A Dinner Of Herbs (44 page)

gently, “Yes, Hal, you’re alive. You’re going to be all right.”

The legs. “

“They’re all right.”

“I... I don’t feel they’re there.”

“Oh, they’je there all right.” She smiled at him while endeavouring to hold back her tears of relief.

“Demon.”

“What did you say?”

“Her. She’s a demon.”

“Who, Hal? Who?”

“Bannaman.”

At the sound of his voice, the other constable who had come on duty came to his side

and, bending

down, he said, “You know who did this to you?”

“Bannaman.” The name was stronger now.

“The daughter and ... and son.”

“My God! A woman? She strung you up?”

“She ... she strung me up.” He closed his eyes as he muttered, “Sent me... into... the next world.”

“You’re back, Hal, you’re back.” Mary Ellen was patting his cheek gently and she

signalled to the

constable not to say any more.

As the constable moved back to the table, Hal opened his eyes and, gazing at Mary Ellen, he said, “You

found me?”

“No:.. the dog.”

“Boyo?”

At the sound of his name, the dog came from where it had been lying near the child’s

basket and,

stretching across the mattress, he licked Hal’s face. And Hal, putting his hand on its head, a little of his

old manner returning, said, “Irish tinker. I’ll... I’ll pay him double when... when I next see him.”

It was three days before Hal was sufficiently recovered to get on his feet; and then, as he said, he felt

like a child taking its first steps, and the effort was painful, especially round the knee joints.

Mary Ellen had fed him with broth and whatever he could eat of the dishes that Annie

had brought over

from the farm. The big woman’s first visit had been a painful scene, for she had stood over him and cried

unashamedly. And Mary Ellen had felt deep sorrow for her and for a moment she had

thought, Oh, ‘tis a

pity you’re not younger; then had asked herself why on earth she should think that the way she herself

felt. But nevertheless, she could gauge the loneliness and want in this big woman.

Her face awash with tears, Annie had assured Hal that his animals were all right, his

house was all right,

and Terry was doing fine. He had nothing whatever to worry about, but . would he please come back

soon.

When she had left, Hal had sighed and said, “She’s a good lass. She’s wasted.”

The first walk Hal took was up the room to the bed where Mary Ellen placed a chair for him, and there

he sat and held Kate’s hand. And as she looked at him she said again the one word,

“Bannaman.” And

he nodded at her and said, “Aye, Kate, aye, Bannaman.” Then smiling faintly, he said.

They meant to

wipe all the Roystans off the map, but they slipped up this time. “

“Have ... have they found them?”

“No, not yet, Kate, but they’re lookin’.”

The fingers within his scratched gently on his flesh as she said, “Time’s nearly up, Hal. I can go now ...

any time now ... Hal.”

“Yes, Kate?” He bent over her, the muscles of his face twitching.

“Mary Ellen. See to Mary Ellen.”

“Don’t worry, Kate. Don’t worry. Mary Ellen will be all right.”

“Hal.”

“Yes, Kate?”

“See to Mary Ellen’ He drew in a long breath, then said, “ I know what you mean, Kate. I know what

you mean. I’ll try. “

“Don’t... don’t wait for him... Roddy. He’s... he’s past.”

“Would you like to see him, Kate?”

She did not answer for a time, but closed her eyes, then muttered, ‘ “Tis no matter, ‘tis no matter. Pat is

here. Came yesterday.” She smiled wanly, and he left loose of her hand and laid it gently on the

counterpane. Then rising stiffly, he walked slowly down the room and, dropping onto the form by the

fire, he looked towards Mary Ellen’s back. She was standing at the table cutting up some meat and he

said quietly, “I think we’d better send for him.”

Her hands became still before she said, “I suppose so.”

“I think it had better be an express letter.”

“I’ll get somebody to take it into Hexham to meet the coach going into Newcastle. It’ll go quickly from

there.”

He continued to stare at her back as he muttered, “Aye, it’ll go quickly from there. He could be here if

he liked in four days or so.”

When she made no answer but went on with her work, he said, “She thinks her son is

here, Pat, and

likely he is.”

“Could you get word to him, an’ all after she goes?”

“T’would be a hard job, he died last year. The letter came to her. I picked it up from the carrier. It

was in a different hand, proper writing. I opened it. It was from a preacher. Reading at ween the lines

Pat had died in a fight. Well, the other one had just gone and I felt she’d had enough for the time being,

so tore the thing up.”

She gazed at him. What would he do next? He was a law unto himself;

yet that action had been thoughtful.

He was saying now, “I’ll have to be making me way back,” causing her to turn towards

him and say

sharply, “You’ll do no such thing; you can hardly stand on your legs yet. You’ll stay

where you are for

the next couple of days.”

He kept his eyes on her as he said, “That’s all very well;

but you can’t expect that little lad to carry on on his own. “

“He’s not carryin’ on on his own, he’s got Annie there an’ all.”

“Oh, aye, Annie.” He smiled wanly now.

“A treasure is Annie. I don’t know what I’d do without Annie.” A teasing note had come into his voice.

She did not respond—in like manner but, her face serious, she said, “That’s true. I don’t know what

you’d do without her, nor me for that matter; she’s kept us goin’ in milk and food for the past days; so sit

yourself still.” . Sometime later, having attended to Kate, washed the breakfast crocks, done the hearth,

brought in more wood and water, and fed the child, she took out a square of paper from a drawer, and a

pencil and, sitting down at the table, chewed on the end of the pencil for a moment, then started to write.

She did not begin, “Dear Roddy,” but said simply, “Kate is nearing her end, I think you should come.”

She did not even sign her name. Her sprawled writing covered a third of the page. Then folding it up

she wrote the address on one side of it, before going to the fire, where she lit a taper, took a piece of

wax from the box on the mantelpiece and sealed the letter, then returned the wax to the box, knowing all

the while her actions were being watched by Hal. But he made no comment on what she

was doing until,

a shawl about her, she went towards the door, saying, “Give an eye to her. I won’t be

long,” when he

asked quietly, “Have you got the money on you to

send it? “

Her lips fell into a tight line. She hadn’t thought about the money.

She went back to the mantelpiece, lifted the lid of another small box and took out two shillings; then

holding it in the palm of her hand, she asked quietly, “Will that be enough?”

“More I should say; a shilling’ll be enough.”

“To send it quickly?”

“Oh, aye. Anyway, ask the carter. And if it’s Beardy Smith, give him a penny for himself,

‘cos he’ll

have to go out of his way to get it to the coach.”

She nodded at him her agreement, then went out.

Once the door had closed on her, Hal bent forward and put his elbows on his knees and

dropped his

face onto his hands. He felt sick, not from the pain that was still in his limbs, nor from the feeling of fear

that he seemed unable to get rid of, for it had buried itself too deep, so deep in those first two days of

agony that he felt he would have to live a number of lifetimes to be the same man again, one who hadn’t

been afraid of anything or anyone; no, this particular sickness was centred in his chest, for he knew that

once Roddy stepped into this room life as he had known it during these past months

would never be the

same again. Her feelings towards himself had changed, they certainly weren’t as they had been, he knew

that, but she would only have to see him and she would be back where she was, at his

feet.

He dropped his hands from his face, and they hung limply down between his knees, and

he stared at the

child lying gurgling in the basket.

What would be his reactions when he saw her? Feel it his duty to marry Mary Ellen and

take her back

with him? He doubted it. There was a draw up in London town that had held him close

for the past

year. His last letter had spoken of how hard he was working towards some kind of test; the previous

one had spoken of an exhibition his tutor said he must attend. All excuses, excuses. He was a skunk, a

selfish self-preserving skunk.

He pulled himself to his feet and glanced up the room to the still form on the bed. That woman up there,

too, had loved him, like perhaps she had never loved her own son. And what must her

thoughts have

been this past year? By God! No matter what happened, should he ever enter that door, or wherever

he came across him, he would give him the length of his tongue. It was a pity he wasn’t feeling fit, or he

would give him the length of his arm and his fist into his good-looking face.

His thoughts now made him wonder what he had seen in him all those years; why he had

trailed him as

he had done. Oh, he knew why he had done since he was eighteen or so, but not before

that. Likely, as

he had already told himself a number of times, out of gratitude for being offered his

friendship when he

was being shunned by everybody else.

Yet, he knew that Roddy had been as lonely as he had been, and more mixed up, if the

truth was told,

for he hadn’t known who he was or where he had come from. And so in that case there

should have

been gratitude on both sides. But it had all come from him.

The child made a slight whining noise, and he went over to the basket and gently picked her up and

cradled her in his arms. It was strange, he felt no resentment about the child; it was as if she belonged to

him as well as to Mary Ellen. What would happen to him if they both disappeared from

his life? He

knew what would happen, he’d rot slowly.

But he wouldn’t die . huh! he might even take Annie in for comfort.

The latter had come into his mind as a form of joke, and as he sat rocking the child

gently, he thought.

Perhaps not so much of a joke either; man was so made he needed a mother in some form

or other until

the day he died.

Kate died in her sleep that night. At what hour they didn’t know. Mary Ellen came down from the loft

around five o’clock where she had been sleeping on a makeshift straw-filled pallet. She had the child

tight pressed to her by one arm and she was surprised to find the lamp lit, the 307 fire going, and Hal

sitting on the settle fully dressed.

She did not go to bed but towards him and her first words were, “You feelin’ bad?”

“No, no.” He got to his feet and then, inclining his head towards the bed, he said, softly,

“She’s gone.”

“AwAwShe quickly put the child into the basket, then hurried up the room, and there by the side of the

bed she stood and with her hand over her mouth, a gesture which always indicated her

intense feeling of

the moment, the tears ran down her cheeks and she muttered thickly, “ Aw, Kate, Kate. “

And looking

to where Hal stood at the foot of the bed, she said, “ I . I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do without her.

She . she was more than a mother to me. “

“Aye. And to more than you.”

She glanced towards him. Yes, he was right, and to more than her, for in a way Kate had been the only

mother he had known.

He said now, quietly, “She understood me when no one else did,” then added on a

different note, “She

... she must have been really bonny when she was young. Look. Look at her face now.

Most of the

lines have gone.

Yes Mary Ellen nodded to herself it was strange, most of the lines had gone. She looked happy. Death

was a funny thing. No, not funny, that was the wrong word, odd, frightening. And yet

there was nothing

to be frightened about, looking at Kate now. It was the first time she had actually seen a dead person.

She had seen numbers of dead cattle and had never got used to the sight, especially when it was an

animal she had talked to.

She felt Hal’s hand on her arm. He was saying, “Come away now, come away. She

wouldn’t want you

to cry for her. She thought the world of you, you know that. Come on.” He led her down the room

again to the fire and pressed her gently on to the settle, saying, “I’ve made some

porridge.”

When he handed her the bowl of porridge and laid a jug of milk to the side of her on the settle, she

wanted to say, I can’t eat it. But he was being thoughtful, so she must try.

She had eaten half the porridge when he said, “She’ll have to be laid out. Can you do it?”

“No, no,” she spluttered on a mouthful of the oats.

“I couldn’t do that. I’ll have to get Mrs. Patterson.”

“Yes, well, that’s all right. Don’t distress yourself. I’ll go along to the village and tell her as soon as it

breaks light.”

“Are you up to it?”

“I’ve got to go out into the wide world sometime, Mary Ellen. Another couple of nights here and you

won’t get rid of me.” He was staring at her. The firelight was playing on her face,