Now, God be Thanked

by John Masters

  ‘Get off my land!’ Swanwick shouted, ‘and … this is the last time I’ll warn you, stay off!’

  ‘I was dragged on, your lordship, against my will.’

  ‘Get off!’ the earl screamed, striking the air over Probyn’s head viciously with his crop.

  Probyn wondered whether it would be wise to ask for his pheasant and rabbit back. It probably wasn’t, he concluded, but if he didn’t try, his case might not be as good in law. He said, ‘I’d like my pheasant and rabbit back, my lord.’

  But the earl had turned his back, obviously not trusting himself any further, and was stalking back up the steps towards the great front door. Skagg said, ‘You’d better go, Probyn.’

  ‘Very well, Skagg,’ Probyn said. ‘I’ll go now, but remember, you stole my rabbit and my pheasant, you assaulted me on the public road and dragged me up here, and then you lied. You’ll hear more of this soon’s I have a chance to talk to squire – you and Dan and His Lordship.’

  The Woman washed her hands in the basin of hot water, carefully scrubbing fingers and nails with soap and a scrubbing brush. Behind her she heard Florinda talking in a low voice to Stella. ‘There, take off your dress … drawers … I’ll spread a blanket over the top so’s you won’t catch cold … Don’t worry, miss. She’s done this a hundred times if she’s done it once.’

  Stella’s voice was small – ‘Will it hurt much?’

  ‘Just a bit … pass water now … piss – do it in the doorway … Lie down now, on the table. Knees up and wide apart as you can get them. The table’s not very big, I know, but you won’t fall off.’

  The Woman came forward with a cloth and gave it to her. ‘Clean yourself off carefully … your cunt. This is soapy water. Don’t mind the water running down, we’ll clean it all up after.’

  Stella felt tears of embarrassment coming, but gritted her teeth and, staring at the ceiling, carefully cleaned her vulva and vagina. That she was here was her own fault, because she had sought excitement. She ought to swear that it would never happen again: but it had happened, and she remembered, and could not swear such an oath, for she knew that at some times she was not her own mistress – with men, with fire, with danger. Lying in this exposed and humiliating position, she thought suddenly that marriage, for her, might not be a much-to-be-desired goal or fulfilment, but a necessity, a place of guarded safety. She looked up, fearful. Florinda was smiling at her. Her hair, and the Woman’s, were tied up in big kerchiefs.

  ‘I’ve washed myself,’ she said.

  The Woman came forward, a stiff rubber tube in her hand. Stella closed her eyes and found Florinda’s hand in her own. She gripped it hard as she felt the catheter slide into her. Before she had closed her eyes she had seen the pot full of soapy water, and the funnel … A pang shot through her from the lips of her vulva deep up inside. ‘Still!’ the Woman said sharply. Florinda’s grip returned hers. The pain increased, and she felt the soapy water passing into her, very slowly. She began to count, to balance the piercing pains … one two three … seven eight nine … thirty-three thirty-four thirty-five … seventy-six seventy-seven … a hundred.

  ‘That’s enough,’ the Woman said, as to herself. Stella felt the tube slowly withdrawn from her vagina. The sharp pains became a heavy ache, and suddenly her vulva and lower pubic hair were soaking wet. The Woman was mopping her with a warm wet cloth. The lamp was lit, though it was still daylight outside. Shadows danced across the cobwebbed ceiling beams.

  Florinda gently disengaged her hand and went towards the sink. Stella, eyes open now, watched as she washed out a cloth, rewet it, and bringing a bucket and brush began to wash something off the table from under Stella’s buttocks into the bucket.

  Stella said, ‘What was it … going to be?’

  The Woman said curtly, ‘Can’t tell, so soon. Lie still. It’s over. Keep her clean, Florinda. She’ll bleed more yet.’ She moved back to the stove and pushed a kettle on to the centre of the fire. Florinda went out with the bucket, returning in a few minutes to stand again beside Stella. She said, ‘You brought the sanitary towels?’

  Stella nodded.

  ‘She’ll make you a cup of tea soon. You rest here for half an hour, while I go and tell your dad you’ve been taken poorly while you were down the village and he’ll come to get you, or send Norton for you. But before you go, put on a towel. You’ll be bleeding for a few days, but less than a period. If it’s more than that, get your dad to call the doctor.’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ the Woman said.

  ‘It might,’ Florinda said, ‘but the bad bit’s over. I’ll be off now.’ She went out.

  The Woman sat down on a stool, her face showing strain for the first time Stella ever remembered. She said, ‘Sometimes a woman dies, sudden like, when the soapy water’s going in … My granny told me it was because the water got into a vein. That’s why you mustn’t pour in too much, or fast … Sometimes they bleed to death, here, or after they get home … nearly happened to one of mine, once. Only once … But if there’s trouble, it’s mostly later, and I know what does that – dirt, getting in there.’ She nodded at Stella’s exposed and bloodstained vulva. ‘I’ll make the tea now. Don’t try to sit up yet. And don’t cry. You’ll have another.’

  It was nearly dark when Probyn got home. Fletcher was on the floor on his belly, reading a leather-bound book that Probyn remembered he had borrowed from the squire’s library, his brows furrowed and his eyes squinting in the feeble light of the single lantern. The Woman was at the stove, Florinda sitting on a stool, pert and pretty in her black lady’s maid dress, with heeled shoes that must have been at least two inches high.

  Fletcher looked up. ‘Nothing, Granddad?’

  Probyn sat down in the chair at the table. ‘Got a rabbit and a pheasant – found her dead in the road – but Skagg took me to the big house and Swanwick kept them.’

  ‘That’s not right, is it?’

  ‘No, it ain’t … I’ll be going to see squire tomorrow. What’s to eat?’

  ‘Cabbage, potatoes, beans … no meat today. None tomorrow, neither,’ the Woman said.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll go to squire this evening. We might get the pheasant and rabbit back tomorrow, in time for dinner. Or money, if they’ve eaten ’em themselves. Did Stella come?’

  The Woman said, ‘Yes. She was about two months gone, a bit more. Florinda helped. Norton came down in the trap not twenty minutes ago to take her home … Florinda told them she’d been taken poorly in the village.’

  ‘She bled a bit,’ Florinda said; then switching to her upper class accent, ‘But she never made a sound. Noblesse oblige, you know. And afterwards, she held my hand and thanked me positively with tears in her eyes. She knew she could rely on me to keep her unhappy secret, she said. It would kill her father, if he knew.’

  ‘Squire not to home?’

  ‘Norton said he didn’t know where he was – visiting one of the farms, most like.’

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ Probyn growled, ‘it’s not your afternoon off.’

  ‘Her Ladyship pressed me to take a day of rest and relaxation away from the artificial atmosphere of the Park. Why don’t you spend the day – and the night – with your dear father, and his good lady. Do give him my regards. And His Lordship’s, of course.’

  ‘Shut your trap!’ He looked straight at his granddaughter. She looked like a … witch, in black – black dress, black silk stockings, black shoes. There was a gleam in her eyes which he knew meant something – something important.

  ‘Out with it,’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘She won’t tell,’ Fletcher said from the floor. ‘I knew as soon as I come home – I been doing some hedging at High Staining – but she wouldn’t tell. Waiting for you to come home, maybe.’

  ‘What is it?’ Probyn said.

  Florinda turned to the Woman. ‘Bert got the sack from Rowland’s … afore the other lot are ready to hire him. He’s raging, but can’t do anything about it.’
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  ‘You’re going to get a thick ear if …’

  ‘And Mother’s working as a charwoman now. Cleans up pubs before they open.’

  ‘What does she do with the kids while she’s at work?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Violet’s eleven,’ Florinda said, ‘she can look after the little ‘uns. And there’s a woman next door who’s home most of the time.’

  Probyn said, ‘I’ll give you what for in a minute. What is it?’

  ‘Cantley came down today,’ she said, negligently looking at her finger nails.

  Probyn looked at her, puzzled for a moment. Then he began to get the idea. ‘And he’s spending the night?’ he said.

  ‘Tonight and tomorrow.’

  ‘And Lady S doesn’t want you in the house, eh?’

  Florinda nodded. ‘But she’s too late … I told you it wasn’t a servant, didn’t I?’

  ‘Cantley,’ Probyn said, considering. ‘You could do worse.’

  ‘I’m leaving her Ladyship’s service next Monday. Going to London. Cantley has a flat for me in Chelsea. I’ll send you money.’

  Probyn nodded and called to the Woman, ‘Is that stew ready yet, Woman?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘you don’t want indigestion, do you?’

  About an hour after Probyn had finished eating the vegetable stew, and he was dozing in his chair by the table, Florinda on a stool, Fletcher on the floor, and the Woman cleaning the surface of the stove, Probyn opened his eyes, listening. The wind had died down and he heard the footsteps clearly in the grass. The dog outside did not bark but Fletcher had heard too, and looked up from his book: and it was he who said in a low voice, ’’Tis squire,’ and got up with a single lithe animal movement, as sinuous as some giant ferret’s, went to the door, and opened it, revealing Christopher Cate, his hand raised to knock.

  ‘’Evening, Mr Cate,’ Fletcher said pleasantly. ‘Come in.’

  Cate went in, blinking, for it was very dark outside. Even the single lantern burned strong against his widened pupils – wide from walking down in the moonlight, across the fields from the Manor.

  Fletcher threw some rabbit skins off a chair in the corner and pulled it up, while Florinda smiled at Cate, without speaking, and the Woman did not even turn round or give any formal greeting. Cate was a frequent visitor to Probyn’s cottage, and had been all his life, but he did not often come at such an hour as this.

  Cate said, ‘It was good of you to come and get Norton, for Stella, Florinda. I’m sorry I was not there.’

  Florinda smiled, ‘How is she? I think ’twas just woman’s curse.’

  Cate looked anxious. ‘D’ye think I should ask Mrs Abell to see if … she’s all right? Or Doctor Kimball? Without her mother, it’s …’ his voice trailed into silence.

  Florinda said, ‘Was she sleeping sound when you left?’

  Cate nodded: and the Woman flung over her shoulder, ‘Let her be, squire. She’ll be fine in the morning … better still in three or four days.’

  Cate sighed with relief, and after a while said, ‘Laurence will be pestering you to take him out when he comes home from school, Probyn.’

  ‘He’ll take me, more like,’ Probyn said. ‘He knows all the birds by their nicknames, like, as well as the Latin ones. Makes my head swim.’

  ‘He wrote that he’s practising the songs and calls you were teaching him. Some of the bloods – those are the big boys – bully him for it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose they would … Florinda here’s better than I am at the calls. Show squire.’

  Florinda put her hands to her mouth, and in succession imitated the trill of a blackbird as it scurries along a hedge, the crake of a pheasant, and the scream of a falcon.

  Fletcher said, ‘This here’s a wonderful book, squire. I don’t understand everything in it but, you know what I said before, I understand here –’ he tapped his head ‘– without the words going in the right way.’

  ‘What book’s that?’ Cate asked. Fletcher handed it to him and Cate glanced at the spine and said, ‘The Collected Works of John Milton … That’s not the easiest English in the world to understand, Fletcher, but it’s great, I agree. Are you reading Paradise Lost?’

  Fletcher said, ‘I finished it yesterday. Just now I was reading the bit again where there’s war in heaven and Satan gets thrown down with all his troops … The words there is the best in the whole book, but I can’t feel ’em proper. Because I never seen a war, maybe.’

  ‘Nor have I. We’re lucky, I think … My brother’s been killed. He was in the Rifle Brigade.’

  ‘Major Oswald?’

  ‘You remember him? He hasn’t visited us for three years … died of wounds received at Neuve Chapelle, three days ago. We’ve just heard the news from Charlotte, his wife … widow.’

  No one spoke for several minutes, Cate staring into the little flames leaping and crawling in the fireplace. It was not an awkward silence, for Cate knew that it served these people instead of formal condolences, which did not come naturally to their lips.

  Fletcher broke it by saying, ‘I want to go to the war, but I don’t want to fight. Unless I go, I won’t feel this poetry, and if I fight, I won’t be able to write my own, see?’

  ‘I think you would,’ Cate said. ‘After Milton, you should try something more modern. I’ll lend you Walt Whitman next – an American poet who is at the other end of the spectrum from Milton in one way, very similar to him in another … Probyn, Lord Swanwick has telephoned me about some trouble you are having with him – about a pheasant and a rabbit.’

  ‘Got the rabbit off the railway. Found the pheasant dead in the road – killed by a motor car. Then Skagg and Dan came along, and grabbed me, and took me up to the Big House, and told Swanwick they’d caught me at Fuller’s Spinney.’

  ‘They lied to Lord Swanwick, then!’ Cate exclaimed.

  Probyn nodded, and said, ‘I made Swanwick feel her keel. He knew they were lying then, but he started yelling at me, and jumping on the pheasant. Would have liked to murder Skagg, I reckon, but couldn’t do that, so let out at me.’

  ‘He didn’t hit you himself, did he?’

  ‘Took a swipe at me with his crop, he did, right in front of the Big House. Half a dozen maids and footmen and such must have been watching through the windows, the noise he was making, bellowing like a bull … but they won’t say they seen anything. More than their job’s worth. He threatened me, too. He …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Swanwick … with having Skagg and Dan bust my nose and give me black eyes, back in the woods, if they saw me again. I’ll have the law on them.’

  Cate sighed, and said, ‘Lord Swanwick has a hot temper, I’m afraid … He has his troubles, too, you know. That arm hurts him much of the time. I believe – though this is really private between us here – that his financial position is not all it might be … and Mr Arthur is in France now.’

  ‘He’s stole my rabbit and pheasant.’

  ‘Er, well, as to that, he is willing to send them back to you here, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Skagg and Dan grabbed me, they did. That’s assault, squire.’

  Cate spread his hands. ‘I know it is, Probyn, and if you insist, I’ll see that your charge is properly laid, and that you get a lawyer … but believe me, it’s best not to go to court for anything, anything at all, unless you have to. You may come before the magistrates again some time, you know, and they’ll remember that you sued Lord Swanwick. They’ll try not to let it influence them, but I’m afraid that it will. You’re going to get your rabbit and pheasant back, and a pound note, I think. Lord Swanwick knows his keepers were in the wrong. This is his way of apologizing.’

  Probyn stared into the fire. It was obvious that Swanwick had been advised, probably by Vickers the agent, that he was in the wrong; and that if he, Probyn sued, he’d have to pay a big fine. It would be nice to keep him hooked, and eventually land him, and have everyone in Kent know that the Earl of Swanwick had had to pay Probyn
Gorse twenty pounds, maybe fifty, for assault. That would be good money, too. It was tempting – tempting as the single pheasant that passed down the ride, feeding, when you were stalking half a dozen.

  He said, ‘All right, squire … ’Tis wrong, but for your sake, I’ll take it.’

  ‘Good man!’ Cate said, jumping up from the chair and clapping Probyn on the back. ‘Now, I ought to be going … Are you all right? Need any food?’

  ‘Nothing, squire,’ the Woman said.

  Probyn stayed in his chair, staring into the fire, thinking. It was wrong that squire should have no woman. He could tell that he needed one … to talk to perhaps, to lose his temper with, cry with – the way squire could not before anyone else. He was a good man, was Christopher Cate.

  Without looking up, he said, ‘Florinda, go back with squire and fetch that book he’s going to be lending Fletcher.’

  After a momentary hesitation, Cate said, ‘Very well, Probyn.’ Florinda got up and, Cate holding the door open for her, went out with him, wrapping a shawl about her shoulders as she went. When they had been gone a few minutes, the Woman said, ‘What if she gets like Stella?’

  ‘She knows better,’ Probyn said shortly. ‘And if she does, and wants to keep it, she can say it’s Cantley’s … It’s happened afore with Cates and Gorses, since they first came here and that was a while ago, Woman.’

  His thoughts wandered. Florinda would do what she would do, and so would squire. But the war with Swanwick had been declared, and must be waged to a finish: getting him fined was not enough, not after they’d killed his old dog, and sent him to prison, and now this. His Mighty Lordship must suffer a defeat – the sort of defeat that made a man hang his head the rest of his life, the kind that, after it, a man couldn’t look you in the eye. The war had to be fought on the chosen ground: Swanwick’s pheasants – and against him, not just his keepers or servants, though they would all share in the defeat. It had to be big, bigger than he could manage by himself. He would be the general, and he’d need, what did they call ’em? – staff officers? People helping, thinking … and he’d need more soldiers. Young Guy Rowland had come round at Christmas, hinting he’d like to help, but then he, Probyn, hadn’t been ready. Now he was. When Guy came again he’d tell him everything he had in mind, straight out; others, he could keep mostly in the dark, telling ’em just what they had to know, and that not in black and white; but with that young fellow, he’d do best to tell all – in fact, to make him his right-hand man.