The Branded Man Page 19

  Dropping onto his knees, he took some paper and kindling wood from a log box to the side of the hearth and thrust them in between the half-burnt logs. He put a light to them, and as the dry sticks crackled and the half-burnt logs caught the flame, he dropped to one side on the homemade rug that flanked the stone hearth and, staring into the flames, he asked himself what he should do. Should he go along there now? Even though it was Christmas Eve, because he wouldn’t venture on Christmas Day in case they were having a jollification. Yet from what he could make out from the chatter that came third-hand through Farmer Harding, there was never much jollification in that house. However, he wasn’t so much concerned about those in the main house, but was wondering if the old man had yet taken up permanent residence in The Little Manor. There had been talk of that too. But if he didn’t go this evening and he didn’t go tomorrow it would have to be on Boxing Day. But if the old man was to make the journey he’d need time, and the middle of next week would be the best time to travel, for, as he knew, the trains would be more crowded than ever around New Year. What, however, he would like to do at this minute was to get rid of the damn mask, have a wash down, make a meal, then put his feet up on that old couch there.

  There’s no time like the present.

  But he must have a drink, a hot drink, before he went out again. Even before this, he must get rid of this contraption for a while; thinking which and rising to his feet, he took the lamp off the table and went up the room and into his bedroom.

  The shabby comfort of the living room was certainly not repeated here. The single plank bed with a biscuit mattress had neither a head nor a foot; it had replaced the double feather bed in which his aunt had not only been born but also died. Beyond it, in a corner, stood a battered mahogany chest of drawers, and on it was a polished cabinet, eighteen inches high by twelve inches wide, fronted by two doors.

  After putting down the lamp, it was to this he turned. He did not move towards it, but to the small Regency dressing table. It was quite bare of any trinkets.

  He leaned forward and stared at his face in the small mirror, before unloosening the button of the high collar of his jacket, which he took off. Then he unclipped a buckle behind his shoulders, so releasing a framework from which he withdrew his arms, before lifting from his head the apparatus over which the cloth mask was stretched.

  After loosening the mask from the frame, he placed them both on the foot of the bed. From the top shelf of a cupboard he now took a clean mask and, laying it beside the used one, he clicked his tongue: London was getting dirtier. And then there were the trains.

  He returned to the mirror and peered at himself. He hated doing this, but it was like a self-inflicted penance, and he asked himself what he expected to find, a miracle or that the dark brown tortured skin had faded to a grey instead of beginning to form darker patches? If the skin had only been smooth and like that of the strawberry-coloured blemishes…But no! He had to be given the lot. Yet it could have been worse, so he had been informed; it could have been almost dead black. Why, as a child, hadn’t they peeled the skin off him? Then there would have been only physical pain; he wouldn’t have had to create another self in order to deal with it. He recalled never liking Brother Bernard, because once he had said, ‘One must put a face on things,’ and of screaming back at him, ‘You’ve got a face to put them on.’ He would have been fourteen years old at the time, and his reaction to Brother Bernard’s apology was to hit him.

  If only it hadn’t invaded the corner of his eye.

  He pulled himself up abruptly, saying, ‘Get on with it! Take a clean shirt in with you.’

  He made for the kitchen.

  This was a very ordinary room, the only surprising thing about it being the modern open-fire stove with a cooking oven to one side, a hot-water boiler to the other.

  He took a pan from the cupboard, half-filled it with water from a lidded bucket and returned to the sitting room to place it on the hearth at the side of a burning log.

  Back in the kitchen, he then emptied half the contents of another pail of water into the quite deep stone sink and gave himself a good wash.

  About fifteen minutes later, after having made himself a cup of cocoa, he was in the bedroom fully dressed and ready for outdoors.

  As he went to leave the room he again looked towards the cabinet as if about to speak, but turned away sharply.

  Before leaving the cottage he performed one more task. Still holding the lamp, he went along a narrow passage, unlocked the door at the end of it and, holding the lamp high, he surveyed his studio.

  Everything was as he had left it; although it hadn’t always been so. On his return from London, soon after he’d had the studio added, it had been a different picture. The room was fourteen feet long by nine feet wide. Its four windows were placed close to the ceiling line, so that it was impossible for an inquisitive person to discover what was going on within.

  On that occasion the glass had been carefully cleared from one frame in order to let someone down into the room. There had been no need to bring any implement of destruction for there was a row of tools to hand on the bench. A wooden mallet had sufficed.

  The only blessing about that time was that he had taken the best of six months’ work up to the priory that Christmas. Nevertheless, there had been twenty or so pieces left on the shelves. Yet when he came to examine the debris he knew that everything hadn’t been broken; some pieces must have been taken away whole.

  Quite definitely there had been more than one intruder, probably from the nearby village, where the name of The Branded Man had already been stamped on him and as such he was a figure of curiosity. Nothing further had happened since that night, which he knew had come about through Farmer Harding, an understanding kindly man, and Bob Talbot, the river man who saw to the fishing and the banks.

  Thinking of Farmer Harding, he closed the door. He must let him know he was back.

  In the kitchen he lit a lantern before extinguishing the first of the two house lamps. In the sitting room, he placed a guard around the open fire and put out the other lamp.

  After stepping carefully off the edge of the paved way fronting the length of the cottage, he walked slowly down a rutted pathway bordered by the wood on one side, a hillside on the other.

  Where the wood ended, open land ran straight down to the distant gleam of the river. Ten minutes later he came to the field where the gypsies had camped. However, he did not jump the wall that would eventually have brought him into the grounds of the main house, but kept on walking by the foot of the hill until he entered the gardens of The Little Manor. The lights from the house showed it to be anything but little.

  The whole of the front came within the light given off by the lanterns attached to the wall on each side of the studded oak door. There was no balcony to the long low stone house and, but for a shallow step, it lay flush with the gravelled drive.

  Don hesitated for a moment before lifting his hand and taking hold of the iron bell pull.

  The echo of the bell ringing came to him but he had to wait a full minute before he heard footsteps on the other side of the door; and when it was opened by the small, bright-faced maid and she saw standing there none other than the weird man about whom she had heard so many tales, the man with only half a face, the rest covered by a great slouching hat, the masked man himself, the man who frightened the wits out of people, she opened her mouth wide and let out a high scream.

  When his foot stopped her banging the door closed, she turned and fled, crying, ‘Mrs Makepeace! Mrs Makepeace! It’s him! It’s him!’

  The girl’s cries brought Maggie Makepeace from the kitchen, and she too was yelling now: ‘What in the name of God’s gone wrong with you, girl? What’s the matter? Who is it?’

  ‘It’s him! Mrs Makepeace,’ Katie Brooks was gasping. ‘He’s there! He’s at the door. I couldn’t close it.’

  ‘Who’s there? Before I shake the life out of you, girl, who’s at the door?’

 
; ‘I’m not going back; I’m not going back.’

  Maggie Makepeace thrust the girl to one side and made for the door, and there, she too saw the tall figure, but her reaction was simply, ‘Oh. Good evening. She’s a silly girl.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that, Mrs Makepeace. Can you tell me if your master is with you? I mean Mr Emanuel Lawson.’

  ‘No; no, sir; he’s along at the house. He’s had a cold, so he stayed there for a few days. Was it something special like you wanted him for?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Makepeace, very special.’

  ‘Oh. Well, will you come in for a minute, please.’ She pulled the door further open and Don stepped into the hall. ‘And if you’ll be seated, I’ll send for Mr Makepeace; he’ll know better what to do.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Makepeace.’

  Don waited in the hall, seated in a carved chair with arms depicting snakes. They had been beautifully carved, so much so that he thought one could imagine they were fashioned out of skin. The chair was one of a pair, and, looking around, he noticed there were other pieces of Indian-worked furniture, a cabinet and small tables. On the walls there were a number of large oil paintings, all seascapes. That would be, of course, because this family was in shipping. To the left of him he glimpsed the beginning of a beautiful spiral staircase, the banister and supports in wrought iron, and it was carpeted in a deep rose pile.

  Matching it was the same coloured carpet in the middle of the hall, and, flanking each side, what he took to be two Persian rugs.

  He was brought from further examination of the hall by Barney’s voice saying, ‘Oh, hello, Mr McAlister. Can I help you?’

  Don rose to his feet. ‘Yes, Mr Makepeace, you can. You see, I…I have some important news for Mr Lawson…the elder, and…well, I thought he might be living here.’

  ‘He does on and off, Mr McAlister, but there’s more folk to see to him down at that end when he’s not very well, and Mr Pat gets worried about him, and he can’t keep an eye on him up here.’

  ‘Is he in bed at present?’

  ‘Oh no; no, he’s not in bed, not by any means. You can’t keep him in bed. Excuse me, sir, for saying that, but he’s got a will of his own, has the master. You wouldn’t like to go down and speak to him there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind in the least, only I’m afraid I might get the same reception as I got from your little maid.’

  ‘Oh, Mr McAlister, don’t take any notice of her; she’s an ignorant little snipe. I’ll give her the length of me tongue later.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that. Her reaction was understandable.’ He did not add, It is my fault; I forget at times that I do not look like other men, but went on, ‘Do you think you could have a private word with your master if you went up to The Manor?’

  ‘Oh yes; yes, sir. He sees me at any time.’

  ‘Well, then, would you do me a favour and tell him I have very special news for him and that I have told you to stress the word special?’

  ‘I’ll do that, Mr McAlister, right away; I’ll do that. Now would you like to sit in the drawing room and wait? There’s a fire on in there; we always keep it on in case the master pops up, which he does at times. You never know with him. He likes this house much more than the other one. His good lady and he were very happy here. Or would you rather sit in the kitchen and talk with my missis? I’m sure she’d be very pleased to have your company.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr McAlister, I am sure. She’s no idiot, not like the rest of them.’

  When Barney Makepeace led the tall fellow into the kitchen, where the maid was in the process of slicing sugared cherries and handing them to Mrs Makepeace to put the finishing touches to a cake, Katie’s mouth fell into a gape.

  Pulling a chair out from under the table, Barney said, ‘Sit down, Mr McAlister. I won’t be ten minutes or so.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Makepeace,’ Don said; then, leaning across the table, he said in a low voice, ‘Would you mind, Mrs Makepeace, reassuring your assistant that I only eat maids on a Saturday and never before twelve o’clock?’

  In answer, Maggie Makepeace threw back her head and let out a high laugh; and then she asked, ‘Who do you eat on a Sunday then, Mr McAlister?’

  ‘Cooks, Mrs Makepeace, always cooks.’

  There was a muffled giggle from the end of the table, but neither Maggie Makepeace nor Don seemed to take any heed of it, and when Mrs Makepeace, carrying on the farce, said, ‘D’you prefer cooks for lunch or dinner?’

  ‘Oh, lunch, Mrs Makepeace. Something light you see; I leave the heavy stuff for dinner.’

  ‘And who, may I ask, do you choose for that?’ Mrs Makepeace was now wiping her eyes.

  ‘Definitely a priest or a parson.’

  ‘Oh, Mr McAlister, Mr McAlister! You’ll get hung.’

  ‘Yes, I know; and I shouldn’t eat them because they both give me indigestion, dreadful indigestion,’ and added, ‘just listening to them.’

  It seemed now that Maggie Makepeace was enjoying herself, for she asked, ‘D’you change your menu for the weekday, Mr McAlister?’

  ‘Yes; during the week I go through the servants’ hall.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Oh yes; and I start with the butler. I can never stand snooty butlers.’

  Now the giggle from the end of the table was a gulp and very audible; and Don, keeping the good side of his face towards her, smiled at the girl, and she, looking up at him under her eyebrows, half fearfully still, smiled back.

  Mrs Makepeace, after wiping her eyes, resumed her work of sticking the half cherries into the soft icing topping the cake, explaining, ‘This isn’t a Christmas cake, you know, but it’s a kind of cream sponge that the master likes with a cup of coffee in the mornings. We’ve got all the Christmas fare ready in the larder there’—she nodded towards a white-painted door across the room—‘just in case something makes him change his mind and he doesn’t stay up there for the meal. And it could happen. As I say to Makepeace, times are changing all over, but particularly here and I wouldn’t be surprised at what takes place next, not me, never.’

  ‘Nor would I, Mrs Makepeace, nor would I; but let’s hope that Christmas brings some nice surprises.’

  He watched Maggie, now unsmiling, sigh as she said, ‘Things are not like they used to be. We used to feel settled at one time, but not any more, and the world’s in an awful state. The old Queen’s not well, and there’s been riots in London.’

  ‘Riots in London! I’ve just come from there, Mrs Makepeace, and I never heard of any riots.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No. Well, not where I was; and I didn’t see it in any of the papers.’

  ‘Well, that’s funny. Robert Green, he’s a footman over there, and I know he can’t read, but he told Fanny Carter that he got it from the butler, Frank, that the Irish were rioting in London for home rule or something, and I said, why don’t they give it to them and send them back home?’

  Don closed his eyes tightly for a moment, coughed, then said, ‘That would be a good idea. Yes, it would be a good idea. Give it to them and send them back home.’

  ‘But there, you can’t believe a word anybody says, these days; the bits that Fanny Carter tells Katie about goings-on over there, you wouldn’t believe. Well, as I said, you can’t. I only wish the master would make up his mind to stay here. He is always happy when he is here. When the weather’s clement he goes out for long walks or spends most of the day here in the library. And it’s odd, you know, Mr McAlister, he can be so funny. When he was here last week it was one of those dreadful days, thick mist, you could hardly see a finger before you, and there he was, muffled up to the eyes. He had come up from The Manor, and I said to him, “Why must you be out a day like this, sir?” and you know what he said? “I’m going out this minute to look for a bridge high enough to jump from.”‘ She choked now, saying, ‘That’s what he said, Mr McAlister. Can you imagine him going to look for a bridge high enough to jump off,
the master? But then he’s always had a joke for us. The mistress used to say to him very firmly, “Emanuel Lawson, they’ve heard that one before, it’s got fungi growing on it.” Yes, she used to say that to him. She was a lovely person, wasn’t she, Katie?’ She had turned to the girl, and Katie, daring to look at the man, said, ‘Aye, she was lovely. She took me on when I was nine, on condition that I would go half a day to school. I hated school but I wanted to work here, so I did that, went half a day.’

  ‘And you learnt to read and write?’ asked Don.

  ‘Aye, somewhat. I was never very swift at it.’

  ‘Oh,’ put in Mrs Makepeace, ‘she can write her name and address and print out a note if she has to. She can print better than she can write; but the teacher at the school wouldn’t have that, would she? Didn’t like printing, you had to do copy-book writing, didn’t you?’

  They nodded at each other as friends might, and Don thought of the strange companions people chose out of close proximity forced on them through circumstance, because this middle-aged woman and this very young girl were friends at heart. From time to time, doubtless, the older woman would box the younger one’s ears, but in the long run it made no difference.

  A commotion in the hall disturbed them, and Mrs Makepeace, quickly wiping her hands, straightened her apron and said to Don, ‘This’ll be them. Come on;’ and she opened the door and went out, followed by Don.

  Barney was taking his master’s coat, and Don, inclining his head towards the old man, greeted him saying, ‘Evening, Mr Lawson,’ then turned to Pat to greet him similarly: ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr McAlister. I understand you have news for us.’

  ‘Well, don’t let us stand here; let us sit some place where it’s warm,’ and now Emanuel Lawson made for the drawing room, saying, ‘Is there a good fire on, Barney?’

  ‘There was when I left, sir.’