Mrs Cornwallis now ground the black kettle into the heart of the fire before she turned about and said, ‘Whatever much I know, an’ whatever you’d like to know, Morley, we’ll have to wait till Monday come and his wishes will be read out after he’s laid to his rest.’
‘You back then from your holiday?’
Rory turned his head swiftly and looked up at Bernie Cornwallis who was wearing the usual sneer on his face, and he said, ‘Aye, I’m back. At least I think I am.’
‘None of your lip.’
‘Who’s lippin’?’
They had both forgotten where they were for the moment, until Mrs Cornwallis said, ‘Enough! Enough! An’ the master still in the next room.’
Wagging his head, Morley Cornwallis looked at Rory now and said, ‘Time you were at work, boy, isn’t it? Whole village is at it as I came along.’
‘Morley!’ Mrs Cornwallis’s voice was quiet, but it had a compelling note as it uttered the name, and Morley Cornwallis bowed his head and raised his hand and said, ‘All right, all right, you know best,’ on which he turned about and went from the room. But Bernie stood for a moment longer surveying Rory through narrowed eyes, and then he said, ‘Think you’ve got it all your own way now, don’t you? Surprise comin’ to you.’
‘That wouldn’t surprise me,’ replied Rory, flippantly now; then looked apologetically at Mrs Cornwallis, and she, moving towards the door, said quietly, ‘Your da’s gone, Bernie. Be on your way.’
When the door had closed, Mrs Cornwallis looked at Rory’s bowed head and said, ‘Some folks are right inquisitive; they’d have you in a shroud afore you were dead. Look at me, boy.’
Rory looked at her, and she went on, ‘I’ve no need to ask you to keep your own counsel about the late happenings, have I, boy?’ And to this he answered, ‘No, missis; you know you haven’t, no need at all.’
By eleven o’clock that morning he had answered the questions of Peter Tollett and Benny Croft by giving them a detailed account of his travels and creating a fictitious mother for his late master—which story had Mrs Cornwallis’s blessing. He had answered the inquisitive queries of Jim Hoggart as he stood nonchalantly outside the open door of the bar. He had satisfied Mrs Beeney and Miss Tyler, and many others with his explanation. And he had also waved to Lily as she was passing down the street on some message or other. When she hadn’t stopped he had known that either her father or Bernie was somewhere in the vicinity with his eyes on her. But all this he knew was marking time; and at twelve o’clock when Sammy came pelting into the yard and up to him, hissing, ‘That trap’s comin’ up the road, Rory, the same one,’ he knew that the ordeal he was dreading was close upon him.
‘All right, all right.’ Rory bent down now and whispered quietly, ‘Listen, our Sammy, an’ stop lookin’ so scared. You know what I told you. When the man asks where I am say I’m down in the field feedin’ Scape, all right?’
‘Aye, Rory.’
‘Good.’ Rory now let himself out the back way and onto the common land where, in the distance, the goat was tethered. He picked up a turnip from a pile lying near the wall and went over the grass, calling, ‘Here, Scape! Here, Scape!’
The goat came trotting towards him as far as its tether allowed, and when Rory reached it, he went down onto his hunkers and held out the turnip. As the goat munched he talked to it, saying, ‘Been a good lass? Aye, but of course you have; nobody to let you away to go and get drunk, was there? By! By! Who would believe it, a nice lass like you gettin’ mortallious. Aw, don’t start slobbering over me.’ He pushed the whiskered face gently to one side. Then parting the hair, he looked at the bare patches here and there, old scars healed over, and he shook his head. Mr Cornwallis had done that. He couldn’t really believe it…But then the master hadn’t thought it up in the first place; some bright devil must have used goats for years as a means of passin’ such cargo. It was clever, he had to give them that. And it never escaped in the daytime, only at night, as Ben had said. In the daytime someone might have collared it. But it was sent back in the daytime, staggering in its walk and the butt and laughter of everybody who saw it. Poor old Scape.
‘Hi, boy!’
He took no notice.
‘I say, hi, boy! Do you hear?’
He had his back to the man. He put his head down and nuzzled Scape playfully and it wasn’t until the man called for the third time ‘You, boy!’ that he turned on his hunkers towards him, saying, ‘Aye, mister, you want me?’ Having decided to play the dolt, he sounded definitely like one to himself.
‘You Rory McAlister?’
‘Aye, mister.’ He still kept fondling the goat’s head while holding the turnip in his other hand.
‘Get up and listen to me. I want to talk to you.’
‘Aye, mister.’
‘John…your master, Mr Cornwallis, sent you on a journey, didn’t he?’
‘Oh aye, mister; right down to the West Country in the train. Oh, awful that was. Part way crushed I was, an’ seats no wider than that.’ He measured about a foot with his hand. ‘An’ stopped at every station comin’ back, it did, all day…’
‘Be quiet, boy!’ The man peered at him now through narrowed lids, then said, ‘I’m not interested in the discomforts of your journey. Now listen carefully and answer these questions truthfully. You went to an island in a boat with a man called Ben Bachelor, didn’t you?’
‘Aye, mister. He was all right, Ben, nice man.’
‘You met a number of people on the island?’
‘Aye, mister, and nice family an’ all…’
The man cut him short again and made an impatient movement with his head. ‘When you were leaving the island what did the family…I mean the man of the house give to Ben…Ben Bachelor, can you remember?’
‘Oh aye, mister.’ He grinned widely now at the man, then ticked off on his fingers, ‘Two big rolls of baccy, three bottles o’ whisky, two bottles o’ rum an’ a box o’ snuff. He wanted me to try the snuff.’ He laughed now, letting his mouth drop wide. The man waited, and when he didn’t go on he asked, ‘Yes, and what else?’
‘That’s all, mister. And dangerous it was, ’cos it was smugglin’.’
‘Did…did you see the other man give Ben some small packages, just big enough to put in his coat?’
Rory looked to the side, then down at the goat’s head, then back at the man, and he screwed up his face as if deep in thought before saying, ‘No, no, mister. Tell the truth, mister, can’t remember much ’cos we’d all had cider. By! It was lovely cider. Had a party we had, singin’.’
‘Be quiet.’
He bridled, then forced himself to keep to the role he had taken on and said docilely, ‘Aye, mister.’
He watched the man rub his chin and mutter something; then with a quick movement he came close to him and gripped the front of his jacket, saying tensely, ‘Did you see a small circle of tobacco, about that big?’ He measured the exact width of the cartwheel with his fingers. ‘Flat baccy, rolled up?’
‘No, mister, no little rolls, only a big one. ’Twould have been daft to bring little ’uns back after that journey. But I was well away I was, had a drop, all had a…’
Now gripping his shoulders, the man shook him until his head bobbed and he had the urge to spring back and land him one. Even when he was pushed away he forced himself to stand for some minutes, his hands limp by his sides. Then he asked, ‘Was it best baccy, mister, the little one?’
The man now closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke as if to himself, saying, ‘Two little ones, and they only found one. At least that’s what they say. The cunning swine!’
‘Who, mister? Who’s cunnin’ swine?’
‘Oh, be quiet!’ The man made an impatient movement with his forearm. Then becoming still and gazing at Rory, he said, ‘John must have been mad to send you. But then, on the other hand, no. No, I can see his point; it was clever in a way.’
‘What was clever, mister?’
‘Aw, shut up!’
As the man spoke he swung round and aimed his foot towards the goat, and it was only Rory’s quick action in grabbing the tether and pulling it aside that saved the animal from the blow, and forgetting his pose for a moment he yelled at the man, ‘Do that again if you dare and see what you…’
Startled by his tone the man’s lids again narrowed, and Rory, pulling himself up just in time, knelt on the ground and, putting his arms around the animal, looked up into the thin hard face and drawled now in the tone of his assumed character, ‘Well, she’s mine, see. I mean I look after her, I do…’
The man stood for a moment longer, then with a quick shake of his head he turned about and marched across the field and so through the doorway into the yard.
Rory remained where he was until, about five minutes later, he heard the trap leave the yard and the horse go at a quick trot up the village street. Then he drew in a deep breath and as he went towards the house he thought, that part’s done. I doubt if I’ll see him again.
Now he had only to dispose of the blue baccy and the events of this strange week would be closed forever. He would do it on his way home this afternoon; aye, he would and get it over.
But he didn’t dispose of the blue baccy on his way home that afternoon. His idea had been to drop the stones into the running burn, but when he arrived at the burn the water had gone down and the bottom was clear for as far as he could see on both sides of the stepping stones. Were he to drop them in they would merely lie in the silt, or on the rock bottom, and he would always know they were there and be tempted to retrieve them. So he left them where they were inside his shirt and hurried on his way home to deliver his good news to his family, for his master’s word was to be kept. ‘When you come back,’ he had said, ‘your people will have a decent house.’
Long before he opened the door he heard his father coughing, and it seemed that nothing had changed in the room since he had entered it nine days ago, except that their faces showed that they were more glad than usual to see him, if that were possible.
The greetings over, he emptied the food from the sacks onto the table, Edna and Mabel standing by his side, their eyes riveted as usual on the wonderful sight.
‘We were beginning to worry about you, boy,’ said his mother, ‘and wondered how Sammy was getting along. Is everything all right?’
Rory went now and sat on the foot of his father’s bed and, looking from one to the other, he said, ‘Sammy’s all right, Ma, doing fine. Found his feet in fact. But…but the master, he’s gone.’
‘Gone!’ Both his father and mother repeated the word, and he nodded at them. ‘Aye, he died on Thursday. When…when I got back, after I had been here afore—when was that, a week Thursday?—he’d had an accident. The tree in the saw pit had slipped and fallen on him and broken his back. He died last Thursday.’
‘Aw, no! Aw, no!’ His mother was shaking her head. And now he saw the fear in her eyes, that wiped out any sorrow for the master’s passing. But he understood it, and he said quickly, ‘But I’m all right, Ma, I’m going to be kept on. The missis says I am. I know nothin’ more than that, only she’s given me her word that I’m goin’ to be kept on. And Sammy an’ all. Morley Cornwallis, you know I’ve told you about him, he thinks the shop will have to be sold now the master’s gone, but Mrs Cornwallis won’t have it. I don’t know what’s goin’ to happen really until after the funeral, only that’s what she said. “Don’t worry, boy,” she said, “your job’s safe.” And another thing, Ma. The master promised—’ he stopped. There was no need to tell them why the master had promised him this reward. To them he had just been doing his ordinary job during the past week, so he said, ‘We…we got to talkin’, the master and me, and…and I told him…well, about this.’ He rolled his eyes round indicating the room, then went on, ‘And he said you could have a cottage, it’s come vacant. It’s just outside the village. It’s got three rooms, and only the kitchen has a stone floor. There’s a patch of land too, and it’s bonny, real bonny.’ His voice ended on a high note.
They looked at him, stared at him in silence, the four of them; only the baby in the basket made any sound, a weak whimpering; and then his mother came and lowered herself slowly down onto the bed by his side and, gripping his hand, she said, ‘Is this true, boy?’
‘Aye, yes, of course it’s true. I wouldn’t say else would I?’ He turned his face from her and looked towards his father, and his father, after staring at him for a moment longer, put his hands suddenly across his eyes, and so Rory, getting to his feet in pretended temper, said, ‘Well now! Nice welcome for good news, isn’t it? What do you say, our Edna? Going to have a garden and a nice house, and you can come and feed the goat…aw goodness me! Well, did you ever!’
Edna, who had run to her mother and buried her head in her lap, was crying too. She was only five years old but she was already aware that paradise was a three-roomed cottage away from the town with two rooms that had wooden floors.
‘Come here, son.’
He went to his father, and Peter McAlister took both his hands in his own and with difficulty began to speak. ‘I don’t know, lad, how…how you brought this about, but masters, no matter how good, well, I know they don’t give cottages to apprentices for nothin’. What did you do, boy, to get us out of this hovel?’
Rory blinked and he stared down at his father. His father was difficult to lie to; he had an astute mind, so he said simply, ‘I went a message for him.’
‘A message, boy?’
‘Aye. It was a long way off, right down in the West Country.’
‘Down in the West Country?’ Peter McAlister moved his head twice. ‘And did you carry the message successfully?’
As Rory stared at his father, unable to answer, the stones seemed to pierce the linen of the bag and prick his skin, and he said, ‘You could say I did, Da. Mrs Cornwallis is satisfied anyway.’
‘What was the message?’ His mother was speaking now, and he turned to her for a moment, then looked back at his father before answering, ‘It’s a long story, Da. I’ll tell you some of it some time.’ He smiled now and bent forward. ‘Come Christmas like, eh, when you’re all settled in, an’ the fire’s roarin’. Come Christmas I’ll tell you.’
Peter McAlister now put his hand up and touched Rory’s face and said softly, ‘You’re a good lad, Rory. Come Christmas then, come Christmas.’
He turned quickly away from his father. Perhaps by Christmas his father wouldn’t be there. And he didn’t feel a good lad; he wouldn’t feel good with himself until he was rid of the blue baccy. He still thought of the stones as being blue baccy.
He said now, ‘The master’ll be buried on Monday. Mistress says I can come and help you move Tuesday. It will mean our Bill gettin’ up a bit earlier in the mornin’, say around five o’clock. But he can ride some of the way in; there’s a carrier picks up some workers around six at the crossroads.’
‘Oh’—his mother smiled widely at him—‘Bill won’t mind that; he’ll be over the moon.’
Somewhere in the back of Rory’s mind there stirred the thought that it was odd that his nine-year-old brother would be over the moon because he had to get up at five o’clock in the morning and put three more miles on his journey to work, six miles more a day. He’d have to do something about Bill. His hand went to his waist. The answer to Bill’s problem, to all their problems, lay just here, right here.
‘What is it, lad?’ asked his mother. ‘You look miles away.’
‘Oh, nothing, Ma, nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘I was just thinking.’
Not a waking hour passed during the next two days but Rory thought of the stones he carried inside his shirt. He daren’t leave them under the mattress during the day in case the missis, trying to ease her grief by a bout of house cleaning, should find them. Even in ordinary times she would often turn the bedding when there was apparently no need for it.
So the stones lay against his flesh, a constant reminder that he had to get rid of them. Yet, at the same time,
a constant temptation. He admitted the latter to himself quite frankly, for the temptation was strong in him to bury them as an insurance against future want. There would be no need, he had told himself, to try to sell them in Newcastle, he could go up to London. He knew his way about now. And although he would never hope to get half of what one of the stones was worth, he was sure he’d get a price that would represent a small fortune to him.
He could, he told himself, make up some story as to how he came by the stones. There were all kinds of stories he could tell, and over the years he’d be able to pick from them a cast-iron one.
There was no reason at all why he shouldn’t bury the stones, and there was more than one reason why he should. One big and growing reason was that, when he married Lily, and he knew that some day he would marry her, he’d be able to give her nice things and a nice home …
The stones, he thought, were getting between him and his wits, for as he walked behind the third plumed carriage alongside Benny Croft, his head bowed, his heart heavy with sorrow, he still couldn’t get his mind off the fact of what lay against his flesh.
As he knelt in the church and looked across the aisle at the missis, who was deeply in sorrow, he asked himself, ‘What’s up with you, Rory McAlister? Have you lost every scrap of decency that was in you afore you went on that journey?’
And it seemed proved to him that he had, for when the coffin, borne by six stout men, was carried to the grave, there he was, his mind still taken up completely with the thought of the blue baccy. They were like a curse, those stones. They got into you, changing you, making you see bad as good, for his mind was telling him now that it wasn’t a bad thing to do to provide for his people in the future.
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