The Wingless Bird

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘He…he nearly killed you.’

  ‘Yes, yes; he nearly did, but I suppose in his eyes I deserved it because, you see, I was the only one he could trust, at least so he thought, and I was the one who was deceiving him most. Oh, yes, I have no doubt he would have killed me, indeed. But it is over.’

  He stared at her for some seconds before he asked gently, ‘Your arm, was it badly shattered?’

  ‘No, no. It was just a flesh wound. I…I have to go back to the hospital next week to have the stitches out.’

  ‘You were in hospital?’ He shook his head at his stupidity, saying, ‘Yes, of course you would be. But how do you feel now?’

  ‘Oh, much better. I think they kept me in hospital for those days, not because of the wound, but I think I had a bit of a shock.’

  ‘A bit of a shock? Oh, Agnes!’ He was now stroking her hand. ‘I’ll…I’ll always blame myself for being the instigator for your having that…bit of a shock, because you must know you have become very dear to me.’

  When she went to withdraw her hand from his he held onto it, and she said, ‘Please; you know what happened by the river, our conversation.’

  ‘Forget about our conversation by the river.’ He had thrust his face towards her now. ‘It was your conversation, not mine. And there’s no barrier between us. Get that into your head, do you hear? I’m a working man.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly.’ The impatient movement she made caused him to tighten his grip on her hand and to shake it vigorously. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, ‘just listen to me. I have a connection with two local newspapers: I write a piece for them now and again under the name of “Wanderer”. Have you ever read Wanderer? Nothing brilliant, only observations of the countryside; but I’m also in touch with a national magazine and I have recently done a series on the castles, manors and halls in Northumberland, Durham and Westmorland. I am paid for my labour, not much, I admit, but nevertheless, I am earning a wage, so therefore I consider myself a working man.’

  She stared at him for a moment before she replied quietly, ‘Well, all I can say is the term has a new definition. So, all right, you are a working man, at least in your own estimation. But what of your people? You yourself live in a Hall: Brook Hall, The Ride, County Durham. You see, I know your address. Your father was a colonel, your brother is a captain, your other one, you tell me, is a parson. Your sister…well, I don’t know, but likely she has married well. What do they say about the working man?’

  ‘They all think it’s good. Of course, honestly, I know that my father would have liked me to take to the army, but as I said to him’—he now smiled—‘isn’t it enough that one of his sons is trained to kill souls and another to save them. We are very fond of each other, my father and I, but I’m afraid I’m a disappointment to him. What I’m doing isn’t, in his estimation, really a man’s job; yet he reads three newspapers a day from cover to cover. I once asked him who he thought supplied the information, going into danger zones in wars and such like. So, have I convinced you, or am I convincing you?’

  She was saved from answering by the door opening and her mother entering with a tray, and at this Charles got immediately to his feet.

  After putting the tray on the table, Alice turned to him, saying, ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’

  ‘Milk, please, but no sugar.’

  When she handed him the cup and also one to Agnes, he glanced towards the tray and said, ‘Aren’t you joining us?’

  ‘No’—she looked at him—‘I am busy making cakes. I like baking. It’s the one thing I’m good at, at least that’s what I tell myself.’

  ‘It’s a great accomplishment to be a good cook. I am told it has saved many a marriage.’

  For a moment Agnes thought her mother was going to say, ‘Well, it didn’t save mine,’ but what she said was, ‘I think it is because most men value their appetites more than their wives. Wives are expendable but good cooks are difficult to find.’ And Alice laughed as she went out, whilst Agnes asked herself if this was her mother: she had never before heard her use a quip like that. And now he was saying to her, ‘I know whom you take after.’

  ‘You think I am like my mother?’

  ‘Not in looks, no, but in your manner of speaking, your quick repartee.’

  His voice changing, he said, ‘Will she miss your father?’

  ‘No; not at all.’ When she saw him raise his eyebrows, she quickly said, ‘And nor will I, for he has proved to have been a spiteful man, besides a dangerous one. I suppose I should be the last person to say that, as he has left me a comparatively well-to-do young woman, but he has done it to spite my mother and my sister.’

  ‘You mean he left nothing in his will for your mother?…Or your sister?’

  ‘Not a penny. But strangely his death has brought my mother and me together as we never were before.’ She looked away from him and rested her head against the back of the couch as she said, ‘For the last six years I have worked here for fifteen shillings a week, which I suppose was a good wage for a shop-girl, for that’s really what I was, even though I practically ran the business, doing the accounts, the ordering, besides serving in both departments and seeing to the factory across the yard, not forgetting the house on the corner. And now I own it all; oh yes, and five houses in Jesmond and two in the main thoroughfare which are used as offices. And all this sudden wealth should have made me free. But what has it done? It has tied me to this place as my fifteen shillings a week never did, because then I could have walked out any time and that’—she turned towards him again—‘I had threatened to do a number of times.’

  ‘Why do you feel tied now?’

  ‘Because of my mother. I couldn’t leave her. This is her home and I’m all she has.’

  ‘But you would have left home before, you say, perhaps to marry?’

  ‘Yes, but my father would have been alive then and she would have had company, such as he was to her. And then my sister was here too.’

  He was holding her gaze now and his voice was low yet held a firm enquiry: ‘What’s to stop your husband coming to live here with you, were you to marry?’

  Her lips moved tightly one over the other, her eyelids blinked and her voice was low now as she answered, ‘I…I cannot see that happening.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh.’ The sound expressed her impatience and she put her hand on the end of the couch to help her to rise to her feet, but his own hand coming out caught at her arms so swiftly that she overbalanced and her bandaged arm hit the wooden edge of the couch and brought a stifled groan from her.

  Immediately he was close by her side, his arm about her, and exclaiming, ‘Oh, my dear, my dear, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot, so hasty and clumsy, when all I want to do is to tell you that I…I care for you, really care for you, and not just as a friend. It happened right away, the first night, Christmas, you remember, and the sugar mice? Something happened then. I…I couldn’t get you out of my mind all over that holiday.’

  He took her hand now and cupped it against his cheek as he asked softly, ‘Do you…do you like me…a little, I mean?’

  Did she like him! The feeling she had for him was choking her: she wanted to say, ‘I not only like you, I love you, and I want you to love me. Oh, yes, I want you to love me.’ It was as if she were in bed and her thoughts following the ritual they had taken over the past weeks. But what she told herself in the daylight she said to him now: forcing the words out of her throat, she said, ‘It…it wouldn’t work. It…it couldn’t.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question. Agnes. Agnes.’ He was now holding her face between his hands. ‘The question was, do you like me? I’m not going to say do you love me? That takes time. But I can make you love me. I know I can. Oh yes. Do…do you like me? That is important.’

  She gulped in her throat and tried in vain to keep the tears from her eyes as she said, ‘Yes, oh yes, I like you. I like you very much but I…I still say…’

  ‘That’s all I want to
know.’

  He was still holding her face between his hands as his head moved slowly forward and he placed his lips on hers.

  ‘Oh. Oh, Charles.’

  Her eyes were closed as she spoke his name, but they sprang wide when she heard him laugh aloud, saying, ‘That’s the first time you’ve used my name and it sounded marvellous; not Charlie, but Charles. Oh my dear, I’ll tell them at home tonight. And, you know, why I’ve been away these last few days was really to have a talk with Reg. I wanted to tell him how I felt and…’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘My dear, he told me to go ahead, because if I didn’t he would, and I’m sure he would because I could see he likes you and he’s had much experience with ladies.’

  ‘Will…will your parents also say go ahead, do you think?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, they’ll understand. And they too will love you when they know you—you must come and meet them—and when we are married—’ He again laughed, then said, ‘I haven’t proposed to you yet and you haven’t accepted me, madam, but when we are married…’

  ‘Oh, please! Please wait; there are so many things to be sorted out. As I say, there are your people and…’

  She stopped and turned to one side as she heard the sound of voices on the landing, and then her mother’s voice came to her clearly: ‘She has a visitor.’ And then another that she recognised, saying, ‘Well, I must see her’—the door was being pushed open—‘I’ve come straight back and…’ and there stood Jessie.

  ‘Oh, Aggie!’ Jessie ran towards Agnes; but then stopped abruptly and, glancing at Charles, she said, ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t think. But we came straight back. You…you could have been killed. He was mad. Has…has he been buried?’

  ‘Sit down, dear. Sit down.’ Agnes was now standing and she turned to Charles, saying, ‘This is my sister,’ then immediately glanced towards the door to see her mother standing grim-faced as she looked at Robbie Felton.

  Jessie began to gabble an explanation: ‘Robbie brought me straight back. Anyway, there was no work there, and oh, Aggie.’ There were tears in her voice now and she went to embrace Agnes, but Agnes said sharply, ‘Sit down,’ and looking backwards towards the door again, she said, ‘Come in, Robbie,’ and waited for the young man to approach; then she spoke directly to Charles, saying, ‘This is my sister’s husband.’

  ‘How d’you do?’ Charles held out his hand, and there was a moment’s hesitation before Robbie took it, saying, ‘All right, sir.’

  The embarrassed silence that followed was broken by Charles, saying politely, ‘Well, I must be off. Goodbye.’ He nodded first to Jessie and then to Robbie; before stepping towards Agnes, and taking her elbow, he said, ‘Will you see me out, dear?’

  Alice was now standing in the corridor, outside the kitchen, as though she were waiting for them and she wrung her hands together as she looked at Charles and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  He did not ask her reason for being sorry, but said, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Conway. I must warn you, you are going to see much more of me in the future.’

  ‘That will be a pleasure. You’re welcome any time,’ Alice said graciously now; then she went into the kitchen, and Charles, turning to Agnes, said, ‘Don’t look so sad, my dear. There’s the solution: your sister’s back, so your mother won’t be lonely any more.’

  ‘Charles, you know nothing. I mean…I must tell you sometime. There’s another story here. Mother would never have them in the house, at least not him. You see, he…he comes from a very notorious family.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard about the Feltons, but he appears a decent enough fellow in his way. Anyway, dear—’ He again put his hand to her face, and quietly he said, ‘I’m going home now to inform my family of my good news…my splendid news.’

  ‘Please! Charles, don’t. Wait. Wait for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I…I don’t really know, but I think we should both wait.’

  ‘Agnes…look at me.’

  When she turned towards him he went on, ‘You care for me, I know you do. I’m conceited enough to know that, and I…I love you so very much. I never thought I could feel like this for anyone. One reads of grand passions, but never dreams of it happening to oneself. But it has, and I can tell you this, dear: no matter how long I wait or whatever happens we’ll come together in the end. I know it. I know it for a positive fact as if I had already lived before. Bye-bye.’ He bent and kissed her firmly on the lips; then she watched him run down the stairs. And she remained standing, smiling to herself, for a moment, lost in his words: ‘Grand passion…I know we will come together.’

  Then, as if stepping out of a dream she looked towards the sitting room and the smile went from her face. There was the awakening from the dream: he would be related by marriage to Robbie Felton and his family. No, no; Jessie was only her half-sister. But who was to know that?

  She now went swiftly towards the kitchen, and when she entered, her mother greeted her immediately with, ‘She would turn up with him, wouldn’t she? At this time! At this very hour. And for that gentleman to see who she’s married to. Of all the things to happen.’ And coming quickly towards Agnes, she said, ‘Something’s got to be done. You mustn’t lose this chance, lass. He’s gone on you, head over heels, you can see that. Now you grab him with both hands, for you’ll never meet anybody like him again…Has he proposed?’

  ‘Mother, there’s a lot of obstacles. He’s from a different world. He…he thinks he can fall in with our ways.’

  ‘Our ways; and why not? What do you mean, our ways? We are not working class like that scum along there.’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’ Agnes turned away and, pulling out a chair from beneath the table, she sat down and, in a weary voice, she said, ‘To people like Charles…I mean, well, not him but his family, we are very much working class. They are the county type, very nice and polite as long as one keeps one’s place. I have met his brother. Charming. Oh yes, charming, but the kind of a man who would flatten anyone with a single look if they dared step over the boundary.’

  ‘But…but this one, I mean, your Charles, he—he didn’t seem like that.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He…well, his being a writer or a journalist or whatever has brought him in contact with ordinary people. And he’s very tolerant. But he’s not his family, and I had the feeling when the two brothers were together that family meant a great deal to both of them. But let’s leave this for a moment, Mother, and—’ She was about to add, ‘concentrate on Jessie’s situation,’ when the kitchen door opened and Jessie herself walked in.

  Looking at the woman she thought of as her mother, Jessie said, ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I shouldn’t have come back. But when I saw the account in an old newspaper about Agnes being shot and Father dying, and…’

  ‘And you were the cause of it all. Do you know that?’

  ‘Yes, Mother, I know that. And it’s no use me saying I’m sorry because you won’t believe me, but I am. I nearly went mad when I heard he had shot Aggie. I…I came straight away; Robbie brought me straight from the train. He’s…he’s never even been home.’

  ‘How noble of him.’

  ‘Mother! You can be as sarcastic as you like but it won’t alter my feelings for him. He may not be class, but he’s good and he’s honest.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be something; a miracle for a Felton to be honest.’

  ‘Well, only time will tell.’ Jessie’s lips were quivering and her eyes full of unshed tears, and there was a pathetic appeal in her voice as she said, ‘I…I was going to ask you, Mother, if there’s nobody over in the house, if you would let us stay there for a time, until we get ourselves pulled together and…’

  ‘No! I would not!’

  As if she’d cut off her own voice with a knife Alice stopped, and she looked at Agnes before, drooping her head, she turned and walked towards the window, where she then stood looking out for a full minute before saying, ‘I have no control over the house or anything
else: your father cut me out of his will as he did you.’ Then swinging round, she glared at Jessie as she cried at her, ‘But you deserve to be cut out. He had pampered you since you were born. You had everything. You came first, first, all the time.’

  ‘Mother! Please.’ Agnes had risen to her feet. ‘Enough is enough.’

  ‘Oh, don’t stop her, Aggie; let her go on. She’s just acting according to pattern because she’s never been like a mother to me, or to you.’

  Alice seemed to spring across the room now and, leaning over the table towards Jessie, she cried, ‘No! I didn’t act as a mother to you, because I’m not your mother. You were adopted. Do you hear? You were adopted. Your mother was a whore, and you’ve taken the pattern following her. Oh, yes, if anyone has followed a pattern, you have.’

  ‘Mother! Shut up!’ Agnes had turned now to Jessie and, putting her arm about her shoulder, she comforted her: ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’

  And Jessie, turning her face towards her as a child might, asked, ‘Is that right, Aggie? She’s not my mother?’

  ‘Yes, dear, yes. But it’s all right, you’re still you and you’re still my sister and I love you. And you’ll be all right.’

  Slowly Jessie drew herself from Agnes’ embrace, and she leant against the cupboard door and looked at the woman who was standing now with her head bowed, her hands gripping the edge of the table. ‘You know something?’ she said. ‘I’m glad you are not my mother, because I’ve known all along that you never liked me. But tell me one thing. Was he my father?’

  ‘Yes, dear, yes,’ Agnes put in quickly; ‘we both have the same father.’

  ‘So we are still related?’

  ‘Yes, we’re still related.’ And Agnes now watched Jessie lift herself as though in relief from the support of the door and, looking at her fully in the face, say, ‘You know something? This has cleared up a lot of muddle in my mind, because I’ve often wondered why I could talk to Robbie…yes, and any of them, and feel at home, comfortable, while in this house I had to watch my every word. And she says that my mother was a whore. Well, that explains something too, because, you know, I’ve never, never been horrified by the women the sailors pick up on the quay, the ones Robbie’s brothers joke about. I’ve often spoken to one and found her nice. She made me laugh.’