the maltese angel (21 page)

Fanny sat staring at her daughter, and thinking much the same as Carl had done a short time earlier, when he had been confronted with someone who should have been a little girl but was a little girl no longer, at least in her mind. But in her own defence Fanny knew that all the love she could give this child would not compensate for that lost through her father and the complete absorption which he shared between herself and her young daughter. Oh, how she had wished over the years that Angela hadn't been born a replica of herself, not only in looks but in disposition, too. And in her mind, she still wondered in amazement at Ward's constancy towards her, and for which he'd had to pay dearly over the years; just as she herself had paid, too, in the loss of the deep friendship and love of her dear Mrs. Killjoy.

The scene in the yard would never be erased from her mind. Mrs.

Killjoy had lost two of her family, Beatty and Rose, one of them

through advanced age, the other through no known reason except that it had been while on a visit here. And she had mourned them as much as she had Mr. Killjoy, perhaps more, because they were her children. On this particular day, she had brought Charlie and Sophia on a visit, and when they were ready to go only Charlie could be found. Everyone

joined in the search and it was Patsy Riley who found her. Her pitiful whining had attracted her to a shallow ditch out of which the little creature was trying to climb on three legs.

When Patsy had carried her back into the yard it was found she had two pellet shots in her thigh, and, in the words of one of the Hollow men,

"The fat woman howled like any banshee at the sight of her wee creature."

Fanny still remembered holding the soft little body of Sophia, aiming to alleviate her pain, which she apparently succeeded in doing, for the little dog ceased whining as Ward extracted the pellet from its leg.

Then to her amazement, when the dog's leg was bandaged and it once again lay in the arms of its mistress, Mrs. Killjoy not only ceased her wailing but addressed her in a voice that all could hear, crying,

"I rue the day I was the means of bringing you to this house, for there's evil in it, and all about it. And I might tell you that Mr.

Killjoy said the same thing. He prophesied to me that Ward would have to pay for you till the day he died. That was after you found your dear Pip missing. And what had happened to him? Shot dead. Yes,

there is evil about this house." And in the ensuing shocked silence she had mounted the trap. And so she had gone out of their lives.

She recalled now the scene when they had found Pip. He, too, had been shot with an air gun but in the head. However, what was worse, he had been found by Phil Steel, one of the colonel's yards men And Ward's reaction had been to tear over to the Hall and accuse the colonel of shooting his wife's dog. The colonel, of course, always peppery, said he hadn't been out shooting for days; but if Ward didn't get off his land he would start immediately.

This altercation had resulted in a surprise, for the following day Fanny had a visit from Lady Lydia herself. She had called to say she was so sorry that the little dog had died and also to assure Mrs.

Gibson that neither the colonel nor any member of the staff had been out shooting for days. She had gone on to praise Mrs. Gibson's two fine daughters, and how like her mother the younger one was. And

wasn't it strange, the characteristics of children? There was her own son whose features were like those of his father, but whose character was more like her own: he didn't like shooting of any kind. And

confidentially, she had added with a smile, this angered the colonel, for being an army man, shooting was his business, so to speak. But having a son who didn't enjoy killing of any kind caused a clash of temperaments.

Fanny recalled how she had agreed on the last point with Lady Lydia.

And after she had thanked her Ladyship for being kind enough to call, that lady had assured her she had been desirous of making her

acquaintance for a long time, and she hoped that now she would be

permitted to call, and they had drunk a cup of tea together in the sitting-room.

And so it might have been thought that when the news got through the village that Lady Lydia was visiting Ward Gibson's wife, it would have been the signal for all further petty irritations to cease. The

reverse, however, was the case. If anything, they increased: gates were opened, cattle strayed, stays were pulled up, even gaps were made in dry stone walls, the incidents always being perpetrated at night time. It was impossible to keep watch on every yard of fencing or

walling all round the place. And when Ward exploded his chagrin to Fred or to his father, or to the blacksmith, demanding almost if one or the other could give him an inkling who was at the bottom of this, he would be answered simply by a silent shaking of the head. It was as if they were tired of his ranting, or, as he put it to Billy, they knew who it was and they wouldn't let on. And to this. Billy had replied quietly, "Aye, likely."

At times Fanny had great difficulty in hiding her concern from Ward, for not only was she physically weak, but also her spiritual resistance seemed to have lessened. Especially since the episode with her dear friend, because Mrs. Killjoy's last words were forever in her mind.

She, too, was being made to wonder if it would have been better for all concerned had she never come to this house, had never met Ward, and so had never experienced a man's overpowering love, and for some time now she had faced up to the fact that it was overpowering.

Her returning love, measured against it, was as something minute; and she knew it wasn't good or healthy to be held in such high esteem and made to feel that she was incapable of any mean thought or action. To be put on such a plane caused her to feel less than human. However, she knew she could never make her husband understand this, for he saw her as being apart from all others.

"Daddy doesn't love me, not even a little bit."

Fanny's voice was stern now as, wagging her finger at her daughter, she said, "You must not say that, Jessie. It isn't true."

"Oh, Mammy." The girl now rose from the bed and, standing with her face on a level with her mother's, she leant towards her and asked pointedly, "Why do you lie like Carl? He lies all the time. He says he loves me but he loves Patsy better. Although he says he doesn't love her, he does."

"Be quiet, Jessie. Be quiet this minute. All this silly talk about love. Now it has got to stop. Let me tell you something." She now reached out and gripped her

daughter's arm.

"If Carl loves Patsy and Patsy loves him, it is quite a natural thing, because they are grown up. This happens when people are grown up. But you are not grown up and you shouldn't be talking like you do."

"He said he didn't love her."

"What did you say?"

"Carl, he said he didn't love her. I asked him."

"You had no right to ask him. I am finding you a naughty girl today, Jessie, and it is upsetting me. How do you expect people to love you when you are so naughty?"

"I am naughty because nobody loves me and never has."

Fanny closed her eyes. That the child should be thinking like this, talking of love in this way, was worrying. It was as if she were

grabbing at it, wanting to tear it out of people. She herself had

always shown her love. But then it wasn't her love she needed, it was her father's love, or Carl's, a male love. She would have wished to refute any such thought connected with her daughter;

yet, she knew that, deep within her mind, it had been born some time ago.

It was a week later and there was no sign of the irate, love-starved girl as Jessie forked some of the last hay upwards to her father, near the top of the haystack at the end of the yard. She didn't even seem to notice that Patsy was working near Carl, straightening out the ropes attached to the tarpaulin that would eventually cover the stack.

The change had come on Thursday evening after her father had said to her, "How would you like to stay off school tomorrow and help me get the last of the hay in?" He had not said, "Help us," but "Help me."

For a moment she had been unable to answer, but then she had said, "Oh yes, Daddy. That would be lovely."

And so on the following morning there was no need for either Billy or Carl to drive the sisters to school, or later in the day, to meet them coming out, which had been the protective procedure since they had started at the village school. So, all day yesterday Jessie had raked and carried hay. Angela had been there, too, but not accomplishing half the work her sister was showing she could do. And later, it had been a merry evening meal.

This morning she would have gone out before breakfast if Fanny hadn't insisted that she eat a good meal, reminding her that there was a hard day's work before her, the while thinking how simple the solution had been with regard to her daughter's state of mind: her appealing to Ward to show his daughter a little personal attention, which he could do unobtrusively by suggesting the girl should have a day off school in order to help in the hay field. She knew he would not immediately see the point of it all, but he complied with her wishes, even acting the part he didn't feel. Yet, last night, he had to admit that the effort he had made had brought results, for it was a long time since he had seen his daughter so merry and talkative, at least in his company.

It was when the work was completed that Annie came into the yard,

saying, "You all look like dustbins and it'll be another half hour, I should imagine, afore you get yourselves cleaned up an' ready for a bite to eat, so why not have it like you are, outside, eh?"

It was the two girls who cried at once, "Oh, yes! Annie. Yes. We can have it in the meadow."

"Oh, that's too far to carry the stuff," said Annie. And at this Ward shouted back to her, "Well, you don't expect us to sit on the yard or in the stubble fields, do you?"

"That's up to you," she said cheerfully.

"And it'll be all hands to the pumps. I'll pack the baskets; but you're not getting me across there, for me legs are worn off to the knees as it is."

"Aye, poor soul, it's her age," and this coming from Billy caused a gale of laughter.

And there was more laughter when the girls went through the unusual procedure for them of washing under the pump; at least, sluicing their faces and hands.

In the kitchen the baskets were handed out to Carl and Patsy and the girls carried the cans of cold milk and equally cold beer; Ward brought the rugs from the blanket-box in the hall and a large cushion from the sitting-room, the latter for Fanny's benefit.

As he was passing through the kitchen, Annie said, "Here! they forgot the cloth," and loaded him further with a large check tablecloth.

"Sure you'll not join us?" he asked her, and when she answered, The head would like to but me feet are contrary," he said, " Well, that's your fault; you should put them up more. And don't tell me you haven't got the time. All right. All right. " He shrugged away what remark she was about to make and went out and followed the small cavalcade along by the side of the barn, down by the field that had been turned into a vegetable garden, past the glass house that Fanny had not used for the past two years and which he had now turned into a forcing shed for plants, and into the field that had lain fallow for a year and now should have been covered with lush green grass. But the heat had

yellowed it, except where it was shaded by the wood that marked the beginning of Colonel Ramsmore's estate on this side of the Hall.

When Jessie's voice came to him over the distance, calling, "Shall we lay it in the shade, Daddy?" he shouted back, "Yes, of course, unless you want to cook. But wait, I've got the cloth."

It was Patsy who, kneeling, spread the cloth and emptied the victuals from the basket; Fanny filled the mugs with either milk or beer, all but the last when, looking at Patsy, she asked, on a laugh, "Milk or mild for you. Patsy?" And Patsy, smiling back at her, said, "Mild, mistress, please; I've seen all the milk I want to today."

"Oh, sour milk and rancid butter we'll be having from now on," put in Billy, 'now she's taken to ale. " And with this he pushed Patsy none too gently so that she toppled on to her side, and Jessie, laughing, helped to pull her upright again, so that Carl was made to wonder at the change in the girl. What a difference from this time last week, for she looked so happy; it was like a small miracle.

After they had eaten bacon and egg pie, hard boiled eggs, crusty bread thickened with their own butter, and all had quenched their thirsts, in their separate ways they lounged in the cool shade of the trees:

Ward lying stretched out alongside Fanny, who was sitting on her

cushion, her hands joined round her knees and looking almost as young as her daughters who, too, were lying flat out on the grass; Billy had his back supported by a stake of the boundary fence, while Carl was resting on his elbow looking towards Patsy, who was sitting upright, her feet tucked under her. She was pulling a round stemmed

grass between her teeth, her tongue licking at the white sap, looking to Carl like a picture he had seen hanging in one of the galleries in Newcastle. It was of a young Spanish girl in a red flowing gown.

Patsy had no red flowing gown, but she was beautiful.

It was an idyllic scene. It was one of those moments they were all to remember, broken not by a human voice only by the sound of nature, a rustling of leaves from the wood and a drone of bees, with the

'zimming' of midges high up, portending still further fine weather.

Then came a sound as if a small line of bees were parting the air and which ended on a cry from Fanny as something struck her temple and caused her to fall across Ward.

"What is it? What is it?" He was holding her as the others were rising to their feet.

She did not speak for a moment; then on a gasp, she said, "Something .

something struck me." Her fingers were pressing at her temple, and Ward, on his knees now, raised her into a sitting position again.