Her mother had smiled and touched her cheek and said slowly, and now she remembered how slowly words had come, ‘All I would like for you, lass, is to know that you’ll marry somebody who can keep you happy always…always.’
Why hadn’t she stayed with her then instead of dancing out of the room? Why hadn’t she known that she was fading away before her eyes? And now she was down there and the sun was shining and the birds were singing and Dan’s body was shuddering with the weeping, and her father was crying; all the family were crying now, everybody except her.
When she turned from the grave she took hold of Dan’s arm; it looked as if he were supporting her and not she him.
There was a gigantic meal set in the dining room but only relatives were seated round the table. The seven gentlemen, including Mr Ferrier, had taken wine in the breakfast room; then, after offering their condolences to Harry, they had departed in their carriages.
Katie did not take a seat at the table but slipped quietly away upstairs to the nursery. She hoped to find Dan there, for she hadn’t seen him since their return. Instead, she found Barbara.
Barbara was standing looking out of the window, and she had to touch her arm to attract her attention, and when they looked at each other Katie saw that Barbara too was crying.
Barbara now put out her hands and caught hers and said, ‘I’m…I’m sorry, Katie, so sorry. I…I was very fond of her.’
For a moment Katie stared into the beautiful face, the face that at times she envied, the face that had often aroused her keen jealousy, which she would sublimate into compassion because of the affliction behind it, and she was surprised at herself as she said, ‘Were you?’ for this wasn’t a statement but a question, a question asked flatly, even accusingly.
‘Yes, yes,’ Barbara had interpreted the tone of the words from the look on Katie’s face and she added, ‘You know I was.’
‘You thought she was common.’
‘Oh! Katie. How…how could you say such a thing! And on a day like this too.’
‘Because it’s true. You did; didn’t you? You thought she was common, so common, not a bit like Brigie. You laughed at her at times.’
‘I never did.’
‘No, not to me you didn’t, but with Brigie years ago when you first came, I heard you.’
Such memories don’t die and the colour rushed over Barbara’s pale skin. She said now in her own defence and quietly, ‘You…you must admit it is not a week since you were mimicking her yourself.’
‘I explained all that. It’s a family licence; you’re allowed to mimic those you love.’
‘I…I loved her. You…you can’t understand; I can’t explain myself, but deep inside I…I did love your mother because…and not only because she was kind to me, more than kind, getting your father to give me the horse and clothes and so many other things, but oh’—she put her hand to her head now and screwed up her eyes—‘how can I explain? I…I am not a nice person, I know I’m not. I say awful things, and I do awful things, and I put it down to my deafness, but it stems from something more than that. But I want you to believe I was more than fond of your mother, because I…I envied you having her. When she used to put her arms around you and call you love or lass, I lost something; every time she did it I lost something. Oh, I can’t explain, I can only tell you that many and many a time I wished she was my mother.’
‘What about Brigie?’ Katie’s voice was soft now, the stiffness had gone from her face. She sat down on the wooden nursery chair near the table and her body slumped but she still looked up at Barbara waiting for her answer.
Not until Barbara was seated opposite her, her hands joined, her forearms on the table, did she say, ‘It’s different, Brigie is not my mother, she’s…she’s not even a relation. I love her, but in a different way; it’s…it’s gratitude, I think, yes, out of gratitude.’
They stared at each other. Then Katie said quietly, ‘It seems to be a moment of truth, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes, you could say something like that.’
‘Life’s never going to be the same again.’
‘I know that.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Marry Michael.’
‘What if you can’t?’
‘I will. If I can’t have Michael there is no meaning to anything, nothing to life.’
‘Brigie’s against it.’
‘I know.’
‘She wants you to have John.’
‘John doesn’t want me.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure. I used to think he did. Yet at the same time you never know what John’s thinking, not really.’
‘Anyway, I wouldn’t have John; I want no-one but Michael. And you? What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t think. It’s very odd; it’s just as if I have changed to someone else over these past few days.’
‘Do you think Mr Ferrier might ask you to marry him?’
‘Perhaps, or perhaps not. He may just be amusing himself, as I was.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘Yes, I like him, but liking isn’t loving. The last time I spoke to Mother I said to her, “How would you like me to marry a title?” and she said to me, “All I would like for you, lass, is to know that you’ll marry somebody who can keep you happy always…always.” And I think that is what one has got to find out. But how can you know if a man is going to care for you always? I think the best thing to do is to ask yourself if you can put up with him when he’s not his charming self, when he’s not laughing and joking and paying you attention. Dad used to yell at Mam’—Katie gave a cynical smile here. ‘You see how quickly one reverts, not Father and Mother as Brigie would have it, but Dad and Mam. At times they fought like cat and dog; he used to call her such awful names. When I was young I thought her second name was numskull.’ She smiled again, but the smile was tender now. ‘But all through it she loved him, and she knew that he loved her. She may have been a numskull—she was in lots of ways, she wasn’t intelligent—but she was wise in her own way and she was full of heart, and I wouldn’t have changed her for anyone. Do you hear that, Barbara? I wouldn’t have changed her for anyone, not for all your Brigies, or your Aunt Constances, or any of the big-pots you’re so proud of being connected with, because at bottom they weren’t fit to wipe her boots! Do you hear me?’
She was shouting. The blocked reservoir inside her was spilling over. The tears were flooding up through her chest and blocking her throat; with an explosive sound they gushed out of her eyes, down her nose and out of her mouth, and she jumped up from the table and ran from the room.
Barbara made no effort to follow her, but she rose from the chair and tried to steady the trembling of her body by going to the window and gripping the high sill. She gazed out over the gardens and into the far distance where the moorland joined the hills, and she thought that they had indeed experienced a moment of truth, a moment of truth in which she had been made to face what she had always known deep within her, that you could love only one person, really love that is, and you could really like only a few people. She liked Katie, but she thought that Katie would never really like her again, and it wasn’t only because she imagined she had looked down on her mother, it was something that went deeper, some change that had taken place in Katie.
And then there was John. She liked John, because John had always been kind to her.
And Dan? No, she didn’t really like Dan; Dan annoyed her; Dan had never treated her with sympathy, but had acted toward her as if she were of no account…And Brigie?
She had said that she had wished at times Mrs Bensham had been her mother, yet hadn’t Brigie played mother to her since she was born, and she should be grateful for that alone. She was, she was; then when had she stopped loving her? Gradually, she supposed, as she realised that she did not want her to have Michael; and also when she realised that she was withholding something from her, something that she should know, that it was her right to know; som
ething that even Mary knew, because whenever she tried to get Mary to talk about the Mallen family she would become too busy, or would have a sudden toothache, or her leg would hurt her, always something to put one off.
Because of her deafness she had acquired a subtle sense that probed people’s attitudes toward her even when she could not read their lips; but this did not overcome the handicap of being unable to hear snatches of conversation that might have helped her to piece things together.
There was no means of finding out what she should know other than through another moment of truth, and she was aware that that moment would only come when she herself forced it; and this she knew she was afraid of doing, for truth was cruel, it changed the pattern of one’s life. But didn’t she want the pattern of her life changed? Didn’t she want to fly from the cottage to the farm across the hills and spend her life by Michael’s side? In his arms? In his bed? She bowed her head and bit tightly on her lip. Oh yes, in his bed. Nights were becoming nightmarish because she could think of nothing now but being beside Michael in his bed. Her thought on this subject, she imagined, would have shocked Brigie to the core of her being, for in that no-man’s land before sleep finally takes over she saw herself standing naked before Michael; and not only that, Michael standing naked before her.
In the light of day she realised she was wicked, not so much because of what she imagined about herself and Michael, but because of the thoughts that always accompanied this image, the realisation of which could alone turn her desires of the night into reality, and when, as today, the thought had dared to creep into the light as she watched the coffin being borne to the hearse, she had become physically sick with the force of the wish that it were bearing her Aunt Constance to the grave and not Mrs Bensham.
Harry Bensham rarely called Miss Brigmore to his presence; if he wanted to talk to her he went up to the nursery floor where she was usually to be found, but this morning he sent for her.
Brooks informed Armstrong that the master wanted to see Miss Brigmore. Armstrong gave the message to Emerson, the second footman, who carried the message to the first floor, where he met Jenny Dring, the upper housemaid, and he passed it on to her.
Miss Brigmore was in her sitting room. She had just taken off her cloak and bonnet and sat down to review, calmly if possible, the situation.
It was a week since the funeral, and not during all the years she had spent in this house had she experienced such irritation. Matilda’s prophecy had certainly come true. Mrs Talbot was indeed attaching herself to Mr Bensham like a blood-starved leech. The woman was an impossible creature, common—in such a way that Miss Brigmore regretted ever having applied the appellation to Matilda—while at the same time adopting a pseudo-veneer of refinement. Her accent and her idea of correctness both in manner and conversation would have been laughable if they hadn’t aroused her disdain for the woman. To use Matilda’s expression, Mrs Talbot was scavenger material, and what was more distressing still, he, Mr Bensham, did not seem to be adversely affected by her, in fact, at times appearing to be grateful for her solicitude.
One thing was certain, she herself could not remain in this house in any capacity were that woman to become its mistress. Although she had promised Matilda she would try to influence her husband against a close association with her she knew that this would be impossible; Harry Bensham was a headstrong opinionated man, and even softened as he was now by his bereavement, she couldn’t see him accepting any advice from her with regard to his personal behaviour.
Having received the message, she obeyed it. The expression on her face matched the stiffness of her back as she went down the main staircase, across the hall, and into the library. She opened the door and Florrie Talbot’s shrill voice greeted her: ‘Oh, there you are! Thought you were never comin’, dear. I was just saying to ’Arry here, he should close it up, for the winter like, like they do, ’cos he’s got his house in the town. Haven’t you, ’Arry?’ She turned her big, fresh-coloured face toward Harry, where he stood before the fire, one elbow resting on the mantelshelf. He did not reply, and she went on, ‘I just said to him, as good as you are, it’s too much to manage on your own; ’tisn’t fair, ’tisn’t fair now, dear, is it? ’Tisn’t like as if you were young any more, and sprightly. What’s more…’
‘Florrie!’ Harry’s voice was quiet, but although the tone conveyed a command for her to be quiet it held no impatience; he might have been addressing Matilda when in one of his good moods.
‘Well, I was just sayin’. I’ve been working it out, ’Arry. You’ve got enough on your plate with the mill and all that lot without having to bother about ’ouses, big, little or middling.’
Again Harry said, ‘Florrie!’ this time, adding ‘Go and see if Katie’s near ready.’
When, however, Mrs Talbot showed no sign of rising from her chair and when the oily smile slid from her puffed features and her round blue eyes took on a steely glint, Harry’s tone altered. There was a touch of the old harshness in it now as he said bluntly, ‘I want a word alone with Brigie. Now get on your way, Florrie; no more of it.’
Mrs Talbot lifted her heavy body from the chair; she did it slowly as if to add to her show of indignation, and she paused to adjust the bows of black ribbons on the six-inch wired platform of material that circled her already ample waist, and her departure from the room matched her dress, for she flounced out.
When the door closed behind her none too quietly, Harry looked at Miss Brigmore and, shaking his head, said, ‘She means well; and you know, I’ve been thinking these last few days she might be right. What do I want two houses for now? But as I’ve asked meself, if I had to give one up which would be the easiest for me to part with? And I’ve got to admit, the Manchester one.’ His lips bared from his teeth but not into a smile, it was more of a self-derisive gesture.
He stood now with his back to the big well of the empty fireplace and he rubbed his hands down the seat of his trousers, as he often did when the fire was blazing. He lowered his head for a moment before slowly turning his gaze round the room and saying, ‘It’s funny how a place like this grows on you. You don’t belong, you’re an intruder, an outsider, yet you’ve got the upper hand, ’cos you’ve got the money, and you think you can buy yourself in…but you can’t, ’cos money isn’t what it wants, not a house like this.’ He brought his gaze onto Miss Brigmore now and said, ‘It was only me that wanted to stay put here. Matilda would have gone back to the town years ago if I’d said the word. But what I said was, it’s the best place to bring up the bairns. And I was right, at least I think I was. What do you say?’
‘Yes, I think you were right.’
‘Aye, you would say that, of course you would, and I think I was. But then again, it might’ve proved that we were both wrong, for in the first place there’s our Danny. He can’t bear to look on muck or poverty, it upsets him; he’s got the make-up of a reformer or, worse still, an agitator; perhaps it was a damn good job he wasn’t in the mill from a lad. Still, he’s promised to give it a try for the next year; and he’ll be along of John, and John’s steady. Aye, I’ve got one rock at least.’
He moved from the fireplace and, pointing to a chair, said, ‘You might as well get off your feet.’
When she was seated he walked from her toward the desk at the end of the room, and stood to the side of it idly pushing papers here and there until she said, ‘Katie; she is going with you to Manchester?’
‘Aye.’ He turned his head in her direction. ‘She made up her mind at the last minute; that’s what I wanted to see you about really.’ He came slowly toward her again and, stopping within an arm’s length of her, he asked, ‘Has she said anything to you on the side about this fellow Ferrier?’
A moment passed before she answered, ‘No, she hasn’t given me her confidence.’
‘So you don’t know if anything happened atween them?’
‘No.’
‘He came late on yesterday and she wouldn’t see him, said she had a headache; t
hat’s one thing she’s learned, the ladies’ excuse, a headache; meaning no offence to you.’ He gave her a sharp nod. ‘Well, he came in here, and from what he said, not right out like, but as they put it he implied his intentions were honourable, and I told her as much when I went up to see her. It was after that she decided to come along of me the day. Her mother going has hit her hard; she hasn’t taken it like the rest, no crying that I’ve seen. But with regard to the Ferrier chap, I can’t understand it. She seemed all for him up to a week or so ago, and I don’t mind telling you on the quiet I thought it would have been a damn good match. What is more, I like the fellow. He’s almost twice her age, admitted, but that’s not a bad thing. What do you say?’
‘No, it isn’t a bad thing.’
‘I don’t mean about age, I mean about the man himself and the match.’
‘It would be very good on both sides; she’d make him an excellent wife.’
‘Aye, but you’re thinking along the lines that she could pass herself, and there’s all credit due to you for fittin’ her for that kind of life. Aw well’—he pulled from his waistcoat pocket a heavy gold watch and, clicking the case open, looked at the bold-lettered face and said, ‘Time’s running on, we want to make the town afore dark, I’d better be putting a move on. I just wanted to say one thing further, will you keep an eye on the place while I’m away? It may be a fortnight or more afore I’m back; I’ve already told Brooks to refer to you for anything he might want. And I think you could give an eye to the household accounts if you’ve a minute, they’re getting staggerin’. The amount of tea that’s used in the kitchen, they must be washin’ in it. I’ve an idea there’s quite a bit of stuff going out on the side. They get their perks and I’m generous with them at that, but I won’t stand being done; I can’t bear to be made a monkey out of; so will you look into it?’
The Mallen Girl Page 12
