The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens)

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The fellow Bradshaw.’

  ‘Oh…bumptious, the great I am, lord of all I survey. HE-MAN, and detestable. The lot, I should say.’

  ‘He sounds pleasant.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about him. I don’t suppose for a minute you’ll meet him. When I said I would have called if I had known the house was occupied, he told me quite bluntly that he didn’t want visitors.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Well, in that case he’ll keep his distance.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  It came to Rosamund as she said this that if Jennifer carried out her threat he might be persuaded to lessen the distance between the houses. Jennifer was beautiful, and her limp, which she used as a whipping block on herself, might have a claim on the man’s pity; it had on Andrew’s. But then Michael Bradshaw was no Andrew. He was as different from Andrew as a tiger from a deer. There she was again thinking of him, likening him to a fen tiger.

  When she had first heard the term ‘fen tiger’, she had really believed it was some form of animal until Andrew explained it was the name given to a type of fen man, now almost extinct, but not quite, for here and there a descendant of the type of man who had lived deep in the trackless, treacherous fenland, and who fought against the land being drained with cunning, craftiness and even murder, were still to be found. They were independent, often surly, and could at times call up the fierceness of their forebears, those raw, dark vicious men who fought the Dutch workmen of Cornelius Vermuyden who had come to reclaim the land from the waterlogged wastes. The fenlands had at one time been so wild that the inhabitants had only made their appearances in the towns on festive occasions, perhaps merely once a year, when trouble nearly always ensued. Even in this day there were isolated incidents that made people say, ‘Oh, a fen tiger at it.’ And when this was said a picture was conjured up of a rough, crude individual with barely a skin covering the elemental urges that had at one time been allowed full sway. For many long years the people of the fens had been looked upon by the townsfolk as uncivilised—and not without reason, it must be admitted.

  But all this talk of fen tigers had only succeeded in enhancing the charm of the flatland for Rosamund. That was until last night. But now she thought that if Michael Bradshaw was an example of a fen tiger there couldn’t be a wide enough distance between the houses to suit her.

  Yet her fragile, delicate-looking sister was set on hunting the tiger …

  Chapter Three

  It was half-past two when Jennifer, dressed in a cream linen dress that caught up the silvery gold of her hair where it hung from below the large brown straw hat, stepped into the ferry and pulled herself across the river. Rosamund, from the bank, watched her drying her hands carefully on an old towel she had taken with her, then hang it on the post of the landing. She watched her incline her head in a deep exaggeratedly gracious bow before taking the path through the fields that would, in about twenty minutes’ time, bring her to Thornby House. When she disappeared from view around the fringe of the wood Rosamund turned slowly and walked across the bank and up the garden, mounted the steps and went into the house.

  It was cool inside the house, dark, shining and cool. The curtains were drawn in the living room. Rosamund always saw to it that the strong glare of the sun did not harm the patina of the furniture. She loved and cared for the furniture as if it was her own, and there was always with her a little dread of the day when she would, perhaps, have to leave these beautiful pieces. The Georgian desk with its gilt tooled moroccan top. Nearly all the furniture in this room was of the Georgian period. The bow-front chest, the chiffonier with raised back. Only the two split-backed armchairs were Chippendale. She used to wonder why her aunt had brought these lovely pieces to this out-of-the-way place, until her father enlightened her. Anna Monkton apparently had been an auctioneer’s daughter before she married Edward Monkton, and now, having almost unlimited cash at her disposal, she indulged in what was almost a mania with her, buying antique furniture and old china. Her father had added, and somewhat bitterly, that the pieces that filled this house were likely throw-outs compared to those she would have in her own home.

  Rosamund could not see any of the pieces as throw-outs, and she guessed that neither did Anna Monkton. The mill had been intended as a weekend cottage, and she felt that her aunt had seen herself entertaining here in quiet and elegant style.

  She now went to the desk standing to the side of the window, and, taking from one of its drawers an old notebook, she sat down and began to flick its pages. She had first started to scribble at the age of ten. When she was deeply troubled, or ecstatically happy, she experienced a driving desire to capture an impression of the emotion, and the only way to do this was to translate it into words. Her efforts at first were crude, and even now, twelve years later, she still looked upon them as frittling. She read the last piece she had written.

  River reed-pipe,

  Soft lined for water notes,

  Play the murmur of ripplets lapping the stalk

  Sent from the moorhen, as she floats,

  And the night-moth, as he alights to walk.

  River reed, play your music to the wind’s time,

  And bend and sway in the dance,

  Nodding your head to the moon

  And stilling all river things in trance.

  She had been lying on the bank in the shadow of the reeds above the Goose Pond when she had written that. The moon had turned the pond into a magic world. Beyond the pond the sedge looked like a forest of trees, and the patches of meadowsweet like spilt milk. Purple feathery fronds of tall grass patted her cheek, and she had felt happy. Clifford had been earlier in the day and she had walked with him to the end of Heron Cut, where the boat was moored, and seen him sail away down the Brandon Creek.

  The poem had seemed good in the eerie magic of the fen night, but not now—it needed altering, polishing. She suddenly closed the book with a small sharp thud and pushed it back into the drawer. She felt unsettled, nervous, as if something was going to happen. She wished Jennifer was back, she wished she had never gone; she was crazy. She stood in the hall and looked out through the open front door towards the river. Its appearance had changed completely in the last few minutes. The sun had disappeared and the sky was grey. The whole of the flatland before her was covered with a dull blue haze out of which the wood reared up black and stiff. It looked like a storm. Oh, she wished Jennifer was back. Still, she would be there by now and the storm would likely give her the opportunity she was seeking: further acquaintance with the fen tiger. It was odd, but she was thinking of the man under that name now.

  She stood, uncertain what to do. She turned her gaze towards a narrow passage leading off to the right of the stairs. At the far end a door led into the room which they used as a workroom. Her father was in there now, trying to make atonement by doing new designs, work which he had promised ‘to get down to’ as soon as possible. This meant, of course, when she had the money to send for the materials.

  She looked out through the doorway again and asked herself what she would do. There were so many things she could do. There were the bedrooms, hers and Jennifer’s—she had seen to her father’s this morning. She could finish the curtains she had started last week. She could make some jam—she had picked enough currants yesterday—or do a bit of baking. It was rather hot for baking. She shook her head, but nevertheless went into the kitchen and commenced this last chore.

  Her father liked blackcurrant tart; Jennifer liked sultana scones. She would make them both.

  The rain started as she began to gather the cooking materials together. It came in large slow drops at first, then turned quickly into an obliterating sheet. A flash of lightning lit up the kitchen and a few seconds later Henry Morley opened the kitchen door.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. It’s not forgetting to come down, is it?’

  ‘Wher
e’s…where’s Jennifer?’

  ‘She…she went over to Andrew’s.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be all right then. Nice smell.’ He smiled, and she returned his smile.

  ‘Blackcurrant tart. As soon as it’s done I’ll bring you a slice.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He nodded his head like a boy filled with anticipation of a beano, and when the door had closed on him Rosamund stood for a moment, her body quite still as she looked down at the table, and the pity and love in her cried, Poor soul, poor soul. He was, she knew, craving for a drink, yet, aiming to please her, he pretended he was dying for a piece of blackcurrant tart. If it had been in her nature to feel resentment on account of last night’s business, his contrition would have melted it away.

  It was as she was taking the tart out of the oven that she heard the scurrying in the hall, and as she opened the kitchen door she was nearly knocked backwards by Jennifer’s entry.

  ‘Good gracious! You’re drenched! Why…’

  ‘Help me off with these things—I’m shivering.’

  Rosamund saw that Jennifer actually was shivering but as much with fury as with cold. ‘Wait, I’ll get your dressing gown.’ She dashed out of the kitchen and was back within a minute or so, and as she helped to pull the soaked petticoat over Jennifer’s head she didn’t say, ‘What happened?’ but ‘Why didn’t you take shelter?’

  ‘Where?’ Jennifer turned her head and fixed her with angry eyes.

  ‘Didn’t you see him?’

  ‘Yes, I saw him…Oh yes, I saw him.’

  Again Rosamund refrained from putting a question, but said, ‘I’ll get you a hot drink. Sit down.’

  It wasn’t until Jennifer had finished her second cup of tea that she began to talk, and then only in short explosive bursts. ‘Of all the bumptious, self-satisfied, uncouth individuals. Who does he think he is, anyway? The Lord Almighty?…Back on the fens five minutes and acting as if he owned them…As if he had drained them.’

  This unconscious touch of humour spurting from her sister’s fury caused Rosamund to bite on her lip to prevent her from laughing outright. She asked quietly, ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Jennifer cast her eyes up to Rosamund, and repeated, ‘Nothing, just that…nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Then what are you on about?’

  Jennifer drew in a gulp of air, then let it out on a deep sigh, and this seemed to relax her somewhat, for her tone changed. Leaning back and looking up at Rosamund, she said, ‘When I tell you you’ll see nothing in it, it won’t sound the same. You had to be there and see his face and…and his attitude.’

  ‘What kind of an attitude? What d’you mean?’ Even as Rosamund asked the question she knew quite well what kind of attitude Mr Michael Bradshaw had taken.

  ‘Well…’ Jennifer threw out her two hands palm upwards as she said. ‘When I got to the house there wasn’t a soul to be seen. I went along the side past the big drawing-room window—you know—I didn’t intend to look, but when I realised there were no curtains up and that the room was empty, I did look, not only through the window but round about. The whole place looked as deserted as it always has done. I may as well admit that before I knocked at the door I had cold feet, I nearly turned and bolted, but when I heard someone inside I pulled the bell before thinking any further. The sound of it alone nearly scared me out of my wits—you’ve never heard anything like it, Rosie.’ She shook her head, before going on, ‘Then the door opened and there he was. He was in shirtsleeves and was wearing breeches and wellington boots. They were thick with mud and him inside the house. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say. I felt a bit of a fool and I stammered something about coming to thank him for his kindness last night…Kindness, huh! He kept staring at me, staring and staring and not saying a word. Then just as he was going to speak something distracted his attention. It must have been a dog or something because he almost closed the door, but he kept saying, ‘Go to Maggie. Go to Maggie. Go on now, go to Maggie.’ Then the dog started to whine, not a doggy whine at all, as if it were in pain or something. It was really weird. And then he was bellowing at the top of his voice, ‘Maggie! Maggie!’ I heard someone scurrying across the hall and caught a fleeting glimpse of a fat old woman and a few seconds later he pulled the door open again.’

  ‘Did he apologise or explain or anything?’

  ‘Apologise or explain! No, not him. He came outside and closed the door behind him and proceeded purposely to make me feel like a worm.’ She imitated his voice “There’s no need for thanks, Miss Morley. Apart from lifting your father onto a bed I did nothing, except distress you and your sister.”’

  ‘Well, he was quite right, you know.’

  ‘Yes, he might have been, but it was the way he said it, Rosie. He stood looking at me as if he knew everything I had been thinking since I met him last night. I…I felt as if I was practically naked. You’ve got no idea the effect he had on me.’

  ‘Well, it’s your own fault, you can’t say it isn’t. It was you who decided to go hunting.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but don’t rub it in…Really, I must have been barmy to think I could fall for anyone like that. Give me Andrew any day in the week, at least he’s human.’

  ‘Cheers. It’s done some good, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, be quiet, Rosie, and stop laughing. You wouldn’t have laughed if you had been there, I can tell you that. He hadn’t been outside the door a couple of minutes before it started to rain, great drops, and naturally I thought he would ask me in. But oh no! He walked away from me along the drive and I could do nothing but follow him, and when we came to the gate that’s half hanging off—you know the one—he lifted it aside and said, “I’m afraid you’re going to get wet if you don’t hurry…”’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘That’s all—there was no “and then” about it. I walked away like a little spanked child. I was furious and my leg stiffened and I knew that my limp was getting more pronounced with every step, and before I had gone many yards it began to pour, and the infuriating thing was I knew he was still standing watching me. I tell you, Rosie, he’s an absolute beast. Fen tiger’s right—he’s uncivilised.’

  ‘He evidently doesn’t want visitors. He told me straight out last night.’

  ‘But why? Anyway, when it was pouring like that he could have let me take shelter until it was over.’

  ‘Yes, he could have done that.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I hope he rots in his mansion. And he certainly will, for I can’t see any of the men around here putting up with that attitude.’ She twisted round in her seat now and demanded once again of Rosamund, ‘Who does he think he is, anyway?’

  ‘The master of Thornby House evidently…feudal lord. Come on, drink your tea up and forget about it, and if it fairs up this evening we’ll saunter across to Andrew’s.’ Rosamund sighed again, and then she said, ‘It’s funny he hasn’t been over; he would be back early last evening.’

  ‘He runs a farm, don’t forget.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but…’

  ‘Here, butter that scone while it’s hot.’ Rosamund handed her a plate, and Jennifer, getting to her feet and going to a cupboard near the window, took out the butter.

  She was splitting the scone on the table before the window when her head came up with a quick jerk, and she put her face closer to the pane and peered through the rain. She had thought for a moment that she was seeing a little figure standing on the far bank of the river. She blinked her eyes, rubbed at the steam on the window and peered still more. Then excitedly she said, ‘Rosie! Rosie! Here a minute. Am I seeing things? Look over there on the far bank.’

  ‘What is it?’ Rosamund pressed her nose to the pane, screwed up her eyes, and after a short silence she exclaimed, ‘It’s a child.’

  ‘A child? There are no children about here, not that size. The Browns are all over fourteen.’

  ‘It’s a child, anyway.’ Rosamund was speaking as she turned hastily from the window.

  When she opened
the front door and stood on the top step she could see more clearly. It was a child, yet…She did not continue with her thinking but spoke over her shoulder to Jennifer. ‘Look! Hand me my coat.’ She kept her eyes on the child who was now pulling on the ferry chain.

  ‘What are you going to do? Bring her across? There may be someone with her—perhaps some fisherman has come up this way.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as if there’s anyone with her, and there’s no fishing up this cut, as you know.’

  As Jennifer helped Rosamund into her coat she asked, ‘Well, what are you going to do with her?’

  ‘See where she’s from first, or where she’s going. She looks lost. And there’s something…’

  Again Rosamund checked her thinking. Instead she darted down the steps and across the garden, and slithered over the wet bank to the landing.

  The boat had more than a few inches of water in the bottom, but she did not stop to bale out, and as she pulled on the chain and the craft came nearer to the far bank she cried to herself, Dear, dear God, poor little soul! And when she stepped up on to the landing and looked down on the pulpy, almost formless, rain-drenched Mongol child, her heart was filled with compassion. The tightly drawn lids from which peered the little eyes were blinking rapidly. The mouth hung open and formed a misshapen ‘o’. The thick stubby tongue was lying on the bottom teeth; the fair, sparse hair, plastered to the skull, gave the head almost a bald appearance. The shoulders were humped, and the legs sticking out from beneath the short dress were like two pudding stumps. The child looked about nine, but it was difficult to tell its correct age.

  Bending slightly forward, Rosamund said softly, ‘Are you lost?’

  There was no answer, but the child continued to peer up through the narrow slits of her lids.

  ‘Where is your mammy…or your daddy? Are they fishing?’

  Still there was no answer, but the child, turning from Rosamund now, moved towards the boat and attempted to put her foot into it.