There would be no more visitors today, either official or unofficial. He was on duty until six o’clock in the morning and it was up to him to make the best of it. If the fellow remained as he was he himself could have a good sleep; perhaps when he woke up the other would be gone to the place from which there was no return. And to his mind, it would be the best thing for him, because although he mightn’t swing, it was a long term that was facing him, or transportation.
Within half an hour he was sound asleep and snoring loudly.
It was around midnight when Roddy once again fought the blackness in an endeavour to come to the surface. His father was with him, he had him by the hand and he was telling him a story, but he didn’t know what the story was about because his father kept coming and going, only his hand remained clutching his, and always outstretched pulling him upwards. He knew he was sad inside because he was going to lose his da, and he knew if he left loose of his hand he’d be gone from him and sail away in his ship and not come back for a long time. And there was the old woman, she was walking behind him, close, too close, pushing him upwards, and he wanted to go upwards. Yet there was the man with the beard and the cold eyes, and the man was holding him over a big hole and in the hole was another man and he was fast asleep. Then his da cried out and left hold of his hand. And he was now being smothered by another hand, which wasn’t a hand; it was something, but it wasn’t a hand. And because of the weird feeling created by this thing across his mouth, he screamed, he screamed at the top of his voice: he opened his mouth and screamed, yet the sound remained in his head; and he kept screaming as he saw his da jump into the air as if he was a bird, he saw him flying. And once again he was looking into the eyes of the man with the beard and the man’s face swelled and swelled until it covered everything, all the dark land, and the big hole where they watched the moon shining on the water.
But his da had hold of his hand again and he was pulling him up through layers and layers of smothering, choking blackness. And when his head at last burst through it he saw the man again. He was standing under the arch and there, near him, stood a woman, and the man was talking to him, threatening him. He took his fist and struck out at the man, blow after blow. Yet the only actual movement he made was that of his fingers on top of the rough blanket that covered him. But his voice came out of his mouth, and he could hear it. He called for his father: ‘Da! Da! ’Tis him, Da. ’Tis him!’ And his voice becoming stronger, he called again, ‘Da! Da! I know him, an’ t’other. ’Tis him! ’Tis him! Don’t go, Da. Stay with me. I tell you, ’tis him. ’Tis him!’
‘Oh my God!’ The man in the chair roused himself. ‘Going to be a night like that, is it?’ And he lowered his feet from the table and stumbled towards the bed and, bending over the prisoner, he said, ‘Now, now. What is it? What is it?’
‘Me da.’
‘Aye, lad, aye lad, you’ll soon see your da.’
There was silence for a time. The man on the bed lay quiet and the warder bent over him and stared down at him. The light from the candle lamp on the table seemed, he thought, to be playing tricks with him, so he turned and, picking it up, held it above his charge who was now looking at him with eyes that had a good semblance of life in them and the voice that came in a small whisper supported this: ‘Where am I?’ it said.
‘Well, man, you’re in bed.’ The warder’s voice was kindly.
‘Why?’ The whisper came again.
‘Oh, it’s a long story, lad. How you feelin’?’
‘Bad.’
‘Aye, well, yes, you’re bound to.’
‘Where am I?’
‘In bed, lad. Now just you rest. Would you like a drink of water?’
Roddy made no reply, and the man, returning to the table, picked up a jug and poured some water into a mug. Taking it to the bed, he raised his prisoner’s head gently and let him sip at the water, saying as he did so, ‘Well, that looks promising, although if it’s for the good I wouldn’t know. Still, it doesn’t look as if you’re goin’ to kick the bucket this time. ‘When he let the head drop back on the pillow he added, ‘There now, I’d go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning, I’ve no doubt.’
Roddy lay looking up at the man. His mind was in a whirl. He was sure he had been with his da just a minute ago before…before he was thrown over the cliff. Oh, God! God! God! Yes, that’s what had happened. His da had been thrown over the cliff and they’d thrown him an’ all. And the man in the grave, the man they were burying.
Bannaman. Yes, Bannaman, and the other little fellow with just a finger and thumb. That was the man, Feeler, Patrick Feeler, Bannaman’s woodman. Oh, God! God! He was remembering. Kate!
Kate! He tried to rise; he must tell Kate; she’d have to go to the justice.
‘Now, now, calm down. You were all right a minute ago. Go to sleep now.’
‘I…I want to see Kate.’
‘Kate? Is she the old ’un, like your mother?’
‘Yes, aye.’
‘Well, she’s been here every day since they brought you in. She’ll likely be here the morrow. Now go to sleep and you’ll be more fit to talk to her.’
He lay, unaware of pain, unaware that his body was bruised from head to foot, unaware of the situation he was in; he knew only that he was remembering and that the past was clearer than the present and that what he had to reveal would explode the countryside. He must keep awake and think, think it all out. Yet even as he told himself this, his mind seemed to leave him and he sank back into sleep.
He was brought to himself again through experiencing sharp pain, intense enough to make him cry out. He was being rolled onto his side by the doctor and the warder so that the bruises and lacerations on his back could be attended to. He was sufficiently aware of things to note that the sun was up and that the warder had been changed, and to ask the doctor how he could have come by his injuries.
‘That’s good, that is. What d’you say, doctor?’ the warder immediately remarked.
And so he tried to tell the doctor what was in his mind. But, nodding, the doctor said soothingly, ‘Yes, yes. Well you can tell all that later to the justices,’ and he glanced at the warder, tapping his forehead to indicate to him that the man was suffering from mental strain, as he went out.
Seven
‘You’re a silly girl…and ungrateful an’ all.’
‘Oh, Mrs Davison, I’m not, I’m not. And I’ll work late at night an’ get up an hour earlier; I’ll be in the dairy at four.’
‘I don’t want you in the dairy at four. Do you think we can order the cows to change their time of milkin’?’
‘Well, I could get it cleaned up.’
‘It’s got to be cleaned up, as you know, after the day’s work.’
‘I’ve got to go, Mrs Davison, I’m sorry, yes I am, but I’ve got to go and see him.’
‘You went three times into Hexham last week, and now it’s Newcastle you’re aiming for. My goodness, girl! Apart from everything else, do you know what you’re up to, goin’ into Newcastle on your own?’
‘It’s in the daylight, Mrs Davison.’
‘Daylight or dark, there are a lot of rogues there. I’ve only been in there twice in me life and never again. They overcharge you, pester you. But anyway, what am I talkin’ about? I’m talkin’ about your wastin’ time, girl, takin’ advantage.’
‘Oh, Mrs Davison, I’m not, I’m not. I’m ever so grateful for all you’ve done, always. But he’s got nobody, an’ Kate can’t go, not all the way. She managed it to Hexham but she could never stand the coach to Newcastle; it would shake her to bits. And she’s dyin’ to know what’s happenin’ to him, what they’re goin’ to do.’
‘Everybody knows fine well what they’re goin’ to do with him. Got too big for his boots, he did. He should have been content to work at the smelt mill, but no, he had to take up something fancy like drawing; and then to drink and fight.’
Mary Ellen now reared up. ‘He doesn’t drink,’ she said in a loud voi
ce, and it became louder as she went on, ‘Not that kind of drink, a little ale, but he’s never been drunk. And I know what he and Hal were fighting about in Hexham, ’cos Hal told me when I saw him last. But he swears they weren’t fighting up on the hill, he says they were attacked. He says he had told Roddy he was sorry ’cos it was something he had said that started the fight.’
‘And what was that?’
‘’Tisn’t my business, Mrs Davison; I can’t say.’
‘Well, well.’ The little woman flounced round, grabbed up a coarse square from the brass rod, lifted up the iron latch of the oven door, pulled out a big brown earthenware dish, and taking it to the table, she banged it down, and when the lid jerked and the liquid spurted on to the table and onto her hands, she cried out, ‘See what you’ve done! I’m burnin’ meself now. That’s never happened afore. Go on, get you out of my sight. And if you’re not back here in this house by four this afternoon, don’t come back at all.’
‘Oh, Mrs Davison, don’t say that. Don’t say that.’
Now the little woman lowered her head while continuing to rub her scalded hands and, her voice quiet, even sad now, she said, ‘Girl, it worries me to be harsh with you and it worries me more to know how concerned you are for Rodney Greenbank, when our Lennie would give you his eyeballs.’
There was quiet for a moment in the kitchen, then Mrs Davison lifted her head and said, ‘Why can’t you like him?’
‘Oh, but I do, Mrs Davison. I do like him. I think the world of Lennie. He’s kind and good, but…’
‘Aye, it’s but. You don’t like him that way and it grieves me, girl, it grieves me, ’cos you’ll never get a chance like this again. Do you realise that? Although we’ve made you one of our own an’ treated you like a daughter, you are still nothin’ but a servant-maid, and here’s me grandson been knockin’ on for you since the day you came into the house. Aye, even afore that he had his eye on you. Although I say it meself, you couldn’t get a better, ’cos he’s a good-livin’ lad. Doesn’t drink, leastways only holidays and barn nights. You’re a fool. Do you know that? You’re a fool.’
‘Aye, Mrs Davison. Aye, yes, I know that, and it hurts me.’
‘Oh, get yourself away. Get yourself out of my sight.’
Mary Ellen turned now and picked up the basket that her irritable but kind mistress had filled for her with odds and ends of food, and she went out of the farm kitchen and crossed the yard, her head down. She shouldn’t have said she knew she was a fool for not takin’ Lennie because she’d be worse than a knave if she took him, not lovin’ him. Half the battle of life seemed to be sayin’ things you didn’t mean just to keep the peace.
Oh! She gave a start as the man in question came round from behind the byre wall, blocking her path. He did not speak to her immediately, but looked at her for some seconds before he said, ‘Aye, well, you’re off then?’
‘Yes, Lennie.’
‘You’ve never been to Newcastle afore, have you?’
‘No.’
‘It could be frightening. You could get lost.’
‘I’ve got a tongue in me head.’
He laughed gently now, saying, ‘Aye, sure you have, Mary Ellen; you never leave anybody in doubt about that.’
‘I’m sorry. I never mean to be curt.’
‘Oh; now, don’t say you’re sorry when you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I love hearin’ you.’ His voice had become lower; and his head was nodding gently now as he nodded, ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Oh, Lennie. I’ve told you.’
‘All right. All right.’ His voice rose again to its normal pitch. ‘We won’t go into that; only I…I worry about you; I don’t want you to do anything silly. An’ to my mind, that fellow, he’s not worth you; something about him. Anyway, you’ve been brought up like brother and sister, haven’t you?’
‘We’re not brother and sister.’ Her tone was certainly curt now. ‘But no matter what we were, or are, we’re not marrying. I’m marryin’ nobody. So there! Do you hear, Lennie? I’m marryin’ nobody.’
‘Aye, I heard, Mary Ellen. We’ll let it pass for the time bein’. Look. If you could wait another half-hour or so I’ll be takin’ the cart into…’
‘No, Lennie. No. Your granny wouldn’t like it.’
‘She needn’t know.’
She shook her head at him now. ‘That isn’t right; I wouldn’t do anything underhand.’
‘It isn’t underhand. Only, I’ve got me own life to lead, Mary Ellen; me granny’s had hers. Me father and granda understand, where she doesn’t, being a woman.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You know what I mean; don’t pick me up wrong. Anyway, do you think you’ll be able to catch the coach?’
‘If I stand here much longer I won’t.’
She went to walk from him, but he accompanied her to the gate, saying now, ‘What if you can’t get on? They like to know aforehand.’
‘I’m thin; I’ll squeeze in somewhere. Anyway, if I miss that I can always get the cart.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mary Ellen. The cart won’t get into Newcastle until well after dinner time, and won’t pass this way again coming back until dark the night.’
‘Ta-ra, Lennie!’ She hurried away from him, and he called after her, ‘If you miss the coach at Haydon Bridge take the cart into Hexham; there’s a later run there from the Angel.’
She turned her head towards him, saying, ‘Thanks, Lennie. Thanks, I will.’
He was nice, was Lennie; perhaps she was being a fool after all.
She reached Haydon Bridge only to see the coach disappearing in its own dust. And she was still watching the settling dust when she heard the quick trot of a horse’s hooves. She turned quietly and there, coming towards her, was a market cart piled high with vegetables, and at the front, perched on the iron seat, were a man and a woman.
She called to them as they were about to pass her, crying, ‘Are you makin’ for Hexham?’
Pulling the horse to a standstill, the man said, ‘Aye, lass, that’s where we’re makin’ for.’
‘Would you be so kind as to give me a lift?’
The man looked at his wife, and her answer was to move closer to him, saying with a smile, ‘Well, there’s not much of you, broad on that is. Climb up.’
And so she climbed up, and squeezed onto the end of the seat and thanked them as she did so.
They enquired where she was bound for, dressed up as she was in her Sunday best, and she told them Newcastle. She had no need to explain why she was taking her journey for the woman became voluble: she had been born in Newcastle; she knew every street in Newcastle; and she chattered all the way.
It wasn’t until Mary Ellen stepped down from the cart in Hexham market place that the woman thought to ask her whereabouts in Newcastle she was making for, and when, without thinking, she said, ‘The prison infirmary,’ the woman and man gazed at each other, and she left them speechless.
The coach was almost ready for the last section of its run into Newcastle, the driver about to mount the box, when she asked permission to board. ‘Well, we’re full inside, lass, and there’s six fellows up there,’ the driver replied, jerking his head towards the back of the coach. ‘You could squeeze in atween them if you like. Cost you sixpence, seein’ as you’re a thin ’un.’
She looked up to where on the end seat two young men were looking down on her, both smiling. They didn’t look like working men, yet not like gentry either, and when she hesitated the driver said, ‘Well, take it or leave it, lass; we must be off.’
She took it. Hands came out and lifted the basket from her outstretched arms; then with an ‘Up you come, milady!’ the young men brought her, with a plop, onto the hard seat between them.
She had been in touch with men all her life: with Roddy and Hal as a child, then as a young girl, and now as a young woman; she had chatted to the miners and the mill workers; but except when her father had lifted her up into his arms when she was small, she
’d had no close body contact with any male—if Roddy’s hand had touched hers it had been to give her a pull over a ditch or up a hill—but now here she was pressed close between two men, and they seemed to be making the most of it for, with the intention of keeping her steady, they both put their arms around her shoulders. And when she shivered at their touch the one on her left, who had a long thin face and a large mouth that was full of very white teeth, enquired, ‘You cold, hinny?’
Turning her full look on him, she shouted in a high voice to make herself heard, ‘No! I am not cold, sir.’
‘You’re not?’ he said. ‘Well, were I to leave go of you…were we to leave go of you’—he leaned over in front of her and appealed to his friend—‘you would fall off. Wouldn’t she, Harry?’
‘She would that,’ said the other man.
When the coach went over a particularly rough piece of rock road their holds tightened about her, until she felt she was blushing down to her waist and beyond.
When the long-faced man’s hand squeezed her breast she acted instinctively: her hand flying to her hat, she pulled out one of the two hatpins and drove it with some force into the gentleman’s leg.
The yell he let out as he jerked himself sidewards nearly unseated the three of them. What it did do positively was to stop the coach, and the coachman, swinging about, glared at them, shouting, ‘What’s up, there? What’s up?’
A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy) Page 13