For the first time Maggie interrupted, saying now, ‘Did she know about your mother?’
‘No, I do not think so or, as my father…hint? Yes, hint, she would have changed her will. Well, she die and all her money and house, it is my father’s, and’—she now lifted her shoulders and spread her hands wide—‘it is mine. Unfortunate it is mine, and I must go back and see what they will do with it.’
For the first time John spoke. Looking into her face, he said, ‘You will live there?’
‘No, Jean, I do not wish I live there.’
‘But your home, your house?’
‘It could be sold. It is a very nice house, not too big, eight sal…rooms. And up above’—she waved her hand above her head now—‘all the top is studio for my father. That is another thing. I…I must see to his pictures. There is, what you call, an agent, that sell them when he could.’
‘When will you go?’
‘I…I write back tomorrow and make arrangements. You see, I…it is not wise I travel alone. My father, he…he never left me. He never allow me travel alone.’
‘What will you do then?’
‘There are two ladies in next house. One, Mademoiselle Marie, she teaches in the lycée. Mademoiselle Estelle, she remains at the house, cooking and cleaning. They have little money. Father used to engage her to accompany me.’
‘You mean you could never go out alone?’
‘No.’ Yvonne now smiled a knowing smile at Maggie as she shook her head. ‘It was not advisable. You understand?’
Maggie understood, then said, ‘’Tis coming to something when a child can’t take a walk on her own. ’Tis a strange country.’
‘Not at all,’ John put in now; ‘there are times here in Newcastle when it wouldn’t be safe for a woman of class to walk the streets by herself.’
Looking at Maggie now, Yvonne said slowly, ‘I am not a child, Maggie, nor have been for some long time.’
‘What do you mean? I know you’re sixteen, but you still look like a girl of fourteen.’
‘No, no, Maggie.’ The voice was strong now, the tone contradictory. ‘I must tell you. There has been a deception. It was my father’s wish…idea, my birthday is in January. I shall not be seventeen, I shall be nineteen years old. He thought, my father, that it was more possible for your mama to give protection in her home if I was a young girl, and it is unfortunate that I look so. So he said we will say sixteen. I was upset, but he advise it. He had a longing that I live in England. He had friends in London, but they were friends of his wife. We met but I was not sympathique with them. They do not accept me, so—’
She looked at John. His face was straight, his eyes narrowed, and her voice low now, she said, ‘You angry? It is a bad thing I do?’ He shook his head but didn’t speak. And now she added, ‘Will you tell your mama for me? I stand a little in fear…awe of her.’
‘No , no…’ It was Maggie speaking again. ‘Better not. What do you say, John? Better not, at least for a time?’
Again he nodded but without looking at Maggie; he continued to stare into the eyes that, in the lamplight, seemed to encompass the whole face, and the sadness in them caught at his throat.
Maggie rising brought his gaze from the girl; she had gone to take the pan from the hob, and at the table she divided the contents into three bowls. When she handed John a bowl on a wooden platter, together with a spoon, he took it without a word. But he didn’t begin to eat, not until Yvonne again said, ‘You are angry, shocked?’
‘No, no,’ he answered. ‘No, not at all, only surprised.’
‘Yes’—she nodded her head—‘surprised. I am unfortunate that I look so.’
‘No, no.’ He was quick to contradict her. ‘No, you look all right.’ He gave her a weak smile. And when Maggie handed her the other bowl she gazed up at her, saying, ‘I would love to look like you, Maggie, beautiful and fresh.’
‘Beautiful? Don’t be silly!’ Maggie tossed her head. ‘Get on with that. See if you like it.’
She herself now sat down on the settle and began to eat the boily, and there was silence for a moment or two, until Yvonne said, ‘Very nice. Very nice.’ Then Maggie said abruptly. ‘’Tis a wonder you’re not married by now then, being as old as you are.’
Gulping on a mouthful of the hot bread and milk, Yvonne made a small sound in her throat that resembled a laugh, then said, ‘Three times I was prop…osed. Three times, and serious, you know. Two were father’s friends. He was vexed. One young man, an artist too, but he could not feed himself. He only ate when at our table, so poor. ‘ She smiled widely, but when John got up abruptly, she rose from the chair, saying, ‘You are annoyed all over? I am sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said; ‘I understand.’ And he emphasised his words by lifting his hand as if to touch her. Instead, he patted the air, then said, ‘Well, I’m off to bed. Goodnight. And you, Maggie, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, John.’
After he had gone Yvonne stood looking towards the far door through which he had disappeared. The radius of the light from the lamp left half the kitchen in shadow, and she now walked into it, but there stopped and bowed her head and placed a hand over her face. And Maggie called to her, ‘’Tis all right. Don’t take on. I would get to bed. Things’ll look different in the morning.’
Standing in the shadow, Yvonne now said, ‘I would not hurt Jean. I have an affection for him.’ Then softly she added, ‘Goodnight, Maggie,’ before walking slowly from the kitchen.
Maggie had not answered Yvonne’s goodnight, but she stood looking into the shadow of the room. She had an affection for John, she said, and he had for her, like herself she surmised, as the daughter he had never had. That was when they had imagined she was sixteen. But now they both realised they were no longer playing mother or father to a young girl who looked even younger than her sixteen years, for she had turned into a young woman…who had been offered marriage three times.
She sighed deeply and, going to the dresser drawer, took out a rough linen cloth which she spread over two thirds of the wooden table, and on this she laid out the crockery for the breakfast. Then going over to the stone sink that was set below the window, she washed up the three bowls and spoons. And it was as she leant sideways to grip the handle of the pump in order to swill the sink that her fingers became tight on it, for there, out of the corner of her eyes, she imagined she saw a figure standing, that of a man. It wasn’t until he moved into the dim radius of the light in the yard that she breathed freely, saying to herself, ‘Willy! What’s he doing there?’
By the time she reached the door, he was standing outside it, and she said to him, ‘Something wrong?’
‘No, nothing’s wrong. I…I hope I didn’t give you a gliff.’
‘You did a bit. Being your half-day, I didn’t expect you round in the yard.’
‘Oh, that makes no difference.’
When she gave an audible shudder with the cold, he said ‘I’m sorry. Go on in.’
‘No, no, I’m all right. Have you had a drink, anything hot?’ She pulled the door wider. ‘Come in a minute.’
He hesitated, then stepped into the light of the lamp, and she looked at him for a moment without speaking. He always dressed smartly, not like a farmhand at all. Of course it was the old gentleman’s clothes, and they certainly suited him. He had on an overcoat tonight that was made of Melton cloth. It was better than even the one her father had. She heard herself speaking her thoughts: ‘You look very smart,’ she said.
‘Oh aye, yes, they skitted me down at the Boar’s Head. Lord Cowhand, they called me.’
When he smiled she asked tartly, ‘You weren’t vexed?’
‘No. Why should I be? Aren’t I asking for it, going out dressed like this? I understand them.’
She moved her head as if in perplexity, then said, ‘You’re sure you won’t have something hot? Have you had a meal today?’
‘Yes. I had a good one in Hexham. I had my meal in a hotel, and the waiter sai
d, ‘What can I get you, sir?’ Strange, isn’t it? Then I walked round the Abbey. I like walking round the Abbey. It arouses memories in me. Strange memories. Memories of men without women down the ages. How did they manage without women? Some of them didn’t, I know. It was too hard for them. For others it would be easy. I had a few words with the Rector. We got on to that subject. He’s a very wise man. He said he hadn’t seen me there before. What was my work? And he didn’t bat an eyelid when I said cowhand. Of course, he was the kind of man who wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if I’d said I was the Archangel Gabriel.’ He put his head back and laughed, then brought his hand to his mouth to still the sound, saying, ‘I’m sorry.’ And after a moment’s silence, during which they stared at each other, he said softly, ‘I feel very happy tonight, Maggie, and it isn’t because I’ve gone over my allotted three mugs of ale. No, I keep to that. I’m happy because I came to a decision today, and it was just that, what I’ve said, your name, Maggie. Have you noticed that I’ve never called you Miss Maggie since shortly after I came here, because I never thought of you as Miss Maggie. But please’—he put his hand out towards her but didn’t touch her—‘don’t be upset. I’m not going to say don’t be offended, because I don’t think you would be. I know what I know and you know what you know. All I want to say now, Maggie, is that I know nothing can come of this. Oh, aye, my head’s on me shoulders in that way, and ’tis a great pity, but I wanted you to know that there is someone who thinks of you and not just as a hand on the farm.’
There had come into his voice now a bitter note and his face was straight as he said, ‘’Tis a shame. I’ve always felt how some people are taken for granted, and used, because they are of the family. I think about you a lot. You work from mornin’ till night, and what is ahead of you? More work from mornin’ till night.’
He remained silent for a moment, then drew in a long breath that swelled his overcoat as he said, ‘I’ll be away. Tomorrow things will be back to where they were. Yet not quite. We will meet and talk about passing items, but underneath you will know, and I will know what I’ve always known, that you are a beautiful woman, Maggie, and it is a shame unto God that you are not in a house of your own with a family of your own. Would, to the powers of law and class, that things could be different. Goodnight, Maggie.’
She still did not open her mouth, but watched him turn and go out and draw the door closed softly behind him.
It was a full half-minute before she put her back to it, and pressed her hands flat against it to each side of her. Her head was touching it, her eyes looking upwards, her mouth open, as she gasped for breath. And when at last she pulled herself from its support, she staggered to the table, rested on it for a moment, then went to the settle and, dropping onto it, she brought her clenched hands up to each side of her face and as the tears spurted from her eyes she whispered aloud, ‘Oh, Willy! Willy.’
Four
The yard was full of people, their breaths forming almost a cloud in the frosty air. The horse attached to the brake stamped on the cobbles as if anxious to be away. Willy was helping Mademoiselle Estelle up the steep steps at the back of the vehicle. Then stepping up himself, he put a rug around her knees and another around her shoulders, while she kept repeating, ‘Merci. Merci.’ Her long plain face looked grim as it had done for the past two days. Apparently the sea crossing had been very rough, and for most of the time since her arrival she had lain in bed. And with what English she could speak she indicated that never again would she come to this land.
John had placed the luggage under the high front seat. There were only two cases, the rest had gone ahead yesterday. And now, both he and Willy stood to the side of the brake looking to where Yvonne was saying goodbye to Mary Ellen. The girl leant forward and kissed Mary Ellen on both cheeks; then taking her hand, she said, ‘I cannot thank you so much for your kindness to me.’ And to this Mary Ellen muttered, ‘It was nothing, it was nothing. I hope you have a good journey.’ She did not add, ‘Come back soon.’
The farewell was different when Yvonne confronted Maggie, for they put their arms around each other, and Maggie, with actual tears in her eyes, said, ‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’ And Yvonne said, ‘Yes, Maggie. I will come back. Yes, I will come back.’
‘Well, come on. Not so much slavering.’ Hal’s usual levelling tone and voice drew them apart. And now Yvonne turned to him and held out her hand, and he took it in both of his and, shaking it warmly, he said, ‘It’s been a pleasure havin’ you, lass. You’re welcome here any day in the week. Let me tell you that.’
‘Oh.’ Spontaneously now she reached up and kissed him on both sides of the face, much to his embarrassment, which he covered with blustering laughter, saying, ‘Come on. Come on. Don’t leave any of your Frenchified ideas behind you. Get yourself up else you’ll miss your train an’ that ’un up there’—his voice dropped—‘who’s come to protect you, but to my mind ’tis the other way about, she’ll die afore she leaves the country. What d’you say?’
‘Oui.’ She smiled, nodding her head. ‘She is willing to expire before she gets on the boat. I pray the sea will be flat.’
‘Aye, me an’ all. Well, away you go, lass.’ He pushed her towards John, and he, taking her elbow, helped her up the steps. Then he himself took a seat beside her, and Willy, having mounted the front seat, called, ‘Get up there!’ and the brake jerked forward, and they left the yard, Yvonne waving her hand to the three people standing grouped together, and they waved back.
When they passed through the gate and Yvonne could no longer see them, she sat back in the seat, but she did not speak or look at John. In fact, few words were exchanged on the road to Haydon Bridge except when Willy made some remark from his seat and turned his head towards them; or when John, leaning forward, would enquire of Mademoiselle Estelle if she was all right, to be answered in a spate of French, which Yvonne translated as: she found the journey very bumpy and that she would never reach home before she died.
And smiling, Yvonne added, ‘I am not looking toward the journey.’
They had crossed the bridge and Willy was driving towards the station, when he turned his head sharply towards John and said, ‘There’s Fraser ahead, shall I pull up?’
John glanced at his watch, answering, ‘Yes. We’ve got a bit of time. Better not pass him.’
A few seconds later they stopped at the side of the road and Fraser, who had seen them, left the two men he was talking to and came slowly towards them. And John, leaning over the brake, said, ‘Yvonne’s on her way.’
The boy came round to the back of the brake and stood looking at Yvonne for a few seconds before he said, ‘You’ll be glad to get back there?’
‘No, no. I am not pleased to leave. No, no.’ Her head moved in small jerks. ‘I have been very happy here.’
‘Happy?’ He laughed now, then turned his glance, first on John, then towards Willy, who had twisted round in his seat and was looking down on him. ‘Somebody’s been happy around here. Isn’t that strange, Willy? And you Uncle John?’ He was again looking at John. ‘Isn’t that strange to hear anybody’s been happy around here?’
John stared at the boy. Then leaning forward, he asked quietly, ‘What are you doing here this time in the morning?’
‘What am I doing here? I am about my father’s business. Yes’—his head bobbed now—‘I am about my father’s business.’
‘Well then’—John’s voice was grim—‘if you’re about your father’s business, get about it and keep out of the inn. I’ll have something to say to Swaffer when I come back.’
‘I haven’t been in the inn. I’ve been with some friends.’ He jerked his head to where the two men were standing.
And to this John said, ‘If you’re talking of Reilly and his mates, don’t speak of them as friends. How did you get in?’
‘On a horse. You know, a horse.’ He was grinning now. And John, straightening himself, said, ‘Well, don’t get on that horse until Willy’s coming back this way
, and ride along of him. Now, I’m telling you. If you don’t take heed to my words, don’t expect any support from me in the future. You understand?’
‘Yes, Uncle. Yes Uncle, I understand.’ The boy was not looking at him but towards Yvonne, and as he grinned at her John said, ‘Go on, Willy.’
As the brake moved off, the boy called, ‘You coming back, dear little Yvonne?’
She did not answer him or make any remark until a few minutes later when she alighted from the brake, and then she said, ‘He is young to drink so.’
‘He is that. But I’ll put a stop to it. Has he been at it before?’ The last part of the remark was addressed to Willy, and Willy answered, ‘No, I think this is something new. But he couldn’t get better teachers than the Reillys. Beg, borrow or steal for it, they would.’
‘See that he goes back with you, will you, Willy?’
‘I’ll do me best. But you know’—he paused while he slotted the horse’s reins through an iron ring—‘he’s not a boy any longer, John. I think everybody’s got to face up to that. In fact, to my way of thinking, he’s never been a boy for years. He’s got an old head on young shoulders.’
‘Be that as it may, tight at this time in the morning broods no good if he was twice as old as he is. Look, I’ll manage the cases, and don’t wait. You go back and see to him.’
A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy) Page 65