The Maltese Angel

by Catherine Cookson

  He now actually thrust her from him and angrily he said, ‘Nobody owns me, neither her nor her father, nor anyone else. But I owe them a debt; at least, her father. He took me in and saw to me when I could have died. He could have sent me back to that farm. He took a risk in keeping me. He’s been good to me.’

  Patsy closed her eyes and slowly turned from him, saying, ‘It’s like an old fairy tale, Carl: I’ve heard it so many times; you keep repeating it.’ And now she swung round to him. ‘I’m going to ask you something. Is your debt so great that you’re going to repay him with your life? You’re not bonded; nor am I. We could up tomorrow and go and get work elsewhere.’

  ‘Where? Where? Tell me.’

  Her head to the side now, she kicked the toe of her boot into a stiff tuft of grass. But he was holding her again, and both his eyes and his voice held a plea as he said, ‘Believe me, Patsy, there is no other in my life but you. The master had a feeling for his wife which, at one time, I couldn’t understand. I used to think it was a mania. She was a lovable creature, but his feelings for her were more like adoration. Well, I’ve come to understand a little how he must have felt, for, Patsy, the very sight of you warms me and wakes such a stirring in me that I want to throw everything to the wind and do as you say, get away…run with you into a life that is entirely ours, free from duty or guilt or being ungrateful. And so I ask you, Patsy, to wait just a little longer. I’ve got the feeling that things are coming to a head in one way or another. Yes, believe me, I have. A strong feeling tells me that I shall be forced to come into the open. And so then, if we can’t marry, we’ll leave. That’s all.’

  She stared at him again, but softly now; and then in a quiet voice, she said, ‘He’ll never let you leave, Carl. Apart from any feeling he has for you, you run that place. He’s never taken a real hand in it since the missis went. He makes decisions, oh yes, but only when you put them to him. Oh no, he’ll never let you go.’

  ‘Well’—he nodded at her—‘if he wants me to stay so badly he’ll let me take the wife I want to have. So that’s all about it. Come on!’ And with his arm around her shoulders now, they walked down the narrow field path that would give on to the bridle path about a quarter of a mile distant. But before they reached it, he pulled her to a stop again and, putting his arms about her, he kissed her long and hard; and her returning the pressure of his body caused them to sway together for a moment before she withdrew herself from him. But as they walked on, it wasn’t with her head held high, it was with it leaning against his shoulder …

  And that is how Ward saw them as he entered the field path. He had sat on his horse on a bank some distance from the path, and had kept them in sight ever since they left the stile. He had known there was a liking between them, but he had never thought it would come to anything: surely the boy, as he still named Carl in his mind, would have more sense; had he not, over the years, imbued in him a feeling of class through his treating him as a member of his household? No; but he had thought he would never let himself down to the level of any member of the Hollow tribe. They were workers of the lowest class, all of them. The fact that Patsy’s father was the cowman and her brother the yard boy should have emphasised the plane to which he was stooping.

  His Fanny had always maintained that the boy was well bred; and his growing had seemed to prove it, for in voice and manner and intelligence, he was far above the ordinary. He had become a great reader, a talent with which he had been imbued by his dear Fanny and which, he thought, should have helped.

  Well, he wasn’t going to let any little Irish chit from the Hollow alter the plans he’d had in mind for some time now. He had always looked upon Carl as a son, and a son he determined he should now become …

  But what if he left? He was a free man.

  He wouldn’t dare; he owed him too much to walk out.

  But the question persisted: what if he did? How would he ever replace him? He realised he had left almost the entire running of the farm in the boy’s hands for this long time. Eight years? Was it eight years since he had lost his beloved? What had he done in that time? His eyelids blinked rapidly as he thought back. It seemed that he had spent the time erecting fences around his land and keeping a watch on the girls. He had taken them to school and brought them back. He had trusted no-one else to do this; and when the time had come for Jessie to leave he made Angela leave too for, as he told himself, he couldn’t be in two places at once. And now he would allow them to leave the farm only on a Saturday, when he would take them into town. Carl always accompanied them and saw to the delivery of the produce to the wholesale trader. On the odd occasion he had allowed Patsy to accompany them. But not during this past year.

  His daughters had never been to Newcastle. As for attending a play or a variety show, they never knew about such things. And what was more, he had stopped them dancing.

  One day he had found them, with their hands joined, doing the steps their mother had taught them. Perhaps it was because, compared with her, their actions looked cumbersome. Yet, had that been the truth it would have applied only to Jessie, not to Angela, who was so much like her mother that, at times, even now, he found it painful to look on her; at others he would hold her close, hugging her tightly to him, trying to recover the essence of his beloved Fanny.

  He pressed a heel against the horse’s flank, and it began to move down the hill. By the time he reached the farmyard there was no sight of either Carl or Patsy; but coming from the direction of the front door and accompanied by Jessie and Angela was Frank Noble, and the curate hailed him in his usual smiling way, calling, ‘Oh, I’m glad I’ve caught you. I just dropped in to say I’m looking for an audience for tomorrow night: I’m putting on a real good show. A friend in Newcastle has brought me two dozen…mark you, two dozen new slides; with what I’ve got, they’ll run for an hour and a half, or more.’ He now looked from one girl to the other, saying, ‘I think I’ll have to charge an entrance fee, don’t you?’

  Laughing, Jessie answered him: ‘Well, I can promise you I’ll pay with leftover pies from Annie’s last baking.’

  Then bending forward to look round the curate at her sister standing now by his side, she said, ‘What’ll you pay with, Angela?’

  ‘Acorns.’

  ‘Do you hear that?’ said Frank Noble.

  Ward had dismounted and his reply was, ‘It’s far too much, to my mind.’

  ‘May we go, Daddy?’ Angela had now taken her father’s arm, and as he answered her he looked at Frank Noble. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said, ‘although the man’s whole show is so inane I’m surprised you waste your time looking at it.’

  ‘It’s the way of the world’—Frank was nodding seriously towards Jessie now—‘ingratitude. Ingratitude. I’m so used to it that I no longer retaliate. I only hope the good Lord chalks it up in my favour.’

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’ve had two shives of Annie’s treacle tart; I’ve had a slice of her currant-bun cake, lathered with butter as thick as the cake, and I’ve had three cups of tea with real cream in it. To tell you the truth, that’s all I come for.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve known that for some time,’ said Ward. ‘And by the way, hasn’t Annie given you anything to take back for the children?’

  ‘She offered, but I refused.’

  ‘You had no right to.’

  ‘I have every right to; my children are being spoilt. Every time they come here they go back laden, and when they know I’ve been here they expect me to come back with my pockets stuffed. Well, I’ve put a stop to it. Speaking seriously now, Ward, I just had to: there is a limit to receiving as there is to giving. Well, now’—his voice changed—‘after that little sermon, I must be off; but I’ll see you ladies tomorrow night, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes, we’d love to come.’

  ‘I’m going over now to Forest Hall to see if I can persuade Lady Lydia to come; or failing that, get the young master to persuade her. He’s a great ally, is Mr
Gerald…Well, see you tomorrow night.’

  Ward now looked round the farmyard, then said, ‘You haven’t walked? Where’s your horse?’

  ‘He’s slightly lame. Anyway, it’s Sunday and he needs a rest; and the walk does me good.’

  Ward shook his head, then stood beside his daughters watching the ailing parson stride out of the gate, and as he wondered how long was left to him, he experienced a tinge of envy for the serenity that emanated from this proven friend …

  The girls had gone to the sitting room: Angela was seated in the corner of the couch, her feet tucked under her, and looking like an outsize doll, her shining, straight black hair drawn back into two thick plaits, emphasising the alabaster tint of her skin. She could really have been a replica of her mother, except that her eyes were a clear grey, not a dark brown.

  Jessie was placing some pieces of coal on the fire with a large pair of tongs, and Angela was saying, ‘I wonder if the Lord of the Manor has grown out of making sheep’s eyes. It must be over a year since we saw him.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Jessie dusted her hands one against the other; then took a handkerchief from her dress pocket and proceeded to wipe her fingers, before taking a round tapestry frame from a nearby table. Then she sat down at the other end of the couch, saying, ‘That’s a silly term…sheep’s eyes.’

  ‘No sillier than you saying, “Don’t be silly”. You’re always saying that to me, you know, Jessie, “Don’t be silly”.’ But then she laid her head back into the cushions before adding, ‘Perhaps I am silly after all, because I think silly things, fairy tale things, things that could never happen, and things that might happen, frightening things. Do you think frightening things, Jessie?’

  There was a pause before Jessie answered quietly, ‘Yes, sometimes. I mostly dream them.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t tell you.’ Jessie now thrust the needle into the canvas, pulled it through, then thrust it back again before going on, ‘Dreams never really enter into reality; dreams are outrageous things, fantastic, impossible things.’ Her hands slowly laid the frame on her knee, and she sat staring towards the fire until she was jerked back into an awareness of her sister by Angela saying, ‘Don’t you think we lead a very restricted life here, Jessie? I sometimes feel that the walls of the farm and all those fences are like bars.’

  Jessie’s mouth was agape. She could not have been more startled if her sister had used obscene language, and she was only fifteen and a bit: to her mind, she was feather-brained; yet here she was daring to put into words the thoughts that had for some time been tormenting herself. Then she was more amazed as Angela went on, ‘Daddy is too caring for us, don’t you think? Do you think that he is still afraid that that woman will break out of the asylum and do us an injury?’

  Angela turned her head now and must have seen the startled expression on her sister’s face, but she still went on: ‘We never go anywhere. You remember the girls at school? Well, we never invited them here, did we? And do you remember Bella Scott? She used to talk about the family going to the pantomime at Christmas; and she once went to a play and saw a famous actress in Newcastle. You remember…? We never go anywhere, do we, Jessie? Only to the dear Reverend Noble’s magic lantern show.’

  When she stopped speaking, they continued to stare at each other. Then in a mere whisper and with a tremble in her voice, she said, ‘I feel lost at times, Jessie…lonely. And I want to do things which I know I mustn’t, such as dance. Oh, I do want to dance. You remember, Mummy danced so beautifully? Sometimes I think I’m her: in my dreams I dance. Oh, Jessie.’

  Almost with a spring, Jessie hitched herself along the couch and enfolded her sister and, as if she were the mother, she was patting Angela’s head, saying, ‘There, there. Don’t cry, dear. I know what you mean. I, too, feel it. We must talk to Daddy; at least, I will. I shall ask him if he will take us to the city, and let us buy some clothes from the shop. Mrs Ranshaw has a poor idea of dress. All our clothes look home-made. Yes; yes, I shall talk to him.’

  Angela raised her head. Her face was running with tears. ‘Oh, if only you would, Jessie,’ she said. ‘Anyway, if he says no, it won’t matter so much, for now you understand me.’

  ‘Yes; yes, my dear; I understand.’ And again Jessie’s arms went around her sister; and again she comforted her and felt a strange feeling as she did so; she could almost say she felt happy, until Angela whispered, ‘I feel so guilty, Jessie, because—I want to get away. I dream of, of…someone coming and, and’—the words became fainter—‘taking me away and into a wonderful life…different.’

  It was around ten o’clock the next morning when Ward entered the kitchen and, looking at his daughter where she was rolling out some pastry on the floured board, said to her, ‘Leave that, and go and tell Carl I want a word with him in my office. You’ll find him likely in the second paddock.’

  Jessie paused a moment and looked across the table towards Annie, who was sitting peeling the last of the apples from the previous year’s crop. And she, noticing Jessie’s hesitation, said, ‘Well, leave that; it won’t walk away.’

  It wasn’t until Jessie had left the kitchen, after washing her hands in the wooden sink, then drying them whilst looking out of the window, that Ward’s voice came at her harshly, saying, ‘You don’t need to titivate yourself to walk to the fields, Jessie; and I haven’t got time to waste.’

  After the girl had left the kitchen through the back door and Ward was about to leave by the far door, Annie spoke again, saying, ‘She has a light hand with pastry, has Miss Jessie.’

  He turned and looked at her, saying, ‘What?’

  ‘I said she has a light hand with pastry. She’ll make a good housekeeper.’

  Ward stared at her over the length of the room before going out hastily and closing the door none too gently after him. And Annie, continuing to peel the apples without snapping the rind, muttered, ‘He’ll appreciate her one day. But then, perhaps, it’ll be too late; you can’t keep birds caged if you leave the gate open.’

  Meanwhile, Jessie had reached the bottom of the second field where Mick Riley and Rob, with the assistance of Carl, were patching a drystone wall bordering the bridle path on that side of the land.

  Mick and his son greeted her as they always did with exaggerated Irish courtesy: ‘Mornin’ to you, Miss Jessie,’ with Rob’s voice just a little behind that of his father, but he left the rest to Mike as his father said, ‘’Tis a grand day, isn’t it, miss? Can’t ya hear it singin’ “Spring’s on its way”?’

  Jessie did not answer, but she smiled, then turned to Carl who was now saying, ‘You want me, Miss Jessie?’

  Jessie looked at him. His blond hair looked to be almost silver; his face, as always, appeared beautiful to her; and his straight body was something on which she must not let her thoughts dwell; and she could have answered, ‘Yes, I want you, Carl. I always have; but you don’t want me; you want the daughter of this rough man, don’t you? I wish I hated Patsy, like I used to, but she won’t let me, for she, more than any other, has understood how I have felt, and in her own way she has been kind to me. She it was who would put her arms around me after Mother died, not Annie, and oh, not Daddy. No, the only one who’s ever felt his arms since then has been Angela. Yet his love doesn’t satisfy Angela. Angela would fly away tomorrow and forget him if her fairy prince were to come riding along, whereas I, who have never had his love, could never forget him.’

  Carl was saying, ‘Is anything the matter, Miss Jessie?’

  ‘What?…No. I’m sorry.’ And she gave a little laugh. ‘I was thinking of something else for the moment; as Mike says, it’s a bit of a Spring day…Father would like to see you in his study.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Well’—she shrugged her shoulder—‘he sent me for you.’

  Looking at Mike, Carl said, ‘I won’t be long,’ the words implying, And so you had better keep going; no sliding down against the wall and lighting your clay pi
pe …

  They were walking side by side across the field when she said, ‘Will you be going to the magic lantern show tonight?’

  He laughed as he replied, ‘No; I don’t think so. In fact, I’ve seen it so many times I could give you the show without the slides.’

  ‘But the parson tells us he has twelve new sides.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose that’s something to look forward to. And he’s always obliged to you when you go. It makes his efforts worthwhile. He’s a good man.’

  ‘Yes. Yes’—she nodded—‘he’s a good man. It’s a pity he’s so sick. But I feel he’d improve somewhat if he’d only move out of the Hollow. It’s a damp place at the best of times.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right there. But those down there are his flock; although half of them’—he refrained from saying, the Irish—‘don’t pass over the church steps; but nevertheless he treats them all alike. They would all have known even harder times if it hadn’t been for him.’

  ‘But Daddy’s been kind to them.’ Her voice sounded on the defensive now, and he confirmed quickly that he recognised this by saying, ‘Yes; yes, of course. No-one kinder. With his taties and turnips, and all the odd bits, and giving Mike half a pig at Christmas. Yes, you’re right.’ But again he had to stop himself from saying, It’s easy to give when you’ve got plenty, but when you’ve got as little as Parson Noble, it’s like his name: it’s a noble deed he does every time he shares he little the’s got. Instead he said, ‘You say your father’s in his study?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Father’s in his study.’

  When they reached the yard, she left him to go into the kitchen alone, and there, looking at Annie, he said, ‘I’m wanted in the study. What’s afoot? Do you know?’

  ‘Now, why ask me that? What would I know of the inner workings of the master’s mind?’