Kate Hannigan's Girl

by Catherine Cookson

  Father Bailey could not resist what he considered a well-merited dig. ‘Doctor, I used to hear a lot of talk about spiritual freedom. Where is it now? As I said, I don’t want her to go in, but I’ve been given to understand from time to time that she’s an independent human being.’

  At the look on Rodney’s face, and seeing the writhing of Kate’s body, the priest said, ‘Forgive me; I shouldn’t hit out like that. But it’s a long time since I’ve been so disturbed.’ He smiled faintly at Rodney. ‘Would it be presuming on your hospitality, doctor, if I were to ask if you had…just a little drop…?’

  Rodney’s face cleared. ‘Of course, father. The very thing! I should have thought about it before. That’s what we all need.’

  He cast a grateful, almost affectionate glance towards the priest and went out. And Father Bailey, moving over to Kate’s side, sat down beside her and, taking her hand, patted it gently.

  As she listened to the Mother Superior speaking, Annie knew that Father Bailey had been here before her. The Mother Superior was kind. Of course she would like Annie to come in. But shouldn’t she pray on the matter? And hadn’t she another year to do at college? If she was of the same mind when she finished, then nothing should stand in her way.

  The faces of Father Bailey, Kate and Rodney rose before Annie, all asking the same thing, all strangely joined in one force. Six months they asked her to wait…She said, quietly, ‘Will you take me in six months, if I come then?’

  The Mother Superior went through the motion of gently washing her hands. Yes…yes, she would take her then.

  She rang a bell, gave Annie her blessing, and told the nun who appeared to show Annie out by the west gate.

  Annie hesitated; she wanted to see Sister Ann. Then, looking at the Mother Superior’s calm and expressionless face, she knew the reason why she was being escorted out: so that she wouldn’t see Sister Ann.

  Why were they all against her? Sister Ann was the only one who would understand …

  Annie thought it was impossible to be more miserable than she had been at the beginning of term, but now she found there were different grades of misery. During this week, while she had been at home, Kate’s effort to act normally pained her to such a degree that at times she nearly cried out, ‘All right! All right, I won’t do it!’

  On this particular Saturday Kate was going about in a state of such high tension that Annie became uneasy. Rising above her own misery was a deep concern for Kate, whose anxiety she couldn’t bear to witness. So most of the time she kept to her own room. She was sitting there now, reading a life of Saint Teresa. It was part of the preparation she had set herself, and such books had to be read away from Kate’s eyes.

  Kate’s voice came to her now from the hall, calling excitedly, ‘Annie! Annie! Rosie’s records have come.’ On hearing this, Annie left the room swiftly and met Kate on the stairs, a little of her old eagerness showing again. ‘Rodney’s putting them on.’ Kate held out her hand in the old gesture and Annie placed hers in it. They ran down the remaining stairs and went into the drawing room together.

  ‘Shh!’ warned Rodney as he placed the needle in position. Their troubles forgotten for the time being, they smiled at each other and sat down.

  The record started, bringing a thin silver wail of violins into the room. Then a soprano voice sang: ‘Christe Eleison’. When Rosie’s voice answered, ‘Eleison’, they looked at each other, smiling and nodding excitedly. The voice was clear and full, and conveyed tremendous power. On it went, answering, answering. The bass vibrated ‘E…lei…ison…E…lei…ison.’ One after the other, the solo voices took it up. Then the choir came in, and wave on wave of voices rose to the heavens, forcing acknowledgement, defying death, soaring above it. Gradually the voices sank and became steady, like souls plodding, marching to a known destiny. A trumpet called, gently at first, then louder, as if to blast the gates themselves.

  Rosie’s voice came alone now, each syllable distinct and beautiful. The soprano joined her, their voices blending. Then, with a strange suddenness, the choir burst upon them for a second, after which all the voices ceased abruptly. Into the silence drifted the tenor’s voice, his notes like sunspangled water falling through space: ‘Benedictus…benedictus.’ The bass answered, ‘Benedictus.’ The violins rippled…the voices rose, rose, then fell away, to fall into silence: ‘Requiem…Amen.’

  The record stopped, and as Rodney turned it Annie thought, I can’t stay to hear any more, it’s too beautiful, I can’t bear it.

  But she sat on, crouched in the chair. The writing in Terence’s book came back to her; there was a piece which explained this feeling, and she had condemned it as exaggerated…How had it gone? Take from me this beauty I have craved, it is past my power to bear …

  The second part of the Mass began. ‘Jesu Christe …’ The voices came now hopeful and joyous. Annie allowed herself to be borne away on them. ‘Sanctus…sanctus…Hosanna in excelsis …’

  This was how it would be in the convent, this was how one felt when one’s life was given to God. The voices were like waves of tangible feeling floating about her.

  She didn’t notice the changing of the records. Rosie sang with the soprano ‘Qui tollis peccata mundi’…Drums beat, the sopranos of the choir sang as with one throat, and Rosie broke in sharply with a clarion call. The choir ebbed and flowed about her, the male voices rising to her; but that clear, beautiful bell tone soared above them and was alone. Then, as if at a word of command, it dropped to a whisper. The whisper was repeated, then…finish.

  They sat quite still. Who would have thought that voice could belong to Rosie Mullen? Through a daze of feeling, Annie heard Kate crying quietly and saying, ‘All because you gave her that chance the night you heard her sing “My heart’s in the Highlands”, Rodney.’

  Rosie had something now. She had a career, a wonderful career, before her; but would it make up for Michael? They too would have loved one another had it not been for Cathleen.

  Annie had not seen Rosie for weeks, but she’d had a letter from her in which she blamed herself for all that had happened to Michael. And although Rosie didn’t know exactly what had taken place between Terence and Annie, she felt that her taunting of Cathleen that afternoon must have had some bearing on it, for she remembered the terrible look Cathleen gave her. Mention of Rosie’s feelings was noticeably absent throughout the letter, but, gauged by her own suffering, Annie knew what they must be…Why was it everything had gone wrong at once? But why ask such a question when the answer lay in the one word: Cathleen.

  Rodney’s voice sounded thick as he said, ‘Well done, Rosie! It was almost as good as being there.’

  ‘You can understand now, can’t you,’ said Kate, ‘why the old man cried and cried, although it’s hard to imagine Mr Mullen crying.’

  ‘It must have been very impressive; it’s a pity we couldn’t have gone,’ said Rodney.

  Thinking herself unnoticed, Annie went quietly out and upstairs again. At least Rosie had something sure …

  15

  Usually on a Saturday they all went out together, generally to Newcastle. But today neither Kate nor Rodney made any mention of going. And when David demanded to be taken to see the shops he was told that Mammy had a headache.

  As the afternoon wore on, Annie felt she could bear the house no longer. A slight drizzle was falling and the day was cold and raw, but she put on a mackintosh and went out, saying in answer to Kate’s enquiry, ‘I’m just going to take a short walk along the cliffs.’

  Immediately she was gone, Rodney said, ‘My dear, you must calm yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t. If only he’d come.’

  ‘It’s a long journey. Do you think she might suspect?’

  ‘No, no. As he said, she wouldn’t expect him, for she would know he couldn’t afford the fare.’

  ‘Poor devil.’

  ‘But mind, my dear, whatever you do don’t suggest or offer …’

  ‘Of course I won’t. I wouldn’
t dream.’

  ‘Well, it’s just because he’d be up in arms. I could tell from his letters…When I sent the money I told him just how well acquainted I had been with poverty, and I impressed upon him it was merely a loan.’

  ‘I think you should have told him what she intends doing. You were wrong not to prepare him.’

  ‘No…It might have had some effect on him; it’s better that he shouldn’t know, and then he can act more naturally. But his talk about things he wrote in a book puzzles me; I can’t understand it.’

  Kate, watching from the drawing-room window, saw Terence pass by the main gate. He was looking towards the house, and she rapped sharply on the windowpane before running out. They met half-way up the path and shook hands warmly.

  ‘Oh, Terence, I’m so glad to see you. It was good of you to come.’

  ‘I wanted to come…Where is she?’

  ‘She’s gone for a walk over the cliffs.’

  ‘Well, I’ll drop my case in home and go and see if I can find her. If I can’t, I’ll come back here.’

  ‘Terence…be firm with her. Make…make her see that you love her.’ Noticing his drawn face, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, you look tired! It’s such a long journey.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘I’ve written to her every week…twice a week. You’d have thought she would send me some sort of answer. I wouldn’t have believed she could be so hard. And all over a…some silly writing in a book.’

  ‘What book?’ asked Kate; then put in hurriedly, ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter now. Find her, and put it right, and then come back to tea. Oh Terence,’—she gripped his hand again—‘if you make her see reason I’ll…I’ll never be able to repay you.’

  He stared hard at her. ‘Is there something else wrong? Is it not just the book? I’m all at sea …’

  ‘Go and find her, Terence. Tell her you love her. Make her see that.’ She almost pushed him away; then followed him to the gate, and watched him hurry up the lane.

  Terence had been out half an hour when he saw Annie. She looked like a grey smudge against the trunk of the tree under which she was sheltering from the rain, which was now falling steadily. He pulled up abruptly, and shook his head to dislodge the wet from his hair. Then, wiping his neck and face with his handkerchief, he moved over the grass towards her, giving himself time, whispering caution and calmness to the turmoil within.

  He was within some yards of her before she saw him. She still leant against the trunk, but her hands came out of her pockets and wavered a second before she put them behind her. It looked a childish gesture, an act of protection used by the young, a survival from her childhood, and it touched him. He approached her more slowly still, his hands hanging limp by his sides.

  When he came under the shelter of the tree he stopped, his eyes holding hers, forcing her to look at him. And as he watched he saw their expression change from a frightened, trapped look to a staring cold look of dislike. He made a quick movement towards her, saying, ‘Annie! Annie!’

  At the same time, she cried out, ‘Don’t! Don’t touch me!’

  He halted within a foot of her. They were so close that their steaming breaths wafted in quick gusts about each other’s face. ‘Why?’ he asked flatly.

  When she made no reply, he went on, ‘I’ve got to know why. Annie…Annie, darling, the writing in that book was just stupid…nonsense. If it’s that piece about Cathleen that has upset you, why…it was just sheer imagination, built up from a little incident. I’ll explain it. Look—’

  Only inches separated them. She was pressing her body tight against the trunk.

  ‘I love you, Annie. God, I can’t go on like this!’

  His arms were about her and she was pulled from the tree and held against him. Her face was under his, and he cried, ‘Don’t you see…don’t you see there’s no-one but you? Never has been.’

  She grew stiffer, and he cried to her, ‘Annie! Annie!’ as if he was recalling her from unconsciousness. But she didn’t unbend, and for a moment he became mad. His hands moved, pressing her into him as if to infuse life into her body. He kept murmuring, ‘Annie, Annie,’ but she remained unresponsive. Her head was pressed back from him, and not until his lips came seeking hers did she struggle.

  Then, without warning, she went limp; it was not a sign of surrender, it was the relaxing into nothing, into lifelessness. She seemed to shrink and to become small in his arms. With a sudden gesture he let her go, and she lay back against the tree again, not even panting. He shook his head helplessly, pain and bewilderment showing in his face.

  She said quite suddenly, in a clear, almost calm voice, ‘Do you remember Warrington’s field? And the sheltered hollow running down to the river?’

  ‘What?’ It was barely a whisper. His brows contracted, and his lips pressed together.

  ‘You used to camp there. Do you remember?’

  He became quite still; his hand on the way to his pocket stopped in mid-air.

  ‘You camped there the first week of your Easter vac…The weather was fine.’

  In the ensuing silence, his hand dropped trembling to his pocket. He took out his handkerchief, and as he passed it once again over his face, he groaned to himself, God! No, she can’t know that. She mustn’t know that! Cathleen couldn’t have been so vile.

  Annie stretched herself against the tree. Her hands were now on the bark, rubbing up and down it. ‘Cathleen Davidson stayed there with you one night.’

  ‘Annie,’ he groaned aloud, his eyes pleading into hers.

  But she went on: ‘She explained it to me in detail. And she told me to describe it to you in case she had left anything out.’

  ‘Don’t! I tell you, don’t!’ His face was scarlet; it was as if all the blood in his body had rushed there.

  ‘She said you and she …’

  She stopped. Her lips formed the words but no sound came. It was an odd sensation. The words were engraved on her mind; she had been determined to say them and, in saying them, to rid herself for ever of their picture.

  She looked at him. He stood with his head bowed before her, his face running wet with sweat, not rain, and she knew she could never say, ‘You undressed her. You both ran naked in the field. You ran down to the stream and swam together. Then you lay the remainder of the night in the tent…not sleeping.’

  The rain, weighing now on the leaves, began to fall through in large plops. They could hear the surge of the sea on the rocks.

  After a long time, Terence raised his head. ‘I understand now.’ His voice was tired and lifeless. ‘But there’s one thing you should know…I didn’t take her there; she came. And whether you believe it or not, I have never loved her…Yes, I know,’ he went on as she moved impatiently, ‘you can’t understand that. You are making the mistake of all youth, you are valuing love in terms of sex…Annie, that’s only part of one, a small part…don’t you see?’

  She said coldly, ‘Don’t say again to me that I am young.’ Then added, ‘Would you have married her if she’d had a child?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he said heatedly. ‘There was never any question of that. It only happened…that once; I can swear on that. And…and I wasn’t the first, by any means…she was too well versed …’

  ‘Then why did you run away?’

  He drew his brows down in a questioning frown: ‘What?’

  ‘You dashed back to Oxford without seeing her, and she had to go there to you because she thought she might be having a …’

  ‘That’s a damned lie!’ The red drained from his face, leaving it clay-coloured under the tan. ‘I went back in a hurry because I wanted to finish with her, for I knew I was in love with you. I wrote and told her it was finished. She took it all right, because she still wanted to keep in touch with me. She already had her eye on John Dane Dee; it was him she came up to see.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Annie; ‘it could have been.’

  ‘It couldn’t!’ He was becoming angry. ‘I know I did wrong. But
it wasn’t with an innocent girl. If there was any seducing to be done, she did it.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Annie cried; ‘I want to hear no more.’

  ‘You emphasised how grown-up you are, so you shall hear. It’s a fallacy that men are always the seducers, it’s often the other way about. And anyway, if I’d given her ten babies I wouldn’t have married her. I am well aware of why you ask that question, so now you know! You lay too much stock on the matter of legitimacy. Do you think your mother would have been happier married to a man who—?’

  ‘Shut up! You…shut up!’ For a moment she felt she was back in the fifteen streets, yelling and screaming raucously.

  The rain pattered about them.

  He said softly, ‘I’m sorry. Oh! I’m sorry. I know how you feel about it, but I have the greatest respect for Kate…the greatest respect.’

  Her eyes had taken on the colour of the wet grass, and she was gasping as she said, ‘She sent for you, didn’t she?’

  He made no reply.

  ‘I can see,’ she went on, ‘that she didn’t tell you what I am going to do.’

  He remained silent, waiting, watching her as she straightened herself and stood away from the tree. ‘She shouldn’t have brought you home; it will make no difference, for I am going into the Church.’

  She had been looking away towards the sea, but she turned her eyes on him now and saw that he didn’t really comprehend her meaning. She added more gently, ‘I am going to be a nun.’

  As she watched the quick spasms of feeling ripple over his face, she thought he was about to burst into hilarious laughter, as Brian had done. But his features were contorted in pain, and he gasped out: ‘No! Annie…not because of me. Not that!’

  She said, almost with pity, ‘It isn’t only this. I had thought of it before…long before.’

  ‘No!’ he said again, taking a step towards her. ‘You can’t do that just because I…Annie, don’t let me do that to you!’