The Mallen Streak

by Catherine Cookson

  When Waite was dragged by the collar of his tight-necked, braided uniform coat and flung against the wall of the corridor he was dazed for a moment, but only for a moment, because the next thing he knew was that he was struggling with the young master, and fighting as if for his life.

  When he again hit the wall it was Ord’s arm this time that had thrust him there, and he slumped for a moment until he heard Dick Mallen yell at him, ‘Out! Out! You swine. Do you hear? Out! You’re dismissed. If you’re not out of the grounds within half an hour…’

  Waite pulled himself upright from the wall, but he didn’t slink away under the fury of the young master as many another servant would have done, for there was in him a stubbornness born of a long line of protesting peasants. His grandparents and great-grandparents had originally worked on the land, but his father had been forced into the pit at the age of seven and when his first child was born he had stated bitterly and firmly, ‘This is the one who won’t have chains atween his legs an’ be pulling a bogie when he’s seven. My God! No, I’ll see to that.’ And he had seen to it, for he had put the boy into service.

  Harry Waite had started first as a stable lad but soon, the ambitions of his father prompting him, he had turned his eyes towards the house, for promotion was quicker there and the work was easier and you weren’t out in all weathers. He had been in two situations before coming to the Hall five years ago, and since then he had married and his wife had given him two children and he was on the point of being delivered of a third.

  This morning the fortunes of the house had worried him almost as much as they were worrying his master. Positions were difficult to get, particularly if you had to house a wife and three children; but being turned off because of the fortunes of the house was one thing, being thrown out without reference was entirely another, and something to be fought against. And now the resilience of his father, and his father’s father, against injustice came spurting up in protest, and he dared to face the young upstart, as he thought of him, and say in no deferential terms, ‘Oh no I don’t; I don’t go out of here by your orders, sir, ’cos I wasn’t bonded by you; if anybody’s tellin’ me to go it’ll be the master, not you.’

  Even Ord was aghast; as for Mr Dunn, who had just come through the green-baized door and was staring with an incredulous expression at the scene, he was too overcome by the enormity of what he was witnessing to utter a word. Then, his training coming to the fore, he regained his composure and was about to step forward when he was startled by the young master leaping past him and almost overbalancing him as he rushed towards the gunroom door.

  His intention was so plain to everyone that pandemonium, or something near to it, took place, for now Dunn and Ord almost leapt on Waite and dragged him along the passage and into the kitchen, there to be confronted by the startled staff and three sombre-faced men.

  As the butler, releasing Waite, pushed him forward, hissing, ‘Get yourself away out, man,’ Fanny Armstrong’s voice came from the corridor, crying, ‘No! No!’ Then the kitchen door burst open again, and Dick Mallen stood there with a long-barrelled gun in his hand. Lifting it to his shoulder, he pointed it to where Waite, who was actually on his way to the far door, had stopped and turned, scarcely believing that the young master could mean to shoot him, yet at the same time knowing that he would.

  ‘Ten seconds…I give you ten seconds!’

  Whether it was that Waite couldn’t quite take in the situation as real, or that his innate stubbornness was preventing him from obeying the command, he did not turn towards the door and run; not even when the kitchen maids screamed and huddled into a corner with the cook, while Dunn and Ord protested loudly, ‘Master Dick! Master Dick!’ but keeping their distance the while.

  The three bailiffs too stood where they were; that is, until Dick Mallen, narrowing his eyes, looked along the barrel of the gun. Then the one who had done the talking so far said in a voice that held authority, ‘Put that gun down, sir, or else you’ll do somebody an injury.’

  Dick Mallen’s eyes flickered for a moment from the gun to the bailiff, and now hatred of him and all his breed came over in his words as he growled, ‘Mind it isn’t you.’

  When the bailiff sprang forward and gripped the gun there was a moment’s struggle in which no-one interfered. Then, as Dick Mallen had thrust Waite against the wall only a few minutes previously, now he found himself pushed backwards against the long dresser with the gun across his chest. The indignity was not to be borne. Lifting his knee up he thrust it into the bailiff’s belly, then rotating the gun, he brought the butt across the side of the man’s head. The bailiff heeled over and hit the stone floor with a dull thud.

  There followed a moment of concerted stunned silence, then the women’s screams not only filled the kitchen but vibrated through the house.

  Only one woman hadn’t screamed. Fanny Armstrong had just gasped before turning and fleeing along the corridor, through the green-baized door into the hall, calling, ‘Father! Father! Father! Father!’

  Like the rest of the household, Frank Armstrong was making his way into the hall, Thomas by his side. They had both been in the library, where Thomas had tactfully touched on the subject of a substantial loan, and Frank Armstrong after humming and ha-ing had then come into the open and said, ‘Well, it’s up to the youngsters, Turk. You know what I want in that direction; if my girl’s happy, I’m happy and I’m willin’ to pay for it.’ It was the exact moment when Thomas was exhaling one long-drawn breath of relief that the screams rang through the house. Now, as he watched Fanny Armstrong throw herself into her father’s arms, he cried, ‘What is it? What is it?’ But he received no answer, until Dunn, bursting through the door into the hall, came to his side; then was unable to get his words out.

  ‘What is it, man? What is it, those women screaming?’

  ‘Sir…sir, an…an accident.’ The imperturbable butler was visibly shaking. ‘M…Master Dick, the bailiff, he…the bailiff, he’s injured. Master Dick used his gun on him.’

  Thomas glared at the man as if he were about to accuse him of being drunk which he knew he could have done any night after the man’s duties were over. Then he bounded across the hall, banging wide the green-baized door, down the corridor and into the kitchen. But he stopped dead just within the doorway. The expression on his face was much the same as had been on his butler’s when he had come upon the scene in the corridor not more than five minutes earlier.

  Thomas now walked slowly towards the man lying on the floor and looked down at him. His companions had opened his coat, his vest, and his shirt, and one of them had placed his hand on the man’s heart; the other was attempting to staunch the blood pouring from the side of his head and face.

  ‘Is…is he bad?’ Thomas’ words were thin and scarcely audible. One of the two men turned a sickly white face up to him and said, ‘Seems so, sir; but he’s still breathin’.’

  Thomas now swept his glance around the kitchen. Everyone, including his son, seemed fixed as in a tableau. The screaming had stopped; the only sounds came from the girls huddled in the corner of the room.

  Thomas’ gaze turned on his son. Dick was standing by a side table, on which the gun now lay. He had one hand still on the barrel, the other was hanging limply by his side; his face which had been red with fury, now looked ashen. He gazed at his father, wetted his lips, then muttered low, ‘’Twas an accident. An accident…I was out to frighten that—’ He lifted a trembling finger and pointed to where Waite was standing utterly immobile looking like a mummy which had been taken from its long rest. No muscle of his face moved; he was not even blinking.

  Thomas now let out a bellow and, turning to the doorway where Frank Armstrong was standing side by side with the butler, he yelled at Dunn, ‘Send the coach! Get a doctor, quick! Clear those women out.’ He swept his arm towards the corner of the kitchen. ‘Get them to bring a door and bring the man upstairs…See to it, Ord. You!’—he was pointing at the cook now—‘Get hot water. Move! Move yourse
lf.’

  The kitchen came to life, scurrying, frightened, apprehensive life.

  Frank Armstrong now moved slowly forward and stood at Thomas’ side and looked down at the man for a moment before slanting his narrowed gaze towards where Dick was standing, his hand still on the gun. Then without a word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen and back into the hall, where Fanny was supporting herself against the balustrade at the bottom of the stairs. Without a word he took her arm and together they went up the stairs and into her room, and there, facing her, he said, ‘How did it come about?’

  Fanny Armstrong stared at her father. She was not an emotional type of woman, she was not given to tears. Frank Armstrong couldn’t remember when he last saw her cry, but now as he watched the tears slowly well into her eyes and fall down her cheeks he put his arm about her and, leading her to a chair, said, ‘Tell me.’

  And she told him.

  She began by saying, ‘It was because he heard a servant, the footman, speaking the truth about him,’ and, her lips trembling, she ended with deep bitterness, ‘The whole house knows he was being forced into asking me and that he hated the very idea of it. You know something? I hope the man dies, and he dies too for what he’s done because I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. Oh, Father, let us get out of here, now, now.’ The next minute her face was buried against his waistcoat and he had to press her tight into him to stifle the sound of her sobbing.

  Five

  There were four people in the house who weren’t aware of what had taken place during the last hour. They were Miss Brigmore, Mary Peel and the children.

  Miss Brigmore, Mary thought, had turned almost human over the last few hours. She told herself that never in her life had she seen anyone change so quickly, and when Miss Brigmore, taking her aside, told her of what she planned to do that very day, well, she couldn’t believe her ears, she just couldn’t.

  And this is what Miss Brigmore had worked out. She, Mary, was to go down into the drawing room, or the dining room, whichever she found empty, and unbeknown to anyone she was to pick up small pieces of silver, such as silver napkin rings and a Georgian cruet. One wouldn’t be missed as there were three of them on the table most days. Then there was a small Georgian silver tea service that was in the cabinet of the drawing room, there were six pieces and a tray. She was to take large pins and pin anything with handles to her petticoats—did you ever hear anything like it? And Miss Brigmore had even demonstrated how she was to do it. Then, when she had got as much silver as possible, she was to take from here and there in the display cabinets cameos and snuff boxes. She had really gaped at Miss Brigmore when she had told her the exact positions of the pieces; she herself had been in this house almost three times as long as Miss Brigmore and she couldn’t have told what was in the cabinets, let alone just where each piece was placed. When she had got her breath back she asked, ‘But what’ll we do with all that stuff? They’ll take account of up here an’ all.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Mary,’ Miss Brigmore had said, reverting to her normal tone. ‘They won’t remain long up here.’

  ‘But how will we get them out, an’ where will we put them?’

  ‘Mary,’—Miss Brigmore’s voice had been slow and patient—‘the children will be going to live at the cottage, won’t they? I shall most certainly be accompanying them, very likely you too, and I should not be surprised if the master doesn’t reside there for a time…’

  ‘The master at the cottage!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Brigmore, ‘the master at the cottage, Mary. Now these men start taking an inventory the moment they enter a room, they take mental stock of almost everything they see, bailiffs have eyes like lynxes, nothing escapes them, so it would be foolish, very foolish don’t you think, if after collecting the articles we were to leave them up here, or that we should leave the collecting until later for that matter?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Mary had answered.

  ‘So you will take the children for their airing as you do every day, but today I shall accompany you, and we shall carry as many things as possible on our persons. What can’t be pinned or sewn we must insert in our bodices. The children will help. We can fasten their cloaks with cameos…Now, listen carefully…’

  Miss Brigmore then told Mary where the articles in question were placed, and she ended, ‘Go to the drawing room first and if you find it empty, collect the miniatures and snuff boxes, and should anyone ask you what you are about refer them to me; just tell them to come to the nursery and see Miss Brigmore.’

  And Mary did exactly as she was told. She had even enjoyed doing it, getting one over on them bums, who were spoiling everything, finishing the Hall off, an’ the master an’ all. But eeh! Wasn’t that Miss Brigmore a surprise? Who would have thought it? She was acting like she was almost human.

  Mary made four journeys from the nursery to the ground floor and only one person had asked her what she was about. This was Waite. ‘What you up to there, Mary?’ he said. ‘You can’t get away with that. You want to end up along the line?’

  ‘I’m doin’ what I’m told, Harry,’ she answered tartly. ‘You go and see Miss Brigmore.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ he said.

  ‘That’s it,’ she answered.

  ‘That one knows what she’s about. What’s she going to do with them?’ said Waite.

  ‘Take them to the cottage for the master.’

  ‘Well, he’s likely to need what they’ll bring afore he’s finished, I suppose. Here, I’ll give you a hand,’ he said.

  But to his proposal she answered, ‘No, I know what I’m to get, but you could keep the coast clear outside and if anybody makes for here or the dining room, cough.’

  So Miss Brigmore and her charges and Mary Peel went out for a walk before noon. They walked slowly until they were out of sight of the house and then they walked more quickly through the gardens. But their pace was controlled by the weight of their petticoats. They went out through the main gates and along the coach road to the cottage, where, there being no cellar, Miss Brigmore ordered Mary to look in the outhouses for a hammer and chisel. When these were found, Miss Brigmore pushed the dining-room carpet back until it touched the stout, claw-footed leg of the table, then using the hammer and chisel as if so doing were an everyday occurrence to her, she prised up the nine-inch floorboard.

  After thrusting her hand down into the dark depths, she said, ‘This’ll do nicely; there’s a draught of air passing through and the bottom is rough stone. Now Mary, and you, children, hand me the pieces, carefully one after the other. There is no need to wrap them as they won’t rest here long.’

  Constance giggled as she passed her pieces to Miss Brigmore. She was finding the business exciting, whereas Barbara on the other hand showed no outward sign of feeling at all.

  Although Miss Brigmore had tried to turn the whole episode into a game Barbara knew it had a serious side. She was overwhelmed by a sense of insecurity and she remembered this feeling from as far back as the time when her Uncle Thomas had first brought her to the Hall.

  Miss Brigmore sensed the feeling in her charge, and after she had replaced the floorboard and the carpet was rolled back and the house door closed, she took Barbara’s hand and said, ‘Come, you and I shall race Mary and Constance to the main road.’

  Barbara, too, saw that Miss Brigmore had changed, but in spite of this and the new softness in her, she was still seeing her as she had done the previous night lying on the bed moaning, and she knew she was wicked.

  It was with a certain sense of triumph that Miss Brigmore finally marshalled her pirate company through the main gates after their second visit to the cottage. The day was closing in, it was bitterly cold and raining, but the weather didn’t trouble her. The last time she had been engaged in such a manoeuvre she had failed, at least her mother had, and it was only the timely assistance of a friend that had prevented her mother being taken before the Justices. But this time she had succeeded. At a rough estimate she guessed t
hey had retrieved some thousand pounds’ worth of objects, the miniatures being the most valuable. Of course, she admitted to herself, she might have been precipitate in her action for the master had a good friend in Mr Armstrong. Moreover, if the match between Miss Fanny and Master Dick were to be arranged then the problem would be solved, and indeed her action might be frowned upon—or laughed at, which would be harder to bear. But as Mr Brown had confided in her only yesterday, he had his grave doubts concerning Master Dick’s intentions. To quote his own words, Master Dick was a bit of an unruly stallion, and he couldn’t see Miss Fanny Armstrong breaking him in. In Mr Brown’s opinion, apart from her being much too old for him, she wasn’t his type; some stallions, for all their temper and show of strength, had tender mouths, and his guess was that Miss Fanny would pull too hard on the bit.

  Mr Brown’s similes always favoured the stables. She sometimes wondered how he had chosen the profession of valet, seeing his knowledge, and apparently his sympathies, lay so much with the four-footed creatures. Nevertheless she was inclined to take Mr Brown’s opinion with some seriousness for he had proved himself to be right on other occasions with regards both to the master and Master Dick.

  It was as she was crossing the drive, ushering the children and Mary quickly before her out of the rain, that she had a mental picture of herself explaining her actions to the master, at the opportune moment of course, and the opportune moment, as seen in her mind, brought a warm, exciting glow to her body, for now she could see no end to the opportune moments.