The Black Candle

by Catherine Cookson

  Amy had reached her bedroom almost at the same time as William opened the dining-room door, and when she got inside, she turned her face to the door and pressed her doubled fists to the panels, but didn’t beat on them. She was gasping as if after a long and heavy run and she brought out her words between gasps: ‘I knew it…I knew it…I hate him! Hate him! Hate him! Divorce, they said. Never! Never! Never in this world. Love him or hate him I’m his wife and he’ll never be free. Never!’

  She turned now from the door and stumbled to the bed; but there she stiffened and muttered aloud, ‘No! No!’ and turning swiftly, she went to the dressing table, sat down and, taking up a comb, she began to run it rapidly through the top of her hair. She would act as if she knew nothing. It would have to come from him, and when it did she would make herself say calmly, ‘Divorce, Joseph? I may be a widow one day and let’s hope it won’t be long, but a divorced wife, never!’

  But now the comb dropped to the dressing table and she covered her face with her hands and moaned, ‘Oh, no, no! He wouldn’t ask me for that. He wouldn’t! He wouldn’t!’ After a moment she looked at her reflection in the mirror and said to it, ‘But apparently he already has. How long has he had her? A year? Two years? And who is she?’ Well, she would make it her business quietly to find out.

  Again she was covering her face with her hands and, muttering aloud, ‘Oh, Mammy! Mammy!’ she had the urge now to fly to Bridget and pour out the indignity she was being made to suffer, and to feel the comforting arms about her and perhaps hear her say, ‘There, there, my dear. It’s all right: your father will see to it. He will have a talk with him.’

  Yes; but what would her father talk to Joseph about?

  She got to her feet now. Her father liked Joseph. He liked him more as a man than he did as a boy, and this thought led her to Joseph’s beginnings and to his mother, who had been a maid in the house. And her hands were joined tightly at her waist as she exclaimed aloud, ‘After all that’s been done for him! That’s gratitude.’

  Joseph stopped the car outside Bertha’s cottage, and accompanied by young Bertha, he walked up the path to the front door, which he pushed open. And when there was no sight of her, he called, ‘Hello, there, Bertha!’

  There was no reply, so they walked through to the scullery and out of the back door and saw her clearing muck from the pigsties at the bottom of her land.

  He shouted to her over the distance, ‘We’re not coming down there over all that clarts.’

  As she walked towards them, wiping her hands on a coarse apron, she said, ‘You could have cleaned your boots, or I could, I’ve done them afore. You in a hurry? Hello, deary.’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Well, take off your hat then.’

  ‘I’m going to see Mabel and Nancy, Aunt Bertha.’ As his daughter sped away, Joseph followed Bertha into the scullery, where she pulled off her apron and her cap, then washed her hands in the stone sink, while looking over her shoulder at him and asking, ‘Tell me, is this a flyin’ visit or can you stay for a cup of tea and a meal?’

  ‘I never pay flying visits. And yes, of course, I can stay for both. What’s the matter with you? Is it because I’ve never looked in for a week? I’ve been very busy.’

  ‘Lad’—she was going into the kitchen now—‘if you didn’t turn up for a year I wouldn’t question it, because I would know you would be about your own business. You know me.’ She nodded up at him, and he said, ‘Yes, I know you and your old maxim you were always quoting: Let him go and you’ll keep him. Not let him go and you lose him. Yes, you did. Anyway, how are you feeling?’

  ‘As you see me, the fittest woman in the county, or beyond.’

  ‘You’ll brag once too often. Why didn’t you wear a coat out there?’

  ‘I have no need of coats; me sweat keeps me warm. Anyway, sit yourself down. Charlie’s glad to see you.’ She ground the kettle into the fire, then turned and grinned at him, before sitting herself down on the edge of the settle. ‘Well, have you any news?’ she said. ‘Anything to tell me? Anything fresh?’

  When he didn’t answer she looked towards the fire and quietly she said, ‘You’re up to somethin’, aren’t you, Joe?’

  ‘Put like that, yes.’

  ‘Aye, well, everybody knows their own business best, and I’m not goin’ to ask you what yours is, but I’m just goin’ to tell you that I’m not the only one who seems to know you’ve got somethin’ afoot.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Bertha?’

  ‘Oh, just that I had a visit, an unusual visit from somebody the other day.’

  He waited while she leaned forward and gave the kettle a further push into the flames, before she explained: ‘Your wife called to see me.’

  ‘Amy came to…?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was sitting back on the settle now, her hands folded across her stomach. ‘Me namesake was with her. Your wife said they were out for a walk, which in itself I thought strange, as I’ve never known Amy to do any walking outside your grounds, at least from what you’ve said. Anyway, there she was, sitting exactly where you are now, while Bertha was outside. You know where she makes for when she comes: she seems to have an affinity with the goats; and she’s a bit of a goat herself, with the antics she gets up to.’

  ‘What did Amy want? What was she after? I mean, what reason did she give for calling?’

  ‘Just that she was out for a walk, I’ve told you. But what I gathered from our guarded conversation was that she thought I was in the know. You were very busy these days. She supposed I missed your visits, too, et cetera, et cetera, along those lines. She had a job to keep her voice level, and her face was strained. She looked as white as a sheet. What are you up to? Now I am probing.’

  He got to his feet, walked up the room to the table, laid his hand on it, and his fingers beat out a quick tattoo as he said, ‘I have a friend. That’s all she is; at least she is at present, because she wants it that way, but I don’t.’ He swung round and walked back to the fireplace and, looking into Bertha’s upturned face, he said, ‘I’ve fallen in love…’

  Before he could go on, she had lifted both her hands as if appealing to the ceiling as she cried, ‘Oh, my God! I never expected in my life to hear you say anythin’ so childish. You, a man of forty.’

  ‘Yes, me a man of forty, and I mean what I say. I’ve been loved all my life, Bertha, crushed, pressed down with it, but I’ve never really known what it was to fall in love, to love somebody, really, and I love Liz…That’s her name. But she happens to be a very good young woman and she’s against breaking up a family. That’s why I’m still here, or at least living along the road, for I’d go and live with her tomorrow if she would agree. So, there you have it. Yes, I’ve fallen in love.’

  Bertha pushed him aside as she stood up and took the kettle from the stove. She then went into the scullery, mashed the tea, and when she returned with a tray in her hand he was standing, his elbow on the low mantelpiece, staring down into the fire. No words passed between them until she had handed him the cup of tea and had seated herself on the settle again when, in a quiet voice, she said, ‘I think it has been said afore, there are all kinds of love, lad. Now I’ve never had much room for Amy, not since the night she took advantage of my invitation to sleep up there,’ she lifted her head upwards, ‘and she went to you. If you had gone to her, well, that would have been a different kettle of fish. But there she was the next morning, coming out of your room and we met on the landing, me with the tray of tea in me hand, and we looked at each other and have never cared for each other since. But having said that, she has a side. She loved you. She bore you six children.’

  ‘Yes’—his head snapped upwards now—‘and each one under protest. Do you know something, Bertha? I’ve always thought it was unjust that if a man had a big family he was thought to be sex-ridden, when he need only have been with his wife once a year. She might only allow him to go with her once a year…it happens, yet there are other men who don’t on
ly have their wives, but anybody who’s willing to jump into bed with them. But they’re wise, they take precautions. Oh, I’ve always felt like blowing my mouth off at sniggers in the club when a fellow’s going to be the father of the seventh, eighth or the tenth. I tell you, Bertha, I know what I’m talking about. And as you said, there’s all kinds of love, and Amy’s love has always been like an iron band round me. She’s possessive to the point of fanaticism yet she doesn’t know how to love…Do you get what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I get what you mean, but, laddie, from what you tell me, you’re in between two stools now, between the one that loves you too much in her own way and one that doesn’t love you enough to give herself to you.’

  ‘She does. Liz does. But she doesn’t want to be the means of breaking up a family. If there were just Amy, well that would be different.’

  ‘Ah!’ Bertha’s voice changed. ‘Here’s the goatherd.’

  Young Bertha came in, saying, ‘Oh, isn’t the new kid beautiful, Daddy!’ She pulled at his arm. ‘I’m going to demand—do you hear?—demand that Willie keeps some goats, at least one.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t just have one,’ said Bertha; ‘they want company. Animals, like individuals, hate to be lonely.’ And on this, she turned to Joseph, but her voice was addressing the young girl as she went on, ‘An animal, you know, Bertha, is just like us humans: it can be in a crowd of others, like cows, hens, ducks, geese and the rest, but if it hasn’t got one of its own sort, then it’s miserable. Loneliness is an awful thing.’

  ‘Well, he’ll have to have two then,’ said Bertha, ‘and that would be better still.’

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea, lass?’

  ‘You know I don’t like tea, Auntie Bertha. I’ll have a drink of goat’s milk.’

  When Bertha left the kitchen to go into the scullery to get the milk, her namesake, going to her father, put her arm around his shoulders and whispered to him, ‘Do you think Auntie Bertha’s lonely?’ And he, patting her cheek, answered, ‘No, not when she has us.’ As he looked down on her he was made to wonder at the power of a name, because he had named his last daughter Bertha…and that under protest, but here she was, not only small of stature and always would be, but she even had the look of Bertha about her, and definitely inside she had Bertha’s warm heart and thoughtfulness for others.

  He was whispering, too, as, his face close to hers, he said, ‘Did you ask Mammy to come here with you the other day?’

  ‘No, Daddy; she came to me and said she would like to go for a walk.’ And now staring into her father’s eyes, and in scarcely a whisper, she made a knowledgeable statement: ‘Mammy is not very happy these days, is she, Daddy?’

  Eight

  John ran up the stairs and across the landing, rapped sharply on Amy’s door, and when he heard, ‘Yes?’ he called, ‘It’s the phone, madam; Mrs Filmore.’

  When Amy lifted the phone it was to hear Bridget crying, ‘It’s Daddy, Amy! He’s…he’s had a heart attack. The doctor’s been. He’s…rather ill.’

  ‘Is he in hospital?’

  ‘No; the doctor thought it was best not to move him. Can you come?’

  ‘Of course, of course. I’ll come straight away.’

  ‘Is Joseph there?’

  ‘He’s just gone, or at least…wait a moment.’ She now turned to where John was standing near her and she said, ‘Has…has the master gone?’

  ‘He may not, madam; he was just on his way out to the car. I’ll see.’

  She returned to the phone and said, ‘John’s just gone to see if he’s left or not. If he hasn’t, we’ll come straight through; if not I’ll call a taxi.’

  She looked to the side now; then speaking into the phone again she said, ‘It’s all right, he’s here. We’ll be there shortly. Try not to worry.’ She put the phone down and looked at Joseph, saying, ‘It’s Daddy; he’s had a heart attack.’

  ‘Oh, good lord! Is it bad?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘Well, get your coat on; I’ll bring the car round.’ She dashed upstairs again, got into her coat and hat, and when she came down John was standing holding the door open and Joseph was already seated at the wheel of the car; there was no time for courtesy. The passenger door was open and she got in and, as they drove off, he asked, ‘Is he in hospital?’

  ‘No. Mammy says the doctor thought it best not to move him.’…

  They reached the house within half an hour, having touched up to thirty miles an hour on some roads, and they were greeted in the hall by Ada Flannigan who, in a mournful voice, said that the mistress was upstairs with the master and he was ever so poorly.

  When they entered the bedroom, Bridget rose from the side of the bed to greet them, saying quietly, ‘Oh, I am pleased to see you. He…he seems a lot better. It was such a shock. It happened right there.’ She pointed to the bottom of the bed. ‘He was getting dressed. He was quite cheery; in fact, he was insisting we go away for a holiday.’

  A low murmur coming from the bed caused Bridget to turn and hurry back to it, and they followed her, and when Douglas lifted a weary hand towards them and in an equally weary voice said, ‘Nonsense; just a dizzy spell,’ Amy, taking the hand, said, ‘Of course, Daddy. All you would ever have is a dizzy spell.’

  He smiled wearily at her; then looked over her shoulder and said to Joseph, ‘Fuss, fuss,’ and Joseph merely nodded at him.

  Bridget said to her daughter, ‘Can you stay?’ and Amy immediately answered, ‘Yes. Oh, yes, of course. I’m not needed back there.’ But then, her tone softening, she said, ‘As long as you like, Mammy.’ And when Bridget turned to Joseph, he simply answered the question in her eyes, saying quietly, ‘My time is yours, Bridget. Tell me if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘Well’—she gave a tight smile—‘you can stay with Douglas for a little while until I get Amy settled in.’ It was as if she were talking to a guest; and now she took her daughter’s arm and led her from the room, no doubt, Joseph thought, to enquire if there had been any change in the household atmosphere since they had last talked.

  Joseph took the seat beside the bed and, taking hold of Douglas’s hand, he asked quietly, ‘Was it bad?’

  Douglas’s eyebrows went up slightly as he answered, ‘More like a surprise, but it was soon over. Pills and rest, he said…the doctor, and I’ll be myself again in no time. Joseph?’

  ‘Yes, Douglas?’

  ‘This is not my first attack, but the first she’s seen. I took the others to be merely cramps, neuritis, you know, or rheumatism or something like that down the arm.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to the doctor?’

  ‘Yes; but when he examined me, I was all right. He said something about my blood pressure mounting and that I had to give up playing with stone, which I did do some time ago, if you remember. Anyway, I wanted a minute alone with you, Joseph, because quite candidly one never knows the moment, does one?’

  When Joseph made no response Douglas said, ‘I wanted to tell you that I’ve seen you all right.’

  ‘Oh, please, please, Douglas; we have been through this before. You’ve done more than enough for me…’

  ‘We have done really nothing for you, Joseph. I think, as you once stated to me, or was it to my daughter, that you had been and still were nothing but a manager or a caretaker. And that was quite true. It hurt me to think that you felt like that but, nevertheless, you were right. Now they’ll be back in a moment, Joseph, and I don’t know whether we’ll have time together again but…you may have opposition from a certain quarter, a dear, dear quarter, but she knows what I’ve always thought. Yet she doesn’t know exactly what I have done, and I have asked myself, would I have taken that step, that final step if I had known when I put my signature to that will what I know now? And the answer is, yes. Yes, I would have still done it because I think it is your right. But the knowledge that you are keeping a woman…’

  Joseph put his hand to his brow and pressed his head back as he muttered, ‘I am
not keeping a woman, Douglas. She is a working girl. I have never given her a penny in my life and I am not sleeping with her. Believe me, I am not sleeping with her. We are friends. Will you believe me?’ He was looking into Douglas’s eyes and Douglas said, ‘Yes. Yes, Joseph, yes, I believe you, and that is good news. But why a friend?’

  ‘Because…because I needed a friend, someone undemanding.’

  ‘Do…do you care for this woman?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Douglas, I care for her.’

  ‘Enough to leave Amy?’

  Joseph lowered his eyes now, then said, ‘I’ve always given you the truth, Douglas, and yes, I would leave Amy for her, but not until the family are all settled. The boys are all right, but there’s the girls to see to.’

  Douglas’s head sank back into the pillow and he repeated, ‘The boys, it was they who came and told me.’

  ‘The boys?’

  ‘Yes, your three sons, and they told me how they had come by this information. It was through Jonathan seeing your car outside the off-licence, and he went to find you and spotted you inside talking to a woman. Well, have they made any difference in their manner towards you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think they would. They are very fond of you and they are three good fellows.’

  When Douglas began to gasp for breath, Joseph rose from the chair, saying, ‘I’ll get Bridget,’ but Douglas’s hand waved him down; then he muttered, ‘A pill,’ and pointed to a side table.

  Quickly, Joseph took a pill out of a bottle and, holding a glass of water to Douglas’s lips, watched him swallow, and when he muttered, ‘I’ll be all right now,’ Joseph said, ‘No more talk unless it’s from me.’ He placed the glass back on the table; then, having taken his seat again, he took hold of Douglas’s hand and, very quietly, he said, ‘I must tell you, Douglas, that you’ve been the only real friend I’ve had in my life. Legally or otherwise you are my uncle, but to me you have been like a father, the father I would have wanted, not the other one. I know there are traits of him in me, but there are also yours in me too, and I promise you in the future I’ll try to follow their lead.’