The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  Now as he had dreamed of doing so often, he took off her garments one after the other, as a man should be privileged to do on his wedding night, and then they became married as only two bodies of those who love can marry, and when it was over she did not lie in his arms relaxed, but sobbed unrestrainedly, and he soothed her with words that he had never used to her before, such as my darling, my dearing, my beauty, my lovely, and all the while she cried. But he was not disturbed by her crying because he knew that this was the way that happiness took a few women, women who, having reached an ecstasy, found it unbearable.

  When her crying ceased she laughed tentatively, softly; and then they ate the remnants of the food left over from the meal, and some bread and pork fat, and the herb beer that Amy had pushed into the caravan at the last moment. And once more they loved; then they slept until the dawn . . .

  It was just coming into full light when they put Dobbie between the shafts. Then Manuel, lifting her up in his arms, kissed her hard on the lips before thrusting her on to the seat. When he climbed up beside her he drove out of the gap and in the direction of Darlington and Mr Carpenter’s.

  For the first mile they alternately laughed and talked; then of a sudden Manuel became quiet, so quiet that she bent forward and looked up into his face and asked, ‘What is it?’ She felt so close to this man now that she was almost in his mind. ‘You’re sorry about something?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ His face was straight as he nodded at her. ‘I’m sorry about her.’

  ‘Mama?’

  ‘Yes, Mam-ma.’ The word had a lilting sound on his lips. ‘Aren’t you sorry for her?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Manuel.’ She was looking ahead now, her own face straight. ‘Deeply, deeply sorry. But she would have separated us, and yesterday when I was beside myself after I found you gone I said something dreadful to her.’

  ‘You did? What was it?’

  ‘I said if I didn’t find you, I would hate her all my life.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘No, I know I shouldn’t, for she has been so good to me, but . . . but you were all that mattered, and it’s true, if she had parted us I would have hated her.’

  ‘But she hasn’t parted us.’ He pushed the reins into one hand and, putting the other round her waist, he drew her tightly to his side. But his face was still straight as he said, ‘I’ve got something to thank her for, for, you know, if we’d come together back there I would always have been a little unsure of you. Yes, yes, I would. You can shake your head, but I would. Deep in me heart there’d have been a doubt. But now I can say that neither man nor woman, God or the devil, could shake me faith in you.’

  ‘Oh, Manuel! Oh, my dearest Manuel.’ She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, and as they came to a turning in the road he pulled on the right-hand reins and Dobbie paused, then marked time before turning round, and the caravan followed. Now pulling herself from him, she asked, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going back; we’re going back.’

  ‘But, Manuel!’

  ‘Gee-up there. Gee-up, Dobbie.’ His head was up and his eyes were fixed on a point between the horse’s ears as he said, ‘She can’t touch me now, she has no power to separate us, no matter what she does. Where I go, you go, I know that, and so I can go back . . . An’ you know what, Mrs Mendoza?’ He now jerked his head towards her and grinned down at her. ‘I am going to run her glass house.’

  ‘Oh! Oh! Manuel. Manuel.’ She was laughing loudly, her mouth wide.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m going to do, Mrs Mendoza, I’m goin’ to run her glass house. And another thing I’m going to do, Mrs Mendoza.’

  ‘Oh, Manuel. Be quiet, do.’

  ‘No, I won’t be quiet until I tell you. An’ listen to me, because you’re hearing aright . . . I’m going to woo her.’

  Now Annabella let out a most unladylike squeal, and Manuel went on, ‘It’s going to be a difficult job wooing Mrs Rosina Lagrange. The wooing of you will be child’s play to it, but woo her I will.’ Then his jocular manner fading away, he turned and looked at Annabella and said quietly, ‘She’s a lonely woman, a lost woman; without you she’ll just pine. I saw that yesterday when she put up the fight. It was her loneliness that defeated me. Loneliness is a terrible scourge to the spirit. It’s bad enough for a man, but it’s much worse for a woman.’

  Again she laid her head on his shoulder, and now she whispered with tears in her voice, ‘If I had never loved you before, Manuel Mendoza, I would love you at this moment.’

  Gee-up there, Dobbie! Gee-up! An’ God rest you for ever, Margee.

  The End