Feathers in the Fire Page 8

  ‘Son be damned!’ Davie’s voice cut her short. ‘How does he know what it’ll be, has he had a word on the side with God Almighty? I bet he thinks he has, the psalm-singing holy lecher.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ His father’s voice cut him short, but he turned on him, crying, ‘It isn’t enough, Da. An’ don’t try to shut me up here; if I can’t speak me mind in me own home then I’d better clag me mouth up altogether, for I can’t open it outside.’ He paused and looked from one to the other, then ended, ‘By God! things want changin’ in this country; they’ve got us all so bloody nooled, we’re no better than the niggers, it wants a Wilberforce here. Charity begins at home. An’ they’re pattin’ themselves on the back for freeing the Boers from the Zulus, when it’s us that wants freeing. As do the Irish; no wonder there’s risin’s there. If they can free the bloody Boers why can’t they let the Irish rule their own country and not have them floodin’ us an’ takin’ the bread out of our mouths. They hate Parnell; I say good luck to him.’

  Mother, father and grandfather gaped at him. They had never heard of Parnell, nor yet of Wilberforce, not one of them could read. The bedroom in the roof held a conglomeration of old newspapers and three books, all passed on to him by Parson Hedley. He never discussed what he read but in this moment his garbled smattering of world events made him appear as a being apart, a creature of another species, older than themselves, very learned.

  Winnie felt a warm pride flood her, a pride that brought a smarting of tears to the back of her eyes. This lad of hers would go places, he would become something; with a mind as knowledgeable and inquisitive as his, nothing could stop him once he got away. No matter what her private feelings were she knew it was a good thing for him that he was leaving the farm.

  To stop her tears from falling she applied herself to everyday necessities by saying, ‘That’s as it may be, but there’s a meal to see to and I cannot get it; you’ll have to fend for yourselves ’cos I’m away across again.’ She went hastily towards the door, but there she turned and looked at Davie, and as their gazes linked and held she knew he would do as she had asked and not go yet awhile.

  As she went out of the front door of the cottage Ned rose from his seat and went out the back way, down to the midden. He was distressed at the thought of his son going, but could not show it. But not so old Sep. The old man, looking at his grandson, said slowly, ‘You’re fixed in your mind then, lad?’

  ‘Aye, Granda.’

  ‘Well, I’m not blamin’ you, no fraction of me is blamin’ you, but I’ll tell you one thing, things’ll never be the same when you’re gone . . . If you take to the sea how long do you reckon you’ll be away?’

  ‘Hard to tell, Granda. It could be a year, two maybe, or three.’

  ‘Aye, that is what I was fearin’.’ He nodded. ‘Well, I only hope I’ll be here when you come back. Now’ – he raised his hand – ‘I’m not latherin’ you with soft soap, I’ll go when me time comes an’ not afore. But I can tell you this much, if I was your age and livin’ in this changing day – although I can neither read nor write I can tell the signs, you’ve only got to be half an hour in the town to see them – aye, things are changin’ and changin’ fast, an’ as I said if I was in your shoes, lad, I’d be off the morrow and matchin’ up to the times, for after all what is life but a feather in the fire. We’re all feathers in the fire; time passes on us like a lick of flame, one minute we’re there, the next we’re gone, forgotten, as if we’d never been.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Granda.’

  ‘It’s true, it’s true, lad, and remember it. Kings and great men are forgotten, so why should the likes of us be remembered.’

  ‘I’ll never forget you, Granda, never fear.’ Davie walked towards the old man and, bending, put his hand on his shoulder. It was an unusual gesture of affection, perhaps the first open expression of their love for each other since he had been a small boy. ‘You’re a wise man, Granda. I have always known you to be a wise man, and you’ll not be forgotten, at least not by me. Anyway’ – he punched the old man playfully in the chest – ‘what you talkin’ about? You’ll likely be smokin’ that stinking old pipe of yours when I’m pushin’ the daisies up, or more likely chasing the mermaids at the bottom of the sea.’

  Although old Sep laughed now, he said, ‘Don’t talk like that, lad. If you pray for anything, pray that you die on dry land and be settled to rest firmly in the ground.’

  At this point the back door opened and Ned entered. Looking from one to the other he asked abruptly, ‘Does nobody want to eat?’ and at this they all three set about getting the evening meal, which was, as usual on a Friday, as on Thursday, Wednesday and Tuesday, mutton broth.

  For the second night running Winnie sat by the mistress’ side, and tonight there was more need for her presence. Although the mistress wouldn’t admit it, Winnie was positive she was having pains; if not, then she must be suffering some sort of cramping seizure.

  The truth was that Delia was having pains. Though her temperature was high and at times her head swam and was full of strange thoughts, she nevertheless knew she must not admit to the pains. She told herself to lie still, perfectly still, and everything inside her would settle. Anyway they were not true pains; the intervals between them, she considered, were too long to be true pains, and she mustn’t have true pains. When she thought of true pains she saw McBain’s face hanging over her. She heard his voice again saying, ‘If you purposely harm that child, if you have harmed it by your escapade today, you will live to regret it. You know me, Delia. When I speak as now, I don’t make idle threats.’

  She was aware that he visited her frequently, but she never looked at him. Although her hidden strength had come to the surface and she dared now to defy him, there still remained in her a fear of him. The fear had been with her too long, and was too well founded on her private knowledge of him for her to erase it now, and she dreaded the consequences if she failed to carry his child to its time . . .

  It was towards eleven o’clock at night that a pain attacked her which told her that the child was coming and nothing she could do would prevent it. She had been woken from a nightmarish dream by a grinding in her loins; it was a well remembered experience and couldn’t be disregarded. As it forced the truth on her she gripped handfuls of the bed tick in an effort to stifle her moans and still her fear. Winnie was sitting by the bedside, her head was drooped in sleep, and she put out her hand towards her, but Winnie didn’t move. The pain subsided, and she gave herself the ease of gasping.

  She leaned on her side and stared towards the fire. It was bright and had recently been tended. The lamp too was burning steadily. Should she waken Winnie? No, no, what was she thinking about? She’d run straight to her master. Anyway, she was tired, worn out, let her sleep. She lay back and looked at her servant and wished from the bottom of her heart that she could change places with her. She was the centre of a close family, the pivot around which father, husband and son revolved. She envied her her life.

  Winnie opened her eyes and blinked; then bending forward, said quickly, ‘You all right, Mistress?’

  ‘Yes, Winnie.’

  Winnie put out her hand and touched the deep brow. ‘Ah, that’s better, you’re cooler.’

  ‘Am I, Winnie?’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  ‘Winnie.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  ‘Hold my hand.’

  Slowly Winnie put out her square, broken-nailed hand and clasped the slender white one held towards her, and after a moment she asked softly, ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mistress?’

  Delia didn’t answer, she just nodded, and at this point Winnie, who was never given to tears, had for the second time in two days a strong inclination to cry . . .

  At seven o’clock the next morning when she handed McBain his tea in the kitchen she answered h
is question. ‘She’s better in that the fever’s gone down.’

  As he took the cup from her he said shortly, ‘Well, is there anything else?’

  ‘I can’t say, Master, only that she seems tired.’

  ‘Rest will cure that. There’s . . . there’s no sign of the child coming?’

  ‘She doesn’t say, Master.’

  ‘Say or not’ – his voice had risen – ‘you’d be able to tell.’

  And now, also for the second time in two days, her voice rose to answer his. ‘How can I tell when she gives no sign? I am no doctor.’

  He gritted his teeth while he stared at her; then forcing himself to calmness, he added, ‘Well, you don’t think the fever has had any effect?’

  She turned her head to the side and shook it as she answered, ‘Not that I can say at the moment, Master. Yet the mistress is not herself.’

  He turned away and walked to the door. He was well aware that she was not herself, but her emotional condition didn’t trouble him; as long as she held on to what was in her and gave it a chance of life, that was all that he was concerned about at the moment.

  So much did this matter take up his mind that Molly, coming out of the far door of the dairy, caused no ripple to pass through him. She was carrying two large pails of skim, and she dropped them with a clatter on a small platform ready for Johnnie to pick up and take to the pigs, and when she hitched up her full breasts with the cushions of her thumbs there was no tightening of his loins, no deep drawing in of breath.

  He finished his tea and turned from the door and, coming back into the kitchen, said, ‘You think she necessitates the doctor?’

  Again Winnie turned her head to the side and shook it before saying, ‘That’s up to you, Master. That’s up to you.’

  Yes, that was up to him, but the last person he wanted to talk with Delia at this moment was old Cargill. He was a fusspot, a gossiping, probing fusspot. By now, like all those in Hexham, he would have heard of the flaying and were he to call, he would, with a question here, a nudge there, as he sauntered around the farm, come to the truth quicker than any judge, after which he himself would be in for a long rigmarolling admonition. No, he didn’t want Cargill here just to attend her in a fever. But if he thought there was the slightest suspicion that the child was affected then he would gallop into the town himself and fetch him.

  He glanced at Winnie again. She’d know. She was a knowledgeable woman, a sensible woman, and she had an affection for her mistress, so therefore her perception would be keener.

  Winnie brought his attention to her again as she said, ‘Who’s to stay when you’re all at church, Master? I think it should be somebody who could use his legs just in case; me da’s not much use in that way.’

  He was walking towards the door again as he said briefly, ‘I’ll be here.’

  Although Delia in her present state could not carry out her threat of denouncing him in church, he thought that her indisposition would not only supply an excuse for his absence today but also for the coming Sundays ahead until the child was born. After that he would meet events as they came. One thing he was certain of, once the boy was born he’d put her in her place again.

  The pain that now rent her body seemed to split it in two. It had attacked her quite suddenly, waking her from a half-dazed sleep. To save herself crying out against it she bit tight down on the side of her hand, and when it had passed she lay gasping.

  The sound of her heavy breathing should have brought Molly from the dressing room, but it didn’t. When the sweat had cleared from her eyes she looked towards the open door where, reflected through the mirror of the wardrobe in the light of the lamp, she could see the girl, her head lolling to the side as she slept in an upright chair.

  She had said to Winnie, who was very tired, ‘Go and rest, I’ll be all right,’ but Winnie wouldn’t listen until McBain commanded, ‘Go to bed, woman, the girl will take your place,’ then she herself had been forced to protest and had cried at him, ‘I do not need a watchdog. Anyway, Jane can sit with me.’

  To this he had replied calmly, ‘Jane has been on her feet all day, she is worn out. Anyway, you need a night-attendant, a nurse, and tomorrow morning I’m sending into Hexham for one, and the doctor too. You have been too long in this state for your health.’

  She had lifted her hand and dismissed Winnie from the room. Then looking at him fully for the first time in days, she had muttered from deep in her throat, ‘I will not have the girl in this room. Nor will I have her in the house once I am about.’ And he had turned his back on her as he gave her his reply, ‘She will sit in the dressing room within call. As for your whims, we will deal with them when the time comes.’

  Winnie had come up before going home at nine o’clock and said soothingly, ‘I will just take a few hours, Mistress. In the meantime, if you should feel you want me call to her and she will come and fetch me.’

  She had almost put her hand out and said, ‘Sleep here, Winnie,’ but had she done so it would have shown her alarm, and so she had allowed them to install the girl in the dressing room, and for well into the night she had lain and watched her. Twice she had disappeared from view and gone into the closet room. At this, she had wanted to shout, ‘Come away from that room, girl. How dare you! Go out to your midden, that is your place, the midden.’

  Yet as she berated the girl in her mind she knew the situation wasn’t of her making; although she had become a party to it she would never, in the first place, have dared to approach McBain.

  As another pain seized her she wondered why she was trying to hide the fact that the child was about to be born. What would it avail her now? She brought up her knees to her chest and groaned; then she cried aloud as the whole of her inside slipped into a flaming hell of pain, and now with her eyes screwed up tight, she groaned, ‘Girl! Girl!’

  When the spasm eased for a second and she opened her eyes there was no-one by her side. She could not see the girl through the mirror now because her vision was blurred with sweat. Again her body was shot into pain, so excruciating this time that she lost consciousness. When she came to herself she was lying on her back, her legs wide apart, and the child’s head had thrust itself into life. When the shoulders followed she screamed a thin, high piercing scream, and to her own voice was joined another, and she knew the girl was with her. She heard her yelling, ‘Master! Master!’ There followed another pain . . . and then another . . . and then great ease.

  Her eyes closed, everything was quiet. She felt that she herself had stopped breathing. In the peace she lifted her lids and saw McBain standing halfway down the bed. He had on his long nightshirt and he was staring downwards, as was the girl standing by his side. Slowly she allowed her limbs to relax, and now she lifted her head slightly and looked down along her deflated body, and there, lying between her legs on the bloodstained sheet and still attached to her, was her child – or part of her child. There was something wrong with it, something missing. She looked upwards to her husband’s face, and God in His wrath could never have looked like this. She took refuge against it in unconsciousness . . .

  The turmoil in McBain’s brain was something beyond even his own understanding, for the feelings of revulsion, anger and disappointment were so deep, so desolate that they combined to a torture, and when he looked back he knew that for a space of time his brain had been turned, and that, like any madman, he might have committed a crime, except that Molly had torn his hands from his wife’s neck, then had dragged him into the dressing room, pleading with him while she repeated just one word, ‘Master! Master!’

  Not until she had managed to thrust him down into the chair, saying, ‘Stay, stay, Master, for God’s sake, while I get Winnie,’ did a little of his sanity return, and he checked her with his hand gripping her arm. Then he wiped the sweat from his face while he gulped air into his lungs, and he continued to hold her un
til he had the power to speak, when he said, ‘Take . . . take it out and bury it.’

  ‘MASTER!’

  ‘Do as I bid you.’

  ‘B . . . but, Master.’

  ‘Go on, do what I say. And quickly.’

  She backed from him and slowly went into the bedroom, and as if approaching a lion’s cage she went towards the bed. And there she separated the mother and child. The cutting of the umbilical cord was not new to her, she had helped her mother on several occasions. And she knew what to do with a newborn child; if it didn’t yell straight away you took it by the legs and held it upside down.

  Frantically she looked about her for something to put round the child. Her eyes alighting on the mistress’s cashmere shawl, she grabbed it and put it over the infant, then rolled it on to its face so that she could lift it up without touching it. As she straightened her back it gave a thin cry, and at this her eyes and mouth sprang wide and her terrified glance went towards the dressing-room door, then returned to the wrinkled face peeping out from the fold of the shawl, and she muttered, ‘Oh, God Almighty!’ Placing the child on the day couch at the foot of the bed, she ran into the dressing room and, standing before McBain, she spluttered, ‘I, I can’t. I c . . . can’t Master, ’tis alive, breathin’.’

  McBain had been sitting with his head deep on his chest, almost as if he was asleep; and now his whole body jerked upwards and he grasped her again, by both arms this time, and slowly he said, ‘Listen to me, girl. It’s for the best. You have seen it; imagine if it were allowed to live. Each time I looked on it I would see it as God’s hand on me in retribution . . . you understand?’ He stared into her red sweating face. He knew she was a simple girl and here he was asking her to understand something he was only dimly comprehending himself. It was all bound up with the saying that God is not mocked. Delia had been right, but he felt the retribution wasn’t because he had lusted with this young girl so much as that he had done it while praising God. Jesus Christ’s one abhorrence was a hypocrite, and the thing in there was God’s answer to hypocrisy . . . and in this moment he hated God for it.