‘Well, it’s something you’ve got to accept, lass. She’s your half-sister, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘Well, nobody would believe it. And I can tell you this much, it came as a shock to her. Why didn’t he tell her? She’s not as innocent as all that. She knew her mother was his mistress, and, living in a place like Paris, she would know what life was all about. And the way she talks, even in her broken English, she’s not without knowledge of lots of things.’
‘Don’t be bitter against the lass. I’m not all that keen on her meself, ’cos she’s foreign to me in more than nature somehow. She’s not like anyone you would see in these parts.’
‘Well, you seem to be the only one in the family so far, Mam, who isn’t taken with her. Even Dad has a smile and word for her, and that’s rare these days.’
‘Oh, it isn’t only Dad, it’s our Maggie and John. You would think they’d got a new playmate. I’m amazed at our Maggie. She’s like a clucking hen with her first chick.’
There was a pause before Kate said, ‘Well, I can understand that. Our Maggie’s frustrated. I say again and I’ve said it before, I can’t understand her not marrying.’
‘Nor can I. But now she’s got me worried. It’s that Willy, and she’s at that daft age.’
‘Willy?’
‘Aye, Willy. Every opportunity she’s talkin’ to him, an’ they laugh together. I’ve seen them.’
‘Well, you can’t make anything out of that, Mam. Willy? Why, she’s too high and mighty to stoop to anybody like Willy.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen it happen afore. Women get desperate.’
‘But not for Willy. After all, he’s a farmhand, and he may be a very good one, as Dad’s always pointing out he’s worth three of any of ours.’
‘Aye, and he’s a bit different in other ways an’ all in that he can read and write an’ he studies books. At times I think he’s got ideas about himself. All through coming under the protection of his old master. It’s not a good thing to take people out of their class.’
At this Kate got to her feet just in time to stop herself from saying, ‘You should say that to Dad some time.’ Instead, she said, ‘We’ll be over on Sunday as usual. You rest now.’ She put her hand out and stroked the hair back from Mary Ellen’s forehead, and her mother, looking up at her, said, ‘How’s things going with Fraser?’
‘Oh’—Kate smiled—‘I think we’ve struck the right note at last. No more schooling if he’ll promise to learn the farming. He likes dealing with horses best, so Ben’s put him in charge of the third stable with Pedro and Jasper there. They are both quiet animals. And he’ll be under Dawson who’s going to show him the ropes and take him into market for the sales and things. I’m sure this will work.’ But the smile slid from her face as she added, ‘It’s got to. I can’t have Ben worried any more. The winter’s coming on and as we are not going away, he’ll have to have at least peace of mind. Well, see you on Sunday, Mam.’
‘Goodbye, lass.’
When the door closed on her daughter, Mary Ellen lay back, saying, ‘I can’t have Ben worried any more.’ Always Ben. Although she herself held no bones for Fraser and, like Hal, she considered there was a broad bad streak in him, still, the lad mightn’t have been as bad as he was if Kate had paid a little more attention to him and less to his father. But right from the very beginning when she first clapped eyes on the American—as in her mind she still thought of Ben—she had imagined the sun shone out of him. And yet, at one time if she remembered rightly, Kate’s aim in life was just to have children. That’s all she wanted, children.
Well, she closed her eyes, she was tired. She was almost as tired as Hal looked, and he did look tired these days. Deep inside she was worried about him. But she comforted herself with the thought that there hadn’t been a winter for past years now but she had thought it would be his last, and he was still here. He had been lucky. He was the only one of his generation left alive in these parts, at least of those who had worked in the smelt mills. Some of them hadn’t seen their mid-thirties, and those who had reached fifty were the exceptions. But here was Hal, sixty-five. It was an amazing age, especially in his condition. But, as she often had said to herself, if will-power had anything to do with it, he’d see a hundred.
On Sunday evening Fraser and Yvonne met for the first time. Kate introduced her son, saying, ‘This is Fraser, my eldest son,’ and she watched him stare unblinking at the young girl, his whole appearance so dark and hers so fair that she found herself thinking, ‘Night and day.’ Then quickly she went on to introduce Harry. Harry was thirteen years old and the image of his father with his ascetic countenance and pleasing smile.
Then Rose. Rose was plain, but not as plain as her mother had been at her age, nor as big.
The introductions over, it was Hal, his voice as usual drowning all the rest, saying, ‘Well, formalities over, let’s eat.’ So they had all adjourned to the dining room. And it could be said that the meal was quite merry, as John related their guest’s faux pas. One that caused laughter was when he explained how awkward it was having an assistant who called the bull monsieur and the cows mesdemoiselles, when in her language the latter should really be madams, only for him to be corrected by Yvonne, saying, ‘Mesdames, Jean.’
When Rose said, ‘My father speaks French and reads French books too,’ and glanced proudly towards Ben, the young girl, her face brightening, asked, ‘You do, monsieur?’
‘I read at it, let’s say. I haven’t many French books.’
‘Have you read Flaubert?’
‘Yes.’ Ben nodded towards her.
‘Madame Bovary?’
Now Ben’s eyes widened as he said, ‘You haven’t read Madame Bovary?’
‘Oui, monsieur. You surprise that I read her?’
‘Well…er, yes I am.’ He pursed his lips while smiling. ‘I understand it caused a bit of a stir?’
‘Oh, many books cause stir. Some are what you call stopped?’
‘Banned.’
‘Oh’—her chin jerked upwards—‘banned. But there are’—she paused—‘what you say? Channels to get them.’
‘I would have said ways.’
‘Ways.’ She repeated. Then she turned her attention to Kate, saying, ‘You also, you read in French?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ Kate’s voice was flat. She was having difficulty in speaking to this girl. She doubted if she would ever feel at ease with her; she didn’t think she would ever really like her. The nearest she had come to it was on the day after the funeral when the girl had cried for hours on end and they’d thought she’d make herself ill. Her mother had made her a cordial that had put her to sleep, and Mary Ellen’s only comment on the crying spasm had been, ‘Well, it’s about time. I thought she hadn’t a tear in her. She’s been too composed for her own good. I can’t make her out.’
She had said to her mother. ‘What does she mean to do? Stay on here?’ And Mary Ellen had replied briefly, ‘That seems to be the position, but it’s not one I like.’
She now started slightly in surprise when Fraser’s voice broke in saying, ‘Our French master was from Caen, in Normandy. We called him Bill.’
‘Oh?’ Yvonne looked at the boy sitting opposite to her. She had been aware that he had been staring at her for most of the meal. His dark countenance, she thought, was not very appealing. She repeated, ‘Caen?’ then added, ‘He was from the provinces.’
‘He spoke good French. He wouldn’t let us speak English in his class.’ Fraser’s voice had an aggressive note to it, and at this her eyebrows slightly raised, she spoke to him in French. The rest of the table was silent. Their eyes were on her, but their attention turned to Fraser for when he answered her, his reply coming hesitantly, but with force and in French, she answered him in English, for all to hear, and what she said was, ‘He has left you his accent.’
The words and tone implied a snub which one would have expected from an adult, not from a sixteen-year-old fr
agile-looking slip of a girl who was now calmly splitting open the last plum on her plate and removing the stone, while the boy’s face was showing a deepening red hue that spoke of temper.
It was Maggie who broke the silence: on a laugh, she said as she looked across at Fraser, ‘Accent or no accent, I’d give me eye teeth if I could speak any kind of French. All I remember from my school days of French is Içi on parle français, and from German, because Miss Price was half German and she made us learn it, was the word umlaut.’
‘Umlaut?’ Rose now took up the conversation. ‘What’s umlaut mean, Auntie?’
‘Don’t ask me, I’ve forgotten.’ This brought forth laughter, but it was all slightly forced. And when the meal was ended, Kate’s family, together with Hal and Mary Ellen, left the room and went into the sitting room. Yvonne did not join them but stayed to help Maggie clear the table. Kate too stayed and it was when she went out carrying a tray of dishes that Maggie stopped Yvonne in the act of stacking the cups and saucers. Taking her gently by the arm, she looked into her face and said, ‘That wasn’t very kind, Yvonne.’
‘You mean with the boy?’
‘Yes, I mean with the boy. He meant to be friendly.’
The girl turned her head away, then said quietly, ‘He spoke rude, and he stares all the time.’
‘Well’—Maggie gave a small laugh—‘I’m sure you should be used to being stared at by now.’
‘Oh oui…yes, quite use, but his’—she moved her fingers over her face—‘his countenance is black, dark, not like a boy’s.’
‘No, you’re right there, he doesn’t look like a boy. Nevertheless, that’s what he is, and he’s been going through a rough time lately.’
‘This is he who ran from school?’
‘Yes, this is he. I mean that is him. Oh’—she pushed the girl on the shoulder—‘you get me as twisted as yourself.’
‘Oh, Mag…gie. You are my friend.’ Maggie’s hand was clasped tight between the two pale long-fingered ones. ‘I am lost. I miss mon père, oh, so much…so much. We talked…lot of talk, and laughed. I have now only you and Jean. I must talk…’
‘Later, later.’ Maggie withdrew her hand as Kate entered the room, saying, ‘You should have help, Maggie. It’s really ridiculous. Jessie Biggot would only be too willing, I’m sure, to come in and give a hand, part time.’
‘Jessie come in? Don’t make me laugh. She didn’t turn up for the washing last Monday. I had that to do an’ all. She’s on the bottle again.’
‘But she had joined the Methodists.’
‘That didn’t last long. Anyway, I’d rather have her on the bottle because she became so pious for a time she’d hardly handle the men’s long clothes.’
As she laughed out loud, Kate looked at her. Maggie seemed happier these days. Could it be Willy’s influence? Or was it because of the girl? As her mother had said, she was acting like a clucking hen towards a chick. But that girl was no chick. Look how she had turned on Fraser. And Fraser had been taken with her, she could see that, for he had hardly opened his mouth since he had met her, and that was a sure sign of his interest. But oh my God! No, no. Because what was she in law? His aunt? Yes, she supposed so. What a situation. Well, she would see that the Sunday visits would be cut short after this. And the quicker the girl was persuaded to go back to her own country the better for all concerned. If only Maggie wasn’t so taken with her. Why was it that whatever Maggie did always ended in trouble? She seemed born to create unrest.
When her son suddenly entered the room, she turned on him, saying sharply, ‘What do you want?’
‘Grandad says I should help carry the trays.’
‘We are nearly finished.’
He looked to where Yvonne had stacked the cups and saucers on a wooden tray and she was about to lift it up when he went to her and, taking it from her hands, he said, ‘Let me.’
‘Oh, merci.’ She smiled at him. And remembering what Maggie had said to her about this boy whilst chastising her about being rude to him, she endeavoured to be friendly, saying now, ‘I would likely have falled them.’
‘You likely would.’ He was smiling back at her and what she thought now was, He could be nice. He is handsome.
She walked with him towards the door and here he did her the courtesy of pressing his back against it while still holding the tray and allowing her to go before him.
In the room the two women stood watching this; and when the door swung closed behind them, Maggie said, ‘She could be a good influence on him, and they’re both about the same age.’ Then she was startled as Kate rounded on her and in a manner that she had never used before, for she had, in a way, been very careful to placate her. But now, her voice came almost as a growl, saying, ‘Don’t be stupid, Maggie. Think of the relationship. Have you forgotten that? In a way she’s his aunt.’
Maggie made no reply, for yes, strangely, she had forgotten the relationship. Or had she closed her eyes to it, hoping for what? Well, what did she hope for? Anything that would keep here permanently the light that had come into this house, hoping that its warmth would soothe the desire that had been running riot in her of late, closing her mind to the fact that there was only one way this desire could be appeased.
She picked up the crumb-tray and brush and began to sweep the tablecloth, saying as she did so, ‘You take things too seriously, Kate. That girl would as soon think of Fraser in that way as—’ She couldn’t find a simile in her mind, and ended, ‘Oh, what does it matter?’ Then she swept the bundle of crumbs onto the ornamental wooden shovel, before marching from the room.
Kate stood for a moment longer, and as she did so she provided the simile that Maggie had omitted by saying to herself, ‘As you would of Willy Harding.’
It was half past nine. The company had long since departed for home, and Hal and Mary Ellen had gone up to bed at nine o’clock. They very rarely retired later these days. John had just come in after doing the last round of the animals. He shivered as he took his coat off, saying, ‘By! It’s nippy. If it wasn’t just the beginning of November I would swear I smelt snow in the air.’
Maggie turned, got up from the settle where she had been sitting sewing, and said, ‘Will I make some hot boily?’
‘That would be nice.’ He looked towards where Yvonne was sitting in the rocking chair to the right of the fireplace. The chair was motionless, as was her whole body. He went and bent towards her, saying, ‘I’ll bet you’ve never had boily, have you?’
She looked up at him without making any movement and she didn’t answer him, and, concerned, he said, ‘Are you all right?’ And after a second she said, ‘Yes, Jean. Yes, I am all right.’
‘I think she’s tired. She’s had little to say all night.’ It was as if Maggie were talking about a small child, and her warm smile towards the girl emphasised this.
‘No, I am not tired, Maggie, but I am full of thoughts.’
‘You have been thinking.’ Maggie placed a pan of milk on the hob as she corrected her, then looking at her again, she repeated, ‘You have been thinking?’
‘Yes, I have been thinking, Maggie.’
John drew a chair up to the fire and he held out his hands towards the blaze and stared into it as he said quietly, ‘Well, it’s early days yet. We understand.’
‘No, no, you do not, not about my thinking, for it was not of my father. You know I got a letter yesterday…well, three letters. One was from the…how you say in law?’
‘Solicitor?’
‘Yes, yes, solicitor. There are, I understand, many affairs to settle. I should be there, in France, to…to see them satisfied, but I am not…not happy to go.’
Maggie had been standing at the table cutting thick slices of bread into chunks. She now brought the pan from the fire and threw the bread into it, together with a large knob of butter, a spoonful of spice, a pinch of salt, and a scoopful of sugar, and she returned it to the hob before taking her seat again. And there she said, ‘Can you not just write to him?’
‘No, I…I do not think it good, satisfactory. There are documents to be signatured.’
She now brought herself quickly to the edge of the chair and the folds of her black velvet skirt touched one of John’s leggings. And her hand went out to him and covered his wrist where his hand was lying on his knee and, her voice eager, she looked into his face as she said, ‘I must tell you this, all, and you, ma chère.’ She extended her other hand out to Maggie, and Maggie moved towards the end of the settle but didn’t reach out towards the extended hand, keeping her two hands joined in her lap.
Yvonne quickly withdrew her hand from John’s wrist and looked down towards his swinging feet and she said, ‘You must help me with my English words as it is difficult for me to clear myself.’
‘Make yourself plain,’ Maggie interrupted gently. And at this John made an impatient movement, saying, ‘Leave her be. Go on.’ He looked at Yvonne, and now she began: ‘There is a house, my father’s house. More so, it was his wife’s house. She…she it was who owned all. Her husband…the first, was of money, and when she married my father she does all for him. She wants to make him famous, noted in the artist’s world. Well—’ She now bowed her head, then went on, slowly now, ‘There are many artists in Paris, very good, very good. My father, he was good in one way, drawing, but not so good with paint at all, not so good with portraiture. His wife, she pressed him hard. She paid for his exhibitions and the’—she now waved her hands—’pamphlets, programmers to spread his work. Artists are mostly poverty, I mean poor. They find difficulty in selling. My father too, but it did not matter so much because of the money. His wife had friends in London, and also in Rome. I think my father, he protest, but she was of strong mind, and in some ways I fear—’ She now looked down and moved her head from side to side before she added, ‘He was not of strong character. Lovable, yes.’ She looked from one to the other now, waiting for their confirmation of the right term, but neither of them spoke, and so she went on: ‘She bought this house on the outskirts of Paris. It is a very nice house. She liked entertain. My mother told me of her. She not tolerate women, mostly men friends. She was very jealous for my father…of my father. She arranged all his life.’
A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy) Page 64