A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Fetch John? You dirty French slut.’

  Now gripping her shoulders, he shook her with such force that her head wobbled and she let out a high scream, and then another and another.

  She wasn’t aware that Harry was about to mount the pony when he was stopped by a figure coming round the bend of the burn, and he shouted now down to Fraser. ‘It’s Grandfather. It’s Grandfather. ‘

  But Fraser was too intent now in holding this girl who had disturbed him from the first time he had seen her. With his arms about her struggling body now, the scent and softness of her was affecting him more strongly than any drink he had yet taken. And he only came to himself when she was wrenched from his hold and he was knocked staggering back by a blow from his grandfather’s forearm. He stood panting now watching the girl clinging to Hal and sobbing loudly, until Hal’s voice yelled at him, ‘You young bugger you! I’ll flay you alive for this.’

  On hearing his grandfather’s rough voice, the mist of his young passion was swept away and he cried back at him, ‘You try it on and see who’ll come off best,’ at which Hal ground his teeth and, turning his head, shouted up the bank, ‘Harry! Come down here and take this lass back home.’

  ‘Yes, Grandfather. Yes, Grandfather.’ The boy hooked the reins of the ponies to the stump of a tree; then as he came down the bank, Fraser yelled at him, ‘He’s not your grandfather. He’s no relation to you or me. He’s nothing, nothing but an old money-grabbing bully. Your grandfather was her father.’ He thrust out his finger in Yvonne’s direction. ‘This one’s nothing to us. Never was, and never will be. So—’ He now leant forward and glared his hatred at Hal as he ended, ‘So Mr Roystan, don’t you come the heavy hand with me.’

  For a moment, Hal became still, and, seemingly gently, he pushed Yvonne from him towards Harry. Then he took two slow steps forward before he jumped. The action could have been that of a young athletic man, and such was the force behind it that it bore both himself and Fraser to the ground and into the edge of the water. The boy was strong and was the first to recover from the impact, and he used his feet and his fists on the older man. Kicking and punching, he tried to free himself from Hal’s grip, but Hal’s superior weight rolled them over and further into the water. And now he was on top of the boy with his hands gripping his throat. And what happened next caused Yvonne to scream before she turned her face away and clutched at Harry who was standing frozen with terror as he watched the man, whom he had always called grandfather, shake his brother up and down, then finally bring his head crashing on to the stepping stone.

  There was no sound of a struggle coming from the water. Harry stared towards his brother who lay sprawled out, his head to the side: then he watched his grandfather crawl on to the bank, turn on to his back and grab at his chest; then he too lay still.

  The boy didn’t move. It was as if he had become riveted to the spot. It was Yvonne who turned and looked at the two prostrate figures, and she whimpered, ‘Oh mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh, mon Dieu!’ Then, pushing Harry, she gasped, ‘Fetch them, someone, fetch, quick!’ And at this he seemed to come alive and, scrambling up the bank, he mounted a pony and galloped away.

  Yvonne remained where she was for a full minute before she moved towards the old man. She did not kneel by him, but, standing, she looked down on him. His eyes were open, and his chest was heaving. Then she looked towards the boy. The water covering the stone was running in rivulets of red, but his face showed ashen white against his black hair. She did not attempt to go near him, in fact, she couldn’t. There was a great weakness coming over her and as she stood there she prayed to die so she could blot the sight from her mind; and it appeared her prayer was answered, for she fainted.

  The men coming out of chapel, some miners taking their well-earned rest on a Sunday morning, the farmers and the hands from two farms, all gathered at the spot. Some carried the body of the dead boy back to his parents’ home, and others carried the live, but paralysed, body of the man known as his grandfather back to the farm. And the whole countryside was agog, for the boy’s brother had become hysterical and blurted out what had actually happened, repeating it and repeating it until the doctor had calmed him down with laudanum.

  Eleven

  It was Thursday. There had been incessant comings and goings up till today, but today the house was quiet, for today the boy was being buried.

  Monday had brought Hugh and Gabriel from Newcastle. They had stayed until this morning. Meanwhile Hugh had dealt with the constables and the police inspector who had come to deal with the case of a man who had killed a boy known as his grandson. But as Hugh and the doctor pointed out to them, the man was totally paralysed, being now utterly deprived of speech and movement; the only sign that he was still alive was that he breathed and that his eyes remained open, although they did not focus.

  Tom had come but not his wife. Charles and Florrie had come, but they had not stayed for there was nothing they could do, at least not in this house. At Kate’s it was different, they were needed there, for as Florrie said, Kate and Ben were utterly distracted.

  There had been visits from neighbours who were more acquaintances than friends and whose purpose in calling was not so much to offer sympathy as to satisfy their curiosity. But today the only ones in the house were its normal inhabitants. Mary Ellen spent most of her time in the bedroom; Maggie ran the house as usual and saw to Yvonne, who was still in some state of shock, being weighed down by a great sense of guilt at having brought about this tragedy.

  One thing was in the minds of four of them this morning, particularly in that of Mary Ellen, and it was that they were burying the boy this day.

  She was sitting by the side of the bed she and Hal had shared for the past forty-odd years. She had washed him as she had done each day since they had laid him down. She had changed the soiled drawsheet, a task that had to be seen to two or three times in the day. She had combed his hair and laid his hands on top of the counterpane. And now she talked to him, which was also part of the pattern she had set herself. ‘There,’ she said, ‘do you feel comfortable? That’s better.’ She leant over and stroked a grey wisp from his forehead, then she added, ‘I’ll shave you this afternoon. No…I won’t get John to do it’—it was as if he had spoken to her—‘I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘Hal.’ She raised herself on the chair and bent over him until she was looking into his wide eyes, and, her voice soft and quivering now, she said, ‘Do you think you could give me a sign, blink or something, if you understand what I’m sayin’? Could you try? Try, lad, try.’

  She waited for a response, and when none came she sat back in the chair, then went on talking, her voice low, the words tumbling over each other now: ‘I want you to know I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you for what happened. It was her. She must have encouraged the lad, and nobody’s blaming you.’ Oh what a lie she knew that to be. ‘You did what anyone else would do, it was an accident. Don’t blame yourself. And you’ll soon be better, you will. You will.’ That was another lie, he’d never be better. The doctor said yesterday he could go tomorrow or not till next month, or even next year. She prayed it would be next year for she couldn’t bear to lose him, he was her life, he had given her so much, all he had promised her on that day so far gone in the past: a family, a big house and servants…No he hadn’t given her the last, she’d never had servants, she’d had to work from dawn till dusk all her days. There had been Annie, but Annie wasn’t a servant. And yet her family had all been servants in one way or another. But they hadn’t minded…or had they? She didn’t know, not really. There was one thing certain, for as long as Hal lived she would be a servant to him. Oh, and gladly.

  She turned her head towards the door. She thought she heard voices, loud voices. Yes, there they were. It was Maggie’s voice and someone else’s. She had just got to her feet when the door burst open and there stood Ben. Beside him were Kate and Maggie. She rushed at him, crying, ‘No, Ben! No! Get out.’

  With a slow movement of h
is arm he thrust her aside, and she stumbled back against the wardrobe, her hand across her mouth, and watched him go to the foot of the bed and stare down at the inert figure, crying as he did so, ‘You did it, didn’t you? You did it at last. You’ve been waiting to do it for years. You wanted to kill me. You’ve always been sorry you didn’t, but now you’ve purged yourself of your hate. You’ve killed someone with Bannaman blood in him, and you meant to do it. For years you’ve been leading up to it, just waiting your opportunity. As the boy said, you were nothing to him. And…and do you hear? You’re nothing to my wife either. Do you hear that?’

  ‘Leave be! Get out!’ Mary Ellen was gripping his arm now, but he took no notice of her. It wasn’t until Kate said, quietly, ‘Come away, Ben, come away, it’s finished, entirely.’ Only then did he wrench his agonised staring gaze from the man in the bed.

  When they were out on the landing Mary Ellen, pulling the door behind her, caught hold of Kate’s arm, saying, ‘Wait a minute, lass.’ And at this Kate paused and let Ben go on, and, looking at her mother she said, ‘Well, what is it?’ And Mary Ellen muttered brokenly, ‘You could have stopped this, you know. You could have stopped this.’

  ‘I didn’t want to stop it, Mam. He had a right to come and say what he did, and I agree with him. It’s ended, finished, finally finished. That man in there, who was supposed to love me, and I once thought I loved him, but I daren’t put a voice to the feeling I now have for him, he killed my son, battered him to death. And what might prove to be even worse he could make me lose my second son in a more agonising way, for he’s almost turned his brain. A boy who had a most promising future.’ She swallowed deeply, then said quietly, ‘He’s ruined our family. And from now on, as Ben said, he’s nothing to me. And I’ll say this, Mam, I’ll never darken these doors again.’

  ‘Kate! Kate! Leave be.’

  Kate now turned and looked at Maggie, and, her voice still quiet, she said, ‘Yes, I’ll leave be, Maggie, just one last word and to you. Get out, you’ve been a slave long enough.’ And with this she went down the stairs.

  Maggie now turned to where her mother was leaning against the wall, her hand held over her eyes, and she said, gently, ‘Come and sit down.’ At this Mary Ellen shook her head and, turning blindly, stumbled back into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Maggie stood for a second looking at the closed door, then nodding to herself, she repeated Kate’s words. Yes, she would get out, but she couldn’t go straight away. As she had said to Willy last night, they would have to stay for a little while till things settled down and Yvonne got into the swing of things. But God help that girl, for only He could.

  Slowly she turned and went down the stairs, asking herself now what she meant by settled down, and the answer she got was, when her father died. She felt no sorrow at the thought. She had never cared for him because he had never cared for her. It had always been Kate, Kate. Now Kate spurned him, and justifiably, for had he not killed her son? But then he’d had to take revenge on a Bannaman to give purpose to his life, for as far back as she could remember she had been aware of the hate in him. And yet it had only risen to the surface when Kate met Ben, and she herself had disclosed his identity. So in a way she wasn’t guiltless. But hadn’t she always been aware of this? Oh yes, and it had soured her life. Well, enough was enough, from now on her life would be sweet. Once she got away from this house she would, in a way, be born again. Along with her child, she would be born again.

  Twelve

  They talked about young Fraser Hamilton’s funeral for weeks. There hadn’t been anything like it seen around the countryside, some said, since the old duke had died years ago.

  When the cortège had left the house it had been joined on the road by men from every walk of life: Men from the mine, men from the smelt mills. Farmers and dignitaries from Allendale, Haydon Bridge, Bardon Mill, Haltwhistle and Hexham waited in their coaches at the crossroads; and no-one raised his eyebrows when the cortège was joined by the two Reilly men and the four Smith brothers from Allendale. And when an old drover and his son, cleaned up for the occasion, joined them at the cemetery gates, folks said: ‘There you are. He was liked by high and low. Of course he was a bit wild, but aren’t all lads at that age? But there was no bad in him. In fact, recalling his pranks of early years only went to make him more lovable. Yes, of course he was brought home drunk, but that was devilment on the part of the Smith lads, the youngster would never have done it on his own. And he was settling down to work on the farm.’

  So the consensus of opinion was, it was a damn shame his life had been cut off as it had. And look what it had done to his father and mother. Broke them up completely. And there wasn’t a more respected man round about than his father. Although he was an American, who still retained his Southern drawl, he had settled into the local ways and was known to be a generous employer. That was more than could be said for a lot of the farmers around and particularly for his supposed father-in-law.

  Old Hal Roystan had had a seizure, else he would be along the line this minute, because it had been murder, plain and simple, murder. The young brother kept saying that. Of course there was another witness, but she denied having seen anything of the fight, as she had fainted. But that wasn’t what the boy said about her. Of course she wouldn’t speak against the old man, ’cos wasn’t she going to marry the son…? Now there was a scandal for you, if ever there was one. A man forty years old marrying a bit lass like that. She was supposed to be nineteen. Nineteen, they could say that again. Seventeen would be more like the mark, and if that. And she was a foreigner. It had leaked out through Terry Briggs that she didn’t get on very well with the missis either. Well, that was understandable wasn’t it? Anyway, there was one thing sure now, they’d have to engage another hand or two on the farm, and likely the same inside an’ all, for hadn’t the daughter Maggie gone off the rails an’ all. Now there was something. They said she’d got a bellyful through the cowman, him that dressed like his betters. But a bellyful, and at her age! By! The things that were happening on that farm. Anyway it just showed you, put a devil on horseback and he’d ride to hell. And what did he find when he got there? Just that he had to pay for his ride, and by God, Hal Roystan was being made to pay through the teeth for his! But odd, now wasn’t it, that he should be going the same way that Bannaman went, paralysed, and deaf and dumb into the bargain, when he himself had helped to bring Bannaman to that state. Life was funny, they’d say. By, yes!

  ‘You wish that I should go away?’

  ‘No, no.’ As John pulled her to him and held her close and muttered vehemently, ‘Never. Never,’ he knew that what she proposed would help solve the problem of the house, yet he couldn’t now let her go. Life had become grim, and how long it would go on he didn’t know. Each day as he helped to turn his father from one side to the other and saw his mother’s agonised face, he could see no end to the problem.

  It was now five weeks since they had carried his father home, and still there was no change in him one way or the other, so he reckoned this pattern of life could go on year after year, and without the solace of this beautiful loving being in his arms he didn’t know how he could stand it, nor, should she stay, what the strain would do to her. And this he said.

  ‘I never want you to leave me, you know that, but can you stand this way of living? My mother shows no sign of changing. Life could become unbearable for you.’

  She looked up at him without speaking for a moment, and then she said, ‘As long as I have you, I will bear it. If I return to France I shall be alone, so…so very much alone.’

  ‘Not for long.’ He shook his head. ‘You would marry.’

  He had not expected anything like her reply, for she said, ‘Yes, yes, I could. Most Frenchwomen, they want to marry, and I would likely, yes, yes, I would likely, but…but it would be a convenience not a love.’

  He looked at her in silence. This is what people could not see in her, the adult, she looked so young, so girlish. And for
this very reason he hadn’t been into the town with her yet; in fact, he hadn’t been into the town since before the funeral. Willy and Maggie had been doing the selling. My God! What would the place be like when they went? And that would be soon. Well, one thing he knew he must do before he was left on his own, and that was to face his mother and tell her he was going to see the parson about the banns.

  He heard Maggie’s step outside the kitchen door and, pressing Yvonne from him, he went to the other side of the table, and as Maggie entered the room he was saying, ‘What are you going to make for us the day?’

  And Yvonne answered, ‘Maggie is to show me pastry, the kind she uses for her pies.’ He looked towards Maggie, then asked her quietly, ‘Is Mam still up there?’

  ‘No. She was in the office the last time I saw her.’

  As he turned to go up the kitchen, she said, ‘Your boots.’ And he, looking down at them, replied, ‘They’re dry.’

  ‘That won’t make any difference.’

  ‘They’re staying on, Maggie.’

  She said nothing to this, but now asked, ‘You haven’t forgotten that Willy and I are going over Corbridge way this afternoon?’ And he paused for a moment, looking back at her before saying, ‘No, I haven’t forgotten, Maggie.’

  He pushed open the door of the office and saw his mother sitting behind the desk at which his father had sat for years, and where he himself had never sat.

  ‘May I have a word with you?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, yes.’ She looked up from an open ledger, saying, ‘They didn’t do bad on Saturday. Surprising how the prices go up and down. Sit down, John; don’t tower over me.’ Then she went on without pause, ‘Your dad thought of ploughing the east slope this year. He said it could be done. Joe Hodgson lives higher up than us and…’