The Mallen Litter

by Catherine Cookson

  The day was hot, and the garden was heavy with the scent of roses. Katie had tea served in the shade of the oak tree. There were only herself, Brigie and Harry present, together with the child. Katie held him on her knee and she interspersed her conversation with her father and Brigie to talk to him in short repetitive stilted sentences. ‘Lawrence like some milk? Lawrence like some cake? No, no! Lawrence must not touch that. This is for Lawrence…Cake. Cake.’

  ‘My dear.’

  ‘Yes, Brigie, you were saying?’

  ‘I wasn’t, but I’m going to. And don’t become annoyed with me, please, for what I am about to suggest, but I think it would have more effect if you were to talk to him in a natural fashion.’

  ‘I do, I do.’

  ‘No, my dear, I’m afraid you don’t. What you say is: Lawrence have cakie. Lawrence have this. Lawrence can’t have that. To begin each sentence with his name is not natural, it will penetrate his mind in this stilted fashion and the result will be that when he does talk it will be in a similar manner.’

  Katie stared at Brigie. She wanted to say, What do you know about it? All waking hours of the day and sometimes of the night I am with him, talking, coaxing, playing.

  Brigie was not slow to realise how Katie had taken her suggestion and she sipped from her cup before saying, ‘I’m sorry, my dear, you must forgive me. I forget I’m not still in the schoolroom.’

  Katie let escape a deep sigh; then tracing her finger through the short, thick hair on her son’s head, she murmured, ‘You’re right. I know you’re right. I’ve got into a habit. I’ll…I’ll do as you say.’

  When the child wriggled on her knee she put him onto the grass. Then, with a look of wonderment on her face that was painful for Brigie to witness, she pointed to him as he pulled himself to his feet and began a stumbling walk as a baby might who was taking its first tentative steps, testing one foot forward before lifting the other, and she cried, ‘He’s walking! That’s…that’s the first time.’

  When she rose to her feet and went to follow the child Harry’s voice came at her flatly, saying, ‘Sit down, lass, and leave him be.’ And she sat down, and the smile of happiness slid from her face as she looked at her father, and he, breaking a piece of cake and chewing on it, did not return her look but said, ‘Is Pat likely to be back afore we go?’

  ‘Unless he gets talking to someone in the market.’ She turned her glance on Brigie and ended, ‘He’s become very interested in the farm.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Brigie.

  ‘He’ll never make it pay.’ Harry took another bite of the cake. ‘He’ll never get his money back on all those buildings. Putting up stone byres and runnin’ water miles across the land when there’s a good well there that’s served him for years; he’ll never get his money back.’

  Katie and Brigie exchanged glances and Brigie made an almost imperceivable movement of her head which said ‘Take no notice.’

  ‘Our Dan’s a surprise.’

  ‘Yes?’ Katie raised her eyebrows in polite enquiry as she looked at her father.

  ‘Aye, I should say he is. I always knew he had it in him; it just needed to be brought out an’ this Newcastle end has certainly done it. By! Aye, he pushed orders up almost forty per cent last year. Now that’s something, and from our Dan mind, him that wanted nowt to do with business. It must have been that little bookshop he had over there that set him going. Anyway something did it. They’re going to move to a bigger house, up Gosforth way. Did you know? At least he’s talking of it. Barbara’s not so keen, ’cos she wants the bairns near the school she said. I think she’s looking forward to it, I mean seeing them off to school. And I can understand it an’ all, ’cos by, they’re a handful! Talk about little devils! It’s Ben that’s the trouble; he’s the leader, the other two just follow. Eeh, the tricks that one gets up to!’

  Every word her father uttered was like a paean of praise, and she turned her sad eyes and looked to where her son was now crawling on all fours towards a rose bed in the middle of the lawn and she got up quickly and went towards him.

  Brigie, looking straight ahead and speaking under her breath, now said, ‘Please don’t talk about the boys.’

  ‘What? What’s that you say?’

  ‘I said please don’t talk about the boys; you are hurting her.’

  ‘Aw, God in heaven! Can’t I open me mouth?’

  ‘Not on that subject and not on this occasion.’

  Harry looked at her. She was still gazing straight ahead…It was Miss Brigmore who had spoken, not his Brigie, or Anna. And he knew she was right, but God in Heaven, he couldn’t sit here and not open his mouth! And what could he talk about if not about his grandbairns? He couldn’t talk about that thing crawling over there. My God! How had that come about? Not from his side, he’d swear. They’d gone barefoot and empty-bellied over the last three generations afore him but there had never been an idiot among them. And now their Katie to give birth to one. Why, it was unbelievable. Now if it had been their John’s Nancy he could have understood it. Or again, if it had been Barbara, her with her temper and the background of them whoring, raping Mallens. Yes, he could have understood it if she had given birth to a flat-faced idiot; but not their Katie. He had always considered their Katie was as virile as himself. An’ she was, it wasn’t her fault, it came from the other side. But she had to bear the brunt. By God! She had to bear the brunt all right. That thing in her arms now would cripple her for life.

  It was a pity after all that she hadn’t married Willy Brooks.

  When he next spoke it was debatable whether or not he was endeavouring to make amends for his tactlessness, for as soon as Katie sat down again, the child on her lap, he said to her, ‘You’ll never guess who I ran into the other day, and in Newcastle an’ all mind.’

  ‘No, who?’

  ‘Your friend, Willy, Willy Brooks. By! There’s a pusher if ever there was one. And it’s paying off. I’ll say that for him, it’s paying off. Member of a swank club he is now. That’s his father-in-law’s doings. There’s money in cotton, an’ who should know better than me about that. But when you make it up into shifts and the like, well, as the young snot said to me, “There’s coppers in cotton but there’s gold in shifts. Aye, an’ in more ways than one.” That last was a dig at you, our Katie.’ He nodded at her, then went on, ‘Fourteen draper stores he said they’ve got along the river now, one in every town, and he’s managing the lot. On the board of directors an’ all. I nearly asked him was the price worth it. You haven’t seen his wife.’ He jerked his chin at her and laughed now. ‘Talk about dribble at the lips an dry at the groin, that’s her…’

  ‘Harry!’

  ‘Aw, give over chastising me. Katie’s married, I’m not talking afore bairns.’

  ‘You’re talking before me and I don’t like the flavour of your conversation.’

  ‘By!’ He sat up and pulled himself forward in the basket chair. ‘You’re on your high horse the day, aren’t you? Well, I’m not listenin’ to any more of it, here’s me going for a stroll out of it.’

  Both Katie and Brigie watched him walk away. Then Brigie said softly, ‘He’s your father and he can’t change; he doesn’t mean to hurt you in any way, he loves you very very dearly.’

  ‘I know that, but nevertheless he does hurt me.’

  ‘I know he does, dear.’

  ‘Bri-Bri.’ The child was holding its arms out to Brigie, and she took him from Katie and stood him on her knee and looked into his face. His eyes appeared to be laughing but she knew they weren’t, for if you looked into them and did not take into account the other features of his face you saw that their expression was laden with a peculiar sadness, not a vacant sadness but a sadness that was full of awareness; it was as if in his brain there was a pocket of knowledge that made him aware of his plight and the futility of struggling against it. It was his mouth that gave the impression of a constant smile. His lips were shapeless but full and over-wide for the size of his face,
and they turned up at the corners.

  As Brigie stared from one to the other of the child’s features she realised that just a little less of one and a little more of another and he would have had facial proportions that would have taken him into manhood with the stamp of handsome on him, nay beautiful, for in some strange way there was even now a hint of beauty in his face. She pulled him to her and held him closely, and over his small shoulder she looked at Katie and said, ‘Don’t worry. Don’t worry, my dear, I have the feeling that he’ll bring you comfort yet.’ But she doubted her own words as she watched Katie bow her head and the big slow tears roll down her cheeks and drop from her chin before her blind groping could produce her handkerchief. Bring her comfort. She would forgo comfort, and happiness, and yes, even the love of Pat in exchange for her son’s normality. She could bear that he turn out to be the biggest rogue and scoundrel in the county so long as he was able to recognise that he was a rogue and scoundrel.

  Why, she asked yet again, had this to happen to her and Pat? Did curses carry their weight? Willy Brooks had cursed her on the night she gave him back his ring; and Barbara, from her attitude, the fury of which kept her silent during a whole evening of supposed celebration, had surely cursed Pat because he had called her babies ‘the Mallen litter’. And then there was Constance Radlet. Mrs Radlet had been in her thoughts a lot of late. Had she, like Willy Brooks, cursed Pat when he failed to realise her hopes? But it didn’t need a curse to pass on evil, just a wish would accomplish it, a wish oft-repeated, and from the heart, especially if the heart had suffered the pangs of being spurned, as these three had.

  PART TWO

  THE YEARS BETWEEN

  One

  They had moved into the new house in the awful weather of January, 1890. The house was situated on the outskirts of Gosforth, standing back from the road that led to Morpeth. It was called Brook House, the name taken from a tiny stream that meandered at the bottom of the two-acre garden.

  From the outside the house itself looked like a big red-brick square box but inside the rooms were spacious and well designed. The hall was large; three reception rooms went off one side of it, and a kitchen, dining room and morning room from the other. The stairs rose straight from the hall to a large landing, which gave access to four bedrooms and two dressing rooms. At the end of the landing another flight of stairs led to the second floor. Here were four more large rooms, but all had sloping ceilings and small windows. At the end of this second landing a ladder, attached to the wall, went straight up into the roof and to the topmost room in the house which was under the eaves and lit by a skylight.

  This was Ruth Foggety’s room and had she been asked what she thought of it she would have answered, ‘Heaven could be no better.’

  Ruth was the third nursemaid Barbara had engaged in as many months. The other two had left in tears, both saying almost the same thing, ‘It isn’t the place, ma’am, it’s a good place; leastwise it would be if it wasn’t for Master Ben.’

  Ruth Foggety had survived a fortnight and showing no sign yet of tears or hysterics at finding a dead rat in her bed, or worms wriggling around her toes, or being tripped up when carrying a tea tray to the drawing room.

  Ben Bensham, not yet five years old, looked at least eight and had the mind of a precocious ten year old. Everyone agreed on this, as they agreed that his two brothers were angels, or at least would become angels if left to their own devices and not led into mischief by their brother, their elder brother, as people not acquainted with their birth thought of Ben, and even those who were found it hard to believe that the three boys were of the same age.

  It was as Barbara was arranging some early daffodils in the drawing room that she heard the screams, and, as the sound of screaming was anything but unusual in the house and when penetrating down from the nursery floor could mean anything from glee to anger, she took no immediate notice because her mind was concerned with making everything look just right for the arrival of Mr Bensham, as she still thought of Dan’s father, and Brigie.

  Mr Bensham, on his monthly visits to the warehouse accompanied by Brigie, stayed overnight in an hotel in the town, but always on the afternoon of their arrival they came for tea…at Dan’s. And always Barbara became agitated by their coming, not so much at the thought of seeing Mr Bensham, in fact he mattered not at all to her, but it was Brigie’s presence that always disturbed her. Brigie still occupied a place of guilt, coupled with condemnation, in her mind; this woman who had loved her, brought her up, cared for her, cosseted her, and on whom she should in return have lavished her gratitude reminded her only that in the main she had been the means of depriving her of the one love of her life, and she knew, deep in her heart, that Brigie could never forget that it was because she had wanted to escape from her that she married Dan.

  Yet when she should arrive they would put their arms about each other and they would kiss, and on the outside it would appear like the meeting between the beloved mother and her adored daughter.

  The scream came again, more prolonged this time, causing her to lay down the flowers and turn swiftly around and go into the hall and look upwards. It was only then she realised that the cries were not coming from the nursery but from the first landing. She lifted the long trailing skirt of her green corded dress and ran up the stairs, only to pause at the head and gaze in righteous indignation at the scene before her. She could scarcely believe the evidence of her eyes, she had never witnessed such a scene. There, kneeling back on her hunkers, was the new nursemaid, Ruth Foggety, and across her knees lay Ben, his little trousers pulled down to his ankles, his under-drawers too, his shirt pulled upwards and covering his head. His bare bottom, exposed and already of a scarlet hue, was being slapped; no, not slapped, struck by the flat hard hand of the nursemaid, and with each blow she was saying something. ‘That’s one for the worms, an’ that’s another for the black-clock, an’ that one’s’—the hand came down with terrific force on the small buttocks—’for murderin…’

  ‘Stop that at once. How dare you! How dare you!’

  Barbara grabbed Ben upwards away from the small, plump figure kneeling on the floor. ‘You wicked creature, you!’

  ‘I’m no wicked creature, ma’am; he’s the wicked one, if you’re talkin’ of wicked.’ Ruth Foggety had risen to her feet. ‘He nearly murdered me, he did. A string across the top of the stairs of all things. I’d have gone down head first an’ that would have been me end if I hadn’t caught sight of him beyond the banisters there. I knew he was up to something. I’ve had enough of him. It’s either him or me…’

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that, girl. And you listen to me once and for all.’

  And Ruth Foggety listened to her mistress, she listened so intently that neither of them was aware of the front door being opened by Ada Howlett, the daft daily as Ruth had christened the maid who wouldn’t sleep in, preferring rather the three-mile tramp back to town in all weathers.

  Not until Harry came up the stairs saying, ‘What’s all this? What’s all this?’ did Barbara become aware of anyone else but this girl and her son, who was now leaning against her side sobbing, for it was many years since she had allowed her temper full rein; in fact, not since she had heard Pat Ferrier call her children ‘the Mallen litter’ had she felt such indignation, such rage.

  As Harry, puffing from his exertions—for at seventy-one he was beginning to feel his age—said again, ‘Well, what’s up here, eh? What’s up here?’ Brigie without any show of exertion passed him and went straight to Barbara’s side and immediately took in the situation. She knew all about it before Barbara, her breast rising and falling with her indignation, said without any preliminary greeting, ‘She…she thrashed him. Look, took down his trousers and thrashed him with her bare hands.’

  ‘Yes?’ Brigie looked from the girl to the black-haired boy, whose face was hidden against Barbara’s side, and she thought, Well, someone had to do it sooner or later, and the someone should have been yourself. But what s
he said was, ‘What is it all about? What caused it?’ She cast a glance towards the new nursemaid. She saw that she was a girl of about sixteen.

  Every part of her gave off signals of youth, round breasts, round buttocks, round face, even her eyes were round, blazing in her head now, even more so than Barbara’s. When she’s forty, Brigie thought, she’ll be a fat little woman; now she epitomises the fullness of youth, fresh and, as Mary used often to say, blue-mottled-soap-washed fresh.

  Indeed the girl was blue-mottled-soap-washed fresh. Brigie looked at Barbara again and said, ‘Come, let us go downstairs.’

  Barbara did not answer but, glaring at Ruth, she cried, ‘And you, get your things together and go this very day, now!’

  ‘No!…No!’

  Every eye was turned on the boy now. He had released himself from Barbara’s side and had taken three steps back from her and, with his eyes still running tears, he gazed up at her and again he said, ‘No!’

  ‘What do you mean, Benjamin, no?’ Barbara addressed him as she would an adult.

  ‘No! You’re not to send Ruthie away.’

  All the faces looking at him underwent a change, and he stared from one to the other until finally, bringing his gaze back to his mother, he said, ‘I like Ruthie.’

  Barbara’s lips opened to say, ‘But…but she has just thrashed you’; instead, she restrained herself and stared back at this son of hers, the son whom she could not love, the son whom not once had she willingly taken in her arms, cuddled or petted. She could caress the other two, oh yes, particularly Jonathan, for although Jonathan was similar in looks to his brother, Harry, his nature was different from Harry’s, and poles away from Benjamin’s. She had never said to herself that she didn’t like Benjamin, that even to look at him hurt her, for he was her son, and she must do her duty by him. And this was foremost in her mind now as she stared down on him. She imagined, as she often did, that she wasn’t looking at the face of a four-year-old boy, but at that of a man, a black-haired man, black hair that was invaded by a foreign streak of fair hair running from the crown of his head down to his left temple; and eyes that were already old with knowledge; and a mouth, a sensual mouth, an experienced, kissing mouth.