She told herself, time and again, that she should not feel guilty with regard to Dan, because she gave him all she could give him and he had known when he married her that what she had to offer emotionally was but the scrapings of a barrel. Yet out of the scrapings had come the babies: the first she had carried for six months; the second had breathed and seen the light for only one day; but now she had brought him an extra one to compensate for the loss of the other two. She must look at it that way and not think as she did so often, if only they had been created in love.
Before the steam spurted from the spout of the kettle Dan had rejected ‘Little Orphan Annie’ for Annie of Tharaw. And this was evidence indeed of how disturbed he was. He always sang Longfellow’s rigmarole in his tuneless voice and to a Scottish air that went like a jig:
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old,
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.
Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.
Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good,
Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood!
Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow,
We will stand by each other, however it blow.
On and on the couplets went as she made the coffee, waited for it to settle, then poured it out. She paused a moment before lifting the cup from the table, her head back on her shoulders, her lips slightly apart, her lids lowered as she listened:
Whate’er my desire is, in thine may be seen;
I am king of the household, thou art its queen.
It is this, O my Annie, my heart’s sweetest rest,
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.
She picked up the cup and went from the room across the little passage and into the bedroom, and as she entered he turned to her as he adjusted his cravat and, his voice rising slightly, he sang, but still softly:
This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell;
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.
As she handed him the coffee he bent towards her, put his lips to her cheek and said softly, ‘I love you, Barbara Bensham.’
What she should have answered to this was, ‘And I love you too, Dan Bensham.’ How could any woman not love a man so kind, so good as this one? Only herself, spawned through rape, and known in the county of her birth as ‘the Mallen girl’, only she was not woman enough, mature enough to love a second time. And she did not hide the fact from herself. But neither could she blame herself.
He went from her singing the song again, only stopping to sip at the coffee. She did not follow him into the tiny nursery where he would be once more looking on his sons, as he always did before going out, and she checked herself from calling to him as she heard him come into the passage and put on his coat, ‘Do be quiet please, you’ll waken them,’ because in the words of Annie of Tharaw, he was telling her once more, but more softly now like a gentle lullaby, what he would do if he lost her:
Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known –
Through forests I’ll follow, and where the sea flows,
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.
Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,
The threads of our two lives are woven in one.
Yes indeed, the threads of their two lives were woven in one, and must never, never be unwoven. She could think what she liked, she could suffer as she must, but never, never must she break the threads that held their two lives woven as one. This much she owed him.
Two
Katie loved Paris, all of it. The hotel was good. Dan’s apartment behind the rue Nicholas Charles was the prettiest and quaintest place she had ever stepped into. Dan’s shop was simply wonderful. And Dan having a shop was a most surprising thing; she still hadn’t got over it after a full week in Paris. Then there were the babies. She thought of them as Barbara’s babies. They were delightful, angels. Of course, she agreed laughingly with Barbara on this point that it was very difficult to put Benjamin into such a category, because Benjamin yelled both by night and by day. Even when he wasn’t actually crying he was making sounds, demanding sounds.
And then Paris itself. Paris was fascinating, and she had really seen nothing of it as yet. She was intoxicated by the wonders that lay ahead of her. She felt like an explorer in a strange and wonderful land, yet at the same time slightly frustrated because both Dan and Barbara had warned her against walking alone. She knew they were right about this, because on her first solitary walk she had been accosted by no less than three gentlemen, two of them with charming manners who were desirous of helping her, and who insisted that they had been born for the sole purpose of showing her Paris…
Dan and Barbara discussed the situation in bed. It was difficult to arrange times when one or the other could accompany her. Dan had a young assistant, who as yet had little knowledge of the work and whom he never left in charge of the shop for more than half an hour at a time.
Then there was Marie to be considered, Marie who at first had been engaged to do the work of the apartment but now spent most of her time attending the babies.
Almost simultaneously they spoke together, then laughed quietly, before Barbara asked, ‘Does he come at any particular time?’
‘No, it could be any day of the week.’
‘But he comes in every week?’
‘No, not always. Sometimes it can be a month before I see him. I think this is when he goes back to England.’
‘But he’s been in every week for some time now you say?’
‘Yes…yes he has, he’s been in regularly since I took over. He’s kind in a way; he…he never leaves without buying a couple of books, and he’s recommended others.’
‘But’—Barbara paused a moment—‘you said he had, well, a name.’
‘Yes, but all of his class have a reputation along those lines.’
‘Class!’ She snorted slightly as she turned her head sharply on the pillow. ‘He’s not all that high up, and your father is much better off than he is I’d say.’
He suddenly pulled her around to him, saying, ‘Nice of you to put it that way, Mrs Bensham, but we must remember we’re not mentioned in the Domesday Book. And when his cousin dies he’ll come into the title; he’ll be Sir Patrick Ferrier. It does make a difference, you know.’
His lips were moving in gentle patting kisses around her unresponsive mouth when she said, ‘She’s so headstrong and still has these odd ideas. Anything could happen to her wandering about the streets alone. And it isn’t right. Do you think she’ll stay the winter?’
‘Possibly.’ His voice was dreamy.
‘In that case then I…I think that you should arrange a meeting. After all he is a gentle…gentleman…’
The last word was smothered in his mouth and she became passive and compliant as he loved her.
When it was over, Dan lay back on the pillow, hoping, almost praying that she wouldn’t end it as always, but she did. Slowly, silently, she turned on her side, her back towards him, and there rose in him again that infantile feeling of wanting to cry helplessly while beating his fists on something.
Dan said, ‘You may be interested in this, sir.’ He had never called Ferrier by his Christian name, for he had been a boy of fifteen when he first met him on Constance Radlet’s farm in a valley in Northumberland, which lay seven miles across the hills from High Banks Hall. He remembered the time as if it were yesterday, not so much the meeting with Mr Ferrier but the effect he’d had on Barbara’s Aunt Constance. In a few minutes this man had turned her from a dignified lady into a gay young woman. Everyone thought that Ferrier would marry her; until he started paying court to Katie. He must have been fond of Katie for it was only after she took it into her head to give up the easy life of the Hall for the harsh reality of the Manchester slums that he had returned to France.
He did not know whether or not he
really liked Ferrier. He was a charming man yet had an austerity about him. But by all accounts this austerity didn’t prevent him from enjoying mistresses, for it was said he’d had quite a change of them over these past five years since he’d returned to France, and well before that. And so he wondered if he were doing right in letting him know that Katie was in Paris; was it right to lay her open to a man of this character? But four years ago everyone had thought it right, even desirable, and he didn’t suppose his character had worsened much since then, for if a man couldn’t find some one person to love, then who could blame him for spreading his company?
‘Oh! It’s a large tome. What is it?’
‘It’s called The New British Traveller or A Complete Modern Universal Display of Great Britain and Ireland. Note the print, sir, the old type of S’s, and, as it says in the introduction, ‘It is a production of much time and indefatigable labour.’ And look what it covers, from the etymology of the different areas to the nature of the legislature and modes of proceedings in the various Courts of Justice ancient and modern.’
Pat Ferrier began to turn the pages of the large travel book. After a minute or so he asked, ‘What year was it published?’
‘That I can’t quite ascertain, sir. There are a few pages missing from the front, and it’s been impossible to read right through it, but from the illustrations I should say it was published about the middle of the eighteenth century. You see at the bottom it says “Printed for Alex Hogg No. 16 Paternoster Row, London”.’
‘Well, yes, it appears interesting.’ Pat Ferrier flicked through the pages, then said, ‘But I don’t agree with you about its date of publication; I would say well towards the end of the eighteenth. The old S’s were still in use then. But I’ll take it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Have you anything else of interest?’
‘Not this morning I’m afraid, sir, but I’m going to a house on the outskirts this afternoon so I may pick up something there. I’m also using the journey as a means of showing my sister something of Paris, besides the main streets. You remember my sister, Katie?’
Pat Ferrier lifted his eyes from the book and turned his head slowly in Dan’s direction and his voice was cool as he said, ‘Yes. Yes, I remember your sister Katie very well. And she’s here in Paris?’
‘Yes. Yes, she’s been here over a week now.’
‘That’s nice. Is she staying long?’
‘We’re not sure; she’s undecided. She may stay the winter, and then knowing Katie she may go back to England tomorrow.’
‘She’s travelling with her family?’
‘No, no, she’s alone.’
‘Her husband is not with her?’
‘Oh, she’s not married.’
They stared at each other for a moment; then Pat Ferrier, raising his eyebrows slightly and with his eyes cast downwards, said, ‘Then I’ve been misinformed, I understood she was.’
‘She was going to be but…but she decided against it.’
‘Really!’ Pat Ferrier now put his head back and laughed as he said, ‘Women, women all the world over, English, French, or Chinese. Ah no, I mustn’t include the Chinese; they have been taught to do what they’re told, and rightly.’ He nodded at Dan and they both laughed now. Then Ferrier, tapping the large tome, said, ‘You’ll have it sent round to my apartment? I say have it sent round, but I don’t know whether they’ll be able to get it in the door; the place is overstacked already. I had thought to send a consignment home and I must do so without further delay, that’s if I want to visit this establishment again.’
As they parted on a laugh Dan mused, not on the fact that he had aroused, as he had hoped, Ferrier’s old interest in Katie, but on the fact that the man, having lived so long in France, still referred to England as home whilst he himself never thought of either 27 The Drive or High Banks Hall as home. Home, to him, was the present, and that was wherever Barbara was. But every man’s life was his own, and every man’s life was strange—to the other man.
It needed a little strategy to arrange that Katie should be in the shop each morning of the following week. It was achieved by Dan’s cry for help in cataloguing the books he had acquired on his visit to the outskirts of the city.
Katie offered her assistance before Dan was brought to the point of asking for it. She would be delighted to help in the shop, she had never worked in a shop, it would be exciting, wonderful, and if she could serve customers then it would help her with the language because now she was finding that Brigie’s French left a lot to be desired, at least her pronunciation. Oh yes, she’d be delighted.
And Dan found that he too was delighted to have her in the shop. Laughingly, he said, ‘We only want Brigie and John here, a high iron guard round the fire, a wooden table in the middle and we’d have the nursery again—with a few extra books,’ he added.
It was on the third morning when she was emerging from the basement, which was used as a storeroom, its only access being a trapdoor in the floor to which was attached an iron ladder, that Dan, while bending down to help her up, motioned with his hand towards a customer who stood opposite a book rack. He was a tall man and was stretching upwards to the top shelf to grasp a particular book.
‘See if you can help.’ Dan nodded at her, and she made a slight face at him, flicked some dust from her skirt, then, head held erect, she walked towards the figure.
A moment later Pat Ferrier turned towards her, a book in his hand, and he watched her face stretch and her lower jaw drop slightly before, assuming surprise, he said, ‘Miss Katie! Well, well! The world is indeed small.’
There followed another pause while they stared at each other.
‘May I enquire if you are well?’
‘I’m very well, thank you.’
‘I am delighted to hear it. Your brother tells me you are staying in Paris for a time.’
Oh, he did, did he? Cataloguing! Help in the shop. Really! Wait till she got him alone. Barbara, too, must have known.
She looked up into the thin face. He had changed in five years; he seemed to have grown old. He was fifteen years older than herself but now he looked much more than thirty-nine. There seemed to be little flesh on his bones; she had never seen anyone so thin. He was what her father would describe as ‘a yard of pipe watter’. But for all that he remained the gentleman, the courteous, charmingly mannered gentleman she remembered.
They were walking up the shop now towards the counter. ‘Do you like Paris?’
‘Yes, very much, what I have seen of it.’
‘Do you intend to stay long?’
‘I…I’m not sure; my time’s my own. I…I may go on.’
Go on? Where to? The only place she could go was back to Manchester, or Northumberland. One thing she had discovered, it was very difficult to travel on your own in a foreign land, and the language wasn’t the only impediment.
Dan was at the counter now and Ferrier spoke directly to him. ‘Have you anything new for me? Or should I say old?’
‘Not so far, sir. We are busy’—he indicated Katie with a movement of his head—‘we are busy sorting them out downstairs. But I’m sure I’ll find something of interest for you. It was an old house and the walls were lined with the books. If you’d care to call in some time later in the week…’
‘I’ll do that. Yes, I’ll do that. Well’—he turned to Katie and, bowing slightly, he said, ‘Goodbye, Miss Katie. This meeting has been a delightful surprise. I hope I shall see you again.’
Katie didn’t answer, she merely inclined her head, then she turned it slowly and watched him as he walked up the room and out of the shop. When he had passed from sight she looked at Dan and said one word, ‘Cataloguing!’
‘What do you mean, cataloguing?’
‘You didn’t need my help, you planned this.’
‘I…I didn’t.’ His tone was deceptively indignant.
‘Well, why didn’t you tell me he came here?’
‘I didn’t think you�
��d be interested. He’s come here for years. He was a customer of Monsieur Reynaud, he comes in like anyone else. I never thought to tell you.’
Her face muscles relaxed, her body relaxed; she slumped a little against the counter, let out a long-drawn breath and said, ‘Lord! I felt awful, like a child caught at some misdemeanour.’
‘Why should you?’
‘Oh!’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘You wouldn’t understand. Years ago he was on the point of…well, I encouraged him, I know I did. And then—’ again she shook her head. ‘What’s the use…? Well, that’s the end of the cataloguing, Dan Bensham.’
‘Oh no, no. Now look’—he caught her arm—‘I do need help. Look at that lot down there. And Jean…well, you know what Jean’s like.’ His voice dropped as he looked to where a young man was slowly racking books at the far end of the shop. ‘Numskull is his second name.’ Katie pursed her lips, drew in another deep breath, and asked, ‘How often does he come in?’
‘Oh, I can’t say. He’s unpredictable, could be weeks ahead.’
‘Oh well, in that case.’ She nodded at him, indicating that she had allowed herself to be persuaded.
The Mallen Litter Page 5