The Branded Man

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘It’s a snifter out there, sir, isn’t it?’

  She was talking to him and he said, ‘Yes; yes it is, it’s very cold.’

  As she helped him off with his coat she said, ‘The master’s in the sitting room, sir.’

  The sitting room. That room had always been called the sitting room in this house; in The Manor it was the drawing room.

  ‘Thank you.’

  As he left her to cross the hall towards the far door it opened, and into the hall came a young woman. She was wearing a loose woollen-type gown, but it could not hide the mound of her stomach. Her shining brown hair lay in rolls on the back of her head. He stopped dead at the sight of her. He couldn’t believe she was Marie Anne, his daughter whom he had last seen almost sixteen months ago. There was no semblance left of the child he had known. Here was a young woman, a pregnant young woman.

  She had stopped too, one hand still on the door handle, that is until she saw him slowly lift his arms towards her, and then she was running into them, whimpering, ‘Oh, Father! Father!’

  As James Lawson clasped his younger daughter in his arms he had a great desire to cry. He knew that for the moment he was unable to speak, even to mention her name, because he was realising that for the first time in his life his arms had enfolded the child who had been conceived out of a battle of wills and reared under hate.

  ‘Oh, Father, it’s good to see you’—she had pressed herself from his embrace but, elbows bent, they were still holding hands breast high between them—‘I’m sorry for all the trouble I’m causing. I…I don’t want it, Father. Believe me, I don’t want it.’

  ‘Shh!…shh!’ The sound of his own voice seemed to give him courage and he said, ‘It’s all right, I understand.’ Then there was a tight smile as he made a moue with his mouth before asking softly, ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the sitting room; but he’s just nodded off, and he generally sleeps for half an hour after lunch. Come…come along here.’

  She was leading him by the hand now, out of the hall and along a short corridor towards a door which led into the west wing.

  He couldn’t remember how many years it was since he had been in this wing. It must have been some time before his mother had died. She used it for what she called her retreat, but from that time it hadn’t been closed up, but just ignored, because his father wanted only the Makepeaces and a maid to see to him during the odd times he came back here.

  They were now in a small hall, with a corridor going off one side and a flight of shallow stairs off the other, and these led to the one-time nursery. Perhaps it was the effect of the snow outside, but every place looked extra bright and shining.

  Marie Anne said, ‘Come into my little sitting room; it’s warm in there,’ and added, ‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you, Father, and to be able to have a chat with you.’

  He did not answer, And with you, Marie Anne, because he was amazed at the change in this girl who was now, to all intents and purposes, a young woman and, strangely, so like his mother used to be, for he recalled now that she, too, had used this room. He noticed at once that the carpet, curtains and covers had been replaced; in fact, the whole place must have been redecorated to suit his father’s beloved granddaughter.

  When they were seated on the couch by the open log fire, she repeated, ‘I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t want all this change; I mean, the things Grandfather’s doing, believe me. I think if I had known he was going to be so drastic, I wouldn’t have returned.’

  ‘My dear, you had to.’

  ‘Oh no, Father; no, not really. Not after I escaped from Aunt Martha’s. Oh! Father,’ she said as she shook her head.

  He too now shook his in agreement as he said, ‘Oh, you have no need to tell me about Martha, Marie Anne. You were on my conscience for a long time, knowing that your mother had sent you to her.’

  ‘Well, when Aunt Martha was for putting me in that home, I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t been for her maid, Miss Foggerty…Sarah. She it was who saved me from so many things. I thought I would be able to manage on my own, but now I know I never could have, not in London and’—her voice dropped—‘the way I was placed.’ She now put a hand on his knee as she asked quietly, ‘Would you meet Sarah? I mean, Miss Foggerty. Grandfather has appointed her his housekeeper, and although she is on the staff now, she will always be my friend.’

  ‘Well, if you would like me to; yes. Yes, of course.’

  He watched her rise and with a natural movement pull the bell rope to the side of the fireplace before sitting down again, and when the door opened and Fanny Carter appeared she said to her, ‘Would you tell Miss Foggerty, Fanny, that I would like to see her for a moment if she’s not too busy?’

  ‘Yes, miss. Yes, miss.’

  When the door closed on the cheery voice James looked hard at this daughter of his. She was acting as mistress of the house and in such a way that would have been an object lesson to his wife.

  Leaning towards her father, and her face bright now, Marie Anne said, ‘You won’t have to mind, Father, what she says. You’ll see, or you’ll hear immediately that she’s Irish, and she comes out with the funniest things. And she has no idea of place. To her, everyone is the same.’ Then, her smile fading, she added; ‘There were times, Father, when it was only her humour that dragged me up from the depths of misery and saved me from doing something silly. I was so unhappy there. Oh, so unhappy.’

  His hand now came on hers and he said, ‘If anyone is to blame for that, it’s me. Oh yes, yes, it is. I should have made a stand years ago, and it’s only recently I have had to face the fact, been forced to face the fact, that I am a weak and self-indulgent man and that all you’ve gone through since you were a child I could have prevented had I been other than I am.’

  When there came a tap on the door Marie Anne took her hand away and rose to her feet to greet Sarah, saying, ‘I would like you to meet my father, Sarah.’

  As James Lawson attempted to rise to his feet Sarah put out her hand as if pushing him back and in a conciliatory voice she said, ‘Don’t fash yourself, sir. Don’t fash yourself; but I am very pleased to meet you.’

  When James took her outstretched hand and it was shaken twice, he said, ‘I am very pleased to meet you, too, Miss Foggerty, because I learn you have been very good indeed to my daughter when she needed help and a friend.’

  ‘Oh, it’s worked both ways, sir, both ways, because I took her under my wing the first day I saw her; and it isn’t often one gets prizes for rescuing lost birds. And haven’t I been given one out of all proportion to my deservin’!’

  Marie Anne saw that her father was smiling; then she thought he was going to burst out laughing when Sarah said, ‘Could I get you something, sir? A cup of tea? It’s on three o’clock. Miss usually has a tray about this time.’

  James now turned a swift glance on Marie Anne. She too was smiling, and he said to her, ‘That would be very nice, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Father; yes, it would.’ Then turning to Sarah, she said, ‘That would be nice, Sarah. Yes, please.’

  ‘No sooner said than done; I’ll see to it meself, miss.’

  The door had hardly closed on her when James covered his eyes with his hand and bit on his bottom lip, and Marie Anne, leaning against his arm, said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, Father. She is, as she thinks, carrying out the housekeeper’s post and she’s playing it as she sees it should be done. It’s impossible to be dull where she is, Father. Fanny and Carrie like her; although I don’t know so much about Mrs Makepeace. She’s ruled the roost for so long she can’t see any need for a housekeeper. However, Sarah will get round her, never fear. But imagine, Father, if Mrs Piggott heard her. She would collapse with hands in the air, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed, indeed.’

  ‘Father’—Marie Anne’s face was straight now—‘I learned about life under Sarah, life such as I never imagined anyone could live. Her sister lives on the third floor of a tenement
. She has ten children and an unhelpful husband, and Sarah has helped to support them for years out of a salary of six shillings a week.’

  ‘Six shillings a week?’

  ‘Yes, Father. That’s what Aunt Martha paid her, and she was on duty night and day. It was to this family she took me, the only place she had to take me when Aunt Martha was, as Sarah said, hell-bent on getting me into a house for fallen women. And that’s how we came to live in the two attic rooms above her sister. But there were three long flights of stairs, Father, and everything had to be brought up or taken down: coal, water, everything. Oh, I learned a lot about life and kindness and love, and also, Father, and you’ll never believe it, I learned how to earn a living with my drawing.’

  ‘Earn a living with your—?’

  ‘You know, my caricatures.’

  ‘Really! You’ve managed to sell them?’

  ‘Yes’—her head was wagging proudly now—‘and to a daily newspaper. At first, they wanted to give me only four shillings a drawing, but Sarah, being there, demanded five, and we got it. That was…oh, in December. Then when I thought they had forgotten me I received a letter, asking me to meet the editor at the beginning of the New Year, and he was going to take me on, I think, permanently. Anyway, I would have to supply one or two drawings a week. He was greatly taken with one of them; and you know where I got the idea for that?’

  James shook his head, and she went on, ‘From nine of the children sitting round the table guzzling lamb stew, arguing with each other as they ate, gnawing at the bones, and so I did a caricature of them and called it “Table Manners”. It’s funny; I must show it to you. Anyway, I wrote and told him of my changed circumstances and that my name was not Foggerty, and I got such a nice, a really nice letter back from the editor. He was so enthusiastic about my work, and so we have done a deal and I shall be sending sketches each week.’

  ‘Not really!’

  ‘Yes, Father, really. But Pat says he’s a daylight robber.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, Pat says, I should have had at least a pound a sketch, if not more, and when he’s up in London he’s going to see him and suggest a contract.’

  ‘Well! Well! You do surprise me.’

  ‘Yes, Father’—her voice was flat now—‘I suppose I do in all ways.’

  His hand now came on her arm as he said softly, ‘Don’t be offended at what I’m going to say, my dear, but is the father of your child aware of your position?’

  She turned her head away now, saying, ‘Yes. Yes; as soon as he knew, I understand he went back to Spain.’

  ‘A Spaniard?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Then she looked him fully in the face. ‘He was the music teacher that Aunt Martha chose for me after she had bargained with him to reduce his price from two and six an hour to two shillings.’ And here she shook her head as she added, ‘There are many kinds of humiliation one can suffer in life, Father.’

  ‘Yes; yes, my dear. But anyway, I’m glad to know who it was: it has cleared my mind, because some people have got it into their heads that it was…well, that man McAlister. Yet I couldn’t believe it, because my father thinks so highly of him.’

  While her father was speaking Marie Anne had pulled herself slowly from him and up to her feet, and her mouth was in a wide gape now as she exclaimed, ‘How…how dare they! I mean…Mr McAlister? He…he’s a fine gentleman and I’m here today only because of him. He saw me playing the piano in the eating house and recognised me, and he came back here and told Grandpa and…and Pat. That’s how it started, I mean my return…Mr McAlister. Oh, how could they! And him…well, him so disfigured.’

  ‘That’s…that’s what I thought.’

  ‘Who is saying this, Father?’

  ‘It seems to be the rumour among the servants, because your Grandfather has invited the man here to dinner, I understand.’

  ‘Yes; yes, he has, because both he and Pat consider him a very clever man: he’s really a sculptor, you know, and all the work he does here he takes to the priory near where The Courts are. That’s what they called the slum houses where I lived with Sarah. Grandfather insisted on going to see this place. He was horrified. And it was Mr McAlister who arranged for Grandfather and Pat to stay at the priory, and that’s where Mr McAlister took me to meet him. Oh, that man’s done everything in his power to help me; and for them to say such a thing!’

  ‘Treat it as servants’ gossip, my dear.’

  ‘But servants’ gossip gets about, Father; you know it does.’ And now she added almost angrily, ‘They’ll all be waiting for my child to be born to see if it’s got a brand on it.’

  ‘Oh no! No, no!’ He shook his head. ‘Come here and sit down again. I’m sorry I mentioned it, but I’m so glad you’ve given me your confidence.’

  ‘Well, Father, perhaps if it had been him he wouldn’t have left me like the other one did.’

  ‘Was he young?’

  She sat down now, and her voice was without lightness as she said, ‘No, he wasn’t; he…he was almost forty.’

  ‘Blast him!’ came as a muttered growl, and Marie Anne said, ‘You must blast us both then, Father, because…because I thought I was in love with him. But then, of course, I didn’t know what love was, and…and still don’t.’

  Without her usual tap on the door, it swung open and Sarah entered the room pushing a trolley, the top shelf laden with tea things, the lower one holding buttered tea cakes and scones.

  ‘Will I pour out for you?’ said Sarah.

  ‘No, thank you, Sarah; I’ll manage.’

  ‘Well, try the buttered teacakes first, while they’re hot,’ and she was about to turn away when the door opened again and Emanuel Lawson stood there, saying, ‘Well, well! This is what happens when I drop off for a minute.’

  ‘I was coming in to you, Father, but you were—’

  ‘Sit where you are, James. Sit where you are. I’m going to sit here, and if our Miss Foggerty will bring another cup and saucer, I too will have a cup of tea.’

  ‘At this very minute, sir, this very minute.’

  As Sarah hurried out, Emanuel leaned across to his son, saying, ‘I had never had so much light entertainment in my life until that one came into my establishment. It isn’t what she says, it’s the way she says it; that and her voice. You’ve just got to hear it, and you laugh.’

  James nodded with a smile, saying, ‘Yes, it’s her voice. You wouldn’t have to ask her where she came from.’

  ‘Are those toasted teacakes?’

  ‘Yes, Grandfather,’ said Marie Anne, as she held out the plate towards him.

  ‘Strange,’ Emanuel said, ‘but I’ve never been given toasted teacakes with my three o’clock cup of tea. Whose idea was this?’

  For answer, Marie Anne said, ‘Your housekeeper’s, Grandpa.’

  ‘Oh aye! Another one of her innovations? The morning porridge has changed, too, James, you know: it has more salt in it and it’s made with milk, and believe me, although I wouldn’t dare let this come to Maggie’s ears, it’s a great improvement.’

  They were laughing together when the door opened again and Sarah entered with a cup and saucer and small plate, and turning to Marie Anne, she asked, ‘Will I not pour for you? It’ll save you gettin’ to your feet.’

  After a quick nip at her bottom lip, Marie Anne said, ‘Do that, Sarah, please; yes.’

  So Sarah pushed the trolley to one side and deftly poured out the three cups of tea; also, she brought up a small table and placed it at her master’s side; then another, a little larger, she put between Marie Anne and her father; and all without a word. But as if she had just accomplished some handiwork, she dusted her hands lightly down the small frilled apron that hung from the waist of her pale blue print uniform dress, and said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it to look after yourselves;’ and smiling from one to the other, lastly at Marie Anne, her smile seeming to ask, how am I doing? she turned and went out.

  After a moment’s silence, Marie Anne
handed the plate to her father, saying, in a good imitation of Sarah, ‘Would you be for havin’ one of these, or are you rather for a scone?’

  And James, answering in like fashion, said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d be after a scone.’

  Sitting back in his chair and chewing on a piece of the teacake, Emanuel realised he was watching his son laugh, and he asked himself how long since, if ever, he had seen his son laughing wholeheartedly. He must have forgotten for the moment what his visit portended and, too, that his lightness of manner might not be all due to the Irish woman’s chatter but also to the fact that he was talking with his daughter, which he had certainly never seen him do before; in fact, not with either of his daughters. And he knew that James had been here for quite a while, because when one of the maids had come in to make up the fire he had been awake and she had said, ‘Mr James has come, sir, but Miss Marie Anne took him along to her sitting room; she didn’t wish to disturb you.’

  That must have been all of twenty minutes ago or more and he had sat there waiting until he had become impatient. And so here he was with his son, who appeared to be somewhat different from yesterday, even though he must know that something dire still awaited him …

  Between them they cleared the plates of teacakes and scones, and after a second cup of tea and perfunctory conversation Marie Anne rose to her feet, saying, ‘I’ll leave you for a time to have a talk with Maggie and see how the dinner is getting on, because I know she wasn’t pleased with Sarah’s menu this morning. For a start, she snorted at the Irish broth, saying her Scotch broth had been good enough up to now, and whoever had heard of putting a sauce on lemon sole? Sauces always took the taste of the food away, et cetera, et cetera. So, Grandfather, don’t be surprised if you get Welsh broth tonight and tartare sauce so tart you’ll never want it again.’

  Emanuel was laughing as he, too, bantered, ‘It’s a wonder your Irish wizard hasn’t got round Maggie before now; her powers must be waning.’