The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens)

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  She did not saunter as she returned home but walked briskly. But she stopped when she saw one lone magpie flying across the river. Closing her eyes quickly, she said, ‘Let there be two’, and when she opened them she saw the partner. Good. She smiled to herself. One for bad luck, two for good. Things would work out all right for Jennifer. She was still laughing at her childish superstition when she reached the mill …

  ‘Janice Hooper? Andrew with Janice Hooper? Where were they going?’

  ‘Ely, he said.’ Rosie’s tone could not have been more casual.

  ‘But where? The pictures?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know; they were a bit late for the pictures—I just don’t know.’

  ‘Stop being so damn smug. You know more than you’re telling.’

  ‘How should I? I saw them in the jeep. He stopped and said “Hello”. Janice Hooper said, “Hello”. He asked how everybody was at the mill and that was that.’

  ‘Didn’t he say when he was coming?’ Jennifer’s voice was quiet now.

  ‘No. No, he didn’t.’ At least this was the truth, anyway. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing. I judged from what Janice Hooper said to me that she had been to the show with him.’

  ‘At the show?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I suppose she always goes to cattle shows; she’s a farmer’s daughter, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve never heard Andrew say he had been with her. Yet she made a point of putting it over. I thought it was rather odd.’

  When she saw the consternation on Jennifer’s face she had to stop herself from going to her and putting her arms about her and blurting out Andrew’s strategy. As Jennifer passed her, her limp definitely pronounced now, on her way out of the room, she could not resist putting out her hand and touching her. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said.

  ‘Why should it? You always told me this would happen. You should feel very proud of your prophetic powers.’

  ‘Oh, Jennifer! Don’t take it like that!’

  ‘I’m not taking it like that. He’s quite at liberty to go out with whom he likes. He’s not tied to me, is he? I’ve refused him and that’s that.’

  Jennifer seemed to gather pride from the fact that she had refused Andrew, and, withdrawing her arm from Rosamund’s clasp, she went out of the room, but with her head at too high an angle.

  Oh dear, oh dear, what next? Heavily Rosamund went through the hall and took up her favourite position on the top step outside the front door. What a day! What a twenty-four hours! Everybody was being as awkward as they could be. Her father to begin with, that man over there—she looked across the river—Jennifer, and now Andrew.

  The twilight was merging the colours of the fens into a soft grey sameness. On the far bank, flitting from one solitary willow stalk to another, a kingfisher was aiming to pierce the opaqueness of the coming night with its brilliant flashes of blue, but on this occasion she had hardly noticed him, for her thinking was turned inwards. Then, as if some impish genie said, ‘There’s still a little daylight left yet, let’s give you one more thing to disturb you,’ she saw the child again.

  She must have watched the bobbing head above the grass for some time before she realised it was attached to anything. Swifts and swallows flitted over the reeds in such profusion that the eye became used to the changing pattern, but when the head moved into the open ground on the bank above the ferry landing she was brought to her feet with a start and an exclamation of ‘No! Not again!’

  She turned quickly and glanced into the hall before running down the steps. Jennifer was upstairs, thank goodness for that. She mustn’t see this child again tonight; children like this needed getting used to. She could understand, in a way, her sister being repulsed. The reason she herself had not been repulsed was because, as she had told herself earlier, she had not Jennifer’s artistic temperament.

  She stood now on the boat landing and watched the child slithering down among the reeds at the water’s edge. What was she to do? If she went across the river he might appear at any minute and then more fireworks. No, she would stay where she was. And she remained firm on this decision until she saw what the child intended to do. She was walking into the water in an attempt to cross the river, and she was dressed in what looked like her nightdress and slippers.

  ‘Wait! Wait!’ Rosamund scrambled into the boat and hauled frantically on the chain. It wasn’t likely that the child could swim, and if she came a yard or so farther on she would be in a bed of silt in which she would sink in a matter of seconds.

  She caught her just in time, and, leaning over the gunwale of the boat, she propelled her gently back, with her hand under her arm. When she had moored the ferry she lifted the sodden child on to the landing and was rewarded with a smile that stretched the features into still wilder disorder. Then from the slack mouth there came a sound like a word.

  ‘Wiv.’

  ‘Wiv?’ Rosamund repeated the word softly.

  The child, still smiling, pointed a thick finger towards the water and repeated, ‘Wiv.’

  ‘Wiv?’ said Rosamund again. ‘Wiv…water…wiv…river.’

  The child made a laughing sound now. It was guttural and thick, but nevertheless it was a laughing sound. Again she said ‘Wiv’ and pointed excitedly at the water. Her mouth was wide open, her tongue hung out over her teeth, and, to add to the distressing sight, her nose was running.

  A thick rhythmic swishing sound brought the child’s head flopping back on her shoulders now, and as she looked up to where two swans, coming from the direction of the Goose Pond, were flying to some point up the Cut away above the mill, she said. ‘Ca…Ca.’

  ‘Yes, Ca…swans.’ Rosamund said the word slowly, and as she repeated it she got to her feet. The swans were making for home, it was getting dark. What on earth was she going to do with this child? Should she take her across to the mill, then go and tell him? No, that would be silly, upsetting Jennifer again, and having him come barging over like a bull. And yet if she took her up to the house, what then? He would likely say that the child could have found her own way back. Gently now she drew her up the bank, and, bending down and pointing to the path between the high grass, she said slowly, ‘Go…go…to…Daddy.’ The child blinked at her, then calmly took her hand and moved forward.

  Reluctantly Rosamund walked along the path. There was one thing at least evident: the child could understand, up to a point, what was said to it. With this in mind she drew her to a stop, and, pointing once more in the direction of the house that couldn’t be seen from this distance because of the trees, she again spaced her words, ‘Go…home…Go…to…Daddy…Dark…getting dark.’ The pattern was repeated. The child looked up at her and, still keeping hold of her hand, moved forward.

  Oh dear! Oh dear! She would have to go on and put up with the reception she might get at the other end. There was one blessing: the night was warm and the child was not likely to catch her death of cold. Still, the quicker she had this wet nightdress off her, the better. She looked down at her now and said quietly, ‘Run?’

  When she broke into a gentle trot the child began to gallop excitedly and would have fallen again and again, owing to the long nightdress, had not Rosamund steadied her, and at times pulled her upright. This latter action elicited the guttural laughter; evidently the child was enjoying it as she would a game.

  When at last they came in sight of the house, Rosamund, drawing the child to her and pointing to the great grey building, said yet once again, ‘Go to Daddy.’ The child’s reaction to this was as before. She moved forward, but still retained a grip on Rosamund’s hand.

  They walked round the broken gate and up the drive to the front door. When they reached it the child stood with her, waiting, as if she too were a stranger, a nervous stranger; and as she stood, uncertain what to do for the moment, the child, making a sudden strange noise in her throat, drew her attention to the far end of the house. There, standing as if transfixed, was Michael Bradshaw. He had a mattock i
n his hand and had evidently been rooting the ground. The child did not run to him but continued to make the noise as she held on to Rosamund’s hand.

  His approach was slow, and Rosamund could see that he was baffled, even taken completely off his guard for the moment. She said quietly, ‘I felt I had to bring her; she was down by the river again. She tried to cross.’ She watched him look down at the child. Then, stepping past her, he pushed open the front door and called, not loudly, but in a voice that showed his anger more than bellowing would have done, ‘Maggie!…Maggie!’

  It was some seconds before there came the sound of a door opening, and then there shambled into view the fat old woman that Jennifer had described. She looked first at her master, and then at the child, and lastly at Rosamund, and she said, ‘Mother of God!’

  ‘Mother of God, indeed. And she could at this minute be with the Mother of God for all you care, Maggie. I asked you, didn’t I, to sit by her?’

  ‘I did, I did, Master Michael; honest to God, I did. She was in a sleep as deep as death itself when I left her. Don’t you go for me like that, Master Michael; it’s the truth, I’m tellin’ you.’

  Rosamund watched the man making a great effort to control his temper, and now his voice was almost ordinary as he said, ‘Take her upstairs.’

  ‘Come away; come away, child.’ The old woman held out her hand, but the child would have none of it. Instead, she looked up at Rosamund, then, stepping over the threshold, attempted to pull her forward.

  ‘No, not now.’ Her father was leaning down to her. ‘Tomorrow…tomorrow. Bed now…Susie, go to bed now…chocolate…Come.’

  The child would not be influenced by this inducement either, and Rosamund, feeling very uncomfortable, bent down and disengaged her hand. The result of this was that now her thigh was clutched by the two podgy arms.

  ‘Now this is a state, isn’t it? What’s come over her, anyway?’

  ‘Be quiet, Maggie.’ He turned from the old woman to the child again, and, bending down, he said sternly, ‘Susie…Susie…let go.’ His face was just below Rosamund’s and she whispered to him, ‘Would you allow me to put her to bed?’

  He straightened up and it was some seconds before he answered, and then it wasn’t Rosamund to whom he spoke, but the old woman. ‘Get a light, Maggie,’ he said. Then, moving into the large, bare hall, he went on, ‘I’m getting a generator in, but it all takes time.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She was following him now, holding the child by the hand once again.

  ‘The furniture hasn’t arrived yet.’

  She did not make any comment on this; it was evident that the furniture hadn’t arrived, the whole place was bare and smelt musty with years of disuse. He was going up the stairs, she walking behind him, but slowly, for the child’s step faltered when she had to raise one foot any distance from the ground.

  ‘In here.’

  They were in a small room. The only furniture was a camp bed and a chair. She watched him open a trunk, and after flipping garments here and there he took out a nightdress. Putting it across the camp bed, he said under his breath, ‘Be firm. When she’s in bed tell her you’ll be downstairs, she’ll stay then.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Left alone with the child, she had a strong urge to sit down and cry, and for a number of conflicting reasons. Taking the nightdress off the child, she dried her with the top half of it, then slipped the dry garment over her head and pulled off her wet slippers, dried the podgy feet, and lifted her into the bed.

  ‘There now.’ She stroked the hair back over the hard bony cranium. ‘Susie go to sleep?’ She spoke her name as if she was in the habit of using it every night. Again she said, as she pressed the child gently down on to the pillow, ‘Susie go to sleep.’ And after looking at her for a long moment the child turned her face into the pillow and remained still. Rosamund stood and watched her for a time, then, remembering Michael Bradshaw’s words, she said, ‘I’ll be downstairs.’ When there was no movement from the bed she turned away and went out of the room, not closing the door but leaving it ajar.

  When she reached the top of the broad, dusty stairway she saw down below her the figure of Michael Bradshaw. He was standing looking out of the long window to the right of the front door. As she descended the stair he turned slowly and came across the hall to meet her. What his exact feelings were at this moment she could not gauge; his face was giving nothing away. His voice, sounded ordinary as he said, ‘I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you in the way of a drink, with the exception of tea, that is.’

  It was on the point of her tongue to say, ‘That’s all right, I’ll be making my way home now, if you don’t mind, it’s getting dark.’ This would have put her in charge of the situation and prevented her laying herself open to any sarcasm or rudeness which she still felt he might, at any moment, level at her. Instead, she heard herself saying, ‘Thank you very much, I would like a cup of tea.’

  He seemed slightly taken aback by her acceptance and he kept his eyes hard on her before turning away, saying, ‘Will you come this way then?’ He pushed open a door at the far end of the hall that had once been covered with green baize, and stood aside, allowing her to go through.

  The room into which he showed her was a kitchen, and she took in immediately that it was also the living room. Partly covering the wide stone floor was an old carpet, and isolated in its middle stood a white deal table. Three plain wooden chairs stood near an old-fashioned delf rack that ran the whole length of one wall, and at each side of the antiquated open fireplace there was an old but comfortable-looking easy chair. It was to one of these he pointed, saying, ‘Will you sit down?’

  As she made her way to the chair the old woman eased herself from a kneeling position in front of the large oven. ‘It’s me back,’ she said. ‘And wouldn’t this kind of contraption break anybody’s back? Is it tea you’re after?’ She cast a glance towards the man, adding, ‘It’s there on the hob.’

  ‘We want none of your stewed brew, Maggie. Make a fresh pot.’

  ‘Aw! Away with you!’ Maggie now laughed towards Rosamund, and added, ‘The English don’t know how to make tea. You got her to bed then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s strange how she’s taken to you—isn’t it?’ The last part of the remark was addressed to her master, but he made no reply to it whatever. He was standing with his back to the delf rack, and Rosamund could now sense his unease. He was making an effort to be ordinary and it was evidently costing him something.

  ‘Aye, she’s taken to you.’ Maggie was carrying two plain thick white cups and saucers to the table. ‘And I’ve never known her do that since that time with O’Moore.’ Maggie cocked her head towards her master, and he gave a wry laugh. Then, looking towards Rosamund, he said, ‘I can assure you that is no compliment. O’Moore happened to be a sheepdog.’

  ‘And a grand sheepdog into the bargain; that dog had the intelligence far above the ordinary.’

  ‘It had indeed.’

  Rosamund smiled at his reply because Michael Bradshaw had answered Maggie in her own thick Irish twang.

  ‘Aw, you were never the one to forget the body who did you down, were you, Master Michael?’

  ‘No, I never was, Maggie.’ The voice still held the twang. But now he turned to Rosamund again and asked, ‘Have you ever been to Ireland?’

  ‘No, I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Well, don’t go, unless you want to be fleeced, befuddled and begoozled.’

  ‘Away with you! Where would you have been without the Irish? Be fleeced, indeed. I’ve given you me whole life, that I have…’

  ‘Be quiet, Maggie.’

  There was a quick sternness in the words, but his tone altered as he turned yet again to Rosamund, saying, ‘The child took a fancy to this particular dog and would follow it to its home. He was owned by one, Shane Bradley, the biggest scoundrel in the south of Ireland…’

  He had successfully diverted Maggie from personalities, for
she cried now, ‘He wasn’t that, he had to make a livin’…’

  ‘Make a living indeed!’ Michael Bradshaw answered Maggie as he still looked at Rosamund. ‘He sold me O’Moore for five pounds…’

  ‘It was a grand dog.’

  ‘Yes, it was a grand dog indeed, as you said, a most intelligent dog.’ There was a twinkle in his eye now and he flung his large head upwards as he said, ‘Too intelligent. When you got him home you could chain him, bury him, chloroform him, but when you woke in the morning he would be gone, back to his master. Shane Bradley made a fine living in the summer, selling that dog to the gullible visitors. There is a tale that one fellow even got it across the border and it made its way back to home and Shane Bradley.’

  Rosamund was laughing now, laughing with an ease she would not have thought possible in the presence of…the Fen Tiger. She saw also that he was enjoying relating the story of how he had been done, and apart from him calling this Shane Bradley a rogue he gave her the feeling that he had liked this Shane Bradley. She was wondering how long he had lived in Ireland, when Maggie gave her the answer.

  ‘Aw, you’re always on about the Irish and Ireland, but don’t forget it took the devil in hell to get you away from it after two years. If they hadn’t said they were going to nab your land never a foot would you’ve put…’

  ‘You jabber too much, Maggie. Where’s that tea?’

  ‘It’s right here.’ Maggie handed a cup of black-looking liquid to Rosamund, another to her master.

  ‘You take sugar?’

  ‘No. No, thanks.’ She smiled at him, then sipped at the tea. It was so strong and bitter that she didn’t know how she was going to get through it.

  ‘It’s too strong for you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, just a little.’ Again she was smiling at him. He took the cup from her hand and went to the sink and poured half of the tea away, then filled the cup with hot water. Handing it to her again, he asked, ‘Is that better?’