THE CINDER PATH (5 page)

had kept her attention on her work as she answered

him but when he asked, "What time is it?" she turned her head towards the mantelpiece and glanced

at the little clock that was held in place by a couple

of close-linked Staffordshire figures. "Ten

past eleven."

Jim coughed again and went through the procedure

attached to it. Well, she wouldn't be along the burn

bank at this time of day, Or would she? He glanced

towards the window. At one time he'd had his bed over

there from where he could watch her every move, but it

had been too much to bear, and so under the pretext of

being cold-and that was no lie for he was always

cold-he'd had the bed moved into the corner here from where he kept telling himself that what the eye didn't see

the heart didn't grieve over. But then he hadn't

taken into account his mind's eye.

He lay now looking at his daughter hurrying between

the table and the fireplace, and for the countless time he asked himself the question, "What would I have done without her all these years?" and the same answer came,

"I'd have gone clean mad likely." She was

bonny was his Polly. And then she had that something, a quality that went beyond bonniness. He couldn't put a

name to it only to think that it was like the scent that came from some wild flowers and kept you sniffing at them. He

looked at her thick mass of hair tied back

into a bushy tail with a piece of faded ribbon. The

colour was like that of the heather, the dead heather that swept like waves over the desolate land away towards

Ray Fell. Then again, x"...wasn't as dark as the

dead heather, more like the bracken when, the summer over, it bent towards the ground. . . . He'd soon be in

the ground, and he'd be glad to go. Oh aye, if it

wasn't for her

standing there he'd be glad to go. Not that he would miss her "cos he wouldn't know nowt about anything, he had no belief in the hereafter, but he knew she would miss

him

As he lay looking up at the discoloured ceiling,

he wondered how much longer he had left before they

carried him down the road, past the farm, over the

fields and gentle hills and across the "new line"

road that now ran from Newcastle far away

to the North, to Carter Bar and over that mighty mound

into Scotland. He wished he'd been able to travel

that road just for a few miles. Some said it was a fine road and a boon to the farmers to get their stuff into the markets; but others said it was the beginning of the end, nothing would ever be the same again because of that road.

Anyway, they would have to carry him across the road

to get to the cemetery In Kirkwhelpington. He was

glad he would lie there for it was a bonny cemetery,

perched high on the top of a slice of rock which his father had once described as being cut out by the hand of God

Almighty to keep off the heathen Scots from

attacking the church and the little village beyond.

He had been christened in the church of

Saint Bartholomew, and as a lad on his halfday

off a fortnight, he had liked to walk that way. He

had only once been more than twenty miles from the

farm in his life. That was a day long ago when as a

young lad he had gone with the drovers into Newcastle.

In his young days they could go all year round and not

see a strange soul, but things were different now. In

the summer strangers came tramping over the hills

with packs on their backs, boots on their feet with

soles thicker than clogs, and wearing strange

hats, and they sometimes stopped at a

cottage door and asked for a drink of water.

Just this summer a young fellow had put his head through the open door there and said quite friendly like, "Anybody at home?" Polly had given him a cup of

buttermilk, which he hadn't liked very much, and it had made her laugh. She and the young fellow had stood

talking for a long while and it had worried him

somewhat, because it had brought home to him the fact that his Polly was no longer a little lass. She'd soon be

a young woman, fourteen in November, she'd be.

She had brought him luck because, before her, they had

buried five, but from when she came there was one each

year for the next

four years and they all lived. Maggie, Mick,

Peter, and Flo, they were all past the danger age

now. Flo, the youngest, was nine.

He turned his gaze towards the window. There had

been no more bairns since Flo; there had been no

more nothing since Flo, for it was at that time that palsy attacked his legs, and as disasters never come singly he took the consumption. He marvelled at times that he

had lasted so long, but he wouldn't have if it hadn't

been for Polly.

His head jerked and he opened his eyes and stared up

into his daughter's face.

"I must have been no.in" off."

"Aye." She punched gently at the pillow to the side of his head. "It does you good to sleep. Would you like a drink?"

"Aye, lass; it does you good to sleep." He

caught hold of her hand now and stared into her eyes as he said, "I'll soon be takin' a long sleep.

You know that, don't you?"

"Aw, Dad, don't. Don't!" She tugged

her hand from his and her whole body wriggled in

protest. "Don't talk like that, it upsets me, you

could live for years. Looked after proper, you could

live for years, an' I'll look after you."

"All right, all right, don't frasfa yourself.

It's as you say, I could live for years, so it's

up to you to keep me goin', eh. ... There, now, there

now, don't start bubblin'. Aw, lass"- he again

had hold of her hand-"there's nobody like you in the wide world. By! some fella's gona get a

prize some day."

"Prize, huh!" She gave a broken laugh

now. "Surprise you mean, when he finds out he's

got a quick-tempered bitch on his hands."

"He'll admire you for your spunk. An' you've

got spunk. By! aye!"-he moved her

hand up and down as if shaking it-"you have that. You've got more spunk in your little finger than the other five put together."

"Oh, our Arthur's got spunk, Da; he'll

let nobody tread on him, will our Arthur."

"Aye." He released her hand now and his fingers plucked at the patchwork quilt on the bed as he

said, "But there's spunk and spunk, lass. Don't

be deceived by those who shout the loudest. It's often the quiet ones who show up the best. It's a funny

thing you know, but fear breeds spunk. Aye, it

does. I, myself, thought I hadn't much spunk

until I was frightened, and then I stood me ground.

You're like me"-his eyes lifted to her again-"you'll always stand your ground.

Not"-he nodded at her now smiling- uthat you can be classed as a quiet one, not if me ears tell me

aright."

"Go on with you, our Da! Go on$13 She

flapped her hands at him, then turned from him,

saying, "If I have any more of your old lip I'll

dock your drink."

As she went to lift the tea caddy from the

mantelpiece she was brought abruptly round by the

door being thrust open, and she saw Arthur

standing there with his arms outspread, one hand gripping the latch and the other on the stanchion of the door, He was gasping as if he had been running. He looked from

her to the bed, then back to her again, and on a gasp he said "Have . . . have you seen our Mick?"

"No; well, not since he went out this morning.

He's . . . he's up in the beet field$13

She motioned her hand towards the side wall.

"Oh aye, aye." His arms dropped to his

sides. Then stepping into the room, he asked, "You makin' tea?"

"Aye, I'm just gona mash it."

"I'll . . . I'll have a cup."

"What's wrong?" It was his father speaking.

"Nowt. Nowt."

D "dis

r .-

J J

"Don't tell me nowt's wrong, you said you were

workin" in the bottom fields this mornin', why are you here?"

"I was just passin'."

"Just passin'!" Jim pulled his useless body

upwards in the bed, then said, "Don't try

to stuff me, lad."

"I'm not tryin' to stuff you, Da. I said I was

just passin' and that's what I was doin', just passin', lookin' for our Mick." Arthur now turned his

back on his father and glanced at Polly, where she was

standing with the teapot in her hand staring at him, andwitha silent grimace and a movement of his eyebrows he

indicated he wanted to speak to her; then saying,

"Ah, to the devil!" he went towards the door again and out on to the rough gravel that fronted the

cottages.

Thrusting the empty teapot on to the hob, Polly

looked towards her father, nodded at him, then hurried

from the room and into the open, there to see Arthur standing near the door of the end cottage.

"What is it? What's the matter?" She was

close to him whispering as if afraid of being

overheard, and he grabbed at her arm, saying,

"I'll tell you what's the matter, come in here," and pushing the cottage door open he

thrust her into the dank room and there, still holding her, he said, "Brace yourself for the latest."

"What do you mean? An' leave go of me arm,

you're hurtin' me."

He released his hold on her and she

stood rubbing her arm while she looked info his

face. His lips were working tightly one over the other; she saw his cheekbones moving under the skin; there were beads of sweat running between his brows and down the

centre of his nose; his Adam's apple was working as

if he were swallowing-he had a big Adam's

apple for a boy.

"You're for the cottage."

"What!"

"I said you're for the cottage. She's down there

now, me ma, an' I heard them. I was at the

back near the scullery. I'd set a trap in the

thicket. He never comes down there in the mornin's,

it's always late afternoon, you know it is, but I saw him coming down the cinder path, and her along the burn

bank. She must have got a signal. God knows

what it is, I wish I did. And then they went

inside, and when I heard him raise his voice

straightaway I knew . . . aye well"-he

turned his head away-"I knew they weren't at it,

an' that it

was something else, so I sneaked up to the scullery

window an' I heard me ma keep saying "No!

No!" and then she mentioned your name. "Not young Polly!" she said, an' he said

"Aye", and she had to send you down atween four and five ... I was for goin' in there and rippin' them

up. You're not goin'! D'you hear? You're not

goin'!" He had hold of her shoulders now shaking

her; and she allowed him to do so for some seconds for she was feeling dazed by what she had just heard. But of a

sudden she wrenched herself from him and cried at him,

"You've no need to tell me I'm not goin', our

Arthur, wild horses won't drag me down

there." She was standing at the far end of the little room now, and he remained where he was, his hands hanging

limply by his sides again and his head on his chest,

all the aggressiveness seemed to have left his body,

and his voice was low and flat as he said, "That's what me ma said all those years ago when me da could no

longer do his stint; but this time"-his voice took on a stronger, bitter note now-"it'll be the road

we'll take, even if it means pushin' me da on

the flat cart."

"You couldn't take me da from his bed. Anyway,

the master wouldn't do that, those

roundabout wouldn't stand for it and . . . and he values people's opinion. He ... he would never turn us out."

"Well, we'll wait and see, won't we, when

you say you're not goin'. But if he

doesn't turn us out there's one thing he'll do,

he'll make life hell for the lot of us. The cinder

path'll be nothin' to it."

Polly was leaning against the dirty whitewashed

wall, her arms folded tightly under her small

breasts, and she was sniveling inwardly. The master

wanted her. He'd , . . he'd had her mother for

years, and now he wanted her. Oh no! No! She

shook her head in a slow wide sweep. Never!

She'd jump in the burn first. But then there were so few places you could drown in the burn unless it was in

flood, and she had to think of her da.

"Don't worry; I won't let it happen."

With his arm around her shoulders Arthur pulled her from the wall and led her towards the door. She was in the

road again before she said as if coming out of a dream,

"But... but what'll I tell our da?"

Arthur gnawed at his lip for a moment, then offered

her the solution of his father's one-time weakness by saying,

"Tell him there's a basket of eggs missin' and

our Mick

an' Flo were gatherin' them first thing, an' the boss

is wild."

She nodded at him, then watched him turn away

and walk towards the beet field; but she

herself didn't go immediately into the cottage. Again she leant against the wall, and as she did so she saw a

figure on horseback riding along the bridle

path in the direction of Brooklands Farm, and she

knew it was Charlie. Almost instantly she was

enveloped in a sweat that clouded her vision and for the first time in her life her feelings touched on ecstasy, and

when, some seconds later, her vision cleared she

knew that had it been the master's son she had been