World From Rough Stones

by Malcolm Macdonald

  And Nora shouted: "Couldn't be better! The baby's head has two crowns to his hair!"

  "Now what's that mean?" he asked John.

  "Don't you say that down south?"

  "Never heard of it."

  "It means good luck."

  A few minutes later he shouted into the thicket: "May we approach?"

  "No!" Nora shouted. "Stay away!"

  "No!" Arabella joined in this time.

  "Arabella!" he called out. "Are you all right?"

  "Of course she is!" Nora shouted. "Go and get that football. She'll come out and keep goal for you in half a minute!"

  They laughed.

  "Men!" she said to Arabella. "They've no idea have they?"

  She cradled the baby, a healthy little boy who was breathing happily without having cried. "Oh!" she said to him. "You do everything so easily in your family!" She laid him on Arabella's stomach, waiting for all the afterbirth to be delivered.

  Arabella, not truly exhausted, for it had been an unusually easy birth, lay back on the cushions once she had seen him. "The Lord be praised!" she said happily. "Oh blessed be the name of the Lord. 'A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come: but as soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.'"

  "Ten fingers, ten toes," Nora said. "Go on! Anguish indeed! You'd have nodded off to sleep if we'd let you!"

  Arabella smiled happily but said nothing. Nora fingered the umbilical cord. "That's all nicely shrunk now," she said. "Shouldn't bleed." She took the sharpened knife from Bess, who watched with open mouth while Nora cut the cord in one swift movement, a few inches from the baby's stomach. "Now," she went on, "put the afterbirth in that empty bucket. Doctor may want to see it. I'll clean up his little face for him…Oh! Look at those puzzled eyes! No, I'm not your mother! That's your mother! Yes it is! Yes it is!"

  She picked up the baby and wrapped it in a clean tablecloth. And with a napkin, dipped in the pail of clear, cold water, she began to clean up his eyes and nose and mouth. The cold was a shock and the baby for the first time began to cry. "Oh!" she chided, not pausing in her work. "Cold water! Yes, cold! And you'd best get used to it too! For there's a deal more coming your way!"

  And while Arabella straightened herself and made herself presentable again, Nora went on washing and talking to the baby.

  "Oh!" Arabella said as soon as she sat up and saw where she had been lying. "Your beautiful lace tablecloth! It's all spoiled!"

  "Never!" Nora said, shocked that she could see it from that point of view. "It's glorified!"

  Nora felt certain that Walter would ignore Arabella until he had exhausted his delight at his new son. But it was the other way round. Indeed Arabella, a little disappointed, had to push the child into his arms before he would stop fussing over her and take any interest in their boy. But then Nora realized what it was—Thornton was shy! He didn't want to mishandle the baby or make any other mistake while she was there.

  "I'll look out for the doctor," she said and left them.

  As she left, she wondered if Thornton would notice that the gravestone Arabella had been delivered on was, in fact, Nicholas Everett's. True, it was just about the most concealed part of the cemetery—which, after all, was why she had chosen it with Walter—but even so, it was a rather grisly trick of fate that John had chosen it when he spread the blankets.

  The moment Walter came out into the open again she knew from his face, and from the glance he shot at her, that he had realized where his son had been delivered.

  Shortly afterward the doctor came, breathless, full of needless apology—and of anxiety for Arabella. But as he questioned her and Nora and listened to their answers and examined Arabella and the pail with the afterbirth, his tension eased and he became more and more jovial.

  "Where did you say the cord was?" he asked at one point.

  Nora described how, after the birth of the head, she had seen that the cord ran obliquely up, over the baby's left shoulder, and down again behind.

  "So what did you do?"

  And she described how she had pushed the cord clear of the left shoulder and worked it back into the birth canal as the baby progressed outward.

  "Why do you ask, doctor?" Arabella said.

  "It's of no great moment now," he answered. "But I think you ought to know that this young fella—and probably you, too, Mrs. Thornton, owe your lives to the skill of Mrs. Stevenson."

  And Arabella embarrassed Nora still further by saying that they had debts in that direction they'd never be able to requite.

  The doctor thought that Arabella ought to rest in Littleborough for a day or two before going back to Todmorden. He went down with her and Tabitha and Jackson, leading his horse at the tail of the car. Walter was to go back to Pigs Hill to collect the things she would need.

  "We'll come down with you to Littleborough," Nora said.

  The doctor looked up sharply: "Absolutely not! There's been quite enough excitement for one day. Now Mrs. Thornton's to have absolute tranquility."

  Arabella winked at Nora.

  It was well into the middle of the afternoon before the car pulled slowly out through the gate and set off for Littleborough. John, Nora, and Walter stood and waved until it passed out of sight.

  Nora sighed. "Well," she said, brisk again. "I thought I'd be put off my meat by that. But my guts are ready to eat my little toes."

  "Thornton," John said. "I expect you'll want to be away if you're to make the double journey. You're welcome to Hermes."

  Walter had acted a little dazed ever since he'd seen the site of Arabella's accouchement. Now he roused himself a little. "To tell the truth," he began and then faltered.

  "Stay and eat if you wish," Nora invited. "You'll probably make the journey better for a little food inside you."

  "Mmmm." He nodded.

  "Sit yourself down then," John said.

  "She's in excellent hands." Walter seemed to find it necessary to excuse himself. "I expect it'll make no difference if I get there at six or at seven."

  "Or all at sixes and sevens!" John tried being hearty, to cheer him up. "I'll go and help that Bess with the hamper."

  "Oh let me too…" Walter began to rise again.

  "No no!" John said, pushing him down. "You're our guest of honour now!"

  But as soon as he was gone, Walter turned urgently to Nora and said: "What game is your husband playing?"

  "Game?" She feigned ignorance.

  "Yes," he said. "All day I've had this feeling. There's some…secret between him and Arabella. Don't you feel it too? Did you see how they smiled at each other when we set off?"

  "That's a disgraceful thing to say!" Nora answered, wishing she did not have to lower her voice.

  "And why did she suggest this place of all places? Why this place?"

  "You are not to make such suggestions! If it worries you so much, keep Arabella out of his reach. But what a thing to say of her. On the day she gives you such a fine son too!"

  Walter laughed despairingly. "Your husband and Arabella! Hah! That's rich! He'd stand more chance of winning the favours of the Eddystone Lighthouse! And derive greater pleasure!"

  "I think this has unhinged you…"

  "And that gravestone!" he interrupted. "Why just that gravestone?"

  "How do I know? Ask him."

  "You haven't…told him?" Walter suggested.

  "Oh very likely," she sneered. "Do please talk of other things."

  "I'm sure he suspects." Walter seemed to speak more to himself than to her. "I'm sure he suspected it that day."

  "What day?" She was alert suddenly. "You mean last year?"

  "He asked me, when he met with me in the drift that night, he asked me if I'd 'tumbled' with you. Took me off my guard."

  She laughed mockingly, believing him. "That's his best time. When you're off guard. I suppose you owned up!"

  "Of course I didn't! I denied it. But…you see"�
��he faltered—"I was uneasy about what you might have said. I mean, you might already have joked about it. How was I to know? I didn't know you then." He sighed. "So I daresay my denial was not as forthright as it might have been."

  She looked glumly at the skyline. "I hope it was too dark to see your face," she said. "There's not the slightest power in you to deceive." Suddenly she looked at him in something akin to warmth. "It's the nicest thing about you, to be candid."

  "He'd guess anyway." Walter refused to be cheered. "I wish I had his powers."

  "Oh yes!" she crowed. "There's a deal of folk who wish that!"

  "I mean his power to judge people. His genius, it is. For people. You wait— that cripple he picked out on the turnpike today. He'll turn out to be a second James Watt! I could go out and pick a hundred cripples, and I'd just have a hundred mouths to feed. He picks one and it'll be James Watt the second. That's what I mean. He can see through people's exteriors to their true worth." Nora was pleased to hear this return of his humour; but then he spoiled it by turning to her and saying: "Oh, Nora! How I misjudged you! What a prize you are!"

  She could have cried in disappointment. "You are to stop addressing me in that familiar way!"

  "Why did he pick that gravestone?"

  "Good Christ! Will you…" she almost exploded, "darn that hole in your face! He chose it for the same reason we chose it: It's the priviest nook in there. Now here they come. So shut up for the love of Charley! And try to look a bit cheerful! I must say—for a man that's just had good issue in a fine healthy son with two crowns in his hair, you deserve some kind of a diploma for keeping a cool head."

  "In any case," Walter said, now dissociated again, "what did you mean about not leaving him alone with Arabella?"

  "I never said that…" she began but could not finish. "That's a champion sight!" She turned jovially to John and Bess. "I swear I could almost smell that chicken while we waited!"

  "All quartered and ready," John said.

  Bess coughed. "If you please, m'm," she said. "I'm none too hungry. Could I go an tak some ease in't cemetery?"

  "Ye may have an hour Bess. The trap should be back then," Nora conceded.

  "Thank you, m'm."

  When she had gone Nora said: "She's gone to meet that farm boy. That's what that…"

  "Farm boy?" John said.

  "He came up the lane while ye were at your football," she told him.

  He passed out chicken and a now rather limp salad.

  "You permit it?" Walter asked.

  "She's fifteen," Nora answered. "Old enough. She knows what'll happen if she gets herself into trouble."

  "Little minx!" John said off-handedly and turned to Walter: "Well, Thornton— for a newly minted paterfamilias I must say you're looking decidedly—not to say determinedly—glum."

  Walter merely sighed. "Am I now."

  "Though why I should say 'gets herself into trouble,'" Nora continued, "I don't know. It's not a very true account. They should have to dismiss the lad as well."

  When she said that, Walter suddenly came to life. "Oh they would!" he said with heavy sarcasm. "Believe me they would! If he carried the evidence around, too."

  "Who would?" John asked, unsure whether or not to laugh. "This new breed…of…these prudes…killjoys. Oh yes!"

  Nora nibbled at her chicken. "I'm sure you know what you're talking about," she said.

  John intervened. "What'll ye call the lad, Thornton?" Walter turned to him and said with heavy emphasis:

  "I felt sure you'd know that already!"

  "Me?" John said, surprised. "I imagine you'll call him Walter, too. No?"

  "I shall call him…" Walter dropped the name as if he thought it would prove a bombshell "Nicholas Everett! Nicholas Everett…Thornton."

  "Nicholas Everett," John said experimentally and then turned, mystified, to Walter. "The man of the moment? Something I've not heard?"

  Walter, who had not touched his meal, looked despairingly from one to the other of them. "Are you two playing me a joke?" he asked.

  Nora, trying to restore calm, began drawing his attention to what still lay in the basket: "There's veal and ham pie…or pigeon pie…or collared calf's head."

  "Nicholas Everett," Walter said heavily to John, "is the name on that gravestone. As you very well know."

  "My wife was offering you some—"

  "Though you may pretend you don't!"

  "Thornton," John said wearily. "You're getting damned difficult to follow. What gravestone? What am I supposed to know so very well?"

  Walter buried his head in his hands. "Now you are mocking me. Certainly. I am sure of it."

  "Then let me tell you plainly—before you grow totally unhinged—let me tell you my main reason for asking you here today."

  "Hah!" Walter looked up triumphantly. "Now we come to it!"

  "My main reason was to put a proposal to you. If we got the Bolton–Preston contract, which we now know we have got, I was to offer you a job. I'll need a good engineer…Are you listening, man?" He could not tell from Thornton's face what the fellow was thinking. "I propose to offer you a post on that and other works. At £600 a year. And a tenth share of all profits!" He watched for some response. "Well?" Again there was only that blank stare. "For heaven's sake, man."

  "Oh lord!" Nora said in disgust, imagining that Thornton was silently weeping.

  But that was by no means clear.

  "Take a hold of yourself, man!" John told him.

  "What is all this," Walter asked, "about…you and Arabella?"

  John was stunned. "Arabella? Myself?"

  "This is my fault," Nora confessed with a sigh.

  "What quality did you find there that I missed, eh?"

  "Thornton!" John exploded, his patience at an end. "Speak plain or hold your tongue, damn you!"

  "It's me to blame," Nora repeated. "I made some passing joke…or I meant it as a joke…about…"

  "A joke!" Walter cried. "Aha! So you say! But I know better. A joke! I'll tell you a joke, Stevenson. See if it makes you laugh. Nicholas Everett is the name on the gravestone you covered up today for Arabella's delivery. That grave!"

  John did not twitch a single muscle. His level gaze forced Walter to continue.

  "And on that same grave…"

  "Thornton!" Nora almost shrieked.

  But John, without removing his eyes from Walter's face, sought and found her hand and clasped it for reassurance. As soon as her hand was in his grip, she thought: He knows! He knows! And the relief that flooded through her was like fire and wine. Nothing mattered now. She watched Walter as if he were an automaton, mouthing words she had seen him mouth a hundred times before.

  "On that same grave," he repeated, "a year ago…a year"—he struggled to open his watch—"to this very hour, I topped your wife on that selfsame stone. Tumbled with her!"

  There was no reaction. Neither of them moved.

  "There!" he added. Something had been left unsaid but he could not remember it.

  Nora took a deep breath. "Thornton," she said quietly. "You did not top John Stevenson's wife."

  "And she loved it!" he crowed. That was what he had forgotten to say.

  "You did not top her," Nora repeated in that same moderate tone. "Not"— she clasped John's hand tight and shook it in triumph—"this man's wife. Can ye not see that? You topped a ragged little runaway. A little barefoot thing in rags. With a belly empty enough to contain all the pride she could swallow and"—she hated adding these next few words for they were untrue, but she had to stifle his yearning for this dead past, and to do that she had to be brutal—"and all the distaste, too."

  "No!" he called out in agony.

  "And still leave room for meat," she added. "But that was not Lord John's wife. Her, Lord John's wife, ye couldn't buy for the queen's jewels and a king's ransom."

  "But…" Walter was now bewildered beyond mere incoherence. "Ye've left out…the…my…you…all…ye've…"

  "I've forgotten it,"
Nora said.

  Tears ran down his face yet he was not crying. At least—he was not sobbing. He just stared at her. And the tears just streamed. "There's nothing then," he said at last. "Nothing. You take." He turned to John. "And you take, too. You both…take. And what have I?"

  They stared at him, horrified at his collapse.

  "Nothing!" he concluded.

  "Nothing?" Nora at last found words for her scorn. "Nothing? A good wife— the best of wives. Safely delivered of a fine, healthy son. A job at six hundred offered—and ten times the prospects. Nothing! The only place you've gotten nothing, Mr. Thornton, is right down the middle of your back!"