The Tallow Image

by J. T. Brindle

  Far from pacifying him, her words seemed to antagonise. Twisting round, he grasped her two small hands in one of his fists, gripping them so tightly that she was made to gasp. ‘Look at me!’ he ordered, pushing himself into a tall, upright position. ‘Tell me, Maria, do I look like a man who could be idle when his wife takes in washing and mending so he can be fed?’ His face was set like stone, the small muscles in his jaw working furiously. His strong brown eyes glittered with anger and the slightest suggestion of tears.

  ‘You mustn’t think like that,’ she said, helpless in the face of his despair.

  ‘But I do!’ Roughly releasing her, he stood up, taking a moment to stare on her lovely face before going to the window, where he lifted the curtain just enough for him to see along the street. He saw a street deserted, only a stray dog strolled by. The sky was dark, menacing, a striking backdrop for the skyline of chimneys, each drawing a smoky signature across the cold stars.

  Maria remained silent, her anxious gaze intent on the familiar figure at the window. Certainly, he did seem stronger in himself, still the same tall, proud man, though thinner now, his handsome features sharply etched by the illness which had nearly taken him from her. ‘I can’t tell you what to do, my darling,’ she said in a whisper, ‘but don’t be too hasty.’ She felt in her heart that he still had a long way to go before he was strong enough to resume his work.

  Coming to the fireplace, Ralph stood gazing down on her, loving her for the woman she was, and knowing deep inside himself that she was right. It was true that his strength was not yet fully recovered, and that there was still a fever raging in him. Yet, the fiercest fever was his own impatience to return to his work. These past few days he had been determined that he should report for duties within the week; he had stubbornly refused to lie wasting in his bed.

  ‘You heard what Mr Bullen said?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maria had resented Ralph’s work colleague for coming here a week ago and unsettling Ralph the way he had. ‘But he said nothing that should concern you.’

  ‘Oh, Maria! You know as well as I do that he came here for one reason, and for one reason only – to warn me that my post would not be held open indefinitely.’

  ‘He did not say that.’

  ‘Not in so many words, no. He didn’t have to! But I could read between the lines.’

  ‘There’s always the warehouse.’

  ‘The warehouse!’ Disgust filled his voice. ‘For God’s sake, Maria, I have a job!’ He had not told her how he had already arranged to return to work. When Mr Bullen called a week since, Ralph knew his own job was on the line, so he had informed Mr Bullen then and there – and out of Maria’s earshot – to include his name on the duty roster, as from tomorrow, when, he had assured the man, he would be fit and ready to resume his work.

  ‘So, your mind’s made up?’ Maria knew him more than he realised. ‘You’ve told him you’re going back?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m to report for work in the morning.’ He was outwardly cool, with determination set in every muscle of his face.

  ‘Then I pray you’re doing the right thing,’ Maria told him, a deal of sadness in her gaze, but resignation also. She knew how stubborn he could be. Bidding him goodnight, she went slowly up the stairs. She felt uncomfortable, the unborn weight pulling on her. For some reason she could not fathom – but which she put down to her own imminent birthing, and her husband’s insistence on returning to work before he should – she felt greatly troubled, as though a deluge of misfortune was about to be unleashed on them.

  Downstairs, Ralph watched his wife until she was gone from sight. Now, alone, he sank into the chair, a sudden weariness on him. He was not fully recovered – every bone in his body told him that, every aching muscle, every step he took that felt as though he carried another man on each shoulder. And those dreams… those nightmarish images that swam through him night after night, washing away his strength and using him up. There had been times when he felt as though the dark angel of death had taken him by the hand and was leading him away. But three months! Three long, wasted months. Where had the summer gone?

  Sadness settled on him. He must fight this parasite that drained him. Incredibly tired, he closed his eyes. Like before, like so many times before, she came to him. Dark and sensuous, always smiling, ever beckoning. For a while he was lulled by her beauty. But then he remembered. She was only a woman. He knew, now, that it was the onset of the fever that had blinded him, confused him into believing that she had somehow bewitched him. He smiled, he actually laughed aloud. It had been the fever. Nothing else, not her, a lunatic, a murderess. No, not her. It had been the fever boiling his blood, churning his mind. The fever. Only the fever. Now the fever was all but gone, only the tiredness in his bones remained, and soon she would be gone also. According to Mr Bullen, Rebecca Norman would ‘hang by the neck until she was dead’. The sentence was passed. Ralph felt only a passing regret.

  ‘Well, I must say, Ryan, you look like a man who’s been through the wringer, and no mistake!’ The duty officer cast a discerning glance over Ralph. ‘Hmm… let’s see now.’ He lowered his attention to the ledger resting on the desk before him. Whilst he perused it he made the comment, ‘So, you decided to fetch yourself back to work, eh? Feeling strong again, eh? Raring to go, you say? Best thing too.’ He observed Ralph again, thinking how pale and unwell the fellow looked. ‘A very wise move, if you don’t mind me saying so… getting back to your work,’ he remarked, while musing that if it was him that had been struck with the fever, he would not be in a hurry to leave his warm bed.

  After a moment the officer stubbed a chubby finger on to the page. ‘Here we are.’ Keeping the place with the tip of his finger, he looked up. This time his voice took on a more serious note. ‘It’s a good job you’re fighting fit; you are, aren’t you?’ he insisted.

  When Ralph assured him of it, he nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good! That’s all right, then. You’re assigned to duties with Morgan.’ He scrutinised Ralph from beneath raised brows. ‘It’s a quiet enough duty, right enough.’ He chuckled. ‘Quiet as the grave, you might say.’ Pointing in a particular direction, one which Ralph vividly recalled, he told him, ‘The Norman woman!’ He made a cutting gesture across his throat. ‘They’ll be coming for her soon. You know she’s condemned?’

  When he saw Ralph’s stony face, he studied him thoughtfully. Eyeing him with a curious look, he said in a serious manner, ‘It’s no more than she deserves.’

  Ralph made no comment. Instead he asked, ‘Will she be hanged from here?’

  ‘No. She’ll be taken to Her Majesty’s Prison, where she’ll spend her last night. Then it’s the gallows at first light tomorrow.’

  As though suddenly afraid that there but for the grace of God go I, the duty officer quickly made the sign of the cross on himself, afterwards informing Ralph, ‘You know the ropes, Ryan. Morgan’s there already. They’ll be coming from the prison to collect her later today.’ He frowned. Never a happy man and easily frustrated, he dipped his head to scrutinise the duty roster one more time. ‘On your way, then,’ he snapped. And Ralph, who believed for a moment that the other man had been about to impart other information with regard to the morning’s duties, hesitated a moment before moving away. He was used to the curt, impatient nature of the duty officer, a man not readily liked and whose changeable moods were best ignored.

  On realising the duty to which he was assigned, Ralph had suffered certain misgivings. The apprehension he felt was tempered now by a deal of regret that the woman known as Rebecca Norman had come to such a sorry end. So violently insane that only a padded cell could safely contain her. It was a sad and cruel world that harboured such creatures. His regret was countered only by the knowledge that the Norman woman had shown small mercy to the victim whom, by all accounts, she had ‘scared’ to death. It was a bad thing, there was no denying. A bad, evil thing that, despite his determination to remain objective in his views, clutched at his heart like a relentless fist
.

  As he approached the row of padded cells, his thoughts turned to Maria. The merest suggestion of a smile lit up his serious brown eyes. These days he lived with constant anxiety, financial strain, the inner weariness which was a legacy from his illness and which had not altogether left him, the nagging worry that Maria would go into labour and him not by her side to aid and comfort her – although he was not unaware of the staunch belief among women that birthing was ‘woman’s business’, with the menfolk being sent as far away as was humanly possible. Such had been his fate when Agatha was born; even though he strayed no further than the downstairs parlour, from where he heard every sound… Elizabeth Manners’ urgent footsteps, her constant demands for the hot water which he duly kept supplied and, in between, Maria’s heart-rending cries of pain. He would never forget the absolute relief when, after a quiet lull in the procedure, there burst into the air a loud and piercing yell, the tiny bairn that was their beloved daughter. Such an experience would never leave him. On that day he had been overwhelmed by it, filled with awe. Now, the mere recollection of it all flooded every corner of his being with great pride and joy. The same pride and joy uplifted his expectations of the imminent birthing of their second child, which he secretly hoped would be a son to himself and Maria, and a brother for little Agatha.

  A strange and sudden mood took hold of him the nearer to the cells he came. Thoughts of Maria remained paramount, and he found himself clinging to them like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. Rebecca Norman spiralled through his thoughts. Deeply disturbed, he mentally turned away. Compared to his lovely Maria, the root of his life and all his delight, that dark-eyed bewitching creature was no more than a passing vessel to him. Determined, he thrust all thought of her from his mind. In his heart, though, there lingered a degree of compassion, of curiosity, and of sadness. He convinced himself that these emotions were for all such creatures everywhere, the wretches of this world who were more to be pitied than blamed.

  Morgan was overjoyed to see him. ‘Thank Christ you’re here!’ he greeted Ralph in a harsh whisper. ‘Gives me the bloody shivers, it does… I ain’t ever watched over somebody who’s soon to be strung up.’ He stared at Ralph, his piggy blue eyes bloodshot and marbled with fear. Ralph suspected that Morgan had spent the previous evening seeking comfort in the bottom of a whisky bottle.

  ‘Relax, man,’ he told him, discreetly taking stock of the fellow. Morgan was a round, stocky build, much like a bull terrier, red faced and square of features, some three years younger than Ralph’s twenty-eight years.

  ‘I ain’t kidding. It gives me the bloody creeps, I tell yer!’ His nervous glance flitted to one side, to the adjacent cell where Rebecca Norman was incarcerated.

  Impatient, Ralph pushed past him, coming into the padded cell, which was temporarily seconded as a duty room for the two men, sparsely furnished with a small wooden table and two upright chairs with arms. The long iron bed was stripped bare of its thin mattress and grey blanket; it made a formidable reminder of their purpose here. Resting on the table was an open ledger and a writing instrument, for the purpose of making notes during the hours of observation. There were also two enamel mugs, one drained dry except for a few remaining dregs floating in the bottom. There was also a News Chronicle, depicting the most recent and hair-raising accounts of Ned Kelly, Australia’s most infamous bushranger.

  ‘Sleeping, is she?’ Absentmindedly running his glance over the news page and the headlines which screamed, ‘NED KELLY: POLICE CLOSE IN’, Ralph suspected it was more likely Ned Kelly’s exploits that had so greatly excited and terrified Morgan, and not his own adventures on this day, however grim and unpleasant they might be. He discreetly slipped the newspaper underneath the ledger, where it was less likely to divert attention from their actual purpose here. Watching over a woman who would soon be taken to the condemned cell and from there to the gallows, was no more pleasant for him than it was for Morgan. But it was a duty that had to be done, by them or by someone else; it made no difference. At least he was not one of those who would walk her to the gallows, thank God. Tomorrow it would all be over. And as far as Ralph Ryan was concerned, tomorrow could not come soon enough.

  ‘Sleeping, you say?’

  Morgan shook his head vigorously, nervously. ‘Dunno. I ain’t looked. She’s been quiet, though, real quiet. I reported here about ten minutes since… took over from the night duty. By all accounts they’d just took her breakfast in. That’s all I know.’

  ‘You haven’t checked her at all?’

  ‘Naw. But like I said, I ain’t heard a peep outta her.’ He fell back into the chair, seeming to shrink visibly as he pressed himself deeper into it. ‘D’you reckon you oughtta take a look?’

  Ralph stared down at the man and opened his mouth to speak. He thought better of it. Instead he turned and strode out of the room. At the door of the adjoining cell he paused, his hands on the panel. All was deathly silent on the other side. In the eerie quietness he imagined the palpitations of his heart to be loudly echoing from the corridor walls. He had been impatient at Morgan’s obvious discomfort, angry with him, disgusted. Now, though, the disgust was for himself. In his mind’s eye he saw her as she had been on that day… naked, enticing, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He recalled the deep yearning she had caused in him. He felt it now. His glance fell to his hands, still poised to open the panel; they were trembling. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you, Ryan?’ he muttered, gripping the panel until the knuckles bled white. Hadn’t he already convinced himself that he was safe? It was the fever that had torn his insides apart! The fever that had whipped his imagination into a frenzy. Not her. Not her!

  After a moment, a sense of reality came over him. His composure now regained, he drew in a deep relaxing breath and raised the panel. Outside the daylight was strong. In the gloomy confines of that tiny cell, it might have been midnight. Thin shafts of light filtered in high up through the window, its thick iron bars splitting the light and making harsh patterns against the opposite wall. Only the shadows drifted down, dark shadows that settled into the corners and hid themselves away. At first glance, Ralph could see only the shifting gloom, and in the foreground the narrow iron bed, its blanket crumpled into a heap, at its foot a battered slop-bucket. There was no one in the bed and, as far as he could see, there was no one in the cell at all. Alarmed, he pressed his face close to the opening, his searching gaze reaching all four corners of the cell.

  On preparing to open the door in order to satisfy himself that Rebecca Norman was still secure inside, he was suddenly startled when her face appeared within inches of his own. With a cry he reeled back, the panel slamming down when his hands fell away. Behind it, her laughter was soft, invasive to the ear, a floating unreal sound. In spite of his determination not to let her affect him as before, he could feel himself sweating, shivering from inside to out.

  ‘What the hell were that?’ Morgan dashed from the safety of his closet, but only as far as the door.

  Feeling his companion’s eyes on him and realising that, of the two of them, it was he who must be the stronger, Ralph straightened his back, squared his shoulders and told Morgan sternly, ‘Nothing to be alarmed about. The panel slipped, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh?’ Morgan eyed him curiously. ‘What about… her?’

  ‘No problems.’

  Glancing at the large round-faced clock at the end of the corridor, Morgan made the comment, ‘Seven fifteen. We have to make the entries every quarter.’ He paused, closely observing Ralph, reluctant to venture away from the doorway.

  ‘Make the bloody entry then, man!’ Ralph felt irritated. Inside he was all churned up.

  ‘All right, all right!’ Morgan was surprised. Ralph Ryan was normally a mild-mannered man, not known for his temper. ‘What entry shall I make… “no problems”, like you said?’

  Seeing the consternation on the other man’s face, Ralph was at once apologetic. ‘Sure… just that,’ he said, ‘seven fifteen… no
problems.’ The other fellow nodded eagerly, obviously relieved. He quickly returned to his place, leaving Ralph staring at the open panel.

  The face was gone. Only the shadows stared back. On surer footsteps he went forward, taking the panel into his hands, peering into the cell, not knowing what to expect. She was there, a proud, defiant figure in a posture of prayer, yet not praying. She was sideways on to the door, facing the east wall, her dark head bent forward, her hands spread outwards on the ground, palms upwards, long slender fingers splayed out in rigid formation. She was chanting, or singing, or was she crying? Ralph wondered. He was intrigued, mesmerised.

  Suddenly she stopped, jerking her head round to stare at him, her black eyes playing into his. Then, in a low resonant voice that was dangerously caressing, she murmured, ‘You won’t forget me. I won’t let you.’ Rising graciously, she came to the cell door, all the while her eyes smiling, her power all around, drawing him to her, arousing his curiosity, toying with his senses. ‘When will they come for me?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘They mean to hang me.’

  Reluctantly, he nodded. He did not like what she was doing to him. But then, it was an enriching experience.

  ‘Isn’t the condemned man allowed one last request?’ She was smiling, teasing him.

  ‘Not here. They’ll see to that in prison… tonight, I expect.’

  The smile slid from her face. Her mood darkened. ‘No. Not “in prison”… here, now.’

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t see as it makes any difference.’

  ‘It would,’ she laughed softly, ‘if they really did agree to my last request.’

  ‘Which is?’ All the while she was looking at him, his heart was in his mouth. She was real enough, and yet it seemed to him as though she had no substance. Somehow she got right inside him through those dark, glittering eyes, as though her very soul was pouring into him. His instincts urged him away, but a deeper compulsion kept him there.