The Wingless Bird

by Catherine Cookson

  She was on her feet as her mind protested loudly, but they weren’t all gentlemen in his class. She recalled a number of experiences across the counter when, at odd times, so-called gentlemen had come into thetobacconist’s next door when she happened to be there and the tone of their voices alone had placed her definitely on her side of the counter, a position, of course, which demanded subservience. No, they were not all gentlemen in that class. However, she had been very, very fortunate in meeting two, and she was going to marry one of them. Oh, yes, she was. And let the Colonel and his lady be as hostile as they liked, she was going to marry their son.

  Three

  ‘Charles, I am not at all well. In fact, I haven’t been well for some time, and now I am feeling ill and you are not helping. You can’t possibly leave home and go into lodgings; not even into an hotel, you say, but a furnished apartment. You won’t be able to stand it.’

  ‘Mama, how have I stood it for the last five years? How did I stand it when I was abroad all that time? I’m away from home sometimes a week at a time and when I go abroad now it can be for a month, and I assure you I don’t live in the best hotels there, or anywhere else. I can’t afford to. In fact, I can only live as I do because of the interest on what Grandfather left me, otherwise I could see myself starving in a very refined way if I had to depend upon what I make from my writing.’

  ‘But your meals! Who will cook for you in this apartment? You know, Coleman is a wonderful cook and you love her dishes. I told her that when we were in the Café Royal in London last year, their crêpe suzettes were not to be compared with hers.’

  Charles turned from the couch and spread his hand over his brow as if to shade his eyes from the truth, the truth that was telling him in plain words something that he hadn’t allowed to surface. His mother was not an intelligent woman. She was a sweet, dear creature. She loved her husband—that was her greatest quality—and she ran an ordered household, simply because she had an excellent staff. She had been pampered all her life. She took after her father. He hadn’t been intelligent either…He shouldn’t be thinking this way. He wouldn’t be so well off today if it hadn’t been for his grandfather leaving him four thousand pounds. Yet, he had to face it, if there were any brains in the family they had been passed on from his grandmother.

  It wasn’t fair that his mother, being what she was, had the power to look down on someone like Agnes. This thing called society wanted changing. However, he was the only one in his family and even among all his friends and acquaintances who thought this way. It looked as if the status quo would remain for ever. In a letter he had received, Reg had said, ‘Don’t try to change the world, our world, it’s too big, too powerful, and what is more, you’ll only hurt yourself. Marry your Agnes, by all means, but be prepared to take the consequences. One thing I will suggest to you, get her to sell that business and move away into a more pleasing district.’

  ‘Charles. Dear Charles, come here.’

  He turned and went back to the couch, and he took the limp hand held up to him as his mother said, ‘I want to see you happy, I really do. You could have had your choice of so many young people round about, apart from Isobel who, I can assure you, will never forget about you. But you have to go and choose a person—’ She waved her long-fingered hand at him. ‘All right! All right! Don’t disturb me further, Charles, please.’

  ‘Mama, if you would only see her, just talk to her for a few minutes.’

  ‘No, Charles, I could not do that. That would be a concession I do not wish to make. Being the person she is, she would likely take it as an acceptance and…’

  ‘Being the person she is, Mama, she would not take that as an acceptance. She is a highly independent young lady, and I stress the word “lady”, Mama; she is a young lady, intelligent and well read.’

  He didn’t know anything about the latter, for they hadn’t discussed books, but he gauged from how she talked that she was well versed in the happenings of her times, at least.

  ‘You are upsetting me, Charles.’

  ‘I don’t wish to, Mama, but that being so, I had better leave; I am all packed. If I may, though, I will come and see you often.’

  ‘Oh, Charles. Charles.’ Her hands were held out to him and he was forced to take them. And when she drew him down to her and her lips touched both his cheeks, for a moment he felt overcome with remorse. But only for a moment, because he realised he was on the receiving end of his mother’s strategy. He hadn’t thought this way until recently, when he had looked back to the times she had taken to her couch. This had happened when Henry had voiced his desire to go into the priesthood. All the men of the Farrier family and the McLeans, her maiden name, had served in the army. Then there was the time when he himself made up his mind to travel. There had been a short spell on the couch then, but not so long as that after he returned and said he was going to take up journalism. Only Reginald and Elaine hadn’t disappointed her.

  As he looked at her he compared her for a moment with Agnes. Would Agnes take a crisis lying down? No; she would stand up and fight, and likely lose, whereas how many victories over the years had been won by women like his mother from a chaise longue or a couch?

  ‘Goodbye, Mama. But it’s not goodbye; we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I’ll call in towards the end of the week, if I may?’

  He was halfway down the room when she said, ‘Charles. Charles, please.’

  When he stopped and turned she said, ‘Don’t do anything in a hurry. Don’t rush anything, please. Come back soon and we’ll talk it over. It’s better talked over, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, Mama, indeed, yes.’ He smiled at her now, then went out.

  Grace Farrier’s expression altered as she started towards the door. Then reaching out, she took a large bag from the table behind the couch and, opening it, she withdrew a letter that she had received from Reginald just that morning. It began: ‘Dearest Mama,’ then went on to ask after her health, then to tell of the stoppage on the line that caused him to get into barracks late. After this he inserted a joke: ‘The Colonel has waived a court-martial and has decided only to caution me by inviting me down to Gloucester next weekend.’ Then, in another paragraph, he wrote: ‘I saw the young lady in question, Mama, and I must give you my honest judgment. She is very presentable, well-spoken, intelligent, I would say, but of a strong character. Away from her family and the people she employs, I think she would be able to adapt herself to any situation. But these people, I fear, would always be her stumbling block, for she seems to have a strong sense of loyalty to them. Anyway, Mama, take heart, for, as the Colonel says, the army, with the help of God, designs battles, but it is the wives who carry out the manoeuvres. Your loving son, Reginald.’

  The wives that carry out the manoeuvres. But what manoeuvre could she carry out against this person of strong will and pleasing appearance and intelligence and of such character that she apparently could pass herself in society on a higher level to that which she had been bred?

  She would have to think. And this couch wasn’t going to help her in this case, although more and more of late she was wanting to lie on the couch and rest. But this was no time for rest, for she would rather die than accept a shop-girl into the family. She wouldn’t be able to bear the reactions of Hannah Pickering, and Kate Combes, and Sarah Hammond, and Jessica Freeman, and Connie Bretton-Fawcett. Oh, Connie and that daughter of hers. What debt they must have gone into to present her at court. And what of Cousin Clarence, the Bishop? Hugh must do something, he really must. She must see to it at once before the matter went any further. She’d have to be firm with Hugh. He must go and see this person; if she had any sensitivity at all she would recognise from his very approach that she could never hope to fit into his son’s life.

  Four

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you’ve never thought about leaving home before.’

  ‘Oh, I have, many times.’

  �
�But why Taughton Street? It isn’t a very nice street.’

  ‘It’s convenient, within easy distance of the station and the main thoroughfare, also the newspaper office…and you. Please, please, don’t look at me like that, my dear. I hate to see you looking troubled; I wouldn’t have troubled you for the world.’

  ‘Well, you do trouble me. What did your parents say? I mean, how did they take your leaving…?’

  ‘Darling, I am twenty-six years old. They said goodbye, look after yourself, don’t forget us, and so on.’

  ‘They didn’t. I know they didn’t, they wouldn’t. And I also feel, in fact I know, that they’ll say I’m the cause of your leaving.’

  ‘Listen, Miss Conway.’ He now went to put his arms around her, and when she winced, he said, ‘Oh, that arm! When will I be able to hug you? Anyway, you listen to me: it doesn’t matter what my parents think, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks or says. I love you and I’m going to marry you, if not next week, then next month, or next year. Oh, my dear!’ His tone changed and he brought her hand to his cheek and pressed it there as he said softly, ‘I doubt if I will ever be able to make you realise how much I love you. I’m even amazed at my own feelings for you. I never imagined I could feel like this about anyone. Your face, your manner, everything about you comes between me and everything I try to do. You’re the most beautiful…’

  ‘Please, don’t say that. I’m not beautiful. I doubt everything else you say when you insist on that.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you, my dear, I’ll go on insisting on that particular word connected with you until I die, because to me you are beautiful, not pretty, not good-looking, but beautiful. All right, it mightn’t have to do with your features but it’s something in your eyes, your voice, I don’t know. But to me you are, and I say it in capitals, BEAUTIFUL.’

  She leaned back from him, her expression soft and full of wonderment, because she had to believe him and all he said about her. Yet, it was so new. Her practical mind presented her with a picture so different from the one he held up before her, yet the outline and the shadow of it had been there since she first stepped out of her everyday clothes and into that lime-green and rose-coloured outfit, which could really be called an ensemble.

  And that was another thing. She knew she was only half educated; no, not even half, because she couldn’t say she was conversant with another language. For example, what French had been rammed into her at school might get her from the boat to an hotel, but very little further. Yet her father had paid good money for four years to Miss Thirkle in order that she should have a different education. And Jessie too. Oh, yes, Jessie had to be educated. But look what had happened to Jessie and her education. Yet she herself must have acquired something from the dame school that had lifted her above the ordinary rut. She could really consider herself as being on the level of the Miss Cardings. They in their turn had not only been to private schools but had travelled to France and Germany, and even to Italy. How well they spoke the language, she didn’t know. Perhaps not at all. Anyway, they recognised some quality in her that was different. That was why they wanted to dress her.

  Why was she sitting here thinking such trite thoughts? Was it because she thought she wasn’t fit to marry this man, this gentleman?

  No; that wasn’t true. Mentally she felt on a par with him. Well, did she love him enough to marry him? Oh, yes, she loved him. Her feelings for him were as strong as his professed feelings for her, but as yet she couldn’t openly admit to them because of the barrier, for in marrying her she felt sure he would be estranging himself from his family. As yet, she had only met his sister and his brother, but if she had not met them she would have still known that he came from a different world. The gulf between her present world and his was as wide as that between Jessie’s previous world and that of the Feltons. She herself could not countenance the Feltons, so, how did she expect Charles’ people to countenance her?

  She thought cynically now that if they had lived, say, in Jesmond or Gosforth and were known to own a sweetshop, a tobacconist’s and a factory—the size or quality need never have been mentioned—then she would have been looked upon as the daughter of a prosperous businessman. But when you lived above the shop and had recently figured in a scandal in which your father not only tried to kill your sister’s suitor, but also to shoot you, for so had run the gist of the headline in the papers, how far had you then sunk down the social scale in the eyes of people who held high-ranking positions in the army and who lived in a Hall and who doubtless had a stack of servants?

  ‘How many servants have you? I mean, your people?’ Why on earth had she asked that? And that’s what he said too.

  ‘Why on earth do you want to know that?’

  ‘It was just a thought, because now you’ll have to look after yourself. Anyway, how many did you have?’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you, in case you should ever visit my home. And I suppose it could be considered, although I’m living on my own now. There are…well, I’ll start with the housekeeper…’

  And so that’s what he did: he detailed the servants, both those in the house and those outside. And he ended with the word, ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Fourteen servants! For how many people? I mean…’

  ‘I know what you mean; generally only two, my parents, and of course me when I’m at home, and Reg when he’s on leave, and Henry also. Now, isn’t that shocking? But’—he now wagged his finger in her face—‘we are keeping fourteen people in work; in my travels I’ve seen many people who would have been glad to be in their shoes. They are well housed, well fed, well clothed, and get a wage.’

  She stared at him. for a moment as if considering; then she said simply, ‘But they’re all subordinate to your parents and to those of the household.’

  His face wore a tight expression for a moment before dissolving into a half-smile as he said, ‘You know, you could be a suffragette. And what do you exactly mean by subordinate? Have you ever thought of it? We are all subordinate to someone else. I’ve been subordinate to my parents. My father’s been subordinate to those in the army above him. Reg is subordinate to the officers above him. As for Henry…oh Henry, he’s subordinate to half the parish. He runs around after them like a hen on a clutch of chicks. And he’s certainly subordinate to the vicar above him, whom he can’t stand and who can’t stand him.’ His smile widened now. ‘Neither of them has yet heard about the love of God.’

  She bit on her lip before she said on a laugh, ‘You’re clever, aren’t you, at turning the tables? And you’re right; I’ve been subordinate to my people all my life, and they’ve used me.’

  ‘Kiss me.’ His face was close to hers.

  When her eyes widened and sparkled but she didn’t move, he demanded in a louder voice that startled her, ‘Kiss me, woman!’

  ‘My mother will…’

  ‘I know what your mother will do, she will hear me. Do you want me to give the command in a barrack-room tone, because I will. I was a sergeant in the OTC at school for quite some time. Now, madam, are you going to do what I ask or…’

  Her body was shaking as, in no gentle fashion, she leaned towards him and gave him what could only be called a smacker of a kiss. And he, laughing loudly now, said, ‘There you are, woman! You are subordinate to me now.’

  After a moment the laughter died away and they stared at each other in silence, until his arm came gently around her shoulder and he drew her to him, saying, ‘My dear, let us never demand anything the other cannot give freely. I don’t think you could love me as I love you, but whatever you have to give I will take gladly. But you do love me a little, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh Charles, Charles I…I do love you more than a little, more than I imagined I was ever capable of loving, because I never thought I would meet anyone like you.’

  ‘And isn’t it strange how we did meet, all through my taste for sugar mice. We must be married soon, my darling.’

  ‘But my father…he’s…’


  ‘Yes, I know. But in my opinion there’s no need for you to respect your father and his late demise, because it’s only by the grace of God or, as you say, the Felton woman’s pulling you aside, that saved your life. Oh, I wouldn’t consider the proprieties in this case. We…we can be married quietly.’

  ‘Charles.’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘I…I must see your parents before I give you my answer.’

  ‘But why? They have nothing to do with it, my dear.’

  ‘They have. As I see it, they have. And I suppose it’s a matter of pride: I…I want them to see you haven’t chosen someone, well, from the waterfront, and that they need not be ashamed of their son’s wife. I’ll dress in my best bib and tucker, but nevertheless I shall remain myself; I won’t present myself as someone else.’

  He stared at her in silence. ‘Very well, as you wish. I’ll arrange it.’

  She bent forward and kissed him quickly on the lips, then said, ‘But before you arrange that, sir, I’m going to go along to that street and see your new lodgings. And there’s no time like the present.’

  As he drew her from the couch, he said on a laugh, ‘I don’t know so much about subservience, but what I do know is who’s going to be on the receiving end of it in this partnership.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad we understand each other.’

  Their arms linked, their heads together, they went out of the room.

  Agnes was aghast at what she found in the so-called apartment. There was a bedroom, a small sitting room, and a small kitchen. The only thing she could say to its credit was that it was clean, because it was sparsely furnished.