She had the answer to this but, as usual, she kept it to herself, for whatever they had made, it would have gone to defray what they had lost on his second, third, fourth and fifth efforts.
‘If this one is filmed they’ll likely want to read it on the radio, like the last.’
‘Did he say the film people were interested in it?’
‘No; but you never know. It’s as good as my first, and if it’s filmed I’m going to make a stand all round. By Jove! I am this time. What? Twenty-five per cent to them and ten per cent to the agent? Not likely!’
Before she could check herself the words were out, setting a spark to his highly inflammable temper. ‘Well, you should understand that if they didn’t publish a book first it would never reach a film company.’
‘Hah! Hah! There speaks the publisher’s daughter. You were well trained; I’ll say that much for your father.’
She knew she had said the wrong thing. She rarely discussed his work with him, but when she did it nearly always ended up in a row. Yet she couldn’t sit silently always and listen to his bigoted, one-sided approach to everything that didn’t please him.
She rose, saying, ‘I’ll make some tea.’
He followed her towards the kitchen, asking, ‘Is there a bed ready, or do you want me to go back to the flat?’
‘There’s a room all ready for you if you want to stay.’
‘God! You make me sound like a guest, and not a very welcome one at that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ As she turned to him, both her voice and her manner told him she was sorry, and he said in a mollified tone, ‘Well, do you want me to stay or not?’
She did not say, It’s up to you, but, ‘Of course I would like you to stay.’ As she made the tea she also endeavoured to make conversation. ‘What time did you get back?’
‘Oh.’ He was walking round the refectory table and examining the set of four hide-seated, high-backed dining chairs, and he said hesitantly, ‘Well…this morning.’
‘You travelled overnight?’
‘Yes; you know I always prefer a sleeper.’
‘You’ve been at the flat all day?’
‘Yes, yes’—it sounded as if his attention wasn’t on her or on what she was saying—‘except for a stroll I took this afternoon.’
‘Have you started on anything fresh?’
‘No, not really. I’ve been revising one of the old ones, but now I am wondering if I should do a sequel to The Temper of The Steel. That’s what I’m calling the new one…Talking of stories, real and imagined, do you know anything about that lot down there?’
He came and stood at the other side of the cooker, and she raised her eyes to his as she asked, ‘You mean the O’Connors?’
‘Yes. Who else?’
‘Only that they’re most kind, all of them.’
‘There’s something fishy about them.’
‘Oh, really!’
He answered her remark with, ‘Now look, don’t get on your high horse; I’m just putting two and two together.’
‘What do you mean, putting two and two together? And fishy? What are you talking about?’
‘As I said, there’s something fishy going on down there.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, I stopped for a drink just outside Gunnerton. There were three or four fellows in the bar and there was talk about some youngster who had broken both his legs and almost his neck too after falling down one of the crags. They said he went climbing in ordinary boots, which is asking for trouble. But that’s by the way. I got talking to one old boy, one of the locals, apparently, and I happened to say I’d bought—’ He stopped and, screwing up his eyes, bounced his head at her, saying thickly, ‘All right. We, or let’s go further and say, you…Will that suit you?’ He had opened his eyes and was looking at her again, and she answered quietly, ‘I never said anything.’
‘No! No! You didn’t have to, but you should have seen your face. Lightning couldn’t have been quicker than the change in your expression…Well, to continue. That’s if you want to hear.’ He turned from her and went back to the table and, sitting down, he said, ‘When I mentioned this house, the old boy pricked up his ears and said, “Oh, Shekinah. So you’ve taken the Hall. Well, well now. There’s a story if you want to write it.”‘
She had her back to him so that he could not now see her expression, but knowing he had given himself away, he paused. He was never long in any strange company before letting it slip that he was a writer. It was a harmless weakness, this, but it had always made her squirm. His voice took on a harsh note as he went on, ‘I’d be careful of that big fellow if I were you. I never liked him from the minute I saw him. Don’t give him any rope.’
‘Rope?’ Her voice was indignant and she turned her head quickly over her shoulder to look at him.
‘Oh, you know what I mean…keep him in his place. After all, what are they? Apart from the mother they look like a lot of Irish gypsies, and she couldn’t have thought much of herself to marry a fellow like O’Connor. You’ve only to listen to him for five minutes to know that he’s the type of Irishman that will neither work nor want.’
‘Don’t talk like that about them!’ She was facing him across the table now, her voice unusually brisk. ‘I’ve told you, they’ve been more than kind to us.’
‘Keep us out of it.’
‘All right then. They’ve been more than kind to me.’
‘They’ve only been kind because they’ve made money out of you.’
‘They didn’t make money out of me. All things taken into consideration, I got this place very cheaply.’
He closed his eyes again, saying patiently, ‘All right, all right; we won’t go into it. But I’m telling you. This old fellow down there suggested things weren’t all they should be.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wouldn’t say anything clearly, but he asked if I’d seen Big Vin, and I said, if he was the eldest son, yes. The old fellow put his head back and laughed. Then he asked about the fat one, Hannah, and his enigmatic remark just before he left was very telling. “It couldn’t happen in a town, mister,” he said; “it could never happen in a town; they wouldn’t let it live.” So what do you make of that?’
She turned back to the stove, a feeling of disquiet in her now, in spite of herself. She didn’t know what to make of it, but this she did know: she liked the O’Connors, yes, even the oldest one …
It was at around half-past seven when Moira and Biddy came up with another can of milk and a pat of home-made butter. After they had put them on the sideboard they stood looking somewhat shyly at Mrs Stapleton’s husband. They were seeing him, not only through their father’s eyes, but judging him on Hannah’s comments; they hadn’t heard their mother or Vin say anything about Mr Stapleton. But tonight he looked different, not so stiff; he looked jolly, and he came and stood between them and put his arm around their shoulders and asked them their names, asked how old they were, and told Biddy that she was too beautiful to be lost in the country. And Biddy hung her head and blushed. Then Mrs Stapleton handed them the can, unwashed, and she told them to thank their mother for the butter, and to tell her that she would be down tomorrow.
They had expected to stay awhile. They had intimated as much to their mother, and she had said, ‘Well, only half an hour, mind. And don’t make a nuisance of yourselves.’ But now they were almost being shooed out of the door, like Hannah did the hens; and, going down the hill, Moira said to Biddy, her head well up now, that she thought she knew why Mrs Stapleton was cross. She didn’t know much about life, except that it began with birth and ended with death, but she did know that women didn’t like to hear other women being called beautiful by their husbands. They could be jealous. She had learned that much already.
Seven
For her first two weeks in the house Constance lived at peace with herself. She pushed out of her mind the fact that there could be anything wrong with the O’Connor family. She also
thrust to the back of her mind the scene in the kitchen after she had hustled the children through the doorway, and the fact that because of it Jim had flown into an incoherent rage and returned to the flat.
The following day she had gone down the hill to the O’Connors’ and invited Biddy and Moira up to tea with her in the afternoon, and as far as she could determine all was as it had been with the family.
Two evenings later she saw Vincent O’Connor returning home. At least, she saw the old Land Rover threading its way, like a small black beetle, on the curving road, far away over the fells, that led to the farm.
That day the children had informed her that their father was going to meet Vin at the station. They had been in a state of high excitement waiting to know if their brother had got the ’lectricity, for it would be wonderful to have ’lectricity, they agreed, the boys because it would give them light, and the girls because it would give them hot water and, as Hannah had said, they might even wash the clothes with it.
On the Saturday morning Biddy and Michael, Davie, Joseph and Moira had stormed up the hill and she had gauged from their tangled, excited conversation that Vin had done a splendid deal; he had got not only a generator but also a lathe, and a saw that would go by ’lectricity, and a polisher…and oh, many more things. And what, Constance had enquired, did he need all these things for?
They had gaped at her. Didn’t she know? Vin made animals, lovely animals. He cut them all out of wood, by hand, and sent them away to a firm, which firm put the finishing touches to them, polished them and painted some of them. But they were daylight robbers, the firm, as their father and Hannah were always telling him, as if he didn’t know himself. And then there came that stroke of luck a few weeks back when their mother’s cousin from Manchester was passing through and he stopped to look them up, and he saw what Vin needed. Tools and ’lectricity to drive them, and he knew where Vin could get these tools second-hand for a quarter of what they would cost new, and then he could have a real business on his own and nobody could cheat him. And that’s why they had sold the house to her, and now didn’t she understand?
She understood…What could be wrong with such a family? Nothing. Nothing. They were as open as the wide sky that covered them.
A week later Sean took her to see Vincent O’Connor’s workshop. The shop was but two little cottage rooms made into one. Along two sides of it, from floor to ceiling, were shelves and on them were carved animals of every shape and size. She had gazed at them in silence for a long while before saying, ‘And he has carved all these by hand?’
‘Every leg, feather and rump, all himself. He’s an artist, is Vin. If he was up there in London he could make his fortune, but London’s not for him, so he chips away for pennies. But not for much longer, not for much longer. When the machinery comes he’ll be set; we’ll all be set.’
‘How long would it take him to carve that?’ She pointed to a lion standing about four inches high, with its mane looking so real you could expect it to stir in the wind.
‘Oh, a thing like that, a full day. Yes, a full day. He often sits at it for hours at a stretch; he gets lost in it. I tell you he’s a fine artist, is our Vin.’
The sound of the door being thrust open turned them both towards it, and Vincent O’Connor stood there with his hand on the latch staring at them, and his father said to him, ‘Aw, there you are, boy. I was just showin’ Mrs Stapleton some of your handiwork; I thought you were away over the hills for a stride.’ He moved slowly towards the door and Constance imagined that he sidled past his son. ‘I’ll away now; I’ve got those pigs to see to. There’s always somethin’, always somethin’.’
Vincent O’Connor, now standing by the corner of the table, looked at Constance and said brusquely, ‘I don’t allow visitors in here as a rule.’
A slight flush tinted her face. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I had no intention—’
‘Oh, I know you had no intention of intruding; it was my father; he should have more sense.’
‘You don’t like anyone to see your work?’ It was a tentative question.
‘Not…not this kind.’
She blinked at him, then turned to the shelves and on a surprised note, said, ‘Not this kind? But these are beautiful; only a sculptor could carve like this.’
‘I’m no sculptor.’
‘Well, what would you call this work?’
He turned his huge head, and his eyes ranged along the shelves as if he had never before seen what they held, and then he said stiffly, ‘These are the work of a whittler.’
‘You’re too modest.’
‘I’m not modest, either.’ There was a raw, hard quality to his voice now, making it match the expression on his face, but she told herself not to be deterred by his manner and so she asked lightly, ‘Well, would you call yourself a whittler?’
‘No; I would call myself a wood carver.’
He was a difficult man to be nice to, she decided.
She walked towards a shelf that held nothing but horses, the tallest about twelve inches high, the smallest no taller than half an inch. There must have been at least fifty animals on the shelf and her eyes ranged along them, then lifted to a high corner bracket where, standing alone, was a carving almost concealed in the dim light of the workshop. When she finally focused on the piece she felt a sense of shock. She was gazing at a lamb being born, carved in wood. So real, so elemental was the carving that the strain of the animal evicting its young almost became an embarrassment; the birth pangs were in the sheep’s drawn features. The knife had even indicated the slime on the struggling body of the lamb.
‘Well?’ His voice coming from just behind her made her start. ‘Do you like it?’
She had to wet her lips before she replied, ‘It’s a very fine carving.’
‘But it shocks you?’
‘No, no, of course not. Why should it?’ She turned towards him just as he reached up to the shelf and brought the carving down and held it at face level, saying again, but quietly now, ‘It shocks you.’
‘It doesn’t shock me. I have a son, so why should the birth of a lamb shock me?’ To her annoyance her voice had a prim sound, and it rose as she added, ‘Does it give you any satisfaction to produce work that shocks people?’
When he did not answer but continued to stare at her she said, ‘I think it would have been better if you had let the lamb be born.’
‘Ah! There we have it. There we have it.’ He was wagging his head at her. ‘Better let the lamb be born. Aye, that’s been said before. Get it over, get all pain out of the way. Why didn’t you let the lamb be born?’ He was mimicking her refined tone now. Then his voice harshened: ‘Because this is how things are; this is the way we came out, you and I, slime-covered and strugglin’, giving pain. We’re born in pain and we retaliate by givin’ it back. All our lives we give pain to somebody.’ He stopped for a moment and stared into her straight face, white now, only her wide-stretched eyes showing colour. He nodded to her. ‘But on the whole women have it easier than men because they can give the blasted thing birth. They get rid of a lot of pain by giving birth. They call it part of the joy of motherhood. But there’s no such compensation for the man. He just goes on hurtin’ and inflictin’ pain to justify his existence. And don’t tell me—’ his voice was very soft now but he was wagging his finger almost in her face—‘don’t tell me that a man is compensated by his children, by his son, say…Is your husband compensated by his son Peter? No; not on your life.’ He was staring down into her eyes, and when she made no answer he said, ‘Do you know something? Your husband’s afraid of his son, and your son despises his father.’
Her face whitened even further under his gaze: she was filled with indignation and anger. Jim could be right about him. She was searching for words with which to cut him, put him in his place when he said, ‘I…I’ve gone too far?’
Now she could say, ‘I think you have, much too far, Mr O’Connor. Besides, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No; no, I don’t.’ His head drooped. ‘I’m sorry. You see I…I so rarely talk to anybody, and…and never in this place—’ his eyes looked upwards under his lids and swept the room—‘this place is too full of my thinking. It’s…it’s about the only place I can be meself. You…you shouldn’t have come in here. But it wasn’t your fault; as usual, it was my father’s.’
She turned from him and walked stiffly towards the door; but before she could open it his hand went across her shoulder and kept it closed, and he said with a note of pleading in his voice, ‘Don’t…don’t let this make any difference across the road, will you?’ He nodded in the direction of the house. ‘My mother lays great stock on you being up in the Hall. She’s never had company, I…I mean her own kind to talk to, for years. Please. It…it won’t make any difference?’ His head came down and he was looking into her face, and she answered stiffly, ‘No, no, of course not.’
He straightened up and opened the door, and she walked past him and into the yard. There was no-one about and she didn’t knock on the house door but went swiftly through the gap in the wall and up the hill.
After entering the house she stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand pressed tightly against her cheek. Her whole body was shaking. He was a strange man: intense, full of bitterness, too. He had been hurt in some way and the hurt had apparently seared his mind, because bitterness had dripped from his every word. But to say that about Peter and Jim…Her hand slowly dropped from her face and she turned about and walked to the big chair and sat down. But he was right; every word he said was true. Still, that didn’t give him the licence to say it, and him only a stranger. It was odd, odd how he had talked. The feeling of disquiet returned to her. It would indeed seem that there was something just not right down there.
The Solace of Sin Page 9