The Slow Awakening

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  In the quietness that settled on the room there was no echo of the great roaring storm that was filling him, the rage was rushing into him like waters from a broken dam. He wasn’t conscious that the door had opened into the room and someone had entered, he only knew that she could not have made this up, what would it benefit her to lie about such a thing? She must be speaking the truth and if that were so he had no son…There was a curse on him. He had no son! He would never have a son! This woman had not borne him a son, yet he cried at her, ‘You’re a liar, woman! Do you hear? You’re a bloody liar! You’re a liar of liars.’ His body was bent forward but he did not move until her voice, with the strange laughter still in it, said, ‘Ask her if I’m a liar, she changed them over. My Mother Protector changed them over and gave you a son so you wouldn’t be unhappy. She loved you so much she bought you a son.’

  He did not look round before he sprang, and the weight of his body and the hands on her throat bore her instantly to the ground.

  ‘Leave go! Konrad! Konrad! For God’s sake!’

  ‘Master! Master!’ There were hands tearing at his fingers, bending them backwards, pulling them out of her flesh.

  When they had freed Florence, Bella lifted her to her feet and pushed her into the bedroom, shouting at her, ‘Lock the doors’. Then she turned to where Slater and Bainbridge were being thrust aside as they went to help Konrad to his feet.

  ‘Get out!’

  The men did his bidding quickly, and when the door had closed on them he stood like the bull whose nickname he bore, his shoulders hunched, his head down as if ready to charge, and like that, his eyebrows moving slowly upwards, he brought his gaze to bear on Bella, and so terrible was it, she backed away and almost overbalanced as she bumped into a chair. Then, swiftly glancing round, she looked in the direction of the door, but before she could reach it he had hold of her. His hands did not go round her throat as they had around Florence’s, but his fingers dug into her shoulders so fiercely that she cringed and cried out against the pain, and when he thrust her against the wall her head bounced and her vision reeled for a moment.

  ‘Is it true? Tell me, do you hear?’ Once more he banged her shoulders against the wall. ‘Tell me the truth, woman!’

  Her head wagging now as if on wires, her mind dizzy with the first real fear she had known in her life, Bella spluttered in an effort to speak. The saliva spurted from her mouth, and more of it blocked her throat and she almost choked as she tried to say his name. When she eventually did gasp out, ‘Oh, Kon-rad…Kon-rad!’ he again brought her shoulders from the wall, then banged her against it, and it was terror alone that brought the denial from her. ‘No! No!…No! No!’ for she knew that in his present state he was beyond reasoning and that he was capable, and without the slightest compunction, of killing them both, her and Florence.

  ‘Then why should she say such a devilish thing?’

  His voice was like that of all the gods thundering together, and her head wagging, she gasped, ‘Distraught. Distraught.’

  ‘Distraught! Bloody hell and damnation! You are shielding her as usual…But she said—’ Now, still holding her, he brought his body up straight and peered at her with his wild gaze as if getting her into focus; then he cried, ‘She said you did it, you bought the child from the girl.’

  The girl! His head was back now. Slowly he took his hands from Bella’s shoulders, then with a spring like that of a wild animal he was at the door and through it, and Bella, staggering like someone drunk, went after him calling as she did so, ‘Wait! Wait! Konrad. Oh Konrad! Wait.’

  She stumbled across the gallery, through the door that had just banged closed in her face, and when she reached the nursery door it was to see him holding the girl now as he had held her.

  Kirsten had not been in the house more than ten minutes. She’d only had time to take off her wet cloak and dress and get into a dry print one, while listening to Rose speaking of the child’s antics during her absence. When Rose had gone she had sat down limply in the chair near the fire, weighed down by a wave as if of homesickness, for within a week she’d be gone from here forever. Her eyes had wandered round the room from one familiar object to another until they had come to rest on the child where he was sitting with a pile of painted bricks within the broken circle of his legs, and it was at the point when she was thinking that she would never see him walking straight, that is if he ever walked really straight, when the door crashed open bringing her to her feet. And there was the master as she had never seen him before. She had seen him drunk and sober, kind and harsh; she had seen him in a blind rage, but this was something beyond rage.

  When he caught hold of her arms and almost lifted her from the ground she let out a gasping cry, and she gaped at him, her mouth wide and her eyes staring as he turned his head to the side and looked towards the child, who was not as usual running towards him but hitching himself backwards on his buttocks away from him, sensing anger as only a child can, fearing it as his whimpering proved.

  ‘That…that child…whose is it?’

  Now his face turned slowly to confront hers again. ‘Tell me, girl! Give me the truth or I’ll choke it out of you. Tell me, is that your child? Did you bear that boy? Tell me!’

  She literally left the floor as the demand blasted her ears. Her eye seemed to go mad in its socket, while at the same time her breathing became still. She was gazing now, not into his face, but over his shoulder into the face of Miss Cartwright, the face that was expressing the terror that was in herself while at the same time speaking to her, as were her hands, for Miss Cartwright had her hands clasped together in prayer; she was holding them in front of her face, the fingers just below her nose, and moving them in small movements, backwards and forwards, and each movement was beseeching her, begging her, pleading, craving, as were the eyes above the hands, that she should deny the truth.

  She might not have responded to the plea of the woman who had tried, more than once, to kill her, but when her body was shaken again, so roughly that her teeth chattered together in her head and the distorted face of the master swung before her, she knew that for everyone’s sake, his most of all, she must lie. And so she cried back at him on a high note, ‘No! No, master! Mine? No! No! Mi…he died. He…he was pu…puny.’

  The grip on her arms slackened a little. She watched the sweat running down his face, then dropping from his chin onto his rumpled cravat.

  ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, girl?’

  ‘N-n-no. No, master.’ She was shaking her head wildly from side to side; she had the desire at the moment to cry, to scream hysterically. It was too much, everything was too much. The lodgings she was going to in Newcastle, where her only prospect of work was in one of the sewing houses; twelve hours, six days a week she’d have to work, and sleep in a room with fifteen others on buggy pallets; two meals a day she’d get, and her wage would be one and six a week to start with, rising to two shillings; and very lucky she was, they said, to get it.

  She felt her senses reeling as he let go of her and she staggered back and dropped onto the window seat of the smaller of the two windows in the room and, leaning back, closed her eyes tightly for a moment. When she opened them Miss Cartwright was still standing in the same place—she had not moved—her hands still clasped but now in front of her chest. Her face looked grey and pinched, like that of someone who was freezing with cold. But the master had moved. He had moved towards the child, and now he was standing over it looking down on it. And the child was looking up at him.

  ‘Papa!’ The name was tentative. ‘Papa angry?’

  The feel of the child’s hands sent a tingling through Konrad’s body. Slowly he bent and picked the boy up. Then holding him at arm’s length he looked into his face. Was this his child? He searched every feature, comparing it with his own, and no two tallied. Had Florence been speaking the truth and these two lying? Bella, he knew, when put to the test would swear her soul away, but the girl—he turned and looked towards her—she would tell him t
he truth, she would not lie to him. He continued to stare at her; then he looked back at the child. Their features didn’t tally either except perhaps the shape of the eye sockets.

  ‘Papa. Papa.’ The child was now holding out his arms to him, and slowly he drew him towards his breast and when the small hands linked themselves together behind his neck there crept into his body an agony, and he cried within him, ‘He must be mine, he must!’

  But what had made Florence say such a thing? Was her hatred of him so great that she would concoct such a dastardly lie just to hurt him? Yes. Yes. He knew she was quite capable of such vindictiveness; weakness of character such as hers bred vindictiveness. She knew that the only thing he prized in life was the child, and so she had struck where she knew it would hurt him most. Of course this wouldn’t have come about if he hadn’t come home before he was expected; she would have been away with her lover. It was the worthlessness of the jewels that had incited her madness. What would she do now? She was too mercenary, too fond of her body’s comfort to run away with a penniless lover; yet after this even the pretence of living together would be over. But how could he afford to provide for her from now on in a separate establishment? Not only her, but Bella, he must provide for Bella. His affairs had come to a head. He must sell the estate together with the plate and paintings, and hope that the whole would erase most of his outstanding debts; and after, there would be nothing for it but Sweden and the lodge.

  On the journey back from London he had become resigned to the thought, he had even looked forward to the change. No responsibilities, only those of everyday living, and the child…and her. He looked towards Kirsten. Her eye was lying deeply in the corner; she had come into this house as the child’s wet nurse. But…And this was still the question, had she been just a wet nurse? The boy here had thrived from the moment he had taken her breast. Yes, he had thrived since then, but he had been born with rickets, and rickets was the result of undernourishment. It was laughable to think that anyone in his family or yet in Florence’s could have suffered undernourishment.

  There was something here. The girl was from the road, and before that had lived in poverty, and poverty, no matter what some said, was the prime cause of this disease. He moved one hand down the boy’s thin, bowed leg and as he did so he turned his back on Kirsten and Bella—who was also seated now because she felt a weakness on her, the weakness of relief—and he walked to the big window and gazed out. The rain had ceased and a weak sun was shining but a strong wind was now blowing. He glanced downwards as a figure moved into view at the bottom of the steps; at the same time he saw the coach coming out of the courtyard.

  She was going then. Without means to support her, she was going. She was defying him. But no, by God! He would not be made a cuckold for the second time. Bad enough that he should be pitied because of his business failures, but add to it the desertion of his wife and the shame would be too much to be borne. If they were to separate it would be he who would take the initiative.

  He almost threw the child from him and, thrusting open the window, he leaned out and bawled, ‘Florence! I forbid you! Do you hear? Stay! I forbid you!’

  He watched her face turn up towards him, white, wild-looking; then he saw her glance towards the oncoming carriage, and at this he shouted down at the coachman, ‘Get back in the yard! Do you hear me, man?’

  The coachman stopped the horses and looked up at him; then with a ‘Hie there!’ he turned the horses.

  When Konrad again turned to look at Florence she was running. Her skirts held in both hands, she was flying down the drive.

  The child’s wailing and Bella’s protests followed him to the door. Then he was gone, and Bella looked at Kirsten and Kirsten brought her gaze from the drive and looked at Bella. For a long moment they surveyed each other; then Bella turned and stumbled out like someone drunk.

  Kirsten now grabbed up the wailing child in her arms and went back to the window. A minute later she saw the master bounding down the house steps and then down the drive, but within seconds he was lost from her sight.

  In the bewilderment of despair, she was about to turn around when she saw, to the far right, a figure darting about between the trees in the park. It was the mistress. Her billowing cloak looked like a low cloud with the sun on it. But why was she going that way? Why had she left the drive that led to the lodge? Perhaps because when she reached the lodge she would have been unable to open the gates and be through before the master caught up with her; and she was terrified of him. And she had reason to be, for having given him the truth she had turned him into a madman. But her only outlet from the park now was the river and the steppy stones, and the river was rising. She’d never be able to get across the stones.

  Oh dear God! she groaned to herself. What was happening? The world about her was indeed toppling. If he caught her what would he do?…She had a vivid picture of what he would do, and of the resulting consequences, and these turned her sick with fear.

  Thrusting the boy onto the floor, she cried at him, ‘Stay here! Be a good boy now, stay until nurse comes back. Stay!’ She backed from him, flapping the air with her hand and ignoring his cries of protest; then she ran from the nursery, banging the door to behind her, and flew down the corridor, through the gallery, across the main landing and down the back staircase, without meeting anyone. But in the lower corridor she heard Slater admonishing someone, saying, ‘Get about your work! It is no business of yours, woman; your betters can manage their own affairs.’

  When she reached the end of the house she paused and looked about her; then, her skirts held up to her knees, she was racing frantically through the rose garden, past the pond with its imitation waterfall which was overflowing with the rain, straight across the kitchen garden, oblivious of both the growing plants and the soil caking her shoes, around by the greenhouses, where a young startled face peered at her through the glass. This way she skirted the park and came out above the meadow that flanked the river. And there was the wall at the far end which marked the boundary between the estate and the Flynns’ strip of precious land. There were the stepping stones, nearly all covered, and it was towards these that her eyes were immediately drawn for, running over the flooded shingle towards them, was the mistress with the master some distance behind her.

  She had got beyond the elm tree when she saw the master stop and she heard his voice above the wind, calling, ‘Florence! Florence!’

  She, too, stopped and her frantic gaze took in the fact that there wasn’t only the master and mistress and herself on the river, but that on the farther bank were the Flynns. She made out Dorry and Dan. They were mounting the far bank, dragging a large timber between them. And at the water’s edge Barney and Sharon were hooking debris from the river. But farther along the bank, opposite to where she herself was standing, was Colum. He had his trousers rolled up well above the knee and was in the swirling water holding on to what looked like a small hen cree while he stared as if transfixed, not at her, but at the two figures near the stepping stones.

  Kirsten held her breath as she saw the mistress grip the guide rope and place her foot on the first stone, which, being higher than the rest, was just clear of the water, but when she took the second step the water swirled around her ankles and dragged at her skirts.

  ‘Florence! Do you hear me! Come back! It’s all right; listen to me!’ Konrad’s voice was a high yell now. ‘Do you hear me! I tell you it’s all right. Stop, woman!’

  Whether or not Florence heard, she took no heed but took the third step.

  Konrad was now standing with one foot on the first stone but he did not move towards her and it wasn’t because he was stepping towards the Flynns’ ground—he did not think of that in this moment—but because he knew that any advancing movement from him might precipitate her into the swirling river.

  Florence, who at this time was past fear, was nevertheless taking each step with caution. Her eyes were cast downwards while her hands gripped the rope, which had somehow tight
ened and was giving her more support; she was unaware that Dan Flynn and Barney were pulling on it with all their might at the other end.

  She had reached the middle stone when a plank of wood, one piece that had broken away from a pile that was coming fast down the river, struck her ankles and sliced them off the stone as if they were nothing more than two straws. Her scream pierced the wind and brought Konrad hurtling towards her, and it was only a matter of seconds before he reached her. She was still clutching the rope that was sagging now with her weight, while her lower body thrashed this way and that in the madly swirling water.

  It was at the moment when, one hand gripping the guide rope, Konrad bent over and clutched her hand that the remainder of the driftwood came over the stones. It came in a tumbling pile, four planks deep, and caught him in the back of the legs, and they both went down before it.

  Kirsten stood frozen into stillness. She did not hear anything, voices, wind or roaring water; the world had become empty and silent until it was broken by the clamour of high screams. All the Flynns were screaming at Colum, waving their arms at him, telling him to come back. And Kirsten wanted now to join her voice to theirs as he thrashed his way towards the middle of the river. Above him, for one fleeting second, she saw the master and mistress. Their hands were still joined, then they disappeared from her sight under the swirling froth, and when they did not again appear she groaned and cried out something that was half gibberish, half prayer.