Feathers in the Fire (19 page)

Four

‘What is it?’ Winnie looked at Molly as she came slowly into the kitchen. ‘Is he worse?’

‘Aye, I should think so. He’s agitated, got somethin’ on his mind.’

‘Well, that’s natural,’ said Winnie. ‘It’s likely that Miss Reed. Did Miss Jane tell him she’d called?’

‘Not when I was in she didn’t.’

‘I’ll take this broth up.’ Winnie went to pick up a tray from the table, adding, ‘Then I’ll slip along the road for half an hour and get them something. Davie says he can manage, an’ I dare say he could with a galley concoction.’

‘Well, leave it down, I’ll see to it. I’ve got to go up again anyway.’

‘You sure, lass?’

‘Yes, yes. Get yourself away. An’ you needn’t rush, ’cos the dinner here’s all ready. Not that anybody’ll eat it.’

‘I know one will.’ Winnie’s voice was low, and when Molly didn’t answer but stood gazing down at the steam rising from the broth, she went on, ‘I know he hasn’t been treated fair but he’s struttin’ around like a stumped peacock, as if he was already the master . . . ’ Winnie stopped and, looking closely at Molly now, asked under her breath, ‘What is it, lass?’ But as soon as she had put the question she thought it was a stupid thing to say for there were three things at least that could bring Molly low at the present moment. There was the master near death, and if there had been nothing between them for years, there had at one time, and the evidence of it was in the dairy at this minute. Then there was the fact of her Davie coming back. Fifteen years was a long time, time enough to forget a man and marry, but she hadn’t married. Then there was a third thing that was always worrying her, Master Amos and his constant chasing of Biddy, and his acting at times like a normal man who owned her. Yes, she had a lot on her plate had Molly, and she was sorry for her. She had grown to like her over the years, and that was odd because at one time she had thought her fast and brash, but at that time she had been fearful of her hooking Davie, and she had wanted someone better for her lad. She still did, but there was no fear of Davie falling again. Davie the man was a different kettle of fish from Davie the youth, or even the young sailor who had turned up five years ago in much the same way as he had come in the other night.

She watched Molly now pick up the tray as she said, ‘Oh, I’m like the lot of us, just tired,’ and smile weakly as she added, ‘Go on an’ get them something, an’ as I said don’t hurry back. Biddy’ll help me here. There’ll only be one for the dinin’ room, Miss Jane will have hers upstairs.’

‘Thanks, lass.’ They nodded at each other, then Molly went out with the tray and as she crossed the hall she looked towards the dining room and she repeated to herself, ‘Only one for the dinin’ room.’ That maimed skit would be lording it in the master’s chair when he should be in . . . She gulped and gripped the tray tighter. She’d have to tell somebody and the only one she could talk to was Winnie. But then Winnie might let on to Miss Jane, Winnie wasn’t all that cautious. And what would happen then? Miss Jane had had nothing out of life but worry and frustration. Courting the parson for years, a walk across the fields on a Sunday or up to the Tor. There hadn’t even been the comfort of a roll in the hay. No, Miss Jane mustn’t know; but she must tell somebody about that devil or bust.

She had always known he was bad; she had tried to make Biddy see he was bad, but Biddy was sorry for him. Biddy said she understood him. And well she might.

When the master died he would take over completely; then God help them all . . . God help Biddy. Eeh! she’d have to talk to somebody, Parson Hedley? No. No, he was too near to Miss Jane. If he were to expose Master Amos as a murderer then how would Miss Jane take it?

When she entered the room Jane turned from the bed and, coming towards her, whispered, ‘He’s so exhausted. He seems to be sleeping, I wouldn’t give it to him yet. And while you’re here, Molly, I’ll slip to my room, I must change my clothes.’

‘Do that, Miss. And don’t worry, I’ll call you if there’s any change. Have a wash and it’ll freshen you up.’

Jane nodded at her, then went towards the bed again and looked down at the still grey face for a moment before turning away and saying under her breath, ‘I’ll leave the door open so you can call if you want me. I’ll leave mine open too.’

‘Do that, Miss. Yes, do that.’ Molly nodded at her, then took her place in the chair at the head of the bed.

As she sat staring at the still form lying there she did not see the man who had once showed her ways of loving that had been as enchanting as witchcraft . . . at the time. Reality had faded with the years until now she imagined she had dreamed most of what they had experienced together. Even at night when her body ached for comfort and love her mind bypassed that early episode as if, like leprosy, it would contaminate her present existence; yet the thought was ever present in her mind that her life would have been different if his hand on her thigh hadn’t awakened her from sleep on that night.

When his eyes opened and looked at her she bent quickly forward and said, ‘Would you like a drop of broth, Master?’ She watched his nostrils dilating, his breath coming in short laboured gasps, and when she saw his tongue come out and pass over his lips she took a square of lint that was floating in a bowl of water on the side table and gently drew it around his mouth. She asked again, ‘Would you like a drop of soup, Master?’ and when his eyelids closed once, she knew he did not want any. As she watched his tongue move over his lips again she said, ‘A drink of water?’

His eyes remained open, and she nodded at him and smiled. ‘I’ll get you a nice cold one, there’s a jug fresh from the well. I won’t be a minute.’ She nodded at him and hurried round the bed and into the dressing room.

The glass was full in her hand when she heard the stifled cry. It was like the death rattle of a calf, a strangled whining sound. It froze her for a moment, and she almost dropped the jug from her hand and the glass with it. The water spilled from the glass as she ran towards the door. Just within it, she stopped. The master had moved. His head was up and he was choking, and there, standing between the door and the bed, was Master Amos.

‘Get out, you! Get out, you!’ She was bawling at him at the top of her voice. But he didn’t move. His eyes flickered towards her, then returned towards the bed and to his father.

Thrusting the glass on to the mantelpiece, she rushed at him, hissing, ‘Get yourself away! Get out of here!’

‘Take your hands off me!’

She took her hands off him and stepped back. Her eyes darted from the door to the bed. Then she ran first to the door and yelled, ‘Miss Jane! Miss Jane!’ before rushing back to the bed. She slipped her arm under McBain’s shoulders and tried to hold his heaving body, and she cried again at the hunched figure standing immobile on his crutches, his stare fixed as if he too, had suffered paralysis. ‘Get out! Do you hear? Get out! You’re determined to finish him, aren’t you?’

‘Amos! Amos!’ Jane came rushing into the room. ‘Oh Amos, how could you! Go away. Please, go away.’

But he did not obey her immediately, not until she had rushed to the bed and had taken her father from Molly’s arms and the bobbing head had fallen to the side and become still. Then he turned and hobbled out, and Jane slowly laid McBain back on the bed.

Standing side by side, Jane looked down on her father and Molly on her one-time lover, and they bowed their heads and slowly they began to cry.

Five

‘No, Ma. Now don’t keep on asking me, for I’m no hypocrite. I stopped followin’ him years ago, so I’m not going to start again on his last ride; nor am I going to say I’m sorry he’s gone.’

Winnie closed her eyes tightly and shook her head as she said, ‘Oh, don’t be like that, Davie, it upsets me. Bad enough with that one across there. Dear God, there’s going to be changes on this farm, if I know anything. Fancy’ – she now looked at old Sep where he sat in his chair by the side of the fire – ‘have you ever heard of such a thing, not goin’ to have plumed horses and wantin’ to cut the carriages down to two! Miss Jane had to have a stand-up fight with him. Eeh! that lass is upset. There’s somethin’ funny somewhere; the master would never have left things so that that young devil could take over. If he cared for anybody it was for Miss Jane. And then’ – she turned to Davie now – ‘Parson Hedley remembers signing a will just a few years back, and he told Master Amos straight. I never heard him talk like that afore. He’s quiet like, you know he is, but not this time, oh no, he was fighting for Miss Jane’s rights. When the house was clear yesterday she turned the office inside out. She’s upset, she is that.’

‘But there’d be a copy wouldn’t there, there’s always copies of wills? They’ve got a solicitor.’

‘Aye, of course, an’ as far as I can make out he’s got a copy of the old one but not of the one Parson Hedley’s on about.’

‘Winnie, I’d like to go.’ They both turned and looked to where Sep had risen from his chair, and Winnie cried at him, ‘Now, Da, don’t be silly.’

‘Silly be damned, woman! I said I’d like to go an’ I’m goin’. You get me suit out. It’ll likely hang like a sack on me, but what matter!’ Old Sep now looked at Davie and said firmly, ‘Speak as you find, lad. He was always decent to me an’ he give me one an’ six a week when he had no need.’

‘Speak as you find, Granda.’ Davie nodded back at him, smiling quietly. ‘Always speak as you find. You go if you want to.’

‘My God! what a pair.’ Winnie went towards the door, shaking her head. ‘The one who could go won’t, and the one who shouldn’t go out the door will.’

When she had gone they both looked at each other and laughed quietly; then Davie said, ‘I’m goin’ to stretch me legs, Granda.’

‘Aye, lad,’ said Sep, sitting down again. Then he asked quietly, ‘Getting restless?’

‘Restless? No, Granda. I could do with a lot of this.’

‘Then why go back, lad?’

‘Well’ – Davie pursed his lips – ‘what else is there for me? And who knows’ – he grinned now – ‘the first mate might drop down dead and I’ll get his place. That’s the worst of likin’ your captain an’ mate and staying with a boat too long, you get into a rut, or I should say trough, shouldn’t I?’

‘If you sign on again how many years will it be this time?’

‘God knows, Granda, God knows. Still, don’t worry, old ’un, I’ve found that God doesn’t want me to die by drownin’; He’s tested me twice, as I’ve told you.’

‘The third time might be catchy time, lad.’

‘That’s what they say, Granda, third time catchy time. But I’ll have to chance that, won’t I? Now don’t you worry, just think of how you’re going to stop slipping through your good suit.’ Again they both laughed; and now Davie took his hat from a nail by the door, pulled it firmly on to his head, and went out.

He paused in the road, taking in deep gulps of air, and after looking first to the right and then to the left of him he decided to take a walk towards the burn and to follow it down to the river.

He went along the road and past the farm gate, and saw, coming around the corner of the barn, which backed on to the road, young Biddy. She was a bonny piece, fresh looking, well made with no resemblance to Molly at her age, for her features were thin, like him that was responsible for her. But there was a soft delicateness in the thinness. He had seen her before in the distance but hadn’t as yet spoken to her. He stopped in front of her and said, ‘Why, hello there! You’re Biddy.’

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘An’ I know who you are, I can even remember you.’

‘You can? It’s almost ten years.’

‘I know, but I can, faintly, sort of. You were down by the river an’ you were swimmin’ with Amos.’

He was quick to note that she didn’t say Master Amos. ‘Well! well!’ He shook his head at her. ‘You have a long memory. I remember that day an’ all. That young devil nearly drowned himself.’

She smiled as she said, ‘He’s always been grateful to you, learning him to swim. He’s like a fish in the water now.’

He noted also the word, now. She must watch him swimming. He asked her, ‘Do you like farm work?’

Her shoulders moved up in a shrug before she replied, ‘Sometimes; yes and no. I’m taken more with the house than the dairy.’

‘You still go to school?’

‘No.’ She flapped her hand at him now in a familiar way, then laughed. ‘I’m fifteen, goin’ on sixteen. But I still read. I like readin’, when I get the chance.’

‘What kind of reading?’

‘Oh, all kinds, that Amos lends me. Some of the books are . . . ’

‘Biddy! you Biddy!’ They both turned and looked towards Molly where she was standing by the farm gate. Then the girl looked at him and said, ‘Seein’ you.’ And he nodded at her and answered, ‘Aye, seein’ you.’

He did not turn away immediately but stared along the road towards the woman standing in the sunlight, and he wanted to laugh loudly and shout at her, ‘What you afraid of, like mother like daughter?’ but he turned away wondering why it was that every time he set eyes on her he wanted to flay her with words, stir up the past, the dead past, for it had all happened so long ago, fifteen years ago. She was now what? Thirty-two. Why had she not married? Perhaps she had no need to, she could get what she wanted on the side. And she would want it, after the practice she’d had in her early days. By! she had been a young cow if ever there was one. ‘Now, now!’ he chided himself, and grinned as he came back with, ‘Don’t insult the animals.’

Ten minutes later he was on the point of dropping down the steep path towards the burn when he heard her voice calling his name; and it startled him, he thought he was imagining things. He turned fully round, and there she was running along the path that led from the back of the house to the garden. About two yards from him she stopped. She was panting and her full breasts were lifting from her print dress up and down.

Well! Well! He gave a short laugh but his face was straight as he waited for her to say, ‘Don’t you talk to my Biddy.’ It would be just like her to think he would try to get his own back through the young lass. What was nineteen years anyway? Captain Surtees had married a lass twenty years younger than himself; it was done all the time.

‘Can I talk to you?’

He was slightly taken back. He raised his eyebrows and jerked his head to one side. What was this? Her voice was quiet, soft, it even had a tremor in it. ‘Talk to me?’ he said. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’

‘The young master.’ She gulped, cleared her throat, then went on rapidly, ‘I’ve got to tell somebody an’ I can’t tell anybody back there in case they tell Miss Jane.’

As he stood looking at her with narrowing gaze she stared back at him, deep into his eyes, and the secret part of her whimpered, ‘Oh God, I was a fool.’ Then she brought out in a low rush, ‘He . . . the young one, he killed the master.’

‘What!’ His whole face was screwed up now.

‘It’s a fact.’ She moved a short step nearer to him. ‘You know the beam at the top of the stairs, like in our houses? Winnie said Ned used to lift him up on to it, and he used to swing from it. Well, he swung from the one at the top of the stairs an’ . . . an’ on purpose. I . . . I found the chair had been moved, the monk’s chair. It’s heavy and I always put it back in the same place, but there it was against the post. It was that that made me look up, an’ I saw the piece of rag hanging from the beam. We only go up there when it’s spring-cleanin’, it’s always dusty; so I got the stepladder, an’ found that most of the dust had been wiped off. I mean on top of the beam. An’ there was this piece of cloth caught on a nail. Then I went to his wardrobe and there was his coat. It was from the inside of the facing.’

‘But . . . but you can’t believe that, that he . . . ’ He shook his head.

‘I do. I know he did it. Mind, I won’t say he hasn’t had cause; the master’s never looked the side he was on, an’ he’s never had a penny in his pocket, only what Miss Jane gave him. If it hadn’t been for her God knows what might have happened to him earlier on, he mayn’t have lived . . . ’ She now bowed her head and, her tone changing into thin bitterness, she said, ‘That was the wrong thing to say, but . . . ’ Once more she was looking at him. ‘I swear to you again I would never have done it. I was beside myself. He made me take it, but I’d never have done it.’ She was shaking her head widely now.

She had stopped speaking, but he didn’t break the silence for some time, and then he asked, ‘Why did you tell me, what can I do?’

She put her hand to her cheek and pressed it tightly, while looking to the side. ‘I don’t know. But I just had to tell somebody, it seemed too big to carry meself. The right thing to do would be to tell Miss Jane, but . . . but I don’t want to be the one to bring trouble on her. She’s been good to me, more than good, and she has no life, no more than’ – she stopped herself from adding ‘me’. She brought her painted defiant gaze on to him again, and after a moment she said, ‘There’s one thing I know, he’s dangerous. He’s but a lad, just on sixteen, but he’s sixty in his head an’ his ideas. And he’s got a cruel streak in him, vindictive. I don’t think Miss Jane can see it. She’s always making excuses for him, and that’s natural enough ’cos she’s been mother, father and sister to him . . . everything. She lived in that room with him night and day until he was ten. How she stood it, God knows.’

He made no comment, and she went on, more slowly now, as if she were repeating old news. ‘She should have married the parson years ago, but the master wouldn’t have him here. And old Wainwright wouldn’t have them there. And then the master going to marry that Miss Reed nearly finished her. That’s what made the other one do it, I’m sure of it.’ She nodded her head at him. ‘It would have put his nose out. And he always wanted to boss. He’s a weird creature, frightenin’ . . . ’ She looked up at him for a moment without speaking, then asked, ‘What am I to do?’

He rubbed his ear with his hand, then brought it over his stubbly chin and to the other side of his face before he said, ‘I can’t see what you can do except keep quiet if you don’t want to hurt Miss Jane and cause a stir for miles. Not that, from what you say and what me ma’s told me, there won’t be a lot of sympathy with the lad. And you can understand him being a bit weird, handicapped as he is.’

‘He doesn’t see it as a handicap.’ There was bitterness in her tone now. ‘He can do most things, too many for that matter.’

He looked at her inquiringly, but she took the subject no further, instead she said, ‘Well, I’d better be gettin’ back. But I had to talk to somebody . . . you don’t mind?’

‘No, I don’t mind.’ His voice was non-committal and she half smiled at him, until he said, ‘Though I don’t know who it’s going to aid, you telling me, ’cos I’ll be on me way shortly.’

She stared at him for a moment longer before turning away and walking quickly up the path. He continued down towards the burn and stopped opposite the spot where he had taken Amos, the child, in and taught him to swim, and by way of thanks had a hair pulled from his groin.

She had said the boy was dangerous. Yes, he could say he would be if he was thwarted and didn’t get what he wanted.

He had a sudden desire to be away from this place, yet all the while knowing that this was where his heart lay. He would go into Newcastle tomorrow and see how they were getting on with her bottom; a fortnight or three weeks at least they had said. Still, it could be sooner if the captain had got round them. Let’s hope he had.

The following morning early he went by the carrier cart into Hexham, and from there took the train into Newcastle. Here, he mounted a horse-bus that eventually brought him into Jarrow and the dry dock.

The Arcadia, out of the water, looked enormous but she appeared old and battered. She did not arouse love in him as she did in the captain, perhaps because his quarters on board had never been as comfortable as the captain’s, nor the first mate’s for that matter, his had just been a couple of short steps above the deck hands’.

On inquiry he was told the work would take another ten days to a fortnight for it had been discovered that one of the boilers would have to be renewed. He saw no-one he knew belonging to the ship. The captain, they said, had been over yesterday from Hull, where he lived. The first mate lived nearby in Shields, but he was spending most of his time in Edinburgh, where his parents were.

He left Jarrow and returned to Newcastle. The city did not attract him. It was like any other city, and made him feel like a fish out of water. As he wandered about the streets, glancing in the shops, he knew he was wasting his time. He had a longing to get away from it, away beyond Hexham and into the hills.

He went through the Cloth Market and the Bigg Market towards Grainger Street, deciding that on his way to the station he’d drop into a pub and have a drink. Unlike most sailors, he could take drink or leave it, but he felt in need of one today.

It was as he turned the corner into Grainger Street that he bumped into her. He went to sidestep, saying, ‘Pardon, Ma’am,’ when he exclaimed on a high note, ‘Oh w . . . why! Miss Jane!’

‘Well!’ Jane shook her head. ‘Of all the places to meet.’

‘It’s right what they say after all; it’s a small world.’

‘Yes, yes.’ She laughed gently. ‘As you say it’s a small world. I . . . I was just making my way back to the train.’

‘Well, so was I, Miss.’

‘Oh!’ She remained still, her face slightly flushed. She felt embarrassed. If she had met Johnnie or Mickey or Will Curran, or anyone else from the farm, she would have walked with them down to the train and thought nothing of it, but this man, this sailor, was not of the farm, not any more, and his dress denied all connection with the country; he was very well set up, quite spruce; he had grown into a fine man had Winnie’s Davie, but she found him a little disconcerting. She had spoken to him twice since his return and each time she had been made uneasy by his presence. It was as if he forced himself on her notice. But that wasn’t true, because his manner was most correct.