The Forbidden Path

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The Forbidden Path Page 22

by Jean Chapman


  ‘No, I’ll go, Mother,’ Cato said. ‘I’ll go.’ He gently lifted Belle’s hand from his palm. He did not want anyone else to know that Sam Greenaugh had destroyed the right of way, could not bear the thought of his father decrying Belle’s family any more that night; time enough for that discovery when… he looked again at Belle. The doctor, as if in answer to an unspoken question stooped to take her pulse again.

  ‘Her pulse is faint — but steady, that is the important thing. You can do nothing here. There’s no harm in leaving her side for a time. The full effect of the drugs her system has absorbed won’t come for some hours yet.’

  17

  Cato made his way along their farm drive, a feeling of stoicism beginning to overtake him. Ever since they had returned from Norfolk he had tried to justify Belle’s behaviour to his father. Joe, whose efforts to establish himself in Loncote were not being helped by the hostility between newcomer and Mabel Greenaugh’s long family connections in the area, urged him to forget the girl. Cato had expected his father’s support and had been surprised when he was brusquely asked either to go back to the Longs and fulfil at least ‘what bit of work we have got,’ or to take Mordichi’s place with the Evans boys to fell and saw timber. It had been with an air of defeat that Joe had decided to start ploughing his own land; crops had not before been high on his list of priorities.

  Cato knew it had been Sam Greenaugh’s satisfaction in capping his mother’s innocent remark about the walking-stick that had ended any sympathy Joe Abbott might have had for their affair. His mother had looked strained and been very quiet ever since, but she had given no sign of any resentment towards Belle.

  Now there was the path. Cato did not expect to be able to rationalise that either to his father or to himself. As he reached the top of their drive he wondered if Sam had prevented his wife coming to Glebe Farm. In which case, was he to go all the way to the Greenaughs’ house again?

  Already he felt the urge to rush back to Belle’s side. What if she recovered consciousness and asked for him? What if she became worse suddenly? He began to walk with increasing speed, now his eyes were accustomed to the light of a fitful moon. He glanced up to where a strong wind stretched and tore cumulus clouds across the moon at some speed, but the movement of air did not reach the ground. Swirls of ground-hugging mist obscured the roots of the thorn hedges and made tufts of grass look like spiked hair from hidden creatures. It seemed to portray his emotions, both torn and constant: torn by distaste for what Belle had tried to do; yet constant, constant to the spirit of her — to her audacious one-track mind, to the pertness of her nudity, the eagerness to please him in their love-making.

  He closed his eyes and was for some moments unaware that he had stopped walking, so keen were his recollections — of that first shock of seeing her walk into a public bar, and realising she had stowed away with him. The wonder of her would never leave him, but he knew there would be a price to pay. He felt a pang of alarm that it could be too high - too high in terms of unhappiness not for himself, but for others he loved: his parents, his brother. Would his own conscience, sooner or later, not allow him to follow Belle’s whims and wiles to achieve her own ends — such as risking her own life to end a pregnancy she could have no certainty had even begun?

  ‘Live up to your conscience and seek the truth’, the maxim slipped into his mind as readily as it had during his time in the trenches, through the torment of killing, seeing comrades, and enemies young as schoolboys, killed and wounded. It had helped him through many an uncertain moment, eased many decisions. He shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts. If this crisis passed safely, he would have the care of Belle; and whatever happened, his mother and father would undoubtedly comfort each other undoubtedly loved each other, and the Greenaughs - well they had each other too.

  At the top of the drive, he resolved to go along the path only until he found passage through the hedge on to the meadow land, but even as he stumbled into the first rut, he sensed that someone, or something, was nearby. He stopped, held his breath and felt his hackles rise as his instincts told him that whatever - or whoever - it was, was listening too.

  ‘Mrs Greenaugh, is that you?’ But the sound that answered was not human, he was sure. It sounded like half snort, half pant, followed by a shaking of leaves. A sprite - or Belle - the two nonsensical ideas made him move forward impatiently to challenge whatever it was. His glance was caught by a movement on the far side of a high hazel bush, and the pull down of the branches against the sky. He tutted with impatience, and went, too quickly, towards it, and immediately he recognised the anxious whicker of a horse.

  ‘All right, I hear you.’ He made his voice firm, but calm. He moved more slowly now, talking gently. The horse answered with anxious whinnying as if desperate to be found, and momentary snorts of panic, which told of it being in trouble. He pushed through the hedge and could make out a darker mass in the gloom: a horse caught deep in the branches of a woody hazel tree. The animal stamped nervously, stirring the ground mist, which swirled palely as the wind moved the clouds from the moon again.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, is it,’ he breathed, without enthusiasm, as he recognised the black mare. He put an authoritative note in his voice as he approached, his eyes scanning the ground, for clearly outlined on the animal’s back was a saddle. Did Mabel Greenaugh ride, he wondered? Had she been on the mare on the way to her daughter’s side, or was it Sam Greenaugh who had been thrown? He approached the animal as quickly as he dared. His only close encounter with it had been on the village square when its vicious back-kick had nearly caught Belle, and it had galloped out of control with her father all along the village street.

  ‘Now, now, marc, still now,’ he ordered in a steady, deep tone. ‘I’ve no time for any of your nonsense.’ He pushed in between the hazel branches so he could place a hand on the animal’s neck. Its flesh quivered and twitched under the gentle pressure but, contact made, Cato lost no time finding its reins. Gathering in the leathers, he found them loose, and realised that the saddle-girth had slipped over and tangled with an old hedging stake, holding the animal fast. Keeping the reins tight up under the animal’s chin with one hand, he unbuckled the girth, feeling as he did so the warm stickiness of congealing blood. The mare had staked itself, but not too badly, he thought.

  Once the mare felt the saddle slide from her back and knew she was free, she plunged backwards, dragging him to his knees for a second or two. He fought to regain control, but not before the marc had nearly knocked him senseless as it jerked its head suddenly sideways and caught him a stinging blow on his cheekbone. He held on, ordering calmness, not shouting, and unable to see for some seconds.

  The mare at last listened and stood trembling but compliant under his hands as he assured himself that she was not still bleeding from the wound. That she had fallen on the newly ploughed path seemed confirmed as he found fresh mud and soil on her left flank. He judged she had fallen, thrown her rider, galloped along the path, then tried to jump out over the hedge, and escaped by a fraction of an inch being impaled and killed on the stake. The possibilities were that either the rider had walked back to Hall Farm, or that he or she lay injured along the path. Carefully Cato led the horse through the gap he had made in the hedge and on to the path. He walked the mare, examining every dark place where someone might lie hurt and unconscious, and calling out occasionally: ‘Is anyone there? Are you hurt?’

  When he finally came upon the fallen rider there was no need for searching. The body lay in the middle of his way and, seeing it, the horse would go no nearer, half rearing, threatening to go out of control. Cato quickly looped the reins around a new section of fencing and ran to the woman.

  That it was Mabel Greenaugh he knew by the clothes -the pale oatmeal skirt and blouse she had worn beneath the sacking apron. That she was seriously hurt he knew by the way she lay - her palms upturned, though she was lying face-down, the soles of her shoes as if posed in a shoe-repairer’s window. She looked like a h
astily discarded rag doll. He bent over her and knew immediately from the angle of the head under the shoulder that her neck was broken. He held her arm, touched her forehead, ‘Mrs Greenaugh,’ he urged, bending close and trying to feel a whisper of breath, but there was nothing. He put a hand on her back, trying to sense some movement which told of breathing, but there was none.

  ‘This woman … Belle’s mother …’ He was appalled by the sense of useless sacrifice that came over him as he knelt by her. A mother rushing to the side of a daughter who had wilfully risked her own life - riding over a right of way her husband had ploughed up for some wilful ends of his own. ‘It’s too much.’ Sam and Belle Greenaugh - his mind aligned them for castigation. ‘It’s too much,’ he repeated, his hands unconsciously rising to display the enormity of the accident. Then very gently, supporting the head in one hand, he lifted her with the same action as that needed for a new baby. He could not bring himself to let go of her limp body and utilise the horse. Instead he walked back to pull loose the reins. The animal followed him automatically, head down, as if it sensed death and mourned its part in it.

  Mabel Greenaugh was of a heavier build than her daughter and, as Cato struggled to keep up a good pace towards Hall Farm, he wondered where Belle had inherited her feyness from - where, in fact, Sam Greenaugh hailed from. What was his background?

  The only light he could sec when he reached the farmhouse was a square of light coming from the top half of a stable door. He called out - and again - ‘Sam Greenaugh!’

  But it was Levi Adams who came from the stable, and for a moment the old man’s attention was diverted as the mare’s hooves suddenly clattered forward on to the cobbled yard, then he saw what Cato carried.

  ‘My God,’ he began, ‘is she …?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but ran to the kitchen door. ‘Gaffer! Gaffer! Missus had taken your mare …’

  The kitchen door opened quickly. No light had been lit inside, and the dark figure of Sam Greenaugh for a moment lingered on the threshold, then he bounded forward and held out his arms to receive his wife. ‘What’s happened … is she …?’

  ‘She’s dead, Mr Greenaugh.’ For a moment there was a silence so deep, so empty, and Cato shared the limbo into which his words had thrown Sam Greenaugh, until a noise from Sam’s throat like that of a stricken animal startled him. The accusatory silence Cato had intended to keep, he could not maintain as the man took his wife to him. But he was then at a loss what to do, just standing there. ‘Fell from your mare, some hours ago, I think.’

  Cato walked ahead to the door, holding it open for Sam to carry Mabel into her kitchen. He moved the mending and knitting from the comfortable old sofa against the far wall and Sam stooped to lay her there. Then Cato lit the lamps while Sam knelt by his wife, straightening her clothes, her head, her hair, as if he believed if all was ordered, all might be well again.

  Levi stood screwing his cap between his hands in the doorway. ‘Is there any brandy in the house?’ Cato asked quietly, indicating the man’s employer. Levi moved to a corner cupboard, and as Sam still worked tidying his wife’s hair, Cato added, ‘I think we all need one.’ He drank his in one gulp, feeling the heat begin to bring the strength back to his aching arms. He took another glass and held it by Sam’s hand, ‘Drink it,’ he said, and then took the man’s hand and curled his fingers around the glass, lifting it towards his mouth.

  Sam swallowed and the shock of the neat alcohol at last brought reaction. ‘On the path?’ he asked, and Cato nodded. ‘She didn’t know I …’

  ‘No.’ Cato conveyed his understanding of Sam’s unguarded admission. ‘She was on her way to see Belle. She’s been taken ill at our farm … very ill … the doctor said to come for her mother. I’ve been before - the girl was supposed to tell you - but when Mrs Greenaugh did not arrive I came to see where she was … and …’

  Sam rose to his feet and faced Cato accusingly, snatching at anger to relieve his torment. ‘My wife on a horse! She’s not ridden for twenty-five years - then she takes my mare … What kind of story did you come with?’ He came, arms flailing like a man attempting to ward off a nightmare, half falling towards Cato, who caught his wrists and held him.

  The anguish on the older man’s face asked for nothing but the plain truth, plainly spoken, and though the wrists twisted to escape his grasp, Cato told everything. Then, as he felt the tension go from Sam’s arms, he released him. ‘You had to know,’ he added gently.

  You Abbotts,’ Sam said quietly, head down, ‘you’ve brought destruction, and now you’ve brought death to me.’

  ‘You ploughed the path …’

  You took my daughter,’ Sam began aggressively, but in a moment the spark left him. He stood shaking his head and added, ‘And my son had gone,’ then turned back to his wife, knelt again and began the meticulous tidying of her dress. He pulled down the sleeves of the stone-coloured blouse and squared the shoulders, then began arranging the folds of the skirt from the middle out to the side. Cato wanted to catch the man’s hands and stop them from this sickness that seemed bent on transforming flesh and cloth to monument, for in the drained face, the folds of the dress, the smoothed-out collar and cuffs, were reflected the image of a Quaker-like wife portrayed in stone, head couched in stone pillow, lacking only her seventeenth-century merchant husband. ‘She taught me to read,’ Sam suddenly said in the high voice of casual conversation.

  Cato and Levi exchanged glances. ‘Stay with him. I’ll send the doctor over as soon as he can be spared, but I must get back.’

  ‘I’ll not leave him for a minute,’ Levi said, but indicated the mare, which stood drinking copiously at the trough in the yard. Cato dropped a hand on his shoulder and nodded. ‘It’s not her fault,’ Levi began.

  ‘Indeed it’s not. I’ll put her in, see she’s all right … a few more minutes won’t make a lot of difference now.’

  He himself was not quite sure what he meant, for immediately he left the kitchen he was all impatience to be on his way back to Belle’s side. As he quickly divested the mare of its bridle, threw a rug over its back and pulled down fresh hay from the loft for the manger, he was determined Belle should not go back to Hall Farm - ever.

  Cato borrowed a lantern from the stable, lit it and set off quickly. He would ask his mother to take Belle in and give her a home until they could marry. His father would now surely see that his neighbour could do him no harm, was now an object for pity …

  On the site of the path once more, he held the lantern down at full arm’s length to cast a pool of light on the ankle-twisting ruts: so all his vision was his own boots, the circle of earth warmed to brown by the flame, and the mist which seemed to edge reluctantly away before his tread, then swirled in again behind him. He wondered if some kind of curse followed the Greenaughs as doggedly.

  He came to and recognised the place where he had found Mabel Greenaugh, and speculated if love could be tried too much, so one was tormented, torn, and could neither do with or without the person one loved - as impossible to possess, or to dispose of, as the mist mocking his passing.

  ‘Ah!’ A cry of exasperation left his lips as he felt this return journey was taking too long - was too far. He was sure he must have mistaken the way and walked past the top of their drive. He swung the light up and caught glimpses of branches. The moon had gone and real fog was coming down, but still beneath his feet were the new ridges of plough, so he must be right - and yet, each step witnessed by the lantern, the distance seemed twice, three times as long.

  Then with relief he saw the earth change to stones, and he knew he had reached the top of the drive, the place where he had found the mare, and was on the last stretch of his journey. But as his foot fell on the gravel there was a noise nearby. He frowned, more annoyed than alarmed - surely there could be no other disasters that night then he started violently as someone addressed him out of the darkness.

  ‘Cato Abbott?’

  ‘Who’s there?’ But even as he asked he recognised the voice.


  ‘How’s the girl?’

  ‘The girl,’ Cato began, swinging to face the direction Meg Silver’s enquiry came from, ‘is likely to die - as her mother has, this very night.’

  ‘Her mother?’ There was a silence as Meg took in the information, then there was that mixture of defensiveness and aggression in her voice which told of her gipsy forebears. ‘I sold her nothing but herbs for the pot! Pot herbs! D’you hear?’ Cato could tell she was already retreating, and she had to shout to make him hear her last remark: ‘And if your missy had done what I’d told her, she’d been all right.’

  ‘And if she’s not,’ he shouted after her, ‘it won’t be a string of berries I’ll be coming after you with!’

  Cato ran the rest of the way and could think of nothing until he had been reassured there was little change in Belle’s condition, but he did not miss the doctor’s quiet concern as he said, ‘Little change except a slight increase in the heart-rate.’ Then Cato composed himself to tell of Mabel Greenaugh’s death.

  Ruth Abbott looked down at Belle. ‘Poor girl,’ she breathed, ‘that won’t help.’

  Should she regain consciousness at this stage, a shock like that could be fatal. I must insist on being the judge of when she should be told,’ the doctor intervened. ‘In the meantime, I think someone should be dispatched to Dr Robson’s surgery to leave a message for him to go as quickly as possible to the Greenaugh farm.’

  If Cato had thought his journey back to Belle’s side was long, the hours of that night were to seem a tormented eternity. It seemed so much worse because Belle was so still, and the blanket spread over her remained so neat, reminding him of Mabel’s straightened clothes. He felt compelled to slide up his hand to hold Belle’s, ruffling the covers. The phrase ‘disturbed to life’ ran through his head again and again, until he asked: ‘Shouldn’t we be trying to rouse her?’

 

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