The Parson's Daughter

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘No, no, not at all, Shane. Is…is anything the matter?’

  He looked down at the ground for a moment, saying now, ‘Nothin’ that you would call serious, ma’am, but…well, it’s…it’s Miss Hetherington.’

  She repeated the name to herself and with some consternation, which gathered force when he said, ‘I’ve…I’ve asked her to come into the open, but…but she won’t, ma’am. She doesn’t like to disturb things, and…and I’m not gettin’ any younger. And neither is she, as I tell her.’

  No, she wasn’t; Mary was over forty. And how old was Shane? He must be over thirty-five. Again the older woman and the younger man.

  ‘I wanted to do the honourable thing, ma’am, an’ come an’ put it to you, but she wouldn’t let me. I’ve never been underhand, as I hope you realise, ma’am. Straightforward, that’s what I am, and I hate this hole-and-corner business. Of course, as I know an’ she knows, no matter how I do up the rooms above the stables, they won’t be anything like the quarters she’s got here, because she’s in such a well-set-up position. But we’ve got a life to live, as you yourself only too well know, ma’am, an’ this business has been goin’ on for the last three years and I’m gettin’ tired of it. I was goin’ to give her…well, a sort of ultimatum this mornin’. She knows that, and that’s why she hasn’t turned up.’

  She felt slightly sick. Oh, Mary, Mary. What would she do without her? But she wouldn’t have to do without her altogether, for Shane was saying now. ‘I’ve told her, it would just be a sort of change of quarters; she could come back here every day. And then, she’s put up another obstacle, saying that her sister, your Mary, you know, ma’am, mightn’t like it.’

  Nancy Ann felt her face spreading: she wanted to burst out laughing; she wanted to take his hand and say, ‘Yes, by all means, Shane, you and Agnes must marry. I’ll see to it.’ What she said, was, ‘You’re talking about Agnes?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, ma’am. Oh.’ His face stretched and then he put his head back and laughed aloud, before saying, ‘You thought it was your Mary? Oh, ma’am, I like Mary, she’s a fine woman, but…but a bit long in the tooth. Not that she wouldn’t make a fine wife for any man. No, no’—he shook his head—‘’tis Agnes.’

  ‘Don’t you worry.’ She actually did put her hand out and pat his sleeve as she said, ‘I’ll make her see sense.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, ma’am, thank you.’ Then pausing for a moment, he stared at her, and, his voice was much lower now as he asked, ‘How are you, ma’am?’

  ‘Me, Shane? Oh, I’m…I’m very well, thank you. Very well.’

  ‘You…you are bound to be a bit upset.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the house. ‘’Twas a mad thing to do. I said that to him, but there was no gainsaying him. But in a way, I could understand it, ma’am. Yes, I could understand it.’ He was looking straight into her face as he went on quietly, ‘He’s not a happy man, ma’am. He was never a happy child, I know that, but all his money hasn’t compensated him as one would think it should. Now wouldn’t you, wouldn’t you now think so? ’Cos he’s a millionaire twice over, they say. An’ between you and me, ma’am, I can’t see his marriage makin’ him any happier.’

  ‘No? What makes you say that, Shane?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, to my mind she’s not the right type, not for a man like him, because he’s the double of the old master if…Oh, ma’am, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right, Shane. It’s all right.’ She reassured him by patting the air between them and adding, ‘I’ve thought the same.’

  ‘Have you, ma’am? Well, ’tis truly there, although he won’t touch drink or go near a playing card. Oh—’ he shook his head and closed his eyes, saying, ‘I’m talkin’ me head off as usual, but, as I said, I don’t think his afancied young woman is his type, too dollified. Now if it was her mother. Oh, you could tell, ma’am’—he was nodding at her now—‘who was the pusher there. From what I understand it was her who pushed them both to Australia to visit him. That was after they had met for the first time in a friend’s house in France. Melbourne or some place she made for, then had to travel all those miles to Kalgoorlie.’ Now he was grinning widely. ‘From scraps that I heard of the dinner talk that came out of the dining room, the young lady didn’t take to Kalgoorlie at all. But that’s where he proposes to build a house, so he told me. He wanted to take me across there with him. He did, ma’am, he did. And who knows, I might have taken him at his word if it hadn’t been for Agnes.’ His mood changed again, his voice dropped as he said, ‘I felt sorry for him, ma’am. God knows he wasn’t very happy in the House, but he was a damn sight…excuse me, he was a lot happier than he is now.’

  He was looking into her face, so straight that her gaze dropped from his. And she said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Shane.’

  ‘I knew you’d be, ma’am, for money isn’t everything.’

  ‘No, indeed, Shane, money isn’t everything. Anyway’—she glanced at him again, smiling now—‘I will go and tell Agnes that someone is waiting in the shrubbery and that she’s got to stop this nonsense and name the day. And I can assure you, Shane’—she bent slightly towards him—‘we’ll see that she’s well set up, that you are both well set up.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, ma’am. You know, I’ve said to me ma, time and time again, it was the best thing that ever happened to us when you knocked our Mick out. It was a kind of introduction to the family, and if it was possible for every one of us to be in your service, we’d feel honoured, ma’am, we would that. You’ll be pleased to know an’ all, ma’am, I’m sure, that Jim’s in good service again.’

  Touched by the commendation, she answered, ‘Oh, yes, indeed I am. And I, too, have benefited from that introduction, Shane. In many ways you have been more than a servant. You have acted as a friend and for that I am grateful, and always shall be. Now I must go and tell Agnes what she must do…or else.’

  They were both smiling as she moved away. But she was no sooner out of his sight than she paused for a moment and, her head drooping, she said to herself, ‘He’s not a happy man…Oh, David. David.’ She walked swiftly now, not daring to ask herself, Was she a happy woman?

  Ten

  There was much talk in the newspapers about the unrest among certain sections of womenfolk, and not in the working class, let it be said, but among ladies, who considered their so-called sisters were being victimised: those who worked in the attics of millinery shops fourteen hours a day and slept where they worked; those who worked in damp cellars; and those who worked in the mills, many of them children, part-timers as they were called, and all for a pittance.

  The century was coming to a close. There were great things afoot. It was even stated that before long every household would have an indoor closet. Of course that was taking things too far. How could it be possible, even the most moderate ones said, for every house to have an indoor closet. It was like saying that all houses would have this new lighting called electricity, and that gas would be done away with; and even more so, a telephone communication.

  It was acknowledged everywhere that things were moving forward for the better, much thanks due to the glorious Old Lady up there in London.

  But all the change, all the advancement, all the stirring headlines in the newspapers of wars and victories…and defeats caused no impression on those in the estate of the Manor House, for the period of the last four years had brought its own particular wars and defeats, particularly to the woman who was now the sole owner of the estate.

  Nancy Ann could not believe that Graham had gone from her, nor that her daughter had gone from her, both dead to her, though in different ways. At times she felt there must be a curse on her, else why should her daughter have behaved as she had done, knowing that her stepfather was dying? Well, she may not have been sure that his death was imminent, but she had assuredly known that he was seriously ill.

  Just a week after her sixteenth birthday, Rebecca had come to her and said, ‘I’m not going bac
k to school, Mama. I…I want to marry Dennis Flannagan.’

  She remembered gazing at her daughter open-mouthed, and that before she could make any reply Rebecca was saying, ‘You weren’t much older when you married Father.’

  And when she had spoken she had said the wrong thing: ‘Oh, that may be so, but…but you’re still at school. And anyway, I don’t think Mr Mercer would countenance any such entanglement,’ for Rebecca had screamed at her, ‘I don’t care what Mr Mercer says or doesn’t say. He’s nothing to me. I’ve…I’ve never liked him. And I’m going to marry Dennis no matter what he or anybody else says. I…I thought I was doing the right thing by telling you.’

  At this Nancy Ann had hissed at her daughter, ‘Don’t you raise your voice to me like that! And remember, whether you like my husband or not, he’s been a very good father to you for years now, and he is, at this moment, rather ill. So mind your manners. You’re ungrateful, spoilt and ungrateful. And have you thought what life would be like married to this boy?’

  ‘He’s not a boy, he’s twenty. And he has a position, or will have shortly. And his people have no objection.’

  ‘No, of course they wouldn’t, but I have.’

  ‘Why have you?’

  ‘First of all, because you are much too young, the word is immature. In all ways you are immature. And secondly, I know nothing about the man except that I have seen him at odd times.’

  ‘Well, Mama, I can tell you, I have seen him more than at odd times, at every possible time. If you hadn’t been so taken up with yourself and him’—she had jerked her head upwards indicating the bedroom—‘then you might have noticed what I was doing. As for being immature, if it comes to the point, I’m an old woman compared to what you were like at my age, so I’ve been told, because Uncle Peter said you were a scatterbrain and a tomboy up till you were married.’

  She knew that Peter would not have said this in a derogatory way, and lamely said so: ‘Your uncle was joking. Anyway, I am not concerned with what I was like at sixteen or seventeen, but what you’re like now. And I’m telling you I won’t countenance your marrying anyone at all for at least another year, if not longer. And what you can do, madam, is send that young man to me and I will talk to him and tell him exactly what I have said now. If he can prove himself able to keep you, and I can imagine it will be two or three years before he’s out of his time, then we’ll talk about your marrying. That is all I have to say on the subject.’

  Later she wondered if she had said too much on the subject. She put it to Mary, saying, ‘What am I going to do with her?’ And Mary shook her head as she said, ‘’Tis a pity the master’s laid up. He could go and see this fellow. But I tell you what I can do, I’ll tell our Agnes to have a word with Shane, and he might be able to talk sense into him.’

  And so it was left at that. And six days passed, during which Graham became much worse. He had sickness and diarrhoea, and the doctor, at first, frightened her to death by suggesting it might be cholera. Yet there had been no cases of cholera reported for some long time now. Later he had diagnosed his condition as gastric enteritis. Then it seemed that overnight he developed pneumonia.

  Nancy Ann had never felt fearful of his condition until, sitting to the side of the bed, wiping his brow with a cold cloth, he lifted up his hand and caught hers. And through gasping breath, he said, ‘Thank you, my dear, for the happy years you have given me.’

  ‘Oh, Graham, Graham. It’s going to be all right. You’re going to get well. It will pass.’

  His only answer was gently to press her fingers to his cheek. Then, after a while, he said, ‘Everything’s in order.’

  On this, she lifted her agonised gaze to Mary at the other side of the bed and the fear in her own eyes was reflected in Mary’s. And Mary couldn’t, at this moment, beckon her from the room to tell her something that was worrying her, in fact, more than worrying her, astounding her. For when Brundle had come to tell her that Miss Rebecca’s pony had been brought back to the yard by the carter and that she had given him this letter to be delivered to the house—it was addressed to her mother—she had dashed upstairs to the girl’s room, opened the wardrobe door and seen that quite a number of her clothes were missing, as also was the jewellery box from the dressing table. She had rushed downstairs into the bedroom, but realised she could not, at the moment, upset her dear friend and mistress with the news that her daughter had run away.

  Some time later, following the doctor’s visit and the installation of a nurse, Nancy Ann was persuaded by Mary to take a short rest from the sickroom. She saw to it that she had a glass of port before she told her the news. And then, sitting opposite to her, she held her hands as she said, ‘Now what I’m going to tell you is going to come as a shock. But your main concern at the moment is with the master; you can do nothing about this. I took it upon myself earlier on to send for Mr Peter. I saw him and told him what was afoot, and he went straight over to Shane, and the last I heard is that they’ve both gone to this young fellow’s house.’

  ‘What are you saying, Mary?’ she had said. And Mary answered, ‘Well, it’s plain, isn’t it, ma’am? She’s gone off with this young fellow. And look’—she put her hand into her apron pocket—‘here’s a letter she sent with the carrier who brought her pony back some time ago.’

  With trembling fingers Nancy Ann had opened the letter. Characteristically it had no beginning, it just said,

  ‘By the time you get this, Mama, I shall be married. You would never have given us your consent, and even if you had, you would have made us wait, and we couldn’t. You needn’t worry about me, I’ll be all right. I love Dennis and he will look after me.’

  The brief note was signed, ‘Rebecca.’

  She remembered thinking, Those few terse lines for sixteen years of love, tenderness, and caring. She also remembered Mary’s surprise when she said calmly, ‘I’m sorry Peter and Shane have had the trouble of going to his home. She is gone, Mary, and at this moment, I can say to you, it doesn’t matter if I never see her again. Somehow, she’s the last link in a bad chain. All I’m concerned with at the moment is that my husband survives.’

  She knew that Mary thought her attitude somewhat strange, for it wasn’t generally in her nature to show indifference or hardness. And so she had said to her, ‘It isn’t like me to say that, is it, Mary? But that is honestly how I feel at the moment. For the last few years I’ve known a certain peace, and now, if it’s about to be snatched from me I don’t know what I’ll do.’

  Mary had risen and put her arms about her and held her head against her breast, saying, ‘He’ll pull through. He’s of a good constitution. Never give up. Come on now, try to eat something.’

  As she shook her head against the mention of food, she thought in an odd way that most people, out of kindness, advise you to eat when you are in trouble. It seemed a panacea for all ills.

  She remembered also that as she returned upstairs to the bedroom, she had begun to pray as she had done years ago, making a bargain with God: telling Him that if He would spare her husband’s life she would never again miss her daily prayers or a Sunday Service, and she would thrust all unworthy thoughts out of her mind forever. She did not elaborate on the type of thoughts that she would no longer think.

  God did not answer her prayers. Fourteen hours later Graham Mercer died. And, from his going there was opened in her a chasm of loneliness that outdid all the combined feelings of aloneness she had experienced before.

  Eleven

  They were in the little sitting room above the stables. The two armchairs were close together opposite the small blazing fire. Shane and Agnes had been married for three years now and Agnes was heavy with her first child. Their hands were joined across the arms of the chairs and they were sitting in silence, staring into the flames.

  It was Shane who broke the silence, saying, ‘Well, he’s got to come back sometime. It’s three years now since he showed his face, and then it was only for a couple of days. He was here and gon
e again. He was supposed to come again before he left England, but he didn’t. As they said at the table the night’—he jerked his head backwards indicating the farmhouse—‘if Henry hadn’t come across that heading in that newspaper last week, we would have all gone on surmising he was married. Well, we did when he was last here, didn’t we? Henry remembers the night asking him if the mistress would be coming back with him. That was when he promised to look in again afore leaving the country. And he remembers him looking at him hard and saying, “No, she won’t be coming back with me.” As Henry said then, he thought something wasn’t right. But he didn’t think that he hadn’t been married at all. Anyway, there it was, the headlines with his photo: Bachelor millionaire, shareholder in shipping company, and he was once a youth in the North. And so on. And if it’s right what you think, and what Mary thinks, and what Cook thinks, and Henry thinks, and meself have known for a fact for this long time, something should be done about it. What d’you say?’

  ‘I say like you, something should be done about it, but what?’

  ‘You could write, write him a letter.’

  ‘Me write him a letter!’ She heaved her swollen body further up in the chair. ‘Why not you? I mean, he doesn’t know I’m here; he doesn’t know you’re married. Or let Henry write, it’s his place.’