The Tinker's Girl Page 14
'Oh no, sir. Oh no; no. Not when Mister Bruce is like this. I can keep awake; you'll probably want help. I'll sit here, near the fire.'
He smiled at her gently, thinking, Not for long, you won't, because her eyelids were already drooping and her face looked utterly weary. He could see no place for her to sleep, except on the bare floor.
His eyes took in the knapsack on the table, and, calling her to him and with a wag of his finger, he whispered,
'Take the rest of the stuff out of the bag. Put it in a cupboard; then bring the bag to me and I'll show you something.'
Quickly she did this, and after she had handed him the knapsack he took the straps and tucked them in, then folded it into a short form of pallet, saying, 'You see, the bottom's quite stiff. It isn't very long, but if you lay it alongside the wall there and put your feet towards the fire, you can curl up on a good part of it. And look, take that towel, the big one, and roll it up and make a pillow of it.'
She stared blankly at him, her mouth slightly agape, for she said, 'What if you want help, and the kettle, and ... ?'
'I won't need the kettle, not for a while, since you've made up the milk. I'll wake you if I need you.'
She stared at him for a moment longer; then taking the knapsack from him she turned about and laid it down against the wall as he had instructed, and for the first time he noticed her hair. One bedraggled plait was twisted on her head above her ear, making her head appear lopsided, so that he noticed the hair growing in straggly ends on the left side of her neck. Good gracious!
he almost exclaimed aloud. She had only one plait, the other had been cut off. Why? Who had done such a thing? She had had beautiful hair: he had once watched her washing it in the pool, and afterwards it had fallen like a cloak about her. He recalled the day when, out riding, he had reached the end of the ridge, when the light hitting the top of the hill in the far distance made him draw the horse towards the broken wall bordering the ridge, and he had taken from his pocket the book which he always kept there. It was no larger than four inches long and three wide. It had a pencil in the slot of the cover and, over the years, he had used many such for sketching parts of this attractive countryside. Later, in the deep winter months, or when his bones ached too badly, he would transfer special sketches to canvas and the memory would be reproduced in oils. But this day his hand became still on the book, because out of the corner of his eye he saw a small figure bending over the pool below, with its hair floating out on top of the water. For a moment he thought someone had drowned, and then he felt further amazement as he watched two hands come up and massage the scalp, then sway the head backwards and forwards in the water. Suddenly the head came up and back and the naiad that she represented at this moment now began to dry her long tresses with a towel.
He recalled that he almost prayed that his horse wouldn't neigh or make any movement, because he knew that never again would he see a picture so perfect and innocent.
The next toss of the head had sprayed the hair around the small shoulders, and it fell like a cape on to her hips.
Following this, she put her hands behind her flat on the grass and still with her legs tucked beneath her she leaned backwards, her face turned to the sun. He recalled the tight restriction that had gripped him by the throat, and he had known he must move away for he was experiencing pain, a pain evoked by unusual beauty.
But could this be the same child? No, this was no child, this was a girl, soon to be a young woman. But look at her, half her hair gone and in such a bedraggled state! Well, what could you expect from anyone living in this hovel? And for a moment he thought of the maids in his own home, and he knew that even they would scorn to take her place, even the meanest of them.
Yet when he saw her lying with her head on the rolled towel on the knapsack, the damp hair on her forehead, her cheeks streaked with dirt, the red and swollen hands now joined together on the makeshift pillow near her face, the hidden beauty of the water nymph remained.
When Bruce moaned and his chest heaved painfully, Richard dropped on to his hunkers and raised him up, saying, 'Spit it out, Bruce. Get rid of it. That's it. That's it,' and his own words took him back down the years to the time when he lay like this, coughing as if his heart would burst, and his godmother, one Lady Hannah Bolton, uttering those same words, 'Get it up, boy.
Get it up. Spit it out.' He recalled now, with an inward smile, that his godmother had been a disturber of the peace, for she had stayed with them for two months during his bad period, and had succeeded in upsetting the whole household. As for his mother and father, they were worn out by the time she left in order to go on one of her arranged tours. Poking her nose in, she called it, and she had poked her nose into many countries. The only thing that seemed to prevent her from entering a country was a revolution; an ordinary war she could take in her stride. No-one had known his godmother's real age, but he guessed it must have been fiftyish. He knew now what he didn't at the time she had nursed him, the reason for her interest in him: it was because he was like his grandfather and she had, let it be whispered, in her early years been that gentleman's mistress. It was a buried secret in the family, because his grandmother, he was told, had taken to her bed on hearing of the liaison. How shocked his parents would have been if they knew that he had received the news from Lady Hannah herself.
And now her voice seemed to have taken over his own as he laid Bruce back and, his face hovering over the sweating distorted features, he said, 'Now listen to me, Bruce: you've got the will, you must use it. D'you hear me? Oh, you can hear me. Look - ' his voice was a whisper but the words came strongly, 'who am I going to run with if not you? Who can I talk to, if not you?
You've got a mind, a poetic mind, and I've told you till I'm tired that you've got to learn to write. I'm going to see that you write. You hear me, fellow? I'm going to see that you write. Now it's coming up to the testing time.' Yes, that's what his godmother had said, and he repeated it, 'Bruce, hear me! It's coming up to the testing time. Make an effort.' Then once again he was holding him up and using his godmother's words, 'That's it. It's better out than in. Get it all up.'
Following on this bout, Richard drew himself up on to the chair again and other than periodically wiping the sweating face and rubbing down the heaving chest, and easing drops of brandy and milk down his friend's throat, he did nothing more.
He had been sitting on the chair with his legs wide apart so that he could bend easily, but at what time he crossed his legs and put his right forearm on top of them while his other hand lay on the edge of the seat, he didn't know, but he was amazed and not a little ashamed when, blinking his eyes, he opened them fully to realise he had dropped off to sleep.
Gasping himself now, he looked down on to Bruce.
He pressed his eyeballs with his finger and thumb for a moment, then when he opened them it was to see Bruce lying quietly looking up at him.
He was on his hunkers in an instant and, putting his hand on the still sweating brow and stroking back the wet hair, he said, 'Good. Good. You've made it.'
Bruce was now moving his swollen lips and when on a croak he brought out the word, 'Dry,' Richard said, 'Right. Right; I'll get you a drink,' and he rose to his feet and went to the table.
There was still some cold condensed milk in a mug.
His nose wrinkled at it for a moment, but it was either that or water, and he decided there was more substance in the milk, and he made certain there was more when he added drops of brandy from his flask.
Bruce actually gulped at the liquid, then lay back and closed his eyes for a moment.
'Go to sleep.' Richard's voice was low, and when Bruce lifted a weary hand towards him, Richard clasped it and their gaze held. Then, like a child, Bruce closed his eyes, turned his head to the side and went to sleep.
Again Richard sat in the chair and he, too, after a time, went to sleep and did not wake until the cock crowed . . .
Later, while he was walking back home, he stopped suddenly to
look up at the lightening sky. There was a strange feeling on him: he should have been feeling tired, but instead there was a feeling of lightness as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. And it came to him that that was exactly what had happened.
For years now he had been paying the interest on a debt which he imagined could never be cleared: his friendship and running the hills with Bruce had been obligations expected of him. But after what had happened this night he could, in all honesty, now tell himself that he had given Bruce back his life and in doing so had expiated his own debt.
If he hadn't been aware of the atmosphere prevailing in the breakfast-room, May's quick glance and raised eyebrows were a clear warning that there was trouble ahead.
'Good morning, Richard.' His mother's voice was cool, icy cool. His father gave him no greeting, but when he stabbed yet again at a kidney that would not remain still on his plate, he said to Pearson, who was about to serve Richard, 'Tell Cook from me that I like my kidneys cooked but not to the extent of being so hard that they can bounce off the plate.'
'Yes, sir. Will I remove them? There are some others.'
'Can I expect the others to be any better? Take them away!' He thrust his plate at the butler, causing the offending kidney not actually to bounce from the plate but roll around what was left of the bacon, eggs and sausage, the master's usual breakfast.
When the butler had left the room Mr Gregory Baxton-Powell looked at his son and said, 'I'd advise you to eat a good breakfast because you'll need it to fortify you against what I have to say to you,' and at this he thrust his chair back, got to his feet and, pointing a forefinger at his son, added, 'I give you fifteen minutes. I'll be in my study.'
'If I'm to eat this good breakfast, Father, it'll take me more than fifteen minutes. It would ruin my digestion to gobble,' a remark which brought a scathing glare from his father as he left the room.
'Richard!' It was his mother's voice, now high and commanding.
'Yes, Mother?' he said quietly.
' Don't you dare be so facetious when answering your father. You're an ungrateful individual.'
'Yes; yes, Mother.' He had now pushed his chair back and was on his feet, and in as angry a voice as hers he said, 'Yes, I'm an ungrateful son. I should go on my knees every morning at prayers and ask God to make me good and dutiful in the only way that will make you and Father happy. Of course, I won't ask God if I shall be happy or even if Lillian would be happy. That's beside the point, I suppose. Nothing else matters so long as this High-Church house is joined to Rome, and for my pains I can be assured of being cosseted for the rest of my life in high style, can't I, Mother? It will be a payment for the attention I've been given all these years and for being unable to take up a profession. Of course, one doesn't recognise painting as a career; it's only people in the low dives of Paris who paint.'
'Yes; yes, you are right, Richard. And perhaps that's where you'll find yourself in the end, the way you are going.' And at this, his mother rose from the table and marched from the room, leaving May to say, ' Oh, Richard, you have done it this time. Why did you have to stay the night up there; you did stay the night, didn't you? Mother went to your room early on; then she cornered Tim, but he's like a clam where you're concerned; knew nothing, nothing. What time did you get in?'
'Oh, around seven, I think.' He sat down again.
'What were you doing all that time? Surely you . . . ?'
Richard banged down his knife and fork, and now leaning slightly towards her across the table, he said harshly, 'May, I was trying to save the life of the man who once saved mine.'
Her voice was quiet too as she said, 'Well, did you?'
He let out a long sigh before he said, 'Just; but he's still got some way to go, just as I had after my do. But there are no nurses and doting parents to see to him.'
'There you are, then; you must give Mother and Father credit for how they felt and thought when you were ill.'
'I do. I do, May; but . . . this marriage business: to tell you the truth--' his voice dropped and he repeated,
'to tell you the truth, May, I'm afraid to marry.'
'Why?'
'Because . . . well, just think back. Two years ago I felt as fit as a fiddle, and although I did not relish this business of taking up law, what happened? Six months on my back again, almost having to learn to walk once more. This thing's with me for life.'
'It isn't. The doctor said you'll grow out of it.'
'I was near death's door on and off for weeks, so I'm told, after Bruce brought me in. You see old men sitting at cottage doors, their hands on top of a knobbly stick. They are riddled with their rheumatics. Well, I'm not an old man, I'm a young man and I'm troubled with something similar, and if I were to marry Lillian, just imagine what would happen if I took ill again.
One family is bad enough to put up with, two would become unbearable; but I am to believe that everything is being done for my own good.'
'Well, it has been and still is. You've got to see it that way.'
He took another mouthful of bacon, then muttered,
'Well, if I could go for a few years clear I might feel different about it. But it isn't only the marriage business, May, and you know it; it's because I will not break my friendship with Bruce Shaleman. And you know, it isn't only because of the debt I owe him, for if he was a dear brother I couldn't think more of him.'
'Oh, Richard' - May tossed her head from side to side now - 'for the life of me I cannot see what you find in him. He's a very ordinary-looking man and he's not even a farmer, he's shepherding most of the time, and his people are noted for their . . . well, lazy ways.
If only they had been at least respectable and tried to make something of that place up there . . . but as far as I can gather it's . . . well, it's a dreadful hovel, and you have said so yourself.'
'As far as you can gather, May, yes, it is a dreadful hovel, and compared to this house, it's a pigsty, but of late the young girl has made a difference to the place. I should imagine she works unceasing inside and out. As I think I've said to you before, May, it's all a matter of environment.'
'I don't agree with you, Richard: it isn't just environment, it's a matter of getting down to work and making the best of what you've got, being respectable.'
He cut her off here, saying, ' Getting down to work, May?' He now poked his face towards her. 'Have you ever washed a cup in your life or polished a shoe?
Oh, May. And being respectable, you can only be respectable when you've got something to be respectable about. Anyway, the quarter of an hour was up some time ago, so wish me luck, or perhaps bon voyage, I might be sent on a long holiday for my health once again, and if I am I'll welcome it.'
'Oh, you are ungrateful, Richard, and weak. I've got to say it; you're ungrateful and weak.'
He was at the door when he turned and there he said quietly, 'There you are wrong, May, I am not ungrateful,' and he went out. But he paused a moment as he said to himself, 'She was right on both counts; I am weak, or I'd take a chance, as many another in my position must have done, and get the hell out of this I could exist in France; I know I could.'
The sun was at its height. It had been shining for the past three days and had dried up the mud beyond the rough flags that bordered the cottage. What was more, both the room and the scullery were free of wet clothes, and yesterday Jinnie had tackled and managed to get dry an enormous amount of washing, including the beautiful sheets that Mister Richard had brought them. One had been patched darned, but they were still beautiful; and they were so white. Bruce had lain in them for three nights by the fireside. On the fourth night she and the master had replaced his pallet in the loft, and how Bruce had managed to pull himself up, she did not know; but he hadn't come down at all the next day and had eaten hardly anything. However, yesterday he had managed the climb, and again today; and now he was sitting outside on a kitchen chair, his head leaning against the sun-warmed stone, his gaze cast upwards into the clear unclouded sky.
He raised his head and when she went to pass him, he stopped her, asking, 'What's that you're singing?'
'Singing? Oh, I don't know, Mister Bruce, just a tune, I don't know any words to it. Like the organ on a Sunday in the dining-hall: they used to take the services there and a man used to play the organ both before the preacher came in and after he had gone.
It was nice, and everybody sat quiet. Well' - she laughed now - 'you weren't allowed to speak to each other.
On a Saturday afternoon, the married couples could during visiting times. It was odd, though, some didn't, they just sat there . . . mute.'
He stared at her. She seemed to have altered over the last few days. How long was it since he knew he couldn't go on? A week or so; but before that he had known what was happening to him. She must have had to look after him in every way. Dear Lord! in every way.
His father had been there, but not all the time, as she was; nor had he tended him, as she had. He said, 'Are you tired?'
'No, Mister Bruce. No; I'm not tired, not any more.
I was a bit a few days ago but it went off. One night I had eight hours bang; I was dead out. After that I was all right.'
There was a pause before he asked, 'Are you happy here?'
And she, too, paused before answering, while she looked away, right away over the green to the far distant ridge before she muttered, 'Yes; yes, I am now, because you're better.'
He didn't know why he should go on to ask her: 'What would have happened if I hadn't got better, would you have stayed?' And without hesitation she said, 'No. No, Mister Bruce, no.'
'Not even to look after my mother?'
There was another pause before the answer came: 'I couldn't have, I couldn't have stayed . . .' She didn't add, 'because, you gone, I would have been left alone with just the mister.'
'About Max. You did say he was going to get a job on a farm?'
'Yes, I did; and he's got it; he goes in a fortnight's time. But it's a long way off, and although I'm glad for him I'm sorry for meself.'