The Mallen Girl

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Armstrong was sidling around the head of the couch now. ‘We…we had just sat, dropped for a minute.’ Emerson followed him silently, his eyes blinking, his face red with heat and whisky and he jumped when Dan barked, ‘Don’t lie to me!’

  Dan was now tugging at the buttons of his coat and when Armstrong attempted to come to his assistance he thrust him aside with a jab of his arm, saying, ‘Keep out of my way!’ then he ended, ‘No wonder my father’s thinking about closing his rest home up. And not before time. Where’s Mrs Kenley in all this?’ He was now addressing Brooks, but he, showing none of the trepidation of the other men, replied surlily, ‘In bed, where she’s been for the past week; says she’s got a cold.’

  ‘Well, if she says she’s got a cold I’d be inclined to believe her. Get going.’

  Brooks now made to walk away; then he turned and looked at Dan and muttered, ‘Your dad would have made no fuss about…’

  ‘There you are mistaken, he’s been making a fuss for a long time now about a number of things, not least the wine bill.’ He pointed towards the decanter. ‘And let me tell you he doesn’t blame Mrs Kenley. He did you a good turn once by bringing you here, and he’s done your son more than a good turn, and how have you repaid him? You’ve taken advantage of him for years. You’re the worst of your breed, Brooks. Go on, get out! And first thing in the morning see that the outside steps are cleared of snow, and the drive also.’

  The door had scarcely closed behind the butler when he bawled at it, ‘Brooks!’

  It was some seconds before the door was re-opened, and when Brooks appeared he said to him, ‘Bring me a clean glass.’

  While waiting for the glass he bent forward and crouched over the fire, and the steam rose from his hair and face and life flowed painfully back into his limbs again.

  He was sitting on the couch pulling his boots off when Armstrong placed a glass to the side of the decanter, then slowly picked up the three glasses that still held the good measures of whisky, put them on the tray, and went out.

  Dan took a long drink and when, like a thin stream of fire, it rushed into his body, he lay back and held his bare feet out to the blaze.

  The second glass of whisky not only thawed the cold out of him but also softened his thinking. Perhaps he had come down on them a little too hard; and yet they had no right in here, they had a comfortable room of their own. And then again, it wasn’t a case of having no right, it was a case of discipline and loyalty on Brooks’ part. He didn’t blame Armstrong, or Emerson, for taking advantage, for they had received no such kindness from his father as Brooks and Willy had. He’d never liked Brooks. He might have been a good mill worker in his day but only because, he suspected, he wanted to ingratiate himself into his father’s good books. But for years now he had also suspected him of being on the make. He was the kind of working man that got his own class a bad name, the ‘you’ve-got-it-why-shouldn’t-I-have-it?’ type. There were a number of them in the mill and, unfortunately, these were among those who ran the unions because most of them had the gift of the gab and, like Brooks, they gloried in the fact that the bosses didn’t frighten them.

  With his third glass he wished he were miles away. He soon would be, he told himself; yes, he soon would be, and not only from Manchester but from here, this raving mad stretch of country that hemmed you in with its hills and mountains, that drowned you in its swelling rivers, that froze you with its everlasting snow and ice, that brought your spirit low, that made you long for warmth and sunshine with an ardour the equal of the desire for a woman.

  It was the desire for a woman that had made him risk his life covering those miles from the station to here. He had met not one soul on the road, nor seen one live beast, nor bird. He could have slipped and fallen and stayed where he lay, and tomorrow they would have found him stiff. He was mad; and what for? All these weeks, all the months of talking hadn’t, he knew, brought them one inch closer together; the only difference in her attitude toward him was that she argued with him no longer and did not seek to quarrel with everything he said. In fact now she listened intently to all he had to say; but it was as if she were listening to a disembodied voice. And the voice now hadn’t the courage to say, ‘Barbara, will you marry me?’ for he knew what the answer would be. The truth was, he told himself, Barbara would never marry for she had still not come alive.

  Well, he had made up his mind. Or had he? Wasn’t it his father who had made it up for him? ‘Get yourself away, lad,’ he said, ‘you’re wearing yourself out. The money’s there for you when you want it. I’m going to give you five thousand, not all at once, and it isn’t all your share. There’ll be a bit over when things come to be divided; but I can tell you, lad, that’s not going to be for some time, I’m not ready for me box yet. I’ll see that there’s two thousand in the bank for you; when you want any more you can send to me for it, it’ll give me some idea of where you’re at.’

  Looking back now, he realised that it had been a very emotional moment. He’d had the almost womanish desire to lay his head on his father’s shoulder, to put his arms about him, and to express by such action the feelings that were in his heart, but all he had been able to say was, ‘It’s more than generous of you; you can be sure I won’t squander it.’ And now all that remained was to go along there tomorrow and tell them, tell her, and then he would pack. But he would have little to pack, for he was going to travel light. This time next week he’d be in France, or beyond. Just think of it, France or beyond. He thought of it, and it brought him no joy.

  After kicking the snow off his boots against the wall and having to lift his foot high up to do so, for the foot scraper was hidden under the snow, and knocking on the door, he entered the kitchen, as he was used to doing, Mary turned from the fire and Miss Brigmore from the delph rack, and they both exclaimed aloud much as the maids had done: ‘Oh! you’ve never made it in this weather, Mr Dan!’ Mary cried, and Miss Brigmore echoed, ‘Why! Dan, Dan, we didn’t expect you. How on earth have you managed to travel?’

  Dan laughed from one to the other as he drew off his gloves, then took off his outer coat, and when Mary took them from him and, looking up into his face, said ‘Eeh! Mr Dan,’ he bent toward her and whispered with a jocularity he didn’t feel, ‘There isn’t the weather manufactured, Mary, that could stop me coming to see you.’

  ‘Aw! You, Mr Dan.’ She flapped his hat at him, then hurried out of the kitchen, saying, ‘You must have smelled the broth, that’s it.’

  ‘Is…is anything wrong, Dan?’ Miss Brigmore came toward him now, to where he was standing holding his hands over the open fire that flared brightly between the blackleaded ovens, and he turned his head and looked at her for a moment before answering, ‘No, there’s nothing wrong. I…I only thought I’d come to see you before, well, before I leave. I couldn’t go without saying goodbye to you.’

  ‘Before you leave, where?’

  ‘Home…here…Manchester, the mill…England…’

  ‘You’re leaving England, Dan?’

  As he was about to answer, he turned and looked toward the door; Mary had left it ajar and he thought someone was about to enter; but no-one did and he went on, ‘Well, you know I’ve…I’ve always meant to go; it was only a year’s probation at the mill in the hope I might settle. But I knew I couldn’t. I…I did it to please Dad. He’s…he’s been very, very good, generous.’

  ‘Oh, Dan.’ Miss Brigmore turned to the table and, with her back to him, she said, ‘We’ll…we’ll miss you. Barbara, Barbara will miss you; you’re…you’re the only one she sees, in fact you’re the only one she seems to want to see.’

  He made a small deprecating sound in his throat. ‘It’s because she’s housebound,’ he said. ‘Once the fine weather comes she’ll get out and about.’

  Miss Brigmore was facing him again, and now she said slowly, ‘I doubt it, Dan. Barbara has changed. You know it’s in my heart to wish that her…her deafness had never left her because she’s taken her he
aring as a new affliction.’

  ‘No, no; you mustn’t imagine that. It’s wonderful that she can hear again. Come on, cheer up.’ He went toward her. ‘You’re looking very peaky yourself, aren’t you well?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am quite well, Dan.’ She moved her head in small jerks and blinked her eyes, and there was a slight tremor in her voice as she added, ‘I was about to pour the soup out; we generally have it mid-morning, it warms one better than tea. Go along into the sitting room.’

  As Dan moved away from her she stopped him, saying, ‘On second thoughts, I won’t bring it in for a while, I think you’d better tell her first.’

  ‘Very well. Yes, yes, I will.’

  He went out and crossed the hall and paused for a moment before he tapped on the sitting-room door and entered the room.

  Barbara was standing near the window. She turned immediately and faced him, and as always he was aware of her height. Since her illness she had seemed to grow taller; perhaps it was because she had become thinner. He walked slowly toward the middle of the room and when she did not come toward him, he said, ‘Aren’t you surprised to see me, everybody else seems to be? Two of the maids nearly fell downstairs last night when I walked in, or rather, fell in. I told them not to try to bend me or I would snap like an icicle. And now Mary nearly fell into the fire and Brigie spills the soup; but you, you look as if you expected me.’

  ‘I did. I…I heard you in the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ He made a deep obeisance with his head. ‘That’s it, is it? Still I didn’t expect to surprise you; you know me so well that nothing I would ever do or say would surprise…’

  ‘Don’t joke, Dan.’ She came slowly toward him now and she repeated, ‘Don’t joke.’

  ‘Why? Why must I not joke? Joking’s part of my stock in trade.’

  ‘Because…because you’ve…you’ve come to tell me you’re going away. I heard you talking to Brigie.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s over then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dan.’ She came near to him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Dan.’ She was actually gripping his arm now, and he said, ‘Now, now; don’t get so agitated. Sit down. What is it?’ When he had placed her gently on the couch she gripped her hands together and pressed them between her bent head and her breast bone as if she were trying to push them into herself, and then she whispered something.

  He bent his head toward her. ‘What did you say?’ She repeated the words and suddenly he jerked her chin from her hands and brought her face to front him, and now he whispered, ‘Do you know what you’ve just said?’

  She moved her head once.

  ‘“Take me with you,” you said. You want to come with me? Barbara. Barbara!’ His voice had risen from the whisper and was getting louder, and he glanced back toward the door, then lowered his tone again as he said, ‘You…you can’t mean it?’

  ‘I do, I do, Dan. Please, please take me with you, away from here. I…I mean to go in any case, I mean to leave, but…but I’m frightened on my own.’

  The light faded from his face now as he said, ‘There’s only one way you could come with me, Barbara, you know that?’

  Her eyes were steady as she looked into his and said, ‘I know.’

  ‘You would marry me?’

  Her gaze still remained steady. ‘Yes, Dan.’

  ‘Oh! Barbara.’ He drew her hands toward his chest; then bending his head over them he kissed the white knuckles twice, three times before looking at her again and saying thickly, ‘You know I love you?’

  She nodded once before answering in a low murmur, ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Since…since you began to visit me.’

  He smiled now, a sad smile, as he said, ‘You didn’t know before?’

  ‘How…how could I? We always seemed to quarrel.’

  ‘I’ve loved you all my life; can you believe that? Right from the first time I saw you in the nursery. I can remember the picture you made as clear as I’m seeing you now. Katie came rushing out of the nursery, crying, “The Mallen girl’s hit me!” then I saw you standing straight like a young willow tree…What’s the matter? Don’t bow your head.’

  ‘I…I hate that name, my name is Farrington.’

  ‘All right, all right, darling,’ he said soothingly; ‘but it won’t be Farrington much longer. I…I can’t believe it; I can’t believe that you want to marry me. But’—he shook his head sadly now—‘you don’t really, do you, it’s only a means of escape? But…but don’t worry’—he almost gabbled now—‘it doesn’t matter why you want to as long as you want to. You don’t love me, I know that, I don’t expect you to, not yet anyway…’

  When she lifted her head and looked into his eyes he added jocularly, ‘I’m the kind that never gives up hope.’ Then his voice changing, he asked seriously, ‘But you like me a little, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve…I’ve grown to like you a lot, Dan.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, Barbara. That’ll do for the present.’

  ‘When…when can we leave?’

  He looked slightly surprised at her haste, then said, ‘As soon as ever you’re ready. But…but have you thought about Brigie, how she’ll take it, how she’s going to feel about it?’

  ‘Yes, yes I have; I’ve thought about it a lot; but I must say this, and I can only say it to you, it’s Brigie I must get away from.’

  ‘Brigie?’

  ‘Yes, Brigie. I can’t explain it. I know it’s wrong, I know in my mind I am wrong to blame her for all that’s happened, yet I do. I can’t help it but it’s her I blame.’

  ‘Oh! Barbara, you mustn’t think like that, not about Brigie; she’s…she’s given you her life.’

  ‘That’s it, that’s just it, Dan.’ She turned away from him now. ‘She’s given me her life, and the weight of it is lying on me, and…and I can see it getting heavier with the years as she protects me and turns me into a replica of herself, Miss Mallen; the spinster lady, Miss Mallen.’

  ‘Oh! Barbara dear, darling.’ Impulsively he put his arms around her, but when he drew her close there was no response from her body, and his own became still. She was looking straight into his eyes as she said softly, ‘Give me time, Dan, give me time,’ and as softly he answered, ‘All the time in the world, dear.’

  He was not to know that another man, her half-brother had said those exact words to her Aunt Constance in this very room over twenty years ago. ‘Will…will you tell her first?’

  ‘You wish me to?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Very well.’ His arms dropped from around her; he turned abruptly and went out.

  She stood looking toward the door for a moment; then swiftly she went to the window and, one fist tightly closed, she bit hard on the knuckles as she gazed out into the never-ending whiteness that covered the garden, the fells, and the hills beyond, and the bleak iciness of the land was reflected deep within her. Yet she strove to melt it, crying at it, ‘I will love him! I will learn to love him! It can be done.’

  She swung round as the door opened and Miss Brigmore entered, but neither of them moved toward the other, and when Miss Brigmore spoke her voice was so low, so distant, that Barbara imagined for a moment she had lost her hearing again. ‘You can’t, you can’t do this,’ she said.

  ‘I can, I can, Brigie, and I’m going to.’

  ‘You mean to say you would willingly go away to…to a foreign country?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I mean to say.’

  Both their voices were muted now as if they were afraid of hearing not only what the other had to say, but also what they were saying themselves.

  ‘You mean you would leave me, leave me here on my own?’

  ‘I…I would have left you in any case had I married before now.’

  ‘That would have been different; you would have been in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Miss Brigmore started as the monosyll
able rang out like a cry, and then was repeated, ‘Yes, in the Hall, or over the hills. You wouldn’t even have minded that, would you, in the end, if I’d gone over the hills, as long as you had me at hand? And then you would have had more children to mould into your ladylike pattern, the pattern that has no association with life. It’s been proved, it’s been proved by everyone you’ve touched: Aunt Constance; as much as I hated her, I realised that her life had gone awry in the first place through ignorance; and then my mother, the other Barbara, what happened to her? What happened to her, eh? And at the hands of the man you played mistress to.’ She thrust out her arm now and pointed to the picture above the mantelpiece. ‘I want to smash that, him that you cosseted in all ways. If you hadn’t allowed his woman to come to the barn my mother wouldn’t have been raped and I wouldn’t have been here. You brought your pupils up in a house of sin, and you were surprised and shocked when things went wrong. You still retain the power to be surprised and shocked after all that’s happened. Katie, even Katie, rebelled…’ Her voice was almost a scream now.

  As Miss Brigmore leaned back against the door it was thrust open and Dan entered. He stared hard for a moment at Barbara; then turned his attention quickly to Brigie where the opening door had thrust her against the wall, and as she was about to slide down it he caught her and, supporting her, led her to the couch. Then turning to Mary, who was now in the room, he ordered, ‘Bring a little brandy.’

  As Mary scampered away Dan glanced up at Barbara. His face was stiff, his eyes hard, even accusing; and now, her voice was a whimper, she said, ‘I’m…I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean all I said, it just…’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘I…I know that.’ Her long body slumped and she sat down abruptly on a chair.

  Miss Brigmore now put her hand to her head and murmured, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ But when she attempted to sit upright Dan pressed her gently back, saying, ‘Sit quiet.’