Feathers in the Fire

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Well, you can see for yourself, Miss, somethin’ll happen sooner or later, an’ then the master’ll have to face up to it. It isn’t as if’ – she jerked her head backwards – ‘he’s an idiot. Never in me life have I seen one so bright. If the master would only bring himself to look at the child, or even the mistress for that matter. But then, I think there’s less likelihood in that quarter than in t’other. Aw, it’s a nice kettle of fish. Look’ – she came round to Jane’s side, her voice a whisper now – ‘the master’s gone into town, left as I was comin’ up; now why don’t you take him down, there’ll be no chance of him seeing anybody that matters. The mistress hasn’t been out of her room for three months. An’ there’s another thing’ – she now stabbed her finger into Jane’s shoulder – ‘you’re gettin’ as pale and peaked lookin’ as a lady in decline. You’ve got to get yourself out, an’ you’ve got to take the chance as it comes. Look, why not take him down this minute? Take him round the farm. An’ think of the good it’ll do yourself. Now, what about it?’

  ‘Oh, Winnie, do you think I dare?’

  ‘If you never dare now, Miss, you’ll never dare at all. It’s a bonny day. The wind’s fresh, spring’s in the offing, and that child has got to get out of his room sometime or other else he’ll break out . . . Come on, come on, it’s now or never.’

  There was a flutter in Jane’s heart as she ran to the cupboard and took out a shawl. The child had no outdoor clothes, there had been no necessity to buy any, and when she went towards him holding the shawl out before her, he anticipated the excitement in the air for, leaving the support of his low table, his body seemed to fold up like a concertina before he sprang it upwards and into her arms.

  ‘There now, there now, don’t get excited.’

  ‘I’m goin’ down, Winnie! I’m goin’ down!’

  ‘Darling. Listen.’ Jane shook him, bringing his attention to her. ‘Listen. You must be quiet until we get out of doors, understand? Your mama is not well. Don’t talk until you’re in the open, you understand?’

  His face now soft, his mouth closed, he nodded at her, and to show her that he was falling in with her wishes he pressed his lips tightly together. But when the door was opened and closed behind them and he did not hear the sound of the key turning in the lock he looked down into her face; then as they went along the passage his mouth fell into a childish gape, and on descending the stairs his head turned from one side to the other in wonder.

  ‘Go down the back way, Miss Jane,’ Winnie whispered from behind her.

  Jane didn’t answer but nodded her head once, and when they came on to the floor below she turned sharply to the left and went down the four steps on to the next landing, past the doors of her father’s bedroom and of the room that had once been her own and still was, although she slept with the child in the attic. Then passing the head of the main stairway they turned left again, and went through a door and down the back stairs that dropped into a passage way. This in turn gave on to the side yard.

  The yard was paved for only half its length, the rest being covered with turf, which continued round to the back of the house, inlaid here and there with flower beds. The paved half terminated at the corner of the house and was shut off from the main yard by a thick wall, part of which had a dubious claim to Roman structure, but the archway leading into the farmyard proper, although deep and ruggedly built, was of modern design.

  It was as Jane entered the arch from the side of the house that her father also entered it from the main yard.

  Which of the two was the more affected was hard to tell. Jane thought for a moment that she would drop the child, so weak did her fear make her.

  The boy could have put his hands out and touched his father, but the touch would have scorched him for McBain was full of a body-burning rage. His livid glance touched on the child for but a second or two and its pale flat face and almond-shaped eyes hooded by the shawl only emphasised the impression of the monstrosity he always carried in his mind.

  ‘TAKE . . . IT . . . BACK.’ The words were sieved through his teeth, which were clenched, the lips straining away from them.

  ‘No . . . No, Father, I can’t. He must . . . he must have air.’

  ‘TAKE IT BACK.’

  She stepped away from him while shaking her head as she defied him, saying, ‘I can’t. He’s a human being, I can’t.’

  ‘You are my papa.’

  If a pig had walked on its hind legs and spoken these words McBain could not have been more surprised, they were so clear, so firm, so normal sounding. The thing had said, ‘You are my papa.’ The shawl had dropped from around its head and he saw the mass of fair curls. But they could have been a crop of horns he was looking at. No male McBain had ever been fair, all had been raven black; the fairness he was looking upon was no ordinary fairness, it was a weird, strange silvery fairness. Yet the voice was ordinary, normal. But no, there was even something weird about that too, for it wasn’t the voice of a child. The thing did not look like a child, and it showed no fear of him.

  When it said in the same clear ringing tones, ‘Are you going to ride your horse?’ he brought his shoulders up round his chin as if to protect himself against some hideous attack and, turning about, almost ran from them and disappeared into the main yard.

  Jane now leant against the wall, the child clutched to her. Then she turned her head slowly and looked to where Winnie was standing some little distance away, and Winnie, as if coming out of a trance, now darted towards her, ‘Give him here. It’s all right, give him here.’

  The weight of the child taken from her, Jane felt the strength returning to her body; but the sweat was running down her face and, looking at Winnie, she whispered, ‘What now, what shall I do now?’

  ‘Take him out as you intended. It’s well it happened, it’s over, you’ve won.’

  ‘I have?’ She was like a young dazed child herself asking the question.

  ‘Aye, lass. Or at least he has. He’s proved that he’s no oddity, not up top anyway. “You are my papa,” he said. Didn’t you, lad?’ She hugged the boy to her. ‘Come on, come on back into the kitchen and I’ll make a cup of tea. There’s no need to hurry any more; that over, you’ll go out into the open whenever you like from now on an’ take him with you.’

  ‘Oh, Winnie! Winnie!’

  ‘There you are, Miss, there you are.’ She put one hand around Jane’s shoulder and as she led her back towards the door she said, ‘Don’t frash yourself, lass, don’t frash yourself. You did splendidly. By! you did that. Things should go plain sailin’ after this.’

  Two

  Jane was to remember Amos’ fifth birthday and look back on it as a day of happenings, happenings that were the beginning of events which would shape her life . . . and Amos’.

  The first happening took place at nine o’clock in the morning. She had risen before six and, leaving the boy sleeping peacefully, she had gone out, locking the door as usual, which was more necessary now than ever. Then she had gone downstairs and prepared their breakfasts; but before bringing it up she returned to her room on the first floor and gathered together his birthday presents, one of which was a coat that would serve him in the winter. She had sent into Hexham for the material and had the seamstress make it up to her design, with a cap to match. Both were of a soft brown colour which, she knew, would suit the boy’s fairness. Also, there was an engine that ran on wheels and had what appeared to be smoke coming from its funnel when a string was pulled. She herself thought this very ingenious as the smoke was supplied by flour, or any other powder you had a mind to put in the box beneath the funnel. She had been told that the engine was an exact replica of the one that ran between Newcastle and Hexham. Also, she had a bag of coloured marbles for him, as he loved to play marbles.

  But, this birthday, there was a very special present for him, and not from herself, but fr
om old Sep. Sep had made a pair of crutches which, he had told her, would serve the boy as good as legs, with a little practice. The arm supports were padded with blue velvet. She had supplied the material and Winnie had done the padding. She was as excited about the crutches as if she were going to use them herself.

  It was half an hour later when she woke him up. She had sat on the floor gazing at him for some time before doing so. She often sat watching him while he slept, but this morning she looked longer and deeper; today he was five years old. In years he was still a child, yet in some strange way he had leapt beyond childhood; in fact, on looking back, she could hardly remember him being a baby, he seemed to have been born with age on him. His head seemed full of all kinds of things that shouldn’t occur to a child. At times she became afraid for him. Being so forward now, what would he be like when he was, say, ten years old? Would his brightness emphasise his handicap? Would he be hurt by it more because he possessed an awareness more keen than others? Suffer more? Still, that was all in the future. There was today and this was his birthday.

  ‘Amos.’ She shook him gently. ‘Amos, wake up. Look what I’ve got for you.’

  Slowly he opened his eyes and stared at her. His face was soft and warm and beautiful.

  ‘Happy birthday, Amos.’ She bent and kissed him, and immediately his arms were around her neck and he was kissing her in return and crying. ‘I’m five. I’m five. Have you my presents?’

  ‘Yes, here they are.’

  He tore the paper from the first parcel she handed to him and revealed the coat and cap, and within seconds he had them both on, tugging the arms over the sleeves of his nightshirt. When he put on the cap Jane laughed out loud, and running to the dressing table near her bed she brought back a hand mirror, and when she held it before him he glanced at her, his mouth wide, and said, ‘I am pretty,’ then lay back on the bed and laughed.

  Next she gave him the marbles, and he juggled with them expertly for they had played chucks together for years.

  When, next, she lifted the unwieldy parcel on to the bed, he paused before opening it and asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look and see.’

  When he saw the crutches he sat straight staring at them. His whole manner was changed, all the gaiety gone. This often happened when his deformity was brought to the fore.

  Last year Ned and Sep had contrived between them a go-cart for him, so constructed that, sitting in it, he could guide himself wherever he wished, except up steps. They had gone to a lot of trouble with the cart, especially with regards to the wheels, concerning which they had consulted the wheelwright over near Ninebanks. He was an old man, as old as Sep, and finished with his trade, but he had been kind enough to construct four broad-rimmed wooden wheels each with a fancy hub. Yet when they had presented the boy with the cart his face had flushed to a deep red, scarlet in fact, which was usually the prelude to a burst of temper; but she had been swift to lift him into it and put his hands on the front wheels and propel him forward. As he felt the movement the hot colour in his face had subsided and the light had come back into his eyes, and as if he had been used to propelling it every day of his life he whirled it round the yard, scattering the hens and ducks, causing the dogs to bark and the bull to roar and making everyone laugh.

  This had happened on a Tuesday. Of course, they had picked the day to present him with it when the master was in the town.

  And now the crutches were having the same effect on him. The laughter had died from his face, his mouth was tight, his colour was rising, there was that look in his eyes that even now brought a thin thread of fear into her. As with the cart so now she again acted quickly. Lifting him out of the bed, she swiftly tucked a crutch under each arm. Their sizes were exact; they touched the floor at the same level as his distorted feet.

  ‘Like this,’ she said excitedly. ‘Your feet on the ground, so, then put your weight on your oxters, like this . . . That’s it. That’s it.’ When he almost overbalanced she put her hand gently at his back; the next minute he was away from her. Wobbling, the crutches sprawling out away from him, he went up and down the long room. Twice he fell but pushed her hands off, when she went to help him up. Soon he had the feel of them and swung into a rhythm.

  She stood and watched him, her hands held tight together under her chin, and when at last he stopped in front of her, his shoulders hunched, each hand gripping the middle bar of the crutch, she dropped on to her hunkers and took his face between her hands and shook his head from side to side. And as the tears flowed from her eyes, she whispered, ‘You can walk. You can walk now.’

  ‘I can walk.’

  They looked at each other. Then, his voice holding a tone like that of an adult, a man, he said, ‘I won’t have to wait for anyone any more, I can walk on my own. I won’t have to wait for anyone . . . ’

  She rubbed the tears from each side of her cheeks and on a breaking laugh said, ‘I hope you’ll always wait for me, Amos.’

  As the brightness slowly seeped from his face so it did from her own, and again in a voice like that of a man he said, ‘Oh yes; I’ll always wait for you, Jan.’ Then he brought his head forward until it touched her arm, and she held him, and her tears flowed fast . . .

  For the next few hours he became totally engrossed with the crutches; the distance he covered in the room must have amounted to miles. She felt dizzy with him going round and round. She had to make him stop in order to tell Winnie to thank her husband and father for their wonderful gift.

  Winnie, staring at the boy careering round the room, said, ‘Why didn’t we think of it afore, Miss, I mean giving him crutches? He could have been on them since he was three. They should have got the crutches instead of the cart in the first place. Didn’t you ever think of them, Miss?’

  Jane nodded her head as she said, ‘Yes, but . . . but for the future, somehow I couldn’t see him balancing.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Winnie. ‘He balances on his stumps.’ Jane nipped slightly on her lower lip. It always did something to her to hear his short appendages referred to as stumps.

  As they stood watching him Winnie voiced a fear that was already growing in Jane’s mind. ‘The job now,’ she said, ‘will be to keep him put. You knew where you had him afore, but now he’ll be as free as the rest; and you can’t go on forever locking the door . . . ’

  ‘No, don’t lock the door again.’ They both started. The boy had stopped and was staring at them. His face was straight, it was wearing the set look of determination they both recognised. They were amazed that he should have heard their low-pitched conversation. It came to them in different ways that he must have heard all that they had ever said in that room, be their voices ever so low.

  Jane moved slowly towards him and, dropping on to her hunkers again, she said, ‘I must lock the door, darling.’

  ‘NO.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I must. You see, your mama is not at all well.’ It was strange but she herself had never called her mother ‘mama’ or her father ‘papa’, but in placating the child when answering his first questions about his parents, which incidentally came after she had explained that Molly was the mother of the little girl he often saw down in the yard, she had used the terms mama and papa because they seemed softer, warmer somehow, making up for the lack of physical presence of what they represented.

  ‘If I saw my mama I would be good, I would not make a noise.’

  She glanced back at Winnie, and Winnie said softly, ‘Your moth . . . your mama has to be kept very quiet, and can’t have visitors. That’s what the doctor says.’

  ‘Does no-one see my mama?’

  ‘Only the doctor and . . . and Parson Hedley.’ Winnie nodded down at him, and he stared back at her for a moment, then turned from them both and began once more circling the room on the crutches.

  Winnie turned towards the door, saying, ‘Well
, I’d better be gettin’ a move on, Miss, but I’ll just slip across the way first and see if my lot have eaten, and tell them about’ – she nodded towards the boy – ‘and that they are fine, just fine.’

  ‘Thank you, Winnie.’ Jane went to the door with her. ‘Tell Sep and Ned I’m so grateful, and we’ll be over later. He’ll’ – she jerked her head backwards – ‘he’ll thank them himself.’

  ‘They’d like that.’

  When the door had closed on Winnie, Amos came towards Jane, walking slowly now, the crutches making a clip-clop, clip-clopping sound, and he said, ‘I want to go down and show Biddy.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve tidied up and you’re washed; you must be washed and dressed, you can’t go out like that, can you? You can wear your blue velvet dress today.’

  The boy looked down towards his feet, at the horn-like big toe sticking out from beneath his nightshirt, and he said, ‘When can I wear trousers?’

  ‘Oh!’ She was nonplussed. ‘Later. Later, you can wear trousers.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, when I get them made for you.’

  ‘Soon?’

  ‘Yes, soon.’

  ‘I should wear trousers, I am a boy. I’m not like Biddy; Biddy has to sit on the ground to pee.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ She actually muttered the words aloud. Not only were his observations distressing to her, but more so was the fact that he had a very keen interest in Biddy. One day he would have to be told of their relationship, for his attraction to their half-sister – because that was what Molly’s daughter was – was troubling her even at this stage. It would have solved the problem if Molly had left the farm years ago. But where could she have gone except into the workhouse, because employers didn’t take on young mothers with suckling babies, a suckling baby deprived a mother of some of her strength . . .