The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  It wasn’t until she got, shivering, into her clothes that she realised there was thin daylight coming through the thick-frosted panes of the little window, and this made her scamper from the room and down the stairs and into the kitchen where Mrs Fairbairn was already at work as if it was an ordinary day.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry I’m late, Missus,’ Annabella began; but Mrs Fairbairn, cutting thick slices of ham at the corner of the table, said pleasantly, ‘Not late at all, girl; just had you knocked. Where’s Betty?’

  ‘Betty? I . . . I thought she was down.’

  Mrs Fairbairn turned and looked at her, saying, ‘She’s not in her bed?’

  ‘No. She . . . she must be down.’

  ‘Well then, where is she? You go and find her.’

  ‘Yes, Missus. Perhaps . . . perhaps she’s in the dairy.’

  ‘Never knew her going to the dairy without having her tea. The Lord knows where she might be after last night. Had too much mead, full of honey and sauce she was; go and find her.’

  As Annabella went through the scullery, pulling her cloak from a hook and putting it round her, she thought, she certainly had too much sauce, for as the night wore on she had lost all decorum, doing the clog dance and showing her legs almost up to her knees. But then, what could you expect, she was merely being herself . . . Oh, she was out of sorts this morning. She was still very tired and cold, and Manuel’s behaviour hadn’t dimmed with the daylight.

  Betty was not in the dairy. She went to the cowshed. There was no-one in the cowshed, not even any of the men. She opened the door of the grain room, then went to the hayloft, there to see Michael coming slowly down the ladder, supporting himself with one hand while with the other he held his head.

  ‘Have you seen Betty, Mr Michael?’

  ‘Betty?’ He screwed up his eyes against the light, then shook his head. ‘Not up there.’ He jerked his head towards the loft and grinned, then put his two hands to it as if the action had pained him, and he kept them there on his way to the pump.

  She trudged through the snow and looked in the stables but could see no-one, and as she was about to turn towards the house again Willy came from the direction of Manuel’s cottage. ‘Hello there!’ he hailed her. Like his mother, he was about his work and the past night’s gaiety had seemingly left no effect on him.

  ‘Have you seen Betty, Mr Willy?’

  ‘Betty?’ He shook his head. ‘You lookin’ for her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s two of us then. I can’t find Manuel, he’s not in his bed.’

  It was as if her body was being squeezed by an unseen pressure. They looked at each other, and when she turned and walked away he walked with her. They went through an arch at the end of the stable yard and took the path that was a short cut round to the side door of the byres. The path was sheltered by the stable wall on one side but open to a paddock on the other. The paddock looked like an unbroken white plane except for the caravan that stood by the hedge and about two hundred feet from the stables. The caravan had been used as a playhouse by all the Fairbairn children. It was a gypsy caravan and the wall paintings still showed patches of brightness here and there. Although the wood was rotting in parts and the roof leaked and the front wheels had shrunk from the iron tyres, it still looked what it was, a gypsy caravan. It had been the home of a single gypsy for many years and periodically came to rest with Mr Fairbairn’s permission in the meadow down by the burn, and its owner would do a turn on the farm and earn a few coppers, especially at the haymaking or fruiting time. Then one day they found him dead in his caravan, and when two years went by and no relatives came to claim the old man’s property and burn the van, as was the custom, the boys, who had looked after the horse in the meantime, had dragged the caravan up to the field here so that the young ones could play in it.

  And now its rickety door opened and down the four worn steps came Betty, and after her Manuel. He, like Michael, was holding his head in his hands, and when he reached the ground he turned and leant against the scroll which supported the hood over the driving seat, and Betty, putting her arm round his waist, leant her head against his shoulder and her gurgle of laughter seemed to split the icy air. And then she was leading him up the field by the hedge.

  On they stumbled through the snow until Manuel lifted his head, and then he stopped dead, and through his swollen eyes he brought the two figures into focus. Then he flung his head from side to side as if shaking something off. When it became still his chin was deep on his chest, but when he raised it again there was no-one standing under the shelter of the wall . . .

  It was three days later before he managed to get a word with her.

  ‘I was drunk,’ he cried. ‘Don’t you understand? I was drunk. I’ve never drunk like that for over eight months. Every now and again I need to drink and when I do I go headlong to hell. That was a short bout; two, three, four days I can be at it, you might as well know. Why did I gather all my days leave together back at the House, eh? Just so’s I could go on a spree. How I came to be in the caravan I tell you I don’t know; you know as much about it as me. There’s only one thing I do know. In my right senses I’d never have been there . . . ’ He waited, then bawled, ‘Say something. Go on, say something. Ask me what happened in there, anything, only don’t stand looking at me as if I’d crucified Christ . . . I’m a man, and there are things a man needs to ease the urge that eats at him from the bowels outwards. I’ve curbed the reins for months, and would have gone on because I held a picture in me mind, but I didn’t count on the mead, I didn’t count on going over me number.’

  She let him talk until his words ran out, and then she turned from him and walked away . . .

  A fortnight later, Mr Fairbairn again had something to say about the situation to his wife. ‘That Betty wants her ears boxed, Missus,’ he said; ‘an’ if I stand to lose Manuel I’ll do the job myself.’

  ‘Either way you won’t lose him,’ Mrs Fairbairn remarked calmly. ‘He’ll take one or the other and the house is waiting.’

  ‘And which do you think it’ll be?’ he asked her.

  ‘If I get my wish, he’ll take Betty. Have your eyes been open lately to what’s happening to our Willy?’

  ‘I’m not blind, Missus. What would you say to his choice?’

  ‘Well, taking all in all I’d welcome it, for neither Lizzie nor Sarah can hold a candle to her. Yet I’m not happy about her; there’s something that puzzles me about this convent upbringing. Have you ever thought why they didn’t keep her on there when her parents died? A young, comely girl like that, throwing her out into the world and into a family such as Manuel’s, for although he’s a cut above his class, he comes of working people? It isn’t the pattern I’ve heard that nuns take, especially when they’re dealing with young innocents, what I mean is, throw them out on to the world. No, it puzzles me, and although I say I would welcome her, I don’t think there’s much chance of it. She doesn’t favour Willy, although she took his shawl. Well, time will tell. There’s one thing evident and that is she’s scunnered against her cousin, be he cousin or no. But I’m not bothering my head about it at the moment for I’ve got enough on my plate with the wedding looming up, and if there isn’t a thaw within the next three weeks can you tell me how they’re going to get to the church?’

  All during January the men were kept busy outside from early morning until late at night; day after day they dug sheep with their lambs out of drifts and carried them to higher ground, and day following day they cut paths through fresh falls of snow to enable them to attend to the animals, until the snow banks were head high all around the farm.

  The pattern of the evenings had altered considerably. There was no collective sitting round the fire as there had been before Christmas. Manuel never sat in the kitchen at night now. After collecting his supper he returned to the house or t
o the stables, where he spent most of his short free time.

  As for Betty she was gay, talkative and very pleasant, at least during the day, but at night, when in bed, she had taken to talking to herself. The first time it happened, the third day of the New Year, her voice had come out of the darkness as if she was thinking aloud, saying, ‘I’ll likely have a bairn. That’ll make it October, but we’ll be nicely settled in afore that.’

  Annabella had not slept that night.

  Another night, in the darkness came the words, ‘Some people should start making plans.’ That was all.

  Then once more in the darkness, ‘Funny, me being your nursemaid when you were a bairn, an’ him actin’ as nursemaid to you when you were a lass, an’ then him an’ me comin’ together. Sort of like two people in the same trade.’

  Another night the mutterings had gone on for a long while until Annabella, in desperation, put her hands over her ears. But this action only dulled her acute hearing, and the words stabbed at her. ‘Tacked yourself on to him. You should be ashamed of yourself. Still, as me da always says, breedin’ will out, an’ real breedin’ damn well came out, I’ll say it did, ’cos you’re shameless to go trailing the roads with a man like any tinker’s trollop.’

  Betty’s taunting was having a strange effect on Annabella’s mind. Each fresh attack seemed to push her back into the past; almost nightly now she imagined herself in the carriage going down Crane Street, and the woman’s face was as vivid as it had been on the first day she had seen her. Sometimes she was joined by the man with the twisted nose and she would see herself alone in the carriage, looking first one way at the woman then the other at the man; they’d each be hanging on to the door as they ran. Then at times she’d hear Manuel’s voice saying, ‘They’ll have none of her, let her go back to Crane Street.’ At other times she would see herself standing before old Alice looking up at her and asking, ‘What is a bastard, Alice?’ Her mind at this point would begin to work along odd lines, for she would shout up at Alice, ‘But I’m not a bastard any longer, Alice, I have a real mama and papa.’

  And she had a real mama and papa, ma and da, mother and father. Whatever title she had a mind to give them, they were her parents; she wasn’t a bastard like Manuel . . . Manuel was a bastard.

  During the day she managed to keep her mind on her work. Sometimes she would give Agnes a thin smile, and that kindly young woman tried to cheer her up. She had grown very fond of Agnes; she hoped she would be very happy when she married.

  Then one day she asked herself what she would do when Manuel married. Would she leave here? Yes, she answered. Yes, she would leave here. In fact, she would leave before he married. She would leave after Agnes’ wedding, the day after. When Agnes was happily away to her new home she would leave.

  It was a week before the wedding when the thaw set in, and for a time she was shaken out of anxiety state when Mrs Fairbairn said to her, around ten in the morning, ‘Go and change your frock, girl. Willy’s driving into Hexham; I want you to go along with him and do some errands for me.’

  Obediently, she had gone upstairs and changed her dress; but she didn’t put on the blue cord velvet but the one she had been sewing at for months. Nor did she put on the new shoes but kept her old boots on. Yet before she donned her cloak she draped Willy’s shawl around her shoulders.

  When he helped her up into the front seat of the waggon and saw the fringe hanging down beneath the cloak he took it as a good sign.

  They were both very cold when they arrived in Hexham and the first thing he did was to take her for a meal, and after it was over and there was some colour in her cheeks he took her into the lounge room, and there he ordered coffee and brandy and insisted that she drink it, and for the first time in weeks she felt warmed; and it was at this point he spoke.

  ‘You know why I have brought you out, Annabella?’

  She blinked her eyes, saying, ‘Yes, Mr Willy, for your mother’s errands.’

  ‘Don’t call me Mr Willy, Annabella. And I didn’t bring you out for Mother’s errands, I brought you to ask you a question that’s been on my mind for weeks. I’m no good at light talk, I’m just a plain, ordinary fellow and I’m askin’ you to be my wife.’

  She had stared at him, her mouth actually falling into a gape. Then her hand had gone to her throat.

  ‘Oh, Mr Willy! I mean, it’s very kind of you and thank you for the honour but . . . but I never thought. You see it hasn’t crossed my mind. I’m sorry I . . . ’

  ‘Take your time, take your time. I know that you’re fond of Manuel and the way things have gone have upset you, but every man has to make his own choice. I’ll be good to you, I promise that, and once Dad goes the farm will be mine because he’s giving Michael and Sep their share when they wed. You’ll have a good home and security and no more trailing the roads.’

  ‘Oh please, please, I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m very much aware of the honour but . . . ’

  He waved her fine talk away, then sat staring at her for a long while before saying, ‘Then why did you take me shawl?’ He lifted up the red fringe, and she said, ‘Take . . . take your shawl? But it was a Christmas gift.’

  He looked up and then down before he said, ‘A man doesn’t usually give a maid’ – his meaning of maid in this instance referred to a servant and she realised this – ‘a present like that, not hereabouts anyway; it has a meaning. But perhaps you didn’t know.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, I didn’t. I’m afraid I’m very ignorant on a number of matters . . . ’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘If I give you time to ponder it, will you change, do you think?’

  She looked at his round homely face, at his sandy hair, at his thick, strong body, and she thought, ‘If only I could. Oh, if only I could.’

  Her silence brought him to his feet and he said stiffly, ‘Well, we better be gettin’ on with the errands; we’ve got to get back in case it starts again, the sky’s heavy . . . ’

  Manuel was in the kitchen when they returned. He had been answering some question of Mrs Fairbairn’s and when the door opened he swung round and faced them, his eyes flashing from one to the other looking for the answer, but he could not read it, for Annabella’s eyes were downcast and Willy looked as usual. Willy’s face rarely gave anything away . . .

  Two days before the wedding a quick thaw set in, turning the fields into lakes and the roads into bogs, and then, because Agnes said God had answered her prayers, the night before her wedding day a frost descended and hardened the ground and, joy of joys, a weak sun came out in the morning.

  The sun shone on the wedding party all through the drive to Stanhope; it shone on the long line of traps and farm waggons on the hilarious return journey. It shone till three o’clock in the afternoon when the newly wed couple mounted the new farm cart, and the groom took up the reins on the two spanking horses, the whole outfit a wedding gift from his father-in-law. It went down as the newly married couple moved off amid cheers and waving from all the guests and members of the household, except one.

  Annabella was in the wash-house. She was leaning against the upturned tub which she and Agnes had sweated over every Monday for weeks past. She was crying because Agnes had gone. It was a silent, quiet crying. The tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, she could think of nothing at the moment but that Agnes was gone. Her one friend was gone. Mr and Mrs Fairbairn were good, and the boys were good and kind, but Agnes had been more than good and kind, she had been understanding. She had said to her last night, ‘I know how you feel, Annabella, I know how you feel. You see, I don’t love Dave like I did John Bailey. He had a farm over near Bishop Auckland. He used to come out here a lot at one time. He made it plain he was after me, and then all of a sudden he stops and the next thing I hear he’s married the bailiff’s daughter from Lord Crosby’s place. I was bad for a time after that, I had no interest in anythi
ng, and when Dave came along I thought no, never, because no-one could replace John. But time changes you.’ She had gone on without pause. ‘Our Willy’s a good man, Annabella; it’s a pity you can’t favour him, but I understand you won’t be able to until Manuel’s out of your life. Once he’s tied up like John was you’ll settle and your mind will turn in another direction, you’ll see.’

  Dear, dear Agnes. If only what she said was true and her mind would turn in another direction. She was so tired of it all, so weary of feeling like this. But it would soon be over, there wasn’t much longer to wait.

  The determination to take her own life that had been growing in her for some time now was not only the outcome of Manuel’s defection, or unfaithfulness, or whatever way she thought of it, but the revelation of her birth and all it implied, the strain of the past months on a physique unaccustomed to manual labour, and the strong, religious upbringing instilled in her by Rosina, and which was now telling her that why she was being made to suffer was because she had been born of sinful people, and as Alice so often said, the sins of the fathers were visited on the children.

  The wedding party danced in the long barn, and during all the evening she carried food from the kitchen across the frozen yard to the guests. On one of her journeys she heard Miss Percy say to Mr Sep, ‘What’s come over Manuel? He won’t take a drink. He’s not a bit like he was at Christmas.’ And Sep’s reply, ‘Oh, he’s decided to go on the waggon. But his feet are all right; look at him there dancing with Aunt Mildred. Did you ever! She’s like a two year old.’

  Every time she entered the barn Manuel was dancing. Once their eyes met. His gaze was dark, almost fierce, and she looked through it and beyond him. On her way back to the kitchen she thought men were strange creatures, cruel creatures. Look at her papa, how he had treated her mama . . . And Manuel could dance. Her thoughts suddenly leapt back to a ballroom in London and she thought Miss Kathleen Wainheart could dance too; and Stephen could dance. He had danced a lot with Miss Wainheart, she remembered. Three men in her life, her papa, Stephen, and Manuel, and all in their different ways had said they loved her and then had left her. Or had she been imagining that they loved her? Was it her need of their love that made her think that they loved her, because not one of them had actually said, Annabella, I love you?