Hal wasn’t sure if he understood the explanation. A moment later, Stephen, standing at the bottom of the stairs, asked, “Who’s that?” pointing to the large oil painting halfway up.
“That’s Alice’s mother. The Lady Firth who died. She’s wearing the Diamond Waterfall—”
“Bye, hell!” He went up and looked closer. “I like that. Aye, it’s grand, that. Shines like a real waterfall.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Bye …”
It was at that moment Hal had the idea. Maybe … ? He said, “There’s masses of other jewelry. Stones, things like that—my father, my grandfather—there’s this big collection. Shall we?”
“I’d mebbe heard tell. I don’t rightly recall …”
“If you’d like. I’ll have to see—because of getting it opened.” He didn’t want to ask his parents, and didn’t know where they were. He had to find Alice. She was allowed in there and would perhaps take them around. He suddenly wanted, desperately, to show Stephen.
Alice was with Fräulein. It took only five minutes to find her. She had a hat and gloves on:
“Oh, but Hal dear, I can’t stay. Mr. Nicolson and I are just going on an errand for his father.” She thought for a moment. “Dear Fräulein, she could take you round.”
Hal was not too pleased at this idea. There was something damping about Fräulein. Her heavy soggy presence. Although she surely didn’t spy for the grown-ups, he would feel that he couldn’t be natural with Stephen.
Alice went off with her to fetch the keys, for Fräulein didn’t know where they were kept (nor did he, for that matter).
Stephen began, “I’d not have agreed on it, if I’d known there’d be such a—”
“No. No,” Hal said, “I want to show you them.”
He was glad he’d persisted when he saw Stephen’s wonderment and admiration and, he thought as well, pleasure. He wished then he knew more about the different stones, that he’d bothered to listen when Alice or Mother had talked, explained.
Emeralds, rubies, topaz, tourmaline, opals, aquamarines, amethysts, sapphires, pearls—on and on and on, as the iron shutters were unclasped from each case. The afternoon sun streaming into the room caught here and there the colors …
“Bye …” Stephen said, and then again as if he’d been holding his breath. “Bye … they’re really summat.” His hand went out toward a cluster of fire opals, lying on their velvet bed.
“Not” Fräulein spoke sharply. “We are not to touch. And—ach”— she looked down—“those hands …”
They weren’t that dirty, Hal thought angrily, looking at his own, which he’d kept in his pockets till then. Sunburned, working hands, Stephen’s were, but even as he thought this, Stephen hid them—cheerfully, but not looking at the governess. Hal wanted to shake her great fat face. She said now:
“This boy, he is so fortunate that he may look. Enough—Ja?” Her voice was soft again.
“Bye, though—they’ll be … What’s the money in that lot, then?” Fräulein interrupted, mildly this time, “We are not speaking of this. Please.”
Hal said, grumbling, “Everything my friend does is wrong.”
She didn’t answer, but wore her foolish face suddenly. He decided to ignore her.
“They’re just stones,” he said to Stephen, “examples really, because my father and grandfather liked to look at them. The real stuffs the jewelry. That’s—well, if you saw that …”
Stephen grinned good-naturedly. “Aye. I don’t doubt …” He looked over at the last case, which Fräulein Schultz was about to cover. “Our Will’d’ve said summat …” He was frowning now. “So few wi’ so much, and so many wi’ nowt—he’d not think it right. But …” He hesitated. “If we’d a different world—that’s what Will did his reading about, and all …”
Fräulein was looking impatient. Hal said (spiritedly), “My father gives away a lot of money, so that people shouldn’t be hungry. He says it’s his duty. Charity, that’s what. It makes the world go round, he says.”
“Charity” Stephen said. “Bugger charity.” But he said it cheerfully enough. Fräulein must have been pretending not to hear, or perhaps better still, didn’t understand.
“Bugger charity,” Hal replied, to join in the mood.
Most of the time Stephen wasn’t argumentative, didn’t echo half-remembered sayings of Will, and was just Hal’s easygoing friend. With Jack as a third, life was near to perfection: the friend he’d grown up with, and the friend he’d acquired by himself and now shared—someone in whose world he felt really at home. Stephen knows that, he would tell himself sometimes. Although he’d never say it to me, he knows that when I’m at the farm, I’m part of the life. It’s always “Master Hawksworth” when Jack goes up there—but for me all that stopped long ago. Unless they’ve a visitor it’s Hal always, or “Mister Hal” if they’re mocking. Granny Willan calls me that.
The summer wore on. August now, and still it was hot. Toward the end of the month, the Hawksworths were to go to Scarborough for three weeks; he was invited as a companion for Jack. After that it would be nearly time for Jack to go to Harrow. These last weeks Jack seemed to have rather gone off the idea. He’d stopped reading school stories. Now, perhaps to get as far away as possible, it was all the Indian Mutiny.
Because of the dry weather, the fishing was not good. Earlier in the summer the Ibbotsons had been worried that the drought would affect milk for the lambs; soon now they would be weaned. Then in September there would be the Sheep Fair. Hal loved it when there was talk, and worries, and plans made which he could feel part of. Twice recently Mr. Ibbotson had said, “Well, what do you think on it then, Hal lad? What’s best to do, eh?” Mrs. Ibbotson had whole days now when she looked as if she kept her head on her neck only with effort. “Mother’s not herself today,” Mr. Ibbotson would say then, and Hal would know they were all thinking about Will.
The week before going to Scarborough, there were two days of rain. Jack and Hal, with their fishing rods, got lifts up to the farm and permission to stay out till dusk, since the trout might not rise till late.
From the beginning, the day went well, although Hal had to admit Jack was in a rather annoying mood. Not that Stephen minded. “What’s he on about?” was the most he said when Jack, full of Barclay of the Guides, which he’d just finished reading, began all his remarks with “By the beard of the Prophet …”
They had climbed quite a way up the dale when they stopped to eat their food. They were going to explore wherever Stephen led them, then stop for fishing on the way back down. The weather, with sun again after rain, did not seem too hot for exertion.
“Malus, pejor,” said Jack. “Every crumb of cake is finished. Salaam, O Ibbotson Sahib—let’s have a bit of your grub.” When Stephen obliged, passing him a chunk of spice bread, he said, “I thank thee, Dinga Ghosh, and be sure that my father will reward thee when he comes back—”
“Where’s he gone?” asked Hal.
“Pig of a Purbiya, do you insult me by asking? In fact, you duffer, he’s gone shooting. And I daresay I could have gone too.” He added, “I’ll probably get a gun at Christmas.”
And how different it all might be by then, Hal thought. Jack home from Harrow, happy or unhappy, would be another person. No amount of talk of Three Musketeers and blood brothers could alter that,
“Verily, O verily this bread is made by Missy Sahib,” Jack said, licking the ends of his fingers. “And jolly good too—”
“He means our Olive,” said Stephen, giving Hal a wink. “You’re a right chatterwallet and all today, Jack.” He emptied some beer dregs onto a clump of moss. They frothed quietly. Then: “We’d best be away—if we’re to see all I’ve reckoned on showing you.”
The sun beat down as they crossed Wadsworth Bridge. For a while they were on open moorland. In the distance the ling-covered fells were blue-purple. They went down again, back toward the river, narrowed now to a stream. With the sudden rain, the waters had swollen, and as they crossed the st
ream by the stones, some greasy with damp, Jack wobbled deliberately from side to side, rod slung across his back, bag with tackle and remains of lunch. “By Allah, the Feringhis pursue me—let them be ground between the upper and nether millstone.” He righted himself with agility. “The dogs.”
Hal said, “You do talk the most appalling rot. Chuck it, can’t you?” He had begun to feel irritated, especially as he hadn’t read the book. He knew too that if he’d wanted to imitate that sort of talk, he’d have done it much better. Jack being a Muhammadan sounded exactly like—Jack.
“We tak forward path now,” Stephen told them, when all three had reached the other side. They made their way up, and gradually the rocky bank by the water grew steeper and steeper. Here and there a tree grew out of the crag. Between the rocks coarse grass grew, and near where they walked Hal caught the smell of wild garlic. Stephen said, “We call it Jack-by-the-hedge.” He looked over his shoulder, “Hear that, Jack lad? A right stink, and it’s after you they call it.”
They could hear the beck rushing below. But ahead of them the bank curved, and the trees and foliage at first hid what Hal was certain he could hear—a waterfall. Then they came upon it. Stephen stopped.
“Harkersgill Force, that is. Reckon you didn’t know it. It’ll be well hidden and all.”
The water tumbled down the rocky face, white foam to a brown pool some thirty feet below. A fine spray misted the air around. A rowan tree grew in the rock, its berries almost ripe. Hal’s boots slid on the shale, where the velvety reddish moss grew. He could see pink flowers and, dangerously out of reach, forget-me-nots.
“Mind your step, then,” Stephen said. “And you, Jack.”
Jack came up behind them. “Salaam, hazur, I am here! What is this boiling ravine that yawns beneath us? Move, son of a dog, that I may see…”
He stepped in front of Stephen, went right past him. His arm went up: “The battle cry—Din! Din—”
His foot slipped. His arm, wildly, reached out to save himself. Caught and lost the branch of the rowan tree. He gave a sort of strangled cry as he fell.
For a couple of seconds, as if blinded, Hal could see nothing. Then it became clear. Jack, head down in the pool, body sprawling awkwardly across a rock. Stephen, white in the face, his mouth working, pulled Hal back.
“Ruddy hell—Ruddy hell.”
“Stephen, what do we do?” His voice came out in a frightened scream.
“I’ll get missen down there. Stay put.” As Stephen made his way to Jack, scrambling down the steep side of the bank, slipping and slithering, Hal tried to follow. Bewildered and frightened, he followed the path to where descent was easier. By the time he reached Stephen, he was sobbing uncontrollably.
Stephen had turned Jack over, and was holding him half propped up. When Hal saw Jack’s face, the front of his head, he began to scream. “It didn’t happen, it didn’t happen—”
“Give over,” Stephen said sharply. “Give over.” Then more kindly: “That’ll not bring him back….”
It was not true. It was not true. Somehow, something, someone must make it all right again. But the seconds passed—and now Stephen, undoing the rod, the strap of Jack’s bag, was lifting the body tenderly. He was smaller than Jack, and had to struggle. “Give us a hand, then.”
On the difficult, seemingly endless journey back down the beck and through some woodland which Stephen said was the fastest way to a road, Hal took only a small part of the weight. Every now and then he would find himself sobbing again, even shouting, not knowing what he was saying.
Stephen did not speak again. Not long after coming onto the Wadsworth road, they met a pony and trap. The farmer, who was on his way back from market, turned about at once.
Lily said, “I’ve come, Sadie, because …” She hesitated. “I thought, first I thought—but if it had been Hal … then I thought …”
Sadie opened her arms, and embraced her. Her face, hidden now, terrified Lily. The eyes, too wide open, too staring. Yesterday, when Sadie had heard the news, she had gone into a state of shock. Alone at the Hall, when young Stephen Ibbotson, accompanied by a farmer, had asked to speak with her …
“Lily, stay close to me. Darling Lily. If I ever needed a friend. We shouldn’t ever let friends go—for anything. I just don’t know how I’m to live, I just don’t. I don’t believe any of it, you see. I think maybe he just hurt his head a bit, and it’s going to mend.
“But it did happen, Lily. It did. I guess I just loved him too much or something. You think you’re having a bad dream, then you don’t wake up— oh, Lily, stay close by me. Close by me.”
21
The Christmas tree for 1912 had been placed in the main hall, and Alice, as she came near, saw the heavy figure of Fräulein busying herself with the holly, just brought in. With clumsy cold fingers she was tying tinsel, but Alice could see from her face (that revealing one known for so many years) that all was not well.
Fräulein would be going home for Christmas. Nowadays she went always for Christmas as well as several weeks in the summer. She was very much the family retainer now. Teddy and Sylvia were her pupils, and Amy and Edith Hawksworth came for German conversation. Hal, who still imitated her excellently, had little to do with her—his time was spent with Gib. And that means, Alice thought, that Gib is every day at The Towers. Perhaps if she’d tried to think of something almost perfect: Gib, at The Towers, every day.
They all three ate together at midday. She had had more time with him since the autumn of 1911 than in all the years she’d known him. She remembered that she had kissed him (Yes, I kissed him) years ago, at Cambridge, that warm June evening. Gib of the bloodied nose. He had never ever in the slightest way alluded to it. She had wanted so much that everything should be ordinary again, and lo! it had been.
After the two years as a junior master at Marlborough (his degree had not in the end been as good as expected), here he was tutor to Hal. Beginning only a month or so after the terrible afternoon of Jack Hawksworth’s death.
In the atmosphere of hysteria then she’d been surprised at her own calm. She had thought at first something had happened to Hal: brought back shaking, crying, occasionally calling at the top of his voice. She’d looked to see, expecting him to be injured in some way. And then she’d heard the story.
There was Belle Maman rushing over, as soon as Hal had been put to bed—rushing over to the Hall:
“Alice, I must see at once, at once, if there is anything I can do, anything.” And Alice, who had once so hated Hal, had gone upstairs to sit with him, his fever growing higher all the time, turning and tossing. From his ravings she’d learned more of the story.
At first she had been inclined to blame, as had Belle Maman, the Ibbotson boy, who she felt somehow should have been able to stop it happening. But at the inquest, which Alice attended, mainly to support Hal and Sadie Hawksworth, he had spoken clearly and frankly, and given a good account of himself. The coroner had gone out of his way to commend him. Indeed, it could be seen to have been simply a tragic accident. Jack’s high spirits and excitability. She remembered that, alas, he had always been one to break away, run off, be just that little bit foolish.
And Hal was still friendly with the Ibbotson boy. Very much so. He was with him this very afternoon.
As Alice came nearer to the mound of holly, Fräulein looked up. At the same time she gave a great sigh as if she had been holding her breath.
“Alice … such a letter I have had today. And when it is only four days before I shall go home. What sort of Christmas shall it be?” Her face shook. She looked at Alice, then said in a trembling voice, “I cannot, I can really not. … It is every time the same …”
I know my cue, Alice thought. She said gently, “It’s Augustin, isn’t it?”
“Every time the same. Only now, worse und worse. You know how he is used to borrow money from friends and those he is working for? When he is working. Now he has visited those who lend money. It is a Jew and he writes me,
Augustin writes me …” She paused to try and control herself. “I tell you this, Alice, only because I have told you many times before, and you know that Augustin is a good boy, except as—I don’t know, I don’t know at all—only that I love him and that I am doing anything for him, anything— and that I am very afraid for him. Of course”—and she attempted to speak in a brisk voice—“it is a Jew. What else? Augustin is borrowing—it is not so big, but it is too big, und perhaps he has borrowed to repay that which he has before borrowed. Now this Jew says, ‘Herr Schultz, I must have my money.’ “
“Oh dear,” said Alice. “Oh dear. Your father?”
“Ach, I already tell you. Last time he has said, ‘This is the last time. Next time is prison.’ Und so …”
The tears were crawling down now. The tinsel wound and knotted around her fingers.
“What shall become of him? Prison … when already his health goes —the bowels are not right, I know the bowels are not right. He has written me…. And now what? How is that—Christmas also. … We shall not be a happy family, Alice.”
She tried to think how she might help. But of what use was it to help Augustin? Perhaps if she asked Papa? She dismissed the idea at once.
“I think you’ll see,” she told Fräulein, “that your father will help. When it comes to it … I am certain if it were Hal my father would help.”
“You are so sweet. Always so kind. From a little child, kind.” She sniffed. “I shall start at once to think of other things. Brighter things, yes?”
“Yes,” said Alice.
“I go now, and walk in the garden.”
Alice, leaving her, made her way up to the darkroom. She had a lot to do up there because her Christmas presents were to be mostly photographs. So she was rather annoyed when after only half an hour she found she needed pyrogallic acid and had run out of it. She thought, I can go and look for Gib and ask him. But if he had none? It would have to wait for a journey into Richmond.
The Diamond Waterfall Page 22