The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens)

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘Clifford?’ Her father screwed his face up at her. ‘What makes you ask a question like that?’

  She was looking back at him as she said. ‘Oh well, Mr Gibson, a visitor, said that he saw a motor cruiser at the bottom of the Cut, a Banham’s, and he thought he saw Jennifer on it. That’s where Clifford always berths, and I thought…well…’

  ‘I passed the bottom of the Cut and I didn’t see any cruiser. When was this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Andrew, and I don’t think it’s exactly at the bottom of the Cut—a little way along towards the staunch.’

  ‘Oh, then I could have missed it. It would be round the bend.’

  ‘What time did he see her down there?’ Her father was speaking again.

  ‘Oh, I should have said around teatime, judging by the time Mr Gibson arrived at the house.’

  ‘It wasn’t Jennifer.’ Henry Morley shook his head vigorously. ‘She never left the workroom until about an hour ago, and she hadn’t left the house until just on fifteen minutes before Andrew came. She must have gone one way and Andrew come the other, or else they would have met. Whoever the fellow saw getting on that boat wasn’t Jennifer.’

  Well, that was that. There was someone berthed at the bottom of the Cut and it wasn’t Clifford, and for this she felt understandable relief. But what began to niggle at her mind was the fact that someone else besides herself had imagined they had seen Jennifer in a place where she couldn’t possibly have been …

  When an hour later Jennifer had still not returned, Andrew, about to take his departure, said quietly, ‘Do you think she’s purposely avoiding me, Rosie?’

  ‘No, no, Andrew, get that out of your head. She’s definitely been waiting for you coming, and she’s been worrying. Oh, she’s been worrying, Andrew, I can tell you that. She’s likely gone the river way, and you, braving the Tiger’—she laughed at this—‘cut across by the pond.’

  ‘Well, I thought I would have more chance of coming up with her that way.’

  ‘How is our friend Janice?’ She looked at him with an amused twist to her lips.

  ‘Oh…Janice. Janice is still going strong.’

  ‘Still on the chase?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that, but she visits us at times. She’s very interested in cattle, you know.’ He nodded his head as he returned her twinkle.

  ‘I bet she is.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie, now don’t be feminine.’ He gave her a gentle punch with his fist, then, stepping back and surveying her, he said, ‘You’re liking this job across there, aren’t you?’ He motioned with his head across the river.

  Her lids dropped for a second as she replied, ‘Yes. Yes, Andrew, I’m liking it very much.’

  ‘I knew you were. You look different. When I saw you coming across earlier I said to myself, Something’s happened, Rosie looks…well…different. I don’t mean that you have changed fundamentally…’ He laughed. ‘You’ll always be the same, Rosie. But—well—mind, I’m not just saying this—for a moment you looked every bit as beautiful as Jennifer.’

  Her head was back, and her laugh was ringing high; she was both pleased and amused as she said, ‘You qualified it, Andrew. “For a moment” you said, and that’s true.’

  ‘Come now, you know what I meant, Rosie. And it’s the truth, I do mean it. Well, anyway, if you looked like a sack of rotten beet you’d still have your personality left, Rosie, and that’s everything.’

  Her laughter went higher and higher. ‘A sack of rotten beet. Oh, Andrew, you are funny.’

  ‘I suppose I am.’ His voice was quiet and he nodded to himself. ‘I’m not a bloke for paying compliments—that’s why Jennifer got so fed up, I suppose. I could tell her with my eyes that she was beautiful, but I couldn’t get it out of my mouth.’

  ‘You’re going to change all that, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m going to have a damned good try…But just the once more, mind, like I said.’

  ‘Go on then, and go by the river. If she went that way she’ll come back that way. Goodnight, Andrew.’

  ‘Goodnight, Rosie…Goodnight there, Henry.’

  Henry Morley, straightening his back, waved the hoe as he cried, ‘Good night, Andrew. See you soon, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll see you soon.’

  Andrew was gone, and as she went into the house she prayed that he and Jennifer would meet. Get that settled and there would be a load off her mind. There would only be her father then. Well, she had plans for him, and she felt she knew Michael well enough to be sure that he would fall in with her plans.

  It was almost dark when Jennifer returned, and Rosamund saw immediately that she was in a very poor frame of mind.

  ‘Did you meet Andrew?’

  Jennifer jerked her head round and, staring blankly at her, said, ‘No, I didn’t meet Andrew.’

  ‘Well, he’s been here for the last hour and a half.’

  ‘I hope he enjoyed himself.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so childish, Jennifer. He came to see you. You must have gone one way and he came the other.’

  Jennifer stood for a moment looking down, then, dropping into a chair, she buried her face in her hands and began to sob brokenly.

  ‘Oh, don’t! Don’t, Jennifer!’ Rosamund had an arm around her. ‘Look, everything’s going to be all right; he’s as miserable as you are. And I’m going to tell you something. Look at me.’ She raised her sister’s face upwards, and, although she knew she was giving Andrew away, she felt that there was a great need at this moment to do something to lift Jennifer’s morale and self-esteem. ‘Now listen. You remember that night I came back and I said I’d met Andrew and Janice Hooper down by the bridge?’ Jennifer made no answer, but lowered her wet lids, and Rosamund went on, ‘Well, he asked me that night to tell you that he was with Janice. He was getting a bit tired of your dillying and dallying, Jennifer, and he wanted to pull you up.’

  ‘But he was…he was with her, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was, but it was just circumstantial, and I think it was very clever of old Andrew to make something out of it. You know, Andrew isn’t just the quiet easygoing individual you take him for. He loves you deeply, but you mustn’t play about with him any more, Jennifer; it would be too risky. Now listen…Tomorrow morning you’re going to go across there…you’re going to walk right to that farm and see him.’

  Jennifer did not protest against this arrangement. There was no proud retort that she wasn’t going to do any such thing. She merely dried her eyes calmly and, saying quietly, ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ she went upstairs.

  Well, that was that. At last Jennifer was seeing reason. Everything would be all right in that quarter…she hoped.

  Rosamund now went into the sitting room to say goodnight to her father, and impulsively she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. And as he held her tightly to him, he looked at her and asked, ‘Are you happy, Rosie?’

  Her gaze was averted from him, but she nodded her head rapidly, saying, ‘Very, very happy, Father.’

  ‘Thank God for that. If anybody’s deserved it you have.’

  He had not asked what was making her happy, and she hadn’t told him. Her father was really no fool. She went upstairs, her heart singing.

  Chapter Nine

  Andrew’s prophecy came true, and Jennifer’s decision to go and visit him the following morning was prevented.

  Rain never comes at the right time for farmers. They want rain in one field and sunshine in another. Winter or summer, rain in moderation is nearly always welcomed by them, but when it passes this point it becomes a danger, and more so to the men who till the fenlands.

  For three days and three nights it had rained, with hardly a let-up. The tidal part of the river above Earith was suffering badly; already many fields in that quarter were under water. The main River Ouse, going towards Denver Sluice, was just holding its own. But the Little Ouse River, which is the continuation of Brandon Creek, the latter a tributary of the main Ouse, ha
d swollen in some places to three times its width. Also part of the newly made bank of the Old West River beyond Dale’s Inn had been swept away, and the men were having a job to stem the flow. It was when the water flooded in from the cuts and dykes into the already swollen river that the situation became dangerous. For often the main sluice at Denver had to contend with tides that were higher than the level of the river water. Then the danger hours were when the swollen water from the river could not be released.

  Even the water in the Cut had risen, and now covered the landing stages on each bank and was moving threateningly across the garden. The old mill wheel had once coped with such a situation as this, but how effectively Rosamund, looking at the rising water, was given to doubt. For the diesel-driven machines installed in most of the wheelhouses dotting the fens now, were hard put to it to cope. The sluices were being watched night and day; and the men working on the house had said yesterday that it could be the beginning of another nineteen forty-seven. The only thing to be thankful for was it was summer, and not spring, as in that fateful year of fenland flooding and havoc…And it was her wedding day.

  As Rosamund looked out of the window over the sodden water-soaked land, she thought, This is my day and it looks as if the whole world is weeping.

  When she went downstairs she was wearing her ordinary clothes; her new clothes were over at the house waiting for her. Her father and Jennifer were just finishing breakfast, and Henry Morley turned to her and said, ‘Isn’t it risky going across there when it’s like this?’

  ‘It isn’t any worse than yesterday.’

  ‘It will be over your wellingtons before you get to the boat.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Even if the water was pouring into her wellingtons she would still cross the river this morning. She would cross the river if she had to swim.

  When she was ready she turned and looked at them, and the desire to tell them was almost overwhelming. She wanted to say, ‘Wish me happiness.’ This was her wedding day, they should be with her. She felt a moment of acute guilt, and her conscience cried, It isn’t a good thing you’re doing, keeping them in the dark like this. Yet what could she do? She had promised Michael faithfully that she would tell no-one, not until they came back. She said now, ‘I’ll be going into Cambridge today. Is there anything you want?’

  Both of them appeared to stop and think, and then one after the other they told her there was nothing they could think of.

  ‘All right. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  There was nothing they could think of, but she could think of things they wanted. When Michael came over with her later today, she would bring across a drop of whisky, and all of the tobacco her father could smoke for a month. Michael had said to her only last night when she had told him a little of her father’s struggle against his weakness, ‘It’s a bad thing, you know, to deprive a man of it altogether. A little now and again would do him no harm, and save him a great deal of torment, I’m sure.’ Michael was right.

  And Jennifer. What would she bring Jennifer? All Jennifer seemingly wanted now was Andrew, and by hook or by crook she’d get Andrew here tonight if they had to paddle all the way up the Cut, for she knew that she couldn’t enjoy her happiness unless both Jennifer and her father were happy too.

  The boat was not now attached to the chain but to a rope; and when it ground to a stop on the mud of the bank she scrambled over the side and, paying out the rope, took it to a stake they had placed some distance away. She was in the process of tying the rope securely to the stake when the action recalled something to her mind. It had been as she was untying the rope last night that she had raised her head and seen Gerald Gibson hurrying towards her from out of the wood—not from the direction of the house, but from the path that led to the pond. He had run the last few yards to her, and when he reached her side she noticed that he was rather pale and was not his cheery facetious self. She had asked immediately, ‘Is anything the matter?’ and he had rubbed his hand across his mouth before saying, ‘I’ve just had a bit of a shock.’ And then he had asked an odd question, ‘Is your sister in?’ She had told him that she didn’t know as she was just going across to the house, but with the water rising as it was she was nearly sure to be indoors. He had then asked if she would make sure. His words brought to her a feeling of fear that she could not analyse at the moment, and checked her from questioning him further. After crossing the river and finding Jennifer in the kitchen, she had come on to the front steps again and signalled to him that she was at home. She had said nothing to Jennifer about this, but it had troubled her for some time until it had become overshadowed in the anticipation of today. Now the memory was vividly back with her. She did not know when she had actually stopped liking Gerald Gibson, but she was certainly aware that she no longer was amused by him, or thought him a pleasant companion. Was it because of his implied criticism of Michael? Yes, perhaps. One thing she was sure of. Gerald Gibson was certainly not over-pleased at his friend’s good fortune. She felt that he was more than a little jealous of Michael. But the question was, why had he asked if Jennifer was in the house?

  Her mind was relieved of its uneasy probing by the sight of Michael coming towards her from the far side of the wood. She wanted to hold out her arms and run to him, but his manner always quelled spontaneity in her, and more so this morning. So she walked, even sedately, towards him.

  ‘You’re soaked already.’ He was looking her up and down.

  ‘I can’t see that you’re much better yourself.’

  She smiled at him, then screwed up her face as she took in his mud-spattered breeches and coat. ‘You’ve been working?’

  ‘Since five.’

  ‘Where? What’s happened?’

  ‘I got the idea that if the dyke in the end field was cleared it would heighten the banks there, and at the same time it might relieve just a little water from the Goose Pond. I made a start on it and got all the men going as they arrived.’

  ‘From the house, the painters?’

  ‘The lot. They all came in rubber boots knowing what the road was like. Things are looking rather black in some quarters, I’m afraid. Some of the cottagers have already moved to the villages.’

  She stared up at him a moment before saying, ‘What about…will it make any…?’

  Her words were cut off as he laughed and ended for her, ‘Make any difference? Do you want it to? Come on, tell me, do you?’

  ‘No. No, of course I don’t, Michael.’

  ‘Very well then, we’ll be at that church, Rosie, at eleven o’clock even if we have to take a boat down the river.’

  She felt self-conscious and a little ashamed at her apparent eagerness, but he did not appear to notice, and his dark eyes smiled at her as he went on, ‘And it looks pretty much like that even now, for we can’t use the car. The road isn’t too bad, but I’m afraid of the old bridge. Half the bank on the far side is gone, and I doubt if it’ll hold any weight. The men left the lorry on yon side this morning…wisely too…Anyway, no matter how we get to Ely, we get there, and by eleven o’clock.’ With an unexpected, swift movement he pulled her close to him, and, looking down on her face, he said with mock seriousness, ‘And I’m thinking of no-one but that minister. He’s gone to a lot of work to hurry up this business. Special licences in churches these days take a little time. And I don’t think at first the bishop was satisfied with my need for urgency, but the threat of the registry office did it.’ He nodded at her, and for a second she leant her brow against his neck. She had expressed the wish that she would like to be married in a church, and he must have gone to quite a deal of trouble, and put others to the same, to grant this wish.

  ‘You frightened, Rosie?’

  ‘Frightened?’ She brought her face up quickly to his. ‘Frightened? No.’ She was not speaking the truth and to give stress to her statement she added another ‘No.’

  Gently he wiped the rain from her cheek.
‘You wouldn’t like to back out? There’s still time, and there’s the child.’

  ‘Oh, Michael, don’t keep reminding me of the child, please. She’s there and I love her. Yes, I really love her. You mightn’t believe that, but I do.’

  ‘I believe you, Rosie. The only thing is you seem…well, too good to be true. You love the child, and you like me…It seems too much to believe in all at once…yet I believe you.’

  Abruptly now, he turned away, grabbing hold of her arm as he did so. This was a peculiar trait in him, Rosamund found. When he touched her, he always held on to her as if she were trying to escape. At times he hurt her, and when he became aware of this he would drop his hold as if she had burnt him. He said briskly now, ‘I’d better put in an appearance at the dyke again before I change, but you get ready.’ And then he checked their steps for a moment adding, and rather sadly, she thought, ‘It’ll be straight back for us. Do you mind?’

  ‘No. No. It doesn’t matter, not in the least.’

  She smiled up at him reassuringly. And it didn’t matter…not in the least. The only thing that mattered was that she should marry him at eleven o’clock that morning.

  Rosamund felt slightly faint as she listened to the words: ‘I pronounce you man and wife.’ And things weren’t very clear to her after this until she stood in the vestry signing the register. It was the laughter that brought her to the present, Michael’s deep hard laugh. The little minister’s chuckle. The hicky-laugh of the cleaning woman, and the definite ha-ha-ha of the verger. It was over something the minister had said, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Bradshaw, I hope we’ll see you in the church again soon.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice seemed rather hoarse. ‘Yes, I’ll come again…we’ll come again.’

  ‘And I hope I’ll see you at Thornby House.’ Michael was shaking the minister’s hand. ‘Don’t forget you promised to pay us a visit.’