The Black Candle

by Catherine Cookson

  Although he was surprised that she should be visiting at this early hour of twenty-five minutes past nine in the morning, especially so after having left the house only a few hours earlier, he did not, of course, show it but said, ‘Oh yes, miss. Come this way. Perhaps you will be good enough to wait in the little sitting room.’ The faintest of smiles touched his lips as he added, ‘It is the only room presentable in the house as yet.’

  They were passing the foot of the stairs when he exclaimed, ‘Oh, here is Master Douglas.’

  Bridget looked up towards where Douglas was now descending the broad staircase. He was wearing a plain dark suit and was busy buttoning the coat down from the neck as he approached her, saying simply, ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  Douglas turned as though about to lead the way down the corridor, but hesitated and said to Bright, ‘Bring in a pot of coffee for four.’ This time he placed his hand on Bridget’s elbow and steered her along the corridor that was lined, not only with wood, but with enormous oil paintings, which last night had been shown to advantage under the soft glow of hanging oil lamps, but which now seemed to merge into the panelling, only their gilded frames being prominent.

  At the end of the corridor another one led off at right angles, and in comparison this one looked denuded for the panelling was bare. Halfway along it, he drew her to a stop, leant forward, pushed a door open and stood aside to allow her to enter. Inside was definitely a sitting room, and it was bright with sunshine that warmed the chintz-covered couch and numerous chairs and lit up one wall of the Chinese patterned wallpaper in such a way that you could believe the figures on it were moving.

  Bridget took in the whole room in one roving glance. It was an elegant room, at least the decor was such. Yet, she would have also called it homely, and this impression was furthered by the fact that the chintz covers had definitely seen a lot of wear.

  ‘Do sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, no; I’d rather stand.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s turned half past nine,’ she said, and the sound such a remark elicited from him wasn’t quite a laugh; but his thin body beneath his coat shook for a moment as he looked downwards while shaking his head slowly from side to side. ‘Do you know, we didn’t get to bed until nearly four o’clock,’ he said, emphasising the earliness rather than the lateness of the hour. ‘My father had drunk a great deal but the news that Lionel had to break to him, and not gently, sobered him quite a bit. And I’m sure, like myself, neither of them went to sleep for some while after getting to bed. And now, Miss Bridget, you say it has turned half past nine. You know—he was nodding at her now—‘I can remember as a boy, when these occasions of dinners and balls were frequent in this house and my father was much younger than he is today and in much better health, even then, he never rose before the evening after. But now, you have commanded him to be here at half past nine in the morning. Don’t you think you are being a little severe?’

  She did not immediately answer, but stared at him; then she said, ‘And don’t you think, too…or should I say, have you asked yourself why I wish to see them at all? Your sense should tell you that I haven’t come merely to upbraid, although I shall do plenty of that, let me assure you. But I could have done that through a letter, or through my solicitor. No; I have come because I had already, last night, thought up some kind of solution; not because I want to help your brother, or ease the monetary problem of this house, but simply because I do not want Victoria to die of shame and despair. And please’—she now thrust out her arm, palm upwards—‘don’t laugh at that suggestion as you did last night. Just don’t.’

  After a moment he said, ‘I’m not going to laugh at your suggestion, Miss Bridget; I’m only going to say that I think Victoria is a very, very lucky person to have someone like you behind her. It’s been my misfortune never to have met anyone, as yet, so concerned for another’s welfare and happiness.’

  Without making further comment Bridget had turned to look towards the window when the door at the far end of the room opened and Lionel and his father entered.

  She forced herself to turn slowly and look at them. They, too, were looking at her, although it would be a better description to say that the expression in Lionel’s eyes was more of a fierce glare. But it was his father who spoke first, saying, ‘Bloody nice state of affairs you’ve got us into, miss.’

  ‘The bloody nice state of affairs, as you express it, has in no way been brought about by me, sir, but by your son’s conniving. And doubtless with your co-operation, thinking you were both on to a good thing, a small gold mine, in fact. Well, you picked on the wrong digger, didn’t you?’

  The three men were amazed not only at the stance of this young woman who was the antithesis of anything they would have termed ladylike, but also that she was using phraseology they themselves might have used. It would have been acceptable coming from a man…But she was going on: ‘This house is in a bad way. It has been going downhill for years and not one of you, nor your forebears, has tried to stop its rot by doing a decent day’s work, such as going into commerce. But you were quite willing at this stage of desperation to clutch at the money made out of commerce, even such degrading businesses as boot-blacking and candles. Well, both those industries, together with property and such, made my great-grandfather, my grandfather, then my father, and now me, rich. Even so, had the positions between Victoria and myself been reversed and she was the one with the money, and you’—she was now pointing straight at Lionel—‘had got your hands on it, it still wouldn’t have been enough to restore this house to what your father’—she now jerked her head towards the older man—‘would consider its heyday. No, because the man having the right up till now to all his wife owns, it would have been squandered, and although this house would have risen for a time to what you consider its rightful position in your society, its bottom being rotten, it would eventually, and soon, have sunk again. And the money earned from the sweat of the people you despise would have sunk with it.’

  The quietness that settled on the room could be described only as the dullness that spreads through a brain after a severe blow. And, as if he had just received that blow, William Filmore sank down onto the couch but without moving his gaze from Bridget who, at this moment, appeared to him neither woman nor man, because no man would have dared stand up in this house and spoken as she had done. And no woman of his acquaintance, right down the years, could have ever thought as this one did.

  There was no movement in the room until Douglas gently put a chair to Bridget’s side. But this kind gesture was rewarded with a cold stare and a voice equally chilly saying, ‘I don’t need a chair. What I have to say is better said standing up.’

  ‘Oh, well; that being so, you’ll excuse me if I sit.’ And at that he moved the chair back to where it had been and sat down. And this left her staring now at Lionel who, like his father, just could not believe that this was happening to him; that this bitch dressed as she was in those breeches and leggings, which in themselves made her into half a man, and that tongue, and the nerve and daring of her, yes, the daring of her…At this moment he had the greatest desire to step towards her and bring the flat of his hand across her face, but being made as she was she would likely claw him to bits. How, in the name of God, had she come to be related to such a girl as Victoria?

  Oh, Victoria! That puss! And his mind now mimicked her voice, saying, ‘Believe me, Lionel, I’m a very poor little girl. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. I am. I am.’ And on that occasion he had picked her up, literally, from the ground and he himself had said, ‘Well, if that’s the case, let me share your poverty. And what we’ll do first is sell your wardrobe and some of your jewellery to live on, eh?’ This had caused her to laugh gaily and to cling to him and kiss him with a fervour that amazed him and belied her delicate, refined appearance.

  ‘I am asking you a question.’ He was brought back to the harsh present to find Bridget looking straight at him. ‘As things stand,’ she said, ‘
will you still keep your promise to Victoria and marry her?’

  Lionel turned to look at his father, and it was he who, having returned his son’s glance, answered Bridget, saying, ‘My son is in no position to support a wife. Nor am I in any position to support him.’

  ‘Then what if she were to bring him up for breach of promise?’

  It was Lionel now who came back smartly, saying, ‘Victoria would never do that: she would never act the rejected woman, she is not that type.’

  ‘How do you know what type of woman she is? You have only seen the engagement side of her, the beautiful, teasing, pleasing side of her. But there is another side, and let me tell you, when you are classifying her, a neighbour of ours in South Shields has just won her case…and she a delicate little thing, and against another such as yourself, and, what is more she has skinned him.’

  The spitting out of the word demanded a silence the while the three men looked at her; then still concentrating on Lionel, she said, ‘I have a proposition to put to you. But first of all I will say this. I have never imagined you earning a penny, not even to support yourself, never mind a wife, and I saw Victoria being brought to this house to live in genteel, and not so genteel poverty under the patronage of your father. But I raised no real objections because I knew she would be only too happy to do this. And only God knows why.’

  ‘Woman! You’ve…’

  ‘Be quiet!’ This came from Douglas. He was looking hard at his brother now and he said, ‘She said she had a proposition to make to you. Hear her out.’

  Bridget turned her gaze from Douglas and onto Lionel again, and straight away she said, ‘From the date of your marriage I shall allow you two thousand pounds a year. Half of that would be sufficient to keep you and her in a smaller establishment; but she seems to like the idea of coming here to live, so the extra money should help towards the running of this place.’

  She glanced towards William Filmore, who had pulled himself from the back of the couch and was staring at her, his mouth slightly agape. ‘But there will be certain conditions attached to this. They will be written out and I shall expect you at my solicitor’s at three o’clock on Monday afternoon to sign that you agree with them.’

  Two thousand pounds a year. It was as much as he had promised himself out of the income from the factories, et cetera. It was what he had worked out would carry him through until he could sell off the blacking and the candlewax places. He looked at his father, who was saying, ‘That’s a very generous offer, Miss Bridget,’ and the old man nodded towards her before adding, ‘I only hope the conditions attached to the offer won’t be too difficult to follow.’ He glanced now at his son; but Bridget continued to look at the old man as she said, ‘Well, it will be up to him. The offer definitely depends upon the conditions. And the first is that your son finds employment of some kind within the first six months of his marriage. If he doesn’t, then the amount will drop by specified hundreds. Should he not have found any kind of employment within a year then the amount will be halved to what I originally thought would be a sufficient sum to provide him to keep a wife in moderate circumstances.’

  ‘God in heaven! Blast you! I’ll…’

  Words choked themselves in Lionel’s throat as his father, pulling himself round on the couch, barked at him, ‘Shut up! And she’s right. My God! It pains me to say this, but she’s right.’ Then the old man, looking at Bridget again, demanded, ‘Are there any more?’

  ‘Yes, one other: that he remain faithful to her. If it can be proved otherwise—’ She now turned a sidelong glance on the furious countenance of the man and added quietly, ‘In that case I withdraw the whole amount and persuade Victoria to return home.’

  Lionel was now supporting himself by gripping the back of the couch. His body was partly bent over it; there was no sound at all coming from him as he listened to her saying, ‘There it is. If you agree to the conditions you will be at my solicitor’s at three o’clock, as I said, on Monday. It’s Andrew Kemp & Sons, Grey Street.’ And she turned abruptly now to his father and said to him: ‘Good day to you, sir.’ And as she walked across the room Douglas rose quickly from the chair and followed her.

  After opening the door for her, he walked by her side, down the corridors, across the hall which was now once more a hall with the partition in place, and out onto the gravel drive and to the post where her horse was tethered. And, not until she had put her hands on its bridle did he speak, when he said, ‘You are an amazing woman. I could almost say, a dreadful young woman, dreadful in your honesty and in the unusual quality of mind. What you are doing is a very kind thing, but I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to let her suffer for a time, because, you know, there’ll be all kinds of suffering ahead for her. Crazy love such as hers which has its foundation really in the attraction of a good-looking face and of a man who looks well on a horse…and can gallop it almost to death—’ The last word was uttered in low deep bitterness before he added, ‘Such love is bound to suffer, because it will wake up one day.’

  She had thrown the reins over the horse’s neck and was about to put her foot in the stirrup when she hesitated and, looking at him, said, ‘I think I’ve asked this question before, but I say again, how do you happen to belong to this family?’

  He smiled at her; then his whole manner changed and he answered in a whisper, ‘I’ll tell you how I came to know my beginnings. It was Rosie Jackson, the cook, you know’—he pointed across the yard towards the kitchen quarters—‘when I was a skinny little boy, which condition has never altered; well, she told me I was born in Ireland, among the sweet-smelling grass, and was given over to a pixie carrier, who was told to deliver me to a cobbler’s family in the centre of the City of Newcastle. He happened to be passing over the cesspool here and the stench was so bad that he dropped me. Fortunately, I hit the bank. And there it was, she said, that she found me her very self and she carried me in to the mistress, and the mistress had always wanted a skinny baby, because the one she had was too big and heavy to nurse. And that’s how I came to be in this house.’

  Bridget couldn’t help it: she drooped her head against the horse’s flank; she wanted to laugh, she wanted to shake with her laughter but she couldn’t allow herself to, this business was too serious, but she turned to him and said, ‘Why couldn’t Victoria have chosen you?’

  He stepped back from her, his face straight, no impish light in his eyes now, and after a moment of looking at her, he said, ‘For two reasons. First, she would never have fallen in love with anyone of my build or looks; and secondly, I would never be attracted to anyone of her build and looks…Let me give you a hand up.’

  She had never needed anyone to give her a hand up onto a horse, but she allowed him to put his hand under her boot and to hoist her onto Hamlet’s back. Then, looking down on him, she said, ‘We’ll be meeting again…likely.’ And he said, ‘Yes, likely.’ And at this she rode off whilst he remained watching her until she was lost to his sight when she entered the drive, and the word he muttered to himself was, ‘Amazing.’

  Six

  Joe thrust open the door of his old home to see his mother sitting at the uncovered kitchen table, and on it a bread board with the heel of a loaf standing upright. There was no fat on the table, neither dripping, pig fat, nor butter, but there was a brown teapot and a cup and saucer. He did not speak immediately but stood at the corner of the table, scanned it, then on a wry laugh, he said, ‘’Tis the best display of poverty I’ve seen for a long time. Are you sure you put tea in the pot, Ma, and it isn’t just water?’

  ‘Yes, there’s tea in the pot,’ she spat back at him; ‘but it’s been stewed all day. I’m reduced to this.’

  He bent forward now, laid his flat hands on the table and growled at her, ‘For two pins I’d take my hands and swipe the lot over you. When have you sat down to a table without a cloth on it? And when have you done without your drippin’ or your butter? And how much did you lay on with Mickey Tyler the day? Come off it; you sent
for me, didn’t you, to see this show? Well, it doesn’t work, Ma. You should know that by now. I can see through you like a glass window. And come on, say what you’ve got to say, because I’ve had a heavy day and I want to get home.’

  ‘Heavy day!’ she cried sarcastically, getting to her feet. ‘Tell me when a gaffer’s had a heavy day. And you want to get home, do you, to your fancy piece?’

  ‘I’m tellin’ you, Ma…’

  ‘Well, what else is she? Somebody else’s rake-off. And who does her bairn take after, eh? Have you recognised him yet? Well, if you haven’t now you soon will; lads always show who put them there.’

  Slowly he turned from her, for he knew if he looked at her a moment longer he would hit her, and the blow would not be soft. No wonder his father had uttered those strange words, strange to him at the time, when he had said, ‘I’m not sorry to go, lad.’ But since he himself had then become the sole butt of his mother’s tongue and viciousness he had understood why his father should have welcomed release.

  He was making for the door when, her voice changing, she said, ‘Our Fred’s never bought a penny in for on three weeks. You could give him a start. And I can only do part time at the biscuit factory. Me legs won’t hold out. And anyway, I don’t see why I should be expected to: you’re in a position now, you could take him on in the factory or put a word in for him elsewhere.’

  He turned to her again. ‘I’m not takin’ him on, Ma, or puttin’ any more words in for him. He’s been thrown out of two jobs so far this year. The chain-making was too heavy for him, wasn’t it? But it’s funny, women have to stick it out. And the tannery men start at six; you might be allowed one sleep-in in a week but not three. Why didn’t you drag him out of bed if you’re so concerned that he keeps a job? You did me. Oh, aye; you did me long afore I started in the blackin’ factory, when I had to do cinder pickin’, not so much to bake bread but to keep your idle hands and feet warm…’