The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens)

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘I won’t forget, definitely not.’

  And when they stood outside the church, and the verger, pointing up at the sky, cried, ‘Look, it’s stopped raining, and I believe, I do believe, that the sun will be out in a minute or so—isn’t that a good omen?’ Rosamund could have reached up and kissed the tall gangling man. When, after thanking the woman once more, she said goodbye to her, she judged from the warmth of her farewell that Michael’s generosity had been lavish, and not to the woman alone.

  They walked some distance along the street past the cathedral and into an hotel without exchanging a word. Lunch had been ordered, and not until they were seated at the table did he speak directly to her.

  ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Don’t tell fibs, you don’t feel any different.’ His voice was a jocular whisper now.

  ‘I do.’ She joined in with his mood, it helped to allay the fluttering uneven beating of her heart. ‘I’m amazed at myself, I’ve married the Fen Tiger…’ She bit on her lip as soon as she had said it. Then, dropping her head, she put her closed fist to her mouth to suppress her laughter.

  ‘The…What did you say?’ He was leaning towards her.

  She was still laughing and kept her eyes from him as she said, ‘You heard.’

  ‘You thought of me as a fen tiger?’

  ‘The Fen Tiger…there’s a distinction.’

  He reached out and took her hand now. ‘What do you know about fen tigers?’

  ‘Oh, quite a lot. I have listened to this one, and that one, and I’ve read quite a bit.’

  ‘So you think I’m a fen tiger… The Fen Tiger…the father of them all, eh? You do know that according to fen history fen tigers are not supposed to be very desirable individuals? Do you really think I’m a fen tiger, Rosie?’

  She was prevented from answering this by the appearance of the waiter, and she was vexed that this was so, for she had the feeling that in some way she had annoyed him by referring to him as a fen tiger. By the time the waiter had gone it was more difficult to answer his question, and when a silence fell between them and he did not pick up the conversation again she found it unbearable, and she asked quietly, ‘Have I upset you by saying that?’

  ‘No, no, you haven’t upset me, but the odd thing is, and this may amuse you, I have a strong desire to appear on the good side of your estimation.’

  She had her fork poised over the lobster cocktail as she exclaimed, ‘But you do. It wouldn’t matter to me what you had done, or what you’ve been. I feel I know what you are now.’

  He stared at her across the small table. ‘You really mean that, Rosie?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I really mean it.’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter what I’d been or what I’d done, you’d always feel the same about me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rosie, you’re unique. You’re unique because I know you really do mean every word you say.’

  He held her gaze until she became lost to the fact that they were sitting in an hotel in Ely. She only knew that half an hour ago she had become his wife.

  But not many hours were to pass before she was to remember her affirmation.

  It was nearly three o’clock when they returned home. The sun was shining brightly now, and there was evidence in some fields that the water had gone down slightly. Her arm was held tightly in his as they neared the house, and his laughter now held an excited boyish note as he said, ‘We haven’t met a soul, and here I am bursting to show off my wife.’ It was the first really nice thing he had said to her, and when, after taking a deep breath, he pulled her to a stop and looked down on her, she could not speak for a moment. Nor could she hold his gaze, for the intensity of his look brought a shyness to her. To cover her confusion, she said, ‘I want to tell Father and Jennifer. Shall we go straight over now?’

  ‘No, let us keep that for tonight. Let’s bring them over here and have a sort of celebration supper, eh?’

  ‘That will be lovely.’ She said this to please him, but she would rather have gone and told them straight away.

  They went on again, and now he said with brittle jollity, ‘As soon as I get in, Mrs Bradshaw, I’m changing and getting down to that dyke.’

  ‘Are you, Mr Bradshaw?’ It was a pleasant feeling to know she could exchange playful banter with her fen tiger, so she made bold to add, ‘So you already prefer the dyke to me?’

  ‘Every time, Mrs Bradshaw.’ He had her arm held so tightly against him that she winced and this brought him again to a stop, ‘I hurt you?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His tone had changed and there was a deep solemnity to his words when he said, ‘I hope I never hurt you, really hurt you, Rosie. I’ll try not to, I swear I will.’

  She was all at once overcome with a feeling of sadness and she moved from him, and as they walked the remainder of the way to the house, in silence now, she had the oddest feeling that he would hurt her, hurt her so deeply that she would not be able to bear it …

  Maggie congratulated them and blessed them and fussed over them, and she kissed Rosie, and with true Irishism said, ‘Well, Miss Rosie, ma’am, there’s nobody I’d welcome like yourself to say to me, “Do this” or “Do that” or “Hold your hand there, Maggie.”‘

  When their laughter settled, Michael said, ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Oh, she’s asleep.’ Maggie sighed, ‘She’s worn out. She started her screaming the minute you left the house. You couldn’t have been a stone’s throw away when she started. She was standing in the kitchen doorway there, out of the rain when she first let go, and she pointed this time, she was pointing at something out towards the buildings. But there wasn’t a thing to be seen, only the car in the barn. But she yelled her head off as if she was seeing all the devils in hell. It was worse than usual, Master Michael, much worse. I thought I’d go off me head…Aw, there now, I didn’t mean to tell you and upset you on this day of all days, but if I were you I’d have her seen to. This is new.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He nodded, then, looking at Rosamund, he said, ‘I’ll take her into Cambridge tomorrow. There’s a man I’ve heard of, he specialises in her type. I was going to take her along to him in any case.’

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea or are you too full of wine, both of you?’

  ‘I’d love a cup of tea, Maggie.’ Rosamund smiled at the old woman, then, turning to Michael, drawn by the intensity of his gaze, she asked quietly, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was thinking it’s a strange wedding day for you.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful wedding day.’ Her voice was soft and kind.

  ‘You don’t really mind me going off to see about the dyke?’

  ‘No, and I mean it. I love to know that you’re going on working, and on the land, on the fens. I’ve had—as Maggie would say’—she whispered to him now while she jerked her head backwards—‘I’ve had the feeling on me that you’d want to leave here and go off to foreign climes.’

  ‘Six weeks ago nothing would have held me, at least I would have said so, and yet now I’m tied myself as if with an iron hawser.’ Slowly he put his hand on her hair. ‘A rust-coloured iron hawser.’

  ‘It isn’t rust, it’s copper coloured.’

  ‘It’s beautiful, whatever colour it is.’

  She was seeing him now through a thin mist.

  ‘You love it here, don’t you, Rosie?’

  ‘I love the fenlands.’

  He nodded, then in a low voice he said:

  ‘Your land is my land,

  Its toil and its sweat,

  Its pain to come yet,

  Your land is my land.

  With mud in the meadow,

  Water in the barn,

  Pigs floating down the dyke.

  The Ouse and the Cam,

  Afloat with young lamb,

  You’ve never seen the like.

  But your land is my land,

  For I’ve taken your name,

  A
nd the fens are my home,

  Till God stakes His claim.

  ‘That was the rhyme of a fenland bride. It should have come from the bridegroom, shouldn’t it?’

  She could not answer, her throat was so tight.

  She watched him turn away, and as the door closed on him her fingers were pressed to her lips. When she turned, there was Maggie standing with the kettle in her hand, her head on one side, her face abeam as she remarked, ‘That was nice wasn’t it? Oh, that was nice indeed. He can pay a fine compliment, he can that, can Master Michael.’

  It was half-past six, and Rosamund, dressed in a soft grey, fine wool suit, was waiting in the sitting room for Michael. She was sitting sideways on the piano stool dreamily touching one key after the other. Michael, changed once more into his town clothes, had just slipped out to have a word with the last of the men, who were finishing early tonight, for it had been a very strenuous day for all of them.

  The sitting-room door was open, and she had a view across the hall to the green-baize door of the kitchen; and when she saw it flung back and Gerald Gibson come striding through, her tapping of the keys stopped and with a surge of impatience she thought, Oh no!…Then, Why has he come tonight? It was odd enough that she should have seen him last night. He usually kept his visits for the weekends. But for him to come tonight of all nights …

  She was more nervous than ever now of springing her news on her family and was desirous of getting it over as soon as possible, and here was further delay in the form of Gerald Gibson. But by the time he entered the sitting room she was on her feet and asking, ‘Is anything wrong? Aren’t you well?’

  ‘I’m all right. Where’s Mike?’

  ‘Round the back talking to the men—he’ll be here in a minute…There is something wrong. What is it? What’s happened?’ She went up to him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my people, not my sister?’ She was remembering his enquiries of last night.

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with you; it…it concerns Mike.’

  She was on the point of saying, ‘What concerns Mike concerns me,’ but she said almost the equivalent with, ‘Tell me what it is.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘It isn’t good, whatever it is, is it?’

  ‘Not for him it isn’t.’ He paused, then, looking at her closely, he said, ‘You’re not falling for him, are you?’

  No, she wasn’t falling for him; the state of her feelings could only be described in the past tense. She felt annoyed at the question and made no answer, but she continued to look at him as he went on, ‘I’d be careful if I were you.’ His voice was very low now. ‘And I’d get away from here. You don’t want to be mixed up in anything.’

  ‘Mixed up in anything?’ Her voice was cool, and he said quickly, ‘Oh, I’m not suggesting that you’ve got involved with him or anything like that, but I’m just putting you on your guard. It’s like this…’

  ‘Don’t go on…please.’ She felt he was going to say something that would only embarrass them both later. ‘I think you’d better know right away—Michael would have told you himself when he came in, anyway—we were married this morning.’

  ‘My God!’ His mouth was wide open and his eyebrows were pushed up towards his hair. He gulped now before going on, ‘But you can’t…you shouldn’t…He can’t marry again…she’s…she’s not dead…’

  She was staring at him, and she knew that her face was expressing nothing, either of shock or surprise, for she was feeling nothing, only a slight coldness on her neck.

  ‘It’s bigamy. He should never have married you. He knew he should never have married you…’

  ‘What did you say?’

  They both turned to the French window, where Michael was taking a slow step over the threshold. He repeated in a deceptively quiet tone, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I…I wanted to see you, Mike…I came straight to see you, but…but…’ He thumbed crudely in Rosamund’s direction. ‘I…I have something to tell you.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Michael was still advancing towards him. His step was slow and each movement indicated a threat, and now Gerald retreated until his back was against the end of the piano and he began to splutter. ‘A—now…look, Mike. Just wait until…I tell you…’

  Michael stopped when he was about a yard from him and said, still quietly, ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘She…’ Gerald wet his lips. ‘Rosie says you have got married, and…and I told her, well…you…you couldn’t.’

  ‘You told her we couldn’t?’

  ‘Camilla…she’s not dead. You…you said her body was washed up. I tell you she’s not dead…’

  Rosamund let out a scream as Michael’s hands were thrust around Gerald’s throat, and she flung herself on him, crying, ‘Don’t! Don’t! Listen! Please, Michael! Michael!’ As she cried his name for the second time she found herself stumbling backwards across the room, and only stopped herself from falling by clutching the back of a chair.

  ‘You dirty swine!’ As Michael’s fist contacted Gerald Gibson’s jaw Rosamund bent her face in the crook of her arm. The next minute there was a tremendous crash as a table was overturned, and at the same time Maggie’s bulk appeared in the doorway and her voice was at yelling point as she cried, ‘In the name of God, what’s come over youse?’ Then, with amazing agility for one who was always complaining about her legs, and with strength equally surprising in so old a woman, she flung herself across the room and onto Michael, and her weight alone forced him to release his hold on Gerald Gibson.

  ‘Is it stark staring mad you’ve gone?’ She was pushing at and addressing her master as if he was a young boy again. ‘What d’you think you’re up to? Acting like hooligans.’ She turned her face now towards the prostrate visitor and demanded, ‘What bad news have you brought with you to cause this? I knew by your face that it was no good that you were coming with the night.’

  Gerald Gibson rose slowly to his feet. The blood was running from his lip and nose. He looked to where Michael was standing as if ready to spring again at any moment, and he said bitterly, ‘I came to tell him that his wife was alive, that’s what I came to tell him.’

  ‘You’re mad, man! She’s dead.’ Maggie turned her small eyes from Gerald to Michael and repeated, ‘She’s dead, you said she was. You buried her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I buried her.’ Michael’s voice was thick and guttural now and still shaking with the rage that was boiling in him.

  ‘You buried her, did you?’ Gerald swept the blood from his mouth with his hand. ‘Well, let me tell you, I saw her not half an hour ago. I was talking to her. Don’t forget I knew Camilla. I saw her last night. I’ve seen her three times in the past week but couldn’t believe it. I thought she was…’ He turned to gaze in the direction of Rosamund. ‘I thought she was your sister, she’s very like her.’

  ‘You’re a liar! A damned sneaking liar.’

  ‘I’m not lying, and you can’t bluff me. You knew she wasn’t dead. At least you knew the one you buried wasn’t her. You hoped it might be, but you had no proof.’

  ‘Get out before I kill you.’

  ‘Yes, get out.’ It was Maggie speaking now. ‘And say no more, not another word.’ She moved towards him almost threateningly.

  When with a dark glare towards Michael he stumbled from the room, Rosamund slid slowly down into the armchair. She had the feeling that she was going to be sick. From under her lowered lids she saw Michael coming towards her and she turned her head away into the corner of the chair.

  ‘Rosie, look at me. Rosie…I said look at me.’ His voice appeared to be dragging itself up from the very bowels of the fen itself, but she did not obey his command, for, as menacing as his tone was, it could not blot out the voice of a week ago when he had pleaded with her in the kitchen to tell no-one of their forthcoming marriage, ‘I have a feeling on me,’ he had said, ‘that dates back to my childhood. Anything I want badly is always taken from me.’ He had not said, ‘I’ve always wanted those things just out of reach, which the
law forbids me to have.’

  ‘Rosie!’ Her head was jolted forward as he gripped her shoulders and pulled her into an upright position. ‘Why are you believing him and not me? Rosie!’ He shook her as if trying to wake her from a dream, a nightmare. ‘Listen to me. My wife is dead…You don’t believe me?’ Slowly the grip on her shoulders slackened, and so quietly did he release her that she remained in the same position. He was looking down on her now, his face grey and agonisingly hard. ‘My wife is dead, I buried her. I carried her up out of the sea myself and I buried her.’

  ‘No, no.’ She shook her head slowly as she listened to her own voice, strange and faraway sounding, saying, ‘I’ve seen her. I’ve seen her looking through that window there.’ She pointed into the hall, then watched him turn and look at Maggie, and saw Maggie shake her head as she muttered, ‘In the name of God.’ She brought his eyes back to her by saying, ‘Was she like my sister?’

  ‘Yes.’ His head moved slightly and his words sounded grudging. ‘There was a resemblance, but she was older.’

  ‘Then I’ve seen her.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ With a sudden movement he was on his knees before her, clutching at her hands. ‘Whoever you saw, or whatever you saw, it wasn’t her. Believe me, Rosie. Believe me…’

  ‘Why didn’t you want anyone to know we were going to be married?’ Her voice was scarcely audible, and her eyes were turned from his.

  ‘Because…because…’ He screwed up his face and bared his teeth as he said, ‘It was because of what I told you, this feeling, and wasn’t I right? But I tell you, you are mistaken about this…this other…’

  ‘Mr Gibson…he knew her?’

  ‘Yes. Gibson knew her, and he wanted her as he wants you.’ At her sudden recoil he said, ‘Oh, I’ve no illusions about my friend Mr Gerald Gibson. I knew him long before he showed his hand as he did tonight. He’s never had any love for me. He would have gone off with Camilla if she would have had him, but he had no money, and she had no use for anyone without money. I tell you, it’s some story he’s concocted. He guessed about us, and he was out to spoil it.’