Of a sudden life had become full of irritations. He didn’t like to admit to himself that he missed the weekly visits of his natural son, although he could admit openly that he missed the company of Constance. Yet he had never said this in Barbara’s hearing, knowing that it would hurt her because Barbara was a good girl, a good woman. But she had never been a girl in the sense that Constance had been a girl. Still, she was good and kind, and Anna owed her life to her care during these past weeks.
There was another irritation he had to suffer, and this came through Mary. Mary was a pest. He had known for a long time that the wine she drank when on her visits to her aunt was no wine at all but came from some hidden still, and although he had hinted at first, then asked her openly but on the quiet, to bring him a bottle, she had steadfastly refused. ‘Eeh! No,’ she had said. ‘What would Miss say?’ Miss would have her head. He had wanted to say, ‘I’ll have your head if you don’t obey me,’ but the days were past when he could take such a line with his one servant, for he knew that he was in her debt, and had been for years.
There was something else he had discovered about Mary that had heightened his irritation towards her. She didn’t come back from her aunt’s empty-handed. Coming down to the study one night not so long ago to replenish his pipe, he saw the lamp was still burning in the kitchen, and, looking in, there she was sitting in the rocking chair before the fire, her skirts well above her knees warming her legs. Her head was lolling and she was dozing. To the side of her on the table was an empty glass. As he had lifted it from the table and smelt it she had woken up, crying, ‘Eeh, Master! Eeh, Master!’ And he had nodded at her slowly as he repeated, ‘Eeh, Master! Come on, where’s the bottle? Where’ve you got it hidden? Go and fetch it.’
She had stammered and spluttered. ‘Eeh! No, Master, I wouldn’t. And I haven’t got none hidden. I wouldn’t dare bring any into the house, not a bottle I wouldn’t, the Miss would be upset. I had the sniffles, I just had a drop.’
‘You’ve got a bottle somewhere, Mary,’ he said slowly. ‘Come on now, where is it?’
Mary had looked at him for a moment and what she saw was a big, fat old man, with heavy jowls and a completely white head of hair, but with eyes that were still young and showing a vitality that only death would quench. With innate understanding she recognised what it must be costing this one-time proud man to beg for a drink, for since Miss Brigmore had been ill there had been no hard stuff brought from the town; every spare penny was needed for extra coal to keep the house warm and a few delicacies to tempt the invalid’s appetite. And all this had to be done on an income that had been cut by a quarter since Miss Constance had got married. And so she had said, as if speaking to one of her own kind, ‘Well, sit you down there. Now mind, don’t move, I’ll be back in a minute.’
It was five minutes before she returned, and she brought him half a tumblerful of the stuff, that was all, no more, and so raw and strong it was that it seemed to rip his throat open as it went down. But it put him to sleep and gave him an easy night’s rest.
And that’s all she would ever give him, half a tumblerful now and again. He would go down on odd nights hoping to find her in the kitchen warming her legs, but she was crafty now, for the others would hardly retire before she went up to the attic.
And so he got into the habit of watching her whenever possible, trying to find out where she had the stuff hidden. He knew it wasn’t in the house, and he had searched the outbuildings from floor to ceiling. He had an idea it was somewhere in the barn. He poked among the potatoes, the onions, the carrots, and suchlike in the pretence of tidying up; he poked around looking for a hole in the top of the turnip pit. There were times when his body was aching from so many needs that he pleaded with her, ‘Come on, Mary, come on, just a drop.’ And she would say, and truthfully, ‘Master, it’s all gone. Honest to God it’s all gone, and there’s another four days afore me leave.’
Yes, indeed, Mary was an irritation.
But over the past four weeks he had found a little diversion from the daily monotony, because when the weather was fine he’d had an exchange of words with the woman, Moorhead. That she was a trollop of the first water simply amused him; he never thought he’d have the opportunity of chatting with any of her kind ever again. Such a woman had a particular kind of dialogue, stilted, double-edged, and suggestive. He knew that this piece and himself had one thing in common, the needs of the body, and in her case she wasn’t particular about who satisfied her.
When years ago he’d been able to pick and choose he would doubtless have passed her over, but now he wasn’t able to pick and choose she appeared in a way as a gift from the gods, the mountain gods, in whose fortress he was being forced to end his days. He would not allow himself to think that his thoughts were in any way disloyal to Anna. Anna was a being apart, Anna was a woman who held his life in her hands, who nourished him in all ways; at least she had up till her illness. In any case Anna had a key to his thoughts; she would have understood, for she had known what kind of man he was from the beginning; had he been made in any other but the Mallen pattern he would never have gone up to her room in the first place and, of course, she understood this.
So gradually, over the past weeks he had enjoyed the exchanges with the Moorhead woman, knowing exactly what they were leading to. All he needed now was a time and place. His body was too heavy to allow him to walk far; the length of the road before it bent towards the hills one way and turned towards the Hall the other was the limit of his daily exercise, so a hollow on the fells was out of the question. The only place with cover that would suit his purpose was either the stable or the barn, and both were risky; yet not so much once darkness had fallen, for neither Barbara nor Mary ventured out often in the dark, except when Mary was after her bottle. But wherever the bottle was it was certainly not in the stable or the barn, of that he made certain.
As he now watched the buttocks wobbling away into the distance he felt his blood infusing new life in him. By God! Get her on the floor and he would take some of the wobble out of her. And he could at any time from now on. She had indicated as much by the simple action of heaving up her breasts with her forearm while she looked at him with a look that did not need to be interpreted in words.
He turned about and, squaring his shoulders, walked back up the road to the house, and he did not find it incongruous that he should immediately go upstairs to Anna.
‘Ah! ah! there you are.’ He almost bustled into the room. ‘It’s a wonderful day; pity we couldn’t have got you out.’
‘Did you enjoy your walk?’
‘Yes and no. You know I don’t like walking, but the air’s good, sharp; cleans you as it goes down.’
‘The woman you were talking to, who is she?’
He turned his head sharply and looked at her. ‘Oh. Oh, her. You saw us? Oh, she’s one of the sluts that are cleaning out the Hall; right pigsty she says it is.’
‘But I understood the new people are due in shortly.’
‘Yes, yes, they are. Well,’—he nodded towards her, saying slowly: ‘A right pigsty she said it was when she first went there.’ He walked to the window and looked out, and there was a silence between them for a moment until he said, ‘Funny, you know, Anna, but it doesn’t hurt me to know that someone is going to live there again; in fact I think I’m rather pleased. It was sad to see it dropping into decay. It’s the kind of house that needs people. Some houses don’t, they seem to have a self-sufficiency built into them from the beginning, but High Banks never had that quality; it was a mongrel of a house, crossed by periods and giving allegiance to none, so it needed people by way of comfort.’
‘You sound quite poetical, Thomas.’
He turned to her, his face bright. ‘Poetical? I sound poetical? Oh, that’s good coming from the teacher.’ He bent over her and put his lips to her brow, then ran his forefinger through her hair, following its line behind her ears.
As she looked up at him she caught hold of his hand a
nd pressed it against her cheek and murmured softly, ‘I’ll soon be myself again, have patience.’
‘I know, my dear, I know.’ She bowed her head. ‘But you need comfort and I’m unable to give it to you.’
‘Nonsense! nonsense!’ He thrust the chair back now and was on his feet again, his tone stern, even angry sounding. ‘What’s put such ideas into your head? You give me everything I need. Haven’t I told you,’—he was now bending over her—‘haven’t I told you that you are the only person I’ve really cared for in the whole of my life? God above! Woman, if I’ve told it to you once I’ve told it to you a thousand times over the past years. Comfort.’ His voice suddenly softened to a whisper, ‘Oh, Anna, you’re all the comfort I want, all the comfort I need.’
When again she brought his hand to her cheek he said in a hearty manner now, ‘Another week; give yourself another week and you’ll be coming down those stairs dressed in your best finery and I will have a carriage at the door and we shall drive into Hexham. Now, now, no protests.’ He waved his hand before his face. ‘And don’t ask where the money’s coming from. I’ve already thought up an idea that will pay for the trip. We’ll take those three first editions in with us. If Barbara is right they’ll be worth, twenty, thirty pounds…who knows, more. Anyway, I’m positive they’ll cover our jaunt. Now what do you say?’
‘I say that will be a wonderful treat, Thomas, I should like that. And it was very thoughtful of you to think up the means whereby you could carry it out.’
He stood looking at her, his head on one side, a gentle smile on his face; and then very quietly, he said, ‘You know something, Anna. You are two entirely different people; Miss Brigmore who talks like a book during the day, and Anna, the lovable woman of the night; but I love you both…Good, good, you’re blushing. Go on blushing, you look pretty when you blush.’ He wagged his finger as he stepped back from her; then turning away, he went out of the room laughing.
Thomas fully intended to carry out his suggestion of taking his Anna for an outing, as also he fully intended to give the Moorhead woman a time when she could come to the barn or stable.
The following day the carrier cart brought a letter from Constance which afforded him the opportunity of bringing at least one plan to fruition.
Two
Barbara sat next to the driver of the carrier’s cart, this being the most comfortable seat. Ben Taggert had been most solicitous for her comfort; he had not only tucked a rug around her legs but had asked Mary to bring another shawl that would go over her bonnet and round her shoulders, for, as he said, you couldn’t go by the weather at the foot of the hills; up there on the peaks it didn’t ask any questions, it just cut you in two.
And Ben Taggert’s words were proved right, for as they mounted higher her breath came out of her mouth like smoke from a chimney and mingled with the steam rising from the bodies of the horses.
When they reached the edge of the plateau Ben Taggert pointed his whip, saying, ‘That always amazes me, miss, that yonder; from Lands End to John o’ Groats you’ll never see anything like it, nor, from what travellers tell me, in any other part of the world either. Bonnier, they’ll say, prettier, but not grander. There’s majesty there. Don’t you think that, miss? Majesty, that’s the word. Of course there’s higher ones than them hills, I admit, but it’s the way they’re set. And that bowl down there. One fellow I brought across here described it like this. “God,” he said, “must have looked at it and thought He’d made it a little bit too rough, craggy like. And so He took His hand and smoothed out the hollow.” And it was a mighty hand that did it for it’s a mighty hollow. It was a good description, don’t you think, miss?’
‘Very, very good, Mr Taggert. It’s a very impressive sight; but I must admit I find it rather awe-inspiring. And I shouldn’t like to walk these hills alone, there’s a great feeling of loneliness here.’
‘Aye, there is, miss, I’ll admit that. But many do, you know. Oh aye, I see them every day. Look yonder, there’s one of them.’ He pointed to the derelict house where a man was standing in the doorway, his body misshapen by his odd assortment of clothes. ‘That’s one of ’em.’
‘What-cher there. Fine day it is.’ The man’s voice came to them, each word separate, sharp-edged as if it had been filed in its passage through the air…
‘Aye, it’s a lovely day, Charlie. But look out, it won’t last; weather’s changin’, I saw the signs this mornin’.’
‘That right?’
‘Aye, that’s right, Charlie.’
Ben Taggert had not slowed the horses, the cart was still rumbling on. The man and house passed out of Barbara’s vision but the memory it evoked did not leave her for some time. That was the place where it had happened. And the child that had been born last week, was it the result of that escapade or was it Donald’s child? Would Constance know? She doubted it. Not until the child grew up and showed some resemblance to its male parent would the answer be given.
The letter they had received yesterday from Constance had informed them that her child had come prematurely; it had been born at three o’clock on Sunday morning. She thought that this was the result of the shock she had received when she discovered Mr Radlet dead in the kitchen. She had come down in the night to make herself a comforting drink and she’d found him lying on the floor. The day after he was buried, the child was born, a boy. She had ended her letter by saying, ‘I am longing to see you, all of you, or any one of you.’
It was the ‘any one of you’ that was the telling phrase and had made Miss Brigmore insist that Barbara go over the hills at the first opportunity.
She saw the farm when they were quite a distance from it; it was lying in the valley and she looked down on it. It looked like any other farm, the solid stone house, the numerous outbuildings, the walled fields surrounding it, some level over quite an area but others sloping upwards towards the hills beyond.
As Ben Taggert helped her down on to the road she said to him, ‘What time will you be returning?’ and he replied, ‘Well, I’m usually at this spot around three, but I could be a bit later the day as I’ve got a number of messages to do an’ things to pick up. In any case it’ll be well afore four o’clock ’cos I like to get clear of the hills afore dusk sets in, and home afore dark. Anyhow, miss, I’ll give you a “hello”, and I won’t go back without you, never fear.’
‘Thank you, Mr Taggert.’
‘You’re welcome, miss.’
She took the valise from him, then turned away and walked over the rough ground to where a gateless aperture in a grey stone wall led into the farmyard. She walked slowly, looking from right to left. There was no-one about. The front door to the house was away to the side; she made for the door that she guessed was most used and would lead into the kitchen. As she approached, it opened and Jane Radlet gaped at her. Then, a smile stretching her sad-looking face, she said, ‘Well! Well! I don’t need to ask who you are, you’re Barbara, aren’t you?’
‘Yes; and you Mrs Radlet?’
‘Yes. Come in, come in. Oh, she’ll be pleased to see you. She’s just gone back up the stairs this minute.’
Barbara stopped herself in the act of speaking. Constance gone back up the stairs? Constance up from her bed when the child was only seven days old? She asked hastily now, ‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes, yes. Weakly a bit you know, but that’s to be understood; but she’s all right, an’ the bairn’s fine. That’s what she went up for, to bring him down. She’ll be here in a minute. Give me your hat and coat; I’m sure you could do with a drink, it’s sharp outside.’
As Barbara unpinned her bonnet and handed it to Jane she thought: ‘What a nice woman; so thoughtful yet she must still be feeling her own sorrow.’
She offered her condolences, saying, ‘I was deeply sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs Radlet.’
‘Thank you. Thank you. An’ it was a loss, for he was a good man. But as he would have said himself, God giveth and God taketh away.’ She paused before ad
ding softly, ‘I miss him.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
They looked at each other for a moment; then Jane, turning abruptly away, began to bustle, saying, ‘Come, sit down here, sit down by the fire.’ She touched the back of the high wooden chair, and Barbara sat down. Then again they looked at each other without speaking, until Jane repeated, ‘Oh, she will be pleased to see you,’ and added, ‘If I’d known you were comin’ I would’ve had the fire on in the parlour.’ Then looking towards the door she said, ‘Where is she? Where is she? I’ll go an’ call her.’ She nodded, smiling at Barbara, then bustled across the room and out through a door at the far end.
Barbara looked about her. Everything her eye touched on was clean and shining, showing that it had either been scoured or polished; but like the outside of the house there was a bleakness about the room. It wasn’t only that the floor was made entirely of stone slabs and was sparsely covered with two clippy mats, one which lay in front of the hearth, the other placed by the side of the long wooden table that took up most of the space in the middle of the room, or that the walls were lime-washed; it was something to do with the lack of colour. The curtains on the windows flanking the door were of white Nottingham lace, and the chairs were devoid of pads or cushions; the whole room seemed dominated by a big black stove. Her eyes were brought sharply from it and towards the door as it was thrust open, and there stood Constance.
The Mallen Streak Page 21
