Miss Mary Martha Crawford (12 page)

"And he went through all the money and the businesses on ... on ...?"

"Aye, he went through all the money and the businesses as soon as he got his hands on the reins. That was one thing your ma did hold fast to when she was alive, was the business. She wanted you brought up

decently; she wanted Roland to go to a college an' you lasses to the private school

in Hexham, right until you were young ladies. An' she planned havin'

parties for you here an' people drivin' out, people with sons--' she nodded her head now 'so you could all be wed to men of standin'. But there--' she spread her work-worn hands wide 'as she used to say

herself, Man proposes and God disposes. What was she like, this one?

"

Martha's chin was buried deep on her chest now and it was some seconds before she muttered, "Young, not much older than me. Pretty ...

stylishly dressed but ... but common. Did you know that Uncle James

died four years ago?"

"No. No, I didn't lass. No, I didn't. But on the other hand I've had me own opinion lately as to whether he was still above ground or not, especially when your father could hardly let a week go by without

riding off to Newcastle. Of course, he had visited your Uncle James

afore, 'cos he had his eye on the main chance; your mother being your uncle's only living relative, there was money there. Oh, your father was a very ..." She cut her description short and pursed her lips instead, but Martha ended it in her own mind, "Cunning man." He had used her from the day her mother was buried, when, taking her face

between his hands, he had said, "Now you must be a real Martha and Mary as in the Bible," and she had gazed up at him and answered with a full heart, "Yes, Papa." She had never liked her name, considering it old fashioned, but at that moment she became proud of it when with his

voice, his touch, and his smile, he had, as Dilly said, pushed her up the greasy pole.

Her eyelids were closed tight now, the scalding tears were running-down her cheeks. Dilly was kneeling at her side, her arms about her, her

voice soothing, saying, "There, lass. There, lass. Cry it out. Go on, cry it out."

But she couldn't cry it out, not yet. She drew in a long deep breath, dried her eyes, then looking at the kneeling figure she said, in

something of her old manner, "Do get off your knees, Dilly, you won't be able to move your leg tomorrow."

Now she was standing helping Dilly to her feet and when, face to face, Dilly asked quietly, "What do we do now, lass? Have you any plans?"

she answered, "Yes. Yes, Dilly, I have plans. I've been to see Mr.

Paine and he suggests that we definitely sell the chandler's. It would clear off that mortgage and pay something off the debts. He also

suggests that I dismiss Miss Streaton, and put Mildred in her place.

"

"Aw, well now, that's the best suggestion yet. It'll give that young madam something to think about.... An' what about here? The house, is it all right?" There was a deep anxious note in her voice.

"Yes, yes, I think so, Dilly."

"Good." Dilly turned away now and as she shambled towards the door she said, as if to herself, "As long as we've got The Habitation, we'll get by."

But would they? Martha asked herself this question as she went to

resume her seat near the fire to snatch a few moments respite alone, but it wasn't allowed her for the door opened almost immediately again and Mildred entered the room, and coming straight to her, pointed

upwards and said, "She's asleep." Th'en went on without pause, "Now, our Martha Mary, what's happened? Something's happened today and I

want to know what it is."

"Nothing's happened. It's just business, the state of our affairs."

"It isn't. It isn't. I'm not a child, I should know.

"What's happened?

What happened today in Newcastle? "

They stared at each other; then Martha, her voice harsh now, cried back at her, "Yes! Yes, you should know, and the first thing you should know is that you are going to work."

"Work?"

"That's what I said, work. You are going to take Miss Streaton's place in the bookshop."

If Martha had said that she was going to have her transported, Mildred could not have looked more shocked. Her lips were forming the words, but soundlessly. Work in the bookshop? She stood stock still watching Martha go towards

the door. The world was tumbling about her. Lady Brock- dean was

falling, falling away out of her ken forever. But more so were the

people she hoped to meet at the Hall after the time of mourning was

over when she felt sure Lady Brockdean would approach her again. But now! A shop assistant! She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't have

it.

Her life, her whole future would be ruined. Martha Mary had never

liked her. She was doing this on purpose. A governess would have been low enough, but a shop assistant!

Like someone who had received a fatal blow she sat down and cried. But her crying was not sorrowful, mere tears of vexation and frustration.

She hated their Martha Mary. She did, she did, and she said so, "I hate you our Martha Mary. And I see it all now, it was you who put

Roland up to suggesting it. You've never liked me. You want to see me brought low, but you shan't, you shan't." And she sprang up and rushed from the room.

And Martha sat staring straight ahead.

Later that night Aunt Sophie had a number of her . turns, and for her own safety had to be strapped down on the bed. It was well past

midnight when she ceased to struggle and fell into a death-like

sleep.

But Martha continued to sit by her. Her dressing gown fastened well up around her neck, a rug over her knees, she sat writing a letter. It

was the longest letter she had ever written to Roland, in fact it was the longest letter besides the most difficult she had ever written in her life.

After what had come to light that day, but particularly since she had talked to Dilly, she now felt in no way bound to keep her promise to her father. There was growing deep within her a mounting feeling of

loathing towards him; apart from everything else she felt he must have looked upon her as a simpleton, and, of course she had been one.

Here she was at the age of twenty, and up till yesterday her knowledge of the world had been garnered from novels and the slight information they imparted on life. There were, she supposed, books that could have enlightened her more fully, but

she had always been most careful and conservative in her choice of

authors.

But now she told herself she was ignorant no more, today her education had been furthered in such a way that she would never feel the same

again. And she did not mince her words in her writing when speaking of her father's mistress and of her predecessors, and she ended her letter by relating Mr. Paine's advice with regard to selling the chandler's shop. Finally, she said, "You must think hard about the future during this last term, for as things stand now you will have to forego the

university."

She added a postscript, "Mr. Paine iterated your suggestion regarding Mildred taking the place of Miss Streaton in the bookshop, and our

circumstances being such I put this to her, with what result you can imagine."

A further postscript stated, "I am sitting up with Aunt Sophie; she's had a very bad bout."

never before had Martha visited Hexham on two consecutive days; in the past there would have been an interval of a month between any two

visits to the town.

After once again leaving the trap in the chandler's yard, she made her way now in the direction of the Abbey. She felt both nervous and

excited; nervous because she had never before had the task of

dismissing anyone, and because Miss Streaton was a quiet,

unprepossessing individual it was going to make the business even more distasteful. Yet it had to be done; five shillings a week was five

shillings a week.

With regard to her feeling of excitement, she did not need to search far for its cause; she was now her own mistress, she could pick and

choose as she pleased, and that is what she was going to do. This time forty-eight hours ago she would have thrust such an idea deep down into her mind, there to stay for at least six months in respect for the

dead. But the dead had killed all respect in her.

She glanced at her watch. The shop would now be closed for half an

hour while Mr. Ducat had his midday refreshment, which he partook of in the little room behind the shop. He had once laughingly pointed it out to her as his office-cum-dining-room-cum-second home. As she went under an arch and up the alleyway she straightened her bonnet which the strong wind that was blowing had put awry: then turned into the narrow passage from where the back door led into a small yard. And at this

point the thought came to her that perhaps she need not take on the

unpleasant task of dismissing Miss Streaton, Mr. Ducat would do it for her. Yes, of course. Why hadn't she thought of that before? As

manager of the shop it was really

his place to engage and dismiss. He hadn't been given this privilege before, but things were going to change. Oh yes, indeed they were.

In this moment she felt mature, and very much a woman of the world.

The window of the office overlooked the yard and to the side of it was the back door. She had her head slightly turned towards the window as she passed it. Then she was brought up stock still; her head became

rigid as she stared through the window on to the scene beyond. Mr.

Ducat was sitting in his shirt-sleeves and well back in the old leather chair, and on his knee and cradled in one arm was Miss Streaton; his other hand was inside her open blouse and his lips were tight on

hers.

It was either her shadow blocking the light from the window or some

involuntary sound she now made which caused him to pull his mouth from Miss Streaton and turn his head to the side, then almost shoot Miss

Streaton on to the floor.

Martha took three slow stiff steps forward, opened the back door and stood within the threshold looking from one to the other. It seemed

that Mr. Ducat had been struck speechless. But not so Miss

Streaton.

Gone was the timid, unprepossessing little creature and in her place was a pert, self-assured miss.

"Well, what of it?" she said; 'we're as good as engaged. It isn't a crime. "

Martha turned her gaze slowly on to Mr. Ducat. He seemed visibly

startled by Miss Streaton's announcement.

The girl now bobbed her head at him before buttoning up her blouse;

then with a sharp movement of her buttocks which caused her serge skirt to make a swishing sound she turned about and went out of the office, banging the door behind her.

"Oh! Miss Crawford, I am deeply ashamed, I am. I... I am. It was....

How can I say it? It was a moment of weakness. And there is no truth in what she said." Groping behind him now, he picked up his coat from a chair and hurriedly dragged it on, then pushed agitatedly at his

shirt cuffs which were hanging almost to his finger-tips, before taking a step

towards her and repeating in a soft fawning tone, "Believe me. Please believe me, it was just as I said, a moment of..."

"Keep your distance, Mr. Ducat. And as you are about to say once more that it was a moment of weakness, I have not the slightest doubt that it is a weakness that has attacked you every day for some long time

past."

"No, no, you're wrong, Miss Crawford."

As he smoothed his ruffled hair back from his forehead she stared at him, or rather glared at him, seeing him as he really was, as most

people saw him, a weak, shallow, upstart of a man, getting by on his good looks and his surface knowledge of literature. And she had

thought she loved him! She could have sworn she had loved him. For

the past two years hardly a night had passed but she had thought of

him, and often with longing. Whenever there had been no opportunity to come into the town and visit the bookshop she had seemed to pine

inside.

And what had she been pining for? This nasty shallow, horrible

individual. All men were horrible. Her father, that man in the

station who had gone to visit that woman, this creature here, they were all horrible. Horrible!

She was about to turn away when he asked with no note of pleading in his voice now, "What do you intend to do then?"

"What do you mean, what do I intend to do?"

"Are you going to give us both the sack?"

She made herself look him straight in the eyes as she said coolly, "Not as long as your work continues to be satisfactory. What you do with

your private life after all is entirely your affair. Good-day, Mr.

Ducat. Oh--' once more she turned to him 'you may be wondering at the reason for my calling today. It was to tell you to dismiss Miss

Streaton as I have someone, a friend of mine, whom I wish to put in her place. But now j. can see it would be very remiss of me to subject a young g@tl to the risk of being molested. Of course, I am not

suggesting that you have molested Miss Streaton, I suppose that in

certain classes it is not considered improper to take liberties with your future wife. Good-day, Mr. Ducat."

As she stepped into the yard he was close behind her. His voice low

but rasping, he spluttered at her, "You'll be sorry

you said that; there's other places. For your information, Miss

Crawford, I'll' tell you this, Cunningham's have been after me. Do you know that? Do you hear that? Cunningham's have been after me. " She continued to walk away from him, down the yard and into the alleyway.

She was trembling from her head to her feet. Over the past two days

she had experienced a number of emotions but this present feeling was entirely new. She felt utterly degraded, dirty, nasty, as if she had submitted her body to being handled, and by him.