Feathers in the Fire

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘I’ve got to see her, Molly, I must. We understand each other, her and I. I’ve got to explain to her why he wants to marry her. It’s just to get this place. He doesn’t love her. She’s plain, she’s got nothing about her to attract a man like him; his kind don’t go in for character, and that’s all Jane’s got, character, a sweet, sweet character.’ He shook his head. And now, again pulling himself up on his elbow, he appealed to her, ‘Look, ask yourself what harm can I do from here. The only thing I’ve got left is my mind, such as it is, and I don’t know how long I’ll have that. Tell her I promise I won’t raise my voice or say a word out of place, if she’ll just come in for a moment . . . Where is he?’

  ‘He’s gone out.’

  ‘Well go on, Molly, ask her now, please.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why? Why can’t you? Are you aiming to get your own back? I know you never liked me, and that’s my fault, but you have the better of me now, so I beg of you do this for me, just this once. Please, Molly.’

  ‘I would if I could an’ I mean that, but . . . but you see, she’s gone with him, they’re on their way to the church now, they’re to be married at nine.’

  He made no sound for a full minute; then swinging his head from side to side he cried, ‘No! No! No! . . . No! No!’ As his voice got louder she shouted at him, ‘Now stop that, stop workin’ yourself up. They had to be married, they just had to. If you’d been up it would have made no difference, they would have been married.’

  ‘NEVER! NEVER!’

  ‘You can say that’ – she was yelling back at him – ‘but I tell you she would have married him, unless she wanted to be like me and my Biddy . . . she’s been carrying his bairn for two months.’ The bitterness in her own voice brought her to stillness and there fell about them a silence in which they both seemed embalmed for a moment, the only live thing in the room was the smell of excrement emanating from the bed and his exposed stunted limbs.

  When he slowly brought his fist up to his wide mouth and rammed his knuckles between his teeth she thought how she herself, a short time earlier, had tried to stem her own agony, and she went to him and put her hand on his head. But he moved away from her touch, not abruptly or harshly; he just turned his head round and buried what he could of it in the pillow.

  There was a great swelling of pride in Davie as he sat at the head of the table. He had eaten at this table for some weeks now but he had never sat in this chair; at Jane’s insistence, he had taken the seat at the top of the table.

  To all intents and purposes he was master of Cock Shield, what was left of it, fifty acres at the most. Still, it was up to him now. And he intended to start the way he meant to go on, as if Amos was already dead and buried. The doctor had given him six months, perhaps less, it all depended; but Amos dead or alive, he would work as if the place was his. It would likely take him the rest of his life to clear the debts on it, but he would do it.

  He looked at Jane. Her face had picked up the white light of the morning. He had always thought she had just missed being beautiful, but when she had turned to him on the altar steps she seemed to have caught up with the beauty that had long evaded her. From now on, given the chance, she would blossom, her body would grow plump, her breasts would fill and remain full, she’d be a woman, not an old maid of thirty. He put out his hand to her and asked softly, ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Oh! Davie, I can’t tell you, I haven’t words to explain. Wonderful, fulfilled, marvellous, yet . . . yet still a little fearful.’

  ‘Now, now.’ He raised his finger to her. ‘Remember what we said, it’s our life and we’re going to live it; the past is past. There’s just you and me.’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s what I’m fearful of, it seems too good to be true . . . Davie.’

  ‘Yes, me dear.’

  ‘I love you. I love you so much. I’ – she smiled faintly – ‘I feel indecent at times because I love you so much.’

  She had the pleasure of seeing him put his head back and laugh. Then bringing his face down close to hers, he said, softly, ‘Go on being indecent; I like you being indecent.’

  ‘Oh, Davie! Oh, Davie!’ She lowered her eyes at him, then softly they laughed together.

  A moment later she looked down the table and said, ‘Molly has done everything so nicely. Why didn’t she stay until we got back?’

  He took a mouthful of cold pork and chewed on it before answering, ‘Well now, she did tell you that she was going over to Bateman’s, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but I thought not until around noon.’

  ‘It’s a good stretch.’

  ‘Well, I told her you would take her but she said she wanted to walk. And . . . and what’s more, Davie, I don’t fancy the sound of this Mr Bateman and his house full of children. She’s had a hard enough life here.’

  ‘She doesn’t mind youngsters, she was brought up among a crowd.’ He continued eating, then breaking off a crust of new bread, he covered it with butter before he ended, ‘She’s like everyone else, she wants to marry and have a place of her own. It’s understandable.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She smiled at him, then said thoughtfully, ‘But . . . but she’s had lots of chances over the years. You know, Davie’ – her voice dropped – ‘I used to envy her. She had a way with her and men seemed to gravitate towards her. Look . . . look at my father . . . ’

  He took a long mouthful of tea before he answered, ‘That was in her young days, she’s getting a bit long in the tooth now. I haven’t seen anybody scampering around her. And what is she? Going on thirty-six. You’re showing wear at thirty-six.’

  ‘Oh! Davie, Molly showing wear! Don’t be silly, she’s bonny. She’ll always be bonny; women like her don’t seem to age. Anyway, age or not, I’m going to miss her . . . Davie.’

  ‘Aye, I mean yes?’ He poked his face playfully towards her, and she tapped his cheek with her finger, then shook her head at him before leaning forward and proffering him her lips. After he had kissed her he asked, ‘What were you going to say?’

  She was looking into his eyes as she answered, ‘Oh just that at one time I . . . I was jealous of Molly. I thought when you came back you might . . . well you might pick up where you left off years ago, because what happened wasn’t really her fault . . . ’

  He rose abruptly to his feet and half turned from her as he said, ‘Now, now, none of that. What put that into your head? That was over and done with afore we finished Sunday School. And I told you, didn’t I, the past is past, all of it. So no more goin’ back. Well now.’ He tapped each lapel of his grey suit as he ended, ‘These togs must go in the drawer with the moth bags, and the Lord knows when they’ll come out again.’

  ‘They will not go into the drawer with any moth bags, you’re to wear them when you go into the town.’ Her voice was prim, and laughingly he answered in the same vein, ‘Yes, Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Oh! Davie.’ She came round the table, running like a girl, and into his arms. ‘I’m so happy. I’m, I’m almost perfectly happy. Almost.’ As she cast her eyes towards the ceiling her face clouded and he said sharply, ‘You are perfectly happy; don’t let your mind dwell on that part of the house. As far as you’re concerned it doesn’t exist. Remember what Doctor Cargill said, you’re not to go near him. Your system, your nervous system won’t stand up to much more. He said that, now didn’t he? So leave him to me and Will, we’ll manage him atween us. And promise me, now promise me that on no account do you go up those stairs on to that landing.’

  She stared into his eyes for a moment before she said ‘ . . . I promise you, Davie.’

  ‘That’s a good girl.’ And when his lips touched hers again she felt like a girl. For the first time since she was twelve years old she felt like a girl . . .

  Davie worked for the rest of the day, and he plan
ned as he worked. He’d split the herd and try a few of them down on that patch near the malt house, the grass was lush there, and from the returns he got from the milk, now that Master Amos couldn’t get his hands on it, he would put a little aside and so be able to engage some casual labour. Perhaps only for a day or two at a time, but that would be a help, and such hands generally worked like slaves in the hope of being kept on. And should he come across an exceptional one he’d make him an offer, his food and a cottage and a small regular wage until things looked up. A decent man would take a chance.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon he had gone in to a dinner cooked by Jane. It wasn’t up to the standard of Molly’s cooking but he praised it. By five o’clock it was raining heavily and Molly hadn’t returned.

  ‘She’ll be wet to the skin,’ Jane said when she came yet again to the cow byres to have a word with him.

  ‘Not her: she won’t be making the journey back this night, that’s certain. The top an’ bottom of it is, once he got her there he wouldn’t let her go, so stop worrying on her account; Molly can take care of herself, never fear.’

  It was around eight o’clock and the rain had fallen to a steady drizzle as he made the last round of the day. He went from the cowshed to the stables, where he spoke to the horses and the pony; he went round the hen crees and the piggeries; he passed the open barn where the dogs were, but knowing his step they made no movement, only blinked in the lantern light; then he walked by the side of the big barn and into the road and towards the main gate. And it was then he saw her, in the swinging gleam of the lantern shambling slowly, like a drunken woman, towards him.

  ‘That you, Molly?’

  She didn’t speak, and he came close to her and held the lantern above his head. And not even then did she say anything; her face, running with rain, was crumpled as if she were crying.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked. ‘You’re wringing to the

  skin.’ He touched her shoulder and it was this that seemed to loosen her tongue, for now she began to gabble in such a way that it was difficult to distinguish whether she was talking through laughter or tears. ‘So much for the bolt-hole; I thought I just had to walk in. And that’s what I did, just walked in, large as life, an’ there she was settled, a trollop if ever I saw one, a dirty, lazy, fat trollop, the end part of a trollop at that for her best days were over. She’d lost most of what she’d had except her tongue.’ She gulped now and her head wagged again before she ended, ‘He didn’t open his mouth, just stood there like a pie-can, an’ ’twas only a month gone since he begged me to take him an’ his brood on, just a month.’

  ‘Come on inside,’ he said gently, ‘an’ get your things off. You’ll get your death, it’s turned bitter. And there’s one who’ll be glad to see you; she’s been worried about you.’

  She became still now as she peered at him through the lantern light and the rain. Then, her voice low and her words slow, she said, ‘Aye, she’ll be glad, but not you. You wanted me out of the way, didn’t you? . . . Well let me tell you somethin’. I wanted to get out of your way an’ all, so there was a pair of us wantin’ the same thing. But now you’re stuck with me until I find a place. When I’m prickin’ your skin like a holly leaf just remember you’re doin’ the same to me. But it won’t be for long; a day or two, I’ll get something. Aye, I will; I can work anywhere.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, woman, don’t be daft.’ His voice was harsh. ‘You have no effect on me, good, bad or indifferent, so you can stay as long as it pleases you. It’s up to you.’

  Her face seemed to swing with the movement of the lantern. He saw her mouth open wide and her eyes close before she flung herself round and leaned against the gate post; her head buried in her hands, she cried uncontrollably like a child would who had fallen down and grazed its knees, and he stood gazing at her helplessly while he warned himself not to touch her.

  Three

  ‘Davie, please, please let me see him. It’s like my father all over again, keeping him tied to the attic.’

  ‘Jane’ – he put his hand over his eyes – ‘you know what Doctor Cargill said, an’ just a day or two gone. “It would be advisable,” he said, “if you didn’t disturb yourself in any way.” Those were his very words, weren’t they?’

  ‘But my nerves are all right now, I’ve never felt better in my life. And he keeps going for Molly, shouting at her. I’d have to be deaf not to hear him. I . . . I won’t go any further than the foot of the bed. And Davie . . . Davie’ – she took his hands in hers – ‘it isn’t that I really want to see him, but morally I think I should. I’ve . . . I’ve forgiven him. And he needs forgiveness, he’s dying.’

  ‘Is he? I’m beginnin’ to have me doubts about that. Six months now he’s been lying there. Doctor said that was his limit, but he shows no weakness to me. In fact he can use those arms of his as well as ever he could. And’ – he paused and brought his head down to hers and, his voice low, he ended, ‘that’s what I’m afraid of, those arms of his, tentacles; let them get hold of you and you’d swear he was an octopus.’

  ‘But I promise you I won’t go any further . . . ’

  ‘No, Jane. Not now, not at this time. When the child is born and if he’s still there then you can go in to him, but as you are now the very sight of you like this’ – he tapped his finger against the dome of her stomach – ‘this would drive him mad. I know him, I know him better than you. I told you a while back that he’s lying there concocting mischief, I can see it in his eyes. And another thing you’d better know, Molly’s got the idea that he can move more than he lets on; in fact she’s sure of it ’cos she watched him through the keyhole and saw him humping himself up in the bed by his arms. The next thing we’ll know he’ll be pulling himself out of the bed.’

  ‘He couldn’t, Davie, he couldn’t do that, it’s too high. Anyway, once he was out he’d never be able to get back.’

  ‘Jane’ – he cupped her face between his hands and gazed at her for a moment before saying, ‘it’s only six weeks . . . ’

  ‘Nearly seven.’

  ‘Well, nearly seven. You’ve stood out all this long time, keep it up a little longer, just for me, and . . . and I’ll promise you one thing, if I suspect at all that he’s near his end you’ll see him. Now I give you me word on that, so will you give me your word again, you won’t go into him on your own?’

  She stared into his face, into his beloved face, into the face that had given her rebirth; for if ever a woman had been reborn she had. If it wasn’t for the thought of Amos constantly niggling at her mind she’d be so happy it would be unbearable. Her love for him was almost like a pain in itself. And it was true what she had said, she’d never felt so well in her life. And this in spite of carrying a child and working as hard as any hired maid. She had completely taken over the dairy; she made butter and cheese as good as Molly now; she helped to milk the cows, feed the pigs and chickens, and groom the horses. During her thirty-one years on the farm she had never spent so much time outside the house. Her mother would have thought it beneath her to lift her hand to an outside chore, and the kind of farmer her father had been, he had not expected it of her, so she had not thought it odd when she herself had not been trained in the ways of butter and cheese making and the like. There had always been Molly, and Winnie, and, before they had gone out into service, the Geary girls. But now she was rarely in the house during the day. And this was fortunate, for outside she did not dwell so much on Amos and his plight. She felt that Davie had arranged things so, giving her tasks that would keep her away from the house.

  ‘Very well.’ Her voice was soft, and her arms went up and round his neck as she said, ‘I can’t say no to you in any way, my dearest.’

  When he had kissed her firmly and squarely on the mouth he pushed her from him, saying on a laugh, ‘What would they say if anyone saw us, husband and wife kissing at ten o�
��clock in the mornin’ in the barn? They can’t be married, they’d say. That’s what they’d say, they can’t be married.’

  ‘Oh Davie, go on with you!’

  ‘Aye, an’ I’d better go. You see that sky.’ He pointed out through the open door. ‘That’s been coming up from the northwest since late on yesterday; I know that sign, we’re in for a bad ’un. I’d better get Will to help me tie down the ricks.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Go on back to the dairy, woman, about your business.’ When he slapped her buttocks she put both hands on the place and hurried away, glancing at him over her shoulder, her eyes alight as if he had just bestowed a gift on her.

  As he went out of the main gate and across the road into the open meadow where the two ricks were he was still shaking his head and half smiling. She was like a young lass. He had never seen a change like it in his life; she seemed to have gone back to what she was all those years ago before that day in the malt house. And that’s how he wanted to keep her. And he would keep her like that, as long as she didn’t see that maniac.

  The storm broke at noon. It followed a dark, dead calmness when nothing moved. The bare branches of the trees in the copse looked as if they were painted on the low sky. The washing that Molly was grabbing in from the lines was hanging limp. The animals too were affected by the stillness, for they made no sound. There was no grunting or cackling or mooing; they, together with all life on the land for miles around, seemed to have become paralysed with the stillness. Even Molly’s bustling movements were checked once she got inside the kitchen, for having dropped the wash-basket on to the floor, she went and stood near the window and peered out into the yard, across which she could now scarcely see.