Mr and Mrs Killjoy were the last to leave; and it was while Mr Killjoy was outside gathering up his family ready for the journey back to Newcastle in the brake that Mrs Killjoy, already dressed in hat and cape, suddenly took Fanny by the hand and led her unhurriedly back into the sitting room, and there in a mumbling whisper she said, ‘I must tell you. I promised him I wouldn’t, but I must. He’s not long for the top. We did our last turn a fortnight ago. My heart is heavy, Fanny, so heavy.’
‘Oh my dear. My dear.’ Fanny was now embracing her friend as far as her arms would go around her, and exclaiming rapidly, ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Oh, you must stay, you mustn’t go. We can look after him: there’s plenty of room. There’s…’
‘Quiet, dear. Quiet. Now we’ve been through all this, Mr Killjoy and I, and it is his wish that we stay with Mrs Borman. She has been good to us all over the years, and she understands us. And, of course, our family. We had intended to stay there in any case while we were looking around for the cottage. But he’ll never live in a cottage now. Don’t…don’t cry, my dear, else he’ll be angry. No. No, I mustn’t say that; he has never been angry with me; nor even vexed. Everything I have done has been right in his eyes, for he was so grateful that I chose him, and I was more than grateful that he chose me, because we were two oddities, despised in different ways for our bulk, or lack of it; but no two people have been happier than we have. And for this I thank God; and now we both say His will be done…Oh, please, my dear, don’t…don’t. As he said, when he goes I will still have the consolation of the family and you, though Biddy and Rose are getting on, and their death, too, has to be faced. But from the moment we are born a day is regularly knocked off our life, whether the number is written long or short. Oh, there he is now.’ She gently pushed Fanny away from her, saying briskly now, ‘Dry your face. Come, dry your face. Oh dear! If he sees you like that he’ll know in a moment. Go on, fetch the baby down; and you can hide your face in hers. Quickly now.’
She had already turned and was walking towards the door, calling loudly, ‘I can hear you, Mr Killjoy. I can hear you. And my family too.’
In the yard, Billy was in the driving seat of the brake, and behind him the dogs were barking their heads off while jumping up at the door of the brake to receive Carl’s last patting.
When a strict word came from Mr Killjoy, they scrambled onto the seat and sat quivering with pleasure as Ward helped their mistress up beside them.
Annie now called to Mrs Killjoy, ‘Come back soon, please,’ to which Mrs Killjoy replied, ‘I will. I will, me dear…with pleasure.’
As for Mr Killjoy, he looked towards Fanny, who was slowly approaching him across the yard and, hurrying towards her, he kissed her on the cheek as he said, ‘Bye-bye, my love. Be seeing you soon.’
She could not answer him, but she took one hand from holding the child, and gripped his; then she stayed where she was, not joining with Ward, Annie and the boy in waving goodbye; but as soon as the brake had disappeared from sight, she turned hurriedly to go into the house; and there, Ward and Annie found her sitting in the kitchen on a straight-back chair, rocking the child back and forth, the tears once again running down her face.
‘What is it? What is it?’ Ward was on his hunkers before her, and Annie to the side of her.
After a moment, haltingly, she told them what she had learned about her dear Mr Killjoy.
When she had finished, neither of them made any immediate remark; but presently Annie said, ‘When he goes you must have her here, ’cos as you’ve always said, ma’am, she’s been like a mother to you.’
When Ward made no comment on this suggestion, Annie looked at him, and she said, ‘She needn’t stay in the house. Well, you wouldn’t want that tribe of dogs in the house; but there’s always the cottage next door to us. It’s been empty these many years, but it’s still dry; just wants airing. It’s got a good flue. I remember that much about it: it doesn’t smoke like ours. Well, what do you say?’ She was looking straight at Ward; and his non-committal answer was, ‘We’ll see.’ Then taking Fanny’s arm, he said, ‘Come on, dear, and put the child down and rest a while. It’s been a busy day.’ And as he left the kitchen he would not have been surprised had Annie called after him, ‘I can read your thoughts,’ because he was recalling the look on her face when she had put it to him with the words, ‘Well, what do you say?’
He liked Mrs Killjoy; he’d always feel indebted to her, for if it hadn’t been for her, Fanny wouldn’t be his now. But that was not the point: Fanny was his, and his only, and the thought of her sharing her affection at close quarters with anyone else was at the moment unbearable to him. He knew that she loved him, but how could he measure her love against his own? His feeling for her was more than just love, it was a burning passion that he had to control. And there were times when he was even jealous of the attention she gave to the child, which, he knew, was a kind of madness. But there it was, he wanted her for himself, for himself only: he wanted her every thought, every feeling to be directed towards him; and even then it wouldn’t be enough.
There were times when he questioned his feelings for her. Was this possessiveness normal? He could give himself no answer, because he had no-one or nothing with whom or with which to compare it; he only felt sure that for as long as he lived the feeling would not lessen; nor would it increase, for he couldn’t see any other form that it could take: she was the centre of his life and the pivot around which he revolved. Yet never, never, not once did he wish that this thing had not happened to him. Even when they had maimed his cattle and burned his crops, no thought of his had touched her with blame for having come into his life. But now that she was in it, there was in him something that demanded her entire devotion. Her attention to Carl had more than once annoyed him and had made him sorry he had ever taken on the boy. But when the same feeling had been directed against his own child he had said to himself, Steady on! But the command was equivalent to trying to curb a stallion with a donkey rein, for the stallion in him was out of control, except in one way: he never roughly overrode her body, for in his arms she appeared a fragile thing. Yet he was constantly aware there was a strength in her beyond his control. It was a spiritual strength that at times made him fearful, because he could never understand it. Nor could he face up to the fact that what he lacked was sensitivity.
After he had made her comfortable on the couch, she said, ‘What do you think about Annie’s suggestion?’ to which he could, or would, only answer: ‘Well, we’ll have to leave it to Mrs Killjoy, won’t we?’
It happened that, after all, Ward had no need to worry about Mrs Killjoy’s coming to live with them, or near them. Mr Killjoy died on 2 January 1888, and was buried three days later amid a storm of sleet, snow and piercing wind.
It was the custom that no woman should attend a funeral; therefore, beside Ward and Billy, only Harry Bates the fiddler and Mr James Wilson Carter the Shakespearian actor, who happened to be engaged in the town at the time, were in attendance, Mrs Killjoy and Fanny meanwhile awaiting their return with Mrs Borman in this lady’s sitting room.
From the moment the coffin left the house, Fanny had been unable to suppress her tears, and Mrs Borman, too, had cried, but Mrs Killjoy’s face remained quite dry. As Mrs Borman later remarked on the quiet to Fanny, how strange, indeed very strange, it was that she had never shed one tear since Mr Killjoy had breathed his last breath, not one sign of it; but very likely, she had added, she had cried inside.
It was some time after the four men had returned and been warmed with glasses of whisky, and had sat down to a hot meal of beef stew and dumplings, that Ward found himself alone in the sitting room with Mrs Killjoy and Fanny, and Mrs Killjoy was saying quietly but firmly in answer to Fanny’s statement that she must come and live with them, that everything was already arranged: the idea of a cottage now was out of the question; nor had she any intention of imposing herself on her two good friends; but there had been an arrangement struck between her thir
d friend, Mrs Borman and herself. Mrs Borman was alone in the world, except for her fleeting visitors, and over the years an understanding friendship had grown between them, and she had now offered to share her home with her, and of course her family. And she had added, ‘Where would I get anyone else who would understand my family as Mrs Borman has done?’
And when Fanny put in, ‘Oh, my dear Mrs Killjoy, we would. You know we would.’
‘Yes, I know you would, my dear,’ Mrs Killjoy hastened to assure them, ‘but have you consulted your cows and your own dogs, not forgetting your sheep?’
At any other time this would have been the cue for loud laughter, but neither Ward nor Fanny smiled; but Ward, looking at Fanny, said, ‘She’s right, you know; she’s right.’ Then turning to Mrs Killjoy, he added, ‘But that won’t stop you visiting us often, will it?’
‘Oh no, my dear. I shall make it my business to come and see you as often as possible.’
As Fanny again embraced the bulk of her dear Mrs Killjoy, Ward gave vent to a long slow breath of relief, the while feeling satisfied with himself for having told Fanny only a few hours earlier that he would fall in with whatever plans she had for Mrs Killjoy’s future.
It was as if, for him, a giant pair of arms were about to release their hold on his wife, that from now on she would continue to be all his. He conveniently forgot, as if it had never existed, the jealousy he felt for her attention to his own child, and, too, the irritation caused by the interest she showed in Carl.
Life would be plain sailing from now on, he told himself.
Five
It was in March 1888 that their second child was conceived, and Fanny told Ward in May; but his reception of the news was not as she had expected.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re not fit yet; you were just getting on your feet.’
‘Don’t be silly. And as for fitness, don’t go by my height or weight; I feel strong inside.’ She could have added, ‘Spiritually,’ but she didn’t, because she knew that Ward did not understand that part of her; in fact, she was aware he was a little afraid of that in her which he couldn’t reach. And so, smiling now and holding his face between her hands, she said, ‘This time it will be a boy. And that will be a good thing, because Billy is getting on, you know, and you’ll soon need another hand.’
‘Shut up!’ He held her to him. ‘I don’t care what it is, but what I care about is your health. And what is more, you have your hands full with that bouncer along the corridor there.’ He nodded towards the bedroom door. ‘She’s going to be a whopper; she must put on a pound nearly every day.’
‘Well, I said from the beginning she looks like you and takes after you.’
‘God forbid!’
‘Oh Ward. She’s beautiful now, and she’ll grow more so. You’ll see.’
‘What if it is a boy,’ he said, ‘and takes after you and isn’t able to lift a pitchfork, never mind carry a bale of hay?’
‘Well, in that case I’ll send Jessie out on the farm and I’ll keep the young Master Gibson in petticoats for as long as I can.’
They fell together, laughing; then, when softly he laid his lips on hers the kiss was broken by Annie’s voice outside the door, saying, ‘You’ve got a visitor, ma’am.’
When Ward opened the door, Annie said, ‘’Tisn’t for you, ’tis for the missis.’
‘Who is it?’
Annie was suppressing a broad grin as she said, ‘She says to me her name is Miss Patsy Riley and she wants to speak to the missis. That’s what she says. But she said it outside the back door, because I wouldn’t let her in; I want to walk home to me cottage the night, not to be carried there by livestock.’
Fanny had now come onto the landing and she looked at Ward and said, ‘Patsy Riley? The girl from the Hollow? What would she want?’
‘I’ll come down with you. We’ll soon see.’
But just before they arrived at the back door, Fanny put her hand to stay Ward, and in a whisper said, ‘Let me talk to her. Stay back.’ And this was meant, too, for Annie.
When Fanny opened the back door, both amusement and pity rose in her at the sight of the young girl: the heart-shaped face with the deep black eyes had been washed in a style; the hands joined in front of her, they too had been washed in a style, for the nails were showing rims as black as her eyes; the hair beneath the grey straw hat that had once been cream-coloured and had likely adorned some prim miss showed the ends of her straight black hair. She was wearing a coat which also, originally, had been made for some child of a bigger stature and better class. The skirt of the dress, which fell just below her knees, had evidently seen many rough washes, and her thin bare legs disappeared into a pair of heavy boots which, from their size, indicated they must be cramping her toes.
Fanny leaned forward towards her, saying softly, ‘Yes, my dear? You wanted to see me?’
‘Do ya want any help, missis?’
‘Help?’
‘Aye. Mindin’ the bairn, an’ such. I’m good at mindin’ bairns. I’ve seen to our squad. But me da cannot get set on; an’ me ma’s tried the fields, but they’ve got their own crews. An’ so I thought, you see, missis…’
‘But aren’t you going to school?’
‘Oh…Only half-days now and then. Johnny, Mike and Shane go to keep the school-board man quiet; but Rob, he’s stone pickin’. Not that that brings in much. You couldn’t wipe your nose on what he earns.’
Fanny’s lids were shading her eyes; her head was slightly drooped; she said softly, ‘My baby is very young, and as yet I see to it myself.’
‘I’m not nitty now. I’ve cleaned me hair. Look.’ The hat was lifted with both hands from her head as far as the elastic band under her chin would allow. ‘I did it with a small toothcomb an’ washed it in the stream. It’s not alive.’
What Fanny was saying inside herself now was, Dear Lord. Dear Lord. That a child has to come to this. She swallowed deeply, then asked, ‘How old are you?’
‘Nine. I’m the eldest now. There was three others, but they went with the cholera; an’ there was another atween Rob ‘n me. She hadn’t the cholera; she was just puny.’
When a voice behind her said, ‘Fanny,’ she thrust a hand backwards and flapped it at Ward; then she said to the girl, ‘Stay there a moment now.’ She did not close the door on her, but, hurrying past both Ward and Annie, she went into the kitchen, and there, turning, she confronted them saying, ‘I know what you’re both going to say, but I’m going to say this: I mean to do something for that child. I don’t know what, so you tell me.’
‘I don’t want her in this kitchen, ma’am.’
‘Oh, Annie. She’s desperate; she’s in need of help, she’s trying her best to be decent. You heard what she said.’
‘Yes, ma’am, I heard what she said; but I know that lot. Let her in here in the daytime and she’ll go back to that mucky kip at night, and she won’t be able to keep herself clean. Don’t you see, ma’am? She won’t be able to keep herself clean.’
Fanny looked from Annie’s straight face to Ward. ‘Is there anything she can do outside; anything?’
‘Oh, Fanny. What can she do outside, a lass like that?’
‘Scrub. Sweep up. Help feed the animals…anything.’
‘There’s Carl to do that, and do you think he would put up with a lass in the yard?’
All of a sudden it was as if Fanny had put on inches: her back stiffened, her chin went up, and, looking straight at Annie, she said, ‘You’ve been on for sometime, Annie, about the old dairy. When it’s been hard to place the milk, you said that if a hand could be engaged they could make their pay, and more, through butter and cheese.’
‘Oh my God!’ Ward turned from her, shaking his head. ‘A dairy is the cleanest place on a farm, or should be, and you’re proposing to put that lass in there? It’s madness. No! No!’
‘Yes, it’s madness, ma’am. As he says, it’s madness. Another thing: that churn needs some handling; it would take a young ox
to turn it at times.’
‘Well, let me tell you both’—Fanny looked from one to the other now—‘need makes people as strong as oxen. And she wouldn’t go in there dirty; I would see to that myself: I’d strip her and clean her and dress her.’
‘No, by God! You won’t do any such thing, Fanny. You’re forgetting what you told me not fifteen minutes ago, you’re carrying another within you.’
‘No. No.’ It was Annie now who was shaking her head as she looked towards Fanny. ‘You’re carryin’ again, ma’am, and you’re proposin’ to take on that thing outside? Oh, you must be mad indeed.’
Fanny’s voice was low now, and even had a sad note in it when she said, ‘Yes. Yes, there’s part of me quite mad. But it’s a madness I mean to carry through. Ward, I’ve never asked anything of you for myself; but now I’m asking this: I’m begging you to let me do this for that child.’
For answer, Ward went towards the fire, put his hand up and gripped the mantelshelf, then lowered his head, and all he muttered was, ‘Oh, Fanny. Fanny.’ And through the tone of his voice she knew she had won.
Turning now to address her other opponent, a much harder nut to crack, she said, ‘Help me, Annie. I won’t be able to carry it right through without your help, for I know nothing about a dairy, or butter or cheese-making. But you do. And so that I can promise you she won’t go home every night and come back lousy, I’ll tell you what you could do. It’s like this: you were willing that Mrs Killjoy should have the cottage next to you, so why not let Carl go into there; there’s enough odds and ends in the attic to furnish a room. The girl could then sleep in the loft.’
‘Dear Lord in heaven! I’ve never seen anything happen so quickly, not even a miracle. You’ve got it all cut and dried, ma’am, haven’t you? Talk about a quick thinker.’
‘When you want something very badly, Annie, and you know it’s right, you know inside yourself that you’ve got to help that person, then God helps you to think quickly.’ She glanced towards her husband’s back; then back to Annie, before turning and almost running out of the kitchen.
The Maltese Angel Page 14
