The Mallen Streak

by Catherine Cookson

  When Constance left the table and went upstairs both Miss Brigmore and Barbara accompanied her. Miss Brigmore did not want to leave the two sisters alone, so that there could be no private, tear-filled farewell between them. Constance’s luggage was already packed, she had only to change her dress. This was quickly done, and when she was arrayed in a brown corded costume and wearing a biscuit-coloured straw hat, she stood for a moment and looked around the room. Then her eyes came to rest, first on Miss Brigmore and then on Barbara, and the next moment they were all enfolded together. But only for a moment, for Miss Brigmore, her voice breaking as she turned hastily away, said as she picked up the pair of gloves from the dressing table, ‘No more now; what’s done’s done; it’s over. Come, come.’ She turned again and, spreading her arms wide, ushered them like two children through the door, and when they were on the landing she called, ‘Mary! Mary! Come and help with the luggage.’

  But instead of Mary appearing on the stairs it was Donald who bounded up to them, saying, ‘You leave that to me. What is it? Where are they?’ Miss Brigmore, pointing back into the room, said, ‘There are three cases and four packages.’

  ‘Three cases and four packages.’ He imitated her voice, then let out a deep laugh and, going into the room, he picked up two cases in one hand and tucked a bulky package under his other arm before picking up the third case and, as Mary entered the room, he cried at her, ‘I’ve left three for you.’ Then in very much the manner that Thomas might have used, he poked his head forward and uttered in a stage whisper, ‘How would you like to come over the hills and work for me, eh?’

  ‘Go on with you. Go on with you.’ She laughed shrilly. ‘You’re a funny fellow you are; you’re takin’ enough away when you’re takin’ Miss Constance. Go on, get off and don’t let the master hear you sayin’ you want me an’ all; they’re losin’ enough the day, they are that.’

  He was at the top of the stairs now, she behind him, and she giggled as she said, ‘Eeh! The things you say. Go on with you.’ He wasn’t so bad after all, she thought to herself, she liked him she did; yes, she did.

  The women were outside now; only Thomas was in the hall. He was no longer smiling, his expression was sad and there was a tightness to his jaws, and when Mary, still laughing, said, ‘He’s a funny fellow this, Master,’ he admonished her as the master of the Hall might have done at one time, saying, ‘Be quiet, woman’; and she became quiet, subdued. Not until she had put the packages among the others in the back of the brake and Constance had come towards her and, putting her arms about her, had kissed her did she speak again; and then her words came out on a flood of tears and she cried, ‘Oh, Miss Constance! Miss Constance!’ and putting her white apron to her face she turned about and ran back into the house.

  When Constance stood in the circle of Thomas’ arms and felt his big body quiver with emotion, it was too much, and she leant against him and cried, ‘Uncle! Dear Uncle!’ and Thomas, his own cheeks wet, looked over her head to where his son was standing near the horse, waiting and he said, ‘There now, there now. Go on, over the hills with you.’ Then he took her face in his hands and added, ‘Don’t forget us, my dear. Come and see us often, eh?’

  She nodded at him helplessly. The next moment she was lifted bodily in Donald’s arms and placed in the seat at the front of the brake, and not until he had taken his seat beside her and picked up the reins did she lift her head and look at them again. They were standing close together gazing up at her, and she spoke to them as if they were one, saying, ‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ and they all nodded their heads at her, but not one of them spoke.

  Before the brake rounded the bend in the road she turned right round in her seat and waved to them, and now they waved back.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Donald gathered the reins into one hand, thrust out his other arm and pulled her to his side with a jerk that caught at her breath and made her gasp, and his eyes covering her with their dark gleaming light, he muttered thickly, ‘At last, at long last,’ and the words brought home to her more than anything else the depths and the fierceness of his passion for her; and if it had aroused only fear in her there might have been some hope for him, but not when it also created revulsion.

  Four

  They greeted her kindly, most warmly. Both Michael and Jane came from the house into the yard as the brake drew up. It was as if they had been waiting together.

  ‘Well, here we are then,’ said Michael with a smile, and when Donald had lifted her to the ground Jane held out her two hands and Constance took them gladly. But when Jane said, ‘Welcome home, my dear,’ all Constance could reply, and in a stiffly polite tone, was, ‘Thank you.’

  Although the day was warm they had lit a fire in the sitting room. The horsehair suite had been lightened with crochet arm and head rests, a large new, hand-done proggy mat lay the length of the long stone fireplace, and the round table in the centre of the room was set for tea. On the snowy cloth lay the teaset that had not been out of the cabinet since Matthew was christened, and the rest of the table was covered with a variety of home-baked cakes and plates of cold ham and beef, and pickles.

  ‘Would you like to go upstairs or would you have a cup of tea first?’ Jane’s voice was warm, even comforting.

  ‘I should love a cup of tea, please.’ And not only one, she thought, but two, three, four, anything to delay going upstairs and being alone with him for the rest of her days; all she could think of at the moment was, she wanted a little breathing space.

  She watched Jane bustle from the room to the kitchen back and forth several times, while Michael sat in the high-backed armchair opposite to her and nodded at her at intervals. At last he endeavoured to open a conversation.

  ‘You’ve got it over then?’ He still nodded at her.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘How did it go?’ At this she glanced at Donald, where he was standing with his back to the fire; and he answered for her. On a laugh he said, ‘Well, it’s done, signed, and sealed, and I’ve put me brand on her.’ He leant sideways and lifted up her hand showing to Michael the ring on her finger.

  ‘I’m sorry that Matthew couldn’t get along.’ Michael was still nodding.

  ‘Yes.’ She swallowed, then said again, ‘Yes,’ before forcing herself to ask, ‘Is he any better?’

  ‘Better than he was yesterday, but still rather poorly. We’re thinkin’ of sending for a doctor come Monday. He won’t hear of it, as usual, can’t stand doctors; but I’ll have me way if he’s no better come Monday.’

  Jane said now, ‘Will you sit up, my dear?’ and Constance came to the table, and the four of them sat down. One after the other they handed her the plates, and in order not to seem impolite and ungrateful to this kind little woman she forced herself to eat, and as she ate she thought: ‘Thank God I shall like her. That at least is one good thing. And the father too; they’re good people.’ And she prayed, ‘Please God, take this feeling that I have against Donald from me; let me at least like him, don’t let me hurt him, for…for he means well, and he cares for me.’

  That was the trouble, he cared too much for her. She had not realised to the full extent the intensity of his passion; before it had been somewhat veiled, but during the journey over the hills he had expressed his feelings, not only in words, but in looks, and touch.

  She now tried to delude herself into thinking that once tonight was over the fire in him would be damped a little; his intensity would relax, and they would fall into a pattern like other married couples. But what other married couples? Whom did she know who was married? She had come in contact with no young married couples, all she knew about marriage was what she had read, and most of the stories ended up with the couple getting married and living happily ever after. Those that didn’t were tragedies, where the husband took a mistress or the wife took a lover. Her husband would never take a mistress, she felt sure of this. Although he was a Mallen in part, he wasn’t made like that. In an odd way he was much too proper. But sh
e had already had a lover.

  She glanced at Donald. He was sitting straight; he looked arrogant, utterly pleased with himself. He turned and looked her full in the face and jerked his chin upwards at her, and the action expressed more than any words the confidence he had in himself; and rightly, for was she not his wife and sitting, to all intents and purposes, at his table. The aim of possession that emanated from him was frightening and she recalled, on a deep wave of sickness, Matthew’s words, ‘He would slit my throat like he does a pig’s.’

  It was about a quarter past seven when Jane lit the lamps. Constance stood by the table and watched her fitting on the coloured glass shades, the plain white one for the kitchen and a blue one, patterned with gold spots, for the sitting room. She remarked that the blue one was pretty and Jane replied, ‘Aye, it belonged to the father’s,’—she always referred to her husband as the father—‘it belonged to the father’s grandmother and the globe hasn’t got a crack in it. I get scared out of me wits every time I light it.’

  Jane turned her head to the side and smiled at the girl who was to share her home, and she was surprised that her presence was creating in her a feeling of shy happiness. She told herself that if the girl settled it would be like having a daughter in the house, and somebody to talk to. That is if Donald wasn’t about. But of course it all depended on her settling, and at the moment she looked as if she could take flight. She couldn’t explain to herself the look on the girl’s face; she didn’t want to put the word fear to it because she couldn’t see what she had to fear; she had taken Donald with her eyes open, she’d had time to think about it, and then gone through with it, so she couldn’t see that it was Donald who was making her uneasy. But uneasy she was. And there was another strange thing. When they rose from the table she hadn’t gone with Donald but had followed her round the house asking questions about this and that, saying she wanted to be of assistance. Only a minute ago she had smiled at her kindly and said, ‘There’s plenty of time. Now don’t worry, I’ll find you all the work you feel inclined to do; you never can be idle on a farm you know.’ And now here she was wanting to help with the lamps.

  She had seen immediately the difference the girl’s presence was going to make to Donald; he was like a dog with two tails, she had never seen him so amenable. He had spoken to her as he had never done before, had even made a request of her. He had come into the larder and, standing at her side, had said, ‘If she wants to learn the dairy show her, will you, but don’t press her. I don’t want her to do anything she doesn’t want to do.’ And she had turned and looked at him. His expression had been soft, and for the first time in his life he looked really happy, and she had answered, ‘I’ll tell her anything she wants to know.’

  He had nodded, and stared at her silently for a moment before turning away, and leaving her standing with her hands pressed flat on the cold marble slab and thinking, it’s going to work out all right after all. This is what he needs, a wife such as this one, someone he can be proud of and show off, someone he could have married if he’d had his birthright. And at that moment she understood a lot about her son she had never understood before.

  When she carried the lamp in both hands held well in front of her into the sitting room she did not speak until she had placed it on the table, and then, standing back from it, she looked at Constance and said, ‘You’ll find life here strange at first because we mostly work to the light, up with the dawn, to bed with the dusk, or pretty near it. At the end of a long day we’re ready for our beds, especially in the winter, ’cos that’s the warmest place, bed. Of course when I say that,’—she now nodded her head and smiled broadly at Constance—‘I’m forgettin’ about Matthew. He’d burn oil to the dawn readin’ his books. But not Donald.’ She put out her hand now and indicated that Constance should sit on the couch, and as she sat down opposite to her she finished, ‘Donald works very hard, very hard indeed. Since the father’s had rheumatics it’s been extra heavy for him. And there are times, as now, when Matthew can’t do anything at all.’

  Constance stared back through the lamplight into the round, homely face of this ordinary woman who in a way was on a par with Mary, but who nevertheless was her mother-in-law, and all she could do was nod. She knew already that she liked this woman. She also knew that she was going to need her in the days ahead. What she had the urge to do now was to sit close to her and hold her hands, cling to her hands. She thought too that her liking was returned. Yet what would this woman do if she knew that her new daughter-in-law had lain with one son before marrying the other? Just as Matthew had said of Donald, she would want to slit her throat. That terrible phrase was recurring in her mind more and more.

  When she spoke again her question must have appeared as if she were anxious for Donald’s return, for what she said was, ‘Does it take long…I mean the last round at night?’

  Jane smiled quietly as she said, ‘Well, it all depends. You see the cattle are still out, and he goes round the fields. Then sometimes the hens won’t take to their roost. There’s a couple in particular go clucking round in the dark; they’re deranged, an’ one of these mornings they’ll wake up and find themselves inside the fox and that’ll give them a gliff.’

  She laughed, a soft gay laugh, and was herself surprised to hear it; then in a more sober tone she went on, ‘Of course, in the lambing time he can be up all hours that God sends; an’ then with the calfing an’ all. He’s very careful of the animals, very careful.’ She nodded at Constance, her expression quite serious now, then added, ‘He’s well thought of as a farmer, oh very well thought of. They take his word for lots of things roundabout.’

  All Constance could say to this was ‘Yes…’

  An hour later Jane thought to herself that she had never talked so much at one go in her life. Michael was no talker; Matthew was always in his books; and when you got a word out of Donald it was usually a comment on the animals, or a definite statement of what he was about to do. She had talked as she had done because the girl was nervous; she was all eyes. She looked a child, too young to be married, yet she was the same age as herself when she got married. She recalled her own first night in this house, her fear of having to go to bed with Michael, and then her overwhelming feeling of happiness when she realised the goodness in the man she had married. But there was a great difference between Michael and Donald, and there was a greater difference between herself at that age and this girl; yet it was the first night of marriage and she was in a strange house, and they were all comparative strangers to her. She must be filled with a great unease.

  She leant forward now and said gently, ‘Would you like to go upstairs and see to your things and such? You must be tired; it’s been a trying day for you.’

  Before she had finished speaking Constance was on her feet, saying, ‘Yes, I would, thank you. Thank you very much.’

  ‘I’ll light your lamp, it’s up there already. I’ll take the kitchen one to see us up the stairs. I’d better not take that one.’ She smiled and nodded towards the blue-shaded light, and Constance said, ‘No, no, of course not.’

  Constance had been in the bedroom earlier. She had opened the case and hung some of her things in the old Dutch wardrobe that stood against one white wall, but she had not attempted to unpack the rest of the luggage. All she had wanted to do was to get away from the sight of the high bed covered by the patchwork quilt. Jane had pointed out to her that she had spent the winter making the quilt, and she had duly admired it; she had also thanked her for decorating the room, which decoration consisted of lime-washing in between the black beams that strutted the walls at uneven angles and those that supported the low ceiling in three massive beetle-pierced lengths, and which gleamed dully where the linseed oil that Jane had applied so generously to them had failed to soak in.

  Setting the lamp down on the round oak table to the side of the bed, Jane now turned to Constance and, her hands folded in front of her waist, she said, ‘There you are then, dear. I’ll leave you now and wish yo
u goodnight.’ But she didn’t move immediately, she stood staring at Constance and Constance at her; then, as if motivated by the same thought, they moved towards each other and their hands held and their cheeks touched. Then muttering something like, ‘May your life be good. God bless you, dear,’ Jane hurried from the room. And Constance was alone.

  She looked about the room as she had done earlier in the day, and now, although she was still filled with panic, she knew she could run no farther; she had come up against a rock face as it were, and from now on she’d have to steel herself and climb.

  The room was cold, there was a dankness about it. She knelt by one of the cases on the floor and, having opened it, she took out a warm nightdress, a dressing gown, and a pair of slippers from where Anna had placed them to be ready to her hand. As she laid them on the bed she hesitated whether to wash her face and hands now or to wait until she was undressed; deciding she’d be less cold doing it now, she went to the corner wash-hand stand at the far side of the room. The basin was set in a hole in the middle of the stand; the jug in the basin was full to the top with water—and icy cold; the towel she dried on was clean and white but rough; but all these were minor inconveniences and would, she thought, have been endured with something of amusement if only the man with whom she was to share that bed behind her was anyone but Donald. If only it had been Matthew, even a sick Matthew, she would have been happy; or at least she wouldn’t have been filled with fear as she was at this moment. But let her get this one night over and she would cope. Oh yes, just let her get this one night over and she would cope.

  As she was about to undress she looked at the picture that was hanging above the bed. It was one of three religious prints that Jane had hung in the room; it showed colourful even in the lamplight, the picture itself was a travesty created by an artist who had undoubtedly taken liberties with the book of Esther, for not only did it show King Ahasuerus seated in his marble-pillared palace surrounded by his seven chamberlains, with Vashti, the wife he had put away, standing at a distance from him but it also showed Esther, whom he had taken to be his Queen, seated to his side, and at her feet seven maidens, undoubtedly virgins all.