by Mary Mackie
Johnny must have told his new friends about the beating he had taken from Sir Arthur. Making mischief at Ambleford became the boys’ delight. Not that they had to do much in order to set Sir Arthur on the rampage. If they so much as walked along one of his headlands he sent men to chase them off. So, naturally, they took to walking along his headlands at regular intervals.
Eventually, the furious Sir Arthur sent his son to make complaint. Trying to shield Father, this time I invited myself to witness the interview. ‘My father isn’t strong. If you upset him…’
‘I have no intention of upsetting him unless I’m driven to it,’ Geoffrey answered. ‘By all means join us. Perhaps you can help control that young brother of yours.’
He had come seeking a truce. He too suffered from his father’s irrational temper, so he sympathised with Johnny, but he was afraid of what might come of the mischief-making. The latest development was the chalking of insults on barn walls – the boys had been interrupted while scrawling ‘Mad Devlin lives here’. If it went on, either Sir Arthur would drop dead of apoplexy or the boys would commit some real felony. None of us wanted that.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Father said. ‘Yes, I’ll talk to him.’
‘I should be grateful,’ Geoffrey replied, gathering up his hat and riding crop.
I saw him to the door, where we said only polite, formal words such as any two neighbours might exchange. But beneath the conventions our eyes held more intimate conversations. The forces that bound us were as strong as ever.
Father had a long talk with Johnny, and later I too had words to say to my brother, begging him to avoid Ambleford if only for Father’s sake. Father was ill, I told him; he mustn’t be given extra worries. Johnny promised that he and his friends would find other amusement and leave Sir Arthur alone.
‘But there were words on the barn before we wrote any,’ he said. ‘And they weren’t chalked, they were painted.’
‘What words?’
‘Things like “tyrant” and “machine lover”. And in another place it said “remember Captain Swing”. Who was Captain Swing, Rose?’
I didn’t know, but George Pooley told me that ‘Captain Swing’ was the name coined by activists in the farming troubles in the thirties. That had all died down, but now a farm labourers’ union was being formed, with strikes and lock-outs occurring in the south, where conditions were particularly hard. Was the unrest beginning to stir in Norfolk, too?
One thing was sure – it wasn’t Johnny and his friends who had written that particular threat.
* * *
One August afternoon, returning home from a visit to Narnie, Mama and I were horrified to see a column of white smoke rising over the woods and fields, lifting straight into a depthless blue sky. At first we feared a conflagration at Orchards. I whipped up the pony, but as the dogcart moved along the lanes it became apparent that the blaze was further away. On Ambleford land.
Our gates were open, another dogcart waiting by the house with beside it two figures – Father, and a gesticulating Sir Arthur Devlin, strutting, shouting, waving a stick. Father had his arms up to protect his head. As I stopped the cart, he collapsed and fell.
‘Oh, no! Oh, Will!’ Mama gasped.
I leapt down and ran to where Father lay with Sir Arthur hopping near him, saying in angry bafflement, ‘I never touched him. Never touched him! Damme, I’d have been justified…’
He ranted on but his voice was just a noise in the background. Father lay on his side, one arm flung over his face, his whole body contorted as if in agony. I gently moved his arm, and saw how ghastly pale he was under the weathering of his skin. He looked at me with eyes full of pain, saying almost inaudibly, ‘Don’t move me. Not yet. Let me lie here a minute.’
From Sir Arthur’s ravings I gathered that he blamed Johnny for the fire that was even now raging through a field of wheat. He shouted incoherently, wagging his stick, raining curses down on us all. Mama stood by the dogcart, hands to her face, fright in her eyes.
Then a horseman came galloping, a whirl of dust and motion as he threw himself from the saddle. He came running towards me, all concern. Geoffrey.
‘I came as soon as I could. What happened?’
His father ranted: ‘Happened? Happened, you say? Dammit, sir, the Hamilton boy fired my wheat, that’s what happened! Blasted limb of Satan! Ought to be horse-whipped within an inch of his life. If he was a son of mine…’
He went on, but we ignored him. We were both too concerned for Father.
‘He’s in terrible pain,’ I said. ‘Can you help me get him into the house?’
Geoffrey knelt and gathered my father bodily into his arms. Father moaned a little, then clamped his lips against the pain as Geoffrey stood up with his burden, nodding at me to lead the way. ‘Oh, be quiet!’ he snapped at his own father, who was astounded into silence, and then we were in the house, making for the stairs.
Thin as Father had grown, the effort of carrying him made Geoffrey breathe hard. Even so, he spoke kindly, reassuring Father, and when we reached his room – Victor’s room – he laid him down with infinite care and stepped back, wiping his brow.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
Geoffrey shot me a lightning look. ‘Good God, don’t thank me! I wish I’d got here sooner. Did my father attack him? Is there a wound?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t believe your father actually hit him. He just collapsed. You… you’d better go back. I can manage now.’
‘Yes.’ He glanced down at Father, back at me, caught my hand and pressed it hard, then without further words he left.
When Father recovered enough to speak, he insisted that he would be all right after a rest. No, he wouldn’t let me undress him, or help him in any way. He would manage.
‘You stay with your Mama, she’ll need you,’ he said, his voice threaded with pain. ‘And when Johnny comes in I want to see him straight away. Straight away, Rose. Now leave me. I’ll try to get some sleep. I’ll be all right.’
But this time I knew he would not be ‘all right’. I sent for the doctor, and I sent for Aunt Agnes – the backus boy went running over to the Grange to fetch her and she was with us inside an hour. One look at Father and she became brisk, ignoring his protests. We stripped him of his clothes, sponged him down and put him into a fresh nightshirt. He hated it, but bore it in silence, needing all his strength to fight off the pain that racked him with every movement.
‘You’re so stubborn, Will!’ Agnes chafed. ‘You always were too stubborn.’ But while she scolded there were tears in her eyes.
Basil Pooley arrived, summoned by the drifting smoke in the sky. I told the maid to ask him to sit with Mama; Agnes and I remained with Father until, in the early evening, he seemed to be sleeping; then Agnes told me to go and see to Mama.
‘Is Johnny home?’ Father wheezed as I was leaving. ‘Rose, find out if Johnny’s home.’
Johnny was not home. He had not been seen since early morning.
* * *
In the drawing-room silence lay like creeping mist. Mama stared at her embroidery, her needle scarcely moving. Basil sat on the edge of a chair, elbows on spread knees, his head hanging as he counted the threads in the carpet, while I stood by the window staring on to bleak vistas in my own mind. The window was open, lace curtains stirring. The smoke from the wheat-fire had dissipated, only a few wisps still curling up, forming small cloudlets that drifted away to eastward. Somewhere over the meadow a lark flew in the evening sky and sang for joy of living. The high, twittering song jarred in my ears.
Into the silence, Basil said, ‘Shall I go and look for Johnny?’
‘Johnny will be home soon,’ Mama said, not looking up. ‘He’ll want his supper.’
Basil’s glance sought another reply from me. I shrugged: ‘Where would you start looking? He could be anywhere.’
‘He’s never late for supper,’ Mama said. While she ignored it, it couldn’t happen. Father would be well, Johnny would co
me home, nothing would change. But Johnny was already late. The hours were ticking by, the sun had gone and dusk was gathering.
Leaving his seat, Basil came to stand by me and indulge in low-voiced speculation about what had happened at Ambleford. He had been over to see the fire before he came to us; he had heard what they were saying – that Johnny and his friends had been caught smoking along that hedgerow before, that today spent matches and a tobacco pipe had been found right by the spot where the fire had started, before the wind took it and whipped it across the field of ripe, dry wheat that stood ready for harvest. Another few days and it would have been gathered. Now it was lost, and with it a sturdy length of hedge and a cart that had been left on the headland. The boys were held to blame, by accident or intent. Sir Arthur was determined to have them charged with wilful fire-raising.
‘If it’s true, and he’s run off,’ Basil said, ‘he’ll be in trouble. Shall I go over to East Esham Hall?’
‘No. Not yet. Wait a while.’
‘But they might know…’ He stopped, squinting out of the window as something by the gate caught his eye. When I looked, I too saw the riders coming – Geoffrey Devlin on his hunter, Johnny astride his pony. The sight made me spin round and rush for the door, out into gathering twilight.
‘It’s all right,’ Geoffrey greeted me, reining in as I ran out to meet them, with Basil a pace behind me. ‘He’s safe and all’s well.’
‘I was nowhere near Ambleford today,’ Johnny added. Judging by his clothes, he had been somewhere muddy. With an arrogant swagger he swung his leg over the pony’s head and leapt down, tossing the rein to the boy who had appeared. ‘And I can prove it.’
From the doorway behind me, Mama said, ‘There! What did I tell you? I knew he’d be home for supper. Come, Johnny, my love. Come and wash your hands. Are you hungry?’
As they went inside, Basil wrinkled his nose expressively, rubbing his ear much in the manner of his uncle George. Geoffrey’s eyes, too, said that he understood the difficulties I had with Mama. He sat gazing down at me, framed by a bright evening sky streaked with primrose and pink, where the invisible lark still trilled.
‘I went over to East Esham,’ he said. ‘The boys had said something about going fishing. They spent all morning around the pond at Rising Mill – John Hambledown had them under his eye all the time. They had a picnic, and then they made off downstream. I found them with one of the fishermen, where they’d been all afternoon. The man – Davies – vouched for that.’
‘That’d be Clam Davies,’ Basil said. ‘After dabs, I expect. That’s a fine way to while away a few hours. Often done it myself.’
‘Yes, so have I,’ Geoffrey agreed.
Stroking the hunter’s soft nose, I said, ‘It was kind of you to take the trouble. I’m grateful.’
He pulled a face. ‘I was sixteen once, not so long ago that I’ve forgotten. And I felt responsible. How is your father?’
‘We’re waiting for the doctor now.’
‘What about the fire?’ Basil wanted to know. ‘They were saying they’d found a pipe, and matches.’
‘Yes, they did,’ Geoffrey said grimly. ‘It looks very much as though someone wanted to throw suspicion on the boys, not knowing they’d have a solid alibi for today.’
It took me a moment to understand what he was saying. ‘You mean… it was arson?’
‘It begins to look that way.’
‘But who…?’
He gave me a humourless smile. ‘My father has a knack of making enemies, Miss Hamilton. Don’t let it worry you. At least we can be sure it had nothing to do with your brother. Good evening.’
As we watched him ride away, Basil said, ‘I knew I should have gone over to Esham. There was no need for him to bother himself.’
‘He meant it kindly.’
‘He meant it to butter you up! Don’t forget who it was caused your father’s collapse. You could have that old fool for assault. Or slander. He can’t go around accusing people of fire-raising without proof. It’s time he was locked up. That’s why his son’s being so considerate. Blood’s thicker than water. Don’t let him fool you.’
Wafting at a cloud of midges dancing by the honeysuckle on the porch, I returned to the house, where Agnes and the doctor were coming down the stairs. Their grave expressions told me all I needed to know. I stood quite still, chilled by dread.
‘How long?’
‘Three months. No more.’
Three months? I must have swayed; Basil’s arm came about my waist to support me and I let myself lean on him, glad he was there.
‘I shall stay, of course,’ Agnes said. ‘We’ll nurse him together.’
* * *
Father didn’t have three months, or even three weeks. He had fought valiantly for a long time, keeping his pain to himself, but in the end he gave up. The cancer that was eating at every part of his innards conquered even his stubborn spirit. He hated being so weak, hated his body for letting him down, for forcing him to need services that robbed him of all dignity. The illness stripped him of everything, even his pride.
Mama stayed away from the room where he lay dying. She went about like a wraith, silent and wan, dark eyes like bruises in her pale face. Johnny, too, though he did come to see Father now and then, seemed afraid of what was happening.
It was a relief to us all when Grace arrived. Her presence allowed Mama to weep and they wept together. Agnes and I contained our grief behind walls of practicalities.
After only three days he slipped into delirium, hardly knowing us, and we summoned the rest of the family. I consoled myself that at least Father was unaware of what we had to do for him, though he often cried out in unbearable pain. He clutched at my hand, near breaking my bones in his agony, while I moistened his mouth and cooled his head, murmuring through my tears, ‘I love you, Father. I love you.’
‘I love you, too, Hes,’ he muttered.
He took me for Mother. Perhaps he sensed her near.
One evening I went in and found him lucid. The skin stretched tight on his face, but his sunken eyes were focused and aware. I took his hand and smiled at him, smoothing his hair. ‘Father?’
His fingers dug into me, dragging me closer. For long moments he searched my face, trying to find words to convey some important message. The struggle filled his eyes with tears.
‘It’s all right, Father,’ I breathed, my voice cracking on the words. ‘It’s all right.’
He lifted his free hand to rub the moisture away, his mouth twisting in a wry, trembling smile. ‘You should have been a boy,’ he croaked. ‘Yes, you should.’
Would he have loved me better if I had been a boy? My throat closed up and I could find no reply.
He said, ‘I’ve not been a good father to you, girl.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Listen!’ His hand tightened, conveying his urgency. ‘Let me speak. For once in your life, listen! You’re my only hope now. If you let me down, it will all have been in vain. That’s what I fear most – that it was all for nothing. Maybe that’s why you were born. For this. Hester’s girl.’ Tears gathered again, making his voice a whisper. ‘You’re so like her. Did you know that?’
Biting my lip, feeling my own eyes grow hot and wet, I watched as his face contorted with anguish and sobs shook through him. But even in that extremity his will won through; he steeled himself against his distress, breathing deeply until he regained control. He lay for a while as if seeking sleep, still holding tightly to my hand.
Beyond the window, daylight waned. I could hear sounds of laden wagons creaking home, stacked with sheaves, of men and horses heading for food and rest. Sounds of voices, and a woman’s laughter, floated from that other world where life went on.
When his eyes opened again they were calm and clear. ‘Fight for me, Rose. Don’t let it all go for nothing. Fight to keep the farm. It’s all I’ve got to show for my life. Johnny’s too young yet. If only I’d been given a few more years… There’s only you now.
Promise me. Promise me you’ll keep the farm until Johnny’s old enough to…’
‘I promise,’ I vowed, holding his hand. ‘I promise!’
The effort of talking seemed to drain him. He sank back on his pillows, closing his eyes, but his hand clung to mine and after a while he looked up at me again, muttering something that sounded like, ‘Hester… wait.’
He sank into a coma. For twenty-four hours we sat with him, Mama and Grace weeping, Johnny silent, Agnes and I outwardly calm. My uncles too kept watch, even Seward sombred by what was happening; their wives flitted in and out supervising necessities.
The end came so peacefully that we were hardly aware of it.
‘He’s gone,’ Agnes confirmed.
As Mama gathered her children into her arms, wailing out her grief, I left the room. Without conscious intent I went down to the shadowed dining-room, to stand before the portrait of my mother, seeking answers but receiving only her steady, enigmatic smile. Were they together at last? She, and Father, and Victor.
‘Miss Rose?’ Basil had been a regular visitor during the past days; it didn’t seem strange that he should be there now.
‘He’s gone.’
He made no reply. He simply came to stand near me, a hand at my waist, and I, needing solace, leaned on his shoulder and let the tears come.
* * *
During the lying-in, Geoffrey Devlin came to pay his respects. It was no more than any neighbour would have done, but though we spoke no private word I knew he came for my sake, and that if circumstances had been different he would have held me and comforted me. The bonds between us were almost unbearable that day.
At the funeral he didn’t try to speak to me, though I saw him exchange a few words with Grace and Turnbull. Later he wrote to say that he would be available if we needed help from him, but he wouldn’t call at the farm to ‘trouble’ me in my grief. He was right. If he had come and found me alone, I might not have been able to be strong.
