The Mallen Girl

by Catherine Cookson

  Once in the hall, she looked toward the stairs, then ran to the front door and down the steps along by the side of the house and into the farmyard. In the far corner of the yard she saw Michael talking to Mr Waite; then she watched Mr Waite turn and go into the stables, and when Michael was about to follow him she whispered loudly, ‘Michael! Michael!’

  When he looked toward her it seemed almost as if he had no hair, a fading shaft of light had caught it as in a single beam. She gazed so entranced she wasn’t aware that he had moved toward her.

  ‘What is it?’

  She looked into his face that was just above the level of her own and she said slowly, ‘It looked as if you hadn’t any hair, your head had turned to gold.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Is that what you want to tell me?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Michael’—she leaned further toward him and her voice dropped to a whisper now—‘dance with me.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Dance with me.’

  ‘Out here? Are you mad? They’ll lock us up.’

  She was laughing wildly now. ‘There’s no-one to see; he’s gone, Waite has gone.’ She pointed toward the stable.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ He shook his head as he stepped back from her.

  Her face now dropping into solemn lines and her mouth into a petulant droop, she muttered, ‘You danced with Katie.’

  ‘Yes, because…’—he stopped himself only just in time from saying ‘because she can hear the music.’ What he said was, ‘You danced in the de Coverley.’

  ‘That’s not the same.’

  ‘But…but there’s no music.’ He spread his arms wide.

  ‘I don’t need to hear music, I’ll feel the motions through you.’

  ‘You’re barmy.’ He accompanied the words with a soft smile; then said, ‘I’m no dancer anyway; Mother’s found me hopeless. She said I glide as smoothly as Sandy, and I have six legs to his four.’

  ‘I saw you waltzing with her.’

  ‘She dragged me around; I tell you I’m club-footed when it comes to dancing. Come on, come on in.’ He held out his hand and she took it: then she pulled him to a stop, saying quickly, ‘I’ll take you, I can waltz. Katie and I often waltz together. Come round here.’ She now dragged him out of the yard and along past the kitchen to the corner of the house and then, stopping, she held her arms out to him. Clumsily he put one arm around her waist and took hold of her right hand; and now she commanded, ‘Sing! Go on, sing! I can follow you if you sing.’

  At this he threw his head backwards and forwards as if in despair; then sighing deeply, he began to hum a Viennese tune.

  They danced in a small space at first, their bodies apart; then without being conscious of it, they moved around the corner and on to the drive fronting the house.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough?’ He was panting with his effort to sing and dance at the same time.

  ‘No! No!’ She had lessened the space between them and consequently his arm had moved further around her waist. ‘I could go on like this all night; it’s lovely, lovely. Do you think I’m beautiful?’

  ‘WHAT!’ When he went to stop she tugged him back into the step saying, ‘Don’t bawl at me, I can read you. Brigie says I am.’

  ‘Well, if Brigie says you are, then you are; who dares dispute Brigie?’ He was laughing down into her face now.

  She went to shake him, and their bodies pressed close, and when like this she demanded, ‘But am I? Do you think I am?’

  He said haltingly, ‘Aw, Barbara…Well, you’re all right.’

  ‘Oh, Michael! Michael! Tell me, say it.’

  ‘Michael! Michael!’

  The boy sprang around so quickly that he almost threw Barbara from him; but he still had hold of her hand as he looked toward his mother and Mr Ferrier standing at the front door.

  ‘Michael!’ Constance went toward him. ‘What is this?’

  He didn’t speak, he just stared at her, his face scarlet.

  ‘I thought you were seeing Mr Yates about the carriage lights.’

  ‘I…I…w…was,’ he stammered in his confusion, ‘but…but Waite, he…he was talking w…with Mr Yates.’

  ‘I should go and see if the traps are ready.’

  The boy hadn’t been aware that he was still holding Barbara’s hand; and now he dropped it like a hot coal and ran from them.

  Constance stared at her niece, and Barbara stared back at her aunt, until the man in the doorway laughed and began to speak. He articulated well and Barbara read his lips. ‘She doesn’t carry the Mallen streak, but she’s a Mallen all right; I saw that instantly, deaf or not. You mustn’t blame the boy, Constance. Anyway, what is a waltz? But it would have been better if they’d waited till the moon was up.’ He laughed softly.

  Glancing at him for a moment, Constance repeated the words to herself, What is a waltz? Nothing, nothing in the ordinary way. But they were holding each other close, entwined. Really! That girl.

  ‘You said that she couldn’t hear at all, are you sure?’ Pat Ferrier muttered as he turned toward Constance, now slightly concerned. ‘She looks as if she understood.’

  ‘She can read your lips.’

  ‘Oh Lord! I’m sorry. Still, she knows she’s a Mallen; and I suppose she knows all about the streak by now.’ His voice dropped even further, ‘I was always glad that you weren’t one, Constance.’

  She wanted to say, ‘Were you, Pat?’ She wanted to look at him, linger with him, because she had the feeling that this could be the beginning of a new lease on life for her. He had been in love with her one time; true it was a boyish love but it had nevertheless been ardent. But, but that must wait; there was this girl, this disturbing girl. She turned to Barbara where she was still standing staring at them and she said, ‘I thought you were going to get a handkerchief?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ There was nothing subdued about the tone, no shame in it that she had been caught showing an utter lack of decorum, waltzing with a young boy in the farmyard like any common serving maid might do at a wedding or harvest supper.

  She passed between them as they stood on the steps, glancing quickly first at one and then at the other, defiance showing in her back as she walked across the hall and up the stairs and into Constance’s bedroom.

  She had opened the door before she realised she could hardly see, for now the twilight had deepened and the room had but one small window, so she returned to the top of the landing and picked up the two-branched candelabrum that Jane had just lit and carried it into the room. She placed it on the dressing table and tugged open the drawer to the right of her; then she stared down into it, thinking as she looked at the sets of lace collars and cuffs and bodice frills: she said the drawer to the right; well, this was the drawer to the right. She pulled it out a little further and thrust her hand to the back of it. She could feel no pile of neatly stacked handkerchiefs, nor yet a handkerchief satchel, but what she did feel was something hard beneath a bodice flounce.

  Pulling the drawer open further still, she impatiently thrust the flounce to one side and saw that the hard thing it covered was a small framed picture. There was no immediate curiosity in her manner, she did not even think, Why has Aunt Constance hidden this photograph under the flounce? Not until she drew it out and held it to the light and saw that she was looking down at a face like Michael’s did excitement rise in her.

  The face in the round frame was an exact replica of Michael’s except that it looked older. The eyes, the nose, everything, especially the hair, were the same. There was only one difference, the face didn’t show Michael’s strength, it was a pale, sick face. She knew who this was; it was Matthew Radlet. She had seen another of him when he was a young boy. It had been taken with his elder brother, Michael’s father. They were both wearing knickerbocker suits and caps. The picture was now hanging in Grandma Radlet’s room, as was another picture of the brothers, taken when they were grown up. But this latter one was indistinct; it had been taken in the cattle market,
and it merely showed a dark man and a fair one standing each side of a cow.

  The sound of laughter coming from below caused her to thrust the picture back into the drawer and close it. Then she stood biting on her little finger for a moment before shaking her head and murmuring, ‘Aye, Aunt Constance.’

  As if she had just experienced a revelation she turned and looked toward the door, and her gaze carried her beyond it down the stairs and on to the drive, and she saw her Aunt Constance standing there, as she had a moment ago, looking at her as if she had committed some crime.

  Quickly she turned to the dressing table again and her darting gaze now alighted on a set of small drawers flanking the mirror. When she pulled the top one open she found it full of handkerchiefs, and she took one out and held it to her nose. It smelt strongly of lavender.

  She stood now tucking the handkerchief into the cuff of her dress, her eyes were bright, her face alight as if it were going to burst into laughter. She looked about her. This was her Aunt Constance’s room. She had never really seen it before although she had been in it many times; it was comfortable, colourful. It was almost as smart as the bedrooms in the Hall. Her Aunt Constance didn’t like her; her Aunt Constance had never liked her; but now she had found something out about her Aunt Constance. She didn’t really know the full extent of her discovery, but one thing was certain, she’d never be afraid of her Aunt Constance again.

  She had always assumed an attitude to give the impression she was afraid of no-one, but secretly she had stood in awe of her Aunt Constance; perhaps because she had such power over Michael, and it had been policy that she herself should remain in her aunt’s good books. But now…Now…

  She pressed her lips tightly together as if to prevent the excitement that was filling her from spilling over…She knew about things, the forbidden things that happened between men and women. When they were alone Katie and she talked, and their talk hinted at these secret things. And now her Aunt Constance. Really! She could scarcely believe it, but it was true. Oh yes, the photograph was proof enough of her. She remembered her Aunt Constance saying, ‘Michael takes after his grandmother Radlet’s side.’ And of course he did, but his father hadn’t been Mr Donald Radlet. Really! Really!

  When she went out of the room there was a slight swagger to her walk.

  Fifteen minutes later they were all ready for the road. Barbara had known that she would not be allowed to ride in the brake, not now it was coming on dark, even if the moon were to shine ever so brightly, but it didn’t matter; it had been a wonderful day and she had danced alone with Michael. Her Aunt Constance could never take that from her. She could still feel him holding her close. She could still feel the pumping of his heart through her dress. If her Aunt Constance hadn’t come on the scene at that moment he might have kissed her; he might, he just might. He had looked down on her and his eyes had been big and round and soft, and his hands had been hot with perspiration. Her Aunt Constance had made them lose something, but it would come again, that moment would come again. In the secret depths of her where her desires raged wildly she felt old and full of knowledge, strange knowledge.

  From her seat in the trap she looked toward where Mr Ferrier was saying goodbye to Katie; and oh my! he was kissing her hand and Katie was dropping him a deep curtsy; everybody was laughing… Now he was coming toward them.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Brigmore.’ Brigie and he were shaking hands.

  Then he was talking to Mary. ‘Hello, Mary,’ he said. ‘I hope you are well. Do you remember me?’

  ‘Indeed I do sir. You haven’t changed much.’ It was the first time on this occasion Mary had seen him, for she had been spending the day with her friend, Nancy Waite.

  ‘That is very kind of you, Mary. If I remember rightly you were forever tactful; Miss Brigmore’s influence, no doubt.’ He cast a glance toward Miss Brigmore. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, sir. Goodbye.’

  Now he had hold of her own hand and, leaning forward, he put his lips to it; but his eyes were raised to hers, and they held a mischievous glint as if they shared a secret. ‘Goodbye, Miss Mallen.’ He stressed the Miss. ‘I trust you’ve had an enjoyable day.’

  She read only the latter end of his words because he had bowed his head, and she said, ‘Goodbye, sir, and thank you.’ It was a suitable retort covering all occasions.

  When he stepped back, Yates cried ‘Gee-up!’ and the brake went from the yard first; then Miss Brigmore shook the reins of the pony trap and the pony moved forward; and now those who had free hands began to wave. She waved to Michael where he was standing between his mother and his grandmother, with Mr Ferrier behind him. He did not run beside the trap (as he usually did) and call a last farewell from the road; but somehow it didn’t matter for she knew if it lay with him he would have done so. She felt strong, powerful, important; her deafness didn’t matter. Was she only twelve, near thirteen? But she felt so much older, and so full of knowledge. One thing she was determined on; she wouldn’t cease pestering Brigie until she got her a pony, and then she could ride over the hills whenever she liked, and no-one could stop her…no-one.

  They had gone about a quarter of a mile along the road when two figures, one very tall and one very small, jumped a ditch and mounted the high bank that edged the road in order to let them pass; then the two figures waved to them and they waved back, for as she looked at the small figure of Sarah Waite, dressed in a common coat and heavy boots and straw bonnet, she felt she had been silly to be jealous of her, for what had she to fear from a little thing like that. She knew that Jim Waite had taken Sarah to the games, doubtless at the suggestion of Aunt Constance and Brigie, because the Benshams had been coming. If that hadn’t been the case Sarah Waite would have been allowed to tag along with them; and as Brigie herself had said on other occasions, it wasn’t right to allow the girl such licence. But it didn’t matter any more, nothing mattered any more; she had danced with Michael alone and he had almost kissed her.

  The following morning at breakfast Barbara caused Miss Brigmore to choke on her food and drop her fork on to her plate when she was asked the question, ‘What is the Mallen streak? Should I have it? Oh, don’t choke.’ Barbara rose hastily from her chair and came round the table and patted Miss Brigmore between the shoulders as she asked, ‘Was it the bacon, or what I said?’

  ‘Don’t, don’t!’ Miss Brigmore shrugged herself away from Barbara’s hand; then wiping her mouth with her napkin, she muttered, ‘It was the bacon; Mary does it much too well. I’ve told her. What…what did you say about the Mallen streak?’ She picked up her fork and proceeded with her breakfast, and as Barbara resumed her seat she said, ‘I asked you what it was, and should I have it.’

  ‘What makes you ask such a question? Where did you hear this?’

  ‘Mr Ferrier talking to Aunt Constance last night. He said I hadn’t got it, nevertheless I was a Mallen all right, or words to that effect.’

  Dear, dear Lord! It was a silent exclamation but Miss Brigmore had closed her eyes and it took on the form of a prayer. She could not stand another tussle with the child and the truth would be disastrous at the present time for she was getting on so well with her sign language. She looked across the table and said, slowly now, ‘Most of the Mallen men who were born with black hair have a paler streak of hair running down from the crown’—she demonstrated—‘usually on the left side.’

  ‘Did Mother’s Uncle Thomas have it? His hair is white in his picture in the drawing room.’

  Miss Brigmore lowered her eyes before she said, ‘In his young days, yes, it was very prominent.’

  ‘Did my father have it?’

  Again Miss Brigmore said a silent, ‘Dear Lord! Oh dear Lord!’ Now she must repeat the tale of Thomas Mallen’s fictitious younger brother who had been drowned at sea before Barbara was born. She had invented the story when the child had first inquired about her father, and she had regretted it ever since, for it had further complicated an already very complicated situation.
>
  When she spoke she mumbled her words and Barbara asked loudly, ‘What did you say?’

  Miss Brigmore lifted her head sharply and her voice, too, was loud as she replied, ‘I said he had it slightly.’

  ‘Why haven’t I got one then?’ Barbara put her hand up to her hair.

  ‘The women in the family can’t carry the mark.’

  ‘Carry the mark?’ The words were repeated slowly. ‘Why do you call it a mark?’

  ‘Oh, child!’ Miss Brigmore jerked her head to the side. ‘No reason. It, it was merely to describe the pigmentation of the hair.’

  ‘My uncle, Constance’s husband, he was Uncle Thomas’ son, wasn’t he, the fat man?’

  ‘Don’t say the fat man; your…your mother’s Uncle Thomas was stout, stout, that’s all.’

  ‘He was fat; in his picture he is fat.’

  ‘Barbara! You’re being annoying, and acting like a small child.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But Brigie, listen to me, because I want to know. If Aunt Constance’s husband Donald was Uncle Thomas’ son why did he live on the farm? Why didn’t he live at the Hall before it was sold, or here with you? Why? And why was he called Radlet and not Mallen?’

  ‘Be…because, because, his, his mother married again.’

  ‘What!’ Barbara screwed up her eyes. ‘But she couldn’t marry again if Uncle Thomas was alive, and he’d only just died when I was born, you said so yourself, when he had his heart attack. And Uncle Donald’s mother is Mrs Radlet, isn’t she, and she’s still on the…’

  Miss Brigmore sprang up from her seat and she did an unusual thing for Miss Brigmore, she doubled her fist and thumped the table, much in the fashion that Mr Bensham would have done, and she shouted at Barbara even as she mouthed each word separately: ‘I am not going to go into the entire history of the family at this moment to please you or anyone else, do you hear? When I think the time is ripe I will give you the full story, I shall even write it down for you, but the time is not ripe, and I would thank you not to raise the subject again until I give you leave to. Is that understood?’