Momentarily, a magnetism hit Mallory with an impact so forceful, it was more powerful than physical contact. She stood transfixed, then made to move, but was stiff, jerking like a robot, not in control of her limbs. She lowered herself onto the log next to the garment, not the girl and leaned forward, taking deep breaths, hands clasped loosely between spread knees. In that moment of receptivity, her brain had been filled with a cognition that somehow their destinies would be linked. She had been profoundly overwhelmed. Don’t be so ridiculous Mal, she chastised herself. They were worlds apart, not only in station, but in chronology. Any idea of closeness was impossible. Then why had she experienced such a positive prescience? Mystified and confused she shook her head, but knew that this scene she would hold undimmed in her mind’s eye, to the end of her days.
Nigella watched this strange young man, her own self-absorption temporarily set aside by curiosity. Once again she found herself appraising him. Not as a regular servant, but as an individual in his own right, worthy of attention. Certainly he had regarded her most singularly and now his behaviour was equally odd. She would like to know more, but her usual impetuosity was checked. There seemed to be a tantalizing mystique about him, some enigma which was drawing her in, despite appearances. She studied his hands, strong boned and grimed with dirt, but for all that, she liked what she saw. No affectation and no nonsense, but still something confounded her.
The silence between them lengthened and hung in the air, almost like a mediating force. Nigella felt it lying between them, keeping them together, but if one of them spoke, the connection would break and they would be released into their separate worlds. With a blink the spell was fragmented. Sometimes my mind is too fanciful.
“If I’m upset I seek out my old tree and tell him my troubles.”
Mallory raised her head and looked across the dividing space, the face before her intensely vulnerable and yes, precious. A stab of emotion, rough and protective pierced her, followed by a curious feeling of uncertainty.
“I did sense my Lady … you were perhaps … not quite yourself.” She spoke haltingly, still struggling to decipher her own feelings and in the effort creased her brows moving their contours towards fierce confrontation, rather than sympathetic understanding.
Nigella was discomfited again as the words crystallized around her, still trying to understand this young man. “You were annoyed. I pushed Burrow too hard?”
“No … no my Lady, I was thinking only of your safety, concerned if he bounded out of control.” Crikey! It’s not my place to pass judgement.
“Then why do you look so censorious?” she pressed.
“Not at all, I was thinking of … of something else … my Lady,” she replied obliquely. She wanted to make things better, not worse. “It’s peaceful here. Is that the cry of a Thrush? Perhaps we are a little too close to her nest?”
Nigella cocked her ear and listened. “I think you’re right, but I don’t know about the nest. It’s getting late in the season. Perhaps she’s calling to her mate?”
“The sound has a beautiful English quality. Our birds tend to be more strident, less melodic.”
“Where are you from, Mason?”
“My home is in Australia.”
“Oh, how exciting,” she exclaimed, trying to recall her school texts on the Dominions. Apart from the convict transports it was not much, but she was sure he would not be one of those he seemed too … well … special.
Mallory did not want to get into this, but could see that talking about her country was diverting to the girl, bringing back that exuberance which had been temporarily over-shadowed, the occasional smile once more animating those gloriously expressive eyes. So, for a short while she found stories of interest, mostly about the reef, the ocean and the rain forest, with which to regale her. She kept away from anything too personal. That pain was still too intense.
Nigella listened fascinated, only occasionally interjecting for a point of clarification. The modulation of his sounds, so different from the strained voices she heard daily, intrigued her. This voice in itself, with its pitch and intonation, so capable of revealing hidden facets of character, also enthralled her.
“My dad taught my brother and me some bush law.”
“Bush law? That sounds different.”
“Yes, for safety’s sake you know – if ever we should get stranded. For example: looking for water, you could always follow animal tracks, so long as they’re converging. If you came to a fork then you’d know you were going in the wrong direction. Of course, if there’s no water then you shouldn’t eat, even if you do have food.”
“Anything else?” she enquired, entranced.
“What else? If your vehicle becomes bogged down in wet, sandy flats you wouldn’t try to drive quickly away, but stop, gradually deflate the tires until you can move on again.”
She was spellbound, utterly captivated by the young man and his looks. She drank in every detail of the face which she saw mostly in profile, since the head turned only occasionally, when a point was to be emphasized. On those occasions she felt warmed by his steady gaze. In the beams of light still slanting through the branches of the Beech tree, his hair gleamed as if spun from gold. For the most part he looked off into the distance, journeying back to those favourite haunts.
“You sound as though you miss your home very much,” she observed with compassion. She had detected a forlorn nostalgia in the voice and glimpsed a sadness in the eyes, quite moving her. The words, so neutral on the surface yet underneath, were burdened by a hidden trouble. There was an unfinished air to his discourse as if auras, elusive yet powerful, were present just beyond her field of perception. As Mason regaled her with anecdotes, his features changed. Memories of the past faded the light in his eyes, the smile becoming bitter-sweet and the lines of his face, shadowy before, now more pronounced.
Suddenly Mallory jumped up, realising that the crimson rays of twilight were invading the glade. She would be in serious trouble if she did not get her charge back to home base right away. The sky had transformed to a luminous turquoise, bespeaking a fast approaching sunset. They would have to move.
“Come my Lady, we must leave immediately. We’re late and there’ll be consequences if we don’t ride like the wind.”
Nigella looked about her. A pale glow had appeared in the west. She did not protest at being so imperiously ordered, but followed immediately, inclining her head with a hint of a smile. As they rode back at the gallop, Mallory was reminded of the words of a song from her own time, which she had loved:
We’re riding high; we’re riding through the sky,
We’re riding on the wings of an Angel.
She could not recall the name of the group, but the refrain accompanied the thunderous hoof beats of their horses as they raced for home. She maintained a fast pace and this time Nigella followed. The cool air hit their faces and took their breath away, but they did not break stride ’til they reached the cobbles of the yard. By this time dusk had done no more than smudge the horizon.
“Quick my Lady, return to your room and change. I could be dismissed otherwise,” Mallory urged as she helped with the dismount. “I’ll see to the horses right away. Please, hurry!”
Nigella did as she was told and Mallory led the horses to their stalls. She was late for the evening feeds, but had not missed them totally. She could probably slip in unnoticed and pick up.
* * *
As chores were nearing completion, she was surprised to see Dottie talking to Jake. The girl nodded and stepped back to the fence, apparently prepared to wait. When Mallory went over to the tap to rinse off her hands, the house maid came forward and spoke. “I wanted to ask if ya’d like t’ join our choir, we ’ave a practise after supper in the chapel ’all. There’s a good group goes an’ ya’ can get t’ meet some new people.” She looked eagerly up at Mallory, the hope in her eyes plain to see.
About to decline, she changed her mind. It would be good to meet the villagers, not jus
t those who worked on the estate. She did not have the greatest voice, but she could carry a tune. “Thank you Dottie I’d like that, what time and where, exactly?”
Dottie broke into wreaths of smiles. “O…oo loverly.” She followed this with the details then skipped off happily, visions of Millie’s green face filling her head.
Back at the house, Mrs. Pogue thought the choir was a good idea too. They only had leftovers for supper and so she had time to soak for a while in the bath before getting ready. She had not much to choose from in her wardrobe so Thora went off and found a Fair Isle cardigan Arnold used to wear. It was slightly threadbare in the elbows, but better than staying in her work jacket.
The walk to the hall seemed but a stroll tonight. Must be getting used to it. She saw others hurrying for the nonconformist chapel, off the high street. This surprised her since she knew she was ahead of time. Dottie was waiting in the doorway, a pretty navy straw hat setting off her brown ringlets, two big yellow daisies perched high in front. A large black shawl covered the long sleeves of her striped blouse. She stepped forward when she spotted him, an impatient rustle to her long skirts.
“Am I late?”
Excitement tumbled and jumbled Dottie’s words, but she did manage well enough. “Not really. I wanted everyone t’ be ’ere so’s I could introduce ya’ proper.”
They went through a short vestibule, the donations box standing prominently at the entrance, into a large room with a high ceiling. Wooden chairs were provided along the walls, but the choristers were at the far end, close to the piano. A motley crew: as far as she could tell about evenly divided between the genders. The pianist, an older lady, stopped tinkling when she saw the newcomers, causing a silence to descend and all heads turn in their direction. Dottie had the reaction she wanted. She introduced her companion and everyone murmured a polite greeting. Feeling very much on display Mallory suggested she sit and watch for a while. Mr. True-May, their leader and conductor, thought this a good idea then they could talk later. Tall and lanky, making him stoop slightly, still he was capable of imparting an air of authority. He had the respect of the gathering and with a single look they stopped their chatter to find their places.
Dottie went next to Emily, whose eyes were wide with unasked questions. They were sopranos. She smiled enigmatically. Millie would just have to be patient and wait for her answers, for a change. They were working from the collected folk songs of Cecil Sharp, Book Three. It was a delightful ditty, the singers weaving their voices for all the parts in a most intricate and professional manner. Mallory knew at once this could not be for her. Better give it a swerve and stick to the soccer, Mate.
A short break and they were on to the next: ‘A May Morning’. After this came tea. Dottie brought her a cup and then introduced her to Millie whom Mallory then discovered to be Lady Nigella’s abigail, Emily. The two girls were twittery and giggly when she complimented them on their singing. “I have to tell you, I could not possibly contribute to your efforts. You sound positively professional you are that good. Really, I mean it.”
Some others came up to them and more introductions followed. Everyone was so friendly and made her feel welcome. If singing was not her forté, Mallory could always come down on a Sunday night to listen. Back to the singing and it was the turn of the basses to do their thing with ‘Beware’, a tale of warning to sailors away from home, on the high seas. They finished up the night with two excerpts from ‘The Gondoliers’ and Mallory felt she had been highly entertained.
Before they all went their separate ways, Mr. True-May approached her. He was principal at the British Day School which she had checked out earlier. These schools and the national schools had grown out of the Sunday school movement. In the village it was the major source of social interaction and recreation and he was keen to enlist this young lad’s energies, in whatever capacity he could. The level of his education had been obvious consequently he was bent on making the most of any talent he might possess.
“We’re always looking for people to help out with the children.” His voice was not that of a local. From the Home Counties she guessed. “If you should be interested in giving some of your time, we would be most appreciative.” He scrutinised him with sharp eyes over the top of rimless pince-nez. “Is there anything you have a special interest in Mason?”
“Well … different things, Mr. True-May. I’m not sure.”
“We’ve got some slow learners who need help with reading. Could you find time for that?”
“Will you let me think about it, Sir? I’ll come round to your school between shifts, but I have to be back at work by five.”
“That’s very good young man. A little time before they go home could be just the ticket. Well, I have to pack up here so I’ll say goodnight and hope to see you some time in the week.” As he returned to collecting his sheet music and bits and pieces, Dottie reappeared. “Did ’e think ya’ could give it a go?”
“No Dottie. He’s keener for me to try something at the school.”
Her disappointment was acute. Now she would have to think of some other way to get to know him better. Maybe she could work it that they met at their lunchtimes.
Outside, it was dark, the moon still in its first quarter. Mallory made the offer to walk her home, secretly hoping she did not live miles away in the opposite direction, those four-thirty starts were still a trial. Dottie could not have been more thrilled. The distance proved short, although away from the Pogues’. Mallory mostly listened as she set a brisk pace, overcoming both the chill on the ground and the passage of time. She explained to her companion that she was not sure about the lunch-breaks, but would try to make it by twelve o’clock, if she could. Later, as she jogged back to her digs head on into a stiff, bracing wind, thinking over what had transpired, she experienced the uneasy feeling that she was being manipulated. Could Dottie have gone sweet on her?
Be careful Mal. You can’t afford to let anyone get too close, she admonished. This is the beginning of the rest of your life. Don’t let someone screw it up before you’ve gotten yourself somewhere more financial and settled. She’s a nice girl, but … could blow your cover. Construct your barriers!
Mallory was confronting a serious dilemma. For her own mental health and emotional stability, she needed human contact. To live in this strange world she needed to maintain her cross-gender masquerade. How well-centred was she, to live this lonely life? She looked up at the new moon, casting only the merest glimmer of illumination to guide her. What a cold, barren life this was going to be if she could not make friends or enjoy participating in sports. A chilling thought: to have to guard her tongue at every word – what a hollow, ineffectual existence. She saw before her a wasteland of unrealised ambition and unfulfilled dreams.
OK, that was it! The resolution was in the positive. She would go to the school. She could not allow herself to hit the wall. She refused to listen to those demon voices in her head anymore, this was only day two. She would not be defeatist. Interacting with the kids could bring no harm and she would feel rewarded and yes, gladdened by her efforts. Tomorrow she would report to her Ladyship at lunch-time. That would get her out of one hole, then before feeds, if Lady Patchford did not need her, she would go see Mr. True-May.
The Pogues had already retired to bed when she slipped in. As usual, the musty smell of their house confronted her. A combination of cooking, cleaning and laundry, all locked into an enclosure rarely exposed to fresh breezes. Nonetheless, it was her home now and she was glad to have it. She wasted no time getting her head down.
* * *
Nothing stood in the way of Mallory’s plan. Taking off promptly at two o’clock, she had returned to her digs to bathe and at least change her shirt. She had forgotten Monday was wash-day and was especially pleased to see clean shirts and underwear set out on the bed. Refreshed she felt confidant, as far as appearances went, she would pass muster. Now she was being introduced to Miss Fiona Beevis, school room teacher for the seven and eight y
ear olds.
Their school was the major provider of regular elementary education. At its beginning it had been under the supervision of Lord Patchford, delegated to Mr. Crosby. His Lordship had definitely been against relinquishing any power over his tenants’ children to a mere bunch of locals, who had formed themselves into some sort of School Board. The Education Act of 1870 had introduced the election of these local boards with the right to manage the schools and he would have none of it. This threat to his control had stimulated him to improve the educational opportunities in the village. His first action had been to re-build the school, providing more space and facilities. He had even been able to attract teachers to run ‘night-school’ classes for post-school training in trades and crafts. His aim was to retain his people, not lose them to the expanding industries. However eventually, the demands of the revised Education Act in December 1902, had forced his hand. He could no longer remain outside the state system.
Mr. True-May was now in charge and he had hired responsible young women from Birmingham, mostly working class, paying them modestly, but they appreciated the improved status this position afforded them. Fiona Beevis had been at Guilfoyle School for two years now and was highly thought of. Mallory found her very attractive, in the English-rose style. Pale skin, but with pink cheeks and wavy fair hair which would not stay put in its pins. She looked competent in her starched, high-necked blouse and when she spoke, there was a softness to her voice which revealed a genuine compassion. The three of them were standing in an empty class-room, where the introductions had been made.
Til Morning Comes Page 11
