THE CINDER PATH (7 page)

"Fell from his horse!" Big Polly's mouth

dropped into a gape, then closed as her son began

to gabble, "I didn't mean it. Ma, I didn't

mean it. I just meant to trip *irn. I... I

thought the rope would catch him round . . . round his

chest, but he came at a

canter, his head down. I... I just wanted to break

... to break his leg or something to stop him takin'

her." He now jerked his head towards young Polly.

Then his mouth agape, he watched his mother gather the

front of her blouse into her fist until her breasts

looked as if they would burst through the material, and all the while her face seemed to grow larger; her

mouth and eyes stretched, her nostrils dilated

until it seemed as if the whole face was going

to explode in a scream; then her body slumped like

a deflated bladder and she whispered, "You mean . .

. you killed him . . dishe's dead?" When in the

fear-filled silence the only answer her son gave

her was the drooping of his head she sprang on

him and, gripping his shoulder, she shook him like a rat while she screamed now, "You maniac! You bloody

maniac you! You interferin' numskull! You'll

swing, you'll swing! An' for what? "Cos he

wanted his son broke in. 'Twasn't him. He

got what he wanted from me, you all knew that.

Aye by God! an" you've let me know it an'

all over the years." She stopped her shaking and

thrust him against the wall where he leaned looking at

her like a frightened child, all his aggressiveness gone, no vestige of the bumptious youth left.

Big Polly now turned and looked at her

daughter. The saliva was dripping from one corner of

her mouth, her tongue lolling in the open gap, and she

gasped as she said, "It . , . it was for young master there you had to go down, not the boss, I ... I

didn't tell you "cos . . . well, oh my

God!" She put her hand to her head and rocked herself back and forward. "What's come upon us this day? As if I hadn't had enough all me life. But now murder.

Oh my God!" She turned to Charlie, and as if

she were talking about some animal on the farm she said to him simply,, "He wanted you broken in, and he

picked on Polly here. I ... I

didn't tell her what she had to go down to the

cottage for till the last minute, I ... I

couldn't bring meself to. And now . , . now-was

She put her arms under her flagging breasts and,

turning from him, began to walk round the small room,

her pace quickening to almost a run.

All this time Charlie hadn't once looked at

Polly, he had kept his eyes fixed on her mother.

Vaguely now, he realized the torment the woman

had endured all these years at the hands of his father, for no matter in what capacity anyone was connected with

his father they would, in some way, suffer.

His father had been the source of so much suffering, and now he was dead. He clamped down on the feeling of

intense relief, even joy, that was straining to escape

from some secret cell in his brain and envelop him, and ordered his mind to dwell on the fact that Arthur had

killed him and Arthur would undoubtedly be hanged for

it, that is if something wasn't done, and soon.

He found himself taking the three steps to bring him

face to face with big Polly and which caused her

to stop in her pacing. He had never stood so close

to her for years, and now he was recalling the peculiar smell that emanated from her, it was a mixture of

sour milk and sweat. His voice sounded

surprisingly firm, even to himself, as he said, "It

... it was an accident."

"Accident! Huh!"

"It could be looked upon as such ... he fell from his horse, it... it must have stumbled and . . . and the fall broke his neck."

Her hand was again gathering up the material of her

blouse. "He broke his neck?" The words were a whimper.

For answer he nodded his head just once; then

putting his hand inside his coat he handed

her the coiled rope., saying, "There's . . .

there's no one knows the facts except us," His

eyes flicked from one to the other; then on an instant

recalling his conversation with young Peter earlier, he put in hastily, "There's . , . there's Peter.

It was he who told me that Arthur had taken a

rope and gone down to the copse. I... I think it

would be wise if you talked to him."

There was silence in the room; then big Polly said

quietly, "Aye, Master Charlie, aye, I'll

talk to him. And God bless you this day," On this she grabbed at his hand and, bringing it up to her breast, she pressed it there for a moment, still keeping her eyes on him.

He was blushing again, the heat was flushing his body like a hot drink. He looked from big Polly

to Arthur who was still leaning against the wall as if he were drunk. Then his gaze flicked to young Polly whose

face was expressing stark fear, and without a word he

turned and left them.

On the gravel outside he stood for a moment, the

latch of the door in his hand, and as he stared down

towards the farm he straightened his shoulders and jerked his chin to the side. He felt strange, elated;

tie had gone into that room a boy and he had come

out a man. He had managed a dangerous situation

on his own. Big Polly had called him Master

Charlie and her tone by itself had given him prestige.

He walked slowly along the row of cottages and

down the slope towards the farm, and as he did so he

saw the cinder path snaking away from the back of the

byres down to the cottage, the cinder path on which his father had that morning flayed Ginger Slater. Well

he would flay no more, and one of the first things he himself would do would be to get rid of that path.

He stopped for a moment. Why wasn't he feeling

just the slightest regret at his father's passing? Was

he unnatural? Shouldn't he be feeling a little

sorrow in spite of everything, for his father had

loved him? No. No, his father hadn't loved him, his

father had loved no one but himself. What feeling his father had had for him was founded on his desire for power and prestige, and he would have used him to this end. He

mustn't feel guilt at his lack of compassion, and

he could console himself that he wasn't the only one who would find himself in this state, there was his mother . . . He must break the news to his mother . . . What was he

talking about? He

wasn't to know his father was dead. If the horse made

its way back to the stable, which it would likely do,

someone would go out looking. Well, it wouldn't be him.

No, no, he couldn't bear to look down on that

figure for a second time.

Turning abruptly to the left, he now jumped the

dry stone wall and made his way in the direction of the far hills. It was nothing for him to go tramping for

miles; he wouldn't be missed, and when he came

back the hubbub would be over. But then again-he drew

his step to a halt-he'd have to simulate surprise,

a kind of grief, could he do it? His step was slow as

he moved on. He had never been any good at

acting a part. He had found that out at school. One

of his masters had said he was of the stuff that made good audiences.

He had walked some miles before he reached the first

hill and when he dropped down on to the dead heather

he lay stretched out, his face buried in the crook

of his arm. He had the desire to cry. All this had

come about because his father had wanted to break him

into manhood. But he knew now it would be a long,

long time before that happened; and then not with Polly, never with Polly. Dear, dear Polly.

The sprigs of dry heather tickled his nose

and as he went to rub it he brushed away the tears that were streaming freely from his eyes. And strangely now, he knew he wasn't crying because he had lost

Polly but because his father had been deprived of life in that sudden and horrible way. If he had died in bed

it wouldn't have mattered so much, perhaps not at all. But the way he had gone it had been equivalent to him

being slaughtered. He had never been able to tolerate

slaughter, that's why he'd never be any good as a

farmer.

His crying broke into sobs and some grazing sheep

turned in surprise towards the sound. They had

heard nothing like it before.

THE funeral had been well attended. The

privileged mourners who had returned for a meal had

packed the dining-room, and the atmosphere had

taken on the air of a party, helped no doubt by the

lavish spread and the spirits with which most of those present kept washing it down. But as each took his farewell

of the bereaved woman, his solemnity returned.

When all but the solicitor had gone, Mary

MacFell, Charlie, and Betty went with him into the

sitting-room. There the solicitor prepared to read

the will, and much to Mary MacFell's chagrin he did

not address her but looked directly towards

Charlie as he said, "I didn't draw up this will,

your father deposited it with me, but it was signed and witnessed in my presence, so although it is brief and

simple, everything is in order; and it reads as

follows-was

He now took out his handkerchief, blew his nose

and returned the handkerchief to his pocket, then

began, was 'I, Edward MacFell,

being of sound mind, leave entirely to my son

Charles MacFell the real estate, which estate

includes the farm and freehold land there attached

But he got no further than this for Mary

MacFell almost bounced to her feet crying,

"What! everything to Charlie? It's scandalous. It

isn't right, it's ..."

"Please, Mrs MacFell. Please

wait one moment." The solicitor held up his

hand. "Your husband didn't forget you; his wishes

read as follows-was He waited for her to sit down

again and then went on:

was 'And to my wife, Mary MacFell, I

leave one third of the monies in the bank and of that in bonds, and to be the legal guardian . . ." his

"One third of the money?" Her voice broke in

again, high and excited now.

"One third," the solicitor repeated" "and the remainder to my son Charles". And that seems almost to conclude the matter. As I said, it is a very

brief statement. I wish all were so simple, but

nevertheless, it will take some little time for the legalities to be taken care of." He smiled weakly, then

looked at the plain, tight-lipped young daughter who

was staring fixedly at

him, coughed, and rose to his feet. . . .

Charlie showed the solicitor to the hired cab which was waiting for him, and when he returned to the

sitting-room it was to find that his mother was no longer there; but Betty was, and she was pacing the floor in much the same manner as his father had been wont to do. But when Charlie entered the room she stopped and cried at

him, "He never once mentioned me. None of

you cared for him like I did, and he's left me

nothing. You hated him. Yes you did; I know, I

know." She stretched her small frame upwards and

wagged her finger in his face. "Like her"- she now jerked her head towards the ceiling-"you hated him; and you were afraid of him. I was never afraid of him.

He knew that, yet"-she now shook her head

slowly, bit on her lip and started her pacing

again-"not to mention me, not to leave me anything."

"He knew you'd be taken care of." He sat

slowly down.

Swinging around, she repeated scornfully, "Taken

care of! I can take care of meself. I can see

I'll have to. As for you taking care of anybody,

you're too weak-kneed, and he couldn't see it. He

was obsessed with the idea

of making you what he wanted to be himself, a

gentleman. Huh!" She pursed her lips as if

about to spit. "Well, you'll have to forget about that now, won't you, and get down to some real work, a man's

work, muck work. Oh"-her lower jaw grated from one side to the other-"if only I was in your shoes."

"I wish you were." Charlie had risen to his

feet and he stood looking down at her as he

repeated with deep bitterness, "I wish you

were." And on this he turned from her and walked

towards the door. But before reaching it he was brought to a standstill with his head jerking backwards and his eyes cast towards the ceiling, for from above there was coming the sound of high laughter. Swinging round he looked at his

sister, and she, as startled as he was, gazed back

at him; then they both ran from the room, across the

hall, up the stairs and into their mother's bedroom.

Mary MacFell was lying in the middle of the bed;

her arms were widespread and she was kicking her heels

in a childlike fashion on top of the quilt.

"Mother! Mother! stop it." Charlie had her by the shoulders. But Mary did not cease her laughing. Her

mouth wide, the tip of her

tongue curled downwards, her laughter rose to a

higher pitch.

"Mother! Mother! give over."

"Get by!" Charlie found himself thrust aside, and now clutching the brass rail of the bedhead he

watched his small sturdy sister lift her hand and

bring it in a whacking smack across her mother's face.

In hiccuping gasps the laughter died away, and

they stood in deep silence for a moment until the