Miss Martha Mary Crawford Read online

  ‘You know that’s a very odd thing, Martha Mary, but I thought Uncle James was dead.’

  ‘Uncle James dead! No, no; he’s very old, but he’s not dead.’ She only just stopped herself from adding, ‘I wish he were,’ for deep within her she had longed, for the last three years, for her father to come back from Newcastle and say that Great-Uncle James had finally sunk completely away. She could remember as far back as ten years ago her father going to Newcastle because Uncle James was sinking, but he had never completely sunk.

  She had only seen her Great-Uncle James once. She was quite a small child and accompanied her parents in the trap on the never-ending journey to the city. It was a very warm day, she recalled, and she had swelted inside her many petticoats, white serge dress and coat and big straw hat.

  Uncle James was in bed. He had no hair on his head but he had a beard and his cheeks were red and he must have looked far from sinking because she remembered him laughing and joking with her mother. He had been very fond of her mother for she was then his only living relative. But since her death he had transferred his affection to her father.

  She did not feel wicked in hoping that Great-Uncle James would finally sink, never to rise again, for although she knew very little about the business side of her father’s affairs she was well aware that they had deteriorated considerably since her mother died, and there was now a great need of money which the death of Great-Uncle James would in some way alleviate.

  It was frightening to realise that their livelihood now depended solely on the little bookshop and the chandler’s store in Hexham, because since the mill was sold the grinding of the corn had to be paid for elsewhere, and although she was no businesswoman she could deduce that this must surely reduce profits…But where had the money gone from the sale of the mill?

  Once again she closed a particular door in her mind, and she now lifted a strand of Sophie’s hair and tucked it behind her ear, saying: ‘There’s potato soup for supper and roast lamb; you like roast lamb, don’t you?’

  ‘I like anything when I’m hungry, Martha Mary.’

  It was such a reasonable answer, such a sane answer, as Sophie was wont to come out with at times, and at such times Martha would want to put her arms around her and hold her close and say, ‘Oh Aunt Sophie, Aunt Sophie,’ and in a strange way derive comfort from her own compassion. But when, in the past, she had demonstrated her affection in this way it had caused her Aunt Sophie to cry, not as she sometimes did with the water gushing out of her eyes and nostrils and bubbling into the gap in her teeth while her body heaved with her anguish, but gently, a soft flowing crying which was even more heart-rending to witness than the heavy emotional paroxysms.

  It was strange, but of all the fifteen rooms in the house it was in this one alone that she felt most at peace with herself. In the presence of her Aunt Sophie she felt rested, she could for the moment throw off the pressures that were attacking both her body and mind increasingly of late. Of course, she was thinking now of those intervals between Aunt Sophie’s turns, for there were the times when her door had to be locked and her arms tied to the sides of the bed to prevent her tearing her hair out.

  ‘I must go now, Aunt Sophie.’ She bent down again towards her. ‘I don’t know what they’ll be up to in the kitchen if I leave them any longer.’ She shook her head and pursed her lips, and like this she looked as she had done at fifteen before she’d had to don the cloak of responsibility and become a woman before her time: a young girl, impish, joyful, with a promise in her round brown eyes of beauty.

  She was going out of the door when Sophie, turning from the fire, said, ‘When can I come down to supper again, Martha Mary?’

  Pausing with the door in her hand, Martha said, ‘Oh, soon, quite soon; it’s nearly Christmas.’

  ‘Not till Christmas?’

  ‘Well…well, perhaps one day next week when you are feeling better.’

  ‘Yes, Martha Mary; all right, one day next week. Yes, one day next week.’

  Martha closed the door and drew in a long breath. Something always happened when Aunt Sophie came down to a meal. She didn’t know whether it was the excitement of seeing the family all together, but definitely something disastrous would occur, if not that same night, then surely the following day. And so her father had forbidden Aunt Sophie to be allowed downstairs at all.

  Her father was not unkind to his sister; hadn’t he brought her from the farm to save her being put away in one of those dreadful asylums?

  She hurried down the stairs now, across the hall, where the draught from beneath the heavy oak front door whirled round her ankles, then down four stone steps and into the kitchen.

  The kitchen being part of the old house, like the hall, was stone flagged. It was a long room and quite wide. Even so it appeared cluttered. On the wall opposite the door leading from the hall was inset a huge blackleaded iron fireplace. It had a spit above the open grate and a bread oven at each side. The hearth was bordered by a steel fender, in the slatted top of which were inserted a pair of huge steel tongs, three different sizes of steel pokers, and two long-handled steel shovels, and all were shining as steel can shine when it’s scoured with emery paper every day. A stone mantelshelf ran the length of the fireplace and on this, turned upside down, were arrayed a number of copper pans graded from one that would hold three gallons of soup down to a small porringer. To one side of the fireplace and at right angles to it was a wooden settle; at the other side a rocking chair. Between the chair and the end wall, in which there was a door leading into the yard, there stood a shallow earthenware sink and to the side of that a pump, its spout set so high that the water from it, when it hit the sink, splattered in all directions. The pipe from the outlet of the sink dropped into a tin bath. Attached to the wall to the right of the sink was a long shelf on which the crockery was stacked for washing, and, under it, another shelf that held an assortment of heavy black iron pans, their bottoms and sides permanently sooted.

  On the wall opposite the fireplace, just to the side of the door to the hall, was an enormous delf rack, its shelves packed with china and crockery of all sorts, and in the middle of the room were two tables, one used for cooking, the other for eating. Three wooden chairs were tucked under the eating table.

  On the flags in front of the hearth was a seven-foot-long clippie mat, its original colours obliterated by the pressure of feet; and on each side of the cooking table was a rope mat, the strands wrought into intricate patterns but leaving holes large enough to let crumbs and other dirt fall through to the floor.

  At one side of the cooking table Dilly Thompson stood making pastry. Martha paused for a moment behind her; then thrusting her hand under the table, she brought out a stool and, placing it behind the old woman, she said sharply, ‘Get off your feet.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time to do that when I’m finished.’ Dilly did not address Martha as miss, and her tone held no subservience, just the opposite; she might have been speaking to her own kin. Deep in her heart she thought of Martha as her kin; the granddaughter she might have had, as Martha’s mother before her had been the daughter she might have had. Although she showed no deference to the young mistress of the house it didn’t mean that she didn’t give her her place, and also saw to it that others did too.

  ‘Sit down.’ When she was jerked backwards onto the stool she gasped and exclaimed. ‘You’ll do that once too often, me girl, and break me back.’

  ‘Well, better that than have your leg burst.’

  Martha now walked towards the sink to where, in front of the black-pan shelf, Peg Thornycroft was sitting on an upturned butter tub peeling potatoes. As Martha approached Peg looked up at her and their eyes held for a moment before Martha, stooping down, picked up a thick potato peeling from the dirty water, looked at it, then said, ‘Your grannie’s pig will be fine and fat this year if it’s left to you, won’t it?’

  ‘Eeh! Miss Martha Mary, you sayin’ that.’

  ‘Yes, I’m saying that. No
w you peel those potatoes properly or come January you won’t get any on your plate. You understand?’

  There was a slight movement of Peg’s head that could have indicated a toss; then, her chin drooping, she said flatly, ‘Aye, Miss Martha Mary. Aye, I understand.’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘There’s the master.’ Peg’s head jerked up and she pointed to the window, and Martha hurried forward and peered out. But the yard was empty and she turned her glance down on Peg again.

  Peg grinned up at her now as she said, ‘He’s just come in the bottom gate.’

  ‘She’s got ears like cuddy’s lugs, that one.’ Dilly was nodding towards the young girl, and Peg, nodding at Martha, affirmed this, saying, ‘Aye, I have. I can put me ear on the grass an’ tell how many horses are on the road, an’ which way they’re comin’.’

  ‘One of these days when you’ve got your lugs to the grass they’ll gallop over you, me lass, you’ll see…Get up out of that’—Dilly now waved her floured hand towards Peg—‘an’ get that hot water runnin’ uphill to the master’s room or I’ll skite the hunger off you with the back of me hand.’

  Peg’s reaction to this was to dash into the bucket room, a doorless space at the end of the kitchen, grab up two large copper hot water cans, rush to the stove, step up onto the steel fender, because her height wouldn’t allow her to reach over and lift the huge black bubbling kettle from the hob, turn slowly round, the handle of the kettle gripped in her small fists, step carefully down onto the mat, tip the kettle forward and fill the cans.

  ‘An’ before you make a further move you fill that kettle and put it back on.’

  Dilly hadn’t turned from the table and Martha, glancing at Peg, could fully understand her reaction when she clamped her teeth tightly together, compressed her lips and wagged her chin towards the old woman’s back, for she was being reminded for the countless time of something she was about to do from sheer habit, if nothing else.

  Martha now went to the kitchen door and called into the hall, ‘Mildred! Nancy!’ She waited a moment. Then, her voice louder now and in tone not unlike Dilly’s, for it was almost a bawl, she cried, ‘Mildred! Nancy! Do you hear me?’

  The drawing room door opened and Nancy came out followed by Mildred who was cradling a cat in her arms, and as they approached her she could really have been Dilly’s daughter as she went for them now, saying, ‘And the next time I call you, you answer or you’ll know the reason why. Father’s coming. Now go and carry one of the cans between you. And don’t slop it. And test the water in the bath…And put that cat down, Mildred. How do you think you can work carrying a cat around? Go on.’ She pushed them none too gently through the door, and when Mildred began to protest with, ‘I don’t see why…’ she checked her immediately, saying, ‘Then if you don’t I’ll have to tell you, won’t I?’

  Mildred stopped and the two sisters glared at each other. Then Mildred flounced into the kitchen and Martha, shaking her head, went towards the front door.

  When she opened the door the snow drifted into her face, but through it she could make out the lights of the trap below and her father raising his whip in salute. Although the trap had passed on its way to the stables she waved back and she was smiling when she closed the door.

  She was about to hurry across the hall to the study, because her father always went there for a few minutes before going to his room, when Mildred came bounding down the stairs. Her manner and voice pleading now and with no touch of defiance in it, she gazed into her face as she whispered, ‘Ask Papa if I may have a new gown, will you, Martha Mary?…Please.’

  Martha looked long at this sister with whom she always seemed at loggerheads before saying, ‘Now Mildred, what use will a new gown be to you at present?’ Her voice was soft and had a note of understanding in it, until Mildred gabbled, ‘I told you, the ball. I know I’ll be asked. Lady Brockdean, she almost invited me in the shop, and I want to be ready…’

  They were turning the corner towards the study as Martha said, ‘Don’t be silly, you imagined it.’ Her tone was cutting and Mildred’s reply had a desperate note to it as she said, ‘I didn’t, I didn’t. She said, “I’ll be seeing you soon.” She smiled at me in a special way. If it hadn’t been that her maid came up at that moment with packages she would have asked me then, I know it, I know it. I want a new gown. Do you hear? I want a new gown, Martha Mary. I must have a new gown.’

  Martha marched ahead to the study door, and there, swinging about, she cried harshly, ‘You’re always wanting, wanting; you’re always thinking about yourself; your wants would fill a paddock and come up weeds.’ Oh, why was she always coming out with Dilly’s sayings? Yet they nearly always fitted the occasion when she did use them, because Mildred was for ever wanting and was never satisfied.

  Of the four trunks of clothes belonging to their mother which had been stored in the attic she had used the contents of three and re-made the dresses and underwear, and mostly for Mildred.

  She herself had only three gowns. One had to be kept for her visits to the town and she had worn it so often that she felt she’d be recognised by it if by nothing else. One other she changed into for supper when her papa was at home; and of the one she was wearing now she had re-sewn the seams so many times it was a good job, she told herself, she hadn’t grown plump or she’d be going about part naked. And here was Mildred pestering, not for the last of their mother’s gowns to be re-made for her, but for a new one. She had as much hope of getting that out of their father as if she were asking for her own carriage and pair.

  What she herself must fight for tonight was money to pay the coal bill. Three times it had been sent in during the past month and because it hadn’t yet been paid the order for coal hadn’t been met. Then there was the matter of the groceries. Mr Grey had sent a depleted order this week, saying that certain commodities hadn’t yet arrived, such as the best tea. He had put in an inferior quality that was only four shillings a pound, and of the three pounds of butter ordered only two had been sent. And she could barely manage on three; the girls were extravagant with butter, as was her father; and when Roland was at home they could go through as much as five pounds a week. Dilly, Peg, and Nick, of course, had pig’s fat or beef dripping, which was, she felt sure, equally nourishing. She had tried to encourage the girls to eat beef dripping on their toast of a morning, but without success.

  She had for a long time wished they could keep a cow. Her mother had said that in her day they kept two cows for household use. The old churn still remained in the corner of the pail room. It would be wonderful to have fresh butter. And eggs. She had often thought, even recently, that they could keep a few hens on the scraps from the table. But then, who’d look after them? Nick had his work cut out, at least he was always saying so. He considered he was vastly overworked in having to see to the vegetable garden, the yard, and the care of the two horses. That was another thing, the fodder for the horses was a great drain on the household resources. When they had the mill they did an exchange with Farmer Croft, which had been advantageous to both parties. She had never realised until these past two years the variation that is needed for a horse’s diet; besides straw there was oats, which also had to be bruised for Gip because he was too old to masticate them whole, and if she didn’t keep an eye on Nick now he would often omit this chore, and Gip’s stomach would become extended like a barrel and he would be disinclined to pull the trap. Then there were bruised beans and barley dust and some potatoes. But whereas Gip’s food might take time to prepare, as for Belle, she’d eat twice as much, and everything whole, especially if her father had ridden her to the hunt.

  At the sound of sharp footsteps in the hall they turned their angry glances from each other and looked towards John Crawford as he came into view at the end of the passage. He was dashing the snowflakes off his high hat and with a gay gesture he now threw it towards them, and Mildred, on a laugh that belied her temper of a moment ago, caught it and cried as she ran towards him, ‘Oh Papa,you�
�re covered! Look, you’re covered with snow.’

  ‘How’s my lady?’ He was unbuttoning his double-breasted knee-length coat, and he bent towards her and kissed her on the brow, and as she helped him off with his coat, she said gaily, ‘Your lady is very well, sir, in fact in high fettle.’ And at this they both laughed.

  While Martha stood by the study door watching them there came the usual pounding on the stairs as Nancy raced down them, crying, ‘Papa! Papa!’ and when she came into view her father had his arms wide waiting for her, and when he swung her off her feet her skirt billowed and showed the frill on her blue flannel drawers.

  They both stood laughing and panting as he looked in Martha’s direction, saying, ‘What a welcome. You’d think I’d been away for years instead of a few days. Now, now, away with you both.’ He turned them about and pushed them low down on the back with the flat of his hands as if they were small children, saying, ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ and they ran away laughing.

  His greeting of Martha was quite different. Looking into her face, he said quietly, ‘Hello there, my dear,’ and she answered as quietly, ‘Hello, Papa,’ then added, ‘Are you very cold?’

  ‘Frozen. I’m afraid it’s going to lie.’ He went swiftly past her now and towards the fire, and there, standing with his back to it, he bent forward so that the heat could waft his buttocks.

  ‘Everything all right?’ He now poked his long, handsome face towards her.

  ‘As usual, Papa.’

  ‘No trouble?’

  She turned her gaze away from his before answering, ‘A few difficulties, Papa, but…but we’ll discuss them after you’ve had your meal.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ His jocular tone had changed. He turned now and faced the fire, thrusting his hands out towards it.

  ‘How is Uncle James?’