‘Wouldn’t I, Pa?’
‘No, you wouldn’t; so go on and get about your business.’
‘I’m goin’.’ She nodded her head sharply at him. ‘And you get about your business and see that you wash them plates up properly and don’t leave them stuck with thick grease.’ And on this she went out to her work.
The three men, left alone, said no word to each other, but Ned got up and, going to the mantelpiece, took from a rack two clay pipes and, picking out a long twist of brown baccy from a jar standing near, he cut two pieces off the end, then handed one of them together with a pipe to his father-in-law. When he sat down again, each worked the knot of tobacco loose by grinding it with the stub of his left hand into the palm of his right hand. When the tobacco was sufficiently shredded, almost simultaneously they filled their pipes and Ned lit them from the same spill.
While this was going on Davie had been standing looking out of the small window and along the mud-dried road that curved in front of the house to end abruptly, cut off by a railing that circled a dark mass of trees.
The Armstrongs’ cottage was the end one of the three labourers’ cottages farthest from the farmhouse, which was a hundred yards away. They had been built ninety years ago when the new additions had been made to the farm. There were no gardens at the front, but at the back of each was a piece of land as wide as the cottage, which was sixteen feet. It ran in a narrow strip for about seventy feet downhill to the brook which supplied water for all purposes. The ashes from their fires formed dry middens, the contents of which, together with that from the house, was collected once a week by a farm cart and dumped in the old workings of a lead mine half a mile away.
Davie had been born in this cottage, and up till this very day he had considered himself lucky to have been brought up on this particular farm, for the master, although strict in all ways, and narrow and churchy in his views, was a go-ahead progressive employer, as his efforts at modern sanitation proved – no stinking cesspools and middens near the house for him. He had once overheard him say, the excrement from animals was sweet compared to that of humans, and it was the badness in humans that made it as it was. Moreover the master had not allowed him to start work until he was six. No child on the farm started work until he was six, even at scarecrowing. And then, since the master took over, twenty years ago, every child on the farm attended Sunday School, and this was long afore school going was made compulsory. He had been very strict about them all going to Sunday School, and so they all learned their letters, those who could take them in. He himself had taken them in, sucked them in, he had lapped it all up. He still did; the older he got the more he knew there was to learn. He was proud of what knowledge he had; he could count, he could add and subtract, he could write a letter. However, he had never yet written a real letter to anyone, there was nobody to write to, but if it ever came to pass that he had to write a letter he would be capable of doing it. And he could read, oh aye, he could read.
He had got this far in book learning because he was interested. He wanted to learn something else besides milking cows and the other work on a farm, and Parson Hedley was out to learn anybody who wanted to learn. Not so Parson Wainwright; oh no, old-nose-in-the-air Wainwright only gave you his blessing when he knew how much money you were likely to leave to the church, or, to put it plainly, to him.
Parson Hedley had said only last week, ‘I’m going to lend you a book by Mr Dickens, Davie; it is called Great Expectations. And you know, Davie,’ he had added, ‘that is a very good title, Great Expectations; it’s based on hope, and hope is a mighty fine thing to carry you through. And by the way,’ he had ended, ‘bring Molly to the readings. She hasn’t been for a long time and she was getting along fine.’
Bring Molly to the readings! She hasn’t been for a long time. No, Molly had been otherwise occupied. Blast her! . . . But with who? Who? His granda was right about smelling a rat. There was a big stink here somewhere. Nothing escaped his granda.
He turned slowly and looked at him. He was puffing quietly at his pipe, his eyes were closed, his shoulders stooped; he looked old, worn out, yet mentally Davie knew he was much more alert, even at his age, than was his son-in-law.
He cared deeply for his grandfather and he always felt a pang of anxiety when he saw him sitting like this, his body sagging, his lids drooped, for then that vital spark of life which showed in his eyes was hidden. He said flatly, ‘I’m off,’ and at this his grandfather opened his eyes, his father lifted his head, and they both said, ‘Aye,’ and he went out of the front door on to the road.
He passed the Geary house, which was strangely quiet today. It wasn’t very often he passed this door without hearing Cassy Geary bawling at one or the other. If it wasn’t her husband it was the two lads, or Molly. It was worse before the three younger lasses went into service. The hardest worked part about Mrs Geary, he considered, was her mouth.
He passed the next house, which was always quiet, having only Will Curran in it. But even when Mrs Curran had been alive, and their grown-up son and daughter in the house, it had always been quiet; Will Curran was a domineering man who would be obeyed. He wanted to be a master did Will Curran, and he practised it hard under his own roof. His son had run off to sea and his daughter had done a moonlight flit with a fellow from across the valley.
He went on down the road and into the farmyard.
Everything here looked neat and spruce, especially since the mud was baked hard. There had been no rain to speak of for weeks, but it wouldn’t be long before they had it for the clouds were breaking up. He passed the house lying back to the left of him, then turned at right angles into the long yard that lay between the byres and barn at one side and the stables and store sheds at the other. He stepped over the channel of water which ran down the middle of the yard. Fed by inlets from the byres, it took the main part of the slush and muck.
When he entered the byres Fred Geary was already at work, which was unusual so early in the afternoon session. The man turned his small thin body and looked towards him, but didn’t speak, and Davie hesitated just within the doorway, wondering what he should do. His first impulse was to go up to him and say, ‘Look here; you can think what you like, but I know nowt about it.’ But he thought better of it; what had to be said he would let come from him first.
But when fifteen minutes had passed and Geary had said no word to him, good, bad, or indifferent, he covertly watched him as he clumped back and forth to the dairy. He still had the explosive look on his face that had been noticeable when they were all called into the barn to witness the chastisement . . .
The chastisement. He couldn’t get over it. When the bell had rung he had dashed from the beet field thinking there was a fire, for the bell was only rung to gather them together for the march to church on a Sunday or in case of fire or flood; it was also rung, merrily for a birth, slowly for a death. But this morning his granda had been pulling it at the rate he did on Sundays, and so he had cried at him, ‘What’s up?’ His granda had merely pointed along to the barn.
When he had reached the barn it was to see the master and Molly standing up on the weighing platform, and below them the five Gearys, Will Curran, his own mother and father, and the mistress and Miss Jane. The master had looked down on Miss Jane and ordered, ‘Go to the house and stay there,’ and the girl had hesitated a moment before doing as he bade her. Then the master had said, ‘There is trouble among us . . . Fred’ – he had nodded towards Geary – ‘Fred has come to me with bad news concerning his daugh— Molly here.’ He had hesitated over his words, which was unusual for the master, but it was plain he had no stomach for what he was about to do. Then he continued, ‘He tells me she’s in trouble and will not name the man, and because of her stubbornness he has asked me to chastise her. I have no heart for this, but he demands it be done as was usual . . . ’ It was at this point that his granda had cried out, ‘But them d
ays are past, Master!’ and the master had replied, ‘I have already pointed this out to Fred.’ ‘Then why do it, Master?’ his granda had dared to question, and the master’s reply was, ‘If I don’t he will take her in hand himself, and I think in this case I am the lesser of two evils.’
At this he had asked Molly again to name the man, but all she had done was to shake her head. And then he had told her to grab hold of the stanchion post and he had laid his horsewhip across her back. She had on a cotton blouse and although his hand was not heavy she jerked at each of the five lashes, especially the last, for the tail-end of the thong caught her on the bare neck.
When it was over Molly had walked away with her head down, she had not cried. He had stared after her helplessly. The whole thing had come upon him so suddenly he couldn’t believe it had happened. Everybody seemed stunned, all except Geary, who showed no satisfaction in the outdated punishment he had demanded.
He had wondered at the time why Geary’s big-mouthed, slovenly wife hadn’t done something to prevent the whole business; but no, she had just stood there and watched her seventeen-year-old daughter being made a public spectacle.
When he came to look at the affair from a distance he couldn’t make it out, because Cassy Geary was the one to spew mouthfuls of abuse on anybody who laid a finger on a member of her family, even when they were all bairns together and in a straight barnyard fight . . . As his granda said, there was a smelly rat here somewhere. But where?
When he had finished his work in the byres he went out and across the yard to the harness room. There, young Mickey Geary was sitting on a high bench with his back towards the wood-panelled walls, and he was almost entirely obliterated by a saddle arched across his knees. His face was bright and cheery. What he had witnessed happening to his sister this morning had apparently left no impression on him, for he said airily, ‘Want me to come now, Davie?’
‘You finished that?’
‘All but.’
‘You’ve been some time; you started it first thing.’
‘Aye, but I’ve cleaned it bonny.’
Davie lifted the saddle away from the boy and examined it, then nodded and said, ‘It’ll do.’
‘We goin’ for the cows?’
‘Aye.’
The child slipped agilely from the bench on to the floor, where his diminutive height and thinness questioned his eight years, but for all his smallness he was a bright little fellow and a favourite with Davie, or had been up till today. Now he hated the whole job lot of Gearys.
As Mickey trotted beside him he chatted. ‘You goin’ to make up some polish the night, we’re nearly out, Davie?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Can I help you? Can I stir the wax, you said I could last time?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘When is Primrose gona calf?’
‘Soon.’
They went out of the farmyard into the road, through a gap in a drystone wall opposite, across a field and over a stile towards the steep hill they called The Ridge. The grass was slippery and Mickey measured his length once or twice, but Davie didn’t stop until the small voice suddenly said, ‘Ee bugger! I’m not ’alf hungry, me bloody belly thinks me throat’s cut.’
Another time this would have brought a smothered laugh from Davie and he would have cuffed the boy’s ear while admonishing him, but now he just admonished him sternly, saying, ‘Let the master hear you an’ that language an’ he’ll sort you out.’ Then staring down into the small round face, he asked, ‘Didn’t you have no dinner?’
‘No. Me ma never made none, she’s in a hell of a sweat. Everybody is . . . you gona marry our Molly?’
Davie’s face stretched; his whole body stretched, and before he could say anything the boy backed away a step, saying, ‘Well, I only axed, ’cos our Johnnie said you had a shy on her.’
‘Well, you can tell Johnnie to keep his mouth shut,’ he bellowed at the lad, then turned away and closed his eyes for a moment before tramping sharply on again.
On the top of the ridge he waited for the boy to catch up. From where he stood he could see a great expanse of land beyond the boundary of the farm. To the right of him were hills, young mountains some of them; showing green, and brown, with here and there great black patches, telling scars of dead lead mines. To the left the land rolled into moorland flatness on its way to Haltwhistle and the South Tyne. In front of him, eight miles as the crow flew, twelve miles by the twisting road, lay Allendale in its nest of moors.
Even in the winter he always paused at this spot to breathe in the air, it seemed purer from up here. Today, a late hot summer day, it was thin and clean and scoured his ribs as he drew it inwards, it was almost as good he considered as the air you breathed from the top of Shale Tor.
Mickey, crawling to his side on all fours, straightened himself and gasped, ‘Whew! I’m out of puff. It’s all slack. When the rain comes I bet it’ll be claggy,’ and Davie, now looking down at him, half smiled and cuffed his ear gently, and the boy laughed and ran ahead of him down the slope and into the field where the cattle were grazing.
They did not bring the cattle back the way they had come, but by a narrow track that skirted the hill and finally led across the twenty-acre field and into the farm by the back road.
But before they came to the field they had to pass along a road so narrow that the cattle walked in single file. Lowing and ambling at their own pace, their bags almost touching the ground, swinging rhythmically from side to side, they went.
More out of habit than in any effort at persuasion, Davie ambled along behind the last stragglers, crying, ‘Git up! Git up there! Move Daisy! You Bella, move! Move I say!’ and when he stopped issuing his fruitless commands, Mickey took them up, ‘Hie-up there! Hie-up there Daisy! Hie-up you Bella! Get along, Vicky, along you get.’
As Mickey’s piping went on Davie happened to glance to his right beyond a low scrub hedge where the land fell away over what was termed the shale field. It was a large strip of land, almost on the north boundary of the farm and in most parts useless because of the outcrops of rock and shale shelves protruding from the ground. Grass did grow in the far corner of the field; contrarily a couple of acres gave luscious grass; perhaps it had something to do with its proximity to the old malt house.
The malt house was in ruins; it had been a ruin when Davie’s grandfather was a boy. One section alone remained. This had been the habitation, but now the ground floor was used as a shelter for the horses in rough weather, when the mares and their foals were brought out here to grass. Halfway across the ground floor an open stairway led to a gallery, which had once, in turn, led to rooms which adjoined the malt house. But now all that remained of these was a wall of doors; the gallery itself was given over to storage of hay and bags of oats.
What had drawn his attention to the malt house was the figure running in that direction; although some distance away he recognised the slight form of Miss Jane. She was holding her skirt in both hands, and her legs were leaping over the ground; from this distance she put him in mind of a two-legged deer. He thought she was going to the mare and foal, the foal being at the pretty enticing stage of four weeks, but when he saw her pass them and make for the malt house he stopped. Mickey stopped too, and, his small face screwing up, he exclaimed, ‘Yon’s Miss Jane, an’, aw look, she’s fallin’ bad!’
When seconds passed and the form on the ground made no move to get up Davie said quickly to the boy, ‘Take them on, I’ll go down and see what’s wrong with her.’
He now hurried back down the narrow path to where the hedge was thinnest and, having pushed his way through, he ran quickly across the field; but before he had covered half the distance he saw his young mistress get to her feet and start running again, not so quickly now and slightly erratic.
When he reached the front of the house, which
was paved with large flags of natural stone and was on the side facing away from the field, he paused for a moment before walking quietly to the doorless gap. The stanchion was rubbed smooth in one part by the horses’ hides; the floor inside was of stone too but the flags were smaller and covered with horses’ droppings. The atmosphere was hot and dim and the odour pungent.
He looked about him, then upwards to the railless gallery at the sound of stilled sobbing came from the hay. Quickly he ascended the open stairs to the floor above.
‘Miss Jane!’
There was no answer.
‘Miss Jane! Are you hurt? It’s me, Davie. Are you hurt?’
He walked quietly and slowly towards the hay. She was lying deep in it, and after a moment she turned on her side and looked up at him. Her face was awash with tears, her mouth was wide and her tongue jerking on each sob.
‘What is it? Have you hurt yourself?’ He dropped on to his hunkers beside her, and she closed her eyes and shook her head.
‘You fell, I saw you fall; I was takin’ the cattle in. Are you all right, Miss Jane?’
She nodded her head while she gulped.
‘You’re sure you’re not hurt?’
‘No. No, Davie.’ Her voice was a cracked whisper. Then she looked at her knees that were exposed by her rumpled skirt. One grey stocking was torn and showed scraped flesh oozing specks of blood, and as she eased the stocking off the skin she muttered, ‘I’m not crying because I fell, but because Father . . . Father whipped Molly. He whipped her, Davie . . . you saw . . . ’
He blinked his eyes and looked down and away from her, then said, ‘The master told you to go to the house. Anyway, it’s done, over, so forget about it.’
‘I can’t, Davie. I keep thinking, and just can’t believe that Father . . . ’
Feathers in the Fire Page 2