He drew Bessie to a halt and looked down at Nancy, where she was now standing gripping the iron rail that edged the seat, and he said quite politely, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Crawford.’ But she did not return the greeting. What she said was, ‘Oh, doctor!’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Please, please, don’t say anything to Martha Mary, I mean you—’ she jerked her head towards the river—‘you may have seen my meeting with a…a’—her head now wagged twice before she ended, ‘gentleman.’
There was a short silence, but he said, ‘Yes, I noticed you had a companion.’
‘Please’—her two hands were gripping the rail now—‘don’t tell Martha Mary, she’d…she’d be so upset.’
‘Then why do you do things that you know will upset her?’
‘Because…well—’ She now bowed her head, then murmured, ‘She would say…it was all foolishness and…and nothing could come of it, but there will.’ Her head was up. ‘What I mean, something will come of it. You see, doctor.’ Again she paused; then straining her face up to him she whispered, ‘Could I confide in you? Please.’
‘Do you think that wise?’
‘Yes, yes, I do. I feel sure you would never give me away.’
They stared at each other before he said, ‘Well, what do you wish to tell me?’
She swallowed deeply, blinked and cast a swift glance to where Bessie was chaffing at her bit before she murmured, ‘The young man you saw is William, William Brockdean, Sir Rupert’s son’?
‘Oh!’
His whole face stretched as he thought, more trouble in the camp. The girl was surely right in not wishing her sister to get wind of this. What did she expect of such an association for she had as much chance of marrying into the Brockdean family as he had…Less, he should say. It was common knowledge that Sir Rupert needed money, and badly; in fact, in their way they were as hard up as this girl’s folks.
He looked down into Nancy’s pretty face, so young, so full of life and the expectation of what she thought life could offer through love. He did not imagine her to be mercenary.
His expression didn’t alter when she whispered, ‘We are to be married as soon as he comes of age.’
‘Really!’
‘Yes. We have been secretly engaged for some time but’—she put her head on one side—‘it’s so difficult to meet. It was different when we had the two horses but since Martha Mary got rid of Gip there’s only Belle for the trap, and I can’t always have her. It’s difficult.’
‘Yes, yes, I can see it is difficult.’ He bent towards her now and asked quietly, ‘Does anyone else know of your association…your other sister for instance?’
‘Mildred? Oh, no. She would be mad at me, much more than Martha Mary, because…well’—she bit on her lip—‘she’s been angling for an invitation to their ball these last two years, and she would consider me very underhand if she knew of my association with William.’
‘Do you know something, Miss Nancy?’
‘What, doctor?’
‘I think that you should confide in one of your sisters at least.’
‘Oh no!’ She stepped back from the trap. ‘I couldn’t, not…not until everything is final.’
‘I think you are making a mistake.’
She bit on her lip again, then said, ‘Perhaps you are right, but in any case I must wait until the Easter holidays when William returns. He…he’s only home for a short visit; his sister is sick…Then at Easter perhaps. But…but I’m…I’m really afraid of what Martha Mary might do, and…and if anything happened to separate us, oh, doctor, I think I should die.’
His voice had a stiffness to it now as he said, ‘We don’t die so easily, Miss Nancy. You’re very young and should you be disappointed in this case it won’t be the end of the world. There are other men on this planet you know.’
She stared at him, then asked quietly, ‘You think me wicked?’
Now he laughed for the first time in days. His head went back and the sound he made was so loud that there was an echo to it. Then looking at her again, he said with mock sternness, ‘Very wicked; like all youth in the world, very, very, wicked.’
She was smiling up at him now, saying, ‘Oh, doctor, I feel better you knowing.’
‘Well then’—he gathered up the reins—‘think over what I’ve advised, eh?’
She nodded at him, her teeth again nipping at her lip.
‘Goodbye, Miss Nancy.’
‘Goodbye, doctor.’
Once again he put Bessie into a trot. That family! The things that happened to them. They all seemed touched by tragedy of some kind; they all seemed destined to suffer, even the one who loved cats, and who was the least attractive of the three. But what an explosion there would be, especially in the Brockdean household should young William dare to go against his father. Yet he couldn’t see him doing that, no, not at all. He had spoken to the young man but twice, and had found him of a pleasant disposition but not one of strong will and determination, he would say. Poor child. Yet as he had told her there were other men on this planet…But would they ever make their way to The Habitation?
In his mind’s eye he could see the three of them growing old together; he had seen it happen so often, and whether there were two, three, or four women in a household there was always one stronger than the rest who managed the finances and in general ruled the roost, like Miss Martha Mary back there.
Why did he always sneer when thinking of her name? Because it was such a silly name he supposed; it should be either Martha or Mary. It was putting too much of a strain on any personality to expect her to live up to the two females in the parable, yet when he thought about it in some way she managed it. Yes, she managed it…Martha Mary. Huh!
PART THREE
NANCY
One
‘I’ve told you, our Martha Mary, I don’t want to go, I won’t go! I’ll be classed as a shop assistant. It’s outrageous.’
‘And I’ve told you, Mildred; you have a choice, it’s either that or taking on Peg’s duties of kitchen help, plus the whole of the housework and being classed as a scullery maid-cum-general factotum, or on the other hand doing Dilly’s work together with Nick Bailey’s as I am doing to the best of my ability, not forgetting attending on Aunt Sophie and Dilly also. But as you have already refused to attempt any of these services there is nothing for it but you must serve in the shop…’
‘And travel by carrier’s cart each day? It’s degrading.’
‘Martha Mary.’ Nancy was holding Martha’s arm now and looking at her appealingly. ‘Let me go; I’m quite willing and I’d enjoy it. As I said, I’d like serving in the shop.’
‘No, Nancy. Once and for all, no. We’ve been over all this every day during the past week. Now I’ve arranged it all and so it stands.’
‘I’ll write to Roland and tell him, I will.’
Martha now turned on Mildred and she actually shouted at her as she said, ‘Do just that! Do that! Write to Roland, and when you are busy tell him that he will have to return from college because you are not going to help support him there. Tell him that not only do you not like being classed as a shop assistant but the fact that you are not receiving a wage has annoyed you considerably. Tell him that Mr Paine is having great difficulty in selling the chandler’s and that our debts are mounting, tell him all that…Yes, you’ve got a good right to bow your head, Mildred. And there’s something more that I will tell you, you’ve always resented our secluded life here, haven’t you? Nothing ever happens, has been your favourite phrase for years. Well, now you are going out into the wide world and you can tell yourself, if only by way of consolation, that you will meet different people each day, and who knows but that a rich gentleman may one day come into the shop and whisk you off your feet and set you up as a lady in a manor house…’
Mildred’s head was up now. No longer abashed, she cried back at Martha, ‘Well! there’s one thing certain, that’ll never happen to you.’
A
s the words pierced her like a barb with what she knew to be their truth, Martha, after returning Mildred’s angry glare, turned slowly about; and she felt no comfort when she heard Nancy defending her, crying now at Mildred, ‘Oh, our Mildred! Your tongue. Fancy saying a thing like that. You should be thankful that Martha Mary has never wanted to get married. Just imagine what would have happened to us if she had. Oh, you are a cruel individual, Mildred Crawford. The only thing you think about is yourself…and cats.’
‘And the only thing you think about is horses, horses, horses.’
‘I don’t; I think about other people too. You’re selfish, selfish…’
As their bickering became personal Martha left the landing and went into her room and after closing the door behind her stood leaning against it for a moment. As she had done so often of late she wanted to burst into tears and not just quiet crying but to open her mouth wide and scream.
She went and sat down on the dressing table stool and, leaning forward, peered at herself in the mirror. Slowly she moved her index finger over the cheekbones, then around her mouth. She was getting thinner, the flesh seemed to be dropping off her. She now put both hands tentatively, one under each breast. As short a time as a year ago she had a fullness there, now it had disappeared. Yesterday, when he called…Why did she always call him he? Because she thought of him as he. Anyway, he had left her a tonic and told her that it would help to make her eat. His manner had been more kindly than usual, but she could not say that hers had matched his own for her mind still retained the picture of him with the horsewhip in his hand. Of course, he had been justified to some extent but nevertheless he had appeared ferocious. Altogether he was a strange man. She had never met anyone like him before. But then—she looked deep into the reflection in the mirror—how many men had she met before? She was ignorant of men and their ways. Peg had again proved it to her yesterday when she had confided, in between her scurryings about the kitchen, that she was glad Nick Bailey had gone for ‘You know what, Miss Martha Mary?’ she had said. ‘He tried to give me a bairn. An’ not once mind. He tripped me up in the barn, he did, not long ago but I was too quick for him. I took the hayfork to him and I told him what I’d do with it if he went for me again.’
Things had been happening under her nose, things appertaining to life, and she hadn’t seen them, she hadn’t noticed. She had been happy in playing the mother without knowing in the slightest degree the fundamental meaning of the word.
And Nancy and Mildred, did they know anything more than she did? No, no, she was certain they did not.
… There are two kinds of human beings, males and females. She heard his voice and saw herself standing looking down on Aunt Sophie. Her private parts exposed between the slit in the drawers looked disgusting, yet time and time again she had bathed her. But then it had been done discreetly so as not to embarrass her…so as not to embarrass them both.
… There are two kinds of human beings.
Now she was looking down at her father as Dilly pulled his linings from off his legs, and the sight was obscenely ugly.
She dropped her face onto her hands and pressed her fingers tight over her eyeballs: If she had married Lawrence Ducat…She would never have married Lawrence Ducat…But she might have, in desperation she just might have.
‘No, no; I never would have married him.’ Her head was up again and she was facing her reflection, talking to it openly. Her voice a whisper, she said, ‘I would have had the sense to see through him surely. Of course, I would. Given enough of his company I would have seen the kind of man he was.’
She was nodding at herself now. ‘That’s it, given enough of his company. But would I have had enough of it before I was married?’ She wagged her head slowly now and watched the other head moving in derision. She stopped talking to herself but her mind cried at her, ‘Own up to it, you would have clutched at the chance, any chance to be married.’
And now as Mildred had truly said, there’d be no gentlemen, or otherwise, who would come riding and whisk her off to a manor house. Would any of them ever be whisked off to any house? Nancy perhaps…That reminded her yet again, she must talk to Nancy. But how could she begin? Could she say, you must not speak to William Brockdean should you meet? On the occasions she used to go riding doubtless they met and exchanged harmless pleasantries, and were she to bring the matter up she would be insinuating there was a deeper meaning to their acquaintance. And after all Nancy was too sensible even to think of such a thing. Now if it had been Mildred …
Her head drooped. She was tired; if she didn’t feel so tired all the time, and there was a little more money, she could put up with everything. She sighed, straightened her back and rose from the chair. Tired or not, there was Aunt Sophie to see to, and Dilly …
Poor Dilly. When she went the house would never be the same again, and she would take so much knowledge with her. She had instructed her how to make the bread but it hadn’t turned out anything like her own. Peg would have made a better attempt at it if her hands had been all right. She must go down to her now and ask her how to prepare a rabbit pie; a hawker had called today and she had bought two rabbits from him, cheap.
She went from the room and as she crossed the landing she heard Aunt Sophie singing softly to herself, and somehow this saddened her more than if she had heard her screaming in one of her turns…Fits, he had called them, and she supposed he was right, they were fits, but she would never name them such when in his presence for he was a man who had always to be right. She wished she could stop thinking about him, or if not, think about him in a pleasant way. But how could one think pleasantly about a most unpleasant man? As she reached the hall she paused for a moment. She seemed to be the only one who found him unpleasant, for Dilly liked him, and Peg and Nancy too.
In the study she stood by Dilly where she was propped up on the horsehair sofa and as she straightened the covers she said, ‘The rabbits I told you about, how shall I do them?’
‘Well, lass, the easiest thing for you to do would be to stew them and pop some dumplings in. Sit off your feet for a minute and I’ll tell you what to do. He skinned them for you, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then, all you’ve got to do is split them down the middle and take the insides out. Peg’Il point out what you throw away and what you keep. Then just chop the limbs off an’ put them into the pan with an onion, a carrot an’ a couple of handfuls of barley and a good sprinkling of herbs. As for dumplings, you’ve seen me do them. They’re just flour an’ water an’ suet, as soft as your bread dough, you know…What is it, lass, you’re looking worried?’
‘I’m all right, Dilly.’ She took the old woman’s hand.
‘It’s no use tellin’ me you’re all right, for one thing you’re worked off your feet and for another I suppose it’s Miss Mildred kicking up about tomorrow?’
‘Yes, she’s not taken to the idea at all.’
‘Miss Mildred’ll never take to any idea unless it’s a soft one.’ She now put her hand over Martha’s and pressed it between her palms while looking up into her face, and she said brokenly, ‘I don’t want to leave you, lass, it’s at the worst time. I’d sell me soul to the devil if he’d give me another year or so to help you along.’
Martha stared wide-eyed down into the wrinkled face as a surge of terrifying emotion filled her. It rushed upwards through her stomach, her breast, and into her throat which was too narrow to hold it and threatened to choke her. When it broke free it poured anguish from every outlet of her body. Her head on Dilly’s breast and Dilly’s arms about her, all restraint, all control gone, her sobs rose and the sound was like that of a woman in anguish. Dilly, her own face awash, cradled her and talked, ‘There, there; there, there, me bairn, get it over, get it over. It isn’t fair; there’s no fairness in this world at all, it’s the case of the willin’ donkey. It’s always the same, the more willin’ you are the more you’re put on. But don’t you worry, me lass, your day will come, if there’s any j
ustice your day will come.’
The noise subsided; she spluttered and coughed a number of times, and then there was silence; and after a time she pulled herself up, saying, ‘Oh, Dilly. Oh…oh, I’m sorry.’
Her breath was still coming in gasps, her face still awash, her head wagging from side to side as if on a spring. ‘I…I shouldn’t have given way, I shouldn’t, but oh, Dilly, I need you. There’s no-one but you I can turn to. What will I do without you? What will we all do without you? And you’ve never had any recompense for all the work you’ve done. Four shillings a week is the most you’ve ever had. It’s scandalous, scandalous. I’ve thought about it a lot…I…’
‘There, there, give over now and listen to me. Now give over, an’ listen I say, ’cos I want to say something serious. As you say, four shillings a week I’ve had, but I’ve had it regular for the last forty years; three shillings afore that, two afore that, and a shilling a week when I started like young Peg has now. But I’ve never been one to spend much. The mistress bought me me frocks, a new one every year, an’ she gave me her petticoats. All I’ve ever bought in me life was a couple of bonnets an’ me boots, an’ so, as I say, listen to me, me dear.’ She was gripping Martha’s hands now. ‘There’s a tidy sum I’m leavin’ an’ I’m leavin’ it to you; it’s all arranged. I told himself, that is the doctor, I told him yesterday. An’ I asked him would I have to sign anything an’ he said yes, it would be better that way, an’ so he wrote it down an’ I put me cross to it, an’ it’s all yours, an’ it’s in me tin box under the bed up there.’
As Dilly thumbed towards the ceiling, the surge of emotion once again tore through Martha. It was too much. Her voice was a loud cry. ‘Oh Dilly, Dilly. Oh Dilly.’ Again she buried her head on Dilly’s breast, and again she was sobbing unrestrainedly.
Miss Martha Mary Crawford Page 17
