The Black Candle

by Catherine Cookson

  There was silence for a moment; then Lionel’s voice came deep and even threatening: ‘They’d better still be there, Father. Oh, yes, they’d better still be there.’

  The old man’s head snapped round now and he said, ‘And what would you do if they weren’t there, eh? Set fire to the bloody place? Or perhaps you’d do away with her, an’ me an’ all, eh? That would be easy, wouldn’t it? But tell me, if I sold them and this house—and I could sell them: this house is still mine and what stands in it is still mine. And from where do you think I’m going to get the money to pay those down below? Why they stay on here, God alone knows; yet, it’s good to know that there’s loyalty left somewhere—so what would you do if I sold the horses to pay them, eh?’

  ‘You don’t need to sell anything but the land, Father. There’s the piece that house builder offered to buy and you wouldn’t hear of it.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t at the time, but I changed my mind and now he’s got it, at least most of it.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, you can say what. Now you’re going to ask me why you weren’t informed. Are you ever here to be informed of anything? You don’t live here any more; your home is with your fat whore. Yes, yes, I sold the land and got five hundred for it. There’s still six staff to pay: there are insurances to meet; there is a doctor to pay. Do you think it’s all done on your twenty pounds a month? Oh, for God’s sake, get out of my sight! We’ve been through all this before. And let me tell you again, if it wasn’t for that girl who is your lawful wife, there wouldn’t be any house standing, the bums would have been in long ago. But I wouldn’t have been here to see the result of that; there are ways and means to finish a life without cutting a throat…What do you say to that?’

  When the door had banged the old man lay back and drew in a long shuddering breath. Then after a moment he put his hand along the arm of the chair around which a piece of rope was attached. And when he pulled on it, the other end that was attached to the bed bell pull rang the bell in the kitchen.

  Within a few minutes Bright was standing by his side, and he looked up at him and said, ‘Fetch me a drink, Bright. Give me a double dose.’

  ‘But, sir, you know’—he looked towards the swaddled foot—‘the mistress said only one.’

  There was no bawling reply from his master, he just said, ‘She would understand in this case.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Bright went to the dressing room and there, taking a bottle of whisky from a cupboard, he poured a double measure into a wine glass, and took it back to his master; and after watching him gulp at it and almost empty the glass, he said, ‘Would you like to get back to bed, sir?’

  ‘No, Bright, no. It’s pleasant here; I can see the gardens, or what used to be the gardens. Even in their wildness they’re beautiful…Bright.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Why have you stayed all these years with me?’

  James Bright remained silent. What could he say?

  His master now asked, ‘How long have you been in my service?’

  ‘Forty years, sir. I started when I was ten.’

  ‘You are now fifty?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I…I must have been twenty-one when you started.’

  ‘You were, sir. There was a great do for your coming-of-age birthday. I had arrived the week before. I can recall the excitement of it. There were a hundred and ten guests and the grounds were hung with lanterns, and the festivities went on for two days…and two nights, sir. And all members of the permanent staff down to the cook were each given a golden sovereign, the rest five shillings each; I, being a late arrival, was given a shilling.’

  William looked at him in some amazement. ‘You remember all that and, here am I, and I can hardly remember a thing about it, Bright. I suppose I was bottled. Was I, Bright?’

  ‘I can’t remember that, sir. I only know that you were always able to carry your drink like…like a gentleman.’

  The old man looked out of the window again. He sniffed loudly twice. Then his voice gruff, he said, ‘You still haven’t answered my question, Bright. Why have you stayed on here?’

  And Bright now answered quietly, ‘Because, sir, it was a good house, the staff were always dealt with squarely and looked after in their old age, that was up till…’

  ‘Yes, Bright, yes, up till the rot set in. And if I remember rightly now, the rot set in a long time ago.’ He was still looking out of the window as he said, slowly now, ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever say this to you again, Bright. I haven’t said it to you before, I know that, but I say now, thank you for your loyalty and the care you have taken of me, particularly these last few years for very little reward, in fact for no reward at all.’

  When the master continued to look out of the window Bright turned away without speaking; he was unable to speak, for in this moment he felt that if he had never received a penny in wages before, and would never receive a penny in future, what had transpired between him and his master was ample payment for forty years service.

  He did not consider that he was a unique breed of man who was born to serve others, and that there was no degradation in doing so; rather, pride in the fact that this position had fallen to his lot in life.

  It was about seven o’clock that same evening when Lionel Filmore walked up the drive towards Lea House. As it was still broad daylight, he paused before he approached the door because he had noticed that the blinds were drawn, not only in the two long windows that flanked the front door but also in the hall window. He did not stop to question why, but pushed open the door and walked into a surprising dimness.

  The hall was little more than a long wide corridor and his surprise turned into something like amazement when he saw, coming from the far end of it, the figures of two men. And not until they were a few yards from him did he recognise Daisy’s sons.

  Bernard and Simon were men in their late twenties and, in a way, Bernard was his boss, although he rarely saw him; he took his orders from Ralph Gilmore, the manager; and strangely, he had always got on well with Gilmore. And yet there was nothing strange about it when you got down to the reason for this relationship: at Daisy’s suggestion he had let Gilmore take the credit for the fresh orders he himself would bring in.

  ‘What’s this? What’s the matter?’

  The two men exchanged a glance. For a moment he imagined they were smiling and this irritated him. ‘Look!’ he said, his voice taking on a certain note of command, ‘why is the house without lights? I mean…and why are you here and…?’

  ‘Who has the better right to be here?’ This was from Simon, the younger of the two. ‘This is our mother’s house, isn’t it? Well, now that she is no more, who has the better right, I say, to be here?’

  ‘Wh…wh…what?’ There was a stammer now; then again, ‘Wh…wh…what did you say?’ the last word ending on a high note; and Bernard, moving past him, said, ‘You had better come in here.’

  He now followed them into the drawing room, his drawing room—he always thought of the whole house as his—and he stared at them open-mouthed as they stood now shoulder to shoulder talking to him, speaking words that his mind kept denying. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t.

  ‘She had a heart attack on Friday night. It was as well I was here. They took her to hospital but she died within the hour.’ There was no regret in the voice; it was as if the man were reading something from a paper. ‘She is to be buried on Tuesday.’

  Lionel put his hand to his head as he said, ‘Oh my God! I can’t believe it.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. Anyway, we’ve packed your things. We’ve had to loan you two cases; there are three altogether. We haven’t packed your overcoats, they are lying on the cases. You will find them out in the coach house.’

  ‘What? What d’you mean?’

  It was Simon answering: ‘We mean that you no longer have a place in this house. You have lived in it for too long. You have been like a leech on our mother. You ha
ve deserted your wife and child and also your ailing father. Oh, we know all about your background, sir, and have done for years.’

  ‘How dare you! I loved your mother, and she me, and…’

  ‘You loved this house.’ It was the elder son now speaking. ‘You loved this house. You loved being a kept man.’

  ‘My God! You…’ His fists were clenched but he kept them by his sides because the men facing him were not only younger than he but they were as big as him.

  ‘Yes, I would think twice about using your fists. And before you leave we must tell you that we are keeping the gold watch, tiepin, and gold shirt-bands that belonged to our father.’

  ‘They are mine! She gave them to me as a present.’

  ‘If you look inside the watch you will see an initial there, and which is also on the other articles. It is our father’s initial. Also there is a gold and diamond pin from the same source. If you want to claim them, sir, you will take us to court.’

  Lionel’s voice was much quieter now, deep in his throat, a note of fear in it as he said, ‘You…you can’t do this to me. She…she was all I had. I mean, there was an arrangement. She promised…’

  ‘Yes? What did she promise?’

  ‘Well, to put it plainly’—his voice was rising again—‘that she would always see me right, that she would leave me…well, that I needn’t worry.’

  ‘It might surprise you, sir, to know that my mother was aware that when she died she would have nothing to leave: her share in the business was hers only for her lifetime. That’s why she spent right, left and centre during it. Our father made this stipulation.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. She’s bound to…I mean, she made a will. She must have made a will.’

  ‘Definitely. Oh, definitely.’

  ‘I want to see it…I mean I want to hear it.’

  The two men looked at each other and said, ‘Well, it will be read after the funeral. You may come and listen, although it will be very embarrassing for you, I’m sure, not to hear your name mentioned.’

  ‘How d’you know my name won’t be mentioned?’

  ‘Because we know our mother. And let me tell you something else that we know: you have been trying for a divorce in order to marry her. She likely persuaded you along this line and promised to pay off your wife…which she could have done as long as she remained unmarried, but what she didn’t tell you was that if she married again, her income, apart from this house, would be practically non-existent. She would be at the mercy of her two sons.’ Simon pointed to himself, then to his brother, and went on, ‘My father, you see, was a very wise man and he lived long enough to know the woman he had married. She was a very dear creature but she had one fault, she was devious, and I’m afraid, sir, you have been the recipient for some time now not only of her kindness but also of that latter quality. But there, I think she imagined you to be as devious as herself, thinking perhaps that when your father died you were bound to inherit money of some sort; failing which, that you could sell that large property, for whose land, I understand, speculators are even now bidding.’

  He was feeling faint, really ill. It was like his marriage all over again, but this time there was no-one standing at the side offering him two thousand a year. He turned and he was going slowly towards the door when one of the men said, ‘If you don’t wish to come to the funeral and hear the reading of the will, we shall understand. If your name is mentioned at all, our solicitor will notify you. That too is understood.’

  He passed the elderly maid. She was all in black and her eyes were red. She did not speak to him but shook her head sadly, and he went out and into the courtyard. The coach-house door was open, Rogers standing just within it. The man had a grim smile on his face as he said, ‘You’ll need a cab.’ He hadn’t added, ‘sir’.

  Lionel looked at the three large cases and the two overcoats lying across them, these topped by two high silk hats and a bowler. He stood looking down at his belongings. He could not believe this was happening to him, not again. He saw his life stretching before him in that big decaying house, meals at the end of a table, no wine…There arose in him the desire to scream, to claw at something, to beat his fists into flesh. He turned and looked at Rogers and the man didn’t know at this moment how near he was to being attacked; yet he moved quickly aside as Lionel barked at him, ‘Yes! I need a cab, and I’ll be back.’ And with this he stalked out of the coach house and made his way to the main road, hoping there to pick up an empty cab. And he was fortunate.

  Within an hour of walking up the drive to take up his comfortable part-time life again, he was riding out of it for good and all.

  It was nine o’clock when the cab drove into the stable yard. And it was Rose Jackson who saw the cabby dropping the luggage onto the yard, and she exclaimed aloud, ‘God Almighty! Look what I’m seeing, cook. He’s back for good.’ And now she almost screamed at Kate at the other end of the kitchen, ‘Go and tell Mr Bright. Quick!’

  When the news was given to Bright, he said, ‘No! No!’

  ‘Yes. Yes. He’ll be in in a minute.’

  For once Bright did not tap on his master’s door but went swiftly in. And there, looking first at Victoria, who was standing by his master’s bed, he almost gabbled, ‘He…he’s come back, sir. I mean, Mr Lionel. For good, it seems. His luggage is in the yard. Came by cab. Something must have happened. I’d better go down.’ His head was bobbing. For once Bright had lost his composure, and was it small wonder? For ten years they had been almost rid of him. Now what?

  The old man pulled his nightcap well over his ears. His lips were munching one over the other and it was a minute or so before he put his hand out and grasped Victoria’s. She seemed to have gone rigid, and he shook her hand, saying, ‘Don’t worry. Don’t worry. He’ll do nothing to the child. I’ll see to that. And she won’t be confined. I promise you, I promise you. Anyway, he won’t be here all day, he’s got a job. He’ll be away most of the time.’

  As she looked down on him her voice trembled as she said, ‘He’ll…he’ll do her an injury, at least that’s what he’ll…’

  ‘I promise you, he won’t. Come here. Bend down.’ When her face was close to his, he said, ‘Nothing will happen to the child because I’ve got something on him. You understand what I mean? If he dares to touch the child in any way that’ll be the finish of him. Believe me. Believe me. And if he lays a finger on you either. So don’t worry.’

  He now pushed her away and he actually laughed as he said, ‘She’s thrown him out. I wonder why she’s thrown him out. And hell’s cure to him.’

  She turned from the bed and went towards the door. What does he mean, hell’s cure to him? Funny thing to say. She had never heard that term before, hell’s cure to him. But oh, how she wished he was in hell and burning. But he wouldn’t be in hell, it was she who would be in hell. But wasn’t she in hell now? If only she could pick up Henrietta and fly from this house. Where would she fly to? But the one place her mind suggested as a haven she immediately dismissed, for she saw the land surrounding this entire house as a quagmire into which she would sink dared she step out of it. No; she was tied here until her mind went. But into what, and where? Perhaps into the land where her daughter lived most of her time.

  She came to a standstill at the top of the staircase and she looked down into the hall, where three cases were standing and some wearing apparel and hats crowded a hall chair. And at the foot of the stairs there he stood looking up at her, and even over the distance she could see that he looked different: his face was sickly pale as if he were recovering from an illness; only the eyes remained the same.

  Who would attempt to ascend or descend the stairs first? She knew that if she did so he would still make his move from the bottom, as had happened before, and even if their clothes were to brush slightly the contact would singe his whole body. She couldn’t risk it tonight: she turned and went back across the landing and into her room. And so set the pattern for the years ahead, for the only safety to
be found was in avoidance.

  PART FOUR

  THE RECKONING

  1903

  One

  ‘Why don’t you say you love me?’

  ‘Now don’t start that again.’

  ‘I will. I’ll keep on and on as I have done for years.’

  ‘You talk as if you were an old woman and you’ve just left school a month.’

  ‘And you talk like an old man and you’re still at school, or you’re going to school, for what is Cambridge but school?’

  He turned from her now and walked towards a tree and pressed a hand against the trunk as if to support himself, and from there he said, ‘I may not go to Cambridge.’

  She almost sprang to his side.

  ‘Don’t be silly! It’s all arranged; and Father’s so set on your going.’

  Yes, her father was set on his going. That man was kindness himself, and so was the mistress, too kind in a way to the son of their maid. But now that maid was ill, seriously ill, and endeavouring to hide it from him. If anything should happen to her when he was away? He shook his head as if to rid himself of the thought…

  ‘Is it because Lily’s not well?’

  He turned to her, his eyes downcast as he said, ‘Could be.’

  ‘But she wants you to go. I heard her saying to Mammy it was wonderful and fitting you should go.’

  ‘Why fitting?’

  ‘Well,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘likely because you’ve got a lot up top, big head.’ She laughed and pushed him with the flat of her hand. ‘Mathematical genius. And here’s me, I can hardly do my seven times’ table.’

  His manner changing, he smiled at her softly now as he said, ‘It’s a pity you are so dim. It’s a good job you’ll never have to work for your living.’

  ‘Oh you!’ She was thrusting her hand at him again. ‘I can beat you at some things any day. French, German, literature.’