Ellen Jebeau rose from the table, and they made the gesture of rising too. She was addressing Martin as she said, ‘If there’s nothing further you want of me, I think I’ll go to bed. Mary will be here till eight.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Martin had pulled himself up to his feet now and he held on to the back of the chair as he nodded at her, then watched her go towards the door. Before she reached it, however, it was opened and Mary entered the room.
Mary looked first at Ellen and then towards Martin as she said, ‘It’s…it’s me dad, sir. He’s been to say that Bernard has put his wrist out, and it being Danny’s day off he went for Bill, but Bill’s gone over to see his mother in Consett, so he says, what about it, sir?’
‘Oh.’ Martin chewed on his lip for a moment. ‘Tell him not to worry, I’ll go.’
As the door closed on both Ellen Jebeau and Mary, Martin turned to the table and as he sat down said, ‘Damn nuisance. And we really need two men out there, but I can’t ask more of them than they’re doing; they’re making up for one short as it is. And this snow lying doesn’t help.’
‘Let me come with you tonight, Martin.’
‘Oh no. Oh no.’ Martin turned to look at him, a twisted grin on his face. ‘You want your mother after me?’
‘She’s not to know; she’ll be fast asleep before then.’
‘What if there’s a scrap and I do have to fire at them and they return it; and after all, as I’ve said, we don’t really know whether they carry guns; all we know is they haven’t used them yet.’
‘Well’—Joe laughed now—‘it’ll give me a bit of practice before I’m introduced to the real thing, and that shouldn’t be long now.’
‘Oh.’ Martin nodded at him now, his face serious. ‘But that shouldn’t be for a while, they’re not calling the twenties up yet…You want to go?’
‘Oh, yes, yes; in fact—’ He dropped his head now and, picking up his pudding spoon, he traced it round his empty plate before he said, ‘I’m going to volunteer.’
‘You are! Well! Why didn’t you say so before? Oh, you thought I might be upset. That’s you, Joe, that’s you. No, I’m over that. Does your mother know?’
‘Yes. Yes, I…I told her tonight.’
‘Oh my! Oh my! I don’t need to ask how she took it.’
‘No.’
‘You’re going to find it tough, Joe; I mean, Army life. You decided on the Army? No?’
‘No, the Air Force. I fancy flying, something to do with flying, anyway.’
‘Oh, they’ll take you for that, all right; they’re fishing for them like mackerel.’ There was a pause before he ended, ‘Your mother’s going to be lonely, you know that, don’t you, Joe?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
Tapping his cheese knife in rhythm on the edge of the table, Martin said, ‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there’s never been much love lost between your mother and me. She liked Harry. Well, who didn’t, who wouldn’t? But she’s never cottoned on to me, and so I don’t know whether or not she’s told you…oh, to put it plainly, I had to give her her marching orders.’
‘Yes, yes, I thought you had to.’
‘But she hasn’t told you?’
‘No; but…but I guessed something like that had happened from what you said a while back.’
‘She’s got a decent allowance and they’re wanting women in all kinds of work now. She…she needn’t be on her own. Well, not in that way. But, nevertheless, I know she’ll miss this house. Most of all she’ll miss you. But there it is, that’s life, and she should know, if anyone does, that there’s no straight path in it. Well’—he sighed—‘what’s the time?’ He turned to look at the clock. ‘Quarter past eight. I think I’ll go and change my clothes and have a drink to fortify me, because it’ll be damned cold out there tonight…Listen to that wind! It’s getting stronger.’
He rose to his feet now, smiling and, putting an arm around Joe’s shoulder, he said, ‘What are you going to do with yourself?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Well, it’s too early to go to bed and the rooms are like ice. The drawing room’s nice and warm; go in there.’
They went into the hall together; then Joe watched Martin take the stairs two at a time, and the maleness of him, his virility seemed to leave an aroma behind him. He remained standing looking up the stairs. He wished he could be like Martin, if only in some small way, because he had the feeling he lacked something.
‘You couldn’t support a rabbit.’
Was it because his mind tended towards thinking about things, musing over them instead of tackling them? Or was there a deficiency in his make-up, in the maleness of him? No. No. His whole body jerked in denial as he made for the drawing room. He was male all right. Inside he knew he was very male: he wanted Carrie and he knew how he wanted her. There was nothing airy-fairy about the way he wanted Carrie: he wanted to touch Carrie, he wanted to see her…He turned on himself, saying, ‘Oh God! Give over!’
There was no light in the drawing room except that from the fire, which was burning brightly and leaving deep shadows in the corner of the room. He sat on the chintz-covered couch to the side of the fireplace and, leaning his head back, looked about him. From one dim object to another he let his eyes roam, and he saw them all clearly: the Louis Quinze couch between the long windows, the French glass-fronted cabinet in the corner opposite, the sixteenth-century iron-bound chest standing in the alcove, its lid flat against the wall, held there by a pyramid of logs. It was a beautiful room. It was home, the only home he could remember. He was going to miss it. Strangely, he knew at this moment that he’d miss this house as much as his mother would. He also knew that never in his life would he be in a position to own one like it.
‘You couldn’t support a rabbit.’
Seven
‘If the moon comes up I doubt we’ll see any visitors the night, sir, and it’s trying its best over there.’
Martin looked up into the dark sky where now he could see a faint pattern of grey, scudding clouds, then whispered, ‘I don’t think it’ll last long with this wind, and there’s more snow in the air. By God! It’s getting colder. And I must say again, Dick, it’s very good of you to join me. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t looking forward to it. It’s a lonely business at any time. I was only saying to young Joe earlier, we really should have two on. Apart from the company it’s safer, because one really doesn’t know how many of the beggars one has to contend with.’
‘You’re right there, sir. I’ve said the same to meself, but the way we are fixed…well, we couldn’t do much else.’
‘You’re right. You’re right, Dick.’ Martin now leant his gun gently against the thick bush of the hedge behind which they were crouched and, putting his hand into the deep pocket of his overcoat, he drew out a flask, unscrewed the silver top, poured out a measure and handed it to Dick Smith, saying, ‘It’ll stop the shivers.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.’ Dick did not immediately hand the small cap back to Martin but, taking a clean handkerchief out of the top pocket of his short, thick coat, he wiped the rim of it, then handed it back, saying again, ‘Thank you, sir.’
Nice chap, Dick; best of the bunch. Strange he had to father two sluts of women. But then he had married one, hadn’t he? Any good in that family came from his side. It was a nice gesture to wipe the cup. Yes, yes, indeed he was a good man, Dick.
‘Ssh! What was that?’
They had both slowly turned their heads, which were now very close as they stared to where a grassy bank rose to a narrow stretch of woodland that bordered the house gardens. It wasn’t likely that anyone would come that way, for the hen crees were situated in the field just beyond the hedge, and the sheep were there too, having been brought down from the hills after ten of their already small stock had been taken.
‘Likely a branch snapping in the wind, sir.’
‘Yes, yes; it couldn’t be an animal, it was too loud.’
‘Couldn’t be Master Joe out, sir?’
‘No; he was playing the piano when I left.’
‘Nice young fellow, Master Joe.’
‘Yes, Dick; the makings of a good one there, though I don’t know how he’ll come off in the forces.’
‘Oh, it’s surprising how the Army toughens the lads, brings out the fibre in ’em. And as our Mick has often said, there’s more to Master Joe than meets the eye.’
‘True. True.’ As Martin whispered his reply he raised his head slightly above the hedge and peered into the field, where now he could distinctly make out the hen crees and the dark blobs of the sheep.
As a thought struck him he dropped onto his hunkers again and whispered quickly, ‘They could come in by the far gate and force their way into the back of the crees: they’re only planked.’
‘I’ve thought of that, sir; we put wire trips up there ’safternoon. If they fall over them it’ll ring the bell; you know, the old cowbell that hangs in the shed.’ He paused. ‘Well, we put it up ’safternoon, sir.’
‘Good. Good, Dick. It’s a splendid idea. So the only way they can get at the crees is through the west field and along the path here.’
‘Only way, sir. Only way.’
‘Well, if they come, we’ll get them. And by the way, I don’t know why we’re sitting crouched down here because we could stand up by the spruce there: its shadow is darker than the sky, and we could be more ready for them. No matter how many there are we’ll give them a chance to show themselves first, eh? But if they start to run, we’ll fire; at the legs, of course. Understood?’
‘Oh yes, understood, sir.’
They had raised themselves but still remained crouched, and were moving slowly by the hedge towards the tree, when once again Martin’s attention was brought round to the strip of woodland, not by a noise this time, but by a strange feeling of impending danger. But it came too late for him to do anything about it, for when he straightened up and turned towards the bank the bullet hit him in the chest and his body seemed to disintegrate and fly in all directions, and he knew that death was on him and that it was something that divided you into a million parts and each fragment screamed as it flung itself into eternity.
But as he sank into Dick Smith’s trembling arms, he made no sound. Even while Dick was lowering Martin to the ground, he had his head turned in the direction of the dark blur standing out against the night and it was only a matter of seconds before he raised himself and his gun towards it. But his finger never pulled the trigger for he, too, felt an explosion in his chest and, as if going into a slow dive, he dropped to the earth, the gun still gripped in his hand, and as he died he heard a voice yelling, ‘Christ! Christ Almighty!’
It was half past ten when Joe placed the iron fire screen in front of the dying embers of the fire and left the drawing room.
The hall light was still on but Martin would put that out later. The house was very quiet. He stopped for a moment and gazed about him. It was strange, but he imagined that at such times as this, when there was only himself and his mother in the house, the building had left its base and was afloat in the air. It was the remains of a childish fancy, created by a story he had read, but it returned to him most vividly at this moment. He again sensed the wrench he was going to feel at leaving this house and never return to it as home…Then, not of a sudden but slowly, there crept through his being the most odd feeling: his stomach began to tremble, as if his bowels had become loose in their casing. No part of his mind said, ‘It’s silly to feel like this about leaving the house,’ because he knew that this feeling wasn’t in any way connected with his leaving the house. Suddenly he became vitally aware that there was someone in the hall with him. He didn’t swing round but, his thoughts seeming to direct him, he moved slowly, turning a full circle, and he gazed about him, his eyes stretched wide. Had the house actually left the ground, he knew that he couldn’t have felt more strange than he did at this moment, or more afraid: there was someone here. Had the poachers been chased and found their way into the house? No, no; it wasn’t someone that was here, it was some thing.
He was feeling pain now and a great, great sadness. He couldn’t bear it. Of a sudden he was running, flying up the stairs. At the top he stopped, brought to a halt by the sight of his mother entering her room. He had the impression that she was fully dressed but told himself that it must be a trick of the light. He felt odd, queer, as if he’d had a bad dream. He walked slowly now towards the room, but as he passed his mother’s door he felt forced to stop and knock, not because he wanted to see her particularly, but because there was a great need in him for human company. He wanted to speak to someone and hear their voice speaking to him.
There was no answer to his knock, so he knocked again; and then her voice came to him: ‘Wait…wait a moment.’ It seemed as if it were coming from a long distance and he waited for a moment, and the moment went into a full minute, and then slowly he opened the door.
She was in bed lying on her back, and as he crossed the room towards her he noticed a number of strange things. Her woollen hat was lying on a chair: she was a tidy woman, over-tidy; there was a place for everything and everything in its place, was her motto. And her outdoor boots were sticking out from under the bed. What drew his eyes down to them was the fact that it was a strange place for them to be. And they were wet.
He moved slowly up by the side of the bed, and now he said, ‘Are…are you all right?’ and he saw the bedclothes that she was holding under her chin rise and fall with the movement of her neck before she said, ‘Yes. I…I was asleep.’ At this his lower jaw fell slightly and his head came forward and he said, ‘You were what?’
She did not repeat her last statement but she said, ‘Go…go away, please. I…I want to rest.’
Joe stood staring at her. That strange feeling he had experienced in the hall: had it been repeated on the landing? Was he having hallucinations? No, no. He shook his head at himself. True, he’d had that weird feeling in the hall, but seeing her on the landing a moment ago had been no illusion.
His hand shot out now and made an effort to grab the bedclothes from her, but she clutched them tightly against her throat. They stared at each other for a moment in tense silence; then gripping the side of the bedclothes, he swung them upwards and exposed to his amazed gaze her grey outdoor coat. It was crumpled and wet in parts.
Once more he was overcome with a strange feeling, but this he could recognise, for it was made up of unadulterated fear.
When she grabbed the clothes and put them around her, saying, ‘I was cold; I…I often sleep in my coat,’ he backed away from her, all the way towards the door; then on the landing, and for no reason that he could give to himself, he turned and ran not towards his bedroom but across the landing, over the gallery, down the stairs, through the hall to the front door. There he stood leaning against it, his arms outspread, one cheek pressed onto the black wood, with his breath coming in gasps, as if he had just surfaced from drowning. A minute later he had wrenched open the door and was standing on the terrace. The night seemed light, the moon was scudding between white clouds, showing up the white world beyond the drive that had been cleared of snow. He drew in deep, deep breaths of air; then, almost quietly now, he told himself he must find Martin. He must talk to Martin…Perhaps he was going mad.
Was he going mad? No, no; he wasn’t going mad. It was no illusion: he had pulled the clothes off her, seen her lying in bed in her outer clothes, and those soiled. What was she hiding? Where had she been? He must find Martin—he would be down near the chicken run—he must speak to someone, touch someone’s hand, hear someone’s voice. He was running again, taking the short cut through the gardens and towards the woodlands, calling now, ‘Martin! Martin! Martin!’
He found Martin, and Mr Smith. Martin was lying on his back, his knees upwards. The moon was shining full on his face—it seemed as if he were staring up at it. He was obviously quite dead. Mr Smith was lying on his side. Joe slipped o
n the snowy slope as he neared him, and when his hand touched the man’s chin above the collar of his rough jacket and felt the sticky wetness on his fingers, he sprang up as if he had been stung by a hornet.
‘Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!’ he was yelling aloud now as he stumbled back towards Martin and then stood looking down at him. He tried to move, but he couldn’t until a voice shouted in his head, ‘Get help. Get help,’ and then he scrambled up the bank and raced like a wild thing, screaming now, ‘Bernard! Mr Swann! Danny! Help! Help! Mary! Mary!’
He had gone through all the Smiths’ names by the time he reached the yard, and it was there that Danny Waggett caught hold of him. ‘They’re shot!’ Joe screamed. ‘They’re shot! Martin and Mr Smith, they’re shot, they’re shot. Down in the spinney. They’re shot! They’re shot!’
At two o’clock in the morning the doctor gave him a sedative and he went into a deep sleep, but when he awoke he did not speak to anyone, and the police found great difficulty in questioning him too.
Eight
If the war wasn’t actually forgotten, it was put aside for a few days in the district around Screehaugh. Until the day of the funeral, men and the police searched the grounds and land around hoping to find the murder weapon. Neither Sir Martin Jebeau’s gun nor that of his stableman, Richard Smith, had been fired, and both guns were found not a yard from each other. The churned-up snow around the spots where both men had died had not helped the investigations either.
The immediate suspects of the murder were a local man and his son; but both these men could not have had stronger alibis, for the father was in hospital after having an operation on his hip bone, while his son had three days previously been called into the forces. The second suspect was a resident of Consett, but on the night in question his wife had given birth to their first child, and the doctor and the midwife both vouched for the fact that the man had never left the house after he came in from work at half past five until he went to work the next morning, an hour after he had heard his son first cry.
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