The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  Annabella felt a faintness sweeping over her but she closed her eyes tight and shook her head against it. The prerogative of ladies was no longer her due; her papa, she’d always think of him as her papa, was dead. Manuel had killed him, with one blow Manuel had killed him. What would they do to him?

  Manuel was thinking the same thing. What would they do to him? He knew what they’d do to him, he knew the penalty for a man killing another, and when you were a servant the verdict was a foregone conclusion. They still talked in these parts of the gibbeting of William Joblin, a miner, who together with his friend had done just what he had done, hit a man, and the man had fallen to the ground and died. They had hanged him one August day and the rope had slipped and his death had been long and horrible. Then they had covered his body with pitch and gibbeted it on a post in Jarrow Slakes, and the body, on its way to the gibbet, had had to be surrounded by a big force of the military. At times, at the long table in the kitchen, they had spoken of this, for some of them, both men and women, had been present at the hanging. The awful thing they said was that the man had not been guilty; it was his companion who had struck the blow.

  In his own case there was only himself to take the consequences of his action. He felt his stomach heave. He closed his lips tightly to stop himself from retching, then, moving two steps back, he leant against the wall and Margee’s voice came to him from the past, ‘Good things will happen to you, an’ terrible things.’ She had been right, all along she had been right. He should have followed the instinct that told him to get away from here months ago, for then it had been strong, now it was too late.

  ‘Manuel! Manuel!’ Amy was shaking his arm. ‘Listen to me.’

  He looked down at her but didn’t speak as she said, ‘His horse must be around here somewhere. Now look, do you hear what I’m sayin’? Come to, man, and heed me, or else you’ll be in dire trouble.’

  ‘I’ve killed him, Amy.’

  ‘It was either you or him. He meant to do for you, it was in his eyes.’

  ‘But why? Why?’ His voice was slow, the words deeply questioning. ‘You know I didn’t really dislike him; there were things about him . . . ’

  ‘Be quiet and stop your laverin’, I don’t want two of you on me hands with light heads. She’s standing there as if she’s been knocked into a stupor, so you come out of it and listen. Go round about and see if you can find his horse, go on now.’ She pushed him along the stones. Then, coming back to Annabella, she grabbed her arm and drew her into the house, saying, ‘Get into your cloak and bundle up the skirt you were sewing, you can finish it on the way. And look. Take these boots.’ She darted to the corner of the room and picked up a pair of rough boots. ‘They’ll be a bit big, but you’re going to need them for those light things you’ve got on your feet will be through afore you go a mile or two. Make a carrier out of this piece of hessian here.’

  ‘But he won’t . . . ’

  ‘Yes, he will. You be ready when this is over and he will, he’s got to.’

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I . . . I feel slightly ill. I fear I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Well, that’s not surprisin’. Get your head over the bowl there.’ She pointed to the side of the kitchen. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  She ran out of the door and along to the end of the terrace, and there was Manuel coming over the rough grass leading the horse. ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Tethered just off the road.’ He spoke as if out of a dream.

  ‘Well now,’ she wagged her hand in his face, ‘the ground’s as hard as flint here, he’ll leave no tracks, but down near the marsh where the flax is he’ll show imprints. Now look.’ She flung her arm back towards the figure on the stones. ‘Lift him, and hoist him over the saddle.’

  ‘Amy . . . ’

  ‘Never mind Amy, do as I bid you. Give me the horse here an’ you go and get him.’

  Manuel stood over the figure of the man whom he had deprived of life and he, too, wanted desperately to be sick. As his hands went under the armpits and the head lolled back his stomach reared as if it was going to erupt through his throat.

  When he reached the horse and laid the body over the saddle the animal bucked, and he had to go quickly to its head and calm it. The beast knew there was death on him; it was a thing with animals, they could always smell death.

  Amy said, ‘Lead him down the drive towards the river, that way.’ He obeyed her, keeping his eyes ahead not only to peer through the deepening gloom but so as not to turn round and see the dangling legs of the rider.

  Once they had reached the patch of marsh Amy ordered him to stop. Groping her way forward knowledgeably she fingered some flat stones then whispered to Manuel, ‘Bring him here.’

  When Manuel laid Lagrange beside her she turned the dead man’s face on the side and, peering at his chin, she said, ‘There’s hardly a mark. Help turn him over and rest his face on this stone.’

  When this was done she asked softly, ‘What will that beast do if he’s turned loose?’

  ‘There’s no knowin’ with him; he might go straight back to the stable, or he might start cropping or wandering round. Oh, Christ alive!’

  ‘Never mind Christ alive. It’s you who’s got to keep alive, so look, tie him up there, just for the time being. I’ll set him free in a while after I’ve walked him round to cover up our footprints. But come on an’ don’t stand there lookin’. I tell you, that won’t help, and keep it in your head, it was either you or him, an’ by all accounts he’s best gone and won’t be missed.’

  He didn’t speak until they had almost reached the grass drive again and then he said softly, as if to himself, ‘He was always wantin’ me to use me fists. At times he was tempted to strike me because I wouldn’t use me fists. He wanted to bet on me but I wouldn’t have it. I’ve always been in fear of using me fists, and God, I had right to be.’

  ‘Forget it, forget it. Just remember that you left his service an hour ago and you know nothin’ more of him. By the way, you did tell them you were goin’, didn’t you? I mean the ones that are left back there?’

  ‘Yes, I said goodbye to Harris and Mrs Page.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then. Now it’s like this. If the horse goes straight back and they start searchin’ there’s only the two of them, as you tell me, and they’re not going to get very far in the dark, and if they haven’t found him when daylight is well up I’ll be takin’ a stroll and I’ll find the body.’

  When they reached the terrace a dark figure emerged from the doorway, and Manuel didn’t take in immediately that Annabella was dressed for the road. He didn’t take it in until Amy said, ‘There now, get yourselves away and God speed you.’

  And then, his voice more natural than it had been since he had argued against the same thing a short while ago, he said, ‘Amy, no! I tell you no. Begod no!’

  ‘She’s got to go,’ Amy’s voice was insistent, ‘whether she goes with you or by hersel’, because if they come round here lookin’, somebody’s bound to spot her. And you know something? I’ll get into trouble. Have you thought of that? I’ll get into trouble for harbourin’ her when I knew the whole countryside was looking for her. They’ll want to know why, and it won’t be much use me protesting that she wouldn’t let me tell them, me with a pair of legs on me and a voice.’

  Annabella came close to him now and like a child she said, ‘I’ll be no trouble, Manuel, I promise. I’ll . . . I’ll do everything you say, and I’ll learn to look after myself.’

  ‘In the name of God!’ He turned to the wall and, leaning his forearm on it, dropped his head against his wrist, but Amy, pulling at his shoulder, said, ‘Look there’s no time for that; the greater distance you put between yourself and this place the night the better it’ll be for you. Here, let me help you up wi
th this.’ When she bent down to lift the heavy pack he came from the wall and slowly hoisted the skin bag on to his shoulders; then he and Amy stood looking at each other and simultaneously their arms came out and they held tightly together for a moment. Then she pushed him away with one hand and Annabella with the other, and she kept her hands on each until they reached the end of the grass drive, and here, turning to Annabella, she took hold of her face and kissed her on the cheek, saying, ‘God speed you, lass, and don’t worry. Everything will turn out all right, you’ll see.’

  ‘Thank . . . thank you, Amy. Oh, thank you. Some day I may . . . ’

  ‘Never mind about that now. Go on. Go on.’ And with a final push at each of them she sent them into the night, and into another life.

  BOOK FOUR

  THE HIRINGS

  One

  It was forty-eight hours later but to Annabella it was like forty-eight years. She felt she was in another nightmare, very like the one that had taken her into Shields, only this one was bringing her physical pain. She ached in every limb and for the first time in her life she was experiencing blistered heels.

  Determined not to be a drag on Manuel she had kept up with him without murmur or complaint during the six-mile walk to Newcastle. They had skirted the town and reached Denton Burn about two o’clock in the morning; the moon was high and the night as yet was warm, too warm, for she was perspiring freely.

  At the burn Manuel had stopped and, kneeling on the bank, had sucked up the water, then splashed his face and neck, and, turning to her, he spoke for the first time since they had left Amy. His voice rough sounding to her, he said, ‘You’d better cool yourself.’ And she knelt down and awkwardly scooped some water into her hands and drank it; then she, too, cooled her face by dabbing her wet handkerchief around it, while at the same time longing to put her burning feet into the water.

  After a while he walked away from her and she rose hastily from her knees to follow him, but he, stopping in his walk, his back to her, his head turned to the side, said, ‘Stay where you are a minute.’

  When he disappeared into the bushes a few yards ahead she turned quickly and looked down into the river. Her head was bowed in confusion, yet at the same time she was telling herself that she, too, should make a journey into the bushes. But she couldn’t; how could she, in the open, even if it was night. Then a voice that seemed a mixture of the woman’s from Crane Street, Amy’s, and of all the servants she had known said, ‘Don’t be stupid; you’ve chosen your road and you’ve got to learn how to walk it.’

  A few minutes later, when she came from behind some high undergrowth, she saw Manuel lifting the pack on to his shoulders. He did not look at her nor she at him; and then they started to walk again.

  The dawn was well up when they reached a place called Walbottle. Here they skirted a big house and came to farm land. In one of the fields some distance from the farm was a broken hayrick, and, having climbed over the low stone wall, Manuel said, ‘Sit on the top and swing your legs over.’ This was only the second time he had spoken to her.

  Swing her legs over when she was scarcely able to lift one foot above the other!

  She almost rolled over the top of the wall on her side, then, stumbling to the hay, she dropped on to it and lay back staring upwards, hoping that she might die, because if this was to be her life then she couldn’t live it. She had made a mistake. Manuel was right, she should never have come. She had a longing, greater than any desire in her life before, to be back in the House under any conditions. Her spirit, she felt, would be able to withstand humiliation as long as her body could experience a little comfort. The pains in both her heels were so excruciating that she wanted to turn on her face and cry, but this would have taken effort. The only thing that could be said for the agony she was enduring was that it had blotted out from her mind the dead face of Lagrange.

  ‘Here, drink this.’ Manuel was bending over her with a little china mug in his hand.

  She lifted her eyelids slowly upwards, then raised herself on to her elbow and gulped at Amy’s ginger beer, and it tasted like wine to her.

  He was now handing her a thick slice of bread and a piece of cheese and she shook her head, saying, ‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You’d better eat, you’ll need it.’ His voice was still harsh, his face stiff, and he bore no resemblance to the Manuel she knew.

  He was sitting within a yard of her munching slowly and staring ahead, when he said, ‘We’ve got to get our relationship right; we’d better talk it out.’

  Her tired eyes widened slightly and she stared at him. Then he looked at her and added, ‘If we’re travellin’ together, they’ll want to know who we are.’

  She drew in a deep breath, then said, ‘Yes. Oh yes.’ And with an air that was natural to her and suggested, in spite of the circumstances and her utter weariness, that she was bestowing an honour on him, she said, ‘You could say I’m your sister.’

  ‘Huh!’ His head went back but he wasn’t laughing, and he looked at her again as he said, ‘Talkin’ and actin’ like you do, and me being meself, it would be evident to the dumbest that we didn’t spring from the same branch.’

  ‘Oh, Manuel.’ She bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll . . . I’ll try to be different. I must.’

  ‘We can’t change what we are.’ He jerked his chin upwards as he now said, ‘You could be me dead sister’s child brought up in a convent, or some such place.’

  She bowed her head again and shook it from side to side, saying softly, ‘That’s worse; I could never call you uncle, could I?’

  ‘Why not?’ His voice was aggressive now and she added quickly and soothingly, ‘Because . . . because you don’t look old enough.’

  He got abruptly to his feet and stood staring over the land while he growled, ‘This idea’s madness, Miss Annabella, and you know it. There’s bound to be a house round about that would take you in . . . ’

  Minutes ago she had longed to go back, longed for comfort no matter from where it came, but now she said dully, ‘I . . . I don’t want to be taken in, Manuel, and the only way I’d get into a house in this district is through the servants’ entrance; my background will be common knowledge from one end of the county to the other and beyond; I’d be an embarrassment to those I was in the habit of meeting. One thing I’ve learned during the past few weeks is that people can’t stand disgrace. I’ve learned it from my own experience for I couldn’t bear the thought of facing anyone who knew me before.’ She paused. ‘Except you. It’s strange, but I don’t mind what you know about me, Manuel.’

  She had meant her words to soften him, to bring him back to the Manuel she was used to, but their effect was to cause him to mutter something under his breath before turning away and walking towards the stone wall; and when he disappeared from her view she hung her head deep on her chest, then put her fingers tightly on her eyeballs to suppress the wave of tears she felt welling in her. She mustn’t give way to tears; she must think and plan. She’d find work of some kind, even menial work that would give her money to pay the coach fare to London. Once there, she would find employment. She was sure she would. In the meantime, she must try not to upset Manuel. If only she wasn’t so tired, if only her heels didn’t pain so. She now eased off one shoe after the other and, looking up to see Manuel wasn’t in view, she quickly lifted her skirt and pulled down her garters, peeled off her stocking until it came to the heel, and then found that the blister had burst and the stocking was sticking to the raw flesh. When she went to ease it off the pain was so great that she curled her body and turned on her side; and she lay like that for a few minutes before straightening up again to find Manuel looking down at her foot.

  ‘I . . . I’ve got blisters on my heels.’

  He knelt down on the hay and, turning one foot over, he gripped her ankle, saying, ‘Hold hard,’ at the same tim
e pulling the stocking from the flesh.

  ‘O-oh!’ For a moment she thought she was going to faint.

  ‘You have a petticoat on?’

  ‘A . . . a petticoat? Yes, Manuel.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to tear a strip or two off it to bandage them up.’ He nodded towards her feet and she said, ‘Oh. Oh yes.’

  He went to his pack, keeping his back to her while she tore the lace off the bottom of her top petticoat and then a three inch strip, and when she said, ‘I’ve done it,’ he came to her and, cutting the strip in two, smeared a piece of Amy’s dripping on one end, then wound the bandage round her foot as he would have done around a horse’s fetlock.

  When he finished the second one he said, ‘Put on the boots, you’ll never get the shoes over that lot.’

  A few minutes later she stood up and looked at her feet encased in Amy’s boots. They looked big and ungainly and when she attempted to walk it was as if she had iron weights attached to her feet.

  ‘You’ll get used to them.’

  She doubted it but she said, ‘Yes, yes, Manuel; and thank you, they feel so much better.’

  They were sitting on the hay again when he said, ‘We’ll have to rest, then we’ll make our way to Corbridge, then to Hexham; there’s orchards round there, there should be work.’ And on this he lay down and turned on to his side.