He didn’t answer until he had laid Matthew down and was taking off his shoes, then he looked at her from the side and said, ‘What do you mean, what have I done?’ His eyes followed hers to Matthew’s face where the lips and chin were now covered with blood, and he thought he saw the reason for her question.
‘It’s his lungs, he’s fainted.’ Then his voice harsh, he growled at her under his breath, ‘And don’t you do the same, ’cos you’ll witness more than a spot of blood afore you’re finished.’
The words were like a threat, yet they steadied her for she, too, had actually been on the point of fainting, and for much the same reason that had tumbled Matthew into unconsciousness, relief.
PART FOUR
BARBARA
One
November and December 1862 had been cruel months. Miss Brigmore had caught a severe cold through sitting on the carrier’s cart exposed to a biting wind as it travelled the hills between the cottage and the farm.
The newly married couple had visited the cottage only once, and then she’d hardly been able to have a word alone with Constance for the man hovered over them like a hawk. But during the short conversation she had gauged enough to gather that life was bearable during the daytime but that at night it became a special kind of purgatory, because Donald was aware of her lapse; he had seemingly been aware of it from the first night of their marriage. Constance had stared at her while waiting for a clearer explanation of this, and she might have been able to satisfy her except that they had been interrupted by Donald.
Repeatedly since that visit Miss Brigmore had blamed herself for having neglected a very important part of the girls’ education, yet at the same time excusing herself: should she under any circumstances have had to explain to them that they were virgins but once?
It was when the weather was about to break and there had been no further visit from the farm, that Thomas said, ‘You know, I’ve got this feeling that everything isn’t right across there; why doesn’t he come like he used to? Hail, rain, or snow didn’t stop him this time last year, except when the roads were absolutely impassable, and they’ll soon be like that again. If it wouldn’t be the means of embarrassing both myself and those people across there,’—he was referring now to Jane and Michael—‘I would order a carriage and go over, I would indeed.’
He had looked at her as he finished and then had stood waiting for her response, which she knew should have been, ‘And where do you think the money is coming from to provide you with a carriage?’ but what she said was, ‘I will go across myself; the carrier’s cart will be running for a while yet.’
So, on a day when six layers of clothes were no protection against the icy wind she crossed over the mountains to the farm, and there, at the sight of her dear Constance, she had wanted to cover her face with her hands and weep. Three months of marriage had put almost twice as many years on her. There was no spark of joy left in her; in fact the mother, who was, Miss Brigmore thought, about her own age, was much more lively than the young wife. Only one consolation did she bring back with her across the hills. The mother was kind to Constance; she evidently had a liking for her, and was glad to have her at the farm. What little she saw of the father, too, she liked. He had welcomed her quite warmly. But she had found it almost impossible to look at, much less sympathise with, Matthew where he sat huddled in blankets to the side of the roaring fire. Indeed, when their eyes had met she knew there was no secret between them.
What she had found strange too, was that Constance no longer wanted to be alone with her. She had not suggested taking her to her room, and when Jane had said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to take Miss Brigmore round the farm? Go on, wrap up well, it will do you good to get some air,’ she had answered, ‘Can you spare the time to come too, you can explain things better than me?’ And she had turned her head in Miss Brigmore’s direction but had not looked at her directly as she ended, ‘I’m new to all this, you understand?’
In fact the whole being that Constance now presented to her was new to Miss Brigmore; the old Constance might never have existed, her spirit had been crushed. This wasn’t altogether unexpected; for she had imagined it might happen. Nevertheless she had thought it would take a number of years to come about; yet Donald had accomplished the change in the course of a few weeks.
When she had at last returned to the cottage she was cold to the very core of her being, even her mind seemed numbed, and she had not hidden all the truth from them when they asked how she had found Constance. ‘She’s changed,’ she had said.
‘Changed?’ Thomas had demanded. ‘Changed, what do you mean?’
‘She’s much more quiet, sort of subdued.’
‘Connie subdued? I’ll never believe that, I’ll have to see it first. When is she coming over?’
‘I…I don’t think she’ll be over yet awhile; she’s been having a rather distressing time with sickness and such.’
‘Oh. Oh.’ Thomas had risen from his chair, his head bobbing. He had turned and looked at her and said, ‘I don’t mind telling you I miss her, I miss her chatter. Do you know something?’ He had poked his head forward. ‘I realise I’ve hardly laughed since she left. Funny now that, isn’t it? Barbara’s different, too quiet. You could always get a laugh out of Constance.’
‘No, no, it isn’t funny,’ she had replied evenly. ‘As you say, Barbara is sedate, and I cannot claim any part of my nature tends towards provoking hilarity either.’
At this he put his head back and let out a bellow of a laugh before saying, ‘I take it all back. I take it all back because there are times, my dear Anna, when you appear very, very funny.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Aw,’—he flapped his hand at her as he turned away—‘you can’t put me in my place, mentally or otherwise. Go on with you.’ And he flapped his hand again as he went out, still chuckling.
Barbara had asked, ‘How did you find her?’ and she answered again, ‘Very changed.’
‘She’s not happy?’
She had stared at Barbara. Would it make her happy to know that her sister was unhappy, human nature being what it is? She didn’t know.
Barbara now said, ‘She’s not settling?’ and to this she answered, ‘Yes, she’s settling. But regarding happiness, no, I’d be telling a lie if I said she was happy.’
‘Then why did she marry him?’ The words were brought out with deep bitterness, and Miss Brigmore answered, ‘There was a reason, a special reason. She had changed her mind and wasn’t going to marry him. Yes,’—she nodded at Barbara’s surprised look—‘and something happened and she was forced to marry him.’
Barbara’s thin face had crinkled into deep lines of disgust as she whispered, ‘She had misbehaved?’
‘Yes,’ Miss Brigmore nodded her head. She had decided during these last few minutes to tell Barbara the truth. Whether she would sympathise or even understand she didn’t know but she felt compelled to tell her the real reason why her sister had married Donald Radlet, and so she repeated ‘Yes, she had misbehaved…but not with Donald.’
‘Not with…’ Barbara’s mouth had fallen into an amazed gape.
‘It happened in the storm when Matthew was taking her to the farm. You know how fearful she becomes in a storm. They took shelter in a deserted house on top of the hills. He comforted her and that was that. He told her that he had loved her as long as Donald had and she realised in that moment that she loved him too. From what little she told me I gather that she begged him to marry her but for obvious reasons he couldn’t, or wouldn’t. I think the main reason was he was afraid of Donald and what might happen to him if the truth were ever known.’
Barbara stood with her two hands pressed tightly over the lower part of her face; and after a time she whispered, ‘And Donald, he…he doesn’t know?’
‘Yes and no. He knows that she did not come to him as a wife should but…but he doesn’t know who was responsible.’
‘Oh dear Lord! Dear Lord!’ Still holding her face, Barb
ara had paced the floor; and then much to Miss Brigmore’s surprise she said with deep feeling, ‘Poor Connie! Poor Connie!’ And she had endorsed it, saying, ‘Yes, indeed Barbara, poor Connie.’
When, the day following her visit to the farm, Miss Brigmore had developed a cold she had treated it as an ordinary snifter—Mary’s term for streaming eyes and a red nose—but on the third day when she went into a fever there was great concern in the house; and the following week when the cold developed into pneumonia and the doctor rode six miles from the town every day for four days a pall of fear descended on them all. What, Thomas had asked himself, would he do with his life if he lost Anna?
And what, Barbara had asked herself, would become of her if she lost Anna? She’d be left here with Uncle and Mary, Uncle who only thought of his stomach and—that unmentionable thing—and Mary, who had appeared to her as a wonderful person during her childhood, but whom she now saw as a faithful but very ordinary, even ignorant, woman. What she needed above everything now was mental companionship, so she went on her knees nightly, or whenever she gave herself time to rest, and beseeched God to spare Anna.
And Mary too—as she rushed between the cooking and the cleaning and the washing and the ironing, and lugging the coal upstairs to see that the room was kept at an even temperature twenty-four hours of the day—had also asked what would she do if anything happened to the Miss? There had been a time when she hadn’t liked Miss Brigmore, when she hadn’t a good word in her mouth for her; but that was many years ago. But since they had all come to live in this house she had come to look upon her not merely as a woman of spirit, but as a sort of miracle worker. If anything went wrong Miss Brigmore would put it right; moreover she had a way of spreading out the money so that it seemed to go twice as far as it would have done in anyone else’s hands; and she never went for her now as she had done in those far-off days back in the nursery. Mind you, aye, she wasn’t lavish with her praises, but you always knew when she was pleased. ‘You’ve done very well, Mary,’ she would say. ‘I don’t think you’ve made a better pie than that, Mary,’ she would say. ‘Put your feet up, Mary, and rest that leg,’ she would say. The only times she showed any displeasure was when she was foolish enough to take more than three glasses of her Aunt Sarah’s brew on her days off, for when she came back she couldn’t stop her tongue from wagging, or herself from giggling. The girls used to laugh at her, and with her; but not Miss Brigmore. And a telling-off would always come the next morning.
She often brought a bottle back with her. At one time, she kept it in her room, but she had more sense now. Now she left it in a rabbit hole beyond the hedge—you couldn’t see the hole from this side, and all she had to do was to go onto her knees, put her hand through the privet, and pull the bottle out. She generally waited until it was dark and they’d all gone to bed, and have a little nip. It was a great comfort, her Aunt Sarah’s bottle, on cold nights.
Once, when she had taken more than three nips and Miss Brigmore had gone for her, she had nearly turned on her and said, ‘Well, I haven’t got the master to keep me warm have I?’ Eeh! She was glad she hadn’t let that slip out, she would never have forgiven herself. And she knew that if it would be of any help to Miss Brigmore at this moment she would promise her she would never touch a drop again as long as she lived. But all she could do was to ask God to see to it.
And God saw to it, but He took His time. Miss Brigmore survived the pneumonia but it left her with an infection that the doctor could put no name to, but which, he said, could be cured with time. The infection took the form of making Miss Brigmore unable to assimilate her food. Within half an hour of eating a meal her bowel would evacuate it. Patience, said the doctor, patience. He had seen cases like this before. It might take two, or four months.
Up to date, Miss Brigmore had suffered the infection for four months. She was not confined wholly to bed but she was still unable to do anything other than sit in a chair by the side of the window, near enough to it to see the road, but far away enough from it to avoid a draught…
It was now a March day in 1863, the sky high and clear blue. The snow had gone for the present, except from the hilltops. If you gave your imagination licence you could see spring not very far ahead. At least, this is what Barbara was saying as she bustled about the room. ‘In a fortnight’s time,’ she said, ‘three weeks at the most, we’ll see the bulbs out, and the rowans too…and with the carrier’s cart tomorrow we should have a letter from Constance. I must write one tonight and have it ready for him. Do you think you can do a note to her, Anna?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I’ll write a note.’ Miss Brigmore’s tone was absent-minded. ‘By the way, who is that person talking to your uncle on the road?’
Barbara came to the window and, looking over the garden, she said, ‘Oh, I understand her name is Moorhead, a Mrs Moorhead. Mary refers to her as that Aggie Moorhead. She comes from somewhere near Studdon; she’s working daily at the Hall doing the rough, I understand. Mary tells me they have engaged half-a-dozen such to get the place to rights before the staff arrive; but as she says, and I agree with her, it’ll take six months not six weeks, and that’s the time they have allowed them to clean the place down.’
‘Why is your uncle talking to her?’
Barbara gave a little hunch to one shoulder as she turned from the window, saying, ‘I don’t suppose Uncle’s talking to her, she’s talking to him; to quote Mary again, she’s got a loose lip.’ She smiled now at Miss Brigmore, but Miss Brigmore was still looking in the direction of the road and she said, ‘Your uncle’s laughing.’
Barbara had been about to turn away, but she stopped and looked down at Miss Brigmore. Anna was jealous of Uncle. Well, well! It was strange, she thought, that a person could maintain jealousy into middle years. What was she now? Forty-two? No; forty-three? Forty-four? Anna never talked about her age, but nevertheless she was a settled woman. She sighed heavily within herself. She wished she was over forty, for then she, too, would be settled, and she was sure that by then she’d be past all feeling of jealousy and discontent—and desire. She glanced out of the window again. The Moorhead person was walking away. She was passing the lower gate and she saw that she had a jaunty walk or, what would be more expressive, a common walk; her buttocks swayed from one side to the other. As Mary had suggested, she was a very common person, low even in the working class stratum…
Down on the road Thomas was thinking much the same thing. She had a lilt to her walk, that piece; she swung her hips like a cow did its udders. And she was a little cow all right; if ever he had met one, there she went.
He had spoken to her on several occasions during the past few weeks. In fact it was she who had told him that his former home had been sold at last. After being confined to the house for days during the rough weather he had been taking the air on the road—he liked to walk on the level, he was past bobbing about on the rough fell land—and on one particular day it was she who had stopped, and smiled at him as she said, ‘You’re Mr Mallen, aren’t you? Your old house’s been sold again then.’ And he had raised his brows at her and pursed his lips as he said, ‘Has it indeed! Has it?’
‘He’s a man from Manchester way they say has took it.’
‘Manchester? Oh well, if he comes from there he won’t stay long here.’
‘They say he was born this way, at least his grandparents were. Bensham they called him. He’s payin’ well, shillin’ a day an’ your grub.’
She had jerked her head at him. But her familiarity had not annoyed him, he was long past taking offence at not being given his due, because, as he so often asked himself, what, after all, was his due these days? And so with a laugh he had said, ‘You are lucky then.’
‘Aye,’ she replied. ‘Aye, I’m always lucky. Never wanted, me. Live an’ let live I say, an’ live it well as long as you’ve got it ’cos you’re a long time dead.’
‘You’ve got the correct philosophy.’
‘Eh?’
‘You�
�re quite right, you’re a long time dead.’
‘That’s what I said.’ She had looked at him with round, bright, unblinking eyes, and her lips had slowly fallen apart showing her strong white teeth, and as they, in turn, widened he had watched her tongue wobbling in her mouth. Then she gave a laugh as her head went back and in a slow movement she turned from him, saying, ‘Ta-rah, then, mister.’
He hadn’t answered for a moment, but had watched her take four steps before saying, ‘Goodbye.’
And she turned her head over her shoulder and cried at him ‘An’ to you.’
He walked on down the road smiling to himself. There went a character. ‘And to you,’ she had said. It appertained to no part of the farewell that had passed between them, but it had sounded amusing, and meaningful. ‘And to you,’ she had said. She was no chicken, but what vitality. God! How he wished he were younger. No, no—he shook his head at himself—those days were gone; that past was dead and long since buried. All he wanted now was to end the time left to him quietly, with Anna herself once again. Yes, that was the important thing, Anna to be herself once again.
When he allowed himself to dwell on his past he owned that Anna was the only woman in his life who had satisfied all his needs together, for she played the roles of mistress, wife, and mother to him…aye, and teacher, for over the past twelve years he had learned much from her, and so realised he owed her much. And at these times he asked himself why he hadn’t married her. There was nothing standing in the way.
Deep within himself he knew the answer; he had been afraid that the band of marriage would change her and he would lose the mistress and mother, and there would remain only the wife and teacher. He’d had experience of this stage with his two previous wives, for they had been wives and nothing more; not that he had wanted anything more from his first marriage. It was in his second marriage that he had realised he needed something more than a bed partner, because a bed partner could be picked up any time of the night or day. Love, he had learned of recent years, had little to do with the needs of the body, yet the needs of the body were such that they couldn’t be put aside. In his own case he had never been able to ignore them. He considered that celibates must be a different species of man, for man, as he understood him, was born with a hunger running through his veins from the moment he felt the breast in his mouth. Here he was in his sixty-eighth year and that hunger was still on him, and of late it had become an irritation because Anna had not been strong enough to feed it. It was months since he had taken her, and it looked as though it might be as many again before she was able to come to his bed.
The Mallen Streak Page 20
