Feathers in the Fire

by Catherine Cookson

  When he reached the yard he saw the flames leaping red through the bedroom window to the side of the house, Amos’ room, and he thought he was imagining things when, looking along the front towards the window of his own room, there was a reflection of the flames. He raced to the front door, through the hall and up the stairs, and although when he pushed the door wide, he couldn’t credit what he was seeing, he knew that he had feared and expected something like this for months past.

  ‘Jane! Jane!’ He screamed her name as his arms wafted wildly at the smoke. The whole bed was alight, not only the mattress and the draperies, but also the posts which, being old and brittle dry, were burning like oiled paper.

  ‘Da-vie! Da-vie!’ It was more like a moan than his name but he rushed to the far side of the bed, and there through the smoke and flames he saw them. They were lying locked together near the wall.

  Falling on to his hands and knees he tore at them both in an effort to separate them, but Amos’ fist lashed out at him while with his other arm he clung on to Jane.

  He was choking with the smoke, they were all choking with the smoke and he knew for a certainty that they would all die joined together here in the next few minutes. When his groping hand found Amos’ windpipe he pressed hard, relaxing his hold only when he felt the body sagging. But when he grasped Jane’s shoulders intending to drag her from the room he was again brought to the floor by Amos’ last effort.

  As he measured his length almost on top of Jane a madness seized him, and, coughing and spluttering, he hurtled himself upwards, then kicked out at the demoniacal face lit now by the flames not only from the bed but also from Amos’ nightshirt.

  As the body fell backwards he swung round and, again grabbing Jane, he dragged her limp body out of the door and well on to the landing, and there, coughing as if his lungs would burst, he beat at the bottom of her burning nightdress with his hands.

  ‘Oh my God!’ He wasn’t aware of Molly’s presence until she shouted, ‘Is she all right? Is she all right? The whole place is afire . . . both ends. Oh my God! My God! Come on, get out of it.’ She, too, began to cough and choke now with the smoke.

  Unable to speak, he gesticulated wildly towards Jane’s legs and between them they carried her down the stairs. As they were crossing the hall Will Curran burst in from the kitchen, but stopped at the corner of the passage for a moment and gaped at them before crying, ‘The old part, Davie, the old part’s alight. It’s alight!’

  Davie made no answer to this; instead, still coughing, he said between gasps, ‘Give’s a hand . . . with her, to . . . to the cottage.’

  As Will Curran took Jane’s legs he shouted, ‘She’d be better on the trundler.’ And at this Molly ran along the front of the house and into the yard and, picking up the shafts of the wooden-wheeled handcart, she dashed with it back to the house and held it while they laid Jane on it.

  As Davie began to push the cart away, Will called to him, ‘What’s to be done?’ and Davie shouted back, ‘See to the horses first. There’s one pinned under a beam. The roof’s caved in. Give him a hand, Molly.’

  ‘What about this?’ she screamed and waved her hand back at

  the house as she ran by his side. ‘We should get some of the things out; it’ll be like a bonfire in no time,’ and he yelled back at her, ‘See to the animals first, then do what you can. I’ll be back as soon as she comes round . . . If she comes round.’ The last he added to himself as he ran the cart towards the gate. Before he went through it Molly was by his side again, shouting, ‘Go into my place, your beds will be damp, sodden.’

  He nodded, then guided the barrow through the gate and on to the road, and then he began to run.

  Perhaps it was the jogging of the cart or the pain of the burn on her leg that brought Jane back to consciousness, for she put out her hand and groped at the air.

  When he faintly discerned her moving hand he stopped the cart and, peering down at her through the darkness, he said, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right. Don’t worry, you’re all right. Just lie still until we get to the cottage.’

  When he reached Molly’s door he pushed it wide; then returning to the cart, he put his arms under Jane and carried her bodily inside.

  It was strange but he had never been in this cottage since he was a young lad; he had no memory of what it was like, except that it was muddled and not over clean; not like his own home, which was spanking.

  There was no light, but a dull glow from the fire showed up a wooden settle with a high back standing at right angles to the fireplace, and on this he laid her, saying softly as he did so, ‘Are you all right, Jane? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, Davie, I’m all right.’

  ‘Are you burnt? Let me look.’

  ‘No, no.’ She put her hand on her knee. ‘I’m all right. It’s . . . it’s only shock. Go back; please go back and . . . and try to put it out.’

  ‘I couldn’t, I couldn’t put that out, Jane; it’s at both ends.’

  ‘Try . . . try to save something from the bottom floor, the small pieces, the silver. Go on, Davie, please, please try to save something otherwise—’ she stopped and shook her head.

  ‘You’ll be all right then?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be all right. I’ll . . . I’ll lie quiet.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  He looked around the room. There were two of Molly’s coats hanging on the back of the door. These he brought, and put them over her; then touched her tousled hair for a moment before hurrying out.

  Once on the road, he raced along it. The whole place was illuminated now with the flames. The glass in the window of the side room had burst and the crackling of the fire and the raging of the wind appeared to him like hell gone mad. Smoke was pouring out of the front door in billowing waves and the deep red glow from his bedroom window showed the furnace within. If there had been any thought in his mind of going up there and trying to drag that one free, now that his rage had subsided somewhat he dismissed it; but perhaps there was still time to save the furniture from the bottom floors.

  He dashed along the yard and towards the stables, and there saw Molly and Will struggling to lift the beams that were shutting in the two terrified horses. He noted instantly and with relief that the animals, although very frightened, were both unharmed. Stooping down and getting in between Molly and Will he put his shoulder to the beam, but immediately it began to move he saw the danger. The end of it was supporting another beam which was balancing precariously within a few feet of yet another one, and were that to slip it would break the animals’ backs.

  ‘Hold your hand! Hold your hand a minute!’ He took his support from the beam, crying, ‘Keep her steady till I get that down.’ He pointed upwards; then climbing on to the partition between the boxes, he leant against the wall for support and, putting up both arms, he took the weight of the beam and slowly eased it sideways and down towards the floor. He did the same with the second beam. When he jumped to the ground again he put his shoulder to the main beam and between them they eased it from where it was jammed across the front of the box.

  The animals freed, they now had their work cut out to hang on to them, and when they led them into the yard the smell of the fire so increased their fear that it was almost impossible to hold them.

  Once they were in the field Davie yelled, ‘They’ll be all right, let them go.’ Then shouting, ‘Come on!’ he turned and raced back to the yard. But at the entrance he stopped. Whatever hope he’d had of saving anything was gone. Although the flames hadn’t reached the bottom floor the smoke was finding every outlet.

  When Will Curran said, ‘We’d never be able to get in there, we’d choke to death,’ he made no response.

  ‘Perhaps the kitchen, pans and things.’ Molly looked at him and he at her. His eyes were red-rimmed and running wate
r, his face looked grey like that of an old man. Like someone coming out of a dream, he repeated, ‘Pans and things.’ Then on a high note he cried, ‘My God! where’s me wits. The money, all there is! It’s in the office desk.’

  ‘Well it’ll have to stay there ’cos you’ll never get beyond the passage.’

  ‘I’ve got to take that chance, it’s all we’ve got.’ He was running towards the house, she hanging on to him, crying, ‘Don’t be mad, Davie! Davie! Oh my God! Don’t do it.’ She had one arm around his neck, and he paused, but just for a second and looked at her; then thrust her aside, saying, ‘Don’t be so damned stupid, woman.’

  The kitchen being separated from the hall by a passage was not yet impenetrable, but when he opened the door into the passage the smoke came billowing into the kitchen. Molly put her hands over her mouth, then closed the door and stood with her back to it.

  Minutes passed, then she saw Will Curran through the smoke. He was shouting, ‘The wind’s changed. A spark could catch the byres. We’d better start pumping . . . ‘Where’s he? He’s not gone in there! There’s no chance Master Amos’ still alive. Anyway, I’d let the young devil go – better that way.’

  Molly turned from him now and with a frantic movement pulled open the door and, her head down, she ran into the passage.

  It was at the bottom of the stairs that she felt him. He was crawling on his hands and knees, and after the shock of her touch he pulled her down with him and almost dragged her back along the passage. When they got into the kitchen he stumbled to his feet, still holding her, and coughing and choking they rolled like two drunks out into the yard. And there he thrust her from him saying in between gasps, ‘Bloody – silly – thing to do. More – bother – than you’re worth. Could . . . could have missed you. What then?’

  She was standing up now drawing great draughts of air down into her breast, and after a moment she shouted back at him, ‘’Twas a bloody silly thing for you to do, wasn’t it? Clever bugger, as always, you are. Always playing God Almighty. Always have, always will.’

  He passed his hands over his streaming eyes, then peered at her, and suddenly his body seeming to go limp, his head bowed and he muttered, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  She did not speak for a moment, and when she did her voice too was quiet. ‘Did you get it?’ she asked.

  He nodded once and tapped his pocket, then said, ‘Where’s Will?’

  ‘Pumping. The wind’s changed. Look.’ She pointed. ‘It could take the dairy an’ the cowsheds.’

  ‘My God! My God!’ He was running again, and she by his side. And it was there she stayed until well on into the night, carrying bucket after bucket, after bucket of water while their world grew into a great red waving mass of flame.

  Towards dawn the house roof fell in and they stood, bodies slumped and weary, looking at it, and Molly said quietly, ‘Well, that’s put the lid on his coffin.’

  Four

  The house smouldered for a week until there was nothing left but the blackened window-gaping stone walls and pieces of charred wood.

  The Justice of the Peace together with an official of the Police Force came from Hexham . . . a man had been burned to death, how had it happened? A lamp had been blown over in the storm and the wind had caught it – they had all agreed that this was how it should be told . . . Will Curran knew no other but that it was so.

  A gentleman, sombrely dressed in a high stiff collar and a three-quarter-length coat, came from the bank in Newcastle. He had a clerk with him, and they arrived in a hansom cab. The gentleman talked to Jane of the mortgage and reparation through insurance, reparation to the bank, but not to her. It appeared that her brother had been warned several times that if he did not meet his commitments on the mortgage the bank would be forced to foreclose. Had she been aware of this matter?

  No, she had not been aware of this matter. Nor had she found any letters from the bank concerning it.

  He said he was very sorry and he would do the best he could for her. He hoped when the matter was settled there would be no need for them to distrain on the cattle and land.

  The third dignitary who visited them was Sir Alfred Tuppin’s younger son, and he began by asking Molly if he could see Miss McBain. He was standing at the cottage door, and it was Davie who answered him. Coming from the scullery, he crossed the room quickly, saying, ‘There’s no Miss McBain here; if you wish to see Mrs Armstrong you can come in.’

  The young man had stared insolently at Davie for a moment before looking beyond him and Molly to where Jane sat on the settle near the fire. And he had gone towards her, saying, ‘My father wishes to know if you’re in need of anything.’

  When she replied, it was like an actress on the stage saying her lines.

  ‘Thank your father for me. Tell him I’m obliged to him, but I have everything I need.’

  He had become nonplussed for a moment; then with a slight smile he had bowed slightly towards her, saying, ‘I shall give him your message. He’ll be glad to know that you’re well provided for, Good day to you.’

  Jane did not answer him, but when he walked out she bowed her head and bit tightly on her lip. Davie had gone over to the fire, and with his jaws clenched he had stood gazing into it.

  Molly, after looking from one to the other, went into the scullery and left them alone.

  The days that followed were days of grinding labour from morning till night, at least for Davie and Molly. Jane could do very little. Apart from her time drawing near, she had a burn on her leg which refused to heal and caused her intense pain at times, and she was forced to rest more than she would have done under ordinary circumstances.

  Although Will Curran did his best, and with a good heart, ten hours’ work was as much as he could achieve, and then, during the second half of the day, he slowed up considerably.

  Davie sawed up the tree that had fallen near the cottage and kept the fire going day and night to air his old home. Molly scrubbed it down from top to bottom and washed the bedding, and for the last two weeks they had been installed there.

  Davie was back where he had started.

  The first night he lay with Jane by his side in the bed that his parents had shared for years, in the bed in which he himself had been conceived and born, he had thought: everything goes full circle. He had worked like two men all his life, and what had he to show for it? Well, he had Jane and the child that was coming, and he had a piece of land and a few cattle. But hold your hand! Don’t count your chickens, he had warned himself, these last weren’t sure. He was waiting to hear about them; he wouldn’t be surprised if the next thing they would say would be that they were going to take the land. He’d be surprised at nothing any more.

  Three weeks before her time, Jane started her pains. She had felt ill for days, but she put that down to her leg. There was a hole in it now. When the bandages were taken off the matter poured out. Doctor Cargill said she must keep it well covered up, but it was so painful she could hardly bear the linen strips near the flesh. Molly had put goose grease on to prevent the cloth sticking, but that hadn’t helped.

  She was woken from her sleep by a searing pain circling her middle. When she clutched at Davie he roused himself, saying, ‘What is it? What is it?’

  ‘I’ve got a pain.’

  ‘Pain? But . . . but it’s not due . . . ’

  ‘I know, I know, but . . . but it’s a definite pain.’

  ‘I’ll get Molly.’

  ‘No, no, it may be nothing, it might go away. Perhaps it’s just a cramp . . . flatulence.’ She never said wind.

  The pain hadn’t gone away by dawn, but increased, and he went into his old bedroom and knocked sharply on the wall, and a few minutes later Molly came running in, fastening on her clothes as she did so. Her teeth were chattering with the cold as she asked, ‘Wh-at is it? What’s up?’r />
  He was standing at the top of the narrow stairs as he said softly, ‘She’s started her pains.’

  ‘But it’s not . . . ’

  ‘I know, I know. But it’s them all right.’

  ‘Not a fluke?’

  ‘No; I should say not. I’m going to ride in for the doctor.’

  ‘But she might be hours, a day or so.’

  ‘I doubt not; not the way they’re comin’. And he promised her he’d be here at the time, with her leg the way it is and the state she’s in with one thing and another.’

  As she passed him she said, ‘He won’t thank you for goin’ at this hour.’

  ‘I can’t help that. Anyway, it’ll be on light when I get there.’ She passed him and went into the room and bent over Jane, and they stared at each other both wide-eyed.

  ‘You think it’s them?’

  ‘Yes, Molly.’

  ‘Now don’t you worry, everything will be all right. Davie’s goin’ for the doctor. He’s good is Doctor Cargill with bairns. Not that I can’t bring it meself, I’ve had nearly as much experience as him.’ She smiled, but received no answering smile from Jane.

  ‘I’m worried, Molly.’

  ‘What’ve you got to be worried about? First ’un’s always come days afore or days after. Me ma always said our Lena was so long in coming she thought she was goin’ to go the full eighteen months an’ have twins.’ Her smile was wide now and she laughed. And Jane laughed with her, a short weary laugh. But the next minute she was hanging on to Molly while she gritted her teeth and the sweat ran down her face.