Katie Mulholland

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Katie Mulholland Page 11

by Catherine Cookson


  She said, in a clear, unswerving tone, ‘If something isn’t done for Katie Mulholland in way of reparation, and good reparation, then I intend to inform the Talfords.’

  ‘You devil! You bloody little devil!’ As George Rosier’s hand went out to grab his daughter, Agnes cried, ‘George! George!’ And now he turned on his wife, crying, ‘You think I’m going to be defied by a slip of a girl just because she’s got a wedding ring on her finger? Do you know what this could mean?’

  ‘I know well enough, George.’ Agnes’ voice was low and trembling, and she added, ‘And unless you want the whole household to be aware of the situation I would speak a little quieter. And it will be less tiring in the end. You’ve just come into the fray; we’ve been battling for hours.’ She cast a quick glance towards Bernard, then went on, ‘And we can’t make her see sense.’

  ‘See sense!’ George Rosier was glaring at his daughter. ‘I’ll make you see sense, madam, if I’ve got to take a horsewhip to you. Now get to your room and I’ll see you stay there until your husband comes to fetch you, and I’ll see that he does that double quick.’

  Theresa rose to her feet. Her face was flushed but her voice was still cool. ‘I’m not afraid of your threats, Papa. If you’d look at things calmly you’d see the solution doesn’t lie in locking me up…even if you could. I could write a letter to the Talfords any time within the next fortnight, and even if I was prevented from doing it during that time I could do it later…after the wedding.’ She now turned her eyes towards her brother and the hate between them seemed to vibrate in the tense atmosphere. Then, turning to her father again, she said, ‘The damage is done, but I’m going to see that you supply the means whereby Katie Mulholland doesn’t suffer by your son’s action for the rest of her life. I will keep my tongue quiet if you’ll agree to settle a thousand pounds on her and see that her child, whether male or female, is educated.’

  George Rosier stared at the girl as if she was indeed mad. He stared at her for fully a minute in absolute silence; then with the palm of his hand he beat his brow in a slow, regular motion. A thousand pounds, she said. A thousand pounds! And to educate the child, and by doing so own up to the fact it was a Rosier. Why was he standing here doing nothing? Why didn’t he pick up the long steel ruler from the desk and beat her with it? His hand dropped to his side and he stared at the grey-clad figure before him. She wasn’t even dressed as a young woman should be dressed. You could almost see the shape of her limbs through her straight skirt. It was indecently short, well above her ankles. She hadn’t the figure of a woman, she was more like a youth…a man. Yes, she had the character and disposition of a man. As if he was attacking a man, he gripped her fiercely by the shoulders and dragged her towards the door. But there Agnes’ hands pulled him to a halt, and, her voice hoarse, she whispered, ‘You don’t want the household to know about this; have sense. Not even Kennard; not a whisper, it would be fatal. Go up with her; lock her in but don’t mishandle her. They can imagine it’s because she’s left Mr Noble.’

  Agnes was speaking as if Theresa was no longer present, or at best as if she was someone who didn’t matter; yet she did matter, and nobody was more aware of this than herself.

  Reluctantly George Rosier released his daughter. His stomach was moving up and down as if worked by bellows. He drew in a succession of short, sharp breaths; then, bending forward, he opened the door, waited until she had passed him, then followed her closely up the stairs.

  Back in the library, Agnes Rosier covered her face with her hands; then, drawing them slowly down her cheeks she looked at her son, who was now standing rigidly gripping the high mantelshelf, and she muttered tensely, ‘Bernard! Bernard! You must have been mad.’

  ‘Shut up, Mother.’ He turned his body half towards her. ‘What do you know about it? There’ll be enough when he comes in…Look, go on, leave me alone; I can fight this out with him in a way I can’t when you’re here.’

  He watched her turn her stately, overdressed figure around like a ship on still waters and walk out of the room. When the door closed on her he began to beat his fist on the sharp edge of the marble mantelpiece, and he was still beating when his father re-entered the room.

  George Rosier didn’t demand of his son, ‘Is this true?’ but going up to him and clamping his hand on his arm he pulled him round and, facing him squarely, growled, ‘You know what you are? You’re a bloody, stupid maniac, nothing more, nothing less. You couldn’t wait to go into town to ease yourself, you had to revert to the kitchen again. Your tastes favour the kitchen, don’t they?’ His grip tightened and he shook the arm he held. ‘And it’s a hell of a pickle this time, a hell of a pickle. You bloody fool! Do you realise that this could put the kibosh on everything? It just could, it just could, me boy. Just think of old Talford being confronted with a story like this and coming to find proof, and it here to his hand, with your own sister being able to substantiate all she says through the Mulholland slut…Well, should that happen—get this into that big head of yours—you’re on your own; for, as you well know, the mine, working under the present conditions, is not even paying its way, and it’s no longer able to support you and your gaming debts…and your women. I’m hard put to it to keep this place and all its commitments going…so if you’ve never bothered thinking before start now. But don’t start thinking in lump sums of a thousand pounds. As for signing a paper to the effect that you’ll educate the brat, you might as well go straight away and tell Talford the lot. Another thing I’ve just thought of.’ He stabbed his finger into Bernard’s chest. ‘It’s a certainty that Mulholland’s got no inkling yet as to who interfered with his daughter. It’s as that mad bitch said.’ He jerked his head towards the ceiling. ‘The girl’s kept mum to keep him in his job, but I’d be wary. I’ve known Mulholland since he was a boy. He’s the quiet type and they’re the most dangerous sort when they’re aroused…By the way’—he narrowed his eyes now—‘who gave him the push?’

  His lips stiff, Bernard said, ‘I did. He was agitating; he’s been seen with Ramshaw’s lot.’

  ‘You were very high-handed, weren’t you? He’s been seen with Ramshaw’s lot for years, but you didn’t give him the push and turn him out of his cottage before…You did it because you thought that he would move on, take the whole family with him, didn’t you?’

  Bernard returned his father’s stare without blinking, and when his father said again, ‘You bloody fool!’ his teeth grated against each other, and the muscles of his stomach tensed.

  Of a sudden George Rosier dropped into a deep leather chair near the fire and, resting his elbow on the arm, supported his head with his hand. After a moment, and in a more moderate tone, he said, ‘Well, what are you going to do?’

  Bernard Rosier walked to the window and stood staring out into the darkness. Then after a time he returned to the fire and, looking down into it, asked, ‘Can I have a hundred pounds?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll…I’ll tell you later if I bring it off. Can I have a hundred? At least fifty tonight and fifty ready to hand.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing this time.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Who’s it with?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. If it works, everything will be settled, as will that cow up there.’ He threw his head back and gazed towards the ceiling for a moment.

  George Rosier now rose from his chair, and unlocking a section of a panel near the fireplace, disclosing behind it a cupboard, he took a leather bag from a number lying there, and, carrying it to the desk, emptied the contents on to the table, counted out fifty sovereigns and pushed them to one side.

  When Bernard had picked up the money and placed it in his wallet he walked down the length of the room and would have left without further words had not his father stopped him, saying, ‘Whatever it is, make it foolproof; it’s your future.’ And to this Bernard answered bitterly, ‘Do you think I
need to be reminded?’ He then collected his hat and cloak from the vestibule, together with a walking stick, and went out into the night. He did not call for the coachman, nor yet take the trap, nor yet his horse. There was a shortcut over the fells to Bunting’s house, which was only half a mile from the mine, and the more unobtrusive his visit the better.

  At half-past nine the same evening Agnes Rosier visited her daughter to tell her that Katie Mulholland was going to be married to Mr Bunting, the master weighman at the mine, and she was a lucky girl to get a four-roomed house with a garden, together with a man like Mr Bunting who could earn a lot of money if he tried.

  The fact that Bunting had agreed to Bernard Rosier’s plan was sufficient for Agnes Rosier to consider the matter closed. Pregnant girls with the alternative of the workhouse or sleeping in the open on the fells had very little choice.

  Chapter Seven

  Mark Bunting walked through the village on his way to the lower fell. He could have avoided it, but he didn’t choose to do so. He was dressed in knee-breeches and leggings and wore a dark green cloth coat that reached to below his hips. He was also wearing a white neckerchief tied in the form of a cravat. On his head was a hard high bowler, and in his hand a thick hawthorn stick.

  It was early dusk and there were children playing in the roadway and women at the doors. Some of the children stopped their play and stared at him; all the women stared at him, and with hate in their eyes. One of them even spat in his direction; another, on his approach, went in and banged her door just as he was passing it.

  Women were fools, he thought; they endangered their own and their men’s livelihoods by showing their spleen. But their attitude had little or no effect on him—in fact he relished it in a way; it gave him a further sense of power. When one woman said in a loud voice, apparently speaking to her neighbour, ‘We does like copyin’ our betters, doesn’t we?’ he knew she was referring to his mode of dress, and he felt complimented.

  Although he hadn’t been the means of Mulholland being stood off—Brown, the under-manager, had seen to that—he knew he was being blamed for it, but it didn’t trouble him. He had been blamed for so much that he now set out to earn as much blame as possible. Blame usually meant money in his pocket.

  When he left the road and took to the fells he saw the shanty, or what looked like a shanty, when he was some distance away. When he got nearer he saw it was an erection made with two tables, one standing on blocks of wood with a chest of drawers for one wall and a cupboard affair for another. The third wall consisted of the backs of two chairs and the top of one table; two sides of the shelter were draped with bracken and pieces of material.

  To the side of the erection a fire was burning in a square of stones; and he saw a woman bending over the fire, a pan in her hand. To her side there was a jumble of pots and pans and crockery. He saw Mulholland kneeling in front of the shelter bending over someone lying on a pallet, and beyond him more figures were huddled.

  When Mulholland twisted round on his approach and sprang to his feet Bunting stopped. He knew it was always well to keep a distance between himself and men who had been evicted. He spoke immediately, saying in a conciliatory tone, ‘This wasn’t my doing, Mulholland. I’ll have you know that right away.’

  ‘What do you want here?’

  ‘I want a word with you.’

  It was on the point of Rodney’s tongue to say, ‘Get yourself away,’ when Catherine spoke. She just said his name, but it was so full of pleading that he remained silent. Straightening his shoulders, he walked a few yards from the shelter and Bunting followed him. When he stopped, Bunting came closer to him, but still not within arm’s reach. He said again, ‘You mustn’t hold it against me for this; I had nothing to do with it, it was Brown. And even if I’d had anything on you I wouldn’t have used it under the circumstances.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rodney’s voice was a growl.

  ‘Well’—Bunting dropped his head to the side and looked towards the ground—‘your daughter’s condition; not to speak of the other handicaps you have in your family.’

  Rodney forced himself to remain silent. His teeth clamped tight together, he waited. He couldn’t imagine this man’s actions being motivated by anything but greed, and so when his proposal came he was stunned into absolute silence.

  ‘I wonder…I wonder if you’d consider me marrying your girl?’

  The shock on Rodney lasted for some seconds; and then it was thrust aside by the thought, It was him. It was him. William had said he had seen him on the road Sunday after Sunday when she was going back to the house. He could have been sneaking around the night of the ball, keeking at the gentry. The voice that erupted from him was a cross between a roar and a yell. ‘You! You!’ He would have been on Bunting within the next second had not Catherine’s voice again checked him; and not only her voice but Katie’s too. Katie’s cry was even higher than her mother’s. ‘No, Da, no! Not him. It wasn’t him. Never.’

  It was something that Katie put into the word never that brought Rodney back to himself.

  Bunting lowered his hawthorn stick. You see, it was as he had always told himself; they would be on you whether you were guilty or not. In an offended tone, he said, ‘I have never been near your girl, Mulholland. I have passed the time of day with her on the road on an occasional Sunday, that’s all. I made the proposal out of good faith. I need a woman in the house; my mother has been dead for years. I’m offering her a home that even you should see is necessary at the present time. Moreover, I can promise that you’ll be reinstated.’

  They all stood in silence for a moment; then Rodney, after moving one lip tightly over the other said, ‘Thank you…Mr Bunting’—he laid stress on the mister—‘but I can see to me daughter.’

  For answer Bunting slanted his eyes towards the shelter and said, ‘I’ll leave you to think it over. I’ll come tomorrow night.’

  As he went to turn away Rodney said, ‘I wouldn’t trouble; the answer’ll be the same.’

  Bunting now turned and looked to where Katie was standing close to her mother’s side, but he did not allow his eyes to rest on her, his gaze was directed fully at Catherine and it said, ‘You’ll suffer this too.’

  Catherine watched him walk away. If it had been anyone else but him she would have gone down on her knees to him, but not to Bunting. She couldn’t bear the thought of her daughter being under the protection of this hated man, as great as her need was. Anyone who attached himself to Bunting was shunned by the whole village. But at the same time Catherine wondered how long they could last out living like this. They were all right as regards to food, for the neighbours had been kindness itself. Each day they collected enough to feed them, but it was more than their livelihood was worth to offer them shelter. Anyone in the village found harbouring those who had been evicted as troublemakers at the mine shared the same fate as those they were endeavouring to help. But her Rodney hadn’t been a troublemaker; this was all some plot which she couldn’t fathom. She put out her hand and pushed Katie towards the shelter, then went to her husband and, looking into his face, whispered, her voice laden with regret, ‘If it had been anybody else but him.’

  He bowed his head before her gaze, and in his heart he repeated her words, ‘If it had been anyone else but him.’ His daughter needed shelter, and his father-in-law needed shelter because the old man was in a bad way. If it hadn’t been for William he would have moved to a fresh town; travelling the road couldn’t be any worse than up here on the windswept fells and the bad weather on them. But he wouldn’t put William in the poorhouse; the old man had a horror of dying in the poorhouse.

  From under his lowered gaze he saw Catherine’s joined hands trembling, and he put his own out to steady them, saying, ‘There’s always a chance I’ll get set on at Palmer’s. I’m going in the morrow again; they’re setting men on all the time.’ He didn’t add that it was hard for a blacklisted man to get a job anywhere, for she knew that, but he went on, ‘The place is lik
e a gigantic hive now, you wouldn’t believe it. They’ve got four blast furnaces goin’ an’ rolling mills, and boiler shops, and engine shops. You wouldn’t recognise it now. You’ll see, I’ll get a start in one or the other of the shops.’

  ‘But they’d want experienced men, wouldn’t they?’ Her voice was very small.

  ‘No, no; there’s a thousand and one jobs that doesn’t need experience. I’ve as much experience as the Irish, I’d say, and the place is alive with them.’

  ‘But…but would there be any chance of gettin’ shelter? You said last week they were sleeping twelve to a room in some of the tenements. It wouldn’t be any use getting a job if you couldn’t get shelter.’

  He closed his eyes and bowed his head and said helplessly, ‘One thing at a time, Catherine, one thing at a time. Let me get a start first.’

  Her mind overwhelmed with despair, her body shivering with the cold, Katie lay curled up between her mother and Lizzie. All night she had lain like this, listening to the breathing of the others, to the hard cutting cough of her granda, to the moaning of her father. She knew when they were awake and when they were asleep; only Lizzie slept undisturbed. Even Joe, who could sleep on his feet, told her at intervals, by the small sound he made in his throat, that he was awake. Now that he had the chance to sleep—he had been dismissed three days ago—he couldn’t take advantage of it.

  Sometime, long before the dawn broke, she heard her da get up; then her ma moved from her side. The day had begun, the endless day of just lying or sitting. No-one talked much any more.

  It was early in the evening of this day that Katie put on her cloak and said to Catherine, ‘I’m goin’ over to see Betty.’

  Catherine stared at her. The Monktons, knowing the risk, had offered to give shelter to her father and Katie, but both had steadfastly refused to go. Now she imagined that Katie, feeling frozen to the bone as they all were, was about to seek the warmth of four walls for a short while before the night set in.

 

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