The Maltese Angel

by Catherine Cookson

  They were in the middle of the road now, and, halting suddenly, she held up a hand, as a constable might, to stop the approaching traffic. The astonished driver of a cab to one side of her and two boys pushing a flat cart to the other pulled up sharply, causing further astonishment from the drivers of the following vehicles dimly seen through the rain and gathering twilight as she led her company across the other half of the road and to the pavement, to the accompaniment of highly seasoned language from the cab driver and others and the ribald laughter of the boys. But as if this incident had not happened, she continued where she had left off, saying, ‘So we must always enquire into the work, station, and habits of those who wish to make our acquaintance.’

  He wanted to laugh aloud, he wanted to roar: here he was, walking between these two oddities and their four dogs and being questioned as to his character as if he were in a courtroom, and all the while there was racing through him a feeling of anticipation and excitement; he was going to meet her…not as the actress coming out of the stage door, whom he would not really have known how to approach, but he was going to face her in her lodgings.

  For a moment the anticipation and elation were chilled by the thought: what if he didn’t take to her? What if she were a hoity-toity piece and thought too much of herself; or, on the other hand, just plain common; but oh dear! What if she didn’t take to him? Yes, that was the main point: what if she didn’t take to him?

  ‘Ah! Here we are. Home from home.’

  He was standing in a street where every house appeared to be approached by three steps, guarded on each side by sloping iron railings. They were quite large houses. He wouldn’t say this was the best end of the city, but it was no cheap street.

  The front door to the house looked heavy and strong and was graced with a brass letter box and doorknob, and when it was opened, the woman sailed in; and the man pressed Ward forward. And now he was being introduced to a woman who was apparently the owner of the house, for Mrs Killjoy was saying, ‘This is a friend of ours, Connie. We have met him by chance this evening.’ She turned towards Ward now, saying, ‘Mr Hayward Gibson.’ Then extending her hand to the flat bosomed middle-aged woman, she added, ‘Mrs Borman, our landlady and the kindest you will find in a day’s walk.’ And now, with fingers wagging, she exclaimed, ‘And I mean that, Connie. You know I mean that.’

  Mrs Borman did not spread her gaze over his entire body as Mrs Killjoy had done; but she looked him straight in the face and in a pleasant voice said, ‘Good evening, Mr Gibson. Any friend of Mrs Killjoy is welcome to my house.’

  Nodding and smiling, Mrs Killjoy put down her small charges, as did her husband, and informed the landlady in the most polite terms, ‘They have already done their number ones and twos, and Ken will give them their dinner as usual and put them to bed…Go along, my darlings. Go along with your papa.’

  During this little scene Ward had been standing apart, holding his wide-brimmed hat level so that the rain wouldn’t drip onto the polished linoleum of the hall floor, and not really believing what he was hearing and witnessing. It was as if he himself had been lifted onto a stage and was taking part in a play; and then more so when Mrs Killjoy asked in her assumed refined tone, ‘And how is our patient faring? Has she behaved herself?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mrs Borman; ‘I would say she has, as always, behaved herself. She is now in the parlour.’

  ‘Oh, she has managed to get there! That is wonderful. And it has eased what might have been an embarrassing question, which I would have had to phrase very diplomatically in asking if our friend here would have been allowed to visit her privately. Oh, the parlour is very suitable. Would you come this way?’ She inclined a hand towards Ward. ‘But, ah’—she stopped again—‘before doing so, let me divest you of your coat and take that hat.’

  He had to close his eyes for a moment whilst being divested of his coat. But then he was following Mrs Killjoy, a person, he considered, most definitely misnamed, into a room that seemed to be furnished entirely with chairs of all shapes and sizes, and there, sitting on one to the side of the fireplace, was a slim young girl.

  As he walked slowly towards her, Mrs Killjoy was exclaiming loudly, ‘I’ve brought a gentleman to see you, dear. He was so disappointed that you weren’t on stage tonight. He was enquiring of your health. He is a Mr Hay…ward Gibson.’ She split the name. ‘He is from the country…How is your ankle, dear?’

  As the girl answered, ‘Much better, thank you,’ she did not look at Mrs Killjoy, but at the tall man staring down at her, and she was recognising him, much more than at the moment he was recognising her, because he was looking down on a girl he imagined to be not more than sixteen, with her abundant brown hair lying in a loose bun at the back of her head. Her face was oval-shaped; her eyes large, and they were brown, too, but of a deeper brown than her hair. She had a wide full mouth and a small nose, and her skin appeared to be slightly tanned. In no way did she fit the picture of the Maltese Angel.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Good evening.’ He bowed slightly; then he added, ‘I…I was sorry to hear of your accident.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing. It will soon be better.’ She put her hand towards where her foot was resting on the low stool. ‘I’ll be dancing again next week.’

  ‘That you won’t. I’ve never been a betting woman but I’ll take a bet on that. Three weeks at the least. That’s what the doctor said. And, by the way’—Mrs Killjoy now indicated Ward with a quite gracious wave of her hand—‘Mr Gibson is a farmer. And Sophia took to him, so that’s a good reference, don’t you think.’ She smiled now from one to the other; then hitching up her large bosom, she added, ‘Now, I’m away to tidy myself up and get ready for supper, although we’ll have a good hour or more to wait, seeing that we’re early in. He put us on in the first half.’ She now bent forward, her finger wagging as if at the culprit who had done this thing. ‘Would you believe that, Stephanie? The effrontery of it! Still, I’ll tell you all about it later.’

  At this, she turned about and sailed from the room, for, in spite of her bulk, her step was light.

  Ward searched in his mind for something to say, but the only words it prompted were, ‘It is still raining,’ to which inane remark the girl quietly invited him to sit down.

  He looked around as to which chair he would take, and her voice full of laughter now, prompted him, saying, ‘Don’t sit in the big leather one. It looks very comfortable, but the springs have gone. I think the safest would be the Bentwood arm.’ She pointed to a chair a little to the left of her.

  He returned her smile and, nodding, walked around her outstretched leg and seated himself in the chair which stood within a few feet of her own; and she turned to face him fully and said, ‘It was very kind of you to come to the show.’ She did not add, ‘so often’.

  He knew his colour had risen as he replied, ‘You noticed me, then?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I noticed you.’

  ‘I…I enjoyed your dancing.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He sat looking at her in silence now. She had a nice voice, different from any he had heard, except perhaps that of Colonel Ramsmore’s wife or of Mrs Hopkins, when either the one or the other opened the fair. Yet there was nothing high-falutin about it, like theirs; but it was different. Oh yes, it was different. She was different all round: different from her stage appearance; different from what he had expected her to be off stage; but she looked so young. He was slightly surprised to hear himself voicing his thoughts: ‘You looked young on the stage, but pardon my saying, you look much younger off.’

  She now leant back against the padded head of the high-backed chair, and she laughed as she said, ‘I’m a very deceptive person. I shall be nineteen on my next birthday.’

  He found he was so relieved that he, too, laughed back as he said brightly, ‘My! No-one would ever guess it,’ a remark which made her neither blush nor become coy, but divert any further allusion by asserting, ‘Mrs Killjoy is a wonderful wo
man, a wonderful friend, but she is very bad at betting and I have proved her wrong so many times, for by next week I shall certainly be dancing again. But in Sunderland. That is our next booking.’

  He did not wonder why she said this, but he repeated, ‘Sunderland?’ then nodded at her, saying, ‘I often pop down to Sunderland. How long are you likely to be there?’

  ‘Just a week, I think.’

  ‘Oh. Only a week.’ Another inane remark, he thought; then he asked, ‘Where do you live…I mean your home?’

  She turned her gaze away from him and looked towards her foot, and she seemed to sigh before she said, ‘Wherever we are playing: I have no settled home.’

  ‘No?’ The syllable held a note of surprise, and she answered, ‘My parents were on the stage too. My mother was a dancer, and my father sang. And so I’ve always been on the move. I think it was a year after my father brought my mother from Malta that we settled in Bristol, because I wasn’t born until the following year. And that was in York, and two days after Christmas Day.’

  He did not remark on her Christmas birth, but asked, ‘Your parents…they are …?’

  Her answer was without false sentiment: ‘They are dead,’ she said. ‘My mother died of smallpox, and a year later my father was drowned. But that was almost six years ago. Since then Mr and Mrs Killjoy have been almost like parents to me.’

  ‘I’m sure. I’m sure.’ His head was nodding, but he could find no more to say; he felt utterly tongue-tied, all he could do was listen to his thoughts: she was beautiful, but of a different beauty to that which she showed from the stage. The word that suited her there, he supposed, would be ethereal, not quite of this world. But this girl was of this world. And she seemed at ease in it. There was a quietness about her. And yet her eyes were merry, and she smiled often. He wished he could see her standing up; he didn’t know how tall she would be. She was very slim. Well, she would have to be very slim, wouldn’t she, and of no weight to be hanging from that wire?

  ‘Now you’ve heard all about my life, so may I ask about yours? Mrs Killjoy says you’re a farmer. That sounds so interesting. It must be wonderful dealing with animals. I love the poodles.’ She indicated a door at the end of the room as if that was where the dogs were.

  He could answer her now: he gave a short laugh as he said, ‘Not so wonderful when you have to get up on a winter morning around five, because you know, cows wear watches.’ He actually pulled a face at her. ‘And they don’t like it if you’re a bit late; they kick up a row.’

  She was laughing outright now, as she repeated his words: ‘Cows wear watches. Have you many?’

  ‘Eighteen milkers and six youngsters coming on…heifers, you know; and three horses, one for the trap or riding. Her name is Betty. And two Shires…you know, the big horses. I am sure you’ve seen them pulling the beer drays; well, mine pull the plough and many other things.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes. And they are lovely. Have you got ducks?’

  ‘Oh, yes; ducks, chickens, a few geese. And pigs, of course. All that you expect to find on a farm.’

  ‘Have you always lived on a farm?’

  ‘Always. And my father, and his father, and his father before him.’

  She was staring at him again. Her face had been smiling; but now the smile slid away and her hand came out tentatively as if she were about to touch him; but she withdrew it quickly as she said, ‘I…I noticed you’ve had an injury to your face.’

  ‘Oh that.’ He fingered the two thin lines of dried scab. ‘I had a sort of accident.’

  ‘With…with an animal?’

  He could have replied, ‘Yes, a bitch;’ instead, he said, ‘A wild cat got into the barn. I must have surprised her, frightened her. She sprang down from…a sort of platform that’s found in some barns’—his hand wavered over his brow—‘and her claws caught me.’

  ‘Oh dear! It must have been very frightening, and painful.’

  His manner was offhand now as he said, ‘The only thing is, it’s a nuisance. I find it difficult to shave.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  At this point the far door opened and Mr and Mrs Killjoy entered the room. On Ward’s rising to his feet, the woman exclaimed loudly, at the same time wagging her finger at the young girl, ‘Now that’s the action of a gentleman. You can always tell a gentleman if he’ll get off his backside…I mean…er’—she slanted her gaze at him—‘rises from his seat when a woman enters the room.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Killjoy.’

  The finger wagged again. ‘Well, you know me by now, Stephanie: I say what’s in my mind, and I can’t stop it, because there’s a leak there.’ The large body shook with laughter, in which her husband joined. Then turning to Ward, she said, ‘Would you like to stop and have a bite of supper? Mrs Borman says there’s enough for all, and plenty of it.’

  He did not immediately answer; then he said, ‘I’m sorry; but I’ll have to be going. Another time, though, if I am allowed to call’—he glanced towards the girl—‘I’d be very pleased to accept.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be quite welcome to call again, ’cos there she is—’ Mrs Killjoy turned to the now embarrassed girl, crying, ‘Well, you’re sitting there all day by yourself; you’ll be glad of company.’ Then to Ward, she ended, ‘Yes, you’d be welcome. She’s too shy to say so, but I’m asking it for her.’

  It was to the girl he spoke again; ‘Well, if I may, it would be in the evening,’ he said.

  She merely inclined her head towards him; and at this, he swung about and hurried from the room, with Mrs Killjoy endeavouring to keep pace behind him.

  As she helped him into his coat she remarked in an undertone, ‘You weren’t mistaken in your opinion, were you?’

  He turned and looked at this surprising woman, and he said soberly, ‘No, Mrs Killjoy, you’re right, I wasn’t. And I will call again at the first opportunity.’

  ‘I’m sure, you will, son. I’m sure you will.’ She patted him on the shoulder now; then handing him his hat and coat she opened the door and, with a wave of her hand, ushered him out.

  It was still pouring, and he had the inclination to run, not from the rain, but just to relieve his feelings. She was right. She was right: he hadn’t been wrong in his opinion. But the girl wasn’t an angel. No, she wasn’t an angel; she was a girl of nineteen, and she was sweet, lovely, beautiful…very beautiful. God send tomorrow soon.

  Back in the parlour of the boarding house, Mrs Killjoy was sitting facing Stephanie McQueen, and she was addressing her as Fanny. ‘Fanny,’ she was saying, ‘look…look at us…Ken and me. We’re nearly on our last legs. I’m getting past falling flat on my face on those boards every night, sometimes twice nightly. Even without Charlie and Rose attacking me in the backside I could fall down many a night, for me legs an’ me back are killin’ me. Now, you know, we’ve got a little bit put by: and we’re on the lookout for that little cottage with a patch of garden. It’s been the dream of our life. It’s forty-three years since I took over from my dad, and I’m nearing the end of the road. As for Ken, I don’t know how he keeps going. Now, now!’ She held up her hand. ‘Hear me out. You’ve been like a daughter to us since your folks went. And I promised your mum I’d always keep an eye on you. And I’ve done that, haven’t I?’

  Stephanie’s hands came out and gripped the podgy ones, and, her voice breaking and with tears in her eyes, she said, ‘Oh! Mrs Killjoy. You know what I think about you, what I think about you both. I would never have got along without you. And I don’t think I ever could…’

  ‘Oh yes, you could, ’cos you’ve got an excellent turn. But how long is it going to last? That’s what I’m worried about. Look at that.’ She pointed to the foot resting on the stool. ‘That can happen again at any time. And anywhere. And that’s the point: if you’re on your own, what’s to become of you, with all the sharks about? And…and’—now she was wagging her hand—‘it’s no use saying you can take care of yourself. No girl can take care of herself when she looks like
you and she’s in this racket. You’ve had some experience already, haven’t you? But there hasn’t been anyone like him before. Now, I’m going to talk plainly. He’s a country fella. That’s evident. And he’s not of the upper-class. That’s also evident. But what is fully evident is he’s certainly not of the clodhopper or farmworker class either. He’s what I would call a respectable young country fella; and he owns his own farm…’

  ‘Mrs Killjoy, dear’—the girl sighed—‘I’ve just met him for the first time. Yes, I’m aware I noticed him on the second night, and on the third and the fourth; but nevertheless, I’ve actually met him only a moment ago: I couldn’t possibly think of him as…’

  ‘Now listen to me. I don’t expect you to think of him in any way yet; but he’s going to call, and if he’s come four times to the show he’ll come four times here next week.’

  ‘I could be back at work next week.’

  Mrs Killjoy looked towards the slim ankle and she nodded as she said, ‘Yes. Yes; I know you’ve been using those hands of yours, and I’m not saying you couldn’t be back at work next week, because I also know the power you have in them—you got Beattie onto her feet when I never expected her to be on the boards again—but I’m asking you a favour, and it is a favour: let your hands alone for the next day or so until you get better acquainted with him, then say what you think. Will you do that for me, Fanny?’

  Stephanie hesitated for a moment; then she smiled and said, ‘Yes. You know I will; I’ll do anything for you; but don’t count on the result, please. And stop worrying about me and think of yourself and Mr Ken more, and get into that cottage soon.’