The Blind Miller

by Catherine Cookson

  Two

  Time was only in the mind. David had said that. He had read it some place. He had said how true it was…Time was only in the mind. She herself knew how true it was now, for time had almost ceased to exist for her. Soon she knew that time, as the mind knew it, would end altogether, but it wasn’t worrying her. Her mind had rejected time as it had all other things. If it thought about anything clearly it was that it wished…it…was all over. She wasn’t afraid of the end; she had even said so to the priest. At times her mind came back into the present sufficiently to answer questions if it considered they needed answering. When the priest spoke to her of God she almost laughed; the thought of God was ludicrous to her now, really funny. When her mind was on this other plane she was amazed at the credulity of all the people who believed in this thing called God, this thing that had become an…‘it’ to her. Her mind admitted to this ‘it’ being alive, yet at the same time she saw it as inanimate because it was without feeling for the human being. She felt a malicious desire now to bring her thoughts from this faraway plane and hurl them at the priest, hurl ‘it’ at the priest. But the priest was Father Bailey, and he was kind was Father Bailey. But he kept repeating one thing to her, trying to drag an answer from her, a response. ‘You’ve got to tell them, Sarah,’ he kept saying. ‘And today. It’ll be your last chance. Tell them that he blackmailed you for years. Tell them. Do you hear me, Sarah? Sarah.’

  She bowed her head before his pitying gaze. He could do nothing. Being a priest, his tongue was tied. And she would do nothing, because if she opened her mouth she could only tell them half the truth. She could say: My father blackmailed me because he thought I had been with John and I hadn’t. But would they believe her? No. No. They would say, those clever ones in the court, they would say, Then why did you pay him to keep silent? And then it would become complicated. She couldn’t begin to tell them why at first she paid him to keep silent, it was all too far in the past. Even if she could explain it would bear no weight. She alone knew the thing that would bear weight. Her father had known it and now he was dead. He was dead because he had created it…this thing, this thing that she alone knew now and must hide. And it was a lie this thing, the biggest lie of the lot, but nevertheless she must hide it because if she once showed it the light everyone would believe it. There was never smoke without fire, they would say. Yes, yes, that’s why she had paid up all the years, they would say. Then they would look at Kathleen and Paul and remember they had been inseparable since they were babies. They would remember that John loved Kathleen like a father…But, she needn’t worry, they wouldn’t remember, for they wouldn’t hear the lie spoken, the lie that would help her to live. It would die with her. Kathleen would be safe.

  The priest went away and the warders came, two of them. One of them had a nice face, she had a kind voice too. She was about Sarah’s own age and she took Sarah’s hand and patted it before they mounted the steps. But when she sat down beside Sarah her face looked cold and remote…

  Sarah looked around the courtroom, her head moving slowly as if with an effort. There was Phyllis, her face filled with two great compassion-filled eyes. Dear Phyllis. And next to her were Ali and Jimmy…They were nice, Ali and Jimmy.

  There was Dan, his eyes waiting for her. Something in her stretched out towards him and said, Don’t cry any more; don’t cry any more, Dan. And next to him was Kathleen, her face like paste, and her eyes like great dark pools, pools full of pity. The thing inside her stretched out to Kathleen, it leaped to Kathleen and said, ‘Oh; my dear, my dear! Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.’ And then there was Paul. Paul’s head was down and he was not looking at her, he never looked at her. A voice from the faraway plane cried out to Paul, ‘Look at me, Paul, I’m not bad. Please look at me.’ But Paul refused to look at her. Next to Paul sat May, and May was looking at her. But what was May thinking? No-one ever knew what May was thinking. There was a man sitting next to May but Sarah did not look at him, or say his name to herself for it was because of him, because he had been born, because the desire of his body was the ruling power in his life, that she was sitting here now…I’ll see you at the Assizes…I’ll see you at the Assizes.

  Her mind slipped away on to the distant plane again, and from it she heard faintly the voice of the prosecuting counsel, the man who seemed to hate her. He talked as if he had known her from birth and as if she had never done a decent thing in her life. Why was he talking about her like that? He also seemed to hate the nice man who was defending her. He said nasty things to him, spiteful, sarcastic things, and they always referred to her. Her counsel was now speaking to the judge, asking to bring forward another witness. Time passed and then she was looking at a man in the box. She couldn’t remember ever having seen him in her life. Of course that was natural because he had just said he lived in Wallsend and she didn’t know anybody in Wallsend. He said his name was James Ballast and that his brother had once beaten up the deceased man.

  ‘Why did your brother beat up the deceased man?’ asked the nice man.

  Because the deceased was always spying on courting couples, the man said. He had been spying on his brother, and his brother laid a trap for him, then beat him up.

  ‘Where is your brother now?’ asked the nice man. ‘He’s dead,’ said the man in the box. ‘He died in the war.’

  The cool voice from the high bench cut through the examination, saying, ‘What is all this? This has no bearing on the case at all.’

  ‘I’m just trying to show, my Lord,’ said the nice man, ‘what kind of man the deceased was.’

  ‘We are not here to deal with the dead man’s character,’ said the cool voice. ‘We are here to prove or disprove murder. Why have you raked up such a witness?’

  ‘The man offered himself as a witness, me Lord. He thought he could help the accused.’

  ‘And apparently you did too?’

  ‘Yes, me Lord.’

  People were kind. It was as Dan always kept saying, people were kind…all except the prosecuting counsel. He was standing in front of the jury now, telling them how bad she was. He even remembered to tell them about the day after the big raid when she wouldn’t give her father shelter and had screamed at him and had gone to throw something at him.

  People had long memories, May had a long memory. It was she who had told them that bit when she was asked if she had ever seen her raise her hand to her father before. May had a lot in common with the prosecuting counsel.

  Then the nice man was talking to the jury. He was telling them what she had gone through in her childhood, how she had feared the deceased, how he had beaten her and her sister…Phyllis had told them all about that, and Phyllis had been fearless. Phyllis wasn’t frightened of anybody. She had said to them, ‘I always wanted to kill him and many a time I said I would, and I would if I’d got the chance.’ The judge had told her to stop talking, and when she wouldn’t he had warned her she would be put out of the court. He had warned her twice because she was always jumping up and down in her seat.

  Now the jury filed out of the benches and went into a room and the warders took her downstairs and the kind one squeezed her shoulder, but she said nothing. They wanted her to eat and drink, but all she wanted was a cup of tea. And then it didn’t taste like tea, not her kind of tea.

  She sat staring ahead, waiting, her hands joined in her lap. Time passed. She supposed it was hours, she didn’t know. Everybody seemed restless. The policeman came and spoke to her; even the stiff-looking ones spoke nicely. Then they went and talked in the passage outside. She heard a voice say, ‘Well, he didn’t find her insane, did he? And he examined her long enough. She’s just withdrawn herself. They do, you know. She’ll likely be like that until near the end…if there’s an end.’ ‘Ssh!’ said somebody else. ‘Ssh!’ and the voice answered, ‘It’s all right, she doesn’t take it in.’

  And then of a sudden they took her upstairs, and there they all were in their places as if there had been no long interval. And one ma
n from the benches stood up and the judge asked him a question, and he said, ‘We have found the prisoner guilty of manslaughter, my Lord. Because we are agreed that there was no premeditation to kill.’

  Her mind began to race now, flying away to reach the plane, the safe plane, where the voice of the judge couldn’t follow, but even when she reached it she couldn’t shut the voice out. Two sentences came floating to her. One was, ‘The jury have agreed your act was unpremeditated.’ But for some reason she got the impression that he didn’t agree with the jury’s verdict. The second sentence was: ‘Nevertheless you have killed a man and been found guilty of manslaughter; therefore I sentence you to prison for fifteen years.’

  Her mind was shot from the plane and into her head again. She wasn’t to die, she wasn’t going to die. She was surprised, amazed. Then her mind whimpered, but fifteen years! Fifteen years! Then she heard Phyllis screaming: ‘It’s monstrous! Cruel! He should’ve been dead years ago, the swine! I wish I had done it myself I tell you. Oh, my God! Sarah, Sarah! Fifteen years! God Almighty!’ Phyllis’ voice trailed away as they pulled her from the court.

  Just before she was led downstairs she glanced towards her family. They were all standing as if petrified, looking at her, all with the exception of John. Perhaps it was because he was not looking at her that her eyes went involuntarily to him. His head was bowed deep and his face was covered with his hands.

  Three

  The day was dull, the world was dull. Everything was crazy; he was crazy. At times he thought he was going stark staring mad. Everybody had changed since the trial; everybody and everything had changed…But some of them had changed before the trial. Paul had. What was up with the lad? Just look how he was treating Kathleen.

  In three rapid strides John was at the window looking down into the yard seeing Kathleen going through the back door and across the lane into her own backyard. Because it was still her own backyard, she had refused to budge. But she was no longer a young girl skipping and gay; she had grown up overnight, as it were, and the transition had left her dazed. She wanted help, comfort, and the one who could give her the most comfort was turning his back on her. Why? Why? Well, he would find out; he would have something to say to that young squirt, he would that.

  As he turned from the window about to stalk from the room, Paul entered, and John stood aside and let him reach the fireplace before he started: ‘Look, what’s the matter with you these days? We’ve all had a shock, but the one that’s troubled most is Kathleen and she needs your help. And what have you done? You’ve kept clear of her for weeks as if she’s got the mange. I don’t like it.’ John’s face screwed up, his lips leaving his teeth. ‘I don’t like the trait in your character that makes you shy off when you’re most needed. Even if your Aunt Sarah has done something wrong, and that’s a matter of opinion, you cannot hold Kathleen accountable for it. But that’s what you’re doing. Every time she walks in the door you go out. Now look here, let’s get this straight.’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’ Paul’s voice was quiet, cold and quiet.

  ‘Then talk. Fire ahead.’

  John looked at his son and waited, and when he did not begin he said brusquely, ‘What’s holding you up? I thought you wanted to…?’

  ‘I’m going to become a priest.’

  The silence in the room was like sound amplified; it penetrated through the cries of the children outside in the back lane, through a man calling a boy’s name, through the high cry of a baby.

  ‘Say that again.’ John’s tone sounded ordinary.

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘Aye…aye, I thought I did. I thought you said, “I’m going to become a priest.” That’s what I thought you said.’

  ‘And that is what I said.’

  John pulled his chin into his neck, pushing out the flesh that looked tough and thick like a reddy-brown hide. ‘You’re going to become…? Look, lad, have you gone barmy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you said a priest…not a minister, or a curate, but a priest?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘A Catholic priest?’

  ‘A Catholic priest.’

  ‘You trying to make me do something—hit you, knock you out or something?’

  ‘It won’t make any difference what you do.’

  ‘It won’t, eh? Get out.’ John swung his arm in a half-circle motion indicating the door, but as Paul turned towards it he sprang across the room barring his way, crying, ‘No begod! What am I saying? You’ll not get out of here until I hear you talk sense…Priest! You’re going to become a priest…Over my bloody dead body you will. Now sit down.’ He pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down and let’s hear what all this is about.’

  The boy moved with seeming quietness towards the chair and sat on its edge and waited; and John, towering over him, demanded, ‘Well now, get going. Since when have you had the idea you’re going to be a priest?’ His voice was sneering.

  Paul turned his white face up to his father’s. ‘Since the day my Aunt Sarah killed her father.’

  The answer nonplussed John and it brought his shoulders back and his head up. It brought the lids of his eyes together, and he asked, puzzled, ‘But what has that to do with this business? There’s no connection that I can see.’

  ‘You can’t?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘I happened to hear what her father said before she hit him.’

  ‘But you said…you said you didn’t hear anything. You told them in court…only a babble of voices, you said.’

  ‘I know what I told them.’ Paul now thrust out his arm as if pushing his father aside, and, getting to his feet, he moved a few steps backwards, putting distance between them before he spoke again. ‘The old man said Kathleen and I were acting like a courting couple and we shouldn’t because…because you had fathered us both.’

  The telling silence took over again until John whispered, ‘I had what?’ He brought his hand up to his chin, the forefinger pressing below his lower lip, and as if coming out of a daze he repeated, ‘I had what? God Almighty!’ With a movement of his leg he flicked the chair across the room, and as it crashed against the fender he cried, ‘He said that? Well, let me tell you, son, and I’m swearing it on God’s oath, it’s a bloody lie…a bloody lie. Do you hear?’ His voice was high now.

  ‘Yes, I hear, but I also heard the old man remind my Aunt Sarah of the night Kathleen had been conceived. It was on New Year’s morning 1930 on the waste ground…Kathleen’s birthday is on the fourth of October.’

  John stood as if someone had hit him a resounding blow, a blow that should have felled him to the ground. He swayed slightly, his hand moving now round his face, his eyes blinking; he had difficulty in speaking and when he did his voice had a note of pleading in it. ‘Paul…listen, Paul boy. It’s not true. Your Aunt Sarah and I did stand round there that night, and we talked. We talked because…Oh, my God! What does it matter now? I loved your Aunt Sarah, but nothing…ever…happened between us. You’ve got to believe me. Your Aunt Sarah’s a good woman.’

  ‘If nothing happened, then why did she let her father blackmail her all these years?’

  ‘Blackmail her?’ The word sprung John’s brows upwards. ‘What are you saying? Have you gone barmy?’

  ‘No, I’ve not gone barmy, and you know I haven’t. She’d been paying him money for years to keep quiet about that night.’

  ‘Christ alive!’ Slowly John turned his gaze from his son and going towards the fallen chair he picked it up, and when it was righted he sat down, gripping the seat with his hands as if to support himself. His mind in a blinding turmoil, he was seeing a picture which covered the years; Sarah’s nerves, her tenseness, her terror of being left alone with him. Aye, she had been terrified, and with what reason! God Almighty!…God Almighty! ‘Paul.’ He put out a shaking hand towards his son, and his lips moved, trying to form the words that would establish his innocence in the boy’s mind, but they were ineffective whe
n they came. His tone held no conviction, he was too dazed to be convincing. ‘There was nothing, Paul, nothing, nothing, between your Aunt Sarah and me. That swine of a man must have heard us talking that night and held it over her. She loved your Uncle Davie. There was only one person for her, she could see nobody but your Uncle Davie. It was likely because she didn’t want trouble, and didn’t want to hurt him, that she paid up. But, my God…!’ His hands dropped to his side. ‘My God! What she must have gone through.’ Now his voice roughened and strengthened. ‘You should have spoken up and told them, it would have helped her.’

  ‘Would it? Would it have helped if they had thought she was carrying on with you and that you were Kathleen’s father? Would it have helped her?’ Paul’s voice was accusing.

  John shook his head. ‘No. I suppose you’re right. But, Paul…’ He leant well forward from the chair. ‘You’ve got to believe me, and you’ve got to make things right between you and Kathleen.’

  Paul moved to the side of the table and he looked down at it before he said, ‘That’s over. We were like brother and sister, anyway. We were brought up too close.’

  ‘But you’re not brother and sister, or half-brother and sister. You could get married.’

  ‘No.’ The boy’s voice was so harsh it could have been John himself speaking. The tables seemed to be turned; it was the boy who had the strength and John who was the weaker in this moment. ‘I’m going through with this. I know now it was what I wanted to do all along. I was always attracted to the Catholic Church.’

  ‘Oh, my God! Don’t talk, boy, don’t talk.’ John’s head was bowed forward, his hands supporting his brow.