The Obsession

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Oh no, you can’t, Mother. I mean it.’

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see . . .’

  They drank their coffee. They had one more glass of wine, parsnip this time. They talked, at least Catherine did, recalling the days in Tunbridge Wells, and Rye, and Hastings, and trips to Eastbourne and Brighton. Then after a time, when she sat for a while with her eyes closed, John said, ‘I think you’re for bed. Anyway, I want to see you tucked up before I leave.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right. It’s been a long day and a lovely day.’ She looked from one to the other and repeated, ‘A lovely day.’ And as he helped her to her feet and handed her her sticks, she said, ‘Now leave me alone; I can manage.’

  Beatrice was on her feet too, saying, ‘May I come and help you?’

  ‘Oh no!’ The protest was loud. ‘That’ll be the day when I need somebody to help me to take my clothes off. Goodnight, my dear. See you in the morning.’

  ‘Good night, Mrs Falconer; and thank you.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to thank me for, my dear, the thanks should be from me. Now you sit yourself down.’ She jerked her head towards her son. ‘Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be all tucked up.’

  ‘Very well; fifteen minutes.’

  They both remained standing watching her hobble from the room; then John, turning to Beatrice and holding out his hand said, ‘Come and sit down.’

  He did not actually touch her but she looked at him a moment before taking her seat again at one corner of the couch while he dropped down onto the other end and, lying back and stretching out his legs, he said, ‘I’ve never seen her so happy and contented for years. She missed my father terribly, and I couldn’t fill his place.’

  ‘Oh, you fill her life now.’

  He turned to look at her. She, too, was lying back and looking relaxed. He had never seen her look so relaxed and, could he say, happy? Over these past months he had got to know her in a way he would never previously have imagined. The young madam he remembered appeared to have never been. Yet, he was well aware it must still be there, but her better nature, which hadn’t been given rein, had now come to the fore and made her into an attractive, pretty young woman. Yes, and she was pretty. She hadn’t a figure like her sisters, for both Helen and Rosie were sylph-like; Marion perhaps had been inclined to plumpness, as was Beatrice herself, but it was a rounded and attractive plumpness. Above all, he would never have imagined he could grow fond of her, but he had. She had been so kind and thoughtful to his mother, too; and his mother’s opinion of her was that she was a first-class girl.

  She broke into his thoughts by saying quietly, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever experience another Christmas like this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s been exceptional, in all ways. I imagined there would be just Rosie and me, and she would be spending most of her time next door, and . . . and I’d be on my own. When Grandpapa and Grandmama were here, and Mother and Father, and Helen, Marion and Rosie, I used to think I wouldn’t mind being on my own. The house always seemed packed with people. Sometimes I longed to be on my own, but . . . but not lately.’ Her voice was very low now, and she brought herself upwards to the edge of the couch and pressed her joined hands on her knees. And, her head turning slowly towards him, she said, ‘Do you know what it’s like to feel lonely? Not only lonely, but one alone, and out of it?’

  He, too, had hitched himself upright and, after a moment’s thought, he said, ‘Not lonely in that way. But, you know, Beatrice, there is a feeling of what I call aloneness in most of us. There are parts of us that are empty and need to be filled—’ he shook his head now, he couldn’t voice the word love, but in a hesitant way he went on, ‘until it’s filled with something, companionship, affection. I’m . . . I’m sorry, Beatrice, you have felt like this. I never guessed. Then no-one knows what goes on in another’s mind. But don’t be sad, or you’ll spoil the day.’ He put out his hand and laid it on hers now, and he recalled that he had done this once before and that it had made her cry; and it was doing the same again, for her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Hitching himself closer to her, he exclaimed, ‘Oh! my dear, dear Beatrice. Please! If Mother sees you’ve been crying she’ll kill me.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s . . . it’s just because I’m happy. I . . . I feel needed now’ – her eyes were looking into his – ‘I . . . I have a friend in you.’

  ‘Oh yes, Beatrice, you can rely on that.’ He was shaking her two closed hands between his own now. And when a voice from deep within him said, Careful, careful, he answered it loudly, Why? She takes care of Mother. She’s kind, and I’m fond of her. Yes. Yes, I’ve grown fond of her. And what else is there for me? The past is dead. Very dead. In fact, it was never born; at least, it was never given birth; it was strangled by time in just being too late. So what is there for me? Who do I meet at old Cornwallis’s dinners? His married contemporaries and their wives, with dizzy young daughters, sometimes a settled spinster. And he must say he preferred the spinster to the dizzy ones, especially the sixteen-year-old one, who had developed all kinds of ailments to take her to his surgery, until he had the option either of actually being rude to her or of putting the case to Cornwallis. He chose the latter, after which her visits ceased, only to learn that the young lady in question said she hated Doctor Falconer, and that he didn’t know his job and nobody should go to him. Such were the passions of youth.

  But here he was facing a different case altogether. Beatrice was a very presentable young woman. Moreover, she was the owner of this beautiful house, even though it was mortgaged to the hilt. But apart from what she could offer, there was herself. She was thoughtful, as her attention to his mother had shown. And she was good company. She was surprisingly well read, which must have developed from her loneliness and feeling apart from the others. Of course, she still had the traits of her father showing in her; and she had a feeling for land, and definitely for the house.

  ‘I’ve . . . I’ve embarrassed you.’ Her voice came to him softly, and he shook his head and vehemently denied her statement by saying, ‘Embarrassed me? Don’t be silly, dear. It’s the reverse, you’ve . . . you’ve made me think, and . . . and of the future. But there’ – he dropped her hand and shrugged his shoulders – ‘I know what my future is: I may have my own practice one of these days and that’s as far as it will ever go. No honour or glory for me. Anyway, you only get those when you start cutting people up and you take out the right parts and manage not to leave any instruments inside.’

  They were both laughing now, their heads almost together. But her next words took the smile from his face as she said, ‘I wouldn’t mind if you hadn’t a penny, now or at any other time.’

  There was a long pause before he said, ‘Oh, Beatrice.’ Her head was drooped right down on her chest now as she muttered, ‘I . . . I can’t help it. It’s . . . it’s the way I feel about you. There.’ Her head came up and the tears were splashing down her face now, and her voice was thick, as she muttered, ‘This kind of thing is never done by young ladies. But . . . but as I said, I can’t help it. I . . . I don’t suppose I would have had the courage if it hadn’t been for—’ she gave a wry smile and pointed her thumb towards the table on which were a number of bottles and glasses. ‘But . . . but please, forget it. At least we’ll both forget it by tomorrow morning. As . . . as long as you’ll be my friend, that . . . that will be enough.’

  He had his hands on her shoulders now and his voice was quiet, as he said, ‘Beatrice. Look at me.’ And when she looked at him, he said, ‘Would you marry me?’

  Her eyes were screwed up tight: the tears were streaming from her eyes and she was unable to speak as his arms went about her, and she fell against him.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear, it’s all right.’ As he stroked her hair he felt a surge of feeling sweep through him. He couldn’
t put a name to it. It wasn’t passion. Was it love? It was something. Compassion, perhaps. Yes. Yes, compassion. But even more than that. Pity? . . . Well, no, no. She wasn’t the kind of person you could pity. She was too strong and . . . and she loved him. It was good to be loved. Oh yes, it was good to be loved. He held her closer, and when she actually moaned, he lifted her face from his shoulder and put his lips on hers. And at this her arms went round his neck and she returned his embrace with such fervour that he felt humbled at the feeling she was expressing. A moment later they were standing apart and he was wiping her eyes, as he said, ‘Well, if Mother’s weakness has brought this about, let us drink to it, eh? We’ll have parsnip this time; it isn’t so potent.’

  As he was about to move from her, she said, ‘You might be sorry in the morning.’

  ‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not drunk. It takes a lot of that stuff to get me over the top. I’ve been seasoned to it from a boy. I admit it damps down the worries of the day, but drunk? No. And tomorrow morning I’ll just feel the same.’

  ‘Oh John. You’ll never know what you’ve done for me.’

  ‘You’ll likely have to pay for it, my dear. I’m bad tempered, I’m taciturn, I’m unstable, at least in my times, coming and going: as my mother has always told me, I’m never to be found five minutes in the same place.’

  She now dabbed her face with her own handkerchief as she smiled and said, ‘I’ll put up with all that, dear.’

  And she knew she would. No matter what his foibles were, she would welcome them, because he would be hers. Her husband. She would be a married woman, a wife. She suddenly thought of Helen and a wave of emotion, not untouched with fear, swept over her. Yet, at the same time she knew an elation. Helen was married to a man twice her age, and she knew now as she had known then, that her main object in marrying Leonard had been to get away from here, and from her. Yes, from her, because there had never been any love between them. But now she was marrying someone younger, good looking, attractive and a doctor.

  As she watched John pouring out the parsnip wine she had a great longing for it to be morning, for his reactions next day would confirm that it was no dream and he wasn’t regretting what had happened tonight. On this thought she stiffened. She wouldn’t let him forget. He mustn’t, he had given his word, he had. She closed her eyes for a moment and told herself to be calm.

  ‘To us.’ Her eyes sprang wide. She took the glass from him and smiled as she repeated softly, ‘To us,’ while the words in her head were loud, ringing. ‘To us. To us. Oh yes, to us.’

  Eight

  Looking back, Rosie remembered the shock she received when, in the New Year, she had returned home to be met by a radiant Beatrice. She recalled how first she had been surprised by the happy expression on her face, and of the gaiety in her voice as she had welcomed her back. Then later, in the study, Beatrice had poured out her news. At first she had made no response to it, and the old Beatrice showed itself when she cried, ‘Why are you looking like that? Why shouldn’t I be engaged?’ and she had spluttered, ‘N-n-no reason at all, only it’s . . . a shock, a surprise.’

  ‘That John . . . the doctor, should love me?’

  The doctor love her? Rosie recalled she had almost said the words out loud, except that she would have changed the word, ‘her’ to ‘you’. She had again stammered, as she said, ‘We – well, it – it’s so unexpected. I mean, I never knew you loved him.’

  ‘There’s lots of things about me you don’t know.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Beatrice, you’re right there.’ She had nodded at her, then added, ‘But I am glad for you.’

  The rest of the conversation had been stilted and she had gone upstairs and changed her clothes. And when Beatrice saw her in her old coat and hat, which meant she was going next door, she had looked at her and said flatly, ‘What has happened makes no difference to my opinion of our neighbours and your constant visits there,’ to which she had answered briefly, ‘It makes no difference to me, either, Beatrice.’ . . .

  Both Robbie and Annie had welcomed her back so warmly that she felt she was really home. But when Mrs Annie said to her, ‘Now give me your news of Helen,’ she had replied, ‘I’ll deal with my visit and Helen later; first, I’ll give you the doorstep news.’ And when she had told them, they both stared in disbelief and said, ‘The doctor and Beatrice?’ with Robbie further remarking, ‘He’s such a sensible fellow. When did this happen?’

  ‘From our brief snatches of conversation, I understand it was on the evening of Christmas Day.’

  ‘He must have been drunk.’ Annie had bobbed her head. ‘That’s it. And let me tell you, lass, you can get drunk, more drunk on home-made wine than the real stuff. I should know.’ And she had bobbed her head again as if there were a story behind her words.

  ‘Well, there’s one thing for sure,’ Rosie said; ‘she’ll be no longer on her own and needing me; and so I shall get myself work of some kind.’

  ‘Work?’ Robbie had turned on her. ‘Work? What kind of work can you do? You’d have to go to one of these secretarial colleges or something like that to learn.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go to a secretarial college, I would go on a farm. I’ve had enough experience here, haven’t I? She looked from one to the other. ‘I have dealt with horses, cows, pigs and all the lesser breeds, haven’t I, for years now? So, don’t you think I’m qualified to get a job on a farm?’

  Robbie and his mother had looked at each other, and Robbie then said, ‘Aye, yes; you’ve had plenty of experience, with a couple of horses, a couple of cows and a couple of pigs.’

  And at this she had put in, ‘And don’t forget your main trade, cabbage, onions, carrots, leeks, the lot on the ground, besides the stuff clinging to the wall.’

  The response to this had been that both Robbie and his mother laughed loudly. And after a moment Rosie’s voice joined theirs; and then she said, ‘Well, you see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, lass, I see what you mean.’ Annie sat down at the other side of the table and she said, ‘I’m not making this up.’ She glanced over at her son now, asking, ‘Am I?’

  ‘If you’re going to say what I think you’re going to say, no, you’re not making it up, Mam.’

  Again Annie had looked at Rosie, then said, ‘Only yesterday, he there’ – she nodded towards her son – ‘was making enquiries in the market to see if there was any young fellow he could take on as a helper, an apprentice, sort of, you know. That’s right, isn’t it?’ She had again looked at Robbie, and he nodded at Rosie, saying, ‘Yes, that’s quite right. We’re not making it up; in fact, I’ve got two young fellows coming to see me today. If you stay long enough you’ll meet them. But what Mam’s trying to say is, there could be three applicants. D’you get me?’

  Rosie, so to speak, got him, and her face brightened and she said, ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. You see, as I’ve only the two horses and they’re inside most of the winter, that field down there, half of it at least, is wasted. So, the idea was to grow more. The town’s spreading: they’ll take as much as I can give them and pay my price. The land that’s being built on now used to be allotments. Well, what d’you say?’

  ‘Oh, I’d love that,’ said Rosie. ‘Oh, yes.’ And she thrust her hands across the table towards the older woman and, gripping them, she said, ‘It would be a relief to be out of the house all day, and just have to go back there at night. And she surely won’t put up much resistance to it now. Anyway’ – she shrugged her shoulders – ‘she’s different. It shows in her face. I know she’s twenty-four, and an oldish twenty-four; but today she seems younger than me.’ And now smiling at Robbie, she said, ‘And will I be paid? Well, of course I’ll be paid, but how much?’

  ‘Huh! It’s started’ – he nodded at his mother – ‘the money business. That’s what one of them said to me in the market, “How muc
h?” Well, miss—’ his eyes on her again, his face took on a dark stern look as he said, ‘it all depends on your capabilities, Miss Steel. If you come up to expectations you’ll get ten shillings a week to start with and your grub. And I’d like to bet that’s twice as much as your sister pays her cook.’

  Rosie did not come back at him with any jocular remark but, looking down towards the table, she said, ‘You know, I’ve never had any money of my own; everything used to be bought for me. I was sometimes given a shilling, but that was for a birthday, to spend on sweets. However, since Father died, there has been nothing. She . . . Beatrice, reluctantly paid for my train fare to Helen’s and I had nothing with which to buy Christmas presents. I felt awful. But Helen was kind. Helen is kind, always was. I . . . I would have loved to stay down there, and I could have, only they are going to Switzerland: Leonard is not well, he’s had to come out the Army, and he has to spend some months there. And you know what?’ As she now looked from one to the other her eyes were moist as she said, ‘Helen gave me five pounds before I left and they had given me so many presents at Christmas.’

  ‘Don’t cry, lass. Don’t cry. Anyway, you’ll always have Helen. And although we are poor substitutes, you’ve got us.’

  Rosie’s lids blinked rapidly and she said, ‘Oh, yes, I’ve got you both. And you know something? I wouldn’t be here without you; I would have run away, done something quite stupid. You know I used to be airy-fairy, mad-hatter, more like a boy than a girl, but a dreaming one, I was always dreaming. But no more, no more.’

  When her head drooped again Annie said briskly, ‘Well, if you’re going to start work, miss, there’s no time like the present, and we’re not going to pay you for sitting there guzzling tea and eating me best scones. They were for the tea, anyway. Now, come on, get yourself up and let’s get outside.’