Feathers in the Fire

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Do you think he would be happy knowing you were in prison?’

  He turned and looked at Jane. Her face was white, her eyes large and filled with love and pain. ‘Go to the malt house as Molly suggests, and . . . and I’ll stay here with Sep until the end. Then I’ll join you.’

  Molly’s tone was weary as she put it now, ‘He’s got you both taped. He’s got us all taped. It’ll be better, Miss Jane, if you go back to the house an’ pretend to go to your bed. And you, Davie, do as we said, as soon as it’s light go down to the malt house. An’ if when the pollis comes the idea that you might be down there enters into that maniac’s head an’ they make for there, I’ll ring the bell good and hard. What do you say?’

  There was silence among them for a moment, then Davie, nodding, said, ‘You make sense, Molly; you’ve got to play him at his own game.’ He turned to Jane. ‘Go now, as Molly says, and try an’ rest if you can because there’s a long day afore us, and God knows what’s in it.’ He did not touch her, nor she him, but they looked at each other deeply before he turned and went into the bedroom; then she went down the stairs and Molly followed her.

  Six

  Jane awoke from what appeared a nightmare. She was aching all over, particularly the back of her head and the bottom of her spine. She was lying on the bed in a dim light, candlelight, and there was a face above her and a voice was saying, ‘Drink this.’ Where was she, and what had happened? The last she remembered was groping her way along the passage and entering her bedroom. This . . . this wasn’t her bedroom, this was . . .

  ‘Come along, drink this.’

  She took a mouthful of the liquid, then gulped, as her taste registered laudanum. It was the medicine her mother used to take to soothe her nerves and put her to sleep. As she spluttered she knocked the glass flying. Then, her eyes wide, she went to pull herself up, but the hand on her chest prevented her, and Amos’ voice said, ‘It’s no use, so you might as well give in gracefully. You’re here and you’re staying here, for the time being at any rate, until you learn to behave yourself. I’m surprised at you, Jane, letting yourself down to the level of a farm labourer.’

  ‘Let me up!’

  ‘You’re not getting up. I’ll give you a choice, you either drink more of this’ – he moved his head towards the bottle standing on the side table – ‘or I’ll tie you up and gag you. You have your choice.’

  ‘Amos! Amos!’ She began to plead now, ‘Please, I beg of you, don’t do this, let me go. I’ll go eventually; you can’t keep me.’

  ‘Can’t I? You’d be surprised what I can do.’

  ‘No! no!’ Now there was no pleading in her voice and she barked at him, ‘I’d never be surprised at what you can do after . . . after murdering Arnold.’

  ‘Oh!’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘So you’ve known about that?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve known about that.’

  ‘And you didn’t give me away . . . Why didn’t you give me away?’ He waited for her answer and when none came he said, ‘I’ll tell you why, because you loved me. And I’ll tell you something else, I love you, and that’s why I can’t let you go . . . You understand what I’m saying, Jane? I love you.’

  She felt her body shrinking back into the bed in terror now. She had no need to look for a definition of his word love, she was well aware that the prefixes of motherly or sisterly wouldn’t fit the love he was speaking of. The horror of the situation lent strength to her arms, and now she was struggling with him like someone demented, while she screamed, ‘Davie! Davie! Molly! Davie! Davie!’

  They were on the floor rolling together as they had done years ago on top of the Tor, and all the while his arms held her as if in a vice, and from time to time his body lay on hers. She had only one advantage over him, her knees, and she used them when she could. One vicious jab into his loins caused him to yell and release his hold on her for a moment, and, her hands groping wildly at the wall, she dragged herself to her feet and found she was near the window. She had just managed to open it when he was on her again; and now she screamed at the top of her lungs . . .

  They both heard it together, it came like a thin high voice on the wind. It brought Molly from a light doze by the fire and Davie to his feet in the bedroom; then they were both at the bottom of the stairs looking at each other.

  ‘It was a scream; it sounded like a scream.’

  Before Molly had finished speaking Davie was running out of the house and she after him.

  When they burst into the kitchen and paused for a moment, the sound of the struggle came to them from above as some article of furniture overturned and crashed to the floor.

  Davie took the stairs two at a time, but when he reached the first landing he stood looking upwards, unable to see the stairs that led to the attics. It was odd that he should have lived close to this house for the first nineteen years of his life and never got beyond the ground floor.

  ‘Along here! Along here!’ Molly was now running past him around the dark corner of the landing and up the four steps on to the old landing. But here he passed her and made for the dim narrow stairs that led to the attic.

  When he thrust open the door he saw nothing for a moment, then at the sound of panting coming from the far side of the bed he rushed across the room, and there she was, spreadeagled on the floor, with Amos on top of her, his arms pinning her down.

  He uttered no sound, but his hands flashed out and, gripping the back of Amos’ collar, he hauled him upwards and flung him against the fireplace.

  When he went to lift Jane from the floor Molly was already by her side and between them they guided her to the door.

  He had his back to the room as he said thickly, ‘Get her downstairs,’ and it was as he turned to see what the maniac was up to that the end of the poker hit his shin bone, and he cried out aloud as he leapt into the air.

  Bending now and holding his leg tight against the excruciating pain he looked to where Amos was grabbing up a pair of tongs from inside the fender. With a lopsided leap he flung himself on him, and again Amos was rolling on the floor, but with a difference this time, for now he was like a mad bull and with a mad bull’s strength, and it wasn’t until he sank his teeth into Davie’s wrist and blood spurted that Davie became a match for him. Filled with rage, he fought as he had seen men fight on board ship, like savage animals; yet it took him all his time to free himself from Amos’ hold, for his arms seemed to be everywhere. They were like the tentacles of an octopus; you released yourself from one and another caught you. Only when he used his knee as Jane had done did Amos go flying from him and straight through the open door on to the landing.

  He lay still now, and Davie stood gasping while he watched him. The blood was pouring from his wrist and he gripped it in an effort to stop the flow; his leg was paining damnably; his body felt bruised as if he had been tossed about in a bilge in a storm.

  Slowly he moved towards the still figure and stood looking down on it for a second; and it could only have been a second before once again he found himself on his back. Amos having swept his legs from under him, was in the act of jumping on him when Davie’s hands came instinctively upwards and with a mighty effort he hurled the stunted body backwards over his head. Then he lay still, his arms outspread, listening to the repeated thumps and guttural cries.

  In the silence that followed he slowly turned himself on to his hands and knees and peered down the dark stairway to the darker form lying at the bottom, then helping himself to his feet by pulling on the balustrade post he descended the stairs.

  At the bottom he stood looking at the humped body, but this time did not stoop towards it. Not until he satisfied himself that there could be no more tricks did he bend over him; then his hand slowly dropped on to the high chest and he held it there, for a second, just long enough to feel the faint heartbeat and to experience a strong emotion of fear and disa
ppointment mixed.

  He wasn’t dead. Like his father, he could linger on for months; and what then?

  He wasn’t conscious of having knelt on the floor, only of the hesitation in his mind whether to put his thumb on the gullet or his hand tight across the mouth.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  When Molly’s hand came on his shoulder he froze.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘N . . . not quite.’

  ‘Pray God he soon will be.’

  ‘I second that.’ He stumbled to his feet.

  ‘You’re, you’re bleedin’. Look at your wrist.’

  ‘I’m all right; it’ll clot. How is she?’

  ‘In an awful state; can’t stop cryin’. She’s in hysterics I think, on about him. Aw, if ever there was a swine on this earth he’s one.’ She progged the inert body with the toe of her boot, then said, ‘I think you’d better come down. But . . . but what are we going to do with him?’

  He hesitated, then said, ‘Give me a hand with him; we’ll put him in his bed and let the devil take care of the rest.’

  When, after a struggle, for the stumped body was a dead weight, they had laid him on the bed, Molly asked, ‘Hadn’t you better lock the door in case he comes round?’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll be necessary, but we’ll do it nevertheless. If he does come round he won’t do any hoppin’ for some days I should imagine.’

  As they went out and locked the door Jane’s cries came to them, and he ran down the stairs and into the drawing room and, taking her shivering body into his arms, he muttered, ‘It’s all right, it’s all over. Quiet now, quiet. Don’t cry like that.’

  ‘Da . . . vie! Davie!’

  ‘Yes, dear. Now, it’s all right, don’t worry.’

  ‘He . . . ’ll k . . . kill me. He’ll kill me.’

  ‘He’ll kill nobody else.’

  Gasping, her face contorted, the water running from her eyes, nose and mouth, she spluttered, ‘Dead! . . . is he dead?’

  Regretfully he shook his head and answered slowly, ‘Not quite.’ He now turned to Molly. ‘Make some strong tea, will you?’ he said, and when she replied, ‘The kettle’s on,’ she also added, ‘Shouldn’t one of us be along the road?’

  ‘Aye, yes.’ He nodded at her. ‘I’ll slip along.’

  But when he went to move away Jane clung to him and he said soothingly, ‘There now, there now, I won’t be a tick. I promise you. It’s all right, he’s locked in. Even if he could move, he can’t get out.’

  When she continued to cling to him he looked at Molly with a shamefaced look, and Molly, bustling, took her from his arms, saying tersely, ‘Come on now, pull yourself together. It’s all over, or soon will be.’

  Hurrying out of the room and the house, he ran up the lane to the cottage. But as soon as he entered the room he knew that he was too late, his granda had gone.

  He stood looking down on the old man’s face. The eyes, which had been closed for days, were now open; the mouth too was open, as if he was about to speak, to say something pleasant, for his whole face looked at peace. At the very last moment he must have wanted to look on his own, and his own wasn’t there.

  A great bitterness flooded him and he had the desire to go back to the house and finish off that maniac with his own hands. He regretted not having done so when the urge was on him.

  He went to cover the still head with the sheet, but halfway in the act he stopped and slowly he knelt down. He was no praying man; he had never been on his knees in prayer, nor had he uttered a prayer since McBain had disillusioned him. He didn’t pray now, but he took the bony blue-veined hand in his as he whispered aloud, ‘Goodbye, Granda. If there’s a God an’ He’s just you’ll have a happy passage.’ His bottom lip trembled and he pressed his teeth into it, but this did not stop the tears from raining down his face . . .

  On his return to the farm he walked slowly. When he entered the sitting room Jane was lying back on the couch. She was quiet. She looked towards him, as did Molly, and it was Molly who spoke. ‘He’s gone then?’ she said; and to this he nodded.

  ‘Did he wake at all, come round?’

  ‘I don’t know; he had gone before I got back.’

  ‘Oh! Davie.’ Jane was sitting up and holding her hand out towards him, and as he went to her they were all brought into a fixed stillness by a sound coming from the kitchen. Molly, her eyes flashing from one to the other, whispered, ‘It can’t be, we locked the door.’

  ‘Stay there.’ Lifting his feet and treading as softly as he could, Davie went from the room. Warily he glanced round the hall and up the stairs, then made his way to the kitchen, and when he burst open the door he drew in a long slow breath at the sight of Will Curran leaning against the table.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Holding his hip and limping towards a chair, Will said, ‘Bloody horse took fright at a rabbit or hare or summat goin’ across the road and sidestepped into a ditch.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Beyond turnpike.’

  ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘No, just frightened; I managed to get him out of the shafts. I tried to get him to pull the trap out but the wheel had buckled. It’s a good job he was on his feet lest I’d never have got him out.’

  ‘You brought him back?’

  ‘Aye, but he wouldn’t let me get on him, I had to walk him. He’s as skittish as a new foal. Bloody rabbits!’

  ‘You didn’t get to Hexham then.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Hexham? How could I?’

  ‘That’s all right, Will, that’s all right.’ Davie sighed within himself. That was one bit of trouble waived anyway. ‘Help yourself to some tea,’ he said, ‘and I’ll try to get you a drop of something.’

  As he went towards the door Will Curran asked, ‘What’s up, anyway? I came ’cos I saw all the lamps on. What’s happened that you’re in here this time a night?’

  Davie paused for a moment before he said, ‘He had a go at Miss Jane, almost did for her. He fell down the attic stairs.’

  ‘He’s hurt?’

  ‘Aye, I should say so.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘I hope so, Will. For everybody’s sake I hope so.’ Then he added, ‘Thanks for tipping Molly off. It was good of you, knowin’ how you feel about things. Oh’ – he turned his head away and waved his hand in the air – ‘I know, Will, I know. I would have felt the same in your place, worse in fact. But hang on, things might take a turn for the better from now on. When Miss Jane runs the place she’ll see you’re all right.’

  ‘Aye, Davie, aye.’ Will Curran’s tone had changed, the look on his face had changed, and when Davie said, ‘Soon as you drink your tea get to bed ’cos you’ll have to go for the doctor when it’s light,’ Will again said, ‘Aye, Davie, aye,’ as if he was speaking to a friend, whereas he had never before shown anything in his manner towards Davie but envy and obstinacy.

  When he entered the sitting room again he said immediately, ‘There’s one trouble we haven’t got to face, the pollis won’t be here in the mornin’. The trap went into the ditch, and Will’s come back with the pony.’

  Jane closed her eyes and put both hands over her mouth and spoke through her fingers as she said, ‘Thank God! Oh, thank God!’

  ‘Were they hurt, the horse or him?’

  He looked at Molly and shook his head, saying, ‘Will’s limping a bit, that’s all. He’s for bed, and’ – he turned his head towards Jane – ‘that’s where you’re going.’ When she began to protest he said, ‘Now no more words, not tonight. Just go to bed, and me and Molly will see to things.’

  Molly was standing apart now. It was right, she thought, that Miss Jane should go to bed, she had gone through something the night, but she herself was tir
ed to death. She’d never had a full night’s rest for weeks now, she could sleep standing on her feet, but he had no feeling for her. ‘Me and Molly will see to things,’ he had said. He hadn’t a kindly thought in his whole body towards her. Oh, he was civil enough now, but that was all. She’d had hope while he slated and scorned her, but not since he had spoken civil to her; from then she had known that he had closed the door on any feeling he might have had for her. And he’d had feeling for her; oh aye, a man doesn’t get angry and shower his scorn on a woman he doesn’t care for. But now he was civil spoken.

  When Jane, looking at her, said, ‘But Molly’s worn out too. You should go to bed, Molly,’ and he put in quickly, ‘Don’t you worry about Molly, she’s as strong as a horse,’ she felt that she was about to make a fool of herself and burst into tears.

  That’s how he would look on her for the rest of her life, as strong as a horse, a beast of burden. Could she stand it? Was she up to it? No, no, she wasn’t.

  The doctor came out of the bedroom, and Molly followed him. They walked to the top of the stairhead before he spoke. Then, his voice low, he said, ‘You tell me he attacked his sister?’

  ‘Aye, he did, sir.’

  ‘I’m very surprised at that, I always understood that they were close. She was more like a mother to him than a sister. It is very surprising. Was there any reason for it?’

  ‘She told him she was going to leave, sir. Things hadn’t been going too well here, you might have heard?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, you hear all kinds of rumours, and there’s no getting away from the fact that the place has changed drastically since your master died. But to attack her. How did he do it?’

  ‘It was in the dark, sir. He knocked her out, then must have dragged her up to the attic.’

  The doctor’s face was showing his disbelief as she put in quickly, ‘Oh, he could, sir. He used to sit on his backside – well, I mean he used to sit on the stairs and hoist himself up backwards, and pull things up that way. It was amazing the things he took upstairs. He was only about five when he dragged his four-wheeled cart up there, and now he’s as strong as a bull. Leastways, he was.’