But when she went to pass him, he gripped her arm and, his face now white with passion, he ground out between his teeth, ‘You mean to ruin me out of spite, don’t you? You’re a bitch. Do you hear? A bitch! It’s as Mildred said, you’re like a frustrated spinster.’
‘Leave go of my arm!’
When he didn’t release his hold but even tightened it she took her other hand and brought it with a resounding blow across his face. As much from surprise as from the force of the blow he staggered back against the mantelpiece and only stopped himself from falling backwards into the fireplace by spread-eagling his arms. From this position he glared at her and she at him, then in a voice that sounded eerily calm, she said, ‘And don’t forget, brother, you still have the business of Nancy to straighten out.’
On this she left the room, went through the hall and up the stairs and into her own room, where she did not sit down and cry, for the fury in her was still keeping her upright, but she stood rigid staring out of the window. The wind had gone down and it had started to rain. It was a straight, steady rain, blocking out the river and the woods beyond, blocking out all concern for everyone but herself, and what faced her at this moment.
She had told him she would take up a career. What career? She couldn’t even be a governess. No, the most she could hope for was that of a housekeeper. Well, if she took up such a position she would get paid for it, wouldn’t she? And that would be something.
She turned and looked about the room which had been hers alone since she had taken over the management of the house after her mother died. She recalled her delight at having a room to herself, and the honour of being on the main floor and what was more, her bedroom door being right opposite that of her father’s room. And he himself had supervised the moving of special pieces of furniture into it, such as the Sheraton dressing table, and the mahogany tallboy chest and the carpet from the guest room, and when the time of mourning was over he had taken her into Hexham and let her choose some chintz for the curtains and to cover her easy chair. The room was still the same, except that the chintz was faded a little. And now she was going to leave it. The enormity of the change appalled her for a moment, but only for a moment, for she told herself in deep bitterness that she was leaving this house tomorrow and no-one would stop her.
As she pulled out a dressing case from a cupboard to the side of the window the question came at her, ‘What will happen to Aunt Sophie?’ and she answered without a pause, ‘That’s his responsibility.’ But he might put her in a home! This thought did bring her to a halt. No, no, he wouldn’t, because he would have to pay for her and he was in no position to do that. No, Aunt Sophie would remain here, but without the love and care she herself had lavished on her for years.
She stood stock still now in the middle of the room looking back down those years, the years in which she had played the mother, the housekeeper, the mistress of the house. It was only six years in time but it was six lifetimes of youth. She had given her youth, her girlish days, to this house and them all. She’d never had any fun, any joy except that of service; and after all what joy did that bring in the years between fourteen and twenty? Those years were never meant for service, they were meant for growing, for searching, for experiencing, for enjoying that particular period of life that would never come again because this should be a time of wonder, of phantasy, of dreaming, but when it was over, they were over, the wonder, the phantasy and the dreaming. Life never offered you that period of experience again. Life from twenty was reality, looked at with eyes wide open; the dream period when with lids half closed the mind outdid the fables in imagining the wonders that life could hold was over. She had once read a very cynical remark by one of the modern writers who said that the teen years held days of disillusionment, weeks of heartbreak, months of bodily torture, and years of false values. Perhaps he was right, but she wouldn’t mind at this stage looking back from the saneness of twenty into the magic madness of youth if she had been allowed to experience it.
She went now to the bed and, slumping onto it, she buried her head into the pillow and filled her mouth with it in order to prevent herself crying out aloud.
Seven
The rain was coming down heavy and steady as Harry neared the turning that led to The Habitation. Since setting out from Hexham he had been in two minds whether or not to call in. His last visit had been but three days ago; to call so soon might look a little marked as if he were nosing into the doings of the house, yet she had asked him to interfere in the matter of Miss Nancy, hadn’t she? And more than once. But being of the temperament she was, she would doubtless look upon today’s visit as yet another fee to be added to the bill. And he could hardly say he was visiting unprofessionally. Good Lord no, not that. But the rain decided him against breaking his journey to Nolan’s Farm, and so he went straight on past the turning.
But still he could not help wondering how the odd affair was progressing between young Robbie Robson and Miss Nancy. Twice on his travels during the past fortnight he had espied her in the distance; and she had seen him too, but she had made no move to speak to him. The first time she actually turned and ran. She had been on the open hillside then. The second time, she was walking along the main road that led to the Robsons’ cottage, but again on catching sight of him she had climbed the bank and disappeared.
Then, as if his mind had conjured her up, he saw her, he saw them both. They were seated side by side in a trap which Robbie was driving into the main road from a side lane that led back over the hills.
Harry drew Bessie to a standstill as he came abreast of them, and Robbie, too, pulled up his horse. It was Harry who spoke first. ‘Summer seems to have left us,’ he said.
‘It does, doctor.’ Robbie nodded back at him. His face although running with rain had a bright look about it, and if the same expression had been on a woman’s features it could have been termed starry, and he went on, ‘But winter’s a long way off yet. Still, I like winter, long nights by the fire, a good roof over your head, something warm inside an’ the door closed tight an’ a wife by your side. What more could a fella want?’
The smile slid from Harry’s face. He was looking at Nancy, her head was bent. His gaze now lifted to Robbie, and Robbie nodded back at him, saying, ‘Aye, doctor, yes, we did it the day in Newcastle, right and proper with a licence.’
‘No!’
‘Oh, but aye, doctor, aye.’
‘But she’s not of age. They can…’
‘She’s old enough to wed. Anyway, she’s an orphan, doctor, she has neither mother nor father. Now who would she get her consent from, I ask you? Don’t let it worry you, doctor, she’ll be happy, I’ll see to it.’ The expression on his face had changed now, it was serious, stiff. ‘By the way, you can do me a service. Are you callin’ in at The Habitation on your way back?’
‘I didn’t intend to.’ His voice was cold.
‘Well, as I said, doctor, it would do me a service, both of us, if you’d tell her, Miss Martha that is, that Nancy here has gone home, she’s married an’ gone home. An, if she’s got a mind to let her have her things well an’ good, if not, ’tis no matter, I can buy her things. I bought her this dress the day.’
When he touched her cloak Nancy tugged it from his hand and drew it closer about her, at the same time bowing her head deeper onto her chest.
Robbie stared at her for a moment, his face stiff; then glancing in Harry’s direction, he said, ‘It’s soaked we’re all gettin’. I’ll bid you good day, doctor. An’ if you can’t do me that service ’tis no matter.’ And with this he cried, ‘Get up there!’ and his horse trotted off smartly.
Harry continued on his journey towards the farm. As the saying went, possession was nine points of law, and after tonight who would want to break that law as regards those two? Yes, he would call in at The Habitation on his way home.
Martha had been in her room for almost three hours. Twice Roland had knocked on the door and she had told him to go away. She had been up
to the attic and brought down a trunk, a hat box, and small valise. Now, together with her dressing case, all her belongings were arrayed around her, and as she looked down into the half-filled trunk she realised how little she possessed of anything.
Her plans were made. Tomorrow morning she would go by carrier cart into Hexham and there find accommodation. She thought she might call on Mr and Mrs Armstrong; they were kindly folk and she would need to be with kindly folk for a little time until she got her bearings. They had, she knew, a spare room, for it had been arranged that Mildred should stay there overnight if the weather towards the end of the year were to become too inclement for her to travel by the carrier cart.
Once she was settled she’d send a cab to collect her belongings and that would be the end of it. Or the beginning. But of what? The question had the power to create fear of the future, but she challenged it with: whatever the future held, whatever subservient position she was forced to take in order to make a livelihood it could not be more humiliating than would be her existence in this house under a new mistress…a school mistress. That was the worst part of it. The house to be turned into a boarding school, the rooms turned into dormitories, and classrooms. And they’d want all the rooms wouldn’t they? This, her own room, would be considered an unnecessary luxury, and she would be relegated to the attic again—the picture was so vivid that she banged down the lid of the trunk to shut it out.
There came another knock on the door and she turned her head sharply towards it and cried, ‘Go away!’
‘’Tis me, Miss Martha Mary.’
She drew in a long breath, then went to the door and withdrew the bolt, and she looked down on Peg, and Peg looked up at her, and she knew from the sadness expressed on the small girl’s face that there was nothing that had transpired between herself and Roland that Peg wasn’t aware of. ‘What is it, Peg?’
‘’Tis the doctor, he’s called.’ She strained her neck upwards as she whispered, ‘What’ll I say to him?’
‘The doctor?’ She wasn’t expecting him. His last visit was only three days ago. But perhaps he had come with some news concerning Nancy…Well, whatever he had to say about Nancy it didn’t interest her any more. Nancy was Roland’s concern. She was finished, finished with everything, all of them.
‘Where is he?’
‘I…I put him in the study. I…I said you had a splittin’ head and had gone to lie down but I’d tell you. What’ll I say to him?’
Martha, looking over Peg’s head, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Tell him I’ll be down directly.’
‘Aye, yes, I will, I will, Miss Martha Mary.’
Peg watched the bedroom door being closed before she turned and scampered across the landing and down the stairs and straight to the study again, and there without ceremony she opened the door and, still scurrying, went up the room and stood close to Harry, and looking up into his face, she hissed, ‘I’d better tell you, doctor, afore she comes down. There’s been trouble, in fact the divil’s fagarties here the day. She’s leavin’. She’s been up in the attic and got her trunk, an’ she’s leavin’, Miss Martha Mary’s leavin’.’
‘Leaving? What do you mean, leaving?’
She now stood on her tiptoes, strained her neck upwards and whispered, ‘’Tis Master Roland. He came home the day. She sent for him ’cos of Miss Nancy, but he hit her with a bombshell, he told her he was gona be married an’ his lass is coming in two days’ time. She’s a school marm or somethin’ like that. They’re going to turn the house into a school…Did you ever hear owt like it?’
Harry, his eyes narrowed, his face puckered, bent down now towards her and asked softly, ‘You’re sure of this, Peg?’
‘Sure as I’m lookin’ at you, doctor. I was beyond the door an’ I’ve got ears like cuddy’s lugs, an’ I heard every word. There was hell to pay in there. Never heard Miss Martha Mary go on like it afore. An’ I won’t stay if she goes, I won’t. I’m tellin’ you, I won’t. She’s been me mistress all this time and a good ’un at that, not like others. I’ll go along of ’er, I will. I’ll go along of ’er.’
‘Ssh! Someone’s coming. Go on.’ He pushed her.
Peg reached the study door as Martha entered, and Martha looking onto the lowered head guessed immediately that Peg had been talking, and her suspicions were confirmed when she looked at Harry, for never had she seen his face as she was seeing it now.
When he put his hand on her arm and said, ‘Sit down,’ she gulped before answering, ‘I’m…I’m all right.’
‘You’re not all right. You don’t look all right. Sit down.’ He pressed her onto the couch, then seated himself, not close to her, yet not at any great distance.
‘Peg’s just given me the gist of something that I can’t believe,’ he said quietly. ‘She…she says you’re leaving the house.’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m leaving.’ She was staring towards the empty fireplace that was hidden by a hand-worked screen. ‘And Peg will likely have told you why.’
‘She says your brother is going to be married.’
‘Yes, he’s going to be married.’
He paused for a moment before saying. ‘It must have come as a shock to you. After all you were providing for him to go to university.’
‘Yes, yes.’ She nodded slowly, still staring straight ahead.
‘Did…did you never consider that he would some day marry?’
When she turned her head slowly now and looked at him there was a look in her eyes that hurt him, and he glimpsed how deeply she had been humiliated in her own sight.
‘No, doctor, no, I didn’t. But I see now I have been blind, selfishly blind, perhaps because I did not wish it to happen. This was my home; I…I have been in charge of it for such a long time, at least it has seemed a long time to me, that I imagined—’ She drooped her head now as she ended—‘At least I must have hoped that I would always be in charge of it.’
‘You wouldn’t consider staying on and seeing what she’s…? No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I can see that would be too much to ask of you.’
‘Yes, yes it would.’ She raised her eyes to his now as she said, ‘I’m glad that you agree with me in this at least, doctor.’
‘You may not believe it, but I have agreed with you on many things, though my manner unfortunately may not have conveyed this to you. I am, as you will have gathered, of a very quick temper—’ he smiled tentatively now—‘but…yes, yes, I do agree with you wholeheartedly that under the circumstances your position would be quite untenable. But may I ask what you intend to do when you leave?’
‘Find lodgings first. I may go to Mr Armstrong’s, then…then seek a position.’
‘As what?’
She did not answer him immediately but stared back into his eyes while her lower jaw wobbled slightly from side to side. ‘As a housekeeper.’
‘A housekeeper?’ He made a small obeisance with his head.
‘Yes, a housekeeper.’
‘Oh.’
Again they were looking at each other in silence, and he had the most frightening and overwhelming desire to thrust out his hands, grab hers and say, ‘Come and be my housekeeper.’
During the still seconds that followed the madness subsided, but did not entirely fade away for now he hitched himself nearer to her on the couch and was actually calling her by her name.
‘Martha Mary,’ he said, ‘I’m going to call you by your name because everybody else seems to do that, and it will smooth the ground between us, for this is a time I think when you should look upon me as a friend and not as an…an opponent.’
Her eyes seemed to be getting wider, her face seemed to be stretching at all points. She knew that in a moment she would break down. He had called her by her name, and it didn’t sound silly, or matronish, or biblical. He had, in some way, made it sound a pleasant name. He was being kind to her; she had never imagined he could be so kind, at least not to her. She was going to cry.
He had taken her hands; in spite of himself
he had taken hold of her hands. ‘Don’t upset yourself, try not to cry.’ Yet even as he gave her this advice he knew he should be saying, ‘Let go, cry your fill, howl out your anguish,’ for he knew she was actually suffering anguish.
Years ago when he first came into practice one of his patients was a refined gentlewoman dying in utter poverty, and in this moment he recalled the substance of her words, as he had done on many other occasions: ‘Nearly everyone has sympathy for the pain they can see,’ she had said; ‘the children in the mines, the factory workers, those on the land, they all elicit sympathy from thinking people. I have always worked to help the poor, and when I say to them I understand their plight they always answer, “You’ll never know what misery is like, miss.” But there is a misery of the mind, doctor, a misery of the spirit that the poor fortunately know nothing about, because you have to have a certain amount of education before you are introduced to the torture chambers of the mind, wherein the membranes, sensitised by your early environment, sharpen the agony of living.’
The misery of the spirit that the poor know nothing of. It was quite true. The poor were inured to misery from their birth, and they seemed to withstand misfortune with a stoicism because it was untouched by the torture of the mind.
He looked down onto the hands held within his and felt the movement of her thumb unconsciously scratching at his knuckle, which was a sure sign of the tension within her, the tension that would eventually, and not so very far ahead, snap her nerves into a mental illness. And so he shook the hands up and down vigorously, saying, ‘It may all be for the best. One never knows at the time why these things happen, but looking back you see they are for the best. And don’t ever feel you’re alone, do you hear me?’
She nodded slowly but was unable to answer him.
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