The Branded Man

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘I will. I will, Sarah.’

  ‘Now for your duties. You are to clean your own room. You are to read to your aunt an hour every morning while I am attending to her mail; she gets quite a bit of this, nearly all concerned with business. She has her fingers in several pies, many of them connected with the chapel. Oh, that’s another thing. Sunday morning and evening, it’s chapel for Agnes and Clara. They’re fortunate to get out like that. But now for the main reason why you are here. Immediately after dinner I will take you to Professor Carlos Alvarez’s Academy—so called,’ she added with a bounce of her head. ‘It’s only a house, not unlike this one, but much lighter, I can tell you, although it’s at the end of the short row where the three other houses have been turned into hat factories. Just as well, I suppose, so people don’t complain about the ding-ding-dinging of the piano. Anyway, what I’ve seen of it, it’s nicely furnished; but then again, I understand there’s only him and his wife. She lives upstairs. I met her the last time I took a message along, which was on Thursday gone. She doesn’t sound like a professor’s wife; but what’s in a voice? Bit of a cockney I would say. I heard her going for him when I was waiting down in the hall. But when he came downstairs to me he was all smiles. He’s a nice enough fellow. Kindly, I would say. Anyway he takes you Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for two hours. That’s from half-past one to half-past three; and on Tuesday and Thursday he can only fit you in for an hour at a time. Then all your spare time she’ll expect you to practise.’

  Sarah was leaning towards her in that confidential manner that Marie Anne was to discover she used when she wanted to impart something out of the ordinary, and she now did impart, for she said, ‘Your mother, in one of her letters, made it plain that you had to be kept at it, and she implied that she wasn’t going to pay good money for you wasting your time and going round sightseeing.’

  ‘Good money?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what was said.’

  ‘Mother is paying for me to be here?’

  ‘Well, she’s to send the cash. I don’t know where it’s coming from; likely your father, but she’s paying for you. O!’ Sarah made a round ‘O’ with her lips and repeated again, ‘O!, now you couldn’t expect the lady of this house to take anyone in, be it out of relationship, pity, or poverty, now could you? Oh, but you’ve got a lot to learn yet, dear. Anyway, I know one thing. You can’t be sitting at the piano all day long, but if I were you I would sit there as long as possible, that’s if you enjoy it. I know we will, the others and me. It would be as good as a brass band. One passes here every Sunday morning, but it’s a drum and fife, on its way to the Catholic Church. It’s lovely. And oh, how I always wish I was marching with them. And another thing: you’ve got to be prepared to read the good book to her, or magazines that are almost as holy; but I’ll give you a tip: if you get too much of it put your foot down, because if I know anything, she’s not going to lose your money, besides the bit she’ll be cribbing from the music teacher. Half-a-crown an hour, he was asking. That’s one pound a week. But she got him down to sixteen shillings. As she said, you’d be a long-term pupil.’

  The sound of a bell ringing in the distance caused Sarah Foggerty to jump towards the door, saying, ‘That’s for me! Hurry up and have a wash and do your unpacking, then come down, because, if I know anything, she’ll be staying downstairs for her tea. It isn’t often she makes the stairs.’

  After the door had closed with a soft bang, Marie Anne sat down on the edge of the bed again. Her mind was in a whirl. It was inconceivable to her that her aunt would bargain with the music teacher, and to her own gain, over his fees. It only went to show the type of mean woman she was and what she might further expect. And added to this, that her mother was paying for her to be kept here. Her grandfather, she knew, had been under the impression she was to be a sort of companion; she had even heard her grandfather refer to her aunt as being quite warm where money was concerned.

  As she sat quietly musing on her present situation she knew that it was such that had she come into it without being accompanied and enlightened by Miss Foggerty, Sarah, as she wanted to be called, she would never have stayed in this house. The dark dreariness of the place alone would have made her start running again; but where to? Under horses’ hooves or to the police, as that black-garbed woman had said? No; she would have sent a telegram to her grandfather to say that she was coming back and she would have risked the reception she would have received from her mother, Evelyn and Vincent …

  She had finished her unpacking and washed her face and hands in the cold water from the wash-hand stand jug and had combed her hair back into double plaits when there came a tap on the door, and Clara stood there saying, ‘Tea’s in the sitting room, miss, and she…ma’am is waiting for you.’

  ‘Clara, there’s no mirror in this room. Is there one next door?’

  ‘Oh no, miss. Ma’am doesn’t hold with mirrors: they breed vanity, like.’ She smiled; then the whisper came confidentially, ‘But the cook has one in her bag; she’ll let you have a look into it if you ask her. Anyway, you’d better come down, for she doesn’t like being kept waitin’; it’s her bell that’ll be going, else.’

  Marie Anne wanted to laugh at the quaint way this little maid talked, and as they went out of the room together she said, ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Wales, miss; and I wish I was back there because ’tis not much different in this house from the village. As my dad would say, all chapel and hard tack. He used to go to sea, you know, when he was young, my dad, and I’ll never get used to the way they talk here.’

  Marie Anne had a great desire to laugh loudly, and she was still smiling when the young girl knocked on the sitting room door before straight away pushing it open; and she entered the room.

  Her aunt, as she had to think of her, was still in the same chair and Sarah Foggerty was standing at a side table pouring out tea. She had her back to her and Marie Anne, hesitating on what to do, went to Sarah’s side, thinking that she would hand the tea round; but the voice from the chair said, ‘Sit down, girl!’

  Marie Anne sat down, in the chair pointed out to her. It was near another small table on which was a plate of bread and butter, three buttered half slices on one side, the same on the other, and next to it was a smaller plate holding two pieces of ginger cake.

  Sarah Foggerty placed a cup of tea on the side of the table within reach of her mistress’ hand, and one by Marie Anne. Then she returned to the table, picked up the third cup and sat down a short distance away.

  ‘Well, start your tea, girl.’

  Marie Anne watched the black-sleeved arm come out, then the fingers scooping the three pieces of bread and butter onto the side plate. So she slowly followed suit, and straight away began to eat the bread and butter, because she was feeling hungry. Only once did she look towards Sarah Foggerty, because she felt embarrassed by the fact that she wasn’t eating at all. There had been no plate set for her.

  The tea was strong and had little milk in it, but she drained her cup quickly; then, looking towards Sarah, she asked politely, ‘May I have another cup, please?’

  On Sarah’s part there was a slight hesitation to rise from her chair, for she was looking at her mistress and when, after what seemed a pause, her mistress nodded, Sarah poured out another cup and brought it to Marie Anne.

  Marie Anne then picked up a piece of ginger cake from the plate, and as she ate it she was made to feel somewhat uneasy by her aunt’s eyes being fixed tightly on her; and so she said, ‘It’s very nice ginger cake,’ and added by way of making conversation, ‘It’s better than Cook used to make. Hers was much too treacly.’

  ‘Have you finished your tea?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Then go and play the piano. I want to hear what all this fuss is about.’

  Even eagerly now, Marie Anne made her way to the piano, which stood in the far corner of the room. It had a fretwork screen front with a green cloth behind it. Before lifting the lid,
she looked into the box seat for some music, but found only two hymn books and an album entitled Favourite Drawing Room Ballads. And as she stood looking at it, the voice came at her, saying quite loudly, ‘You can play something without music, surely!’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course I can,’ Marie Anne rapped back and abruptly sat down and lifted the piano lid, to see a set of yellowing keys.

  After attempting a scale to test the tone, she stopped, turned on her seat and said, ‘I couldn’t play on this. It’s out of tune.’

  ‘What d’you mean, it’s out of tune?’

  Marie Anne was now on her feet, walking towards the indignant figure in the chair, and she found, quite suddenly, that she had no fear of this person. And again she said, ‘It’s so out of tune it can’t have been played on for years.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, girl.’

  ‘I am not being silly, Aunt. The piano needs to be tuned before I can practise on it. Why haven’t you had a tuner in to see about it?’

  It was evident that Martha Culmill was stunned into silence, for Marie Anne was able to continue: ‘Pianos need attention twice a year at least if you are going to practise anything worthwhile.’

  Her voice trailed away now as Sarah Foggerty was coughing, and this brought her mistress’s attention momentarily onto her and she cried, ‘Clear away! Foggerty, and get the things out…Get out!’

  Sarah hurriedly collected up the tea things; but it wasn’t until the door had closed on her and the wooden trolley that Martha Culmill found her voice again when she said, ‘And who, may I ask, is going to pay for a piano tuner?’

  It seemed that Marie Anne had to think about this for a moment, or perhaps she was telling herself she would have to live with this woman for some time ahead, so was she going to be mealy-mouthed, as her grandpa would say, or speak her mind? She decided on the latter, and said briefly, ‘You could send the bill to my mother and she would add it to the rest.’ Then she felt she could have cut her tongue out, because how could she have known her mother paid for her and that she wasn’t the guest of this woman? Of which she was immediately made aware by Martha Culmill’s saying, ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, from what I understood at home, although Mother didn’t tell me, she is paying you for having me.’ She heaved a big sigh. She had almost got Sarah into trouble there, big trouble.

  ‘You know something, miss.’

  This wasn’t a question, but a statement, recognised as such by Marie Anne and so she waited. ‘Your tongue’s too ready for your own good. D’you understand that? And what if I write and tell your mother about your attitude towards me?’

  ‘You’re at liberty to do so. My mother and I understand each other very well and she will say it is what she expected.’

  Martha Culmill was indeed lost for a reply now, but she just managed to say, ‘Leave me, girl! I will talk to you in the morning.’

  Marie Anne was not quite sure if, as she opened the door, Sarah Foggerty jumped back; she was certainly standing not far from it, and the tea trolley was just an arm’s length away; but when Sarah pulled her into the kitchen, saying, ‘Splendid! Splendid! You’re a match for her. Oh, by aye, you’re a match for her; and keep it like that, me dear,’ she knew she had been right in her surmise.

  Gently, Sarah touched Marie Anne’s cheek, saying, ‘Oh, you’re not going to cry, are you? Look; this is Cook,’ and now the big woman smiled at Marie Anne and said, ‘Welcome, miss.’

  ‘Have you a spare bun in that tin, Cook? I know this young lady wouldn’t say no to one. You’re still hungry, aren’t you, me dear? Now don’t let the tears come. Come on; you’ve made a stand.’

  Wrapping some eatables in a napkin, Cook said, ‘Up to your room with you and finish these off. And if you’re eating alone downstairs, I’ll see you have a good plate. We’re havin’ spotted-dick puddin’ and that’s a filler. And may I say we’re glad to have you, miss. We understand, too, you’re going to play the piano. That’ll be a change for us.’

  ‘I’ll never be able to play on that piano.’

  ‘Don’t you worry your head, me dear,’ put in Sarah. ‘I won’t be through the door but she’ll be asking me where I’ll find a piano tuner.’

  ‘Could you get a piano tuner right away?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose I could. I’ve seen them in the papers; in the adverts, you know. Piano teachers, piano tuners, pianos, every musical instrument you can think of, all second-hand.’

  Then a piping giggle came from little Clara, who quipped, ‘Not the piano tuners and the teachers, they don’t come second-hand,’ only to be pushed by the cook, who said, ‘There she goes again with her Welsh wit. She’ll cut herself one of these days, she’s so sharp.’

  ‘She will that, if somebody doesn’t cut her Welsh whistle out,’ said Sarah. ‘But anyway, talking of papers: what did you do with the last one?’

  ‘I used it to get the fire going this morning.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Aye, all of it; but the milkman will be here in the mornin’.’

  Sarah Foggerty turned to Marie Anne, saying, ‘You may well look bewildered, miss, but we never have a paper in this house unless we fork out for it ourselves; but the milkman’s very good that way; he drops in the previous day’s or night’s. You see, he knows all about her’—her head jerked up—‘I mean, the mistress, for he’s been serving her milk since the old cow served the bull who was pawing the ground with a gleam in its eye.’

  ‘He couldn’t wait until the cows came home!’

  As the Welsh giggle trailed away and the three heads came together, Marie Anne did not know how she then became enfolded with them, but there she was, one arm around the shoulders of the little Welsh girl, the other around the waist of Sarah Foggerty, as, like them, she aimed to stifle her laughter.

  But the bell did it for them. It sprang them apart, still shaking with their laughter and Sarah Foggerty making for the door. Here, she stroked her hair back; then pulling the collar of her dark brown uniform dress into place, she walked smartly towards the sitting room.

  As Marie Anne, too, made for the door Cook said, ‘Enjoy your bits, dear,’ and Marie Anne answered, ‘I’m sure I shall, Cook. Thank you.’

  In her room, the cold struck her forcibly. She lit the single candle standing in its tin holder; then taking the eiderdown from the bed she pulled it about her before opening the napkin and eating the currant bun and the two pieces of dry coconut cake therein.

  Afterwards, she took her writing-case out of the top drawer and arranged herself as comfortably as she could on the wooden chair.

  Her heels tucked in behind the wooden rod that spanned between the two front legs, and her knees arranged to form a table for the writing pad, she began to write her first letter to her grandfather:

  Dearest, dearest Grandpa,

  Oh, how I miss you and Pat…yes, and Pat. And you know something? I have been in this house only a few hours and already I would be on my way back to you if it weren’t for the three maids here. There is a lovely Irish woman, a sort of maid of all kinds to Aunt Martha. Her name is Sarah Foggerty. Doesn’t that sound warm? Then there is Cook, a Londoner, and a little Welsh girl, Clara, who is the housemaid. They are all lovely and have taken me to their hearts, or else I would surely, surely have made for the station again. And I’m thankful for the pound notes you got Maggie to sew into my petticoat pocket.

  I don‘t know what the days ahead are going to be like, but what I do know is, I dislike this house, but more so I dislike the woman I have to call aunt. To my mind she is a hard narrow-minded creature and a penny-pincher. Oh yes Grandpa, a penny-pincher. And thank you so much for the diary with its secret lock. No-one would ever think of finding the key there, would they, in its cosy little pocket in the spine? It’s a work of genius, isn’t it?

  Oh! Grandpa, I am sad inside, deeply, deeply sad. I have laughed with the maids in the kitchen until I cried; but even there I had to be careful for a little less control and I would have howled
aloud. Like that poor whippet dog we found on the fell one day. Remember, Grandpa? It howled at night and it died. And if it wasn’t for you and Pat I wouldn’t mind dying …

  I don’t know whether I will send you this letter or not; it is so sad and may upset you. But I feel that once I get down to my music I will forget about the house and my aunt and everything else, like I used to. If my music could close out my home and all who were in it with the exception of Pat, then I’m sure it’ll have the power to shut out Miss Martha Culmill.

  Two

  Three days later Marie Anne added a second page to her letter:

  Dearest, dearest Grandpa,

  It is three days now since I arrived and I’ve learned what utter boredom means. Although I have been given duties, reading to my aunt for an hour in the morning, which to me is purgatory, for it’s all from the Bible. That’s funny, isn’t it? Purgatory all from the Bible. I feel I am becoming like the little Welsh maid here. She’s always turning words and making quips with them. But she has her work to do, as has the cook; and poor Miss Foggerty, she’s running hither and thither like a hare all day. The only thing about my duties with my aunt is that I can relieve Sarah a little. And I’m glad Aunt stays in bed most of the time. She was downstairs to greet me when I arrived. Did I say greet! Anyway, all that is over, I hope, because the piano tuner came this afternoon. He said that the piano hadn’t been tuned since it was delivered. He took a long time over it, and when he had finished, I played a piece of Beethoven, a loud section, what you used to call the German band, and you know what the piano tuner said when I finished? MY! MY! Just like that Grandpa, MY! MY! But his eyes were telling me that he was surprised and had enjoyed it, and he asked me to play some more. And the maids…at least Cook and the little Welsh maid, stopped work and came to the sitting room door. But after a short while Miss Foggerty, that is Sarah, came running downstairs. She’d been ordered to leave the bedroom door open and that I should continue. No requests made here, Grandpa, they’re orders. But I played and I played. I played Chopin and Bach; pieces that I had memorised, of course. I must get some music. Oh, how handy your money will come in, Grandpa. What would I do without it? And again that deep sadness says, what would I have ever done without you?