Miss Martha Mary Crawford

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘That’s enough, miss, that’s enough of your old buck.’

  Yet even as she chastised Peg, Dilly thought, she’s right; something’s got into her. It can’t be that she’s still laying stock on getting an invitation to the Hall; she wouldn’t be so daft. The only day any of them’ll get an invitation there will be to Sir Rupert’s funeral, and then even that isn’t very likely. Still—she pounded the dough in the big brown earthenware dish standing on the table—it was good to see them happy, especially Martha Mary. And she was glad too himself would be back the night, for that would mean he’d got his journey over for another couple of weeks or so. And she would pray God it would snow so hard that even ten dray horses couldn’t pull that trap to Newcastle. Aye, she would.

  On this last thought she took her fist and thumped it into the centre of the dough, and it was as if she were striking someone full in the face.

  John Crawford always arranged his journeys, even his daily one from Hexham, so that he should arrive before it was completely dark, for the byroads were such that even in summer a horse, especially a tired one that had done the twenty miles from Newcastle, could stumble in a pothole and both it and the driver end up in a ditch, and they’d be fortunate if they found it dry.

  But it was now turned six o’clock and he hadn’t put in an appearance. He was two hours overdue for there had been no daylight since four o’clock, and he had promised faithfully he would arrive in the afternoon; anyway, not later than four o’clock.

  When Martha Mary and Nancy once again came into the kitchen Dilly did not say to them this time, ‘Oh, stop your worritin’. Look, I’ve told you, it’s a dry night, sharp clear an’ frosty, the only snow about is that on top of the hills. The sky’s full of stars.’ Nor did she say, ‘Old Gip knows every inch of that road blindfold.’ But what she did say now was, ‘I’d go out if I was you and catch Nick afore he’s away off home and get him to take a lantern along the road.’

  As Martha made for the door, Nancy said, ‘I’ll come with you,’ but Martha, thrusting her hand back, answered, ‘No. Look’—she turned to Nancy—‘go up on and sit with Aunt Sophie, she’s restless, she’s been talking a lot this last hour or so.’

  ‘She’s not going to…?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so; she’s never even attempted to take her comb out of her hair. She’s just restless. It’ll be all right. Go on.’

  As Nancy turned away and Martha made for the door, Dilly bawled at her as if she were a mile away, ‘Are you mad, goin’ out there with nothing on! Here, put that around you if you don’t want to be cut in two.’ On this, she snatched a large black shawl that was draped over the back of the rocking chair and with an expert flick of her hand she threw it across the table towards Martha. In its flight it spread out into the shape of a great black wing, and as Martha caught it Nancy exclaimed, almost in horror, ‘Oh, that looked awful.’

  ‘What looked awful?’ asked Dilly.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Martha pulled the shawl over her head. ‘Go and see to Aunt Sophie. Go on, now.’ On this she hurried from the kitchen and into the dark, where the frosty air caused her to gasp and cough.

  The light from the kitchen window guided her to the stables. The main stable was empty and the half-door was shut on Belle’s box. Before she reached the harness room she called, ‘Nick! Nick!’ but there was no answer. Nick’s time was from six in the morning till six at night, but it was barely six now, and apparently he had gone. Usually she never blamed him for leaving before his time in the winter for if he couldn’t cross the river by the stepping stones he had a long walk home, but tonight she felt annoyed that he had taken advantage of her leniency.

  She groped her way into the harness room and to the shelf where the lanterns and tallow candles were kept, and there, still groping, she found a box of matches. She struck one and lit a candle, and from that a lantern, and then she hurried out into the yard again, past the house, down the drive that turned at right angles and away from the river until it met the byroad. Here she paused for a moment holding the lantern high, and she looked to the right and then the left.

  There was no sign of any living thing on the road and there was no sound of any kind. The night was still as if the frost had frozen the wind, for not a breeze stirred the branches of the trees or wafted through the stiff grass. The night was like the shawl as it had spread in a black canopy towards her back there in the kitchen. Yet, as Dilly had said, there were stars in the sky. And she looked up at them for a moment before scurrying along the road.

  The byroad leading from the drive went straight for a good half mile before it curved towards the main road, but its entire surface was pitted with potholes large and small. There came to her mind the time when this part of the road had been maintained in good condition, that was when her mother was alive and there were three men in the yard. Something would have to be done about it; you could break your neck in the dark. Yet who walked in the dark? It was the first time she could recall ever being outside the gates in the dark. She should be feeling afraid but she wasn’t, just apprehensive. If she’d had any fear in her, her concern for her father would have obliterated it.

  Before she reached the main road there came to her the sound of a horse’s hoofs, and she made a small laughing sound as she hurried forwards to round the bend. Here, lifting the lantern high, she saw in the distance coming towards her a shape that could be no other than Gip going his own gait. She again hurried forward, but stopped herself from running in case she should fall on her face, and she called out in relief, ‘Papa! Papa!’

  When Gip came into clear view in the light of the lantern she stopped dead on the side of the road, for, looking beyond the horse, she saw no driver sitting upright in the seat of the trap. She gave an audible gasp before running towards the slowly plodding animal. Gripping its bridle, she shouted, ‘Whoa! Whoa there!’, then hoisting herself onto the step of the trap, she looked down in horror at the huddled figure slumped on the floor between the side seats. Just for a moment she paused. Was he drunk? No, no; her father never drank to excess; he hated the thought of developing a paunch.

  ‘Papa! Papa!’ The lantern now resting on the seat, she was kneeling beside him in the cramped space and crying all the while, ‘Papa! Papa!’ After she had managed to pull him up by the shoulders he raised his lids, and she heaved a great sigh as she cried, ‘What is it? What is it, Papa? Are you ill?’

  When he made one small movement with his head she laid him gently back; then, thrusting herself upwards, she yelled, ‘Gee up! Gee up, Gip! Gee up!’ and reaching out, she wildly jerked the reins which were tied to the rail that acted as a back support for the driver.

  When the horse was moving again she pulled off Dilly’s black shawl and tucked it round the crouched figure. She didn’t ask any more questions but kept her hands on her father until Gip turned into the drive, and when he reached the front of the house she called him to a halt, then shouted at the top of her voice, ‘Dilly! Dilly! Nancy! Help. Come and help, Papa’s ill.’

  It seemed that all the doors in the house opened at once. The first to reach them was little Peg Thornycroft. Then came Dilly; then Nancy.

  As they half-dragged, half-carried the crumpled figure up the steps and through the front door, Mildred came to their aid. Across the hall they went, then up the stairs, the five of them, all with their hands on some part of the bent figure.

  When finally they reached his bedroom they laid him on the bed fully dressed, and then all of them without exception stood gasping and looking down at him in silence until Martha, seeming to come out of a trance, flung her arm wide as if scattering them as she cried, ‘Get hot water! A hot drink. Bring some blankets, more blankets. Go and tell Nick to ride into Hexham for Doctor Pippin. Oh—’ she put her hand to her head—‘he’s gone…’

  ‘Let’s get his clothes off first.’ It was Dilly’s steady voice now taking charge. ‘But you must get the doctor. One of yous must go to Nick’s place and tell him to ride; an
’ in a hurry, an’ all.’

  ‘We can’t; it’s across the river, Dilly.’ Nancy was speaking in an awed whisper now from the foot of the bed, while she kept her eyes riveted on the contorted body of her father. ‘We’d have to go up to the toll bridge and right down onto the other side, it would be four or five miles. You can’t use the stepping stones, ’cos the river’s too high. I’ll go. I could be in Hexham by the time I reached Nick’s place.’

  Martha now turned from the bed and looked at Nancy, and quietly she said, ‘Yes, yes, you go, Nancy. But Gip’s past it, he’d never make it. Put Belle in the shafts.’

  ‘I could ride her.’

  ‘No, no; you mustn’t. And you mustn’t go alone. Take Mildred with you. Go on now, go on. Tell Doctor Pippin it’s most serious.’

  Mildred had not moved from where she was standing in the centre of the room and it seemed for a moment she was about to protest, but when Nancy grabbed her by the arm she went silently with her …

  Martha had never seen her father undressed, not even in his small clothes, but as she helped Dilly to pull his linings from him she realised with a shock that she was looking upon a man for the first time, and the sight was not pleasant to her eyes. But her personal thoughts were whipped away from her when her father made a sound that was something between a groan and a scream, a muffled scream. Bending over him now, she asked, ‘What is it, Papa? Where is the pain?’

  With an effort his hand moved slowly to his right side and touched the bare flesh of his stomach, but when Dilly placed her hand on his and pressed it inwards, saying, ‘There?’ he actually did scream, and Dilly, casting a quick glance towards Martha, said, ‘Pendix, that’s what it is, pendix.’

  ‘Pendix?’ Martha mouthed the word but didn’t say it. Appendicitis. Her papa had appendicitis. She remembered now the night when she had dared to argue with him and he had put his hand to his side and groaned, and how later that night she had gone over the scene as she lay in bed and she had accused him in her mind of play-acting to gain her sympathy.

  Peg now came rushing into the room, carrying an iron oven shelf wrapped in a piece of old blanket. Dilly took it from her and placed it at the foot of the bed, but when she attempted to draw the bent legs towards it John Crawford again let out an agonising cry; and so now Martha moved the shelf up the bed and placed it under the white feet.

  After two attempts to raise him and to put on his flannel nightshirt, Dilly said, ‘Leave him be; we’ll just hap him up.’ And that’s what they did. They piled blankets on him without making any further attempt to move him.

  Martha now sat by the bedside, wiping the sweat from his brow, stroking his hair back, and holding his trembling hand. At one point she looked at Dilly who was standing gripping the bedpost, and said sharply, ‘Do get off your feet Dilly; it’s likely to be a long night.’ Then she added, ‘What will doctor do?’

  ‘Open him up I suppose, then cut it out.’

  She shuddered. It was at that moment that her father spoke for the first time. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘Spirit.’

  She cast a quick glance at Dilly, and Dilly, nodding at her, hurried from the room. And now, as if he were drawing on some reserve strength, John Crawford moved his head upwards from the swathe of clothes, brought his other hand forward and, gripping Martha’s wrist, gasped, ‘Martha!’

  ‘Yes, Papa? Are you feeling better…?’

  ‘No, no…listen. If…if anything should happen…you understand?’ He gazed up into her eyes, but she made no movement. Then between gasps he went on, ‘Go…go to Uncle’s house and tell Ang…Mrs Mear, that I’m…’ At this point he closed his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth while the sweat ran in beads down his face. It was some moments before he spoke again; then he said, ‘You understand?’

  She nodded gently at him, although she didn’t quite understand what he meant her to do, except to go and tell Uncle James the terrible news, or at least tell this person, likely the housekeeper, who would break it to him gently.

  ‘Martha.’

  ‘Yes, Papa?’

  ‘Tell no-one else, no-one. Promise?’

  She didn’t know what she was promising but she said, ‘I promise.’

  ‘Not Roland.’ His voice came as a faint whisper now.

  ‘What is that, Papa?’

  ‘Not Roland…never tell Roland.’

  ‘Very well, Papa.’ She thought his mind must be wandering and soothed him, saying, ‘Now…now don’t worry, you are going to be all right. Here’s Dilly. She’s brought you some spirit. That will make you feel better, Papa.’ She turned to where Dilly was standing pouring a measure of whisky from a bottle that was three-quarters full and when they raised his head he gulped the spirit down.

  It was three hours later when Doctor Pippin arrived. The bottle of whisky was almost empty and the room reeked of spirits, but Doctor Pippin wasn’t aware of it, for from him, too, emanated the same smell, even more strongly, and much staler.

  Doctor Pippin was a very good man with the knife, even when his wits were dulled, or sharpened as he would have it, with port, but from the moment he cut into the flesh of this patient he knew he was attempting a hopeless task. After sewing him up, he sat by his side and waited for him to die.

  It was just turned two o’clock in the morning when he raised his tired eyes and looked at ‘young Martha Mary’as he thought of her. Then getting wearily to his feet, he walked around the bed and put his hand on her shoulder and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Martha did not take her eyes from her father’s smooth unlined face or make any sound. She could not believe it; he could not be dead, gone, never to speak again, never to laugh or charm. Who would they now wait for to come home? What were they to do without him? He had been the joy of their lives, all of them. Oh, he had been negligent and careless about money, but what was that compared to him himself. The softness of his blue eyes, the way his mouth curved at the corners when he was happy and, yes, pulled downwards when he was annoyed. But he hadn’t often been annoyed, and when he had been it would have been over such a silly thing as a crease in his shirt, even on the back where it wouldn’t be seen, or a handkerchief that hadn’t been ironed exactly straight so that it would fold into a complete square. Silly things but part of his charm had been this preciseness about his dress.

  What was she herself to do without him? She fell forward across the bed, her arms across his body, her hands gripping the blankets. But when Doctor Pippin said, ‘That’s it, cry my dear, cry,’ she pulled herself slowly upwards, and he saw that her eyes were dry, and he was sorry to see them so. Tears were a release afforded, he had always thought, by an inconsiderate maker of anatomy only to females, and it was always harder for them when they didn’t indulge in this safety valve.

  He asked her now, ‘When is Roland due home? I thought he would have been here.’

  She bowed her head as she whispered, ‘Christmas Eve.’

  The door opened and Dilly entered. She was carrying a tray with two cups on it and she looked across the room at them, then stood still and the cups rattled on the tray until she placed it on a table. Then she moved forward past the two trestles that supported the door on which the operation had been performed, across the blood-spattered carpet and towards the bed. And there she stood looking down on the waxen face. She did not cry, either, but slowly she pulled the sheet over her master, and as in her downright fashion she thought, He’ll ride to Newcastle no more, she was sorry in her heart that this was so.

  Three

  They could not bury him on Christmas Day or Boxing Day, and so he lay in state in the drawing room for seven full days, even though on the fifth day they had to screw him down because by this time he was becoming too unpleasant to gaze upon. And when it was time for him to be taken to the cemetery they were unable to bring the hearse nearer to the house than the main carriage road, so for the journey from the house and up the byroad his coffin lay on a dray cart pulled by four sturdy horses. This, too, was only achieved by men w
orking for two days previously to keep a way clear through the snow drifts.

  Considering the type of weather and the earliness of the hour, the funeral was well attended, most of the businessmen from Hexham joining up with the cortège before it entered the cemetery. There were no ladies attending the funeral and the only men who made the hazardous journey back to the house were Mr Paine the solicitor, and Lawrence Ducat the manager of the bookshop, and of course Roland Crawford.

  A meal had been prepared for them in the dining room. It was not sumptuous, as such an occasion merited, consisting mainly of broth, cold chicken and pickles, and an apple tart. A very meagre affair for a funeral repast.

  Neither Martha nor the girls were present at the meal. They sat dressed in their deep black in the candlelit drawing room, which appeared much lighter now than it had done at any time during the past seven days, for the blinds in the room and all those in the rest of the house had been fully drawn and would remain so for the next week, when they would be pulled halfway up the windows. It would be the end of January before the full light was again let into the house. But now they sat in a half circle before the fire, Martha in the middle, her hands lying idle on her lap, waiting for the entrance of Roland and Mr Paine, who was to read the will. Mr Ducat would not be present as he had no connection with the family, except as a business representative. He would wait in the dining room until the affairs of the house had been settled, then he would accompany Mr Paine back to Hexham, and before darkness set in.

  Martha allowed herself to dwell upon Mr Ducat for a moment for he had been so kind during this awful time, so very kind. Thrice during the past week he had made the journey to the house to see if he could be of any assistance to her and, of course, to Roland. He had even come out on Christmas Day, which was his holiday, and brought the takings from the shop. She had been very grateful to him for that act of kindness for she needed ready money badly. She had been unable to find any at all in the house. She had searched her father’s bureau and even the pockets of his clothes, going to the length of putting her hand into the pockets of the suit he had worn on his last journey from Newcastle. This act had been very painful to her, but all she had found in his purse were two sovereigns, a number of shillings, and a few pence. Yes, she had been very grateful to Mr Ducat for bringing the takings, but she must not think any more of Mr Ducat at the present moment, nor for some time ahead.