The Slow Awakening

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘I’ve got to see them.’

  ‘Well have it your way, but I know him better than you. He’s a good man in some ways.’

  ‘Aye, at whoring and stealing land, he’s good at that all right.’

  Art chuckled now as he said. ‘The first I grant you, but the second, well, it’s just the way you look at it.’

  Colum gazed down into the wrinkled weather-beaten countenance and he pulled the corner of his mouth inwards and moved his cheek twice from side to side before he said. ‘There’s times I ask meself why I bother to speak to you, Art Dixon. An’ if it wasn’t that me ma likes you I’d long afore have spit in your eye and sent you to hell, because you can’t be on two sides at once, his and ours.’

  Strangely they both laughed now, looking into each other’s eyes. Then Art said, ‘I’m on neither side, lad. I just happen to like you, an’ all up at the Abode. At the same time I’ve got a feelin’ towards me master, for I came here in his grandfather’s time; then I served his father, and he was a good man, one of God’s best.’

  ‘It’s a pity his son doesn’t take after him then.’

  ‘As I said, lad, he has his points.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’d like him more if he took his points back to Sweden where he belongs.’

  ‘He no more belongs to Sweden than you do.’ Art’s tone was severe now. ‘He was born and bred in this house, and he was only in Sweden from he was seven till he was twenty.’

  ‘Long enough to make him think he’s a Vikin’, or some such.’

  They laughed again, louder this time, and then Art added, ‘I’ll have to be away an’ see to the horses; just you listen to them. Ta-ra, Colum. An’ I’ll have the young lass attended to’—he jerked his head backwards—‘just as soon as I can, that’s if she lives to need it.’

  ‘Aye, do that. Ta-ra, Art.’

  ‘Ta-ra, lad.’

  Colum plodged across the courtyard, then turned and looked about him. He had never thought to walk over this yard again. Two years ago he had stood practically on this spot and faced the master of the house and said to him, ‘You get your lackeys to break me wall down again and I’ll break your neck!’ And he hadn’t just said neck, he had said bloody neck, and he had said me wall, not our wall, for his father didn’t look upon the Abode and the land as he did. Given his way, when short of money, his father would have let the river fields go to Konrad Knutsson. He had even said in his flippant Irish way. ‘What use are they after all? Two bits of land hugging banks that are under water most of the winter.’ He had even suggested that they keep the near side below the house but let the owner of the Priory have the acreage that bit into his land. To this Colum had retorted bitterly that it was a good job his granda wasn’t alive, for he would have eaten him wholesale, without any salt. His grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and the one before that right back to the one that was born in sixteen hundred and ten, and who himself had built Tarn Abode on the top of a hill, away from the temperamental river, had loved the land, and had originally owned not just ‘the bite’ on yon side of the river, but all the land that went beyond it up the gentle valley on which now stood the fancy farm of the Knutssons. The present Knutsson’s great-grandfather had acquired nearly all his farmland by treachery, and this one was determined to have the last bit on his side of the river.

  It was when he himself had heard that Master Konrad Knutsson had gone to the justices to try and convince them there was a clause in the deed that indicated the farmland his great-grandfather had bought from Michael Flynn in seventeen eighty-four went down to the river and halfway across it, it was then that he had come storming up to this house and for the second time in his life come face to face with its master. Konrad Knutsson was getting off his horse in the yard here, and although he hadn’t seen him since he himself was a lad he recognised him by the name that was attached to him for miles around, the Flaxen Square Head. For flaxen indeed he was, fair with a woman’s fairness but, there the femininity ceased. His face was big, his neck thick and his body broad.

  When he had stood in front of him and dared to speak his mind Knutsson had stared at him unbelieving, as if he couldn’t trust his ears; in fact he had shown evidence of this for he had stuck his first finger into his ear and shaken it vigorously; then looking about him at his gentlemen friends with whom he had been out riding, he had thrust his head back and bellowed. And they had bellowed with him. But their laughter hadn’t lasted. Taking the cue from their host, their faces too had become stiff as Knutsson had suddenly bawled at him, ‘Get back to your pen before I strip the hide off you and send you on a door to your mother.’

  If it hadn’t been for Art he didn’t know to this day what the outcome would have been, for Art dragged at him; then the second coachman and the stable lads dragged at him. And when they got him away they left him to Art, and he came down to the river with him and almost pushed him in, saying, ‘Get across there, you bloody young fool! And if you know what’s good for you, stay your own side. You don’t know how near you’ve been to becomin’ a corpse.’

  Colum now turned about and splashed through the water in the direction of the gardens again. Master Konrad Knutsson! He spat into the water, then laughed. When he came home from London town, or wherever he was, he’d find his house in a nice pickle, and devil’s cure to him. He would wish the waters to reach the roof except that the lady was expecting a bairn. Knutsson had taken a lass young enough to be his daughter for his third wife; only seventeen when he married her. And what was he, forty-five, forty-six? She could be his daughter or his grand-daughter at that, for he would have started his begetting when he was still in frocks. Well—he jerked his head at his own calculation—in short breeks anyway.

  He splashed through the park and when he came out of the trees he stood looking across the great expanse of water to where the elm had fallen on the river bank. The debris was piled up high against it and when the tree finally gave, the lot would go down the river. If it hadn’t been for the tree that lass an’ all would have been well down the river by now, and as dead as a smoked herring.

  He stood looking about him, undecided which way to go. The shortest way home would be to the left and the bridge on the bend, but that too would likely be gone, being wooden. Then he must go back by the toll bridge.

  Half an hour later, when he reached the bridge, the tollkeeper’s house was empty. There was no sign of life and there wasn’t an inch to spare between the bridge and the raging water underneath, and he could see that it was rising every minute. He was not afraid, but nevertheless, once on the bridge, he ran across it, and at one point, near the middle, the deafening thunder of the waters beneath him made him feel that he was indeed in it up to the neck.

  Before stepping down from the bridge he drew in a deep, deep breath, then he had to fight to keep his footing as he struggled waist deep over a field before climbing to higher ground. Here, he threw himself flat and for a time lay panting; then he picked himself up and made his way along the ridge of the hill until he came to his home.

  Tarn Abode was a long, low stone erection, looking like a row of single-storey cottages, except the end one which had two storeys. It overlooked the valley. Surrounding it, and at a distance of a hundred yards, was a wall, which was about two feet in width and, at its highest, five feet in height. In places the top stones had fallen away, but these were piled neatly against the wall as if awaiting re-erection.

  Like a miniature castle, Tarn Abode dominated the valley. From any of the four windows of the second storey one could see for miles. The north window looked down onto the great loop in the river and saw it spreading away like a ribbon, to the right towards Newcastle and the North Sea, and to the left twisting and turning all the way to Corbridge. But the most spectacular sight the Abode overlooked was Faircox Priory. There, across the river and at the head of the shallow valley, stood the big stone house showing pink and cream in some lights with black streaks running down it; these were the creepers that covered the gables.
The house was called The Priory but all that remained of the original priory was the broken wall that showed itself on a clear day piercing the giant cypresses. The present house was a relatively modern affair, having been built not more than seventy years earlier when the previous one had been burnt down, which itself had been of no great age, not more than a hundred years. Some folks said there had been at least two other houses built on the site. There was a blight on the foundations, they said, but no-one explained why; there were no stories of ghosts or restless monks. If there was any reason for the frailty of the houses built on the priory foundations it was attributed to the Knutssons themselves—they were foreigners, square heads from Sweden, wherever that was, heathen parts no doubt.

  But then, the same could be said about the Flynns, for hadn’t they all flown over from Ireland to escape one of that country’s many troubles. Yet there was a difference, for their house was still standing just as Patrick Flynn had built it in sixteen hundred and ten. He built it for himself and his bride because he was a man of some means, and he had bought land and raised cattle and he had woven his own rope; that was the skill he had brought with him. He had prospered, but his sons, and their sons, had met bad times, and the cattle were sold; and then the land was sold bit by bit, until people had forgotten that the Flynns had ever owned a great stretch of land, all that is except Colum Flynn, and Colum’s very pores oozed the desire for land and his pride in the Abode.

  In Colum’s estimation the Flynns had something to be proud of. They had the home that had been their fathers’, and their fathers’ afore them; they had a trade, a trade which at times brought them in very little money; but what matter, they had a dozen pigs, and hens, and the great thing, they still had five acres of land that was theirs, and would remain theirs, aye by God, would remain theirs, as long as there was a Flynn left breathing…And what was more, every one of them, right down to Michael, could read and write.

  His head lifted as always with an unconscious proud tilt when he went through the gateless break in the stone wall and his dark bright eyes swept the place. To the left of him, near the wall, was the Rope Walk. His father was walking along it now pulling strands of hemp towards ten-year-old Barney who was at the wheel making ready to attach the strands to the rope cart.

  Barney shouted to Colum, ‘Has it risen, Colum? How deep is it now?’ and Colum shouted back to him, ‘Deep enough to drown you twice over. I’m wet through.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘Aye, some would say. But not all though, not all.’

  ‘Has it swamped them out?’

  ‘It’s reached the kitchens.’

  ‘Serves them right.’

  ‘I’ll serve you right’—it was his father’s voice calling down the line now—‘with me toe in your backside if you don’t keep your eye on that wheel and not get pleasure out of other people’s troubles.’

  Dan Flynn, a man of fifty-four, a head shorter than his eldest son, his body thin, his hair still black, and his eyes still merry, linked the strands onto the hook of the rope cart, then looking across at Colum where he was passing the pigsties, he shouted, ‘Any good debris come down?’ And Colum turned as he said, ‘Aye, but most of it’s piled up near the old elm tree just beyond our wall. An’ that’s down, the elm I mean.’

  ‘We’ll go and have a look later.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’

  ‘There’s tea on the hob; I’ll be in in a minute.’

  To this Colum made no reply but stepped from the dirt yard onto the cobbles that paved the front of the house along its entire length; and he put out his hand and rumpled the head of Michael, his youngest brother, six years only but already good at spinning yarn. The boy had a bundle of it round his waist, with one end of it attached to a nail in the wall, and his nimble little fingers plied it as he walked backwards, turning it into twine.

  Michael was like his father, small, thin and dark, with the same bright merry eyes, and he looked up at Colum and asked. ‘Can I go down with you when you’re rummagin’?’

  ‘Aye, if you keep your nose clean.’

  They both exchanged small audible laughs; then Colum went through the third door in the row, having to bend his head the while, and into a small room that held an assortment of clothes hanging from pegs on the wall and an equally varied assortment of boots and clogs. The room was warm and steamy from the contents of a big iron pot in which the pigswill was bubbling. Stripping off his wet clothes, he got into dry ones, stoked the fire underneath the pot, then went through a door and into a storeroom, the walls of which were hung with ropes of all thicknesses, from the finest string to a length of cable as thick as his wrist. There were nets looking new and stiff, some with close mesh and some with wide mesh; there were clothes lines, there were ropes for the plough and horses’ headstalls, and rope baskets and rope mats, the latter all shapes and sizes, but all in the most intricate of patterns.

  He began systematically lifting down ropes from the walls and placing them neatly into the rope baskets. He took down from shelves balls of string of different grades and stacked them alongside.

  Whilst he was working a tall woman came to the door at the far end of the room. Her hair was pulled back tightly from her forehead; she wore a blue print dress with a tight bodice, over which was an unbleached holland apron. ‘You’re packing early,’ she said.

  He glanced up at her from his stooped position and said, ‘It will take me to start early; there’s no road, an’ there mightn’t be a bridge farther down, and that’s likely, but whichever way I go it’ll be twice as long.’

  ‘Look.’ Her voice was soft. ‘I’ve said this afore I know, but why not have a go at Newcastle market again?’

  ‘Oh, Ma.’ He straightened his back and swung his head in a deprecating fashion. ‘An’ you know I’ve told you afore an’ all, there’s not a chance. How can we stand up against the Haggies? Their works being in Gateshead, they’re just on the doorstep to Newcastle; they’ve collared the market all along there. An’ if that wasn’t enough, since the split in the family the eldest one’s opened up for himself in Willington Quay. Did you know that? Well, it’s true. They’re swarming all over the bloomin’ Tyne. No, Ma, don’t press me to go to Newcastle. Anyway, we’ve got our footing in Hexham, and I’ve got good customers along the road; the farmers know good rope when they see it.’

  She nodded at him. ‘Have it your own way. Have it your own way, but remember, farmers, like the weather, are changeable. It’s not always their own fault; but a bad year, and what do they cut down on? Ropes, fancy mats, netting for their stacks. Don’t forget we’ve had it afore. Anyway, there’s tea on the hob and a slab; come and get it when it’s hot.’

  A moment later he went from the room rubbing his hands on the back of his breeches.

  In the kitchen his two sisters, Kathie, eight years old, and Sharon, nine, were seated on crackets, one on each side of a dish of potatoes, scouring the skins with their hands. Kathie, with light brown hair and blue eyes and a round solemn face, looked towards him and smiled, a quiet smile, but Sharon, who looked a small edition of Colum himself with her black hair and round dark eyes, laughed and called to him down the long kitchen, which was made up of three rooms broken into one, ‘Did you find anything, our Colum, bits and pieces or anything?’

  ‘Aye.’ He nodded at her. ‘An’ I’ve brought them up for you.’

  ‘No gamin’?’

  ‘No gamin’.’

  Sharon jumped to her feet and came towards him saying, ‘What? What?’ and he bent down to her and, his face straight and, pointing with his right forefinger to his left thumb, he counted, ‘One dead horse, two dead cows, three dead sheep, no, four dead sheep…’

  ‘Aw, our Colum you!’ She was beating him with her fists.

  ‘Stop that, Sharon. Behave yourself, else I’ll dock your tea.’

  ‘Aw, Ma. Well, he’s teasin’ me. He said…’

  ‘Whisht now! Whisht now! And get your mug. And you, too, Kathie.’

&n
bsp; At this the girls went obediently to the long white wooden delf rack that took up almost half of the kitchen wall and was laden with all kinds of crockery and pans, the latter burnished until even the copper bottoms hanging at an angle gave a distorted reflection of the faces before them.

  There were several wooden chairs in the kitchen, all with straight backs, and standing out from these were two brown hide-covered armchairs, brass-studded and elegant in shape. They should have looked out of place in the low-ceilinged, irregular-shaped room with its whitewashed walls and stone slab floor, yet so worn were they that they fitted into the background as if they had never known any other setting.

  Sitting in one of them, her body seeming to overflow the chair, was a woman of an age that was hard to guess at. She could have been thirty, yet she could have been fifty; in fact Dorry Kerry, a distant relative of Dan Flynn, was forty on her next birthday, which was in two months’ time. Her face was big and round, her eyes dark and small, but each part of her contributed to give the impression of benignity. When Colum, picking up a mug of tea from the table and handing it to her, said, ‘How’s your pain now?’ she looked at him, her eyes almost closed with merriment, and answered, ‘How do you mean? Are you askin’ me if it’s better or worse?’

  ‘Aw, stop your nonsense.’ He made a motion with his hand as if to clip her ear, and she turned her big face up to him and said, ‘Well, I want to know so’s I can answer you reasonable like; you’re always on about people answering you reasonable like.’

  When, at this moment, Dan Flynn entered the room with Barney behind him and called across to Dorry as if she were at the other end of a field, ‘How is it now?’ she answered evenly, ‘It’s easin’. It’s easin’.’

  Dan came to the table, sat down and pulled a mug of tea towards him, then picked up from a huge bread board a piece of flat hot new bread, and biting on it he said to no-one in particular. ‘She’ll have to go into Newcastle and see a doctor if it gets worse,’ and to this his wife answered, ‘Yes, indeed, she must.’