The Rag Nymph

by Catherine Cookson

  He now turned and looked at Millie - his face was flushed - and by way of explanation he said, 'Mr Crane-Boulder senior, my godfather, died recently and in his will was kind enough to leave me co-owner with his son. So' - he now jerked his head towards

  Ben - 'whereas before I was somewhat restricted in my efforts, not having anything to do with the mill, I hope now to make some favourable changes, at least where I can within the law.'

  There was silence for a moment before Ben spoke, and the sarcasm in his tone was evident as he said,

  'Aye, of course, within the law. Well, I hope when you count the young 'uns who die between five and ten in your mill that you'll pop up to London and have a word with Mr Disraeli, or Gladstone, or one of 'em. Of course, they're all in deep mournin', aren't they? up there and all over, because since Prince Albert died, everybody is in black. Even I've read about the piano legs changing their stockin's

  to black. One fella dies and, after all, he was just a human being' like the rest of us, only he, of course, was brought up with some form of sanitation. But who mourns for those who are thrown into paupers'

  graves by the dozen, aye, by the dozen? Or them, too sick to work at nine years old, pushed up the hill to the workhouse from where they can view the stinkin' river? And... '

  'Are you quite finished?'

  'No, I could go on; but of course I can't explain as well as Mr Sponge. Now he's a teacher along at the Methodist Hall and he's been educated as much as you, or more, and he's had first-hand knowledge of both sides of the line. He was born over your side, so he tells us, but that didn't stop him living in The Courts for a while just to taste their bit of comfort, you know.'

  'Ben!'

  'Aye, Millie?' He raised his eyebrows towards her in mock enquiry. 'You want to stop me tongue?

  Well, you should know better than that by now.

  You know, as Mr Sponge has told us, once you start thinkin' there's no more rest for you. It's like a blackbeetle in a walnut shell; you know, tied on a bairn's belly to make it cry in order to get sympathy.

  It nags at you, scratches.'

  'Perhaps your instructor, Mr Smith, has not yet come by the axiom that a little learning can be a dangerous thing. Now I will bid you good evening.'

  After inclining his head towards Ben, he now turned to Millie, saying in a most stilted and polite manner, 'Will you do me the kindness to walk wit

  me to the gate?'

  Millie did not answer, but she rose from the couch and, as she passed Ben, she turned her head and levelled at him a look that held disdain; then, walking forward, she opened the door and led the way through the other room and into the yard; and it wasn't until they reached the locked gate and she stood staring through the rusty bars that she said,

  'I'm sorry. I... I must apologise.'

  'There's no need. And do you know? I understand how the.' He was about to say, 'the fellow', but went on, 'How he feels in more ways than one, believe me. Well now, look at me.'

  She turned slowly and looked into his face, and again it was brought to her notice that he wasn't all that tall and that her eyes were almost on a level with his; and in his eyes was a look that was bringing into her throat that tight restriction which she could describe as having risen from some place behind her breast bone. It was like a pain.

  'I'm sorry I won't be here to wish you a happy birthday; I'm due in London over the next two or three weeks. There is so much business to be attended to. At another time I might have enjoyed the free hours, after dealing with the business side of my visit, but as our friend' - he turned his head now and looked back across the yard towards the house door - 'so aggressively put it, London is in mourning and is likely to be for some time, as the Queen is so distressed. However, as soon as I return I'm going to come and ask leave of Mrs Winkowski to drive you out to Aunt Chrissie's little house. I feel sure you will like her, as dithery in all ways as she is. And also, you may be taken with the house. If permission were granted would you be agreeable?'

  The answer was simple: 'Yes,' she said; 'yes, I'd be agreeable.' And immediately he was comparing it with the reception his proposal would have received had it been offered to any other female of his acquaintance. There would have been a little simpering, a little hesitation and the answer would have been coy, implying, how adventurous, if not even naughty it was. But this girl's answer had been straightforward. There was nothing false about her, nothing frivolous, yet there emanated from her something that was really indescribable, like joy. The only thing he knew was, he longed to hold her, and had done, he thought, since the time he had carried her to William's house. William, too, had sensed the quality in her.

  Thinking of William, he recalled their last conversation, in which he had told him that Raymond had asked if he had heard anything further of the fair child, and had probed him as to where she lived. And William had answered that she used to live in one of The Courts, the unsavoury Courts, but that she had since moved, and he didn't know where. William was wise. Oh, yes, William was wise. As had been his godfather in leaving the Little Manor to William, together with an acre of freehold land: he had known that once he was gone Raymond would have got rid of him, because there was no love lost between them,

  for William could never be subservient.

  She had opened the gates, and he was now holding out his hand to her; and when she placed hers in it he held it tightly, saying, 'When we next meet you will have come of age, at least a certain age. Goodbye, my dear.' The last words were soft and deep with feeling. But she didn't reply to them, she just stood and watched him walking away, a gentleman in a fine grey suit, high hat and carrying a silver-mounted walking stick. And he had said he was coming back when she became of age.

  Not until he was out of sight did she leave the gate. Then she almost marched across the yard and into the kitchen, where she found that Mrs Aggie, too, was present. But as if Mrs Aggie weren't there, she went straight for Ben, crying, 'If it wasn't that we live almost in the same house, I would never speak to you again. Your behaviour was simply dreadful, atrocious! Spouting your theories. He knows more about them than you do, and he can do more for the people than you can ever do.'

  'Finished?'

  'Yes. But I could go on.'

  'Well, why don't you? I'm all ears. But I'm not finished, because I'll tell you this much: he's no good; none of his type are; in their own class, yes, but not when they come from yon side of the track to this side and smile at a young lass, and talk fancy to her, and fill her head with ideas, and her knowing nothing about life' - his voice was rising - 'but what she's learned in this muck-hole. Because that's how he saw it, isn't it? A muck-hole.'

  As Aggie went to say something, he rounded on her, crying, 'Shut up! I'm goin' to have me say and I can start with you.' He stabbed his finger at her.

  'You've got big ideas for her, haven't you? You think that bloke's on the square. You think he's goin' to come and say: "Mrs Winkowski" - his voice had altered now - "May I ask you for the hand of your ward.., in marriage, that is, Mrs Winkowski, and not just leading her up the path with ideas of takin'

  her behind the bushes?" Oh no.'

  Aggie's voice was almost a scream now as she, too, yelled, 'Ben Smith, shut your mouth! And get yourself outside before I level something at you.

  You'll be sorry for this night. Yes, you will. Oh, yes, you will.'

  Ben put up his hand and pulled his bootlace tie tight under his collar. Then it appeared as if he had now to force himself to speak, for his jaws clamped two or three times before he brought out, 'Aye, I might be; but there's two people that'll be sorrier.

  That's a prophecy, and you'll live to see it.' And on that, he did not hurry or march from the room but turned slowly about and as slowly walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Blindly now, Millie stumbled towards Aggie and threw herself into her arms; and as she sobbed, Aggie stroked her hair, saying, 'There now. There now.

  What does he know about it? He's an ignora
nt pig, that's all, an ignorant pig.' Then after a moment she gently pressed Millie from her and, looking into her

  streaming face, she said, 'Did he say anything to you

  ... well, you know?'

  Millie shook her head, and then stammered, 'He's

  ... he's not like that. I mean, Ben's impression, it's all wrong. Mr Thompson's a gentleman, kind and... '

  'D'you like him? I mean, a bit more than like him?'

  Millie bowed her head before she muttered, 'Yes.

  Yes, I do, Mrs Aggie. I... I more than like him.'

  'Well, me dear, if that's the case, we'll take it from there an' see what happens. But look, you haven't got to hold it against him; I mean, Ben, 'cos he can't help it. He's jealous.'

  Millie was drying her eyes on the end of her white apron, and when she stopped, her face screwed up and she said, 'Jealous? Ben, jealous.,;?'

  'Aye, lass. He's a man. His legs might be short but he's all man. You take it from me.'

  'But . . . but well, he's practically brought me up and . . . and been like a brother.'

  Aggie gave a short laugh as she said, 'Get it into your head, lass, that no man will ever look on himself as a brother to you. The mirror in our bedroom is cracked; I think I'd better look out for a bit of decent glass so you can see yourself.'

  'Oh, Mrs Aggie. Life is not easy, is it?'

  'No, lass; life's not easy. And you've been very lucky so far, you know, because you're late in learnin' that. With the majority, especially around here, it comes soon after they can crawl.' And this elicited no further remark or question from Millie; instead she walked slowly to the couch and sat down, the while thinking, she's saying the same thing as Ben said, only she's not bawling it. She had said Ben was jealous. How silly! How silly! Ben jealous of another man? Then he must think... She almost sprang up from the couch, saying, 'I'm going to change my frock,' and went hastily from the room. And Aggie, taking the gin bottle from the shelf, poured herself out a generous measure and sat down to the side of the fire, looked down into the mug and sipped at the liquor, then said to herself, 'Aye, change your frock, my beautiful dear. Change your frock.'

  THREE

  The hostility between Ben and Millie came to an abrupt end three days later, and the bond that had existed between them before became stronger. It was brought about by the arrival of a stranger.

  Being a Tuesday, the inhabitants of The Courts were short of money for all commodities, so there were only half a dozen people standing on the far side of the long table. And two of these were small children, each pushing a thin plate across the table for a ha'porth of peas. And after Millie had put a generous ladleful on each plate, the dirty and ragged mites did not immediately pick them up and run, but stared at her, until she smiled and, moving along the table, took up a square of pastry and, breaking it in half, dropped the two pieces beside the peas, whereupon the urchins grinned at her, grabbed up their meal, but without a 'ta', and ran off.

  The next customer was a woman who said, 'Lucky, those 'uns. It's a scandal. She's got five workin', but the most of it goes in the gin shop, an' two of them with her, an' they just ten. I ask you.'

  'What can I serve you with, Mrs Bright?'

  'Four pies, lass.'

  'The fourpenny's?'

  'Oh, no. No; not on a Tuesday' - the woman laughed - 'he's lucky to get the tuppeny's. An'

  I'll have a scoop of the broth. It sticks to your ribs, that does. I can say this, I've never tasted better, 'specially when you find a nice lump of fat mutton in it.'

  Millie took the hint and saw that there was a piece of mutton in the ladleful of stew she poured into the woman's basin. But as the woman moved away and made room for the next customer, Millie became aware of the man standing across the narrow roadway.

  She had never seen him before, and she knew a great many inhabitants now by sight, because it was a close quarter and very few strangers made their way here, at least to pass the gates and towards the main Courts, unless they were unfortunate enough to have just come to live there.

  Yet there could be a man, or many men, who lived in The Courts whom she hadn't seen. This man, however, appeared different: he was dressed differently from any of those round about. He was wearing a black suit and a white collar; at least, it looked a lighter shirt from this distance, and he had a high hat on his head.

  By the time she had served another four customers there was no-one in sight but the man; and now he was approaching the table.

  As he came closer, she saw that he was tall, almost six foot, and he was very thin and his suit appeared baggy.

  When he reached the other side of the table he stared fixedly at her and when he spoke his voice, too, was strange: it did not hold the rough and loud hoarseness that she was used to among the working class. Yet it wasn't the voice of a gentleman of whatever station.

  'Millicent Forester. That's your name, isn't it?'

  'Yes, that's my name.'

  'Well, my name's Forester an' all. Reginald Forester.

  I'm your father.'

  The ladle slipped from her hand on to the wooden table. Then she took two steps backwards, saying,

  'No; my ... my father's dead.'

  'Well, she would tell you that, wouldn't she? But

  ... but I'm your father all right. I didn't expect to find you so soon: the parson's wife said she had last heard of you here; but then you could have been anywhere by now. I recognised you as soon as I saw you, you're the spitting image of your mother.'

  Again she said, 'No, no,' because instinctively she didn't want this man to be her father. She didn't like his face. There was a thin scar running down one side of it. The top of it was lost in the shadow of the hat brim, although she could see where it ended at his chin. She turned swiftly and ran across the yard, and as she did so Ben came out of the barn.

  Seeing him, she turned and rushed towards him and, clinging to his arms, she whimpered, 'There's

  ... there's a man at the gate, Ben. He... he says, he's.., he's my father. He... '

  "What?' He looked across the yard to the figure standing beyond the table, then said, 'He what?'

  'He... he said he is my father. I... I thought he was dead. Will you come and see?'

  'Stay where you are.' Ben now walked slowly towards the gates and the man who was standing there, and demanded, 'What's your game?'

  'Who are you?'

  'I'll tell you when I know who you are. You say you're her father. Well, to her knowledge an' my knowledge, he's dead.'

  The man placed his two hands on the edge of the table as if for support, and his head drooped as he said, 'That's what she would want her to know, her mother. I've been away for a time.'

  It was some moments before Ben said, 'Aye, and I can guess where you've been an' all.'

  The head came up sharply. The voice, too, was sharp: 'Well, if you can, then you'll know why I haven't come for her sooner,' he said.

  'Come for her? You've got no claim on her. She's Aggie's, I mean Mrs Winkowski's.'

  Ben turned his head as he heard Aggie's voice in the yard, and he called, 'Come here a minute, will you?'

  When Aggie shambled up to them, Ben said,

  'Here's a do that'll have to be tackled. This fella says he's her father and he's come for her. What d'you make of that?'

  Aggie stared at the man, and she seemed to see somewhere in the thin face a resemblance, and it was as if she had been waiting for this moment for

  years. She said quietly, 'Let him in.' Then she turned away and, hurrying as fast as she could towards the house, she caught hold of Millie who was standing under the porch, her eyes seeming to be staring out of her head, and she said, 'Come away in. Don't worry; we'll get this sorted out.'

  'But he said, Mrs Aggie, he... he said... '

  'Yes, and likely he is. Yes, likely he is your father, so calm yourself down.'

  A minute later, the man was standing in the kitchen looking about him in as much amazement as Bernard Thompson had
done, and when Aggie turned to him and said, 'Well, get off your legs,' he sat on the settle. Then, looking towards Millie, who was standing to the side of the window as if to keep her distance between them, he said, 'I... I knew it would come as a bit of a shock but ... it isn't my fault that the truth's been kept from you for years. It was hers: she should have put you in the picture from the beginning. I heard yesterday that she did herself in. Well, I'm not surprised.., nervy.' He was nodding at Aggie now. 'Her mother was always nervy.

  She'd had it too soft, you know. Well' - he laughed now - 'we both had it too soft at one time.' He passed his lips one over the other, before saying, 'D'you think I could ask you for a drink of something?'

  'Is it in the way of tea or beer you would like?'

  'Oh, beer, please. Oh yes, a beer.'

  Aggie nodded towards Ben, and he went to the cupboard and brought out a bottle of beer and a mug and placed them none too gently on the settle by the side of the man, who looked up at this odd-shaped fellow and said, 'Ta. Thanks.'

  They watched him fill up the mug with beer, which he then swallowed, almost it seemed in one draught, then take out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his mouth. It was an odd gesture from someone of his appearance; it would have been more natural had he wiped his mouth with the side of his hand.

  He now placed the mug and the empty bottle on the hearth and, looking towards Millie, he said,

  'Come here. I'm not goin' to eat you. I think it's about time we got to know each other, don't you?'

  Millie made no move to comply; and what she said now altered the man's expression, for she spoke sharply: 'I don't know. I've always understood you were dead; so why has it taken you so long to claim the relationship? That's what I'd like to know.'

  'Oh well, you see, that's got to be explained.

  I was away.'

  'He was in gaol,' Aggie said flatly.

  The man half rose from the settle; then sank back, saying, 'Yes. Yes, I was in gaol; but it wasn't my fault. It was self-defence. I was nearly killed. Look at this! I've got the mark of it.' He was pointing to the scar on his face. 'It was to save her, your mother.