Feathers in the Fire (30 page)

‘I promise.’

He looked around the room. There were two of Molly’s coats hanging on the back of the door. These he brought, and put them over her; then touched her tousled hair for a moment before hurrying out.

Once on the road, he raced along it. The whole place was illuminated now with the flames. The glass in the window of the side room had burst and the crackling of the fire and the raging of the wind appeared to him like hell gone mad. Smoke was pouring out of the front door in billowing waves and the deep red glow from his bedroom window showed the furnace within. If there had been any thought in his mind of going up there and trying to drag that one free, now that his rage had subsided somewhat he dismissed it; but perhaps there was still time to save the furniture from the bottom floors.

He dashed along the yard and towards the stables, and there saw Molly and Will struggling to lift the beams that were shutting in the two terrified horses. He noted instantly and with relief that the animals, although very frightened, were both unharmed. Stooping down and getting in between Molly and Will he put his shoulder to the beam, but immediately it began to move he saw the danger. The end of it was supporting another beam which was balancing precariously within a few feet of yet another one, and were that to slip it would break the animals’ backs.

‘Hold your hand! Hold your hand a minute!’ He took his support from the beam, crying, ‘Keep her steady till I get that down.’ He pointed upwards; then climbing on to the partition between the boxes, he leant against the wall for support and, putting up both arms, he took the weight of the beam and slowly eased it sideways and down towards the floor. He did the same with the second beam. When he jumped to the ground again he put his shoulder to the main beam and between them they eased it from where it was jammed across the front of the box.

The animals freed, they now had their work cut out to hang on to them, and when they led them into the yard the smell of the fire so increased their fear that it was almost impossible to hold them.

Once they were in the field Davie yelled, ‘They’ll be all right, let them go.’ Then shouting, ‘Come on!’ he turned and raced back to the yard. But at the entrance he stopped. Whatever hope he’d had of saving anything was gone. Although the flames hadn’t reached the bottom floor the smoke was finding every outlet.

When Will Curran said, ‘We’d never be able to get in there, we’d choke to death,’ he made no response.

‘Perhaps the kitchen, pans and things.’ Molly looked at him and he at her. His eyes were red-rimmed and running water, his face looked grey like that of an old man. Like someone coming out of a dream, he repeated, ‘Pans and things.’ Then on a high note he cried, ‘My God! where’s me wits. The money, all there is! It’s in the office desk.’

‘Well it’ll have to stay there ’cos you’ll never get beyond the passage.’

‘I’ve got to take that chance, it’s all we’ve got.’ He was running towards the house, she hanging on to him, crying, ‘Don’t be mad, Davie! Davie! Oh my God! Don’t do it.’ She had one arm around his neck, and he paused, but just for a second and looked at her; then thrust her aside, saying, ‘Don’t be so damned stupid, woman.’

The kitchen being separated from the hall by a passage was not yet impenetrable, but when he opened the door into the passage the smoke came billowing into the kitchen. Molly put her hands over her mouth, then closed the door and stood with her back to it.

Minutes passed, then she saw Will Curran through the smoke. He was shouting, ‘The wind’s changed. A spark could catch the byres. We’d better start pumping . . . ‘Where’s he? He’s not gone in there! There’s no chance Master Amos’ still alive. Anyway, I’d let the young devil go – better that way.’

Molly turned from him now and with a frantic movement pulled open the door and, her head down, she ran into the passage.

It was at the bottom of the stairs that she felt him. He was crawling on his hands and knees, and after the shock of her touch he pulled her down with him and almost dragged her back along the passage. When they got into the kitchen he stumbled to his feet, still holding her, and coughing and choking they rolled like two drunks out into the yard. And there he thrust her from him saying in between gasps, ‘Bloody – silly – thing to do. More – bother – than you’re worth. Could . . . could have missed you. What then?’

She was standing up now drawing great draughts of air down into her breast, and after a moment she shouted back at him, ‘’Twas a bloody silly thing for you to do, wasn’t it? Clever bugger, as always, you are. Always playing God Almighty. Always have, always will.’

He passed his hands over his streaming eyes, then peered at her, and suddenly his body seeming to go limp, his head bowed and he muttered, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

She did not speak for a moment, and when she did her voice too was quiet. ‘Did you get it?’ she asked.

He nodded once and tapped his pocket, then said, ‘Where’s Will?’

‘Pumping. The wind’s changed. Look.’ She pointed. ‘It could take the dairy an’ the cowsheds.’

‘My God! My God!’ He was running again, and she by his side. And it was there she stayed until well on into the night, carrying bucket after bucket, after bucket of water while their world grew into a great red waving mass of flame.

Towards dawn the house roof fell in and they stood, bodies slumped and weary, looking at it, and Molly said quietly, ‘Well, that’s put the lid on his coffin.’

Four

The house smouldered for a week until there was nothing left but the blackened window-gaping stone walls and pieces of charred wood.

The Justice of the Peace together with an official of the Police Force came from Hexham . . . a man had been burned to death, how had it happened? A lamp had been blown over in the storm and the wind had caught it – they had all agreed that this was how it should be told . . . Will Curran knew no other but that it was so.

A gentleman, sombrely dressed in a high stiff collar and a three-quarter-length coat, came from the bank in Newcastle. He had a clerk with him, and they arrived in a hansom cab. The gentleman talked to Jane of the mortgage and reparation through insurance, reparation to the bank, but not to her. It appeared that her brother had been warned several times that if he did not meet his commitments on the mortgage the bank would be forced to foreclose. Had she been aware of this matter?

No, she had not been aware of this matter. Nor had she found any letters from the bank concerning it.

He said he was very sorry and he would do the best he could for her. He hoped when the matter was settled there would be no need for them to distrain on the cattle and land.

The third dignitary who visited them was Sir Alfred Tuppin’s younger son, and he began by asking Molly if he could see Miss McBain. He was standing at the cottage door, and it was Davie who answered him. Coming from the scullery, he crossed the room quickly, saying, ‘There’s no Miss McBain here; if you wish to see Mrs Armstrong you can come in.’

The young man had stared insolently at Davie for a moment before looking beyond him and Molly to where Jane sat on the settle near the fire. And he had gone towards her, saying, ‘My father wishes to know if you’re in need of anything.’

When she replied, it was like an actress on the stage saying her lines.

‘Thank your father for me. Tell him I’m obliged to him, but I have everything I need.’

He had become nonplussed for a moment; then with a slight smile he had bowed slightly towards her, saying, ‘I shall give him your message. He’ll be glad to know that you’re well provided for, Good day to you.’

Jane did not answer him, but when he walked out she bowed her head and bit tightly on her lip. Davie had gone over to the fire, and with his jaws clenched he had stood gazing into it.

Molly, after looking from one to the other, went into the scullery and left them alone.

The days that followed were days of grinding labour from morning till night, at least for Davie and Molly. Jane could do very little. Apart from her time drawing near, she had a burn on her leg which refused to heal and caused her intense pain at times, and she was forced to rest more than she would have done under ordinary circumstances.

Although Will Curran did his best, and with a good heart, ten hours’ work was as much as he could achieve, and then, during the second half of the day, he slowed up considerably.

Davie sawed up the tree that had fallen near the cottage and kept the fire going day and night to air his old home. Molly scrubbed it down from top to bottom and washed the bedding, and for the last two weeks they had been installed there.

Davie was back where he had started.

The first night he lay with Jane by his side in the bed that his parents had shared for years, in the bed in which he himself had been conceived and born, he had thought: everything goes full circle. He had worked like two men all his life, and what had he to show for it? Well, he had Jane and the child that was coming, and he had a piece of land and a few cattle. But hold your hand! Don’t count your chickens, he had warned himself, these last weren’t sure. He was waiting to hear about them; he wouldn’t be surprised if the next thing they would say would be that they were going to take the land. He’d be surprised at nothing any more.

Three weeks before her time, Jane started her pains. She had felt ill for days, but she put that down to her leg. There was a hole in it now. When the bandages were taken off the matter poured out. Doctor Cargill said she must keep it well covered up, but it was so painful she could hardly bear the linen strips near the flesh. Molly had put goose grease on to prevent the cloth sticking, but that hadn’t helped.

She was woken from her sleep by a searing pain circling her middle. When she clutched at Davie he roused himself, saying, ‘What is it? What is it?’

‘I’ve got a pain.’

‘Pain? But . . . but it’s not due . . . ’

‘I know, I know, but . . . but it’s a definite pain.’

‘I’ll get Molly.’

‘No, no, it may be nothing, it might go away. Perhaps it’s just a cramp . . . flatulence.’ She never said wind.

The pain hadn’t gone away by dawn, but increased, and he went into his old bedroom and knocked sharply on the wall, and a few minutes later Molly came running in, fastening on her clothes as she did so. Her teeth were chattering with the cold as she asked, ‘Wh-at is it? What’s up?’

He was standing at the top of the narrow stairs as he said softly, ‘She’s started her pains.’

‘But it’s not . . . ’

‘I know, I know. But it’s them all right.’

‘Not a fluke?’

‘No; I should say not. I’m going to ride in for the doctor.’

‘But she might be hours, a day or so.’

‘I doubt not; not the way they’re comin’. And he promised her he’d be here at the time, with her leg the way it is and the state she’s in with one thing and another.’

As she passed him she said, ‘He won’t thank you for goin’ at this hour.’

‘I can’t help that. Anyway, it’ll be on light when I get there.’ She passed him and went into the room and bent over Jane, and they stared at each other both wide-eyed.

‘You think it’s them?’

‘Yes, Molly.’

‘Now don’t you worry, everything will be all right. Davie’s goin’ for the doctor. He’s good is Doctor Cargill with bairns. Not that I can’t bring it meself, I’ve had nearly as much experience as him.’ She smiled, but received no answering smile from Jane.

‘I’m worried, Molly.’

‘What’ve you got to be worried about? First ’un’s always come days afore or days after. Me ma always said our Lena was so long in coming she thought she was goin’ to go the full eighteen months an’ have twins.’ Her smile was wide now and she laughed. And Jane laughed with her, a short weary laugh. But the next minute she was hanging on to Molly while she gritted her teeth and the sweat ran down her face.

When it was over Molly drew in a deep breath and said, ‘You made no mistake, it’s them all right, short and sharp. Lie still now, I won’t be a minute.’

When she reached the kitchen Davie was brewing tea and she said abruptly, ‘You’d better leave that and get a move on if you want him to be here when it comes.’

‘Eh!’ He dropped the teapot on the table. ‘As near as that you think?’

‘Nearer. I wouldn’t take the trap, I’d just ride Benny, he’s fresh, you could be there in less than an hour.’

Before she finished speaking he had grabbed up his coat from the door; but as he went to go out he looked towards the stairs. But she said abruptly, ‘There’s no time for that,’ and he turned and faced her for a moment, his face red and angry looking. Then he went out; but the next minute she was calling to him as she ran after him, ‘Look here, put these gloves on, the reins will sear your hands. They’re bad enough as it is.’

He grabbed the gloves from her without thanks, and she stood for a second in the dark listening to his feet pounding the road as he ran towards the stables.

An hour and a half later the child was born and Molly delivered it and cried joyfully as she saw the perfectly shaped feet slip out of the womb, ‘God in Heaven! I’ve never seen anything so quick in me life. Well! Well! would you believe it. Aw, lass, lass.’

‘Molly.’ Jane’s voice was a faint whisper.

‘Aye, lass. Aye, Miss Jane.’

‘Is . . . is it all right?’

‘All right? Why, it’s perfect. A little lass and it’s perfect. Hair on its head an’ all. Now lie still, lie still, don’t move, I’ve got me work cut out. An’ listen ’er, just listen ’er, she’s lettin’ you know she’s here.’

She severed the cord and knotted it before wrapping the child in a warm sheet; then she attended to Jane, saying, ‘Lie still, lie still, the afterbirth will be comin’ away any time now. There, let’s wipe your face. By! you look bonny. Aye you do, white but bonny.’

‘Oh, Molly! Molly!’ Slow tears ran down Jane’s face. ‘Oh, Molly! Molly!’

‘There now! There now! Don’t start me on else I’ll flood us out.’

‘Molly.’

‘Aye, Miss Jane.’

‘I . . . I don’t know what I would have done without you, ever. Thank you, Molly.’

Tears gushing from her eyes, Molly turned away abruptly, saying, ‘I told you, didn’t I? I told you, an’ as soon as he comes in the house he’ll go for me. Bubbling your eyes out, he’ll say, and upsettin’ her. That’s what he’ll say, he always blames me. Aw!’ Her tone changed as she bent over the white bundle. ‘Aw! but she’s lovely.’ She lifted it up and carried it to the bed, saying between sniffs, ‘Look. Look at her. Now just take her in your arms a minute, just a minute, ’cos I’ve got to get her cleaned up, she’s in a mess.’

It was at this point that the door opened and Davie came in, and he stood stock still for a moment looking in amazement towards the two women and the child. Then he moved swiftly to the bed, and Molly stepped aside and went out of the room.

Slowly now he dropped on to his knees and stared at the little wrinkled face peering out from the white sheet. Then looking at her he murmured, ‘Jane . . . Jane,’ and he kissed her gently and stroked her face while she gazed up at him, unable to speak. Slowly now he undid the wrapping round the child and looked down on its perfect limbs.

‘A girl,’ he said softly.

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Mind? I wouldn’t mind if it was a heifer.’

‘Oh! Davie.’ Her face crumpled into a broken smile. ‘Don’t. You’re as bad as Molly. I . . . I don’t want to laugh, I feel so tired.’

‘Aw, my dear.’ As he took the child and laid it on the bottom of the bed there was a bustle outside the door as Molly announced her entry, and she came in, saying, ‘I’d better have it afore it needs a pick and shovel to get it clean.’

He looked at her as she picked up the baby and bustled out again. He wanted to say, ‘Thanks Molly, thanks.’ And he would, later. He knelt again by the side of the bed and stroked the wet hair back from Jane’s forehead. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said. ‘Go to sleep, my dear, my very dear.’

‘Yes, Davie, I’ll go to sleep, I’m very tired, so tired. But the afterbirth hasn’t come yet.’

‘Don’t worry about that, it’ll come in its own good time, and Doctor Cargill will be here shortly. By! he’ll get a gliff just like I did.’

He watched her eyes close and her breathing get deeper. Then slowly she half opened her lids again and said in a thin, thin whisper, as if her thoughts were escaping in spite of herself, ‘You have never said you loved me, Davie, do you know that, not once. You have never said you love me.’

The muscles of his face dropped as he stared down at her. Had he never said he loved her? But hadn’t he proved it in a hundred and one ways? Yet had he never said he loved her? No, he hadn’t, he hadn’t said it in so many words . . . Oh Jane! Jane! He went to put his lips on hers, but realised she was fast asleep, and slowly he rose from his knees and stood looking at her.

He wasn’t given to soft words but he must try to put this thing into words to please her, for she herself put it into words every day. Women were queer cattle; all of them were queer cattle.

The afterbirth didn’t come away. When Doctor Cargill arrived at nine o’clock that morning it showed no sign of coming. Two hours later when he left it still hadn’t come, and Davie returned to Hexham with him to collect some medicine that would help it on its way.

By evening Jane was in a high fever and Davie sat by her side wiping her brow with a cold cloth.

At six o’clock Will Curran took the trap into Hexham, and at half-past eight Doctor Cargill was again in the house, and everything was bustle. Sprinkling chloroform on a pad of cotton wool he held it above her face for a moment as he said, ‘Just breathe deeply and when you wake up everything will be all right.’

But when she woke up everything wasn’t all right, for she was bleeding heavily. She held tightly on to Davie’s hands while she retched against the sickly sweet smell of the chloroform and Molly, under the direction of the doctor, wrung out cold cloths from a bucket of well water and placed them on her stomach in an effort to stop the flow of blood.

Just before midnight before losing consciousness she whispered, ‘Davie! Davie!’ and, his face close to hers, he said, ‘Yes, my dear; yes, my dear.’ And her last words to him were, ‘Name her Delia. My mother would have liked that . . . ’

She died as the dawn was breaking, and he could not believe it, he would not believe it. He held her to him and rocked her and moaned, ‘No! No! Jane. No! No!’ and the doctor, worn out with his efforts, and Molly near to collapse, left them alone.

After a time he laid her back on the bed. Her face was white and smooth and beautiful; the beauty that had always just evaded her, except on her wedding day, had been permanently released by death.

Feathers in the fire. That’s what his granda had said they all were, nothing but feathers in the fire. But why did the burning of a feather leave so much pain in the beholder?