‘Oh’—she shook her head slowly and a smile spread across her face—‘I’m not bad then?’
‘No.’ He gave a small laugh as he added, ‘No, you’re not bad,’ and he only just stopped himself from adding, ‘But you’re the strangest kid I’ve ever come across.’ And yet in a way she wasn’t so much of a kid. In some ways she had much more sense than that Nancy Cutter in the village who was always waylaying him, or any of those girls that hung about the school railings. They were all barmy. All girls were barmy. Except perhaps the headmaster’s daughter. But she was old, eighteen or so, and they said she looked down her nose at even the head boy.
‘We’d better be going now,’ he said. ‘Are your feet dry? Get your socks on, the tide’s well up.’
A few minutes later, having donned his own shoes and socks, he watched her expertly buttoning her shoes, and he thought to himself, I went to town over her face; I could have just told her that she had a cherub-like look. But then again she mightn’t have understood what I meant; perhaps she hasn’t heard the word cherub. But the more he looked at her now the more he realised that that would have been an apt description of her because her features were the same as those of the stone angel that hung out from the arch in the school chapel, and the look was emphasised by the eyes, wide, staring, sightless. He felt a wave of pity for her well up in him and he ended his thinking with, ‘Poor kid…’
Yet within the next hour he was to eliminate forever from his mind any resemblance that this ‘poor kid’ had to an angel …
Before they reached Pictons’ hamlet Bella’s step began to slow. When he said, ‘Come on, put a move on,’ and she answered, ‘I’m out of puff,’ he stopped and, looking at her, exclaimed impatiently, ‘Well, I told you it was a long way, didn’t I?’ then added, ‘Wait a minute! Stay there.’
When he returned he put into her hands a thin, but sturdy branch of a tree, saying, ‘This is almost like a walking stick. See, it curves towards the top, and it’s just your height.’
Bella laughed as she tried it out now, saying, ‘Yes, yes, it is. Have you got one?’
‘No.’
‘Why didn’t you get one for yourself while you were at it?’
‘Because I don’t need one. Come on!’
They passed the Pictons’ cottage without being assailed by any voices and they were walking by the stone wall that ended above the ditch that bordered the road when abruptly from behind the wall two heads appeared and Bella was startled by the aggressive voice that she had heard previously saying, ‘You got back then from playin’ pot pies?’
She waited for John’s answer but he remained mute; and then the voice came again, ‘How much an hour do you get for lookin’ after her?’
‘You mind your tongue, Gerry Picton, else I’ll look after you.’
‘You and who else?’
Bella was aware that they were being confronted by only one of the Picton boys, for another voice from some short distance away called, ‘Leave them be, our Gerry.’
‘I’ll leave him be after I’ve closed his mouth.’
‘Get by, out of the way.’ Bella felt John pushing her to the side, and again he said, ‘Go on, over the ditch. Keep clear.’
When he let loose of her, she knew she was standing on the edge of the ditch and she could have jumped it with ease, but she didn’t. The next minute she heard the first thud of a blow and the gasps and grunts, and she cried out, ‘John! John!’
A voice near her said, ‘It’s all right, leave ’em be, let ’em fight it out.’
‘No, no; go and stop them. Go on, please, stop them.’
‘Not me. Not me.’ There was a gurgle in the boy’s voice. ‘Our Gerry would knock me brains out.’ Then the boy’s voice changing, she now heard him yell, ‘Let him up, our Gerry! Let him up! ’Tain’t fair.’
Bella now had a mental picture of John lying on the ground and the big bully of a Gerry standing on top of him. Without waiting to think she rushed towards the spot from which the gasps and groans were coming, and, taking the branch in both hands, she swung it with such force that it spun her around. As she went she heard a high pitched yell that verged on a scream, and, her circle completed, she made for the place from which it came and again she lashed out with the branch, but downwards now, and again there was a yell, followed by, ‘Keep her off me! She’s barmy, mad. Keep her off me!’
When two hands gripped her and drew her backwards, she knew it was John, and after he had pulled her over the ditch he commanded between gasps, ‘Stay there, and give me that thing here.’ But when he went to pull the branch from her hands she gripped it tightly, saying, ‘No, I won’t! They could start again.’
She heard him let out a long breath before turning away, and now she heard him speaking to the other boy, saying, ‘Hadn’t you better go and see to him? He’s bleeding.’
And the voice answered, ‘Aye. And so are you. You’ll have a shiner the morrer.’
‘But she hit him on the head with that branch.’
‘Well, what are you makin’ all the fuss about? He asked for it, didn’t he? If she hadn’t come in, he would likely have brained you. He never knows when to stop, our Gerry.’
‘Aren’t you going to see to him?’
‘No, an’ don’t you go near him either ’cos the way he’s feelin’ at this minute he’ll likely kick your guts out. But the morrer he’ll just be talk again. He’s mostly all talk, but he doesn’t like you, an’ he had to have a go at you; but now you’ve stood up to him he’ll leave you alone. He’s like that.’ There was a pause, and then the boy added, ‘She’s got spunk, the blind kid, hasn’t she? I nearly laughed meself sick the way she went at him; you would have thought she could see him. Can she see a bit?’
‘No.’
‘Eeh! Well, she’s got a good sense of direction, like a bloodhound…Your lip’s bleeding. An’ see who’s coming along there, it’s your father, and it looks as if he’s three sheets in the wind. ’Tisn’t your day, is it?’
John turned and looked along the road to where a man was zigzagging his way towards them, and when he heard his father’s voice burst into song he closed his eyes tightly for a moment. Only when he was drunk now did his father sing that ridiculous song. The words came to him now, adding to his humiliation: ‘Touch the harp lightly, my pretty Louise.’ He used to sing it in fun at one time. That was before his mother died. He hadn’t drunk hardly at all then.
It wasn’t yet five o’clock, he must have been indulging after closing time in the back room of The Bull and he had promised…But hadn’t he promised before? He sighed and opened his eyes and saw his father waving his hand to him, and as he approached nearer he stopped his singing and cried, ‘Ah! What have we here? The gathering of the clans: my son and heir, and one Patrick Picton, and Joseph Dodd’s ray of sunshine. Hello there, my dear.’
Bella knew that Mr Thompson was bending over her and that he was drunk, for his breath gave strong evidence of this. ‘He stinks of whisky,’ she said to herself. Her dad had given off a different smell, sometimes rum and sometimes beer, but Mr Thompson’s smell was distinctly whisky. She said cheerfully, ‘Hello, Mr Thompson.’
‘Hello, me dear. And how are we the day?’
‘Oh, fine, Mr Thompson. We’ve been to the beach and we plodged and had a lovely time, but coming back one of them Pictons’—she flung her arm to the side—‘set about John, but he lathered him. And I went in with a stick an’ all.’
‘You did? Good for you. Good for you. Where is he, the Picton who dared stand up to my lad?’
‘Father, come on. Come on home.’ John had now grabbed his father’s arm as he made for the side of the road to look over the wall; and Harry Thompson, in what could have been termed a soothing tone, said, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, boy; I’m on me way home. I just wanna see who you lathered ’cos that one is standin’ on his feet.’ He pointed to where the younger Picton was leaning against the wall grinning.
‘Come on, Father. Come on,
do you hear?’
‘All right. All right, me lord; here we go homeward bound. Take my hand, dear. Take my hand.’ He held out his hand towards Bella, and when she groped for it and couldn’t find it he lurched towards her, saying, ‘Sorry, me dear. Sorry.’ Then doing a kind of erratic hopping dance, he almost lifted her from her feet. But she went with him laughing as he now sang:
Yip! I-addy-I-ay-I-ay,
Yip! I-addy-I-ay.
I don’t care what becomes of me,
Long as I sing the sweet melody,
Yip! I-addy-I-ay-I-ay,
Yip! I-addy-I-ay.
John followed behind. His eyes were cast towards the ground but he couldn’t close his ears to his father’s voice.
Then his shame deepened. As they approached their own gate who should he see coming from the opposite direction but the lady he had seen accompanying Miss Braithwaite earlier on in the day. She had stopped further along the road and she was watching their approach. When his father caught sight of her he stopped his singing. Then doffing his hat with an exaggerated flourish, he called to her, ‘Good day, madam. Good day. Isn’t it a splendid day for gettin’ drunk?’ Then without further ado he turned in to the gate, and the lady resumed her walking.
John paused a moment at the gate until she came abreast of him, then shamefacedly, he muttered, ‘I’m sorry, madam.’
‘That’s quite all right.’ She was smiling at him. ‘He’s very happy; and she seems happy too.’
He followed her gaze to where his father was now doing a ring-a-ring-a-roses in the middle of the yard with Bella; and she, too, was singing now, ‘Yip! I-addy-I-ay.’ Then the lady did a strange thing, she put her hand out and touched John’s arm, saying softly, ‘Don’t blame him. And don’t be ashamed of him; there are many worse failings than drink, many worse.’ And after a moment, during which they stared at each other, she added, ‘I’ll be walking past…Mr Dodd’s place, shall I take her back with me? It…it might save you a journey.’
‘Thank you; if you would.’
He left her standing at the gate and went into the yard and, his voice not loud now but firm, he said, ‘Father, give over. Stop it. The lady’s going to take Bella back home.’
‘Oh! Oh, well now, that’s kind of her.’ He looked towards the gate and lifted his hand towards the woman in what could only be described as a royal gesture; then turning to Bella, whose face was flushed and happy, he said, ‘Thank you, my dear; you are a companion after me own heart, and you’re a brave little girl not to be afraid of me.’
‘Oh, I would never be afraid of you, Mr Thompson. And I don’t mind you being drunk, ’cos I like you, you’re nice.’
‘There you are. There you are, son John. What do you think of that? She was aware of me being drunk and she wasn’t afraid of me. An’ she recognised I was merely drunk, not paralytic or mortallious, just drunk. Oh, La Belle, La Belle Dodd, you are indeed a girl after me own heart. Let me kiss you.’
The next minute Bella found herself held in Mr Thompson’s arms and his whisky-laden breath wafting over her, and when he kissed her on both cheeks she put her arms tightly around his neck and kissed him back; and when he dropped her to the ground again they both laughed together.
‘Come on.’ She now felt herself being tugged anything but gently away from the happy drunken man and towards the gate, and as she went she gabbled, ‘Oh, give over pulling me like that, John! And why are you vexed? He’s a nice father, a lovely father. You’re lucky to have…’
‘Shut up! The lady…Mrs Campbell, she’s going to take you back home.’
‘Oh, Oh’—she turned her head from side to side—‘where is she?’
‘Here, my dear.’
As John released her hand the lady took it and, looking over Bella’s head, she spoke to John, saying, ‘Don’t worry,’ then added, ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, and…and thanks.’
‘Bye, John. See you the morrer. Will you call for me or will I come up?’
When she received no answer, Mrs Campbell said, ‘He’s gone. Come along, my dear.’
‘He’s vexed with his father.’
‘Yes, yes, I think he is.’
‘I like Mr Thompson; and it’s the first time I’ve seen him drunk. He was nice with it, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, yes, he was.’
‘Everybody isn’t nice when they’re drunk.’
‘No, I agree with you, they’re not.’
‘How long are you going to stay in your cottage?’
‘I’m…I’m not quite sure; it all depends.’
‘Have you been ill?’
There was a pause before Mrs Campbell answered, ‘Yes, I’ve been ill.’
‘Well, you should get better here ’cos the air’s good and it makes you eat. I eat a lot, except porridge. Me granda makes it too salty. But it’s no use telling him; he’s stubborn, he likes his own way.’
‘Yes, I should imagine so.’
They had traversed about a dozen steps in silence when Bella asked pointedly, ‘What colour is your hair, Mrs Campbell?’
‘My hair? Why…why, it’s brown.’
And your eyes?’
‘They are brown too.’
‘I’ve got brown eyes.’
‘Yes, yes, you have.’
‘John said they’re beautiful.’
Mrs Campbell gave a small laugh now before she remarked, ‘Did he now?’
‘Yes; and he said my skin was like thick cream.’
‘Well, well! He takes after his father, because I think Mr Thompson is naturally a very gallant gentleman.’
‘Oh no, he doesn’t take after his father.’
‘No?’
‘No, Mr Thompson’ll talk and laugh and carry on but John doesn’t. He doesn’t say very much any time; you’ve got to make him talk.’
‘But he said you had beautiful eyes and creamy skin.’
‘Yes…yes, he did’—Bella now nodded her head slowly—‘but I had to drag it out of him.’
When Mrs Campbell stopped and began to laugh, Bella listened to her. It was a nice laugh, but when it went on and grew louder she asked anxiously, ‘Are you all right, Mrs Campbell?’
The laughter died away before Mrs Campbell answered, ‘Yes, yes, my dear, I’m all right. I…I just had a sort of mental picture of you drawing out compliments from your taciturn friend.’
‘Tac-i-turn?’
‘Well, it means quiet, a bit grumpy.’
‘Oh.’
A few minutes later Mrs Campbell exclaimed under her breath, ‘Your grandfather is waiting at the gate.’
‘He is?’ There was a surprised note in Bella’s voice; then she added, ‘He must like me a bit, mustn’t he, if he’s on the lookout for me?’
Mrs Campbell didn’t answer this question for some seconds, and then she said, ‘Yes, yes, he must.’
‘Hello, Granda.’ She had misjudged the distance and was shouting, and when his voice hit her, saying, ‘What you yelling your head off for, child?’ she answered ‘Oh, I thought you were farther along the road.’
‘You’re late. Where have you been all this time?’
‘Well, you knew John was taking me to the beach, and…and then we were stopped coming back. We had a fight with the Pictons.’
‘…You had a what?’
‘A fight. They set about John, at least one of them did, the one called Gerry, and he knocked him down, I mean Gerry knocked John down and was knocking steam out of him but I had a branch in my hand and I went in and lathered him.’
‘…You went in and what?’
‘Well, I’ve just told you, Granda, I bashed out with it and I cracked him twice. They said he was bleeding but I don’t know where. An’ I don’t much care…’
Bella now knew that her grandfather and Mrs Campbell were exchanging glances and she could nearly always tell by the silences what expressions the glances were conveying, but when her grandfather cried, ‘Well, that’s the last time you go out with him; he�
�s supposed to look after you, not you him,’ she cried back at him, ‘Wasn’t his fault; and that Gerry’s a big hulk. I felt it when I hit him.’
‘Get yourself inside!’
Bella now turned her face up to Mrs Campbell and said flatly, ‘Thank you for bringing me.’
‘That’s all right, my dear. Perhaps we can have a walk another day.’
‘Yes, yes, perhaps we can.’
‘Good day, Mr Dodd.’
Bella knew that her grandfather had half turned away before he answered gruffly, ‘Good day.’
She was taking her hat and coat off in the kitchen when her grandfather said, ‘I don’t want you to go out walking with that woman.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘But she’s nice.’
‘Nice is as nice does. I don’t like the look of her.’
It was some seconds before Bella said, ‘You don’t like anybody, do you, Granda?’
‘Now don’t you be cheeky. I don’t want any of your old lip.’
‘Well, you don’t. You wouldn’t like God if the divil was dead.’
As she waited for a response her mouth fell into a gape. Eeh! What had she said? Would he belt her?
When she heard him turn away and make for the door she scrambled after him and caught at his coat, crying, ‘Aw, Granda, I didn’t mean it, it was just a sayin’ Mrs Golightly used to…’
‘Be quiet! And don’t mention that woman’s name to me again. Why do you keep tackin’ everything you’ve ever heard on to her?’
‘Because she said it, Granda.’
‘Do you know the meaning of lies, child?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, do you know that every time you say that she said something you’re telling a lie?’
‘I am not! I am not so! She does say things like that.’
‘Child, she is not real.’
‘She is! She is so, Granda!’
She knew that he was glaring down at her, and she stared back at him until he said, ‘And Gip. Is Gip real?’
Her head drooped now and she turned it to the side.
Go Tell it to Mrs Golightly Page 6