The Mallen Streak

by Catherine Cookson

  Constance sat down at the opposite side of the fireplace to where Barbara was sitting, and they looked towards Jane, who was now standing over the shallow brown stone sink which was full of dishes; then they looked at each other again, and their eyes said, ‘What shall we talk about?’

  For the next half an hour they talked small talk. Barbara learned that the child was to be named Michael, after his step-grandfather. Constance learned that the Hall had been sold again, and that it was being cleaned up by a small regiment of workers, one of whom was named Aggie Moorhead, a very forward piece who wasn’t above stopping Uncle and chatting with him.

  By three o’clock Barbara was ready and waiting to hear Ben Taggert’s call, and when a quarter of an hour had passed she said anxiously, ‘I wonder if he’s gone on? Perhaps we didn’t hear him call because of the wind.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Jane shook her head. ‘Ben would come over an’ knock you up. Ben would never go on without a passenger once he had made arrangements. Oh no, that’s not Ben…Listen, do you hear? There he is.’

  Barbara strained her ears and heard a faint, ‘Hello there. Hello there.’

  Jane now grabbed up the valise and went out for a moment. Barbara and Constance were alone again. As they had done on the first meeting they enfolded each other tightly, and once again Barbara felt her sister’s body tremble and she heard her murmur as if in agony of mind, ‘Oh, Barbie! Barbie!’

  Hand in hand now they went out, their bodies bent against the wind, and when they reached the road Jane had already handed Ben Taggert the valise and he had put it in the back of the cart where there was an assortment of bundles and boxes and a birdcage.

  ‘If you would like it better I could push them all aside,’—Ben nodded to the back of the cart—‘you’d be more sheltered there.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be all right riding with you, Mr Taggert.’

  ‘It’s going to be rough, miss, the higher we get, you know that. Still, if you change your mind we can always stop. Come on then.’

  Quickly now Barbara turned again to Constance and, taking her face between her hands, she stared at her for a moment before kissing her on the lips; then she shook Jane by the hand and thanked her once more for the dairy produce she had put into the valise, and also for her hospitality.

  Sitting high up in the front of the cart she looked down on Constance’s upturned face. With an impulsive movement she reached down holding out her hand, and when her sister’s hand gripped hers she felt such pain in her heart as she never thought to experience again. It was a more intense pain than she had known a year ago, a different pain, it could have been a pain of farewell. She made herself smile, but it was a smile weighed with sadness, it was as if she knew she would never smile again.

  The return journey was eventful with moments that created terror in her, such as the one when the wind seemed to lift the whole cart and the animals from the road to tip them into a shallow hollow to the side of the rising hill. That they all landed the right way up seemed nothing short of a miracle to her. What had happened was that the horses and cart were blown to the side and left contact with the ground in going over the shallow ditch.

  Once on the road again, Barbara, still shaking from her experience, realised that perhaps she was lucky to be able to feel the trembling of her body at all, for if they had been blown the other way then surely they would have rolled down the steeply wooded hillside to the valley below. The snow posts that were spaced at intervals along this stretch of the road and threaded by a wire would not have prevented them from being hurled over the edge to be bounded from one tree trunk to another until they reached the bottom.

  Another time she found herself clinging to Mr Taggert’s arm. It was most embarrassing, at least to her. She saw his head nodding in assurance, and knew that he was yelling something at her, but she could not distinguish anything he was saying, for his words were carried away on the wind.

  When, for a few minutes, there was a lull, he shouted at her, ‘I’ve known some trips but this one’ll take a beatin’. Give me snow any time. But don’t you worry, don’t you worry, miss, Jake ’n’ Fred’ll make it; they’re as sure-footed as mountain goats.’ It was a pity, she thought, that she hadn’t his faith in Jake and Fred.

  If anything, the storm increased in violence as they descended to lower ground, and it was almost dark as night when finally Ben Taggert helped her down from the cart and handed her the valise. She thanked him warmly and said she would never forget the journey and he laughed at her and said, ‘You must try it in a blizzard, miss; that’s what you must do, try it in a blizzard. Go on now, get yersel’ inside quick. Goodnight to you.’

  Her reply was lost to him. The cart moved past her, and holding down the shawl that covered her bonnet with one hand and carrying the valise in the other, she fought her way to the gate. But when she went to push it open she found it was held fast. In peering forward she realised that the obstacle holding it closed was a branch of the rowan tree that had stood in the front garden for years. The whole tree had been blown down.

  Her body bent, she made her way to the lower gate which led into the yard. The noise of the wind was beating on her eardrums with a force almost equal to that on the heights; in fact, the wind seemed to have increased in fury, which she would have thought impossible a short while ago.

  When some object rattled across the path in front of her she fell forward and would have gone on her face had not the end wall of the outbuilding saved her. She stood leaning against it for a moment, thankful that she had it as a guide for it was like black night now. She decided to keep near the wall and to skirt the yard until she reached the kitchen door, for if she crossed the yard her feet would likely be whipped from beneath her.

  On this side of the yard facing the house was the woodshed, stables, and lastly the barn. There was a narrow passage between the corner of the barn and the wall of the wash-house which led into the vegetable garden. The wash-house itself was connected to the scullery and larder, which were single-storey buildings, and going off at right angles from the end of these was the house proper.

  She had groped her way as far as the barn when her passage was stopped abruptly by two hands grabbing her, and after the first moment of shock she sighed with relief and leant against the bulky figure of her Uncle Thomas. He held her close, protectingly, he held her so close that she dropped the valise on to the ground.

  Protecting her further, he pulled her inside the barn, where the noise seemed intensified for the old timbers were rattling like castanets. She went to shout to him, ‘Isn’t it dreadful?’ but he hugged her with a compulsive movement and her breath was taken from her body by a force even stronger than the wind. What was the matter with Uncle? Was he having convulsions? Was he ill? And why…why was he out in the storm? It was madness for him to be out, for anyone to be out on a night like this, unless they were compelled.

  ‘Oh, Uncle! Uncle!’ She heard herself screaming, but only in her head for her breath had been knocked out of her again as she was borne backwards. What was happening? What was the matter? It…it was her uncle? Of course it was her uncle. She knew by the size of his body it was her uncle. She knew by the odour of him it was her uncle. That particular odour of tobacco and rough tweed and stale wine, a not unpleasant odour and definitely peculiar to him, for no other of her acquaintances smelt like this. But he also smelt strongly of spirits—Oh my God! My God! She must be going insane, it couldn’t be. She began to fight him, to struggle madly, and it appeared to her that of a sudden the wind had transported her into a lunatic asylum because her uncle was also struggling with her, tearing at her undergarments, actually tearing them from her. No! No! No! Oh Jesus. Lord of all the earth, what was happening to her? The weight on her body—She couldn’t breathe—She could struggle no longer—She had gone mad, for this thing could not be happening to her. She made one more effort. She dug her nails into the flesh of his neck, she couldn’t get near his face for it was covering hers.

  At that
moment her body was shot through with torture, and her mind, standing apart as it were from her, told her that this was death, the death of decency, of self-respect, of love of family life—of life itself.

  When the pressure on her body was released she lay still in what seemed comparative silence for the storm seemed to have held its breath for a moment. Then as it released another blast she let out an ear-splitting scream; then another; then another; on and on and no hand came over her mouth to check her; not until a lantern swung above her did she stop. Her eyes wide, she stared up into the light. She could not see the face above it, or who else was present; not until the lamp swung to the side did she see the grey dishevelled bulk of her Uncle Thomas. His body seemed to fill the barn. He looked like a deranged giant. Then the lantern swinging again, she saw the figure of a woman running through the light and towards the open door; then she heard Mary screaming. ‘God Almighty!’ was what she was screaming. She screamed it a number of times.

  Then Mary, dropping onto her knees, lifted Barbara’s stiff head and shoulders from the ground and, cradling her, she repeated her cry, ‘Oh, God Almighty! Oh, God Almighty!’ After a moment, her voice breaking with her sobbing, she cried, ‘Come on, get up out of this, me bairn. Get up out of this. Come on, come on.’ And Barbara got up and allowed herself to be led from the barn and into the house…

  Thomas watched them go. He was leaning against a beam to the side of the door. The lantern was still on the ground. He looked towards it. His eyes stretched wide, his mouth agape, he seemed to see himself reflected in it, an obese, dirty old man, a filthy old man. He was so repulsive in his own sight that his stomach revolted and he turned his head to the side and retched, bringing up the entire meal he had eaten only an hour before at the same table as Anna.

  Anna! Anna! Anna!…Barbara! Oh, Christ Almighty.

  His mind now went completely blank for a moment and shut off from his consciousness the act he had perpetrated. When it moved again it pulled him from the support of the beam and turned him about and he staggered from the barn out into the wind.

  When he reached the kitchen door the blast almost drove him through it. There was no-one in the room; he crossed it, holding on first to the table and to the chairs for support; then he was in the hall, and in the lamplight he saw Anna coming down the stairs. She stopped and he stopped; they looked at each other for a long moment and the misery their eyes exchanged was untranslatable.

  When he could no longer face the pain in her eyes he bowed his head and stumbled towards his study. Once inside he locked the door. Going to the wall above the fireplace he took down his gun and, placing it on the desk with the barrel pointing towards the chair, he released the safety catch; then sitting himself in the chair he leant forward, and as he did so the handle of the door was gently turned. He did not look towards it but put his finger on the trigger and pulled.

  PART FIVE

  MATTHEW

  One

  The scandal surrounding Thomas Mallen’s death would, the self-righteous in the countryside said, not die down for many a year, seeing he had left living proof of it in a young woman whom he had brought up like a daughter.

  It was Aggie Moorhead who had made it impossible to put any version but the true one on Thomas’ death. She had looked upon the mix-up between his niece and herself as the best joke in the world, until the girl had begun to scream. Then, when the news spread that old Mallen had shot himself the story made her the centre of attraction, not only locally but with those men who came from the newspapers.

  And the newspapers didn’t just deal with the incident either; they delved into Thomas Mallen’s whole past and it made quite exciting reading. Even though he had been living in retirement for the past twelve years, being a Mallen, he hadn’t lived alone but had taken for his mistress the governess of his two nieces, and what made things more interesting still, they stated that one of his nieces had married his natural son.

  Yet even with all this, the nine-days’ wonder might have died a natural death if the gardener boy hadn’t observed the rising globe of Miss Barbara’s stomach, and this on the first occasion he had caught sight of her in five months. This latter fact did not appear in the papers but the hill telegraph was as efficient in spreading it around the countryside.

  This particular piece of news came to Donald’s ears in the market place and he couldn’t get back quickly enough to the farm to throw it at Constance.

  It was three months since he had allowed her over the hills, and then he had escorted her himself as on the former occasion when that old cow of a Brigmore had sent him the news that Mallen was dead. He hadn’t found out how he died until he had entered the cottage. He hadn’t seen Barbara at all, not then, and not since.

  And now he had learned that she had her belly full of the old man. The Mallen image died hard. By God! It did. And that lot in the market laughing up their sleeve at him. By Christ! He’d let them see who they were laughing at afore he was finished. He’d show them. He’d get land, and more land; he’d drag the respect out of them, then spit in their eyes.

  And there was another thing he’d tell his lady wife when he got in—she was bringing that fifty pounds a year over the hills; there wasn’t the old man to keep now, and he could do with another fifty a year. Yes, by God! he could. She had stood out against him on this, openly defied him in fact. She was getting brave over certain things, but she’d better be careful. He hadn’t lifted his hand to her yet but there was plenty of time for it.

  Sometimes he thought he could have forgiven her the other business if she had been good to him, shown a little affection, but what she had shown him from that very first night couldn’t be given any other name but scorn; at times it even overrode her fear of him. Inside her, she looked down her nose at him, and the farm, and the house. She got on with his mother because she saw it as policy to keep on the right side of her. And yet that wasn’t all there was to it. He suspected, and had for some time now, that there was something between them, a sort of understanding. Whatever it was, the relationship irritated him, for if there was anybody she should look down upon it was his mother who, in her turn, had been a slut. But as they said, birds of a feather, no matter from what class, recognised each other. She even turned her nose up at Matthew; she hardly opened her mouth to Matthew.

  Matthew’d had a new lease of life these past few months. Perhaps it was due to the unusually dry warm weather. Nevertheless his time was fast running out for he was no thicker than two laths, and though his cough had eased a bit, the blood came more often. His manners too had changed in the last year or so. He supposed it was his illness, for he could get hardly a word out of him nowadays. There was a sullenness about him; perhaps because he knew that death was galloping on him; it wasn’t good for a man to see death before it actually came.

  He flapped the reins briskly and put the horse into a trot. The cart bumped over the rough road and the dust rose in clouds about him.

  When he came to the junction of two roads he took the left-hand one. This would mean a longer run to the farm, but it might save an axle; on the outward journey he’d had to take the cart through a new subsidence in the road and this had strained it. He’d made a note in his mind to bring a load of stone and fill the hole.

  The road he was on now was a prettier one, it wound its way through woodland and shady lanes, and the open ground was moulded into small hills where the sheep grazed, a burn ran down the valley and there was a rocky outcrop over which the water tumbled so that you could fairly give it the name of a waterfall.

  He rarely came by this road, he hadn’t time for scenery. All the scenery that interested him was within the stone walls of his farm…And it was his farm.

  Michael had left no will. By law the place was Matthew’s but by right of work it was his, and let anyone try to say it wasn’t. It had never been a bad farm, but it was he who had made a good one into a better one, and from now on he meant to turn it into a rich farm…and a rich man’s farm.

/>   He passed by the side of a small copse that threw the path into shadow and when he emerged he blinked into the sun for a moment, then screwed up his gaze to take in two figures sitting some distance away in the shade of a mound. With a soft word of command and a tug on the reins he drew the horse to a halt, and his eyes narrowed to slits as he peered into the distance.

  If he had failed to recognise the couple the sound that now came to his ears would have identified at least one of them. Not once since they were married had he heard Constance laugh, and the reason for hearing her laugh now was that the child’s hands were pulling at her nose. He had seen the child doing this before, but it certainly hadn’t brought any laughter from her. He had caught her smiling at it, but this would be when he happened on her unawares.

  Then he witnessed something that caused a pain to rip through him, as if his body had been licked by a fierce flame. She had passed the child to Matthew and Matthew was holding him up in the air above his head and shaking him from side to side; then lowering him down, he folded him against his chest and rocked him backwards and forwards, as only a mother, or father might do.

  What he next saw was Constance hitching herself forward and smoothing the child’s hair back while Matthew still held it. What he was looking at was the cameo of a family.

  He was numb. The pain seared all the nerves in his body. It now passed the bearing point, and for a moment he felt nothing; there followed a blessed period of time when all emotion was dead in him.

  But the numbness melted, the space filled, and now there swept into him and over him with the force of a mighty wave a feeling of such hatred that if they had been within arm’s length of him at that moment he would have murdered them both.