Feathers in the Fire (25 page)

Half an hour later he lifted her down from under the cover, and she stepped into another world. The storm had passed, the last rays of the setting sun were jewelling the whole world, her whole world; as far as she could see everything was sparkling. She brought her gaze to his face and she muttered on a cracked note, ‘Oh, Davie . . . Davie.’

‘Jane!’ His arms went round her again, but gently now. ‘Are you all right? You . . . you won’t regret it?’

‘I’m all right, Davie. And no, never. Whatever happens, never, never will I regret it.’ There was no break in her voice now, her words were clear and strong, and she added, ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Too long. Aye, too long. Ten years too long.’

Her face widened into a smile, and she asked now, ‘Did you care for me then?’

He blinked, trying to recall how he felt ten years ago, and he threaded his imagination with kindness as he said, ‘I must have; anyway, I knew you should be married. And . . . and now I think the same, but what about it, how do we stand?’

‘Oh! Davie, I’d marry you tomorrow, or now, now.’

‘How’s he going to take that?’ He stared down into her face. ‘We’ve got to be prepared for him trying to get rid of me.’

‘Oh, no! he wouldn’t.’ Her voice was filled with horror. ‘Not that; he’d never go that far. Besides, he . . . he likes you.’

‘He liked the parson at one time. If he only killed where he hated like he did with your fath—’ He stopped. She was leaning back from him, still within his hold but with her mouth dropping open. ‘No . . . o!’ She brought the word out slowly.

‘Yes; swinging from the beam at the top of the stairs.’

‘Oh, dear Lord!’ She now put her hand over her mouth, and he said softly, ‘I’m sorry. I’d have to let it come out now. I’m a fool, it’s spoilt it.’

‘No, no.’ She forced her attention back to him. ‘No, no, Davie; nothing could spoil this. It was just the shock. And yet . . . yet, you know it wasn’t such a shock as it should have been, I feel I must have known all the time. All the things he did, then the way he went on, and the will. He looked for the will.’ She shook her head. ‘Davie’ – she was clinging to him now – ‘we could go away, we could work together. I got thirty-five pounds for the things. I . . . I think it was a fair price. We could go any time . . . ’ She stopped, the words hanging on her lips; then she muttered, ‘I forgot . . . I forgot . . . old Sep. But . . . but Davie, as soon as you are free we will go?’ It was a question.

‘We’ll go. That is a promise. As soon as granda goes we’ll go.’

‘We mustn’t tell anyone about . . . about us.’ Her face was flushed and her eyes held a shyness. ‘We must act as if nothing has happened; we must not even let Molly know.’

When his look altered just the slightest and a shadow seemed to pass over his face she said quietly, ‘Molly . . . will this hurt her?’ And he answered on a high note, ‘Hurt Molly? No, no; why should it hurt Molly?’

She had not questioned his feelings with regards to Molly. It was herself he loved, had he not proved it, so he could not think anything of Molly.

‘Come along, we must get back.’

She did not move immediately but stared at him for a moment, then with an impetuous gesture that she might have used when she was seventeen she flung her arms around his neck and, gazing up into his face, whispered, ‘Oh I love you, Davie. I love you, I love you. I’ve always loved you. I cannot remember the time when I didn’t love you. Oh darling, my darling.’ When her mouth came on his he did not answer it for a moment; his whole body was still under a sense of wonder, the wonder of her voice, her words and what they were telling him. This would be a different kind of love altogether from that which he would have experienced if he had taken up with any one of his own standing, such as Molly Geary or her like. This was going to be not only a love of the body and its wants, but of the other emotions, of words and tenderness. He was going to learn a lot from this love.

‘Aw, Jane! Jane!’ He held her from him and looked his wonder into her face. Then drawing her to him he kissed her, a gentle lingering kiss.

Five

Jane stood in front of the window peering out into the dark night; she was standing in blackness for she had quenched the light in her bedroom. She turned about and focused her gaze on the door, then groped her way towards it and stood listening. There was a strong wind blowing, and although it could not penetrate the thick walls it rattled the windows and created strange echoing sounds around the chimneys, but in her mind she separated these noises from those usually heard in the house, and the house appeared silent.

He had been up in his room for more than half an hour now but she must wait a little longer to make sure he was asleep. He had taken to drinking of late, not whisky like her father, nor yet wine, but beer, strong, thick stout. Stout was supposed to induce sleep and she was hoping that he had drunk enough of it to send him off quickly tonight. She would soon tell once she was outside his door for he snored in his sleep. He always had; it was, she thought, because of his short neck and deep chest.

Earlier in the evening she had felt like boldly saying, ‘I am popping over to see old Sep; it may be for the last time.’ But then, she had used that excuse before and old Sep hadn’t died – she had never known anyone take so long in dying.

It was six weeks since the day Davie had driven her into Hexham; six weeks since she had been reborn, into joy, into ecstasy, but only once had they managed to be together since that night. She was being very careful, most circumspect, but it was so hard at times to control her feelings when she saw Davie. She had never paid so many daily visits to the cow byres as she had done these past few weeks for she felt impelled to see him often; at times she was driven to leave what she was doing and go into the yard on some pretext just to watch him at a distance. Sometimes she thought Molly had guessed her secret, for she would look at her with a strange look – she could not put a name to her expression.

She turned her back to the door and leaned against it and, clasping her joined hands to her mouth, she bit on the knuckles of her thumbs to prevent herself from hoping that old Sep would die tonight. Within a week of his going they could be away; the Gladstone bag was already packed in the bottom of the wardrobe; she required so little. The most important thing was money and the thirty-five pounds was safely hidden in the bottom of the bag.

It was strange, she considered, that Davie should have more money saved than her, she, who was the daughter of Angus McBain, at one time the richest farmer for miles around. If her father were to come back he would die a thousand deaths to see what had happened to his farm. Although towards the end of his days he himself had let it go somewhat, the place was now little more than a glorified smallholding with land hardly able to sustain a dozen cows, and that land so poor and deficient in the vital minerals that they had lost two cows during the last three weeks. Both had died with the shivers. The shivers had always been a warning that animals needed a change of pasture, but now there was nowhere for them to change to.

She turned and opened the door slightly and, putting her head on one side, listened. She thought she heard a movement from along the corridor. She knew that once he had the slightest suspicion of what was afoot he’d be quite capable of playing with her like a cat with a mouse. One thing she was certain of now, her brother was deformed not only in his body, but also in his mind, and that if she had to spend the winter with him, the spring would not find her sane. Last night he had looked at her across the dining table and with the smile that wasn’t a smile on his face he had said, ‘It’s going to be a long winter, Sister.’ He had never before called her sister. ‘Soon there’ll only be the two of us, now Mickey’s gone, old Sep dying, and old Curran on his last legs. That only leaves Davie and Molly, and they’ll likely go off together. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. What do you say?’

She hadn’t been able to say anything; she had simply stared at him through the lamplight like a rabbit would at a stoat, until he added, ‘Mind, I don’t envy him that piece. But then there’s been nobody else about to ease him, has there, and a man has his needs.’ Then she thought she’d be sick.

She had risen from the table, saying, ‘If you have no other topic of conversation I’ll bid you goodnight.’

When she went to pass him he had put out his hand and held her, as he had done once before, and had said softly, ‘You’re an old maid, Jan; you’ll go down to the grave an old maid. But I don’t mind, I like you this way. As I said there’ll soon be nobody else here but us, just we two, as it was in the beginning up in the attic. Yes, as it was in the beginning, is now, really, and ever shall be.’

Having wrenched herself from his hold she had to prevent herself from flying out of the room, flying out of the house yelling, ‘Davie! Davie!’ She was filled with panic at the thought that perhaps he knew and was playing with her. But then, in the quietness of her room, she reasoned that it was impossible for him to know anything. The second time that Davie and she had met privately had been on a black night, down by the burn, and at a time when Amos was away from home on one of his jaunts. So, she reasoned he could not know anything about them and that it was just the fear of what he might do to Davie were he to find out that was making her suspicious.

She tiptoed along the corridor, paused opposite his door, and when the rhythmic sound of his snoring came to her she went on and down the stairs and out of the house.

Amos heard her go. He rose from the bed fully clothed, donned a dark coat, pulled a dark cap on to his head, then on to the end of each crutch he rugged a lambswool stocking. When he went from the room his movements were not audible, not even to himself.

The play, he thought, was nearing its end. Jane was a fool. She had always been a fool, a soft-hearted fool, but he had given her the credit for more intelligence than she possessed.

If he hadn’t ridden the main road on his way from Newcastle in the storm that day and seen his horse and wagon in the field and glimpsed the contortions under the tarpaulin, he would still have known there was something between them, for her every action when she returned to the farm had betrayed her. He hadn’t known how much he loved her until he had watched her get down from the cart with her face aglow. It was then that his own body had been rent in two with a torment that was fresh to him.

The love that he’d had for Biddy had been that of a boy for a girl; yet if it had been fulfilled it might have satisfied him, half-sister or no half-sister; but the love he now felt for his sister dimmed the feeling for Biddy, as a star would an oil lamp.

He had debated for some time what to do about Davie. The fact that he was the only man he had ever really liked had checked the suggestion of putting a quick finish to him, checked it, not actually dismissed it. In some strange way Davie represented life to him. He remembered that he first realised he was alive that day he jumped into the deep water in the burn, and it was ten to one he would have drowned if the sailor hadn’t come down and got him. Moreover, hadn’t he given him life in the first place? So he felt a certain reluctance about taking his life. He would be satisfied, he told himself, if he could put him somewhere where he would no longer be able to interfere.

He went noiselessly out into the yard, then in the direction of the cottages.

Molly was in the kitchen brewing some tea; her movements were slow as if she were carrying a weight on her body, and in her way she was, for her heart was like lead.

Things, she knew, were fast drawing to a head. Old Sep upstairs there; he’d surely go this time, then they’d go too. And what was left for her? What was she to do? Stay here and look after him? No! No, begod! Far better Fred Bateman and his squad than be here alone with that maniac, for who knew but he’d try and do her in next. She was no weakling but she’d have a job to fight off arms like his. He was a dirty fighter. She had seen him, supposedly in fun, in the yard there. He went for the legs and whipped them off the ground, then held on with a grip that was like no other man’s!

She pulled a chair round to face the fire; she’d sit down a few minutes for she was tired to death. What was more, they could do without her going up there, oh aye, they could do without anybody going up there. For a moment bitterness like acid ran over her feelings for both of them, and she bowed her head and shook it slowly. Then it was brought sharply up and a startled exclamation came from her as she looked towards the back door and saw the muffled form of Will Curran standing there.

‘In the name of God; what’s up with you, sneakin’ in . . . ’

‘Ssh! Ssh!’ He held up a warning hand; then closing the door softly behind him, he came towards her saying, ‘Are those curtains closed?’

‘Curtains?’ She turned her head sharply. ‘Aye; what’s up with you? You nearly scared the wits out of me.’

‘The wits are nearly scared out of meself, never mind you.’ He thrust his head towards her, muttering thickly, ‘If he finds me here, he’ll do for me, he’s capable of it.’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think? Look, I’ve left the trap tethered near the turnpike an’ I had to practically crawl back in case he spotted me. I’m on me way into Hexham for the pollis.’

‘For the what!’

‘That’s what I said, for the pollis. They’re to come round at first light, he said, and ’vestigate; he’s lost some things.’

‘Name of God!’

‘Aye, name of God. I said more than that when he got me out of me bed, me at my age. I told him I wasn’t for goin’ at first, an’ then he put the screws on me. Near me time, he said, I wanted to finish me days in the cottage, didn’t I? This night might be cold but the workhouse would be colder. That’s what he said.’

‘But who does he want the pollis for?’

‘Need you ask? There’s only one he wants out of the way now, Davie. He’s spotted what’s been goin’ on and found a way to put a stop to it. He’s a cunnin’ devil if ever there was one, by God! he is that. An’ wicked. Aye!’

‘How do you know what’s going on?’ She stared at him with her mouth slightly agape.

‘I’m not blind.’

‘What you going to do?’

‘What can I do? I’ll have to go, only I thought I’d put him wise, an’ if he’s got any sense he’ll be out of it afore the mornin’.’

Molly stared at the old man standing before her, and Will Curran was an old man. She had never liked him and the thought of taking him for a husband had made her sick, yet in this moment she wanted to put out her hand and shake his; more so when he next said, ‘I’ve got no love for Davie Armstrong for he stepped into the place that should rightly have been mine; comes back after fifteen years and just walks into it. It wasn’t fair. But then, there’s nowt fair in this life.’ He stared at her. ‘The luckiest one among us I guess is the old ’un upstairs; he’s gettin’ out of it.’

She said nothing, words were hard to come by in a situation like this, but it was odd, she thought, that everyone had to suffer; even the ones you had no time for, ones you thought were too thick-skinned and dim-witted to feel, they too passed along a similar road to yourself, tripping over disappointments and heartbreaks all the way.

She stood staring at the door through which he had sidled out into the dark; then she turned about and rushed out of the room and up the stairs, remembering to tiptoe into the bedroom only at the last minute.

Old Sep was lying as he had been for the last twelve hours; he was in a coma and this time he wouldn’t wake. She looked at Davie and Jane within a joined hand clasp from each other; she had no doubt but that their fingers had been linked a moment before. Beckoning them to come out on to the landing, she looked from one to the other in the dim light before she gabbled, ‘Now listen, listen. He’s on the warpath, he means business. Will Curran’s just sneaked in by the back door to tell me he’s on his way to Hexham for the pollis. They’ll be here by first light. It’s . . . it’s you he’s after.’ She pointed her finger at Davie. ‘The message he’s got to give is they must come and ’vestigate ’cos there’s things missin’. He’s . . . he’s likely planted something in here.’ She made a circular movement with her hand now. ‘He’s come in to see the old ’un when we’ve all been at work; he could easily have done it, planted somethin’.’

Neither of them had spoken while she was talking, but now Jane, turning and grasping Davie’s hand, cried softly, ‘Oh! Davie, Davie, I knew something like this would happen. You must get away; he’ll . . . he’ll have you imprisoned.’ She stopped, and they both looked at Molly as she said, ‘You’ll both have to get yourselves away.’ Her eyes came to rest on Davie’s for a moment, and he gazed back at her. He was about to speak but changed his mind and, swinging around, he beat one fist into the palm of his other hand, saying, ‘Who would believe it? I ask you, who would believe it?’ Then he looked through the open door and to the bed and the heaving chest of his grandfather, and after a moment he said flatly, ‘I’m not goin’ till he goes, no matter what.’

‘Don’t be a blood . . . don’t be a fool; the old ’un’s already gone, he’ll never wake again.’

‘She’s right. Molly’s right, Davie. Molly’s right; it’s only a formality now. Please, please.’ She had hold of his hands again. ‘I’ll stay until old Sep goes, and . . . and then I’ll join you.’

He did not answer her for a minute. Then, his face screwing up, he said, ‘God damn! if he’s planted something in the house, then the thing to do is to find it. Look’ – he touched Jane’s arm – ‘you sit by the bed and Molly and me here, we’ll scour the place. It shouldn’t take all that long; if there’s anything to find we’ll find it. We’ll start downstairs. You take the scullery, Molly, I’ll take the kitchen, an’ we’ll work our way up. And if there’s any change’ – he motioned his head towards the bed – ‘give us a shout.’

Half an hour later the three of them were again standing on the landing looking at each other. They had scoured every crevice and cranny of the cottage. Davie had even turned out his old sailor bag, and remembering Amos’ agility concerning beams, he had looked on the beam at the top of the stairs, but with no success.

‘We don’t even know what we’re looking for,’ he said thickly now.

‘It’ll . . . it’ll be some form of jewellery,’ Jane said; ‘not money, you cannot identify money.’

‘Perhaps he stuck it in the cowshed somewhere,’ said Molly. ‘But then that would involve Will, wouldn’t it?’ She shook her head. ‘No, whatever it is, it’s in here. I feel it’s in here.’ She looked around for a moment; then fixing her gaze tight on Davie, she said, ‘He’ll have you, he means it. He must have been workin’ up to this for some time, he doesn’t do things by halves. Remember the other two. Look, I’ll tell you what. As soon as it’s light, have your things ready and go down to the malt house. If he thinks you’ve gone, he’ll imagine you’re far afield; he won’t think you’d stick around here.’