The Black Candle

by Catherine Cookson

  When he skirted the iron railings that now bordered the factory premises he stopped and looked about him. He knew that Mrs Filmore had once lived within a couple of miles of the factory in a house called Milton Place, and he also knew Mr Filmore had been born quite near there. He didn’t know the name of the house, but from what he had picked up from the servants in the kitchen he knew that Mr Filmore’s brother still lived there and was married to Mrs Filmore’s cousin.

  When he had asked his mother about it and why the two ladies never visited each other, she had said she didn’t know.

  It was family business and he wasn’t to question Miss Amy about it. It was up to them to mind their own business. Now did he understand?

  And such had been her tone and manner that he had said, yes, he understood, even though he didn’t; he only knew it was something that hadn’t to be talked about.

  There was a man passing and he stopped him and asked, ‘Could you please direct me to a house called Milton Place?’

  The man didn’t answer for a moment. He turned his head to one side, rubbed his tongue around his front teeth, then said, ‘Milton Place? Now, now let me see.’ And he looked about him; then seeming to come to a decision, he pointed to a narrow path, saying, ‘The bridle path leads you into the fields, then into a wood, and people use it as a short cut to I don’t know where. But you want Milton Place.’

  His tongue made another journey over his teeth before he pointed to the left of him, saying, ‘Your best bet, I think, is to take the straight road, though it might seem round about to you, ’cos I imagine it would be a good mile or more. And if I were you’—he looked upwards now and pointed to the sky—‘I’d put your best foot forward because we’re in for rain, an’ if it’s anything like yesterday’s lot you’ll be drenched. And you’re without a mackintosh, lad.’

  Joseph smiled at the man. He felt inclined to laugh, for he had made a pantomime out of directing him; but he said, ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘You’re welcome, lad, you’re welcome. But do as I say and act like Spring-heeled Jack, or else you’re goin’ to be sodden.’

  Joseph actually did laugh now and he nodded to his informant before hurrying across the open space and taking the road the man had indicated.

  Who was Spring-heeled Jack? And he would be sodden…What a character. And there were so many like him, kind and humorous men; and yet they seemed to be only among the workers.

  At school in Newcastle he had met the fathers of two or three of the boys, but they seemed to be all of a pattern; doctors, solicitors, businessmen, all correctly dressed, all speaking the same language; polite, dry, condescending to youth.

  But that man was right, the sky was darkening; it was now almost like deep twilight and it was only one o’clock.

  He was walking through a built-up area and he noticed that the front doors were all painted in different colours, as were those of many of the houses in the streets in South Shields. But quite suddenly the houses gave way to fields and now he was walking along a narrow road bordered by a drystone wall, and it seemed never-ending. But it was as it eventually joined up with a rough main road that the rain started in earnest.

  He stood peering first one way then the other while the rain poured down his face, but he could see no sign of shelter or habitation. So now, choosing the road to the left he did actually run, and quickly, but the road seemed endless.

  He stopped; he was out of breath. The rain was now coming down in sheets and he couldn’t see more than a couple of yards in front of him; and he was aware that it had penetrated through to his shirt and vest. Head down into the rain, he walked on, asking himself why had he been such a fool as to follow that man’s instructions, because he hadn’t himself really known where the place was. Anything amusing about the encounter was dismissed from his mind for he knew that he was actually lost, and what was more he had to make the return journey. So why keep walking straight on?

  It was just at this moment of decision to turn around that the cottage loomed up. It almost seemed to him that it had sprung out of the ground, for there it was set back behind what appeared, through his rain-washed gaze, to be a low white fence.

  He stumbled through the gate and groped at the black iron knocker on the door, and it seemed to him that the door was opened as quickly as the cottage had appeared.

  ‘Yes? Oh dear! Oh dear! You are wet, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m…I think I’m lost. I wonder if…if you could tell me how to get to…well, I just mean, back to the town?’

  ‘Come away in, unless you want to get your death standing there.’

  ‘I’m…I’m very wet.’

  ‘Of course you’re wet, lad. Come away in.’ A hand came out and gripped his arm and none too gently he was pulled over the threshold into a lamplit room, then pushed aside so the small dumpy woman could bang the door closed.

  ‘My! My! You are in a pickle. You’re wet enough to be wrung out.’ She laughed up into his face now, adding, ‘I could put you through the mangle. Give us your coat here.’ Her movements, like the grip on his arm, were rough as she helped to pull the coat from him. Then she exclaimed, ‘My! You’re wet to the skin. What brought you out on a day like this without a topcoat?’

  ‘It…it was quite fine when I left home.’

  ‘Well, ’tisn’t fine now and hasn’t been for days up here. Yesterday we had a flood and it looks like another one the day, because it’s in for it.’ She thumbed towards the window to the side of the door now, then said, ‘Where you makin’ for?’

  ‘I…I was looking for a certain house and…’

  She cut off his voice saying, ‘You’re makin’ a pool on me mat. Take your boots off, then get to the fire.’ When she saw him hesitate, she said, ‘Well, d’you want to get dry or not?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, please.’

  ‘Well, get yourself to the fire.’

  He had taken off his hat as soon as he entered the room; she now helped to divest him of his waistcoat, which he laid on a wooden chair to the side of the door, only for her to whip it up, saying, ‘I’ll put them out the back. I’ve had the boiler on in the wash-house. I cook the hen and duck crowdie in it, you know. Anyway, it’s warm in there and they’ll dry off.’

  He watched her now scurry across the room and disappear through a door; then he walked to the fire. It was an open range and it was heaped high with blazing coal; a kettle was sizzling on the hob. He looked at the basket chair that was set to one side of the fireplace. It had a padded seat and a head cushion pinned to its high back. He looked to the other side where, at right angles to the fireplace, was a short settle. It, too, had a padded seat.

  He stood with his back to the fire and surveyed the room. It was a largish kitchen and the table in the middle of it was covered with a green chenille cloth trimmed with bobbles. A black oak delft rack stood against the wall and in the far corner of the room he could make out a whatnot, the wood of its shelves almost hidden by the pieces of china standing on them. The floor of the room was made of stone slabs but covered here and there with what his mother had called clippy mats. The ceiling was low and black-beamed and from it hung various shapes he thought must be small hams, and in between them bunches of herbs. It was like a farm kitchen. Perhaps it was a farm.

  ‘Oh, my stars! You’re steamin’ all over, lad. Now that’ll bring on somethin’; give you your death. Take off your shirt and vest.’

  ‘It’ll soon dr…’

  ‘Take them off! There’s nothin’ that a man has that I haven’t seen. But anyway, you’ll have linings on; and look, I’ll get you a cover of sorts. In the meantime, get them off.’

  She now went along the kitchen and opened a door and to his surprise he heard her mounting some stairs, then the sound of her footsteps overhead, and he looked upwards as he thought, What a surprising little woman. In a way she was like the man who had put him on the wrong road.

  Slowly he pulled off his shirt and vest and, more slowly still, stepped out of
his trousers. He was wearing knee-length linings and they were dry round the hips but wet towards his knees.

  He was standing holding his trousers out towards the fire when she came back into the room again, and he swung round to face her as she approached him, holding out a garment.

  ‘It’s a kind of dressin’ gown thing. My lad used to wear it. It’s a bit threadbare in parts and many’s the time I’ve been goin’ to cut it up for the mat. I don’t know why I didn’t; but now’—she grinned at him—‘I see I’ve been keepin’ it for you. Put it on. How’s your pants?’

  ‘Oh, they’re almost dry. Thank you.’

  ‘Here, give me your other togs. I’ll stick them round the boiler. Oh…but’—she paused—‘I don’t think I can get them all round. Better still, I’ll bring the fireguard in and hang them over the side here. Eh?’ Once more she was grinning at him, but he could say nothing in reply.

  Left alone again, he felt for a moment that he had walked into a dream; and more so, when she returned with the fireguard and said, ‘You haven’t taken your socks off. Get them off and put them over the end of the guard, then plonk yourself down.’ She pointed to the settle and he obeyed her.

  ‘Now, Charlie, get a move on.’

  He realised in amazement she was talking to the kettle as she ground its black bottom into the blazing coals. Then, turning to him while thumbing towards the kettle, she said, ‘He’ll be knockin’ steam out of that spout within five minutes and then we’ll have a good cup of tea, eh?’

  There was a gurgle rising from his stomach. He forgot entirely for a moment, and for the first time since he had sat at her bedside, that his mother was dead, and he put his head back and laughed out loud. When he brought it forward the little woman was standing by his knees and she, too, was laughing as she said, ‘Me talkin’ to Charlie, you find that funny? Well, you know, when you live on your own you get like that. But I’m only funny in parts, lad, so don’t worry.’

  As he wiped his eyes he watched her go to the table, take off the chenille cloth, fold it up and put it to one side; then go to a drawer and bring out a tablecloth and put it on the table; after which she laid out two cups and saucers and two plates, and from a larder that appeared to be situated partly under the stairs, she brought out various items of food: a loaf of bread on a board, a lump of butter in a dish, a plate of scones, and a glass dish of some preserve. After she had cut some slices of bread, she put them on a plate and carried them to the settle and, laying the plate beside him, she pointed to a long brass toasting fork hanging on a nail to the side of the fireplace, and she said, ‘Get a hold of that and toast some bread. Push the guard out of the way for a minute.’

  He did as he was bidden. Six slices he toasted, during which time she had buttered each slice of toast as it was done, mashed the tea in a brown earthenware teapot, put a woollen tea cosy over it, placed it on a tray with a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk and set it on the side of the table, before saying, ‘Well now, come on and sit up.’

  When he found himself sitting on a wooden straight-backed chair facing her, she said, ‘Tuck in. There it is, help yourself. I’ve set it all out but I’m not goin’ to put it into your mouth.’ Her face was one large grin again and he grinned back at her. But before he reached out to take a piece of toast he leant towards her and, his voice quiet, he said, ‘May I know your name, please?’ And she said, ‘Yes, lad, you may. It’s Bertha Hanratty.’

  And now he repeated, ‘Mrs Bertha Hanratty. Well, Mrs Hanratty, will you tell me, please, if this is a dream or am I awake?’

  Now it was her turn to throw her head back and let out a laugh that belied her small stature. Then after a moment she said, ‘Aw, lad, you find me queer, do you?’

  ‘No, not at all queer, only extremely kind and…’ When he paused she put in, ‘And?’

  ‘Well, this is a very odd thing for me to say now, but it’s as if you had been expecting me, such was your welcome.’

  He watched the smile slide slowly from her face; and she picked up a slice of toast and began to cut it in two as she said, ‘No, lad, I wasn’t expectin’ you, but I was very glad to see you. I get few visitors and all them I know. The occasional tramp comes along. They have their roads, you know, and they leave signs where one following on will get a bite. And then there’s a man or two now and again on the road looking for work. They’re nearly always the result of some war or other. But…but you were different, and this is a special kind of day because it’s me birthday. I’m sixty-two.’

  ‘Oh, many happy returns.’

  ‘Thank you, lad, an’ I may say you’re as good as a birthday present. In fact, I think I’ll look upon you like that.’

  ‘Have you any family?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’ve got a family, lad, or I had a family. But I’ve never seen them for years. My son, James, he’s in Australia, forty-three he is. I hear from him about once a year, if that. Then me daughter’s in Jersey, the island, you know, Jersey. Lena’s forty, she’s got two bairns. I’ve never seen her or the bairns, not in years. But it didn’t matter so much as long as I had my Willie, that was me husband. He’s been dead these eight years. Still, life must go on, mustn’t it?’

  He couldn’t say, ‘Yes. Yes, it must,’ he only knew of a sudden that he was in the company of an old and lonely little woman who oozed kindness.

  ‘Well, come on, keep eatin’; an’ by the way, now I’ve given you my life story, what about yours? What’re you doin’ round here? Because I can see from your clothes that you’re neither beggin’ nor lookin’ for work.’

  ‘No, I…I was looking for a house where a friend of mine used to live, called Milton Place.’

  ‘Oh, Milton Place. Well! Well! But you’re on the wrong road for Milton Place. That’s the Thompsons’ house. Are they friends of yours?’

  ‘Oh no. I…I only know someone who used to live there before, Mrs Filmore; but she was called Mordaunt then.’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Her face was stretching now. ‘Well! Well! She’s been left there years ago and she married a Filmore, didn’t she? And his brother lives along the road not a mile away in Grove House.’

  He heard himself say, ‘Does he?’

  ‘Oh yes. Oh my! There’s a family for you. Talk about the mighty fallin’. Eeh! I can remember back as far as when I was ten, when I used to work for Colonel Taggard over at The Brambles. They were friends of the Filmores, backwards and forwards they were. Then there were the Maybrooks, who had breweries, and Porter, they were in shipping, and there used to be some goin’s on, especially at the hunt time. Eeh, but if you were to see them now, I mean the Filmores, well, the one that’s still livin’ in The Grove. Have you met any of them?’

  ‘No. No, never.’

  ‘Oh, well then, I can’t be givin’ anythin’ away. Well, with one thing and another it’s like a madhouse there. And they’ve got a poor lass who’s not all right in the head. Some say she’s just deaf and gets into tempers when she would scratch your eyes out. But there’s one thing she has done, they say, and that is made the kitchen garden like nobody has in years. She spends her days there, ’tis said. She’s cleared up paths and hedges and bits of the rose garden. So, to my mind she’s still got a bit up top. But inside the house, they say, it’s like Paddy’s market. Well, Mr Bright, he’s been the butler there for years, he’s an old fellow himself and he still tends the master, and to all accounts he’s been bedridden, really bedridden for the last three or four years. The last thing I heard was they had had three different fellows there givin’ him a hand, but they didn’t reign long, not one of them. And the young mistress, well, she was young when she went there, but she had a life of it. He left her, you know, the son…the eldest son, and lived openly with a woman in Newcastle. For years that went on, then she goes and dies on him, so it was said, and back he comes. Well, from all I hear he’s been in one job after another. He victuals ships, so I’m told, or works for people who do. And they’ve only got one man now in the yard because there’s only a sin
gle horse left. I used to have a crack with him’—she nodded at Joseph now—‘the yard man, but I haven’t seen him for God knows how long. The last time he told me about the mistress there, the one that went there when young an’ is now in her middle years, well she had a heart attack or some such, and not a bit of wonder by all accounts. Funny how a family can reach rock bottom, isn’t it? But there, that’s life. It lifts some up and tosses others down. Anyway, young man’—she now poked her head towards him—‘I’ve given you all me news and that of the district and you haven’t had to buy a newspaper, and the odd thing is, I don’t even know your name. What do they call you?’

  What did they call him? Joseph Skinner. Or should he rightly go by his mother’s name, Whitmore? But then, that wasn’t her name, it was her step-father’s. Her name was Carter, so she had told him. Well, according to law, he supposed, that’s the name he should be known under. Again he looked at the old woman and just as he had thought before, so he said to himself now, She’s lonely. But like most lonely people, once they get going their tongues wag. Yet whom could she connect Joseph Skinner with? Nevertheless, he heard himself say, ‘My name’s Carter, Joseph Carter.’