The Slow Awakening

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  She wanted to fall against him and cry, ‘Oh, Colum! Oh Colum, I’ll marry you and gladly and thank you, thank you a thousand times for asking me. I never thought I’d be asked, not me, with my eye like it is.’ But all she could do was to stand looking at him, her lips trembling, knowing that if she promised him she’d have to leave the child and…and the master, and she didn’t know now who needed her most. If she promised him, the rope that attached her to the house would begin to fray, then snap. She was thinking of his own simile, for he would often say, ‘Once a rope begins to fray it’s pointing to its end and soon it’ll be severed.’

  ‘Ropes are like people,’ he had once said to her, ‘if there’s no harmony atween people, they rub each other until they begin to fray. When you see this sign you know they’ll soon be asunder, be it friend to friend, or man to wife. They could live in the same house, but they’d be joined no longer, they’d be just two fazzled ends.’ And he had finished with a laugh, saying, ‘Our family makes ropes that don’t fray.’

  And he was right, for there was harmony in the family.

  As if reading her thoughts his face became straight, even grim, as he said, ‘You’re hesitatin’.’

  ‘Oh no. No, Colum. It’s…it’s only that the child’—she moved her head in the direction of the house—‘he’s…he’s attached to me, he needs me, an’ his legs being like they are and nobody botherin’, I…I couldn’t leave him, not—’ she paused, and her voice trailed away as she ended, ‘Well, not yet awhile.’

  ‘Aw.’ He tossed his head on a relieved laugh; then gripping her hands, he pulled her towards him and asked softly, ‘Is it only that, is it? Well, as I said, it won’t be for a time, not till we get straight. But can I tell them up above, can I, ’cos they know how things are with me, an’ have been for some time?’

  She blinked her eyes and moved her head just the slightest. And now he pulled her closer, saying, ‘Why not? Why not? Aw, Kirsten.’

  Perhaps it was the stiffening of her body as well as the look on her face that brought his brows knitting into a deep line and caused his hold to slacken.

  She stood, slightly away from him, but still within his arms. She loved him, she did, she did. She knew she had loved him since the day he surprised her when she was burying the jewels, yet the very closeness of his body had brought a stiffness into her own, for its neatness recalled the feel of the other body she had lain against. Her mind cried at her now that she couldn’t love two people, two men, and one old enough to be her father.

  Swiftly she put her lips to his and then he was holding her tightly, rocking her, like she did the child. His lips were hard and warm, and he kept them on her mouth for a long time. When at last he stopped kissing her they stood slightly apart, but still holding, and they laughed, both self-consciously, and when he said, ‘I can tell them then?’ what could she do but nod at him?

  When they went towards the stones again he let out a high laugh and, pointing to the river, said, ‘I’d forgotten all about it. I’ll have a shot as soon as the water goes down.’

  She turned to him swiftly as she had done before but clutching at him now as she pleaded, ‘But you’ll wait until I’m here?’

  He nodded; then taking her hand and going before her, he said, ‘Come on now, come onto the land of the Flaxen Bull. God, how I hate that man!’ They were midstream when he turned to her and added, ‘And more so since I know you take his money.’

  It came to her that night as she held the child in her arms and watched its supposed father looking down on it with love that her life was becoming more complicated each day she lived, for her emotions were not only bewildering her, they were filling her with fear and dread, and there wasn’t one soul of those she knew to whom she could unburden herself, for to no one of them could she speak the truth.

  Two

  It was around nine o’clock one night as she was preparing to go to bed that the master came into the nursery. She saw at once that he had been drinking but yet wasn’t drunk, not as she had seen him before.

  He tiptoed into the room with an exaggerated effort at being quiet and, standing over the cot, he looked down on the child, and when he saw that he was still awake he turned his face towards her, his smile wide, and cried as if at an unusual sight, ‘Look! He’s awake and he’s laughing.’ He was bending over the cot now tickling the child’s chin, his thick tone taking on baby patter. ‘Ah-ha! There’s the big fellow. Papa has come to say goodnight. Say papa…papa. Is the big fellow liking his beer? Is he then? Is he then?’ Still bent, he turned his face towards Kirsten where she was standing at a distance from the cot and asked, ‘He’s taking the beer?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Does he like it?’

  ‘Very much, master.’

  ‘Good! Good! There’s a grand fellow.’ He looked down on the child again. ‘And his teethy teeth. Let papa see. Open your mouth. Ah! Ah! Look.’ He beckoned Kirsten to him as if she hadn’t seen the child’s teeth before and cried excitedly, ‘Another one! Look, there’s a white mark, that’s the third one.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘And look at these, fine big teeth, mashers, mashers indeed! Ah! You’ll do, you’ll do.’ He patted the child’s cheek, then turned away, saying now less exuberantly, ‘His legs. How are they today?’

  ‘He’s moving them better I think, master.’

  He gazed at her over his shoulder. ‘You’re not just saying this?’ His voice was deep in his throat. ‘Not just to placate me? Do you really think they’re getting better?’

  ‘Yes, master, I do.’

  ‘Have you tried him walking?’

  ‘No, master—’ she hesitated, ‘not yet. I…I don’t think they’re strong enough to hold him up; his, his top parts are too heavy.’

  ‘Well they’ll never get strong unless they get exercise. Try walking him.’

  ‘Very well, master.’

  ‘Come and sit down.’ He walked over to the fire at the far end of the room and seated himself in the leather chair, and she followed and took a seat opposite him. And he looked at her for a moment with a slight twist to his mouth before saying, ‘Bring your chair here and give me your hand.’

  When they were sitting side by side, her hand in his, he looked into the fire and said, ‘Do you know something, Kirsten?’

  She did not reply but waited.

  ‘It’s very strange when you come to consider it but my son is going to look upon you, indeed he does now, as his mother. Do you realise this?’ He turned his face to her, then said sharply, ‘Why! Does this trouble you?’

  She gulped in her throat as she always did when she felt her eye drooping.

  ‘Why?’

  The word was a command for an answer and she stammered, ‘I…I may have…have to go away some day, master.’

  ‘Away?…Away! Where would you go to? You told me you had no people.’

  When she bowed her head he let go of her hand and the big chair scraped backwards on the wooden floor with the movement of his body. ‘I see, I see; you’ve got thoughts of going across the river, is that it? Look at me, girl.’ He was the master now speaking to a servant, and she looked at him, her eye deep in the corner, and he stared at it as, his lip curling, he said, ‘That’s something you’ll never be able to do, lie to me; your defect gives you away, do you know that?’

  There was nothing she could say to this for was she not lying to him all the time?

  ‘What are these people to you anyway?’

  Still she did not answer.

  ‘They’re ropers, scum; they’re not even decent people. He’s as lazy as he’s long; he lives on his wife and his children. And that woman who lives with them, she has a disease, a body disease. It’s a known fact, it’s common gossip in all the inns. The man who was going to marry her found out in time. They’re outcasts, the lot of them…So now what do you think of the Flynns?’

  ‘The same as before, master.’

  ‘My God!’ He got up from the chair and
, spreading arms wide, placed his hands on the mantelpiece and looked down into the fire for some time before he said, ‘Would that I had known such loyalty in my life.’ Then turning round so quickly that he startled her, he seated himself again by her side, and now, grasping both her hands, he looked into her face and in a voice that did not match any part of him for it held a note of deep pleading, he said, ‘Don’t leave us, Kirsten. Please don’t leave us; we both need you. This…this is a divided house, a lonely house. All I have in life is my son.’ His glance flashed towards the cot. ‘All I want for him is to walk straight and’—his head gave a little jerk—‘to use his mind. I…I have plans, Kirsten.’ He was shaking her hands up and down now. ‘As soon as he can talk properly I am going to get a tutor for him, and he shall not only teach him, he shall teach you. Just think of that. I will have you educated, Kirsten. It is not too late, you are but sixteen. When you are twenty you could be a lady.’ He pulled his body back from her, his arms outstretched now, and he pumped her hands. ‘Just think of that. You, Kirsten MacGregor, could be an educated lady.’

  When he saw that the prospect brought her no pleasure, no excitement, he flung her hands from him, then thrust himself back in the chair with his body bent almost double, his head to the side, his eyes fixed on the floor, and he growled, ‘Go on, go out of my sight. Pack up your belongings now and leave us…Go on!’

  She did not move but said quietly, ‘It’ll be some years before I even think of leaving you, master.’

  Slowly he raised his eyes to hers again and repeated. ‘Some years, you mean that?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Ah, well’—he drew in a deep breath and lay back in the chair—‘a lot can happen in…some years…Look, I have brought you a book, it is a history book of Sweden. It has lots of pictures in it. There, I left it on the table by the door; bring it here.’

  When she brought the book to him he pulled her down on the seat beside him, and placing the book on his knees he opened it haphazardly, saying, ‘There is a picture of the poetess, Hedvig Charlotta Nordenflycht, she lived in the last century. Very great woman, very great woman. They called the last century in Sweden the age of freedom. It was good in a way and bad in a way. I don’t believe—’ he looked straight at her now, saying pointedly, ‘I don’t believe people should own land who don’t know how to administer it and keep it fertile.’ Then looking at the book again he went on, ‘The Swedish peasants were allowed land but they were not satisfied, they did not want to be taxed. They objected because some land owned by nobles was exempt from tax, but that concession was a privilege for services rendered; as yet the peasants hadn’t earned that right. You know’—he was looking at her—‘I feel more Swedish than I do English. What do you think I am?’

  Looking back at him she smiled faintly as she said, ‘I wouldn’t know, master, as you are the only Swedish man I have come across.’

  ‘But I am not Swedish. I am English. Am I not like other Englishmen that you know?’

  Other English men. What other English men had she known? He was the greatest person that she had ever met; yes, greater than Colum, because he was a gentleman. Her smile widened a little farther as she answered him, ‘You are different from anyone I know, master.’

  His eyes held hers and he lifted one hand from the book and touched her cheek gently, and when her colour flooded her face and the heat went through his fingers he took them from her flesh as if he were being burnt and returned his gaze to the book again, saying, ‘You must read this book from the beginning. You may not find it easy at first but read it again and again. It will show you how other people live. This part here’—he turned some pages—‘it is about the Riksdag; it is another name for parliament, you understand?’

  She moved her head downwards, but she didn’t understand. What did she know about parliament here or anywhere else? She knew that the Queen lived in London with her husband who was called Albert, and last year he had put on an exhibition in a great big glass house, and people from all over the world had come to see it. Mrs Poulter had told her that. The master and mistress had gone to see the exhibition when they were in London…But parliaments? She knew nothing about parliaments, and this Riksdag that the master was on about. She looked down at the book. Big words holding thirteen, fourteen and fifteen letters seemed to spring from the page. She was proud that she was able to read; and she could read the poetry books that Colum lent her, but she could see at a glance that this book was full of foreign names.

  ‘Are you paying attention?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  He turned a page and, pointing to the picture of a man partly dressed in armour, his black hair falling to his shoulders and a drooping moustache bordering a thick-lipped mouth, he said, ‘That is Charles the Tenth. He was a warrior; he fought a magnificent battle in Warsaw in 1656. They tell me that if my hair had been black like this I would have been a complete replica of him. Do you think so?’

  She looked from the picture of the warrior to her master and, her eyes laughing now, she shook her head.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘He is a handsome man.’

  ‘Maybe so, master; except he is much too full round the mouth and neck.’

  He looked again at the picture, then nodded at her, not at all displeased, saying, ‘Yes, yes, he is a bit too thick there.’ When he patted his own lips and felt the flesh under his chin she gazed at him as a mother might do at a young son who was pointing out his assets and asking for approbation of them. He was so young in some ways, very like a boy. She could not imagine Colum acting like this.

  She felt very wise at this moment as she recognised the knowledge inside herself, knowledge that was bred from no experience but seemed innate in her being and told her now that this man, with all his wealth and power, with all his education and prestige, needed comfort and reassuring in a way that Colum never would, and that this man could draw pity from her; and it was not the child with his rickety legs that was holding her here, rather was it his supposed father.

  Pity was like a dragging chain.

  Now why should she think such a thing as that?

  He startled her again by closing the book with a snap and saying. ‘You are wool-gathering.’ Then getting to his feet he said, ‘You’re tired; go to your bed.’

  He now walked to the table and put the book down, then went to the door and from there he said, ‘Goodnight, Kirsten,’ and she answered, ‘Goodnight, master.’ And again she thought those odd words, pity was like a dragging chain.

  Three

  There was no wind and the sun was shining when Colum walked tentatively over the pebbled flat and rough shingle while his hand gripped the rope. He had taken off his coat, waistcoat, shirt and boots and stockings, but had kept his trousers on, naturally; these he had rolled up above the knee. The rope was attached around his waist and looped through his belt.

  Tensely Kirsten stood watching him wading in, stepping carefully among the rocks, the water only a little above his knees although he had already covered half the distance towards the middle of the river. In spite of the sun she was feeling very cold and slightly sick, but her coldness would be nothing to his she knew, for there was still snow in the hills and the river ran cold even in summer.

  It seemed that in the blink of her eyelid the water had come up under his armpits, and now over the distance she felt the tug of the current on the rope. She watched him lean out and grip a jutting point of rock and hang on to it, and she only just stopped herself from shouting, ‘Come back! Come back, it’s not worth it.’

  The yellow shaft appeared to be sticking up above his head within an arm’s span from him, but she guessed it to be at least four yards away. The rope jerked taut in her hands and now he was swimming, and as he had instructed her she paid it out quickly. The best way to get at the shaft, he had said, would be to approach it from downstream, from the big stones, but that way, he knew, he must go over the gap; approaching it as he was d
oing now from the river bank he hoped to escape the deep cleft and the suction.

  She cried out in a thin scream, ‘Colum! Colum!’ as she saw his head disappear beneath the water, but before the echo of it had died away he had surfaced again. Her breath became still in her throat when she watched his hand come above his head and reach out and grasp the yellow shaft. At the same moment she saw, to her horror, the current sweep his body round, then tumble him over the rocks. She was shouting now, screaming, ‘Colum! Colum! Colum, leave it! Colum! Colum! Oh leave it! Leave it!’ She could see the length of his body being thrashed back and forth, almost horizontal amid the frothing water. It looked like a thin wooden plank attached to a stake, for he was still hanging on to the shaft.

  In the seconds that she watched him before he was hurled down the river she could see herself flying up the bank to the house to tell them what had happened, and them looking at her and saying, ‘We should never have let you in here. It’s as they say, there’s no luck where you are.’

  She was racing along the bank now, still holding on to the rope, unaware that her hands were being rasped to rawness with the friction but vitally aware that on the other end Colum was being tossed and whirled helplessly about, as she herself had once been.

  What prompted her to run around a tree jutting up out of the bank she didn’t know, but she went round it not only once but twice; then, her breath almost bursting her ribs asunder she stood panting as she watched him, now checked by the rope, fighting his way from the main stream.