A Nurse's Duty (49 page)

Nick was standing in the doorway with a hayfork in his hand. His face was a bright, angry red, eyes suffused with hatred as he glared at Dave. Alarm galvanized Karen into action.

‘No! Nick, no!’

Karen flung herself at him and caught hold of his good arm. Earnestly she stared into his face, willing him to look at her, keeping herself between him and Dave.

‘It’s all right, Nick, it’s all right. Look, he hasn’t hurt me. Nick, come on now, we’ll go outside, eh?’

She tugged at the hay fork in his hand and after an agonizing moment he looked down at her and his resistance melted and his grip slackened. The wild look left his eyes and he merely looked bewildered.

‘Karen?’

‘Yes, Nick. Howay now, we’ll go outside, get some fresh air.’

He allowed her to lead him out to the yard and across to the stable where she propped the fork against the wall.

‘Come on, Nick,’ she forced herself to say briskly. ‘There’s work to be done. Will you feed the hens for me?’

‘But missus …’

‘No, really, Nick, I do want you to get on with the work and I’ll have to get back to the bairns. You’ll do it for me then?’

He looked doubtfully at her and back to the scullery door.

‘There’s him, though,’ he said uncertainly.

‘No, he’s going now. Listen, there’s the motor bike starting up,’ said Karen. And it was. From round the corner came the ‘thrum, thrum’ of the engine.

Nick nodded, his face clearing. Thankfully Karen hurried back to the house. Jennie could be heard crying fretfully from the bedroom.

‘Mammy! Mammy!’

Karen rushed into the kitchen and if it hadn’t been for his dirty plate and mug she would have thought it had all been a nasty nightmare and Dave had never been. She hurried upstairs to comfort her daughter.

‘There now, flower. The kitchen’s warm now, we’ll go down and you can dress by the fire. Come on, Brian, you too.’ She took the little girl in her arms and hugged her.

It was only when she was back by the fire pulling on Jennie’s dress that she happened to glance up at the wall-clock to check
the
time. Or rather she glanced at the bare patch on the wall where the clock had hung for so long.

Dave must have taken it, she realized in shock. But how had he managed to take such a bulky thing on the motor bike? A thought struck her. Had he taken anything else? She put Jennie aside for a moment and reached up to the mantel shelf for the ornament where she kept her savings. There had been eleven pounds there. Not a lot really, but it represented the hard work and thrift of the last few months. And it was gone.

Chapter Thirty-One

PATRICK SAT IN
the bar of the Quarryman’s Arms, a glass of whiskey on the table before him. He shifted uncomfortably. He was still in his working clothes and the warmth from the fire in the bar combined with the dust embedded in his trousers and made them sticky. He gazed morosely at the whiskey before him. Threepence it had cost and already he was feeling guilty about it. They could ill afford the money. Lifting the glass, he took a tiny swallow and the liquid burnt a fiery path over his tongue and throat. Ah, he thought, placing the glass carefully back on the table, but it warmed the belly too. A man was entitled to something after a hard day’s work.

‘Good evening, Patrick.’

He looked up from his contemplation of the glass of whiskey as the door opened and Sean came in.

‘Sean!’ he said, pleasure lighting his face. ‘It’s good to see you. What brings you up here?’

‘I came to see you, Patrick.’

‘But how did you know I’d be here?’ he asked, mystified.

‘No mystery really, I saw you come in. I was visiting in Wolsingham and thought I’d come up here and try to see you. And as I got off the bus, there you were. Will you be having another drink now, Patrick?’

He half-rose from his seat. ‘Let me get them,’ he began, fingering the change in his pocket and wondering if he had enough.

‘No, I will,’ said Sean quickly, and Patrick was glad to let him.

He turned to the barman who was taking a great interest in the
two
Irishmen. Patrick he had seen before but the parson was new to him. The only other man in the pub was a quarryman, sitting in the corner and morosely drinking ale.

Sean came back to the table with the whiskies and sat down opposite Patrick.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘however you found me, it’s great to see you, so it is. We can talk of old times at Maynooth, it’s just what I’m needing. My workmates are all right, but I haven’t much in common with them. And you look grand, Sean. You’ll have to excuse me, sitting here in my dirt like this. I’ve just come away from my work.’

‘I know, I heard you were working on the roads.’ Sean lifted his glass. ‘Good health to you, Patrick.’

‘And you, Sean,’ he echoed.

Sean looked his friend over keenly. He hadn’t seen him for a while and concern showed in his eyes. Patrick moved uncomfortably, pulling his scarred and work-roughened hands down on to his lap. He was acutely conscious of his dirt-encrusted clothes and the smell of coal tar and sweat which clung to him.

‘What are you doing to yourself?’ Sean asked softly. ‘You, with your brain and education. For the love of God, man, why are you doing this heavy labouring work?’

‘We have to live,’ said Patrick. ‘How else can we manage if I don’t work?’

‘But you look terrible, man, ten years older than you are. If you can’t earn enough with the farm, why don’t you get work in the towns? An educated man like you, surely you could find something – office work or something?’

Patrick drained his first glass and picked up the second. He didn’t answer Sean, how could he? How could he tell him that the reason he was so poverty-stricken was because they had been blackmailed by Karen’s real husband? All the pleasure which he had felt when Sean came into the bar evaporated. They couldn’t
talk
naturally, he thought, they were too far apart now. Draining the glass, he rose to his feet.

‘I have to get back, Karen will be waiting supper.’

‘But Patrick –’

Sean too stood and put a hand on Patrick’s arm. He looked down at it. The skin was white and soft and the nails well cared for. Against his grimy sleeve it pointed up the difference between them, the gap which was growing wider.

‘I have to go,’ he said.

‘I’ll see you again,’ said Sean. ‘I can come over more often. We can meet in Wolsingham.’ He followed Patrick out of the bar.

‘Funny blokes,’ said the barman to the quarryman as he set a pint of ale before him. ‘Irish, I think.’

‘Aye,’ agreed the quarryman.

‘Patrick,’ Sean said earnestly, ‘listen to me, man. I’ve left you alone all these years, thinking you would come to your senses. Look, I’m not here as a representative of the Church, I’m here as a friend, Patrick. Someone has to make you see –’

‘I’m going now, Sean,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the pony and trap, can I take you anywhere?’

He walked over the road to where Polly, still in the traces of the cart, was grazing the sparse January grass on the verge.

‘No, I can catch the bus, I’m dining at Wolsingham tonight,’ Sean answered, defeated. ‘You get along home now, you look ready for your bed.’

Patrick held out his hand to his friend. ‘It was good of you to come, Sean.’ Then he climbed up on to the cart and took the reins.

‘I’ll see you soon then,’ called Sean as Patrick turned the pony round and headed for the road up to Low Rigg Farm. He turned up his collar against the bitter January wind and sank his chin into his muffler. He felt tired to death and the whiskey in his stomach burned, making him hiccup and the taste in his mouth was sour.

*

All day long, Karen had thought about how she was going to tell Patrick that Dave had returned. She felt utterly defeated, sure that there was no hope for the future. There was only poverty and worry for her and Patrick and the children. Even Nick was suffering.

She considered the effect that Dave was having on Nick. His carefully balanced peace of mind, so hard won during these years with them after the disastrous effects of the war, was disintegrating before her eyes. She didn’t know what to do for him, couldn’t send him away. If he left the farm he would crack up altogether. But if he stayed at Low Rigg Farm and there was more trouble with Dave, he would crack up also.

Restlessly, she walked out to the gate of the farmyard, and looked over to the home pasture where Nick was spreading hay for the pregnant ewes. He saw her coming and straightened up to see what she wanted and she saw his facial twitch was getting worse. He held a bundle of hay in his good hand, balancing it with the stump of his forearm which was wrapped in grimy rags against the cold.

‘Are you wanting something, missus?’

‘No, no, Nick, I just thought I’d see if you needed any help,’ she said lamely.

‘Nay, I’m about finished,’ he answered.

She nodded, forcing herself to smile as though everything was normal and walked back to the gate. Pausing at the rowan tree, she suddenly thought of the old rhyme:

Rowan tree and red thread
,

Put the witches to their speed
.

She put a hand out to the trunk of the tree and looked up into the bare, windswept branches. If only it were true, she thought, she’d cover the tree in red thread. For if ever there was an evil witch, it
was
David Mitchell, a true son of Satan. Sighing, she walked back indoors.

Karen gave the children their meal and put them to bed. It was a while before she got them settled for Jennie was still a little feverish and fretful, but at last she was able to come downstairs where Nick had just come in from the pasture.

‘Patrick not back yet?’ she asked, and Nick shook his head.

‘Something must have kept him,’ she said, and began to set the table for the evening meal.

How was she going to tell him? she wondered. Her mind revolved round and round the problem of Dave, fruitlessly, for she could see no solution. Every time she looked up her eyes were drawn to the bare patch on the wall where the clock had hung. It was so glaring.

Patrick came in and Karen dished out the food, not even noticing the smell of the whiskey on his breath. Though he was even quieter than usual and looked drawn and tired, he was hungry and paid attention only to the food. She watched him, hardly touching her own and Nick only picked at his.

At last Patrick pushed back his plate and relaxed in his chair.

‘That was good, Karen, I was ready for it,’ he said. For the first time he looked at her properly and his tone changed.

‘What’s the matter?’ As he looked at her his attention was drawn to the bare patch on the wall and he sat up straight with surprise.

‘Where’s the clock?’

‘Dave came,’ said Karen, but she was unable to go on. Across the table, Nick put down his knife and fork with a clatter and stared at his plate. Suddenly he pushed back his chair so that it fell over backwards and rushed for the stairs.

‘I’m going to bed,’ he said, and fled.

‘Nick!’

Karen’s concern for him overcame her need to tell Patrick.
She
berated herself for being so thoughtless as to bring up the subject of Dave’s visit in front of Nick. She went to the bottom of the stairs but he was already closing his bedroom door.

‘Tell me what has happened, Karen, tell me,’ said Patrick, catching hold of her arm. ‘What happened when Dave came?’

‘Oh, Patrick, he’s not going to leave us alone,’ she said, allowing herself to be drawn back into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what to do. He took the clock of all things and the money out of the ornament.

He’s going to leave us with nothing at all. And then there’s Nick … It’s not fair on him, all this trouble, it’ll send him over the edge. None of this is his fault but he’s so upset about it, I’m frightened for him.’

‘I’ll go up to him,’ decided Patrick. ‘I’ll talk to him, tell him not to worry. Dave can’t really hurt us.’

If only that were true, Karen thought miserably after Patrick went into Nick’s bedroom. Please God, she prayed silently. Please make Dave leave us alone. Let him be satisfied with what he’s had from us, make him go away to Canada.

Patrick was still in with Nick. She couldn’t hear anything from the bedroom, even when she went upstairs to check on the children. They were both sleeping but restlessly, as though they knew something was wrong. The strained atmosphere was affecting them all, she thought. Oh God, let this nightmare end.

Karen filled the kettle and settled it on the glowing coals. When it boiled she filled the stone hot water bottles and took them upstairs and put them in the big bed in their room. She considered filling one for Nick and using that as an excuse to interrupt the men, find out what Patrick was saying to him, but in the end she changed her mind.

At last she heard a bedroom door open and close upstairs and Patrick came down. Anxiously, she looked up at him.

‘He’s all right, Karen,’ was all he said. ‘Now, let’s away to our bed, I have to be up at five in the morning.’

She wanted to protest, to know all that Patrick had said to Nick, but she held her tongue. Wearily, she followed him up to bed and when he turned away from her after a chaste peck on the cheek, she thought nothing of it. Exhausted, she fell asleep immediately she put her head on the pillow.

The weather closed in and for a month there was snow almost every day, accompanied by high winds which formed it into mountainous drifts which blocked the lane and obscured the normal landmarks of the fell. Work on the roads was put off until spring and the family at Low Rigg Farm had to live on what they had. Karen was by now well used to this happening, so she had a good store of flour and pulses in, besides a side of bacon from the Christmas killed pig. The eggs were few at this time of year and the butter sparse since the remaining cow had dried up, but they eked out what remained with pork fat.

At least it meant that Dave couldn’t come to harass them, Karen thought thankfully. The snow had been an answer to her prayers.

The work was still hard, even though Patrick was home and could do his share. To venture out even into the yard entailed wrapping up as warmly as possible against the bitter wind which flung particles of ice and snow into their faces as soon as the door was opened. Patrick and Nick took to wearing large woollen scarves over their caps and tied round their necks, and Karen made Nick a sheepskin cover for his stump which tied securely around the upper arm and kept the forearm snug and safe from frostbite.