Feathers in the Fire (20 page)

‘Shall I take those for you?’ He was lifting the packages from her arms, and she said, ‘Oh. Oh, thank you, Davie.’ It did not feel natural to call him Davie, it was as if she was taking a liberty, but what else could she call him, not Mr Armstrong.

When, her four parcels held in one arm, he took her elbow and, turning sideways, shouldered his way through the crowd so that she could remain on the pavement and not be pushed into the muddy road, she thought he had quite good manners. She had understood that most sailors were gauche and cumbersome owing to their being deprived of society for such long intervals, but then, country people too were considered gauche.

His courtesy surprised her further when, as they approached the station, he asked her would she care for some refreshment. She thanked him kindly and told him that she had just eaten, which was not true, and she could have done with a cup of tea, in fact she had intended to go and have a light meal before catching the train. She didn’t know why she hadn’t made this clear to him.

They were fortunate in only having to wait ten minutes for the train and as they stood on the platform he said to her, ‘I don’t know whether we’ll be able to travel together, Miss Jane, I’ve only a third-class ticket.’

‘We’ll be able to travel together.’ She nodded slowly. ‘I have a third-class ticket too.’ They smiled at each other, then laughed gently.

As he looked at her he thought, her skin’s as white as milk; black suits her. Funny how she’s escaped being beautiful. She could have been that; she’s just missed it somehow. Now if her expression was different, more happy like. There’s something missing. How old is she? Twenty-six. No, twenty-seven. She looks older, thirty if a day. She carries herself well; she’s straight, a bit too straight perhaps. Pity she hadn’t a bit of what Molly has up top. Well, not quite up top – he smiled inwardly – say just above amidships.

‘Are you looking forward to returning to sea?’

‘Well, yes and no. All the time I’ve been away I’ve dreamed of the farm and the country around, you know, and now when I’m back I feel at a loose end. I suppose it’s not having anything to do. If I was working it would be different.’

‘You wouldn’t like to return to the land?’

‘Ah, that’s a difficult one, for what is there for a man in my position on the land these days?’

‘Yes, things are difficult.’

The train came in and they took their seats, sitting side by side, and the silence that now fell between them caused little embarrassment because of the other occupants in the carriage and the rattling of the train itself.

It wasn’t until they reached Hexham and were making their way to the stables to collect the horse and trap that they began talking again. Their conversation now took the form of question and answer, and strangely it was Jane who asked the questions: What did his work entail? What did he do in his spare time? Did he still read? To this last he answered with some pride, ‘Oh yes, Miss Jane, everything I can get me hands on. I stock up well afore a trip. But what’s more, I’ve teached others their letters. Afore I became second mate the fo’c’sle was like a schoolroom.’ He laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe, Miss, what it means to a man when he can write his own name; gives him a sort of dignity. In some boats there’s not much difference atween the rats in the holds and the humans below decks, because they’re not treated any better than you would treat vermin; an’ there was many such in our boat. But you know, Miss, once those fellows could spell cat, dog, rat and fat, an’ write their name, why, it was like a miracle, what it did for them. But mind, I’m not saying it acted in all cases for some of them had nothing in their noddles, and a belaying-pin wouldn’t have knocked it in.’

‘How wonderful!’ she said; ‘what a thoughtful thing to do, to teach men their letters.’ And she did think so. Although his grammar left a lot to be desired she recognised in him an intelligence above the average, and the fact that he wished to impart his little learning to others gave him a prestige in her eyes.

At the stables she said, ‘Will you take the reins, Davie?’ and he answered, ‘I’d like nothin’ better, Miss.’ And so in the growing twilight they drove home together, and laughed and chatted all the way.

Later, they both remarked to themselves in private that it was strange but they had not spoken of her father, or of Amos, or of Parson Hedley.

It was the following morning that Amos made his way to the cottage to see Davie. He’d had no real conversation with him since he had returned, but this was not to say that he hadn’t thought about him, Davie had been in his mind constantly.

The feeling that he’d had for the sailor when he himself was a child still remained, he liked him. In his company he felt a man, a whole man, they were men together. He would like him for a friend. Yes, and the balance of possession would weigh heavily towards himself, for the relationship would give him both a friend and a servant, a double advantage.

He knew Winnie was about her duties in the house, and he hoped old Sep was still abed. And this he found when he knocked on the door and it was opened by Davie who stood aside to let him hobble into the empty kitchen.

Going straight towards a chair he hoisted himself expertly on to it, laid his crutches to the side, then, a hand on each arm of the chair, he leant back and said, ‘Now then.’

Davie stood at the end of the mantelpiece and looked at the massive upper body of the boy, his width exaggerated still further by the grotesquely short stumps and feet. He had spoken to him as a master might speak to his man: ‘Now then, let’s get on with it.’ He reached out and took his clay pipe from the rack above the mantelshelf, bent down and knocked the dead dottle out against the bars, then peered down into the empty bowl before opening a penknife and scraping it.

‘Eeh! Oh! that puts my teeth on edge; why don’t you smoke a wooden one?’

‘This does me.’

Amos looked at him through narrowed lids. He sensed a lack of friendliness in his tone, definitely a lack of deference. Still, he wasn’t his master . . . yet. ‘Winnie tells me you went to see your ship yesterday.’

‘Yes. I did that.’

‘How did you find her?’

‘Oh’ – Davie allowed himself to grin – ‘with her backside bare; she wasn’t a nice sight.’

Amos’ high fresh laugh brought Davie’s eyes tight on him, and in this moment he was doubting Molly’s tale; the laughing face looked good, incapable of such destruction as killing, and the victim his own father, be he what he may. Yet put himself in the lad’s place, ignored for years, treated like an animal, what would he have done? Very likely have tried to have a go at the old man long before this. You couldn’t judge such things, a man could stand only so much. And what was more, this was no lad, no boy; although his years were few he was a man. Funny, his mother had said the same thing last night when they were talking. ‘He was born a man,’ she said, ‘in his mind, that is.’

‘Are you anxious to get back to sea?’

Davie was shredding a plug of baccy in the palm of his hand and he contemplated it before answering, ‘Yes and no.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Just yes and no. It’s my job, but I’d be happier if my ship could sail around these hills.’

Again Amos laughed; then, his face settling into its sombre pattern, he watched Davie filling his pipe. He watched him light it with a spill before he said, ‘You needn’t go back, you could stay here and work for me.’

Slowly Davie turned his head to the side and looked at the figure sitting in the chair, the big head held up, the neck stretching away from the shoulders, the back straight. For a moment he was reminded of a figurehead such as one or two of the old ships still carried. He had said, ‘You can work for me,’ not, ‘You can come back and I’ll find you a job on the farm,’ but ‘You can work for me.’ It was as his mother said, he was playing the master all right. He now threw his own head back and laughed, a deep short laugh, and, as if he was dealing with a child and a joke, he said, ‘Oh yes, work for you. And what would you offer me?’

‘Fifteen shillings a week.’

He took the pipe from his mouth, puffed out a thin stream of smoke, then raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and repeated, ‘Fifteen shillings a week.’

He would pay fifteen shillings, well! well! And in these days when a farm labourer who received ten shillings together with his cottage and perks would consider himself damn lucky. He was only picking up twelve shillings himself and sometimes the food turned his stomach, biscuits that walked towards you drawn by weevils, and meat that heralded its approach with a whiff that would knock you down. Fifteen shillings, well! well! His mouth moved into a twisted smile as he said, ‘And what would you be expecting of me for fifteen shillings, because, you must remember, I haven’t been on a farm for this many a long year, I’ve almost forgotten where the milk comes from. A fellow I once knew thought it came by pumping the beast’s tail, I’m not much better. Fifteen shillings. You’d want something for your fifteen shillings, now wouldn’t you? And would you mind telling me what it is?’

‘A gaffer, manager, someone to see to the others; there’s a lot of time-wasters about. Mickey’s all right, but Johnnie’s a dodger, and Will wants stirring.’

‘And I would have to stir?’

‘You would have to stir.’

‘Well!’ He let out a long breath, then drew on his pipe again before saying, ‘You won’t remember it but there was a time when it took nine men going at it hard to run this place. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say they were all men because the two Gearys were young, but they worked hard, as did Curran’s two, they were doing a man’s work at ten, and now with only three left to do the work, you want me to hustle them.’

‘The place isn’t run as it was years ago, and you already know that, if you’ve walked round; there’s walls down, gates banging off. Anyway, I intend to cut the land.’

‘Cut the land?’ Davie’s face was screwed up in inquiry.

‘Yes, Sir Alfred’s been after that bottom stretch for years. It’s not productive, only pretty, and we can do without that.’

‘That’ll mean letting the burn and the malt house go.’ There was indignation in Davie’s voice but Amos did not seem to notice it, for he went on, ‘The burn will go, yes, but I’m keeping the malt house; that’ll be for Jane and the parson when I marry.’

Davie felt the muscles of his face sagging. He just stopped his jaw from drooping and from repeating the word marry.

When this young fellow here talked you could forget he hadn’t legs, there was a virility in his voice, certainly a virility in his torso. The way he had of sitting straight, without movement, gave the impression of power. But when he spoke of marriage as if it was a certainty, you remembered he hadn’t legs . . . Still – his shoulders made a slight movement – what of it, he had the necessary to make a marriage work, in one direction that was. But who would take him on? Which lass would be willing to go to bed with that? Oh – again there was a movement of his shoulders as he answered himself – some would. When they got past twenty there were those who’d hook up with a blind beggar, so desperate they became. There were others, who he thought were in the majority, who’d become sick at the thought, that is unless they cared for him. That was the word, cared. Not so much loving, but caring. There was a big difference here. He had learned that from watching his mother and father. He doubted if his mother had ever loved his father; but she had cared for him, and they’d been happy together . . . Yes, if the lad found somebody who cared, somebody of the type of Miss Jane who was all heart and sacrifice, he would marry. But there were few Miss Janes about.

‘Well, what do you say?’

‘Aw, you’re not serious?’

‘Serious? Of course, I’m serious.’

Davie stiffened at the tone, and his own matched it now when he replied, ‘It’s a thing that’ll need considerin’, a lot of thinkin’ about. I could say no right away for I don’t know whether I’d like working for you any more than I did your father . . . ’

His words were cut off by Amos letting out a high laugh, and he looked at him in surprise, for the master was gone and the boy was back as he said, ‘You know that’s what I like about you, Davie; you’re different, you’re not afraid to say what you think. I remember, all those years back, you clouted me, didn’t you? Any other one on the farm wouldn’t have dared, but you did.’ He reached for his crutches and slid from the chair, and looking up at Davie, he said, ‘Think hard on it, I’d be obliged if you’d stay.’ He paused, then ended, ‘I need you, someone like you to balance things. And remember, it would make your mother happy.’

Davie made no answer to this, but watched him going towards the door. He hadn’t rushed to open it for him but had left him to manoeuvre it himself. Not until he had gone through the door and was some way down the road did he go towards it and close it. Then he returned to the fireplace and, bending down, leaned his forearms on the mantelshelf and laid his brow on his hands and looked down at the fire . . .

A short while later, when he went upstairs, old Sep said, ‘Did I hear the young master down below?’

‘Aye, Granda, you heard him.’

‘What’s he after?’

‘He’s offered me a job, manager of the farm, sort of.’

‘What!’ Sep pulled himself up in bed with startling agility seeing that he could hardly move with rheumatics. ‘Name of God! he didn’t!’

‘He did. Fifteen bob a week.’

‘Name of God!’ The exclamation was higher this time. ‘Fifteen bob a week! Aw, lad. Well, I always knew you’d make it one day.’

‘Now, Granda, now, now. You lay yourself down; this needs thinking about.’

The old man, now gripping his hand, looked up at him and whispered, ‘Stay, Davie, stay.’

‘We’ll see, we’ll see. As I said, it needs thinking about.’

But as he went down the stairs he knew he had already thought about it, he was manager of the farm.

Six

Jane stood before the desk in the office and looked down on Amos. Her face was tight and there was anger in her voice as she said, ‘Please don’t send for me as if I were a servant, Amos. And if you wish to talk to me I prefer that you do not sit in father’s chair and behind his desk.’

He stared at her, his face equally tight and his voice grim as he said, ‘And you forget that times have changed, Jane. This is no longer father’s chair and desk, it is mine.’

Their glances held for a moment; then he quickly tossed his head from side to side and, his voice and manner changing completely, said, ‘Aw, Jane, don’t let’s quarrel. Look, I’m sorry. I just asked Winnie to tell you I’d like a word with you.’ He leaned across the desk and put his hand out and caught at hers, saying softly, ‘Please, come on, sit down.’

She remained straight and stiff for a moment longer; then slowly she turned about and pulled a chair forward and, seating herself, looked at him, once her beloved child, her charge.

For sixteen years she had spent her energies and her love on him, and although her life had been hard, tiresome and dull at times, it had been without fear. But since her father died she had been full of fear; of what she didn’t rightly know for she wouldn’t admit to herself that it was fear of him.

In two short weeks the whole atmosphere of the place had changed. Everyone was on edge. The only good thing he had done was to persuade Davie Armstrong to become a working manager. Yet this hadn’t found favour with the others. Will Curran was openly opposed to it, as also was Johnnie. Mickey was the only one who welcomed the new innovation, at least among the men. Winnie, she knew, was over the moon. And Molly – one couldn’t tell what Molly was thinking. But Molly wasn’t acting like herself these days either, so perhaps she, too, was disturbed by the new arrangement.

Arnold thought it was a very sensible move on the part of Amos, but then he had always been very fond of Davie, although he had pointed out that a sixteen year gap was a long time to be away from farm work, for things on the land had changed a lot. Davie’s job wouldn’t be easy if he wanted the place to pay its way.

This was another thing; she had discovered that the farm, far from paying its way, had been losing money, there was a heavy mortgage on the house. She had found out a great number of things when she went to Newcastle to see the solicitor . . . She had gone to him purposely because she couldn’t believe that her father had made no provision for her.

Knowing the strength of her father’s feelings concerning his son she was convinced that Amos had no right to be sitting in that chair, it was she who should be in charge of the farm. She was sure that her father would not have been so negligent as to omit leaving a document that would ensure that Amos would not inherit. In fact the thought was adamant in her mind that he would have ignored Amos’ requirements, as he had always done, and left his future in her hands.

The solicitor had been of the same mind, but as he said, if there were a later will, they must stand by the present one until such times as it might be found. He suggested that she search the house, particularly the office. This she had done over and over again, but with no success.

Amos startled her by saying, ‘I’ve ordered them to finish the malt house.’

‘The malt house! But why? It won’t be necessary.’

He leant over the desk and although she was out of his reach he extended his hands towards her, laying them palms down on the papers. ‘You want to get married, don’t you? You’ve waited long enough.’

‘Yes.’ Her chin was slightly to the side, ‘Yes, I’ve waited long enough. But – oh’ – she smiled now – ‘I see.’ She nodded towards him. ‘You don’t want to live with us, you want a place of your own. I can understand, and it’s thoughtful . . . ’

‘No, no’ – he was shaking his head vigorously – ‘you’ve got it wrong. Turn it round. It’s for you . . . and Arnold.’

‘You mean . . . ?’ She got to her feet. ‘You mean I’m . . . we’re to go to the malt house?’

‘Well’ – he pulled his arms sharply back across the desk – ‘I’m going to marry some day, and before long I hope, and two mistresses under the one roof wouldn’t work.’

‘You’re going to . . . ’ She stopped. She had never thought about him marrying, not even that the idea would ever enter his head. Who would . . . ?

‘DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT.’ He was bawling at her now. ‘My God! underneath you’re like the rest of them. I’m not a man am I? just a thing!’

For the moment the malt house was forgotten as she tried to reassure him, saying, ‘Don’t be silly, Amos. And that’s most unfair, you know it is. It’s only that you’re so young and . . . ’

‘And I’m odd. Who would want to take me on? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That’s what they all think. Well, I won’t have far to go to find someone willing. I might as well tell you now I’m going to marry Biddy.’

She felt the blood draining from her face, from her arms; she had the sensation that there was a tap in the soles of her feet letting it flow away. She felt for the moment that she was going to faint. She knew now that Arnold had been right when he had advised her to tell the boy when he was no more than eight years old. He had again brought the subject up when Amos was ten, and then twelve, but she couldn’t risk embittering him further against his father and taking from him the only young companionship he had. Anyway, she had foreseen the problem solved by Molly sending Biddy away into service when she became twelve, with either Lena or Katie. Both of them had married, but remained in service. From time to time Molly had spoken of Lena, saying she could get Biddy into her household, but nothing had come of it. Molly, she knew, was loath to part with her daughter, for she was the only thing she had.

He was yelling at her again. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! don’t come over all class conscious. Anyway, who cares? We’re in the backwoods here, we might as well be on an island for all the visitors we get. And that’s how I want it, I want it to be an island, I’m going to turn it into an island. I’ve written to old Tuppin about the bottom land. I’m having the walls and fences done, gates put up. I’ll make it an island where we can . . . ’

‘QUIET! Do you hear, be quiet!’

‘Jane!’ His voice was deep in his throat and, without looking behind him, he groped for his crutches and, drawing them forward, tucked them under his arms and came round the desk to stand in front of her. And with his head just slightly back, he looked at her and said slowly, ‘Gone are the days when you could tell me to be quiet.’

She moved one step back from him; then two. When she bumped into the chair she turned round and pushed it out of her way, then took another step in the direction of the door.

He stood watching her for a moment before he demanded, ‘What’s the matter with you? Why are you looking like that? You’ve always liked Biddy, and she’s tractable and not ignorant; she can read and write as well as the next.’

‘A . . . mos!’ His name was strangled in her throat. She gulped spittle into her dry mouth, then breathed deeply three times before she said, ‘You cannot have Biddy, ever . . . ever; it’s . . . it’s impossible.’

‘I cannot have Biddy? What do you mean?’

‘I . . . I should have told you before now, years ago, but I thought it . . . it would make you dislike Father more. And I didn’t think you would . . . I never thought about marriage. It’s impossible. Biddy . . . Biddy is your . . . our half-sister.’

For a full minute he did not seem to comprehend the meaning of her statement. His face screwed up, the almond eyes became long, narrow slits, his whole body was still; then in a lightning movement he came to life and she sprang back towards the door and screamed, ‘Don’t! Don’t Amos. Don’t!’ as a crutch came spinning through the air like a boomerang at her. It struck her shoulder and she cried out again and ran into the hall.

Molly, coming from the dining room, inquired urgently but quietly, ‘What is it? What is it, Miss?’ and Jane rushed towards her and clung to her for a moment; then grabbing her hand, almost dragged her up the stairs and into the bedroom.

‘In the name of God, Miss Jane, what is it? What’s he done?’ Again Jane was clinging to her. ‘I . . . I had to tell him about Biddy; he . . . he said he was going to marry her.’

‘God Almighty!’ Molly’s response to this was so quiet that it had a calming effect on Jane, and she dropped on to the side of the bed and joined her hands tightly on her knees and asked, ‘What are we going to do?’

Molly didn’t answer her directly but said, ‘I’ve . . . I’ve been half expecting it, Miss. It made me write to our Katie and Lena some weeks back. The place has been filled in Lena’s but they’re looking for a still-room maid in Katie’s. But . . . but I didn’t want to let her go that far; it’s right down in the south of the country, back of beyond near a place called Teignmouth. Beautiful, Lena says, but lonely. Worse than this. I . . . I didn’t want to send her to the back of beyond ’cos she’s young. Yet she was for going when I mentioned it. I wish to God I’d let her now.

‘Don’t shake so, Miss Jane.’ She came slowly to the bed and, sitting down on the edge of it, she put her arm around her and held her close, and Jane said, ‘Oh Molly, Molly, what have things come to?’ and Molly turning her gaze to the wall said flatly, ‘Parson Hedley would say it’s the sins of the fathers and of the mothers.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t meaning that, Molly.’

‘I know, Miss, I know, but I can’t help thinking that it’s right; I carry a weight about with me all the time.’

‘Oh, Molly!’ Jane leant her head against her and in this moment they could have been the half-sisters.

After a time Molly rose to her feet, saying, ‘You stay here quiet for a while, Miss Jane, till things settle down, but we’ll have to put our thinkin’ caps on, something must be done.’

On her way to the door she glanced out of the window, then stopped and exclaimed on a high note, ‘Oh my God! there he goes into the dairy.’ And with that she turned and ran from the room and down the stairs and out of the house . . .

As if Amos knew that Molly would come, he had immediately dropped the bar over the door when he entered the dairy from the yard, and now he stood with his back to it and looked towards Biddy, where she had turned from the marble slab on which she had been patting up butter and stared at him. It was she who spoke first. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s the matter? What you barrin’ the door for?’

He did not answer her, only continued to stare, and she turned from him and picked up a cloth and wiped her hands before looking at him again and repeating, ‘What’s the matter? You bad or somethin’?’

His face was colourless but running with sweat, as were his hands gripping the bars of the crutches. He leaned back against the door as he asked, ‘Do you like me?’

‘Like you?’ She twisted her face at him. ‘What’s up with you?’ The question was high.

‘I said do you like me?’

‘Well’ – she wagged her head – ‘I suppose so. Aye, yes, I like you.’ She looked him up and down. She never thought about him having no legs; she was so used to him that way, and so she had never been sorry for him because of his disability.

‘Would you marry me?’

‘WHAT! What did you say . . . marry you?’ Her dark brows had moved into points. Then she gave a little laugh as she said, ‘Don’t talk daft.’

‘BIDDY!’ He bawled her name as she went to turn from him, and at the same time it was shouted from beyond the door. ‘Biddy! Biddy! open this door. Do you hear me?’

Biddy stared at the door above his head, then down at him. ‘That’s me ma,’ she said. ‘Open the door.’

‘Answer me first, will you marry me?’

As the glinting light of his eyes held her gaze she almost said, ‘Marry you, are you mad? Who would marry you?’ but she had some of her mother in her and so her answer was, ‘Now look, don’t act so daft; I’m not marryin’ anybody, nobody.’

‘Biddy! D’you hear me? Open this door. Push him out of the way an’ open this door.’

‘You’d better get by,’ she said quietly, ‘else I’ll have to push you.’ If she pushed him he’d overbalance, and she was quite capable of pushing him. Over the years he had sparred with her she had learned to defend herself the hard way; although he had always got the better of her once they were on the ground together. And so he made no effort to stop her when she moved close to him to swing the bar back into its socket.

When the door burst open it almost knocked them on to their backs. Standing in the opening, red in the face and enraged, Molly looked from one to the other before addressing her daughter. ‘What’s he done? What’s he said?’ she demanded.

‘Nothin’, Ma, nothin’. What you yellin’ for?’

‘Nothin’ you say? Why did he bar the door then?’ She turned her glance swiftly on Amos, who was glaring at her with a look of deep hatred on his face, and it came over in his voice as he said slowly, ‘I asked her to marry me.’

‘You dirty . . . ’

‘Don’t say it. Don’t say it, Molly.’ As his head went down his eyes moved upwards under his lids, giving him a demoniacal look.

‘I will say it.’ She now turned to Biddy. ‘You get out. Get out of here, go on up home.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Do as I bid you, girl. Go on up home.’

Biddy went slowly out, and Molly, banging the door closed again, leaned against it as she growled, ‘Knowin’ what you know, you asked her that?’

‘Yes, I asked her that. And it makes no difference.’

‘You mean you would . . . ?’ Her lips moved away from her teeth and he finished for her, ‘Yes, yes, I would. And she would an’ all if you left her alone.’

‘Never! Never in this world! An’ when I tell her, that’ll be the finish.’

He moved slowly towards her and stopped only a few feet from her before he said thickly, ‘If you make it the finish it’ll be the finish of you too; I’ll send you packing quicker than a rocket.’

‘You will, will you?’ Her head was jerking in small movements. ‘That’s what you think.’

His expression showed he was surprised by her defiant attitude. But he spat at her, ‘And you won’t get a reference other than I’d give to a whore.’

Her lips became tight, her rounded chin knobbled. It was some moments before she spoke and then she said, ‘I’m no whore, never was. Compared to you, your father was a gentleman. An’ that’s what you’ll never be, not even half a one.’ She flicked her eyes down towards his lower limbs. But in spite of her brave front, she became fearful for a moment by the look on his face. Even so she went on, ‘I’ll leave this farm when I feel so inclined an’ not afore, and you can’t do a damned thing about it, Mas . . . ter Amos.’ She watched his lids blinking, his brow moving to a furrow of thought. ‘That’s set you thinkin’, hasn’t it? An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ more, I’ve got it in me power to put you along the line any minute I choose . . . You killed your father; you swung from that beam an’ you killed him. An’ I’ve got the evidence of it. Not only have I got the torn piece from your coat but I’ve got the coat an’ all. You made the mistake of givin’ it to our Johnnie when you were rigging yourself out with your new finery . . . Now don’t, I’m warning you’ – her arm went straight out, her finger pointing at him – ‘don’t think you’ll wallop me with that crutch an’ get off with it; I’m not Miss Jane, I’ve got no niceties about me. You lay a finger on me, whether it’s by hand or wooden leg, an’ by God! you’ll live to regret it.’

They glared at each other for a moment longer. Then she turned to open the door. Her hand on the bar, she cast her glance back at him and said softly, ‘An’ don’t try to concoct a way of gettin’ rid of me ’cos if anything happens to me you’ll be for it surely, ’cos I’m not the only one who knows, I’ve seen to that. You see I know you, Master Amos; I’ve known you for a long time. Long afore others twigged what was in you, I knew you.’

She held his gaze before turning away. Her legs were trembling under her long skirt and the sweat was running from her oxters. She made herself walk steady because she knew he was watching her . . .

A few minutes later in the kitchen of her cottage she stood looking at Biddy, who was crying loudly while she muttered, ‘You should have told me, Ma. You should have told me.’