and Agnes replied, ‘Relatives! I should say. They’re all our family, our brothers and sisters.’

  ‘But . . . but thirteen?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’s had thirteen of us, but all the rest died atween five and ten, mostly with the typhoid. She just managed to rear us four.’

  This piece of news reduced Annabella to a staring silence. That little woman in the kitchen had lost nine children between the ages of five and ten. It didn’t seem possible.

  ‘They’re all buried over at Stanhope. Every Sunday, rain, hail or snow, that’s if the drifts are not too high,
after church Ma goes up to the graves and she has something for each. It might just be some holly berries, but always something. Don’t look like that, it’s all right, she’s over it, the last one went nigh ten years ago. You’re not crying, are you?’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Ma never cries. Well, if she does it’s in the night; I’ve never seen her cry. Ma’s a great woman.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure she is.’

  They were at the spinet now and Agnes said, ‘Always take care to lift the lid and dust the keys; and be careful, there’s a loose one in the base.’ Then, looking at Annabella brightly, she said, ‘You know I learned this. I had lessons for a whole year. One day a month I went into Hexham. It took a full day to get that hour’s lesson. But it was a waste of time; I hadn’t the hands for it, nor the mind. Did you learn an instrument in your convent?’

  ‘Yes.’ Annabella nodded her head. ‘The pianoforte.’

  ‘Really! Well then, you’ll be able to play this. We’ve got stacks of music up in the attic. Me granda, him that used to read the books’ – she pointed to the shelf – ‘he could play this, and Da keeps it tuned; he has the man coming once a year. Would you like to play something now?’