The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘We . . . we wanted a little money and . . . and a place for the winter.’

  ‘And so you landed here on the Plane.’

  It was as if she had said, ‘And God has delivered you into my hands.’ Annabella closed her eyes and bowed her head, but only for a moment. Looking at Betty again, she implored her now, ‘Please, please, Betty, don’t say anything, don’t tell them who I am. I . . . I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘It remains to be seen, doesn’t it?’ Betty got to her feet. ‘They’re good folks these, none better, there’s not many families kickin’ round like them, but one thing they don’t like is liars. I found that out early on. Speak the truth and shame the devil the mistress says, an’ that’s what they stand by the lot of them. Cousins! How long have you been on the road with him?’

  When Annabella made no reply Betty gave herself the answer. ‘June it happened, didn’t it? And now here’s November. Five months, long time to be travelling around together, ain’t it, a young lady and the groom?’

  Another silence followed this statement; then Betty was speaking again. Her tone no longer lightly jeering, was bitter now as she said, ‘It’s funny, God works in strange ways. He does that. The night when I got home after what happened on the road I thought I would have died. I daren’t tell me ma or da ’cos they wouldn’t have believed me, they would have said I’d been havin’ me fling and that’s why I got the push, an’ it would have been no use tellin’ them to ask me Aunt Eva Page ’cos she was finished with us. Do you know what happened to me that night . . . MISS ANNABELLA?’ She waited, then went on, ‘A man attacked me, an old, dirty, filthy man. I took shelter in a field barn ’cos it was pourin’ whole water and he was in the straw and he practically tore me clothes off me back. I had never been with anybody in me life, keeping meself I was for when the right fellow come along, and then this filthy old beggar. I was bad for over a month and I nearly went mad thinking of what might come of it. Oh, I’ve got a lot to thank you for, Miss Annabella. Me ma always used to say, afore she died, God rest her, that the mills of God grind slow, an’ they surely do, but they grind all right.’

  In the deep, deep silence that fell on the room, Annabella lay taut, and like Rosina would have done, she was asking God why He was allowing these things to happen to her. She had done no wrong, yet she was being made to pay for other people’s sins. Why? Why? And how was she to go on living in this house with Watford hating her like this? She couldn’t, she just couldn’t. She’d have to tell Manuel that she couldn’t.

  It was seven o’clock the following evening when she told Manuel that she couldn’t stay. Facing him across the table in the cottage, she said, ‘I just can’t stay here, I just can’t. Today has been terrible.’

  He had guessed there was something wrong at breakfast time and after dinner, back in the cowsheds, Michael had said to him, ‘They’re not going to take to each other. Now isn’t that a pity. Two nice lasses and not hitting it off.’ He had laughed then and said, ‘The reason’s likely because they praised Annabella up to the skies afore Betty hardly got in the door. “Well, all right,” she said, “but what’s she like at her work?” and our Agnes said, “Oh, she’s as willing as a puppy.” And Betty came back with, “Well, I’m an old bitch and she’d better be careful.” But then she had gone upstairs laughing. And now Ma says she’s been acting like an old bitch towards the puppy all day. Ma’s troubled at the situation. She likes the house happy.’

  With his forearms on the table and his hands joined tightly and his head poked forward, Manuel peered through the candlelight at her and slowly he began to speak. ‘Now listen here, Annabella. Let’s get this straight right away. I’m not leavin’ here and you’re not leavin’ here. The winter’s on us; it’s going to be long and hard and cold. Where would we find another position at this time of the year? And if that were possible, would the people be anything like these folks are? No, no, you bet your life they wouldn’t; these are one family in a thousand. I told you, I feel settled here and they like the way I work, and we have plans the lads and me. We’re going to pave that yard; in our spare time we’re going to start cartin’ the stones from Brank Quarry. We’re going to make a road like I did at Skillen’s. What I’m sayin’ is I’m set here. I know when I’m on a good thing. I want to work for these people, I want to settle here for good, you understand?’

  She was gazing at him, her lips slightly apart. ‘You . . . you mean for life, all your life?’

  ‘Aye, yes, if need be.’

  She looked down at the books on the table, the slate and pencil, and she said, ‘You don’t want to get on, rise, be . . . be your own master in some place?’

  ‘Huh!’ His head went back on his shoulders. Then bringing it forward again and tapping his finger on a book, he said, ‘You’re talking like him, Mr Grimm and his fairy tales. How would I become me own master? I haven’t a trade. The only thing I could be master of would be a tinker’s cart. You know, I’ll tell you something.’ His head came nearer to hers. ‘Deep inside I’ve always objected to workin’ for another man, and I’ve had what you call’ – he again tapped the book – ‘a phrase, that’s what I suppose you’d call it, a phrase, and it went “I’m me own man”; always in times of strain or trouble I would yell inside meself, “You’re your own man, Manuel Mendoza,” and I made myself believe I was me own man. But what I wouldn’t face up to was I would never be in a position to have any men under me. Now these past few days I’ve said, To hell with being me own man, I’ll be Mr Fairbairn’s man, I’ll settle here.’ He stopped; then his voice dropped to a soft murmur. ‘I had plans all made out to settle in this house, to make it . . . me home.’ He now raised his head and moved his eyes about the room. When he brought his gaze back to hers he held her eyes but didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did he said softly, ‘I’m twenty-seven years old, Annabella, I need a wife.’

  She felt her body slowly recoiling from him. Her stooped shoulders straightened. She was sitting upright but he hadn’t moved, and like that he said, his voice slightly louder now, ‘Don’t look so shocked, it’s natural.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m not shocked, and as you say, it’s natural.’

  ‘Yes, as I said, it’s natural.’

  Her eyes still stared into his. ‘Then if you married I . . . I could go?’

  ‘Yes.’ He pulled his body up straight. ‘Yes, of course, you could go.’ His voice sounded airy now, careless. ‘But not until the spring; an’ I’m not going to marry the morrow or the next day for that matter, or next week, I . . . I’ll have to look around, I’m particular, always have been where women are concerned. I’ve been able to pick and choose; I’ve been fortunate in that way.’

  Her head was hanging deeply on her chest as if in defence against his bantering tone and the dejection of her brought him to her side. Gripping her hands, he said briskly, ‘Look, no more of this. We’ll fix her somehow, I’ll get round her.’ He shook her hands, trying to bring her eyes up to his. ‘I’ll tell her some of my tales, I’ll turn on the old Irish charm. It’s a bit rusty because I haven’t used it for some time, but I’ll have a go. I’ll bring her round.’

  Her head remained bent. His proposal didn’t please her. She didn’t like the idea of him telling Betty tales in order to bring her round. When she was still silent he dropped her hands and said harshly, ‘Well, what the devil! Let her tell them. We’ll tell our side, all except one thing.’ His voice dropped. ‘The last night at Amy’s.’ He paused before going quickly on, ‘But for the rest, I think I’ve weighed these people up well enough to know whose side they’ll be on; they’ll all be for you when they know . . . ’

  ‘No, Manuel, I couldn’t bear it, not . . . not for them to know about my beginnings. You see’ – she shook her head in a desperate fashion – ‘you don’t understand how it has affected me, is still affecting me, you don’t realise what a divided parentage like this can . .
. can mean . . . ’

  ‘Don’t I?’ He was sitting opposite to her again now and, his head nodding slowly, he said, ‘You know what you’ve got to realise is that all this has happened afore, and to dozens, hundreds, thousands of people; you’re not the only one who’s got shaken up in the breeding bag.’ He stared at her, looking deep into her green eyes, willing her not to shutter their gaze; then he asked a question, ‘Do you like the name, Manuel Mendoza?’

  The movement of her head was impatient and suggested that she didn’t want to play games, but after a moment she answered, ‘Yes; I think it is a very attractive name.’

  ‘So did I the first time I heard it. You know what my real name is? It’s Tommy . . . Tommy McLaughlin. Yes.’ He moved his head downwards. ‘Me name’s Tommy McLaughlin. The other I picked for meself one day on the quay in Dublin. It’s true. It’s true. You can believe me on this. I had been brought up by the McLaughlins, but I knew I wasn’t of them. Margee, the one I told you about, well, her mother was a midwife of sorts, and one day a girl comes into the village on a carrier cart an’ she was well near her time. The carrier didn’t know where she came from; he had picked her up on the road a few miles back. Within eight hours of her stepping down I was born, and this is no Irish story I’m telling you it’s the truth. She was no great shakes, Margee said, meaning no class, but she had money on her, enough to pay for the laying-in, and quite a bit over. Anyway, when I was ten days old she walked out. No-one saw her go or heard of her after. She left me there, together with ten golden sovereigns. Margee’s mother took the sovereigns and brought me up, and when she died Margee took over and I was known as Tommy McLaughlin, until this day on the quay. And there we were walking along, Margee and me. I was about ten at the time, and down a gangway from one of the boats stepped a man. He was tall and dark and foreign looking; he could have been an Italian or a Spaniard or anything. We didn’t even notice him in passing, he was just another man, and he was some distance away when another figure appeared at the top of the gangway and yelled, “Manuel! Manuel! Manuel Mendoza there!” There was something song-like, something catchy about the name, Man-u-el Men-doz-a. It had a sort of swing, Man-u-el Men-doz-a. I said to Margee, “What would that man be?” and she said, “Oh, a Spaniard likely with a name like that.” I said to her, “Do I look like a Spaniard?” and looking at me, she said, “Aye, a bit. You do a bit. But then I’ve known blond Italians and in parts of Ireland there are faces like yours as thick as blades of grass.”

  ‘But I had already decided to be Spanish, so she didn’t put me off. And I said to her that night, “I’m going to take the name of that man, I’m goin’ to be Manuel Mendoza”; and she clipped me ear affectionately and said, “You’re Tommy McLaughlin, you’re as good as me own.” But inside, from that day, I was Manuel Mendoza.’ There was a long pause before he added, ‘I likely haven’t any more Spanish blood in me than you have, I’m bastard Irish; but bastards need something, something to lean on, a crutch of some sort.’

  ‘Oh, Manuel!’ There were tears in her voice. ‘You make me feel ashamed.’

  ‘I’m glad of that.’ He pushed his chair back and got to his feet, his voice airy again. Then swiftly stooping towards her, he said, ‘Leave it to me, I’ll see to her. She won’t say anything, I promise you; and if she should get under your skin too much, stand up to her, you know like you did to those two fellows a week gone. Don’t bash her with your bundle but give her some tongue; it’s the only thing her type understands, give her some tongue.’

  Again she said, ‘Oh Manuel!’ and this as a protest against the possibility of her giving Betty some tongue. Yet before another week had passed she had done just that.

  It was fortunate, Annabella considered, that she hadn’t to work with Betty, for then the strain would indeed have been too great. They met only at mealtimes and in the evening when, returning from Manuel’s cottage, she would take up her sewing and sit on the settle and speak only when she was spoken to.

  But there were times when she saw Betty from the windows. The sons’ rooms overlooked the back of the house and the farmyard and from the windows she had seen Betty laughing with Manuel in the yard; and another time she had seen them coming out of the dairy together, and Betty had pushed Manuel playfully with the flat of her hand. The gesture had indicated that Manuel was doing as he promised – seeing to Betty. And she was surprised that their apparent familiarity should vex her. But it was this that caused her to use her tongue.

  It was on the Friday night just before she went to bed. The day had been trying in the extreme. Manuel and Sep had driven in to Hexham around noon, taking in half-a-dozen pigs to a pork butcher whom Mr Fairbairn supplied, and they were picking up shopping for Mrs Fairbairn, and, as it should turn out to be Betty’s half-day, she had gone with them. When they returned at six o’clock in the evening they were all singing loudly, and when they entered the kitchen loaded with parcels they were laughing and talking as if they had been on a great spree. Annabella did not look at Manuel, nor did she go across at seven o’clock to give him his lesson, and Betty, while they were both in the scullery, taunted her, saying, ‘What! you not goin’ to learn the child his letters the night?’

  Annabella had forced herself to remain silent and she had excused herself from the kitchen early and gone up to her room, not to get into bed, but to sit fuming on the edge of it until Betty entered. And then she had startled her with her attack.

  Betty had hardly closed the door behind her when Annabella, springing up and standing at her tallest, said, ‘I’m standing no more of this, Watford.’ She laid stress on the name. ‘I give you permission to go down and tell them everything.’

  ‘You give me what?’

  The answer came back as if from Miss Annabella Lagrange. ‘You heard what I said. I give you permission to go down now and tell them everything. Everything, do you hear me?’

  ‘Oh, do you, Madam? Well, I’m gonna tell you somethin’. I’ll pick me own time when to tell them.’

  ‘All right, if you won’t, then I will.’ On this she marched towards the door, only to have Betty bar her way, hissing under her breath, ‘Don’t be daft! What will they think?’

  ‘I don’t care what they think. Whatever they think will be preferable to putting up with your tyranny, your blackmail.’

  They were close enough to feel their breath on each other’s faces. Betty, looking at this transformed Miss Annabella, didn’t need time to think out the situation; she knew that if Annabella went downstairs and told the family the truth that she herself would come badly out of it, not only for haranguing her but for the real reason why she had to leave the Lagrange household. It was a different tale altogether from what she had told. Her tale had been that she had been persecuted by the master, and through this had instantly gained their sympathy.

  She also knew that no matter what her feelings were with regard to Willy, he thought nothing of her except to have a laugh on the side. But this Manuel, now he was a different kettle of fish, and he was taken with her, he had made that plain, and with the insight of her kind she guessed that this was the reason why madam here was on her high horse, because she couldn’t have travelled with him all these months without getting attached in some way, high lady that she still thought she was, for he was a likeable fellow. Oh aye, and different somehow from the ordinary run. So if she let her go downstairs now the outcome would be that they would both go off and that would be the end of that; and her position in this house would never be the same again. She’d have to go wary. Like it or not, she’d have to put a different face on things, so with an effort she made herself droop her head and say, ‘I’m sorry I plagued you; but you would have done the same in my place. You don’t know what it was like those first two years tryin’ to get settled with no reference; driven from pillar to post I was, ’cos they couldn’t keep me at home; nine of them there.’

  The stiffness gra
dually went out of Annabella’s back, her neck muscles slackened and her head drooped. For the moment she forgot that just a short while previously Betty had come in singing with Manuel. She forgot her taunting as she thought, She’s right. I don’t really know what it would be like. Even with the rough experience of the past months, because during all the vicissitudes she’d had Manuel with her.

  Slowly she turned away and walked towards her bed, and Betty towards hers. An uneasy truce had been effected . . .

  Six

  Christmas came with knife-edged winds and flurries of snow which made Mr Fairbairn prophesy, ‘We’re in for it, and it’s going to be long and hard. These winds will harden the ground and the snow will lie for weeks. So Mistress, you’d better think two months ahead when making the list out for the town.’

  The house was gay and warm and the atmosphere happy. Everybody laughed and joked and they all, with the exception of Betty, tried to draw Annabella into their gaiety. But, as Mr Fairbairn said to his wife when in bed, ‘Her face is getting more like the alabaster head in the parlour every day. No movement in it, and yet when she first come there wasn’t a livelier miss. It’s to do with Betty. There’s been jealousy atween them right from the start, but more so since Manuel turned his eyes towards the elder. And you can take me for a fool if that Annabella’s feelings are just cousinly towards him. For my part it don’t matter which either one gets him so long as he stays, for there’s never been a more agreeable man in the sheds, an’ he’s a real wonder with the horses. And what’s more, he can turn his hand to most anything; show him once and he’s got it. The cottage is ready, let him make his choice and I’ll give him a wedding of which he’ll not be ashamed.’

  ‘Can’t see it,’ said Mrs Fairbairn tersely; ‘if he takes one or t’other there’s going to be trouble.’