Feathers in the Fire

by Catherine Cookson

  Davie turned his head and looked at the old man, and like an echo rising from the past the words conjured up the scene in the kitchen all those years ago when his granda had said, ‘I smell a rat,’ and the rat had turned out to be the master. His granda was good at smelling rats although he couldn’t unearth them. And now he smelt a rat with regard to Master Amos.

  What was that legless giant doing up on the Tor at this hour? Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’d make it his business to take a walk up there. It was some long time since he had been up there himself, for with one thing and another he had more than his hands full down here, but tomorrow morning as soon as it was light he’d take a dander to Shale Tor, and maybe he’d unearth the rat.

  At about the time Sep had called down to Davie, Jane was helping Arnold to pack the last of her possessions into the old Vicarage trap. And it was an old trap. It was old when Arnold had first taken up his position at the Vicarage, and since then its shafts had only known two ponies; the present one, Betty by name, was eighteen years old. She was sweet natured and patient, as a pony who pulled a parson should be. She had never taken fright or bolted; she was known far and wide and was loved by old and young alike, and her middle was inclined to thickness because of the fruit and titbits she received.

  Jane went to her head now and patted her while Arnold lit the side lamps, remarking as he did so, ‘The glass has cracked in both panels of this one. You wouldn’t think a candle would generate so much heat, would you?’

  ‘No, Arnold, no, you wouldn’t.’

  They stood together now at the back of the trap. She could just see his face. His eyes were so kindly, so full of tenderness and concern. She told herself yet again that she was very fond of Arnold, very fond; yet when he put his arms out and drew her gently into them she stiffened. It was only the slightest movement of resistance but he felt it and said reassuringly, ‘It’s all right, my dear, there is no-one about.’ He turned his head to look one way, then the other. ‘All are going to their rest, animals, men and women alike. God made the night for rest and for . . . ’ The word that jumped into her own mind was love, but when, after a slight pause he added peace, she wondered if in the future his stilted phraseology, his pedantic way of speaking might not get on her nerves. He had taught her to speak correctly, he had corrected her diction from when she was small, and later had tried to guide her thinking, but in the latter he had never succeeded, for her thoughts had always run wild.

  When his lips touched hers they created no responsive feeling; his fingers caressing her wrists twanged the strings of passion in her more than his lips did; but he was Arnold, dear, dear Arnold, and the day after tomorrow she would be his wife.

  Her books and two cases of clothes were all the personal possessions she was taking with her, although Amos had been surprisingly generous at the last. He was giving her the china cabinet from the drawing room, and at least a third of the cutlery, besides the small silver tea service that had never been used, and also the furniture from her bedroom; all these would go to the Vicarage tomorrow on the farm cart.

  Over the past few days Amos’ manner towards her had been exemplary; she had never known him to be kinder, or more considerate. He was, she knew, trying to make up to her for the scene in the dining room. As he had said last night, he had only one sister and he wanted her to go on loving him, no matter where she was. She had been very touched, and she told herself again that if only he had been like this over the past two years she could not have borne to leave him.

  ‘Goodnight my dear, dear Jane. Only one more parting and then we’ll be together, always together.’ He now took her face tenderly between his hands, adding, ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear, of anything. Your peace of mind will be my whole concern; you will know nothing but tenderness and consideration at my hands.’

  ‘Oh Arnold! Arnold!’ She was near to tears, and impulsively she clung to him, almost fiercely, until he laughed shakily and said, ‘There now, there now, I must be away; even Betty is getting impatient.’ His lips touched hers gently; and then he got up into the trap, and immediately Betty moved off.

  She followed the trap until it passed through the farm gates into the road and there she called, ‘Goodbye, Arnold. Goodbye.’ And he answered her, ‘Goodbye, my dear. Goodbye.’ Then she stood watching the jogging lights disappear into the distance.

  It was dawn the next morning when the trap and pony and parson were found at the bottom of the valley. The parson was lying beneath the pony; the trap had disintegrated into matchwood underneath the boulders that had come down in the landslide from Shale Tor.

  Three

  ‘She’s like someone demented.’ Molly stared down at Davie. ‘She’s bent on getting up, but the doctor said she had to stay put for at least another week or so. An’ she hardly opens her mouth, except to say “Yes, Molly. No, Molly. Thanks, Molly.” She lies there, starin’ ahead, for all the world as if she was seeing something that wasn’t there. You know what I mean?’

  Davie nodded, then absent-mindedly pushed away from him the head of the cow he was milking.

  ‘And you know somethin’ else? She’s never opened her mouth to him, not once, leastways not when I’ve been there.’

  Davie turned his head sharply towards her now as he asked, ‘Has she said anything, I mean why she’s not speakin’ to him?’

  ‘No, not a word. But I can say this, he’s been different since the parson went. Give him his due, he’s done everything in his power . . . ’

  ‘Aye, he’s done everything in his power.’

  ‘What did you say? What did you say, Davie?’

  ‘I was just thinkin’.’

  Molly continued to look at him for almost a full minute before she said quietly, ‘Biddy’s bein’ married the day.’

  Again his head jerked towards her. ‘She is? Well, well. Now why didn’t you go down? Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I was, I was for it, but I ask you, could I leave Miss Jane like this? She hasn’t a soul to turn to; not even the old crabs who used to swarm round the parson come visitin’ her . . . But that’s ’cos of him, they’re feared of him. I’ve never seen anybody so lost lookin’ as her, so I couldn’t go off.’

  Davie stared into her round hazel eyes. She had a heart for people’s troubles; as he had said afore, he’d give her credit for that. But it wasn’t right, she should have been at her lass’ wedding, she should have had that much out of life. He checked his softened thinking with regards to her; he no longer held any animosity towards her yet he was still determined within himself that she wasn’t getting any further than his outer skin. And so he said, ‘I think the best thing would be if she did get up. Lying there, she’ll just brood. The days are cuttin’ in; she should get out in the air while the weather’s fit. I would let her get up if I was you.’

  ‘Aye, perhaps you’re right.’ She gazed at him as she nodded; then she turned slowly away.

  Again he pushed at the cow’s muzzling head. Then rising, he unloosened the chain that held her to the milking stall and slapped her rump as she backed out and followed the rest of the small herd into the fields. He then carried the last pail of milk into the dairy where Mickey, pausing in the business of filling a churn from surrounding buckets, remarked flatly, ‘Don’t know how much you’ve got there, Davie, but this’s down again; soon not be worth the cartage into town.’

  Davie was on the point of retorting sharply, ‘Well, that’s not your worry,’ when he checked himself. Mickey was a good lad, and in a way he was concerned for the place, for he had been bred on it. It was his home, he had known no other, but the lass he was courting had no mind to start life here. Moreover, she was scared to death of Master Amos, so in a short time he’d likely follow Johnnie and start his married life elsewhere. What he said was, ‘It’s a problem I wish I could see the end of.’

  Mickey asked now, ‘Do you think there�
�s any truth in this business of him sellin’ the bottom fields?’

  ‘I should say there’s no smoke without fire, lad.’

  ‘But how’s he goin’ to go on for hay and winter feed, he’s not daft, he knows that if you can’t grow it you’ve got to buy it?’

  ‘You don’t need winter feed if you haven’t got any cattle.’

  ‘You mean . . . you mean he’d do away with the lot? But, but how would he live?’

  ‘Sheep and pigs he says. Sheep on the hills and just enough land to grow tatties, an’ a cow or two for his own use. That’s how he sees things.’

  ‘God! the place’ll be no better than a shanty plot.’

  ‘You’ve said it, lad; no better than a shanty plot.’

  ‘Eeh! it’s a wonder the master doesn’t turn in his grave.’

  ‘It’s my guess he’s turned so often of late he’s so dizzy he’s havin’ to hang on to the handles.’

  Mickey’s burst of laughter brought a slow chuckle from Davie, then he was laughing as loud as the young fellow.

  ‘Eeh! that was funny, Davie.’ Mickey wiped his eyes. ‘It does you good to laugh.’

  ‘Aye Mickey, it does you good to laugh.’ He turned away thinking, ’tis strange how a man changes, for who would have thought I’d crack a joke over McBain.

  A few minutes later when crossing the yard he stopped as he saw Molly come running from the house. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s up an’ gone, she’s gone out. She’s not in the house anywhere.’

  ‘Well, don’t frash yourself; she’s done what we said she should do, she’s gone for a walk, taken the air.’

  ‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think she’s put any clothes on, and she doesn’t seem right in her mind. There’s no knowin’ what she might do.’

  ‘No clothes on!’ He screwed up his face, then said quickly, ‘I’ll go up on the ridge and look over the land from there, you go down by the burn.’

  ‘But if she’s not there . . . ?’

  ‘Well, go and see, woman. How do you know she won’t be there until you go and see?’ His voice was harsh, and he saw her bridle for a moment before she turned sharply away.

  He ran swiftly into the road now, across the fields, over the stone walls and up on to the ridge. The sky was high, the light was clear. It was silvery white light through which you could see for miles. He picked out the various paths and roads, and saw on one what could be the trap returning from Hexham bearing the ‘Lord of The Manor’ back to what remained of Cock Shield Farm. His thoughts were always tinged with sarcasm when they dwelt on Amos. Finally, he looked up towards the Tor, because that was the last place, he imagined, she would make for. But there, on the winding path, moving around the face was a figure. It could have been anyone from this distance, man, woman or child, but immediately he knew it was her.

  He leaped down the slope, the impetus acting like springs to his feet, then raced across the fields, swung himself over three low stone walls, all the while descending into the valley to a spot just to the right of where he had helped to lift the body of the parson in the early morning of the day before he was to be married.

  He was gasping for breath when he reached the Tor road. Then he was running up the winding path, and when he reached the summit he stopped, both from lack of breath and surprise, for there she was in her night attire standing in front of the rocking stone, her finger pointing down to it, as if she was accusing it personally.

  He drew in a number of short breaths before he moved slowly towards her. He reached to within three yards of her and she didn’t turn or move from her position. Very softly he said, ‘Miss Jane!’ Then again, more firmly now, ‘Miss Jane!’

  Her finger wavered, her eyes blinked. Slowly she turned her head and looked at him. Then like a child whimpering after receiving a fright, she said, ‘Davie . . . oh, Davie.’

  ‘It’s all right, Miss Jane.’ He moved another step towards her. Her arm dropped to her side now. Her body looked limp, slumped, she didn’t seem aware that she was still in her night attire. Her nightdress was made of lawn with a small frilled collar; the sleeves came down to the wrists and ended in frills; the hem fell below her ankles and showed a faded pair of blue velvet slippers, dust covered now, as was the hem of the nightdress. He said gently, ‘It’s all right, Miss Jane, it’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Oh yes – Davie – yes – there – is – something – something to worry about.’ She was speaking like a child now, her words resting on her tongue before she delivered them. ‘The stone . . . Davie.’ She turned now and pointed again to the stone. ‘He could never move this . . . not this one.’

  God Almighty! she knew; that’s what it was, she knew. It had turned her brain because she knew. His granda was right and his smelling of rats. What was to be done?

  ‘Davie.’

  ‘Yes, Ja . . . Miss Jane.’

  ‘Look.’ She held out her hand and caught his, and now she led him across the top of the Tor to the raw jagged edge left by the fall. He had to check her from going too near. Her finger was again pointing stiffly, but downwards towards their feet now, as she said, ‘He had them all lined up here. The boys from the village, he said the boys from the village had moved them, but I knew a long time ago he had done it himself, Davie.’ Her voice was breaking now and her face, like a child’s, was crumpling into tears. ‘Da-vie, he killed Arnold. Amos ki-lled Arnold. I . . . I heard Betty scream. A horse screams when it’s frightened, Davie. It screams louder than anything in the world a horse does. Davie . . . Davie, he killed Arnold. He said he wouldn’t let me leave him; he was lonely, he wouldn’t let me go, so he killed Arnold.’

  The tears were dropping over her lower lids now, big, slow drops. They seemed to be falling into his own throat, swelling it. She still had hold of his hand. He put out his other and took her arm and drew her gently back from the edge. Now she was gulping her words out while she blinked up into his face. ‘He . . . he was drinking when I went into the dining room that night. He . . . he didn’t expect me, Davie, he didn’t expect to see me. He . . . he started, and, and he was . . . was drinking. Amos doesn’t drink. He gambles but he doesn’t drink. Whisky, a big glass of whisky. Gulping . . . gulping it.’

  ‘There now. There now. Don’t distress yourself!’

  ‘Davie, Davie, I’m . . . I’m lost and I’ve nowhere to go. I can’t . . . I can’t get away from him, and I cannot tell the police because . . . because I still love him, Davie. He . . . he is my brother and I’m all he has, but . . . but I hate him, Davie. I love him and I hate him. I am distressed, Davie, I am very, very distressed.’ Her voice had risen; her face was contorted; the tears were choking her, her sobs turning into wails. When she fell against him he put his arms about her and stroked her hair while he murmured, ‘There, there, there now, cry it out. That’s it, cry it out.’ And all the while he was aware of her body near his, Miss Jane’s body near his. No, not Miss Jane’s body, Jane’s body.

  His face was resting in her hair and her wailing was subsiding when Molly’s head and shoulders appeared over the edge of the Tor. He stared down at her but didn’t move. She looked up at him and for a time she didn’t move either.

  When she came up to them his head was straight but he still had his arms around Jane, and he said, ‘She cried it out, she’ll be better now. Let’s get her down.’

  Between them they led her down the Tor and back into the house. Then Molly took her upstairs and put her to bed, and almost immediately she went to sleep.

  Later, when Molly entered the kitchen she was surprised, and yet she wasn’t, to see Davie waiting for her. He said, ‘She knows that he killed the parson.’

  ‘Who? You don’t mean that he . . . that he did that an’ all?’ There was horror in her face and voice.

  ‘
Aye, this is the second notch on his stick.’

  ‘Oh, dear God!’

  ‘If I had gone up that night when me granda told me I could have prevented it.’

  ‘You’ve known then?’

  ‘Aye, sort of. The old ’un had spotted him going up the Tor a number of times when it was late. He must have been waiting for the parson going home. Still’ – he turned slowly about – ‘he would have got him some other way, he wouldn’t have let it be. He’s a devil, a devil from deep hell, that one.’

  ‘What are you gona do about it?’

  ‘What can I do? There’s no proof; no-one saw him do it, no more than they saw him kick his father downstairs.’

  ‘I’ve still got the coat to prove that.’

  ‘It’s only your word against his, and who’s going to believe that a legless man could climb that staircase post; it would take me all me time to reach that beam. No, you would come worse off out of that I’m afraid, as I would if I went to the pollis about this, because I doubt if Miss Jane would speak against him.’ He moved towards the door and, his voice thick, he muttered, ‘There’s only one thing I wish now, that I were away to hell out of this.’

  She stood looking towards the closed door. She, too, wished he was away to hell out of this; but she knew that she was the only one who did wish it, because in his heart he himself didn’t. Nor did Miss Jane.

  There had been something niggling at her mind for a long time now, for two years in fact, ever since he came back on to the farm, and this was it; it had come to light when she saw them standing together up there.

  Miss Jane might have been out of her wits but he wasn’t, his face had been buried in her hair like that of a lover.

  She couldn’t stand this, not this; she couldn’t bear any more, she was tired, weary. She began to cry, slow tears which rolled down her cheeks unheeded until, sitting down at the kitchen table, she dropped her head on to her folded arms and gave way to the pain inside her. As her tears, like a rising river, gushed down her face she cried out against her life and fate. She didn’t deserve to be treated like this, she didn’t, she didn’t. She had paid for what she had done. People altered; she had just been a lass, he should understand that. Was he doing it to spite her? No, no, she didn’t think that; it was one of those things that just happened. But it had happened between the two people she liked best in the world, loved best in the world. God, she wouldn’t be able to witness it, she couldn’t, she’d have to get away. Fred Bateman would have her. He had been knocking on for her since his wife died. He had five bairns and there was still time to have some of her own. God in heaven, what a prospect! But it was either that or stay here and watch them grow closer.