The Branded Man

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Where’s Sarah?’ Marie Anne asked quietly.

  ‘Up above. Where else? She hasn’t been gone up there more than ten minutes since. She works from eleven to three.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Ernie’s; you know, pulling pints.’

  Marie Anne bowed her head: Sarah pulling pints. Oh no! Yet she must prefer doing that to staying with her.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, miss.’ Annie’s hand came across the table and patted Marie Anne’s. ‘She’s fine; although I’ve said to her, in the name of God woman, have you gone out of your mind comin’ back here, for what’s here for anybody? Although, mind, we’ve been a lot better off since she’s been with you. But to come back to this shanty! I haven’t really been able to get to the bottom of it. All you can really get out of her is, all good things must come to an end, and that you’re wise if you recognise the end and don’t press your luck. Did you ever hear such a thing! What happened? Did you have an up-an’-downer? I mean, a big row?’

  Marie Anne raised her head as she said, ‘No, no; not a big row. It was my fault entirely. Really, Annie, I was to blame. You see, I have a number of faults, but the biggest one is that I have a temper that flashes out and doesn’t wait to be reasoned with.’

  ‘Oh well, you’re not the only one, believe me. Now she…well, I can tell you, I wish she had a temper that flashed out. You would know how to deal with her then. But no. She’s a funny one, is our Sarah. As me ma used to say, if you knew her two days in the week you were lucky, ’cos she would do things at the drop of a hat, and with no explanation; and not until she had done what she wanted to might she then tell you why. She actually walked out of mass one day, and it was during a mission—you know, when different priests would come and rattle you up if you were slackin’ in your duties. She was just on fourteen at the time. Oh, there was a how-d’you-do about it, because this particular priest was all for hell-fire and brimstone, and he rammed it home in no small voice that there were gridirons down there on which people were made to sit starkers. There was nothing symbolic about his particular hell; it was the actual thing, and you could feel your backside frizzling. Well, that was too much for our Sarah and, as I’ve said, she was only fourteen and was still sittin’ on the children’s side of the church, so when she gets up my mother, thinking she’s going to be bad or sick or somethin’, hurriedly goes after her. And in the porch there are the three Brothers, you know like the ones in the priory here. They always stood at the door on a Sunday morning with plates for this foreign mission or that foreign mission. And what d’you think she was sayin’ to them? That she didn’t believe a word that priest said, and that he was only out to scare the wits of children. And apparently she didn’t lower her voice. You talk about temper. Well, I’ll never forget that Sunday, because when me da heard about it he took the belt to her. Aye, he did, for disgracing him and the family and darin’ to speak against the holy church, and her but an ignorant little slut of a thing. Eeh! There was real hell to pay in the house that day. What d’you think she did then? She walked out. She went to me granda’s, that was me ma’s da, if you get what I mean, because she knew he thought like her. Me Granny was church-goin’, but he wouldn’t go near it, although he was a Catholic. So, me dear, I wouldn’t worry about losin’ your temper because you can’t hold a candle to her. Her trouble now is that she doesn’t shout about what she’s goin’ to do, she just does it, and it’s like knockin’ your head against a brick wall and tryin’ to make her see other than what she’s determined to see herself, if you see what I mean. Oh’—she shook her head—‘I’m no good at explainin’ things, but all I can say, an’ I said to himself when he was on about her bein’ a bloody fool an’ such and walkin’ out of your fine house, with the position she had, there must have been a reason for it and that it was to your benefit, because she wouldn’t do anything in this world to upset you, miss, not really. But, as I said, she must have upset you by walking out, as she did me, by using me as an excuse, because I haven’t been bad; I’ve never felt better for years than I do now.’

  Suddenly there came two taps on the ceiling, and Annie said, ‘That’s her. She wants me up there for some reason or other. Look, will you go up first? But what about your cup of tea? I’ll tell you what: go and get it over, whatever it is, and I’ll bring you up a cup, both of yous.’

  ‘Thank you, Annie.’ Marie Anne rose to her feet, and putting her hand out towards the unkempt-looking woman, she said, ‘It’s lovely to see you again. It is really. And Sarah’s lucky she has you and your family.’

  ‘Well’—Annie’s head was wagging now—‘God knows why, but nevertheless thank you very much. Go on now. Go on.’

  Marie Anne mounted the last flight of stairs. She did not knock on the door but opened it gently, to hear Sarah’s voice coming from the bedroom. ‘Come in here a minute and see these springs. I told you what they were like, but you wouldn’t believe me. Those two must have bounced on them half the night to make them sag like this.’

  Marie Anne didn’t move towards the bedroom but stood looking about her. This room too was just as she had left it. Perhaps the furniture hadn’t been polished so much, but everything was clean and tidy, and the fire was burning brightly in the grate. The feeling of being home was even stronger here. She had been happy in these rooms. She had lived for each day, not looking to the future. This she had left to Sarah.

  Sarah’s voice came again, louder now, saying, ‘Look! Come and see this a minute. I’ve put up with them for weeks. They’re for downstairs again.’

  There being no response, Sarah appeared at the bedroom door and, her hand going to her mouth, she held it there for a moment while she closed her eyes and muttered, ‘Dear God, no!’

  She was walking slowly towards Marie Anne who was now holding onto the back of the high chair as if for support, and when she was an arm’s length from her she stopped and said, ‘Why! In the name of God, what’s brought you?’

  For answer Marie Anne smiled and said, ‘If that question was being put to you, you would likely reply, the train and a cab from the station.’

  This brought a long drawn out, ‘Aw!’ from Sarah, before she flung about and went to the fireplace and there, gripping the wooden mantelpiece with both hands, she knocked her head twice against it. But she did not speak, and Marie Anne, walking towards her, said, ‘I had to come, Sarah, if it was only to say how sorry I am, and ungrateful and…and ashamed.’

  ‘Oh, don’t pile it on, please.’ Sarah had turned from the mantelpiece and, bobbing her head now, she said, ‘It is all over and done with. You should have accepted it and got on with your life.’

  ‘How could I when the support of my life had left me?’

  ‘Well, it’s about time then you learned to stand on your own two feet. And I was never the support of your life; you were strong enough to speak your mind when the occasion warranted.’

  There came not a tap on the door, but the sound of a foot kicking it, at which Sarah moved quickly to open it and let in Annie with a tray of tea, and saying, ‘Now drink it straight up, else with the time it’s taken me to get up those stairs balancing it, it’ll only be ready for the sink.’

  As she put the tray on the table, Sarah addressed her, saying, ‘What d’you think of this?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Don’t act thick-skulled, our Annie. She’s not an apparition, is she?’

  ‘Huh!’ said Annie. ‘Well, I thought she was at first. Anyway, there’s your tea, so get on with it. I’m not goin’ to stand here listenin’ to your kind of reason; I’ve listened to it all me life. And I’ve got to get back anyway, or that one down there will already have pushed her chair down the two flights, and begod she will one of these days, and soon. Be seein’ you, Marie Anne.’

  ‘Yes, Annie, yes; and thank you for the tea.’

  ‘Huh! But isn’t it nice to be thanked for a cup of tea. Isn’t it, sister Sarah? You can serve cups of tea to the militia in our house and neve
r get a thank you.’

  ‘Get yourself away.’

  Laughing, Annie got herself away, and Sarah handed a cup to Marie Anne, who received it without thanks. When they were seated facing each other, Marie Anne said, ‘I…I have a letter here.’ She opened her bag. ‘It’s from Don.’

  It seemed for a moment that Sarah wasn’t going to take the letter from her hand. When she did, she used the handle of the spoon to open the envelope. After she had read the few lines she lifted her eyes and looked at Marie Anne, before reading the letter again. Then slowly, she folded it and returned it to the envelope, saying, ‘Well, well!’

  What Marie Anne said was, ‘Grandpa sent you a special message.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He said, if you come back for no-one else, will you please return for him, because he is missing you so much. And the house—’ She started to gulp in her throat and made the greatest effort to check back the tears that were ready to spurt from her eyes, before adding, ‘The house is not the same since you left, and if your sister needs convalescence you must bring her here and arrange for someone to take over the family there for a time.’

  Sarah screwed round in her seat until her back was almost to the fire. Her head was bowed and her hand was covering her face; then almost bouncing round again, she cried, ‘It isn’t fair! I did what you wanted me to do. You wanted me out of the house at that time, as far away from him as possible. Yes, you did. Yes, you did.’

  ‘Oh no, Sarah; no!’ They were both on their feet now. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. I…I was jealous for a moment, yes. Yes, I admit it, I was dreadfully jealous for a moment. Not that you kissed him; and yet, yes, it was because you had done what I had wanted to do for a long time and daren’t. But you were yourself, you could be yourself and you kissed him. But that wasn’t the end of it; it was just the beginning, and it was when he kissed you back so fervently and told you you were the first woman he had ever kissed. I’m telling you now, Sarah, that was the moment I was hurt to the core, because he had given me to understand that he loved me. I know, when I was very ill that time, that he brought me back to life by telling me of his feelings when he thought that I was unable to hear, and so that scene cut me to the bone. Can you understand that? If only I’d been courageous enough to kiss him even with that dreadful old mask on—I know you would have done that—or he’d been strong enough to kiss me and tell me that I was the first woman he had ever kissed. Can’t you understand how I felt in that moment, because honestly I wasn’t aware of your feelings for him, nor of his for you. He does love you, and not only in a certain way. He made that plain yesterday.’

  Sarah’s eyes widened: ‘What do you mean, he made that plain?’ she said. ‘This letter doesn’t say that. What happened yesterday?’

  ‘Well, you could say we fought.’

  ‘You fought?’

  ‘Yes, verbally. I considered he was cruel in the things he was saying to me, pointing out my defects and that I’d hurt you.’

  ‘He would never hurt you, that man would never hurt you, Marie Anne.’

  ‘But he did. He knew exactly what my reactions had been to that scene, and he threw them all back at me, and so I told him what I thought about him. And then he changed his tune, but I couldn’t accept it.’

  ‘Oh, dear God! There’s a pair of you; there is, there’s a pair of you. Look, Marie Anne; let me put things absolutely straight and in plain language. That man loves you. He’s loved you since the first time he clapped eyes on you. I knew that from the look on his face then, and it’s only intensified with time. He would do anything in this world for you. But he is marked. You might capture him through love and pity, but there is your family. They have befriended him because they owe him a debt, and he is well aware of this. He is also well aware of his own position compared with theirs. He cannot claim any station in life other than that of a sculptor. What you call his love for me is a sympathetic reaction to his recognition of our similar concerns for you. He also knows that his disfigurement means nothing to me. I took to him from the first minute I saw him. Do I love him? I suppose I do; but it’s in a different way altogether from the way he loves you and the way I love you. You came first with me then, and you still do, no matter where either of us might be. He knows that. We talked about it during your illness, and we have become quite close.’

  ‘Well now, Sarah, are you coming back?’

  ‘Oh my dear, my dear; I’ve been away over three weeks now; I can’t see myself somehow falling back in the routine. More than that, I can’t see myself being accepted again. They’ll ask why I stayed away so long.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easily explained: your sister has been so ill; that’s why I have come to see if I can be of any help.’ Though her eyes were full of tears Marie Anne was smiling. ‘Grandpa set the picture yesterday, and Father really believes your sister is ill. As for Pat, he knows there is something amiss, but he fell in with Grandpa’s orders to Mrs Makepeace to have a guest room made ready, because Miss Foggerty’s invalid sister might be coming for a short stay.’

  ‘He said that?’

  There was the first touch of laughter in Sarah’s voice, and in her eyes too; and then musingly she added, ‘He’s a lovely old man. Yet why do I call him old? He’s so young in his thinking; and when he laughs it’s like that of a boy.’

  Marie Anne’s hands now went out and caught Sarah’s and she entreated her softly, ‘You’ll come back then, will you? You’ll come home with me, for good?’

  Sarah bowed her head; then when Marie Anne’s arms went about her they clung together, their tears mingling and Marie Anne crying, ‘Oh! Sarah. Sarah. Never leave me again. Please! Please! No matter what I do or what I say, promise me you’ll never leave me again.’

  Pulling herself away from Marie Anne’s embrace, Sarah said, ‘I’m making no promises; I could be dead next week. Now, now; stop it. Stop that crying.’

  ‘Well, you stop it too. If you’re not crying that must be beer spilling from your eyes. Fancy pulling pints again!’

  Once more they were leaning against each other, laughing now while endeavouring to dry their faces.

  After a moment or so Marie Anne sat down and quietly said, ‘It’s wonderful, wonderful; I never thought to feel happy again ever. We’ll get the twelve o’clock train back tomorrow. And I tell you what I’d like to do, Sarah, now I’m here; I’d like to call at the Daily Reporter and see Mr Stokes or Mr Mulberry. I had such a nice letter from Mr Mulberry, the assistant, a little while ago. You remember they had ideas about developing a series of the funny cartoons, the ones about the children. Well, with one thing and another, I didn’t answer, but I would like to go and have a word with them.’

  ‘Don’t see why not; and on our way we’ll have to call in at Ernie’s to give my notice in. They won’t like it, but they’ll be so pleased to see you. Perhaps you would give them a tinkle on the piano for five minutes; that would please them. Yes, we’ll do that.’

  Sarah now seemed like her old self, so much so that she said, ‘Let’s go down and tell Annie. That poor soul, I can tell you, has been as worried as any of us, and I’ve even got to like her man during the last few weeks. One night he came up here and talked as I never imagined he could. Mind, there was a lot of bloodys and buggers interspersing his commonsense remarks but nevertheless, what he said was right and to the point. And what d’you think? He also thanked me for helping the family. It’s odd how you can change your opinions of people; but I know that what transpired between us pleased Annie because she’s always said he wasn’t so black as he was painted. And now I can understand why she’s always found an excuse for him, and why she has stayed and given him that tribe. But mind, although I say it meself, they’re good kids, all of them. So come on, let’s go down to her.’ Then laughing, she added, ‘I think she’s got a mutton stew on. That was your first meal here, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No; it was the first meal I saw the children eat. And if they’re eating again, I’ll likely get the idea fo
r another cartoon.’

  Marie Anne rose from the chair, and for a moment they stood silent, looking at each other. Then putting out her hand and taking Marie Anne’s, Sarah said, ‘Come on away home.’ And like this, hand in hand, they went downstairs.

  Three

  Sarah’s welcome home started at the station, where she and Marie Anne were met by Mike and the carriage; and they had hardly stepped down from it when the door of The Little Manor opened; and there were Fanny and Carrie exclaiming, ‘Welcome home, miss! Glad to see you back. How’s your sister?’

  To the last Sarah answered, ‘She’s much better. Much better.’

  In the hall, they were joined by Maggie Makepeace and Katie who, in her usual tactless way, said, ‘Glad to see you back, miss, although the place has been nice and quiet since you left,’ which brought her a push from Maggie, who said, ‘She always says the right things in the wrong way, miss; but for me meself, I’m glad you’re back. Maybe you’ll be able to persuade the master to eat his meals.’

  There was further laughter when Katie added, ‘And to stop yelling so much at the poor nurse.’

  One or another of them had taken Marie Anne’s and Sarah’s outdoor things; and Marie Anne, addressing Maggie Makepeace, said, ‘Is my father in, Maggie?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Maggie answered; ‘nor Mr Pat; but we’re expecting them at any minute.’

  A yell penetrating the house caused them all to look up the stairs, and Fanny, laughing, said, ‘He must have got wind of you, ma’am.’

  ‘You go on up, Sarah,’ Marie Anne said; ‘I’m going to the nursery first.’