The Branded Man Read online

  ‘You’ll not get away with this, you’ll not. I’ll see you damned first. You’re not going to shame me. I refuse to leave this house.’

  ‘Oh well; I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave on your own, so you have chosen.’ And with this, James took three quick strides to the bell pull at the side of the fireplace, an action which was enough to make Vincent clutch his father’s wrist and wrench it away from the cord.

  What happened next brought Veronica Lawson springing from her seat, for her husband’s fist had flashed out and caught her son full in the face, knocking him sideways. At this moment, too, the door opened, apparently in answer to the short ring of the bell, and Green, looking amazed to see his master, his podgy, flabby-bellied master, taking up a fighting pose and waiting for his son to come back at him. And the mistress was standing over her son, where he had fallen onto the edge of the couch, and she was pleading with him, ‘Come, come along, dear, come along. I’ll go upstairs with you, and you will come back. I’ll see to it. You will come back, for this is your home. But come now, come. Your…your father’—and she turned a glaring look on her husband—‘will regret this. Oh yes, he’ll regret this to the end of his days.’

  When Vincent went to push her away, she clung tightly on to him saying, ‘Let it be. Let it be. Come along.’ And she actually edged him as far away from James as she possibly could; and now seeing Green standing to the side of the open door, she cried at him, ‘Get out of my way, you!’

  But the man did not move because he wasn’t in her way. Green now walked to his master, whose fighting pose had slumped and who was now gripping the back of a high chair as if for support, and quietly he said, ‘I have brought three of Mr Vincent’s cases down, sir; and I’ve had the travelling trunk brought from the attic. He will need this to take his suits.’

  The only response James showed to this information was to lift his head, and then, after a moment, to say to Green, ‘The others won’t be back from the cottage for some time. Go and tell Pinner to get the buggy out and that he is to take Mr Vincent and his luggage to the station.’

  ‘Yes sir; I’ll do that.’

  After Green had gone, James stood for a moment looking about the room. Had he really said and done all he had said and done in the last ten minutes? Had he hit Vincent? Oh yes, he certainly had. He looked down on his portly belly. It must indeed have been a lucky punch. Oh, he didn’t know so much about luck; there had been strength in it, the strength of anger. How odd that the first blow he had ever struck against anyone had to be against his own son.

  He again surveyed the room and realised that he had never liked it. It was too much like his one-time bedroom; a battle arena.

  As he walked across the hall towards the study he glanced to where the cases lay by the front door, then the stairs down which Green and the boot-boys were laboriously edging a large travelling trunk.

  Once in the study, he sank into a deep leather chair, lay back and closed his eyes, and for a moment it seemed as if his mind had gone blank. He could think of nothing; he could recall nothing. The only desire in him at this moment was to fall asleep.

  When his thinking slowly took over again, he heard a distant voice say, ‘Sir.’

  Then again, ‘Sir.’

  He opened his eyes to see Green holding towards him a tray on which stood a glass of port, and at the sight of it he slowly eased himself up in the chair, saying, ‘Thank you, Green. That is very thoughtful of you. It is exactly what I need at this moment.’

  ‘I thought you might, sir.’

  As Green stared down at the florid face of this man he had served for years, he recalled hearing the phrase, and believing it to be true, that no man could be a hero to his servant. Yet in his eyes at this moment this man, whom he had seen for years as a self-indulgent, hen-pecked, gutless individual, definitely stood out as a hero, for he had put his wife in her place. More so, he had given that big, swaggering, cowardly upstart a blow that, unless he was vastly mistaken, would be evident tomorrow as a beautiful shiner. And he had been ready to deliver another given the chance.

  ‘Would you like me to get a hot bath ready for you, sir, before dinner?’

  ‘No, thank you, Green; I must get back to Mr McAlister’s cottage.’

  ‘Is…is Miss Marie Anne very badly hurt, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Green, very badly; and what is more, she’s likely to lose her child.’

  ‘I am indeed sorry, sir; and I can tell you that the rest of the staff will be also.’

  ‘Thank you, Green. Thank you.’

  At the quiet opening of the door they both turned to see Evelyn, who said, ‘Oh! There you are, Father.’

  ‘Hello, my dear.’

  ‘Good evening, Green.’

  ‘Good evening, miss.’

  As Green went out he thought, there’s another one changed for the better; it evens things out a bit.

  Pulling a chair up to her father’s side, Evelyn sat down, saying, ‘I can’t believe what I’ve heard. Is it true that he beat her up? I mean, is…is she really bad?’

  ‘She’s not only bad, my dear, but it’s doubtful whether she will recover. Even if the baby survives.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I…I met Pat on the road—he was in the trap with Grandpa. He just gave me a rough idea.’

  ‘Oh no. This’ll finish Father off as well. He’ll have to walk across that field and it’s rough going. Why couldn’t Pat…? What am I talking about? Nobody can stop Father when he wants to do anything. But I must get along there and see that he gets back home, or we’ll have him lying on a mattress on the floor.’

  Quickly now, he finished his port and pulled himself to his feet, and with this Evelyn rose too, saying, ‘And you’ve actually thrown Vincent out, Father?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he nodded. ‘I’ve actually thrown him out. And it’s a good job I’m not a man of bigger stature or else he mightn’t have lived to walk out.’

  ‘I…I saw him leaving the yard; he’s like someone gone mad.’

  ‘There’s one thing I can tell you, Evelyn: if anything happens to Marie Anne he’ll wish he had gone mad.’

  ‘And all this happened this afternoon since I went out.’ She shook her head.

  ‘No, no, my dear. It started years ago, even before you were born. Anyway, you say he’s gone from the yard?’

  ‘Yes, and Mother was standing at the top of the drive. She was almost wailing, and she spoke to me for the first time in days; but in the form of a threat, of course, that if I continue on the road I’m on, she’ll do something desperate, because she cannot stand any more.’

  ‘That sounds familiar, my dear.’

  ‘Is there anything I could do to help, Father? I mean that seriously: I’m no longer the mean, pampered individual I was, because Mrs Harding doesn’t make one’s path smooth; she always starts at the hard end of a lesson, and she’s always much more pleasant when you’ve achieved something. Have you ever mucked out a pigsty, Father?’

  James bowed his head as he shook it, then his hand covered his eyes for a moment. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Evelyn,’ he said, ‘because there is no space for laughter in anything that’s happened this day, but’—he took his hand away from his eyes to look at her—‘don’t tell me she had you cleaning out a pigsty.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing, Father, nothing. Did you also know there’s a correct way to swill a cowshed without splashing the cows’ udders?’

  He now put his arm around her shoulders and walked her towards the door, saying, ‘Don’t tell me any more, my dear, but keep your stories for another evening when, pray God, we can laugh about them. In the meantime you asked if you could help. You really could, by dropping in on your grandfather during this bad period and also during the week when Pat or I are at work, for one of us must be there. And you could also be a great help by finding out what they’ll likely need from day to day.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Father, yes, I’ll do that. Where are you off to now?’
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br />   ‘I’m going back to the cottage. You’ve just told me Father’s there, and my task will be to get him back home tonight. Speaking in the kindest way about Don’s, Mr McAlister’s habitation, it’s a very comfortless place.’

  ‘Is it dirty?’

  ‘Oh no, no! Not in the least, not dirty. The only way I can describe it is to say it’s worn, everything is worn. It’s shabby.

  ‘Anyway my dear, I’m going now, but I would ask you one more thing. Don’t cross your mother any further than you can help tonight; bite your tongue if you have to, because she’s had a number of shocks during the last few hours, and there’s only so much any individual can stand, even her.’

  Seven

  When James reached the cottage it was to find his father sitting on the couch with a cup of tea in his hand and to be greeted with, ‘Hello, James.’

  James did not answer him immediately, but looked at Pat, who was standing behind the couch. But he said nothing, only spread out his hands, which was significant enough.

  Dropping down onto the other end of the couch, James said tartly, ‘You shouldn’t have done this, Father. There’s enough to worry about as it is.’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’ the old man snapped back; ‘I’m not going to cause any worry, except perhaps to myself. If I were back there on my own, I’d go mad not knowing how things were going with the poor child. And look,’ his voice dropped now and he leant towards James, ‘I am not in my box yet, and at this moment there’s much more life in me than there looks to be in you. What happened back there?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you now’—the old man’s voice was a hiss—‘he’ll do time for this if nothing else, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand, Father, and he does too. He’s not there any more.’

  ‘What d’you mean? He’s skipped it?’

  ‘No; but I saw to it that he left, bag and baggage.’

  The old man drew back from his son and put his head to one side as if he were surveying him anew, and he said, ‘You did? You threw him out?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I threw him out. And don’t look so surprised. Like you said about yourself, I too am not dead yet.’

  When a faint cry came to them from the other room the old man murmured, ‘That poor child. That poor child.’ And James, leaning towards his father, put his hand on his knee and said softly, ‘Father, there’s going to be a lot of coming and going and there’s no place here where you can sleep. You’d be much more comfortable at home.’

  At this the old man demanded, ‘What did you have the mattresses brought for?’

  ‘Not for you to sleep on, Father.’ James now looked at Don, who had appeared from the kitchen, and he said, ‘Apart from those,’ and he pointed to the mattresses where they lay on the floor in the far corner, ‘where have you managed to stack everything?’

  ‘Oh, that was easy,’ said Don, with a touch of impatience just managing to cover up his real feelings. ‘There happens to be a little room in which I store all my bits and pieces for the studio. It has shelves and a cupboard; we’ve crammed all the linen in there. As for the food’—he thumbed back towards the kitchen door—‘the larder, I would say, has never held so much food since it was built.’

  Looking up at Don, Emanuel said, ‘Good. Good. But will I be any great trouble to you if I were to stay here tonight?’

  ‘Not to me, sir; no, none at all; but there’s no other bed of any sort.’

  ‘I don’t need a bed. You’ve got mattresses over there, haven’t you? and it won’t be the first time I’ve laid on a shakedown, so will you inform my son, Mr McAlister, that I won’t be in anybody’s way.’

  Don replied, ‘I’ll do that, sir,’ at the same time thinking, These people! They seem more concerned about mattresses, food, and the old man than about her; and as if in a prayer he added, Please God, keep me from expressing my real feelings. And, oh yes, yes; keep her with us; rid her of the idea of dying.

  He now beckoned Pat into the kitchen, and there said tersely, ‘It’s a matter of bread.’

  ‘Bread?’

  ‘Yes; yes. Your father thought of everything; butter, cheese, ham, everything, but no bread.’ He smiled wanly; and again he wondered how he could be standing here talking about the need for bread when his whole body and mind were in the room next door holding her, soothing her, begging her to give birth to the child before it was too late. Yet, here he was, supposedly concerned with bedding people and feeding them. Some part of him would like to thrust the lot of them out of the door, leaving only the doctor, Sarah, and his beloved Marie Anne. Why should she have been almost battered to death within yards of this cottage and she about to give birth to her child? The feeling that had been in him since Sarah had suggested that the conception had not resulted from rape but through a certain fondness for the older man had now, on top of everything else, become almost unbearable.

  Pat was saying, ‘I’ll see to it, Don.’

  They heard the bedroom door open; then the doctor’s voice calling softly, ‘Mr Lawson,’ brought them both from the kitchen. ‘I suppose all the baby linen is ready back at the house?’ asked John Ridley.

  ‘Yes; yes, I’m sure it is, doctor,’ said Pat.

  ‘Well, I think you’d better get some of it over here as soon as possible.’

  Flustered, Pat said, ‘Well, yes; I was going for bread. I’ll have the linen brought back.’

  Ignoring the old man on the couch, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, John Ridley returned to the bedroom, thinking, What a lot! That fellow, talking about bread and his sister dying, for dying she certainly was. He had worked in some queer set-ups but none to beat this. A lovely girl, pregnant, battered almost to death, about to give birth to a child in this mean habitation, where a scarred man lived the life of a hermit, and the three male members of the family ready to doss down on the floor, and that Irish woman forever sitting like a stook, never opening her mouth except to mutter something to the patient!

  The cottage was quiet; the mattresses were occupied; even Sarah had been forced to lie down. But in the bedroom, the doctor was saying, ‘We can’t wait any longer, Mrs Harding; I’m going to take it away. Let’s get on with it. I’ll give her a whiff of chloroform. If she is to have a chance, it’s either forceps or a Caesarean; and there’s really no fitting place here for a Caesarean.’

  After washing his hands, he took from his bag a small bottle and a pad of cotton wool, a pair of forceps and what looked like a long pair of scissors. These he arranged on a towel on the dressing table; then looking at Mrs Harding, he said, ‘Here we go! And may God go with us.’

  He dabbed the pad of cotton wool with the chloroform and placed it gently over Marie Anne’s nose and mouth, and after she had drawn two quick breaths he dropped it to the side, picked up the scissors-like instrument and snipped at each side of the vagina; then gently inserting his hand, he felt for the position of the child.

  A few minutes later, he started to speak as if to the child, saying, ‘That’s it…that’s it,’ and after a moment, he grabbed at the forceps and after inserting them in the womb, he began to pull gently, saying, ‘Come on now! Come on! Let us have you…’

  When his forearm jerked, he grunted: then slowly, very slowly, he drew forth the baby; and it lay on his hands for a moment before he cut the cord and almost threw the live bundle into Mrs Harding’s waiting arms, then immediately concentrated his attention on Marie Anne.

  When the child opened its mouth and gave a cry, Mrs Harding exclaimed, almost gleefully, ‘A girl! Lovely. Lovely,’ and, whipping up a towel, she wrapped it around the infant.

  When she managed to open the door, only Don stood there. He was so close to it, it was as if he had been about to enter the room, and she said, ‘It’s all right, she’s fine. It’s a girl. Bring the kitchen bowl and warm water and put it on that table there.’

  When he did not move, she said, ‘What’s the matter with you, ma
n? Well…Look here! Hold her, and I’ll see to what I want.’

  And so he held Marie Anne’s child; and he looked down on its little face, each side somewhat reddened, and the thought came to him that he could have been its father and she could have inherited his brand.

  Eight

  It was more than forty-eight hours later and close on ten o’clock at night. The cottage was quiet. In the main room Sarah lay on a mattress near the wall and to her side was a very ornate crib holding the child.

  To the right of the fireplace, James was lying on another mattress, and it was evident he was in a deep sleep. Only a few hours earlier, Pat had taken his grandfather home. This was after much persuasion and on the grounds that he could do no good for himself or anyone else, sitting as he was doing, propped up on the couch both day and night.

  Mrs Harding had gone back to the farm for a much needed night’s rest, and at seven o’clock that evening the doctor had left after his second visit of the day, and his last words to Don had been, ‘None of us can do any more. She’s very weak, and there’s a great tiredness in her. That’s only to be expected; she’s lost a quantity of blood, and this coming on top of everything else will likely prove to be too much. Only time will tell.’

  He had bent over Marie Anne and gently moved a strand of her hair away from her bandaged brow. Then he had turned to Don, who was by his side, and remarked, ‘You’re up to sitting with her? I mean, you’re not all done in? Apparently you haven’t closed your eyes for the past forty-eight hours.’

  ‘I’m all right; I’m used to vigils.’

  As if he were addressing a monk, John Ridley nodded—the word vigil had conjured up long penances such as monks endured. Then he said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you with her now. If you think there’s any change for the worse, do as has been arranged and call her father.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘I’ll be around first thing in the morning.’