Feathers in the Fire

by Catherine Cookson

  It was as he turned the corner into Grainger Street that he bumped into her. He went to sidestep, saying, ‘Pardon, Ma’am,’ when he exclaimed on a high note, ‘Oh w . . . why! Miss Jane!’

  ‘Well!’ Jane shook her head. ‘Of all the places to meet.’

  ‘It’s right what they say after all; it’s a small world.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She laughed gently. ‘As you say it’s a small world. I . . . I was just making my way back to the train.’

  ‘Well, so was I, Miss.’

  ‘Oh!’ She remained still, her face slightly flushed. She felt embarrassed. If she had met Johnnie or Mickey or Will Curran, or anyone else from the farm, she would have walked with them down to the train and thought nothing of it, but this man, this sailor, was not of the farm, not any more, and his dress denied all connection with the country; he was very well set up, quite spruce; he had grown into a fine man had Winnie’s Davie, but she found him a little disconcerting. She had spoken to him twice since his return and each time she had been made uneasy by his presence. It was as if he forced himself on her notice. But that wasn’t true, because his manner was most correct.

  ‘Shall I take those for you?’ He was lifting the packages from her arms, and she said, ‘Oh. Oh, thank you, Davie.’ It did not feel natural to call him Davie, it was as if she was taking a liberty, but what else could she call him, not Mr Armstrong.

  When, her four parcels held in one arm, he took her elbow and, turning sideways, shouldered his way through the crowd so that she could remain on the pavement and not be pushed into the muddy road, she thought he had quite good manners. She had understood that most sailors were gauche and cumbersome owing to their being deprived of society for such long intervals, but then, country people too were considered gauche.

  His courtesy surprised her further when, as they approached the station, he asked her would she care for some refreshment. She thanked him kindly and told him that she had just eaten, which was not true, and she could have done with a cup of tea, in fact she had intended to go and have a light meal before catching the train. She didn’t know why she hadn’t made this clear to him.

  They were fortunate in only having to wait ten minutes for the train and as they stood on the platform he said to her, ‘I don’t know whether we’ll be able to travel together, Miss Jane, I’ve only a third-class ticket.’

  ‘We’ll be able to travel together.’ She nodded slowly. ‘I have a third-class ticket too.’ They smiled at each other, then laughed gently.

  As he looked at her he thought, her skin’s as white as milk; black suits her. Funny how she’s escaped being beautiful. She could have been that; she’s just missed it somehow. Now if her expression was different, more happy like. There’s something missing. How old is she? Twenty-six. No, twenty-seven. She looks older, thirty if a day. She carries herself well; she’s straight, a bit too straight perhaps. Pity she hadn’t a bit of what Molly has up top. Well, not quite up top – he smiled inwardly – say just above amidships.

  ‘Are you looking forward to returning to sea?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. All the time I’ve been away I’ve dreamed of the farm and the country around, you know, and now when I’m back I feel at a loose end. I suppose it’s not having anything to do. If I was working it would be different.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to return to the land?’

  ‘Ah, that’s a difficult one, for what is there for a man in my position on the land these days?’

  ‘Yes, things are difficult.’

  The train came in and they took their seats, sitting side by side, and the silence that now fell between them caused little embarrassment because of the other occupants in the carriage and the rattling of the train itself.

  It wasn’t until they reached Hexham and were making their way to the stables to collect the horse and trap that they began talking again. Their conversation now took the form of question and answer, and strangely it was Jane who asked the questions: What did his work entail? What did he do in his spare time? Did he still read? To this last he answered with some pride, ‘Oh yes, Miss Jane, everything I can get me hands on. I stock up well afore a trip. But what’s more, I’ve teached others their letters. Afore I became second mate the fo’c’sle was like a schoolroom.’ He laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe, Miss, what it means to a man when he can write his own name; gives him a sort of dignity. In some boats there’s not much difference atween the rats in the holds and the humans below decks, because they’re not treated any better than you would treat vermin; an’ there was many such in our boat. But you know, Miss, once those fellows could spell cat, dog, rat and fat, an’ write their name, why, it was like a miracle, what it did for them. But mind, I’m not saying it acted in all cases for some of them had nothing in their noddles, and a belaying-pin wouldn’t have knocked it in.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ she said; ‘what a thoughtful thing to do, to teach men their letters.’ And she did think so. Although his grammar left a lot to be desired she recognised in him an intelligence above the average, and the fact that he wished to impart his little learning to others gave him a prestige in her eyes.

  At the stables she said, ‘Will you take the reins, Davie?’ and he answered, ‘I’d like nothin’ better, Miss.’ And so in the growing twilight they drove home together, and laughed and chatted all the way.

  Later, they both remarked to themselves in private that it was strange but they had not spoken of her father, or of Amos, or of Parson Hedley.

  It was the following morning that Amos made his way to the cottage to see Davie. He’d had no real conversation with him since he had returned, but this was not to say that he hadn’t thought about him, Davie had been in his mind constantly.

  The feeling that he’d had for the sailor when he himself was a child still remained, he liked him. In his company he felt a man, a whole man, they were men together. He would like him for a friend. Yes, and the balance of possession would weigh heavily towards himself, for the relationship would give him both a friend and a servant, a double advantage.

  He knew Winnie was about her duties in the house, and he hoped old Sep was still abed. And this he found when he knocked on the door and it was opened by Davie who stood aside to let him hobble into the empty kitchen.

  Going straight towards a chair he hoisted himself expertly on to it, laid his crutches to the side, then, a hand on each arm of the chair, he leant back and said, ‘Now then.’

  Davie stood at the end of the mantelpiece and looked at the massive upper body of the boy, his width exaggerated still further by the grotesquely short stumps and feet. He had spoken to him as a master might speak to his man: ‘Now then, let’s get on with it.’ He reached out and took his clay pipe from the rack above the mantelshelf, bent down and knocked the dead dottle out against the bars, then peered down into the empty bowl before opening a penknife and scraping it.

  ‘Eeh! Oh! that puts my teeth on edge; why don’t you smoke a wooden one?’

  ‘This does me.’

  Amos looked at him through narrowed lids. He sensed a lack of friendliness in his tone, definitely a lack of deference. Still, he wasn’t his master . . . yet. ‘Winnie tells me you went to see your ship yesterday.’

  ‘Yes. I did that.’

  ‘How did you find her?’

  ‘Oh’ – Davie allowed himself to grin – ‘with her backside bare; she wasn’t a nice sight.’

  Amos’ high fresh laugh brought Davie’s eyes tight on him, and in this moment he was doubting Molly’s tale; the laughing face looked good, incapable of such destruction as killing, and the victim his own father, be he what he may. Yet put himself in the lad’s place, ignored for years, treated like an animal, what would he have done? Very likely have tried to have a go at the old man long before this. You couldn’t judge such things, a man could stand only so much. And what
was more, this was no lad, no boy; although his years were few he was a man. Funny, his mother had said the same thing last night when they were talking. ‘He was born a man,’ she said, ‘in his mind, that is.’

  ‘Are you anxious to get back to sea?’

  Davie was shredding a plug of baccy in the palm of his hand and he contemplated it before answering, ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Just yes and no. It’s my job, but I’d be happier if my ship could sail around these hills.’

  Again Amos laughed; then, his face settling into its sombre pattern, he watched Davie filling his pipe. He watched him light it with a spill before he said, ‘You needn’t go back, you could stay here and work for me.’

  Slowly Davie turned his head to the side and looked at the figure sitting in the chair, the big head held up, the neck stretching away from the shoulders, the back straight. For a moment he was reminded of a figurehead such as one or two of the old ships still carried. He had said, ‘You can work for me,’ not, ‘You can come back and I’ll find you a job on the farm,’ but ‘You can work for me.’ It was as his mother said, he was playing the master all right. He now threw his own head back and laughed, a deep short laugh, and, as if he was dealing with a child and a joke, he said, ‘Oh yes, work for you. And what would you offer me?’

  ‘Fifteen shillings a week.’

  He took the pipe from his mouth, puffed out a thin stream of smoke, then raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and repeated, ‘Fifteen shillings a week.’

  He would pay fifteen shillings, well! well! And in these days when a farm labourer who received ten shillings together with his cottage and perks would consider himself damn lucky. He was only picking up twelve shillings himself and sometimes the food turned his stomach, biscuits that walked towards you drawn by weevils, and meat that heralded its approach with a whiff that would knock you down. Fifteen shillings, well! well! His mouth moved into a twisted smile as he said, ‘And what would you be expecting of me for fifteen shillings, because, you must remember, I haven’t been on a farm for this many a long year, I’ve almost forgotten where the milk comes from. A fellow I once knew thought it came by pumping the beast’s tail, I’m not much better. Fifteen shillings. You’d want something for your fifteen shillings, now wouldn’t you? And would you mind telling me what it is?’

  ‘A gaffer, manager, someone to see to the others; there’s a lot of time-wasters about. Mickey’s all right, but Johnnie’s a dodger, and Will wants stirring.’

  ‘And I would have to stir?’

  ‘You would have to stir.’

  ‘Well!’ He let out a long breath, then drew on his pipe again before saying, ‘You won’t remember it but there was a time when it took nine men going at it hard to run this place. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say they were all men because the two Gearys were young, but they worked hard, as did Curran’s two, they were doing a man’s work at ten, and now with only three left to do the work, you want me to hustle them.’

  ‘The place isn’t run as it was years ago, and you already know that, if you’ve walked round; there’s walls down, gates banging off. Anyway, I intend to cut the land.’

  ‘Cut the land?’ Davie’s face was screwed up in inquiry.

  ‘Yes, Sir Alfred’s been after that bottom stretch for years. It’s not productive, only pretty, and we can do without that.’

  ‘That’ll mean letting the burn and the malt house go.’ There was indignation in Davie’s voice but Amos did not seem to notice it, for he went on, ‘The burn will go, yes, but I’m keeping the malt house; that’ll be for Jane and the parson when I marry.’

  Davie felt the muscles of his face sagging. He just stopped his jaw from drooping and from repeating the word marry.

  When this young fellow here talked you could forget he hadn’t legs, there was a virility in his voice, certainly a virility in his torso. The way he had of sitting straight, without movement, gave the impression of power. But when he spoke of marriage as if it was a certainty, you remembered he hadn’t legs . . . Still – his shoulders made a slight movement – what of it, he had the necessary to make a marriage work, in one direction that was. But who would take him on? Which lass would be willing to go to bed with that? Oh – again there was a movement of his shoulders as he answered himself – some would. When they got past twenty there were those who’d hook up with a blind beggar, so desperate they became. There were others, who he thought were in the majority, who’d become sick at the thought, that is unless they cared for him. That was the word, cared. Not so much loving, but caring. There was a big difference here. He had learned that from watching his mother and father. He doubted if his mother had ever loved his father; but she had cared for him, and they’d been happy together . . . Yes, if the lad found somebody who cared, somebody of the type of Miss Jane who was all heart and sacrifice, he would marry. But there were few Miss Janes about.

  ‘Well, what do you say?’

  ‘Aw, you’re not serious?’

  ‘Serious? Of course, I’m serious.’

  Davie stiffened at the tone, and his own matched it now when he replied, ‘It’s a thing that’ll need considerin’, a lot of thinkin’ about. I could say no right away for I don’t know whether I’d like working for you any more than I did your father . . . ’

  His words were cut off by Amos letting out a high laugh, and he looked at him in surprise, for the master was gone and the boy was back as he said, ‘You know that’s what I like about you, Davie; you’re different, you’re not afraid to say what you think. I remember, all those years back, you clouted me, didn’t you? Any other one on the farm wouldn’t have dared, but you did.’ He reached for his crutches and slid from the chair, and looking up at Davie, he said, ‘Think hard on it, I’d be obliged if you’d stay.’ He paused, then ended, ‘I need you, someone like you to balance things. And remember, it would make your mother happy.’

  Davie made no answer to this, but watched him going towards the door. He hadn’t rushed to open it for him but had left him to manoeuvre it himself. Not until he had gone through the door and was some way down the road did he go towards it and close it. Then he returned to the fireplace and, bending down, leaned his forearms on the mantelshelf and laid his brow on his hands and looked down at the fire . . .

  A short while later, when he went upstairs, old Sep said, ‘Did I hear the young master down below?’

  ‘Aye, Granda, you heard him.’

  ‘What’s he after?’

  ‘He’s offered me a job, manager of the farm, sort of.’

  ‘What!’ Sep pulled himself up in bed with startling agility seeing that he could hardly move with rheumatics. ‘Name of God! he didn’t!’

  ‘He did. Fifteen bob a week.’

  ‘Name of God!’ The exclamation was higher this time. ‘Fifteen bob a week! Aw, lad. Well, I always knew you’d make it one day.’

  ‘Now, Granda, now, now. You lay yourself down; this needs thinking about.’

  The old man, now gripping his hand, looked up at him and whispered, ‘Stay, Davie, stay.’

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see. As I said, it needs thinking about.’

  But as he went down the stairs he knew he had already thought about it, he was manager of the farm.

  Six

  Jane stood before the desk in the office and looked down on Amos. Her face was tight and there was anger in her voice as she said, ‘Please don’t send for me as if I were a servant, Amos. And if you wish to talk to me I prefer that you do not sit in father’s chair and behind his desk.’

  He stared at her, his face equally tight and his voice grim as he said, ‘And you forget that times have changed, Jane. This is no longer father’s chair and desk, it is mine.’

  Their glances held for a moment; then he quickly tossed his head from side to side and, h
is voice and manner changing completely, said, ‘Aw, Jane, don’t let’s quarrel. Look, I’m sorry. I just asked Winnie to tell you I’d like a word with you.’ He leaned across the desk and put his hand out and caught at hers, saying softly, ‘Please, come on, sit down.’

  She remained straight and stiff for a moment longer; then slowly she turned about and pulled a chair forward and, seating herself, looked at him, once her beloved child, her charge.

  For sixteen years she had spent her energies and her love on him, and although her life had been hard, tiresome and dull at times, it had been without fear. But since her father died she had been full of fear; of what she didn’t rightly know for she wouldn’t admit to herself that it was fear of him.

  In two short weeks the whole atmosphere of the place had changed. Everyone was on edge. The only good thing he had done was to persuade Davie Armstrong to become a working manager. Yet this hadn’t found favour with the others. Will Curran was openly opposed to it, as also was Johnnie. Mickey was the only one who welcomed the new innovation, at least among the men. Winnie, she knew, was over the moon. And Molly – one couldn’t tell what Molly was thinking. But Molly wasn’t acting like herself these days either, so perhaps she, too, was disturbed by the new arrangement.

  Arnold thought it was a very sensible move on the part of Amos, but then he had always been very fond of Davie, although he had pointed out that a sixteen year gap was a long time to be away from farm work, for things on the land had changed a lot. Davie’s job wouldn’t be easy if he wanted the place to pay its way.

  This was another thing; she had discovered that the farm, far from paying its way, had been losing money, there was a heavy mortgage on the house. She had found out a great number of things when she went to Newcastle to see the solicitor . . . She had gone to him purposely because she couldn’t believe that her father had made no provision for her.