She had grieved badly for Reed during the two months since she had last seen him. He was still at Long Beck, or so Maggie Singleton innocently told them when she came down to visit Phoebe and proudly display her sturdy son and, equally innocently, to share the hope that she and Jake might be allowed to take over the farm at Upfell.
It was going to waste since the Garnetts left, she said, and Jake, who had never actually run a farm, was nevertheless a good all-round man outside and could turn his hand to anything, sheep, cattle or crops, and as for herself, she couldn't wait to get her hands on some real dairy work again. Jonty was thriving and she and Jake were no strangers to hard work. Nobody could have been more surprised than them, she confided over a cup of tea, to Phoebe, when it was discovered that it was Mr Macauley who had bought it and not some farmer from Lancashire as had, at first, been believed. Why he had kept it to himself for so long, no one could imagine, but then she supposed they should have guessed when he left instructions for Dobby Hawkins to go down to milk the cows and feed the pigs and hens, but then they had thought at the time he had been doing it as a favour to the farmer from Lancashire who must be an acquaintance of his. But no, Upfell was his, though why he had bought it and then done nothing with it was still a mystery. Anyway, somebody had to run it and why not her and Jake? She herself had a fair head for business and with her and Jake's farming knowledge she reckoned they'd do right well.
Annie had listened when Phoebe told her, saying nothing, for what was there to say? Although she went about her days with the same thoroughness and diligence to her farm's welfare that she had always applied, she felt as though there was no heart in her. As though she was a machine which functioned with the precision and power for which it has been fashioned, but a machine, though it works faultlessly, has no life of its own, no vital spark, no joy nor hope for the future. Her life had reduced itself to the level of what must be done each day to keep her farm and her animals alive, each one to be endured and got through until the time came, which she hoped to God would be soon, when she would know, if not rapture, then peace, if not love, then friendship. She had drawn away from Phoebe and Maggie with their simple and contented capacity to enjoy life, glad of the tasks which must beattended to before the long winter set in. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, her bones ached and her body felt hollow, her female body which had, for a few short weeks, been so rapturously filled with Reed Macauley's. She was haunted by the hatred she had seen in his eyes, dreaming of them, dreaming of him, existing from one dragging day which did not have him in it, to the next. She lay on her bed at night, sleepless, longing to fall into an oblivion which did not have Reed's deep blue eyes smiling in it, the reluctant but humorous quirk of his mouth, the steady strength of his arms about her for when she woke and they were gone, her heart broke again and again as it had done on the day they had last confronted one another. Was this all there was to be for her, her wounded heart pleaded? Aril Ito be no more than a woman who has loved and become lost because of it? Sad-eyed, sad-faced, empty-hearted, with no meaning in my days but that which can be achieved through hard work to be followed by empty nights without love.
It was Jake Singleton who brought Charlie back to them. December the first it was and her twenty-fourth birthday although no one knew of it. She and Phoebe were in the barn sorting the coppice timber into suitable lengths for splitting when they heard the dogs barking.
“Now what?" Phoebe said, clicking her tongue with every sign of the utmost annoyance, though with things the way they were at the moment any visitor was welcome if perhaps it would cheer Annie up. God knows she'd suffered these last eighteen months but without Charlie's cheerful humour to support them, Phoebe was having a hard time of it trying to keep Annie from plunging deeper into the melancholy that devil up at Long Beck had flung her in. Nearly two months now and Phoebe was worried out of her mind, really she was, watching Annie get thinner and more grim-faced with every passing day.
“Who is it, Phoebe?" Annie asked without much interest, carefully stacking the quartered logs into piles of the same size.
“Tis Jake Singleton. He's comin' up track on't cart. Now what's he want d'you think, an' why's he fetched cart?"
“I really couldn't say, Phoebe. Perhaps you'd best go and find out," for does it really matter, her attitude asked. She continued to sort and stack the wood, her mind working methodically, despite her total lack of concern with what it was doing.
Phoebe's voice dragged her from the grey gloom, the world of shadows which still allowed her to do what was necessary but at the same time, mercifully dulled the pain her grieving brought.
“Annie, come quick . . ." Phoebe's shriek exhorted her and she turned, the shriek slicing through her apathy and quickening her step as she moved to the door of the barn.
“What is it?"
“For God's sake, Annie . . . come quick . . .”
The man was lying in the bottom of the cart, some rough sacking tucked about him, his head supported on several others folded beneath it. He was asleep, or so it seemed, for his eyes were closed in the sunken greyness of his face and his mouth was partly open as he snored, if that was what he was doing. His breath whistled in his throat and rasped hoarsely in his chest and across his unshaven face, a slick of sweat was filmed. His hair was dusty and uncombed, snarled about his head, long and uncut, and from him came the unsavoury smell of unwashed flesh.
Charlie? It was Charlie, wasn't it? . . . no, it couldn't be Charlie, not this crumple of old bones and foetid clothing, this stinking, gin-raddled heap of rotting human skin and sinew. Not their Charlie, whom they had loved and laughed with, shared their lives with, who had brought them through storm and trouble and sorrow, who. . .
“Ah' found 'im in Penrith, Miss Abbott. Ah'd tekken some stuff for Mr Macauley an' ah' were just ready ter set off 'ome when he fell down right in front o't cart. Good job I were only goin' slow on account o' t' traffic. Ah don't know why Jed didn't step on him but he's a good sensible animal an' .. ."
“Yes, yes Jake, but how .. ?" Annie was eager to get Jake off his rambling description of how the horse had avoided trampling on Charlie.”
. . well, ah' climbed down, thinking Jed 'd stamped on 'im, but he seemed all right, though ah' can't say ah' fancied touchin' 'im, ter tell truth, not the state 'e's in. Course, I didn't know it were Charlie Lucas, not then. Well, you wouldn't, would you?" eyeing the appalling condition of the man in the bottom of his clean cart. "Drunk as a bloody lord an' swearin' like a trooper 'e was. Ah don't know 'ow I recognised him really.”
No, and neither did Annie and Phoebe who stared at Charlie in appalled, frozen silence.
“Well, " Jake said, fidgeting about at the cart tail, "wheer d'yer want 'im put?" for the two women seemed incapable of thought and he had to get back to Long Beck before dark. He'd come out of his way to bring Charlie Lucas back to Browhead since, being a decent sort of a chap himself, he couldn't just leave a man he knew lying in the gutter could he?
It was Phoebe who took charge.
“In t' kitchen Jake, lay 'im on t' floor," which Jake did, and really, Charlie Lucas being no heavier than a half-grown lad, he could have been managed by the women themselves. Not that he minded helping, of course, for it was fair flummoxing to see what had become of the fine fellow who had once been Annie Abbott's . . . well, no one quite knew what his role was in her life but you couldn't deny he'd been anything else but well set up and likeable.
They stripped him down to the filth-ingrained, hollow-textured, bony, six-foot skeleton that was beneath his stinking clothing, which they tossed outside the door ready for burning. He muttered feverishly, fretfully, shrugging their hands away, his breath appalling as he wheezed into their faces. The smell of cheap gin clung to his skin as though it oozed from his pores and when, struggling with him, since it seemed he did not care to be heaved into the tub of hot water Phoebe had placed before the fire, he fell into a state of insensibility which frightened them, at least it meant he was e
asier to handle.
They emptied and re-filled the tub several times before he was clean. There were many things skulking in his hair and hiding on his body which, when disturbed, jumped and scurried and floated in the thick scum of the first dousings, and both women began to scratch vigorously at themselves before they finally hauled him naked up the stairs and tumbled him into the warmed bed which had been his since Cat died. They wrapped him about in half a dozen blankets for he had begun to sweat again, shivering and mumbling about being cold, his limbs trembling, his teeth chattering, the sweat turning icy on his body, a ferocious shaking which moved the bed beneath him. They could get him to take neither a sip of the broth Phoebe had simmering on the fire, nor of the milk which had come only that morning from the placid Clover.
“Oh, God, what are we to do, Phoebe? I don't like the sound of his chest. I wish Mrs Mounsey was still at Upfell for she'd know what to give him for a fever. He's not just drunk, you know."
“Ah can see that, lass, but don't thee fret, us'll get 'im right. He needs to sleep now and then when he wakes an' he's sober, a good feed."
“What's he been doin', d'you think, since he left here?" Annie agonised.
“Drownin' in gin by t'smell of 'im, an' starvin' whilst he's bin at it. Nowt but skin an' bone an' all I can say is thank God it weren't winter for he'd not 'ave survived.”
Annie knelt beside the bed, smoothing back Charlie's long wet hair from his forehead. His face was bony, the flesh sunk into the skull, his eyes set in deep black circles of bruised skin, the dark straggle of his beard hiding his chin. His eyelashes, long and fine, were like those of a child and his eyebrows still quirked, one slightly higher than the other as though in humour. His mouth in the depth of his beard was vulnerable in his insensibility and on an impulse she bent down and laid her own gently against it.
“Oh, Charlie, dear Charlie, what have I done to you,"she whispered, kneeling at his side, her arm cradling his head to her breast.
“Don't, Annie . . " Phoebe's voice was sharp, "unless tha' means it. Unless tha' really means to give 'im what he's always wanted from thi', don't do this to 'im."
“But he's asleep, Phoebe, or dead drunk, he doesn't know . . ."
“It mekks no difference. Don't let 'im think there's 'ope, if there isn't. Even the state he's in he might know what tha's ... "
“I'm only comforting a friend . . "
“No, tha's not. Tha's comfortin' thissen because tha' feels guilty. Nurse 'im by all means, mek him better, or do thi' best, as I will, but don't go . . . puttin' tha' arms about 'im. Treat 'im as I do, fer if tha' break his heart all over again, ah'll not forgive thi'. "
“Phoebe!"
“Tha's jittered about for the past four years between this lad an 'im up at Long Beck, leadin' them both on a bit o'string, not able to mek tha' mind up which one tha' wants, hurtin' them both an' thissen. Ah don't know what 'appened between you an' Reed Macauley at backend, and ah don't want ter know. Tha' let 'im go, so let this one go an all, or tek him for thy . . . well . . . but leave 'im alone ter . . . ter recover as best he can.”
Annie stood up slowly, looking down into the thin face on the pillow, the thin face of the frail and defenceless man who was in this state because of her. What Phoebe said was true. Her own guilt at what she had done to him, her own compassion which wanted to do anything, anything to heal him, to make up to him for all that he had suffered at her hands, must not influence her, nor encourage Charlie, when he was himself again, to think that there could ever be a relationship between them that was anything other than that of friends. She had almost destroyed him in her weakness. Now she must do her best to rebuild his fragile strength, his endearing humour, his engaging, warmhearted understanding, his clever, nimble mind, his peace, his life.
“You're right, Phoebe. But . . . I love him you see and I only want to give him . . . a reason to . . . go on . . ." "Tha' can do that wi'out . . ."
“Building up his hope that one day I might . . . ?" "Aye, love, unless tha' mean ter . . . settle wi' 'im . ." Phoebe let the sentence delicately trail away.
“No . . . there will never be anyone but . . ."
“Right, then." Phoebe was all bustle and briskness. "I'll stay wi' 'im for a couple of hours whilst tha' sleep an' then tha' can tek tha turn. He'll need some lookin' after, will Mr Lucas. So go thi' an' tidy up downstairs first an' if ah give thi' a shout, come runnin' cos when 'e comes to himself he'll be a bit of a 'andful."
Chapter37
It was a week before Charlie 'came to himself' and in that time Annie and Phoebe took it in turns to nurse him, one of them constantly at his bedside. For six days he tossed and muttered and sweated in fever, knowing neither of them in his delirium, hallucinating about his childhood, calling Phoebe 'Mama' and urging all men to speak up for their rights. 'One man, one vote,' he ranted, fixing a stern eye on Phoebe, who patiently covered his naked body, not at all embarrassed by the tasks she must perform for him, only disconcerted when he whispered far into the night of his love for Annie, and what he would do to her in his bed. He burned in the sweat which poured from him, then was consumed in a fierce dry flame which stripped his skeleton of every ounce of fat upon it, layer after layer. Dying, Phoebe was convinced of it, parched, but unable to drink without vomiting, his body so weakened by the cheap gin he had drunk for the past eight weeks, and by the slow starvation he had subjected himself to, that she despaired of his recovery. She said nothing of this to Annie. They cleaned him again and again, scrubbing his fouled sheets, dribbling patient teaspoon after teaspoon of fresh milk or water into his mouth, exulting when he kept it down, agonising when he vomited it up again. He looked like a corpse ready for burial, his unique individuality burned away from him so that he might have been any sixty-year-old stranger they had taken in. The carefree, easy-going young man who had not yet reached his thirtieth year was gone and in his place was a human being without identity.
Annie was snatching an hour's sleep in the room next to his when he opened his eyes, eyes which had awareness in them for the first time since he had been brought back to them. Phoebe did not see it at first. The room was soft with rushlight, the curtains drawn against the keen December wind and the squally rain which lashed across the lake. They had brought the rocker upstairs and she moved it rhythmically, her feet flat on the floor her head resting on its tall back. He had been quiet for a couple of hours, seeming to sleep, and she had relaxed, almost asleep herself. His voice brought her to instant wakefulness.
“Phoebe . . ." No more than a whispered croak, but she was out of the chair and kneeling beside him, her hand on his brow, smoothing back his lank hair, her pale blue eyes shining into his with all the love she had successfully hidden, even from herself, flowing over him, ready to nurture and sustain him with every breath she drew, with her own steadfast heart, her own life if necessary.
“Aye, 'tis me, Mr Lucas." Her breath fanned his gaunt cheek as she leaned closer, afraid if she did not keep a tight hold on his return to lucidity, he might slip from her grasp again.
“When are . . . you going . . . to call me Charlie?" he asked in a faint semblance of the wry humour which was the essence of him.
“Eeh never mind that, tha' silly beggar. Tell me how tha' feel? Are tha' hungry? Can ah get thi' a drink? Ah've fresh milk keepin' cool in t' kitchen, or 'appen tha'd fancy a sip o'broth?" For whilst he was in his right mind she meant to stuff something in him before he drifted away again. He was nothing but bones, his flesh loose and empty of the strong sinew and muscle which once filled his frame. "Are tha' warm enough lad or do tha' . . . ?" She had been about to ask him if he needed to perform one of the bodily functions she herself had cleaned lovingly and without offence from him over the past week but now that he was himself again, she found the subject awkward.
“Nothing, Phoebe . . . only . . ."
“What?" Her eyes were soft, the expression in them as revealing to Charlie Lucas, even now in his weakened state, as though she had told h
im in so many words of herfeelings. "What does tha' want? Tha've only t' say." He had wanted to ask for Annie, but with Phoebe's face so close to his, its plain intensity deepening almost to beauty in her love, he could not, at that moment, bring himself to speak her name.
“How . . . ?"
“How did tha' get here?”
He nodded, his store of strength too meagre for much more.
“Jake Singleton found thi' in Penrith. Tha' was . . ." "Drunk?"
“Aye." Phoebe looked stern for a moment for she did not hold with strong drink, at least not with those who imbibed too freely, then her expression returned to the innocent, unrecognised love she was ready to devote to him. Not in the way a woman in love devotes herself to the man she loves for Phoebe would not have the presumption to consider herself as such a woman. She would nurse him, care for his damaged mind and body, work herself to a standstill in bringing him back to health, but it would not occur to her to even consider the hope of having her love returned. She had made up her mind long ago that she would remain as she was, nourishing those she loved, creating tranquillity and order in which to do it, devoting her life and strength and health so that those she cherished might know happiness. In this way she was made whole, fulfilled, satisfied. Mr Lucas had loved Annie for years. That was a fact, a truth, and to consider anything else was foolhardy, or would have been if it had occurred to her to consider it.
All the dear faces Page 53