The Black Velvet Gown

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Oh, Riah.’ He half turned from her: then once again looking into her face he said, ‘I had to force myself to come home.’

  ‘What happened, sir?’

  ‘It’s a long story, you wouldn’t understand. I don’t know whether I understand it myself or not. I only know that I was informed by my solicitors that a good half of the shares that provide me with my allowance, as pitiable as it is, have declined sharply in value. Whereas I usually get between twenty-four and twenty-six pounds a quarter, I was given only twelve today, and that to last for three months; and what then?’ He spread out his hands, then doubled them into fists before beating them together and adding, ‘What could I do? I…I did not stop at my usual inn because I knew how the boy would be feeling. How did he take it?’

  She swallowed deeply and the concern was in her voice as she said, ‘Badly, I’m afraid, sir. But oh, I’m glad there was a reason, a good reason. Biddy said there would be.’

  ‘Huh!’ There was a sarcastic note in his voice now as he said, ‘I must thank Biddy for having faith in me, while you thought, and doubtless David did too, that I would come rolling back or prostrate on the cart.’

  ‘Well, sir…’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know.’ He swung round, his hand flapping now. ‘David hasn’t got his pony. But we all stand to lose; I don’t know how I’m going to go on.’

  It came to her as she watched him pacing up and down at the far end of the room that he was still capable of earning money by his brains, and she dared to voice this. ‘Have you ever thought about tutoring, like, young gentlemen, sir?’ she said.

  He became still in his pacing, his back to her, and it was several seconds before he swung round and faced her, saying slowly now, ‘Yes, Riah, I have often thought of tutoring young gentlemen. Oh yes, yes. I have often thought about that, but I have refrained from taking the matter further. You understand?’

  No, she didn’t, so she remained silent. ‘I must go and explain to the boy,’ he said.

  ‘Should I go and fetch him, sir?’

  ‘No, no; I’d rather do it on my own.’

  He had taken off his overcoat and his hat in the hall, and she now watched him pulling at his cravat as he went towards the front door. When she herself reached the door she saw him crossing the gravelled drive to where the path led into the shrubbery, his step now almost on the point of a run. And as she watched him she recalled Davey’s attitude of a short while ago, and this caused her to hurry through the kitchen, then across the yard and into the garden. There her step slowed, and she was halted by Johnny who was humping a basketful of weeds when he called, ‘You looking for Maggie, Ma? She’s down by the greenhouse.’

  ‘No, no, I’m going to see Davey.’

  ‘He’s in a bad temper, Ma, slashing at the grass like nobody’s business. He chased me, he did.’

  ‘Go and empty your basket,’ she said.

  She had reached the high yew hedge when she heard the master’s voice. It was coming from the other side of the hedge and she was stopped by the note of pleading in it as he was saying, ‘David, David, try to understand. It didn’t lie with me, it wasn’t my fault. Oh, David…’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t!’

  Riah’s face suddenly stretched and then when Davey’s voice came again, louder now, crying, ‘Stop it! Stop it! Leave go of me. Leave off!’ her feet didn’t seem to touch the ground as she started to race along by the hedge. But almost simultaneously with her son yelling, ‘Stop it, man. Leave go. Stop it!’ an agonised scream brought her to a shuddering halt.

  Her shoulders hunched almost up to her ears, she didn’t move until she heard the words, ‘Oh my God! My God!’ She didn’t know who had uttered them, but once more she was running, and when she rounded the hedge she stopped in horrified amazement at the sight before her. There, standing with the scythe still in his hand, was her son, and lying on the ground, with blood gushing from his forearm and his hip, lay the master. She watched Davey fling the scythe from him before dashing to her.

  Gripping hold of her dress, he cried, ‘Ma! Ma! I didn’t mean it; I just tried to stop him. He would keep holding me. He would keep holding me. Oh, Ma. Ma.’

  ‘Oh, Almighty God!’ It came as a soft groan from her mouth.

  The man on the ground was writhing as if in agony. His hands were now dripping with blood where he was trying to stop the flow from his arm, but for the life of her she seemed unable to move towards him, until Davey, clinging to her, cried, ‘What’ll I do, Ma? What’ll I do?’

  What would he do? She stared at him, and she almost screamed aloud herself as she saw him hanging from a gibbet; for if that man on the ground died, that’s what would happen to her son. Gripping him by the shoulder, she cried at him, ‘Go and get Tol. Find him! Find him!’ But as Davey made to dart from her she brought him to a jerking standstill again and under her breath she whispered, ‘Don’t tell him you did it. Tell him…tell him, the master’s happened an accident. Just tell him that.’

  When she released her hold on the boy he didn’t now dart away but stumbled like a youth who had taken his first long swill of ale. And now she moved towards her master who was lying on his side gasping, and he turned his head up to her and in a weak voice said, ‘Fetch…fetch the doctor.’ But not until his head fell limply to the side was she galvanised into life. Flying now from the field, she screamed, ‘Johnny! Johnny! Johnny! You, Maggie!’

  It was Maggie who came in sight first and she bawled at her, ‘Run to the house. Tell Biddy to bring sheets. The master’s had an accident. Quick! Quick!’

  After staring at her mother a second or two, Maggie turned and flew up the garden; and as she did so, Johnny passed her carrying his empty basket, and when Riah yelled at him, ‘Here! Here!’ he too came running to her.

  Grabbing the basket from him, she yelled, ‘You can run, can’t you? You can run?’

  ‘Aye, Ma. Aye, Ma, I can run. I’m a good runner.’

  ‘Well, run to the village, to the parson, and ask him to send somebody on a horse for the doctor.’

  Johnny turned from her, about to run, then stopped and said, ‘I’ve got to tell the doctor…I mean, tell the parson to tell the doctor? Is our Davey bad?’

  ‘No. Tell them it’s the master. He’s had an accident. He’s badly cut.’

  ‘What with, Ma?’

  ‘Will you go?’

  He went, running as only the young can run. And now she herself turned and ran back round the end of the hedge and into the field.

  Her master was just as she had left him, only the dried grass round his hip was now soaked in blood. Kneeling by his side, she reluctantly put her fingers into the blood-covered slit in his coat and shirt and tugged at them, then gasped as she saw the size of the wound, and all the while she was muttering, ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’

  Gripping his arm between her hands now, she tried to press the ends of the wound together in order to stop the flow of blood, but to no avail. In desperation she stood up and screamed, ‘Biddy! Biddy!’ And as if in answer to her cry, Biddy and Maggie came stumbling round the hedge both carrying sheets. Running towards them, she pulled the top sheet from Biddy’s arms and began tearing at it frantically, crying as she did so, ‘Tear them up! Tear them up in strips!’

  When she had finished winding the roughly torn strips of linen round his arm, she pulled his now unconscious body on to its side, and she herself almost fainted as she saw the size of the gash in his trousers and his small clothes. Again her hands delved into the blood-soaked material and wrenched it apart. Then, rapidly folding a large piece of sheeting, she put it over where she thought the wound was, before strapping it up again with the long strips the girls were handing to her.

  ‘What happened, Ma?’

  ‘Be quiet! Be quiet!’ She pushed Biddy aside.

  ‘Where’s our Davey, Ma?’ There was a trembling note in Biddy’s voice and her mother who was about to tell her again to shut up simply muttered, ‘Gone for Tol.’

  ‘Oh,
Tol. Aye, Tol’ll know what to do. Oh, Ma, all the blood.’

  ‘Shut up, girl! Shut up!’ But then her tone changing, she said, ‘He’s…he’s comin’ round.’

  Percival Miller emitted a long deep groan. When he opened his eyes and saw Riah looking down on him, he murmured, ‘Oh, Riah. Riah.’

  Once he had spoken she felt anger rising in her, and she wanted to yell at him, ‘You’ve brought this on yourself, wanting to play the father, because you’re incapable of being a father.’ Yes. Aye, that was it, he was one of them who couldn’t take a woman. My God! Why hadn’t it struck her before? What had he tried to do to Davey to make the lad react like he had done? Hold him, Davey had said; but after all, that didn’t warrant him almost killing the man; it was the disappointment over the pony that had put the lad in a rage. And yes, he had been in a rage. She had never seen him like that before. But oh God! What was to be the outcome of it? Once again she was seeing her son hanging on the gibbet, for who would believe that these wounds were accidental? The justice had just to question a boy like Davey and the truth would be blurted out. He couldn’t talk falsehoods, could Davey. Biddy, yes; Biddy could sell her soul in a like situation, or if it was to save someone’s skin. But Davey wasn’t made in the same mould; he would have neither the determination nor the ability to face up to authority.

  ‘Riah.’

  She looked down into the grey face and the dark eyes that seemed to have sunk deeper into their sockets and she said slowly, ‘Help is coming.’

  ‘Riah.’ His good arm came out towards her but she shrank from it, and from the look in her eyes he closed his own.

  The blood had stopped oozing through the linen on his arm, but it continued to spread over the pads and bandage on his thigh and she became sick at the sight of it.

  Tol didn’t arrive by way of the hedge; from the main road, he had cut across the fields which were part of the Gullmingtons’ estate and jumped the fence, and so he came into the field by the top way. Standing by her side and looking down at the prostrate figure, who once again seemed to have lost consciousness, he said, ‘My God! How did this happen? I couldn’t get anything out of Davey.’

  ‘It…it was an accident.’

  ‘Have you sent for the doctor?’

  ‘Yes, Johnny went.’

  ‘Johnny?’ He turned and looked at her.

  ‘I sent him to the parsonage and told him to tell Parson; he’d ride for him. Where’s Davey, Tol?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t come back with me; the boy’s frightened. What really did happen?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll…I’ll explain later. We’ve got to get him into the house.’

  ‘Yes, yes’—his tone was urgent—‘we should put him on a door.’

  ‘A door?’ She shook her head. ‘We haven’t a door.’

  ‘There’s a big wheelbarrow, Tol.’

  He turned and looked down on Biddy, saying, ‘Aye. Aye. Where is it?’

  She ran from him, and he, at a run, followed her. A couple of minutes later he was back pushing the barrow. It was grimy but dry, and Riah, after flinging the last sheet over it, stood at one side of the master while Tol stood at the other, and she followed his directions when he said, ‘Grip my hand under his shoulder blades, and the same under his thighs.’ Then he called, ‘Keep the barrow steady, Biddy.’

  Once they had laid the blood-soaked man in the barrow, Tol commanded, ‘Support his leg, Riah. Keep it straight. And you, Biddy, keep his arm on his chest.’ And when they had obeyed him he bent and gripped the handles and, like this, he pulled the barrow backwards out of the stubbly field until he got on to the garden path, and then he went forward to the house.

  At the front door he said, ‘You’ll have to help me carry him in. Do you think you can manage it?’

  Riah made no answer; but bending, she did as before and joined her hands to his. And when they had stumbled into the hall, he said, ‘Where now? We can’t get him upstairs,’ and she gasped, ‘The drawing room, the drawing room couch.’

  After they had laid him on the couch, Tol looked at his hands and coat; then glancing at Riah, he murmured, ‘I…I don’t think it will be any use cleaning up until the doctor gets here. He’s bound to want help.’

  She did not confirm this and he, looking at her closely, said, ‘You’re all in. Sit yourself down. Biddy, can you make your ma a cup of tea?’ For answer Biddy scrambled from the room, taking Maggie with her.

  In the kitchen, Biddy thrust the kettle into the heart of the fire, and as she did so, Maggie said, ‘Will he die, Biddy?’ And Biddy glanced at her, saying, ‘I hope not, Maggie, ’cos if he does, we will an’ all.’

  ‘We’ll die?’ There was a frightened note in the child’s voice, and Biddy answered, ‘Not like that, not graveyard dying; only we’ll have to leave here.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t like that, Biddy. I like it here.’

  ‘You’re not the only one. Fetch the cups.’

  ‘Biddy’—Maggie had run to the window—‘’tis a trap coming into the yard.’

  Looking out of the window, Biddy saw the end of the trap disappearing on to the drive and she said, ‘’Twill be the doctor. Ma won’t want tea now.’

  They had carried the kitchen table into the drawing room; Tol, Riah, and the doctor had managed it between them. Parson Weeks hadn’t offered his assistance; his thoughts were on less mundane things as he sat by the side of this learned gentleman, as he had always thought of Percival Miller.

  They stretched the injured man out on the table and Doctor Pritchard made no comment until he had unwrapped the rough-sheeting bandages and pad from Percival Miller’s thigh, and then he exclaimed, ‘Good gracious! Good gracious! How did he come by this?’ Then he leant over the patient and in a high voice as if Percival was deaf he cried, ‘How did you come by this?’

  Percival Miller simply stared straight back at him, but did not attempt to reply; and the doctor turned to Riah, saying, ‘Have you any spirits in the house?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No? Well, that’s strange, no spirits in this house.’ Again he looked down on the patient and, his voice still high, he said, ‘This is not going to be pleasant; you’ll have to hang on. Some extent of stitching to be done here, mostly on your hip, and I can’t tell about the tendons. Just have to sew you up and trust to luck.’ He now turned and looked towards Tol, saying, ‘You hang on to that arm, will you? I’ll start on the other one. And Parson, can you hold his legs?’

  ‘Oh, oh, I don’t think I’d be any use at that.’

  ‘Hell’s flames, man! All you’ve got to do is to grip his ankles. Oh, away…Woman!’ He beckoned to Riah now. ‘Press down on his legs, will you? Just to save him rolling off the table.’

  As Riah made to grip her master’s ankles, Tol said quietly, ‘Here, you hang on to his arm. I’ll see to those.’ And when they exchanged places, the doctor said, ‘His arm will be more trouble than his legs in a minute. But have it your own way. Well, let’s get at it.’

  As Tol watched the needle being jabbed into the flesh and listened to the groans and saw the agonising pain on Mr Miller’s face, he thought to himself, a horse doctor would do it kinder.

  The arm sewn up and bandaged, the doctor prepared to start on the hip. He soaked some padding in a liquid and almost dangled it before the patient’s face as he called down to him, ‘This is going to bite a bit. Get set.’

  When the soaked padding hit the raw flesh, Percival let out a cry almost resembling that of a vixen in the night, and then he closed his eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness, and at this the doctor cried, ‘That’s good. That’s good. Now we can get on with it.’ And he probed for quite some time before he stuck the needle in one side of the open wound and pulled it up through the other with as much gentleness, Tol again thought, as his sister used on a bodkin when progging old rags through hessian to make a mat.

  At last the operating finished and Riah, almost on the point of collapsing herself, brought a bowl of
clean water and a towel for the doctor to wash his hands. When this was done, he turned to her and in a quiet aside, he said, ‘You’re sure there’s no spirits in the house…no wine or anything?’

  ‘Yes, sir; I’m sure.’

  ‘I understood from the boy that he had just come back from the city.’ He jerked his head towards the table and the prone figure.

  ‘That was right, sir’—Riah’s tone was stiff—‘but he brought no wine or spirits with him; nor yet had he taken any.’

  The doctor looked hard at the woman before him; then he said, ‘Indeed! Indeed!’ before turning to the parson, standing now with his eyes cast downward, and saying, ‘Well, I’m ready, if you are.’ He then looked towards Tol who was gathering up the bloodstained strips of linen from the floor and added, ‘You staying the night here?’

  Tol hesitated, and then said, ‘I suppose someone should in case he moves. But sir, don’t you think he would be better moved on to a bed of some sort?’

  ‘No, I don’t; the less he is moved, the less likelihood of his bleeding again. He’s lost all he can I should say. I’ll be back in the morning.’

  Without further words he went out, the parson going hurriedly after him.

  No sooner had they left the room than Riah, going to Tol, said, ‘They can’t find him. They’ve been lookin’ for him. He’s not in the garden anywhere.’

  As if he were patting her Tol put his hand out towards her and said quietly, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea where he’ll be. Likely in my outhouse. Anyway, I’ll slip back there now before it gets too dark, and I’ll bring him over. Never fear. In the meantime, rest yourself; you look all in.’

  She nodded but made no reply; but after he had left the room she sat down in the chair near the fire and turned her head away from the table and the death-like figure lying there. Her mind was full of recrimination. He had wanted to play the father; and look where it had got him; look where it had got all of them. He had changed their lives when he had given them shelter, but now he had changed them again, for whether he lived or died this place, she told herself, could afford them no more shelter. Only the fact that he was utterly helpless prevented her from going upstairs and bundling their things together and taking them on the road once more.