The first drops of rain were spaced and the size of hailstones; then with the suddenness of lightning the sky unburdened itself and the water fell in sheets which blotted everything from sight.
She stepped back from the window, saying aloud, ‘God in Heaven! we’re in for it the day. Eeh! I can’t see a stime; I’d better light the lamp.’
She lit not only the lamp in the kitchen but also those in the hall and the dining room; then she went upstairs and lit the one that stood on top of the landing; and finally the lamp in HIS room.
When she brought it from the central table to the bedside table so that he could see to read, she had to raise her voice to make herself heard above the din on the roof. ‘We’re in for it! . . . I said, we’re in for it!’
And the answer he gave to this remark was, ‘Did you do as I asked you?’
‘Now don’t start that again, not at this time. We’ll have enough to think about, it strikes me, afore this one’s over.’
‘Did you do what I asked you?’ He was shouting now, and she shouted back, ‘No, I didn’t, ‘cos I’ve told you a hundred times afore, it’s no use.’
She watched him drop back against the head of the bed in that desperate fashion that hurt her, and when he spoke again she said, ‘What did you say?’
‘It’s inhuman.’
She stepped back and stared at him. Aye, she supposed it was inhuman. She had never thought Miss Jane would stand out this long; but she was like a child in Davie’s hands. His word was law to her. She herself used to say that he played at God, and Miss Jane had, in a way, turned him into one. But the plight of this one here hurt her sorely at times. She never thought there’d come the day when she’d feel heart-sorry for him, but, dear God, you’d have to be made of stone not to be melted by his predicament.
At times she felt fearful over his constant demands to see Miss Jane, for then he worked himself up into a frenzy. She had thought, and more than once, it wouldn’t have done Miss Jane any harm just to stand at the door and have a word with him from there. He wasn’t long for the top, the doctor said, so what harm could he do? As long as he stayed put in bed that was.
‘Now mind you don’t knock the lamp over.’ She was shouting again. ‘There’s your books an’ your drink; you’ve got everythin’ to your hand. I’ll bring your dinner shortly.’ She nodded at him, then went out.
After staring towards the door for a long moment he turned his head slowly and looked at the lamp.
By seven o’clock the storm had in no way abated, in fact its fury seemed to be getting worse every moment. An hour ago it had lifted the roof completely off the hen cree and the birds had been tossed about the field like bits of straw. It had taken Davie, Molly and Will Curran all their time to marshal them into the main yard and to the barn; and then their efforts had resulted in only half the birds being brought to safety.
The tall tree at the end of the copse had been torn up by the roots, and its top branches had just missed the last cottage by a few feet.
The yard itself was strewn with slates from the house, and Davie had continually yelled at Jane to keep indoors in case she should be struck by one.
Right up till the hens had scattered she had worked by his side, now she was sitting near the kitchen table panting and spent. She ached in every limb; her head was bursting with sound; she was so weary that she told herself she wanted to die, then contradicted the statement hurriedly as if her wish would be granted. No, she didn’t want to die – ever. She put her hand on the side of her stomach, just below her ribs. The child was kicking furiously, annoyed, as it were, by so much activity. She looked down tenderly at the bulge and thought with an inward pride that when her time came she’d be so big she wouldn’t be fit to be seen. Last night Davie had moved his hands over her stomach as he said, ‘You’re carrying so high, there’s room for two underneath,’ and at this they had smothered their laughter against each other. Oh, life would be so wonderful, if only . . .
She rose heavily to her feet. She must see to the broth; they were all frozen.
As she neared the fireplace a blast of smoke came down the wide chimney and almost choked her, and she turned, coughing, and leant against the table. Through the window she heard a distant sound of grating; then a crash outside the back door which told of more slates coming off the roof.
For twenty-five years back she could recall storms, terrible storms when the river flooded, and the burn from its source became a great waterfall. During one such storm two ponies in the malt house had only been saved because they had been washed on to the stairs and so had managed to climb to the gallery. Then there was that weird and strange storm when there was no rain and the lightning struck the ricks and set them on fire. But these storms seemed to have come and gone within a limited time, gradually mounting, then easing away. This one had been raging at the same pitch since noon, and showed no sign of abating.
The door burst open and the wind rattled the crockery hanging on the dresser, bringing from it a sound like that of cracked bells. Molly stumbled in, followed by Will Curran and Davie, and it took Davie all his time to force the door closed.
‘God in Heaven! did you ever know anything like it?’ Molly tore the hood from her head, then pulled off her sodden coat, adding, ‘I’m wringin’ to the skin.’
‘Did you change?’ Davie was not addressing Molly but Jane, and she answered, ‘My cape had taken most of it, I changed my shoes.’
‘You should’ve changed altogether, you can’t help but be wet through.’ He felt her shoulders which were dry, and she smiled at him and said, ‘There! Satisfied?’ then added, ‘It’s you who needs to change. And you, too, Will.’ She turned her face kindly towards Will Curran, and he replied, ‘Wet doesn’t worry me, Miss Jane. So used to it I take scant notice, ’climatised sort of.’ He smiled at her, and she smiled back at him. He wasn’t such a bad sort after all, Will. She had never liked him because of his appearance and his perpetual drip, but of late she had found him kind and willing. There was good in everyone if you only looked. The thought brought a sadness to her and she turned sharply from him, saying, ‘We must all have something to eat, the broth is ready.’
As she went to the fireplace to lift the pot, Davie came to her side, saying sharply, ‘Now leave that alone. Haven’t I told you? God in Heaven! you’re like a child; I have to keep on at you.’
He was reprimanding her before the servants, but they took no notice, and she smiled as if he had paid her a compliment. And he had for he was showing concern for his wife, and like any wife she replied, ‘Oh, don’t be silly, I’ve lifted heavier than that.’
Five minutes later they were all sitting round the same table eating, and no one of them but thought that times had changed, but for the better.
Towards nine o’clock the rain stopped, but the wind seemed to gain in momentum. At half-past nine Davie and Will Curran made one more round of the place. Then Will went to his cottage.
It was close on ten o’clock when Molly went to hers. She had left Amos right for the night. She had seen Jane to bed, and she had stood for a moment in the kitchen alone with Davie and remarked, ‘There’ll be some clearin’ up to do the morrow, and he had replied, ‘You’ve said it there but no matter what we’ve got to do I think we’ll be lucky compared to those down the valley near the river. Bet your life there’s been some cattle lost there the day. I shouldn’t wonder if some of the bridges aren’t down. A force like this pushing at water will test the stoutest pillars. I don’t think I’ve seen a worse, even at sea . . . Look, will I walk along with you?’
‘Walk along with me?’ She cast a glance at him over her shoulder. ‘No! No! I’ve kept me feet so far, so I’ll trust to them to get me there . . . It’s me feet that’s keepin’ me down, they’ve always kept me down.’
He had never known her to joke with him, although he’d heard her j
oke with others, and he laughed now and said, ‘Aye, some of us would be right upstarts if it wasn’t for our feet.’
She stared at him for a moment longer. He could have been speaking against himself, but he wasn’t, for since he had taken on the mastership of the farm he hadn’t played the big boss or cracked the whip, all he had done was to work harder, if that was possible. His efforts were paying off at that, for things were better than they had been for years; the place was beginning to look like it used to. Of course, it would never be as it was; there wasn’t the land, or the cattle, or the people to run both, but nevertheless a change had come over the farm in the last few months. She fancied at times he forgot, like they all did, that the real master of the place was still upstairs.
‘Have a good night,’ he said.
‘A good night!’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I can’t see anybody havin’ a good night in this!’
‘Well, here’s one that’s going to.’ He nodded at her. ‘Let me head get on the pillow and I won’t have any say in it.’ He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. She knew what would happen when he got his head on the pillow; she had gone over it every night for months past. She couldn’t break herself of the habit. She no sooner got into bed than the picture of them rose before her. At first she had thought it wasn’t right. Apart from everything else it wasn’t right, him havin’ Miss Jane; until she remembered herself and the master. And she didn’t like remembering that now. Anyway, this was different, she supposed, because they were married. He had put a ring on her finger; the ring made everything right.
Marriage was a funny thing, when you came to think about it. The parson said a few words, the man put a ring on your finger, and you could run around bare-arsed between sunset and dawn and it was all right, because it was done in the eyes of God. Odd, how much stock God laid on a ring. He classed the same thing bad without a ring, but good with it. She’d never laid much stock on God herself, and she laid less as time went on. She wished now she’d had some book learning, it might have cleared things up for her.
When he held the door open for her she went out into the tearing wind, her head down against it . . .
But it was as Davie had said, he’d hardly put his head on the pillow before he was asleep. And Jane too. She had kept awake until he had come to bed, but after he had taken her in his arms and kissed her, her lids closed and she was away.
She didn’t know what time it was later when she awoke and realised that he was no longer by her side but moving about the room. She pulled herself up in agitation, saying, ‘Davie! Davie! what is it? surely it isn’t time yet; I don’t feel I’ve been asleep . . .
‘It’s all right, it’s all right. Lie down. Wait till I light the lamp.’
‘What time is it?’
‘I don’t know yet, but it’s early on I think. Listen to that.’
She listened, but for a moment could only hear the howling of the wind. Then, as if from a far place, there came to her ears in between the gusts of high thin neighing, the unmistakable cry of a frightened horse. ‘It sounds like Benny,’ she said.
‘Aye, it’s him all right. And I put him in a stall by himself in case he started his antrimartins. He’s likely kicking hell out of his box, and he’ll set the others on.’
The lamp lit, he peered at his watch. ‘Quarter-past twelve,’ he said.‘Oh Lord! I hoped it might be near morning. Now you stay put and go to sleep, there’s nothing you can do, not tonight anyway. There’ll be more than enough for you tomorrow.’
‘Be careful, Davie.’
As he went towards the door there came the sound of a crash from somewhere in the house, and he stopped for a moment. Then wrenching the door open, he ran on to the landing and there at the end where the steps led up to the old part of the house a window had blown open. When he reached it she was behind him, and as he forced it closed he shouted at her, ‘Now look! it’s all right. Get back into bed.’
‘The glass is broken, mind your hands!’ she was shouting back at him.
‘Well, we can do nothing about it now, we’ll see to it tomorrow. Now get back into bed, I won’t be long.’ He pushed her across the landing and into the bedroom, then closed the door on her. And at the head of the stairs he paused a moment and turned up the lamp that had been glimmering low, then ran down the stairs and out into the night . . .
Amos, resting on his elbows, strained his ears to distinguish the sounds not caused by the wind, and he knew when Davie had reached the bottom of the stairs.
Patience was a virtue. Old Hedley used to quote that ceaselessly to him. ‘Patience is a virtue, my boy.’ He had been patient for months, knowing that sometime, somehow, a solution would present itself to him. If she had relented and come and had a word with him, perhaps he might have seen things differently. Yet no; he knew that he would never have looked upon this situation differently. The only solution to the situation was to give it an end, a final end.
They had been waiting for his end, and not patiently. His clinging to life was disturbing them. He could see it in Armstrong’s face; he even detected it behind Molly’s sympathetic attitude towards him. Well, now they would get their wish, he’d bring it to a head. But he’d want company on the journey, he wasn’t going alone. No, by Christ! he wasn’t going alone. ‘Go back to bed!’ he had cried at her. ‘Go back to bed!’
There was a great rattling above his head and he looked upwards, the slates were rolling off the attic roof. The wind would be rushing in, the cleansing wind; the wind from the hills would be sweeping his prison. Although he had lain there for months past in the room in which he had been born, his mind had been back in the attic reliving the experience of his childhood again. But soon the attic would be cleansed of thoughts and memories and he would be free. Putting out his arm, he leant over the side of the bed and when his fingers touched the floor he heaved with his shoulders and his useless body slid with a heavy plomp on to the carpet. He rested for a moment, as he discovered he was weaker than he thought; then raising himself on his elbow, he stretched out one hand and gently tipped towards the bed the side table on which the lamp was standing. It was a second before the flames burst upwards, and then the feather mattress and the pillows crackled into a furious blaze.
He didn’t stop to see the progress, but, clutching at the carpet, he drew himself hand over hand towards the door, and it was a simple thing to reach up and turn the knob. Once out on the landing, he pulled himself towards the short flight of stairs. Here he found difficulty in descending for he had to try to prevent his useless stunted limbs from slewing sidewards and bringing him rolling to the main landing.
There was a wind blowing along the landing from the broken window, and it covered the sounds of his gasping breath. Instinct led him, not to the room that had previously been Jane’s, but to the one that his father had occupied; and he knew his instinct had led him aright when he saw the thin stream of light coming from under the door. Softly now he reached up and turned the handle, and softly he pressed the door open. If the movement of the door made any sound it too was obliterated by the noise of the storm. He looked upwards towards the bed. It appeared a long way from the door. He could not see whether she was asleep or awake because of the draperies; in any case she was apparently not aware that the door had opened.
Slowly he drew himself over the carpet to the side of the bed, where stood the table with the lamp on it; and then he saw her. She was lying well up on her pillows as if she was patiently waiting. His two hands gently clutched the side of the bed and with an effort he pulled himself upwards until his head came just above the mattress, and there he held himself still while he looked at her.
He had no intention of speaking before he had done what had to be done, but his concentrated gaze must have penetrated her light dozing, for her eyes sprang wide as if she had received a shock or heard a loud noise. And then she was gaping at him.
Every muscle of her face stretching, she tried to speak but only her lips moved. When a strangled gasp came from her throat, her hands went instinctively to it as if to stop herself choking.
‘Hello, Jan.’
Her terror increased.
‘It’s a long time since we’ve seen each other. You’ve changed, Jan.’ His gaze moved down to her hands which were now gripping the bedclothes above her stomach, then back to her face again, and he asked, ‘Why wouldn’t you come and see me? Was it because you were afraid of him? You were always afraid of someone or something, weren’t you, Jan?’
As he waited for her to speak, his hands began to lose their grip on the mattress, which he took as a sign that his strength was going. He knew he must get her into his arms before he overturned the lamp. Once there, he’d have sufficient strength to hold her until the end.
It was the combination of the look on his face, his clutching hands, and a sudden awareness of a smell of burning permeating from the landing, that triggered off the scream that had been whirling upwards through her since she opened her eyes and saw his head like a disembodied thing sticking to the mattress. It spiralled out of her as she sprang to the other side of the bed in a frantic effort to get out. At the same moment he tipped the lamp, as he had done the other, but more sharply on to the bed. And then he was scrambling round the foot towards where she had just risen from her knees. Within a split second she was on the floor again, her body hitting it with a sickening thud as he brought her down by clutching her legs, and although she fought him it was in a dazed way, without much effort . . .
It was as Davie battered on Will Curran’s door, shouting, ‘Will! open up! I want a hand. The stable roof’s caved in, they’re pinned, two of them. Will! do you hear me? Wi-ll!’ It was at this point that he turned his head in the direction of the house. The wind was blowing full on him and it brought to him a strong smell of burning. He lifted the lantern high and swung it, but could see nothing, the house was too far away. ‘Will! Will!’ he bawled now. ‘Come on, man! Come on!’ But he was running back down the road as he shouted.
Feathers in the Fire Page 32
