Miss Martha Mary Crawford

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘What’s this?’ He turned his gaze onto Martha where she stood with her fists in the dough leaning slightly forward looking at him. ‘I gave instructions that she was not to work or get her hands wet.’

  But it wasn’t Martha who answered him, for Peg coming swiftly forward and smiling up at him, said brightly, ‘Eeh! doctor, I know, but it’s me. Don’t blame Miss Martha Mary, it’s me. Eeh! I’d have gone clean barmy if I’d had to sit much longer. I’m not used to it, doctor, an’ I’m glad to be back in the kitchen. I like the kitchen an’ I’m fine, I am, I’m real fine.’

  ‘It’s too early days for you to work. You have only to get some dirt in one of those cracks and you’ll have something worse than burns.’

  ‘Oh, I’m careful, doctor, and I don’t do no dirty work, ashes or nothin’, Miss Martha Mary won’t let me.’ She glanced smilingly at Martha.

  Miss Martha Mary wouldn’t let her indeed! Miss Martha Mary had only to say, ‘You’re not to go into the kitchen, Peg,’ and the girl would have remained where she was in a clean atmosphere and having her due, a well-earned rest. If Miss Martha Mary wanted help what were her other two sisters doing?…He remembered the aunt. Yes, he supposed somebody must keep an eye on her. He also supposed that Miss Martha Mary had her work cut out all round, but God above! She annoyed him when she stared at him as she was doing now, not uttering a word, and that superior look on her face. He doubted if her expression would change if she were cleaning a midden.

  He was still looking at her when, still without saying a word, she began turning the dough again. Giving it one last flop, she picked up the heavy brown earthenware dish, carried it to the fender, then pulling a piece of sheeting from the brass rod that ran underneath the mantelpiece she placed it over the dish, dusted her hands one against the other, turned her sleeves down, then spoke. ‘I wonder if you would be kind enough to have a look at Dilly’s leg, doctor?’

  ‘Dilly? Oh yes, Dilly.’

  So that was why she was doing the baking. Well, it would initiate her into what real work was. Up till now he supposed her idea of it had been to give orders. God above! What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he give her credit for what she was doing? Why was he so set against her in his mind? Well, hadn’t he cause? If she had been mistress of a manor or a mansion her attitude towards him couldn’t have been more high-handed, now could it?

  He noted as he followed her up the stairs that although her dress was full pleated at the back, and there was little doubt but that she had the usual four or five petticoats under it, her buttocks did not give a sway to the whole; she was likely as flat there as she was at the front, and she didn’t seem to do anything about it by way of camouflage, as most young women of her age did.

  They traversed the length of the landing, mounted a narrow flight of stairs, much steeper these, then entered the attic room where Dilly was sitting propped up in bed.

  Whatever was wrong with Dilly hadn’t affected her voice for she immediately cried, ‘Now I told you, Miss Martha Mary, I didn’t want the doctor; I’ll be up out of this the morrow.’

  ‘Hello, Dilly. Now, what’s the trouble?’

  ‘’Tis nothin’, doctor; me leg’s swelled a bit.’

  ‘They’re both swollen.’

  Dilly now turned and looked up at Martha and she nodded at her as she said, ‘All right, they’re both swelled, but they’ve both swelled afore, they’ve been swelled for years.’

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  He looked. He looked from the distorted legs, up the bloated body covered with a thick unbleached calico nightdress, to the deeply lined face, and he thought sadly of the number of women he had seen die thus. And Dilly wasn’t far from her end, and the old girl knew it; perhaps a week or two, perhaps a month or two.

  He pulled the feather-filled coverlet up over her; then wagging his finger at her, he said, ‘Miss Martha Mary’—that was a mouthful of a name, and it didn’t suit her, it was too homely, too friendly—‘Miss Martha Mary was quite right to make you stay in bed, but I think it would be better all round’—he now turned his gaze on Martha—‘if she could be brought down to the ground floor, the study again.’ He didn’t smile but his face seemed to relax as he made the last statement. ‘Could you manage that?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Now, no, Miss Martha Mary, this’s been me room since I first entered this house a wee lass and it’ll be me room, I hope, till the end.’

  ‘Now’—he was bending over her—‘we’re having no nonsense from you, Dilly. Your mistress says you are to come downstairs and come downstairs you will, understand?’

  Dilly returned his look for a moment, then jerked her head to the side, saying, ‘Lot of nonsense.’

  ‘Well, it’s all how you look at it. You’ve got to remain in bed for a little while and so you want everybody run off their legs up these two flights of stairs attending to you. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I want nobody runnin’ off their legs attendin’ me, doctor. They never have and…’

  ‘But now they will,’ he ended for her. ‘And I want to hear no more from you. Do as you’re told, do you hear?’ His face now did move into a smile and he doubled his fist and gently tapped her jaw with it, ending, ‘Or else.’

  He left the room, Martha following him, and they didn’t speak until they reached the hall. There, he turned to her and said, ‘I’m afraid she’s in a bad way. She may last a few weeks, a few months at most.’

  Her round eyes were stretching wide, and when he watched the stricken look cover her face he said, with an unusual feeling of sympathy, ‘She’s old, she’s had her day. It’s going to be very hard for you, she’ll require nursing.’ She was shaking her head now, and there was a break in her voice as she replied, ‘That doesn’t matter, but…but Dilly, she’s…she’s been so good to us, all of us, and more, more like a friend to me.’ When the tears rolled down her cheeks, she bowed her head, turned from him, saying, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  He was frankly amazed at her show of emotion. He gazed at her for a full minute before, taking her arm, he turned her about and led her into the drawing room, and when she was seated he said, ‘What is there to be sorry about in showing grief for a friend?’

  He was surprised at himself now for the sudden feeling of sympathy he was experiencing towards her and he looked at her closely and without animosity for the first time. She had a pair of fine eyes. Up till now they had mostly spat fire at him, but at the moment they were soft with her tears. Her mouth was big and that didn’t make for beauty in a woman, but nevertheless it didn’t mar her face. All in all, given an easier life and one free from worry, she could have laid some claim to beauty; she had a splendid head of hair on her.

  When she lifted her eyes to his he swallowed some spittle, then said abruptly, ‘I understand you’ll soon be needing a new manager for your bookshop?’

  Her mouth remained open before she said in some surprise, ‘How…I mean it was only yesterday?’

  ‘Oh, Hexham’s not a very big place, news gets around, I visit a lot of people. It was just something that I overheard. Your present manager is promoting himself to Cunningham’s, isn’t that so? But let me say immediately, to my mind Cunningham’s is no promotion, not for a man who is interested in literature, for they deal mostly in the cheaper, popular type of books.’

  ‘Yes, yes, they do.’ She nodded at him, then blew her nose.

  ‘Have you anyone in mind to replace him?’

  ‘No, not as yet. I was going in today, but…well, Dilly was unable to come downstairs. But I was definitely going in tomorrow to the agency.’

  ‘Well now’—he placed both his hands on his knees and tapped them—‘I may be speaking out of place, I may be interfering with something that is none of my business, but I happen to know a man who is a real literary type; not young, oh no, I’m sorry to say; if you’re looking for someone young and ambitious then this is not your man; but if you’re looking for someone wh
o knows books and loves books, and whose one joy is to be among books, then I think I could help you.’

  ‘You could?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They stared at each other until she dropped her gaze, then said, ‘Well, if this is possible…doctor’—she seemed to hesitate on his name—‘I’d be very grateful. I was in quite a dilemma. I…I had hoped to put my sister Mildred into the shop to learn the business but…but… . ’ Her voice trailed away. She blinked, looked straight ahead for a moment, then said, ‘There were circumstances that prevented me carrying out this intention.’ She was now looking at him again as she continued, ‘If as you say this is an old gentleman and I can be sure he’s of good character, then it would solve two problems for me, the shop could continue to be open and my sister enter into employment.’

  ‘Well then’—he nodded at her now—‘that’s settled, at least my part of it is. Now the man’s name is Mr Samuel Armstrong; he lives about half a mile out from Hexham in the Dean Cottages. You know the little row of cottages on the roadside?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know the place.’

  ‘He has not the means, I’m afraid, of coming out to see you but I’ll be passing there on my way back; shall I tell him you will call and see him?’

  ‘Oh, if you would, doctor, I’d be very grateful.’

  They were both standing now. Her face was relaxed, her whole body was relaxed, she appeared to him like someone new, someone he had just met. He wondered why he had ever seen her in such a harsh unfeminine light. He was actually smiling at her and about to extend his hand for the first time towards her when her name being called at a high pitch from outside the house startled them both and brought them looking towards the drawing room door.

  ‘Martha Mary! Martha Mary!’

  It was Mildred’s voice coming from the hall and Martha ran to the drawing room door, pulled it open and cried, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  Mildred came running across the hall now and almost threw herself into Martha’s arms, sobbing, ‘It’s Nick; he’s…he’s killing the kittens, but…but not nicely. He’s killing the kittens, Martha, it’s awful, awful, against the wall. You said they were to be drowned, but he…’ She put her head down and shook it from side to side as she continued to sob.

  Up till a moment ago Harry had forgotten about the stable lad and his intention of catching him out in his treatment of Fred, but now he was running from the house, across the courtyard towards the outbuildings.

  A quick glance showed him that Nick wasn’t in the barn. But Fred was sitting by Bessie. When the dog saw him it came running towards him, but with its tail between its legs as was usual when in this place. When it gave one sharp bark he said, ‘Ssh! Quiet!’ and in the silence that followed he heard the piteous whimpering of kittens.

  Running again, he went swiftly round the back of the barn and what he saw brought him to a halt for a second. There, strewn at the bottom of a low drystone wall that bordered the yard, were the bashed bodies of four kittens and Nick Bailey was in the act of dashing the brains out of a fifth one, with two more squawking aloud while awaiting their destiny in the basket at his feet.

  So totally engrossed was he in his bestial task that he was oblivious of Harry’s approach until he was gripped by the collar and swung round with such force that his feet left the ground.

  ‘Hie you! Le…let go o’ me.’

  For answer Harry dragged him struggling and punching out with his fists round the side of the barn, and as he threw him through the opening towards where Fred lay now crouched and growling, Martha came running across the yard.

  On sight of her he checked her with a bawl. ‘Stay where you are! Go back into the house.’ He pointed, and when she stopped he turned and walked slowly now towards the trap. There he pulled the long horsewhip from its socket, and still slowly he advanced on Nick Bailey where he had retreated backwards towards the top corner of the barn.

  ‘You don’t do that, doctor; you take no horsewhip to me, or I’ll fetch me da to you, an’ our Fred an’ Willie. They’ll bash you they will. You don’t take no whip to…’

  Harry did not speak until he brought the whip across the cowering boy’s shoulders, and then he cried, ‘I’ll give you one for each kitten, and then four more for the punctures in Fred’s haunches, you cruel young bugger you!’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it this moment!…Doctor!’ When he felt his arm pulled downwards he swung round and almost thrust Martha onto her back; then his arm dropping to his side, he stood panting deeply as he stared down at the crouching figure on the barn floor.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’

  Now his head jerked in her direction and he hissed at her, ‘Yes, but not mad enough.’

  ‘I…I told him to destroy the kittens, there were too many of them.’

  ‘Did you tell him to bash their brains out one at a time against the wall? Kittens are usually drowned. That thing there took pleasure in killing each one slowly, like he took pleasure in stabbing my dog with a nail or something.’

  In a blind fury of temper he stalked down the barn to where a number of implements were stacked in a corner and there, throwing them one after the other aside, he clutched at the last one, crying, ‘Aye yes, this is it.’

  It was a stick with a double pointed nail thrust in the bottom, like the goads used by the drovers when driving the cattle to market. He marched towards her again and thrust the implement in front of her face, saying, ‘That…that is what he used on that animal there’—he pointed backwards towards Fred—‘on every visit I’ve made to this house. The dog’s no fighter. I wish to God he was and had worried him to death.’

  Martha looked from him to where Nick Bailey was standing now rubbing his hand across his back and, her voice trembling, she asked him, ‘Did…did you injure the dog? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘No, never did, miss; never did nowt to the dog. An’ you told me get rid of kittens. Didn’t say how. ’Tis best to knock their brains out; me da knocks their brains out, easier than drownin’.’

  ‘Easier than drowning!’ It was a growl, and it looked as if Harry might spring forward and use the whip again, but what he did was throw the whip onto the seat of the trap; then stooping, he examined Fred’s rump and there, quite plainly visible was a fresh hole with fresh blood running from it.

  His head back, he looked at her and said, ‘Would you deign to stoop and examine this?’

  Slowly Martha moved forward and, bending down, she looked at the wound. Then she picked up the goad from where Harry had thrown it and she examined that too, and there, sure enough, was a thin trace of blood on its spike.

  She stood still and upright, and the scene in the barn disappeared. She felt she was alone on a great plain; it could have been on one of the moors across the river and she was looking upwards and asking God why, why He was placing on her shoulders one misfortune after another: Dilly ill and dying: Peg practically useless, and would be for some time yet: Aunt Sophie at her worst: and now she would have to get rid of the little help she had outside for Nick Bailey must go. She could not keep him on after this. Perhaps she could have overlooked the kittens. Oh, that was terrible, but to stab the dog with the goad each time he had been put into his care. No, he would have to go, there was something wrong with the boy. At the back of her mind she had always known it, but what made it worse at this moment was that it had to be pointed out to her by this doctor, by this man. Oh, how she disliked him. Yet only a short while ago she had been feeling she was glimpsing a different side to him when he had solved one pressing problem for her. But now she wished, oh she wished from the bottom of her heart that she owed her gratitude to anyone but him, for at bottom he was uncouth; he acted with no more restraint than would any common working man. She watched him thrust the dog onto the seat of the trap, then mount and drive out of the barn.

  After turning the horse’s head in the direction of the house he drew it to a momentary halt and called across to where she was standing in the opening of the barn, �
�I’ll leave you to do what you think best with that individual; only remember his pastime may not stop at animals.’

  As he drove past the front of the house he cast a glance to where Mildred stood cradling a cat in her arms at the top of the end set of steps. She was still crying and was rocking the cat like one might a child.

  What a household! He put Bessie into a trot down the drive, then allowed her to take her time along the rutted lane; but once they were on the main road he again trotted her briskly until they reached the rise that overlooked the curve in the river.

  The hillside that sloped down to the river was bare of trees for some distance, the earth being strewn with scree and small boulders, and a number of these had been rolled into the river where the water ran shallow to form stepping stones, and it was in the distance across these stepping stones that he noticed the approach of two figures, a young man and a young woman.

  The incline of the hill was gradual and it wasn’t until he had reached the top and was descending the other side that his attention was again drawn to the couple now almost below him. The young woman had her hand on the young man’s lapels, she was gazing up at him. He saw the young man now take hold of her hands and draw her towards a clump of trees, then gather her into his arms and kiss her. But it was a brief embrace; and now he was walking away back to the stepping stones, and the girl stood watching him. But he did not turn and wave.

  When the young woman turned round he saw that she had her knuckles pressed against her mouth. Her head was not bowed, but lying back on her shoulders, and he recognised her, and she him. She stared upwards for a long moment, then she was running, and before the trap had reached the flat stretch of road at the far side of the hill she had mounted the bank and was waiting for him.