The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  When Watford returned to the nursery on that particular occasion she had been accompanied by her friend, Ada Rawlings, and she had pointed towards herself, saying under her breath, ‘There, what did I tell you, she hasn’t moved.’ And then she had said loudly, ‘All right, Miss Annabella?’ And to this she had answered, ‘Yes, Watford, thank you.’ The two girls had then gone into the day room and continued to talk, but again under their breath, yet she could hear everything they said distinctly. She did not know that her hearing was acute, nor did they, and so she had heard Ada Rawlings say, ‘Sitting there like an old woman dreaming of her Egypt.’ And she had pondered this saying. What was dreaming of her Egypt? She knew about Egypt. Mama had come to it in the history lesson. Egypt was a place of sand and stone; the stone things were graves called pyramids and the great stretches of sand were called deserts. She was very interested in sand because her papa was interested in sand. You couldn’t make glass without sand, he said.

  Then Watford and Rawlings had gone on to talk about the ‘Hoppings’. They didn’t lower their voices very much when they were talking about the Hoppings and the switchbacks, cakewalks, roundabouts, and fisticuff bouts. One day at the beginning of last month nearly all the staff had gone to the Hoppings in Newcastle; they had been driven away on flat carts. Her mama and she had watched them from the gallery window as they drove down the east drive. Her papa, too, had gone to the Hoppings but he, as usual, went in his carriage down the west drive. She had asked her mama what a hopping was and her mama had explained that it was a race meeting surrounded by a fair, and she had asked her, ‘Will I ever go to a hopping?’ and her mama had answered quietly, ‘No, dear, you will never go to a hopping.’

  She had felt a little sorry about this because for days she had felt a sort of excitement running through the house and all because of the Hoppings. Everybody seemed to be happy at the thought of the Hoppings – everybody that is except Alice, and Harris, and Mrs Page, and the cook, because these, like her mama, were excluded from going.

  The day after the Hoppings Rawlings had talked about Cargill putting his arms about her and kissing her. Cargill must love Rawlings. She conjured up a mental picture of Cargill, and she couldn’t imagine anyone loving him in return, not even Rawlings.

  She was sitting finishing her breakfast when Watford came in, again accompanied by Ada Rawlings, and Watford, looking at her, said, ‘That’s a good girl’; then turning to her friend she added, ‘She’s seven the morrow.’

  ‘My! there’s an age.’ Ada Rawlings nodded her round red face towards her. ‘Do you feel seven, Miss Annabella?’

  ‘I don’t know, Rawlings.’

  ‘What you goin’ to get for your birthday?’

  Again she said, ‘I don’t know yet, Rawlings.’

  ‘You will the night when your mama comes back I expect.’

  ‘Yes, Rawlings.’

  Rawlings nodded at her; then answering a jerk from Watford’s head she followed her friend into the day room, and Annabella sat listening to their conversation, and although she didn’t understand the underlying meaning of what they said their words troubled her. It was Ada Rawlings who asked, ‘What’s she gone for in such a stew?’

  ‘Your guess’s as good as mine. There’s only one thing, money.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll get it?’

  ‘With her uncle hating him as he does, not a hope.’

  ‘But it’s her own money, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, it might be, but her uncle’s her trustee and will be for another two years. When she’s thirty she’ll get it . . . what’s left of it.’

  ‘You know, Betty, I’m sorry for her at times, you never see her smile. I’ve been in this house for four years an’ I’ve never seen that woman smile.’

  ‘Well, it’s her own fault; she should never have taken him on, not a fellow like him. He wanted somebody who’d stand up to him. Any road, she should have had the sense to know he wasn’t marrying her for her looks, or even as a bed warmer.’

  The two girls began to giggle, and Annabella who had been staring towards the partly open door bowed her head and looked down on the breakfast tray that held a miniature silver coffee service and fragile china. When she next lifted her head it was to the words, ‘How many do you think he’s had?’ This was followed by another laugh and Watford saying, ‘You askin’ me that, and I can only count up to ten!’

  ‘It’s a week since he was out, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, but you saw he managed the stairs this mornin’, didn’t he?’

  ‘Aye, I know that, but it cost him something. His face was grey; he should have that hip seen to.’

  ‘Well, he did, didn’t he? An’ the doctor said rest. That’s all you can do for sprained sinews, rest; but fancy him restin’, huh! He must be feeling like a caged lion in there.’

  ‘It’s a wonder he hasn’t had his pals over, especially young Rosier. He’s a lad an’ all.’

  ‘Well, I’d say this mornin’s trip is the reason why he’s behaved hisself. He wanted her to dip into the coffers again and although she’s quiet-like she’s stubborn. Oh, aye. Under that “Come to Jesus look” she’s as stubborn as a mule. But oh, if she only knew the half there’d be some kickin’. Still, what the eyes don’t see the heart don’t grieve over, so they say.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what they say, and, God Almighty, it’s a good job she can’t see everything he gets up to. But you know something, Betty; give me him any day in the week afore her. I’d rather have a bawling from him than one look from her. And that’s what John says an’ all. He says he’d rather have a kick in the arse than a hunk of scripture cake any day. He can’t stand the damned daily prayers; he says you should be left to make your own mind up for or against.’

  ‘Well, he would think like that, wouldn’t he. He’d be a hypocrite if he didn’t with the messages he’s got to go. It’s a wonder he isn’t picked up by the pollis every time he enters Shields.’

  ‘Oh, aye, you’re right there. You know, I just thought the other Sunday when I saw the master takin’ his place in the pew, I thought, Eeh! God, but you’ve got a nerve, ’cos John had just told me five minutes afore that he’d driven one home at four o’clock in the mornin’; he was dead beat and in no good mood else he wouldn’t have told me. He doesn’t tell me everything you know . . . Just as well.’

  Something about this part of the conversation made Annabella rise from the table and push her chair roughly back. The sound brought the girls to the door, and Watford asked, ‘You finished, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, Watford, thank you.’

  ‘You go into the schoolroom and read for a bit and then I’ll take you for a walk when the weather clears.’

  ‘I’d rather go into the gallery.’

  Watford paused for a moment, then said, ‘All right. But mind, just sit still, no running about or playin’ games until I come. Don’t go past the end window, understand?’

  ‘Yes, Watford.’

  ‘Turn round and I’ll take your pinny off.’

  Obediently Annabella turned round and Watford undid the silk ribbons at the back of the neck and at the waist; then she ran a comb through the long, brown hair, while saying to her friend, ‘If you don’t comb it practically every hour it gets full of tats.’

  ‘You have lovely hair, Miss Annabella.’ Ada Rawlings bent down towards the child and spoke in a loud voice as if to someone deaf, and Annabella replied politely, ‘Yes, Rawlings.’ Then after a moment added, as her mother had taught her to do even when talking to servants, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Watford. ‘Go and get your book, and mind what I told you.’

  ‘Yes, Watford.’

  As she went into the schoolroom she paused a moment and heard Ada Rawlings say, ‘Biddable, isn’t she?’

  ‘Aye, too biddable. It is
n’t natural.’

  ‘Do you think she carries anything?’

  ‘No. Give her her due, I’ve never known her carry a tale. An’ she must hear things at times she can’t help. An’ bet your life, if she did say something about me I’d know it from the madam. By! Aye . . . Oh, she’s no trouble. As I said afore, the job’d be clover, Ada, except for the feelin’ that’s about, you know when the mistress is home. It’s just as if somebody’s died when she’s in.’

  ‘Well, the funeral’s over for the day; let’s make the best of it.’

  ‘Aye, you’ve said it. An’ by God, here’s one that’s going to. There’s only dear Auntie Page to keep a weather eye open for and between us we should manage her.’

  Annabella could still hear their giggling when she reached the end of the corridor. She stood for a while on the landing. The house seemed very quiet. Mrs Page would be at breakfast with the butler in her room. The rest of the staff would be eating in the kitchen. She was alone, and she might be alone for most of the day. The prospect brought the strange feeling into her body again, a feeling that made it light and happy, a feeling that urged her to lift her feet high from the ground, to jump and run, and even shout.

  As the clock in the hall boomed nine she entered the gallery. The rain had stopped and the June sun was flooding the place with light. The binding of the books in the glass cases that lined the long wall stood out like freshly ironed velvets and satins and this morning she was drawn in immediately to them and not towards the windows. All the cases were locked. When she had asked why, her mama had said because most of the books were about the history and making of glass and were irreplaceable.

  But all the books weren’t about glass. She had stood on the library steps and read titles out aloud to show her mama how clever she was. The plays and sonnets of William Shakespeare. Who was William Shakespeare?

  He was a playwright and poet her mama had said but his writings were too old for her yet.

  Paradise Lost.

  How had paradise come to be lost, Mama?

  It was because the gentleman had done wrong. When people did wrong they lost the good things in life. The more you read your bible the more you will come to understand it.

  She had brought her bible with her today and also her French book. Her mama wrote her a little letter in French every day and she wrote one back to her. She had already read this morning’s letter. It began: ‘Mon cher enfant,’ then said simply, ‘I wish you a happy day, your loving Mama.’

  Before her mama had left her this morning she had set her a lesson for today. It was to try and translate parts of the ‘scripture cake’ into French. It didn’t matter how many mistakes she made, she said. But she didn’t suppose she would make many because she was so good at French.

  She and Mama spoke in French quite a lot. She couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t conversed in French. Nor could she remember a time when she hadn’t been able to read or write. Her mama said she was a very clever girl.

  She now took out a card from the front of her bible. The card was headed ‘Scripture Cake’ and below were the following ingredients.

  41⁄2 cups 1 Kings 4, 22

  11⁄2 cups Judges 5, 25, last clause

  2 cups Jeremiah 6, 20, 2nd item

  2 cups 1 Sam. 30, 12, 2nd item

  2 cups Nahum 3, 12

  1 cup Numbers 17, 8

  1⁄2 cup Judges 4, 19, last clause

  2 tablespoonsful 1 Sam. 14, 25

  Season to taste, 2 Chron. 9, 9

  Six of Jeremiah 17, 11

  A pinch of Leviticus 2, 13

  Two tablespoonsful Amos 4, 5 (B powder)

  Follow Solomon’s prescription for making a good girl

  (Prov. 23, 14) and you will have a good cake.

  And so taking her seat on the velvet-padded sill that ran the length of the five windows she began to translate:

  1 Kings 4, 22 read: ‘Solomon’s provision for one day was thirty measures of fine flour, and threescore measures of meal.’ Then she translated Judges 5, 25, omitting the first clause ‘he asked for water and she gave him meal,’ and translated the last one, ‘she brought forth butter in a lordly dish.’

  She had reached Samuel when Watford came into the gallery. ‘You all right, Miss Annabella?’

  ‘Yes, Watford, thank you.’

  ‘Would you like anything? A cake? Cook’s made some lovely meringues.’

  ‘Thank you, Watford. I’ll have some with my milk.’

  With sudden, strange tenderness Watford ran her hand over the long, brown hair, then said, ‘Very good, Miss.’

  Watford could be nice at times. When she was happy she could be very nice. Why weren’t people always happy? The black oak door at the far end of the gallery opened, bringing her head jerking round to where Constantine was entering with a great bundle of soiled linen tied up in a sheet. As he passed her he smiled widely, saying, ‘Mornin’, missie.’

  ‘Good morning, Constantine.’

  Constantine always smiled at her and spoke to her. She liked Constantine, but this was something she had to keep to herself because her mama didn’t like the black man. She called him a black man but it was only his hair that was really black.

  After Constantine had returned and disappeared through the black oak door again and Watford had brought her milk and meringue, she experienced a feeling that was quite the reverse of what she had felt when she entered the gallery. It was a dull, listless, heavy feeling. She did not put the name of boredom to it, she only knew she didn’t like it, and that it made her lose interest in her lessons. It made her look out of the window, even stand on the sill to get a better view; and she was doing this when she saw the children.

  She knew they were children because they didn’t look the size of gardeners, more the size of rabbits, and like rabbits that had been startled they kept disappearing into the hedge that bordered the orchard. When they were lost to her sight she whispered aloud, ‘Oh, let them come back.’ She hadn’t seen any children since her cousin, Stephen, had come to dinner and that was weeks ago. But Stephen wasn’t children, he was quite grown-up; he was fourteen and went away to school, and he slept there too. That must be very exciting, she had said to him, and he laughed. She liked her cousin Stephen, she liked him very much. He had gentle ways, very much like those of Mama. Mama said his father, her only brother who had died, had been like Stephen, gentle in everything he did, and she had added that God always took those he loved when they were young.

  But now here were real children, right here in the garden. Swiftly she jumped down from the sill, ran along to the end of the gallery nearest the oak door and from a shelf attached to a bookcase she lifted from its stand the spyglass. The spyglass wasn’t forbidden her; sometimes her mama said, ‘Would you like to play with the spyglass?’ and looking through it, she had brought the birds on the far trees right up to the gallery windows. And so now, clambering back on to the sill, she supported the heavy, long glass against her right eye, then closing her left she focused on the orchard. And then she saw them, the children, quite plainly as if they were in the court below. There were two girls and a boy and they were all without stockings. She couldn’t see if they had shoes on because their feet were buried in the grass. But the girls’ dresses were short and ragged, just hanging below their knees, and the boy had one trouser leg longer than the other.

  The glass became so heavy that she had to lower it from her eye. When she next looked through it she saw the smaller girl ramming strawberries into her mouth. She didn’t seem to be stopping to take out the stalks, just pulling them from the plant and ramming them into her mouth. But the boy was piling them into his cap, then emptying them into the bigger girl’s pinafore. As she watched them the nice feeling returned and she wanted to jump, jump right from the sill, over the gardens and the lak
e, right into the strawberry field that bordered the orchard.

  How long would it take her if she ran all the way from the side door? Five minutes perhaps, less if she ran by the middens. But she wasn’t allowed to go down by the middens; even Watford had forbidden her to go down that path when they were playing hide and seek. Yet it would cut the distance by half and she could say hello to those children and be back here within a very short time.

  Without stopping to consider further she was out of the gallery and running down the long corridor; she paused before crossing the landing but there was no-one in sight, and then she was going down the back staircase. She had come to know the back staircase during those periods her mama was absent from the house, for then Watford used it as a short cut to the kitchen.

  She paused before opening the door that led into the side courtyard. When, cautiously, she peered round it there was no-one in the yard, only the sound of voices coming from the stables at the far end. Her feet, as if borne on wings, carried her through the archway and down the pagoda walk, at the end of which she swung left and through a narrow opening and on to a pathway that led in one direction to the middens, in the other back to the main courtyard.

  The middens turned out to be a series of big holes in the ground and a number of mounds, and she knew as she passed them why the place was forbidden her. She nipped her nose and put her head down and ran on until she came to the stream which took the overflow from the pools, and which, until twenty years ago when the well was sunk, had been the main source of water supply for the Hall. Once across the stream she ran up the steep incline, and on reaching the top she paused a moment and looked down. And then she saw them. They were no longer picking the strawberries but sitting under the hedge eating them as fast as they could.

  She did not want to startle them so she kept on the other side of the hedge until she came to the orchard; then going through the same gap by which they had entered the field she made her presence known to them by simply standing and smiling at them over the distance.