The Lord and Mary Ann (The Mary Ann Stories)

by Catherine Cookson

  Her head came up from his chest, and she looked at him, taking in this new aspect of the situation; and her spirit, gazing from her eyes, beseeched him to still her conscience forever. Of its own accord, it demanded that he do for her what she was continually doing for him. It demanded now that he lie with the sincerity of sacrifice and redeem something of himself in absolving this child from all blame.

  Words came to him, flowing with the smoothness of heaven-endowed truth. He listened to himself uttering them, not knowing from where they sprang. And as he talked he saw the shadow of his Mary Ann return. It came back into her eyes; the sand-dryness became moist, and slowly she began to cry.

  The new picture of her da, incompetent with machinery, stubbornly refusing all advice, even spurning the guiding hand of Mr Ratcliffe, and admitting that any farm flair he had lay entirely with animals, brought her protective instinct surging up, and as it came it pressed down the numbing guilt into the secret chambers of her mind.

  ‘Oh Da!’ Her hand moving along his arm to where the neatly crossed bandages began. And again she said, ‘Oh Da.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I want cheering up. What you goin’ to do about it? Are you coming downstairs with me?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Come on, stand up.’

  Obediently she stood up, rocking on her feet. Slipping his good arm about her he gathered her to him, and carried her down the stairs.

  Chapter Ten: The Deal

  Although Mary Ann’s conscience was at rest once more, her mind was still troubled, for the anxiety that was eating into both Mike and Lizzie could not fail to make itself felt by her. Her da’s pay packet had been brought to the cottage as if he was working, and Mr Lord himself had said, ‘Don’t worry.’ But she could feel that this statement, instead of soothing her da’s anxiety, had only irritated him.

  Mike did not want to be pensioned off out of charity. He wanted to work. At what? He didn’t as yet know. He attended the outpatients’ department; he read the ‘wanted’ columns; he gazed for hours out of the window in the direction of the farm; and he chafed at his lot. Finally and boldly, he approached Mr Lord, saying, ‘I’m not ungrateful, sir, but I can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Like what?’ Mr Lord had asked. ‘You have been out of hospital for only ten days and I understand you have to attend for some time yet.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Mike, ‘but what’s to follow?’

  Mr Lord had given no direct answer to this question; all he said was to go home and rest and wait.

  What was to follow Mr Lord did not himself know. He had been racking his brains as to what course he should take. If he gave him a small lump sum and let him go, the child would go. Yet how to give him a job? He would, of course, eventually get a hook for his hand, but even then would he be able to do a day’s work with the other men? It was very doubtful. To use a hook skilfully needed long practice, and his knowledge of men was too wide to think that their present sympathy for Shaughnessy would stand the test of years. Nor would a man like Shaughnessy tolerate being carried. No, he could not see Shaughnessy back on the farm. His labour troubles were bad enough without adding to them.

  For the first time Mr Lord regretted his farm venture; he regretted the expensive house he was building; he regretted very much paying Ratcliffe three months’ money in lieu of notice and leaving the farm without a directive; and above all he regretted the incident that had caused a place in his heart to open when Mary Ann had boldly claimed him as her granda. Material things could be rejected or replaced, but when carefully guarded feelings were exposed to the light of a child’s charm a man became vulnerable.

  In midweek Mary Ann suddenly expressed a desire to return to school, and Lizzie, without protest, let her go, for she felt that the atmosphere of the house was unhealthy for her. Daily, she witnessed Mike’s attempt at cheerfulness when in Mary Ann’s presence, and it hurt her. And she knew it hurt the child. For with Mike, Mary Ann was like a watchful mother – no shade of his feelings escaped her. She knew he was worried, so therefore she was worried.

  It was Father Owen’s unexpected visit that precipitated Mary Ann’s return to school. As she sat listening to his cheerful talk in the kitchen she had wanted to pour out her troubles to him; but only in church or Confession could she do this. So she went back to school.

  The reception she received from her class would, at any other time, have filled her with unholy pride. She would have grabbed at the opportunity to let her imagination have full rein, for had she not been hanging head first from a hole in the ceiling, with below a whirling machine and ten thousand blades ready to cut her up? And hadn’t her da rushed in and saved her? The children themselves made it sound something like this, anyway; and in this instance she did not deny them the use of their imaginations. But she added nothing of her own. Her only comment, when in the playground one sympathiser said, ‘Your poor da’s got only one hand now,’ was to add, ‘That’s nothing, he’s still a grand man for all that.’

  Let it be noted here that Sarah Flannagan did not attack this docile Mary Ann. After one scrutinising look at her, she had walked off. This white, sapped-looking being was not a worthy recipient of her powers of invective.

  There was no Confession on a Wednesday night, and Mary Ann knew that unless she bumped into Father Owen in the church there was no way of seeing him other than to go boldly to his front door and ask for him. But she didn’t feel equal to making that effort now, for Miss Honeysett was a tartar. There was, however, always the Holy Family to fall back on.

  So after school she went to them, not hitching or skipping, just walking. And when she knelt before them she found it was difficult to talk to them. Like everything and everyone else They had changed; They all had that ‘gone away’ look that her da had. She tried to commence in her usual way, but it was no good. She said a ‘Hail Mary’ and ‘Our Father’ and a ‘Glory Be To God’, but still her troubles would not flow. It was as if they were tightly locked within her and she had lost the key for their release. So she blessed herself, rose from her knees, and turned away, only to turn as quickly to them again, when her old self flashed through for a second as she implored ‘Do something, will you?’ But Their look of hurt surprise seemed to reproach her for her imperious demand and lack of faith, and her head drooped and she muttered, ‘I am sorry,’ and to placate them, she added, ‘Blessed be the Holy and Undivided Trinity now and forever. Amen.’

  Almost immediately upon this the vestry door creaked, and Father Owen, with a handkerchief to his nose, walked towards the altar. He stopped and sneezed twice, reached the bottom of the steps, genuflected, went up to the altar, lifted the heavy cross and descended the steps again. And there, through his streaming eyes he saw Mary Ann standing immediately in front of the altar rails, and having no regard for the millions of germs that he was letting loose on the world, and on Mary Ann in particular, he flapped his handkerchief at her and beckoned her towards the vestry. He sneezed as he put the cross down, and turning to her said, ‘Oh, I’m in a right bad fix, aren’t I; but it sounds much worse than it is. You’re back at school then, Mary Ann?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘That’s good. Far better at school. And how’s everything . . . all right?’

  ‘Yes, Father . . . No, Father . . . No, it’s not all right.’

  ‘Oh dear! oh dear! Come and sit down. Have you had your tea? Of course you haven’t, you haven’t been home yet. Well, I’ve a bit of chocolate here.’ He rummaged in his pockets, then exclaimed with astonishment, ‘I’ve eaten it. I remember now, I’ve eaten it.’

  ‘It’s all right, Father,’ she assured him unsmilingly, ‘I’ve got some bullets in me bag.’ She indicated her school bag hanging at her side.

  He said, ‘You’re a clever girl to be able to save your bullets; meself, I’m a greedy hog and eat them as they come. How’s your da?’

  They were still standing looking at each other, but now Mary Ann’s eyes dropped. ‘His . . . hi
s arm’s getting better,’ she said.

  ‘That’s good. He’ll be as right as rain in no time and back to work.’

  ‘What work, Father?’ Her eyes were on his again.

  Father Owen, peering at her over the top of his glasses, thought: That was a stupid thing to say. She’s right, what work? A sneeze gave him a little breathing space and he dabbed at his nose as he asked, ‘Has he said anything . . . what he wants to do or anything?’

  ‘No, Father; but he keeps looking towards the farm.’

  ‘Then he’ll go back to the farm.’

  ‘He says he won’t . . . he can’t.’

  ‘Mr Lord’ll give him a light job, never fear.’

  ‘Me da says there are no light jobs on a farm.’

  ‘That’s true . . . well, what I mean is, it’s heavy work, farming.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Aye. Mm. Well . . . ’ Father Owen pushed his fingers through his thin hair. He was feeling in no mood to listen to troubles or to dole out advice. All he desired was to get his head down on a pillow; or one of his heads, for there seemed to be a dozen of them at the moment all spinning in different directions. But the child’s face would haunt him if he left her in the air like this . . . bad stress to the man! He was always doing something to make her carry a weight much too heavy for her; yet, poor fellow, it wasn’t his fault this time. He was to be pitied. He took a fit of coughing and when it was over he said, ‘Oh this head of mine!’

  ‘Does it ache, Father?’

  ‘It does, it does. But as I was saying’ – which he hadn’t been saying – ‘your da’s a fine man and he’ll get a job. Anyway, I think he’ll be glad to leave the farm for he didn’t take to the manager, did he?’

  ‘No, Father.’ Mary Ann’s pleasure at the unsolicited compliment paid to her da was shining from her eyes. ‘But Mr Ratcliffe’s gone, Father,’ she said, ‘and Lena an’ all.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yes; he got the sack. He had a row with Mr Lord.’

  Father Owen was genuinely surprised at this news. He had been speaking to Peter Lord only yesterday and never a word had he said about losing his manager. Oh, the conceit of the old boy! He wouldn’t let on he was having labour troubles on so small a place. He must be finding the farm as difficult to run as his yard . . . A thought suddenly entering the priest’s head made it wag and sent his eyes flickering over the vestry, and when finally they came to rest on Mary Ann they were screwed up into small points of light. ‘Has your da got a good hand, Mary Ann?’ To this faux pas he added, ‘I mean, can he write nicely?’

  ‘Oh yes, Father. He does me homework for me . . . me sums and things, and he writes lovely.’ She paused – she had given herself away with a vengeance. But her uneasiness on this point was negligible – Father Owen wouldn’t split to Miss Thompson. She swallowed and added, ‘He does write lovely.’

  ‘Does he now? That’s good. Well, do you know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘I’m thinking he should go after a job where there’s writing to do, but on a farm you know, buying and selling . . . a manager. That’s what he should go after. Or something like that – perhaps an assistant to start with – for he’s got a good eye for cattle, and but for the few years he spent in the yards he’s been on farms all his life. Now that’s what I advise. Of course, it would have to be a little farm.’

  ‘But Father . . . ’ All her features were stretching away from one another in amazement at this suggestion.

  ‘Now be quiet. I’m sure it would be the very thing. You see, Mary Ann . . . Come here.’ He pulled her down on to the polished form that usually seated the scrambling altar boys when changing their shoes, and taking her hand, went on, ‘Have you ever noticed it, Mary Ann, the way God works? If He wants to give you something He waits until you lose something. You see, everything in some way has got to be paid for. Do you know that, Mary Ann?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Well, it has. It’s ten to one your da would never have thought of using his head to earn his living if he hadn’t lost his hand. Now do you see?’

  Mary Ann’s eyes, although wide, were not seeing.

  ‘It’s like this,’ said Father Owen. ‘Leaving things as they were, your da would have remained a farmhand all his life, and content to do so; but then there was the accident, although mind’ – the priest wagged a warning finger at her – ‘God doesn’t make accidents happen, you must remember that, Mary Ann. It’s our foolishness and neglect that causes them. But when they do happen, in He steps and points out a way to bring happiness and contentment to the sufferer. Oh, I’ve seen it again and again. But of course it’s no use His pointing out the way if we don’t take advantage of it, is it?’ He poked his head forward, and Mary Ann, beginning to see a dim light in the distance, said, ‘No, Father.’

  ‘It’s up to us, Mary Ann, it’s always up to us.’ Here Father Owen took another bout of sneezing.

  Mary Ann counted eight atishoos with concern; he sounded as if he was going to blow his head off. He was bad, poor soul, very bad.

  After his streaming eyes had been dried, Father Owen began again, but a little heavily. ‘As I was saying, farmers these days go to colleges and things, and that to my mind is a fanciful idea if ever there was one. Cows have given milk and lambs been born for many years now without the help of a college. And anyway your da could, if he gave his mind to it, pick up from books any added knowledge he wants, so why don’t you ask him to have a shot at it, eh? Tell him not to aim at too big a farm, mind.’ He turned his head a little to one side and glanced down at her. ‘But one a bit bigger than Mr Lord’s . . . that’s very small.’ His nose wrinkled at the smallness of Mr Lord’s farm.

  Mary Ann could not find it in her heart to be annoyed with this beloved friend who was also . . . bad, but her tone conveyed slight censure as she said, ‘It’s a nice farm, and not really little, not like a . . . smallholding. And it’s bigger than a piggery, isn’t it?’

  Father Owen could not, of course, follow these comparisons, but he said, ‘No, no, of course not,’ to the first part, and ‘Yes, yes,’ to the second; then went on, a trifle wearily, ‘There it is, that’s what I advise your da to do. You needn’t tell him I said so. Just put it in your own way and you’ll see it will work out all right. Now, Mary Ann, my head’s bursting and I’m going to me bed this very minute . . . Do you feel any easier about things?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I do, Father.’

  And it was true. She did feel easier. There was a surging of the old excited feeling in her stomach. What she wanted now was to get to some place quiet, like bed, and think. So she said, ‘Goodnight, Father. And I’ll say a “Hail Mary” to Our Lady to look after your cold for you.’

  The priest was laughing now as he cried, ‘I don’t want her to look after me cold, you stipulate that I want to get rid of it. Get on with you, now, home to your tea, and don’t worry. Leave everything to God. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Father.’

  He watched her for a moment from the vestry door, and as he turned away he put his hand to his head. What had he done this time? To put an idea into the head of that child was like supplying her with a bomb. Ah well, it was done. He only hoped that when she held the explosive under Mr Lord’s nose and put the match to it he would descend to earth again whole, which was asking for a miracle.

  Mary Ann was feeling considerably better, for her mind was working. It was tackling a problem. She lay staring into the darkness. The house was quiet, but it was an uneasy quiet. No sound came from Michael behind the curtain, and across the landing the unrest was even greater, making itself evident by its complete stillness. There was no dim whisper of murmuring voices, not even a creaking bedspring or a cough . . . The morrer, her da was going to tackle Mr Lord finally. He had said so. And this was enough to cause her concern, for she knew that, left to themselves, the interview would not be successful – her da wouldn’t knuckle under even in pretence to Mr Lord.
Without somebody, as she put it to herself, doing something, they would get on at each other.

  She was also fully aware that the relationship between herself and Mr Lord had shown little improvement; not even when she was bad had they got onto the old footing. He had been nice to her and sent her flowers and things, but he wasn’t the same as when she had first come to the farm. No; he had wanted her to do something and she hadn’t done it, and that had made him get his . . . back up. Also she was aware that she could not approach him using her old tactics; they would not carry weight with him now. Some new way, she felt, must be found if she was to carry out the scheme thought up by the Holy Family and suggested by Father Owen.

  With a matureness beyond her years and accepted without question, she now realised that any success she could hope for with Mr Lord would best be brought about by a frontal attack. As she so plainly put it to herself in the darkness: Tell him straight what you’ll do for him if he’ll do something for you. That was to be the strong structure of the scheme – exchange. What the exchange would mean to her she did not dwell on. First things first. If her da was settled, then her world would be all right . . . somehow.

  She left for school as usual the following morning, but alighted from the bus at Pratt’s Lane. This daring act alone made her knees weak, for she was about to play truant, and although she would tell Miss Thompson she had felt bad again and couldn’t come to school, there was still Confession to be faced.

  The door of Mr Lord’s house was open, and outside on the gravel drive was a car. It was painted blue and had a big dent in the mudguard, besides which it had no top. She had seen this car before. Only last night when she was going down the lane home it had come up from the farm. Why it should cause her uneasiness she didn’t know, but it did. Ben explained the reason. He was mounting the stairs when her ‘Psst!’ halted him. He actually came down again and asked her how she was. His face wore his habitual look of disapproval but his voice had a touch of kindness. ‘And how’s your father?’ he inquired.