‘I’ll be seeing you then?’
‘You’ll be seeing me.’
When he stepped outside Winnie was hammering on the Gearys’ door, shouting, ‘You there, Johnnie, Mickey, you there! Get up! do you hear?’
When the upper window was opened it was Molly who put her head out, asking, ‘What is it?’
‘Get them up; something’s happened to the master.’
Amos stood peering up through the darkness waiting for some word from Molly, but she didn’t speak and it was almost a minute before she moved.
Winnie was now rapping on Will Curran’s door, but Will was already up, the commotion having roused him; hanging out of the window, he cried, ‘Fire? Is it a fire?’
‘No, Will. The master’s fallen downstairs. You may be needed, you’d better come along.’ At this she hurried away and Amos followed behind, but slowly, taking his time.
At the entrance to the farm gate he stopped. There was the sound of activity coming from the cottages, doors slamming, voices calling, feet running. He looked towards the house across the yard; there was a light gleaming now from the fanlight above the front door. He brought his gaze in the direction of the byres and the stables from where were coming faint comforting rustlings.
For years he had hungered for possession of the farm and all it would mean to him, the feeling in him now was like one of glorious surprise, as if he had woken up and found that he had legs.
He moved on as the running footsteps of the men came nearer, his men. A rush of pleasure and power mounted in him until he reached the hall and there saw his father still lying on the floor, but straight now, Winnie on one side, Jane on the other. His eyes were open and he was staring at Jane while he tried to speak, but although his mouth opened and his lips formed words, they made no sound. The feeling of power seeped from him and he felt sick.
During the next few minutes he stood to one side and watched Johnnie, Mickey and Will Curran lift his father and carry him up the stairs while Jane admonished them: ‘Be careful. Don’t . . . don’t hurt him. Be careful, he’ll be in pain.’
Some short time later he was sitting in the kitchen. When Molly rushed in and, whipping up a kettle from the hob, was on the point of going out again, he said, ‘Is, is he dead?’
She turned on him, ‘No, no, he’s not dead. It looks to me he’s had a stroke, an’ he could weather that.’
She went out of the kitchen, and he was left alone, and for the first time in his life he experienced fear. If he could have picked a death for his father it would have been slow and very painful, but not under the present circumstances, for if he were to speak now anything could happen. They could put him away. He wanted to vomit.
He knew it would be no use pleading that his father had treated him like an animal for years, even less than an animal, for animals now and again were given pats and kind words, whereas all he had received from the man who had fathered him was looks of abhorrence and disgust.
What must he do now? He’d have to think. He took up his crutches and went towards the drawing room, the room in which he’d never been allowed to sit. But at the door he paused, then walked further on and opened the dining-room door. It was dark inside. He could see nothing but he knew where everything was, every stick of furniture in the room where he had never been allowed to eat was engraved on his mind, and such was his mind that, even in the state it was now, full of fear, he hobbled into the room, groped for the armchair at the head of the table, and hoisted himself into it, as if he were already master.
Three
‘He keeps trying to say something all the time, Winnie, a word. Look, his lips come together, like this.’ Jane imitated the movement of McBain’s mouth. Then looking down at him again, she said, ‘W . . . w . . . w . . . wound? work? worry? No?’ She shook her head as she gazed into the eyes that were staring up into hers, their colour paler than ever now, yet their expression keen, even piercing, ‘Will . . . Will Curran?’ She glanced quickly at Winnie. Her father’s eyelid had flickered, then stopped. She said softly, ‘Will Curran?’
The lids closed and remained closed.
It was Winnie who said on a high note of excitement, ‘Will . . . you know, his will. That’s what it is. Master’ – she was bending over him – ‘your will?’
Now the eyelids blinked slowly and definitely, and Winnie raised her head and looked at Jane and stated excitedly, ‘That’s it, his will!’
Jane’s voice too was excited. ‘You want your will, Father? Don’t worry, I’ll get it, I’ll find it.’
Hurrying out, she ran down the stairs, across the hall, and burst into the office, then stopped dead within the doorway at the sight of Amos sitting in her father’s chair behind the desk.
‘What are you doing?’ There was an abruptness in her manner.
‘What does it look like?’ he answered coolly. ‘I’m looking through the bills and things, somebody’s got to keep things going. Or’ – he pushed his shoulders back – ‘do you think it would be better if I went upstairs and locked myself in the attic?’
‘Don’t be silly, Amos. And at a time like this. But you know that’s Father’s desk and . . . ’
‘And’ – he mimicked her – ‘I was never allowed in here. You don’t have to remind me. And I’m going to ask you something. Do you think he’ll ever use this desk and chair again? He’s paralysed, and no matter what kind of a monstrosity he considered me, I’m his son and I’ll take over when he’s gone.’
‘Amos, you talk as if he were already dead, it’s dreadful.’
‘Jane. Jane.’ He screwed himself backwards into the chair, then bent his body forward over the desk. ‘It’s dreadful you say. Because I’m honest you say it’s dreadful. You don’t say that his treatment of me over all these years was dreadful, inhuman . . . that’s the word, inhuman. And you know something? He’s made me almost inhuman, because if they got him out of that bed now and hung him on a cross it would not arouse one spark of pity in me. And that is dreadful, don’t you think, Jane? That is really dreadful. Don’t you realise that if it hadn’t been for you I might have been a real “thing” . . . a real IT left crawling around that attic. He would have had the windows blocked up; he would have made me into an imbecile . . . ’
‘Amos! Amos!’ She was covering her face. ‘He wouldn’t, he would never have done such a thing. He’s not like that at all. He’s . . . ’ She stopped, then sank on to a chair, her face still covered, for even as she defended her father, denying all Amos said he was capable of, there was some part of her that recognised that what her brother said might have taken place if she herself hadn’t been at hand was true. Human beings were capable of the most hideous things. It had been a hard lesson to learn but she had learnt it. She shook her head wearily, then her gaze focused intently on Amos. Somebody’s got to keep things going, he had said. It came to her with an unpleasant shock that he was already running things in his mind; the farm was already his. She felt a shudder of apprehension. Strangely, she did not want Amos to be in control of the farm. True, he was his father’s son and sons inherited without question, but her father would not have wanted Amos to have the farm; no, never . . .
The will. She must find the will. She rose and went towards the desk, saying, ‘Have you come across the will?’
‘The will?’ He shook his head.
‘Well, it must be here somewhere.’
She began to search, and he, too. They pulled out drawers, they looked through papers, until, stopping abruptly, she said, ‘What am I thinking about? It’ll be in the wall safe.’
She went over to the fireplace and, lifting down the picture from the wall above the mantelshelf, she exposed a door. It was an old-fashioned wall safe, having a keyhole to the side. She went back to the desk and, picking up a bunch of keys, said, ‘It’s one of these.’ After trying a number of keys she foun
d the right one and when the door was opened she took out a bundle of papers, some yellow with age, their seared edges curling. When she placed them on the table Amos grabbed half of them towards him and began looking swiftly through them. After a time he said, ‘These are all deeds, old deeds, of the house and land.’
‘Most of these, too.’ She spread her fingers over the papers and bank receipts, then looked about her. ‘It must be somewhere.’
Amos remained seated and quiet. He watched her going round the room, searching the cupboards and drawers. She hadn’t as yet come to the old-fashioned desk standing in the corner to the right of the window. The desk was of a warm brown veneer; it had a four-inch flat top from where dropped a curved lid hinged in the middle which folded back. The writing flap pulled out in slots, and the inner panel could be raised up at an angle for ease of working. There were three doors down one side of the desk and cupboard space at the other. He knew all about this type of desk, he was interested in furniture, at least in wood, and it was through this interest that he had read books on period furniture. There was nearly always in such pieces a secret drawer. He wondered if Jane knew about it. He watched her lifting up the lid, pulling out the writing flap, and opening the little drawers above it. When she spoke to herself, saying, ‘It couldn’t be in here at any rate, it would be too large,’ he made no comment. He watched her pull out the drawers at the side of the desk, and again he made no comment when she said, ‘These are full of old bills dating back’ – she paused as she scrutinised the sheaf of papers in her hand, then ended, ‘Dear, dear; a seed bill from 1822.’
Her examination of the cupboards at the other side revealed only further bundles of bills and when she straightened her back and asked, ‘Where can it be?’ he answered, ‘If you don’t know how should I?’
She stood biting her lip for a moment, then said, ‘I’d better get back; he may be able to give me some indication.’
He watched her go out of the room. Then slipping down from the chair and moving on all fours to the desk, he pulled himself up. Having raised the lid he drew out one of the small drawers above the writing flap and gently moved his fingers along the roof of the drawer and, as he expected, came upon a knob, and when he pressed this gently the whole top of the desk rose slowly and exposed a long narrow shelf with a similar drawer beneath, and on the shelf lay what Jane was looking for.
Without examining it he thrust it inside his coat. Then reaching out he pressed the top of the desk down into place again, closed the flap, crawled back into his crutches, and went out and up the stairs to his room.
The door closed, and having no fear of interruption, he sat down near the window and unfolded the long piece of parchment, to find it held a similar piece inside. He held them up and looked from one to the other; then he read the outer one first. It began in legal terms:
‘I, Angus Forrester McBain, of Cock Shield Farm in the County of Northumberland, revoke all wills and testamentary dispositions heretofore made by me and declare this to be my last will.
I appoint my wife Delia Florence McBain, to be the sole executor of this my will, but if she shall predecease me, or die without having proved this my will, I appoint my daughter Jane Mary Alexandria McBain, to be the sole executor.
Should my daughter have predeceased me I appoint my only brother, James Francis McBain of 8 The Knole, Birkside, Edinburgh, to be the sole executor. In the case that he has predeceased me my estate to be divided among his children.
I state here that I hope the above contingency does not arise as I have not seen or associated with my brother or any member of his family for twenty years.’
There was more, but he stopped here. This had been written before he was born; it was meaningless. He looked at the other parchment. It was dated 10th day of September 1889 and was not in the beautiful script of the other paper but written in a thin spidery handwriting; nor was the wording so official as in the other, yet there was a legal turn to the phrasing of the one paragraph which stated:
‘I, Angus Forrester McBain, hereby revoke all my former wills and declare this to be my wish and last will. I leave my estate and all it entails completely to my daughter Jane Mary Alexandria McBain, I do this unconditionally. Signed Angus Forrester McBain and witnessed by . . . ’
Underneath was the almost unintelligible signature of the Reverend John William Wainwright and underneath that the signature of the Reverend Arnold Hedley.
He held both parchments out before him. His jaws were tightly clenched. No word of him, not even a reference that Jane should provide for him. This last will was written when he was ten years old, the day following his birthday, the very day his father had turned him out of the dining room. Would anyone believe that a man could disown his own in such a way, even if his own had grown to be an idiot?
If there had been a spark of remorse in him for what he had done two nights ago it would have fled at this moment; this deed vindicated his action. His gaze dropped to the papers again. The last one had not been drawn up by a solicitor, but it would be held valid, the signatures of two such witnesses would be enough for that. And where would it leave him? At the mercy of Jane’s generosity. Oh, she would be generous, she would look after him until he died.
He slipped from the chair and stood upright on his stumps. From now on there was no-one going to dictate to him, not even Jane. He would rule, he would be master of this house or die in the attempt. It was either him or his father.
This last will taken care of, there remained only the other one, the legal one, which left everything to his mother; and his mother was dead, and he was his mother’s son. Nobody could get over that, could they? And should the parsons remember that they signed a will in 1889, what could they do if it couldn’t be found . . . what?
He went swiftly to the table near his bed and, taking up a box of matches, he lit a candle, and when it was well alight he held over it the piece of paper that would have robbed him of the recompense he considered his due. When it was burnt two-thirds through he moved on his stumps in a body-twisting motion and dropped the paper into the empty grate and watched it curl into black ash. Then he picked up the other will and, putting it in his pocket, he went to find Jane to tell her that she needn’t worry any more, he had found what she was looking for.
Four
‘What is it?’ Winnie looked at Molly as she came slowly into the kitchen. ‘Is he worse?’
‘Aye, I should think so. He’s agitated, got somethin’ on his mind.’
‘Well, that’s natural,’ said Winnie. ‘It’s likely that Miss Reed. Did Miss Jane tell him she’d called?’
‘Not when I was in she didn’t.’
‘I’ll take this broth up.’ Winnie went to pick up a tray from the table, adding, ‘Then I’ll slip along the road for half an hour and get them something. Davie says he can manage, an’ I dare say he could with a galley concoction.’
‘Well, leave it down, I’ll see to it. I’ve got to go up again anyway.’
‘You sure, lass?’
‘Yes, yes. Get yourself away. An’ you needn’t rush, ’cos the dinner here’s all ready. Not that anybody’ll eat it.’
‘I know one will.’ Winnie’s voice was low, and when Molly didn’t answer but stood gazing down at the steam rising from the broth, she went on, ‘I know he hasn’t been treated fair but he’s struttin’ around like a stumped peacock, as if he was already the master . . . ’ Winnie stopped and, looking closely at Molly now, asked under her breath, ‘What is it, lass?’ But as soon as she had put the question she thought it was a stupid thing to say for there were three things at least that could bring Molly low at the present moment. There was the master near death, and if there had been nothing between them for years, there had at one time, and the evidence of it was in the dairy at this minute. Then there was the fact of her Davie coming back. Fifteen years was a long time, time enough to for
get a man and marry, but she hadn’t married. Then there was a third thing that was always worrying her, Master Amos and his constant chasing of Biddy, and his acting at times like a normal man who owned her. Yes, she had a lot on her plate had Molly, and she was sorry for her. She had grown to like her over the years, and that was odd because at one time she had thought her fast and brash, but at that time she had been fearful of her hooking Davie, and she had wanted someone better for her lad. She still did, but there was no fear of Davie falling again. Davie the man was a different kettle of fish from Davie the youth, or even the young sailor who had turned up five years ago in much the same way as he had come in the other night.
She watched Molly now pick up the tray as she said, ‘Oh, I’m like the lot of us, just tired,’ and smile weakly as she added, ‘Go on an’ get them something, an’ as I said don’t hurry back. Biddy’ll help me here. There’ll only be one for the dinin’ room, Miss Jane will have hers upstairs.’
‘Thanks, lass.’ They nodded at each other, then Molly went out with the tray and as she crossed the hall she looked towards the dining room and she repeated to herself, ‘Only one for the dinin’ room.’ That maimed skit would be lording it in the master’s chair when he should be in . . . She gulped and gripped the tray tighter. She’d have to tell somebody and the only one she could talk to was Winnie. But then Winnie might let on to Miss Jane, Winnie wasn’t all that cautious. And what would happen then? Miss Jane had had nothing out of life but worry and frustration. Courting the parson for years, a walk across the fields on a Sunday or up to the Tor. There hadn’t even been the comfort of a roll in the hay. No, Miss Jane mustn’t know; but she must tell somebody about that devil or bust.
She had always known he was bad; she had tried to make Biddy see he was bad, but Biddy was sorry for him. Biddy said she understood him. And well she might.
Feathers in the Fire Page 20
