The Mallen Streak

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry.’ He took her hand gently and drew her towards his side.

  After a time he said, ‘Another scandal to be faced. They won’t believe that I was ignorant of this, will they?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘… Was…was there anything in his room, a letter?’

  ‘No; I…I searched.’

  He now released her hand and running his fingers through his grey hair he muttered thickly, ‘God Almighty!’ It did not, as usual, sound like blasphemy, but more like a prayer. Then looking up at her he asked, ‘How am I going to get through these coming weeks?’

  For answer she moved closer to him and, holding his head in her hands, she brought it to her breast and pressed it there, and she said, ‘You’ll come through them, and then you’ll forget them. I’ll…I’ll see to it that you forget them.’

  Eight

  It was a Wednesday, June the eighteenth, the day on which the Battle of Waterloo had been fought thirty-six years earlier. Constance had got the date wrong in her exercise that morning and Miss Brigmore had chastised her firmly. But then Constance thought she understood the reason for Miss Brigmore’s harshness; she was always short-tempered when Uncle was out of sorts, and he had been out of sorts for some days now. That was the term Mary used. Miss Brigmore’s term was lackadaisical. So, between out of sorts and lackadaisical, Constance reasoned it meant that Uncle Thomas couldn’t be bothered to take his daily walk any longer. Uncle Thomas sat in the study for hours by himself, and now even his glass of wine at dinner didn’t cheer him up. Of course, she supposed, one glass of wine wasn’t very much for a man like Uncle Thomas because his big stomach was made to hold so much more.

  The wine from the house was finished long ago, and when Mary and Miss Brigmore went into the town for the shopping they only brought one bottle back with them. She had asked Mary why they didn’t bring Uncle Thomas more wine and Mary said it was because they couldn’t carry any more. Constance knew this was not the right answer, the right answer was they didn’t want to spend money on the wine. And this seemed rather mean, especially as she and Barbara had two hundred pounds every year to spend. She had put this to Barbara and to her surprise Barbara had snapped at her, saying, ‘Don’t be silly, two hundred pounds is nothing to keep a household on. We’re very poor, very, very poor. We are lucky we eat as we do. If it wasn’t for Miss Brigmore’s management we wouldn’t fare so well.’

  Constance accepted the rebuff. She supposed she was stupid. She supposed the reason for her stupidity was because she was three years younger than Barbara. When she was Barbara’s age she supposed she’d be very wise, but already she was finding that as one grew older one became more puzzled by people. She was puzzled by Barbara’s attitude to Miss Brigmore, for sometimes Barbara’s manner towards Miss Brigmore wasn’t courteous, yet she always spoke well of her behind her back. And then there was that odd time when she found Barbara crying and Miss Brigmore kneeling on the floor in front of her holding her hands and talking rapidly. Since then she had noticed that Barbara had defended Miss Brigmore on a number of occasions, as about the wine.

  She was walking by Barbara’s side now along the road towards the old house, as she thought of the Hall. Miss Brigmore was walking behind her with Mary. They were all carrying baskets. She turned impulsively and asked, ‘May we run, Miss Brigmore?’ and Miss Brigmore said, ‘Yes, you may. But don’t go out of sight for there might be a carriage on the road. If you should meet one on a corner, jump straight into the ditch.’

  Before Miss Brigmore had finished speaking Constance had grabbed Barbara’s hand and they were running along the road until, hot and panting, they stopped within sight of the iron gates of the Hall.

  The Hall still remained unsold. No-one as yet had come forward with a suitable offer. The Bank had kept on a skeleton staff to see to the crops on the farms and the fruit and vegetables in the Hall gardens and greenhouses.

  Twice a week, for some time now, Miss Brigmore had taken her party through the gardens and there, Grayson, who had been head gardener, filled their baskets with vegetables and fruit in season. Over the past two weeks she and Mary, between them, had made over forty pounds of strawberry preserve. There was an ample supply of spring onions and new carrots in the cottage stable and they had a barrel ready in the wash-house in which to salt the beans.

  As Miss Brigmore remarked to Mary, Grayson was being very co-operative, and she calculated that by the time the potatoes were up they’d have enough fruit and vegetables stored to last them the entire winter, by which time they’d have their own plot of land under cultivation. This was if she could induce some boy from the village to till the ground. In the long nights ahead a boy could do three hours of an evening and earn threepence, and there was many a one would be glad of it…But the village was three miles away.

  There was no need to go near the house. When they entered the gates, they could turn to the right and cut through the shrubbery, along the cypress drive, skirt the lake and the rose walk and so come to the domestic gardens; but the children always wanted to see the house. It was strange, she thought, that they saw more of the lower rooms now than they had ever done when they lived in the house. Their favourite game was to run along the terrace peering through one window after another, and today was no exception.

  She followed them at some distance, having left Mary sitting on the house steps. Mary was having trouble with her right leg, her veins were enlarged and very painful. Barbara called to her now, saying, ‘Look, Miss Brigmore, there’s more soot down in the living room, it’s spilled over on to the floorboards.’

  ‘Yes, indeed there is, Barbara.’ She stood looking over the child’s head, her face close to the glass. ‘The climbing boys didn’t do their work thoroughly there; all the chimneys were cleaned at the beginning of the year following the big Christmas fires; of course it could be damp. There must be big pockets of soot in the bends which the boys couldn’t get at, and these have come away with the damp. Some boys are not so particular as others.’ She gave this information as if it were a lesson, and it was a lesson; everything she said to them, except at very rare moments, was in the form of a lesson.

  ‘Let’s go round to the stables!’ Constance was running to the end of the terrace. She had reached the corner when she stopped and exclaimed loudly, ‘Oh!’ then she turned her head in the direction of Barbara and Miss Brigmore, while at the same time thrusting her arm out and pointing her finger.

  Barbara reached her first, but she did not make an exclamation, she just stared in the direction that Constance was pointing. Nor did Miss Brigmore make any exclamation when she reached the corner and looked at the boy standing not three yards from them.

  The boy seemed vaguely familiar yet she knew she hadn’t seen him before, at least not closely. Then, her gaze moving back from his dark black-lashed eyes to his tousled black hair, she saw the disordered fair streak, and then she recognised him. This was the boy who came over the hills and stood on the rock to view the house. She had caught a glimpse of him once when out walking, a matter of two years ago. He had looked very small then but now he looked tall, over five feet she would say.

  ‘Who are you, boy?’

  The boy did not answer but looked at the little girl.

  ‘Are you from the farm?’

  Miss Brigmore shook Constance gently by the shoulder saying, ‘Be quiet.’ Then, looking at the boy she said, ‘You know you are on private ground.’

  ‘Whose?’ The voice was thick, the word was thick with the Northumbrian burr, and had a demand about it; whatever home he was from, he wasn’t, Miss Brigmore decided, in servitude there. She would have said by the tilt of his head and the look in his eyes that he was of an arrogant nature, as arrogant as a Mallen, or as the Mallens had once been. She gave to her own tone alike arrogance as she answered. ‘This estate is the property of Mr Thomas Mallen.’

  ‘Until it’s sold…You are the gov’ness, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I
am the governess.’

  ‘And your name is Brigmore. You see, I know.’

  ‘I hope your knowledge affords you some comfort.’

  She saw that he was slightly nonplussed by her answer and she took advantage of it, saying, ‘Now tell me what you’re doing here?’

  ‘Walkin’ round…lookin’…It’s a mess isn’t it! It’ll soon go to rack an’ ruin; all ill-gotten gains return to rack an’ ruin.’

  ‘You are a very rude boy. This house is not ill-gotten, it was Uncle Thomas…’

  ‘Barbara.’ Miss Brigmore now put her hand on Barbara’s arm and patted it three times, not in addition to the reprimand that her tone might have implied but rather as an indication that she was agreeing with her statement.

  The boy was staring at Barbara now and she at him, and after a moment he said, ‘You live in the cottage at the foot of the tor, and he lives there an’ all now…Mallen.’

  ‘Mr Mallen, boy.’

  The eyes, like black marbles, flashed towards her and the tone again was aggressive as he said, ‘There’s some must mister him but not me.’

  ‘You really are very rude.’ Constance’s face had slid into a smile as she endorsed Barbara’s words, and when the boy’s attention came on her again she asked playfully, ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘Oh, you are very old. I’m only seven and Barbara,’—she nodded now towards her sister—‘she’s ten. What do you do, do you work?’

  Miss Brigmore was for sternly checking Constance but Constance had asked a question, the answer to which would likely give her the boy’s background, and so she remained silent while the boy, looking down at Constance, said, ‘Aye, of course I work. All men should work; if you want to eat you should work.’

  ‘What do you work at?’

  ‘I farm; me da has a farm.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And it’s a fine farm, better’n any on here.’ He flung his arms sidewards and the gesture took in the whole estate.

  ‘Come along.’ Miss Brigmore now ushered the girls forward and, looking over her shoulder at the boy, said, ‘And you get about your business and don’t let me catch you here again.’

  ‘I’ll come when I think fit.’

  Her back stiffened but she did not turn round.

  ‘What a strange boy. He was very rude but…but he was nice, wasn’t he?’

  Barbara turned her head quickly in Constance’s direction, saying, ‘Don’t be silly; how can you be rude and nice at the same time? He was just rude, very uncouth, wasn’t he, Miss Brigmore?’

  Miss Brigmore didn’t look at either of the girls as she replied to the first part of the question. ‘Yes, he was very rude. But now let us forget about him and get to the gardens.’

  It was an hour later when the children, carrying baskets of strawberries, and Miss Brigmore and Mary Peel the heavier vegetables, were making their way to the lodge gates that they heard the voice calling, ‘Matthew! Matthew!’

  ‘It’s that boy again.’ Constance’s eyes were wide, her face bright with expectation, and Mary Peel said, ‘And another along of him by the sound of it. He didn’t go when you told him then.’ She cast a glance towards Miss Brigmore, then added, ‘He wants his face skelped; afore you know it he’ll have the place cleared. I’ve heard of him afore, as ready with his fists as he is with his tongue, I hear. Thinks he’s as good as the next. Huh!’

  They walked on until they came on to the drive, and there a short distance along it, stood the boy, his two hands to his mouth, calling again ‘Matthew! You, Matthew!’

  They all turned as one now, slightly startled by the sound of running feet approaching along the path they had just left, and the next minute there came towards them another boy. His hair was very fair, his face pale; he was shorter and younger than the boy on the drive who, ignoring the four of them completely, addressed him by demanding, ‘Where d’you think you’ve been? Didn’t you hear me callin’? By lad! You’ll do that once too often, you will.’

  The fair-haired boy too, ignoring the presence of the others and the fact that he was trespassing, answered as if they were alone together. ‘I was sittin’ by the river,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely down there, man; you should have come. There was a tree hangin’ over and I could see the fish in the shad…’

  ‘Shut up!’ the dark boy now turned to the group who were staring at him, and by way of explanation said, ‘This is me brother…I mean me…?’

  Miss Brigmore interrupted him, saying, ‘I told you some time ago to leave the grounds, didn’t I?’

  ‘Aye, you did, an’ I gave you your answer, didn’t I?’

  Extraordinary boy, really extraordinary. Miss Brigmore was lost for words. There was something in him that—she wouldn’t say frightened her, rather annoyed her. The next minute she started as if she had been stung by the younger boy addressing the girls in the most casual and undeferential manner. ‘Hello,’ he said; ‘it’s lovely here, isn’t it?’

  Both Barbara and Constance had their mouths open to reply when she shut them with, ‘Come along immediately.’

  As they moved away the fair boy ran before them and tugged at the iron gate, but he could open it only sufficiently for them to pass through in single file.

  ‘Thank you.’ The words coming from Miss Brigmore were a dismissal, and the boy stood still until he was pushed forward by his brother. Then they followed within a few yards of the party until the most surprising thing happened. The dark boy was suddenly at Miss Brigmore’s side and, grabbing her basket, said, ‘Here, let’s take it.’ And she let him take it while staring at him the while.

  ‘Matthew, take t’other.’ He was nodding towards Mary Peel now. Mary smiled at the fair boy as he took the basket from her, and said, ‘Ta. Thanks, lad, thanks.’

  Miss Brigmore, now turning to Constance and putting out her hand, said, ‘Let me have yours, Constance; it’s too heavy for you.’ Whereupon she was checked by the voice coming at her roughly now, stating, ‘She’s big enough to carry it hersel’. Let her be.’

  ‘You are a funny boy.’ Constance had her head back, her mouth wide with laughter, and Miss Brigmore was too perturbed at this moment to check her, even when she went on, ‘Would you like a strawberry? You can, we have plenty.’

  When she held out the basket towards him he shook his head, saying roughly, ‘We grow bigger’n that, and them’s been left wet, they’ll mould if you cook ’em no matter how much sugar you put with ’em.’

  Miss Brigmore was indeed nonplussed. What were things coming to? The boy had no sense of place or class. She was all for fraternising within limits, the boundaries of which were educational, and this boy, although he undoubtedly had good stock in him as his white quiff signified, still remained a rough farm boy, and the quicker he was made aware of his position the better. So now she turned her head and said sharply, ‘We do not wish to discuss the merits or demerits of strawberries, so if you will kindly give me my basket you can get on your way.’

  The boy stared at her, his black eyes looking deep into hers; then he almost caused her to choke when he said, ‘We are all goin’ the same road, so get along; the lasses don’t mind.’

  The girls were staring at her, Mary Peel was staring at her; only by a struggle could she take the basket from him, and then she doubted if she would gain anything but ridicule by such an effort. Her chin high, she said, ‘Are you aware that these young ladies are Mr Mallen’s nieces?’

  ‘Aye, I know that; who doesn’t?’

  Really! Really! What could one say to such a person. It was evident that he took pride in his bastardy and because of it considered himself an equal of everyone. It was a good thing, she thought wryly, that all the master’s dubious offspring weren’t of like character and determination or else the Hall would have been invaded before now. And she thought too it was strange that the boy, being as he was, should have kept his distance all these years, viewing the house only from the rock. Not until the house and its master had falle
n had he put in an appearance, and then to gloat apparently. Well, there was one thing she must see to, and right away, he must on no account come in contact with his…with Thomas, for his manner would undoubtedly enrage him to the extent of giving him palpitations; and so when they rounded the next corner she would be most firm and would relieve him and his brother of the baskets and take the path across the fells to the cottage. It would be much longer this way but it would be a means of parting company with this troublesome boy.

  But Miss Brigmore’s plan was shattered and her mind set in a turmoil when, rounding the bend, she saw coming towards them none other than Thomas himself.

  It was to her Thomas spoke when still some distance away saying ‘I needed to stretch my legs, the house is as lonely as a lighthouse when you are gone. Well now, what have we here?’ He had stopped before them, but was now looking past them to the two boys, and as Miss Brigmore watched him she saw his lower jaw slowly drop. The boy was staring back at him, his dark eyes half shaded by his lids, which gave a deeper concentration to his gaze.

  She felt herself gabbling, ‘We…we met these children on the road; they were kind enough to help us with the baskets. I’ll, I’ll take them now…’ She thrust her hand out but it did not reach the boy, for Thomas’ voice checked it, saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ He gently flapped his hand in her direction but didn’t take his eyes from the boy’s face. Then, addressing him quietly, he said, ‘You’ve come down off your rock at last then?’

  The boy made no answer, but his eyes, holding an indefinable look, continued to pierce the heavy jowled countenance before him.

  ‘What is your name?’

  Still the boy made no answer until the younger one nudged him with his elbow while saying to Thomas, ‘They call him Donald, and I’m…’