THE CINDER PATH (3 page)

she expose the top of her boots but also her bare

shins.

Charlie stood staring at her; and when her hand

dropped from her mouth he became aware that the swishing had stopped. He could also hear the crunching of his

father's feet on the path and the moaning of the boy he had left behind him.

As he moved towards her, Polly turned and came

towards him, her teeth tightly pressed into her lower

lip and her eyes full of tears. When they came

abreast neither of them spoke, nor did they move from

behind the hedge until the sound of MacFelPs

voice reached them from the yard; then going quickly on to the path, they bent one on each side of Ginger and

pulled him upwards.

"Don't cry, Ginger. Don't cry."

Ginger's head was deep on his chest and his body was

trembling, but once on his feet he tugged his arm

away from Charlie's and turned fully towards

Polly, and she, putting her arms around him,

murmured, "Come on down to the burn, the water'11

cool you."

Her arm still about him, she led him along the cinder

path down the slope, past the cottage that

MacFell had had renovated and furnished,

supposedly to let to the people who tramped the hills in the summer, and to the bank of the burn.

"Take your knickerbockers off."

"No, no!" The boy now grabbed at the top of

his short trousers.

"Go on, don't be silly. There's three of them

back home, I'm used to bare backsides."

When the boy still kept tight hold of his trousers,

she said, "All right I'll go but Charlie'll stay

with you, won't you, Charlie?"

It pointed to a strange relationship that the daughter

of the one time cowman could address the master's son in a way other than as young Master MacFell or

Mister Charlie, and that she was the only one connected with the farm, besides his parents and sister, who did

address him so.

"Yes, yes, Polly."

"I... I don't want to take "em off."

Ginger sniffed, then wiped his wet face with the back of his hand. "I'll . . . I'll just put me legs

in."

"All right, have it your own way. But wait a

tick till I take me boots off an" I'll

give you a hand down the bank."

With a speed that characterized all her movements,

Polly dropped on to the grass and rapidly

unlaced her boots, stood up again, shortened her

skirt by turning in the waistband several times, then,

her arm around Ginger once more, she helped him down the bank; and when their feet touched the ice-cold water

the contact forced her into momentary laughter.

Glancing up the bank at Charlie, she cried,

"It would freeze mutton," and almost in the same breath she went on, "come on, a bit further,

Ginger, get it over your knees. And here, let me

get the grit off your hands."

As if she were attending to a child, and not to a boy almost two years her senior, she gently flapped the

water over his grit-studded palms, saying as she

did so, "They're not bleedin' much, it's your knees that are the worse. . . . There, is that better? It

gets warm after you've been in a minute. Feel

better, eh?" She lowered her head and, turning it

to the side, looked into his face, and he nodded at

her and said, "Aye, Polly."

A few minutes later she helped him up the

bank, although he now seemed able to walk unaided, and

when he sat down on the grass she sat close beside

him; then, her round, plump face straight, her

wide full lips pressed tight, she stared

up at Charlie for a moment before saying, "You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to take your da and kick him

from here to hell along a road all made of

cinders."

Looking down into the angry green eyes, Charlie

was prompted to say, "And I'd like to help you do it,"

but all he did was to turn his gaze away towards the

burn, until she

TCP 3

said, "I don't blame you; you know I don't,

Charlie ... Sit down, man."

As if he, too, were obeying the order from an

older person, Charlie, like Ginger, did as she

bade him and sat down, and as he watched her dabbing

at Ginger's knees with the inside of her print skirt

he wished, and in all sincerity, it had been he himself who had suffered the cinder path this morning, just so he could be the recipient of her attentions.

He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't

loved Polly Benton. He was three years old

when big Polly first brought her into the kitchen and

dumped her in a clothes basket to the side of the

fire while she got on with the business of helping

Fanny Dimple. He had stood fascinated

by big Polly's knee as she bared her

equally big breast to the infant. He had grown up

with young Polly, close yet separated. At times

when the master was absent they had played together openly; when he was present they had continued to play, but

secretly; and always in their play she had been the

leader and he the willing follower.

When, four years ago, his father had taken it

into his head to send him to the boarding school in

Newcastle, the only one he had really been

sorry to leave was young Polly;

he hadn't been sorry to leave his mother, although he

loved her and pitied her, but her need of him drained

him and he was glad to get away from it. As holidays

approached it was only the thought that he would see

Polly again that compensated him for the irritations that lay ahead in the house.

"You'd better get back if you don't want

another dose."

They all turned and looked upwards and towards

Polly's elder brother, Arthur,

Arthur was fifteen years old. He was stockily

built with dark hair and a ruddy cornplexion.

He looked strong, dour, aggressive, and he was

all three.

"Get up out of that, our Polly, and stop

rnolly-coddlin' him; he'll get worse than that

afore he's finished."

"Aw, you! our Arthur! you want a taste of it

to know what it feels like."

"I've had me share. But not any more"- his chin jerked upwards defiantly-"he stops when you can

look him in the eye."

It was as if the latter part of his remark had been

addressed to Charlie, who had risen to his feet, and

again Charlie would like to have endorsed the sentiment by saying,

"You're right there," for as yet his father had never flayed anyone over fifteen. Instead, he watched

Arthur Benton push the small redheaded boy forward

with a thrust of his hand, saying, "Go on, bring some hay down. If you fall it'll be softer on your arse.

An' you"-he now turned to Polly-"get back to the house. You shouldn't be over here anyway."

"You mind your own interferences, our Arthur. And

don't think you'll order me about "cos you

won't."

Polly was now pulling on her boots, the laces

of which passed through only half the holes, and when she rose to her feet the tops of the boots spread out like

wings from her shin bones. be "Pull your skirt

down."

"Shut up! An" you go to the devil. I'll

leave it up if I want to leave it up. I'll

put it round me neck if I feel so inclined."

As she finished she looked at Charlie and laughed;

then with a toss of her head she walked away from them, and they both watched her go, not in the direction by which they had come but along by the burn which would bring her out below the cottages.

"Eeh!" Arthur jerked his head to the side. "She gets cheekier every day." And there was definite pride in the remark, which caused

Charlie to smile at him and say quietly,

"She's Polly."

"Aye, you've said somethin" there, she's Polly all right."

They turned together now and walked across the grass and on to the cinder path, and the exchanges between them were again unusual in that they were as between equals.

"You going for a ride s'aftemoon?" asked

Arthur.

"Yes, I'm to go over to Chaprnans'."

Charlie did not say, "I'm going over

to Chapmans' was but "I'm to go over

to Chaprnans3."

"Is the boss thinkin' of buying the mare?"

"No, no, it isn't about that; I'm to take an

invitation for them to come to supper on Saturday

night."

"O . . . h! O . . . h! It's like that,

is it? Supper Saturda' night. You'll have

to watch yourself." He jerked his head towards Charlie, and Charlie, looking at him with a blank countenance,

said, "What do you mean, watch yourself?"

"Why, Miss Victoria."

"Aim Victoria!" Charlie's brows drew

together.

"Lor'!" Arthur was grinning. "If I was

lookin' like you at this minute an' somebody

said I looked gormless they'd be right. 'Twas as

I said, you'd better look out for Miss

Victoria. Old Chapman would like nothin' better

than to see the lands joined; an' the boss, well,

let's face it, the Chapmans are the cream of the

milk round here, an' the boss is all for the cream

off the milk."

Charlie brought himself to a sudden stop. He looked

at Arthur for a moment; then, his head going back on

his shoulders, he let out a laugh. It was a loud

laugh, a long rollicking laugh, a sound that was

rarely heard around the farm. It even startled

Arthur into protest. Casting his glance towards the

back of the byres to where the alleyway ran into the

yard, he said, "Stop it, man! What's got

into you? There's nowt funny about that. Aw, give

over. Stop it!"

Slowly Charlie's laughter subsided, and,

taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped each

cheekbone; then, his face still lit with laughter, he

looked at Arthur and said, "Victoria . . .

she's eighteen," it was as if he were speaking of someone as old as his mother. "The things you get into your head, Arthur. Anyway, if I was her age what would a

high-stepper like Miss Victoria want with me?

I'm tongue-tied when I meet her; it's as if

we spoke different languages. She goes

to balls in Hexham and Newcastle, she's been

to London; she's left school, and I'm still there,

and likely to be for years; and what's more, she's mad

on horses and hunting and can talk of nothing else.

Now if I was bringing up that subject with her I'd

put rny foot in it right away by saying her tastes

are a contradiction for she's supposed to love

horses, yet she takes them over fences that could

rip their bellies open. Moreover, I don't

think she's read anything but a lady's

journal in her life. As for reading poetry, she

would laugh herself sick if I mentioned it, even young

Nellie is better informed than she is."

"Well, who wouldn't? Poetry isn't for men."

"Oh, now who's being gormless, Arthur?"

Charlie waved his hand before his face as if shooing

away a fly. "It's men who write the poetry."

"Aw, no, I don't agree with you there, for

they're not what you'd call real men, just those fancy

half-buggers."

"Don't be silly. What about Wordsworth? Is

he a ... ?"

Charlie couldn't bring himself to repeat Arthur's

phrase but substituted the word

"effeminate" which part of his mind told him was hitting Arthur below the belt; he knew Arthur would show no

offence at being put down in this way, for he liked

to talk, and to get him talking too. And it was odd,

but he could talk to Arthur, and Arthur's pet

response, "I don't agree with you," always

pointed to the fact that he was enjoying the talk, having a crack as he called it. He was aware that Arthur

was very ignorant and was likely to remain so, for he was too bigoted to learn. Yet he liked Arthur.

He liked all the Bentons. Yes, he

liked all the Bentons.

Arthur was now saying, "Wordsworth is different,

anybody who lives among the hills is different.

I'm talking about the fancy blokes up in

Newcastle an' London."

Charlie blinked rapidly, swallowed, but made

no further comment except to repeat to himself,

Newcastle and London. They imagined everything

bad happened in Newcastle or London and that

all the rich people, too, were in these places. They

took no account of the vast space all about them which was dotted with manors and huge country houses. To people like Arthur, Newcastle and London were the places where

odd people lived and bad things happened; the

bad things, the unnatural things that took place

among themselves they laid down to nature.

He himself hadn't travelled further than

Newcastle but he knew that one day he would break

away and see the world, and stop to listen, listen to people talking. He would love to listen to people who could really talk about things besides farming and horses and . . . the other thing. . . But then the other thing wasn't very often talked about, it was simply done in the hay field,

or behind the barn, or in the copse along by the burn.

It hadn't happened much lately, but then the

harvest was over. It was at its worst, or at its

best-it was how you looked at it-when the hands came

over from Chapmans to help out, to beat the weather or

to clear a harvest. The other thing had been troubling

him a lot of late and it was always mixed up in his