Feathers in the Fire (13 page)

‘Aw now, now’ – Sep wagged his head – ‘that’s all over. As I said, five years is a long time, and she was little more than a bairn herself.’

‘By! lad—’ Davie grinned sardonically now, looked first at his grandfather, then at his father, then back to his grandfather again before he said, ‘We’ve changed our tune, haven’t we?’

‘Speak as you find.’ Ned’s voice was quiet. ‘Whatever harm she did she’s payin’ for it in the only way she knows how. She’s devoted to Miss Jane an’ works like a nigger to ease her plight.’

‘What plight? What’s happened to Miss Jane?’

‘Nothing’s happened to her except that she’s had to give every hour of her time, not only wakin’ but sleepin’, to the child. She’s brought him up, and for the first three years of his life she lived in the attic with him an’ hardly left it.’

Davie slowly moved his body forward and repeated, ‘The first three years she lived in the attic with him? Why in the attic?’

Now Ned and Sep exchanged fleeting glances, and it was Ned who in his terse way gave a rough description of the circumstances under which the child had been brought up, and when he had finished Davie sat straight in his chair and stared at his father. Then he said softly, ‘And you mean to say that neither of them, him nor her, ever speak to the child? You mean that all these years they’ve kept it up?’

‘Well’ – Ned reached out his hand and knocked the dottle from his pipe against the hob – ‘the mistress, she’s been more or less bedridden. It’s said she could slip away any time. Winnie believes that some mornin’ she’ll go in an’ find her gone. As for the master’s attitude, well, you know as much about the cause of that as any of us. He’s a changed man an’ I never thought I’d be able to say I pity him, but I do! In his eyes, he has neither wife nor child while havin’ both.’

‘Aren’t there any young heifers left round about?’

Ned lowered his head at this and remained silent, leaving it to Sep to say quietly, ‘As your da says, lad, the master’s a changed man. He’s got nowt left, not even God. Parson Hedley comes twice a week to tutor the boy, and has a word with him. But it’s got no effect, the only one that he has any use for is Miss Jane. The whole household seems to hang on the lass an’ I wonder meself how long her thin shoulders’ll be able to bear it. But now that the young master can get out and about things should be better for her.’

‘What’ll happen if she wants to get married, what’ll they do then?’

‘Oh! married?’ said Sep. ‘I can’t see Miss Jane marryin’, her whole life’s taken up with the child. You’d really think it was hers. An’ he won’t let her out of his sight. She’s mother, father, nurse, the lot to him. No, I can’t ever see Miss Jane marryin’.’

‘Well, well.’ Davie again pursed his lips. ‘What a prospect for a young lass. What does she look like?’

‘Oh’ – Sep put his head on one side as he smiled – ‘still plain some would say, an’ no figure to speak of, but she’s got somethin’. Hard to tell, hard to put a finger on, but she’s good for a crack, she’ll listen to you, she seems to want to listen to folks. If she hadn’t been handicapped with the child I think she might’ve blossomed into somethin’ fine. What I mean is, if she’d been able to mix with them of her own age, ’cos she’s got a sort of gaiety about her. It’s quiet, under the skin like, but she’s not without spirit. Oh no, she can take a firm hand with Master Amos. Sometimes when I’ve looked at her I’ve thought she’s just missed being bonny; but there, she’s a sensible young woman.’

Davie got to his feet and placed his pipe on the mantelpiece; then punching his grandfather gently on the side of the head he said, ‘God save me from sensible young women, Granda.’

As he went slowly towards the door Sep asked quietly, ‘What kind of women have you seen, lad?’ There was more to the question than the actual words conveyed, and he turned and laughed at them over his shoulder as he said, ‘I’ve three days afore I go back, I’ll give one of them up entirely to tellin’ you all about that, an’ likely at the end you’ll get the parson to me, aye. By the way, how are they? Has old Wainwright kicked the bucket yet?’

‘No, lad.’ Sep laughed. ‘But Peter Skillet was past here t’other day an’ he said the old codger can hardly stand on his pins. He said, when he was takin’ Alice Knowles’ burial service he wanted to say “Go careful, parson, else you’ll be lyin’ on top of her, then it’ll be a toss up whether to cover you up or pull you out”.’

Davie chuckled, then asked, ‘An’ Parson Hedley?’

‘Oh, he’s all right. Good man, Parson Hedley. But I’ll tell you something. You remember Clarke, Sam Clarke?’

‘Sam Clarke, the verger? Of course.’

‘Aye, cast-thy-bread-upon-the-water-Clarke, an’ the size of the bread he’d cast wouldn’t choke a sparrow. Well, an uncle in Australia died an’ left him a fortune.’

‘Go on.’

‘He did, it’s a fact. Ten thousand pounds they say.’

‘Whew!’ As Davie shook his head his father put in quietly, ‘He cast his bread an’ got a bakehouse back, full o’ dough.’

Davie had never heard his father crack a joke in his life, and this was a real good one. He lay against the door, his head back, his mouth wide, and bellowed, and they joined him.

It was good to be back.

After he had wiped his eyes he said to his father, ‘Don’t think I’ve heard better, Da, since I’ve been away,’ which compliment brought a slight flush to Ned’s face.

He now opened the door and stood looking out on to the roadway. The twilight was deepening rapidly, and a missel thrush, making a late journey up the road towards the copse, shrilled petulantly as it passed him. There came the sound of a single moo from the direction of the farm, and somewhere in the near hills a fox barked.

For five years he had dreamed of these sights and sounds, now they were his again, but for only three days. If things had been different and he had left this place in ordinary circumstances he would have gone this very minute to the master and said, ‘Have you a place for me, it doesn’t matter what?’

The feeling in him to remain was like pain, he longed to rest in the folds of the fells and to be invigorated in turn by climbing the hills; he wanted to struggle against the keen winds, and breathe in the same air that he had taken with his first breath, to come back in fact to where he belonged. But this he knew was an utter impossibility, so he would make the best of the time he had. He would put a face on things; he would preen himself in his new position, which wasn’t so bad after all was said and done for a raw farm lad to have achieved.

As he stood he saw a figure coming out of the farmyard gateway and into the road. He did not recognise it until it reached the bend of Will Curran’s cottage, and then it slowed and he saw the mass of auburn hair topping the woman now, not the girl. He watched her walk slowly towards her own door. Her eyes were on him, and his on her, but neither of them smiled at the other, and neither of them spoke. But she paused a moment before she disappeared from his sight, and in that moment he thought he saw what his grandfather meant by the change in her. But ah! he told himself, she’d still be the same Molly underneath, as he was still the same Davie. Leopards didn’t change their spots, and human beings didn’t change their natures, only their coverings.

He walked out of the door, crossed the road and jumped up on to the high grass verge, and so on to the fells, with the wish strong in him now that he had resisted the urge to come back. It had been a mistake, and one he would likely pay for in the months ahead.

Four

‘You must keep it out of my way, Jane.’

‘But, Father, that is impossible. And . . . and he isn’t an IT, Father, he’s a child. And . . . and don’t you realise, won’t you realise, he’s a very intelligent child. Parson Hed . . . ’

‘JANE!’ He turned from her, his hand on his brow, his eyes closed, ‘I’m not going to go through this again. Do you want to make me angry, really angry?’ He swung around and faced her. There were two high spots of colour on his thin cheekbones and his grey eyes held a light that glowed under their dullness, like the setting sun reflecting on ice on a dirty pond, and he growled at her under his breath, ‘If you persist in letting him get under my feet’ – the anomaly didn’t apparently strike him – ‘I will have him sent away; yes, yes, I warn you . . . ’

Jane stared up into the distressed face. She understood his attitude, she was full of pity for him, but nevertheless his words had made her turn pale, and as she often did when afraid she now showed courage, for she said, ‘Father, if you were to do that I would leave with him. I would take up a position of some sort as near to him as possible, and not even mother’s predicament would keep me here, nor the fact that I’m still under your jurisdiction. Only by force, Father, would you keep me if you sent him away.’

She did not know what reaction her words would evoke but she did not expect him to sit down suddenly in his chair and drop his head into his hands.

His acceptance of defeat brought the tears to her eyes and she went swiftly to him and put her hand gently on his shoulder, saying softly, ‘I, I will do my best to curb him, I promise you. But . . . but if only you could bear to tolerate him, just speak a word to him now and again, you would, I am sure, get to . . . ’

He raised his head and looked into her face and said quietly, ‘Too late, Jane, five years too late. I grant you he’s intelligent, intelligent enough to know that I have rejected him, and still reject him, for I cannot do otherwise, so put out of your mind any idea of a reconciliation.’

Her heart was sore for him. Slowly she bent her head and kissed his cheek. It was the first time she had done this since she was a small child; and she was saddened further when the close proximity to him brought to her the strong smell of whisky. It was but eleven o’clock in the morning and he had begun already. She had thought he kept his drinking solely for the late hours.

She went out and up the stairs to her room. It wasn’t often she could sit alone, but now she gave herself a few minutes’ respite. Amos was in good hands at the moment; Winnie had taken him across to the cottage to see Davie. Davie had come home. She had never seen Winnie so happy for years. She must go across and give him a welcome, but for the moment she would just sit here; she felt tired, weary, not only in her mind but in her body. She’d already had a tussle with Amos before eight o’clock this morning.

She had overslept and had woken to see him going through the door dressed for outside. When she tried to prevent him from going down the stairs he had fought her like a young wild animal. But though she managed to keep him quiet until she was dressed, once outside he had raced about the yard like a dog off a chain.

When he would not return upstairs to have his meal but wanted it in the kitchen, it was then she made the mistake of saying, ‘We don’t eat in the kitchen, we eat in the dining room.’

Oh! then he would have his meal in the dining room.

There had been more explaining, more argument. His powers of reasoning were, in a way, beginning to frighten her. He could detect subterfuge better than an adult; moreover, she had known long before yesterday, when he had nipped Parson Hedley’s ear, that he could be loving one moment and vicious the next. The latter trait she put down to frustration, for, with his temperament, restriction must be a form of torment.

Sadly, wistfully, she thought again that if only her father would countenance the child’s presence in the house, life would be so much simpler, in fact it would be wonderful. It did not matter so much her mother ignoring his presence for they need never meet.

The thought of her mother reminded her that she had been without Winnie for the past half-hour, so she must go and visit her. She rose slowly and went out and across the wide landing to her mother’s door and knocked, as always, before she entered the room. To her great surprise she found that Delia was out of bed, actually sitting in a chair by the window and she ran to her, crying, ‘Oh! Mother. You feel so much better?’

‘Yes, dear. I, I thought that . . . that before the winter comes I may get downstairs and go out in the fresh air.’

Jane stared down into the faded blue eyes, the thin worn face, and she said softly, ‘That would be wonderful, wonderful. Shall I help you dress now?’

‘No, dear, not today, I will just sit here. I . . . I can see the gate from here. I saw Winnie; she . . . she had the child with her.’ Delia turned and looked at her daughter and, putting out her hand, that was like a bony claw now, she clutched Jane’s and with a break in her voice said, ‘I . . . I have made a grave error in . . . in shutting him out. It was wrong of me, very wrong. I . . . I must try to make amends.’

‘Oh! Mother, Mother.’ The tears slid slowly down Jane’s face; she gathered the two hands to her, and holding them tightly against her breast she said, ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, wonderful. He’s so bright, clever, he could grow up to be anything he chose. Parson Hedley says that he has great hopes for him.’ And now she bent forward and kissed her mother on the cheek, and she had not done this, either, for many years . . .

For a moment, Delia stroked her hair, then, her attention drawn to the window, she looked out and towards a small figure toddling across the yard below, and she said quite calmly, ‘Molly’s child is quite pretty, don’t you think?’

Jane gave no answer to this, she was too overcome at the turn of events, she just watched Biddy toddling in the direction of the cowshed. Before she reached it, however, her father emerged. The child looked up at him, but he paid no attention to her, he ignored her as he would have done Amos.

Jane looked at her mother. She was staring down into the yard following her husband’s progress. Her gaze still on him, she said quietly, ‘He’s getting old.’

There was such a deep note of satisfaction in the remark that again hope and joy was dimmed in Jane; whatever reconciliation would take place between her mother and the child there could never be any hope of such happening between her parents. Beneath her mother’s fragile exterior she sensed an ever-growing hatred of her husband. She turned away and went out without saying anything further . . .

Down in the kitchen, Molly was busy cooking the dinner. Besides the housework and the dairy she now did most of the cooking, but the long hours and hard work seemed to have little effect on her, she was strong and straight-backed. She turned from the table where she was dressing a bird, saying, ‘Eeh! Miss Jane, I think you’re goin’ to find these partridges as tough as your boots. This lot must’ve dodged the gun for the last ten years, they’ll be stringy. Still, there’s some saddle o’ mutton left, an’ I’ve made a plum puddin’, you can fill up with that.’

She drew the inside out of the bird as she said, ‘You could do with a bit of fish, we’ve never had any for over a week. Our Johnny’s goin’ eeling the night. Now if he gets any, I’ll collar one and that will be a bit of a change for the morrow, start the first course off . . . ’

‘Yes, that will be nice, Molly.’ For a moment she stood watching her larding the birds, then she said, ‘I’ve often wanted to cook. Perhaps now Master Amos can get about on his own I’ll have more time; you’ll have to show me.’

‘No, not me, Miss, you’ll have to get Winnie to do that. Winnie’s a grand cook; given the time she can turn out anythin’.’

‘Yes, given the time,’ she repeated sadly; then on a brighter note she asked, ‘By the way, you know that Davie’s back?’

Molly did not look up from what she was doing, and she did not speak immediately, and when she did her tone was noncommittal. ‘Yes, Miss,’ she said; ‘yes, I know he’s back.’

Jane went out thinking that perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned the fact that Davie Armstrong had returned. Yet why not, it wasn’t a thing you could hide. It was a pity though he had gone away in the first place, for in spite of everything, he and Molly would likely have been married by now.

Again she commented to herself how strange it was that her feelings towards Molly were utterly devoid of animosity; she would like very much to see her happy with a man who could be a father to Biddy, a real father.

It was rarely she thought of the relationship between Molly’s child and herself, and when she did she could not take in the fact that they were half-sisters.

She walked out of the gate and down the road towards the Armstrongs’ cottage, and long before she reached it she heard Amos’ high squeals of glee.

The cottage door was open and she stood unobserved for a few minutes watching the blue-clad sailor, whom she hardly recognised, holding Amos up by one hand towards the beam that spanned the width of the stairs about a foot below the ceiling. There was a similar beam at the head of the stairs in the farmhouse; each acted as a span between the stout oak pillars to which the balustrade was attached. A fox’s skin was nailed across the beam in the house. She stood breathless now as she saw Amos swinging from the beam without any support.

Davie Armstrong had withdrawn his hand and with his head back he was laughing up at the child, crying, ‘Go on, move along it, hand over hand like I showed you.’ And Amos followed his instructions. Six times he moved one hand in front of the other and swung himself along the beam. Then she put her hands swiftly to her mouth when, pulling himself upwards with the strength of his arms alone, he squeezed between the beam and the ceiling and, his head hanging over the side, he laughed down at them, until Winnie said, ‘Come on, come on, that’s enough.’

‘No, no, I am not coming down.’

‘Time’s up, lower away.’ She watched Davie Armstrong put up his hands towards the boy, but Amos just laughed at him and defied him.

She was about to enter the room when Davie ran up the stairs, then turned and stepped on to the banister. One hand outstretched supporting himself against the staircase wall, he leaned forward and gripped the back of Amos’ coat and with a swift tug he pulled him from the beam and held him dangling in mid-air; then jumping down on to the stairs he hoisted him on to his shoulder. When he came to the foot of the stairs he stopped as he saw Jane standing in the doorway.

Amos also catching sight of her shouted, ‘Jane! Jane! Look. See what I can do. Push me up again.’ He bent forward and looked into Davie’s face, and Davie saying, ‘Enough is enough, young man,’ lowered him to the floor.

‘Hello, Davie. I’m glad to see you back home.’

He took her outstretched hand and shook it twice before he said, ‘Thank you, Miss Jane; I’m glad to be back. I’m only sorry me stay will be short.’

They looked at each other smiling, and she thought, ‘He’s changed so, bigger, broader, and he’s very self-assured.’ The second cowman was gone, there was no remnant left of the young man who had comforted her in the straw of the malt house, then put his hand over her mouth to stop her crying aloud at what she was seeing and hearing; nor yet of the young man white with anger who, in the dead of night, had put Amos into her care. She noted that he wasn’t dressed like the common seamen. She knew how these dressed, she had picture books of them, and Winnie had already told her of his promotion, and more to follow. First mate he’d be soon, she had said, and then, who knew, captain. And she didn’t doubt that Winnie was right. Davie Armstrong had grown into a man, a determined looking man.

‘How are you, Miss Jane?’

‘Very well, thank you, Davie.’

He considered she had a nice voice, not la-di-da or anything like that, and it had a lilt to it. He remembered that she had always spoken nicely, due to Parson Hedley’s coaching no doubt; and her face – his granda had said she was plain, well he wouldn’t have said that, not really, not when she smiled, she had a right bonny pair of eyes on her; she was on the thin side, but then she was young, she would fill out. She hadn’t changed all that much; he could like Miss Jane, the young lady, as much as he had liked Miss Jane, the young girl.

‘You’ve got a handful here.’ He nodded down at the boy, who was now standing between them looking up first at one and then the other.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so, Davie.’

‘He’s a bright spark.’

‘He’s a naughty boy at times.’ She looked down in mock sternness on the boy where he was now supporting himself by gripping Davie’s thigh, and Amos, his head back gazing up at Davie, said, ‘Will you stay here? I want you to stay here.’

‘Well now.’ Davie nodded at Jane. ‘Tell me, is that an order or merely a request from the captain? Oh, I’m forgettin’, captains never make requests, they just give orders. But I’m afraid, Captain’ – he saluted the boy now – ‘I’ll have to disobey your command. It’s mutiny I know, farmhouse mutiny on the high fells, but it’s off to sea I’m going the day after the morrow.’

Sep laughed, and Winnie laughed, and Jane laughed, but the boy didn’t; what he said was, ‘You’re making fun of me.’

Davie looked down at the boy, who was a small child one minute, allowing himself to be hoisted up to the ceiling, but the next refusing to be treated as such. He was disconcerting. That word fitted here, he thought. It was his captain’s nickname; Disconcertin’ Surtees, they called him, for the only response that disaster, from minor to mortal, provoked in him was the term, ‘It’s bloody disconcerting.’ And so was this youngster’s attitude. He was an old child, and it was odd when he came to think about it but whatever he turned out to be, he, in a way, would be responsible for it. In himself he was still convinced that had he not appeared on the scene Molly would have done the job she had been ordered to do.

‘Come along now, Amos; you mustn’t be a nuisance.’ Jane caught hold of the boy’s hand but he thrust her aside and clung on to Davie’s leg as he looked up and pleaded, ‘Will you play with me?’