‘Wait. Wait a minute.’ Rosamund peered about her through the rain, but there was no-one to be seen. Well, she couldn’t leave the child out in this, she’d better take her indoors. She lowered herself into the boat and, putting her hand out to the child, said, ‘Come on, careful now.’
Cautiously the child stepped into the boat, and as she sat down on the wet seat she lifted her streaming face up to Rosamund and smiled. The effort succeeded in contorting the face still further and made Rosamund cry out desperately inside, the question that thousands of parents had asked before her: Why did God allow one of his creatures to be born like this?
When they reached the other side she lifted the child out of the boat, and, taking her by the hand, ran her gently towards the house. She came without protest as far as the top of the steps, but there she stopped. Tugging now at Rosamund, she released her hand and stood leaning half in and half out of the doorway, staring at Jennifer where she stood just inside the hall, her face expressing her feelings.
‘Oh! Oh, Rosie, whose is she? Did you have to bring her in? What about her people?’
‘You know as much as I do, and don’t use that tone.’ Rosamund was muttering under her breath. Now she addressed herself to the child again, her voice calm and soft, saying, ‘Come in, dear, out of the rain. You can wait in here for Mammy.’ She put out her hand towards the child, but it shrank away now without looking at her, for its eyes were still fixed on Jennifer.
‘Can’t she talk?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rosamund straightened up, and, walking with a casual movement past Jennifer further into the hall, she murmured, ‘Take no notice, she’ll come in on her own. You can bring me a piece of cake and some tea and perhaps I’ll get her to…’
Rosamund’s voice was cut off by a high weird scream and she turned in time to see the child flinging herself on Jennifer, hands clawing at her dressing-gown and her feet kicking at her legs. Jennifer, taken by surprise, had staggered back in fright, and now as Rosamund gripped the child around the body in an endeavour to pull her away, Jennifer too screamed. ‘Get her off me! Take her away! She’s horrible! Dreadful! Look! Look at my hand—look what she’s done.’
At this moment the door from the studio opened and Henry Morley came hurrying in. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ He stopped dead at the sight of Rosamund kneeling on the floor holding a struggling misshapen child in her arms. ‘What on earth…who is she?’
‘Look, look what she’s done.’ Jennifer, now nearing hysteria, held out her bleeding hand.
‘She did that?’ Henry looked at Rosamund, and for a reply she said, ‘Take Jennifer into the sitting room, Father. Anywhere. Leave me alone for a while, please.’
‘She’ll do the same to you. You should never have brought her in…the frightful creature…’
‘That frightful creature happens to be my daughter.’
As if they had all been jerked by an electric shock they swung round to the doorway where stood Michael Bradshaw. At the sight of him the child gave a cry that was half grunt, half gurgle, and with a shambling gait ran to him. In one movement he had picked her up, and the child, with her arms tightly round his neck, straddling his hip in a way that spoke of long practice. Neither Henry Morley, Jennifer nor Rosamund spoke. There was nothing that any of them could find to say. To Rosamund it was as if he had dropped out of the sky like an avenging angel. Why hadn’t they heard him pulling the ferry over? Likely because of their concentration on the child. This then was Jennifer’s dog, this poor, poor child. She could still think of her as a poor, poor child although she had viciously attacked Jennifer, and at this moment her pity was not only for the child but for the father, this arrogant bombastic individual. No wonder he didn’t want visitors, and no wonder, too, that he carried his pride high and used it as a shield.
Oddly enough it was Jennifer who was the first to recover, and in a shaking voice she protested as she held out her bleeding hand. ‘Well, look what she’s done.’
‘That is entirely your own fault. My daughter happened to see you when you decided to visit us a short while ago, and apparently she didn’t like what she saw and she must have come to tell you so.’
‘Now, now, look here, sir.’ As Henry Morley moved angrily forward Rosamund thrust out her hand and gripped his arm. After one long look at the older man Michael Bradshaw turned about and walked steadily down the steps to the river, the child bouncing on his hip as he went.
‘But that’s no way to go on. What’s the matter with the man, anyway?’
Rosamund, pulling at her father’s arm, said softly, ‘Look.’ She pointed to where Jennifer was going into the kitchen crying bitterly now. ‘Go and see to her, I’ll be there in a minute. Go on, see to her.’
As her father reluctantly turned away to do her bidding Rosamund made swiftly for the front door, and, hesitating for only a second, she ran down the steps towards the boat.
Michael Bradshaw had placed the child on the seat and had the chain in his hand ready to push off when she reached the landing. Without any preamble she knelt down on the soaked wood so that her face was almost level with his own and began rapidly: ‘I’m sorry; oh I am, I am. And please don’t think it was meant. Jennifer…my sister…she was frightened for a moment. She…she hasn’t been well lately. But we understand, we do, and we meant no…’
‘Save your breath, I know what you meant. Just let me repeat what I said last night: I want no visitors. And pass that on to your sister, will you?’
It was hard to believe that under this still steely countenance the man was feeling anything but bitterness and hurt pride. Yet she reasoned that were there nothing in him but pride the child would not have run to him so eagerly, nor been enveloped in his arms so tenderly. She hadn’t liked this man last night, she didn’t like him much more now, and yet, of a sudden, she was deeply sorry for him.
She stood up and turned away and walked stiffly through the rain. When she reached the hall door again she heard the rattle of the chain that told her they had reached the other bank, but she did not look round.
As she went into the kitchen Jennifer greeted her wildly with, ‘That’s what it was. I thought it was a dog, or an animal, but it was her; it was…that!’
‘Jennifer!’ Rosamund’s voice was like a sharp rap. ‘Don’t call it “that”. It’s a child, a little girl. She can’t help being as she is. And if you had a child like her, and you never know…no, you never know…how would you like someone to call it “that dreadful creature”?’
Both her father and Jennifer were staring fixedly at her, and to her own dismay Rosamund knew that she was going to cry. She turned swiftly about and left the kitchen. Running up the stairs, she went into her own room and sat by her window, biting hard on her lip to prevent the tears coming.
The rain was easing off now and the sun was breaking through. Soon the whole of the fenlands would be a moving picture of sunlight, vapour steam, and glowing colour. This was the time she liked, sunlight after rain, the time that would bring a sense of peace weaving through her; but as she looked out over the fens now, she had the feeling that peace had been swept from her, that since last night and the coming of the owner of Thornby House on to her horizon peace had fled.
Chapter Four
The following day was one of unrest for both Rosamund and Jennifer, partly because there was a sense of estrangement between them. Over the years they had had their tiffs, yet after sleeping on them they generally started the day clean, so to speak, but not after yesterday’s scene. Rosamund knew that Jennifer had the idea that she should be wholeheartedly on her side, and she couldn’t. If the man only had been in question, perhaps she might, but she could not condone her sister’s attitude concerning the child.
And they had not, after all, last night strolled across to Andrew’s. What had prevented them was not the tiff but the fact that the distance would be three times as long now that they couldn’t take the short cut through the Thornby land. The road to Andrew’s lay alo
ng the bank of the winding river, over the bridge near the Goose Pond, then through the cart tracks cutting the fields.
Usually it was Andrew who brought in the late mail, for he came by jeep to the bridge and walked along the riverbank; rarely if ever had he taken the cut across the Thornby land. But Andrew hadn’t come last night, and it was well past his time for calling now. He usually came about six, and more often than not left early to do his last round. Rosamund knew that it was Andrew’s absence that was puzzling Jennifer. Perhaps puzzling wasn’t the right word, she could nearly say worrying her. This was the fifth day that Andrew hadn’t put in an appearance. True he had been to the show, but he would have been back the night before last, and he rarely let two days pass without visiting them. At least that had been the pattern for the last two years. Before that it had been occasional calls, shyly dropping in.
And so, Rosamund said to Jennifer, in a rather terse voice, ‘I’m going to the bridge to see if there’s any mail. Are you coming?’
Jennifer seemed to hesitate for a moment before replying, ‘No, it’s too hot—my hip’s been aching all day.’
This statement usually elicited sympathy from Rosamund but not on this occasion. She merely said, ‘Very well,’ and went out.
As she walked along the bank of the cut she did not tonight take the usual pleasure in the activities of the river. The moorhens were darting back and forwards across the water leaving arrows of pale light in their wake, while their babies cluck-cluck-clucked in startled fright at her approach. A pair of grey, spectral-looking herons rose at intervals from the bank keeping their distance from her. One after the other they lifted themselves into the air with surprising grace for such large ungainly looking creatures. Rosamund was never surprised at the swans’ graceful flight, but the herons didn’t seem made for grace. As she watched them they brought her mind from its brooding for a moment and a familiar thought was resurrected once again, and she smiled as she said to herself, I couldn’t live anywhere else, nowhere else in the world. The thought took her mind in a leap to Clifford and the coming week. It was the end of June and the vac about to begin. It was his last year at the university, but he wouldn’t know the results of his finals for a week or so. Yet by the sound of things he should get a first. This being so, it would mean a year, perhaps two, in America for further studies in Physics. Not for him a travelling scholarship; he would go to a university out there and stay for as long as was necessary, and then back to Cambridge with the position of lecturer to look forward to. She gave a little shiver, of delight or apprehension she didn’t question, but she did question her place in this plan. Somewhere between the results of his finals and the end of the vac, when he would leave for America, she should know, for he was going to spend most of his vacation here on the river. He had already booked a small motor cruiser from Banham’s in Cambridge. He would berth it where he always did, in the Brandon at the bottom of the Cut. Would it be early in the holidays or towards the end when he asked her? Well, that would all depend on…well, on opportunity, and…and other things. But ask her he would, for the only thing, she felt, that had prevented him so far from putting the question had been the intensity of the third-year work.
An arrow of wild ducks flying low brought her head up. Their wings flapping in their agitated fashion only emphasised their sure and purposeful flight. They were making, she knew, for the piece of marshland up the Brandon Creek where the water lay beyond the wash bank in shallow lakes, and the approach, except in the spring, was impassable, being too boggy for feet and not deep enough to take the more shallow-drafted boats. It was on that marshland, and from the top of the flood bank that she had first seen the two Canada geese. It was during her first spring on the fens, and the joy had stayed with her for days.
When she came to the Goose Pond two recently paired swans were training their young, cleaning their feathers diligently as an example to their eight cygnets, who waddled among the down discarded during their parents’ toilet. The mother hissed at Rosamund as she passed and she spoke to it laughingly saying, ‘All right, all right, don’t get flustered; surely you know me by now.’ There were a family of geese on the far side of the pond and they craned their necks and raised their voices in a protesting chorus at the sight of her. She crossed the bridge, being careful of the rotting plank in its middle, and stopped at the post to which was nailed the letterbox…There was no letter in the box from Clifford or anyone else. Her disappointment was keen, but she told herself it was all part and parcel of this particular kind of day…of the last two days.
As she turned to make her way back over the bridge she glanced up the first of the long straight tracks that led to Andrew’s place, and in the distance she made out a small shape almost obliterated by a cloud of dust. That was Andrew’s jeep. She smiled to herself, it would be nice seeing Andrew, he was so sane, so easy to get on with. At one time she had wished that Andrew had taken a fancy to her instead of Jennifer, but it had only been a weak kind of wish.
As the jeep came nearer she thought with an inward chuckle, I’d like to bet Jennifer isn’t so cool tonight. If yesterday’s business did nothing else perhaps it’s made her more appreciative of what she’s been turning up her nose at.
The jeep was still quite a way off when Rosamund realised that Andrew wasn’t alone, and when it pulled up opposite the bridge she only half answered his ‘Hello there, Rosie,’ for her whole attention was riveted on his companion. Why did the sight of Janice Hooper disturb her so much that she was almost unable to return his greeting? She looked at Andrew now. His colour was higher than usual and his voice sounded different, not Andrew’s voice, as he said, ‘We’re just off to Ely. Everything all right at the mill?’
‘Yes…yes, Andrew.’
‘That’s good.’
‘We…we thought you might be over last night.’
‘Well…yes, er…but I had one or two things to see to.’ He laughed. ‘You know what it’s like after being away for a day or so.’
‘You should come to the shows, they are very interesting.’ Janice was leaning forward past Andrew to look at her. And Rosamund, returning the self-assured look, answered coolly, ‘We are not farmers. There could be little interest at the show for us.’ It was the wrong thing to say in front of Andrew, and she could have bitten her tongue out.
Andrew straightened up and put his foot on the accelerator. The engine hummed and he turned his head once again towards Rosamund, saying quietly, ‘Well, I’ll be seeing you. ‘Bye Rosie.’
‘Goodbye.’
She watched the car bounce away. He hadn’t mentioned Jennifer…Janice Hooper had been to the show with him. She looked absolutely self-assured and possessive—yes, possessive, like a cat that had stolen the cream. Oh no, he couldn’t be falling for her. Oh, Jennifer, poor Jennifer! She was still staring at the back of the retreating jeep when she saw it stop. She watched Andrew climbing down and come running back up the track towards her. He did not speak until he was quite close, and then his words were preceded by a gesture that showed his embarrassment. He rubbed his hand vigorously across his mouth, then took it up over his face and the top of his head before saying on a sheepish laugh, ‘Do something for me, will you, Rosie?’
‘Yes. Yes, Andrew. What is it?’
‘Well…’ He looked at her under lowered brows. ‘Well, will you…will you tell Jennifer that you saw me with Janice?’ He made a slight indication with his head towards the car.
‘O…oh, Andrew!’ The long-drawn-out ‘Oh’ expressed only too clearly Rosamund’s relief. She laughed now as she said again, ‘Oh, Andrew! You had me worried for a moment. But…but what about Janice? She likes you Andrew.’ Rosamund nodded her head with superior wisdom, ‘I can tell.’
‘She likes lots of others.’ Andrew laughed self-consciously. ‘Janice can take care of herself, I’m not worried about her.’
‘Anyway, I’d be careful. But I’ll tell Jennifer. Oh yes, I’ll tell Jennifer.’ She laughed again.
�
�I must be off now.’ He paused for a moment before turning and said rapidly and stiffly, ‘Jennifer’s got to make up her mind one way or the other. I can’t go on like this, Rosie. For two years now I’ve been asking her; four years I’ve been after her altogether. I’ll ask her once more and that’ll be the last. But I want the answer to be yes, so I thought I’d give her…well, a bit of breathing space, so to speak. I’ve been too attentive; it’s a mistake, Rosie.’
‘I’m sorry, Andrew, if she’s hurt you.’
‘I must go, else Janice will take off in the jeep on her own—she’s quite capable of doing it.’ He laughed now, and then became serious again. Looking down into Rosamund’s upturned face, he said, ‘You’re nice, Rosie. A fellow would know where he was with you.’
‘Oh, Andrew, that’s no compliment.’ She screwed up her nose at him and shook her head. ‘It only means I’m dull.’
‘It doesn’t, by gum! Many a time I’ve wished it had been you. But there it is. We’re all a lot of fools, aren’t we?’
‘Oh, Andrew, go on, don’t be silly.’ As she pushed him there came three loud blasts from the horn of the jeep and she laughed out loud as he pulled a comically frightened face before sprinting away down the road.
‘Oh, Andrew!’ Again she repeated the words. He was nice, was Andrew. Yes, perhaps she might have taken him if it had been herself he had first set his cap at. She didn’t love Andrew; but that wasn’t saying that she couldn’t have grown to love him. Kindness and consideration went a long way with her, that’s why she liked…she loved…Clifford. Clifford was kind and considerate.
But Jennifer must stop playing about, Andrew was no fool. As he said, he would ask her once more and that would be the last. Perhaps he was already thinking that Janice Hooper would make a better farmer’s wife than Jennifer, and undoubtedly he would be right.
The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens) Page 6
