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Authors: Catherine Cookson
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with her while playing God. In two months’ time they are unveiling the stained-glass window. Do you remember why you donated the window to the church? In your own words you told Parson Wainwright it was because God had allowed your wife to carry your child. The window is to be unveiled the day your child . . . your SON is born; it wasn’t to be another daughter, no, no, you had told the Almighty it had to be a son and . . . ’
‘QUIET, WOMAN. How dare you!’
McBain’s thin pale face was almost purple with rage now but it was having no effect on his wife, for, looking at him, her eyes full of disdain, she said, ‘I dare, Mr McBain, at last after thirteen years I dare.’ And with this she passed him and walked with firm but heavy tread up the steps and on to the road.
McBain watched her, but he did not follow her; he stood now with closed eyes, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. There was running over his entire body a cold sweat. No-one in his life before had dared to talk to him as his wife had done. No-one, except himself, had seen the man beneath the skin; but now his wife had seen him. She had called him a hypocrite, and he supposed she was right, he was a hypocrite, not only since he had begun to ease himself on Molly, but in the man he presented to outsiders, for this man had no connection with the one his wife was acquainted with in their personal life. He had used her roughly for years. But then that was his nature; it was ravenous for something he couldn’t attain. He would have respected her more if she had turned on him, refused to put up with his madness; but she had never protested, and so he had used her . . . Yet all the while, underneath her apparent calmness, she had known him, known him for what he was, for what he knew himself to be, a man with an insatiable appetite that was like a disease, a two-faced man, a hypocrite.
He rubbed his hand hard around his face. What was he to do, he was in a cleft stick? If he stopped attending church, what excuse would he give? Illness? No. Dissent? No, he was a firm Protestant. The thought came to him that perhaps by Sunday he would have reasoned with her. He turned it aside. He had not been mistaken in his early suspicions of a self in her that he had no access to. He’d had glimpses of it when they first married, but he had soon subjected her to his wishes and, consequently, he had imagined, stifled all life out of the wayward self. But now he knew that that self had remained very much alive. There were two women in his wife as there were two men in himself.
But dominant self, or no dominant self, she must not be allowed to get the upper hand, yet at the same time he must tread very warily, even gently, with her, until the child was born; once that was accomplished she could show to him whatever self she liked and he would deal with it.
He turned now and followed her, hurrying to catch up with her so that they could enter the farm together. He must put a bold front on things, keep appearances normal, because he knew that the whole incident, like a nine-days’ wonder, would blow over.
Two
McBain was more disturbed than he would admit to himself. The blowing over of the affair was going to take a stronger wind than he had anticipated. Something quite unprecedented had happened last night, Delia had refused him his bed; she had dared to refuse him his bed.
Sitting straight up against the pillows, a hand pressed tightly down on the bedclothes at each side of her, she had stared at him as she said, ‘No more, Mr McBain. If you insist on getting in I shall get out and take up my room across the landing. And I promise you I shan’t do it quietly. But you can save your face by going into another room; you might even convince people it is out of consideration for my condition, at least you can order them to accept such an explanation, what they might think privately is a different matter altogether.’
McBain knew himself to be a passionate man but
‘QUIET, WOMAN. How dare you!’
McBain’s thin pale face was almost purple with rage now but it was having no effect on his wife, for, looking at him, her eyes full of disdain, she said, ‘I dare, Mr McBain, at last after thirteen years I dare.’ And with this she passed him and walked with firm but heavy tread up the steps and on to the road.
McBain watched her, but he did not follow her; he stood now with closed eyes, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. There was running over his entire body a cold sweat. No-one in his life before had dared to talk to him as his wife had done. No-one, except himself, had seen the man beneath the skin; but now his wife had seen him. She had called him a hypocrite, and he supposed she was right, he was a hypocrite, not only since he had begun to ease himself on Molly, but in the man he presented to outsiders, for this man had no connection with the one his wife was acquainted with in their personal life. He had used her roughly for years. But then that was his nature; it was ravenous for something he couldn’t attain. He would have respected her more if she had turned on him, refused to put up with his madness; but she had never protested, and so he had used her . . . Yet all the while, underneath her apparent calmness, she had known him, known him for what he was, for what he knew himself to be, a man with an insatiable appetite that was like a disease, a two-faced man, a hypocrite.
He rubbed his hand hard around his face. What was he to do, he was in a cleft stick? If he stopped attending church, what excuse would he give? Illness? No. Dissent? No, he was a firm Protestant. The thought came to him that perhaps by Sunday he would have reasoned with her. He turned it aside. He had not been mistaken in his early suspicions of a self in her that he had no access to. He’d had glimpses of it when they first married, but he had soon subjected her to his wishes and, consequently, he had imagined, stifled all life out of the wayward self. But now he knew that that self had remained very much alive. There were two women in his wife as there were two men in himself.
But dominant self, or no dominant self, she must not be allowed to get the upper hand, yet at the same time he must tread very warily, even gently, with her, until the child was born; once that was accomplished she could show to him whatever self she liked and he would deal with it.
He turned now and followed her, hurrying to catch up with her so that they could enter the farm together. He must put a bold front on things, keep appearances normal, because he knew that the whole incident, like a nine-days’ wonder, would blow over.
Two
McBain was more disturbed than he would admit to himself. The blowing over of the affair was going to take a stronger wind than he had anticipated. Something quite unprecedented had happened last night, Delia had refused him his bed; she had dared to refuse him his bed.
Sitting straight up against the pillows, a hand pressed tightly down on the bedclothes at each side of her, she had stared at him as she said, ‘No more, Mr McBain. If you insist on getting in I shall get out and take up my room across the landing. And I promise you I shan’t do it quietly. But you can save your face by going into another room; you might even convince people it is out of consideration for my condition, at least you can order them to accept such an explanation, what they might think privately is a different matter altogether.’
McBain knew himself to be a passionate man but
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