Settling the Account (14 page)

A rustling outside the byre made him jump.
He started to slide back down into his hiding place until a hoarse
whisper stopped him.

‘Dave? Where are you?’

‘Mal!’ In the surge of relief, he almost
forgot to keep his voice low. ‘I’m in here with Esmeralda.’ He
pushed past the cow and almost bumped into Malcolm as his brother
rushed into the byre.

The cow gave an aggrieved snort at the
sudden invasion. David took hold of Malcolm’s arm and pulled him
back outside. ‘She doesn’t like strangers,’ he explained. ‘I heard
the minister say that. She didn’t make any noise when I went in
there, though. She’s a nice cow.’

‘It’s just a cow,’ Malcolm said with a
shrug.

‘No, she’s prettier than Pa’s ones. I think
she’s got a bit of Uncle Frank’s sort of cow in her.’

‘Never mind about the cow, let’s get out of
here. Why are you walking funny?’

‘I hurt my foot. It doesn’t hurt much, but I
can’t go fast.’

‘Idiot! Put your arm around my shoulder,
then, I’ll give you a hand. And shut up till we’re out of here, I
don’t want anyone hearing us.’

They crept back to the bridge where Brownie
waited patiently, chewing on a mouthful of the scrubby grass that
grew there. Malcolm gave David a leg up, and led Brownie by the
reins until they were across the bridge. Malcolm climbed onto
Brownie’s back, using the bridge railing as a step, then guided the
pony down to the beach and coaxed him into a gentle trot.

‘Brownie’ll be stiff after standing all that
time in the cold,’ he said. ‘I won’t canter him for a bit.’

David held on around Malcolm’s waist,
enjoying the warmth of his brother’s closeness. ‘Thanks for waiting
for me, Mal.’

‘Course I waited for you! I couldn’t have
gone home without you, could I? What would I have told the old
man?’ He turned his head slightly to give a quick glance at David.
‘I got a heck of a fright when I got back to the bridge and I
couldn’t find you. I thought those men had caught you.’

‘I was scared they would.’ David gave a
small shudder, and clung more tightly.

‘Don’t squeeze like that,’ Malcolm said,
squirming. ‘Gee, it was funny, eh? Old Simons was that scared when
Liam said he wanted to come in. He must have just about wet
himself.’

David did not usually argue with his
brother; Malcolm’s two year advantage of strength and skill in
fighting had always discouraged disagreement. But his nagging doubt
would not allow him to keep silent. ‘Mr Simons was quite brave, you
know, Mal.’

‘Eh? How do you mean?’

‘Well, he just stood there and looked at us.
He didn’t look scared, or sing out, or anything like that. And he’s
really old, he must be nearly as old as Grandpa. He couldn’t have
done anything if Liam had gone for him, but he just stood there.
Don’t you reckon that was brave?’

Malcolm chewed this idea over for some time.
‘I guess maybe it was,’ he admitted. ‘Anyway, it was good fun,’ he
added stoutly. He peered at the moon through the low cloud. ‘I’d
better start cantering him soon. We want to get home before it gets
pitch dark.’

It was no use trying to talk while the pony
cantered, and in any case David did not feel much like speaking.
The memory of crouching alone in the byre waiting for the hand of
justice to fall slowly faded, until all he was aware of was the
muffled, rhythmic thud of hooves on sand. The sound was soothing in
its repetitiveness, and David let his eyes close, knowing he could
trust Malcolm to guide the pony safely over the rough parts of the
beach.

He woke to find Malcolm tugging at his arm.
‘Get off,’ Malcolm whispered. ‘We’re home.’ David slid from the
pony’s back and looked around dazedly, surprised that he had slept
for so much of the ride.

He waited while Malcolm unharnessed Brownie
and carried the pony’s tack to the shed, then the two boys walked
up to the house. David trailed along beside Malcolm, stumbling with
weariness. Now that the excitement was long over and bed was an
imminent prospect it was hard to drag one foot in front of the
other. The pain in his twisted ankle was hardly more than an
occasional twinge now. There was a growing discomfort in his belly;
David was too naive to recognise the bloated feeling overlaid with
nausea as the after-effects of a good deal of beer mixed with a
large gulp of whisky.

‘Fancy Pa lying in bed snoring, and all the
time we were out having fun,’ Malcolm whispered. ‘Him and Ma never
even knew we were gone!’

David giggled at the thought, and at the
pleasure of sharing a conspiracy with his big brother. Malcolm
shushed him, and they crept on tiptoe up the front door steps and
into their silent bedroom.

A white shape moved suddenly in the
darkness. David choked back a yelp of alarm and snatched hold of
Malcolm’s arm before he realised what the shape was.

‘Ma,’ he whispered in dismay.

‘Where have you two been? What have you been
doing?’ She sounded frantic, though she kept her voice to a low
whisper.

‘What are you doing sneaking around after
us? Poking around in our room? Just bugger off and leave us alone,’
Malcolm flung at her.

She pushed past him to the door and quietly
slid it to, Ginger making his escape just before the door closed.
Then she lit the candle that stood on the chest of drawers and
turned to face the boys.

David had never seen his mother looking like
this. Her hair was loose and sleep-rumpled from the time she had
lain in bed before the boys had unknowingly disturbed her, and her
face looked pinched and cold after the long hours of waiting for
their return. But it was her eyes that distressed him most. They
were wide-open and wild-looking, full of pain and the marks of
fear.

‘You’ve been out getting in trouble, haven’t
you? All right, don’t tell me. I can’t make you. I know you’ve been
drinking, Mal, I can smell it on you.’ She turned to David, and her
eyes went even wider. ‘David, you smell of it too!’

He could find no words to explain. His
adventure no longer seemed exciting and heroic; in the face of his
mother’s pain the whole affair was small and mean. The beer sloshed
uncomfortably in his belly, and when he opened his mouth to say
something, anything, that might excuse him a little, instead of
words a loud belch emerged.

His mother turned on Malcolm. ‘You’ve no
right, Mal. You’ve no right to take Dave out with you like
that—leading him into Lord knows what sort of company. He’s only a
little boy—he doesn’t know any better. And you’ve made him
drink!’

‘He didn’t make me, Ma,’ David put in. ‘I
wanted to go with him. Honest I did.’

But his mother took no notice of him. ‘If I
told your father, Mal—’

‘You won’t. You’re too scared of him,’
Malcolm said scornfully.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t like seeing him
hurt you, that’s why I never tell on you. But maybe I should. If
you’re going to start dragging David into this sort of thing, I
might just have to tell him.’

‘I don’t care if you do,’ Malcolm said.
David looked at him in alarm. His brother might not care, but David
had no desire to taste their father’s retribution. ‘He’ll just give
me another hiding. I don’t care if he does or not.’

‘He might do more than that, Mal. If he
finds out what you’ve been up to, he might just take Brownie off
you. You won’t be able to go out with those awful boys without a
horse, will you? You’ll—’

‘You bitch!’ Malcolm hissed, his face
twisted in fear and anger. ‘You want Pa to take Brownie off me! You
never want me to have any fun. You’re always nagging and whinging
at me. You’re just an old bitch. I hate you!’

She took a step back as if he had struck
her. ‘Don’t, Mal,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t say that to me. Please
don’t.’

‘I do! I hate you! If you make Pa take
Brownie off me I’ll… I’ll…’ He flung himself down on the bed and
pummelled at the mattress, unable to put his distress into words,
then sat up, his face a mask of agony. ‘I’ll hate you if you
do.’

‘All right,’ she cried out, her voice rising
in pitch till it would have been a shriek if she had not forced it
into a whisper. ‘I won’t tell him, you know I won’t. Do whatever
you want, then. Turn into a drunkard—and a lecher when you’re old
enough. I can’t stop you doing any of it.’ She seemed to collapse
in on herself till she looked even smaller than usual. ‘Just don’t
hate me, Mal.’ Malcolm turned his face away, refusing to meet her
pleading expression.

‘Take your trousers off, David,’ she said,
her voice low again. ‘You’ve got a huge rip down that leg, and you
haven’t got any more clean pairs. I’ll get them mended before your
father takes you milking. Even he couldn’t help but notice a rip
like that. Anyway, you’d catch a chill wandering around with your
trousers all hanging open.’

She took the trousers when David had stepped
out of them. ‘He might notice the smell on your breath, too, if
it’s still strong in the morning. Wait a minute.’ She left the room
briefly, returning with two sprigs of mint which she placed on the
chest of drawers. ‘Chew this when you get up, that’ll hide the
smell a bit. Now you’d better try and get to sleep. You’re not
going to feel much like getting up in the morning.’

She paused in the doorway, looking back at
the two of them with her face framed in the light of the candle she
carried. Malcolm had turned his face to the wall, but David was
held unwillingly by the hurt in her eyes.

‘I didn’t think you’d do anything like this,
David,’ she whispered. Then she was gone.

Despite the tiredness of his body, David
could not sleep. He tossed and turned until Malcolm gave him a
sharp dig in the ribs and told him to lie still, but forcing his
body to stop moving did not ease the restlessness of his mind.

He was still wide awake when his mother
slipped quietly into the darkened room and put David’s newly-mended
trousers on the end of the bed. He pretended sleep while she
smoothed the covers over the boys and tucked them in deftly, and as
she stood looking down at them he risked peeping through his closed
lashes.

She was standing very still, one hand
hovering over him as if she would have liked to touch him. There
was enough moonlight coming through the window for David to see the
silvery trail down each cheek that told him she was crying.

She turned away and left the room as quietly
as she had come. David stared at the door she had closed behind
her. His mother was crying, and it was his fault. He had made his
mother cry.

He felt so sick and wretched with guilt that
it took him several minutes to realise there was another reason
than remorse for the grinding discomfort in his belly.

‘What are you doing?’ Malcolm asked drowsily
as David tumbled out of bed and made a rush for the door.

‘I feel crook. I think I’m going to throw
up.’ He raced outside, nearly falling down the front steps in his
haste, then stood in the dew-damp grass and gave in to the lurching
in his guts.

It took some time for him to empty his
stomach into a watery mass that soaked into the ground at his feet,
the solid remains of his dinner unrecognisable lumps floating in
the sticky puddle. When he had finished he felt weak, his stomach
aching from the effort of repeated retching, but his head was
clearer.

His mother was crying. She was always kind
to him, never angry, and she always tried to stop his father from
hitting him. She cried when his father beat him or Malcolm, and
then she would try to make it up to them with something specially
nice to eat. Whatever David did, she praised and encouraged him. He
had never thought he would see her look at him with such hurt and
confusion in her eyes.

He stole around the outside of the house and
in the back door, then through the kitchen until his hand rested on
the handle of his mother’s door. He tried to turn the handle
silently, but he had barely taken a step into the room when she
called out.

‘Who’s there? What do you want?’ Her voice
was soft, but he thought she sounded a little frightened.

‘Ma?’

‘David.’ She made the word sound flat and
tired. ‘Go back to bed.’

‘But I want to—’

‘You’ve got to get up in a couple of hours.
You’re going to be very tired, and you’ll probably have a headache.
Don’t make it worse by being silly now.’

‘I want to say sorry, Ma. Please let me say
it.’

She was silent. David crept over to her bed,
the bare boards cold under his feet until his toes reached the rag
rug. Hesitantly he lifted the covers, and when his mother made no
protest he crawled in beside her.

She smelt of the dried lavender she kept in
the drawer with her nightdresses. Her long, soft hair brushed
against his neck as he pressed against her, tickling him
pleasurably.

‘I’m sorry, Ma.’

She gave a small sigh and slipped her arms
around him, pulling him close till his back rested against the
curve of her body. ‘Davie, why did you do it?’

‘Don’t you like me any more?’ He heard his
voice tremble.

She held him tighter. ‘It’s all right. I
wish you hadn’t gone out drinking like that, but whatever you do
I’ll still love you.’ She placed a soft kiss on the top of his
head. ‘Do you understand why I don’t want you to do things like
that?’

David thought back to the turmoil of his
night. It no longer seemed like an adventure. Instead of the
excitement, he remembered the disquieting look of hatred on Liam
Feenan’s face, eyes glittering with whisky-fed courage. Then the
fear of crouching alone in the cow byre. And after that, the
horrible retching from which his abdominal muscles still ached.

‘I think so. Yes, I do,’ he said with sudden
certainty. He rolled onto his back and stared solemnly at the white
shape of her face in the darkness. ‘Ma, I’m never, ever going to
drink again. Not even when I’m grown up.’