The Stony Path

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘You’ve got plenty to keep you occupied until we get back. There’s the leek pudding to do; mind you wash and trim the leeks well and split them to get rid of any grit, Ruth. Start boiling the pudding as soon as it’s ready and we’ll have it for our dinner tonight with mashed potatoes and gravy, all right? And make some bread while you’re about it, and keep enough back for a stottie cake after the dough’s had its first rising and you’ve knocked it down, so we can have that with the pudding and gravy tonight.’ Polly’s voice was brisk; she had found that was the best way to handle her sister, who had cried on and off for the whole of the last week. ‘Then see if there’s any eggs, and feed the pigs their mash. It’s cooling down in the scullery.’

  Ruth nodded sulkily. She hated their Polly; her sister was always keeping her at it.

  ‘And don’t forget to keep checking on Grandda, mind.’

  ‘All right.’ She was only showing off in front of Uncle Frederick. Ruth looked at her sister through narrowed eyes. Her mam said Polly was trying to take over as mistress of the house and make everyone jump through hoops, and she was right. Look how Polly had shouted yesterday when she’d come in from milking Buttercup. Just because she had gone for a lie-down on the bed and fallen asleep and the bread-and-butter pudding had burnt away to nothing. Her gran had nodded off in the chair sitting next to her grandda, but Polly hadn’t said a word to her. No, everything was always Ruth’s fault.

  ‘Well now, are we ready?’ Frederick spoke almost as though the occasion was some kind of pleasant social outing, and he must have realised this because his voice carried a more sober note when he added, ‘It’s a quagmire out there, lass, so be careful.’

  Aye, it was a quagmire all right since the thaw had set in four days ago and the thick snow and ice had turned to slush and mud. Polly had to wade through that same quagmire umpteen times a day, her feet constantly wet and cold and her flesh chilled through to the bone. Didn’t he realise that? Who else was going to milk Buttercup and see to the horses and the hundred and one other jobs outside? And then she checked the momentary irritation as she thought, He’s only trying to be kind.

  She was forced to remind herself of this several times during the course of the next two hours. Her uncle persisted in holding her arm and that of her grandmother as he positioned himself between them at all times, acting as though he was in charge of the proceedings to the small collection of family and friends who had gathered at the tiny cemetery just outside Silksworth. Because of the circumstances, and the doctor removing her father’s body from the house rather than it being laid out at home as was customary, there was no cortege following behind the funeral conveyance as the black-plumed horse clip-clopped its way inside the cemetery gates.

  Parson Dodds was standing to one side of the open grave, a single gravedigger behind him. Polly, her grandmother and her uncle stood at his side, with the rest of the mourners scattered behind them. Polly was touched to see her Uncle Nathaniel there with Luke and Arnold, but there was no sign of her Aunt Eva.

  The sickness in Polly’s chest deepened as the service began. It was short, very short. It had been decided, in the few minutes before her uncle had gone for the doctor a week ago Sunday, that the story the family would stick to was one of an unfortunate accident on the farm. Whilst taking a close look at the hole in the barn roof, which was in urgent need of repair, her father had slipped, inadvertently entangling himself in his safety rope and causing his own death by hanging. He had been the victim of a tragic mishap. There was no point in putting out their dirty washing for everyone to see, Frederick had insisted when the others had expressed initial misgivings. Henry was dead, nothing could bring him back, and at least this way he could be buried with dignity.

  However, Polly felt the good parson’s short service was indicative of the scepticism with which he had made it clear he viewed the ‘accident’.

  ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ...’

  It was over.

  ‘Eee, I’m sorry, miss, right sorry. I got to know Mr Henry a bit when he was courtin’ Miss Hilda, an’ the master said I could come along today an’ offer me respects.’

  Polly raised tear-blurred eyes to the figure who had spoken, but she had to blink several times before she could see the plump, pleasant-faced woman in front of her. ‘I’m Betsy, miss. Your uncle’s housekeeper.’

  ‘Oh, oh, I see. Thank you. Thank you, Betsy.’ She knew of Betsy McKenzie – the stout Sunderland-born lass had worked at the farm all her life, first as a kitchen maid, when Hilda’s mother had been alive, and then as housekeeper when the second Mrs Weatherburn and Frederick’s father had died – but this was the first time she had met her. Once Hilda had taken to her bed, of necessity it had been Frederick who had visited his stepsister’s home, and although Polly had apparently been taken to Stone Farm in the years before the birth of her sister, she had been too young to have any memory of it.

  ‘He was a grand man, your da. A grand man.’ Betsy nodded her head so vigorously her hand had to shoot up to catch her hat. ‘Me an’ Cook – Mrs Duffy it was in them days, although she’s gone now, poor soul, food poisonin’ of all things – we used to always make sure there was a batch of singin’ hinnies cookin’ on the girdle when we knew your da was callin’. Liked ’em hot with butter on, he did.’

  Polly hadn’t thought it was possible she could raise a smile today of all days, but there was something so comical about the little plump body with her rosy red cheeks and button nose that her mouth twitched in spite of itself. A cook that had died of food poisoning indeed!

  ‘An’ him as thin as a rake too. Me an’ Cook used to say he could eat like a horse, Mr Henry.’

  Mr Henry. Her da had been Mr Henry to this little woman and the staff at Stone Farm. It was a strange thought, disturbing somehow. ‘Mr Henry’ lifted her father into the league of gentlemen, but he had just been an ordinary working man, a farmer. There were farmers and farmers, though, and suddenly her Uncle Frederick’s wealth wasn’t a remote thing but was staring her in the face through the eyes of the plump little personage in front of her.

  ‘My granny always said my da had hollow boots,’ Polly said now, glancing across at her grandmother, who was in conversation with Parson Dodds.

  ‘Come along, Polly.’ Her uncle’s voice was a little abrupt, and his face was straight when he said to his housekeeper, ‘Croft is waiting to take you back in the horse and cart. I shall be bringing Miss Polly and Mrs Farrow home for refreshments before we return to Low Farm; see to it, would you?’

  This was the first time Polly had heard of it! She stared at Frederick, and although she didn’t wish to be rude, her voice was slightly curt when she said, ‘That’s very kind of you, Uncle, but I need to get home as soon as possible. My grandfather is still quite unwell.’

  Her uncle had drawn her to one side as she had spoken, and now he said, his voice very low and having lost its previous peremptory note, ‘It was your grandmother I was thinking of, Polly. A visit to Stone Farm, just a short one, will do her the power of good, and when I took the liberty of mentioning it to her earlier she was all in favour of the idea. It will take her mind off things.’

  His eyes moved to the gravedigger, who was busy shovelling earth, and as Polly’s gaze followed that of her uncle before moving to the small, bent figure of her grandmother, she nodded her acquiescence. She had lost her father but Gran had lost her only son, and that must be worse. If a brief respite from the farm was what her grandmother needed then she wouldn’t deny her such a small pleasure, even though Polly herself had no desire to pay a call to Stone Farm or anywhere else for that matter with her grandfather still so poorly.

  ‘Frederick. Polly.’ Polly came out of her thoughts to see Luke standing in front of them, and as her uncle’s grip on her arm tightened she drew purposefully away, disengaging herself. ‘I’m deeply sorry, but then you know that,’ said Luke quietly.

  ‘Thank you.’ Polly was aware of a disturbing feeling of shyness as she looked
into the dark brown eyes staring down at her. Luke had been at the farm that day, he had heard it all, and although it wasn’t her fault what her father and aunt had done, she felt ashamed and embarrassed. She gulped once and then forced herself to speak naturally as she said, ‘My aunt decided not to come, I take it?’ For which she thanked God, oh, aye, she did. Rightly or wrongly she hated, she loathed her Aunt Eva.

  ‘She isn’t well, Polly.’

  She ought to have said she was sorry to hear it and enquire further, but she couldn’t be that hypocritical.

  Frederick fidgeted at the side of her, clearing his throat loudly, and for a moment Polly thought Luke was about to say something more about her aunt, but instead he swallowed hard, jerked his chin out of his stiff collar, then said quietly as he looked hard into her eyes, ‘Anything I can do to help, I’ll do it, Polly. You only have to say.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t know how else to respond.

  ‘Would you mind if I—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I mean we, Arnold and I, called occasionally to see you all?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Luke looked away from her and to Frederick, his voice stiff now as he said, ‘Goodbye, Frederick.’

  Frederick inclined his head but did not respond in kind, and Luke stared at the other man for a moment more before he turned away and walked over to join his father and Arnold.

  Polly noticed Alice was looking white and exhausted, and after asking her uncle to take her grandmother to the trap – something he seemed to acquiesce to almost unwillingly, she felt, which surprised her – she spent a few minutes thanking each person who had attended the funeral. She was making her way quickly out of the cemetery, and had almost reached its gates, when a hand on her shoulder and a voice in her ear brought her turning around. ‘Polly? Wait a minute, lass.’

  ‘What is it?’ She had just finished talking to Nathaniel, which had not been easy in the circumstances, and now all she wanted was to get far away from the cemetery and its newly filled grave so that the lump in her throat would not dissolve into tears in front of them all.

  ‘I only wanted a quick word, that’s all, lass.’ Arnold’s voice was low and soft, almost conspiratorial, and his eyes were moving all over her face as he spoke. Their expression made Polly want to scrub at her skin wherever they touched, but although her heart was racing her gaze was steady and unblinking as she faced him. ‘You know Michael’s run off? Left home?’

  When she did not answer but continued to stare at him, he said, ‘Same evening the ... accident happened.’

  The pause was deliberate and in a way almost menacing, and when she still did not speak but continued to stare him out, he said, his voice louder now, ‘You hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes, I hear you, Arnold. I’m just wondering what you are really trying to say, that’s all.’

  He gazed at her, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes narrowed, because this young woman with the icy voice and cool eyes was not the young lass he had watched grow from a bairn, but someone quite different. Someone he couldn’t quite fathom. He had expected to see her crushed and broken this morning, overwhelmed by the tragedies which had followed from the announcement of her engagement to Michael. He had savoured the idea, turning it over in his mind as he had imagined the ease with which this latest development would allow him to have her. And he intended to have her, oh, aye, he did. The longing to touch her had become almost irresistible. He had had women since the age of fourteen, when he had earned his first wage packet, and he had learned they would put up with almost anything if the price was high enough, but each one – since the day Polly had refused to kiss him – had had Polly’s features superimposed on theirs in the worst acts of degradation. If she’d allowed him a bit of slap and tickle likely this desire for her would have faded, or maybe not. Whatever, he would have her.

  And with this in mind he said now, ‘What I’m saying is that to my mind you’ve had a lucky escape. The lad’s a milksop, always has been, and you know it at heart.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I know and what I don’t know, Arnold, because you might not like to hear my mind on certain matters. Michael is ten times, a hundred times the man you are.’

  He continued to stare at her, his face darkening, and now his voice came rapidly as he stretched his neck out and almost spat, ‘And who are you to tell me that, with the sort of scum you had for a da, eh? His own sister! I know all about you now, don’t forget, it’s all out in the open, so don’t play the high and mighty lady with me, Polly Farrow.’

  The nastiness of the confrontation and the fact that she hadn’t been prepared for anything like it on this day of all days was making her muscles fluid and her stomach feel loose, but she didn’t betray her inward agitation by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. ‘What my father did or didn’t do before he was married to my mother is no business of yours,’ she said coldly, turning away from his furious face and passing through the cemetery gates on to the mud-filled lane beyond before he could say anything more. She knew he was watching her as she carefully picked her way to Frederick’s horse and trap – she could feel his narrowed eyes burning into her back – but she carried herself stiff and straight, and she didn’t glance towards the cemetery once Frederick had helped her into the seat beside her grandmother and they were on their way.

  The cocky little upstart! Arnold’s teeth were grinding even as he inwardly berated himself for getting on the wrong side of her. It should have been easy today to set the course, and with a family like hers she should have been falling on his neck for showing a bit of interest. At the very least he had thought to hold his knowledge over her, but it seemed she was having none of it. But it was early days yet. His chin went down in his neck as he continued to watch the horse and trap until it disappeared out of sight in a bend in the lane. Give it a couple of months without her da, and the old man worse than useless, and she’d be crying a different tune. Begging him to take her away out of it, she’d be.

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  A drizzle had started to fall and the wind was keen, and Arnold pulled his cap further on to his forehead and adjusted the muffler tucked in his cloth jacket before he turned to Luke. ‘Offered me respects, that’s all. I saw you get in afore she came over to talk to Da.’

  The tone was belligerent, but Luke’s voice was just as aggressive as he said, ‘Leave her alone, Arnold. I’m warning you.’

  ‘Warning me?’ Arnold’s head went back and he slanted angry eyes at his brother, whose gaze was on a level with his. ‘I’m trembling in me boots!’

  ‘She’s not one of your dockside trollops.’

  ‘No, I’ll give you that, man, but since that day at the farm a lot of things have become clearer in my mind at least.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, dear brother, that she’s pulled the wool over all our eyes, including yours. She’s kept us all hanging on, now hasn’t she, from when she was nowt but a bairn – you, me and Michael. She takes after her da, if you ask me.’

  ‘You shut your filthy mouth—’

  ‘Or?’ Arnold said softly. ‘By, you’re a fool, our Luke, you always have been. You want her every bit as much as I do, admit it, but Michael got in there first – for all the good it did him. And she must have given him plenty of encouragement to work up the nerve to ask her; the lad’s always needed help to blow his own nose. I dare bet they’ve been at it on the quiet for a good couple of years.’

  ‘Don’t talk such rubbish.’ Luke’s fists were clenched at his sides in an effort to stop himself from attacking his brother.

  ‘Rubbish, is it?’ Arnold smiled slowly. He knew full well Luke wanted to hit him, and if they had been anywhere else but in a cemetery with the parson and his da and everyone around, he might well have done so. ‘What about all those times Michael took off on a Saturday afternoon once his shift was finished, eh? Or them summer evenings when he wasn’t back afore we were in bed?’

  ‘He used to walk into the
country and watch his birds, he’s got books galore on the subject.’

  ‘Birds!’ Arnold’s laugh was acidic. ‘Birds be damned. She’s a little scut, she’s been ripe for it for years—’

  As Luke’s fist shot out and connected with Arnold’s jaw, the older man stumbled back against one of the iron gates of the cemetery, making it rattle on its hinges, but then he was at his brother’s throat and the two were grappling ferociously.

  Nathaniel was there within moments, his little wiry body straining to separate his two sons, who were a good six inches taller than their father. ‘Cut it out, the pair of you! What the hell are you thinkin’ of?’

  ‘Ask him.’ Arnold’s voice was a snarl.

  ‘I’m askin’ both of you. This is a funeral, for cryin’ out loud; show a little respect. I can’t believe me own flesh an’ blood could show me up like this.’