i believe, help thou my unbelief.
Now crossing himself, he looked at the face of the crucified Christ whose lifeless eyes seemed to be staring back at him, as they had done in the chapel.
For perhaps two minutes his mind seemed utterly blank; it was asking no questions, and so was receiving no answers. That was until, taking in one long slow deep breath, he said aloud, ‘I did what you suggested, so what now?’
He waited, and the answer came: Remember, I said, if you cannot stand the ache, don’t expose yourself to it; so apparently you, who always ask for help then go your own way, must have decided you couldn’t bear the ache, so you curtailed your visits.
‘The whole situation is hopeless, isn’t it?’
If you say so and you decide it is hopeless, then it is hopeless.
‘Well, it is, for what woman, never mind a young girl, could stand this?’ And the flat of his hand came onto his cheek with almost the force of a blow. The answer came back to him immediately: Someone who had got to know you without your unveiling yourself.
‘Yes, but when I am unveiled, what then?’
Well, if she loved you enough, then her feelings for you should be strengthened.
There followed a pause before he said, ‘She’s not yet seventeen; merely a girl.’
When the voice came again it rapped out the words, She’s about to have a child. There are no longer immaculate conceptions, remember, so if she’s about to have a child she has been with a man. Had you forgotten?
Don’s voice, too, was sharp as he replied, ‘No. No; I haven’t, and I see that picture every time I look at her sweet innocent face. So, are you suggesting that because that happened she’ll be prepared to take second best?’
The voice that answered this was more calm, saying, I’m not suggesting anything; you are, and never forget that. You are the master of your mind, you are the conductor of your thought; I am but a sounding block, the echo of which, you hope, will make you see more clearly the road you are to follow.
He now stared at the inanimate body on the Cross; then slowly he closed one of the gates; the other, he glanced at. There was a sheet of parchment attached to this one, too, and he had no need to read it, for the words were indented on his mind:
your begging has been rewarded.
your begging bowl is full.
go, share it.
The doors closed, he rose from his knees, then sat on the edge of the bed, one hand across his eyes, and he asked himself why he continued to do this. When had it begun? He couldn’t recall when he had first imagined that the figure on the Cross in the chapel spoke to him, or when the realisation came that he was simply talking to himself, that it was what was now being called his subconscious mind that was answering him. All he had was the knowledge that he had been rejected from birth. Of this he had become aware, not through the Brothers but through the nuns and their chastising of him: he was a naughty boy; God didn’t love him; that was why his mother had given him away. It was fortunate that the Brothers had appeared in his life at this point. Yet it was from them that he learned the reason he was with them at all; it was because of his face; he had overheard an elderly Brother relating the story of his birth to a newcomer. Perhaps it was from then that he had started talking to the Cross.
He rose from the bed and went to the small dressing table with its swing mirror. After gazing into it, he took off the cloth mask from its frame and replaced it with a clean one; then, before he put on the leather cap which he always wore whenever he went to The Little Manor, and which gave him the excuse to remove the slouch hat, he took a comb and ran it through his thick fair hair. If it grew any thicker or longer he would be unable to keep the little cap in place.
He continued to stare at his reflection, then quickly parted his hair so that where it came across his brow it covered the top of the scar. Then bending forward again, he said aloud, ‘Why not? Why not let it grow back and front. Some men do, artists and so forth; and he himself was an artist of sorts. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he never again had to change this piece of cloth.
Of a sudden he swung round, and his thoughts again giving voice, he almost yelled, ‘Forget it! Forget it!’ before stalking out.
Six
When Pat pushed open the door of The Little Manor and entered the hall, he was surprised to see Marie Anne standing fully dressed in cloak and scarf and withdrawing a hatpin, and he exclaimed loudly, ‘Well! You’ve been out?’
‘No, Pat, I haven’t; I was just about to go, but Sarah says there’s a wind and that this hat is not suitable, so she’s gone to get that silly woollen thing that ties under my chin like a bonnet and makes me look ridiculous.’
His voice low now, he said, ‘Have you been out before?’ And when she shook her head he added, ‘It’s getting near your time, isn’t it?’
‘No. There’s some time to go yet.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go very far.’
‘I’m going as far as the wood where the tree-stump seat is.’
‘That’s plenty far enough, I would say. Why?’
‘Well, I’m wondering, and I’m not alone, for Sarah is too; we’re both wondering why Don hasn’t visited again. If I get as far as the tree-stump, I can sit there while she goes through the wood to the cottage to have a word with him. Are you aware of anything that’s the matter with him?’
‘No; but some time ago he said that he had quite a bit of work to get through for the Brothers.’ Pat now put his hands to her neck and drew the ends of her scarf together, saying, ‘I wouldn’t go as far as the stump seat if I were you.’
She said quietly, ‘Pat, Don is a very lonely man. His affliction makes him so, and I feel that I owe him so much. If he hadn’t brought me back, and, knowing how I’ve felt these past months, I don’t think, no matter what brave face I put upon it, that I would have been able to stand those stairs to that garret in this condition. Another thing, he seemed to come alive and be so different during the first weeks I was back. You remember, he dined with us three times in one week and kept us all laughing with his tales about the Brothers and Father Broadside and his parishioners. So I feel, well, something must have stopped him coming, and when I see him—if I see him—I’ll ask him outright.’
To this Pat nodded and said, ‘Well, you do just that. By the way, is Father here?’
‘No, that’s another thing. He didn’t call in yesterday either. What’s the matter with everybody?’
‘Oh’—Pat closed his eyes for a moment—‘to use Sarah’s expression, there’s been the devil’s fagarties on along there. I wanted Mother to meet Anita, and she raised the roof. It was bad enough, she said—and she didn’t just say it, she practically screamed it—that her daughter was going to marry a farm labourer, but that I was going to lower myself so much that I had to go into a pit village to find a wife, and the daughter of a pitman, et cetera, et cetera. I had hoped to bring Anita over today—I took the trap. Barney’s just stabled it—but Anita’s mother’s in bed with influenza and she felt she couldn’t leave her, and although I was sorry for the poor woman, because she’s a very nice person, I was glad in a way, because I would have brought her straight here, as Grandfather had said he’d be pleased to meet her, but she would have wondered why she wasn’t meeting Mother. I haven’t told her about the set-up here, but I feel I must do so soon. Anyway, I’ll slip down now and find out what’s happened to Father.’
‘Hello, Mr Pat!’ It was Sarah.
‘Hello, Sarah’—he turned to her—‘Don’t let her go any further than the beginning of the wood.’
‘Not even that far, if I can stop her. If you want my opinion, she’s mad to go out on a day like this. There have been other days, nice days when I’ve tried to get her out, but she would have none of it. And now she picks on today.’
‘Only because, Sarah, you said you would go along there yourself and use your Irish diplomacy to get him here. Well, if I know anything about your Irish diplomacy, that would as likely send him flyi
ng back to the Brothers.’
‘Oh you!’ Sarah flapped her hand at Marie Anne; then quickly thrusting the woollen bonnet on Marie Anne’s head she pulled the sides well down over her ears, saying, ‘Come on! Let’s get out. The quicker we get away, the quicker we get back.’
Pat asked now, ‘By the way, where’s Grandfather?’
It was Sarah who answered him, saying, ‘He’s in the library, Mr Pat. He was snoring gently the last time I looked in.’
‘Does he know you’re going out?’ Pat asked Marie Anne; and she, shaking her head, said, ‘No. It was a last-minute decision, and I didn’t disturb him because, as our friend here would say,’ and she thumbed towards Sarah, ‘I’ll be back before I’ve gone, if I go at all.’
Pat laughed as he opened the door for them, saying, ‘Come on now! Get yourselves away before there’s a war on. In the meantime, I’ll go down and see how Father’s faring.’
He was still smiling to himself as he walked towards The Manor. I’ll be back before I’ve gone, if I go at all. That Sarah is a caution …
Before reaching the house, Pat could see his father walking into the stable yard; but when he reached it he was brought to a halt by the sound of his father talking to Vincent in a loud voice, saying, ‘I’ve warned you, mind; I’ve warned you,’ and Vincent seeing Pat, turned and made for one of the horse boxes where a groom was about to rub down a sweating animal. And James, catching sight of Pat, said, ‘Hello, Pat! Anything the matter?’
Pat, knowing to what his father was referring, answered, ‘No, no; nothing yet. I’ve…I’ve just left her; she’s gone for a stroll with Miss Foggerty. It’s the first time she’s been out in weeks, apparently. They tell me they’re just going as far as the wood, but I doubt if they’ll get that far in this wind. Everything all right this end?’
‘Did you ever know anything ever to be right at this end?’
This attitude of his father was new to Pat, for here was a dominant man speaking, and surprising him more every day now, and so, without answering his father directly, he said, ‘Will you be over today?’
For answer, James said, ‘Were you going inside?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Well, I’ll walk back with you. I need some fresh air.’
They had walked some way before James said, ‘Things are coming to a head shortly. Before she goes across to the boys I am going to apply for a separation.’
‘Oh my! Oh my! I can’t see her standing for that, Father. There’s no other woman, is there?’
‘No. But I’ve been denied her bed for twelve years or more. That should be sufficient…What am I talking about, twelve years? Seventeen, more like it. After the night Marie Anne was conceived, I never got near her again. And that event followed an unbelievable shindy.’
Marie Anne. Always Marie Anne. Conceived in battle, and her life one long battle since. And here she was, ensconced in The Little Manor after breaking up the family. Of that there was no doubt. Yet it would never have happened if she’d had a different mother.
Marie Anne and Sarah had left the shelter of the gardens and the boundary of the estate and had for some little time been walking along an unrutted path from where they could see Farmer Harding ploughing one of his fields.
Sarah, taking Marie Anne’s arm, said gently, ‘You’ve had enough, haven’t you, dear? What about turning back?’
‘I’d have to sit down first, Sarah. My legs are like jelly.’
‘Of course they are; you’re walking on hard ground. I told you before we came out, didn’t I, when you said you weren’t on crutches, that you’d find it more difficult to walk over rough ground than treading on carpets all day.’
‘Oh yes, you did, wise woman. Oh yes, you did.’ Marie Anne smiled and pushed Sarah gently from her as she pointed, saying, ‘Look! We’re nearly to the wood, and from here the old tree-stump appears to me like an armchair.’
It was some minutes later when Marie Anne sank down on the tree-stump and smiled up at Sarah, saying, ‘Oh, that’s lovely. And we’re sheltered back and front.’ Then pointing into the wood, she said, ‘Look over there at the clearing, that beautiful patch of bluebells.’
‘My, yes! Now that is bonny. And the sun hitting them. You know something? I’ve always wanted to pick bluebells. When I was little I could see my arms full of bluebells and I don’t remember ever picking one, because there was no woodland round where we lived, but I must have seen a picture of a child in a book with arms full of bluebells because that feeling remained with me for a long time.’
‘Well, now’s your chance,’ said Marie Anne, ‘because,’ and now her voice sank, ‘I don’t think I can stay out long enough for you to fetch Don.’
‘Oh my!’ Sarah’s voice and attitude showed her anxiety as she said, ‘You’ve got a pain or something?’
‘No, no, woman, I haven’t got a pain.’ She laughed. ‘And stop looking like that. But I do know that by the time you manage to find Don and bring him back here I would just have time to say hello and goodbye. And, Miss Sarah Foggerty, I admit that I am feeling slightly fatigued.’
‘Oh’—Sarah shook her head impatiently—‘I’ll tell you what I really think, and—’
‘And you’ll walk out. Yes, yes, I know. You’ve said it before. But now listen to what I’m going to say. Go over there and fulfil your life’s dream: pick a small bunch of bluebells, and then we’ll make for home. Go on now. Go on, because I’m not going to move until you fulfil that dream. Go on, the quicker you do it the quicker we start back for home.’
Sarah drew in a long breath, then turned and almost on a tripping run made for the patch of bluebells, the while Marie Anne asked herself, as she had done repeatedly over the past months, what she would have done without the companionship of this woman. Of course, it would have been wonderful to be home and cared for, but if Sarah had stayed in London as she had first intended, life here, following on her London experience, would have been very dull.
The sun was warm on her. Behind her and to the left was a screen of tangled scrub that was acting as a windbreak, and as Marie Anne loosened the strings of the bonnet, then unbuttoned her cloak, she thought, if only this tree-stump had a back to it, everything would be perfect.
She was putting up both arms to stop the cloak slipping from her shoulders when there was a rustle in the undergrowth behind her, and she half-turned her head to look at what she expected to see, a rabbit scurrying away.
The hand came across her face so quickly she had no time to scream. She only knew that she was falling the short distance to the earth; but when her eyes saw the arm uplifted and the piece of wood in the hand, both her arms went up to shield her face. One sleeve of her dress had fallen back to the elbow, the other was held at the wrist by the handkerchiefs pressed into the cuff.
Her first scream was muffled, for she felt she was choking, but when the second blow struck her bent arms her scream rent the wood; but this was nothing compared with the piercing screech she let out when the piece of wood was brought across her high belly. She could hardly have been conscious of the last blow, which was to her head, or of Sarah’s screaming as she cradled her head and shoulders, at the same time as she glanced towards the thicket from where she could hear the crashing noise of the attacker’s retreat.
When Sarah looked up into the faces of Don on one side of her and Mr Harding on the other, she whimpered, ‘I was just gathering bluebells; she made me go and gather them.’
‘Did you see who it was?’ Mr Harding was asking the question, in answer to which Sarah shook her head, then said, ‘But…but…’
She did not go on, for Don was pressing her aside as he took Marie Anne from her arms, and looking up at Mr Harding and his voice trembling, he said, ‘We can’t leave her here until help comes, and it’s too far to carry her back to the house, so help me to take her to the cottage.’
Getting onto his haunches now, Don looked down into the blood-smeared face and, his voice almost a whisper, he said quietl
y, ‘Marie Anne, I’m going to lift you up. You’ll be all right. You’ll be all right.’
Marie Anne made no sound at all, not even a moan, when Don put his arms under her shoulders and Mr Harding thrust his under the back of her knees and her lower back. Then they inched themselves onto the rough path.
They were walking crabwise along when Don suddenly said to Sarah, ‘Go back to the house, Sarah, and tell them to send for a doctor. If Mr Pat is there, tell him to come, but not to tell her grandfather anything yet. If Mr Pat or his father are not there, bring two of the men back with you. But first, make sure they fetch a doctor.’
When Sarah made no move to obey him, his voice rose to a shout and the words were delivered as a command:
‘SARAH! Do as I tell you; and now!’
As if emerging from a daze, Sarah turned, picked up her skirts and ran, the way they had come, back to the house …
After thrusting open the door of the cottage with his back, Don shuffled inside, then humped Marie Anne further up into his arms before looking towards the couch.
‘We can’t leave her there,’ he said. ‘We’ll put her in the bedroom.’
It was with some relief that they laid her on the plank bed that was covered merely with a biscuit pallet.
‘God help her,’ Fred Harding said. ‘Why has she had to suffer this, and so near her time?’ and he glanced at Don as if for confirmation, but all Don did was to shake his head.
‘Is she conscious?’
Tenderly Don raised one of Marie Anne’s eyelids, then said softly, ‘Yes, I should say she is.’
‘They’ll…they’ll never get her back in this condition.’
‘We’ll have to see what the doctor says.’
‘Well, God knows when he’ll land,’ said Fred. ‘I hope they have the sense to tell him to come by the main road and through our place. Look; I think the best plan is for me to go and fetch Sally. You see, she was a midwife. Admittedly, it was years ago, but she knows about these things, and we’ve had three of our own. She’ll come like a shot. I’ll be there and back in five minutes. Will you be all right?’
The Branded Man Page 30
