The Black Candle

by Catherine Cookson

  She got to her feet now and said, ‘All right! Yes, lust.’

  ‘Amy, I’m going to tell you something. You may not understand it but I hope you will; you must work it out for yourself. I think you should have been a nun. Your kind of love would have satisfied God; although, on second thoughts, He, too, wouldn’t want to be possessed; and then, on the other hand, like many a frustrated nun, I’m sure you dreamed of caresses; in your case you sought them, you demanded them, you liked to be petted and kissed, but when it came to what usually leads from the petting and the kissing, you became like a frustrated virgin. That’s something I could never understand, cold, stiff, no response; it all had to come from me. You’re a queer mixture, Amy. At times I’ve been sorry for you, while at others—’ He now pulled himself up on the couch and, leaning towards her, muttered vehemently, ‘At other times I’ve wanted to thrust you out of my life, because ever since I can remember you’ve been in it, chasing me, grabbing at me, holding me to you, yet at the same time giving nothing, nothing of yourself. All you wanted was for yourself to have and to hold, like the song says, but never take me, all of me, my body, my mind, all that is me. That is love, real love. But you have never known it. You are, although you don’t recognise it, a selfish woman, Amy, and because I love my children and because they love me, you have tried to push a wedge between us more and more. Oh, don’t shake your head like that, I know you; I’ve had nineteen years of close contact with your whims, your possessiveness, your demands. Almost at the moment you were born, thirty-seven years ago, you stretched out your hand and clutched at me and you’ve never let go since. I’m tired of it, Amy. Do you hear? Tired of it.’

  He watched the colour drain from her face before, lips trembling and her head wagging, she said, ‘Well, there’s a remedy, isn’t there? Why don’t you go along to your dear Bertha, or that half-uncle of yours in Birtley that you’ve suddenly taken to calling on. You should set up an old people’s home, not forgetting your dear Henrietta. And I’m telling you something now that I’m on, I’m not having her stay here again.’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you. You tell your mother and father that, not me; they’ll be here tomorrow; but better still, put it to Henrietta herself that she mustn’t come here, or near me. That’s the point, isn’t it? She mustn’t come near me. But there’s another thing that you haven’t faced up to: Henrietta and you are very much alike…’

  ‘Oh, how dare you! How dare you!’

  ‘I…I dare, but you didn’t let me finish. I was going to add: in one way, you’ve both got a passion for possessing an individual, sucking them dry. Well, Amy, before I’m really frizzled to cork, left dry and spineless, I’m determined to make a stand against it. It might mean leaving here; but I’d have to leave here in any case, wouldn’t I? For you have already seen this place passing to Malcolm when your father dies. On that point though, you know, you haven’t asked yourself where you’d come in, because, of all our brood, Malcolm is the most unthinking. Now, if it was going to William, he would look after you till the end, not give you a back seat when he brought his wife in to rule the roost. Or there’s Jonathan; he too would consider you; but Malcolm is for number one. Do you know who my eldest son is like? He’s like my father, my real father, Lionel Filmore.’

  ‘Never! Never!’

  ‘All right; have it your own way, time will tell. He is nearly nineteen years old and he is of the kind, if he takes a fancy to a girl, he’ll have her, and he could be married by next year.’

  ‘You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve had plenty of time, nineteen years in fact, ever since your father gave me the job of restoring this house to what it once was. Well, I’ve done that; but I’ve also created a business for myself. Leaving here tomorrow wouldn’t alter things much; I’d be able to support myself very well. Your father has always paid for the staff, and seen to everything else, whereas I’ve been but a caretaker, and you, I may say, the caretaker’s wife; but you’re also their daughter, so they’ll see to you all right, in fact take you back into their fold.’

  ‘You’re an ungrateful swine.’

  ‘A swine perhaps, but never ungrateful. Yet at times I do ask myself what I have to be grateful for. I worked like ten men to restore this place, and I’ve done a good job on it…’

  ‘Yes, and you love it. More than anybody else you love it, because you think it should have been yours.’

  ‘If everyone had their rights, Amy, it would have been mine…it should be mine. And I heard the other day, it’s just a whisper, that they’re thinking about passing a law that will give an illegitimate the right to inherit, or at least to fight for his inheritance. Wouldn’t that be funny?’

  Again the silence descended on the room; and then she was walking towards the door. But she didn’t open it until after she had turned and said, ‘There have been times over the past few years, Joseph Skinner, when there has arisen in me a feeling akin to hate. Love you I might, but, let me tell you, I could hate you equally so.’

  And he called towards her back, ‘I’m quite well aware of that, Amy, because you’re a woman with a one-track mind. Some of us could love and hate at the same time, but never you.’

  As the door banged he added to himself, ‘Because you’re an unintelligent woman, Amy.’

  Three

  John Calder had been in Joseph’s service now for eleven years. He was eighteen when he had started as an understudy to Bright, and six years under that experienced man had moulded him into an almost exact replica of his teacher, and, as there had grown up between Bright and his master, William Filmore, an association that could only be called friendship, at least over their last years together, so there had developed between Joseph and John Calder a relationship in which they spoke almost as equals, at least from Joseph’s side. But John Calder, being the pupil of Bright, never made the mistake of overstepping the mark.

  Half an hour earlier he had served Joseph’s dinner on a trolley set against the couch, and now he had just cleared the used dishes onto a tray and was handing it to the parlourmaid, Rene Bristow, saying, ‘I’ll bring the tureens down with the rest.’ And to this she answered in a low voice, ‘Thank you, Mr Calder.’

  Her tone was deferential; and the sound of it caused Joseph to smile to himself, for it was well known in the household that Rene was keen on the butler, but also that the butler wasn’t keen on Rene. Perhaps, it was said, because he was still carrying his earlier sorrow: before he had taken up his post here, he had become engaged to a young girl, and he was still engaged to her when four years later, she died of consumption. That, however, was seven years ago, and so it was to be thought he had got over it; but Joseph surmised he very likely used this loss as a shield against pressing females like Rene.

  That the house was run by a happy staff was due, Joseph knew, much more to John’s efficient control than to Amy’s position as mistress, for Amy had, over the years, become finicky and demanding. He also knew that this had developed because of the tension between themselves; she had to take it out on someone. He recalled the incident of some years ago when young Bertha’s nursemaid had stamped out of the house. It was after this that he himself had had a talk with Bridget and had asked her to speak to her daughter. It was that incident, too, that had seemed to point forcibly to the fact that Douglas and Bridget were the rightful owners of this house and he merely a caretaker; the thought, crush it as he would, hurt him…

  John was pouring out a glass of port when Joseph looked up at him and said, ‘Will you do something for me on the quiet, John?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You don’t need to ask. Whatever it is, you know you don’t need to ask.’ They smiled at each other; then on a little laugh, Joseph said, ‘I want to send a present or two on the quiet. You see, the lady in the off-licence, as much as I can recall of that incident, was very kind to me; and her daughter, too. So, I’d like to send them a little present without any fuss, you know?’

  John nodded, saying, �
��I understand, sir.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow, you could take the car. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

  Again they smiled at each other, and John said, ‘That’s a very exciting duty, sir, and I thank you for providing me with it.’

  ‘Well then, I’d like you to go into town tomorrow and take a gift to Mrs Dunn at the off-licence. It’s in a place called Downey’s Passage…very odd name that, isn’t it?…And it’s in a very odd little street, too. As I remember, there are only four or five shops in it and the off-licence is the last one. I thought I was taking a short cut to a house called Bradford Villa, it being up for sale, when the empty bottle hit me.’

  ‘Well, better empty than full, sir, I would say. Yet it’s a wonder you weren’t cut by that broken glass.’

  ‘Yes, I myself thought I was lucky there. Well now, as to what I would like you to get: first, a box of good chocolates; then go to a good greengrocer, there’s one in the market, Wilson’s, and get them to send some fruits and a bouquet of flowers.’ He paused before saying, ‘And as you’ll be delivering the chocolates, you could also take the fruit and the flowers.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir.’

  ‘Then we have got to have an excuse for your going. I’ve already bought the girls’ presents, but extra sweets are always acceptable, so you can get me three pound boxes of chocolates. They can be wrapped up and put around the tree.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ John went to the side table and lifted up the tray holding the soup and vegetable tureens, and as Joseph watched him ease himself dexterously out of the door, while balancing the tray on one hand, he knew he had no need to explain why his sending a thank-you gift to the woman in the off-licence had to be done on the quiet, for John, he knew, had weighed up the situation in the house some long time ago. And the significance of the fact that his mistress had no women friends.

  It was Christmas Eve morning and with the aid of a stick he had hobbled around the room and was now standing near the window when Amy came in; and on the sight of him she said immediately, ‘Now look, don’t try to be too clever. The doctor said a fortnight.’

  As though dismissing the remark, he pointed to the window, saying, ‘It’s snowing again.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Then I think Bertha should be brought along because, if it keeps on, the road could be blocked by tomorrow.’

  ‘Joseph, please have a little consideration. I’ve had to have two more bedrooms prepared for Mother, Father and Henrietta…nine bedrooms to be seen to.’

  ‘Yes, nine bedrooms; but I understand from your father that in his young days he knew twenty bedrooms being occupied at this time of the year, and coal fires to be attended to. Now you only need to switch on and there you are; all except in this room, and the dining and sitting room.’

  ‘Those other rooms haven’t been aired.’

  He limped towards her and in a deceptively low voice, he said, ‘Of the seven female indoor servants, you could perhaps order one to put some bottles in the bed and switch on the fire. Now couldn’t you do that, Amy?’

  Her voice, too, was low as she replied. ‘You’ve said yourself that she never wants to sleep here.’

  ‘No; because she knows you don’t want her to sleep here. But she’s never spent a Christmas Day alone in the last twenty years and this is not going to be the first. She’s an old woman, Amy.’

  ‘Yes, except for her tongue; that’s never aged.’

  ‘No, thank God; and I hope it remains young and wise to her end.’

  She stepped back from him, saying, ‘You’re odd, Joseph Skinner, that’s what you are, odd.’

  ‘Well, we both stem from the same branch, don’t we? And my oddities undoubtedly match your own.’

  There was that small wagging movement of her head that he had come to know so well over the years and which seemed to return her to the girl that she had once been, and in a way still was, for now she jumped from one subject to another, saying, ‘And you have sent John out and you never consulted me. When I enquired what he was up to…Going on an errand for the master, he said. So, may I know what errand?’

  ‘Oh yes; there’s no secret about that. It was for some odds and ends for the girls. On thinking it over, lying here,’ he pointed to the couch, ‘I realised I hadn’t got them much for their stockings. Presents round the tree, yes, but little for their stockings.’

  ‘Well, if the errand’s as simple as that, why couldn’t you have consulted me?’

  ‘Oh, you are too busy, Amy: you have so much to see to, you are run off your feet.’

  She drew her lips tightly between her teeth for a moment before she said, ‘Sometimes, Joseph Skinner, I could slap your face for you.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt about that, Amy. But tell me, why do you always give me my full title when you’re in one of your moods? Why don’t you just say emphatically, you, instead of Joseph…Skinner? By the way’—he now made himself smile at her—‘if that law ever comes into force about inheritance that I mentioned to you earlier, I’ll apply to have my name changed to its rightful source of Filmore. Now what do you think of that? Mrs Filmore, the third, fourth, fifth or sixth or seventh? I don’t know how many there were before you. Have you ever counted them on the gallery and the staircase and in the hall passage? But you would like to be called Mrs Filmore, wouldn’t you? Skinner’s a nasty-sounding name, don’t you think?’

  Seeing her lips tremble, he had the sudden urge to put his arm out and draw her to him and say, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s go back to the beginning.’

  But what was the beginning? When was the beginning? Just those few weeks prior to his finding her sitting on the edge of the bed there, tears streaming down her face. And why? Because she had discovered she was going to have a baby and, as she had said bluntly even then, she didn’t want a baby, she only wanted him.

  He let her go out, the door banging again; then he hobbled to the sofa and sat down, and as he stared into the fire, the only coal-fed bedroom fire in the house, he asked himself where they were heading. Was life to go on like this? No, no; it was unthinkable. He was only thirty-nine years old. If he was of his grandfather’s stock then he was only halfway through his life. Within a few years the children would be married and be gone, and where would that leave him? Alone with Amy. She would like that. Oh, yes, she would like that. But what about him?

  He pulled himself to his feet again, and as if his thoughts were dragging open the closed door of a cage, he said aloud, ‘Oh no! No!’ Then again louder, ‘No!’

  He was lying on the couch again. Douglas was sitting at the foot, and near the head sat Henrietta, in a position that enabled her to look straight at Joseph; she watched his mouth as he said, ‘Did Bridget like it?’

  She now turned her head towards Douglas as he answered, ‘Yes. Yes, very much. But, being Bridget, she thought they were asking far too much for it, seven hundred and fifty. After all there’s only three bedrooms on the first floor and three attic rooms above. But the ground floor is surprisingly spacious. Well, you saw it, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, not inside. I just walked round about. There was no board up and I didn’t know who was selling it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s an old lady in her seventies who still has her wits about her, so Bridget says, and who, to use her own words, “wants no truck with them blokes that charge a lot”. She’s living in a flat in Newcastle now, I understand, and she is well into her seventies. Talking of seventies, I hear that Bertha refused to come and stay overnight. She’s a tough old girl.’ Joseph’s response to this was cut off by Henrietta, mouthing now, ‘Good! Good!’

  ‘What do you mean, “good, good”?’

  Henrietta’s hands moved swiftly and Joseph read them: ‘She’s not coming…Bertha. Glad.’

  ‘She’ll be here tomorrow.’

  The high, crackling, unnatural voice now came at him, the words spaced, ‘But…she…won’t…be…staying…never…leaves…you…alone.’

  When Douglas gave v
ent to a loud laugh she reached out and slapped his knee; and he mouthed at her: ‘You’re…the…one…to talk, Etta. Who is it that gets in a temper…when she can’t come and see Joseph?’

  To Joseph, it was as if Douglas were talking to a little girl, and the big, almost hefty woman sitting close to him took up the childish pattern by looking at him and saying, ‘But…Joseph…likes…me…near…him, don’t you, Joseph?’ and she went to grab his hand, but he moved his arm quickly away, for of a sudden he was repelled by her. For some time now she had aroused a similar feeling in him, but only now did he put a name to it. Immediately he recalled when she had first been made aware that they were half-brother and sister. She was then a young, slim, beautiful eighteen-year-old girl; and she seemed to remain so for the next two years until Victoria died, when she came under the full supervision of Bridget. From then, there were no more days spent digging in the garden; she attended school, not part-time as she had been doing, but full-time. And it seemed to be from then that her free time was given over to lazing about and eating. Whether eating assuaged the frustrations, or the frustrations caused her to eat was a question no-one could answer.

  Although at school she learned to speak volubly on her hands and there was even some improvement in her speech, there was little in the controlling of her limbs, and her mental prowess remained stationary and she was still given to fits of wild temper. In fact, one such bout ended her schooling, when she floored another pupil and it took two men and a teacher to restrain her.

  He recalled his thoughts when he had imagined being alone in this house with Amy once their family had all gone. But now he knew he wouldn’t just be alone with Amy; there would be Henrietta, too, to guard him. Three times, lately, she had taken the train and the bus to come here to see him, and he remembered Amy’s reaction when she had called her mother and demanded that someone should come and take Henrietta immediately back to Shields, only to be told by an irate Bridget that it wouldn’t do her daughter any harm to put up with Henrietta for a week, in order to give her a rest.