The Mallen Streak

by Catherine Cookson

  When he stood muffled up to the eyes he looked into her face and said gently, ‘Nothing, Mother, nothing; what could I be up to? You go and see to Constance, she needs you. Goodbye.’ All he did now was to touch her shoulders with his fingers. Then he turned to Miss Brigmore and, addressing her as he always had done, he said, ‘Come on, Miss Brigmore, come along.’

  ‘Can’t…can’t I see Constance just for a moment?’

  He went close to her now before he spoke. ‘It would be better if you didn’t. You’ll see her again. Don’t worry, you’ll see her again.’

  She shook her head before letting it fall forward, and like someone in whom all hope has died she went out of the kitchen, without a word to Jane, and across the yard to the brake.

  Donald was standing to the side of it. He did not speak to her but pointed into the back of it, and it was left to Matthew to help her up.

  Slowly she covered her ankles with her skirts and sat, for once in her life, without any signs of dignity while the cart rumbled out of the yard and began the journey over the hills.

  As they drove higher Matthew’s coughing became harsher, but only once did Donald turn his head and glance at him and noted there was more blood than usual staining the piece of linen. It would be odd, he thought, if he died on this journey. He wanted him to die, and yet he didn’t want him to die. There were still grains of love left in him that at times would cry out and ask: ‘Why had he to do it to me? I could have suffered it from anybody else in the world except him.’ But such times were few and far between and his hate soon stamped on the grains.

  They were nearing the narrow curve in the road where the guard or snow posts stuck up from the edge above the steep partly wooded hillside. It was the place where Barbara had experienced the terrifying fierceness of the gale as it lifted the carrier’s cart over the ditch. The line of posts curved upwards for some forty yards and it was at the beginning of them that Matthew, putting his hand tightly over his mouth, muttered, ‘I’m…I’m going to be sick.’

  Donald made no comment but kept on driving.

  A few seconds later he repeated, ‘I’m, I’m going to be sick, stop, stop a minute. I’ll…I’ll have to get down.’ His body was bent almost double now.

  The horse had taken a dozen more steps before Donald brought it to a halt, and Matthew, the piece of linen held tightly across his mouth, got awkwardly down from the cart and hurried to the edge of the road, and there, gripping one of the posts, he leaned against the wire and heaved.

  Miss Brigmore watched him for a moment from the side of the cart and as she slid along the seat with the intention of getting down, Donald’s voice checked her, saying, ‘Stay where you are.’ Then he called to Matthew, ‘Come on, come on.’ But Matthew heaved again and bent further over the wire. After a short while he slowly turned around and, leaning against the post, he gasped, ‘I’m…I’m bad.’

  Donald looked down at him. There was blood running from the corner of his mouth, his head was on his chest. He hooked the reins to the iron framework, then jumped down from the cart and went towards him, and as he did so he slipped slightly on the frosted rime of the road, which as yet the sun hadn’t touched. When he reached Matthew’s side he said sharply, ‘Get into the back and lie down.’

  ‘I…I can’t.’ Matthew turned from him and again leant over the wire and heaved.

  Donald, bending forward now, looked down. There was a sheer drop below them before the trees branched out. He said harshly, ‘Come back from there, you’ll be over in a minute.’ It was at this moment that Matthew turned and with a swiftness and strength it was impossible to imagine in his weak state he threw both arms around Donald’s shoulders and pulled him forward. Almost too late Donald realised his intentions, and now he tore at the arms as if trying to free himself from a wildcat while they both seemed to hang suspended in mid-air against the wire. Donald’s side was pressing tight against it; he had one foot still on the top of the bank, the other was wedged sideways against the slope. With a desperate effort he thrust out one hand to grab the post, and as he did so he heard the Brigmore woman scream. Then Matthew’s body was jerked from him and he was free, but still leaning outwards at an extreme angle over the drop. As he went to heave himself upwards his foot on top of the bank slipped on the frost-rimed grass verge, and the weight of his body drew him between the wire and the top of the bank, and with a heart-chilling cry of protest he went hurtling through the air. When he hit the ground he rolled helplessly downwards, stotting like a child’s ball from one trunk to another…

  They lay on the bank where they had fallen, Miss Brigmore spreadeagled, one hand still gripping a spoke of the cartwheel, the other clutching the bottom of Matthew’s overcoat.

  When, getting to her knees, she pulled him away from the edge of the drop and turned him over she thought he was already dead, for the parts of his face that weren’t covered in blood were ashen.

  ‘Oh, Matthew! Matthew!’ She lifted his head from the ground, and he opened his eyes and looked at her. Then his lips moving slowly, he said, ‘You should have let me go.’

  She pressed his head to her and rocked him for a moment, then murmured, ‘Try to stand. Try to stand.’ Half dragging him, half carrying him, she got him to the back of the brake and pulled him up, and he lay on the floor in a huddled heap.

  Before she got up into the driver’s seat to take the reins she walked a few tentative steps towards the edge of the road and looked downwards. Far, far below a dark object was lying, but it could have been a tree stump, anything. If it was Donald he might still be alive.

  She urged the horse upwards to where the road widened and, having turned it about, she drove back to the farm.

  It was five hours later when the men lifted Donald from the flat cart and carried him into the farm kitchen, where they laid him on the wooden settle to the side of the fireplace.

  Miss Brigmore, Constance and Jane stood together near the dresser; one might have thought they had their arms around each other, so close were their bodies.

  Matthew was lying back in the wooden chair near the kitchen table. If his eyes had not been wide open and moving he too could have been taken for dead, such was the look and colour of his skin.

  The four of them watched the men as they straightened their backs after laying Donald down but no one of them spoke, or moved.

  It was Willy Nesbitt from Allendale, a man who had been on many winter rescue expeditions, who broke the silence. Looking at Constance, he said, ‘He’s fought hard; don’t know how he’s done it, Missis. He’s smashed up pretty bad; he should have been dead twice over, but he’s fought to keep alive. I thought he was gone two or three times, but even now there’s still breath in him.’

  The man’s eyes seemed to draw Constance from the protection of Miss Brigmore and Jane, and like a sleepwalker she went around the end of the table, past Matthew, and to the settle, and there she stood looking down on Donald. He looked twisted, all of him looked twisted. His face was bruised and shapelessly swollen, all that is except his eyes, and these were open.

  His eyes had always been dark, black when he gave way to emotion, but now they were like pieces of jet on which a red light was playing, and the feeling that emanated from them struck her with a force that was almost physical, for she fell back from it. She even flung out her arms as if to protect herself; and then she cried out as it beat on her and bore her down. When she fainted away the room became alive with movement.

  She recovered lying on the mat in front of the fire, Miss Brigmore was kneeling by her side. Donald was no longer on the couch; under Jane’s direction the men had carried him into the front parlour.

  Miss Brigmore, stroking the damp hair back from Constance’s brow, whispered, ‘It’s all right, my dear, it’s all right, he’s gone.’

  Constance’s breast was heaving as if she had raced up a hill. She did not need to be told he was gone, she knew, for with his last look he had tried to take her with him. The strength of his mind, the int
ensity of his hate, the futility of life had all been in that last look and he had kept himself alive to level it on her. If ever a man had wished death on another he had, and as she slipped into the black depths she thought he had succeeded.

  When she went to rise Miss Brigmore helped her to her feet, saying, ‘Sit quiet for a while, sit quiet.’

  Matthew was still in the same position in the chair. It seemed that he hadn’t moved and when she looked towards him and whimpered, ‘Oh, Matthew! Matthew!’ he answered through bloodstained lips and in a voice that had a thin flatness about it, ‘It’s all right, it’s all over.’

  Constance leaned her head against the high back of the chair and closed her eyes. It might be over, but it wasn’t all right, and it might never be all right. Matthew had killed Donald; as surely as if he had stuck a knife between his ribs he had killed him but the guilt was hers. She had known, as had his mother, when he set out in the cart to go over the hills that it wasn’t in order to bring Barbara’s child back, but to put an end to Donald…Yet there had had to be an end, it had to come in some way for she could not have stood this way of life much longer. Donald had not been a sane man; his jealousy had turned his brain…But there again, was she not to blame for that? Oh God! God! At this moment she wouldn’t have minded if he had taken her with him for then she would not have had to face the prospect of living with this feeling of guilt.

  She opened her eyes to look at Anna who was again stroking her brow. But here was something she could be thankful for: Anna’s future, however long or short it might last, was secure, and Barbara’s child would not be brought up in hatred. And that was another thing, neither would her own. She took in a deep breath. Some good could come out of this deed other than her own release. She’d have to think along these lines.

  Matthew now moved in his chair and muttered, ‘Get my mother,’ and as Constance went to rise Miss Brigmore said, ‘I’ll go, sit quiet.’

  Constance sat quiet and she and Matthew looked at each other, until Matthew closed his eyes to shut out the pain that the sight of her always brought to him…

  Miss Brigmore went from the kitchen and into the sitting room where the new woman Daisy Waite was helping Jane to lay out the body of her son.

  Donald was lying on the table, the stairs having been too narrow for the men to carry him up. The two women had him undressed down to his long pants and vest, and Daisy Waite was unbuttoning the pants that were stained red around the hips, while she cried as she talked. ‘God Almighty! To end like this. Did you ever see anything like it? Aw, the poor man, the poor man. An’ no matter what, let everybody have their due, it was him who gave us shelter when nobody else would. And to come to this. Aw, dear God. Where’s the sense in anything?’

  Miss Brigmore turned her gaze away from the now partly naked body for she too felt on the point of fainting. She touched Jane on the shoulder and said softly, ‘Matthew needs you.’

  Jane nodded but did not turn and follow her or look at her, but she kept her gaze fixed on the face of her son. He was gone, he was dead, they were rid of him, they were all rid of him, they were free and she was glad. Then why was there this pain in her? She had never wanted him. When she was carrying him she had never wanted him, and when he was born she had never wanted him for she had seen him as something that had been thrust on her—into her, and since the day he had first breathed he had brought strife with him. He in his turn had never liked her, had even hated her. Yet she was feeling an overwhelming pity for him, as if she had sustained the loss of a loved one. She couldn’t understand it. If it had been Matthew she could have. And she would be feeling like this again soon, for Matthew wouldn’t be long in going now.

  What would happen to Matthew when he died? Would he be brought before the Judgement? His father had instilled the Good Book into her, so she must believe in the Judgement, but surely the dear God would take everything into account. But she didn’t know, she didn’t know, he was a fearsome God at times. Her poor Matthew! Her poor Matthew! And Donald? At this moment she could say, if not ‘My poor Donald’, at least ‘Poor Donald’, for he had never been hers nor she his, but yes, she could say, ‘Poor Donald.’

  She turned her dry eyes on Daisy Waite and said, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Missis, don’t worry, I can manage. He isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last I’ve put ready for a journey.’

  Miss Brigmore took Jane’s arm and led her from the room, but they did not go immediately into the kitchen. In the dim hallway they instinctively turned and looked at each other, and the look was deep. Neither of them said a word but their hands gripped tight for a moment before they moved on again into the kitchen.

  When Jane stood beside Matthew’s chair and he said, ‘I want to go to bed, Mother,’ she replied, ‘Come away then, lad.’ And tenderly she helped him to his feet and with her arm around him led him from the room.

  Constance had not moved, and now Miss Brigmore went to her and, bending over her, said softly, ‘Try to think no more of it, what’s done is done. It…it had to be this way, you couldn’t have gone on, something would have happened, perhaps something more terrible.’

  ‘But…but what will happen to Matthew?’

  ‘Nothing will happen to Matthew. I’ve told you, I mean to explain it all as I saw it, and nothing will happen to Matthew.’

  ‘Oh! Anna.’ Constance jerked to her feet, her hands gripping her neck. She seemed to be on the point of choking; until the tears, rushing from her eyes and nose, relieved the pressure. Miss Brigmore put her arms tightly about her and they both swayed as if they were drunk.

  When the paroxysm passed, Miss Brigmore, her own face showing her distress, murmured: ‘There, there, my dear. You must forget it, all the past, all of it, all of it. Just…just thank God that you’ve been saved and you’re still young and beautiful. There’s a life before you yet, you’ll see. There’s a life before you yet.’ And to this Constance made a deep dissenting sound.

  At the inquest a week later Miss Brigmore explained to the coroner exactly what had happened. Mr Matthew Radlet, who had the disease of consumption, had been in distress, and because he was feeling sick had got down and stood at the side of the road. His brother, Donald, had gone to his assistance. She could not explain how it had happened because she was sitting in the back of the cart at the time, but she surmised he must have slipped on the frost-rimed verge; the frost had been very heavy the night before; all she knew was Mr Matthew Radlet had made an effort to grab his brother, but without success.

  It was an awful tragedy, everyone said so, for Donald Radlet was the most up-and-coming farmer in the district. They said this aloud, but among themselves in the drawing rooms, the parlours, and the select ends of the inns they reminded each other that, after all, he was a Mallen and did anyone know of any Mallen who had died in his bed?

  Aftermath

  It was the end of the harvest supper. The barn had never witnessed such gaiety for it was the first time such a function had been held there. Michael Radlet had not countenanced harvest suppers nor had his father before him, nor of course, had Donald Radlet, and they would all have stood amazed, not believing their eyes at the changes that had taken place during three short years. In Donald’s case, he would surely have experienced chagrin that his farm, as he had always considered it, was now being managed by a woman, a young woman, his wife in fact.

  Matthew Radlet had survived his half-brother by only six weeks, and his going had drawn Jane and Constance even closer together. Their guilt, their remorse and their relief were mingled and shared.

  For months after Matthew’s going they had lived a cheerless, guilt-ridden existence, until one day Jane, as if throwing off a mental illness, had stood in the kitchen and actually cried aloud, ‘Look, girl, let us put an end to this. If we’re going to live in misery then it’s a pity he ever went the way he did. That’s how I’m seeing it now, and you must see it the same way. Oh yes, more so than me, you must see it lik
e that, for you are young, and healthy. And you have a child to bring up, and he should be brought up amid cheerfulness, not the gloom that’s been hanging over us these months past.’

  It was from that time that, as Daisy Waite expressed it, the missis and young mistress came out of their sorrow.

  It would not have been considered unusual had Constance left the running of the entire farm to Harry Waite. Harry was quite knowledgeable on farming matters, and more, more than willing to do all in his power to assist her, as were his wife, son, and daughter; but no, from the day Jane lifted the curtain of guilt, as it were, from their shoulders, there had risen in her a determination to manage the farm herself.

  And so she went to market, driven by Harry Waite, and stood by his side as he bargained in both the buying and the selling. She said little or nothing on those first visits but kept her head held high and her gaze straight, and her look defied the neighbouring farmers to laugh at her, at least in public. That in the inns it was a different matter she had no doubt, for on one occasion Harry Waite drove her home having only the sight of one eye, the other being closed and fast discolouring, besides which his knuckles were bleeding. She did not ask him if he had been drinking, for Harry Waite, she had discovered, was a moderate man; his main concern in life being the welfare of his family and, since being in her service, protecting her.

  His loyalty had been well repaid, for two months ago he moved his family into the three-roomed cottage she’d had built for them in a small enclosure about a hundred yards from the farmhouse proper.

  Harry Waite’s son, Jim, who was now seventeen was, among other things, a shepherd on the farm, and his daughter Nancy, now sixteen, divided her time between the dairy and the house.