The Branded Man

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  Left alone, Don turned down the wick of the lamp that was standing on the chest of drawers. His eyes slid to the little cabinet that had been pushed back against the wall, and although he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed he had no desire to open it and talk. He was past talking to Him and praying. He returned to the head of the bed and took his seat. He stared at the discoloured and unrecognisable face on the pillow and repeated to himself the doctor’s words: ‘One way or the other.’

  The little clock on the mantelshelf showed twenty minutes past ten. There was a long night before him, and it might be her last night.

  He gently picked up her good hand lying limp on top of the coverlet, and he stroked the fingers for a moment before whispering her name: ‘Marie Anne. Marie Anne.’

  There was no answer to the plea in his voice.

  He stared down into the flushed face. Like St Aloysius she had willed herself to die and like him she would die, but why? Just through fear of that vile beast of a man.

  He tapped the back of her hand gently now as he said, ‘Marie Anne. Marie Anne, can you hear me? If you can, listen. Listen to what I am saying: You need fear him no longer, for he has gone; his father has banished him. He’ll never trouble you again.’ He knew that these last words were just wishful thinking; the man might be banished from the house, but he was still in her life and he would always remain there, until the one or other of them went, and she knew it. Should he himself ever come face to face with him, he knew he would not only want to do so, but would endeavour to carry out that wish.

  He said again, ‘Marie Anne, listen to me. You are not going to die; you mustn’t die. You are not going to die; you mustn’t die. You are being selfish, do you understand that? You are. Think of your grandfather; how is he going to feel? And your father, who is in great distress. Then there is Pat, and Evelyn. Evelyn has already put off her wedding. But above everyone, everyone, there is your Sarah, your dear Sarah, who no longer talks, does not even mutter a word. If you should leave us she will go back to London. Even caring for your child won’t make her stay here. Are you listening, Marie Anne? Make some movement to tell me that you can hear me.’

  He looked at her hand; he looked at her face; she had made no movement whatsoever; and now his voice scarcely a whisper he said, ‘There is someone else who will miss you, Marie Anne. His heart is aching now, and has ached for a long time. That’s why he stopped paying visits to your home, because he couldn’t bear to see you. There was no future in it. You were too young; he was a disfigured man. But if you should go, his heart will not only ache, it will break. And hearts do break, Marie Anne. Oh yes; hearts do break. It is not just a silly saying, but hearts break and a heart like his, one that knows it can only love you, and love you, and love you, without any hope of affection in return, will become so unbearable that he will likely take the path you are considering. However, in his case with much more reason, for he would be unable to bear living, knowing that the only beautiful thing that had come into his marred life was no longer on this earth.

  ‘A little over three days ago you were going to tell me something, Marie Anne, but you were interrupted and you never did. I knew then what you were going to say; that you were my friend and that you didn’t mind my face. That is what you were going to say, wasn’t it, Marie Anne? But, my dear, you have never seen my face and I hope you never will.’

  He became silent now, just stroking her hand. Then his voice still a whisper, he said, ‘Stay with us, Marie Anne. Stay with us.’ And in a despairing plea, he added, ‘Oh Marie Anne, stay for me. Please! Please! Stay for me.’

  There was still no movement from her face or her hand. He glanced at the clock again. He could hardly believe it, it showed something to twelve. He hadn’t been talking to her all that time, had he? No, no. Then he must have just been silent in between times.

  He released his hold on her hand, then drew himself quietly to his feet, stretched his arms well above his head, then jerked his shoulders as if to relax the muscles before he walked to the window, and there, pulling the curtains apart, he looked up into the sky.

  It was a perfectly clear sky, a deep, midnight blue, and there was a moon shining. He could not actually see it but it was lighting up the little rill to the far side of the back garden. It had turned the water to silver where it was dropping from the stones and running into the gutter that it had carved for itself over the years and then emptied into the river.

  He looked up into the sky again. There was a great expanse of it. It was a beautiful night; it was a beautiful world; only living was ugly. He closed the curtains and walked softly back to the bed, and there, sitting down, he again took hold of her good hand, and he spoke to her as if she really was listening to him: ‘It’s a lovely night. I often walk by the river on nights like this and I let the wind blow on my face…my face, Marie Anne, without its cover. It’s wonderful to feel the wind on your face, all your face; and there was a time, you know, when I used to talk to it, my face, I mean, that part. I used to say such things as, That feels better, doesn’t it? I’m sorry you can’t always feel it. But these were dangerous mutterings, and I had to stop them, for I knew where they would lead in the end. You know, Marie Anne, I don’t think of my face as a whole, I am two people, one who talks to God, and the other who denies His existence. There is a big cross in the Brothers’ chapel, and even as a boy I argued with the hanging figure. The Brothers tried to stop me. They managed for a time, but I took it up again when I came here. I made a miniature—it’s in the cabinet over there—then one day I realised, well, I’d realised it for some time, but wouldn’t admit to it, I was just talking to myself and giving myself answers. Yet since, I’ve thought that if God is anywhere, He’s guiding from afar through the still small voice of conscience. I suppose you’ve heard that phrase, haven’t you, Marie Anne, the still small voice? There was one period when I knew I was near madness. I must have been between sixteen and seventeen. I was growing very tall and broad with it and one part of my face told me that while I could have been quite pleasant to look upon, the other, that I was so hideous that I had the desire to smash everything within reach. One day I did; I wrecked a whole bench of dear Brother Percival’s work and like a distraught infant I lay on the floor kicking and screaming; well, actually fighting two hefty Brothers. The Brothers were very kind; they called it a breakdown. That’s one of the reasons why I feel I must always go on working for them. I could have repaid them, you know, Marie Anne, by becoming a Brother, or better still I could have repaid them with interest by becoming a priest. That’s when they sent me to Rome. But, inside, I knew that, in spite of everything, I was too much of a worldly man, wanting something, but not knowing what, until I met you.’

  Suddenly he felt tired. The feeling was overtaking his body and he had no power to resist it, and so he let it have its sway …

  There was a crick in his neck. His whole body was in cramp. He became aware that his brow was resting on his forearm and that this was along the edge of the plank bed. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids seemed gummed, until a voice sprang them wide: ‘Had a nice sleep?’

  The pain of raising his head was agonising, but what met his gaze was amazing, for there, at the other side of the bed, stood Sarah, one arm supporting Marie Anne, the other holding a cup to her lips.

  He dragged his cramped body to his feet, and when Sarah said, ‘You could do with a cup of tea?’ his throaty answer was, ‘I…I must have fallen asleep. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, you did; and for a long time. Do you know the time?’ She looked towards the clock. ‘A quarter to seven.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, to which Sarah came back quickly, ‘Oh man! don’t be sorry. Can’t you see she’s turned the corner?’

  He looked at Marie Anne. Her blurred gaze was on him, and he had the strange feeling that a long time had passed since he had last seen her, as if he had been away somewhere, to a refreshing place. It must have been a good sl
eep. But there she was, she was back.

  Quite suddenly he felt elated and exclaimed loudly, ‘I’ll go and have a dip in the river first;’ and as he hurried through the room and through the kitchen, Sarah’s laugh followed him.

  Nine

  For three weeks Marie Anne lay on the plank bed, refusing to have it changed for a mattress. When she did get up, she would sit by the window, the baby in its cot by her side, and all the while there were comings and goings and bustle about her.

  She’d had two special visitors. One, Evelyn, she had been very pleased to see. She had come in the other day and sat opposite her by the window, and just as Marie Anne knew that Evelyn would be seeing a great change in herself, she was also seeing a great change in her sister. Gone was the arrogant, haughty woman. In fact, Marie Anne could not imagine that the young woman sitting before her was the same one who had shown such a dislike of her.

  There she had sat, laughingly describing how she was being trained to be a farmer’s wife and byre assistant. She had also given her some information that none of the others had mentioned: their mother had gone to Canada for a holiday and Vincent had accompanied her. Could Marie Anne remember David and John? she asked.

  Oh yes, yes, she had replied; she could remember them both. One was very tall and the other, in comparison, seemed to be short.

  At this, Evelyn had explained that the short, quiet one was David, but that John was more boisterous and, if she remembered rightly, was always fighting with Vincent; so she imagined that Vincent’s surprise visit might not be welcomed by John. However, she understood David had a house of his own and it would be there that their mother and Vincent would stay. John had married the daughter of a rancher who, like himself, was a horse breeder, and so had taken up his abode there. Evelyn had also said, rather shyly, that her own delayed marriage was to take place in a fortnight’s time, but that it would be so quiet, she had ended on a laugh, that the registrar himself would hardly notice it.

  The other surprising visitor was Pat’s young lady. Marie Anne had expected to meet someone tall and slim and, being of Pat’s choice, rather beautiful, but Miss Anita Brown turned out to be almost the opposite. She was small and dark and, she guessed, very vivacious. She was a teacher of French. She wasn’t beautiful, nor yet plain; perhaps her profession had made her petite. This, together with an infectious laugh, had made her very attractive. She hadn’t mentioned when Pat and she were to be married; nor had she herself asked. Also the fact that Sarah took to her right away seemed to add to her prestige.

  Her grandfather, weather permitting, visited her most days; that was after he had had duckboards laid across the two fields from Mr Harding’s farmhouse. Mr Harding had, of course, willingly acceded to this …

  The five weeks she had spent in the bedroom had seemed like another lifetime; but this morning, standing in the stripped room of the cottage, facing Don, she was well aware that this was the only time since her recovery that they had been alone together.

  Looking up at him, she said, ‘How on earth have you put up with us all this time! There must have been days when you longed for the peace and quiet among the Brothers back in London.’

  He threw back his head and laughed as he said, ‘Peace and quiet among the Brothers! My dear, if you want a taste of bedlam you should be with them during what is termed the leisure hour, especially if the meeting happens to be in the kitchen or when Brother John is taking the opportunity to practise his mouth organ. Or when Brother Jacko is determined to pin me down to German for an hour.’ Then the smile going from his face, he looked deep into her eyes as he said, ‘I can say to you, Marie Anne, that these have been the happiest five weeks of my life, that is after the baby was born and you decided to stay among us.’

  Marie Anne turned away from his penetrating gaze and walked towards the fireplace, saying quietly, ‘I would have gone but for you.’

  He remained staring at her back, willing himself not to move towards her, and when she turned to face him again she said, ‘You won’t neglect us as you did before, will you? You’ll come over as often as possible, won’t you? And if I may, I shall come here and see you.’

  He still did not move: what could he say to that? Don’t come here; you’ll get yourself talked about, or, That would be dangerous in a way you’re not aware of. He could see himself being drawn to The Little Manor frequently; but the danger was minimised there, for there were people about; but here, when they would be alone together, that would be a danger.

  He now heard himself saying, ‘You will be welcome at any time, you know that; but don’t forget that I am a working man.’

  When she made no answer to this, but just continued to look at him, he said, ‘You’ll soon be seventeen; the second of August, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, the second of August. When were you born?’

  ‘Oh, me? Well, quite close to you; the thirty-first of July, and I’ll be thirty-three, almost twice your age, old enough to be your—’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ Although her voice was harsh, it had a break in it, and there was no smile on her face; in fact, she looked angry as she said, ‘That is a trite remark, and you know it. As for me being seventeen, that is the age of a young girl and I am no longer a young girl, if I have ever been one.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He had put his hand out towards her and his voice was soft as he said, ‘You are no longer a young girl and I am sorry for my trite remark, but please don’t disturb yourself, I was merely trying to point out—’

  ‘I know what you were trying to point out, Don; what you’re always trying to point out.’ She stopped and looked towards the door; then her voice changing, she said, ‘Here’s Father. I’m…I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you in any way.’

  The door opened and James greeted her with, ‘All ready for the road, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, Father; but I was just telling Don it will be some time before he is able to put his house in order, after all the wear and tear.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ James put in, nodding towards the floor. ‘There’s been some tramping done on this over the past weeks, Don.’

  ‘There was a lot of tramping done on it before; you’ve been very kind not to notice the holes. Anyway, I was thinking about getting a carpet and altering the whole set-up, because I’ve never done anything by way of renovation since I first came here, so please don’t worry about the carpet or anything else. There is one thing, though, I can tell you: I’m going to miss you all. This place will feel like a morgue until I can get used to the silence again.’

  ‘Well, you know what we all think, Don: we’ll never be able to repay you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll see that you do in meals, wine and music,’ and he nodded towards Marie Anne, adding, ‘You must get in more practice to make up for lost time,’ only to close his eyes tightly and say, ‘Oh, that was a dubious compliment, if ever there was one, for I don’t consider you need further practice.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said her father. ‘But come on now. Let us away. And we’ve got to get across the fields and to the farm, and bid goodbye to Mr and Mrs Harding, those very good people who have certainly helped us through this ordeal.’

  And so Marie Anne left the cottage where her child had been born and she herself had lived through a revealing lifetime, for now she knew what love was all about.

  It was early afternoon when Don returned to the cottage. He had walked by the woodland path and he was very surprised, on coming in sight of the cottage, to see Dr Ridley standing at the door, and to be greeted by him calling, ‘No wonder I couldn’t get an answer.’

  ‘They’ve all gone; I’m on my own,’ said Don.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that, that’s why I’m here; I want a word with you in private.’

  In the sitting room John Ridley exclaimed, ‘Good gracious! It does look empty. Are you glad to have the place to yourself again?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘I thought you mightn’t. May I sit down?’


  ‘Of course. Of course. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Not for a moment. I’ve got something to say and I don’t know how to begin, so will you sit down, please? You look overbearing standing there.’

  Don laughed as he sat down, saying, ‘Well, that’s the first time the word overbearing has been applied to me!’

  John Ridley folded his arms and lay back in the chair; then looking straight at Don, he said, ‘I’m not much older than you, am I?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Don; ‘forty, I would say.’

  ‘You’re near the mark, thirty-nine. And you?’

  ‘Thirty-three, shortly.’

  ‘Yes; yes, I thought that. I’m going to call you Don since everybody else does, and I think we’ve got to know each other over the past weeks, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes; yes, I would agree with you there.’

  ‘At least on the surface.’

  There was a pause before Don said, ‘Now what d’you mean by that, Doctor?’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’ve come to talk about; what goes on under the surface. But believe me, I am not speaking or asking questions out of idle curiosity. Do believe me on that, won’t you, Don?’

  Evasively Don now said, ‘That remains to be seen. Am I right in surmising that this,’ and he pointed to the mask, ‘is what you want to know about?’ and John Ridley, blushing slightly, said, ‘Yes; yes, you’re right. But, as I said, not just out of curiosity. You see, I did my training in London and spent my last two years in a hospital that specialised in skin complaints, ranging through the gamut of them. Quite a number, children and adults, attended the clinic for port wine or strawberry skin stains, as some people call them. Not uncommon, although in a way just as prevalent, was a stain of a different kind; in fact, it was horrifying to see a young girl with half her body or more covered with a black or dark brown scar. This stain or scar never appeared smooth like the port wine stain, but was made up of nodules and ridges, varying in shades of a dark hue. It had a name—’