Goodbye Hamilton

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by Catherine Cookson


  I knelt down at the end of a row facing the side altar in the very place where I had knelt once before and startled poor Father Mackin when in a sort of confession I told him there was a horse dressed in bridal white galloping up the aisle. Poor man. I could recall the look on his face.

  I sat back in the pew; I hadn’t said a prayer. I was now looking towards the high altar, but no words of thanksgiving entered my mind. But I wasn’t surprised when I saw my two friends kneeling side by side on the actual altar steps. Hamilton’s coat was gleaming like the back of a seal. His white mane was hanging gently downwards and touching that of Begonia’s. She always wore hers to the left. Her cream skin seemed to ripple softly in the candlelight. In another moment I may have dropped off to sleep, such was the feeling of peace, but a voice aroused me, saying quietly, ‘Well, well! ’Tis you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Father, ’tis me.’ I went to rise from the pew but his hand on my shoulder pressed me back; and then he sat down beside me, asking softly now, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not too bad, Father.’

  ‘What a thing to happen. God forgive him. It was in the evening paper. The man’s mad; but I doubt if he’ll do you any more damage after this…How is your husband, and the child?’

  ‘They both seem to be getting along nicely.’

  ‘That’s good. That’s good. I’m due to visit tomorrow; I’ll look in on them.’ He sighed now, then said, ‘The things that happen. And you were so settled in your new life, and your book selling like wildfire.’ He smiled now. ‘By the way’—he leant towards me—‘does he still keep you company? You know…you know who.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Father.’ I nodded solemnly at him. ‘In fact’—I pointed towards the altar—‘they’ve both been kneeling there.’

  He turned his head and looked towards the altar as if he were expecting to see them; then looking at me again, he whispered, ‘Both? Another one?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, you wouldn’t know because that book isn’t out yet, but he’s married.’

  He pulled his scraggy chin into his neck, turned his head slightly to the side while keeping his eyes on me and said, ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No, no, Father, I’m not.’

  ‘He’s married?’ He sounded like Mike in his disbelief.

  ‘Yes, and very happily.’

  ‘Glory be to God! You’re still seeing things then?’

  ‘Oh yes, Father.’ I now saw his cassock shake, then his voice rumbled in his throat, and again he was leaning towards me, asking now, ‘Is she in or is she out?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to say, Father, I think she’s out.’

  ‘Oh, she would be. Connected with you, she would be.’ His lips were tight together now, yet the rest of his face was smiling, and the words were whispered as he said, ‘What denomination?’

  ‘Presbyterian, I think, Father.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Then, his voice altering, he asked, ‘But how d’you know?’

  ‘I…I think it’s the look on her face.’

  ‘Oh, do they look different, the Presbyterians?’

  I thought for a moment, then whispered, ‘Yes, I think they do, Father.’

  ‘Ah’—he straightened up—‘you’re still a queer girl, marriage hasn’t altered you. You know something? I remember the day you told me that the big fellow, Hamilton, was just behind me.’

  ‘Father—’ It was I who now leant towards him and said very softly and slowly, ‘he’s there again now.’

  I watched his head move swiftly from side to side, and then he said, ‘No kiddin’?’

  ‘No kiddin’, Father. They’re both there. She’s to your right hand and says she’s very glad to make your acquaintance; she’d heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyebrows were moving up into peaks. And now he asked in a stage whisper, ‘And his nibs? What has he got to say?’

  I paused a moment, and then I said gently, ‘He seems to think you’re wasted in this job, Father. He thinks you would have made it on the stage, been a wow, in fact.’

  I watched the smile spread over his face and he nodded at me as he whispered, ‘He’s nearer the truth than he knows—do you know that? ’cos that was what I wanted to be in me mad youth. I saw meself holding audiences spellbound. Then the dear Lord took a hand and said He had an audience already made for me. But you know something?’ He paused; then his lips twisting into a wry smile, he said, ‘I’ve never yet been able to have a spellbound one. There’s an old fellow sits there Sunday after Sunday’—he pointed to the middle aisle—‘and as soon as I open me mouth he closes his eyes. I tell you, the minute I start he goes to sleep. And I kid meself the fellow works night shift, because me pride won’t let me accept that what I’ve got to say would put anybody to sleep, not week after week, anyway.’

  ‘Oh! Father.’ My stomach was shaking. ‘I think God made a mistake in dragging you in.’

  ‘No, no.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no; He never makes a mistake. He knew what He was doing: I was so puffed up with self-importance. In those days I thought I was funny, I wanted to make the world laugh, and pride is a great sin and He saved me from that. Anyway—’ his grin widening and his whispering becoming almost inaudible, he went on, ‘He’s allowing me a little compensation in me old age because we’re starting an amateur theatrical group along at the club and they’ve asked me to direct. What d’you think of that for kindness? Of course, I’ve only got another two years to go. You know, I’m nearly on me time.’

  I looked at him gently, saying, ‘Well, you don’t look it, Father; and you’ll be greatly missed.’

  ‘Oh, I look it all right: the mirror never lies, and this’—he tapped his ear now—‘I’m having to have a hearing aid. I can see me father getting on his hind legs in his grave because there he was, ninety-three when he died, and he had half of his own teeth left, his eyes were as good as a pair of binoculars, and his hearing…oh, he could hear your thoughts, could me father. And now look at me: false teeth I’ve had for the last twenty years, glasses for even longer, and now a hearing aid; the next thing will be a wheelchair. Anyway’—he looked at his watch—‘I’ve got to see a couple in the vestry, they’ll be here any minute now, I’ll have to be away. But how long are you staying in town?’

  ‘That depends, Father, on how soon my husband can be moved.’

  ‘Then we may be bumping into each other again?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Would…would you like to kneel with me and say a bit prayer?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ So, side by side we knelt down, and now I did pray: I said, ‘Thank you, God, for two kind men, for the doctor and this dear old priest, who have brought me back on to an even keel.’

  The hand came on my shoulder, the voice said quietly, ‘Goodnight and God bless you.’

  ‘Goodnight, Father.’

  ‘Pop in anytime you feel the need.’

  ‘I will, Father.’

  He stepped out of the pew, then stepped back again, and there was a deep twinkle in his eye as he put his head close to mine, saying, ‘I hope your friends haven’t left their visiting card on the altar steps.’

  And to this I answered quietly and soberly, ‘No, Father, I’m sure they haven’t, they’re both house-trained.’

  He pushed me gently; then I watched him walk towards the vestry before I rose from my knees and went out of the church and into the dark street. But my spirit was light, and I felt I had the strength to face the future, which in the weeks ahead would be a pain-filled testing time for Nardy, not forgetting the same painful experience that would have to be endured by Kitty, and for myself, the facing of Howard Stickle once again across a courtroom.

  Eleven

  It was the second week in February, a Tuesday, eleven o’clock in the morning, and I was back in that courtroom as if I’d never left it, the only difference being, Stickle’s and my places were reversed. It was the second day of the hearing. As on that first occasion two years ago, it seemed that Stickle might even g
et the better of me. For yesterday his doctor had stood in the witness box and confirmed that the man had had a bad back and to his mind was in extreme pain. No, he said, he hadn’t examined him for the simple reason that the man was unable to turn on to his side; nor had he visited him the following day—there was an influenza epidemic and he had extra calls to make.

  When questioned by Mr Collins—yes, it was the same counsel who had defended me but was now appearing for the prosecution—he had hummed and ha’ed and then admitted that he had not thought the man’s condition warranted a further visit from him on that particular day.

  When I had left the court last night I felt that the doctor’s statement could or might, in a way, leave the case open to doubt, in spite of what the younger boy had said and the older boy had admitted. For Stickle’s defending counsel had claimed that the older boy had been bullied into making a statement and the younger one was a highly strung emotional child with a strong imagination and given to drawing attention to himself, and endeavoured to substantiate this supposition by stating that the accused had admitted having very little love for the younger boy, and that he had thrashed him on occasions for his lying; and further, that any disharmony in the house between him and his second wife had been caused by her defence of the boy.

  When I said to Mr Pearson, my solicitor, that there seemed to be a possibility that Stickle would wangle out of this through his defending counsel, he said to me, as he had done once before, ‘Wait and see. Remember Mr Collins.’

  Yes, I remembered Mr Collins. He seemed to be a slow starter.

  The courtroom was packed to capacity. I was sitting next to Mr Pearson; on his right sat Tommy, on my left sat George; behind us sat Mike and the veterinary surgeon. Behind them was Gran, Mary, Betty, and Father Mackin.

  Mr Collins was now referring to the incident of the dog, and as his words revived the horror of my first sight of Sandy, I was for turning and glaring at the man in the box. It was only the fact that he had never taken his eyes off me all yesterday, nor yet this morning, that prevented me from doing so. When he had entered the dock yesterday morning, a policeman on each side of him, I knew that his well-brushed appearance, his sleeked hair, his long pale face, would have elicited in many minds in the courtroom disbelief that such a man was capable of torturing a dog, let alone setting fire to a house in the hope it would kill one in particular of its inhabitants. But in the witness box his mien altered somewhat when Mr Collins asked, ‘Do you deny this?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ The words came from deep within Stickle’s throat. ‘It…it was Neil that did it. He’s…he’s like that with animals. A bit wrong in the head.’

  ‘You say your son is wrong in the head? Mental?’

  From under my shaded gaze I saw Stickle wag his head from side to side before he muttered, ‘Not quite mental, but he’s been recommended to see a psychiatrist by the school doctor.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that too, but I suggest this was because of your treatment of him.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ It was almost a bellow.

  ‘Everything’s a lie in your estimation, Mr Stickle. You seem to be the only honest person in this court. Well, we’ll leave the case of the dog and come to what, but for the grace of God, one might say, could be making you stand now facing not only a charge of arson, with intent to cause grievous bodily harm, but also charge of murder on two counts. Two of the victims of your hate, a man and a child, are still in hospital and it is only by a miracle, I understand, that the child is still alive. As for Mr Leviston, it will be a long, long time before he is able to walk.’

  ‘I didn’t do it. I was in bed. I couldn’t move.’

  ‘Oh, you couldn’t move? Well, the police have given evidence that once they got you out of bed and on your feet, you moved with some defiance; you even resisted arrest.’

  ‘It was the shock.’

  ‘Oh, then’—Mr Collins smiled—‘if that’s the case we must recommend to the Medical Council that all people with bad backs should be given a shock, and the employers in the country will be so grateful for the reduction in absenteeism for there will be a swarm of men returning to work.’ Then, his mood altering like lightning, he went on quickly, ‘I suggest, Mr Stickle, you had nothing more wrong with your back than I have. What you did was premeditated: you knew how to get into your former home; you knew that your former wife was there. Your insane hate of her prompted you to plan carefully, but not carefully enough: you took an ordinary attaché case, stuffed it with rags, filled two bottles, one with petrol and one with paraffin and went out into the night; and your presence on the street would cause no local comment because you were a taxi driver and on night call. And had you been stopped…well, you were on your way to your employer’s garage to pick up a car. You reached the house, you quietly forced open the windows and it only took a matter of minutes to soak those rags and throw them into the room, and push the rest through the letter box. You knew there were other people in that house besides your first wife, and you hated them too because they were living in the house that you had coveted, then plotted and planned to possess…’

  ‘Objection, my Lord.’

  ‘Objection overruled.’

  I now had my head up, my eyes wide, and I saw Stickle glance towards the judge. He too was the same man who had presided over the earlier case. Mr Collins was going on. ‘Being frustrated in that, you could not bear the thought of your downtrodden former wife not only rising to fame through her literary efforts, and marrying a gentleman of no small means, but also that she dared to come back to this town and stay in the house that you and your son had openly declared should be yours. It was too much to bear; you must put her out of the way for good and all…’

  ‘Objection, my Lord.’

  The judge now warned Mr Collins in a half-hearted tone that he must not allow his feelings to cloud his judgement.

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’ Mr Collins inclined his head towards the bench, then returned to the attack.

  ‘You are a conceited man, Mr Stickle. And to put it into common phraseology, a two-faced one. Oh, definitely that I would say, for your demeanour suggests mildness, but all the while it is covering up a raging ferocity of hate, which has spread to cover all those connected with your first wife. You are a Jekyll and Hyde, Mr Stickle. Years ago your sister preyed on a young lonely girl in order to secure, for you, an excellent home…‘

  ‘You leave my sister out of this!’

  Stickle’s attitude had undergone such a change that it brought a stir in the court. Gone was the meek, placid-looking man. Someone had dared to say a disparaging word about the only person that, I’m sure, he had ever loved.

  ‘Mr Stickle, please.’

  ‘Don’t you “Mr Stickle, please” me, stick to the point. You’ve been doing it all along. My sister was worth a thousand of her, and she didn’t do any pushing. That’s the one that did the pushing.’ His finger was now pointing at me, his eyes spurting hate. ‘She was man mad, she would have taken anybody. She looked nothing, she was nothing. A barmy cripple.’

  The judge’s hammer rapped on the bench. When it did not subdue the high murmur in the court, it rapped louder. The jurors had their heads bent towards each other and the voice of the judge rang out, ‘I shall have this court cleared unless I have silence. And I must warn the accused to control himself.’

  He had silence and in it, my breath seeming to stick in my throat, I stared at Stickle. He was gripping the sides of the witness box and bending over it; there was saliva running out of the corner of his mouth. I could see the beads of sweat on his brow and it was just as Mr Collins was about to resume that Stickle’s voice, addressed to me only, yelled, ‘Yes, I did it, and I’d do it again. Just give me the chance and I’ll get you yet. By God! I will. I’ll-get-you-yet.’ The last words were spaced, then were followed by, ‘You crippled undersized, barmy sod, you!’

  My head drooped onto my chest. I was dimly aware of the bustle that ensued, of the policemen hauling Stickle back into
the dock, of the judge’s hammer banging loudly on the bench again, of Mr Collins and the defending counsel standing below the judge, talking earnestly, of George’s arm around my shoulder, of Tommy taking the vacant seat and holding my hand. I heard my own voice as if from a long distance whimpering, ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Stay put. Stay put. It won’t be long now.’ It was Mike’s voice from behind.

  I saw the legs moving away from below the judge’s bench. I heard the bustle slowly subside, and a silence again came on the court. But all the while I kept my head down, my mind yelling at me, You undersized, crippled, barmy sod, you! I was aware now of Gran’s voice repeating, ‘Oh, lass. Oh, lass,’ and somebody saying, ‘Sh! Sh!’

  The judge was speaking. It came to me he had been speaking for some time. My mind seemed to have gone blank. I became aware of his words now: ‘When you were last in this court, I can recall being surprised, nay, amazed, that a man of your appearance and demeanour could stand proved of subjecting your wife to mental cruelty, sadistic mental cruelty, for thirteen years. I can still allow myself some surprise that, and I have confirmation here’—he now looked down at the desk and picked up a paper—‘to the effect that you have been examined by two psychiatrists who find that your mental state is normal. So therefore I must come to the conclusion already stated by the prosecuting counsel that you are of a Jekyll and Hyde nature and part of that nature can deceive onlookers into imagining that they are dealing with a very ordinary person, a quiet-natured, even refined man. Yet. I’m sure that there are those who from time to time must have questioned this quiet nature, when it was known that your former wife left you, that your younger son appeared at school with facial disfigurement and bodily bruising which was supposed to have come from fighting with his brother. Yet, people can still be forgiven for still seeing you as this ordinary man. But Howard Stickle, it has been proved in this court today that you are anything but an ordinary man. The setting fire to your previous home with the intention of at least injuring if not killing your former wife, and without a thought of the other occupants of that house, four of them children. That act was an act of viciousness beyond ordinary conception. You, Howard Stickle, have admitted your guilt. It is now up to the jury to decide whether your admission comes from a sane or unbalanced individual.’

 

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