It was only after a great deal of yelling, tugging, pulling and shoving, that the parties were separated. But the noise covering the green was like that of a cup final and one that had not pleased the majority of the crowd. Even with the two contesting groups spread apart the noise still went on.
It was with some element of surprise that Peter found himself neither giving nor receiving blows, but standing round the corner in the inn yard with his back against the wall, gasping for breath, and with blood running into his eyes and almost blinding him. He knew there was someone on each side of him, and dimly he recognised the little fellow’s voice as he said, ‘Take it easy. Sit down here.’
Dazed and still panting as if his lungs would burst, he allowed himself to be drawn forward and down to a seat which, experience told him, was the step of a car.
‘I’ll put that right for you. Max, get me the kit. And you, Tiffy, get inside and keep your mouth shut. See to him Shaggy, I won’t be a minute.’
‘There!’ Peter felt a painful sting that hurt more than the blow that had cut open his eyebrow. Then slowly his vision cleared, and close above him he saw the master of ceremonies. The little man’s dark thin face seemed to have changed entirely in the past moments, and his voice had a commanding ring as he said, ‘Rest easy now till I stick something on it.’ There was a pause while his fingers moved round the cut; then he muttered rapidly, ‘That’ll stop the bleeding…it won’t need stitching.’ Another pause and then he went on, ‘I’m sorry this has happened. Tiffy’s a fool but he meant no harm. You know when all’s said and done you asked for what you got…we’re all fond of Leo, Tiffy particularly. He did a great deal for her, it made a difference—he got to know her rather well.’
The mention of Leo’s name seemed to have as astringent an effect on Peter as the stuff that had been applied to the cut for it brought him lumbering to his feet. He stood swaying slightly as he rubbed his hand roughly over his face; then he said thickly, and not without sarcasm, ‘I can believe that.’ Then, try as he might, he could not resist asking, ‘And what did he do for her that was so different from all the others?’ His tone, like his lips, was curled in a sneer.
The small man blinked, then in a somewhat offhand manner, he said, ‘Oh, well, he was in the theatre and attended her for months afterwards. She was an interesting case besides being a damn fine girl.’
It was painful to screw up his eyes but Peter’s bewilderment slowly puckered his face as he exclaimed thickly, ‘You’re not actors then, you’re…?’
‘Actors? What gave you the impression we were actors? We’re doctors.’ There was a crispness about the reply.
‘Doctors?’ In amazement he repeated the word, yet it was as if he were giving himself a long-awaited reply.
‘Yes, doctors.’ Roger gave a small laugh now. ‘I don’t suppose we appear quite the accepted idea but you’ve got to let your hair down sometimes in this business or you’d blow your top. Don’t you know about Leo?’
Peter was standing quite still, looking down at the smaller man but not seeing him.
‘She’s ill, you know that?’
Peter’s lips moved without emitting any sound, and when finally he did speak he could scarcely hear his own words.
‘Ill? How?’
‘Come on, let’s get out of this blasted dump.’
Roger turned to where Max was leaning out of the car window and said curtly, ‘Calm down, I won’t be a minute.’ Then putting his hand on Peter’s elbow he guided him away, and when they reached the comparative quietness of the corner of the yard he looked up at him and made a statement, followed by a question: ‘You’re in love with her. Seriously? Now don’t’—he raised one finger sharply—‘now don’t say that’s your business. Give me a straight answer.’
Here was no merry drunk. Looking at the man now it was hard to believe that he had touched a drop that day, and Peter did as he ordered and his reply came firmly as he said, ‘Yes.’
‘And you hadn’t guessed she was ill?’
He shook his head in a pathetic fashion. ‘No—not really. Only this evening she couldn’t run out of the rain and…’
‘Well.’ The doctor bit on his lip, stretching it down behind his teeth. ‘Well.’ He moved uneasily. ‘There should be time to tell you this. Not in this fashion and here’—his eyes flicked around him—‘and after this set-up. Still, you’d better know for I think you’re in earnest about her—I’m coming!’ He turned an angry face towards Max who was once again calling from the car window. Then resuming slowly, he said, ‘When she left the hospital, four months ago, she had, at the outset, a year to live. She was supposed to report back at regular intervals, but once she was out she never came again. From something she let drop to Shaggy he got the idea that she was going to drive that old car of hers until she could go on no longer, then finish it. Of course, we could do nothing as it was just a surmise of his, and then when she didn’t turn up and we didn’t know where she was, we felt it had been no surmise and perhaps, after all, she knew what she was doing. Now and again her name would crop up because she was one of the gamest creatures we’d had through our hands. And then to come across her like this…’
The urge to punch and bash, fear of what he didn’t know, fear of what he did know, even his blind jealousy of the man whom he knew definitely had been part of her life, were swept away, driven before a flood of compassion and love—and weakness. The weakness made him want to put his head in his hands and cry, cry with loud pain-easing sobs. Almost conquered by this feeling, he turned away and looked down towards the bar garden, and saw beyond it, in his mind’s eye, the wood and the lake and the eel. She had been content to sit and watch the eel and wait for its going, and what had she thought as she sat there all alone? Of dying? Of the quick end she was going to make of it? Always in her mind must have been that thought.
Sweat suddenly enveloped him, outdoing the rain that was streaking his face. Then the doctor’s voice, brisk but full of sympathy, put an end to his weakness: ‘If you love her you’ll stand by her. Not that that’ll be easy, for unlike most women of my experience she rears from pity like an unbroken colt, but that’s merely because she thinks it’s her role. She’s always been taken lightly, she’s the type that’s always good for a laugh and a lark, but she’s got another side. We found that out during her long stay in hospital.’
Peter was forced round. ‘What is it? What’s wrong with her?’
‘Growth…malignant. Here.’ The doctor pointed to his chest.
Peter’s mouth was bone dry and he rubbed at his swollen lips before saying, ‘But there are cases where they—’
‘There are miracles. You could pray for one, but as things stand I’ve told you what to expect. Still, as you say, there are cases, and pharmacy has no medicine that I know of to come up to the stimulant of love—a good love.’
‘Hi there, Peter!’
Peter turned to the entrance of the yard where his father and Bill, now joined by Old Pop, were standing.
‘Come on.’ Harry did not advance any farther. His voice was harsh and he looked very much the worse for wear. But his face had escaped lightly, whereas Bill, besides a cut lip, was already showing signs of a beautiful black eye.
‘We’ll be off now.’ The doctor turned towards his car, adding as he did so, ‘This has been a strange half-hour to say the least. Goodbye. Tell Leo I’m sorry for all this, will you? Tell her I’ll write to her here.’
From where he stood Peter watched the doctor get into the driving seat, and as the door banged behind him he moved hastily forward and, bending to the window, he brought out somewhat haltingly, ‘I’m sorry…I’m sorry this happened. It was my fault.’ Then turning his gaze onto the back seat to meet the scowling face of Tiffy, he repeated, ‘Sorry about it.’ Whereupon, as if an oiled rag had wiped it away, Tiffy’s bad temper cleared and he shuffled his huge body saying, ‘Oh, it’s all in a day’s work. We’ll call in again some time.’ He even laughed, and to the astonished gaz
e of Harry, Bill and Old Pop, and equally to a number of men still standing under the porch, the occupants of the car waved to Peter as it moved out of the yard, and, more astonished still, they watched Peter answer with one self-conscious lift of his hand.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Harry squeezed the wet out of his hair, then again repeated, ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ And turning on Peter as he slowly advanced towards them, he demanded, ‘What d’you mean by waving after such a bloody do, all pals together like?’
Peter, ignoring the remark and the blame attached, asked, in an oddly quiet tone, ‘Where is she?’
Harry held on to his temper and said, ‘Round the corner, drenched and scared.’
‘And the other bloke?’
‘Oh, he’s gone. Thought it best…got a bit too hot for him.’
Peter moved past them now and past the lingering men, and as he reached the front of the inn, Mrs Booth, pushing her way out of the door, confronted him and, her face convulsed with fury, cried, ‘You’ll pay for this. You’ll see. You and your cheap street—!’
‘Shut your mouth!’
For a moment it looked as if he might hit her, and she, too, must have thought this for she recoiled a step, then screamed, ‘You would, would you! You try it on and see what you’ll get. You’re a disgrace. A disgrace to the place, you and her, and don’t you show your face in here again, ever—ever!’
After giving her one long, contemptuous look that spewed her words into an unintelligible gabble he moved past her and went through the men and to Leo, where she stood against the wall, her face turned away, like a child in trouble. And when, without a word he took her arm and led her slowly into the street in the direction of home she made no show of resistance but walked by his side with her head lowered.
Peter’s intention of taking her home hit Harry like a brick in the neck and brought him, in a spurt, to his side. Yet any protest he was about to make was stilled, not only by the look on his son’s face but by the awful look of the girl, and so with a helpless gesture he dropped behind them and joined Bill and Old Pop as they came up. The lad was mad, stark staring mad; this could only lead to trouble—Harry drew in his breath through his teeth—and some!
Although there were only five of them on the green, the village had never seemed so full of people, for the doors and windows were crowded, and when Bill, paring off from the cortege, went towards his own door his wife’s tirade swept into the street and caused Harry to wince.
Not only was the Mackenzies’ doorway blocked by Mrs Mackenzie and a now even more virtuously indignant Mavis, but the men were braving the rain to stand at the gate. But whether it was Peter’s look or Harry’s or Old Pop’s, or the combined looks of all three, they were allowed to pass in silence to their own garden gate, and to Grandpop.
For once the old man was not seated at the window but was standing just inside the front door. He had his back to them and was brandishing his stick and yelling.
Before reaching the gate Harry had taken in the situation, so stepping briskly to the front he pushed by the old man and confronted Rosie, who was blocking the passage, to be greeted with a stammering ferocious protest of rage, ‘How dare you! How dare you! She’s—she’s not coming in here.’
Following a movement from her husband that could be defined as a violent push, Rosie found herself in the living room with an equally ferocious Harry bending over her and hissing into her face, ‘Not a word out of you, d’you hear! It’ll keep.’
‘Don’t you think you’re—’
‘Shut yer gob!’
‘Shut me gob, d’you say? You’ll see whether I’ll shut—’
Rosie stepped back from Harry, and as she did so her eyes swung to the doorway where now stood her son and…the woman. For a moment she was afraid, not of her husband’s threats, but at the sudden wild leaping feeling inside of her, for she had an almost unconquerable desire to spring on the girl and tear her to pieces. And when she saw her lad gently lead her towards a chair she had to turn away in case the feeling should get the better of her, and as she pressed her hand over her mouth to still the moaning sound that was rising from her stomach there fell on the room a dreadful quietness, which not even Grandpop’s garrulousness could break.
The men’s eyes were meeting and questioning. What next? Then they all, with the exception of Peter, looked towards Rosie. Peter had turned his eyes again to Leo, but she, too, was looking at his mother. He saw her fighting for words. Then, her voice breathless and cracking in her throat, she brought out, ‘I’m sorry for this, Mrs Puddleton, but I won’t stay long—just until I can get my things from the Hart.’
Her words made no apparent impression on Rosie, other than to stiffen her back still more, but to Peter, through his new knowledge of her, they spoke of her utter solitariness and twisted his feelings into knots. And he bent over her saying, with a gentleness the sound of which was unbearable to his mother, ‘Come on and lie down for a while until we get things straightened out.’
Lie down? Lie down, indeed! Furious indignation reared in Rosie. Not if she knew it. The only place she could lie would be in his room and she wasn’t having any of that. No, she wasn’t!
She swung round, her mouth already open, but it seemed that Grandpop had been waiting for exactly this reaction, for he pelted his own words into it as he endorsed what Peter had said, ‘Aye, aye—shut up, you!’ He glared at her. ‘Best place, bed. Best place, strikes me. You go on, miss, and nobody’ll say you nay in this house. No, they won’t, not as long as I’m alive and kicking. Don’t stand there, you lad. Go on up with you. Take her up.’
Even while giving this last daring order Grandpop still kept his eyes on Rosie. Harry and Old Pop said nothing; as strong as they might be they would not have had the nerve to do this.
Once again Leo looked up at Rosie and there was pleading in her eyes, but Rosie’s answered it with what almost amounted to a blaze of hate. And when Peter, his face stiff and hardening, assisted Leo to her feet and felt her trembling under his hands, he turned a look on his mother that matched her own and sent a weakness through her limbs. It made her feel physically sick and caused her to moan inwardly, ‘All through that piece. Oh, God in Heaven!’
She watched him showing such tenderness to the girl as he led her out of the room that she became embarrassed by the sight of him. Her big, casual, easygoing son had in the course of a few days shown her so many new sides that she was bewildered by them, but this one, this soppy goofiness, as she put it, was unbelievable and—and unbearable.
When she heard the click of the bedroom door she raised her eyes to the ceiling, then brought them flashing down to her menfolk and demanded, ‘Well! Nice, isn’t it! Suits you, doesn’t it, the three of you? It’s a wonder you didn’t think of starting it years ago yourselves.’
‘Now look here.’ Harry moved towards her, at the same time pressing his hand back on his father to still his retort, and standing facing her he said, quietly but with hard emphasis, ‘He’s always been the apple of your eye, hasn’t he?’ There was a covert accusation in this. ‘You’ve given him a long apron string, but you’ve kept it fast about his ankle. Well now, he’s snapped it and whether you like it or not you’ve got to face it. He’s on his own and for good or bad he’s done his own pickin’.’
‘You’re glad, aren’t you? You’re glad it’s happened.’
The words came brokenly from Rosie now, and Harry, shaking his head, said, ‘Lass, have some sense. You may not believe it but I don’t think he’s even glad himself the way things have turned out. And I know better than you what he’s going through at this minute.’
‘Yes, I’d believe that all right.’ Her voice was strident once more. ‘You can tell all right, you’ve had experience. You and your affairs! And now you’ve got him like you, the lot of you.’ She brought the two old men into her distracted glance. ‘Now you’re all satisfied.’
Harry’s face darkened and he drew in his breath, but instead of making the biting reto
rt that this last merited he let his breath slowly hiss out as was his way and was turning sharply about with the intention of going from the room when the sound of a door closing above checked his steps, and he waited. They all waited. Grandpop eased himself into a chair and Old Pop followed suit, but they all kept their eyes turned in one direction. And when Peter came into the room he did not, as they expected, face their glances angrily but went slowly to the table and sat down, and after a second he rested his head on one hand while they all looked at him.
The sight of him thus, wet and bloodstained, brought the mother-love sweeping back into Rosie—his poor face all cut and knocked about and that gash above the eye, it should be stitched—but when he raised his head and said with quiet firmness, ‘I’ve got to talk to you all,’ she stiffened again.
‘Go on, lad. You have your say.’ Grandpop drew himself to the edge of his seat and bounced his head, and Harry swung a chair round, to sit on it without a word but in a way that proved his willingness, even his eagerness, to listen to his son.
As Peter looked from one to the other the words crowded in his throat, cutting off his breath. He passed his hands over his eyes; then getting swiftly to his feet he brought out in a mumble, ‘She’s ill…very ill. She’s…she’s dying.’ And with this he moved with blind steps into the scullery, leaving them all motionless.
The men, with shocked, darkened glances, looked at each other, but Rosie looked towards the scullery.
Dying! Huh! That was the best bit yet. It was a cheap trick of hers to catch him, and he had fallen for it…dying! The bigger they were the softer they were. Dying! Huh! Then Rosie’s cynicism faltered, just the slightest, urged in that direction by unashamed hope. When she came to think of it there was something wrong with her—that look. But what? Anyway if she was dying there wasn’t much future, was there? Slowly, as if she were being drawn there step by step, she moved towards the scullery.
Slinky Jane Page 18
