The Mallen Girl

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Now look—’ His voice was quiet now, even placating, as, with his forearms on the table, he poked his head toward her and said, ‘We’ve got to get rid of her, Fairweather.’

  ‘You wanted a housekeeper. After Foster died you insisted on having a housekeeper. I told you another steward would be preferable.’

  ‘Aye, I know you did. You’re always right, you’re always—’ he omitted the ‘bloody well’ and ended lamely, ‘right. It was for the missus, you see; she thought a housekeeper would be better, more homely. She was a bit frightened of Foster, could never give him an order. You know how she is. It was different with you, you could manage him. Even me; I sometimes felt awkward when asking him for anything. It was like asking a grand duke to take your boots off.’

  ‘He was very competent; things ran very smoothly under his charge.’

  ‘Aye, they might have, but there’s a difference between things being smooth and things being happy.’

  ‘You mean happy-go-lucky.’

  He leaned back in his chair now and let out a laugh. ‘Aye, that’s it, happy-go-lucky. You can’t change us, you know. You know that, don’t you? You can’t change us.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve tried.’

  He turned his head to the side while still keeping his eyes on her: ‘You’ve given us plenty of examples.’

  ‘My work was to inform the children.’

  ‘Aw, well’—he nodded his head now, slowly—‘I’ll grant you you’ve done a good job there; even the bits you did on the lads afore they went to school show. Why, when I listen to them talkin’ I don’t feel they’re mine. But’—he screwed up his nose now—‘I’m proud of them. An’ Katie. Aw Katie.’ His expression changed. He leaned forward again but drooped his head, and, his voice deep in his throat, he said, ‘I love to hear her talkin’ French. I don’t understand a word she says but I just love to hear the sound of it comin’ from her mouth. Oh, an’ by the way’—he lifted his head—‘when we’re on about talkin’, which leads to hearin’, I made some inquiries as I said I would. You know’—his eyes stretched wide now—‘it’s amazing what you learn ’bout different things. There I’ve been in Manchester, man and boy, all me life an’ knew nothin’ about the deaf school. An’ started by a merchant man like meself, I understand. Phillips was his name. He got a committee together of bankers and manufacturers and such, chaired by Sir Oswald Mosley, an’ they formed this school along Old Trafford. Amazing really when I come to think of it. I saw the place often enough, passed it for years, but took no interest. Well, when your own are all right you don’t bother do you? You should, but you don’t. Anyway, they tell me they do a lot of good for deaf bairns there. Now I was just wondering this, how would you like to send her along? She could be boarded and I would see to it that…‘

  ‘No, Mr Bensham, no…’

  ‘What? You want her better, don’t you? I mean you want all the assistance you can get for her?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do, but…but only yesterday when we were having a small altercation and I became annoyed with her, I told her I would do just that, what you have proposed, send her away to school, and—’ Now the starch appeared to crack, for her back sagged and she looked down at her hands folded in her lap and her head drooped before she said softly, ‘The anguish and fear on her face at such a proposal were as unbearable to me as the idea was to her. And, I am not casting aspersions on the Manchester school, Mr Bensham, but the conditions under which some of the children live in such schools are deplorable. I understand that some of these establishments demand long hours of religious instruction. To be made to sit in church for three hours at a time on a Sunday is not unusual for the children, and in winter time too.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ he sighed. ‘That’s that, isn’t it? Still’—he pulled his chin upwards—‘never say die, that’s my motto, you know. What about tryin’ some of the old cures? I’d lay me life some of them’s a damn sight better than the newfangled medicines. I mentioned it to Ted Spencer; you know Spencer, he’s got the mill over other side. I told you afore, an’ he said he’d heard of a dumb bairn whose tongue was loosened by big doses of cod liver oil. You could try it. If it could loosen the tongue it could loosen the eardrums.’

  Miss Brigmore looked across at him and her glance could not conceal a certain amount of pity for his ignorance. It was years ago, during the last century, that they had used cod liver oil for deafness, attacking the trouble as if it were one connected with the bowels, pouring the obnoxious unrefined oil down poor children’s throats, ignoring their vomiting, all with the best intentions in the world, as those before them had used hot irons on the neck in order to create suppuration in the belief that pus could be drawn from the ears, being of the opinion that deafness was caused by blockage. The agonies that some children had undergone, and to this very day were still undergoing, at the hands of those who wished them nothing but well was to her an agonising thought in itself, as was the controversy that raged between the exponents of one method and those of another.

  If she had spoken the truth to him she would have cast aspersions on the Manchester school for she abhorred the practice, started there in bygone times, of putting their children on exhibition in order to raise money. True, it was out of great necessity to keep the school going that the practice was first begun, but in her opinion it had put the children on a level with caged animals in a travelling zoo.

  She had read exhaustively about the predicament of the deaf, and what she had hoped from Mr Bensham’s interest was that his influence, in such a place as Manchester, would have brought forth someone, some specialist whose methods were new, and that, if the treatment was expensive, he himself would act as patron. But what had he proffered? An ordinary school that dealt with children from all walks of life, and although she wanted all deaf children to receive the best of treatment; she wanted her darling Barbara to receive specialised treatment and now, now before her ailment became worse. But could it become much worse than it was for she was almost totally deaf, being able to hear only high and unusual sounds?

  ‘You worry too much.’ The words were sharp and they startled her. ‘You’re miles away. You’re always thinkin’ of that child; you want to think a bit more of yourself, for I’m gonna tell you something. She’ll get by, I know people, she’ll get what she wants out of life or die in the attempt; deaf or not, she’ll have her way. She was a little monkey when she was young, she still is. Anyway, her looks’ll get her where she wants to go, that’s if she fills out a bit. Her deafness won’t be all that much of a drawback. Any road, we can talk more on this later; the point now is, what are we going to do about Fairweather? You can’t get over the fact she took it upon herself to tell the bairn she had to buy her own uniform. When did any of my lot buy their own uniforms?’

  ‘She was likely intending to start a new rule in order to economise. You do not hide the fact that you consider too much money is being spent on household expenses.’

  ‘Aw, well, that’s just to keep them in mind that I know what’s what. I’m away half me time, an’ I don’t want them to take advantage of Tilda…So what’s to be done?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Sack her.’

  ‘Then you must sack her.’

  ‘You picked her.’

  ‘I helped to choose her on her references. I recommended her because she was the best of the ten applicants, and I still think she’s a good housekeeper. But perhaps…’

  ‘Aye, perhaps what?’

  ‘I will be as candid as you, Mr Bensham. Perhaps not for this establishment.’

  ‘An’ what do you mean by that?’

  ‘Just what I said, not for this establishment. She has been used to managing a different kind of house and staff.’

  ‘What’s the matter with me staff?’

  ‘As regards work, nothing; as regards manners, some of them leave a lot to be desired.’

  ‘You mean the ones I brought from Manchester?’

  ‘Yes,
that is what I mean.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s my house and I want it run in my way. Everybody’s got too much starch in this life.’

  When a silence fell between them he pursed his lips and stared at her fixedly, then said, ‘Go on, say somethin’. Why don’t you say things aren’t what they were in the old days? You’ve looked it for years, so you might as well say it, like the rest. They say, “Common as muck, those Benshams are. Don’t go huntin’ or shootin’. Never have the hounds billeted on him,” they say. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what they say, Mr Bensham, my time is mostly taken up in the nursery.’

  Again there was silence between them, until he said grimly, ‘Aye, broken with the trips across the hills to the lady farmer an’ visits from Master an’ Mistress Ferrier. They’re glass people aren’t they, the Ferriers, big pots in glass? An’ they move among the top notchers, don’t they? Hobnob with the Percys and such, I’m told. You see I’ve got me Indian runners an’ all; there’s little goes on around here that I don’t know. Not that I’m interested; but I can sit back and laugh.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘What do you mean, do I?’

  ‘Do you sit back and laugh?’

  He did not answer her, he just sat staring at her; and then he said, ‘You know there’s times I get so bloody annoyed with you that I could take me hand and skelp you across the mouth.’

  She was on her feet, her body rigid. He was on his feet too. Beads of sweat were showing on his forehead and he wiped them off with the side of his forefinger before he moved slowly around the table and stopped within a yard of her. Then, his voice thick, he said, ‘I’m sorry, I really am; that was uncalled for. You’ve done nothin’ but service to me and Tilda, an’ then for me to go and say a thing like that. I don’t know what got in me. Aye, yes I do. Let’s face it’—he put his hand to his brow again and pushed his fingers through his hair—‘you never unbend, you’re stiff, starchy, as I said. Admitted, you’ve learned Tilda lot of things, you’ve carried her along through difficult times; and I’m not sayin’ you haven’t learned me something now and then; but you’ve never unbent. You should be one of the family by now, like a friend, but you’re still Miss Brigmore. The bairns call you Brigie, but you know what the staff call you? The Brigadier…Aw.’ He scratched his head in a number of places, then walked sharply away from her up the room to the fireplace, and standing with his hand outstretched gripping the mantelpiece, he said, ‘Here I am talkin’ about trifles an’ household bits and pieces when I should be on me way back to the mill. Why do you think Willy’s here at this time?’ He now turned and looked at her, but she was still facing the window, and he addressed her back as he said, ‘Strikes. He’s found out that Pearson’s bloody agitators are plannin’ a strike. A strike, mind you, and in my factory! After what I’ve done for them; cut half an hour off their time these last two years, and an hour for those under twelve. There’s not a bairn in my place works after six at night. An extra shilling in their Christmas packet; then bread and coal for those who are sick. An’ then they’d harbour the thought of strikin’ on me. But as Willy says, it’s Pearson’s lot; he’s got a right rabble has Ted Pearson. Well, I’m going back there an’ I’m going to remind them of what happened the last time the looms stopped spinning, an’ by God I won’t put a tooth in it.’ His voice suddenly changing, he asked softly, ‘Are you listening to me?’

  She turned and walked slowly toward him, and when she stopped, he said, ‘No hard feelings?’

  She did not answer for a moment, but when she did she was still Miss Brigmore. ‘I am what I am, Mr Bensham. If I irritate you I would advise you to dispense with my services.’ Even as she said this she knew it would be a major disaster for her if he were to take her at her word; but he wouldn’t, and he didn’t.

  ‘Aw, dispense with your services? Don’t be daft, woman!’ He half turned from her. ‘How do you think we’ll go on here without you? Why, if I even gave it a thought Tilda would have me skinned alive. She thinks very highly of you…Tilda. And that’s another thing I wanted to ask you. Would you look in on her a bit more than usual these next few days until I get back? She’s got a pain…’

  ‘A pain?’

  ‘Aye; here.’ He put his hand on his flat stomach. ‘I’ve told her she’s got to see a doctor, but, you know, although she’s so easygoin’ in some ways she can be as tough and stubborn as dried hide in others, won’t be pulled or pushed. She doesn’t like doctors, frightened of ’em, so if you’d have a talk with her, ask her what it’s like, the pain, I mean. That’s all she says when I get at her, she’s got a pain. And you know me, I’ve got no patience, I’m like a bull at a gap. Oh, aye! Oh, aye!’—his voice had a laughing note to it now—‘I’m like you there, I am what I am, an’ I know meself, nobody knows Harry Bensham like Harry Bensham, except perhaps’—his tone dropped to a lower key—‘Tilda. I told you, didn’t I, we were brought up next door to each other? Aye.’ He shook his head now. ‘That was in the early days when we were small; but when me dad got on we moved away and we lost touch for years. Until I saw her on the looms; but I was married then. Aye’—he turned and looked toward the fire and repeated, ‘I was married then, I’d married a factory.’ His head came round sharply and he stared at her.

  ‘I knew what I wanted so I married a factory. Now you would have been interested in that kind of household.’ He nodded at her. ‘Aye, you would an’ all. Upstarts. God Almighty! There’s nothing makes me sick like an upstart; and embarrassed into the bargain. Now you wouldn’t think that a fellow like me could be embarrassed, but upstarts embarrass me, get me hot under the collar trying to be what they’re not…Anyway, that period passed and I married Tilda. Funny, but she’d been waitin’ for me all those years; she had, she said she had. Women are queer cattle, queer cattle…But here I go again, yammering like Bessie Bullock in the pea shop.’ His voice was rising again, and he turned from the fire, buttoned his coat briskly while looking at her, and said, ‘That’s something I can’t understand. Every time I’m along of you I start to yammer; I’m not a yammering man; and the funny thing about it is, you don’t give a body any encouragement. Now do you?’ A slow smile spread over his face and transformed it so that now Miss Brigmore, as she had at odd times before, saw someone other than the bigoted, ignorant, raw factory owner who took pride in keeping his image unchanged; she saw the man Tilda must have seen years ago, the man who, in spite of his shortcomings, was at the bottom just and kind.

  He ended now, saying, ‘I can’t even get a smile out of you an’ yet when you’re with the bairns I often hear you laughin’. What makes you laugh? Aw’—he dismissed his own question—‘I’ve got to get away. But you’ll do what I ask, won’t you? You’ll look in on her?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll look in on her.’

  ‘Thanks. Ta-rah; ta-rah then; I’m off.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Bensham.’

  After he had left the room Miss Brigmore sat down suddenly on the nearest chair. That man! She closed her eyes and said again to herself, That man! He was impossible. She had never encountered anyone like him. Daring to say to her he would skelp her across the mouth! She shouldn’t be sitting here, she should be upstairs ordering Barbara to get her books and her belongings, for they were going to leave this house never to come back into it again. Skelp her across the mouth, really! Really!

  She let out a long drawn breath, then sat perfectly still for a time, until she told herself, she must be fair. Did her manner aggravate the man? It must do, for he had spoken to her in much the same manner as he spoke to his wife. In the early days here his manner of addressing his wife had shocked her, he used to go for her as if she were some kind of lower servant, rarely addressing her without using a swear word of some kind. Really! Really! He was the most amazing man. No, that wasn’t the correct term for him…Then what was?

  She rose from the chair and made sure that the buttons on her bodice were intact, smoothed down the front of her
dress, then went slowly from the room, across the hall and up the stairs and knocked on Mrs Bensham’s bedroom door.

  When she entered the room she saw Matilda Bensham sitting propped up in bed. She was dressed in a bright pink flannelette nightdress which had a large collar trimmed with white lace; the sleeves, too, ended in large frills trimmed with white lace, and the whiteness was in sharp contrast to the greyness of her face and the mottled red-veined skin of her hands. ‘Hello there, dear,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bensham. I hear that you are not feeling too well.’

  ‘It’s me stomach,’ The words were hissed in a whisper and Matilda tapped the coverlet where it rested across her waist.

  ‘Is it upset?’

  ‘Well, not in the usual way, dear; but I’ve had sort of constant nagging for some time now…But mind, don’t tell him. Now promise you won’t tell him, ’cos he’s got enough on his plate. By! he has that; I’d never have believed it. Willy came yesterday you know. Set off on Saturda’ night he did; had the devil of a time gettin’ here an’ all. Those trains aren’t what they’re cracked up to be. Like the manager ’Arry’s got in, they go when they’re pushed. A strike’s afoot and him not supposed to know! There’s something fishy there, ’cos we don’t have strikes, not us. ’Arry gives them the earth, even thinkin’ of letting the women finish at three on a Saturda’ to save them having to do everything on Sunday, you know like washing an’ cleaning an’ cooking, ’cos Sunday is the only day in the week they’ve got. And then a strike. So you understand, dear, I don’t want him worried. So anything I tell you, you’ll keep it to yourself now, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Bensham.’

  ‘Well, lass, it’s like this…Pull up your chair and sit down.’ She indicated a chair with a sweep of her arm. ‘I’ve had this pain on and off for over a year now; oh, more than that. Wind, I used to think it was, ’cos of the way I eat. You know I eat twice as much as our ’Arry. I don’t know how he can resist some of the things that’s put afore him, but he does. He takes pride in his stomach being all muscle an’ not looking his age. He’s vain, you know.’ She smiled widely now as she nodded toward Miss Brigmore. ‘And of course he’s got every right to be, ’cos you’d never think he was fifty-six, would you? A man in his middle forties you could take him for any day in the week, and he knows it. Oh aye, he knows it. So you see, I thought it was what I was eatin’. But I’ve cut that down a lot and I’ve still got the pain, worse at times. It’s gettin’ so that I can’t bide it.’