Pressing Katie before him, they moved out into the road, and immediately the mud came over the uppers of their boots. But once clear of the road and on the fells the ground, though slippery in parts, was hard. They hurried, their heads down against the driving rain, and now and again, when a heavy gust met them, Rodney’s hand would go around her shoulders and support her, and, apart from the question ‘All right, lass?’ and her nodded reply, they had nothing to say until after they reached the top of the hill, where on that glorious Sunday many lifetimes ago she had sat with her granda and the sun had shone, and the sky was high, and her heart was light. On her half-days since, the sun had never shone.
Both breathing hard, they stood for a moment squinting through the rain that was falling like a great sloping curtain across the land below them. Then, bending towards her, his eyes blinking, his face streaming, Rodney said, quietly, ‘What is it, lass? I feel somethin’s troublin’ you.’
She forced herself to look back into his eyes. She loved her da, but in some corner of her mind she was a little afraid of him. She had been brought up under her mother’s idea of her father’s moral code, with sayings such as ‘Your da wouldn’t stand for that’, ‘Your da’s not afraid of the truth’, ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil’, ‘Straight as a die, your da is’. But she could at least answer part in truth and say, ‘I’m tired, Da.’
‘Aw, lass.’ He passed a wet hand over her streaking face; then, cupping her chin, he said, ‘If it’s too much, leave. You’d be better in another job. There’s piles of things openin’ up in Jarrow, chemical works and such; there might be work of some sort in them for you. Leave, lass.’
‘I’ll think about it, Da.’
‘Before you come home again I’ll prepare your ma so she won’t be disappointed. She lays so much stock on Mrs Davis.’
‘I know, Da. Thanks, Da.’
‘Now go on, on your way.’
‘You go home, Da, don’t wait.’
‘Just for a little while.’
‘No, please. You’re soakin’, and you can’t see far anyway. Go on, Da.’
‘I will when you get to the bottom of the hill. Go on.’
She turned away from him and went on her way.
She made herself hurry as much as she could against the wind until she knew she was out of her father’s sight, and then her step became slow and dragging. Already her cloak was soaked through and she could feel the water seeping through her dress on to her back, but she didn’t mind; she wouldn’t mind about anything if only the jollop had worked. She had taken so much senna and salts that she felt she had no inside left, but it hadn’t helped. What was she going to do? Oh, dear God, what was she going to do? Dotty was noticing things about her being sick in the mornings. There’d come a time when she’d have to tell Mrs Davis, and then her mother must know. But she wasn’t now really afraid of telling Mrs Davis, or her mother; it was her father she was afraid of knowing, not because of what he would do to her but of him coming up to the house. She was terrified of him coming up to the house. If he were to hurt anybody…if he were to hurt HIM he would be put in the house of correction. Then what would her ma do, and her granda, and Lizzie? They would be turned out of the cottage, and nobody would dare take them in. She had seen people thrown out on to the fells for much less than what her da would do to Mr Bernard. She couldn’t bear to think what would happen to her family if her da did anything, and all through her; she would die first.
The dark figure loomed in front of her before she was aware of his approach. It was Mr Bunting. She had met him every time on her day off since that sunny Sunday. She wasn’t afraid of him any longer, because, with the exception of one thing, she wasn’t afraid of anything any longer.
Mark Bunting had his dog with him. It was a big dog, a cross between a collie and a labrador. It came to her feet and sniffed round her ankles; it had done that twice before. Bunting, looking down at her, his eyes moving round her face, did not give her any greeting but said, ‘He’s taken with you. That doesn’t often happen with him.’ Then, his gaze narrowing, he said, ‘You all right? You look under the weather.’
‘I’ve had a cold.’
‘The same one as you had last time?’ He ended this on the sound like a laugh, and she nodded at him, saying, ‘It hangs on.’
He now let his eyes roam over her, but her cloak told him nothing. One thing he was certain of, she wasn’t the same girl he had met some weeks ago. The sparkle had gone out of her face. In an odd kind of way he was interested in her. Nor, apparently, was he the only one who had an interest in the Mulhollands. He was still wondering why young Rosier had called him into the office and pumped him about Big Mulholland. It looked, by what he said, as if he was wanting something on him to get rid of him. Yet Rosier hadn’t known until he told him that Mulholland was thick with Fogerty and Ramshaw, the troublemakers, and so, in the first place, it couldn’t have been about that. But once he did know it he had harped on about it…Now why would he want to get rid of Big Mulholland, for Mulholland was an excellent worker. He himself had put the manacles on him once or twice by docking his corves, but that was a different kettle of fish. He wouldn’t want to get rid of him. There were many others he would like to see go before Mulholland. He could send up half as much coal again as most of them.
He said now, ‘Is it hard work up there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you still like it?’
She paused before saying, ‘Yes.’ And now she added, ‘I’ve got to go; I’m wet through.’
As he had given her no greeting he gave her no farewell, but he smiled his queer smile as she turned away, and he stood watching her for a moment before hitting out with his stick at a bramble, then striding on again…
When Katie entered the kitchen, Cook was sitting at the table drinking from a mug of steaming tea. She turned her head and looked at Katie for a long moment before saying, and not unkindly, ‘I’d get them things off, you must be wringin’.’
‘Yes, I am, Cook.’
‘Hang them in the boiler room.’
Katie went into the warm steamy room and took off her dripping straw hat and her cloak; and when she re-entered the kitchen, Cook, still in kindly tones, said, ‘You must be wet to the skin; I’d go up and put your other frock on. But first fetch the teapot.’
Katie went to the hob and, lifting the big earthenware teapot, brought it to the table; and there Cook, looking at her with a slanting gaze, said, ‘Pour yourself a cup out.’
‘Oh ta, Cook, ta.’
‘Sit yourself down while you’re drinkin’ it.’ She nodded to the form and Katie sat down. But Cook’s unusual kindness and the hot tea began to undermine her, and slowly great tears whirled from her eyes and rolled down her face and dropped off the end of her chin.
Cook, turning fully round to her now said, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t feel very well, Cook.’
It was a full minute before Cook, nodding towards her, said, ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’
Without looking at what she was doing Katie pushed the mug to the corner of the table while her eyes remained fixed on the cook’s face. Cook knew. She knew!
She jumped up from the form, ran out of the kitchen, along the corridor, through the door, up the back stairs, past the green-baize door and up the rest of the stairs to her room, and there, flinging herself on her bed, she sobbed unrestrainedly.
It was fully a quarter of an hour later when Dotty came into the room, and, shaking her by the shoulder, said, ‘Come on, you’re wanted.’
Katie turned on her side and looked at Dotty, and she saw that Dotty also knew. She felt that Dotty had known for some time. She looked at Dotty’s spotty plain face. She had always been sorry about Dotty’s spots and the way she looked, but she wished now from the bottom of her heart that she could change places with her, be her altogether, although she wouldn’t wash her face in the chamber pot every morning like Dotty did because the cook had told her it wa
s good for the complexion. But at this moment she would have willingly been her in every other way.
When Katie sat up, Dotty, giving a hitch to her skirt, placed herself on the mattress beside her and, putting her face close to hers, whispered, ‘Who was it?’
Not a muscle of Katie’s face moved as she stared back like a petrified rabbit into the kitchen maid’s face, until Dotty said, ‘Was it Billy? He’s always pokin’ me; he’s tried it on more than once. He caught me one night and I knocked him into the midden. You should have heard him swear.’
Katie sprang up from the pallet now, tore off her dress, pulled the dry one from the hook, and she was buttoning it up before Dotty spoke again. And then quite patiently she said, ‘Aw, well, if you won’t tell, you won’t; but it’s one of ’em isn’t it? There’ll be high jinks when Mr Kennard gets goin’…You’d better come on, Mrs Davis is in no good mood.’
When Dotty left the room Katie’s head sank on to her chest. This was only the beginning. Would she be able to stand what was to come, or should she do what she thought of doing last week, jump into the water-filled quarry on the road to the mine?
She had been standing before Mrs Davis for ten minutes and Mrs Davis had been talking all the while, quietly if somewhat stiffly; and now, seeming to lose patience, she said harshly, ‘Katie! You’ve got to answer me. I’m asking you again, are you sick every morning?’
Katie drew a great long breath into her body, and as she let it out there went with it her resistance. She would have to tell, at least some part of it, and so she said, ‘Yes, Mrs Davis.’
Mrs Davis now closed her eyes, bowed her head for a moment and wiped her mouth with a small white handkerchief; then, looking at Katie again, she said, ‘How long is it since you saw anything?’
‘Over two months, nearly three, Mrs Davis.’
‘Are you going to have a baby, Katie?’
It was some time before she could bring herself to answer this, and then she could only do it by bowing her head.
‘Oh, Katie, Katie!’ There was utter despair in the housekeeper’s voice. ‘How could you let this come about, you above all people? I trusted you more than anyone else in the house. Do you hear me, Katie? Before anyone else. Who is it, Katie?’
A full minute elapsed and Mrs Davis said again, ‘Come along, Katie; you know you’ll have to tell me in the end, so you might as well do it now, because I’ll find out. Who is it? Is it Billy?’
‘No, no,’ she answered Mrs Davis, emphatically now. Billy, the garden boy, with his great loose lip and grinning face—she would hardly speak to him, let alone allow him to touch her. She had never let anyone touch her, and when she came to think about it there was only Billy who had tried. No other man attempted to lay a hand on her until…
Mrs Davis stared at the young, slim, pathetic figure before her. Dear, dear Lord, how had this come about? Who? Who? She felt responsible for the child. Hadn’t she been the means of getting her the position? Her mind asking when this had taken place, she was presented with a picture of Katie the day following the ball. She had not been herself. Her face was red and swollen and Cook had reported that she had been sick twice, doubtless with stuffing herself. But it was from that morning that she had noticed the difference in her…It must have happened the night of the ball, and it must have been the first time, for whoever had done this to her it hadn’t been to her liking. Poor, poor child. But who? Who? Mrs Davis tried to recall the events of the night of the ball, but they were hazy in her mind, she had been very tired. Moreover, although she drew a veil over it, she knew that she had taken more wine than she should have done. But, as she told herself the following morning when she was suffering from a bad headache and an irritable temper, so had everyone else.
Vaguely she remembered taking Katie to the gallery. She also had a vague memory of hiding her behind the curtain, then returning to see if she was still there. She wondered now if, in her bemused state, she had gone to the wrong curtain. Anyway, there had only been three male servants in the house that night, and she couldn’t for a moment suspect Frank Tapman, the father of two daughters of Katie’s own age, and certainly not John Swan, a God-fearing good man. That only left Patrick. Her whole being rejected the idea that Kennard would perpetrate such an act with a young girl, little more than a child. No, she knew Patrick. Who better? Then someone in the house?…Oh no. No. She must never think that. But it had happened before, hadn’t it? Yes, but this had been his engagement ball; she would not think that of Mr Bernard. She had no liking for him, but after all he was a gentleman and had his code and…and he would certainly have done nothing like that with his fiancée hardly out of his sight…Mr Rodger? Again, no. Mr Rodger was a gentleman. There was no doubt in her mind about that. Well, it only left the master. Nonsense. The word was loud in her head. The master, be what he may, rough-mouthed, uncouth at times, he was a man of honour…Billy Denison. It must be him—unless, that is, it was someone from her village. She had been home on the Sunday and the ball was on the Tuesday. Yet she had seen her in the intervening time, and if she had looked like she had done on the morning following the ball she would have remarked on it to herself. No, it was Billy Denison. And that was why the child was so vehement in her answer when Billy’s name was mentioned.
‘I’ll have Billy brought in and then we’ll see, Katie.’
‘Oh no, Mrs Davis.’ Katie was daring to grip Mrs Davis’ arm. ‘It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him. I wouldn’t…I mean, I wouldn’t let him touch me; I don’t like Billy, he’s dirty.’ She squared her lips from her teeth and the action alone fully convinced Mrs Davis, in spite of her reasoning, that whoever the man was it wasn’t Billy Denison.
Mrs Davis bowed her head. She felt utterly deflated, terribly sad, and not a little afraid. The mistress would have to be told. She remembered what happened the last time on an occasion like this. But that time was different. Then there had been accusations against the son of the house. Her voice now flat, she said, ‘The mistress will have to be told, Katie.’
‘Oh no, please, Mrs Davis.’ Katie’s head was back and bobbing as if on a string. ‘I can just leave. Nobody else need know. I can just leave.’
‘Your mother or father will be bound to come to the house, Katie. More likely it will be your father.’
On this thought Mrs Davis realised that she was more afraid of Rodney Mulholland visiting the house than she was of imparting this obnoxious news to her mistress. Rodney Mulholland was a righteous man, and righteous men could be terrible in their anger.
She had been brought up by a righteous man; she knew all about righteous men. Her life would be different today if it hadn’t been for the fear of that particular righteous man.
But, apart from whatever action Rodney Mulholland would take, there was Catherine. She would have another mouth to feed, two shortly…and on the pittance that Rodney worked for…She could let the child stay on for another few weeks, say until after the wedding. But then there was more than a possibility that Catherine would become aware of what was wrong with her daughter. She was surprised that she hadn’t already done so. But would she ever dream that her Katie, her beautiful, good little Katie, was in this predicament? And the term remained as it had been, for the child was good; this thing had surely happened to her against her will. But the point she must consider at the moment was that if either of her parents should come to the house and demand to see the master or mistress then she herself would be in the soup, for the mistress would demand to know why she hadn’t been told about this before…There was nothing for it but she must tell Madam, and it was a foregone conclusion what the result would be. Katie would be sent packing.
Katie was sent packing. Two days later she left the house carrying her belongings in a bundle that was no bigger than the one she had arrived with five years earlier. But she didn’t go home alone. It was Mrs Davis’ half-day and she took her in the carrier’s cart.
They arrived at two-thirty in the afternoon, and Mrs Davis left the house an
hour later, and she had to let herself out because Catherine was too stunned to move.
Catherine sat looking at Katie, who was sitting on the cracket by the fire, her body almost doubled in two, and by her side with his arm around her shoulder sat William. He, too, had been stunned, but now a feeling of rage was ousting the stupor. It boiled in him, stiffening his muscles and pushing his jawbones outwards. He took his arm from about her, but not before he had patted her. Then, pulling himself from his seat, he grabbed at his crutch and stamped across the room to the door.
Only now did Catherine rouse herself, saying, ‘Da! Don’t…don’t go out; you’re not fit. Stay where you are…please.’ But William paid no heed and the door banged behind him.
And now Catherine stood looking at her daughter, and all the while she shook her head; then, moving slowly towards her and seating herself in the chair her father had just vacated, she pulled Katie round to face her, and she had to press her body upwards before she could look into her face. It was no longer beautiful, and in this moment it was so contorted with sorrow that she couldn’t find it in her even to harshen her tone as she asked, ‘But why, lass?’ Not ‘Who was it?’ but ‘Why?’
Katie, looking into her mother’s face for the first time, shook her head and muttered, ‘It wasn’t me, Ma.’
‘Not you? What do you mean?’
‘I…I didn’t want…I mean, I would never have. He…’ She dropped her head and could go no further, but Catherine finished for her. ‘He forced you?’ And to this Katie gave a small nod.
And now Catherine asked, ‘Who, child?’
For answer she received silence, and no matter how she talked, or how she coaxed, she couldn’t get her daughter to say who had done this thing.
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