The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens)

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘I wonder why we didn’t smell it?’

  ‘What?’ Rosamund turned towards Jennifer. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, why didn’t we smell it?’

  ‘Yes, why didn’t we?’

  ‘I’ve made the tea. You look miles away—what have you been thinking? Oh, Rosie…’ Jennifer suddenly jerked her chair towards Rosamund’s, and, gripping her hand, she begged, ‘Think up something to get us away from here. I’ll go mad if I stay here much longer.’

  ‘Now listen, don’t start that again.’ Rosamund gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘You know you can get away from here tomorrow. Andrew’s just waiting.’

  ‘That isn’t getting away, and you know what I mean, I’d only be moving a mile and a half across the fens if I married Andrew.’

  ‘He loves you; it would be different living like that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t love him, not that way. I like him, I like him a lot. I even think I could love him and would marry him if he would get a job in the town.’

  Rosamund, rising impatiently to her feet and almost overbalancing Jennifer as she did so, cried, ‘Don’t be so stupid, Jennifer. Andrew’s a farmer, that’s his livelihood and you should be jolly thankful he is offering you such a home. And look, I’m warning you, don’t try him too far. He’s quiet, but just you remember: still waters, you know.’

  ‘Rosie.’ Jennifer was leaning forward, hanging on to Rosamund’s hand now, and her voice was low and entreating as she said, ‘If we could only get away for a while, just a while, say a month somewhere, abroad. Rosie…write to Uncle Edward and ask him—he’ll do anything for you. And…’

  The jerking of Rosamund’s hand out of Jennifer’s grasp stopped her flow of pleading. ‘I’ll do no such thing—I couldn’t.’

  ‘Very well.’ Jennifer pulled herself to her feet. ‘When Clifford comes next week I’ll ask him myself.’

  ‘Jennifer, you won’t. Don’t spoil…’

  ‘All right, all right, I won’t. But, Rosie, I tell you I’ll go mad if I have much more of this…this…’ She spread her arms wide, and they not only encompassed the room but the whole wide stretch of fenland by which the mill was surrounded.

  ‘Things will pan out.’

  ‘You’re always saying that…Rosie…’ Jennifer was standing in front of Rosamund now and her head was bowed as she said, ‘If you marry Clifford you won’t leave me here with father, will you?’

  ‘Now, Jennifer, look.’ Rosamund swallowed. ‘There’s no talk of Clifford and me. Look, don’t get ideas into your head. Clifford comes here for two reasons: it’s a place to make for upriver, and he knows we’re lonely. He’s…he’s very like Uncle Edward; he’s kind, but there’s nothing…he’s never…’

  ‘You don’t have to protest so much; he may never have said anything, but he’s got the same look in his eyes as Andrew. He’s in love with you…Rosie, you…you won’t be a fool and refuse him. You have no fixations about cousins marrying, have you?’

  ‘Oh, Jennifer, don’t take things so far. Please…Come on to bed. I’m tired…we’re both tired. It’s been quite a night; we’ll talk about this some other time.’

  As she made to pass Jennifer she was pulled to a halt. ‘But if he should, just say if he should, you’d do something about getting us away from here.’

  Rosamund gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes, yes, of course I would. Under these circumstances I would never leave you here, but I’m telling you they won’t arise. Come on.’

  When they reached the landing Jennifer said, ‘But where are you going to sleep?’

  ‘I’ll take the couch in the attic.’

  ‘No, come in with me, there’s plenty of room.’

  Rosamund, now looking up at Jennifer, smiled and put out her hand and patted her sister’s arm affectionately as she said, ‘You know you hate us sleeping together; you love to sprawl, and I love the attic. Goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll take the lantern. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Rosie.’

  Before Rosamund took the narrow steep stairs to the attic she went into her father’s room, and there she went systematically through his pockets. In a few minutes she had found what she was looking for—two pound notes and a quantity of silver. The whisky she guessed would have cost over two pounds, that would make up the five pounds he must have taken from the envelope a week ago. The five pounds was accompanying an order to Barratt & Company for a quantity of materials. Any letters to be posted were taken to the box that was nailed to a post on the bridge, three quarters of a mile distance from the mill. The postman, when delivering the mail, picked up its counterpart. Her father had said to her casually that morning, ‘I feel like a stroll, I’ll pick up the letters on my way. Is there anything to go?’ He had known quite well there was something to go, as he also knew that yesterday they would be going into Ely. The craving for drink had made him as wily as a fox, but more stupid, or he would have considered the fact that he would be found out. But apparently to satisfy his craving he was willing to risk that. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.

  She replaced the money in his pocket, and as she threw the coat over the chair the sound of something hard striking the wood caused her to pick up the coat again, and when she drew forth a tin of lozenges she was given the reason why they hadn’t smelt the whisky from his breath. The directions on the box: ‘Guaranteed to eradicate foul breath…plus the smell of spirits or beer.’ She returned the box to the pocket and went out of the room and up the ladder to the attic.

  The attic was filled with a lot of old junk, which, silhouetted in the moonlight, gave a weird appearance to the room. That the faded couch against the window was often used as a bed was evident from the blankets folded neatly at its foot. Rosamund did not undress, nor sit on the couch, but she went to the window that reached from the sloping roof to the floor, and, curling her legs under her, she sat close to it, her head leaning against the framework, and as she looked out across the beloved land, across the river and the small wood, right to Thornby House, she did not think of the strange encounter with its master which had been the highlight of the last two hours; she thought of something that was of more importance to her, someone who was of more importance to her, and she sent her whisper out into the night towards the face of a young man which was now encompassing all the land, and she whispered to it, ‘Oh, Cliff, Cliff, ask me to marry you, please. Please, Cliff.’

  Chapter Two

  The antique grandfather clock with the painted dial that stood on the landing struck seven as Rosamund descended the ladder from the attic the following morning. She tiptoed quietly over the polished floor and down the bare oak staircase, for she did not want to waken either Jennifer or her father. She would light the fire, set the breakfast, then go for a swim. She always felt better after a swim in the morning, and on this particular morning she felt badly in need of a refresher. But when she opened the kitchen door she stopped in amazement, for there at the sink stood Jennifer.

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Surprised, baffled and bewildered.’ Rosamund looked at the table set for breakfast, at the fire burning brightly, at the kettle boiling on the hob, then, turning her eyes on her sister, she asked, with a twist to her lips, ‘You all right?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘That’s not new, but it doesn’t get you up at this time.’

  ‘Here, drink this cup of tea.’ As Jennifer handed Rosamund the tea they exchanged broad grins. Then as Rosamund seated herself at the table, Jennifer, going to the sink again and with her face completely turned away, said, ‘I did a lot of thinking when I went to bed last night, with the result that today I’m going hunting.’

  Rosamund slowly put her cup down on the table, and she screwed her eyes up as she repeated, ‘Hunting? What d’you mean?’

  ‘Just that. Do you know who we had in the house last night?’

  ‘In the house?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so dim, Rosie.’ Jennifer had swung round no
w and was facing her.

  ‘You mean Mr Bradshaw?’

  ‘I mean Mr Bradshaw…Mr Michael Bradshaw.’

  ‘How do you know his Christian name?’

  ‘Oh, don’t ask such inane questions. What you should be asking me now is why I’m going hunting?’

  ‘Well, why are you? Oh, no! Oh, Jennifer, not that—really!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not, indeed. He was most rude, uncouth; bullish, like a fen tiger. I would say he is the father of all fen tigers.’

  ‘But an attractive one, you must admit.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. He may be married, you know nothing about the man.’

  ‘Oh yes I do.’ Jennifer laughingly threw her head upwards, then, bending towards Rosamund, said, ‘You know, what bores me with Andrew is really his farm talk. He prattles on and on talking his particular kind of shop, and quite a bit of his prattling came back to me as I was thinking in the night. He’s always kept on about the Thornby land not being cultivated, and the weed seeds flying over on to his celery fields. Mr Brown and Arnold Partridge, from the Beck Farm, they keep on about it too. Andrew said they meant to do something, for there was valuable land lying waste, and if the owner wasn’t going to make use of it, then he should sell it. Arnold Partridge even went as far as to make enquiries, and from information he gathered he found that our…Fen Tiger was a sort of rolling stone. He has been rolling ever since he left here when his father died. Andrew himself remembers the father. He says he was as mean as dirt and that the two were always at each other’s throats. And I remember now that Andrew had the impression that our Mr Michael was going in for medicine.’

  ‘That’s not right. I asked him last night if he was a doctor and he said he wasn’t. But all this doesn’t prove that he isn’t married.’

  ‘I somehow think he isn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Just thinking he’s not married is nothing to go on, merely wishful thinking.’

  ‘Is it? I remember the way he looked at me.’

  ‘Oh, Jennifer!’ Rosamund put her hand to her head with an exaggerated gesture. ‘Don’t be so childish. Honestly, you would think you were ten years younger than me instead of two years older. You of all people should know by now that the more married they are the more they look like that. The wolf glare becomes intensified when they’re married.’ Rosamund suddenly threw her head back and let out a high laugh. ‘We’ve already stamped him Fen Tiger, bull and wolf, and you are going hunting. Oh, Jennifer, stop being funny.’

  ‘I’m not being funny, I mean it. I’m going to pay him a visit today—quite casual like, as they say.’

  ‘I think you’re brazen. Anyway, what can he offer you that Andrew can’t in the way of material things? Whatever he does with his land will be in the nature of farming, you would still be stuck on the fens.’

  ‘Not with a man like that.’ Jennifer turned and looked out of the kitchen window. ‘That fellow wouldn’t stay put; he’d want to travel, far, far, away. You know, Rosie, he seems like an answer to my prayer.’

  ‘All I can say is that you’re talking as if you had a touch of the sun. And—’ Rosamund was turning away in disgust from Jennifer when she swung round to her again and, stretching out her arm, wagged her finger at her, saying, ‘And don’t forget that when you’re making plans there are others who may be doing the same. What about our elegant Miss Janice Cooper? Their place is as near to him on the far side as we are. And she has one advantage over you. Besides being elegant, she knows how to farm. And then there’s Doris…’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Rosie. I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth and just gone ahead and done what I want. At least, I thought you would see the funny side of it and not try to damp me down.’

  ‘I’m not trying to dampen you down, I’m not, and you know that.’ Rosamund’s voice was now soft, even tender, and it sunk to a lower tone still as she ended, ‘But all of a sudden I feel afraid somehow.’

  ‘Afraid? What is there to be…?’ Jennifer stopped talking at this point, and, turning her head quickly, she listened. Then with an impatient movement she said, ‘It’s Father. Good Lord! Coming down at this time. Now for the remorse—I’m getting out.’

  ‘No, no; please, Jennifer, stay. Don’t make him feel any worse than he is. You needn’t speak to him, but don’t walk out on him.’

  The next minute the door opened and Henry Morley entered.

  He was a tall man and heavily built with grey hair and a face that had at one time been handsome but which was now lined and sallow. One feature still remained to prove his past attraction: the eyes. They were a deep blue with a touch of humour in their depths. It was even evident at this moment, but of a slightly derisive quality. He did not look at Jennifer, who was standing near the window again, but towards Rosamund, and he asked, pointedly, ‘What happened? How did I come to be in your room?’

  ‘Have a cup of tea first.’

  ‘Is it as bad as that?’

  Rosamund returned her father’s glance and she watched him rubbing the side of his face slowly with one hand. ‘You nearly set the house on fire.’

  ‘I nearly set…What d’you mean?’

  ‘You must have dropped off to sleep when you were smoking. Jennifer luckily smelt the smoke in time.’

  ‘Oh Lor-r-d.’ The last word was dragged out. ‘But how did you get me into the other bed, I can’t remember a thing.’

  Rosamund turned towards the fire and pressed the kettle into the red embers as she said, ‘We dragged you on to the landing, and as we couldn’t get you round I went for Andrew.’ She paused here, and just as her father was about to speak again she put in quickly, ‘I ran into Mr Bradshaw when I was going through the woods. He came back with me.’ Her voice was very low and her father’s was even lower when he repeated, ‘Mr Bradshaw? Who’s Mr Bradshaw?’

  ‘Thornby House…the owner…he’s back.’

  ‘And he came here and…and put me in your room?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosamund was passing him now, the teapot in her hand, going towards the table, and she went on, ‘You were suffering from the effects of the smoke and might have suffocated. That’s why we had to get someone quick.’

  ‘But you weren’t suffering from the effects of the smoke, you were drunk.’ Jennifer had swung round from the window and flung the bitter words at her father; and as they looked at each other she continued, ‘We never guessed, not this time, but he had to tell us. He had to tell us you were in a drunken stupor.’

  Rosamund wanted to turn on her sister and cry, ‘Shut up!’ but she knew it would be of no use. If Jennifer didn’t have her say now she would later—that was Jennifer’s way. Rosamund, her eyes laden with compassion, were fixed on the man standing to the side of her. She watched him close his eyes, then slowly droop his head and cover his face with one hand as he murmured, ‘Oh no, no.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes.’

  At this Rosamund did go for her sister. ‘That’s enough. You’ve said it, and once will do.’ She turned now and took her father’s arm, and, pressing him into a seat, she said softly, ‘Come on, come on. It’s no use taking it like that—it’s done.’

  ‘I’ll never be able to look the man in the face.’

  ‘No, but you can look us in the face after sneaking off and getting that stuff from Pratt’s.’

  ‘Jennifer! Will you be quiet! If you don’t I’ll walk out and I’ll stay out all day.’

  This threat, simple as it sounded, had the desired effect on Jennifer, for after tightly clamping her mouth she flung round and went out of the kitchen.

  Henry Morley was now sitting with his elbow on his knee supporting his head in his hand, and blindly he groped out and caught Rosamund’s arm as he muttered, ‘You know what I did?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I know. I would have found out sooner or later when the stuff didn’t come, but I went through your pockets.’

  ‘I’m a swine.’

  ‘Yes, I know you are.’ She was standing close to him now, and as she put
out her hand to him he clutched at it and pressed it against his cheek.

  ‘God! What would I do without you, Rosie? No recriminations, no nagging…It’s been hell this last couple of weeks, Rosie. I planned it all, the day I took the letter to the post.’

  ‘Yes, I guessed you did. Well, it’s done; don’t let’s talk about it any more.’ Her voice sounded matter-of-fact now. ‘But I won’t be able to send for the stuff until next week. We’ve got to eat and the money isn’t due until the twelfth, you know that.’

  ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Nothing; don’t say any more.’ She disengaged herself from his hand, and as she went to the table she said, ‘As we cannot get on in the workshop until we get the stuff you’d better do a turn in the garden.’

  ‘Yes, Rosie. Yes I’ll do that.’

  Rosamund closed her eyes for a moment. His patheticness, his utter humility, cut her to the heart. She sometimes wished he would bluster, fight, even damn her to hell’s flames for her interference, but he never did. Also, apart from anything else, she hated these occasions when she had to play the part of the stern mother, for it made her feel old, old inside. There had been times when she had cried out against it, saying, ‘It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair. Going on like this I’ll be old before my time. Why can’t Jennifer take the responsibility?’ But that was before Clifford had started to come up the river every now and again in the boat. A look from Clifford told her that she was still young, merely twenty-two and…falling in love.

  ‘What’s he like, Rosie?’