A Dinner Of Herbs (92 page)

closed softly

behind him.

It was a full half-minute before she put her back to it, and pressed her hands flat against it to each side of

her.

Her head was touching it, her eyes looking upwards mouth open, as she gasped for

breath. And when a

she pulled herself from its support, she staggered t table, rested on it for a moment, then went to the and,

dropping onto it, she brought her clenched han’ to each side of her face and as the tears spurted fror

eyes she whispered aloud, “Oh!

Willy. Willy. “

The yard was full of people, their breaths forming almost a cloud in the frosty air. The horse attached to

the brake stamped on the cobbles as if anxious to be away. Willy was helping

Mademoiselle Estelle up

the steep steps at the back of the vehicle. Then stepping up himself, he put a rug around her knees and

another around her shoulders, while she kept repeating, “Merci. Merci.” Her long plain face looked

grim as it had done for the past two days. Apparently the sea crossing had been very

rough, and for

most of the time since her arrival she had lain in bed. And with what English she could speak she

indicated that never again would she come to this land.

John had placed the luggage under the high front seat. There were only two cases, the rest had gone

ahead yesterday. And now, both he and Willy stood to the side of the brake looking to

where Yvonne

was saying goodbye to Mary Ellen. The girl leant forward and kissed Mary Ellen on both cheeks; then

taking her hand, she said, “I cannot thank you so much for your kindness to me.” And to this Mary Ellen

muttered, “It was nothing, it was nothing. I hope you have a good journey.” She did not add, “Come

back soon.”

The farewell was different when Yvonne confronted Maggie, for they put their arms

around each other,

and Maggie, with actual tears in her eyes, said, “You’ll come back, won’t you?” And

Yvonne said,

“Yes, Maggie. I will come back. Yes, I will come back.”

“Well, come on. Not so much slavering.” Hal’s usual levelling tone and voice drew them apart. And

now

Yvonne turned to him and held out her hand, and he took it in both of his and, shaking it warmly, he

said, “It’s been a pleasure havin’ you, lass. You’re welcome here any day in the week.

Let me tell you

that.”

“Oh.” Spontaneously now she reached up and kissed him on both sides of the face, much

to his

embarrassment, which he covered with blustering laughter, saying, “Come on. Come on.

Don’t leave

any of your Frenchified ideas behind you. Get yourself up else you’ll miss your train an’

that’ un up

there’his voice dropped ‘who’s come to protect you, but to my mind ‘tis the other way

about, she’ll die

afore she leaves the country. What d’you say?”

“Out.” She smiled, nodding her head.

“She is willing to expire before she gets on the boat. I pray the sea will be flat.”

“Aye, me an’ all. Well, away you go, lass.” He pushed her towards John, and he, taking her elbow,

helped her up the steps. Then he himself took a seat beside her, and Willy, having

mounted the front

seat, called, “Get up there!” and the brake jerked forward, and they left the yard, Yvonne waving her

hand to the three people standing grouped together, and they waved back.

When they passed through the gate and Yvonne could no longer see them, she sat back in the seat, but

she did not speak or look at John. In fact, few words were exchanged on the road to

Haydon Bridge

except when Willy made some remark from his seat and turned his head towards them; or

when John,

leaning forward, would enquire of Mademoiselle Estelle if she was all right, to be

answered in a spate of

French, which Yvonne translated as: she found the journey very bumpy and that she

would never reach

home before she died.

And smiling, Yvonne added, “I am not looking toward the journey.”

They had crossed the bridge and Willy was driving towards the station, when he turned

his head sharply

towards John and said, “There’s Fraser ahead, shall I pull up?”

John glanced at his watch, answering, “Yes. We’ve gota bit of time.

Better not pass him. “

A few seconds later they stopped at the side of the road and Fraser, who had seen them, left the two

men he was talking to and came slowly towards them. And John, leaning over the brake,

said, “Yvonne’s

on her way.”

The boy came round to the back of the brake and stood looking at Yvonne for a few

seconds before he

said, “You’ll be glad to get back then?”

“No, no. I am not pleased to leave. No, no.” Her head moved in small jerks.

“I have been very happy here.”

“Happy?” He laughed now, then turned his glance, first on John, then towards Willy, who had twisted

round in his seat and was looking down on him.

“Somebody’s been happy around here. Isn’t that strange, Willy?

And you Uncle John? “ He was again looking at John.

“Isn’t that strange to hear anybody’s been happy around here?”

John stared at the boy. Then leaning forward, he asked quietly, “What are you doing here this time in

the morning?”

“What am I doing here? I am about my father’s business. Yes’—his head bobbed now “ I

am about

my father’s business. “

“Well then’—John’s voice was grim ‘if you’re about your father’s business, get about it and keep out of

the inn. I’ll have something to say to Swaffer when I come back.”

“I haven’t been in the inn. I’ve been with some friends.” He jerked his head to where the two men

were standing.

And to this John said, “If you’re talking of Reilly and his mates, don’t speak of them as friends. How

did you get in?”

“On a horse. You know, a horse.” He was grinning now. And John, straightening himself, said, “Well,

don’t get on that horse until Willy’s coming back this way, and ride along of him. Now, I’m telling you.

If you don’t take heed to my words don’t expect any support from me in the future. You understand?”

“Yes, Uncle. Yes Uncle, I understand. “ The boy was not looking at him but towards

Yvonne and as

he grinned at her John said “Go on, Willy.”

As the brake moved off, the boy, called, “You coming back, dear little Yvonne?”

She did not answer him or make any remark until a few minutes later when she alighted

from the brake,

and then she said, “He is young to drink so.”

“He is that. But I’ll put a stop to it. Has he been at it before?” The last part of the remark was

addressed to Willy, and Willy answered, “No, I think this is something new. But he

couldn’t get better

teachers than the Reillys. Beg, borrow, or steal for it, they would.”

“See that he goes back with you, will you, Willy?”

“I’ll do me best. But you know’—he paused while he slotted the horse’s reins through an iron ring ‘he’s

not a boy any longer, John.

I think everybody’s got to face up to that. In fact, to my way of thinking, he’s never been a boy for

years. He’s got an old head on young shoulders. “

“Be that as it may, tight at this time in the morning broods no good if he was twice as old as he is. Look,

I’ll manage the cases, and don’t wait. You go back and see to him.”

Willy nodded, then turning to Yvonne and holding out his hand, he said, “Goodbye, miss.

“Tis been a pleasure knowin’ you.”

“Goodbye, Willy. I likewise, it has been my pleasure. Pat Bessy for me, will you? Tell her to give

plenty of milk.”

“I’ll do that.”

He did not say goodbye to her companion because she had walked on ahead into the

station, flexing the

muscles of her arms as she went as if she had just been through some stiff exercise.

Five minutes later they were seated in the train on its way to Newcastle. No one entered their

compartment either in Hexham or Corbridge, and so they had ample opportunity for

conversation. Yet

again neither of them had much to say. Once or twice John spoke of the district 641

through which they

were passing, but Yvonne seemed to have little interest in it.

It was when, looking out of the window, he said, “We’re running in now,” that her hand came along the

seat and gripped his, and she hitched herself closer to him. But she did not look at him, she had her eyes

fixed on Mademoiselle Estelle who seemed to be dozing in the corner of the

compartment, as she

muttered, “Jean. Oh Jean, I do not want to go.”

John was sitting, his back pressed tight against the wooden back of the seat. Her small hand gripping his

was acting as a poker thrust into a damped down fire, the flame that had been

smouldering was now

being given air and was forcing its way through his body while a loud condemning voice was crying, Stop

it! Check it! Tis madness. Remember what you said yesterday. Twas a good thing she

was going.

Stick to that. Stick to that. Even so, he did not take his hand from hers until the

companion showed

signs of rousing, which he told himself had saved him from making a fool of himself.

But when, fifteen minutes later, she stood on the platform outside the carriage door of the London train,

and the guard stood ready at the other end of the platform about to wave his green flag, she again caught

hold of his hand and, looking up into his face, said, “Oh, Jean, mon cher, my dear, dear friend, I will miss

you, so very much.”

And before he had time to answer, her hand had left his and she reached up both her arms and, standing

on tiptoe, she kissed him, not on each cheek, but full on the mouth. Automatically his arms went about

her and held her tightly to him. It would appear they were thrust apart only by the sound of the guard’s

whistle, and then his body seemed to have actually caught fire, for he put his arms out once again and

lifted her bodily up the steps and into the train, then held onto her hands.

It was the porter who pressed him aside and banged the door closed.

And there was her face looking down at him, a shadow behind the glass, a shadow all

eyes that was

telling him something he must not believe. As the train began to move slowly away, he

walked by the

side of the carriage, his eyes not leaving her until the train gathered speed, and the last glimpse he had of

her was obliterated by steam.

The platform was empty even of porters when he turned about and made his way into the

main hall and

through the throng of people and out into the street. There he stood looking about him as if in a daze.

Then slowly he left the station and walked until he came to a bar. And there he ordered a double

whisky, something he had never done in his life before, because beer was his drink, and not a lot of that.

Taking his glass, he sat down on a narrow form running alongside the walls and drank

half of the spirit in

one gulp. Then holding the glass between his two hands and, bending his back, he rested his elbows on

his knees and sat gazing down into the yellow liquid. He could see her face in it, and that look in her

eyes.

My God! For this to happen at his age, and she but a girl. No his whole body moved in

protest she

wasn’t a girl. She was on nineteen and she could be what you called a woman of the

world, no matter

what she looked like. There was a fully grown woman in that delicate frame. But still she was only

nineteen and he was forty. He could be her father. Perhaps that’s how she viewed him, as her father.

What!

with that look in her eye and that kiss. No. By God no! But he must pull himself together.

What would

happen when she came back? How could he pull himself together if he saw her every

day. But would

she come back? It would be better not. Oh, yes, better not, because they would never

stand for that,

them back home. And the people around. He would be a laughing stock; he wouldn’t be

able to live

with it.

He drained his glass, took it to the counter, then walked out. But he didn’t go straight back to the

station, he spent another three hours walking around the town, mostly along the river-

front watching the

teeming life on the water: the loading and unloading of big ships, the scuttling of little ones, the tugs, the

scullers. But wherever he looked he could still see her face and feel the imprint of her mouth on his.

When eventually he arrived at Haydon Bridge, it was dark, and Willy was outside the

station with the

trap. He knew that he would likely have met previous trains, but he made no apology.

And all Willy said

was, “She got off then?” And to this he answered, “Aye, she got off.”

On the journey back Willy did not break the silence for he guessed what had happened to this man

because it had happened to himself, and he saw as much hope for the one as there was for the other.

On Christmas Eve a letter arrived from France. It was addressed to Maggie, and it was

brief, saying

mainly that the sea voyage had been very rough indeed and that Mademoiselle Estelle

had become really

ill.

It went on to say that she was being made very busy with business, and ended that she

thanked them all

for their kindness to her, and she wished them a joyful Christmas.

Maggie read the letter out to them all in the kitchen. The men were having their eleven o’clock hot