The Mallen Streak

by Catherine Cookson

  They met at the top of the table and fell into each other’s arms and they held tightly, not speaking, the while Constance’s body shook with her inner sobbing.

  They drew apart as Jane, rocking the child gently in her arms, said, ‘Here he is then. Here he is,’ Barbara turned and looked down at the swathed bundle. She stared at it for almost a minute without speaking. The child was different from what she had expected. It looked all fair; it had an unusual amount of hair on its head for such a young baby, and it was fair hair. The eyes were blue, but then she understood most babies’ eyes were blue to begin with, and a baby’s hair often changed colour.

  ‘He takes after his mother, he’s going to be as fair as her.’

  Barbara felt a little quiver inside her and she brought her eyes from the child and looked at her sister. Could it be that the child was of a different fairness from Constance, a golden corn fairness such as the fairness of Matthew which would become evident later?

  ‘How is Anna, and Uncle?’

  ‘Oh, she’s improving daily but she’s still somewhat weak. But you know Anna,’—she smiled—‘she’s made up her mind to get well, so she’ll get well.’

  ‘And Uncle?’

  ‘Oh, Uncle is still Uncle. He’s had a new lease of life lately, he appears quite frisky. He’s even taking exercise on his own without being browbeaten.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Well, it has to be seen to be believed, I admit.’ They both gave a little laugh together then looked towards Jane, where she was placing the child in a basket cradle, set in an alcove to the side of the fireplace, and saying as he did so, ‘You must be famished, coming all this way and the wind so raw. The kettle’s on the boil; I’ll make you a cup of tea first and then get you a meal.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind of you, but a cup of tea is all I need. I’m not at all hungry, I could wait until you have your meal. Please don’t put yourself out.’

  ‘Well, you can have a griddle to put you over. But sit down, sit down and make yourself at home.’ Again she motioned to a chair, and again Barbara sat down, with Constance now close to her, and like two lovers they held hands and looked at each other while Jane bustled back and forth between the table and the stove. Their silence must have told on her for she broke it by saying on a high note, ‘Shall I go and tell Donald?’

  ‘No, no.’ The quick reply brought her to a standstill and she looked at Constance, adding, ‘It’ll be no bother, he’s up on the top field doing the wall.’

  ‘No, no, thank you, Mam. I’ll…we’ll, we’ll take a walk up there, won’t we?’ She turned and glanced at Barbara. ‘You’d like to see round the farm, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I would.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do then, Mam. When Barbara’s had her drink I’ll show her round, and then we’ll walk to the top field.’

  ‘Shall I call Matthew down then?’

  ‘I…I wouldn’t bother. He…he was very tired yesterday and…’ Her voice trailed away as the door opened and Matthew entered.

  Matthew stood looking across the kitchen to where Barbara was sitting, her head turned towards him, and the high spots of colour on his cheekbones spread outwards and up on to his brow. When he came slowly across the room Barbara rose to meet him and endeavoured not to give evidence of the shock his changed appearance had on her. He had always been thin but now his body looked devoid of flesh; he had always been pale but now his skin looked transparent; his eyes had always been large but now they seemed to fill the entire bone sockets and had sunk back into his head and appeared as dark in colour as Donald’s.

  She was the first to speak. ‘Hello, Matthew,’ she said. She did not add, ‘How are you?’

  He did not repeat her greeting but in a throaty voice said, ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘Yes, yes; I thought I would like to come over and see the…the baby.’ She motioned her head towards the cradle, and he turned and looked in the same direction and it was a moment before he said, ‘Yes, yes.’ Then he sat down on a chair near the side of the table although she was still standing; he did not now, as he had been wont to do, show his manners to be those above Donald’s and his own class in general, but then, of course, she thought, he was a very sick man.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Matthew?’ His mother spoke to him in a gentle voice, her body bent towards him as if she were coaxing a child, and he looked at her for a moment without answering, he looked at her as if he wasn’t seeing her, and then on a quick intake of breath, he said, ‘Yes, yes, I’d like a cup.’

  Jane poured out the tea for them all; she handed round the griddles, but only Barbara accepted one, and this out of courtesy; and it was between herself and Jane that the conversation ranged, and mostly about the weather.

  ‘We’re not finished with it yet,’ Jane said, nodding her head sagely, ‘not by a long chalk; there’ll be another big fall you’ll see. And the wind’s come up in the last hour, it’s a wonder you weren’t cut in two comin’ over the top.’

  ‘It was very keen.’

  ‘Yes, I should say it was. It’s years since I was up there in the winter, an’ I have no desire to go, it’s breezy enough in the summer. You going out now?’ She turned to where Constance had risen from the chair, and Constance replied, ‘I’m…I’m just going to get my cloak.’

  ‘Perhaps your sister might like to go upstairs with you, she might like to see the house, would you?’

  It was evident to Barbara that this kindly woman was very proud of her house. It was all a matter of values she thought; but then, the other rooms might show some comfort. She said quite brightly, ‘Yes, yes, I would; I’m very interested in old houses.’

  ‘There now, there now. Then take her up with you, Constance.’

  The sisters looked at each other for a moment before going out of the room together like children obeying a bidding.

  The hall they went into was dark, having only one small window next to the door. The oak staircase mounted steeply from opposite, and Constance took hold of Barbara’s hand and guided her up it and on to the landing. Here it was lighter, being illuminated by a long window at the far end. She noted that there was no article of furniture on the landing, not even a table on which to place a lamp. Then Constance was opening a door, and she was in her bedroom.

  She had often imagined Constance’s bedroom and in the early days the thought of it had been bitter to her mind. Now that she was in it the last shreds of jealousy she had felt towards Constance seeped from her, for here, and reflected deeply, she saw the same starkness as in the kitchen, and part of her mind was wondering why it should be so because Constance had an artistic sense; it was she who had gone a long way towards making the rooms in the cottage not only comfortable but pretty.

  Alone together now, they did not throw themselves into each other’s arms once more but stood somewhat apart, each gazing at the other, waiting.

  It was Barbara who spoke first. When Constance lowered her head and extended her hands towards her she gripped them, saying, ‘What is it? You don’t look well. What possessed you to get up so early? Shouldn’t you be in bed for some days yet?’

  Constance now drew Barbara to a wooden seat that was placed beneath the window and they sat down before she answered, ‘One is not pampered on this side of the hills. A cow walks about immediately after calving, so what’s the difference between us?’

  Barbara was startled, not only by the bitterness in Constance’s voice but by the context of her reply. She moved nearer to her and, putting her arms about her, she asked gently, ‘Aren’t you happy?’

  ‘Oh, Barbie!’ Constance was now pressing herself against her, her hands clutching at her as if she were drowning, and Barbara whispered, in concern, ‘What is it, what is it? Oh, my dear, tell me, what is it? Tell me.’

  And Constance might have told her if at that moment a voice had not risen from the yard calling loudly to a dog, saying, ‘Leave it, Prince. Leave it. Here! Here, I tell
you.’ It caused her to raise her head and look sharply towards the window. Then withdrawing herself from Barbara’s hold, she got to her feet and began smoothing down her hair, then the front of her bodice, then the folds of her skirt over her slender hips; finally, she brought her hands to her waist where her fingers plucked at each other as she said, ‘We’d…we’d better go down, that’s him—I mean Donald. He must have finished in the top field. It’ll save us walking and…and you’ve seen the room.’ She now flung one arm wide, then stopped abruptly and turned and faced Barbara again and, her voice dropping low in her throat, she repeated, ‘You’ve seen the room. She…I mean Mam, she thinks it’s nice, and it is to her. She’s…she’s very good to me; I don’t know what I would have done without her.’

  Constance was at the door, the latch in her hand, but Barbara, after standing up, hadn’t moved from the window seat. She said now in a whisper, ‘You’re not happy, what is it?’

  Constance bit on her lip, swallowed deeply, and her chin gave a nervous jerk before she said, ‘Is anyone happy? Do you know of anyone who is really happy?’

  ‘We were happy at one time.’

  ‘At one time, yes.’ Constance now nodded slowly. ‘The only trouble is we never recognise real happiness when we have it.’

  ‘But…but Donald, Donald loves you.’ She found it surprising that it didn’t pain her to say this aloud, and when she saw Constance close her eyes tightly she said again. ‘What is it?’ and now she moved swiftly towards her. But before she reached her Constance had opened the door; then they were on the landing, then going down the stairs, silent again.

  Donald was in the kitchen when they entered and he greeted her heartily as if he were pleased to see her. ‘Well, well! Look what the wind’s blown in,’ he said, coming towards her with hands outstretched. ‘What’s brought you to this neck of the woods, eh, on a day like this with the wind enough to stiffen you?’

  ‘Oh, I wanted to see the baby and find out how Constance was.’

  ‘Oh!’ The exclamation was high. ‘You knew about the baby then?’ He turned and glanced in Constance’s direction, and Barbara noticed that she didn’t look at him and say, ‘Yes, I wrote,’ so it was left to her to explain, and she did as casually as possible, saying, ‘Yes, Constance sent me a note. And oh, by the way,’—she turned to Constance now who was at the table laying it for a meal—‘I brought some things for the baby. Not knowing if it were going to be a boy or a girl we knitted white.’ She went towards the valise where it lay just as she had left it by the side of the chair and, opening it, she drew out first a white shawl, then a variety of socks, bonnets, and coats.

  ‘Oh!’ Jane exclaimed delightedly as she fingered the shawl. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful and so soft. This was knitted with fine wool; indeed it was. And look at the wee boots. Aw! Did you ever see anything so dainty, did you now, Constance?’

  ‘No, they are lovely. Thank you, thank you, Barbara. And thank Anna for me too. What a lot of work it must have taken.’

  ‘It was a pleasure.’ Their eyes held for a moment longer; then Jane put in, ‘Well, you came with a full bag an’ you’ll go with a full bag. You must take some butter, an’ cheese, and eggs back with you.’

  ‘Thank you…’

  During the next hour Barbara noticed a number of things. Matthew never uttered a word, Constance only spoke when necessary, and Jane never stopped chattering. But it was a nervous chattering. Her face sad, she kept up a constant conversation as if with herself.

  When they sat down to a meal no-one sat at the head of the table. Donald sat to the side with Constance opposite him; Jane sat at the bottom of the table with Matthew to her left; but although the chair at the top was empty Barbara had no doubt who was master of this house. Not only had Donald been served first but Jane ministered to him with a deference that she might have extended to her husband, except that this deference held a nervous quality.

  Barbara wondered how the farm had been divided. There would surely have been a will; she must ask Constance.

  The food itself was rather tasteless. It was a stew that had been well stewed and, surprisingly, without herbs. But that didn’t trouble her; what did was the atmosphere at the table. To say it was strained was not adequate, tense would have been a better description.

  One other thing she noticed. Although Donald brought a smile to his face now and again it never touched his eyes. When she had loved him—she noted with relief that she was using the past tense with regard to her affection towards him—she had never seen him look as he did now. His eyes were like pieces of slaty coal, their blackness was a dull blackness. She wondered now how she had allowed herself to become so attached to him. Perhaps because he had flattered her by appealing to her mind. Yes, that was it. Pride, pride.

  Before the meal was over she was thinking, I could not have endured this any more than Connie is doing. Poor Connie. Poor, poor Connie.

  Rising from the table, Jane said, ‘I’ll light a fire in the parlour.’ She did not look towards Donald as she spoke yet it was as if it were a question directed towards him, a question that required an answer, an answer giving permission, and when the answer was not forthcoming immediately Barbara put in quickly, ‘Please don’t trouble on my account; Mr Taggert will be here with the cart around three he told me, and it is near two o’clock now.’

  ‘Oh well then, well then.’ Jane nodded at her, then bustled around the table gathering up the dishes.

  It was at this point that Constance went to the cradle and lifted up the baby and was moving to the kitchen door leading into the hall when she was stopped by Donald saying, ‘Where are you going?’

  Constance turned slowly and for the first time since coming into the room she looked straight at him, and her voice had a note of defiance in it as she answered, ‘I am going to feed the child.’

  ‘There’s plenty of room here, isn’t there?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the empty chair bordering the fireplace.

  Their eyes held, the silence in the kitchen emphasised the sound of the wind buffeting the house, and as Constance turned about and walked out of the room Jane exclaimed loudly, ‘Do you hear that? It’s gettin’ worse.’

  Ignoring his mother’s remark, Donald looked now at Barbara and said on a thin laugh, ‘You can carry modesty too far; what’s more natural than feedin’ a bairn, I’ve told her.’

  Matthew seemed to have risen clumsily from the table for his chair toppled backwards and hit the stone floor, but as he went to right it Donald was there before him and, swinging it up with one hand, he stood it on its feet, saying on another thin laugh, ‘You want to take some more water with it, lad.’

  Matthew now looked up under his lids at Barbara; then in a voice as tight as the smile on his face he said, ‘I’ll say goodbye. I’m glad to have seen you. Give my regards to Miss Brigmore, will you, and to your uncle?’

  ‘I will, Matthew, I will.’ She held out her hand, and he took it. It felt like a piece of damp dough in her grasp and she was glad to relinquish it.

  Donald was now standing with his back to the fire, his coat tails divided, letting the heat fan his buttocks. She often saw her Uncle Thomas stand like that. It was the stance of the master of the house, and it was as if Donald were acting out his part for her. After a moment he asked, ‘How are things across there?’

  ‘Oh, very well. Mary and I have redecorated the sitting room for when Anna comes downstairs. We’ve had a boy come all last summer in the evenings to do the garden; it’s in very good shape. We had two cartloads of wood brought, and he has sawn it up. We’re all prepared for an extended cold spell, should it come.’

  Her answer did not seem to please him, he made no reply to it; and when there came the sound of a bucket being tumbled across the yard by the wind he made it an excuse to take his leave, saying, ‘Well, somebody’s got to work round here, so I’ll say goodbye to you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Donald.’ She nodded politely towards him, then added, ‘Will you bring Constance a
cross soon? Uncle would like to see the child.’

  He had his back to her, walking towards the kitchen door as he said, ‘I doubt it; she’s afraid of storms, as you know.’

  ‘But the fine weather’s coming, there are periods when there won’t be any sign of a storm.’ She had risen to her feet.

  ‘She’s also afraid of the heights. Didn’t you know?’

  At the door he turned and looked towards her.

  ‘The heights?’

  ‘Yes, the heights; terrified of heights, she tells me. Apparently there are lots of things about her you didn’t know if you didn’t know that.’

  As she stared at him across the dim kitchen she thought: ‘He’s cruel.’

  ‘Goodbye, Barbara.’

  She didn’t answer, and he went out, having to pull the door closed behind him against the force of the wind.

  When she sat down, Jane began to chatter again. She chattered about the cattle, the butter-making, the cheese-making; she referred to her husband as if he were still alive and every now and again she looked towards the window and said, ‘Eeh! That wind.’

  It was almost twenty minutes later when Constance returned. Putting the baby once again into the cradle, she smiled at Barbara before saying to Jane, ‘What will I do, the dishes, or go in the dairy?’

  ‘You’ll do neither, my dear, just you sit here with your sister and have a nice talk, you don’t see each other that often. Now sit yourself down.’