Miss Martha Mary Crawford

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

‘What?’ He jerked his head to the side and glanced at her. ‘Oh, Uncle James. Oh, about the same.’

  ‘His condition doesn’t worsen?’

  ‘Not perceptibly. No—’ he nodded his head now towards the fire—‘not perceptibly’.

  ‘How old is Uncle James now, Papa?’

  Again he turned his head towards her, but asked of himself, ‘Ah, how old is he? Now, well, let me think. Ninety-two. Yes, ninety-two. And you know something?’ He pursed his lips and his pointed chin knobbled itself into a semblance of flatness. ‘I’m getting the idea he’s determined to live to a hundred.’

  When she made no reply to this, he faced her, saying somewhat stiffly, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, Papa.’

  ‘Something’s worrying you. Come, I know my little Martha Mary.’ He thrust out his arm and drew her towards him and held her close to his side for a moment.

  This endearing gesture usually had the power to captivate her, but somehow tonight it had lost some of its charm. She looked up into the face close to her own. Whenever she saw him like this she could understand why her mother had married him, she could understand why people liked him, and why the girls loved him, why she herself loved him. This being so, why of late had she been questioning so many things about him, why had she forced herself to lift the façade to glimpse the man she suspected lay behind it? Yet, even so, she would not admit to herself that she had discovered a weak man, a vacillating man…and something more, but what that more was she couldn’t as yet make out.

  ‘What is it? Something’s happened?’

  ‘No, no, nothing’s happened, nothing out of the ordinary, Papa.’

  ‘Your Aunt Sophie?’

  ‘Oh, she’s been very good, very good indeed.’

  He nodded now as he released his hold on her, then said, ‘Well, if you have nothing to tell me, I’ll away to my bath.’

  As he moved towards the door she said quietly, ‘May we talk after dinner, Papa?’

  He did not turn towards her but opened the door while saying, ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘I must talk to you, Papa.’

  He was not more startled by her tone than she was herself. He looked back up the room towards her, then repeated slowly, ‘You must talk to me?’

  She gulped in her throat and she joined her hands together tightly at her waist before she said very quietly, ‘If we are to eat, and I’m to keep Peg and Nick on, and if we are to maintain the trap and the horses, then I must speak with you, Papa.’

  His eyelids shadowed the expression in his eyes. She watched his mouth, his lips tight now, draw down at the corners. She saw a vein on his neck stand out above the high stiffly starched collar; it was just below his ear and it swelled up like a little ball.

  She was trembling inside and knew a moment of fear as to what form his reaction would take, but when he swung round and went out banging the door after him, her relief was so great that she slumped with it and dropped into a chair.

  In some strange way she felt she had won a battle, at least the first attack. But there had been no battle, no argument as yet. But her father’s very attitude had been an admission of fault. He who had demanded and been paid the homage of a king in his household for so long had, in the last moments, been toppled from his throne; and the recognition of the fall was mutual.

  But at supper time it was as if nothing untoward had happened. He was gay; he praised the potato soup, he said the lamb was done to a turn, and who could roast potatoes as good as Dilly, greasily crisp on the outside and like balls of flour on the inside; and then there was the cabbage, beautifully green—he made no reference to the taste of washing soda to which it owed its colour—and the turnips mashed with butter had melted in his mouth. Then the pudding, roasted apples hidden in great balls of crisp pastry, and what pastry.

  It was a great meal. Mildred and Nancy plied him with questions about the journey, about the wonders of Newcastle, about Great-Uncle James, and about Christmas. He wouldn’t be going to Great-Uncle James at Christmas, would he?

  Well, he didn’t know. They might not understand, but it was a case of—how should he put it—policy. When he used this word he looked towards Martha, and his look said, ‘You understand what I mean?’ and she did, because policy connected with Great-Uncle James spelled money. Yet all through the meal she felt sad because his charm was not affecting her.

  After the meal was over he enchanted Peg by helping to carry the dishes into the kitchen. And there he complimented Dilly once more on the meal; then looking down on Peg Thornycroft he shook his head in mock seriousness as he said, ‘You know, Peg, they should put you in a travelling show, you’d make their fortune, for you’re the only child I’ve ever seen who grows downwards.’

  ‘Aw, master, master, what you say, what you say. But I’ll sprout. You’ll see, master, I’ll sprout one of these days.’ Peg was grinning from ear to ear. She was happy; the master was joking with her.

  Now he bent his long length down to her and whispered in her ear, ‘Try standing in your bare feet in the stables, that should do the trick, manure’s marvellous for making things sprout.’

  The laugh that erupted from Peg could have come from someone four times her size, so loud was it, and she clapped her hand over her mouth before crying, ‘Eeh! Master, master, the things you say. But I’ll try anything, anything…Eeh! Master.’

  Now they were all in the drawing room, a room so cluttered with furniture and knick-knacks, which ranged from an ornate sideboard, two whatnots, a davenport and a seven-piece plush suite down to a number of small tables and hand-embroidered footstools, that there was hardly a yard of floor space that wasn’t covered. The walls were adorned with oil paintings depicting various members of the Low-Pearson family, all looking as if they were peering through dark gauze towards the centre of the room where the candelabra were placed at each end of a sofa table to give light to the game of chess in progress.

  John Crawford had played Mildred and lost to her gracefully, following which he had repeated his failure with Nancy. It was as she cried, ‘Papa! Papa! You let me win, you didn’t try, we must play again,’ that Martha said firmly, ‘No more tonight. Papa is tired. In any case it is time for bed. Look at the clock.’ She pointed. ‘Quarter to nine! Come along now.’

  On the last command Nancy rose from her chair; but Mildred remained seated, and now as if she were claiming the support of her father she glanced at him, then looked up at Martha and repeated, ‘Quarter to nine. Really! You would think we were still babies. If we lived in a town we’d…’

  ‘We don’t live in a town, and if you don’t wish to go to bed, then go to your room.’

  ‘I won’t!’ Mildred was now on her feet, and after glaring at Martha she turned to her father, crying, ‘She’s always taking this high hand with us. I’m eighteen years old, and no longer a child or a little girl. I won’t be ordered about so.’

  ‘Now, now, Milly.’ John Crawford put his hand out and patted her shoulder. ‘Of course, you’re not a little girl, and Martha Mary had no intention of implying that you were.’

  ‘Then tell her to leave me alone and stop acting as if she were my mother or—’ she now poked her head towards Martha—‘my grandmother.’

  Martha lowered her head now and walked down the length of the room towards the dark window, and there she stood until she heard the door close and she knew that her father had marshalled the girls into the hall.

  She did not turn but waited for him to speak, and when he did his voice no longer held the jocular tone that he had used to his two younger daughters, it was as if, like Mildred, he were accusing her of being high-handed, for he said, ‘She’s right; she’s no longer a child. You must remember that when dealing with her.’

  The injustice of it! She swung round and almost glared at him where he was standing folding up the chessboard; and again she was amazed at the words coming from her mouth, for she said now, not loudly but quietly and bitterly, ‘I shouldn’t have to speak to her a
s I do, but I have no support, you are away so much.’

  ‘Martha!’ It was only on rare occasions that he did not give her her full name, but now she saw, his temper, like her own, had blazed. ‘You forget yourself. If you weren’t running the house what do you think you’d be doing? Serving in the bookshop or perhaps in some milliner’s in Hexham. I’ve given you a free hand, and more liberty than is allotted to most young women…’

  But such were her feelings that she dared break in on him now, crying, ‘Liberty for what? Yes, Papa, liberty for what? I work like any servant; in fact, I’m an unpaid maid-of-all-work. Even Peg gets her shilling a week. As for myself, I have never had a penny of my own that I can remember, or a new rag to my back for years…’ What was this? What was she saying? What was the matter with her? She must be quiet. She had never intended to say this. Oh, dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord. But she couldn’t stop, and now she was saying what had to be said. ‘A month ago you promised to clear up the grocery bill, also the three outstanding bills due to Mr White for coal; if he doesn’t deliver soon we won’t have enough to last us over Christmas. Altogether I’m ashamed to show my face in Hexham. Do you know I heard an assistant whisper to another last week in Robinson’s? “I wouldn’t rush,” she said, “she’s one of the Crawfords from The Habitation.” I actually heard her say that.’

  ‘You imagine things, girl.’

  ‘I do not imagine things, Papa, I have excellent hearing. Like Peg, I too can put my ear to the ground; but there is no need to stoop so far to hear what is being said about us in the town, and I think it’s only my due that I should know why there’s no money to meet our debts. When Mother was alive there was money, we lived differently. Why did you sell the mill? You have never said. But even so, discounting the loss of the mill, there is the profit from the chandler’s shop and the bookshop. Surely they are such that we can live decently, not from hand to mouth as we do. I’ve had to pinch and scrape so much of late that our meals, except when you’re at home, are little better than those in the Hexham soup kitchens…Oh, Papa. Papa.’ She was running now towards him where he was bending over the table, one hand flat on it, the other pressed against the right-hand side of his stomach.

  ‘Oh, Papa! What is it? I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  He did not speak but made a sound like a groan, and she clung to his arm, saying, ‘Please, please, what is it? Are you in pain?’

  Slowly he straightened himself up. His face looked white and drawn and now his words cut her to the bone as he said, ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t concern you much if I was.’

  ‘You’re being unjust, Papa; I…I was only telling you…I was only speaking, bringing into the open things that should have been discussed a year ago, two years ago.’

  He walked slowly from her and lowered himself into a chair by the fire, and now he brought her literally to her knees at his side when, leaning back, he put his hand to his head, closed his eyes, and said, ‘You’re right, you’re right in everything you say. I haven’t done my duty by you or any of you, but…but what you must remember is that the state of the market and things are not as they were a few years ago. Prices have risen; everything is dearer; there are Roland’s fees to be set aside every quarter, and now his personal demands are double what they used to be for he’s a young man and he must dress and act as other young men, and this requires money, and more if he’s to go to Oxford next year.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You have no need to be sorry, my dear.’ He stretched out his hand and patted her cheek. ‘You have done so much for me over the past years, so much, but at the present moment I’m in a tight financial corner. That is putting it mildly. But given a little time everything will be all right.’

  ‘Have…have you no available money at all, Papa?’

  ‘Hardly any. What I get from the shops I have to pay in wages and, of course, buy new stock, and whereas I have to wait for people to pay their bills, others won’t wait apparently for me to pay mine.’

  ‘Papa!’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’

  ‘Mother’s jewellery. I…I know that you put it into the bank after she died, couldn’t…I mean, I’m sure she would understand if you were to sell one or two pieces. There were the pearls and the diamond brooches and the rings, my grandmother’s rings. I know that I was to have the diamond and sapphire on my twenty-first birthday, also the gold pendant with the ruby in the centre. Well, seeing that they are in a way mine, couldn’t you take them out and sell them? It would help you over this bad patch and Mama would understand. I…I even think that this is what she has been telling me of late to say to you.’

  Again his hand was pressed against his right side, and now he pushed her gently backwards until she fell on her heels and he rose from the chair, saying, ‘No, no. Anyway, they would be of little help, they weren’t of any great value.’

  ‘But…but Mama said the ring, the ring alone was of great value.’

  ‘Yes, sentimental value. Your mother was apt to lay too much stock on sentiment. Of course, there’s nothing wrong in that.’

  She watched him go towards the table and pick up a candelabrum, and it was evident that his hand was shaking because the three candles spluttered and one of them almost gutted itself.

  She rose quickly to her feet and, running before him, opened the door, and as he passed her she said, ‘I’m…I’m sorry, Papa. I’m very sorry I upset you.’

  He stopped now and in the light of the glowing candles he looked at her, and it was a strange look. She couldn’t put a name to it. Was there fear in it? Was there dislike in it? Was it created by pain, for he still had his hand held against his right side? But his voice was soft as he said, ‘We all do things we’re sorry for. Go to bed now; everything will be all right, don’t worry. I shall go in tomorrow and see to as many bills as I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa. Goodnight.’

  He had walked to the end of the passage before he answered softly, ‘Goodnight, Martha Mary.’

  Two

  Martha got her coal. Mr White’s cart rumbled into the yard a week before Christmas, and although the ton of coal barely covered the floor of the coal-house it was a most welcome sight. Then Mr Grey’s van followed the next day with a stock of groceries that warmed Martha’s heart. There were even one or two luxuries among them, things that she would never have dared order, such as a jar of preserved ginger and three one-pound boxes of jellied fruits, one for each of them. Moreover, there were currants and raisins and desiccated coconut, besides walnuts and almonds, and fresh fruit, two big bags of fresh fruit.

  It was going to be a wonderful Christmas; Martha felt it in her bones. She even used that expression to Nancy, and they both laughed and hung on to each other.

  Nancy was happy. Even having failed to gain permission to ride Belle because the roads were so slippery, she still appeared happy. She was happy because she saw that Martha Mary was happy, happier than she’d seen her for months past.

  She loved Martha Mary, better, she told herself, than anyone else in the world…Well, that wasn’t quite true…but no matter. It was Christmas and Martha Mary had lost that worried look, and her face had softened and she looked pretty again. But then Martha Mary wasn’t pretty. She herself was pretty, but Martha Mary was either plain or beautiful…What an odd thing to discover! But it was true.

  She pounded now up the stairs in such a way that it sounded as if she were wearing clogs, then ran across the landing and mounted the almost vertical steps that led to the attics; and there she put her head around the old nursery door, crying, ‘Come on, Mildred! We’re all going down to the bottom pasture. Nick is sawing up a tree; we’re going to carry the logs.’

  ‘Aw no! Look, I’ve only just started to embroider the front panel.’ Mildred held up a length of stiff blue taffeta, and Nancy, scrambling towards her now, bent down and hissed, ‘You’ve got all this week, and all Christmas week, and right into the middle of January to get it ready.’ She did not add, ‘That
’s if you get the opportunity to wear it,’ but said firmly, ‘Martha Mary had to do a lot of talking to persuade Papa to open that last trunk. And what’s more, she spent hours and hours making the skirt and the bodice. All you have to do is a bit of fancy stitching on the panels. Now it’s as little as you can do to come and give a hand. Anyway, it’ll be fun. And there’s a frozen patch in the meadow where we can slide. It’s over twenty feet, a long stretch. Aw, come on.’ She held out her hand and Mildred, with a sigh, but no show of temper, laid the taffeta carefully aside; and she even laughed a quite gay young laugh as, forgetting to be dignified and proper for once, she scampered after Nancy down the attic stairs, across the landing, down the main staircase and into the hall.

  There, still running, she went to an oak cupboard in a recess and pulled out two hooded cloaks, one of which she threw to Nancy. But as they donned them, Mildred exclaimed, with chilling practicality now, ‘Carrying logs is heavy work; she should have waited until Roland came home.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Nancy, hurrying towards the kitchen, called over her shoulder. ‘He won’t arrive till Christmas Eve, and after spending a week at his friend’s grand house in Scarborough I cannot imagine him rushing to carry firewood. In any case I cannot imagine him carrying firewood at all. If I remember our lordly Roland, he’s very disinclined to dirty his hands, he’s much the same as…’ Oh dear, she had almost said ‘You’. She must be careful with her tongue, she mustn’t say anything to spoil Mildred’s good humour because Mildred could create an atmosphere that chilled you more than the frost did. Yes, she must be careful because nothing, nothing, must mar this wonderful Christmas.

  As she dashed through the kitchen she slapped Dilly on the bottom, tickled Peg in the ribs, and amid loud exclamations from both ran into the yard with Mildred close behind her.

  It was the sight of Mildred running like an ordinary human being that caused Peg to look at Dilly open-mouthed and exclaim, ‘Eeh! Did you see that? Wonders ’ll never cease. What’s got into her, I mean Miss Mildred? By! She’ll be speakin’ civil to people next.’