The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (16 page)

'I do.' said Matt heartily. 'But this what I hev to show you is only just past the Dyke.'

He dived into the sagging pocket of his dirty, ragged old coat and produced, most surprisingly, one the flat, capped hunting-flasks which gentlemen carried. 'Here,' he said, 'hev a pull at this. Right good stuff that is--French brandy.'

'And a nice flask too.'

Tut in with a job lot over at Summerfield when they sold old Major Telford's stuff. Can't think what they were about. Four cracked jugs and a brass fender, a pair of bellows and this boy. Bought the lot for a shilling. But the stuff in it I got from...well, that'd be telling. You taste it and tell me if you ever had the like. You got quite a bit of drinking to catch up on like, ain't that so?' He watched Danny's face and went on, kindly, 'There's no pleasing 'em, is there? So drink up and thank God for good liquor!'

They drank, turn and turn about, until the flask was empty and then walked in warm, brandy-flavoured friendliness towards the Dyke and reached the place where Matt had hidden his gun.

'Half a minnit,' he said, stooping to retrieve it. Having done so, instead of putting it under his arm and walking on, he stood still, holding the gun as though he hoped to see something at which to take a pot-shot. The brandy-- which was like nothing he'd ever drunk before--was by this time moving swiftly in Danny's blood, breeding dreams in his brain. He saw himself, the bachelor, the misogynist, riding about the six parishes, to and from market, on the blood mare that Fred Clopton envied.

'Come on, Matt,' he said, impatiently.

'We ain't in no hurry.' Matt's voice, though still amiable, had suffered a slight change. 'I s'pose you ain't minded to marry my gal, Sally?'

'Good God, no!'

'Then you'd better be! Don't move, Danny; this here owd gun is likely to go off and blow you to Glory. 'Naccident that'd be; but they'd only hev to look at it to see how unaccountable she is on the trigger.' His voice was laconic but his stare was stony, and Danny knew that he was not joking. Nevertheless he said: 'Don't be daft, Matt. And don't point the old blunderbuss at me, even in joke.'

'I ain't joking. Nor I ain't preaching. We're all young once. But there's my gal in the family way and she hold you to blame, so ..."

'But I...I haven't had anything to do with Sally since last Midsummer Fair.'

'You think again.' 'Bout March, I seem to recollect.'

'Yes. That's true. But we only want for a bit of a ride. Nothing happened.'

'Ah, thass what you think! Fact is we're most of us better bulls than we reckon--or wanta be at times. We 'on't about that. There's Sally four months gone, you can see by the hang of her apron, and you was out with her in March; and if you ain't ready to stand up like a man and do the right thing by her, I swear to God you 'on't stand up never no more, Danny Fuller.'

'I don't want to marry Sally, nor anybody.'

''Tain't what you want, 's'what I want; and I'm the one with the gun! I warned you--stand still; don't this touchy trigger might cut your meditations. I'm fair; giving you a chance to think, I am. But think quick. And don't go off with some half-cocked idea about saying yes now and no tomorrow. That hare 'on't run. If you diddle me I shall wait for you and get you for certain. Anyway, I'm sick of this argyfying. Yes or no? I'm gonna count three now; then this gun is gonna go off. One ...'

It was all very well to think--This is ludicrous, this can't be happening to me. It was happening. Matt's eyes were the eyes of a man with a purpose. The worn, touchy trigger was there, his finger was ready. 'Two,' Matt said in a voice of doom. And there was nobody about; here on the edge of the Waste it was as though they two were alone in the world. 'All right then. If I must, I must.' 'Thass the spirit. Now I should be obliged if you'd just stroll along to Parson's and fix for the banns, starting Sunday. I shall be right behind you, but I'll be careful. And as soon's that done we'll to to the owd Horse and wet the bargain. You could hev done worse, you know, Danny. Sal's a bit wild, but a clout or two'll settle her; and she do make as good a dumpling, when she's in the mind, as ever I set my teeth into.'

When Damask's August Saturday came round, the banns had been read twice and were due to be read for the third time on the morrow. How soon after the first reading the news had reached Amos's ears no one could know. He did not report it and Julie learned it by overhearing a chance conversation started by somebody bringing a pair of shoes to be cobbled. Never before had she realised the full bitterness and exasperation of having a husband whose mind was set on 'higher things'. Amos refused to share her feelings, refused to speculate upon the truth or falsity of the rumour, refused to be concerned.

'Somebody must go and break the news to Damask, gently,' Julie said.

'Well, I ain't got time to go chasing over to Muchanger to carry a bit of gossip. We're still digging out the foundations and the timber is due to arrive any day now.'

'Then will you ask Shad if I could hev the donkey-rig?'

'I shall hev enough favours to ask of Shad time we start carting the timber, Julie. Besides, if you go to Muchanger in the donkey-rig Damask'll think there'd been a death, to say the least.'

'It's as bad as.'

'Don't talk so wild, woman. Danny Fuller he backslid, there's the long and the short of it. He fell into sin and got a girl into trouble and is making the only amends he can. We should be glad he's going to make an honest woman of the poor girl. Why Damask should mind and you say it's as bad as a death I fail to see.'

'But she thought he was going to marry her. You must have seen that!'

'And I thought he'd turned over a new leaf. And maybe he did. Maybe if it wasn't for his mended ways he'd hev left the girl in the lurch. Ah, there is that to think of.'

'It's Damask he's left in the lurch.' Julie said, beginning to cry.

'Now thass a shocking thing to say, and I'm surprised at you, her own mother. Damask is a good girl; she'd never do with Danny Fuller, nor no other man, anything so he could leave her in the lurch. You know that. Why you should be so upset and seem to reckon she'll be, I can't understand.'

'But she loved him. I'm sure of that, though she never said it in so many words.'

'Come, come, Mother! How could you know? And even so--well, we all hev our troubles and trials. The Lord knows what is best for us; the Lord knows what is best for Damask! You just take comfort in that thought! Remember the psalmist, "The Lord is my shepherd".'

It was quite useless. All she could hope was that Damask would not hear the dreadful news from somebody casual or cruel. Then, as the day for the visit drew near and she realised that if Damask arrived in ignorance she would have the task of telling her, she almost wished that someone might have forestalled her.

The day came and Damask came running in, carrying the parcel of beef pieces and another, larger parcel. It was a hot sultry day and a faint odour of meat already on the turn was perceptible immediately.

'I must get this on quicker than usual, it's half cooked already,' Damask said as soon as she had greeted her mother.

The kitchen table was bare; not one of the 'three of everything' was to be seen. She laid the large parcel aside carefully and began to gather together the things she needed for the pudding-making. Then she realised that her mother was looking at her queerly, and that she seemed to have shrivelled and shrunk.

'Are you all right, Mother?' she asked, dipping a cup into the flour sack.

'I'm all right,' Julie said in a tone which implied that her health was the one lonely thing that was right in the world. She looked at the larger parcel. 'Thass your stuff? Oh, my dear, my dear!' She burst into tears.

(Miss Lee, kindly and obliging, had tried to buy a golden-brown lindsey away back in the spring, had put it on order and here it was and Mother crying over it.)

'Mother, what is the matter?' Damask stood still, holding the cup of flour and the bowl into which she had meant to pour it. 'Is it Father? What then? Has anything happened?'

'Lots has happened,' sobbed Julie. 'Ain't you heard anything? Ain't you got even a glimmer of suspicion?' It sounded as though she pleaded with Damask to know, to suspect, to spare her the task of telling.

'Danny?'

Julie nodded.

'Ill? Not dead? What is it, then? Tell me. Tell me.'

'He's going to marry Sally Ashpole. He got her in the family way, my dear, so he ...' She broke off, shocked by the pallor, 'the very look of death', as she said later, which had come into her daughter's face.

'It isn't true,' the white lips said.

'My poor dear, it is. Spitty Palfrey brought his shoes, but you know how he mumble, I couldn't hear all; and you know your Dad--what ain't said about chapel might as well not be said for all he know. So I went across to the Ashpoles' and asked straight out. And there the hussy was, four months gone if a day and as proud as Punch and Mrs Ashpole the same, telling me the banns had been asked...'

She saw the girl sway and hobbled forward, hoping to catch her, but she was too late. There Damask lay, rigid and white on the floor, surrounded by the spilt flour and the bits of broken crockery.

In the airless room where Julie had stitched away her girlhood fainting fits had been a commonplace; she knew all the simple ready-to-hand remedies and she applied them, convinced though she was from the first that this was no mere faint. Nor was it a convulsive fit, so horrible to see with its writhings and frothings. The girl lay there as rigid and cold and still as a twelve-hour corpse and only a noisy, battling breath drawn at long intervals showed that she still lived.

When Julie had tried all she knew and the hot little kitchen reeked of burnt feathers, of hartshorn, of sliced onion, of vinegar and pepper recklessly scattered in the hope of provoking a sneeze, Julie thought of the one thing she had not yet tried--brandy. There was, naturally, none in the house, but more likely than not Matt Ashpole would have some. She shrank from the idea of going to their house again--they would guess at and triumph over the cause of Damask's fit--but she couldn't let Damask die for such a nicety. Hobbling as fast as she could, she went across to the Ashpoles' and was fortunate enough to find Matt alone in the yard, half-heartedly at work gathering his plums.

'Aye.' he said, when she had gasped out her request and the reason for it, 'Hot enough to fell a bullock, ain't it? Let's see now...I might hev--and again I might not.' He came down from the ladder, picked up his old jacket, took the hunting-flask from the pocket and gave it a shake.

'Ah,' he said in a satisfied voice, 'here's a drop o' the best. That'll do the trick.' He handed over the flask and then said, 'Want me to come and give you a hand?'

'Oh no, thank you,' Julie said hurriedly. 'Thank you very much. I'll bring this back soon.'

'No hurry.' Matt said. He looked at the laden plum tree with ungrateful distaste and, diving into his pocket again, produced his clay pipe and a screw of tobacco. He'd known all along that it was too hot for working.

Julie hurried back and arrived panting. Damask, still as white as death, was on her feet, once more assembling the pudding materials, her movements so abrupt and jerky that Julie was reminded of an unskilfully handled puppet.

'Are you all right?' she gasped out.

'Quite all right. I'm sorry about the bowl. It was the heat; and I'd hurried.'

'You set down, my dear, and I'll make a cup of tea. Never mind about the pudding today. We'll hang the meat down the well and I'll deal with it on Monday.'

'I'm dealing with it now. What's that you have in your hand?'

'A little drop of brandy I borrowed.' She felt the need to excuse such an action. 'I couldn't bring you round, you see. I got frightened. I don't really see the harm...not in illness.'

'I'm all right. I'd like a cup of tea, though.'

'You still look queer.' Julie said, pulling the kettle from the hob to the centre of the fire. Damask went on with the pudding, the jerky puppet movements oddly efficient, her face completely composed. Save for the jerkiness and the ghastly pallor there was nothing to show that she had been shocked into an unconsciousness which must have lasted a full hour; certainly there was no real reason why Julie should feel as though her daughter had died there on the floor and that this was a stranger, something queer and rather frightening, just pretending to be Damask Greenway making the usual pudding. But that was how she did feel.

Julie lifted off the kettle and made the tea, and Damask slipped the pudding-saucepan into the kettle's place.

'Now you set down and hev a nice cup of tea.' Julie said. She felt that over the tea they might talk and Damask might cry and she might comfort her and this feeling of strangeness would pass. Tears, anger, protests--anything would seem more natural.

Damask drank half a cup of tea, then she reached out and picked up Matt's flask from the corner of the table where Julie had laid it. She unscrewed the cap, poured brandy into Julie's cup and then into her own.

'Try that.' she said. 'It's good.' 

Julie just stared, unbelieving.

'The cook at Muchanger always laces her tea if Mr Hook, the butler, has managed to refill their bottle.'

'And hev you ever .. .'

'No.' A slight smile, not in the least like any smile Julie had ever seen on her daughter's face before, flitted across Damask's lips. Unaccountably frightened again, she said, sturdily: 'Well, it'll do you good. It'll do us both good. I had a fright too.'

She could feel it doing her good. Every rare cup of tea she ever tasted did her good, made her feel more cheerful, and loosened something tight and knotted which crippled her spirit as the rheumatism crippled her limbs, and now the tea laced with brandy did her twice the good, acted twice as fast. She'd hardly swallowed three mouthfuls before she found the courage and spirit to say, 'You know, my dear, there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out.'

The stranger across the table jerked its arm up and drank and set the cup down and said, 'If you don't mind, we won't talk about it.'