A Dinner Of Herbs (60 page)

act in the name of friendship.

“I have missed you. Ben.” Of course, that could be said from one friend to another, but.

but did you

write it?

What should she do? Her father had said the letter had been posted on Thursday. Were

she to ask her

mother if she could spare her this after noon, and galloped over the hills to him, what would he think?

Well, what had he thought when she hadn’t put in an appearance last week, after never

missing one

week during the past months? No, she couldn’t go today . “. she wouldn’t go today; one didn’t pick up

one’s skirts and fly to a friend as they would to a lover. She would go tomorrow.

She did not vouchsafe them the information they were all waiting to hear and by the time it came to their

evening meal there was a further feeling of constraint in the house.

Later that night, when in bed and lying in Hal’s arms, Mary Ellen said, “I’m worried

about her. And that

letter could have been from nobody but him. Why has she turned so secretive? She was

never like this.”

“Likely because we’re a nosey lot. And it’s partly my fault, because in my anxiety for her future I

grabbed at the first fellow who showed any interest in her, and she’s frightened it happens again. You

know what Annie said to me the day? She said, “ You lot press her the way you’re doin’

and she’ll walk

out one of these days, just like I did to get rid of me da. “

“Oh! Fancy comparing you or any one of us with her da, that man!”

“Well, she’s right in a way. We’ve got to let up, and treat her for what she is, a fully grown sensible

woman, not a daft lass who doesn’t know her own mind.”

“She couldn’t have known her own mind when she promised to marry Harry Baker, a

fellow like that.”

“Oh, she knew her own mind all right. What she wanted was a family of her own, I’ve

told you that

afore, and she would have taken a clothes prop with trousers on at the time to get it.”

“Oh, you!” she pushed him.

“A clothes-prop with trousers on.”

He pulled her tighter and kissed her and for the time being they both forgot about the daughter she had

had before she had married him, but whom, she knew yet couldn’t understand, he loved

better than those

from his own loins.

The sun wasn’t shining when she rode out the next afternoon. The sky was low and

everyone on the

farm and roundabout was saying, “It’s a sign of rain, and thank God.”

She did not know what she was going to say to him about her non-appearance last week.

She was bad

at lying. She could of course say that she hadn’t been well, but that, she considered, would be tempting

providence, because when other people were affected by sniffles and colds, and sore

throats and aches

and pains, she herself never experienced them. She was very healthy. Yet, she suffered pain, a strange

pain underneath her breastbone. It had been there since she first saw her reflection in the mirror, and it

had grown in intensity with the years.

About half a mile from the fork in the track which would lead to the cottage, she was

approaching the

bridle-way which she knew led down to and crossed the river when he suddenly emerged

from it. She

saw him pull his horse in for a moment, then set it into a gallop. And when he drew it to a skidding stop

abreast of her, he said, “Hello there.”

“Hello.”

“It looks as if it’s going to rain, “ he said, putting his head back on his shoulders and looking up into the

sky.

“Yes, it does, and it will be welcome.”

He turned his horse and came alongside of her, saying, “You got my letter?”

“Yes, yes, I got it.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Not until yesterday?”

“No. As my father says, the post delivery is much worse now than when one had to

collect one’s mail.”

“Why didn’t you come last week?”

“I...!”—she blinked “I was busy.”

“Is that the truth?”

“No.”

“What is?”

She let out one long breath before saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t explain.”

“I can. Charles told me he thought he had dropped a bombshell when he spoke of us as

mutual friends.”

They now rode slowly on, but at the turning into the bridle path he put out his hand and caught at her

reins and said, “You remember, last time we met, I told you my departure depended quite a’ bit on

yourself, and that in two or three weeks I should be able to tell you why? Well, since your family now

know of our acquaintance the decision could be made earlier. Will you ride with me

along here?”

“Where to?”

“A building, a house I would like you to see.”

She nodded, the while questioning: Which house, which building lay along here that

could be of interest

to her? There were a number of reasonable farms, but he had said a building, a house.

And a strange

uneasy feeling entered into her, and it grew as they rode on and he became singularly

quiet. And so she

wasn’t all that surprised when, a mile and a half further on, having crossed the river, they were riding by

the broken walls of Rooklands Farm.

She knew all about Rooklands Farm. It had been like the ogre fairy tale during her

childhood, as it had

been too, for all the others.

When they stopped at the entrance where once had been a gate, he said, The house is

empty. “ And

she answered, “ Yes, I know. It has had a number of tenants, but they don’t stay long.

Have you been

inside? “

“Yes. Come.”

She hesitated and he said again, “Come.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Please.” There was an appeal in his eyes.

Slowly she followed him through an archway into the yard. The once well-scrubbed stone slabs were

grass—covered, the doors of the horse boxes were hanging loose, an upper window was

open and an

old curtain was trailing out of it.

He helped her to dismount, then tied the horses to a rusting iron post that supported a dry horse trough.

Thrusting out his hand now, he caught hers, saying, “Come this way; there’s a window

open in the

kitchen quarters. We can get over the sill.”

“But ... but....”

“Please, do this for me.”

Oh, dear God! She knew what he had brought her here for. He wanted her opinion of the

place with a

view to buying it. If that was the case, it would be goodbye friendship, for her father over the years

would not even do business with anyone who had taken on Bannaman’s farm. The very

name of the

place had the power to incense him or make him distraught. The years had not obliterated what both his

father and himself had suffered at their hands.

But she was being drawn towards the side of the house, and now he was helping her over the sill and

into, what must have been, a large store room. Still holding her hand, he led her along a passage where

the paper was peeling from the walls. Then he opened a thick oak door and they were in a hall twice the

size of the one at home, and off it, a broad shallow oak staircase rose to a half gallery.

This must have been a sort of drawing-room. “

She was now standing in the room which she knew, from what she had heard, was where

Mr.

Bannaman had faced the constables, and her father, and her stepfather.

Strange thought that, that she had a father who might still be alive.

She had ceased many years ago to ask questions about him, because she knew it would

not only hurt

her mother, it would also hurt the man she thought of as her father.

“Look at that ceiling, isn’t it beautiful?”

Yes, the ceiling was beautiful. The centrepiece was beautifully painted like a star with spines of light

stretching from it towards each corner of the room, and inset were painted panels.

“This couldn’t always have been a farm, could it? It must have been part of a grand house at one time.”

“Yes,” she nodded, ‘it was a sort of manor-house. “

“And look at the dining-room.” He was beckoning to her now, and she followed him

back into the hall

and through another door, and now he was pointing to the floorboards, saying, “They

must be all of

twelve or fourteen inches wide. There were some old Colonial houses back home with

floors like this.

And aren’t the windows nice? Long and wide.

That must have been a beautiful garden out there at one time. “

She now silently followed him into a library, then in and out of several other small

rooms, and upstairs

through the bedrooms. He never allowed her to miss even a cupboard. Lastly, he ended

his tour by

opening the kitchen door and saying, “Isn’t it a shame that a house like this has been let go to rack and

ruin?”

“It isn’t a good house.” She turned and faced him. And he, looking at her, said quietly,

“No, the house

isn’t bad, it’s the people who were in it sometime back.”

“Well, that’s what I mean. A family lived here who were evil. You see I know all about this house. The

man who once owned it was a murderer. What you don’t know is that the man I call my

father, Hal

Roystan, is not my father. My father’s name was Greenbank, and Mr. Roys—tan is my

stepfather. My

mother was not married when I was born.”

“I know of that.”

Her eyes widened.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Then you might also know that the man who owned this house by the name of

Bannaman killed my

grand father, that is my real father’s father, and attempted to do the same with him. But that’s not all. He

also murdered my stepfather’s father, who was a clerk at the smelting mills. He was

returning with the

workmen’s pay and he was struck down, then buried by this man and his servant. And

that still is not

all. He had a daughter who was even more wicked than him, for one day at gun-point, she and her

brother forced my stepfather up into the barn.”

She pointed through the smeared kitchen window towards the outbuildings.

“They tied him up in such a way that is really indescribable: his ankles to his hands at the back; they

gagged him, then strung him to a beam so that he couldn’t move. After that, they packed straw round

him. The only thing they didn’t do was set it alight. But this evil woman wanted him to die slowly, and he

almost did. He was left like that for four days and was only saved by his dog. I think she must have

been the most evil woman in this world.”

She watched his face quiver, his eyes darken to a blackness that was like jet, but there was no hardness

in their expression, only a look of pain and a great sadness, and the pain now came over in his voice as

he said, “She was the most evil woman in the world. Yes, yes, she was.”

She stared at him. Slowly her mouth fell agape. There was a truth dawning on her too

great to grasp,

but when he thrust it into her hold she felt she was going to faint.

“I know that for sure,” he said now, ‘for she was my mother. “

When she fell back from him he pleaded, “Please. Please. Don’t turn from me, not like

that. Please.

Hear my side. Let me tell you why I am here. Come, sit down, you are faint.” He looked round the

kitchen, then pointed to the settle that was attached to the side of the great rusting fireplace, and hurrying

to it, he took out his handkerchief and laid it on the seat, then waited for her to move towards him. But

she still stood where he had left her. And now, going to her, he pleaded, “Kate. Please, Kate. Come

and listen to me. There is so much to be said between us.”

She resisted his outstretched hand but went towards the seat and sat down. With her head bent she

waited.

From her lowered gaze she watched him pacing up and down in front of her; and then he

stopped and

said, “I will start at the beginning.”

But it was some seconds before he did begin: “When my mother and her brother and my

grandmother

sailed from this country in eighteen hundred and twenty-two, they were bound for my

grandmother’s

cousin in America. The journey had apparently been arranged sometime before, and by

the boat sailing

when it did my mother and uncle escaped being brought to trial for the attempted murder of your

stepfather. It should happen on the boat a gentleman befriended them, his name Roger

Fraser Hamilton,

and he fell in love with my mother. Such was his passionate attachment to her, I

understand, they were

married shortly after the boat landed. Within the allotted time I was the result of their union. The

passion, I should imagine, was all on my father’s side, for my mother had no love in her to give to

anyone. She was a being consumed by hate. I say she had no love to give to anyone. I

think she had

given it all to the man from whom she had inherited her evil traits, her father. Yet he had been known to

horsewhip her for her slack, I could say immoral, adventures.

“It wasn’t very long before my father discovered he had married a very strange

individual, a mother who

didn’t care for her child. If it hadn’t been for my grandmother I think I should have come off much worse

than I did. But nevertheless, I was subjected to unmerciful thrashings. My father was in business which

forced him to do a great deal of travelling. It was his father’s firm, they were coach builders on a big