Feathers in the Fire (31 page)

Five

The summer had gone. It was October again and the winter loomed ahead. The child was six months old. It was a fat, bouncing, gurgling baby; strangely it had not suffered a day’s illness since its premature birth. It laughed a great deal, and only cried when it was hungry; and when it was hungry it wouldn’t be put off with a dum-tit.

Molly cared for the child. She washed, dressed and fed it, carried it in a wash basket and laid it in the yard outside the dairy whenever it was fine; when it wasn’t she left it in the dairy. She never left it alone in either of the cottages, for fires were burning there night and day, and now she had a horror of fire.

She missed Jane as she would have a dearly beloved sister, yet at the same time she felt relieved at her going, but suffered for this failing with self-recrimination.

She had given him three months to get over the worst of his grief, but when the three months had passed, during which it had been difficult to get a word out of him, and he still showed no interest in her, and at times appeared barely civil, she experienced a new despair, a final despair, for if working alongside him from morning till night like a galley slave, if tending his child as if it were her own, and it could have been, judged on the feelings she bore towards it, if cooking for him and keeping his house clean could not draw from him a kind word, let alone a glance from his eyes that told her she was still a woman, then nothing could.

Her past, she felt, was as alive for him today as when it had happened all those years ago, a long lifetime ago. He had been a stubborn, block-headed youth then, and was now grown into a hard, unforgiving man.

She had made allowances when, following the fire and Jane’s death, she would watch him at odd times, mostly in the late evening looking at the great shell of the house. She had only realised of late that Davie Armstrong had been an ambitious man, and the knowledge had created the thought that this could have been the reason why he had married Miss Jane; but she had dismissed it. She wouldn’t give him the bad credit for being so mean. But nevertheless he’d had a feeling for the house and the land more than was usual in a worker.

Then to cap it all, today she’d had a shock, and it had released a frightening prospect. They’d had a visitor. Into the yard, around three o’clock, had ridden Miss Agnes Reed. She had said she was thirsty and could she have a glass of milk, and while she drank it she had sat looking at the blackened house; then she had said, ‘Mr Armstrong . . . is he about?’

‘In the fields.’ Her answer had been short and sharp. She had watched her ride down the road and through the gap in the stone wall.

The Reed girl had never shown her face at the farm after the master had died; what was she after now? Need she ask? She knew what she was after. She had a name, that one, a clothes prop with trousers on would do her, as long as it acted like a man. But Davie was no prop with trousers on, he was well set up, attractive, handsome; although his face was grim, he was still a handsome man, and what was more he had sense. But did any man have sense when a woman threw herself at him, and from the height of Agnes Reed’s station? It was enough to turn any man’s head.

Fifteen minutes later when she returned to the gate and saw him walking up the field by the side of the horse and rider all she could say to herself was, ‘My God!’

Davie, too, said the same words, but to himself as he looked up into the smiling face of Miss Reed. But he added, ‘What they’ll stoop to!’ And that Miss Reed was stooping he had no doubt. It wasn’t the first time he had seen her since Jane had died; he had encountered her a number of times in Hexham, and although she hadn’t acknowledged him with a movement of her head, her eyes had remained fixed on him much longer that was seeming in a woman of her standing. But what standing? From what he could gather she was nothing but an upper-class unregistered whore.

‘It seems strange,’ she was saying as she looked down into his eyes, ‘but if things had taken their course I would have been mistress of that dead pile. However, the course took a turn, and now you are master of it.’

‘That’s so.’ He jerked his head, his face unsmiling.

‘What do you intend to do with it? It’s an eyesore as it stands.’

‘Yes, you could say it’s an eyesore, but . . . but I have me plans for it.’

‘Really! I’m pleased to hear that. You must tell me of them some time.’

He made no answer to this, just stared back into her pale grey eyes, eyes that strangely reminded him of McBain’s. They had reached the gap in the wall, and he stood aside and said, ‘Good day to you,’ and after a pause she said, ‘And good day to you, Mr Armstrong.’ Then digging her heels sharply into the horse’s flanks she cantered off, while he stood looking not after her, but down on to the top of the wall. The end sandstone brick had been worn smooth with the hands that had grasped it over the years as they went in and out of the field, and now he grasped it tight as he thought, slut! And the nerve of her, thinking he would jump on to her hook. Clients must be getting scarce in her quarter.

He was filled with a sudden wave of indignation as if he had just suffered an insult. He watched his fingers moving backwards and forwards rubbing the stone, and there returned to him her words, ‘If things had taken their course I would have been mistress of that dead pile. However, the course took a turn and now you are master of it. What do you intend to do with it?’

What did he intend to do with it? He had thought once or twice lately that he would gradually knock it down and with the stone build a wall on the north boundary that would show old Tuppin he wasn’t coming any further.

When it had become known that the land, and what was left on it, was legally his, Sir Alfred’s solicitor had written him a letter offering to buy the place and had stated a sum he wouldn’t have taken for the cowsheds. In his best writing, and his best manner, he had written back and said he had no intention of selling the farm now or at any time in the future. He had heard nothing since.

He was well aware that everybody was giving him the cold shoulder; he was out of favour in both camps, that of his own kind and that of those in power. He had been condemned by the former because he had gone to Jane’s funeral in his wedding suit; true he had a black band on his arm but who had ever heard of a man going to his wife’s funeral in a light grey suit? Jane had loved him in that suit, she had been proud of him when he wore it. And he hadn’t cared a damn what anyone thought.

And he had worn it again when he had been summoned to the bank in Newcastle, and there he had met the manager’s condescension with arrogance, and had the last word in the interview, saying, ‘I am not thanking you for letting me keep what I consider me own through me wife.’

No; no-one had come to his aid, for he was, on all sides, considered an upstart, and they had left him alone. Except for the visitor today. He turned now and looked along the road; then gave a short mirthless laugh before walking briskly back to the farm.

Crossing the yard, he approached the house. He had never been in it from the day they had unearthed from among the charred beams what remained of Amos. Now he went through what had been the front door and, his feet crunching into the burnt wood, he stood where the stairs had been and looked upwards and into the high clear blue sky.

He remained standing in the hall for almost ten minutes, ten minutes idling, doing nothing, but think.

When he came out Molly was passing down the middle of the yard with the basket on her hip, the child in it, and he called to her, ‘Molly!’ When she didn’t stop, just turned her head towards him, saying, ‘I’m goin’ to make the meal,’ he looked after her puzzled for a moment. She seemed upset about something.

He hurried after her, shouting, ‘Molly! Here, wait a moment.’ When he caught up with her, she said, ‘What is it? What do you want?’

‘What do you mean, what do I want?’ He stared into her face. She was in a temper. She had shown him nothing but kindness and consideration for months past; he felt he would have gone mad without her; but now she was fuming. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

‘Now what could be wrong? I ask you, what could be wrong?’

‘All right.’ He nodded at her. ‘As you say, what could be wrong. You’ll tell me in your own time I suppose, but . . . but listen, I’ve got an idea.’ He pointed back towards the house. ‘I’m going to rebuild it.’

‘What!’ She jerked the basket on her hip and the child gurgled.

‘Aye, I was for pullin’ it down, but I’m goin’ to rebuild it. Not the old part, that’ll go. It’s had its day anyway. Look, give her to me, Here.’ He grabbed the basket from her. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

She did not now walk by his side but remained a couple of paces behind him. In front of the house he placed the basket on the ground, then pointed to the front door, saying, ‘I’m going to clear it all out. That’s the first thing, clear it all out. Then brush the stone. The stone’s all right except for a crack here and there, and that’s easily remedied. Then I’ll lay the floors, an’ fix in the beams.’

Her voice came at him, derisive, saying, ‘It’ll take a lifetime. An’ where are you goin’ to get the wood, beams an’ all that?’

He turned to her. ‘Five years. I could have it up in five years. As for the wood, I’ll buy a bit at a time for the floors. The beams, why’ – he pointed out towards the road – ‘there’s all those trees in the copse. That’s the first thing I’ll do after clearing it out, get them down so they can be seasoned. I’m going to build, Molly.’ His shoulders were bent, his head thrust towards her. ‘The old house meant something to me, but it’ll be nothing to the one I’ll build. That’ll be mine. Are you with me? Will you help me?’

She stared at him while the muscles of her face sagged. ‘Help you?’ she said.

‘Aye, help me.’

‘Well’ – her shoulders jerked – ‘you pay me, don’t you, so I don’t suppose it matters which way I earn me money?’

He stared hard at her for a moment. Then his gaze dropped away from hers, and he stooped and picked up the basket and, holding it out to her, said, ‘I’ll manage, I want no forced labour.’

Her mouth was tight as she turned away.

It was pitch dark and he hadn’t come in. She looked at the child sleeping peacefully in the basket by the side of the fire. Will Curran had been finished this past hour.

The usual procedure that ended her day was that she cooked the meal in her own oven and between times washed the child and got her ready for the night; then when she heard Davie come in she gave him time to get his wash before taking both the meal and the child next door.

They had eaten together for months past now, but they were cheerless meals. Sometimes he didn’t bother to speak. When he did it was on some aspect of the work. He always took the child upstairs with him at night.

When another half hour passed and there was still no sound of him, she pulled the basket well away from the fire; then, putting a coat around her, she ran out and down the road and into the farmyard.

The gleam of the lantern showed him bringing an armful of charred wood into the yard and placing it on the barrow. She called to him from the distance, ‘Are you going to stay out all night?’

‘Just comin’,’ he answered back.

‘The meal’s spoilin’.’

She was walking towards him as she spoke, and when she was near enough to see him she exclaimed, ‘My God! you’re a sight. You’d think you’d been down the pit.’

‘Aye.’ He knocked one hand against the other. ‘I’ll have to go to the burn to get this off.’

‘What! the night? It’s freezin.’’

‘Well, I can’t go inside like this, can I?’

She stared at him for a moment, then said, ‘Another ten minutes; then come on home an’ I’ll have some hot water an’ you can have a wash down in the scullery.’

‘Oh, ta. Thanks.’ He nodded at her, and she saw his blackened face move into a smile. It was the first time she had seen him smile since the child was born.

She turned away and hurried out of the yard and up the road. In the cottage she ground a kettle full of water on the fire, then went next door and put a full kettle on his fire. Taking a zinc bath from the nail on the outside wall, she placed it just inside the scullery door and scooped rain water into it from a barrel in the yard. Following this she took the kettle from her own cottage and stood it on the hob against the other one; then she went back and waited . . .

It was almost three-quarters of an hour later when he knocked on the wall, and at this she lifted the basket and took the sleeping child in to him, then returned and took the meat pie from the oven.

When she set the pie on the table he was standing with his back to the fire, and he looked down on it and said, ‘By, I’m ready for that. That wash was a godsend, I feel I could start all over again, night shift. I’m going to get up an hour earlier in the mornings an’ do two hours extra every night. That’s the least I’ll do because in the winter there won’t be so much goin’ outside, and there’ll be time enough to spare. I’d like to bet if I stick at it I’ll have the kitchen and hall roofed by spring. What do you say to that?’

She had just put three-quarters of the pie on to his plate and she only prevented herself from banging it on the table and saying, ‘What do I say? I’d say you’ve found your tongue all of a sudden. Strange what a visitor will do for you.’ But what she said was, ‘It’ll take you to be going.’

‘I’ll go all right.’ He pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. ‘And right from rock bottom, starting practically from scratch. An’ what I make from now on will be me own. After all, fifty acres is fifty acres. There’s many a man made a small fortune on less . . . This is good.’ He chewed a mouthful of pie, swallowed, and then looked at her.

She had her eyes cast down; she was eating slowly, quietly.

The urge came into him, as it had done over the past few weeks, to put out his hand and touch her. It wouldn’t have been disrespect to Jane; Jane would have understood. As for anybody else’s opinion he didn’t care a damn. Anyway, who was around here? Only Will, so what was stopping him? The old picture of her wantonness? No, no; that had faded into the past, years ago. No; he knew what was stopping him; and until he faced up to it and admitted it to himself he would never be able to make a move towards her.