the maltese angel (10 page)

take her back in the evening, and they would plan the house

together.

He stood holding the bed rail, in one part of him a feeling of joy wanting to lift him from his feet in a great leap, while in the other was a mixture of bitterness and regret, regret that he couldn't be married in the same church as his father and mother had been, regret that the whole village couldn't be one with him on the day, as he

understood they had been on his parents' wedding day, regret that the barn down below would not ring to the sound of Harry Bates's and Jake Mulberry's fiddles, and Amos Laker's accordion, with laughter,

merriment and high jinks rising as the spirits flowed.

His head shook as a dog does when throwing off water. What did the village lot matter? He still had friends there. The only thing that really mattered was, she would soon be here .. and his thoughts had rushed ahead 'in that bed'. He warned himself now not to forget what he had learned from Nell:

it was not as if it was Daisy Mason coming to that bed, oh no, but a young girl, fragile, like an angel. Yes, like an angel; but a

laughing, kind, wonderful angel, and a different being from anyone he had ever known.

Yes he paused in his thinking different, so different. There was that business of Carl's back. The morning following the day she had laid her hand on him there was no puss on the lint; in fact, although the strike marks all remained, the scars looked different, paler, as if in time they might disappear. He had been shaken by that, but when he mentioned it to Annie, he was surprised that she should accept it.

She had heard of such things, she had said: people with healing

hands.

Oh yes, she had gone on to explain, at one time they used to burn them for witches. Thank God all that was in the past. At least, most of it, she had added.

He walked slowly towards the head of the bed and touched one of the pillows lying on top of the bolster, and he spoke aloud at it: "I will never hurt you in any way," he said.

"And may God forgive me if I should."

It was done. She was his. And now the wedding party were piling into the brake. As Ward's farm only harboured vehicles such as the farm cart, the hay wagon, and the trap, Annie had voiced to Ward in Fred's hearing that he must hire a brake. It was following this that Mr.

Newberry had offered the use of his brake, which not only held ten people but also had a detachable cover.

There were nine guests in the vehicle, four of whom were connected with the theatre; and Billy in his Sunday suit and bowler was now shaking the reins and calling, "Get up! there," which set off Betsy into a dignified walk, because it was a heavy load she was pulling.

The journey back to the farm seemed long but merry. This was brought about by the cross talk between Fred and the juggler, and Mr. Carter interposing the scraps of monologues; so no-one noticed that the newly married couple had little to say; nothing in fact, as they sat hand in hand, and it wasn't until the brake entered the farmyard that Ward gave vent to a surprised exclamation:

"Good gracious!" he cried.

"Look!" for there, awaiting them, was an unexpected number of people, and the next ten minutes were taken up with congratulations, handshakes and introductions.

Ward's heart was warm: here were people who weren't cutting him dead, who hadn't refused to take his milk. The cutting had started when the news of his forthcoming marriage was brought to the village. Billy was delivering the churn to Hannah Beaton's shop, as he had done for

countless years, only to be bawled out by Hannah: "You can save yourself the trouble. Billy Compton, an' tell him we won't be sellin'

his milk any more. An' that goes for his eggs an' all."

And she hadn't been the only one in the village to refuse his milk that day, for four others had done the same, and Annie's comment had been,

"Well, what d'you expect? Old Mother Beaton and Mrs. Mason are cousins."

But now, here was the whole blacksmith's family, not only Charlie

Dempsey himself, but also their two young sons, John and Henry, and Phyllis, one of their married daughters from Fellbum; and there was Fred Conroy, the butcher, a quiet fellow, Fred, and a widower these ten years; but he had brought their Jimmy with him, he who was courting Susie Beaton; and surprisingly, there was Ben Holman the cobbler,

go-between man or undertaker, which occupation he was following at this particular time. And lastly, which was no surprise to Ward, there was the Reverend Frank Noble and his wife Jane, and one of their two young children .. and the boy Carl, smiling widely now as he gazed at the new mistress.

Ward stopped, and he turned and looked at Fanny. She was gazing at him, but not smiling: her eyes were large and moist.

As those from outside pressed in behind him, he gently guided her

towards the top of the table, where Annie was standing beaming as if she had just conjured up all this out of thin air; and, impulsively.

Fanny threw her arms about her and kissed her on the cheek.

For a moment Annie returned the hug, but then exclaimed loudly, her voice above the hubbub, "I didn't do all this, ma'am; everybody pigged in. And there's a table full of presents next door an' all. Anyway, sit yourself down, ma'am; they're all dying to get started, 'cos

they've never had a bite or sup across their lips since this

morning."

This caused a great roar of laughter, setting the pattern for the

enjoyment of the meal which, between

eating and toasting, and amid cries of goodwill, went on for the next hour or more.

Following this, the whole company crowded into the parlour where, to his regret, the juggler found there was no room to perform his act; but Mr. Carter's talents didn't take up any space, and so he

entertained the company with monologues, and to the surprise of those who knew him well, he never touched either on Shakespeare or on Mr.

Dickens. Nor did he mention the Comhill Magazine, or any other erudite publication from where he had gleaned his knowledge, but he continually had them in gales of laughter when proving to be an admirable mimic of dialects from Geordie to Cockney.

And so the afternoon wore on, until it was time for the Newcastle party to take their leave. This they did amidst cheers and invitations to come again, not only to the farm but to the blacksmith's and the

baker's; and, lastly, a somewhat macabre invitation from Ben Holman, who said, "You can come any time to me and I'll fit you out with a nice box, brass handles thrown in free." And so they departed in further laughter.

Others now began to make their departure, again amidst hilarious

chaffing from Rob Newberry when he exclaimed in mock indignation, "It's come to something, hasn't it, when me family's got to walk back home because I've been daft enough to lend me brake to those barmy

actors."

When the last trap rolled out of the yard with the young vicar and his wife waving their goodbyes, no-one remarked about the bride standing close to her husband and having her arm around the young lad, who was wearing a new knickerbocker suit and sporting a white shirt, for it had been whispered here and there that he was some relation to the bride: and had he not come on the scene at the same time as she?

No-one had mentioned anything to Ward about the assumed relationship because Ward had been very touchy, and he would more than likely have told them to mind their own business. But that was before he had

taken a wife .. well, a man was always more approachable then, and the relationship to the boy would likely come out ..

Fanny insisted on helping Annie clear the table and put things to

rights, and although Annie objected. Ward did not, because what might have been a stumbling block for the harmony of the house between Annie and his wife did not after all exist. And so he walked out into his farmyard; but there was no-one to talk to now except the boy, and he said to him, "Well, Carl, have you enjoyed your first wedding?"

And the boy, looking up at him, did not answer his question, but what he said was, "She is so beautiful ... bella, bella."

At this Ward laughed and, affectionately rumpling the boy's hair, said,

"Yes, you're right. Oh, so right; she is bella, bella."

At nine o'clock the house was back to normal, and Annie bade them a smiling but lower-lidded good night;

after which Ward bolted the door. Then he carried his wife upstairs to bed.

He had definitely slept in, for the sun was up and shining through the new curtains. He turned hastily on to his side; and there she was, wide awake and smiling at him;

and it was she who spoke first. Putting out her hand, she ran her

fingers through the thick hair that was tousled on his brow as she said very softly, "I still like you, Mr. Gibson; but I must confess the feeling I have for you now is so strange that it might come under the heading of ... love."

"Fanny ... Oh, Fanny. Fanny," was all he was able to say.

The first six months of their marriage was, for both of them, like a fairy tale. To Ward, each day was a joy to wake up to, and each night was a joy to go to their bed. To Fanny it was different types of

joy:

Ward had been as good as his word and had the vinery re-built and every now and again when she felt like it she would run down to it and dance, at times to an audience consisting only of her husband; at others she would be aware of Billy being in the background, but more often of the boy watching her.

As she had found her love for Ward, so she came to have most tender feelings for the boy. It was strange, she would tell herself, it was as if they were related; and perhaps they were, because he didn't

really know who his people were. He had, though, definitely hailed from the same part of the world as her mother, for every now and again, spontaneously, he would come out with an Italian word that would

surprise himself. But what troubled her about the boy was his

nightmares, for Ward had often heard him yelling out from his bed in the loft.

But her joy wasn't only in her own dancing, for hardly a week passed but Ward took her into Newcastle. She had visited the theatre there, and had spent an hilarious evening at Balhambras, noted for its

variety, much of it bawdy, and whose audience. Fanny felt, would not have received her type of act very well; and nor would Mr. and Mrs.

Killjoy and their family have been as much appreciated as they had been at The Empire. But the occasion she had enjoyed most was the dance at the Assembly Rooms. Yet Ward had said that was-their first and last visit there, because she had attracted too much attention.

He had laughed when saying this, but she wasn't displeased that he had meant it.

Ward's consuming love seemed to have touched everything he owned, for his crops were blooming and his cows had never yielded so much milk; yet all the happiness seemed to be contained within the precincts of his land. It was a different story when he went into the village.

Within a few days of his marriage he knew where he stood there. He wasn't in favour in The Running Hare, because Sam Longstaffe and his little wife Linda were church-going. However, at The Crown Head he had been made more than welcome by Michael Holding and members of his

family; not that he frequented the inn often, but on his return from Fellbum or Gateshead, he might step in for a pint of ale. He had

laughingly said to Annie that as long as he had the barman, the baker and the blacksmith, and the shoemaker and the undertaker on his side, he would get by. Nevertheless, it annoyed him that most of the church folk could hardly bring themselves to give him the time of day. And yet it was because of this that it seemed he had found favour with Pastor Wainwright of the Methodist Chapel: he and his four sons would nod to him and bid him good-day. The two younger lads even raised

their caps to him.

It was now the beginning of March 1887, and the month was living up to its reputation, with the wind raging and sending sprays of iced rain against the windows on the day when Fanny told him she was carrying his child.

The farmyard was a sea of mud and Annie was once again yelling at him,

"Will you take your boots off! I'm not getting down on me hands an'

knees today again and scrubbin' this kitchen or that hall, so I'm

telling you. Master Ward. And anyway, if you could lay a concrete

floor in that dancing room for the missis, you could put one in that yard. They tell me that Bainbridge's farm is as clean as a whistle now that he's had the whole place laid with slabs cemented

together."

To this, he had said, "Annie, if you say another word to me about mud or boots or wet clothes, either to get them off, or not put me boots on your floor, I'll take up the first thing to hand and I'll let you have it."

After a moment of silence between them, he asked, and quietly, "Where's the missis?"

"The last time I saw her she was up in the attics. She's taken it into her head to scour them out. I can't stop her, so see if you can. See if you get the same answer as I get. She must keep busy. If it isn't her feet going it's her hands," saying which, she herself continued to be about her own business, whilst he padded across the kitchen floor in his stockinged feet, went into the hall and up the stairs, and on the first landing he called, "Where are you?"

After a moment, her voice came faintly to him:

"I'm up among the gods, sir. I've got a good seat, and it's free."

He took the steep stairs to the attics two at a time, and when he saw her on her knees before an open trunk and scattered around her, pieces of material and old albums, he said harshly, "Now what are you up to?

You're not thinking about washing out the trunks now, are you? "

"Yes; that's just what I am thinking about doing, sir." She laughed at him, then added, "Come and sit down."

"I'm not going to sit down. You get up." He pulled her to her feet; then held her at arm's length, saying, "Look at you! Your skirt's covered with dust and ..."