Miss Martha Mary Crawford by Catherine Cookson & Catherine Marchant

Author:Catherine Cookson & Catherine Marchant [Cookson, Catherine & Marchant, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780552113731
Google: gUoIRAAACAAJ
Publisher: Corgi
Published: 1980-07-15T17:53:27+00:00

Mildred’s head was up now. No longer abashed, she cried back at Martha, ‘Well! there’s one thing certain, that’ll never happen to you.’

As the words pierced her like a barb with what she knew to be their truth, Martha, after returning Mildred’s angry glare, turned slowly about; and she felt no comfort when she heard Nancy defending her, crying now at Mildred, ‘Oh, our Mildred! Your tongue. Fancy saying a thing like that. You should be thankful that Martha Mary has never wanted to get married. Just imagine what would have happened to us if she had. Oh, you are a cruel individual, Mildred Crawford. The only thing you think about is yourself…and cats.’

‘And the only thing you think about is horses, horses, horses.’

‘I don’t; I think about other people too. You’re selfish, selfish…’

As their bickering became personal Martha left the landing and went into her room and after closing the door behind her stood leaning against it for a moment. As she had done so often of late she wanted to burst into tears and not just quiet crying but to open her mouth wide and scream.

She went and sat down on the dressing table stool and, leaning forward, peered at herself in the mirror. Slowly she moved her index finger over the cheekbones, then around her mouth. She was getting thinner, the flesh seemed to be dropping off her. She now put both hands tentatively, one under each breast. As short a time as a year ago she had a fullness there, now it had disappeared. Yesterday, when he called…Why did she always call him he? Because she thought of him as he. Anyway, he had left her a tonic and told her that it would help to make her eat. His manner had been more kindly than usual, but she could not say that hers had matched his own for her mind still retained the picture of him with the horsewhip in his hand. Of course, he had been justified to some extent but nevertheless he had appeared ferocious. Altogether he was a strange man. She had never met anyone like him before. But then—she looked deep into the reflection in the mirror—how many men had she met before? She was ignorant of men and their ways. Peg had again proved it to her yesterday when she had confided, in between her scurryings about the kitchen, that she was glad Nick Bailey had gone for ‘You know what, Miss Martha Mary?’ she had said. ‘He tried to give me a bairn. An’ not once mind. He tripped me up in the barn, he did, not long ago but I was too quick for him. I took the hayfork to him and I told him what I’d do with it if he went for me again.’

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