Miss Martha Mary Crawford

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘Yes, you may be right, but…but nevertheless I think we should go and see him.’

  As she sat looking at him she recalled her father saying, ‘Don’t let Roland know, ever,’ and over the past week she had pondered this and wondered what Roland shouldn’t know that she herself would understand. And so she said now, ‘In the ordinary way you would return to your friend’s the day after tomorrow and then go on to school, and…and I don’t see why you should alter either arrangement. Anyway, with regard to the school, your fees have been paid up to the end of the term, so it would be foolish to leave before then.’

  She watched him take a deep breath, his shoulders rise, then fall again, and his voice was tentative as he asked, ‘You think so? You really think I should go back to Arnold’s?’

  ‘Yes; yes, I do. Anyway, wills and suchlike take time, I mean straightening the business out. And they won’t sell the chandler’s right away, so a few more weeks won’t make very much difference no matter where you are.’

  ‘You really think I should go? It…it won’t look bad?’ His reaction was that of a young boy being released from some obnoxious chore, and she smiled faintly at him as she said, ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘And you’ll go and see him…Great-Uncle?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll go.’

  He held out his hand to her, saying, ‘Oh, thanks, thanks, Martha,’ and as she took it she thought, He’s a child; they’re all still children.

  ‘When will you go?’ He was on his feet now straightening his cravat. He had the look of someone in a hurry to begin a journey. He’s not sorrowing for Father in the slightest degree, she thought. But perhaps there was an excuse for him, he had been away to school since he was nine years old and only met his father when home for the holidays, which periods got shorter as he grew older for it had become a habit for him to spend both the beginning and the end of his holidays with his friend Arnold. It was strange that never once had he invited his friend back to the house. All they knew about this Arnold was that his father was a prosperous businessman in Scarborough.

  She answered him now, saying, ‘As soon as the roads clear sufficiently to get the trap to the station.’

  ‘And you’ll write me?’

  ‘Yes, yes, as soon as I have any news I’ll write to you.’

  He said now generously, ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you, Martha. It’s odd, but you’re not like a sister at all, you’re more like a mother…Yes, you are.’

  He stressed the last words as if he were defending his statement against her denial, but she did not smile at his intended compliment.

  In four days’ time she’d be twenty. She was young and not unlovely; no, she was not unlovely; but here she was being taken for a mother, and was likely to go on being a mother in name only unless…She checked her thoughts, but not quite. When she returned from Newcastle, whatever news she had, she’d stay a while in Hexham and pay a visit to the bookshop…and Mr Ducat.

  Four

  She sat with the reins in her hands ready to go. Nancy held Gip’s head and murmured to the animal who was fresh and eager to be off. Mildred stood by the step of the trap, her face tight as she looked up at Martha and said, ‘You could have let me come with you.’

  ‘I told you, someone must be with Aunt Sophie, Nancy couldn’t manage alone.’

  ‘Ooh!’ Mildred tossed her head and her glance now took in Dilly and Peg who were standing to the side of her, and it said, ‘What about these two?’

  Dilly now stepped forward and tucked the rug more firmly around Martha’s legs, then patted her knee as she said, ‘Take care now, lass, it’s a long journey. God go with you.’

  ‘Don’t worry—’ Martha smiled down into the wrinkled face—‘the roads are nearly all clear now.’

  ‘’Tisn’t the roads I’m thinkin’ of, lass, it’s that train. To my mind it’s like ridin’ a roarin’ lion. And all that way into Newcastle an’ all.’ She shook her head.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind meself goin’ on a train.’ Bright-eyed Peg voiced her secret desire only to be stamped on by Dilly, saying, ‘It’ll be under one you’ll end up, me girl. Come to a bad end you will with your wants. Your wants ’ud fill a paddock an’ come up weeds.’

  Whilst Dilly was propounding her usual prophecy, Peg began to nod her head and, keeping perfect time with Dilly, mouthed the words ‘an’ come up weeds’; then she let out a high giggle but checked it almost immediately with her hand tight across her mouth. Eeh! it was no time to laugh, with her master hardly cold an’ the blinds still drawn. But as the trap moved away she added her voice to the rest, shouting, ‘Goodbye, Miss Martha Mary. Goodbye, Miss Martha Mary’ as if Miss Martha Mary was going on a holiday, or at least a jaunt.

  It was no unusual thing for Martha to drive the horse and trap into Hexham. She had never gone there so early in the morning, but she knew that if she hoped to return home today an early start was imperative. If the road had been icy or even snow-bound she wouldn’t have been afraid of the drive into the town, but what she was afraid of, as much as Dilly appeared to be, was the journey from there into Newcastle. She had never been in a train before; the one and only time she had visited her great-uncle they had gone by trap.

  Owing to Gip’s freshness she made the journey to Hexham in little over an hour and a quarter, and having left him and the trap in the care of John Gilbert, who managed the chandler’s, she walked briskly and with false confidence from the shop to the station. There, in the booking office, she bent down and said quietly to the man behind the glass window, ‘I would like a ticket to Newcastle, please.’

  ‘Return?’

  ‘Pardon.’

  ‘Return? Do you want a return, miss?’

  She was nonplussed for a moment until a voice from behind her said, ‘He’s asking, are you coming back today?’ She jerked her head towards her shoulder and looked into two round dark brown eyes.

  ‘He’s asking you if you want a return ticket, do you intend to come back today? Look—’ the man glanced at his watch, then towards the door that led onto the platform, saying softly but nevertheless firmly, ‘the train is almost due, do please make up your mind.’

  Her indignation brought her shoulders back and her head up, at the same time she took in the number of people who were standing behind the man. Now she was bending towards the window again, saying, ‘Yes, a return please.’

  ‘First, second…or third class?’

  Again she hesitated, until the man behind her sighed, and then she said sharply, ‘Second, please.’

  ‘Well, now we know.’

  She pushed a sovereign through the arched hole in the glass, and the man pushed a ticket and her change back at her, and so great was her agitation that a shilling rolled off the narrow counter onto the dirty floor.

  As she stepped to the side to retrieve the coin the man took her place and said, ‘Return first class Newcastle, please,’ and almost at the same time bent sideways and picked up the shilling from near his feet. When he handed it to her she kept her head bent, her bonnet shading her face, and she said stiffly, ‘Thank you,’ then turned away, knowing that her colour was as red as a cock’s comb, and that the eyes of the other passengers were on her.

  As she entered the platform the train came puffing into the station, making a great noise, and she had to force herself towards it. As she took her seat in the empty carriage she saw the rude man having a hasty conversation with another man on the platform, then make a sudden dash for a compartment further along the train.

  She sat back and, opening her bead handbag, took out a folded handkerchief and wiped her mouth. That man had embarrassed her. He was a coarse individual. Yet he didn’t appear a common working man. He was dressed almost as well as her father had dressed, but his square, blunt features seemed to suggest lack of breeding, as his voice, too, certainly did. It hadn’t the Northumbrian burr, but it had a definite northern accent and it wasn’t a refined one.

  She relaxed against the wooden par
tition. She was thankful she had the compartment to herself, it would give her time to get used to the train, and time to think. And she needed time to think, for if no help was forthcoming from Uncle James then their plight would be sorry indeed, for she had been both amazed and frightened by the number of bills that had poured in these past few days. Some were outstanding for two years or more. Their accumulated amount seemed so colossal that she couldn’t see any way of clearing them except by selling both the chandler’s and the house.

  She had never fully realised until these past two weeks just how much the house meant to her; even her thoughts of marriage had never carried her away from the house, for she pictured herself and her husband as living there whilst she still looked after her Aunt Sophie, and, of course, the girls until they should marry.

  She had never before taken into account that Roland might marry and bring his wife to live in the house; if she had she would have dismissed it, by telling herself that Roland was an ambitious young man with three years before him at the university. Moreover, Roland definitely favoured town life; during the holidays he could never wait to get back to Scarborough. Nor did she take this into account now, for if the outcome of today’s visit wasn’t satisfactory then there was every possibility of them having to find a smaller habitation, a meaner habitation that could be run without servants.

  Yet as the journey proceeded her mind was lifted temporarily from herself and her troubles for she became interested in the passing countryside. It was bleak and snow-sprinkled in many parts but there were stretches that were beautiful.

  And the train journey itself, well, it wasn’t so frightening after all, in fact the sensation, she could say, was pleasing, even exciting. There were times when the carriage rocked somewhat alarmingly and others when the passing scene was completely obliterated by the smoke from the engine, but altogether it was not in the least as unpleasant as she had expected.

  When eventually she alighted in Newcastle she was sorry the journey was over, yet reminded herself that she’d be returning the same way.

  Outside the station she stood for a moment gazing about her, and now the scene was really bewildering. Such crowds of people, and of all types, finely dressed ladies descending from carriages, some enveloped in furs and walking into the station as if travelling was an everyday occurrence, while others, and these very much in the majority, seemed most ordinary people, some in dire straits if their clothing was anything to go by.

  As she stood gazing about her from under the portico a shabby-looking cab drew up towards the kerb, and the cabman, bending sidewards, shouted at her, ‘Wanting a cab, miss?’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes, thank you.’ She stepped towards him, then said, ‘Would…would you take me to this address, please?’ She handed a slip of paper up to him.

  The man held it at arm’s length, then said, ‘Me eyes’re not so good, miss, read it out, will ya?’

  When she took it back from his hand she realised that the poor man was unable to read. ‘It’s the house of Mr James Low-Pearson, Seven Court Terrace,’ she said kindly.

  ‘Court Terrace? Aye. Aye.’ He now made an elongated O with his mouth, then looking down at her from under his brows he said, ‘That’s up Portland Road, quite a way. Now, miss, do you want to go the long way round, or the short way? The long way goes up Grainger Street an’ you can see all the bonny shops, then on to Northumberland Street where I’ll cut off into Sandybank Road, then you’re almost there. But the shorter way, well ’tisn’t so pleasant. Interesting like, but not so pleasant, an’ young ladies generally like it pleasant an’ to see the shops. There’s some fine shops, an’ some fine buildings. Now what’s it …?’

  She cut him off sharply, saying, ‘I would prefer the shorter route, thank you.’

  He stared down at her for a moment before exclaiming, ‘Oh aye…all right then, just as you say. Well, hoy yersel in.’

  He made no attempt to get down and help her into the cab and once she was seated inside, her nose wrinkled at the stale smell pervading the worn leather, and she said to herself with some indignation, ‘Hoy yersel in!’

  The road leading from the station had been comparatively smooth but now she was being tossed from side to side as the cab joggled its way over cobbles and through narrow thoroughfares. At one point the cab stopped and while her driver had a loud altercation with someone in front of him she put her face close to the window and was appalled at what she saw. Filthy children, some in their bare feet; women, their bodies bulbous with old clothes to keep out the cold, but all with raucous voices yelling and shouting against the hold-up in the street. They looked like creatures from another planet. There were many poor people in Hexham, and some of very low estate who worked in the factories, but never had she seen people like these, particularly the children. Even the smallest of them, who seemingly could hardly toddle, were raucous.

  When at last the cab moved on there passed by her window, its wheels half on the mud pavement, a flat cart piled high with decrepit household goods. The horse pulling the cart was a sorry sight; its bones were sticking through its skin and its head was drooped in misery. Such an animal, she was sure, would never have been put in shafts in Hexham. There were lots of things to be righted in their own town. Her father had always said this, but he had also added that compared to other places it was paradise, and this was being proved to her now.

  As the journey continued she felt that the cab driver was purposely taking her through the meanest streets because she had refused to go by the longer route, which, of course, meant that she would have had to pay a higher fare.

  It was a full half-hour later, after the cab had emerged into broader and cleaner streets, that it drew to a stop and the driver, tapping the window with the butt end of his whip, called, ‘We’re here. This’s it!’

  She opened the door and got out and stood for a moment gazing up at the house across the pavement; then swiftly turning to the cab man, and about to ask what her fare was, he forestalled her, saying abruptly, ‘Half a dollar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Half-a-crown, two and six.’

  Half-a-crown! It was outrageous. The shortest way indeed! He must have brought her the longest way round on purpose. When she handed him the fare he looked at it on his outstretched palm. She hadn’t increased it by even one penny. He did not ask, ‘Shall I wait?’ but after casting a hard glance down at her he cried, ‘Gee-up there!’ and she was left on the pavement alone, once again staring up at the house. It was a very nice house; being No. 7 it was set near the beginning of a long curved line of tall houses. It had six stone steps bordered by an iron railing leading up to the front door, above which was a half-moon fanlight. Although she could recall visiting her great uncle on that one occasion, the exterior of the house held no memory for her. Slowly she mounted the step and pulled on the brass knob to the side of the door. Her heart was beating rapidly; the mission before her was going to be somewhat embarrassing, besides sad. She was here not only to tell her great uncle that his constant visitor, and sympathetic supporter over the years, had gone before him, but that she desperately required his financial aid. When the door was opened by a smartly dressed maid with streamers from her cap reaching to her waist and her uniform, not grey or brown as was usual for morning, but blue, a light delicate shade of blue that would dirty easily, she was slightly nonplussed.

  ‘Yes?’

  Martha gave a little cough and said, ‘Mr Low-Pearson’s residence?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Low-Pearson’s residence?’ Her voice had an edge to it. For all her smart attire the girl seemed stupid.

  ‘There’s no Mr Low-Pearson ’ere. You’ve got the wrong house…Oh—’ She now pointed at Martha and a smile spread over her face as she exclaimed, ‘Oh, he used to live here, but that was afore my time. He’s been dead and gone these four years.’

  Martha gaped at the girl, she gaped at her for perhaps thirty seconds before she said falteringly, ‘You must be making a…’ She stop
ped, then added, ‘The housekeeper, a Mrs Angela Mear?’

  ‘Huh!’ The girl’s face now stretched wide in evident glee. ‘Housekeeper?’ She leant forward, ‘Eeh! You’d better not let her hear you call her that. Are you after a situation? It’s only a cook she wants, an’ you don’t sound like a…’

  ‘Who is it? Who is it, Alice?’

  The girl turned aside and Martha saw the speaker coming towards her. She was a girl, no, a woman, a young woman beautifully dressed in a morning gown, the colour was violet, the material a velvet cord. She had a round pert face with an abundant mass of fair hair high on her head. Her eyes were deep blue and her lips full and her skin delicately fair.

  Somewhere in Martha’s bemused mind the word pretty didn’t encompass all this young lady’s assets.

  ‘This person…the young lady’s a bit mixed up. She was askin’ for Mr Low-Pearson, and then she thought you…’ She stopped as her mistress thrust her aside; and now it was the woman who was standing looking straight into Martha’s eyes. She had this advantage because of the four-inch step that was dividing them. ‘What’s your name?’

  Martha’s chin went up slightly as she replied, ‘I am Martha Crawford. I came to see my great uncle, Mr James Low-Pearson.’

  ‘You…you come from Hexham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your…your father?’

  ‘My father died over two weeks ago.’

  Martha watched the young woman put her hand out and grip the stanchion of the door, then she turned away and, her voice scarcely audible, she said, ‘Come in.’

  As Martha followed her across the narrow hall and into a long and beautifully furnished room she saw that the young woman was much smaller than herself, and somewhat plump.

  In the drawing room Mrs Mear did not ask Martha to be seated but, facing her again, her hands now gripped at her waist, she repeated, ‘He’s dead? John’s dead, you say?’