The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens)

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  The head came bobbing nearer through the high grass and when the child came into the clearing above the boat landing, she stood looking across at them, her mouth open, her face spread in a wide laugh. And the sound of her voice came across the water crying, ‘Wiv…wiv.’

  She was walking quickly across the lawn when Jennifer’s voice came at her, low and pleading, ‘Don’t bring her over here, please, Rosamund.’

  She did not reply in any way, but, getting into the boat and keeping her eyes fixed on the child in an effort to hold her attention, she pulled herself swiftly towards her.

  When the ferry grated against the bank Susie was standing waiting for her, and when she stepped on to the landing the child put out her hand and without hesitation made her way up the bank again towards home.

  With her shambling, erratic gait she kept ahead, intent on leading Rosamund back to the house, and a sad smile came to Rosamund’s lips on the thought that indeed she had taken the place of O’Moore in the child’s mind.

  When they reached the broken gate the child did not lead her to the drive but along by a stone wall half obliterated with dead grass and shrub, and across what had once apparently been a garden. This was suggested to Rosamund by the hard stone path her feet found every now and again, and the rose bushes struggling for existence through the undergrowth. Then round to the back of the house and the stables and outbuildings, which, with the exception of a high barn-like structure, had been conquered by the lush undergrowth.

  It was as the child drew her nearer to the barn that she heard the voices. The unmistakable one of Michael Bradshaw was saying, ‘Yes, it’ll take time as I’m mostly having to use sweat for money. I’ve got just about enough to get me started, that’s if we live on the breadline. But I’ll get going, never fear; if it’s only to spite my dear neighbours I’ll get going. Do you know that some of them were trying to get an order on the place.’ The voice was harsh.

  ‘I heard something.’

  ‘Damned impertinence. I’d see them in hell before I’d let them have the land.’

  ‘How you going to manage without labour?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll manage.’

  ‘Are you going to furnish the place?’

  ‘Furnish, huh! Furniture won’t worry me. We have beds and a table, the bare necessities—they’ll see us through until we get better. Maggie doesn’t mind. There wasn’t much else in her cottage.’

  ‘How have you managed all this time—I mean, have you had a job?’

  ‘Oh yes, jobs in plenty.’ The voice was scornful. ‘Brawn pays better than brains these days. I even managed to save.’

  A laugh followed this, and then came the other voice…a pleasing voice, saying, ‘Well, you know, Mike, my weekends are my own. I’ll come and give you a hand any time. I’m not a stone’s throw away, really.’

  As Rosamund pulled the child to a halt the two men came out of the barn, and she felt a wave of hot embarrassment flowing over her as they both stood looking at her without speaking.

  ‘She…she was down by the river, I thought I’d better…’ She broke off as Michael Bradshaw lowered his head for a moment, then, coming towards them, he looked down at the child before moving his gaze to Rosamund and saying heavily, ‘I’ve brought her back six times today.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘She was here just a minute ago.’ It was the stranger speaking and they both looked at him, then Michael Bradshaw made the introduction.

  ‘This is a friend of mine, Gerald Gibson…Miss Morley.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  Rosamund looked up at the tall fair man. She guessed he was about the same age as Michael Bradshaw, yet he had that youthful, lively-looking air that made him appear younger, not thirty even. Her first thought was, He’s good-looking, and then, He seems rather nice.

  ‘How do you do?’ He was inclining his head towards her, ‘Morley? From Heron Mill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard about you. You took over after the Talfords left. It’s years since I saw the mill. I used to go up there, up the Cut in a little dinghy, when I was a boy. Do you like it here?’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘That’s odd. Most people have to be born here before they like it. I was born in Littleport, but we now live in Hockwold…you know, just beyond Wilton Bridge?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know it.’

  ‘Come.’ At the sound of Michael Bradshaw’s curt syllable the child’s hand was tugged from her own. As he made to walk away over the grass-strewn courtyard she said to him, ‘Would you like me to…to see to her?’

  He stopped and seemed to consider for a moment. Then going on, he said, ‘No, no. We can’t have that. Thank you, all the same.’

  The thanks sounded grudging, and she stood for a moment at a loss, feeling embarrassed because of the other man’s presence. It was bad enough to be choked off without having an audience. She was on the point of looking at the man to say goodbye when an ear-splitting scream brought her round to the child again. With her two hands holding her father’s, her body arched, she was almost in a sitting position in an endeavour to stop him from going on.

  ‘Susie! Stop that!’ He had her by the shoulders now and was shaking her gently. ‘Do you hear? Stop it!’

  The screaming stopped and the child turned her face towards Rosamund again. She was not crying, her eyes were quite dry, but in their opaque depths there was a wild look as if another scream was imminent. Michael Bradshaw’s reactions came swiftly. With a lift of his arm he hoisted the child up and, apparently deaf to her now terrifying screams, he marched with her into the house.

  ‘Don’t be upset.’

  She looked up at this Gerald Gibson. His voice was kind, his eyes were kind. She said softly, ‘It’s dreadful, awful.’

  ‘Yes, it appears worse when you’re not used to it. He’s used to it.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded her head in small quick jerks, then added, ‘I’d better go. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, and don’t be upset.’

  She hurried away, and did not slow her pace until she was beyond the wood and out of sight of the house. Then she stopped and stood looking to where, in the far distance, her father and Jennifer still sat at the table on the lawn in the shadow of the wall. And as she stood she bit on her thumbnail. It was a long, long time since she had been so emotionally disturbed as to bite her nails. Even her father’s lapses had ceased to make her bite her nails. She was thinking again, Poor soul, poor soul! But, strangely, the picture in her mind was that of the man, not of the child.

  Jennifer did not want to go swimming in the pool. She had changed into an attractive print, one she had made herself, and she was waiting for Andrew coming.

  Rosamund tossed up in her mind whether she would go for a swim or not. She did not relish her own company this evening; she wanted someone with her to take her mind off herself. There would be time enough to think about herself when she got to bed, for then there would be no chores, no diverting incidents connected with Thornby House and its occupants to prevent her from thinking of Clifford’s letter, for she was fully aware that once she was alone the feeling that had been growing in her all day against Clifford would no longer hide itself under the term of disappointment but would take on its real name of resentment. Whenever she had thought about him today, and that had been often, she had resented so many things about him—the fact that he had been weak enough to fall in with his mother’s wishes, that he had deliberately played on her emotions these past few months, that he had misled her with their last farewell. One could say, Well, what was a kiss, anyway? What were three rapid kisses in succession? The result of high spirits, payment for a happy day. Anything…Anything apparently but a promise of marriage. So, to prevent her suffering her own company and self-questioning, she stayed with Jennifer. At least, she told herself she would stay until Andrew arrived. But when by eight o’clock Andrew had not arrived and Jennifer’s nerves were showing signs of strain, she felt she could no
longer be with her sister without telling her of Andrew’s strategy. So she made her way alone to the pool.

  The pool was strangely deserted tonight, and there was not enough breeze to stir the reeds. When the long brown head of a bulrush wagged independently Rosamund guessed the cause to be a vole sitting on its hind legs, its back against the thick rush stem, as it nibbled off its supper from among the flat blades of grass. Nor were the swans and their cygnets to be seen; likely having gone down the Cut to the main river. For this Rosamund was thankful—she had too much knowledgeable respect for their tempers to get into the water when they were anywhere about.

  She unbuttoned her overall dress and threw it on the grass near the large bath towel she had brought with her, then, going to a part of the bank which was firm with sunbaked blue clay, she let herself quietly down into the pool and began to swim. The water felt beautiful, wonderful. When she reached the middle of the pond she turned on her back and, paddling gently with her hands, lay staring up into the clear sky. A group of mallard, flying high, moved across her vision, and then a little barn owl. Then nothing for a long time. When she found herself reading her own thoughts in the endless sky space above her, she swung on to her stomach again and, thrashing out with the crawl stroke, made for the far bank.

  ‘Enjoying it?’

  She jerked her head upwards as Gerald Gibson’s voice came to her, and, pressing down on her feet, trod water as she blinked upwards towards the bank.

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it’s lovely.’

  ‘I wish I had thought about it—I had forgotten all about this pond.’

  ‘It’s beautiful and cool.’

  ‘Come on out for a while.’ He was squatting on his hunkers and he patted the turf at his side.

  Rosamund, still treading water, was on the point of saying, ‘My things are at the other side,’ when she thought, How stupid! It won’t be the first time he’s seen anyone in a bathing costume, and this one’s almost old-fashioned enough to be Victorian. When she had swum the few yards to the bank he put down his hand to her, and with a lift and a pull she was on the grass, sitting by his side, laughing.

  ‘I remember swimming in here when I was a boy. Every other week I came.’ He wiped the water from his wet hands. ‘You could get up the Cut in a boat then. The other weekend I made for the Railway Bridge. You know…right beyond Hockwold, near Brandon. Have you ever been up that part of the river?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I have.’

  ‘Oh, the fishing’s marvellous up there. You can really put your hand in the water, tickle ’em and pull ’em out. You can. Do you fish?’

  ‘No. I’ve tried, but I find I haven’t got the heart for it.’ She paused and laughed sheepishly. ‘I hate taking the hook out of their mouths.’

  ‘They don’t feel it.’

  ‘That’s what you think, but you’re not the fish.’

  As they laughed together she thought of how different people were. Here she was, within a few seconds, laughing with this man she had met only that day, and then she had spoken to him not longer than a few minutes. He was the kind of man who made you feel at home right away. Easy, not like his friend. But then, he didn’t look as if he had the responsibilities of his friend; he looked carefree. She felt so at ease with him that she could ask right away, ‘Have you had a nice day?’

  ‘Yes. Well, sort of. I was pleased to see old Mike again.’ He turned his face full to her now. ‘He’s got a hell of a life, hasn’t he?’ He seemed to take it for granted that she knew all about the owner of Thornby House.

  Her face became straight as she said, ‘Well, I know very little about him…only the child…’

  ‘That’s what I mean, the child. He should put her away and keep her away.’

  She did not answer for a moment, and her voice was very quiet and perhaps held a note of censure as she said, ‘I don’t think he’d find that easy to do. In fact, it would be more difficult than having her with him. He seems very fond of her.’

  ‘Fond of her? It’s a mania. She’s ruined his whole life.’

  Her eyes were wide as she looked at him.

  ‘It’s a fact, you know.’

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘Oh yes, since we were boys. We were at school together, then in the Army. Then he went to medical college and I into the Polytechnic. We roomed together for a time too, and then…’

  ‘Yes?’ She spoke quietly, waiting for him to go on, hoping he would go on.

  ‘Well, he was in his second year when he met Camilla—she was his wife, you know. He went clean mad.’ He paused as he looked away from her across the pond. ‘It takes some people like that.’ Then on a little laugh he was looking at her again. ‘I’m glad I’m not that sort—too intense.’ He nodded his head at her, and as she looked at him, still thinking, He’s nice, she also thought he would never be intense. Loveable, yes, but never intense. She heard herself say, ‘He didn’t finish his studies then?’ She knew that she wanted information about their neighbour and that this pleasing stranger was quite willing to give it to her without her doing much probing.

  ‘No. No, he didn’t. But, mind you, he realised that he had been mad almost before they were married a month. She was so unpredictable—a bit unbalanced, I’d say. But a man was apt to forget that when he was looking at her.’

  ‘She was beautiful then?’

  ‘Yes, she was beautiful, and vivacious—auburn-haired and half Spanish. She had her mother’s colouring and her father’s temperament. It was a very deceptive combination.’

  He shook his head as if remembering back; and as Rosamund looked at him, still thinking he was nice, she knew that here was a loquacious individual whom she had only to prompt to know all he knew about the master of Thornby House. She did nothing to resist the strong urge. ‘Is she dead?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, drowned.’ He looked at her, nodding his head the while. ‘It’s an awful thing to say but it was just as well, they would have driven each other round the bend if it had gone on much longer.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Oh’—he screwed up his eyes thinking—‘it must be around three years ago. I’d been staying with them; they were in Spain at the time in a little village on the coast. The people were poor, everybody was poor, so they accepted the child. It was the child, of course, that was the trouble. But she didn’t look so bad somehow among the pot-bellied urchins who ran about the shore. I had come upon them by chance, just sheer luck. I was touring at the time—hitch-hiking would be a better word. Mike was very much in need of real company, at least someone who talked his own language. I stayed with them nearly five weeks, but I hadn’t been with them two days before I saw what a set-up it was. She loathed the child. She would have killed it, I think, if she’d got the chance.’ His face was sombre now as he inclined his head towards her. ‘This made Mike go the other way. He pitied the thing…’

  ‘Oh, please!’ Rosamund had screwed her face up and was now covering it with her hands. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t bear to hear her called…a thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Definitely the man was taken aback. Then he laughed. ‘I meant nothing. It was…well after you’re with her for a time you’re apt to forget she’s human.’

  ‘No! No!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can see that you look at her much in the same light as Mike himself does. But in his case I’m sure it was because Camilla hated her. The more she was against the child the more he was for her. And then she goes out one day swimming and that was that, it was all over. The strange thing was, I might have been with her, but I was too lazy that day to move. She was a strong swimmer, but she must have been caught in a current and sucked under. I left shortly after—I think Mike wanted to be on his own. He became…well, rather strange. Things like that affect people.’

  ‘Did they never find her?’

  ‘Yes. I wasn’t there at the time, but her body was washed up. She’s buried in the little cemetery. She’s got
the distinction of being the only Englishwoman to be buried there.’

  ‘It’s all so very sad.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. But there’—he laughed—‘you’ve got no reason to feel sad…Do you always come here swimming?’

  ‘Yes, most days, weather permitting.’

  ‘I’ll have to join you some time.’

  She smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s a long walk for a bathe, and the river’s pretty wide near Wilton Bridge.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m coming to give Mike a hand at weekends. I’m going to get very, very dirty grubbing that ground.’

  She turned her head and looked at him seriously now, asking quickly, ‘What is he going to put the land to, beet and such?’

  ‘No. No beet for him. He’s going in for flowers. Chrysanthemums in particular, I think. Strange bloke, Mike; he’s always been crazy about flowers. He aims to build greenhouses.’

  Yes, indeed, strange bloke, Mike. Who would have thought a man of his type and…manner would have had a feeling for flowers? It seemed rather ludicrous on the face of it. He had shown surprise when she had told him they did silversmithing up at the mill. Him growing flowers was more surprising still.