The Maltese Angel

by Catherine Cookson

‘Well, let’s put it this way: we’ll think of the cottage once we’ve got you settled.’

  ‘Oh! Mrs Killjoy.’

  ‘Oh! Miss Stephanie McQueen.’ And now the woman, shaking with laughter, hugged the slim body to her, whilst she asked, ‘If you had to choose between Mr Harry Henley, that loud-mouth juggler, or the Honourable James Wilson Carter, so-called, with his mimes, rhymes, and readings…educated idiot that he is, and our farmer, who would you choose?’

  ‘No-one of them, at the moment, Mrs Killjoy. No-one of them.’

  Four

  ‘Annie, I would like you to make something suitable for a tea in the parlour tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Annie took up a canister and sprinkled flour liberally over a large wooden board resting on the kitchen table before adding, ‘And what would you have in mind?’

  ‘As I said, something suitable for tea in the parlour, like you used to make years gone by for Sunday tea: scones, griddles, and little fancies.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Annie lifted a large lump of dough out of a brown earthenware bowl and dropped it onto the floured board; and not until she started to knead it did she say further, ‘And how many company are to be expected?’

  ‘Only three.’

  ‘Only three?’

  ‘That’s what I said, only three. But accompanied by four dogs.’

  This last remark turned Annie from the board, flapping her flour-covered hands together, then wiping them on her apron, as she cried, ‘Four dogs! People don’t bring dogs to afternoon tea.’

  ‘This company does.’ He was smiling at her now, knowing he had her full attention. ‘Don’t worry; they’re only little dogs…poodles.’

  ‘Poodles?’ She screwed up her face. ‘Like Pekingese? Them like Pekingese?’

  ‘No; larger; they’re performing dogs.’

  ‘Oo…h.’ Her lips described the word, and she went on, ‘Now I get it. Performing dogs. The guests are from the stage, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Annie, they’re from the stage. But you should have guessed that long before now.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doin’.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’ The banter had gone from his voice. ‘And I would like you to be civil to them, because I might as well tell you, Annie, if I have my way one of them will soon be mistress of this house.’

  Annie stared at him for fully five seconds before she turned back to her baking board, saying quietly, ‘Well, it’s your house and you’re the master; but I’ve had concern for you since you were born, and so I can only say I hope your choice is the right one. But we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Annie, just as you say. Anyway, they’ll be here around three o’clock. I hope the table will look nice.’

  He had reached the door leading into the boot room, which gave way onto the yard, when he was stopped by her voice crying again, ‘It’s all over the place, you know, about your jaunting; and it’s known to one an’ all.’

  ‘Oh. Is it really?’

  ‘Aye, an’ you needn’t put that tone on with me, Master Ward. I’m just tellin’ you for your own good: if anybody goes night after night to a theatre he goes for a purpose.’

  ‘Well, Annie, I’ll give you something to tell them, I haven’t been once to the theatre this week. Now what do you think about that?’ On which he closed the door none too quietly.

  He made his way to the coach house, and there he saw the boy rubbing an oily rag around the hub of the trap wheel, and after making a point of inspecting the whole trap, he said to him, ‘You’ve done a good job. Leave it now and go and clean yourself up; your meal will be ready soon.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He stood watching the boy cleaning his hands at the pump at the end of the yard. He liked him: there was something about him, sort of appealing, fetching. Then his gaze returned to the trap and he told himself that for two pins he would put the horse into the shafts and ride in comfort to Newcastle, but Billy already had Betty harnessed.

  He owned up to himself that he was feeling tired: he had come into the yard at half past four this morning, as he had done every morning this week, in order to get through his share of the work well before evening, and to forestall any possible comment from Billy; although, and he gave him his due, it wasn’t likely he would openly protest, which wasn’t saying he wouldn’t have his own thoughts about the matter, as assuredly as Annie had hers. Oh yes; she had made up her mind to be awkward. He could see that. Well, awkward or not, she would have to put up with it, because there was one thing sure, he’d have to speak to Fanny within the next day or so; if not she’d be on the road again.

  He thought of her as Fanny because it was she herself who had stopped him addressing her as Miss Stephanie. ‘Call me Fanny,’ she had said. And so he did and he thought of her as Fanny now, even the while thinking that the name didn’t suit her: it was too ordinary, too common, and in sound too near to Annie.

  Billy was standing by the horse teasing its mane with his gnarled fingers as he said, ‘Be all right, Master Ward, if I don’t wait up for you the night?’

  Ward stared at him. ‘Of course it’ll be all right,’ he answered. ‘Is anything the matter? Are you feeling off colour?’

  ‘Me back’s playin’ me up lately.’

  ‘Then why the devil didn’t you say so? You don’t want to find yourself flat out again, do you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry. I won’t be flat out; I’ll still do me work.’

  ‘Oh! You madden me sometimes, man.’ Ward was mounting the horse, and the old man was on his way back to the stable, and he yelled at him, ‘And don’t you take me up the wrong way, Billy Compton. I’m having enough of it from indoors so, don’t you start.’

  He didn’t wait for a response, but with a ‘Gee up!’ set the horse forward, but at a walk. And later, he defiantly brought it back to a walk as he passed through the village, where he answered one or two desultory hails from patrons making their way to The Crown Head.

  He had passed the blacksmith’s shop and was riding into the open country when he was hailed from the rising ground to his right, and there he saw Fred Newberry lolloping towards him.

  Ward pulled up his horse and, as Fred slid down the grass bank to the road, he remarked, ‘So you’ve been in the river again? They’ll find you floating in there one day.’

  ‘Oh, man! It’s hot in the bakehouse.’ Fred ran a hand over his wet hair; then, swinging the wet towel he was carrying in a circle about his head, he laughed as he said, ‘Good job I kept me underpants on the day: two lasses came round the bend. Swimming like fish, they were. Never seen anything like it, ’cos none of the village ones goes in the river, do they? Well, not that I’ve seen. Have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, Fred.’

  ‘They were cheeky pieces in all ways. By, they were! One of them waved to me. Out of the water, mind, she waved. They were on bicycles, of all things…Bicycles. I saw them lying in the grass, with their clothes…’

  ‘Well,’ Ward laughed, ‘you read about the new-fangled lasses in the papers, don’t you? You should have had a crack with them, man.’ He laughed now and he was about to jerk the reins again when Fred spoke, and this time without the perpetual grin on his face. ‘I’m on your side, Ward,’ he said, ‘no matter what they say. If you want to take a lass from the town, it’s your business, nobody else’s. It’s as our John said, it’s about time somebody brought fresh blood into the place. Of course, Will didn’t like it, ’cos he’s after Susan Beaker. So is Jimmy Conroy. There’ll be hell to pay shortly. But anyway, Ward, you do what you want to do; there’s bound to be some nice lasses among actresses. I only wish I had your spunk. I’m frightened of lasses, really. I always make me tongue go, but that’s as far as it gets.’ The smile slowly returned to his face now as he added, ‘Me dad says I’ll be hanging on me ma’s apron strings when I’m sixty, ’cos she still thinks she’s got me in the pram.’ He covered up his self-conscious acceptance with an
outburst of laughter, in which Ward could not help but join while affectionately pushing the flat of his hand against his friend’s wet head and saying, ‘It’ll hit you one of these days, never you fear, Fred; and you’ll wonder which cuddy’s kicked you.’ Then he urged his horse into a walk as Fred said, ‘Do you think so, Ward? Well, you show me the cuddy and it can kick me with both back legs, and I’ll welcome it…Will you be in church the morrow?’ he now called.

  And Ward, turning in his saddle, called back, ‘No, not tomorrow, Fred. Tomorrow I’m going to give the village something to think about.’

  ‘Aye? What’s that?’

  ‘Wait and see, Fred. You wait and see. So long.’

  ‘So long, Ward.’

  Some distance along the road, he muttered to himself: ‘I’m on your side, Ward, no matter what they say.’ So they must be saying a lot, then, and all in sympathy with her? And the words conjured up the face looming before him as he’d last seen it, and no will or strength in him could check an involuntary shudder. But then he attacked it with: to the devil with her, and them all! Gee up, there !… As John had said, there was need for fresh blood in the place.

  It was three o’clock on the Sunday afternoon when he drove the heavily laden trap through the last farm gate. He had skirted the village. He had not, at first, intended to, but when he saw Mrs Killjoy perched on one side of the trap, with the small man by her side, he who must appear to all who saw him, at least from his stature, like a fat boy with an old face, and each of them holding two be-ribboned and powdered white poodles, he knew that he had to save them the ridicule they would have evoked if he had driven through the village. Now, if he had been alone with Fanny…oh, yes, that would have been a different matter altogether.

  They were in the yard and he was helping them down from the trap, having taken the dogs in turn from them and carefully put them on the ground, being thankful as he did so that the weather had been dry for days so that there were no muddy puddles: he gave a hand first to Mrs Killjoy; then to her husband; and lastly, he held out both hands to the beautiful girl wearing a long blue summer dress and a large leghorn hat, the rim trimmed with a blue veil, so casting a shadow over her face.

  Billy had looked on in astonishment throughout these proceedings, understanding fully now why he had been told to lock up Flo and Captain; for it was more than likely they would have swallowed these four yapping so-called dogs.

  Ward was now apologising loudly as he led the party out of the yard and round by the side of the house, saying, ‘This is a very odd house: the front door was put on the wrong side of it, and the hedge stops us driving up to it.’ He pointed to the low box hedge that bordered the square of newly cut grass fronting the house. ‘My father planted the hedge or I would have dug it up a long time ago. Anyway, here we are.’

  The front door was open, and much to Ward’s amazement, which he skilfully hid, there was Annie standing in the middle of the hall, wearing a clean white bibbed apron, and a tiny cap, which he had never seen before, resting on the top of her grey hair, and for a moment he felt qualms, thinking that she was about to bend her knee and turn the whole thing into a farce. But no: she stood waiting, as a housekeeper might have done, and he said, pointing first to the beaming woman, ‘Annie, this is Mrs Killjoy. Mrs Killjoy, this is Mrs Compton, who has been with the family for years; in fact, she is one of the family, and she has looked after this house and me since my parents died.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Compton?’ Mrs Killjoy was at her theatrical best; she held out her hand, and, with a slight hesitation, Annie took it. Then Mr Killjoy was introduced, and, as Annie said to Billy later that night, ‘How I kept me face straight, God only knows. Her like a house end and him only as big as a pea on a drum. And when he bowed over my hand…it was like a play.’

  And now, Ward’s voice was level as he said, ‘This is Miss Stephanie McQueen, Annie.’

  ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs Compton.’

  And what Annie said, as she took the thin hand in hers, was, ‘And you, miss. And you.’ And as she also remarked to Billy later, ‘Well, I admit I was staggered, for anything unlike a stage piece I never did see or imagine.’

  There were no outer clothes to be taken off, and as one wouldn’t dream of taking off one’s hat to partake of tea, they allowed themselves, accompanied by the four dogs, to be led by Ward to the parlour where, at a round table placed near the window, was set, on a lace hand-worked cloth, a tea surpassing anything that Ward had expected to see served to his guests.

  Then a diversion was caused by Mrs Killjoy’s directing her family to the hearth and informing them to be seated on the rug before the empty fire grate; admonishing them, meanwhile, to behave; and one after the other they lowered themselves, head on front paws, eyes directed towards their mistress, or their mother, as she termed herself, as whom, in their doggy world, they accepted apparently gladly.

  Amid laughter the company were now seated at the table, and while Ward did his duty in handing round the plates of eatables, Annie stood at the side table and poured tea.

  What was surprising Ward more than anything at this moment was Annie’s attitude towards the whole affair: she was acting as he imagined she might if in service in a big house as the housekeeper, or even the butler, and this, he knew, was certainly not in her character. Was she determined to show the future mistress of this house where she stood? Ah yes, that was likely what was in her mind, for even during his parents’ time she had never been relegated completely to the kitchen…

  The tea over, and the dogs having been given their titbits, Ward now enquired if they would like to walk around the farm; and at this, Mrs Killjoy exclaimed in her unique way, ‘No offence meant, Mr Ward, but if you were asking me what I would enjoy, I would say a nice sit-down and talk with the good lady housekeeper here, as would my husband. Wouldn’t you, Ken?’ and obediently Ken answered, ‘I would.’

  Ward slanted his gaze downwards: one up to Mrs Killjoy. She was a diplomat of diplomats, was this lady: she wasn’t only getting into Annie’s good books, but was leaving open the opportunity for him to have Fanny to himself. And this he took immediately by turning to her and saying, ‘Well, would you like to see around my farm, Miss McQueen?’ He stressed her name. And she answered in the same vein, ‘Yes, Mr Gibson, I’d be delighted to.’ And with exaggerated ceremony, he offered her his arm, and together, amid laughter, they walked from the room.

  Ward showed her, first, the cow byres which, at the moment, were empty and pointed out the cow-stands, each bearing the name of an individual cow: Dolly, Mary, Agnes, Jessie, Beatrice, Flora, and so on; and she laughed gaily, saying, ‘I can’t believe it! Cows being named. It’s so nice, though.’ She shook her head, unable to find further words to describe the apparent treatment of his cows.

  Then they visited the stables, the tack room, the boiler house, and the barn; and so to the round of the animals, from the sow and its litter to the two shires in the meadow; then he pointed out the cut hay that had been turned and was just about ready for gathering in.

  Her amazement grew as they walked and he described the routine that went to the making of a farm year, season by season.

  When they reached the stone wall bordering his land, he pointed beyond it, saying, ‘Here begins the Ramsmore’s estate, and over there, to the right lies the village church. You see the church belfry sticking up above those trees? It has one of the oldest bells in the country, so it is said. Old Crack, they call it.’

  With her elbows resting on the top of the wall, she stood looking down over the slope, and her voice was low as she said, ‘It’s all very lovely, but not quite real.’

  ‘What do you mean? Not quite real.’

  ‘Well, all this.’ She spread out her hand before turning to him and looking up into his face. ‘And you, too, Ward,’ she said, ‘you’re not quite real.’

  ‘I am real enough, Fanny. Oh yes, I’m real enough. And you’re real enough to me; and have been from the first time I
clapped eyes on you and felt something stirring here.’ He tapped his breast with his doubled fist. ‘It was as if I’d known you from my beginnings, and I was just waiting for you to come to life. I can’t believe this is only the sixth time I have spoken to you, although I have looked on your beautiful face nine times. You…you know what I feel for you, Fanny?’

  ‘Yes, Ward. But I…’

  ‘Don’t finish it. Don’t finish it; just hear me out. I love you. Dear God! How I love you. It surprises even meself. I wake up in the night and wonder what’s hit me. I never thought to feel like this, never in me life. And now I ask you, do you like me?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes.’ Her head went back and she gazed up into his face and she repeated, ‘Oh, yes, Ward. I like you. I like you very much; but…but I must be fair, my feelings aren’t the same as yours. You see, I’ve known you such a short time. Yet I am well aware you are a man of the finest character, and it wouldn’t be fair to accept what you are offering…’

  ‘Don’t say any more, dear. Don’t say any more. Just listen. I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as ever you like, until your feelings change. That’s if you want it that way. But—’ Slowly he shook his head. ‘What am I saying? I say I’ll wait as long as you like. But who will I be waiting for? The week after next you’ll be gone…where? I don’t know. Travelling from one town to another; and you’ll meet all kinds of men who will make you offers. And you’ve likely had them afore now.’

  She now put her hand out and gently placed it on his shoulder as she said, ‘Yes, Ward. I’ve had all kinds of offers but not one such as you are making me now, for I assume it is marriage you are suggesting?’

  ‘Of course! Of course; nothing else. Why! Who would dare…?’ He clutched at her hand.

  ‘Oh’—she smiled gently at him—‘many would dare; they would call such an offer “protection”. I have had offers to be protected since my people died. But the only protection I wanted was that of Mr and Mrs Killjoy. Now they are worried for me because they hope to retire soon and the thought of me being on my own troubles them. But I love to dance. You see, Ward, I cannot remember when I first walked, but I can remember when I first danced. My mother was a dancer, a beautiful dancer. She taught me all I know. As she said, she never, what they called, bounced me on her knee, I stood up and danced from my earliest days; and this being so I could never imagine not dancing again. Yet, having said that, at times I get tired of the routine, I mean of travelling, of boarding houses and back-stage conditions, and, I must confess, of some types of audience, especially the Friday and Saturday ones.’