A middle-aged woman was standing at the far side of the bed, and when a voice from the bed, said, ‘Who’s that, Minnie?’ she peered at the newcomer and said, ‘’Tis a visitor, master.’
There came a yell: ‘Visitor? I want no bloody visitors…Bright!’
‘Yes, sir?’ Bright moved to the bed now. ‘It’s not that kind of visitor, sir; it’s…it’s a young man who has come to assist me.’
‘Assist you…again? You never keep the blasted fellows, so why do you pick ’em? Dolts, all of them. Big-fisted, muddle-headed dolts. Bloody idiots.’
Joseph had now walked further into the room where he could see, over the foot of the bed, the white straggly-haired, bony and flushed face of this old man. He watched the tongue flick in and out of the wet lips; then the mouth opened and in an extraordinary loud voice that belied his age, the man said, ‘Don’t stand there like a stook, man! Come up here where I can see you. I want to know who’s going to handle me, not lay me out before me time. Donkeys could do better than some of ’em. I’m telling you, Bright.’ He had turned again to Bright, who now beckoned Joseph to come towards him; and when Joseph complied he stood aside to allow him to get near enough to his patient for scrutiny.
But when Joseph stood by the head of the bed and looked down into the rheumy blue eyes, he found them staring hard back at him, and in silence, until Bright said, ‘This is a young man…’
‘I’m not bloody well blind. No matter what else is wrong I’ve still got me sight and me mind, I keep telling you, Bright…Who is this?’
It was now that Joseph spoke for the first time. ‘My name is Joseph Carter, sir,’ he said.
The scrutiny continued, and then the old man said, ‘You’re nothing but a lad.’
‘I’m…I’m in my twentieth year, sir.’ That sounded older than nineteen and a half.
‘Where…where do you hail from?’
‘Beyond Gateshead, sir.’
There was more scrutiny; then, ‘Don’t talk local.’ Turning to Bright now, the old man demanded of him, ‘Hoist me up!’
Bright pushed Joseph aside, then nodded to Minnie Carstairs, and at this the woman ran round to the other side of the bed again and, almost lying across half of it, she put her hands under her master’s armpits while Bright, with his arm around the old man’s waist, gave an unseen signal and then both of them lifted the recumbent form together, causing a long groan to come from the old man and his head to fall back onto the pillows for a moment as he drew in a long breath. Then, taking a white handkerchief that was tucked into the side of his pillow, he slowly wiped his eyes, before once again peering at Joseph. He did not speak to him but turned to Bright, saying, ‘Get rid of them, I want a word with you.’ And at this, Bright motioned to the maid to take Joseph out, while saying, ‘Wait downstairs for me.’ But before they reached the door it was unceremoniously thrust open and the girl appeared, and as she ran towards the figure in the bed she cast a smiling glance at Joseph; then almost in a light leap, she was sitting on the bed leaning over the old man, holding his hand and talking in her own fashion.
After a moment, the old man answered her, saying, ‘Yes, yes, all right, my dear. We’ll see, we’ll see. Go along now and…and tell your mama I…I want to see her…Understand?’
She made one deep obeisance with her head; then, scrambling from the bed, she ran from the room, past the maid and Joseph, and again unceremoniously at a run into her mother’s room, while Joseph, not a little amazed at finding himself in this weird position, followed Minnie downstairs.
Back in the bedroom the old man, looking at Bright, said, ‘Give me a drop, Bright.’
‘But sir, the doctor said nothing before…’
‘Bright, does it really matter what he says? Between you and me, I ask you, does it matter?’ And to this Bright answered, ‘No, sir. After all, no.’
‘Then get me a drop.’
As he had done countless times before, Bright went out of the room and into the adjoining dressing room to pour out for his master a slightly adulterated whisky. And awaiting his return William Filmore closed his eyes and looked back into the past.
‘Drink it slowly, sir.’
And as if doing what he was told the old man sipped at the whisky. Then he asked Bright a question.
‘Does that fellow remind you of anybody, Bright?’
‘I…I thought he did, sir. I was looking back over the staff who I have had through my hands over the years, but their faces eluded me. Yet, in some strange way he seemed familiar, and he is well spoken. I don’t know why he should want a position such as this…pardon my saying so, sir.’
‘Yes, I pardon your saying so, Bright. He says his name’s Carter. Does that ring a bell?’
‘Not in the least, sir.’
‘And he’s from Gateshead somewhere.’
‘Yes, that’s what he says, sir.’
‘Why has he taken up this line?’
‘He…he says he was tired of clerking, sir.’
‘Clerking? Well—’ The white head moved backwards and forwards on the pillow; then on a sigh he said, ‘We’ll see. We’ll see.’
As Bright arranged the already tidy eiderdown over his master’s limbs, William Filmore now asked quietly, ‘Where’s the other one?’
Such was the relationship between these two men now that the master of the house could refer to his son as ‘the other one’. And Bright answered, ‘He left for town early this morning, sir, as he’s done for a number of mornings. I think he may have another position.’
‘For how long this time?’
‘Well, that is to be seen, sir.’
‘Have you seen the mistress this morning?’
‘Yes. She is up and about, sir.’
‘I’m worried, Bright. She’s not good at all, is she?’
‘She’s going through a difficult time, sir.’
‘Difficult time? You file words down, Bright, until they lose their meaning. Difficult time? She’s a sick woman. She should be in bed with proper nursing. If I feel guilty about anything in my life it’s about her. Do you know that, Bright? Do you know that?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m well aware of that, sir.’
‘Oh, go on with you, get out; you’re well aware of too damned much. Anyway, see that that young fellow stays on. He’ll be something different to look at. Do you know what Miss Henrietta said?’
‘No, sir.’
‘She said, he was nice…and young. Dear God! ’Tis awful that child never sees anyone of her own age. This house is full of the dying and decrepit, or ageing individuals. And you’re one of ’em, Bright. Go on, get out.’
James Bright went out, shaking his head and smiling. His master had had a good night: he was talking volubly again without every word being a curse or a reprimand. Down in the kitchen once more, he said to Joseph, ‘The wage is fifteen shillings a week and your meals; and you could sleep above the stables if you so wish. The accommodation is basic, a bed and the necessary…’
‘I’ll lodge at Mrs Hanratty’s.’
‘Oh yes, yes. That would certainly be more comfortable. And it’s merely a good walk away. When can you begin your duties?’
The answer was prompt, ‘Say tomorrow?’
‘Very well. Your hours will be from 7.30am in the morning till 6.00pm in the evening.’
The movement of the butler’s head now indicated to Joseph that he was dismissed: and so, looking in turn from the maid to the cook, he said, ‘Goodbye, and…and thanks for the tea.’
‘You didn’t drink it, lad.’
He smiled apologetically at the cook and went out, there to meet Ron Yarrow in the yard, and Ron said, ‘Well, you goin’ to give it a try?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. I’ll start tomorrow.’
‘Good. Good.’
As he now made his way towards the arch through which he had entered the yard Ron stopped him with, ‘If you’re goin’ back to Mrs Hanratty’s, take the driveway. That’ll knock a bit off the journey.’ And he point
ed to the other end of the yard, adding, ‘Cross over the front, the drive goes off it.’
‘Thanks. Thanks.’ He turned about and went in the direction Ron had indicated.
He was passing the front of the house. It looked huge, gaunt, uninhabited. It could have been empty for years.
At the end of the drive he stood pondering. Should he make straight for home, pack up some things and leave a letter, then come back? Or should he ask Mrs Hanratty if she would have him as a lodger? Although he felt sure she would jump at the possibility, he also felt that he should ask her first, and so he made his way back, at a run now, towards the cottage.
Bertha was attending her livestock family by cleaning out her henhouse, and when he called to her from the back gate, she turned and stood stiffly, watching him for a moment before she threw down the rake and hurried towards him.
Smiling broadly at her, he said, ‘Do you want a lodger?’
‘A lodger? You?’
‘Yes, me.’
‘What’s happened to bring this about? You’ve had an afterthought or something? I thought you would have reached your home by now.’
‘I haven’t been very far. I’m going to take the job on.’
Her face puckered up until all her features seemed to converge together and she almost spluttered, ‘Down there! At The Grove? You? How…how’s this come about? You’ll never last there. Dear! Oh, goodness gracious me! Look, come in and have…’
‘No. No, Mrs Hanratty. I…I must hurry back home now. I want to pack up some things. But…but I’ll tell you how it came about when I get back.’
‘Oh, lad, lad.’ She followed him round the side of the cottage and onto the road. Her face beaming, she said, ‘What a couple of days this has been. Talk about things bein’ washed up by the rain. Look’—her head was bobbing now—‘I’ll get the other room ready for you, air the mattress an’ that, it’s twice as big as the one you were in last night.’
She pointed now to the side of the house. ‘It’s that one, the one my Willie built on.’
‘That’ll be nice. Thank you.’ He was backing away from her and when she brought her elbow into her waist and wagged her fingers at him, he laughed and waved back in return…
Five
‘Where do you think he’s gone?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea, but it’s certainly not Cambridge, by what he says in his letter. I’d better write to his college, although he says he’s informed them. But he’s certainly got something definite in mind because as he says here’—he now tapped the letter—‘he doesn’t know exactly how long he’ll be away. It may be a matter of weeks. Dear! Dear!’
Douglas flopped down onto a chair and, looking at Bridget, who was standing by a side table, her hand beating out a quick tattoo on its edge, he said, ‘I feel more and more that I should have had a talk with him immediately after Lily died. For him to know the truth then could no longer have hurt her.’
‘Don’t blame yourself for that, dear. Anyway, I don’t agree with you on that point. Ask yourself, what would have been the result? Discovering that you were his uncle and your brother was his father, would likely have had a very adverse effect. He would have considered he had been kept in the dark all these years and that our interest and kindness to him had merely been because of the relationship, illegal even as it is.’
‘Oh, it isn’t illegal, dear. He was illegitimate but it isn’t illegal.’
‘I see it as illegal because he couldn’t be recognised and he would have been hurt by the stigma. As Joe’s son he would have at least felt he had a father, no matter how lowly. Just imagine if he had made his way to that house and confronted Lionel. The outcome of that is unthinkable.’
‘Well, dear, does that mean he must never know?’
‘Oh, dear me!’ Bridget now went and sat on the couch and, holding her hands out to the blaze of the fire, she murmured, ‘I still have it on my mind that I am the instigator of all this trouble.’
He now rose and went and sat beside her and, putting his arm round her shoulder, he laughed gently as he said, ‘Are you meaning to say you had something to do with his birth?’
‘Oh, Douglas.’ She nudged him with her elbow and he went on, ‘The boy was born before Victoria married. The only thing, as I see it, that you’ve got to regret, is your generosity in the first place. And it has gone on. How much did you send Bright last time?’
She jerked her head, saying, ‘None of your business.’
The door opened and they both turned to look at Amy as she came up the room towards them, and Bridget, glancing at the letter in her hand, said, ‘What did he say to you, dear?’
For answer, Amy held out the letter, saying, ‘There! Read it. It’s a really passionate epistle.’
Bridget took the letter from her daughter, unfolded the sheet, then read:
Dear Amy,
I’m having to be away for a short time, but I’ll be back. What happens then remains to be seen.
Joseph.
As Bridget handed the letter back to her daughter, the young girl looked at her father, saying, ‘Have you any idea at all where he has gone, Daddy?’
‘None whatever, my dear. You know as much about where he’s likely to be as I do. In fact, as you know much more about him than I do, I would leave you to guess.’
‘He could have gone to his newfound step-uncle that he met the day Lily was buried.’
At this both Bridget and Douglas exchanged glances; then it was Bridget who said, ‘I shouldn’t think that he would visit them with the idea of staying; and from the letter he seems to propose that he will be away for some time. Anyway, I think it is very thoughtless of him to go off like this. But then he’s always been a law unto himself, strong-headed and…’
‘You have never liked him. Why don’t you say it?’
‘Amy, please, don’t say such a thing. I’m very, very fond of Joseph and always have been. I’ve had his welfare at heart since he was a child. Yes, before you came on the scene.’
‘Now, now, dear, don’t get upset.’
Amy watched her father put his arms around her mother’s shoulders and the tenderness of the action made her want to cry out as if from some loss within herself, and she checked the embrace by crying, ‘I’ll find him. Yes, I will! And I’ll marry him. You won’t like that, will you, Mammy? But I will.’
Bridget rose from the couch and walked slowly towards her daughter and, standing before her, she said. ‘What has come over you, Amy? All I want in life now is your happiness and…’
‘And that’s what I want, too, Mammy, and I’ll only get it by spending the rest of my life with Joseph. I’ve…I’ve known from the beginning. I’m no child in spite of the fact that you’ve tried to keep me one. I love Joseph and I know he loves me. I do, I do.’
Bridget now turned and looked at Douglas, who was standing just a few feet away from her and, her voice low, she said, ‘I think this is the time for explaining. What do you say?’
He looked steadily at her for a moment before he answered, ‘Yes. Yes, I think you’re right,’ he said. Then, putting his hand out to Amy, he said, ‘Come, my dear. We have something to tell you.’ And now he led her back to the couch, and they sat, one on each side of her, and Douglas, nodding across at Bridget, said, ‘I’ll leave the beginning to you.’…
It was ten minutes later: Douglas had taken up the thread of the story, and he was ending, ‘So you see, you are cousins. He is my nephew, the son of my brother, my only brother’—and his voice now took on a bitter note—‘who’s anything but an honourable man.’ And when he added, ‘There are things that even your mother doesn’t know about him.’ Bridget’s eyes widened and her mouth opened, but she didn’t speak.
Nodding now towards her, Douglas said, ‘Yes, there are things you don’t know about him, dear; nothing to his credit, more’s the pity.’ Then turning his attention back to his daughter, he finally ended, ‘I have always been reluctant to reveal to Joseph his real beginnings becaus
e he will have nothing to be proud of in that quarter, and in another I’m sure he would be shocked to know that his stepfather was hanged for murder, a murder that both your mother and I firmly believe he never committed.’ He shook his head now. ‘Oh, yes, we firmly believe he was hanged for another man’s crime. So, now do you understand our attitude?’
Amy was lying back on the couch, her head turning from her father to her mother, and when she bit down on her lower lip and her whole face trembled they both embraced her, and through her tears she now muttered, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve been stupid.’ And to this Bridget answered, ‘No, dear; whatever your reactions, they were because you felt we were withholding something, whether you were conscious of it or not.’
It was some minutes later when Amy, standing near the table, picked up the envelope that her letter had been in and, pointing to it excitedly, said, ‘Look, it’s got a Newcastle postmark.’
‘So it has,’ said Douglas. Then he smiled at her, saying, ‘Well, that shows he can’t be far away. All we can do now is wait.’
She again turned and looked from one to the other and asked of them both, ‘You…you think he’ll come back on his own?’
Her father nodded at her while Bridget said, ‘Yes, I’m sure he will, dear. But just give him a few days, a week, or two at the most. You’ll see. You’ll see.’
The Black Candle Page 35
