Flint and Roses (8 page)

Freddy Hobhouse, then was to go, and Jacob Mandelbaum, young Jack Rawnsley and Benjamin Battershaw of Battershaw's Light Ales; and, to represent the next generation of Barforths, my cousin Blaize, a decision which, had given rise to sharp words between Uncle Joel and Nicholas, who was exceedingly interested in trains, and between Nicholas and Blaize, who, while openly avowing his total indifference, seemed determined to make the trip if only to annoy his brother.

‘Such a fuss.' Caroline told me, wrinkling a fastidious nostril at the first whiff of engine smoke. ‘They agreed eldest sons, so eldest sons it must be, and one can hardly blame Blaize for being born first. It's not a question of whether one wants to go: it's a question of privilege. If one gets a good offer, one takes it—it's as simple as that. I wouldn't have stepped down, if I'd been invited, for anybody.'

But Nicholas, standing at the footplate with his father, seemed to be bearing his disappointment well enough, holding an animated, probably very technical, conversation with a group of railway employees, his dark eyes keen and interested, the first sight of him causing my stomach to lurch in a most shocking fashion, so that the whole of that raucous crowd was instantly reduced in my mind to a set of nondescript, wooden images; and Nicholas Barforth. And, for the life in me, I could not have said why.

The moment of departure, it seemed, was very near, drawing—as the favoured few began to climb aboard—an ear-splitting, cheek-bulging crescendo from the bands, a great whistling and steaming from the train, a tremor of anticipation that interrupted even Aunt Hannah's conversation with the wife of our new Member of Parliament, whose good offices she was clearly seeking on her husband's behalf. There was a flutter of applause from correctly gloved, ladylike hands, a certain feeling of relief since the spring weather was unreliable, the sky clouding over again, and we had been standing rather a long time. A few flags began to wave; Mrs. Hobhouse took out a sentimental handkerchief and, for reasons unknown, dabbed at her eyes. My sister Prudence, anxious to avoid an invitation from Aunt Hannah to go back to Lawcroft with her—and Jonas—was already whispering a request that I should give up my place to her in the Barforth carriage, when Uncle Joel, instead of boarding the train, came striding towards us, cigar in hand, the crowd, who knew a man in a, rage when it saw one, parting before him as he made directly for his wife.

‘Where's Blaize?' he demanded, and Aunt Verity, the only person in the world, I think, who could have met his onslaught with so serene a smile, replied, ‘Darling—I couldn't say.'

‘He told me he was coming in the landau with you.'

‘Why no, dear. I was to call for Faith and had no room to spare.'

‘And he knew that? Yes, of course he did. So where is he, then?'

‘Joel,' she said softly, very urgently. ‘Does it really matter?'

And, responding, it seemed, to her appeal, his jaw clenched suddenly, his whole powerful body stiffening with the effort to hold back his, temper, not out of any consideration for the onlookers, the gossip, the fear of spoiling this great day; but for his wife's sake.

‘I try Verity,' he said. ‘Believe me, I try not to let them provoke me—the pair of them—but by God, sometimes, they go too far.'

‘I know, darling. They, seem determined to prove, just how far they
can
go. Don't worry about it now.'

‘We'll wait then,' he snapped and, striding, back to the engine, exchanged a few words with Mr. Hobhouse who had put his head enquiringly out of a window, and then paced for a moment or two along the platform, glancing first at his watch and then at the brand-new, impudently kicking station clock.

‘We'll wait.' I saw his mouth say to the startled railway officials who were now running after him, much concerned with their own watches, pausing apologetically at the windows, every one of which was now filled by an important, impatient Law Valley head, while, on the platform, although the bands continued to play, flags were lowered uncertainly, enquiries made. Had the engine broken down, then, before it had started, which would suit the landlord of the Old Swan if no one else? Had a tunnel caved in somewhere along the line, as a certain wise-woman of Simon Street had predicted it would?—and even if it hadn't, Mrs. Hobhouse suddenly discovered that she would be easier in her mind if Freddy, obediently installed beside his father, did not go after all. Or was it just Mr. Barforth, as usual, insisting on having everything his own way?

‘Oh dear,' Aunt Verity murmured, a certain rueful amusement in her voice.

‘What ails the man now?' Aunt Hannah demanded loudly, taking the opportunity to prove that, however powerful her brother might be, she, at any rate, was not afraid of him.

‘Nicholas.' Caroline called out imperiously, beckoning him to her side. ‘I expect this is something you've cooked up together—you and Blaize—so if you know where he is you'd better say so.'

‘I don't know anything about it,' he said flatly and, meeting his angry eyes, I felt a quick upsurge of satisfaction, not only at his closeness but because, if Blaize could not be found, then surely Nicholas would be allowed to go instead.

It would last, I thought, but a moment longer for even Mr. Joel Barforth in full fury could not be oblivious of that engine steaming and straining at its leash, of the smiles slipping from even the most amiable faces; could not compel a hundred of Cullingford's most prosperous citizens to postpone their journey while he sent to fetch his eldest son; could not neglect the hundred others, waiting, on what now threatened to be a rainy day, on the platform in Leeds. And clenching his watch in a hand that shook with frustration—the, unpalatable, amazing truth that he, of whom the whole of Cullingford stood in terror, could not always control his sons—toe strode back to Aunt Verity, glaring first at her and then at Nicholas.

‘Good God, Verity, this is intolerable.'

‘I know. You must go without him. Joel. And there may be a good reason.'

‘Aye—he may have taken a fall from that thoroughbred mare I bought him and broken his neck. But it's not likely.'

‘I do hope not.'

‘No—and he'll not be at the mill either, so engrossed in his work that everything else has slipped his mind. I can guarantee you that.' And turning to Nicholas he said curtly, his voice amounting to a snap of the fingers. ‘All right, lad, you've got what you wanted. Get on board in his place.'

That, of course, should have been the end of it. Had Nicholas been less a Barforth, he would have jumped immediately on board, chuckling at his own good fortune and the retribution which must surely be in store for his brother. Had Uncle Joel been less a Barforth, he would have issued the invitation a shade more graciously, since in his heart he was probably just as willing to take Nicholas as Blaize, and had indeed tried his best to take them both. But—unlike Blaize and Aunt Verity, who would always bend, most gracefully, with the wind—they were true Barforths, hard and unyielding, who would take the wind by brute force if they could, to suit their own purposes, or the in the attempt. And, as Uncle Joel began to turn away, considering the matter closed, Nicholas said very quietly, ‘I don't think I can do that sir.'

‘Don't you, by God!' his father answered him, his lips barely moving, and, as those nearest to us began to press closer, eager to witness the stag-antlered combat of the Barforth males, which was becoming a legend in the Valley. Aunt Verity put a hand on her husband's arm, her whole body flowing towards him in urgent, loving intervention.

‘Not here, Joel. Please, darling—'

But, realizing that he could see nothing now beyond his conflict with Nicholas, a man like himself, too stubborn in his pride to care for retribution. I cannot believe she hoped to prevail.

For a very long time—or so it seemed—with curious, envious, malicious Cullingford buzzing and bustling all around them, they stood and measured one another a raw contest of wills that tightened the air.

‘You'll get on that train, Nicholas.'

‘Hardly, sir.'

‘Nicholas—you'll do it.'

‘I don't see how I can, sir. Eldest sons—that's what you decided. No exceptions, no matter what the circumstances—that's what you told me when I asked. And I'm needed at the mill because it won't run itself. You told me that, too.'

And knowing of old that he would have to haul Nicholas by the scruff of his neck into that train—and wondering, perhaps, if at fifty years of age he could still manage it—my uncle snarled something very low, doubtless very obscene, and, with a gesture that struck terror certainly into my heart, strode away.

No one spoke to Nicholas as the flags began to wave again, the train to draw slowly out of the station, Mr. Hobhouse beaming jovially from his window, Mr. Mandelbaum from his. No one spoke to him as he shouldered a way for us through the crowded station-yard to our carriages, although we all spoke heartily, quite falsely, to one another.

‘I am so glad the rain has kept off,' Aunt Verity said.

‘Yes. I knew it would.' Aunt Hannah replied, ‘I had quite made up my mind to it.'

‘It would have ruined the marquee otherwise,' I offered, trying to play my part.

‘I think I have taken cold.' Celia whimpered.

‘Nonsense,' Prudence told her. ‘It is only that you like to think so.'

Caroline, taking off her gloves and putting them on again with great deliberation, no doubt to stop her hands from fastening around her brother's throat, said not a word. But when we were settled in the carriage, and Nicholas, for whom no place could be found, stood alone at the step raising his hat to us. I was unable—whether he had been right or wrong—to do other than call out ‘Good-bye, Nicholas', earning myself a smile from Aunt Verity and a glare of pure contempt from Caroline.

We were to dine at Tarn Edge that evening, three little blackbirds in our mourning dresses among the peacock, splendours of Aunt Verity's guests, arriving to find her as serene as ever, Nicholas and Blaize showing no obvious scars, even Caroline smiling again at everyone but the Winterton boy on her right, and the Mandelbaum boy attached just as firmly to her left.

Dinner at Tarn Edge was always a formal occasion. We were met in the hall by an array of servants who removed our cloaks as reverently as if they were of the finest sable, escorted to the drawing-room door by a butler as suave and benign as any bishop, who, having known us all our lives, invariably announced us as if we had been the most opulent of strangers: ‘Miss Aycliffe. Miss Faith Aycliffe. Miss Celia Aycliffe'; and we would advance straight-backed, mindful of our lessons in deportment, across what had often seemed to me an acre of blue and gold carpet, to shake hands with our host and hostess. There would be a hushed half-hour then a quick appraisal of gowns and jewels, while Aunt Verity made soft-voiced introductions and my uncle, majestically circulating, informed each gentleman which lady he must take in to dine.

He led the way that evening with Lady Winterton, who as a representative of the landed gentry, must be considered the most distinguished lady present, and probably thought herself the only real lady there at all. Blaize took Miss Rebecca Mandelbaum. Nicholas Miss Amy Battershaw of Battershaw Light Ales, a circumstance which did not please me, even though Amy Battershaw—a close friend of Celia's—was sallow and silly, and one did not expect the son of the house to be wasted on a cousin. Prudence went in with Jonas. I accompanied Freddy Hobhouse, whose mother, despairing perhaps of Prudence, had decided that my twenty thousand pounds without the porcelain, would suffice; while Celia, who had first declared herself too ill to come at all and then wept copiously because we had not begged her to change her mind, was left to a younger Hobhouse boy, an arrangement not at all to her taste—since Adolphus Hobhouse could entertain no thoughts of marriage until Freddy should be settled—and which would cause her to grumble all the way home that, once again, she had been slighted.

Caroline accompanied the Winterton boy. Aunt Verity his father. Sir Charles, a distinction perfectly understood by all, for although the Wintertons were known to be losing their money, the rest of us to be making ours, they were the possessors of that one commodity beyond our reach, the privilege of pedigree. Winterton land, no matter how sadly mortgaged, had been handed down to them through generations when Barforths and Hobhouses alike had been no more than common weavers. There had been a Winterton at Waterloo commanding a regiment when Uncle Joel's father had been struggling, at the then almost bankrupt Low Cross Mills to keep himself above the precarious level of the ordinary working man. No Winterton had ever soiled his hands with trade, had ever bought or sold anything but acreage, bloodstock, the occasional work of art whereas my Uncle Joel even now would not hesitate to roll up his fine cambric shirtsleeves and dirty his own hands whenever the need arose, nor to buy and sell anything, provided he could do so to his own advantage. And although the present Sir Charles; while privately considering my uncle to have no more social standing than a village blacksmith, was ready to dine at the Barforth table, ready, even, to permit the common, trading blood of the Barforth daughter to mingle with his own, if the price was right, he was nevertheless a landed gentleman to whom our grandfathers would have instinctively doffed their caps, and we were still, I believe, a little in awe of him.

Uncle Joel's dining-room, like everything about him, was on the very grandest scale, panelled from wall to ceiling in wood that had the sheen and colour of ebony, its sombre expanse broken by gilt-framed, oval portraits of Aunt Verity and Caroline, and by a row of long windows draped ornately in white muslin and velvet of the richest, darkest red. The table, set between two ebony-coloured sideboards, was a masterpiece, a foamy white lace cloth garlanded with ferns and mosses, trails of ivy from candelabra to candelabra, primrose-tinted candles gleaming on silver and crystal, pyramids of spring flowers, daffodils and pale narcissi, the delicacy of violets, the bold, brave stripings of the tulip. And for the space of two hours, while Freddy Hobhouse, forgetting that the principal duty of a dinner-partner is conversation, crunched his way through salmon and whitebait, beef olives, quails and plovers, creams and sponge cakes and tarts. I sat and thought, mainly of Nicholas.