The Mallen Girl

by Catherine Cookson

  The library to herself, Miss Brigmore sat for a moment stiffly upright in her chair; then rising, she went up to the nursery, where she stayed for an hour before going downstairs again, collecting her hat and cloak and leaving the Hall.

  Her departure looked unhurried, as she intended it should.

  She knew that Katie, when she discovered that she had gone to the cottage without leaving any verbal message, would go up to the nursery expecting to find a letter; and she would not be disappointed. The letter was merely a note saying that under the circumstances she felt that Katie was quite capable of looking after herself and in no way required a chaperon over the weekend.

  Miss Brigmore defended her attitude as she walked briskly along the road to the cottage, for the brief, one-sided conversation in the breakfast room had put to nought almost fifteen years’ work. Granted she had been well paid—when she counted their kindness and indulgence toward Barbara, she would concede, more than well paid—but money did not pay for everything; there were such things as loyalty and respect, and both had been denied her.

  Why was it, she asked herself, that her life had been made up of frustrated endeavour? Putting aside personal desire, she had gained little or no satisfaction from those on whom she had spent her life’s work.

  When she entered the cottage Mary’s first words to her were, ‘By! you look off colour.’ Then she added, ‘You’re back early.’

  ‘I have a headache,’ said Miss Brigmore. ‘I excused myself. Do you think I could have a cup of strong tea?’

  ‘Why yes, certainly, this minute. But if you ask me, you want more than a strong cup of tea. And I’ve said it for weeks, you want a break, a holiday, a long one.’ Ignoring this comment, Miss Brigmore said, ‘Did they get away all right?’

  ‘Oh aye; but not without an argument.’

  ‘An argument, what about?’

  ‘Oh, Michael said he couldn’t stay all that long, he had promised to be back by two o’clock or something like that. And you know she’d expected him to take her into Allendale! Still, don’t you worry about her, go and sit down and I’ll bring you that tea.’

  Miss Brigmore went upstairs and took off her outdoor clothes; then she sat down on the cradle stool in front of the dressing table and quietly and thoughtfully looked into the mirror. It was right what Mary said, she needed a change, she needed a rest; she wasn’t as young as she was, almost in her sixtieth year. Of course no-one would guess it to look at her. The few grey hairs that appeared she treated successfully with cold tea, and now they were hardly distinguishable from the natural brown. Her skin was still clear and although her cheeks had lost a little of their roundness there were few lines on her face except those at the corners of her eyes, and two vertical ones on her upper lip. Moreover, her figure was still very trim and firm. No; no-one would ever guess that she was almost sixty. She could pass for fifty or less…That was outwardly, but inwardly at this moment she felt every day of her age—and, moreover, she felt so alone, so very much alone…

  She hadn’t experienced this feeling so acutely since the day the shot had rung out in Thomas’ study and she had rushed in to find him slumped over the desk.

  Then she had known what it was to be alone, for no-one had understood her like Thomas, no-one but he had known Anna Brigmore. It was only at night in his arms that she had become Anna Brigmore; in the daytime she had remained Miss Brigmore even with him, and it had been a joke between them. But now she was Miss Brigmore to everyone; Miss Brigmore, Brigie, The Brigadier—and a person who lived in a cocoon. Such sweeping statements were forgivable because they came from youth, yet they nevertheless pierced you and thrust you deeper into isolation.

  She had her cup of tea but did not follow Mary’s advice of putting her feet up; instead, years of discipline coming to her aid, she decided to read; but something light, diverting. Yet when she went to the bookcase her fingers hesitated on picking up Vanity Fair, which she had read at least six times before, and hesitated over Mrs Gaskell’s Mary Barton; then returned to Vanity Fair and almost snatched it from the shelf. The last thing she wanted to read this morning was the problems of life facing Manchester mills and factory hands.

  Yet it was at the precise moment when her mind rejected delving into this social problem that a ‘factory hand’ knocked on the cottage door.

  Mary entered the room almost on tiptoe and made her announcement in an undertone as if the visitor were a personage of high importance. ‘It’s young Brooks, Willy, Brooks’ son; he says he wants to see you.’

  Miss Brigmore put her head to the side as if thinking before she said, ‘Show him in, Mary.’

  Young Brooks was twenty-four years old, but the appellation young did not apply to him, he looked a man, a stiff-faced, arrogant man. He was above average build for a mill worker, for malnutrition and excessively long hours of labour when the bones were still soft did not usually tend toward natural growth. He was over five foot ten in height and broadly built with it. His eyes were deep set and did not show their colour at first glance, appearing to be black instead of blue. His mouth was full-lipped and wide, but his face was thin and would tend later to be lantern-jawed. His hair was brown and had a deep ridge in it like a wave running over the top of his head. He held his hard hat in one hand that hung down by the side not as was usual with a man in his position, in both hands and in front of his chest. But what was his position? She was soon to know.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Brigmore,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Willy.’ The tone was the polite one she kept for the family servants, not stiff but without any touch of familiarity. She did not ask him to be seated but added, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Give me the key to the safe.’

  His request and the manner in which he made it nonplussed her for a moment; then, her back stiffening, she definitely became Miss Brigmore. ‘By whose authority are you asking for the keys?’

  ‘Mr Bensham’s.’

  They stared at each other before she said, ‘I have received no letter from Mr Bensham to the effect that I must hand you the keys to the safe.’

  ‘Look—’ he gnawed on his lip for a moment, then looked toward the carpet as if something had attracted his attention before returning his gaze to her and continuing, ‘Mr Bensham wants a certain paper out of the safe and as I was comin’ down to see my father he said it would save him a trip, he said you would give me the key.’

  ‘Mr Bensham usually informs me by letter if there is anything out of the usual that he requires to be done.’

  ‘Well, apparently this time he didn’t; he’s a busy man. And anyway he likely saw no need for it when I was comin’ down.’

  ‘What is so important about the paper that it cannot wait until he comes down himself?’

  She watched the rough tweed of his waistcoat swell, then deflate again, before he said, ‘It’s a deed.’

  ‘Mr Bensham has a bank; I understand he keeps his deeds there.’

  He stared at her for what must have been a full minute, during which the point of his tongue came out between his teeth and traced his bottom lip several times. Then he said, ‘Well, apparently you don’t know everything, Miss Brigmore. The boss—Mr Bensham—told me there’s a deed in the safe with the name of Pollard and Bensham on the envelope in the left-hand corner. He must have forgotten to mention it to you.’

  ‘I want none of your sarcasm, Mr Brooks.’

  ‘Fair enough, Miss Brigmore. And I want none of your suspicion, or condescension.’

  Really! really! What were things coming to? She was, to put it mildly, flabbergasted.

  ‘And I don’t happen to be one of the servants at the Hall, Miss Brigmore, I’ll have you bear that in mind. I’m under-manager in the firm of Bensham & Sons; I have a standin’, whether you like to recognise it or not; and what’s more I’ve worked for that standin’ from when I was six years old. I’ll shortly be made the manager of the factory under Mr John. I bend me knee to nobody, miss, nobody.’

/>   Dreadful man, awful person, and yet she felt she could be listening to his master, Harry Bensham, when he would have been the same age, for this undoubtedly would have been his attitude. Then at his next words she found herself gripping the front of her bodice.

  ‘While I’m on, I’ll take advantage of the opportunity to tell you that although I might travel in a train with Katie, it doesn’t mean I’m going to take her down, or that ’cos she sits next to me she’ll get the smit. I might as well make it plain to you now, I’ve got a great concern for Katie, always have had, ’cos one day I’m going to marry her.’

  She did not feel faint as might have been expected on hearing the fate of a young lady whom she had trained to take her place as mistress of at least an upper-middle-class establishment, but she felt anger rising in her at the thought of all her efforts, all her work wasted on a man such as this.

  Her words were cold and pointed like icicles as she said, ‘Have you made Miss Bensham aware of your intentions?’

  ‘Not in so many words but she knows which way the wind’s blowin’, she’s no fool; which she proved lately when she turned down the moneyed geezer you’d set up for her.’

  ‘You are being offensive, Mr Brooks.’

  ‘Perhaps I am, but it’s the only way to get through to you and your like; you live your lives on the side as it were, cosily shut off from the rest, and you never call a spade a spade.’ His tone softened, and again he looked down at the carpet before saying, ‘I suppose it’s not your fault, you are how you are, no more than it’s mine that I was born with nowt; the thing is, as I said, it isn’t our faults, but it’s up to us to change things if we don’t like them. Apparently you’ve got nothin’ to grumble about in your way of life, so you remain what you are; me I don’t change much in meself, but I’m determined, and always have been to change the place and conditions in which this self has got to live, if you follow me.’

  She followed him all right, and she asked herself a question: Were all the men in Manchester like this, uncouth, raw, brash individuals? Was he really the cause of the change in Katie? No; as hard as it was to accept, she recognised that Katie was in essence made up of the same material as this man, he represented the other side she had spoken of.

  The ice still in her tone, she asked, ‘Is Mr Bensham aware of your intentions?’

  ‘Not so far; I didn’t want to say anythin’ so soon after Mrs Bensham going, but I mean to tell him as soon as I get back. It’ll save you breaking the news to him.’

  ‘And you’re already sure in your mind that he will approve.’

  ‘Well, almost you could say, ’cos he values me, not only because he knows that I could run the mill blindfold, but because he likes me for what I am! I’m a pusher just the same as he was.’

  What could one say to a man who openly exposed his less creditable traits in such a fashion, almost as if he were proud of them, as undoubtedly he was? Oh, she was tired of it all, worn out by the futility of trying to shape people who were already set in strong moulds.

  Again they were staring at each other; then turning stiffly from him, she said, ‘If you will kindly wait I will get my cloak.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, just give me the key and I’ll bring it back to you, or leave it on the desk.’ Facing him fully, she said slowly, ‘Mr Bensham left the keys in my charge; I will open the safe and allow you to take out the paper he requires.’

  She walked from him, her back like a ramrod, and while passing from the sitting room into the hall, she only just prevented herself from turning around and showing her indignation when his words, delivered on a deep laugh, came at her back, saying, ‘How did they stick it all them years!’

  The weekend was over. Katie and that individual, as she now thought of Brooks’ son, had left the house that morning together to return to Manchester.

  During the farewells Katie had returned to her old self for a moment, saying softly, ‘Aw, Brigie, try to understand. I wouldn’t have you hurt for the world, I wouldn’t really. I’ll never shame you, because there’s part of me cannot forget that I am Miss Bensham.’

  The farewell had done little to soothe Miss Brigmore’s feelings. During the remainder of the morning she went about her duties, most of them self-imposed. Everything seemed to be as usual except there was that in Brooks’ expression that annoyed her. He did not actually wear a half smile on his face, nor were his eyes laughing, but when he happened to address her she imagined she could hear him thinking in Mary’s vernacular, You’ve had one in the eye this weekend, miss, haven’t you?

  Brooks, to say the least, irritated her and always had done. However, in his case one avenue of relief was in sight; he was past sixty-six and he was no longer over-steady on his feet, there could be a possibility of him retiring shortly. But then, it wasn’t her concern. If that dreadful woman became mistress of the house, which seemed more than likely, then there would be two of a kind controlling affairs, and it would be no longer any of her business, and so she need not trouble herself about it; but until such time she intended to keep Brooks in his place and also to make him aware of the fact.

  So it was after lunch she provided herself with the opportunity by sending for Mrs Kenley and informing her that the stewed carp had not been sufficiently cooked, nor yet had enough salt to flavour it; moreover, the last time she had ordered it, she had precisely asked that there should be quince sauce served with the carp, not parsley. Would she inform the cook of this and she herself ensure that the error did not occur again?

  Under ordinary circumstances she would have shown no such finickiness, but she wished for a confrontation with Brooks, and for it to be sought by him; he would undoubtedly mount his high horse when he found that she had ignored his superior position and made her complaints to the housekeeper concerning things appertaining to the table, for he considered the dining room and all therein his special domain.

  She waited all afternoon for him to approach her; when he at last did, it was to announce in his most polite tone, ‘Mr Patrick Ferrier, miss.’

  She was slightly startled by this announcement and she had to collect her wits from trifling mundane things to meet the questions she knew Pat Ferrier had come to ask.

  ‘How nice to see you!’ She extended her hand toward him, and he took it and bowed over it saying, ‘And to see you. And I hope I find you well?’

  ‘Yes, I’m very well, thank you; one could hardly be otherwise, the weather has been so good.’

  ‘Yes, indeed; most unusual for England, and especially for this part of it.’

  ‘Do sit down.’

  When they were both seated she bent her head toward him and smiled as she said, ‘I had the idea that you had returned to France.’ She’d had no such idea, and she wondered herself why she’d said it.

  ‘Oh, someone has been precipitate in forecasting my future plans…Is everyone well in the family?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know they are all well.’

  Mr Ferrier now gently stroked each side of his small moustache, which was immaculately cut leaving about an eighth of an inch of bare lip below its even line, and each hair looked as if it had been individually set into place. His clothes were also immaculately cut, the tails of his long cord riding coat hanging down each side of the chair like panniers, their colour matching to perfection the soft shining brown leather of his high boots.

  There was a certain asceticism about his thin face, yet his eyes had a merry glint to them, which was prominent now as he looked at her and said, ‘I’m happy to hear that Katie has returned home.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid her visit was very short; she left for Manchester this morning.’

  His chin moved to the side; his glance now shaded by his eyelids was cast toward the long windows as if he had just noticed someone passing and when he looked at her again the merry gleam was no longer to be seen. As Willy Brooks had done, so he now stared at her for almost a minute without speaking; but unlike the reaction that other period of silence had ha
d on her, she now felt a deep sympathy going out toward this man. She did not know what kind of life he had led when abroad, she only knew that he had loved his first wife and lost her so early in their marriage, and he must have seen in Katie a chance of reviving that brief happiness. She did not, at the moment, think of Constance in connection with him.

  ‘Brigie—I may call you that, may I not?’

  ‘Yes, Pat, of course you may.’

  ‘May I also ask you a very straightforward question?’

  Unblinking, she stared at him before answering, ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘And expect a straightforward answer?’ His voice was very low now.

  Again she paused before saying, ‘Yes, if…if I consider it expedient.’

  ‘Only that?’

  ‘Please ask me the question.’

  The leather reinforcing the inside legs of his riding breeches squeaked slightly as it moved against the silk tapestry of the chair before he said, ‘Is Katie purposely avoiding me?’

  Expediency. There were many ways this word could be adapted; using expediency she could hedge, she could lie tactfully, or she could lie outright saying she knew nothing of Katie’s intentions. What she did say was, ‘I think so.’

  He moved his head twice in small nods before he said, ‘Can you give me the reason for it?’

  ‘No, not really; except that after her mother died her attitude to life seemed to change; she considered this’—she spread out her hands to indicate the drawing room—‘and what the house stood for as too great a contrast to the lives that some people are forced to live. I… I think with her mother’s passing she may have recalled much too vividly her early beginnings.’

  ‘She hadn’t gone back to live under those conditions?’ His face was stretched in inquiry now, and she shook her head and said, ‘Oh no, no; but she is busy herself with what is usually’—she gave a slight shrug of her shouders now—‘termed good works.’