‘Oh, I don’t think they’ll get this far, it’s scum from over the border. The last raid was miles away, up beyond Kielder Moor.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure. What’s forty miles to an organised band of sheep thieves? They bragged they had Roger Marden’s lot killed and skinned before they reached the Cheviots, so’—he nodded—‘don’t underestimate them.’
‘Well’—Jim Waite’s chin came out—‘we haven’t lost one yet, have we? By the way, I heard a bit of news last night. I called in at The Fox on me way back. They were on about Mr Ferrier and the new herd he’s startin’. A hundred guineas he’s paid for a bull. That’s something, isn’t it, a hundred guineas? Well, as they said, he’s taken up farmin’ to take his mind off his troubles. And he’s got troubles ’cos I don’t think there can be much worse than to be saddled with an idiot son. Huh! He wanted an heir, an’ he’s got one. By God! I’d say he has.’
Michael stopped in the act of lifting the harness from its stand and he turned his head sharply. ‘What! What do you mean, an idiot son?’
‘Well, that’s what they say. The few who’s seen the bairn, they say he looks an idiot; Chinaman’s eyes, no shape to his mouth, an’ its skin stretched, you know tight like an idiot’s. Of course, they’ve kept it dark. Ted Hunnisett said you can get little out of the servants, like clams they are, but he was delivering there, grain an’ flour from the mill, an’ he saw the mother, you know, Miss Bensham that was. She had the bairn by the hands trying to make him walk. He shouldn’t have been there, I mean Ted, not where he was at the time but he had gone round the back to make water, an’ in the distance he sees a bush and it was full of blossom, pink blossom. The flowers were like cups he said, he had never seen one like it afore, and he thought he’d sneak along and pinch a branch. An’ when he got to the bush he found it overlooked a part of the garden that was secluded like, an’ there on the lawn below him was this bairn an’ Miss Bensham…I mean Mrs Ferrier. He’d had his hand on the branch he said afore he twigged them and it must have been that he moved the bush ’cos she turned and looked up, and when she saw him she must have recognised he wasn’t one of theirs for she up with the child and hugged it to her and went off. Well,’ he ended, ‘they say God’s ways are slow but they’re sure.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Michael was standing confronting him now, his face grim.
‘Well,’ Jim Waite tossed his head and assumed a slightly flustered manner. ‘You could say…well, you could say he played the dirty on the missis, didn’t he? I remember the time when he wasn’t away from the door…’
‘That’s enough, Waite, that’s enough!’
The reprimand was significant in more ways than one because Michael had never before called him by his surname. It had always been Jim.
‘Sorry if I’ve taken a liberty.’ Jim Waite’s voice was surly.
‘I’m glad you recognise it as a liberty.’
They stared at each other through the thin haze of steam coming from the boiler.
‘Things’ve changed.’
‘Things are as they should be, and as they always should have been.’
‘You mean I forgot me place?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Aw well, now I know where I stand, don’t I?’
‘Yes, you know where you stand.’
‘It’s come to somethin’.’
‘That’s your fault.’
‘I’ve known you since you were a bairn in the cradle by the kitchen fire. It’s a bit late isn’t it to play the master?’
‘Where you have made the mistake is that you didn’t recognise me as master before.’
‘Your mother was the boss.’
‘She’s the boss no longer.’
‘Aw well, I’d say she’d be surprised to hear that.’
‘Well, you’d better go and tell her, hadn’t you? You’re well equipped for carrying news, you’ve done it for years.’
Again they stared at each other, in silence now, until Jim Waite, turning away said, ‘Things’ll never be the same after this,’ and Michael said to his back, ‘That will be up to you, entirely up to you. You keep your place and give me mine and things can remain seemingly as they are. If not, well, you know the alternative.’
He swung the harness to the front of his chest and went out and across the yard and into the stables and began to prepare the horse and trap for the journey to the station.
It was turned seven o’clock when he entered the house again. Both Sarah and his mother were in the kitchen and he knew from the looks they cast on him that Jim Waite had, as usual, been before him.
He was at the sink washing his hands when his mother said, ‘What’s this I hear?’
‘What do you hear?’ He jerked his head up but did not turn towards her.
‘You’re taking the high hand with Jim.’
‘If you care to put it that way, yes, but I would say I was merely pointing out who was master.’
‘Master?’ Constance Radlet’s eyebrows moved upwards. Her one-time beautiful face looked bony and fleshless but the skin showed no wrinkles. She was forty-four and looked every day of her age, or even more; this was caused as much by the stiffness that braced her figure as by the austerity of her features. She retained no resemblance to the gay girl she had been before she married Donald Radlet, or even to the kindly woman who had survived him.
The events of the recent years she had taken as personal insults, particularly the latest, when three years ago she had heard that Pat Ferrier had married Katie Bensham.
On the day Jim Waite had brought this news to the farm—it was only through Jim she received news of the Benshams, having now no connection with Miss Brigmore, or Mrs Bensham as she had become—it was on that day that she had gone up to her room and sat with her fists clenched as she stared into the mirror and looked down the years at her past life. On that day, if wishes could have killed, Pat Ferrier would have surely died and Katie Bensham’s life would have been blighted in some way.
She had not cried at the news; instead, her resentment and anger went to join the parched tears and bitterness that had built up in her over the years.
And now this morning, as she had listened to Jim Waite’s latest news, she had felt not one trace of sorrow in her, so much had life changed her, but she had thought, in the terms that any of the Waites might themselves have used, God’s slow but He’s sure, and indeed she knew that in this instance He was. Also that everything came to him who waited, and Pat Ferrier, in preferring a young girl to herself, had been repaid with an idiot son.
‘You happy?’
‘What do you say?’
‘I said, are you happy?’
Michael’s words had startled her. She looked at him where he stood now confronting her, a big ruddy-faced, fair-haired young man…but no, not young any longer, not young in this moment, simply a man. And she knew that here was another turning point in her life. Her old self, who had loved this son and who still loved him, was fearing him now. But in a way this feeling was not new for she had feared him since the day when she caught him looking at the two photographs in the attic. Yet she had the strong urge even now to appeal to him, to put her arms about him and say, ‘Michael, Michael, try to understand how I feel. I’ve been tortured emotionally since I was a young girl. Pat Ferrier was the third man who rejected me. You can’t have any idea what it is to be a woman and be rejected three times. To know that you are beautiful, attractive, and…and be passed over. It would have been understandable if I had been plain and without personality, but I was a lively and yes, yes, a charming young woman, charming enough for your father to do murder for me. And look what life has done to me…Look.’ But what she said was ‘What do you mean, am I happy?’
‘I thought you’d be happy, having heard of Ferrier having an idiot son.’
She did not answer for some time and they stared at each other, open enmity between them now; then slowly she said, ‘Every man in the end gets what he deser
ves, and I would remind you to remember just that…Sarah—’ she turned to where Sarah was leaning on her crutch at the end of the table watching them both, and she finished, ‘You can cut the bread now.’
Her head moving slowly from side to side, Sarah looked hard at her husband before swinging her body expertly around and clip-clopping to the sideboard, and there, again just as expertly, she lifted up with one hand the bread board on which reposed a loaf and brought it to the table.
Pulling a chair forward, she sat down, then leant her crutch against the corner of the table, and after cutting two slices of bread she glanced to where Michael had now seated himself at the opposite end of the table and said, ‘Mam says you can drop me off at Hexham; she wants some things. Don’t you, Mam?’
Constance was at the stove. She didn’t turn round nor did she speak, and Sarah went on, ‘I can get the carrier cart back.’
Slowly Michael placed the full spoon back in his porridge before saying, ‘I told you; and that was final. Whatever you want in Hexham you can get on Friday.’
‘I want to go in today.’
He shook his head slowly as he stared at her, ‘Oh no, you don’t. What you want is to be given the chance to cause a scene there and blackmail me into taking you into Newcastle. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Why are you so set on going alone?’
As he stared at Sarah he was aware that his mother had turned sharply from the fire and was glaring at him. They were both glaring at him, seeing him in a new light, as Jim Waite had done earlier on. And he left no doubt in either of their minds that the new light was shining for good and all when, getting up abruptly from the table, he said, ‘I’m going into Newcastle, and I’m going on my own. This is only a beginning. And I’m telling you both’—he looked from one to the other—‘if I want a day off I’m taking it, and on my own, or the child with me if I so need her. Now chew over that, the both of you.’ And on this he marched from the room.
They looked at each other, but neither spoke. As usual, Sarah’s lips began to tremble while her eyes remained dry. Then Constance, turning from her, went back to the stove. But she didn’t bend over it, she just stared at the big hollow above the fire that led into the chimney, and she saw her future as black as the soot adhering to it…
When Michael was dressed for the road he went across the landing and into the bedroom where his daughter lay sleeping, and as he bent down to kiss her she opened her eyes and put up her arms around his neck and said sleepily, ‘Hello, Dada.’
‘Hello, my love.’ He only used this term of endearment to her when they were alone.
‘You going out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, a long way off, Newcastle.’
‘New-cas-sel?’ She spread the word out.
He nodded at her.
‘You’re not takin’ me?’
‘No, not this time; next time I go I’ll take you. What would you like me to bring you back?’
Her eyes twinkled. ‘A monkey on a stick, like the one I had last year and got broken, and some seashells.’
‘All right, you’ll have a monkey on a stick and some seashells. Goodbye now.’ He kissed her again, and she hugged his head to her.
‘Be a good girl.’
‘Yes, Dada.’
He turned from the door and looked at her. She looked fresh and beautiful to him…and innocent. No rancour in her face, no recrimination. But how long could she remain like that before they contaminated her with their bitterness?
When he emerged from the Central Station in Newcastle he did what he had done on his two previous visits to the city. He went across the road and gazed back at the facade. It was a mighty piece of work to front a railway station, he thought, and it was a great pity that it was being befouled with soot and bird droppings. He crossed the road again and went towards the end of the building to where unobtrusively a winged head gazed down from the side wall. He liked the expression on its face, it was kindly. But what a waste, all that stone and workmanship to front a railway station! He shook his head at it all.
He next took a walk along the quayside; then made his way up the Castlegarth steps and into the town. The sights and sounds of the city intrigued him, and all weren’t beautiful. Going up a narrow alley he passed a doss-house. The door was open and he had a brief glimpse of one room where men lay huddled on the floor, some munching food, some asleep. The scene was softened by the glow from a blazing fire, but the stench from the place brought his nose wrinkling; animal dung smelled sweet compared with it. And more than once in the same vicinity he received invitations from ladies of light virtue, which made him suddenly feel the need of their services. But he did not avail himself; he was fastidious in that way.
Later, he walked past the cathedral. He had never gone inside, churches didn’t appeal to him, yet he could admire the exterior; a mass of stone held a certain attraction.
Eventually he stopped in Pilgrim Street and ate, and ate well. Later, he walked along Collingwood Street where the shops had fine big windows in which to display their goods, not open casements like those in the side streets, and as he gazed into them he wished he had brought Hannah with him. She would have loved the display. He did not allow his mind to muse on the fact that Sarah might have enjoyed it equally as much.
The solicitors’ offices were in Percy Street and his business there took him but half an hour. He wrote his signature to the deed of land consisting of ten acres of fertile pasture adjoining the south side of his property. The same, purchased from Lord Alvin for the sum of thirty pounds, was witnessed by a clerk.
When he asked the solicitor his fee he was told a bill would be sent to him, and he answered that he preferred to pay on the spot. The solicitor stretched his face, rang a handbell and spoke to his clerk. A few minutes later the clerk put a slip of paper on the desk before his master. The solicitor then turned it round and looked up at Michael. Michael looked down at the paper and said, ‘Three guineas.’ He drew the money from his pocket, handed it across the table, shook the solicitor’s hand, wished him good day and went out.
There were now ten acres of land added to the farm and it excited him not at all. He had no great love of land. He had no great love of anything for that matter. Life was a routine filled with duties, responsibilities all to be met. There was only one thing in his outlook this day that was different from yesterday; in future he would not only be the master of the farm, but see to it that he was seen to be the master of the farm. Whether he was the bastard son of his half-uncle, or the son of his mother’s husband made no difference, the farm was his, and from now on he would bring that home to them, every one of them from his mother down to the youngest of the Waites.
There was a full hour and a half before he need return to the station. He meandered down to the river again and gazed at the bridges and the bustling activity that was going on between them; big ships, little ships, coal barges, wherries. The latest one, the swing bridge, was but twelve years old; they must have been building it when he was a lad. He turned from the river and went back into the town. He went through the Haymarket and on through streets that were becoming grander and wider as he walked.
It was as he left a street called Lovaine Place and turned down a narrow passage that he saw coming towards him from the other end a tall lady accompanied by three children. They were small children only about three years old; two of them were walking one on each side of the lady and she was holding them by their hands, but the third one, who seemed older, was dancing and jumping well ahead of them. He did not know whether it was a boy or a girl, even when the child stopped in front of him; not until he stooped down and touched the black ringlets hanging from under the sailor hat and the child laughed up at him and said, ‘Hello,’ was he certain it was a boy.
He looked up, waiting for the mother’s approach, but she had stopped. Then, for the first time in years he knew he was possessed of a heart, literally, because its beating thumped so hard
against his chest wall that the sound reverberated through his ears, filling his head and seeming to blind him, for the face and figure of the woman were blotted out for a moment. He blinked once, twice, and then again. And now he could see her. She was not the Barbara he remembered, there was no resemblance to his last memory of her; before him was a woman, a fully matured woman, beautiful, so beautiful that he felt faint at the sight of her. She was standing, still as a statue, waiting. Waiting for what? He heard Sarah’s voice coming at him as if from the figure before him, saying, ‘I want to come with you. Why are you so set on going alone, eh?’
He must move, go forward, speak to her. It was Barbara. Barbara. But what if it got back to them in some way? They would say, ‘There, we knew it. We knew all along what you were up to.’ His thoughts were jumbled, tumbling about in his head. What was the matter with him? He must speak to her, he must look at her close to. He must tell her…What must he tell her? That he had realised too late that his love for her was as great as hers had been for him? And where would that lead him?
The child turned from him and called across the distance, ‘Mama! Mama! Come.’ He saw the other two children tug at her hands, But still she didn’t move. She was waiting for some sign, and he gave it. He turned in the narrow passage and almost ran down the length of it. He had to keep his feet in a step that could still be termed walking. He came into the main street and hurried along it until he came to a side street and he went up this, right to the end of it. There he stopped and, like a man spent, he leant against the wall and looked back the way he had come, thinking that if she passed he would catch one more glimpse of her. But she did not pass.
After a few minutes he brought himself abruptly upright. He had been a fool, stupid; he had turned and run. What would she think? What could she think but that he had meant what he said that day near the copse: ‘I never want to see you again as long as I live.’ Yet he knew now that every day since then, that’s all he had longed for, just to see her again.
The Mallen Litter Page 8
