‘I know all about that side of him, Brigie; but he’s a man, he’s a six-foot-one man.’
‘And a puff of wind would blow him over.’
‘That isn’t the point. Don’t be purposely blind, Brigie. Face facts; he’s a man.’
‘He’s a boy, Dan, a boy.’
‘You can’t expect a housekeeper like Mrs Rennie to put up with him. Have you thought about that?’
‘Well, if Mrs Rennie doesn’t put up with him then somebody else will.’
‘Brigie, be sensible.’ He sat down and pulled his chair towards her. ‘It would be a problem if you had the run of the whole house, as before, but you’re up on this floor, the space is limited. Just think of the mess he made with his whittling at the Manor; you could hardly get in the door for wood shavings.’
‘I’ll control his whittling, I’ll keep it confined to the night nursery. He’ll do what I tell him. And anyway, I won’t be like Katie, I’ll put his whittling to use. I’d told her for years she should sell his animals and give the proceeds to charity; but no, no, there are two rooms over there almost chock-a-block with them. It’s a great pity to my mind they weren’t short of money; she would have seen some purpose in his life then. As it was, she just looked upon it as childish pastime. I could never understand her on that point. It was the only weakness in her training of him.’
Dan, sighing heavily, began his pacing again, saying, ‘Well, it’s up to you; after all, Brigie, it’s up to you. When you’ve got to fight your way out through wooden dogs, cats, horses and goats, not to mention ducks, hens, partridges and pheasants, don’t say I didn’t tell you what to expect.’ Then coming to a halt, he asked, ‘What’ll happen to the Manor? He’s the next in line. Sir Lawrence Ferrier—what a tragedy. And old Sir Francis could drop dead any day. I wonder if she ever visualised this possibility. She must have. Her will should be interesting.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Dan narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You know what’s in it?’
‘Yes, yes; she discussed it with me.’
‘About Lawrence, and his future?’
‘Yes, about Lawrence and his future.’
‘What did she plan? Not what you are proposing, I’m sure.’
‘No, no; she never thought of that. She decided that the Manor should be sold and that either you or John would take care of Lawrence…in your homes.’
‘Oh my God!’ He bowed his head, then turned away. After a moment he looked at her again and said, ‘So that’s what’s made you take this step?’
‘No, not really. I would have proposed it in any case because I knew that no matter how John looked at it, Jenny would have collapsed at the very thought of the suggestion. As for Barbara, well, if she cannot bear to look upon her own son, I wouldn’t expect her to care for a boy like Lawrence. I said as much to Katie, but she imagined that you, Dan, would override Barbara’s scruples in this case…She was very fond of you, Dan, you were her favourite brother.’
‘Oh Brigie, don’t make me ashamed.’ He bowed his head and shook it from side to side.
‘I’m sorry; that wasn’t my intention. But when we’re on the question of Barbara, have you ever put it to her pointedly that it is her duty to come and see Ben no matter how she feels?’
‘No, I haven’t, Brigie, because I know it would be useless.’
‘Is she still the same?’
‘Still the same, only worse. She becomes more withdrawn; I don’t think we’ve exchanged half a dozen words in a month.’
‘I’m deeply sorry, Dan.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Brigie. I’m so used to this way of life that if it changed I wouldn’t know how to deal with it.’
‘Dan.’
‘Yes, Brigie.’
‘Will you allow me to bring up a delicate subject?’
‘You can say anything you like, Brigie, you know that.’
There followed a pause. ‘Is she still seeing him?’
There followed another pause before he answered, ‘As far as I know. Day after day she goes off, and sometimes she takes an overnight bag, but not so often of late years.’
Brigie’s white head gave an impatient jerk. ‘Years and years! Yes, a quarter of a century and more this has been going on. And it is against all the facets of her temperament as I knew it. I mean for her to put up with such conditions. I should have imagined that when he made the decision not to leave his family—and he must have done this at one time—she would have broken it off; she wouldn’t have suffered the indignity of remaining his hobby as it were, and the knowledge that he wasn’t a god after all but simply a man should have been enough to make her see reason…Yet, I blame myself for a lot that has happened; I should not have been against her marrying him in the first place. I’m sorry, Dan, but I shouldn’t.’
‘What’s done’s done, Brigie. It’s all over a lifetime ago, two lifetimes in fact. You mustn’t blame yourself, you were just part of the whole sorry mess, as I was.’
‘You have been very good, Dan.’
‘What does one mean by goodness? Boil it down and what do you get? Selfishness. I was good, as you call it, because I wanted her, I wanted her more than anything else in the world. And I went on wanting her, even when this business began I went on wanting her. I think the turning point forced its way through the day she knew Ruthie was pregnant and she was going to turn her out. The self-righteousness, the unreasonableness of it, the fact that she took me for such a damned fool, a gullible damned fool, got home to me. From then on I didn’t ache so much.’
‘What’s going to happen to her, Dan?’
‘I can’t give you that answer, Brigie.’
Brigie looked down at her hands. The fingers were twitching, and she joined them together tightly before she said, ‘Locked in her deafness again, no boys, no you, or me. She must be very unhappy, Dan, so very, very unhappy.’
‘She’s got all she wants, Brigie…at least I hope she has. It’s odd that I should say that, but I mean it. I hope that in having him still she has all she wants from life.’
And as Brigie looked at him she knew he was speaking the truth. Such was love. And if ever a man had loved he had, and still did. Poor Dan. Poor Dan.
Three
On July 1st, 1916, it was estimated that nineteen thousand British men were killed and fifty-seven thousand wounded. More died on that one day than on any other single day during the war. The men had gone over the top in wave after wave, and in wave after wave the German machine guns had mowed them down like rows of skittles. The Somme was the cemetery of Kitchener’s army, and it had its repercussions on the Home Front. Yet people still sang, still laughed; they laughed at ‘Ole Bill’, Bairnsfather’s creation of a walrus-moustached middle-aged soldier, whose face expressed endurance and defied death. The caption read, ‘If you knows of a better ’ole go to it.’
And how many men in France would have paid the price for the ‘better ’ole’ with a bit of shell-shock or an amputation, or even gas, if the better ’ole meant home.
As on land so on sea. The German and British fleets played tig at Jutland. Where was Britannia, why wasn’t she ruling the waves? But the nation rallied. Are we downhearted? ‘Keep the home fires burning.’ ‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary.’ ‘Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers.’ ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush…Bush, Bush.’
Then Christmas was upon them.
And nowhere were spirits higher than in High Banks Hall. During the autumn fifteen officers had packed their bags, shaken hands all round, kissed the nurses, thanked Matron most warmly, and gone back to Headquarters—to see where they fitted in now. A year ago every one of them would have longed ‘to jump the ditch’, as they called the English Channel, but even those in the highest of spirits did not now express any wish to cross the water again.
The Bunker had been especially busy during the past months and the number of beds in it had doubled. But the atmosphere in the Hall in this Christmas week of 1916 was that of a country house
preparing for the festive season.
The day before Christmas Eve every patient, with the exception of those in the Bunker, and the lord of the manor, as the man in the end room had been jokingly, but not unkindly, dubbed, were engaged in some Christmas activity, cutting down holly, or sawing wood, or making paper chains; or climbing steps to hang the decorations.
Some of the decorations were already in place. Not only on the mantelshelf, but in all odd corners of the entrance hall were to be seen wooden animals of all species, shapes and sizes. Some were roughly hewn, some you could say were finely sculptured, but all had about them a movement that suggested life.
There was a noticeboard attached to the wall at the side of the inner hall door. On it was pinned a bill headed ‘Pantomime Extraordinaire: “The Sleeping Beauty”.’ Then followed a list of characters taking part. The first one read, ‘Princess Sweetface, Major Andrew Cornwallis-Stock’.
Below this was a typewritten form giving information about the times the bus—in this case the ambulance—would meet the train to bring visitors to the Hall on Christmas Eve, and also the time it would leave for their return journey.
And below this, still on the board itself, printed in chalk, and one could say affectionately, were the words: ‘Lawrence’s Animal Fund for Red Cross, December 17th, £88 14s 0d. We are hoping Father Christmas will bring the total up to £100. Thank you…’
Brigie had once said to Katie not to worry about Lawrence for he would be a great comfort to her. And her prophecy had come true, more than ever after Pat died. But never had Brigie imagined he would bring comfort to anyone else, particularly to a group of men who had arrived at the Hall via a valley of physical and mental hell, yet without exception every man, from the major down to the swill orderly, had taken to Lawrence. Perhaps in some cases their affection could be put down to relief that their stay in limbo had been of a limited duration, whereas this man’s, this tall, thin, ever-smiling, unaging man was condemned for life.
Yet no-one actually pitied Lawrence, for you couldn’t pity someone, no matter how mentally crippled, who continually emanated happiness; in fact the wise among them envied his state. Lawrence had not been given a free run of the Hall, he had simply taken it. His movements in his own home had never been restricted, and so Brigie did nothing to change this pattern; except for one thing, and this had been difficult for him to understand, for he had always roamed about the Manor whittling at his pieces of wood, and the servants cleared up the debris.
When he first came under Brigie’s care, he had cried pitifully, as a child might cry, for the loss of his mother and he had cried also when he was forbidden, strictly forbidden, to whittle in any place but in the room connected with his bedroom. But as time went on he conformed; and he was helped greatly by having a new interest; he was among men, lots and lots of men, and he liked that.
It would seem to the casual observer that Lawrence gave a similar attention to everyone who spoke to him, but his manner was misleading for he had his favourites, and the man in the room on the first landing just beyond the bottom of the nursery stairs became his first favourite.
Their meeting had come about quite by accident. He liked Nurse Pettit, or Petty, as some of the patients called Hannah, because she always had time to listen to him. Moreover, she knew about horses; she could say, ‘Oh, you have done a shire!’ or, ‘What a lovely hunter!’ or, ‘Now that’s a fine Shetland.’ And he was capable of appreciating this. He could neither read nor write but he could copy any animal he saw in a book.
Coming along the landing one day he watched Hannah disappear into a room at the end of it, and so in his uninhibited way he opened the door and went in after her. And there he saw the man sitting by the window.
Hannah, in some agitation had cried, ‘Oh, Laurie! Now you mustn’t come in here,’ and when she went to turn him about he had resisted her. Gently but firmly he had pressed her aside, and then he had gone to the window and sat in the chair opposite to the man and held towards him a wooden goat he was carrying. And Ben, after looking at him for a long while, slowly lifted his hand and took the animal from him.
Hannah had stood looking at the two of them, both men of about the same height, both about the same age, but one a man, even although he looked emaciated, and the other…what name could you put to Lawrence? A child, a boy, someone who at times did not appear quite human, more of spirit than flesh and blood? And these two men were full cousins. It was weird when she thought about it.
Perhaps it was deep blood calling to deep blood, but from that meeting there was between them a bond, and its impression as time went on showed itself on both of them, for it was Lawrence who first elicited a straight question from Ben.
Lawrence had been a regular visitor to the room for over two months when, of a sudden, one day Ben moved in his chair and asked, ‘How old are you?’
‘Old am I?’ Lawrence had a habit of repeating what was said to him. He had then cast a glance at Hannah and said; ‘I’m big, more than ten, aren’t I, Petty? Aren’t I, more than ten?’
‘Oh yes, Lawrence,’ she had said; ‘you’re more than ten, more than twenty,’ while keeping her eyes on Ben.
‘I am more than twenty,’ said Lawrence, and Ben repeated as Lawrence had done, ‘More than twenty.’
Hannah, not able to contain herself, had exclaimed aloud, ‘Oh! That’s marvellous, marvellous.’
And it was marvellous. Everybody said so: his father, Mrs Bensham, Nurse Byng, Nurse Setter, who had taken the place of Nurse Conway—for Conway had said that another winter here and she’d be in the middle bed of the Bunker—Sister Deal, the doctor, because everyone knew that the question was a breakthrough. As the doctor had smilingly said, ‘He has started to use a pick on the ice wall.’
Hannah had been very glad when Nurse Conway decided to leave for she had taken over full duties in the private room, and each step the patient made left her with the feeling of personal triumph, for as she told her father, whenever they met on the quiet, she had known from the beginning he would come through.
Hannah didn’t always go home now on her day off; sometimes she would allow three weeks to pass before she put in an appearance, and when she did there were the usual recriminations, the usual sly digs, and always without fail, particularly on her mother’s part, the raking up of the black past.
Sometimes she arranged to meet her father in either Hexham or Allendale and they’d have a meal together and she would talk freely, and more than once she talked very freely, even angrily, when she brought the taboo subject into the open, and asked him why she didn’t come to see her son. He was her son; what kind of a woman was she?
Always Michael met her onslaughts with bowed head and tight lips and always he said the same thing: ‘I’ve told you. You…you don’t understand, I can’t expect you to understand. This…this is not a surface thing, Hannah.’
Once she replied that no emotion was a surface thing, and what she couldn’t understand was that he could care for someone enough to make their own home unhappy for years; and that’s what he had done, let him face it, and because of a woman who was so devoid of compassion that she wouldn’t even look upon her own flesh when it needed her most.
On that occasion, which had taken place only a month ago, he had risen from the table in the restaurant and she had to follow him out into the street, where, his face white and drawn, he had looked down on her and said, ‘We have never quarrelled, Hannah, you and I, and I don’t want to quarrel with you now. It would be no use trying to explain everything to you because you wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t expect you to. I’ll only say this. Ben represents for her someone she has disliked since she was a child, just through seeing his likeness hanging above the fireplace in the cottage where she was brought up. He appeared to her, this man, as a gross, nasty old man, and when she discovered that it was he, this old man, who was her father, then her world exploded. And I was present that day and I helped to blow it up. And…and Ben. From the moment he was
born he was for her a replica of her father as he once had been.’
‘That isn’t his fault; her reason should tell her that, if she’s got any. So why does she hold it against him? By what I can gather she’s a…’
‘Don’t say it, don’t say it, Hannah.’ His voice had been stiff, his manner one that he had never before shown her, and then he had turned about and walked away from her.
She had been home only once since then, and like two witches, her mother and grandmother had sensed that there was a breach between her and her father and, as she put it to herself bitterly, they had been all over her; their welcome could not have been warmer. But because they had been unable to get anything out of her their farewells had been as usual.
At times now she felt very alone, lost and tensed up; and her work, instead of taking her mind off herself, and them, seemed only to bring them all closer, for when she was in the private room she felt, in some strange way, that she was the centre of the turmoil again. And that was, after all, understandable.
‘Look, come on, come and see them pulling the logs.’ She took his arm and raised him from the chair by the side of the fire, and then suited her step to his shuffling until they reached the window; then pointing down, she said on a laugh, ‘How on earth do they expect to get that one into the house? And what are they going to do with it when they get it in? It can’t be for the fire.’
Ben looked down onto the end of the courtyard where it opened out into the sweep of the drive, and he said in thick fuddled tones, ‘Never—get—that—in.’
‘No, you’re right. Well, I wonder what they’re going to do with it. But that’s anybody’s guess because Captain Raine and Captain Collins are among them, and you never know what’s going to happen when they’re around…Isn’t the snow beautiful? But that lot that came down in the night might have put paid to the ambulance getting through to the station; it’s certainly put paid to me getting over the hills. There might have been hope yesterday, but not today.’
The Mallen Litter Page 26