Feathers in the Fire

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘No!’ Old Sep’s mouth was wide, his face one great beam.

  ‘No, Granda, no; you see before you a second mate.’ He now sat up and preened himself, and his chest swelled naturally when they murmured ‘Second mate on a ship!’

  ‘Well, the Arcadia is not a fish barrel, although mind, I have to confess she’s had to stoop low sometimes when she’s been short of a cargo out there and fill her hold with whale carcasses.’

  ‘How in the name of God did you come into that, lad?’ His grandfather’s face was screwed up with an inquiry. ‘I thought you had to sit for your ticket for that kind of thing.’

  ‘Well, he can read and write can’t he? He could have sat for his ticket . . . did you?’ Winnie was looking at him.

  ‘Not exactly, Ma, not in the ordinary way. You see when you’re out there plying between one port an’ another, scrounging cargoes, you’re likely to get half-eaten up by the thousand and one different kinds of flies that they breed, and some folks’ blood objects to them like, those beggars polished off two second mates within nine months, so when nobody seemed to want the job, ’cos there was the idea that them flies made a beeline, so to speak, for second mates, though how they picked them out beats me, not being able to read. Well, as I said to the captain, there’s one born every minute so I’ll take the job, thank you very much. An’ that’s how it came about.’

  At this there was a gale of laughter, and Winnie wiped the mixed tears from her face as she handed him a mug of tea. Then after he had drunk more than half of it at one gulp he said in a more serious tone, ‘That was how it happened in a way. But as me ma said, it was because I could read an’ write, and I wasn’t slow to pick up things.’ He smiled quietly now and looked from his father to his grandfather and added kindly, ‘You must have given me something atween you; or did I get it from me ma?’ He was laughing again and he reached out his hand and slapped Winnie’s buttocks, and she turned round quickly, her face a bright red as she exclaimed, ‘Well I never! you’ve never done that in your life afore. By! it would seem you have learned more than sailing a ship since you’ve been away.’

  He grinned at her now as he said, ‘Could be, Ma, could be.’ And they laughed again.

  They laughed while the meal was being prepared. They laughed during the eating of it. They laughed until Winnie, rising from the table said, ‘Eeh! I’ve forgotten all about it, I should be over the road; the missis will think I’ve forgotten her.’

  ‘Nine o’clock!’ Davie looked up at her. ‘You go over there at nine o’clock at night?’

  ‘I’ve got to settle her for the night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story. She’s hardly been out of bed since . . . Well, you know, since that night.’

  He looked from one to the other. He hadn’t asked about the concerns of the house, about the master, or the legless baby, yet it wasn’t because they hadn’t been in his mind; he had thought he’d let the topic come naturally. But nobody had mentioned the house until this minute, perhaps because up till now he having had all the say. He looked at his mother now and said, ‘Well, don’t be long then,’ and she smiled back at him as she answered mischievously, ‘I won’t. I’ll be back in time to put you to bed.’

  ‘Go on with you.’ As he slapped her buttocks again his mind leaped back to the days when, as a small child, well under five, he had refused to go to bed unless she was there, and she would say to him, ‘Now sit still an’ don’t wander, an’ I’ll be back afore you know it and put you to bed.’

  When she had gone and they were sitting before the fire he asked a question. ‘How are things round about?’ he asked, and they told him, Sep doing most of the talking, while Ned added points that sounded pessimistic, even beyond his chequered outlook on life, such as when, speaking enthusiastically about Amos, Sep said, ‘Eeh! he’s a marler. You’ve no idea. And as bright as a button. You should hear him talk, talk about a sea lawyer. Just you wait till you hear him. And you should see him on his new legs. Ned here made him a pair of crutches; you’d think he’d been on them since he was born an’ he just got them the day. Aw, he’s going to be a bright spark than ’un.’ It was at this point that Ned put in, ‘Aye, but he’s got a cruel streak in him, I think.’

  ‘What d’you mean, cruel streak? He’s no less of a lad ’cos he hasn’t got any pins. You mean ’cos of what happened with Biddy the day?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Ned. ‘But that isn’t the first time that he’s swiped her, nor taken her glass alleys.’

  ‘Aw, that’s bairn’s playin’; Miss Jane always brings them back.’ Sep now turned to Davie, explaining, ‘He plays marbles with Biddy. You want to see them both at it; she’s nearly as good as him, but he always manages to win her best blood alley. He’s even beat Mickey at it. Oh, he’s a great one with the plonkers.’

  ‘Who’s Biddy?’

  Sep was about to speak, but his breath caught in his throat, and he coughed, then, rubbing the tip of his nose with his first finger, he mumbled, ‘Molly’s bairn.’

  There was a short silence while the three of them looked at each other, and then Davie, his eyebrows rising, his lips pursed, repeated, ‘Molly’s bairn?’

  ‘She’s a nice child.’ It was Ned speaking.

  ‘No doubt.’

  So the master’s son and Molly’s child played marbles together. Well, well.

  ‘What’s past is past,’ said Sep quietly. ‘Molly’s turned out a hard-workin’ lass, an’ sensible at that. It’s five years you know, lad, since you left, an’ she’s worked every day of that time, from mornin’ till night she has, an’ she’s bringing the child up decent. Dresses it well, spends most of her wages on it; that’s after she pays that old skinflint Cassy for minding it.’

  ‘She didn’t marry . . . she didn’t marry Curran then?’

  ‘No, no; she refused flatly. She did that.’

  ‘What! After her lord and master giving her her orders?’

  ‘Aw now, now’ – Sep wagged his head – ‘that’s all over. As I said, five years is a long time, and she was little more than a bairn herself.’

  ‘By! lad—’ Davie grinned sardonically now, looked first at his grandfather, then at his father, then back to his grandfather again before he said, ‘We’ve changed our tune, haven’t we?’

  ‘Speak as you find.’ Ned’s voice was quiet. ‘Whatever harm she did she’s payin’ for it in the only way she knows how. She’s devoted to Miss Jane an’ works like a nigger to ease her plight.’

  ‘What plight? What’s happened to Miss Jane?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened to her except that she’s had to give every hour of her time, not only wakin’ but sleepin’, to the child. She’s brought him up, and for the first three years of his life she lived in the attic with him an’ hardly left it.’

  Davie slowly moved his body forward and repeated, ‘The first three years she lived in the attic with him? Why in the attic?’

  Now Ned and Sep exchanged fleeting glances, and it was Ned who in his terse way gave a rough description of the circumstances under which the child had been brought up, and when he had finished Davie sat straight in his chair and stared at his father. Then he said softly, ‘And you mean to say that neither of them, him nor her, ever speak to the child? You mean that all these years they’ve kept it up?’

  ‘Well’ – Ned reached out his hand and knocked the dottle from his pipe against the hob – ‘the mistress, she’s been more or less bedridden. It’s said she could slip away any time. Winnie believes that some mornin’ she’ll go in an’ find her gone. As for the master’s attitude, well, you know as much about the cause of that as any of us. He’s a changed man an’ I never thought I’d be able to say I pity him, but I do! In his eyes, he has neither wife nor child while havin’ both.’

  ‘Aren’t there any young heifers left roun
d about?’

  Ned lowered his head at this and remained silent, leaving it to Sep to say quietly, ‘As your da says, lad, the master’s a changed man. He’s got nowt left, not even God. Parson Hedley comes twice a week to tutor the boy, and has a word with him. But it’s got no effect, the only one that he has any use for is Miss Jane. The whole household seems to hang on the lass an’ I wonder meself how long her thin shoulders’ll be able to bear it. But now that the young master can get out and about things should be better for her.’

  ‘What’ll happen if she wants to get married, what’ll they do then?’

  ‘Oh! married?’ said Sep. ‘I can’t see Miss Jane marryin’, her whole life’s taken up with the child. You’d really think it was hers. An’ he won’t let her out of his sight. She’s mother, father, nurse, the lot to him. No, I can’t ever see Miss Jane marryin’.’

  ‘Well, well.’ Davie again pursed his lips. ‘What a prospect for a young lass. What does she look like?’

  ‘Oh’ – Sep put his head on one side as he smiled – ‘still plain some would say, an’ no figure to speak of, but she’s got somethin’. Hard to tell, hard to put a finger on, but she’s good for a crack, she’ll listen to you, she seems to want to listen to folks. If she hadn’t been handicapped with the child I think she might’ve blossomed into somethin’ fine. What I mean is, if she’d been able to mix with them of her own age, ’cos she’s got a sort of gaiety about her. It’s quiet, under the skin like, but she’s not without spirit. Oh no, she can take a firm hand with Master Amos. Sometimes when I’ve looked at her I’ve thought she’s just missed being bonny; but there, she’s a sensible young woman.’

  Davie got to his feet and placed his pipe on the mantelpiece; then punching his grandfather gently on the side of the head he said, ‘God save me from sensible young women, Granda.’

  As he went slowly towards the door Sep asked quietly, ‘What kind of women have you seen, lad?’ There was more to the question than the actual words conveyed, and he turned and laughed at them over his shoulder as he said, ‘I’ve three days afore I go back, I’ll give one of them up entirely to tellin’ you all about that, an’ likely at the end you’ll get the parson to me, aye. By the way, how are they? Has old Wainwright kicked the bucket yet?’

  ‘No, lad.’ Sep laughed. ‘But Peter Skillet was past here t’other day an’ he said the old codger can hardly stand on his pins. He said, when he was takin’ Alice Knowles’ burial service he wanted to say “Go careful, parson, else you’ll be lyin’ on top of her, then it’ll be a toss up whether to cover you up or pull you out”.’

  Davie chuckled, then asked, ‘An’ Parson Hedley?’

  ‘Oh, he’s all right. Good man, Parson Hedley. But I’ll tell you something. You remember Clarke, Sam Clarke?’

  ‘Sam Clarke, the verger? Of course.’

  ‘Aye, cast-thy-bread-upon-the-water-Clarke, an’ the size of the bread he’d cast wouldn’t choke a sparrow. Well, an uncle in Australia died an’ left him a fortune.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He did, it’s a fact. Ten thousand pounds they say.’

  ‘Whew!’ As Davie shook his head his father put in quietly, ‘He cast his bread an’ got a bakehouse back, full o’ dough.’

  Davie had never heard his father crack a joke in his life, and this was a real good one. He lay against the door, his head back, his mouth wide, and bellowed, and they joined him.

  It was good to be back.

  After he had wiped his eyes he said to his father, ‘Don’t think I’ve heard better, Da, since I’ve been away,’ which compliment brought a slight flush to Ned’s face.

  He now opened the door and stood looking out on to the roadway. The twilight was deepening rapidly, and a missel thrush, making a late journey up the road towards the copse, shrilled petulantly as it passed him. There came the sound of a single moo from the direction of the farm, and somewhere in the near hills a fox barked.

  For five years he had dreamed of these sights and sounds, now they were his again, but for only three days. If things had been different and he had left this place in ordinary circumstances he would have gone this very minute to the master and said, ‘Have you a place for me, it doesn’t matter what?’

  The feeling in him to remain was like pain, he longed to rest in the folds of the fells and to be invigorated in turn by climbing the hills; he wanted to struggle against the keen winds, and breathe in the same air that he had taken with his first breath, to come back in fact to where he belonged. But this he knew was an utter impossibility, so he would make the best of the time he had. He would put a face on things; he would preen himself in his new position, which wasn’t so bad after all was said and done for a raw farm lad to have achieved.

  As he stood he saw a figure coming out of the farmyard gateway and into the road. He did not recognise it until it reached the bend of Will Curran’s cottage, and then it slowed and he saw the mass of auburn hair topping the woman now, not the girl. He watched her walk slowly towards her own door. Her eyes were on him, and his on her, but neither of them smiled at the other, and neither of them spoke. But she paused a moment before she disappeared from his sight, and in that moment he thought he saw what his grandfather meant by the change in her. But ah! he told himself, she’d still be the same Molly underneath, as he was still the same Davie. Leopards didn’t change their spots, and human beings didn’t change their natures, only their coverings.

  He walked out of the door, crossed the road and jumped up on to the high grass verge, and so on to the fells, with the wish strong in him now that he had resisted the urge to come back. It had been a mistake, and one he would likely pay for in the months ahead.

  Four

  ‘You must keep it out of my way, Jane.’

  ‘But, Father, that is impossible. And . . . and he isn’t an IT, Father, he’s a child. And . . . and don’t you realise, won’t you realise, he’s a very intelligent child. Parson Hed . . . ’

  ‘JANE!’ He turned from her, his hand on his brow, his eyes closed, ‘I’m not going to go through this again. Do you want to make me angry, really angry?’ He swung around and faced her. There were two high spots of colour on his thin cheekbones and his grey eyes held a light that glowed under their dullness, like the setting sun reflecting on ice on a dirty pond, and he growled at her under his breath, ‘If you persist in letting him get under my feet’ – the anomaly didn’t apparently strike him – ‘I will have him sent away; yes, yes, I warn you . . . ’

  Jane stared up into the distressed face. She understood his attitude, she was full of pity for him, but nevertheless his words had made her turn pale, and as she often did when afraid she now showed courage, for she said, ‘Father, if you were to do that I would leave with him. I would take up a position of some sort as near to him as possible, and not even mother’s predicament would keep me here, nor the fact that I’m still under your jurisdiction. Only by force, Father, would you keep me if you sent him away.’

  She did not know what reaction her words would evoke but she did not expect him to sit down suddenly in his chair and drop his head into his hands.

  His acceptance of defeat brought the tears to her eyes and she went swiftly to him and put her hand gently on his shoulder, saying softly, ‘I, I will do my best to curb him, I promise you. But . . . but if only you could bear to tolerate him, just speak a word to him now and again, you would, I am sure, get to . . . ’

  He raised his head and looked into her face and said quietly, ‘Too late, Jane, five years too late. I grant you he’s intelligent, intelligent enough to know that I have rejected him, and still reject him, for I cannot do otherwise, so put out of your mind any idea of a reconciliation.’

  Her heart was sore for him. Slowly she bent her head and kissed his cheek. It was the first time she had done this since she was a small child; and she was saddened further when
the close proximity to him brought to her the strong smell of whisky. It was but eleven o’clock in the morning and he had begun already. She had thought he kept his drinking solely for the late hours.

  She went out and up the stairs to her room. It wasn’t often she could sit alone, but now she gave herself a few minutes’ respite. Amos was in good hands at the moment; Winnie had taken him across to the cottage to see Davie. Davie had come home. She had never seen Winnie so happy for years. She must go across and give him a welcome, but for the moment she would just sit here; she felt tired, weary, not only in her mind but in her body. She’d already had a tussle with Amos before eight o’clock this morning.

  She had overslept and had woken to see him going through the door dressed for outside. When she tried to prevent him from going down the stairs he had fought her like a young wild animal. But though she managed to keep him quiet until she was dressed, once outside he had raced about the yard like a dog off a chain.

  When he would not return upstairs to have his meal but wanted it in the kitchen, it was then she made the mistake of saying, ‘We don’t eat in the kitchen, we eat in the dining room.’

  Oh! then he would have his meal in the dining room.

  There had been more explaining, more argument. His powers of reasoning were, in a way, beginning to frighten her. He could detect subterfuge better than an adult; moreover, she had known long before yesterday, when he had nipped Parson Hedley’s ear, that he could be loving one moment and vicious the next. The latter trait she put down to frustration, for, with his temperament, restriction must be a form of torment.

  Sadly, wistfully, she thought again that if only her father would countenance the child’s presence in the house, life would be so much simpler, in fact it would be wonderful. It did not matter so much her mother ignoring his presence for they need never meet.