Authors: Yelena Kopylova
“London town? The words seemed to force their way out through the top of her bonnet
and the
woollen scarf that had been keeping it in place.
Kate sighed now as she looked at this girl who had been like a daughter to her, in a way more than
Roddy had been a son, for she had talked more to her and been more open with her. She
said gently,
“Take off your things and sit down.”
As if in a daze Mary Ellen did that; then slowly pulling a chair to the opposite side of the table, she
looked across at Kate and asked quietly, “He’s been then?”
“Aye, but not the day, or yesterday. He came on Tuesday and early on, for they left at six in the
morning. They came by Mains Diligence. It sets off from the Rose and Crown in the Bigg Market at that
hour. They got off at Hexham, and there they hired a trap from one of the carriers in
Hexham, but not
afore they had breakfast at the inn, she informed me.”
“She?”
“Aye. His new godparents or such, or whatever you might call them, came with him.”
There was a
touch of bitterness in her voice now.
“Apparently the man, Cotlle his name is, wanted to do some sketches hereabouts and it
was a good
opportunity, he said. And she an’ all was at it. She drew the outside of the cottage.”
“Is she old?”
Kate now attacked a bulbous conn as she said, “No, not old as age goes.”
“How old?”
“Oh’—Kate seemed to consider ‘thirty, perhaps. Aye thirty. But he’s a lot older, old
enough to be her
father.”
Mary Ellen was silent for a moment. Thirty. Well, thirty was old.
“What was she like?” she asked.
“Oh.” With her knife whose end was sharpened to a point Kate attacked the white pulp of the bulb as if
she had a grudge against it as she said, “Oh, I don’t take that much notice of folk; I don’t wear me
eyesight out looking at things that don’t matter.”
But then she almost started in the chair as Mary Ellen’s hand, thrusting out, gripped her wrist and she
cried, “It does matter. You know it does matter to me, Kate.”
“My God!” Kate looked at the knife that had dropped from her fingers onto the table.
“You could have cut me finger ends off. Do you know what? That knife’s like a lance.
And then
Farmer Yates would come bellowin’ at me as loud as his bull because I couldn’t make the cuckoo-pint
powder to open up his beast’s gut. I’ve got used to it making blisters on me fingers with its strength, but
I want me fingers.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But... but you know what I mean.”
Kate now scraped her chair back on the stone floor; then having pulled herself upwards, she shambled
to the row of shelves that covered one third of the side wall, and, taking up a small jar, she returned to
the table and began to spoon some white powder out of a mortar into it. And when the
mortar was
empty she replaced the pestle in it out of habit and pushed it to one side before placing the jar on the
table.
She put her hand on Mary Ellen’s shoulder, saying, “You’ve got to accept things as they are, lass.”
Mary Ellen slowly lifted her head that had beeiTresting on her hand and, looking up at this old woman
whom she could say she truly loved, she whimpered, “I can’t, Kate. I can’t. I’ve tried, but I can’t. Tell
me straight, this woman, what is she like?”
“All right, I’ll tell you straight. She’s a smart piece, as is her man. Not like artists that I had in me mind.
I thought they mostly ran round in their bare pelts. She’s good lookin’, after a fashion, but pert. Well
that isn’t the right word. Bossy. Aye, that’s more like it.
It’s she who rules the roost. So there you have it, but don’t get wrong ideas into your head: she’s a
married woman, and of the class, which is another thing that surprises me, her being the artist type. I
always thought artists were lucky to have a crust. Anyway, not these two, nor their
friends in London
town where they’re taking him, seemingly to extend his knowledge and to show him
round the galleries,
whatever that might mean. But there’s one thing I’ll tell you, an’ I suppose I say it as shouldn’t, but no
matter how he’s dressed his class’ll stand out. Here, he always appeared to be a cut above the rest, for
most are but rough working men, but in their presence he’ll be the brisket end compared to the top cut, if
you know what I mean. “
She knew what Kate meant all right, but she still wasn’t comforted.
“Did he leave any message for me?” she asked quietly.
“Aye, he did. He said to tell you he wouldn’t be seeing you until come the New Year, but he’d write
you a letter.”
“He said he’d write me a letter?” Her eyes widened.
“Aye, that’s what he said. And only last week he was tellin’ me that his letter from
Newcastle to here
had cost seven pence He wasn’t grumbling about it, it was me asking if he had money to throw away.
So God above knows what his letter from London will cost a shilling or more I wouldn’t be surprised.
Money thrown away. But then not in this case, if he sends you a letter. That’ll be
something, won’t it?”
“Aye. Aye.”
“I’ve just brewed some mint tea. Would you like a cup?”
“Yes, please, Kate.” Her voice was quiet. Her whole body was quiet, sunk into
momentary apathy, for
there seemed nothing to look forward to, nothing to live for. She had been buoyed up
with hope all the
week: she had felt that if they could only be together once or twice more like they had been last
Saturday, something would come of it, he would kiss her.
There had been times at night when her imagination had been so vivid she had felt his
mouth on hers, and
she had gone to sleep wrapped in happiness. Even this morning she had stilled her tongue when her
mistress’s voice had dinned continually in he rears extolling the virtues other grandson and denouncing
girls who were thankless and wayward. Even when Mrs. Davison had said, “You needn’t
think you’ll
get anything from me towards your wedding chest,” she had stopped herself from
retorting that it wasn’t
the wedding chest that mattered, it was the man. And she cared for one man and one man only, and
admitted guiltily to herself that she had long since ceased to care for her father.
The thought sent her hands to the basket, and she took out a slab of cheese and another of butter; then
taking up the knife that Kate had been using, she cut them both in half. And Kate, seeing her doing this,
said, “Oh, now don’t do that; your da needs them to get him through the week.”
“Not more than you he doesn’t; he’s got money in his tin that he can buy food with.”
“So have I. So have I. It’s in the wall there.” She pointed to the chimney.
“I told him to take it, but he wouldn’t, except a few pounds to buy a gift or two, as he said.”
To buy a gift or two. Mary Ellen’s body stiffened. Who for? Not for her. Likely, if he’d had a gift for
her, he would have left it here.
Kate broke in on her thoughts now, saying, “You’ll be kept as busy as a bee up there next week,
especially on Christmas Day, because they usually have a big table then, don’t they?”
“Yes. Yes, they do.” Her voice was flat.
“Well, I me self will be havin’ a chicken, and Benny Fowler will be kinin’ one of his
pigs. He always
brings me some rib and chitterlings.
And then there’ll be the beast kinin’ up in Allendale.
I never like that, you know, the beast kinin’. They take so long over it. A feast they make of it. Drunk
as noodles and battering the things slowly to death. I sometimes wonder why I’ve ever
ate meat. We
could all do without it, you know. But then, as I say to me self I’m not averse to havin’ a bit of pork or
kinin’ a chicken on me own. We are full of contradictions, you know, Mary Ellen. Aye,
we’re full of
contradictions. But what I was comin’ to is this: your da’s on his own. Now he’s not a very sociable
individual, as I know, but I hate to think of anybody on their own at Christmas. It will be the first one for
many a long day that I’ve eaten at a solitary table, so would you like to ask him if he’d come and take a
bite with me? “
“I will, I will, Kate. I can’t promise that he’ll come, because you know what he’s like.”
“Aye, I do, man and boy. And there wasn’t a nicer young fellow walkin’ than your da, let me tell you,
Mary Ellen. Life’s embittered him. When your mother went she drained his veins.
There’s no life in him
now, except that what he rakes up to be miserable with. Still, you tell him I’d be pleased to see him, will
you? And he’d be doin’ me a favour.
Tell him that. “
“Yes, Kate, I will.”
“Well now, drink up this tea. It’ll taste a little different from usual for I’ve put a wee dollop of rosemary
into it. Very precious that, the rosemary, for it’s difficult to come by in these parts.
Farmer Yates
brought me some when he returned from his brother in August. He lives miles away
down the country in
Lancashire, his brother, an’ the stuff grows like weeds there. So, knowing that he owes me a debt or
two for what I’ve done for his animals, I told him what I would like if he ever came
across such as
rosemary, and he remembered and brought me a good stock of flowers, enough for me to
distil a bottle
or two from them. But God knows when I’ll get the next, for now Farmer Yates’s brother is dead.
“Twas to his funeral he went last time. Anyway, lass, you’ll feel better after this for it’s a great comfort
to the mind and body is rosemary.”
Mary Ellen drank the mint tea that today had an added scenty flavour, but there followed no miraculous
feeling of well-being. And even half an hour later, when she wrapped up once again and said goodbye to
Kate and went on her way to her father’s, the rosemary’s magic powers had still failed to lighten her
heart.
Christmas came, and went, followed by the excessive eating and drinking on New Year’s
Day.
Then the year took on the appearance of any other year:
it snowed, then thawed, then a frost took over and turned the roads into a sea of glass; then it thawed
again.
She managed to get to Kate’s on the second Sunday in January, but still no letter had
come for her.
Kate had little to say except that she didn’t know how she was going to get through the winter as her
flesh now didn’t seem to hold any heat.
On the third Sunday, with warnings from her mistress that she shouldn’t make the
journey at all as the
sky was laden with snow, she wrapped up and set out. Her basket was full today, as it had been last
week. It was her mistress’s way of telling her that she was forgiven, but more so it was showing her how
bounteous life could be if she would come to her senses and have no more truck with that fellow who
had caused all the trouble; she had been cute enough to realize from her handmaiden’s
manner that things
weren’t going as hoped in that direction.
Mary Ellen had no sooner left the farmhouse than her mistress’s prediction showed signs of being
fulfilled, for single large flakes began to fall, and before she reached the cottage they were coming down
thick and fast.
Then behold, when she pushed open the cottage door, there he was. At least, at first sight she thought it
was him, but then for a second not, because he looked so different. He had an overcoat in his hand and
was standing, about to put it on. He was wearing trousers not breeches, the material being a sort of thick
twill and of a salt and pepper colour. It was akin, she thought, to the clothes the gentry wore, and when,
with a quick movement, he pulled on the overcoat which was of a deep fawn colour, she
walked up the
room gaping at him, and even when he said, “Hello, there. I thought I was going to miss you,” she still
offered no greeting.
“I’m having to look slippy.” He thumbed towards the small window.
“If this keeps up the roads will be blocked.”
She said weakly, “You’re going now?”
“Yes, I’ll have to. If I’d taken Kate’s advice—’ He nodded towards the fire where Kate was sitting in
the chair, her gaze concentrated on the big black iron pan set on the stand that was pushed half-way into
the fire.
“She told me it was coming, but I thought I’d hang on a bit in case you turned up early.
What are you
looking at? These?” He flicked his hand down the front of his open overcoat and laughed self-consciously as he said.
“I haven’t gone mad and spent all me money. These are Mr. Cottle’s castoffs. He’s fatter than me but
Mrs. Cottle had them altered. I’ve never worn anything so warm in all me life. An’ they feel good.” He
now buttoned his coat.
“I’m sorry, Mary Ellen, but I’ll have to be on the move. Kate will give you all me news—
Anyway, if this
doesn’t lie’—he again looked towards the window “ I’ll be along next weekend. “
He walked past her and went to Kate, and bending down to her, he said, “You heard what I said, didn’t
you?” He put his hand on the side other head.
“Aye, I’m not deaf yet, lad.” The words were like a rebuff, and he straightened up and rather sheepishly
he turned to Mary Ellen and said, “Well, tara. Take care of yourself. You’re looking
fresh.”
This remark she ignored, and more to detain him than anything else, she said, “Have you seen Hal?”
He shook his head: “No. I only got here late yesterday afternoon.