The Mallen Litter

by Catherine Cookson

  But neither the events of the world nor the struggles of the working class towards emancipation touched Brook House and its inmates during these years. Mrs Dan Bensham occupied herself mostly with reading the works of the Brontë sisters, never Dickens or Mrs Gaskell. For poetry, she preferred Byron to Wordsworth, and sometimes she read Donne, but only those poems written in his early years when his love emanated from nature and not from the spirit.

  Dan’s taste in literature went much wider. He read anything and everything in the spare time allowed him. Sometimes the gaslight was still burning in the spare room at one in the morning. These were the times when he would return home late, or when Barbara felt indisposed, and she had been feeling indisposed more frequently of late.

  However, Dan was not always reading when the light was on at one o’clock in the morning. Often he was sitting propped up in bed, his hands behind his head, staring before him, and always when he sat thus he was reviewing the past years.

  There was a short period about three years ago when he had imagined that Barbara was really beginning to love him. At long last he felt he had won through, for during this time she had shown him a tenderness and a consideration that had been lacking in her feelings before. But this period had come to an end; exactly when he could not pinpoint, it had just seemed to trail off. There had been a cooling down until, for the past year, there had been practically nothing between them but polite, everyday chit-chat: the weather, how the business was going, the children…and Ben, particularly Ben.

  Ben was a handful. He was a great source of irritation to Barbara. She told Dan frequently that something must be done about Ben. To this he answered again and again, ‘I’m not sending him away to school. I’ve told you, they are not going to be separated; where one goes they all go.’

  Dan longed to tell her that the root of Ben’s trouble lay with her. She had never taken to the child because he was a daily reminder of the source from where she had sprung.

  As the boy grew older the intruding streak of hair to the side of his head grew wider. It had earned him the name of ‘piebald’ at school, and the nickname had taught him to fight. Hardly a week passed but he came home with the scars of battle on him. He never needed to relate his exploits, this was done for him by his adoring brothers. He was by far the biggest of the three, he was by far the best looking of the three, he was by far the most intelligent of the three, and he was the least happy of the three.

  Dan worried about Ben and endeavoured whenever possible to give him his attention, but this he knew was not enough to fill the void in the boy. He often wondered how his three sons would have fared if it hadn’t been for the kindness and attention of Ruthie.

  Ruthie, he considered, was a godsend, but he knew he stood alone in his opinion of her, for Barbara would have dismissed her long ago had she not been aware that the girl took from her shoulders practically all the responsibility of rearing the boys. Moreover, Dan knew that if Ruthie were to go there would be a void in his own life, for never did he come in late at night, cold, sometimes tight, and nearly always tired, but there she was in the kitchen, her round, plump, comfortable young body giving off a mother feeling, her round cheery face smiling, her round keen eyes, that were full of an alert intelligence, prying into him and anticipating his needs.

  That her wisdom was put over in clichés, not at times unmixed with strong language that would have brought Barbara’s hackles rising had she heard it, appeared all the more true to him. He once said to her, ‘You know, Ruthie, at times you appear like my mother to me,’ and this had caused her to throw her head back and laugh and say, ‘My God, sir, if I was, that would have beaten the immaculate conception, a bloody miracle wouldn’t have been in it, ’cos you must have been all of twelve or more when I was born, add another sixteen onto that afore I could have had you. Lor! I don’t think elephants take that long.’

  Often now he found he wanted to talk seriously to her, confide in her; for, being Ruthie, she knew quite well how the situation upstairs stood. But no, he told himself, this would never do. He must never discuss Barbara, particularly with a servant, it was unthinkable. Yet he wanted to discuss her with someone.

  He had thought of going to Brigie. Two or three years ago he would have, but since his dad died Brigie had changed. He had never imagined that the loss of his father would have affected her so; she had grown old of a sudden, and odd in a way. He understood she scarcely left the Hall or grounds except to go and visit Katie. She and Katie had become very close, likely because of the child, he thought. Brigie was fond of it. She never came into Newcastle now to visit them.

  On the few times they had taken the children to see her, she had welcomed them warmly…Or had she? He had imagined she was pleased to see the children and himself but not Barbara. Yet how could that be, because Barbara had been the kingpin of her life for so long? For her the sun had revolved around Barbara. Yet there was something, something he couldn’t put his finger on. There were a number of things he couldn’t put his finger on. At times he felt he was living outside a locked and barred house, and there was no visible means of entry…

  He had been suffering from toothache for the past week and although he wouldn’t admit it to himself he was afraid to go to the dentist, but so bad did the pain become on this particular Friday that he was forced to leave his office and go and seek relief. The tooth was difficult to extract and when it finally came out he reckoned that the cure was infinitely worse than the disease.

  Getting into a cab he went back to the warehouse, saw his manager and told him he was going home for the rest of the day. His manager, Alec Stenhouse, was a capable, reliable man, and an outspoken, thick-tongued northerner. ‘Best thing, sir, best thing,’ he said, ‘An’ my advice to you is to have a bellyful of whisky and knock yourself out. I’ve only been to them dentists once and I’m tellin’ you I’d rather have a leg off than another out. An’ you stay home a day or two, there’ll be nowt perish here. And if you ask me, you need a change, for you’ve been goin’ around lately more like a wet weekend than a dry Sunday.’

  Before the cab reached home Dan had decided he would take Stenhouse’s advice and go to bed with a bellyful of whisky.

  When he entered the house, however, he was met not with concern and sympathy but with consternation among all those present. Ada Howlett and Betty Rowe were both in the hall, as were Jonathan and Harry, who on the sight of their father both rushed to him, crying, ‘Oh, Papa, Papa, Ben has run away!’ As they clutched his arms he opened his swollen lips and, looking at the two girls, said, ‘What’s this? What’s all this about?’

  ‘Well, sir’—Ada Howlett dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as she leant towards him—‘there’s been ructions on, sir, ructions. The mistress wouldn’t take Ben with her for a walk. He kept on and on, an’ she lost her temper and slapped him and sent him up to the nursery. Then she went out for her walk like she does, sir, an’ then a short while ago Ruthie came runnin’ downstairs asking where Master Ben was. And none of us knew. We…we’ve looked all around the garden, sir, an’ up and down the road…Oh, an’ look at your face, sir. Eeh, they’ve made a mess of you…’

  ‘Ben’s gone. He’s run away, Papa.’

  Dan put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and turned him about towards the stairs as he said to Ada, ‘Where’s Ruth now?’

  ‘She’s out lookin’, sir. Run…run like a hare she did. Betty here says he couldn’t have gone down the drive, sir, for she was in the backyard bath-bricking the window sills and such, and she could see the drive. Couldn’t you, Betty?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Yes, sir.’ Betty bobbed as she spoke. ‘He didn’t go out that way, sir. I was in the yard all the time.’

  ‘It’s my opinion, sir,’ said Ada now with authority, ‘that he went down the garden an’ climbed the railin’s into the field.’

  Dan now looked at Harry and said, ‘Go upstairs with Jonathan and stay there until I come back.’

  ‘Couldn’t we look, Pap
a?’ asked Harry.

  ‘No. no. Stay upstairs so at least we’ll know where you are. Now do what you’re told, go on.’ He pushed them both forward, then put his hand up to his face, and Ada said again, ‘Eeh, they have made a mess of you, sir. You got it out then, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Ada,’ he said flatly, ‘I got it out.’ He turned from her and went across the hall into the kitchen, where the cook was standing at the table making pastry. She looked up as he came towards her, and she said, ‘He’s a lad, sir. Lads always go off on their own. I don’t know what the fuss is all about. He’s likely gone up to the wood. They were all up there last week on the quiet, although the mistress forbade them the place ’cos of tramps ’n things. But lads are lads all the world over. Oh, you’ve had your tooth out, sir?’

  He made no answer, merely nodded his head.

  ‘By! Your face’s in a mess, sir. I wouldn’t bother me head goin’ out after him sir; as I said, lads are lads. Why, mine have gone off for days on end. They’ll come back when they’re hungry, that’s what I say. Their bellies if nothin’ else pull them back home.’

  He went out of the kitchen, across the yard, and through the privet arch that led into the garden.

  The garden was long and narrow. Half its length was covered with lawns and rose beds, and was bordered by a rose trellis; beyond was a section given over to vegetables, and further on was a rough piece of ground where the children played. There was an old summer house standing to one side, and the tiny stream cut across the opposite corner of the land, and the boundary was bordered by a four-foot wooden fence.

  It was as he passed through the trellis arch, thick now with the tangle of roses, that he saw Ruth. She had just climbed the fence and was now pulling Ben over. Ben’s head was down and he was crying.

  He went to raise his hand and shout when he saw Ruth put her arm around the boy’s shoulder and lead him into the summer house and close the door. Swiftly now he hurried down the path between the high fronds of staked beans and stepped onto the rough grass, only to stop when he came within a few feet of the summer-house door. Something Ruth was saying brought him to a standstill: ‘You never saw nobody kissin’ anybody, d’you hear? You were dreamin’.’

  Ben’s voice, high and angry, answered, ‘I did, I did. I tell you I did. And she never kisses me, never, not once. She kisses Jonathan, and sometimes Harry, but never me, never, never. She never kisses me…’

  The voice was cut off as if it had been smothered; and it had been smothered.

  Ruth had pulled the child to her. Burying his face between her breasts, she pressed his head into her as she said, ‘Listen, Ben. Now listen to me.’ She paused a moment, bit tightly down on her lip, looked round at the small space of the summer house which was littered with the children’s toys, then pushing him from her none too gently, she gripped him by the shoulders and squatted down on her hunkers till her face was level with his, and she said to him, slowly and clearly, ‘Now listen to me, you hear me, Ben Bensham. Now pin your ears back an’ listen…you’ve got to forget what you thought you saw…’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Listen, I tell you, just listen. Now I’m gonna ask you a question. Do you want to lose your ma, your mother? Do you? Do you want to lose her? Do you want her to go away an’ for you to never see her again? Now answer me, do you?’

  The boy stared back at her, his eyes black and deep with a pain he could not understand, and Ruth went on, ‘Well, I’m tellin’ you, you open your mouth and go round shoutin’ about what you think you saw in the wood, an’ that’ll be the finish, you won’t see your mother ever again. She’ll go; she’ll leave this house an’ she’ll go. And what’s more, and now I’m telling you this straight an’ from the horse’s mouth, an’ no eehing or awing about it, if she goes I go an’ all. Now, now just think on that. I’ll leave the lot of you. An’ where would you be then? You’d have somebody like Ada or Betty, an’ God help you. So I’m tellin’ you, you breathe one word of what you said to me, open your big mouth an’ repeat just one word to either Jonathan or Harry or’—she paused—‘anybody else in the whole wide world an’ boy, you’ll be on your own, a shipwrecked sailor’ll not be in it. You know the story of Sinbad the Sailor? Well, I’m tellin’ you, he’ll be having it cushy compared to you and the rest of them ’cos I’ll be gone like the devil out of hell…Well, there it is, it’s up to you.’

  ‘But…but Ruthie, I…I saw Mama, I tell you I saw Mama with a strange gentleman, and she kept calling him Michael, Mich…’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Ruthie swung round from him and made for the door. ‘You want trouble? Well, Benjamin Bensham, let me tell you, lad, you’re goin’ to get it. Just say that once more to anybody else and you’ll bring the world about your shoulders.’

  She swung round again and almost dived at him, and pulling him into her arms she hugged him to her, saying, ‘There now, there now, don’t cry. ’Tisn’t like you, ’tisn’t like you to cry. You’re the big fellow, Ben, the big fellow, you’re twice the size of the other two, an’ you could buy them at one end of the street and sell them at t’other. You’re clever, Ben, you’ve got it up top, so try to understand. Something’s happened. All right, all right, I’ll give you that, something happened an’ you saw it. I believe you, but if you speak one word about it you’ll create murder, you will that. I know it in me bones, you’ll create murder.’

  She held him close in silence for a time; then looking into his face again she said, ‘Promise me on your honour—cross your heart. Go on, cross your heart an’ swear you won’t say a word…Aw, that’s it, that’s it. Now we know where we stand. This is just atween you and me, eh? Just atween you and me, the two of us, a sort of secret, eh? ’Cos…’cos if we let it out your da…father would get hurt, an’ badly, and of course your mother…Eeh! She’d get into big trouble.’ Her voice trailed off as she thought, An’ the divil’s cure to her for she deserves her nose rubbed in the clarts, the bitch, the upstart bitch that she is. An’ if it wasn’t for him I’d let the lad yell his head off. I would that. But it would finish him if he knew, the fool of a man that he is. Why do the likes of her get the likes of him? They have it all ways, women like her.

  Again she made for the door but absent-mindedly now, and when she reached it she turned to the boy and said, ‘Give me a few minutes’ start, then come up to the house. Just walk in as if you’d been out for a dander, an’ I’ll go for you like I usually do, you know; it’ll make it all natural like. When I ask you where you’ve been just say you were rabbitin’. An’ afore you come up swill your face in the rain bucket round the corner; come up fresh like an’ jaunty, eh?’

  He nodded slowly at her, sniffed, took the remaining tears from the end of his nose with the side of his finger, then watched her go.

  She was no sooner outside and had closed the door behind her when she stopped, her mouth agape. A man was disappearing between the bean canes, and it wasn’t old Rogers for it wasn’t his day for the garden. And anyway she couldn’t mistake that figure, although what he was doing here at half past three in the afternoon God knew. And God help her if he had been anywhere near the summer house.

  This was a nice kettle of fish. The mistress was a trollop, that’s what she was, a trollop. For some time now she had wondered about her walks, wondered what drove her out almost every Friday, rain, hail or snow. The weather had to be very bad before she didn’t take her trot on a Friday afternoon. How long had she been taking her Friday afternoon walks? Dear God! It must have been years. But then she walked at other times an’ all. Aye, but only if it was fine. And so nobody had twigged. Well, who would? She wasn’t painted like a whore.

  There were whores all over Newcastle, nobody but a blind and deaf saint could miss them. But they were working-class whores, not ladies. By God! The next time she went for her she’d have to put a tight rein on herself not to turn on her and give her a mouthful.

  When she went into the kitchen the cook said, ‘The master’s back.’


  ‘Is he? What’s brought him at this time of day?’

  ‘He’s had a tooth out, he’s got a face like a suet puddin’. He’s gone out lookin’ for the boy.’

  ‘Oh, that boy! We’re wastin’ our time runnin’ about like loonies; he’ll come back when he’s hungry.’

  ‘The very words I said to the master, the very words; his empty belly’ll bring him back.’

  ‘Is…is the mistress in?’

  ‘No, she’s not back from her walk yet. An’ it’s to be hoped that Master Ben’s in afore she is, or he’s likely to get another skelpin’. And serve him well right; he’s a young rip is that ’un.’

  When she reached the hall she saw Ada Howlett standing by the front door, and Ada turned to her and said, ‘The master’s home. He’s got toothache. He went scootin’ down the garden looking for that imp, then he came in like the divil in a gale of wind an’ went as quickly out again. But here he’s comin’ back again. Likely his face is givin’ him gyp.’ She turned from the door and went towards the dining room, saying, ‘I don’t suppose he’ll be able to eat, but since he’s home she’ll want the dinner put forward.’

  Standing at the foot of the stairs, Ruth had planned in her mind what she was going to say to him. ‘I shouldn’t worry, sir,’ she was going to say; ‘he’ll be back, he likes to cause a sensation does Master Ben.’ But she said nothing. She looked at his face as he came through the door. True, one cheek was swollen and his mouth was out of shape, but having a tooth out could never have brought that look into his eyes. He looked wild…mad, out of his mind. Her breath caught in her throat as she thought, God Almighty! He must have heard every word. If he’d been outside the summer house he could have heard it all ’cos me voice is like a corncrake.