A Dinner Of Herbs (17 page)

face and,

shaking his head, said, “ I wonder if he ever thought when he started that fight last

Saturday night in the

market he’d finish up back here. “

“Seems to me,” said the other man, ‘that for him it ended up over at Langley. By! they must have gone

at it. Well, I’m away. See you in the mornin’. “

The man walked from the room, leaving the other man to draw up a chair towards a small table which,

except for the iron bed, was the only other article of furniture in the room. And after making himself as

comfortable as he could in the chair, he lifted his feet and rested them on the edge of the table. Then

taking a clay pipe and a pouch from his pocket, he took from the pouch a plug of tobacco which he

shredded and packed into the pipe, and bending sideways, he picked up a stick from the hearth and,

stretching out, stuck it into the small fire to the side of him. When it had caught alight, he brought it to his

pipe, sucked on the stem, and threw the stick back into the grate.

And now leaning his head back against the high back of the chair, he sat staring at the prone figure on

the bed.

There would be no more visitors today, either official or unofficial.

He was on duty until six o’clock in the morning and it was up to him to make the best of it. If the fellow

remained as he was he himself could have a good sleep;

perhaps when he woke up the other would be gone to the place from which there was no

return. And

to his mind, it would be the best thing for him, because although he mightn’t swing, it was a long term that

was facing him, or transportation.

Within half an hour he was sound asleep and snoring loudly.

It was around midnight when Roddy once again fought the blackness in an endeavour to

come to the

surface. His father was with him, he had him by the hand and he was telling him a story, but he didn’t

know what the story was about because his father kept coming and going, only his hand

remained

clutching his, and always outstretched pulling him upwards. He knew he was sad inside

because he was

going to lose his da, and he knew if he left loose of his hand he’d be gone from him and sail away in his

ship and not come back for a long time. And there was the old woman, she was walking

behind him,

close, too close, pushing him upwards, and he wanted to go upwards. Yet there was the

man with the

beard and the cold eyes, and the man was holding him over a big hole and in the hole was another man

and he was fast asleep.

Then his da cried out and left hold of his hand. And he was now being smothered by

another hand,

which wasn’t a hand; it was something, but it wasn’t a hand. And because of the weird

feeling created

by this thing across his mouth, he screamed, he screamed at the top of his voice: he

opened his mouth

and screamed, yet the sound remained in his head; and he kept screaming as he saw his

da jump into the

air as if he was a bird, he saw him flying. And once again he was looking into the eyes of the man with the

beard and the man’s face swelled and swelled until it covered everything, all the dark land, and the big

hole where they watched the moon shining on the water.

But his da had hold of his hand again and he was pulling him up through the layers and layers of

smothering, choking blackness. And when his head at last burst through it he saw the

man again. He

was standing under the arch and there, near him, stood a woman, and the man was talking to him,

threatening him. He took his fist and struck out at the man, blow after blow. Yet the only actual

movement he made was that of his fingers on top of the rough blanket that covered him.

But his voice came out of his mouth, and he could hear it. He called for his father:

“Da! Da! Tis him, Da. Tis him!” And his voice becoming stronger, he called again, “Da!

Da! I know

him, an’ tother.

“Tis him!

“Tis him!

Don’t go. Da. Stay with me. I tell you, ‘tis him.

“Tis him!”

“Oh my God!” The man in the chair roused himself.

“Going to be a night like that, is it?” And he lowered his feet from the table and stumbled towards the

bed and, bending over the prisoner, he said, “Now, now.

What is it? What is it?

The da. “

“Aye, lad, aye lad, you’ll soon see your da.”

There was silence for a time. The man on the bed lay quiet and the warder bent over him and stared

down at him. The light from the candle lamp on the table seemed, he thought, to be

playing tricks with

him, so he turned and, picking it up, held it above his charge who was now looking at

him with eyes that

had a good semblance of life in them and the voice that came in a small whisper

supported this:

“Where am I?” it said.

“Well, man, you’re in bed.” The warder’s voice was kindly.

“Why?” The whisper came again.

“Oh, it’s a long story, lad. How you feelin’?”

“Bad.”

“Aye, well, yes, you’re bound to.”

“Where am I?”

“In bed, lad. Now just you rest. Would you like a drink of water?”

Roddy made no reply, and the man, returning to the table, picked up a jug and poured

some water into

a mug. Taking it to the bed, he raised his prisoner’s head gently and let him sip at the water, saying as he

did so, “Well, that looks promising, although if it’s for the good I wouldn’t know. Still, it doesn’t look as

if you’re goin’ to kick the bucket this time.” When he let the head drop back on the

pillow he added,

“There now, I’d go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning, I’ve no doubt.”

Roddy lay looking up at the man. His mind was in a whirl. He was sure he had been with his da just a

minute ago before . before he was thrown over the cliff. Oh, God! God! God! Yes, that’s what had

happened. His da had been thrown over the cliff and they’d thrown him an’ all. And the man in the

grave, the man they were burying.

Bannaman. Yes, Bannaman, and the other little fellow with just a finger and thumb. That was the man,

Feeler, Patrick Feeler, Bannaman’s woodman. Oh, God! God! He was remembering.

Kate! Kate!

he tried to rise: he must tell Kate; she’d have to go to the justice.

“Now, now, calm down. You were all right a minute ago. Go to sleep now.”

“I... I want to see Kate.”

“Kate? Is she the old ‘un, like your mother?”

“Yes, aye.”

“Well, she’s been here every day since they brought you in. She’ll likely be here the

morrow. Now go

to sleep and you’ll be more fit to talk to her.”

He lay, unaware of pain, unaware that his body was bruised from head to foot, unaware

of the situation

he was in; he knew only that he was remembering and that the past was clearer than the present and that

what he had to reveal would explode the countryside. He must keep awake and think,

think it all out.

Yet even as he told himself this, his mind seemed to leave him and he sank back into

sleep.

He was brought to himself again through experiencing sharp pain, intense enough to

make him cry out.

He was being rolled onto his side by the doctor and the warder so that the bruises and lacerations on his

back could be attended to. He was sufficiently aware of things to note that the sun was well up and that

the warder had been changed, and to ask the doctor how he could have come by his

injuries.

“That’s good, that is. What d’you say, doctor?” the warder immediately remarked.

And so he tried to tell the doctor what was in his mind. But, nodding, the doctor said soothingly, “Yes,

yes,. Well, you can tell all that later to the justices,” and he glanced at the warder, tapping his forehead

to indicate to him that the man was suffering from mental strain, as he went out.

“Why?” The whisper came again.

“Oh, it’s a long story, lad. How you feelin’?”

“Bad.”

“Aye, well, yes, you’re bound to.”

“Where am I?”

“In bed, lad. Now just you rest. Would you like a drink of water?”

Roddy made no reply, and the man, returning to the table, picked up a jug and poured

some water into

a mug. Taking it to the bed, he raised his prisoner’s head gently and let him sip at the water, saying as he

did so, “Well, that looks promising, although if it’s for the good I wouldn’t know. Still, it doesn’t look as

if you’re goin’ to kick the bucket this time.” When he let the head drop back on the

pillow he added,

“There now, I’d go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning, I’ve no doubt.”

Roddy lay looking up at the man. His mind was in a whirl. He was sure he had been with his da just a

minute ago before . before he was thrown over the cliff. Oh, God! God! God! Yes, that’s what had

happened. His da had been thrown over the cliff and they’d thrown him an’ all. And the man in the

grave, the man they were burying.

Bannaman. Yes, Bannaman, and the other little fellow with just a finger and thumb. That was the man.

Feeler, Patrick Feeler, Bannaman’s woodman. Oh, God! God! He was remembering.

Kate! Kate!

he tried to rise: he must tell Kate; she’d have to go to the justice.

“Now, now, calm down. You were all right a minute ago. Go to sleep now.”

“I... I want to see Kate.”

“Kate? Is she the old ‘un, like your mother?”

“Yes, aye.”

“Well, she’s been here every day since they brought you in. She’ll likely be here the

morrow. Now go

to sleep and you’ll be more fit to talk to her.”

He lay, unaware of pain, unaware that his body was bruised from head to foot, unaware

of the situation

he was in; he knew only that he was remembering and that the past was clearer than the present and that

what he had to reveal would explode the countryside. He must keep awake and think,

think it all out.

Yet even as he told himself this, his mind seemed to leave him and he sank back into

sleep.

He was brought to himself again through experiencing sharp pain, intense enough to

make him cry out.

He was being rolled onto his side by the doctor and the warder so that the bruises and lacerations on his

back could be attended to. He was sufficiently aware of things to note that the sun was well up and that

the warder had been changed, and to ask the doctor how he could have come by his

injuries.

“That’s good, that is. What d’you say, doctor?” the warder immediately remarked.

And so he tried to tell the doctor what was in his mind. But, nodding, the doctor said soothingly, “Yes,

yes,. Well, you can tell all that later to the justices,” and he glanced at the warder, tapping his forehead

to indicate to him that the man was suffering from mental strain, as he went out.

“You’re a silly girl... and ungrateful an’ all.”

“Oh, Mrs. Davison, I’m not, I’m not. And I’ll work late at night an’ get up an hour

earlier; I’ll be in the

dairy at four.”

“I don’t want you in the dairy at four. Do you think we can order the cows to change their time of

milking

“Well, I could get it cleaned up....”

“It’s got to be cleaned up, as you know, after the day’s work.”

“I’ve got to go, Mrs. Davison. I’m sorry, yes I am, but I’ve got to go and see him.”

“You went three times into Hexham last week, and now it’s Newcastle you’re aiming for.

My

goodness, girl! Apart from everything else, do you know what you’re up to, goin’ into

Newcastle on

your own?”

“It’s in the daylight, Mrs. Davison.”

“Daylight or dark, there are a lot of rogues there. I’ve only been in there twice in me life and never

again. They overcharge you, pester you. But anyway, what am I talkin’ about? I’m talkin’

about you

wastin’ time, girl, takin’ advantage.”

“Oh, Mrs. Davison, I’m not, I’m not. I’m ever so grateful for all you’ve done, always.

But he’s got

nobody, an’ Kate can’t go, not all the way. She managed it to Hexham but she could

never stand the

coach to Newcastle; it would shake her to bits. And she’s dyin’ to know what’s

happening’ to him,

what they’re goin’ to do.”

“Everbody knows fine well what they’re goin’ to do with him. Got too big for his boots, he did. He

should have been content to work at the smelt mill, but no, he had to take up something fancy like

drawing; and then to drink and fight.”

Mary Ellen now reared up.

“He doesn’t drink,” she said in a loud voice, and it became louder as she went on.

“Not that kind of drink, a little ale, but he’s never been drunk. And I know what he and Hal were

fighting about in Hexham, ‘cos Hal told me when I saw him last. But he swears they

weren’t fighting up

on the hill, he says they were attacked. He says he had told Roddy he was sorry ‘cos it was something

he had said that started the fight.”

“And what was that?”

“Tisn’t my business, Mrs. Davison; I can’t say.”

“Well, well.” The little woman flounced round, grabbed up a coarse square from the

brass rod, lifted up

the iron latch of the oven door, pulled out a big brown earthenware dish, and taking it to the table, she

banged it down, and when the lid jerked and the liquid spurted onto the table and onto her hands, she

cried out, “See what you’ve done! I’m burnin’ me self now. That’s never happened afore.

Go on, get

you out of my sight. And if you’re not back here in this house by four this afternoon, don’t come back at