Feathers in the Fire (28 page)

She stared into his eyes for a moment before she said ‘ . . . I promise you, Davie.’

‘That’s a good girl.’ And when his lips touched hers again she felt like a girl. For the first time since she was twelve years old she felt like a girl . . .

Davie worked for the rest of the day, and he planned as he worked. He’d split the herd and try a few of them down on that patch near the malt house, the grass was lush there, and from the returns he got from the milk, now that Master Amos couldn’t get his hands on it, he would put a little aside and so be able to engage some casual labour. Perhaps only for a day or two at a time, but that would be a help, and such hands generally worked like slaves in the hope of being kept on. And should he come across an exceptional one he’d make him an offer, his food and a cottage and a small regular wage until things looked up. A decent man would take a chance.

At three o’clock in the afternoon he had gone in to a dinner cooked by Jane. It wasn’t up to the standard of Molly’s cooking but he praised it. By five o’clock it was raining heavily and Molly hadn’t returned.

‘She’ll be wet to the skin,’ Jane said when she came yet again to the cow byres to have a word with him.

‘Not her: she won’t be making the journey back this night, that’s certain. The top an’ bottom of it is, once he got her there he wouldn’t let her go, so stop worrying on her account; Molly can take care of herself, never fear.’

It was around eight o’clock and the rain had fallen to a steady drizzle as he made the last round of the day. He went from the cowshed to the stables, where he spoke to the horses and the pony; he went round the hen crees and the piggeries; he passed the open barn where the dogs were, but knowing his step they made no movement, only blinked in the lantern light; then he walked by the side of the big barn and into the road and towards the main gate. And it was then he saw her, in the swinging gleam of the lantern shambling slowly, like a drunken woman, towards him.

‘That you, Molly?’

She didn’t speak, and he came close to her and held the lantern above his head. And not even then did she say anything; her face, running with rain, was crumpled as if she were crying.

‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked. ‘You’re wringing to the

skin.’ He touched her shoulder and it was this that seemed to loosen her tongue, for now she began to gabble in such a way that it was difficult to distinguish whether she was talking through laughter or tears. ‘So much for the bolt-hole; I thought I just had to walk in. And that’s what I did, just walked in, large as life, an’ there she was settled, a trollop if ever I saw one, a dirty, lazy, fat trollop, the end part of a trollop at that for her best days were over. She’d lost most of what she’d had except her tongue.’ She gulped now and her head wagged again before she ended, ‘He didn’t open his mouth, just stood there like a pie-can, an’ ’twas only a month gone since he begged me to take him an’ his brood on, just a month.’

‘Come on inside,’ he said gently, ‘an’ get your things off. You’ll get your death, it’s turned bitter. And there’s one who’ll be glad to see you; she’s been worried about you.’

She became still now as she peered at him through the lantern light and the rain. Then, her voice low and her words slow, she said, ‘Aye, she’ll be glad, but not you. You wanted me out of the way, didn’t you? . . . Well let me tell you somethin’. I wanted to get out of your way an’ all, so there was a pair of us wantin’ the same thing. But now you’re stuck with me until I find a place. When I’m prickin’ your skin like a holly leaf just remember you’re doin’ the same to me. But it won’t be for long; a day or two, I’ll get something. Aye, I will; I can work anywhere.’

‘Don’t be silly, woman, don’t be daft.’ His voice was harsh. ‘You have no effect on me, good, bad or indifferent, so you can stay as long as it pleases you. It’s up to you.’

Her face seemed to swing with the movement of the lantern. He saw her mouth open wide and her eyes close before she flung herself round and leaned against the gate post; her head buried in her hands, she cried uncontrollably like a child would who had fallen down and grazed its knees, and he stood gazing at her helplessly while he warned himself not to touch her.

Three

‘Davie, please, please let me see him. It’s like my father all over again, keeping him tied to the attic.’

‘Jane’ – he put his hand over his eyes – ‘you know what Doctor Cargill said, an’ just a day or two gone. “It would be advisable,” he said, “if you didn’t disturb yourself in any way.” Those were his very words, weren’t they?’

‘But my nerves are all right now, I’ve never felt better in my life. And he keeps going for Molly, shouting at her. I’d have to be deaf not to hear him. I . . . I won’t go any further than the foot of the bed. And Davie . . . Davie’ – she took his hands in hers – ‘it isn’t that I really want to see him, but morally I think I should. I’ve . . . I’ve forgiven him. And he needs forgiveness, he’s dying.’

‘Is he? I’m beginnin’ to have me doubts about that. Six months now he’s been lying there. Doctor said that was his limit, but he shows no weakness to me. In fact he can use those arms of his as well as ever he could. And’ – he paused and brought his head down to hers and, his voice low, he ended, ‘that’s what I’m afraid of, those arms of his, tentacles; let them get hold of you and you’d swear he was an octopus.’

‘But I promise you I won’t go any further . . . ’

‘No, Jane. Not now, not at this time. When the child is born and if he’s still there then you can go in to him, but as you are now the very sight of you like this’ – he tapped his finger against the dome of her stomach – ‘this would drive him mad. I know him, I know him better than you. I told you a while back that he’s lying there concocting mischief, I can see it in his eyes. And another thing you’d better know, Molly’s got the idea that he can move more than he lets on; in fact she’s sure of it ’cos she watched him through the keyhole and saw him humping himself up in the bed by his arms. The next thing we’ll know he’ll be pulling himself out of the bed.’

‘He couldn’t, Davie, he couldn’t do that, it’s too high. Anyway, once he was out he’d never be able to get back.’

‘Jane’ – he cupped her face between his hands and gazed at her for a moment before saying, ‘it’s only six weeks . . . ’

‘Nearly seven.’

‘Well, nearly seven. You’ve stood out all this long time, keep it up a little longer, just for me, and . . . and I’ll promise you one thing, if I suspect at all that he’s near his end you’ll see him. Now I give you me word on that, so will you give me your word again, you won’t go into him on your own?’

She stared into his face, into his beloved face, into the face that had given her rebirth; for if ever a woman had been reborn she had. If it wasn’t for the thought of Amos constantly niggling at her mind she’d be so happy it would be unbearable. Her love for him was almost like a pain in itself. And it was true what she had said, she’d never felt so well in her life. And this in spite of carrying a child and working as hard as any hired maid. She had completely taken over the dairy; she made butter and cheese as good as Molly now; she helped to milk the cows, feed the pigs and chickens, and groom the horses. During her thirty-one years on the farm she had never spent so much time outside the house. Her mother would have thought it beneath her to lift her hand to an outside chore, and the kind of farmer her father had been, he had not expected it of her, so she had not thought it odd when she herself had not been trained in the ways of butter and cheese making and the like. There had always been Molly, and Winnie, and, before they had gone out into service, the Geary girls. But now she was rarely in the house during the day. And this was fortunate, for outside she did not dwell so much on Amos and his plight. She felt that Davie had arranged things so, giving her tasks that would keep her away from the house.

‘Very well.’ Her voice was soft, and her arms went up and round his neck as she said, ‘I can’t say no to you in any way, my dearest.’

When he had kissed her firmly and squarely on the mouth he pushed her from him, saying on a laugh, ‘What would they say if anyone saw us, husband and wife kissing at ten o’clock in the mornin’ in the barn? They can’t be married, they’d say. That’s what they’d say, they can’t be married.’

‘Oh Davie, go on with you!’

‘Aye, an’ I’d better go. You see that sky.’ He pointed out through the open door. ‘That’s been coming up from the northwest since late on yesterday; I know that sign, we’re in for a bad ’un. I’d better get Will to help me tie down the ricks.’

‘I’ll help you.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Go on back to the dairy, woman, about your business.’ When he slapped her buttocks she put both hands on the place and hurried away, glancing at him over her shoulder, her eyes alight as if he had just bestowed a gift on her.

As he went out of the main gate and across the road into the open meadow where the two ricks were he was still shaking his head and half smiling. She was like a young lass. He had never seen a change like it in his life; she seemed to have gone back to what she was all those years ago before that day in the malt house. And that’s how he wanted to keep her. And he would keep her like that, as long as she didn’t see that maniac.

The storm broke at noon. It followed a dark, dead calmness when nothing moved. The bare branches of the trees in the copse looked as if they were painted on the low sky. The washing that Molly was grabbing in from the lines was hanging limp. The animals too were affected by the stillness, for they made no sound. There was no grunting or cackling or mooing; they, together with all life on the land for miles around, seemed to have become paralysed with the stillness. Even Molly’s bustling movements were checked once she got inside the kitchen, for having dropped the wash-basket on to the floor, she went and stood near the window and peered out into the yard, across which she could now scarcely see.

The first drops of rain were spaced and the size of hailstones; then with the suddenness of lightning the sky unburdened itself and the water fell in sheets which blotted everything from sight.

She stepped back from the window, saying aloud, ‘God in Heaven! we’re in for it the day. Eeh! I can’t see a stime; I’d better light the lamp.’

She lit not only the lamp in the kitchen but also those in the hall and the dining room; then she went upstairs and lit the one that stood on top of the landing; and finally the lamp in HIS room.

When she brought it from the central table to the bedside table so that he could see to read, she had to raise her voice to make herself heard above the din on the roof. ‘We’re in for it! . . . I said, we’re in for it!’

And the answer he gave to this remark was, ‘Did you do as I asked you?’

‘Now don’t start that again, not at this time. We’ll have enough to think about, it strikes me, afore this one’s over.’

‘Did you do what I asked you?’ He was shouting now, and she shouted back, ‘No, I didn’t, ‘cos I’ve told you a hundred times afore, it’s no use.’

She watched him drop back against the head of the bed in that desperate fashion that hurt her, and when he spoke again she said, ‘What did you say?’

‘It’s inhuman.’

She stepped back and stared at him. Aye, she supposed it was inhuman. She had never thought Miss Jane would stand out this long; but she was like a child in Davie’s hands. His word was law to her. She herself used to say that he played at God, and Miss Jane had, in a way, turned him into one. But the plight of this one here hurt her sorely at times. She never thought there’d come the day when she’d feel heart-sorry for him, but, dear God, you’d have to be made of stone not to be melted by his predicament.

At times she felt fearful over his constant demands to see Miss Jane, for then he worked himself up into a frenzy. She had thought, and more than once, it wouldn’t have done Miss Jane any harm just to stand at the door and have a word with him from there. He wasn’t long for the top, the doctor said, so what harm could he do? As long as he stayed put in bed that was.

‘Now mind you don’t knock the lamp over.’ She was shouting again. ‘There’s your books an’ your drink; you’ve got everythin’ to your hand. I’ll bring your dinner shortly.’ She nodded at him, then went out.

After staring towards the door for a long moment he turned his head slowly and looked at the lamp.

By seven o’clock the storm had in no way abated, in fact its fury seemed to be getting worse every moment. An hour ago it had lifted the roof completely off the hen cree and the birds had been tossed about the field like bits of straw. It had taken Davie, Molly and Will Curran all their time to marshal them into the main yard and to the barn; and then their efforts had resulted in only half the birds being brought to safety.

The tall tree at the end of the copse had been torn up by the roots, and its top branches had just missed the last cottage by a few feet.

The yard itself was strewn with slates from the house, and Davie had continually yelled at Jane to keep indoors in case she should be struck by one.

Right up till the hens had scattered she had worked by his side, now she was sitting near the kitchen table panting and spent. She ached in every limb; her head was bursting with sound; she was so weary that she told herself she wanted to die, then contradicted the statement hurriedly as if her wish would be granted. No, she didn’t want to die – ever. She put her hand on the side of her stomach, just below her ribs. The child was kicking furiously, annoyed, as it were, by so much activity. She looked down tenderly at the bulge and thought with an inward pride that when her time came she’d be so big she wouldn’t be fit to be seen. Last night Davie had moved his hands over her stomach as he said, ‘You’re carrying so high, there’s room for two underneath,’ and at this they had smothered their laughter against each other. Oh, life would be so wonderful, if only . . .

She rose heavily to her feet. She must see to the broth; they were all frozen.

As she neared the fireplace a blast of smoke came down the wide chimney and almost choked her, and she turned, coughing, and leant against the table. Through the window she heard a distant sound of grating; then a crash outside the back door which told of more slates coming off the roof.

For twenty-five years back she could recall storms, terrible storms when the river flooded, and the burn from its source became a great waterfall. During one such storm two ponies in the malt house had only been saved because they had been washed on to the stairs and so had managed to climb to the gallery. Then there was that weird and strange storm when there was no rain and the lightning struck the ricks and set them on fire. But these storms seemed to have come and gone within a limited time, gradually mounting, then easing away. This one had been raging at the same pitch since noon, and showed no sign of abating.

The door burst open and the wind rattled the crockery hanging on the dresser, bringing from it a sound like that of cracked bells. Molly stumbled in, followed by Will Curran and Davie, and it took Davie all his time to force the door closed.

‘God in Heaven! did you ever know anything like it?’ Molly tore the hood from her head, then pulled off her sodden coat, adding, ‘I’m wringin’ to the skin.’

‘Did you change?’ Davie was not addressing Molly but Jane, and she answered, ‘My cape had taken most of it, I changed my shoes.’

‘You should’ve changed altogether, you can’t help but be wet through.’ He felt her shoulders which were dry, and she smiled at him and said, ‘There! Satisfied?’ then added, ‘It’s you who needs to change. And you, too, Will.’ She turned her face kindly towards Will Curran, and he replied, ‘Wet doesn’t worry me, Miss Jane. So used to it I take scant notice, ’climatised sort of.’ He smiled at her, and she smiled back at him. He wasn’t such a bad sort after all, Will. She had never liked him because of his appearance and his perpetual drip, but of late she had found him kind and willing. There was good in everyone if you only looked. The thought brought a sadness to her and she turned sharply from him, saying, ‘We must all have something to eat, the broth is ready.’

As she went to the fireplace to lift the pot, Davie came to her side, saying sharply, ‘Now leave that alone. Haven’t I told you? God in Heaven! you’re like a child; I have to keep on at you.’

He was reprimanding her before the servants, but they took no notice, and she smiled as if he had paid her a compliment. And he had for he was showing concern for his wife, and like any wife she replied, ‘Oh, don’t be silly, I’ve lifted heavier than that.’

Five minutes later they were all sitting round the same table eating, and no one of them but thought that times had changed, but for the better.

Towards nine o’clock the rain stopped, but the wind seemed to gain in momentum. At half-past nine Davie and Will Curran made one more round of the place. Then Will went to his cottage.

It was close on ten o’clock when Molly went to hers. She had left Amos right for the night. She had seen Jane to bed, and she had stood for a moment in the kitchen alone with Davie and remarked, ‘There’ll be some clearin’ up to do the morrow, and he had replied, ‘You’ve said it there but no matter what we’ve got to do I think we’ll be lucky compared to those down the valley near the river. Bet your life there’s been some cattle lost there the day. I shouldn’t wonder if some of the bridges aren’t down. A force like this pushing at water will test the stoutest pillars. I don’t think I’ve seen a worse, even at sea . . . Look, will I walk along with you?’

‘Walk along with me?’ She cast a glance at him over her shoulder. ‘No! No! I’ve kept me feet so far, so I’ll trust to them to get me there . . . It’s me feet that’s keepin’ me down, they’ve always kept me down.’

He had never known her to joke with him, although he’d heard her joke with others, and he laughed now and said, ‘Aye, some of us would be right upstarts if it wasn’t for our feet.’

She stared at him for a moment longer. He could have been speaking against himself, but he wasn’t, for since he had taken on the mastership of the farm he hadn’t played the big boss or cracked the whip, all he had done was to work harder, if that was possible. His efforts were paying off at that, for things were better than they had been for years; the place was beginning to look like it used to. Of course, it would never be as it was; there wasn’t the land, or the cattle, or the people to run both, but nevertheless a change had come over the farm in the last few months. She fancied at times he forgot, like they all did, that the real master of the place was still upstairs.