The Maltese Angel

by Catherine Cookson

  He now took her face between his hands as he said, ‘I can understand that. Oh my dear, yes, I can understand that. To me, you are too fragile, too beautiful, too nice for that type of life; and if you want to dance, well, I’ll take you to a dance every week. There’s the Assembly Rooms in Newcastle; there’s the…’

  She laughed and, taking his hands from her face, said, ‘I don’t think I would care for that kind of dancing. I don’t need people, you know, to enable me to dance. Oh…I am not expressing myself well. But look—’ She turned and pointed to the field where the hay was spread and she said, ‘I could very easily dance through your hay. But, of course, I should have to have slightly thicker shoes on than when on the stage.’

  He laughed with her now, saying, ‘Aye, that would be a sight; I would love to see it. But…but, Fanny’—again he had hold of her hands—‘if it’s just dancing you want for your own pleasure I’d build some place.

  ‘Look…’ He didn’t continue, but quickly taking her hand, ran her along by the wall, round a copse of trees, and through a piece of woodland; and then, pulling her to a breathless stop, he pointed into the distance, saying, ‘Look yonder. That’s the back of the barns; but look there!’ He now threw his arm out to the right and towards a strip of high stone wall as he said, ‘That could be the very thing.’ Still holding her hand, he drew her towards what she now made out to be some kind of glass-fronted lean-to. The wall was all of ten feet high and forty feet long. Fronting it was an eight-foot structure still holding, here and there, panes of glass.

  ‘That,’ he said, pointing to it, ‘could be your own theatre. I’d have it done up. It used to be a vinery. My great-grandfather built it. Some say the wall was the end of a house that once stood there; but there’s nothing in the deeds about it. Anyway, with the price of milk and meat changing so much in his early days, my father had to cut down on labour, and it was let go until it is as you see now. But the structure’s fine. Come and look into it.’

  He now beat a way with his boots through the tangled grass; and when they both stood in the doorless aperture, looking along the length of the building, the floor padded with the rotted foliage of years and yet still sprouting new growth, some of it reaching almost to the top of the wall, he said, ‘It’s a mess now, I admit, but I can see it being a fine place. There’s a sketch of it somewhere in the house that my great-grandfather did when the vines were still covering the whole place, the grapes on it as big as plonkers.’ He now laughed down on her, saying, ‘You don’t know what plonkers are?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Well, they’re what the lads call large marbles, the outsize ones.’

  Her smile was soft as she stood gazing up at him without speaking, yet her mind was racing over the words Mrs Killjoy had spoken to her just before he had arrived to bring them on the journey here. ‘Don’t let him slip through your hands, me dear,’ she had said. ‘You’re so young; you know really nothing of life. You’ve been on the boards practically since you could walk, but still you know nothing of life…and men, and I’m telling you, it is my opinion you’ll not find a better. He’s too…I won’t say simple, because there’s nothing simple about him; but he’s too straightforward to be bad. His tongue is not false; nor is his face; and there are those, you know, who appear to be gentlemen, whose words are coated with butter; only something in the eyes gives them away. This I have learnt. And there’s nothing in that countryman’s eyes that warns me of any treachery one way or the other. What’s more, he’s no boy, he’s a man of twenty-five, and looks older than his years. All right. All right.’ Mrs Killjoy’s voice was ringing in Fanny’s ears now, repeating the words she herself had spoken. ‘You say you don’t love him, not as you would expect to about the man you intend to marry. But that comes, dear, that comes. It’s amazing how it springs on you, often brought to life by some little action or word. But it comes.’

  Would it come to her with regard to this man? At the moment she couldn’t say; what she did say was, ‘I am not being swayed, Ward, by the promise of a long room in which I can dance, but rather because your sincere offer of marriage has made me hope that you could be right, that my tender feelings for you will grow into something stronger, and so with the hope that you will never regret having asked me, I promise you now to become your wife, whenever you wish it.’

  She gasped as she was lifted from her feet and held so that she looked down at him, and as he slowly returned her to the ground, his hands, like his whole body, trembling the while, he muttered, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was enough to frighten you off altogether. I’m like a bear. But, oh Fanny! Fanny! You’ll never regret those words ever, not as long as either you and I live.’ And taking her face once more into his hands, he bent down and kissed her gently on the lips.

  The action was restrained, and she was aware of this; and impulsively she reached up her arms and put them around his neck; and when her lips touched his cheek he remained still. His own arms about her, he held her as gently as if she were some ethereal creature; which in reality is how he saw her.

  It was she who now said brightly as she straightened her hat, ‘Let us go and tell them.’

  ‘Oh aye…yes. But I don’t think it will be any surprise. Well, it may be a surprise that you are going to take me on, but not that I’ve been breaking me neck for you over the past days. I know what Annie will say.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me something I wasn’t expecting.’

  Hand in hand now, they ran back up the field; then through another, and skirted the back of the barns and so into the yard. But in the kitchen they came to a stop: there was laughter coming from the hall; and she whispered to him, ‘I know what’s happening: the children are doing their turn. I…I mean the dogs. But that’s how Mrs Killjoy sees them.’

  When he opened the door into the hall, it was to see the surprising sight of Annie with her hand pressed tightly over her mouth, her body shaking with laughter, and Billy at her side, his head wagging like a golliwog; but more surprising still was the sight of the boy. He was smiling for the first time since he had come into the place; but more than smiling, he was gurgling as he watched the pretty white dog stagger down the hallway as if it were drunk; then fall on its back, its legs in the air, doing its turns as if on the stage; and when the little man bent over it, gently smacking its hindquarters as he scolded it, it rolled over twice before getting on its hind legs, its front paws wagging as it staggered down the room to where Mrs Killjoy was waiting.

  Instinctively, Annie clapped; and so did little Billy; but the boy walked straight-faced across the hall to Mrs Killjoy, and said, ‘May I pat him, ma’am?’

  ‘You can that, son. You can not only pat him, you can put your arms around him. But “he” is a she. She’s a drunken little no-good. Come here with you!’

  She drew the dog towards her and, lifting it, put it in the boy’s arms. And when the dog’s tongue came out and licked his cheek, the boy actually laughed. But it was a strange sound, not like a laugh at all. But the sound changed quickly into a moan when Mrs Killjoy clapped her hand onto his back; and when his arms opened and the dog slid from him, she said, ‘What is it, laddie? What is it?’

  ‘He’s got a sore back, Mrs Killjoy,’ Ward explained, walking up the room. ‘He’s just new to us, but where he was last he was badly treated.’

  ‘Never! Never! And him but a spelk of a child with no flesh on his bones.’

  ‘True, Mrs Killjoy. But come into the parlour and I’ll show you something,’ Ward said, gently pushing the dog forward; and the company followed him, dogs and all. There, saying to Carl, ‘Lift up your shirt,’ the boy did as he was bidden and exposed the rough bandage around his back; and when Annie took out the two safety pins holding it in place and so further exposed the suppurating weal, both Mr and Mrs Killjoy stood dumbfounded for a moment. Then the woman demanded, ‘Who did that to him? He should be in gaol. He should that. If I knew…’

  ‘Only the boy knows, Mrs
Killjoy, and he doesn’t want to say; nor does he want this to go any further because, as he’ll tell you, he’s afraid of being sent back. And so I know you won’t mention this matter.’

  Mrs Killjoy now turned to Fanny, saying, ‘Did you ever see anything like it.’

  Fanny made no reply, but she went to the boy and laid a hand on his head and murmured something to him that caused his face to brighten and for him to say, ‘Italiano?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘From Malta…And you? You are Italian?’

  The brightness faded from the small face; and his answer was again muttered: ‘I don’t know. My mother was, I think. I can remember only odd words she said. It was long time ago. But my father, he spoke different, like everyone else. I did, too.’

  She bent down to him and said slowly, ‘I am going to touch your back; but you won’t feel any pain.’

  It was at this point Annie made a movement of protest, only to be stopped by Mrs Killjoy saying quietly, ‘She knows what she’s doing. Just leave her. She is like her own mother, she has power in her hands.’ And she turned to Ward and nodded; and he looked from her to the slip of a girl who had promised to be his wife. He had hurried her here to bring the wonderful news, but now it seemed secondary to the needs of the boy, as he watched her place her hands across the suppurating sore. He watched her press hard on it, and the boy make no movement that might indicate he felt pain of any kind.

  He now watched this beautiful girl, who had driven him half crazy over these past few days, close her eyes, bow her head, and talk as if to herself for a minute; then quickly taking her hand from the boy’s back, she took out a handkerchief from her dress pocket and wiped it whilst smiling widely at the boy and assuring him: ‘It will soon be better. Did…did you feel anything?’

  He was smiling up into her face now. ‘My back was warm, very warm, but nice. I mean comfort…comforting.’

  She now asked him, ‘Did you used to speak Italian?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. As I said, my mother used some words. I can remember “bambino”.’

  She touched his cheek, then asked, ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Carl, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, be happy, Carl. Be happy.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He turned now to look at Ward who, assuming now a stiff, almost angry front, exclaimed, ‘You know what you have done, boy?’ and the lad, somewhat apprehensively now, answered, ‘No, no, sir.’

  ‘You have stolen my thunder, that’s all.’ And Ward’s hand went out and ruffled the boy’s thick hair, while addressing the others, saying, ‘And I mean that. I came tearing back to tell you my splendid news…our splendid news—’ He held out a hand towards Fanny, and when she took it he drew her to his side and, placing an arm about her narrow shoulders, as he spread his gaze round from one to the other he said, ‘This beautiful lady here has promised to be my wife.’

  They all stared at him, and with the exception of the boy, it would appear from their expressions that they were dumbfounded. Then the exclamations came pouring out and while Fanny was becoming breathless in being hugged to Mrs Killjoy’s overflowing flesh, Ward’s hand was being shaken, first by Mr Killjoy, then by Billy, and lastly, Annie stood there before him. She did not shake his hand, but smiling at him, she said jokingly, ‘What a surprise! What a surprise!’ and in answer he gave her a playful push in the shoulder. And then she pleased him by saying quietly, ‘She’s different from what I expected. You could travel far and fare worse. In fact, later on, when I come to think over it, I might even consider she’s a bit too good for you,’ and before he had time to reply, she added, ‘Anyway, this calls for a drink, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Annie; I think it does.’

  ‘Well, get them all into the dining room and I’ll see to it. But’—she paused—‘by the way, how about taking the little ’un in with you?’

  He turned to look towards the boy whose face was bright and eager looking, only for his attention to be diverted to Billy who was now shaking the hand of his future mistress. However, he quickly turned back to answer Annie: ‘Why not? Why not indeed! There’s ginger beer there, isn’t there?’ And at this he thrust out an arm towards the child, saying, ‘Come along, scallywag. Come and experience your first celebration. And remember, you’ll never in your life be at a happier one.’

  He now caught hold of the boy’s hand and with his other arm he drew Fanny to his side and linked thus, like a family, it seemed to foretell their future.

  Five

  The vicar’s plump figure swelled with indignation: ‘I never thought I should say this to you, Ward Gibson, but I find your suggestion utterly insensitive. You come here asking me to call the banns of your marriage to a person who has spent her life on the stage, and that would be questionable even if it were depicted in a higher form such as the noble prose of Shakespeare, or in the works of Mr Dickens; but not a dancer of the lowest type…’

  ‘Be careful, parson! And let me tell you something: if it wasn’t for your cloth you would now be stretched out on your vestry floor…Yes; you may well step back, for, let me tell you, I’m marrying a lady.’

  ‘So you think. So you think. But what about the lady you’ve courted for years and have left desolate, slighted, and with a weight of disgrace lying not only on her but on her people, so much so that they cannot bear to come to church.’

  ‘Oh. And you’ll find that a great pity, won’t you, parson? There’ll be no more comforts handed out to you to fill that swollen belly of yours. You’ll miss the suckling pigs, and the lamb carcass now and again, not forgetting your daily milk that you get free while your curate is called on to pay for his. Isn’t that so, parson?’

  The vicar’s face was showing not only a purple hue but also an expression that revealed he was consumed with a blazing anger now as he cried, ‘You’re a wicked man, Ward Gibson. And you are bringing disgrace on the village. This is a family community. And let me tell you, the general opinion of you is the same as mine.’

  Ward’s lips spread out from his teeth and his whole expression was one of disdain. ‘That may be so, parson,’ he said, ‘but have you any idea of what the general opinion is of you, and has been for as far back as I can remember? Well, if you don’t know I’ll tell you now. You’re a sucker-up to those that have and you ignore those that haven’t. It’s left to your curate and others to help them. Aye, those who dare to be Methodists or Baptists, even those who belong to no church or chapel. What about the Regan family down in Bracken Hollow: they wouldn’t turn their coats, would they, and go to St Matthew’s down there, so you disputed whether the old man should be buried in the graveyard. You’d have left him on the moor if you’d had your way, ’cos there was a taint on them, wasn’t there? They were Catholics. It was the same with the McNabs. But John McNab put you in your place, didn’t he? He kicked your backside out of the door. And it’s odd, isn’t it, when others were getting poor-law assistance a few years back, they would have starved if it hadn’t been for a few un-christian people living in this village. Oh, parson, you would know how you are thought of in this place and beyond if it wasn’t that half of your congregation are afraid of opening their mouths, for fear that what they might say would go back to their employers when you are sitting stuffing your kite at their tables. Well, here’s a member of the community, if not of the village, who’s going to tell you how you appear to him, and that’s as an overblown, unintelligent crawler…crawler, always crawling. So now you’ve got it.’ And on this he turned from the infuriated countenance and strode out of the vestry and into the church, and there, standing by the pulpit, he yelled back towards the vestry, ‘The next time I put my foot inside your church it will have to be for some very, very good reason. Aye, a very good reason.’

  ‘I’ll talk him round, Ward. Well, what I mean is, I’ll tell him that I’ll marry you down at St Matthew’s. It’s just about big enough to hold a wedding party. For myself, I prefer it to St Stephen’s: more homely and…holy, I dare a
dd. And it was built with love by the Ramsmore forebears. It was a better idea than that grotesque lump of iron cutting off the altar. Oh, that screen gets on my nerves.’

  Ward looked kindly on the young curate, who called in at the farm the following day. ‘Thanks all the same, Frank,’ he said, ‘but I’ve made up me mind, and Fanny is with me in this, it’ll be a civil ceremony in Newcastle. Candidly, it doesn’t matter a damn to me where it takes place, so long as it does and we are married.’

  ‘She’s a charming girl; I can understand your feelings for her. Anyway, what I’ve come to say is, Jane would like you to pop in for a meal. It’ll be nothing special, for, as yet, I’m the recipient only of new potatoes. And these only at intervals. But I can have as many turnips as I care to store.’

  ‘I heard just a few days ago that you were having to buy your milk from Hannah Beaton’s shop in the village.’

  ‘Yes; that is so. And Jane prefers it that way, unlike me, holding my hands out gratefully for scraps; but she wants no charity, she says. It irks her that our living itself is a charity.’

  ‘Your living? What d’you mean, Frank?’