Feathers in the Fire (18 page)

McBain was lying half on his side, half on his back. One leg was twisted underneath him, the other was across the bottom stair. His arms looked at strange angles; his face was deadly white, his eyes were closed. There was no sign of blood on him. She cupped his head in her hands as she moaned, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’ She looked wildly about her into the dark hall. Then laying his head back, she raced up the stairs again, across the landing, calling all the while, ‘Amos! Amos!’ She burst open his door, ‘Amos! Amos!’

There was no light. She groped her way to the bed and shook him. ‘Amos, wake up! Amos!’

He grunted, saying, ‘Wh-at is it? What’s the matter?’

‘Father . . . Father, he’s fallen downstairs. Get up, get up and go for Winnie. Go for the boys. Quick! quick!’

‘How . . . how did he . . . ?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know, only get up.’

‘Is . . . is he dead?’

‘I don’t know, I think so. Amos! Amos! please, don’t ask questions, just get up and go for Winnie and get the boys, he’ll have to be moved. Hurry, he’s all twisted up . . . Come on.’

She went out of the room and he allowed a short time to elapse, time enough for her to imagine he was getting into his clothes, before he went out and down the stairs. Without an upward glance he passed under the beam, and when he reached the foot of the stairs he rested on his crutches and looked at the figure lying there and felt not the smallest spark of contrition.

Before he stepped over his father he asked again of her, ‘Is he dead?’ and she answered, ‘His heart is still beating, but faintly. Amos, please, will you hurry!’

He hobbled away on his crutches, and as he was going out of the door she shouted at him, ‘Please, Amos.’

He did not hurry as he crossed the yard, nor as he went up the road to the cottage. He decided to go to Winnie’s first and was surprised when he passed the window to see a light through the shutter, and as he knocked on the door his surprise mounted at the sound of voices and laughter coming from within.

The door was opened by old Sep, who gaped at him, asking, ‘What’s it, Master Amos, what’s it?’

‘Father, he’s hurt, he fell down the stairs. Jane says to call the boys.’ He looked beyond Sep and into the room. In the reflection of the lamplight and bright firelight he saw Winnie standing by the chair in which the sailor was seated.

He would have recognised the sailor by his clothes if not by his face. It was more than ten years since he had seen him, but the memory of him had always remained fresh in his mind; twice the sailor had given him life, and through water; first saving him from Molly and the pool, and then rescuing him from the burn. He lifted his crutches over the threshold and stared towards the man who was staring at him, and he said, ‘You’ve come home again then?’

‘Yes, I’ve come home again.’ The voice was deep, thick, and rich, and it was as if he had heard it only yesterday.

Winnie interrupted now, saying, ‘The master’s hurt, badly?’ She did not wait for an answer but grabbed up her shawl, adding, ‘Oh my God! this is awful. Come on, come on.’

‘I’ll come along with you.’

Winnie turned on her father crying, ‘You’ll do no such thing, you’ll stay put.’

‘Jane said to call the boys,’ Amos said again. His voice was flat and unemotional and she answered, ‘Aye, yes, that’s who we must get, the boys. Come on then.’ She put her hand on his back and went to turn him around, but he shrugged away from her and, looking towards the sailor again, said, ‘How long are you going to stay?’

‘I don’t rightly know, a week, perhaps two.’

‘I’ll be seeing you then?’

‘You’ll be seeing me.’

When he stepped outside Winnie was hammering on the Gearys’ door, shouting, ‘You there, Johnnie, Mickey, you there! Get up! do you hear?’

When the upper window was opened it was Molly who put her head out, asking, ‘What is it?’

‘Get them up; something’s happened to the master.’

Amos stood peering up through the darkness waiting for some word from Molly, but she didn’t speak and it was almost a minute before she moved.

Winnie was now rapping on Will Curran’s door, but Will was already up, the commotion having roused him; hanging out of the window, he cried, ‘Fire? Is it a fire?’

‘No, Will. The master’s fallen downstairs. You may be needed, you’d better come along.’ At this she hurried away and Amos followed behind, but slowly, taking his time.

At the entrance to the farm gate he stopped. There was the sound of activity coming from the cottages, doors slamming, voices calling, feet running. He looked towards the house across the yard; there was a light gleaming now from the fanlight above the front door. He brought his gaze in the direction of the byres and the stables from where were coming faint comforting rustlings.

For years he had hungered for possession of the farm and all it would mean to him, the feeling in him now was like one of glorious surprise, as if he had woken up and found that he had legs.

He moved on as the running footsteps of the men came nearer, his men. A rush of pleasure and power mounted in him until he reached the hall and there saw his father still lying on the floor, but straight now, Winnie on one side, Jane on the other. His eyes were open and he was staring at Jane while he tried to speak, but although his mouth opened and his lips formed words, they made no sound. The feeling of power seeped from him and he felt sick.

During the next few minutes he stood to one side and watched Johnnie, Mickey and Will Curran lift his father and carry him up the stairs while Jane admonished them: ‘Be careful. Don’t . . . don’t hurt him. Be careful, he’ll be in pain.’

Some short time later he was sitting in the kitchen. When Molly rushed in and, whipping up a kettle from the hob, was on the point of going out again, he said, ‘Is, is he dead?’

She turned on him, ‘No, no, he’s not dead. It looks to me he’s had a stroke, an’ he could weather that.’

She went out of the kitchen, and he was left alone, and for the first time in his life he experienced fear. If he could have picked a death for his father it would have been slow and very painful, but not under the present circumstances, for if he were to speak now anything could happen. They could put him away. He wanted to vomit.

He knew it would be no use pleading that his father had treated him like an animal for years, even less than an animal, for animals now and again were given pats and kind words, whereas all he had received from the man who had fathered him was looks of abhorrence and disgust.

What must he do now? He’d have to think. He took up his crutches and went towards the drawing room, the room in which he’d never been allowed to sit. But at the door he paused, then walked further on and opened the dining-room door. It was dark inside. He could see nothing but he knew where everything was, every stick of furniture in the room where he had never been allowed to eat was engraved on his mind, and such was his mind that, even in the state it was now, full of fear, he hobbled into the room, groped for the armchair at the head of the table, and hoisted himself into it, as if he were already master.

Three

‘He keeps trying to say something all the time, Winnie, a word. Look, his lips come together, like this.’ Jane imitated the movement of McBain’s mouth. Then looking down at him again, she said, ‘W . . . w . . . w . . . wound? work? worry? No?’ She shook her head as she gazed into the eyes that were staring up into hers, their colour paler than ever now, yet their expression keen, ev
en piercing, ‘Will . . . Will Curran?’ She glanced quickly at Winnie. Her father’s eyelid had flickered, then stopped. She said softly, ‘Will Curran?’

The lids closed and remained closed.

It was Winnie who said on a high note of excitement, ‘Will . . . you know, his will. That’s what it is. Master’ – she was bending over him – ‘your will?’

Now the eyelids blinked slowly and definitely, and Winnie raised her head and looked at Jane and stated excitedly, ‘That’s it, his will!’

Jane’s voice too was excited. ‘You want your will, Father? Don’t worry, I’ll get it, I’ll find it.’

Hurrying out, she ran down the stairs, across the hall, and burst into the office, then stopped dead within the doorway at the sight of Amos sitting in her father’s chair behind the desk.

‘What are you doing?’ There was an abruptness in her manner.

‘What does it look like?’ he answered coolly. ‘I’m looking through the bills and things, somebody’s got to keep things going. Or’ – he pushed his shoulders back – ‘do you think it would be better if I went upstairs and locked myself in the attic?’

‘Don’t be silly, Amos. And at a time like this. But you know that’s Father’s desk and . . . ’

‘And’ – he mimicked her – ‘I was never allowed in here. You don’t have to remind me. And I’m going to ask you something. Do you think he’ll ever use this desk and chair again? He’s paralysed, and no matter what kind of a monstrosity he considered me, I’m his son and I’ll take over when he’s gone.’

‘Amos, you talk as if he were already dead, it’s dreadful.’

‘Jane. Jane.’ He screwed himself backwards into the chair, then bent his body forward over the desk. ‘It’s dreadful you say. Because I’m honest you say it’s dreadful. You don’t say that his treatment of me over all these years was dreadful, inhuman . . . that’s the word, inhuman. And you know something? He’s made me almost inhuman, because if they got him out of that bed now and hung him on a cross it would not arouse one spark of pity in me. And that is dreadful, don’t you think, Jane? That is really dreadful. Don’t you realise that if it hadn’t been for you I might have been a real “thing” . . . a real IT left crawling around that attic. He would have had the windows blocked up; he would have made me into an imbecile . . . ’

‘Amos! Amos!’ She was covering her face. ‘He wouldn’t, he would never have done such a thing. He’s not like that at all. He’s . . . ’ She stopped, then sank on to a chair, her face still covered, for even as she defended her father, denying all Amos said he was capable of, there was some part of her that recognised that what her brother said might have taken place if she herself hadn’t been at hand was true. Human beings were capable of the most hideous things. It had been a hard lesson to learn but she had learnt it. She shook her head wearily, then her gaze focused intently on Amos. Somebody’s got to keep things going, he had said. It came to her with an unpleasant shock that he was already running things in his mind; the farm was already his. She felt a shudder of apprehension. Strangely, she did not want Amos to be in control of the farm. True, he was his father’s son and sons inherited without question, but her father would not have wanted Amos to have the farm; no, never . . .

The will. She must find the will. She rose and went towards the desk, saying, ‘Have you come across the will?’

‘The will?’ He shook his head.

‘Well, it must be here somewhere.’

She began to search, and he, too. They pulled out drawers, they looked through papers, until, stopping abruptly, she said, ‘What am I thinking about? It’ll be in the wall safe.’

She went over to the fireplace and, lifting down the picture from the wall above the mantelshelf, she exposed a door. It was an old-fashioned wall safe, having a keyhole to the side. She went back to the desk and, picking up a bunch of keys, said, ‘It’s one of these.’ After trying a number of keys she found the right one and when the door was opened she took out a bundle of papers, some yellow with age, their seared edges curling. When she placed them on the table Amos grabbed half of them towards him and began looking swiftly through them. After a time he said, ‘These are all deeds, old deeds, of the house and land.’

‘Most of these, too.’ She spread her fingers over the papers and bank receipts, then looked about her. ‘It must be somewhere.’

Amos remained seated and quiet. He watched her going round the room, searching the cupboards and drawers. She hadn’t as yet come to the old-fashioned desk standing in the corner to the right of the window. The desk was of a warm brown veneer; it had a four-inch flat top from where dropped a curved lid hinged in the middle which folded back. The writing flap pulled out in slots, and the inner panel could be raised up at an angle for ease of working. There were three doors down one side of the desk and cupboard space at the other. He knew all about this type of desk, he was interested in furniture, at least in wood, and it was through this interest that he had read books on period furniture. There was nearly always in such pieces a secret drawer. He wondered if Jane knew about it. He watched her lifting up the lid, pulling out the writing flap, and opening the little drawers above it. When she spoke to herself, saying, ‘It couldn’t be in here at any rate, it would be too large,’ he made no comment. He watched her pull out the drawers at the side of the desk, and again he made no comment when she said, ‘These are full of old bills dating back’ – she paused as she scrutinised the sheaf of papers in her hand, then ended, ‘Dear, dear; a seed bill from 1822.’

Her examination of the cupboards at the other side revealed only further bundles of bills and when she straightened her back and asked, ‘Where can it be?’ he answered, ‘If you don’t know how should I?’

She stood biting her lip for a moment, then said, ‘I’d better get back; he may be able to give me some indication.’

He watched her go out of the room. Then slipping down from the chair and moving on all fours to the desk, he pulled himself up. Having raised the lid he drew out one of the small drawers above the writing flap and gently moved his fingers along the roof of the drawer and, as he expected, came upon a knob, and when he pressed this gently the whole top of the desk rose slowly and exposed a long narrow shelf with a similar drawer beneath, and on the shelf lay what Jane was looking for.

Without examining it he thrust it inside his coat. Then reaching out he pressed the top of the desk down into place again, closed the flap, crawled back into his crutches, and went out and up the stairs to his room.

The door closed, and having no fear of interruption, he sat down near the window and unfolded the long piece of parchment, to find it held a similar piece inside. He held them up and looked from one to the other; then he read the outer one first. It began in legal terms:

‘I, Angus Forrester McBain, of Cock Shield Farm in the County of Northumberland, revoke all wills and testamentary dispositions heretofore made by me and declare this to be my last will.

I appoint my wife Delia Florence McBain, to be the sole executor of this my will, but if she shall predecease me, or die without having proved this my will, I appoint my daughter Jane Mary Alexandria McBain, to be the sole executor.

Should my daughter have predeceased me I appoint my only brother, James Francis McBain of 8 The Knole, Birkside, Edinburgh, to be the sole executor. In the case that he has predeceased me my estate to be divided among his children.

I state here that I hope the above contingency does not arise as I have not seen or associated with my brother or any member of his family for twenty years.’

There was more, but he stopped here. This had been written before he was born; it was meaningless. He looked at the other parchment. It was dated 10th day of September 1889 and was not in the beautiful script of the other paper but written in a thin spidery handwriting; nor was the wording so official as in the other, yet there was a legal turn to the phrasing of the one paragraph which stated:

‘I, Angus Forrester McBain, hereby revoke all my former wills and declare this to be my wish and last will. I leave my estate and all it entails completely to my daughter Jane Mary Alexandria McBain, I do this unconditionally. Signed Angus Forrester McBain and witnessed by . . . ’

Underneath was the almost unintelligible signature of the Reverend John William Wainwright and underneath that the signature of the Reverend Arnold Hedley.

He held both parchments out before him. His jaws were tightly clenched. No word of him, not even a reference that Jane should provide for him. This last will was written when he was ten years old, the day following his birthday, the very day his father had turned him out of the dining room. Would anyone believe that a man could disown his own in such a way, even if his own had grown to be an idiot?

If there had been a spark of remorse in him for what he had done two nights ago it would have fled at this moment; this deed vindicated his action. His gaze dropped to the papers again. The last one had not been drawn up by a solicitor, but it would be held valid, the signatures of two such witnesses would be enough for that. And where would it leave him? At the mercy of Jane’s generosity. Oh, she would be generous, she would look after him until he died.

He slipped from the chair and stood upright on his stumps. From now on there was no-one going to dictate to him, not even Jane. He would rule, he would be master of this house or die in the attempt. It was either him or his father.

This last will taken care of, there remained only the other one, the legal one, which left everything to his mother; and his mother was dead, and he was his mother’s son. Nobody could get over that, could they? And should the parsons remember that they signed a will in 1889, what could they do if it couldn’t be found . . . what?

He went swiftly to the table near his bed and, taking up a box of matches, he lit a candle, and when it was well alight he held over it the piece of paper that would have robbed him of the recompense he considered his due. When it was burnt two-thirds through he moved on his stumps in a body-twisting motion and dropped the paper into the empty grate and watched it curl into black ash. Then he picked up the other will and, putting it in his pocket, he went to find Jane to tell her that she needn’t worry any more, he had found what she was looking for.