The Mallen Litter

by Catherine Cookson

  It was on Pat Ferrier’s third visit to the shop in a fortnight and on Katie’s last day of cataloguing that he offered himself as her guide to Versailles, and primly, but not without a stir of excitement, she accepted.

  They set out in a carriage at noon and his manner towards her could have been that of an uncle giving her an extramural lesson in history. Through the overpoweringly grand palace they meandered, to the house where the ill-fated queen and her court had played at milkmaids; round by the temple of love, through the vast gardens, up terraces and down terraces they walked, and when the tour was over and he asked, ‘Did you enjoy it?’ she answered politely, ‘Yes, yes, indeed it was most interesting.’

  When he cast a side glance from his pale grey eyes at her she thought for a moment he had read her mind, for the truth was she had felt indifferent to all the grandeur. Everything was too large, larger than life; and the gardens, she considered, were great expanses of nothing. No wonder there had been a revolution. How they must have lived in that palace with their gold and their silver plate. How they had gorged themselves while the people starved. It was all past history but in some way it reminded her of Manchester; the grand houses at one side of the town, the slums at the other. It was ridiculous, but there it was. Her mind was a mass of contradictions. In Manchester she had come to hate the sight and smell of poverty, yet when she saw opulence and a different way of living she condemned it. What the world needed was a happy medium, and people would get that when they got Utopia. And they would get Utopia…never…

  Here she was, being handed into a carriage by an English-cum-French—because he appeared more French than English—gentleman and all she could think about was Manchester and comparisons of wealth.

  ‘You didn’t enjoy it?’

  She jerked her head towards him. ‘Oh yes, yes, I did.’

  ‘You’re lying, Katie Bensham.’

  As they stared at each other she made a vain effort to check her laughter. Then they were laughing together. ‘Why didn’t you like Versailles?’

  ‘It…it was too much, too much of everything. As my father would say, too much of a good thing. And yet I don’t think it could ever have been a good thing.’ He lay back in the carriage well away from her and after a moment he said, ‘Tomorrow I shall take you to the Palais de Justice; the following day we can do the Louvre. No, no, that’s Sunday, we’ll leave that till Monday. On Tuesday I shall take you on the Seine.’ He turned his head towards her. ‘Will that please you?’

  She stared at him. There was a quirk to her lips now. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Of course I do. I live to please you, my time is yours.’

  ‘Oh!’ She closed her eyes and jerked her head impatiently.

  ‘What is it? I’ve annoyed you?’

  ‘You will if you continue to talk in such a fashion. It’s…it’s so artificial.’

  ‘Really? You…you find my conversation artificial?’

  ‘It isn’t conversation.’ She imagined for a moment it was Willy sitting there and they were about to start one of their endless arguments. ‘It’s trifling, false. Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m being rude.’ She lowered her head as she shook it.

  ‘Not at all.’ His tone had changed. ‘I agree with you, up to a point. I would not say my conversation is trifling and artificial because I’ve had no opportunity to have a real conversation with you. My remarks are definitely as you state them to be. It is the fashion of our time to communicate in monosyllables…’

  ‘When you are dealing with women?’

  ‘Quite right, when one is dealing with women.’

  ‘I object to being treated as a numskull.’

  ‘A numskull?’ He lingered over the word, and he smiled at her now as he said, ‘It’s a wonderful word that, so full of meaning.’

  ‘You know it then?’

  ‘Know it?’ His tone changed again. He could have been Dan or John speaking. ‘Know it? Don’t forget I was born in Northumberland. I have cousins to this day who work in Palmer’s shipyard in Jarrow and in our glass works; they’re on the board but they’re working members. I could, I can assure you, rattle off northern sayings that I’m sure you’ve never heard of because they would have offended Miss Brigmore’s ears. Even now I am sure she would “skite-the-hunger-off-me” were she to know I was sullying your ears with such rough homely terms.’

  She had her head resting against the padded back of the coach, her face half turned towards him, and she laughed gently as she said, ‘I would never have believed it.’

  Slowly he inched towards her until his coat touched hers; and then he said, ‘We haven’t as yet known each other long enough for me to convince you that I am, underneath the façade, an ordinary man, a Northumbrian. Katie—’ he caught her hand and, his voice low, he said, ‘It was in a carriage similar to this that we returned from Hexham one day, not all that long ago, and you promised that you would come to dinner with me in my home. And you knew then what the invitation implied. Can…can we imagine that this is the same carriage and I’m putting the request to you again? Will you come to dinner with me tonight?’

  Her face was straight, even solemn. There was a swelling in her throat and she, too, was back in the carriage coming from Hexham; and there returned to her the feeling of excitement, and something more, the feeling of being honoured, made proud.

  Her lips trembled slightly as she said softly, ‘I should like that.’

  And so it began, their belated whirlwind courtship. She dined that night in a restaurant on the Champs Elysées, and there were a number of things that remained in her memory for long afterwards; there was the knowledge that he was well known in this place and that his table was reserved in a secluded corner and was beautifully laid; also, that he rinsed his mouth out from the finger bowl, almost gargling in the process; another thing was the way the cream was brought to the table—the waiter served it from a brown stone jar very like the one Bella Brackett used for pickling cabbage in the kitchen in No. 27. The cream was ladled out in great dollops onto her pudding, and when Pat refused to be helped from the jar she protested gaily, ‘It’s unfair! It’s you who needs cream, not me.’

  But the main thing that remained in her mind about that first dinner was the lady who came to the table whilst they were drinking their wine. She was a woman in her thirties and beautifully gowned. She was good-looking in a brittle sort of way. The French she spoke was rapid, too rapid for her to understand, but she understood the tone of it and also the steeliness in Pat’s manner as he replied.

  The woman looked at her, and she looked at the woman. Pat made no effort to introduce them, and after a moment the woman, returning her cold gaze to Pat, said a few brief words and walked away, to rejoin two men and another lady at a table further down the room.

  ‘Do you like this wine?’

  ‘Yes, yes; it’s very nice.’

  He looked across the table and into her eyes and said quietly, ‘The lady was angry, and rightly so; I had an engagement to dine with her tonight and I broke it. No doubt, you will understand how she’s feeling.’

  It was on the point of her tongue to say, ‘Never having been a man’s mistress you can hardly expect me to understand that lady’s feelings,’ but if she had she would not have said it in bitterness, for, strange to say, she didn’t feel angry, rather the reverse. She felt flattered, and very mature. She understood perfectly that a single man was allowed the privilege of a mistress. Of course, if he were married then one would view the liaison differently.

  He said now, ‘Where would you like to go tomorrow?’ and she replied without hesitation, ‘Up the Seine, and to the opera in the evening.’

  His eyes twinkled, his lips pressed themselves together before spreading in an amused smile, and then he repeated, ‘Up the Seine we’ll go, my forthright Katie Bensham, and on to the opera in the evening.’

  It was a fortnight later that Katie wrote to her father and Brigie:

  ‘My dear, dear Father and Brigie,
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  I don’t really know how to begin. You’ll be amazed at my news, it has all happened so suddenly. I am to be married on Thursday, and who to? Pat Ferrier. Yes, yes, I know you’ll both be astounded but I hope you’ll be happy for me, as happy as I am now.

  We met by accident—or was it the design of Dan and Barbara?—in Dan’s bookshop.

  We’re going through France and on to Italy for our honeymoon. We should be back in England at the end of October. I have so much to tell you but there’ll be plenty of time when I return home. The Manor will be much nearer than Manchester and I shall be popping in all the time.

  I am happy, believe me, and I’m sorry I was such a fool and let five years go by before I could find my own mind.

  My dearest love to you both. Thank you, Father, for being so generous to me all my life. And you, Brigie, for making me fit to be the lady of the manor. Funny, isn’t it, me to be the lady of the manor?

  Katie.

  P.S. I gave Dan your message, Father, and I know he is seriously thinking about it because the apartment they have is so small, and they’d have to be making a move soon, and I think he knows in his heart that he’ll never make enough money out of the bookshop to support them without your help. And Brigie, dear, I passed your message on to Barbara, and I think she, too, would welcome returning to England. She didn’t seem unpleased at the prospect of living in Newcastle.

  P.P.S. Barbara and I are going out now to buy suitable clothes for the journey, not a trousseau, just suitable clothes.

  Again my love to you both,

  Katie.

  Oh really! forgive me, both of you; I forgot to say the babies are beautiful, wonderful. I envy Barbara. I really do.’

  Three

  It was arranged that the night before the wedding they would all dine in Pat’s special restaurant on the Champs Elysées. He was to call for them at quarter-to-eight; he arrived at seven-thirty.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry; I apologise,’ he said laughingly as he entered the apartment. ‘It is most inconsiderate of me but you must put it down to my youthful eagerness, the result of a second childhood.’

  After closing the door, Dan, resuming the struggle with a stud in the neck of his shirt, and also laughing, said, ‘Will you go into the sitting room; Katie’s there, or in the nursery, and Barbara won’t be long. As for me, well’—he spread one hand wide—‘look at me. I’ve been trying to calm the brood. I’ve managed two of them, but never Ben. Listen to him…I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  When Pat entered the sitting room he found it empty. He walked to the stove, stood with his back to it for a moment, then made for the door again, just as it opened, and ran into Katie. As they both laughed, she quickly reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips, and as he went to draw her tightly to him she protested still laughing, saying, ‘No, no, you mustn’t…My dress. Come…come and see Ben; the sight of you might frighten him into being quiet.’

  ‘Really! Really!’ Smiling tolerantly, he followed her into the room where the babies were, two of them quiet and smiling, but not the big fellow.

  Ben was thrashing about in the small bed and howling his loudest.

  Marie, who was bending over him, turned towards them and spoke rapidly, and when Pat answered her they both laughed.

  ‘What does she say? She talks so quickly I can never understand her,’ Katie muttered under her breath.

  ‘How can I translate?’ He scratched his forehead with his finger. ‘She infers he’ll end up working in the gas works.’

  ‘Why the gas works?’

  ‘Oh’—he shrugged his shoulders—‘I suppose she means that with his lungs he could fill a gas-holder with wind. No, it’s funnier than that.’ He now bent down to her and whispered, ‘The first thing I do with you tomorrow is send you to a convent, there to improve your French.’

  ‘A convent? Oh’—she made a prim face at him—‘I should love that!…A convent!’

  Their heads came together for a moment and they shared a deep chuckle while Marie watched them.

  When Pat turned to the girl and spoke in her own tongue, she let out a high laugh, then clapped her hand over her mouth as she repeated ‘Couvent demain? Couvent!’ Then almost choking, she went out of the room, while Ben continued to howl.

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have told her.’

  ‘Why not? The French appreciate a joke.’ He did not go further and add, that particular kind of joke. And when she said, ‘Joke?’, he put his head back and chuckled as he said, ‘Brigie to a T.’

  ‘Oh you, really!’ She turned from him and bent over the bed saying, ‘There, there!’ as she stroked the tear-stained crumpled face. ‘Aw look,’ she said softly, ‘they’re real, not crocodile tears.’

  ‘Yes, they’re real enough.’ Pat now put out his hand and touched the fine hair on the baby’s head. ‘He’s much darker than the other two, have you noticed?’

  ‘Yes, but the colour of a baby’s hair changes as it grows older.’

  ‘This one’s will get darker.’ He gently stroked the snub nose and as he did so the child’s crying eased away and he said, ‘Ah! Peace, peace. I’ve done it.’ Then after a moment he added, ‘I’d like to bet in a few years’ time his hair will be as black as a sloe and very likely show the white streak. You know something? He’s a Mallen, if ever I saw one. Do you know whom he is going to be the dead spit of? You remember the picture in the cottage of old Thomas? Well, look at the shape of his head, the face here…’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘It isn’t nonsense, darling. Anyway why should it be?

  I tell you we’ve got another Thomas here and he’ll lead the Mallen litter. He’s begun already, he’s so boisterous. They should have been born in Northumberland; all Mallens belong to Northumberland. So…’

  ‘Ssh! Ssh!’ Katie was holding up her finger warningly to him, and with a boyish gesture of being caught in some misdemeanour he lifted his thin shoulders upwards and bit on his lip as he looked toward the door, which was partly open. Then they glanced sharply at each other as they heard Barbara’s voice coming from the passage speaking to Marie.

  Pat now moved from Katie’s side and went to the door, there to meet Barbara, and before he had opened his mouth to give her his greeting he knew from the look on her face that she had overheard his remark, and he cursed himself for his stupidity. ‘I’m early,’ he apologised. ‘I hope I haven’t hurried you.’ He made a movement as if to step back as he surveyed her up and down. Then he said gallantly, ‘You look very beautiful, Barbara.’

  When she made no reply but stared into his face he found himself disconcerted and, as was most unusual with him, at a loss for a suitable remark. He had said she was beautiful but in this moment his words could have been applied to her dress only for her face had a look of thunder on it.

  He had heard that she had a violent temper, and like everybody else in the area back home he knew what it had led to, the maiming of an innocent girl, and as her gaze bored into him now he could well imagine what she might do were she to let her temper have rein.

  He wondered for a moment if he should bring the matter into the open and apologise, but decided that that would only be pouring salt into the wound, for apparently she hated the fact of having sprung from the Mallens. And no wonder; for no-one would appreciate being the result of a rape, and not a rape twixt youth, which might be excused, but one in which the perpetrator was a man of nearly seventy and who had been a father figure to her mother. In a way, he supposed, she must look upon herself as the result of incest. Why, oh why had be to bring up that name, and on this night of all nights? His happiness had intoxicated him and stripped him of tact, to say the least.

  When she drew her eyes slowly from him and, turning about, went without a word into her bedroom, he walked into the nursery again and, standing close to Katie by the side of the bed, he bent his head and said below his breath, ‘I’ve apparently done the unforgivable thing by mentioning that name. She is very angry with me.’
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  She looked at him blankly. ‘She heard? Oh Pat! And tonight!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Seeing that he was distressed by the incident, she smiled at him now and whispered, ‘Don’t worry. After all, what was that to say? Anyway, she is a Mallen and they are part Mallens, with a sprinkling of Bensham.’ She reached upwards and kissed him. ‘Smile, come on. We’ll pass it over. I’ll be my brightest, gayest, wittiest self…’

  Rising to the occasion, he returned her smile and, placing his fingers around her chin, he whispered back, ‘Then I have nothing to worry about, ma petite Katie. The success of the evening is assured.’

  The evening was not a success. Barbara had a headache. It started before they left the apartment and it became worse during the evening, and they were all concerned for her.

  When, at eleven o’clock, much earlier than had been anticipated, Pat said goodbye to her, her headache was so severe that she could make no reply to him, not even to thank him for the splendid dinner he had provided, and of which she had eaten hardly at all.

  Katie kissed her and said how sorry she was, but even to this Barbara could only incline her head.

  Dan made up for her lapse in his thanks to them both. Then, ‘Au revoir,’ he said, ‘until ten o’clock tomorrow.’ He kissed Katie fondly and shook Pat’s hand, and watched them drive away before he turned and followed Barbara up the stairs to the apartment.

  Nothing was said until Marie had gone. Then Dan, his face grim, burst out, ‘Now let’s have it. What’s it all about? You’ve got no headache. What on earth is it?’