Midnight is a Place (14 page)

"Garridge isn't there—but it's lucky I went, old Gabriel was fast asleep, and smelling of gin. There he comes now. Hey, Gabriel—help me pull out the governess cart, will you?"

When Lucas returned to where he had left Sir Randolph, the baronet was no longer lying in the snow. He had staggered to his feet and moved some paces away, and was swaying unsteadily, looking with a dazed expression at the golden flames leaping through the skeleton of his house.

Old Gabriel limped up and began talking to Mrs. Gourd. "My stars, what a to-do! 'Tis a mercy none on us was burned in oor beds. Eh, what a fell sight. 'Tis as well owd Sir Quincy isn't here to see it, it would surely break his heart—"

"
He
doesn't care," hissed Mrs. Gourd, looking at Sir Randolph still staring raptly at the flames. "
He
won't grieve."

The baronet seemed to catch the import of her words and turned toward her. "Quiet, woman! Still your clappering!" he growled.

The housekeeper gaped at him—he was indeed a strange spectacle, leaning on a beribboned cane, dressed in what appeared to be a kind of uniform, jacket, waistcoat, and knee breeches, all made of black-and-white striped velvet. He wore black buckled shoes and ruffled shirt—but all were grimed and smeared with soot, and wet with the snow which, as it met the heat of the blaze, hissed and turned to rain.

Sir Randolph suddenly laughed—a wild, high-pitched laugh that seemed to echo the crackle of the fire. "Care? Because this wretched heap of brick burns, that has brought me nothing
but
care since I first stepped inside its doors? Care? I tell you, I'm blithe to see it burn. Grieve? I'd sooner it were a heap of ash, any day, than let those bloodsucking revenue men get their tentacles on it—or
you
—" He suddenly swung round on Anna-Marie, who was standing between Mrs. Gourd and Gabriel.

So far as Lucas knew, it was the first time he had laid eyes on her, and the sight of her seemed to discompose him terribly. He stared and stared at her.

"Now, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Gourd. "That's downright wicked. How can you say such things? What about the bairns—what about the poor childer? Where are they to go?"

Sir Randolph made no answer. His eyes were still fixed on Anna-Marie, who stared back at him, her small pale face very clearly illuminated by the red flickering light.

"Denzil's daughter, eh?" muttered Sir Randolph harshly, weaving his head to and fro, like a fighter trying to dodge invisible blows that were being rained on him from the dark air. "M'best friend Denny's little daughter. Well, m'dear, you had a warmer welcome here than you may have reckoned. Have t'find—'nother roof f'yourself now, though. T'other brat, too—Mary's boy. No more roosting at Midnight Court, eh? And it's no use hoping that those nagging lawyers got me t'change my will; no use hoping that—" He swayed, recovered, and, leaning so close to Anna-Marie that she stepped back in alarm, he said, confidentially, "I'll tell your father, m'dear, when I see him, that I didn't much care for his slice of Clutterby Pie—"

Then, before anybody realized what he would be about and could make an attempt to stop him, he swung round on his heel and, assisting himself with his cane, made straight for the main part of the blaze, at a rapid, staggering run.

"Sir Randolph!" screamed Mrs. Gourd.

"Stop, stop, sir!" shouted Lucas, and dashed after him.

"Stay there, you young fool!" exclaimed Mr. Oakapple, and shoved Lucas back so hard that he slipped and fell in the snow. By the time Lucas had picked himself up, several other men, whom he had not seen before, had suddenly appeared, running from the direction of the stable wing.

They went after Mr. Oakapple.

"Where is he? Where has he gone?" Lucas picked himself up and started toward the house again.

"Dom fool," he heard someone say. Did they mean him, or Mr. Oakapple? A moment later he saw that the men were coming back, carrying something—a body, limp, and apparently lifeless.

"Oh, who is it?" cried Anna-Marie. "Is it that man—Sir Rrandolph?"

But it was Mr. Oakapple, who sagged in their arms with closed eyes.

"He's not
dead?
" said Lucas in horror.

"Nay, but he's badly burned—and summat fell on his head, a whole mess o' brick—t'fool would go in after t'other one—who moost've been led on by Old Scratch himself! Ran straight into t'middle o' t'fire—did ye iver see the like?"

Mr. Oakapple was so black with soot and smoke that it was impossible to see how bad his injuries were.

"We had better get him to the infirmary," said Lucas. He had often passed the entrance, going to and from the Mill. "Why don't you lay him in the pony trap, on some straw, and I'll take him in right away.—What about Sir Randolph?" he added reluctantly.

"Nay, lad, not a hope—he met as well have joomped into a pottery kiln." Lucas shuddered. "Ony road, best get t'other one in afore he cooms to. There's nowt to be doon here—t'fire's taken too strong a hold—seems to ha' started oop i' six or siven places at oonce."

Lucas, too, had felt this must be the case. He pondered about it, as he backed the shivering Noddy between the shafts and fastened her collar. Otherwise, how could the fire have spread so very rapidly?

Had somebody lit it?

He found Anna-Marie at the rear of the trap, busy covering Mr. Oakapple with a blanket.

"I come with you," she announced.

"Yes, do," said Lucas. He certainly did not know what else to do with her.

It was a long, silent, and thoughtful drive into Blastburn. Mr. Oakapple did not recover consciousness. Neither Anna-Marie nor Lucas felt in the mood for chat. Once only was the silence broken, when she asked in a subdued voice, "Luc-asse?"

"Well?"

"What will happen to us now?"

"I don't know," said Lucas.

At the infirmary a gray-robed, white-capped sister admitted them, briskly told off two porters to put Mr. Oakapple on a stretcher and carry him in; then Lucas and Anna-Marie were dismissed to a waiting room where they were left for a long, long time. Nobody came near, and the time dragged. Anna-Marie pulled the doll, Fifine, out of her pocket and sat on a bench with one foot tucked beneath her, sucking her finger. In the midst of his relief that the doll had been saved—the loss of Fifine would certainly have been the last straw for Anna-Marie—Lucas had a feeling of desolation as he remembered how very few of his own belongings he had managed to secure: a purse, which his mother had knitted him, containing a very little money which he had been trying to save for an emergency; two of his favorite pens; a miniature of his parents; and his brown leather book. Everything else would probably be burned to ashes by now, judging from the speed with which the fire had been progressing. And he was anxious for the book. When he went to harness the mare he had laid it, wrapped in a bit of sack, on top of the rain-water barrel by the stable; would it be all right there? In his anxiety to get Mr. Oakapple to hospital he had forgotten it.

They were sitting on an uncomfortable bench. The small bare room was not very warm; an iron stove at the far end had a faint glow coming from its firebox, but gave off little heat. By degrees Anna-Marie slid along until she could lean against Lucas; he thought that she sank into a half-doze, sucking away at her finger. For himself, he sat comfortlessly awake, staring at the future.

He and Anna-Marie were now doubly orphans—for there seemed no possibility that Sir Randolph could still be alive. Would there be any part of Midnight Court left standing, the stables perhaps, in which they could continue to live? Would there be any money for them to live on? Would the Mill have to be sold? Would Mr. Oakapple be all right?

So many questions, and so few answers.

Anna-Marie stirred restlessly. Her head slipped back at an awkward angle, and Lucas put an arm round her so that she would have something more comfortable to lean against.

At last a youngish, plump-faced man in a frock coat came into the room. He walked quickly but he looked extremely tired. Lucas guessed that in a town like Blastburn, full of factories and foundries, there might be plenty doing at the infirmary all night long.

"I'm Doctor Whitaker," the man said. "Did you come in with the burn case?"

Lucas nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. "Will—will he be all right?" It was hard to speak; the words came in a croak from the back of his throat.

"He's got some bad burns," the doctor said. "Face, hands, and chest. Lucky for him we're used to burn cases here. But he'll have to stop in for at least three weeks—maybe a month or more."

"Is he awake? May I see him?" Lucas said nervously.

"No, boy. We have given him laudanum to make him sleep and kill the pain. Come back in eight hours or so. You might as well go home now."

"I see. Thank you, sir." Home? Lucas wondered. Where was home?

Anna-Marie had woken when the doctor came in. She took her finger out of her mouth and asked matter-of-factly, "Is there money to pay for Meester Ookapool? Should we bring him food here?"

Lucas was both surprised and ashamed that he had not thought of these questions.

The doctor looked kindly down at Anna-Marie. "Ask at the desk in the vestibule how much there is to pay. You can bring it next time you come. And do not bring food until the sisters tell you to. At present the patient will be taking only liquids."

"
Merci, monsieur,
" Anna-Marie said gravely.

At the desk they learned that there would be eighteen shillings to pay a week for Mr. Oakapple's care. Eighteen shillings! Lucas looked in despair at the contents of his purse. It held some twenty-nine shillings—all he had in the world. Sir Randolph had originally announced his intention of allowing Lucas ten shillings a week, but this allowance had been paid only about half a dozen times in full—sometimes Sir Randolph had handed out a portion of the sum; more often he had forgotten it completely. Since there was, in any case, little to spend money on at Midnight Court, Lucas had given up carrying cash about with him, and had never made much of a push to obtain his allowance; now he wished that he had done so.

They walked out into the hospital forecourt. A dim yellow dawn was beginning to break; the snow had stopped falling at last, but lay thick on the ground. The yard was trackless; the street beyond had already been churned into muddy ruts by the never-ending traffic of wagons taking supplies to the factories. But as the pony cart climbed the hill out of town the fields on either side of the road and the height of moorland farther off rose in curves of spotless white.

"It's very beautiful," said Lucas.

"Me, I do not find it so," remarked Anna-Marie, shivering. "And it is going to be a great nuisance to us."

"Why?"

"Well, I have been thinking, Luc-asse," she surprised him by saying. "Sir Rrandolph is dead, and Monsieur Ookapool is in the 'ospital, and our house is very likely burned, we shall have to find somewhere else to live."

"We certainly shall," Lucas agreed.

"Lodgings cost much money—so does food, we have also to pay for
ce pauvre
Monsieur Ookapool. We shall need a great deal of money,
ga de voit.
Have you got any?"

"Very little," he said gloomily.

"
Ni moi non plus.
We shall have to find work. You are a boy; you are big and strong and can do many things," she said calmly, "but for a girl like me, it is not so easy to earn money. But in Calais sometimes, when we are very poor, and Papa is ill, I am collecting often
led bouts de cigare—
"

"Cigar stubs—"

"Out, cigar stubs—I am picking up many in the streets and from them making whole new cigars; in this way I get enough money to buy bread and
saucisson
for Papa and me."

"Did you though?" said Lucas, looking at Anna-Marie with surprise.

"But the cigar stubs are not so easy to find if the streets are snowy,
enfin.
So I may have to think of something else to do. Perhaps I can look after people's babies."

"Can you do that?"

She nodded. "
Si.
I get on well with them.
Cela m'amuse bien.
But for such tasks I think we may need to go and live in the town, not out 'ere so far away."

"Well, let's see first what has happened to our house. If we can go on living in Midnight Court, that will save us having to pay for lodgings."

"
Bien, c'est vrai
It is lucky we have the horse and cart;
cela sera trés utile.
"

They drove on over the brow of the hill and through the lodge gate. Lucas glanced down at his companion, thinking, Who would have imagined she had so much sense in her?

There she sat, wrapped in his old black duffel-jacket; there she sat, looking about six, she was sucking her finger again, her two skimpy little plaits hung down untidily, and she was planning away for their future as shrewdly as if she had been doing it for years.

Mrs. Gribbit, the lodgekeeper's wife, came out to say, "How is poor Mester Oakapple then?" And when Lucas had told her, she went on, "T'constables have coom oop from t'town to inspect t'ruins because foul play is soospected. They found Sir Randolph—all charred to a wisp he was, nowt left of him really—so he's been took away and put in a box."

"Oh, well, I suppose that's best," Lucas said hastily, hoping that Anna-Marie had not heard. He could not pretend grief at the death of Sir Randolph, who had not given him kindness or generosity, or even fair treatment.

"Nobody else was killed in the fire?" Anna-Marie asked.

"No, miss. Eh, it is a do. You're kindly welcome to coom back and have a soop of tea when ye've seen the constables, both of ye; I daresay ye can do with a warm-up."

They thanked her, and drove on to the ruins.

Half a dozen constables in top hats were wandering about, carefully inspecting all that was to be seen. There was not much.
The destruction had been very complete. The fire must have spread even faster than Lucas had thought it might, after they had gone: everything, even the servants' quarters and the stable block had burned down to the very foundations. All that remained of the huge house with its many rooms, its tall chimneys, and its grandeur were some hundreds of yards of ashes and blackened beams, already half covered in snow. A few sad remnants lay about—a broom, a rockingchair, a washtub. The rain-water barrel on which Lucas had left his book lay on its side with one stave knocked in. Of the book there was no sign.