Feathers in the Fire (3 page)

And the master was a hawk, a buzzard, a vulture. God Almighty! and to think how he had always looked up to and respected him . . . His train of thought was punctured by his master’s voice coming to him clearly now, saying, ‘You’ll have to come out in the open and name a man, for you must marry, the child must have a name. Whom do you choose?’

‘Davie, Master.’

‘Yes, I thought so.’

‘Aw Master, Master, no need to look like that, none, for no matter whose name I take there’ll only ever be you; always remember that, there’ll only ever be you, Master.’

They were joined again, and the silence that settled on the ruined house was stupefying; the place was filled with heavy oppressive air like that which comes before a great storm. And

the storm might have broken at this point had not young Jane’s hand come on his; and now there was a share of the horror and hurt in her eyes for him. They both turned their heads and gazed down on the locked couple below as the master said, ‘I’ll tell him tonight.’

‘What if he won’t, Master?’ This was the first note of uncertainty she had expressed.

‘He’ll do as he’s bid, leave it to me. Go now, I should be in Hexham, and I’m late, I must hurry. But—’ His voice changed and, his tone like that of a young ardent lover, he ended, ‘how will I ever do without you, how will I manage, what will I do when you are at the beck and call of a husband?’

‘Aw, don’t worry your head, Master; leave it to me, I’ll fix that.’ Her reassurance could have come from a mature woman, not a girl of seventeen.

They embraced once more, then she went out, backing from him, buttoning her blouse as she did so.

Two minutes later, her master followed her.

When the sound of the horse’s hooves going over the flagstones faded away he got to his feet; his whole body was trembling, his legs felt weak. He had never experienced such a feeling in him before. He wanted to hit out. But at what? He had a desire to kill that bitch . . . and the master an’ all. They were a conniving pair of devils. Be told off to marry her, would he? By God! not as long as he had breath and legs.

‘Davie!’

Although he had been looking at the girl he hadn’t been conscious of her. Now, seeing her stricken face, he swallowed to clear the dryness from his throat and muttered thickly, ‘Don’t worry, Miss, don’t worry.’

‘But Father, and . . . and—’ when she shook her head desperately and bowed it, he put his hand out and, taking her arm, drew her upwards, saying, ‘Get away back to the house; the mistress will be missin’ you.’

‘Oh Davie!’

Now she was holding her face with both hands and her mouth was pressed into a soft shapeless gap as she whimpered, ‘Mother! If Mother gets to know. Oh! Davie . . . what must I do?’

‘You know what to do, don’t tell her, tell nobody.’

‘Nobody?’

‘No, nobody; least of all the mistress, for you know she’s in a condition.’

Jane stared up at the young man whom she could remember since she first remembered anything. He was as familiar to her as were her parents, perhaps more familiar than her father because he had always been kind to her, jolly. He used to make her laugh. He had said that her mother was in a condition as if he was telling her something. She knew all about such conditions; conception and birth were natural to her, she had watched them both. It was something that God made happen to animals, but she hadn’t, up to a few minutes ago, associated it with people. Even her mother’s rising stomach hadn’t caused her to liken ‘the condition’ to Betsy, Rene, Flo and Jessie, who were all in calf. It was a different condition, a condition as yet not probed. She had not begun her periods, and she had no companion of her own age with whom to discuss the secrets of the body. Her mother did not talk of such things or encourage her to probe. It was sufficient that her mother loved her, and she gave her great affection in return because she knew that the love her mother had for her was the same as she herself had for her father, and not to get a love returned was a very painful thing, so she was always extra affectionate to her mother no matter how she felt.

But now she was probing and had opened a deep well in her mind that smelt. She saw pictured in it the thing that happened between her mother and father, the private thing. But she also saw the same thing happening between her father and Molly.

She knew Molly as well as she knew Davie. Molly had been a kind of elder sister to her. Although there was only five years between them Molly had taken care of her when she was small, and had often washed and dressed her. But when she was seven years old her mother decreed that she should do these things for herself. She had also pointed out at that time too the difference in their stations. So Molly had been relegated to helping in the kitchen and doing the housework . . . and now Molly and her father . . . She turned and threw herself face downwards on the hay again. But almost immediately Davie’s voice roused her, crying sharply, ‘Come on! Come on now, none of that. An’ I’ve got to be on me way. It’s milkin’ time, they’ll be crying out for me. Come on now, get up.’

He pulled her none too gently to her feet and pressed her forward across the balcony and down the stairs, and when they were once more in the open he said, ‘Go on over there and wash your face in the brook, then make your way home an’ leave things as they are, they’ll work out . . . Do you hear me?’

When she didn’t speak he bent down to her and said gently, ‘Miss Jane, did you hear what I said?’

She lifted her face to him but still she didn’t speak; then turning, she walked from him over the grass and towards the brook. And he went up towards the track again, but he didn’t run, nor even hurry, he was too stunned to do either. He felt like a dolt. She had made a monkey out of him. He had denied courting her for he hadn’t been over fresh in his advances; she was saucy and so he had kept her guessing. But inside he had courted her; he had even seen them married and got as far as wondering if the master would build them a new cottage . . . The master! He spat vehemently on to the grass.

‘I was right then.’

‘Aye, you were right, Granda.’

‘My God! I still can’t believe it. But then, you know your ma’s always said she was a scut. Your ma’s never far out when she’s judgin’ people. Your ma’s told us on the quiet that she was at it when she was little more than a bairn, not thirteen. She caught her on with young John Curran and she scattered the pair of them. It’s a wonder to me she’s not had your trousers down long afore now, lad.’

‘Aw, Granda, what do you take me for?’

‘A man, lad; that’s all, just a man. But you’re probably late in startin’. It’s them books. I was sayin’ to Ned only this dinner gone it’s them books, an’ Parson Hedley. But then the master’s a read man an’ all, but it hasn’t stopped him. No begod! it hasn’t stopped him. But then it’s his time of life; turned forty, something happens to you, lad.’ He nodded at his grandson and his eyes stretched in owl-like wisdom. ‘You have the urge to plough another field. At least that’s how the ordinary man feels. But then the master, I didn’t take him for no ordinary man. I’ve followed him to church Sunday, year after year, sunshine and shadow, sleet and snow, not because I wanted to hear old Wainwright but because I was following the pattern of a good man, a man o’ God. Aye, I always thought him an upright man o’ God.’

‘Upright man of God!’ Davie was walking the kitchen floor: six strides from the door to the settle, around the table, four strides back to the door; here his fingers lifted the latch, then dropped it again, click-click, click-click. After he had repeated the pattern four times he turned fiercely and cried at his grandfather, ‘Man of God! and coolly planning to shove the blame on me, the both of them. If you could have heard them. How in the name of heaven I didn’t show meself I’ll never know.’

‘It’s a wonder they didn’t spot you,’ said Sep. ‘’cos by the sound of it that was their nest. An’ very comfortable. An’ who of us goes down there, except young Johnnie or Mickey to see to a mother and foal, and the cart once a week with the fodder. Stop prancing lad,’ he said now; ‘go on, go back to your work. Say nowt to nobody; we’ll talk this over when your ma and da come in . . . he won’t be back from Hexham afore seven and that’ll give us time to think . . . ’

By seven o’clock they had thought a great deal, but it hadn’t got them very far, and the four of them were sitting in the kitchen now waiting for the summons to the house. For countless times in the last half-hour Winnie had exclaimed, ‘I cannot believe it, the master, and him a God-fearing man.’ And now it was not Davie but her father who turned on her harshly, crying, ‘Aw, have sense, girl, have sense. God-fearin’? Even God is no longer afeared when the body cries its needs.’

‘Oh Da! stop talkin’ such.’

‘I’ll stop talkin’ such when the Almighty decides to change the pattern.’

Ned now spoke. He looked at his son from where he was sitting in the corner of the settle, his arms folded across his chest, and he said in a conciliatory tone, ‘I would let him have his say, Davie, and whatever you answer, I mean when you tell him you’re not for havin’ it, do it quietly because we don’t want no trouble. What I mean is . . . ’

‘What you mean is—’ Davie’s voice was barking, but it was brought tones lower by wild gestures from his mother with her arms flung out towards the wall, indicating that it had ears, the ears of the Gearys. ‘What you mean is that he could give us all the push, bonded or not bonded. Well, here’s one that needs no push, Da, ’cos I’m goin’.’ He got to his feet now, staring back into the three pairs of eyes riveted on him, and his mouth worked for a moment before he added, ‘The world’s wide, there’s things out there I’ve never dreamed of, so . . . so I’m goin’.’

‘Aw no. No.’ Winnie came towards him, her two hands joined together as if in supplicating prayer. ‘No, boy, no, don’t go as far as that. Think, now think.’ She tried to press him into a seat, but he pushed her away, then looked at her, half in apology, and, his voice toned down, he said, ‘It’ll be all right; he can’t do anything to you if I go. He wouldn’t, it would be cuttin’ off his nose to spite his face. Where would he get another like you, cooking, cleaning, dairy, the lot? You do the work of two and a half women.’

Winnie now bowed her head to the side, and it was as if she were, by her gesture, indicating her husband and his rheumaticky twisted hands. Rheumatism had struck him early, whereas her father had reached the middle fifties before his joints had knotted. But Ned wasn’t of the stamina of her father; he suffered greatly from his aches, and had done for the past ten years. And now at forty-three the winters presented a nightmare; wet sacks over his head and shoulders; feet often so swollen and painful that his boots had to be eased off them, had taken an early toll.

Four generations of the Armstrongs had worked on Cock Shield Farm. It was their home, their place, and now Davie was rocking the very foundations of their livelihood because, like herself, he did much more than his share, and between them they made up for any slackness on Ned’s part and the fact that her father had to be cared for. True, the old ’un still did odd helpful jobs here and there about the place, in the summer that is, but in the winter he didn’t earn the one and sixpence pension the master gave him. But the master made no complaint because most of the work he used to do Davie had taken on. Besides his own work as second cowman, Davie acted as coachman when the master and mistress went in style on their twice yearly visits to The Manor, he took a turn on the plough, he saw to the hunters; there wasn’t a job on the place he didn’t turn his hand to. He had done a fourteen-hour day for years and rarely grumbled, because he was young and strong and willing; but he was also stubborn, hot-tempered, and had ideas in his head beyond those of his station, and all through Parson Hedley and his books.

Davie knew they were all looking at him, their thoughts hard on him, but he continued to stare out of the window until Johnnie, Fred Geary’s eldest son, aged ten, came running down the road.

As he knocked on the door the boy called, ‘Davie! Davie!’

Slowly Davie moved a few paces towards the door, lifted the latch and looked down at the boy.

‘Master’s back, Davie, and askin’ for you. He says come to the office.’

When Davie didn’t answer him, the boy repeated, ‘He’s askin’ for you now, the master.’

‘All right, all right.’ His voice was tight and thick. ‘I’ll be along.’ They nodded at each other; then Davie turned and looked at his people, all standing now.

His mother said tentatively, ‘I’d put a clean smock on.’

At this he tore off his soiled smock, threw it on the floor, then swung round from them and went out, banging the door behind him.

As he walked down the dusty road in the direction of the farmyard his angry gaze lifted towards the house. He had always liked the farmhouse, the shape of it, the mellowness of it; it was the best of its kind for fifty miles in any direction you went. The old part of it dated back to 1699 and had three storeys. The lower floor was now the dining room; it was a very large room. Above it the same space was divided into a bedroom and two small rooms, one used as the master’s dressing room and one as a night water closet. Above these there had been two attics, but the dividing wall had been pulled down to form a large storeroom for all the odds and ends of the house.

The new part of the farmhouse, which was built in 1794, had only two storeys, and the bedrooms were on a lower level than that of the old part. Four steps led down from the old house into the new and on to a fine big landing, as big as a room, with six bedrooms going off it. The house had been built for a family, and at one time these rooms had held seven sons and three daughters. This was because they had been lucky enough to be born and reared between the bad plagues. On the ground floor there was a fine sitting room, and at the end of a passage leading from the hall a room that had once been the breakfast room – the house had been styled on those of its betters – but now was the master’s office. The end of the passage gave access to the kitchen, and this room, like the old dining room at the opposite end, was stone-flagged, and held everything that a kitchen should hold, from a pepper mill to a row of twelve graded pewter pots hanging above the long mantelshelf, seeming to form a bridge between the great copper pans that gleamed, also in rotation of size, where they hung on wooden pegs down each side of the fireplace.