The Moth, page 35
When she saw Robert, his hands held away from his sides, she again cried, ‘What’s happened?’
‘A fire; the place is burnt down. Waters did it. Will you see to her . . . them? Doctor Miller will be here in a minute . . . But Aunty?’
‘Yes, my dear? Yes, my dear?’ She was looking up at him. ‘Would . . . would you mind if . . . if I send somebody for a drink? A bottle of brandy or whisky, anything?’
‘No, dear, no. And don’t you bother, I’ll do it. Go and sit down, go into the sitting room. I’ll do it. I’ll do it now. Yes. One of the Parkins will go; they’ve got bikes.’
She ran from the room and he sank into a chair, and for a moment he forgot about the pain in his hand, he could only think of the chatter of that fellow and how dirty people could make life. How they could stain a beautiful thing, and once stained by slander it was indelible, it was there for always. Was he right in letting her take the final step?
Right. Right. His right hand. What good would he be with only one hand? God! He wasn’t going to pass out, was he?
Thirteen
The house burnt itself out. The only articles saved were crockery and kitchen utensils. These had been thrown into the barn on the night of the fire, but on the following morning there wasn’t an article left.
It was not until the debris that had fallen from the first floor down into the hall was cleared that they came across the charred body of Dave Waters. The news was brought to Alice by one of the two boys working in the shop, and she took it up to the bedroom where Robert and Agnes were sitting by Millie’s bedside. It was Agnes she motioned out of the room. Quietly she said to her, ‘They found Mr Waters’ body.’
Agnes remained silent for a moment. Then looking into the pleasant face before her she said, ‘This news should bring me deep sorrow, Mrs Bradley, but the only feeling I have is one of relief, because I’ve thought for nights past he may be wandering somewhere, or be in hiding, because no-one saw him go into the house. It’s as well. Yet I’m sorry for Peggy . . . his wife.’
‘Yes, it’s always those who are left who suffer; the dead can’t feel. Will you tell him?’
‘Yes, presently.’
‘There’s a bite ready for you when you feel like it. I’ll come up and sit with her at the time you both have it.’
‘Thank you.’
She went back into the room and Robert’s eyes questioned her across the bed, and in answer she said, ‘Later, I’ll tell you later.’ Then when Millie moaned and moved restlessly, she bent over her and stroked her hair back from her brow, saying, ‘There, there, dear. There, there.’
Millie was recovering as much as she would ever recover, according to Doctor Miller, for her heart which had never been good, as he said, had now undergone such a strain, what with the smoke and the burns on her legs, that it was very tired. But, he said, with care it could go on ticking for a week, or a month, or even a year; but not to be surprised if it stopped at any moment.
As for the condition of Robert’s hands, his manner after he had dressed them the first time had been grave, when he said, ‘This, I’m afraid, is going to be a hospital job. Those two end ones are almost burnt to the bone. It’s a pity they’re on the right hand. And the pad of your left is in not much better state. But they’re very good at grafting these days, they’ve had plenty of experience of it over the past months. You can visit the Royal Victoria in Newcastle as an outpatient until they can do the job. Then you’ll likely have to go in. The main thing is to try to move your fingers. Oh yes, yes’ – he had nodded – ‘at the moment you feel that you will never move them again, and when you do start you’ll know about it too.’
When he had asked in a tentative voice, ‘Will . . . will I be able to carry on my work?’ the doctor’s answer had been, ‘I don’t see why not after a time. Men manage with half hands, some with no hands at all. I shouldn’t worry about that, just give yourself time. But in between don’t let us hoodwink ourselves: you are going to feel them, for they are in a bad way.’
And that, Robert had thought during the next forty-eight hours, was an understatement. The first night he drank three large whiskies, but still couldn’t close his eyes; nor could he do anything for himself, not lift a cup or a glass to his lips. It was some weeks before he could laugh at the memory of his aunt who had lived so teetotal a life that not even ginger beer had crossed her lips pouring whisky down his throat at intervals . . . ’
They were both downstairs now and Agnes, after cutting up his meat and vegetables, lifted forkful after forkful to his mouth, and he groaned in between bites the while she chided him, saying, ‘Don’t be silly, eat it up.’
‘Oh, Lord’ – he shook his head – ‘that it’s come to this.’
‘Yes, that it’s come to this,’ she repeated. ‘And I’ve never done anything that has given me more pleasure.’
‘You’re easily pleased.’ He gulped on a mouthful of food.
‘There you are mistaken.’ She took up a napkin now and wiped round his mouth. And, his head down now, he said, ‘It’s humiliating.’
‘Would you rather a nurse in hospital did it?’
‘Yes, yes, I would.’
‘Well then’ – she went round the table and began on her own meal – ‘we’ll see about it. I’ll see Doctor Miller when he comes this afternoon and tell him you want to be taken into hospital.’
‘You do if you dare.’ They smiled at each other now, and he asked, ‘What did Aunty want?’ But she continued eating for some seconds before telling him. ‘They found Dave.’
He waited; he too had wondered if the old man was hiding somewhere and so could strike again at any moment.
‘He must have burnt to death.’
He looked away from her. Well, it wasn’t a good way to go, he’d likely have died from suffocation before being burnt. But whichever way he went, he was glad he was gone, for now he felt he could breathe again.
‘Do you think you should go and see Peggy?’ he said.
‘Yes, I do. It will be very awkward, dreadful. Yet I feel she must be relieved too for she had known what was happening to him.’
He looked down at his hands now where they rested on the table, two big white bandaged lumps. It wasn’t two years since he had come to this part of the country, he thought, yet his presence right from the beginning seemed to have wrought havoc: meeting Millie by the lake; arousing the animosity of Nancy Parkin; the business of Carrie and the knife throwing – that could have done him in – then going to Foreshaw; the moment when he first touched her as he lifted her from the ground; the killing of the master; his uncle coming out on that bitter night to ask his forgiveness, and never recovering from it, the only bright thing being the will and the feeling of independence it had brought him. But that brightness had been dimmed, for day after day Waters had trailed him; he couldn’t move but he knew that the man was watching him.
Then that moment in the tack room when he first kissed her. That was never to be forgotten, that was the beginning of the change. Yet how did it end? By him almost strangling her brother. Then again the emergence into brightness, into joy: ‘Will you marry me, Mr Bradley?’ Oh, she was wonderful, wonderful. He looked at her. Would there ever come a time when she would stop loving him, when she saw him for what he was, just an ordinary fellow? But he had never pretended to her to be anything else and he doubted if he could change. He didn’t want to change, except in a way: learn more, be more knowledgeable. Yes, that would please her and he would do it. And she would help him, she was like that. If only he knew that his hands were going to be all right. Anyway, there was one thing they had done for him, they had delayed his enlisting for a time, if not for altogether, and he wasn’t sorry. Oh no, by God, he wasn’t sorry. He wanted to be no hero. A live carpenter was better than a dead VC any day in the week.
‘What are you thinking?’
He smiled at her. ‘I was thinking of you,’ he said; ‘I’m always thinking of you.’
‘When shall we be married?’
Oh, God, she was funny. He put his head back and managed to laugh. Say, Polly Hinton or Nancy Parkin or any other girl of his acquaintance had said to him, ‘When shall we be married?’ he would have shied like any nervous colt and said, ‘Look here, hold your hand a bit, miss. Who said anything about marriage?’ Cheeky monkeys, the lot of them. Yet, here she was, this lady, because in his mind that’s how he’d always think of her, a lady, saying coolly to him, ‘When shall we be married?’
For the moment he forgot the constant searing pain in his hands and arms and, pulling a face, he said, ‘Well now, about that, I’ve been thinking I might change me mind.’
So much had she altered in the last few days, which seemed to have taken on the pattern of years, that she calmly cut into a piece of steak and chewed on it before saying, ‘If I were you, sir, I’d think again. It’s either marriage or breach of promise.’
She was so pleased to see him laugh, knowing what he must be suffering and what he had gone through during the past days. She looked across the table now, love showing unashamedly in her eyes as she asked herself, would she ever get tired of this man? Would there come a time when she would say to herself, they had been right, oil and water don’t mix? No, never. This oil and water had already merged one into the other.
He said now, quietly, ‘How can it be done, quickly I mean?’
‘By special licence, I understand, or as soon as you are capable of putting the ring on my finger.’
‘Huh!’ He gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Good.’ He nodded his head once. ‘So be it. Are you going to inform your brothers?’
‘No. It is none of their business.’
‘I can see Second-Lieutenant Stanley making it his.’
‘Well, once it’s done, it’s done. So I think the sooner the better. If that meets with your approval, Mr Bradley?’ She was smiling primly at him now, and he answered in the same vein, ‘Quite, Miss Thorman. Quite.’
She now rose from the table and came hurrying round to him and, standing behind him, she put her arms around his neck and, bending over, she kissed him; then said, ‘I’ve never been so happy in my life . . . If only Millie,’ she said to herself.
He turned his head up to her. ‘You know nothing yet, woman, not the half of it.’
The twinkle in his eye she knew to be naughty, and she tapped his cheek as she said, ‘I am willing to learn.’
‘Oh, Aggie. ‘He swung round in his chair and his arms went about her. His hands stuck straight out behind her back but his elbows squeezed her tightly and, looking into her eyes, he said, ‘What would I have done if I hadn’t met you?’ And she answered soberly, ‘The question is, what would I have done, Robert? Yes, what would I have done with my life if I hadn’t met you? I’ll thank God for you until the day I die.’
It was two days following Dave Waters’ funeral when she went into Birtley and knocked on Maggie’s door. It was opened by Ruthie whose mouth fell into a slight gape before she turned her head and looked into the room, evidently used as kitchen and living room combined, and to her mother who was sitting by the table which was set amid a clutter of furniture. But she didn’t speak.
‘May I come in, Ruthie?’ Agnes asked.
‘Oh, yes, miss. Yes, miss. Mam, here’s . . . ’
‘I know who it is.’ Peggy had risen from the table and was staring at Agnes.
‘I thought I would come and see how you are faring, Peggy,’ Agnes said, feeling very embarrassed.
‘See how I was faring? Nice of you, miss, very nice of you to make the time. Sorry you couldn’t make some time to come to Dave’s passing.’
‘I . . . I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I’m . . . I’m very sorry. I . . . I thought you would understand.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand, miss. I understand that some people are very unforgiving and that others can give their whole life to a family, as he did, and be thought nothing of. He had his faults. Yes, his main fault was too much caring. He cared too much for you both, and for you in particular. And you goin’ downhill upset him so much. Oh yes, it did. Yes, it did.’ She was nodding her head now at Agnes. ‘He wouldn’t have gone the way he did, his mind wouldn’t have turned if you hadn’t let your side down, so to speak. That just finished him. Huh!’ She turned and walked the two paces to the open fireplace where, grinding a black kettle into the heart of the fire, she said, ‘I still don’t know how you can do it, you brought up as you were, to lower yourself . . . ’
‘I’m not lowering myself, Peggy. I’m going to marry a man who is a good honest man, an equal, if not better than some, of the so-called gentlemen I have met.’
‘Aye.’ She watched Peggy’s head fall back on her shoulders as she appealed to the ceiling. ‘I never thought my ears would hear such things, never in me life. It’s a wonder I don’t lose me reason an’ all, after all I’ve done for you.’
‘You did for me what you wanted to do.’ Agnes’ voice was harsh now. ‘You and Dave ran the house as if it were your own. Now we are speaking plainly let me tell you that you took liberties that no other servant would dare to have taken. You were treated as one of the family and, let me tell you also, you didn’t treat those under you with the same consideration as you yourselves received, never, neither you nor he. Well, I came to see if I could be of any assistance to you, but I see I can’t. Good day.’
She turned on her heel and walked from the room and she was halfway down the bank on which the two-roomed houses stood when she heard Ruthie call, ‘Miss! Miss!’
She stopped and faced her, and Ruthie, her voice tearful now, said, ‘Don’t take any notice, miss, she’s not herself. She’s gone sour, and on me an’ all. Oh, miss’ – she shook her head – ‘I don’t like this life. I don’t like this life. I don’t like this place. It’s Maggie’s house. She’s out working full time now and she’s carrying, you know, she’s gona have a bairn, and Mam’s all for her, I don’t count any more. Miss, can I ask you something?’
Her breathing easier, Agnes said, ‘Yes, yes, of course, Ruthie.’
‘It’s just this. Do you want anybody? I mean to help with the chores and where you are now with Miss Millie? I’ll come gladly. I’ll do anything to get out of here. She won’t miss me. Anyway, I’ve always known that she preferred Maggie to me, ever since Maggie came on the scene. Maggie butters her up, I never could. And then there’s Greg. He’s not very civil at times with both of us there. I think, well I know, he’ll put up with Mam, but he wants me out. You see, there’s only two rooms and it’s awkward. I sleep on a mat on a shaky-down. Oh, miss, life’s so different now.’
Agnes now put out her hand and patted Ruthie on the arm, saying, ‘I’m . . . I’m sure we could do with some help, but I’ll have to talk it over with’ – she paused again – ‘with Robert and . . . and his aunt. There’s going to be a new house built at the side and that will mean more work. Anyway, I tell you what. Give me a couple of days; come over on Friday. But are you sure your mother won’t be more upset?’
‘Vexed or pleased, it doesn’t matter, I’ve got to get out. I could go into munitions but then I’d have to find lodgings, and I don’t like lodgings, I’ve never been used to them.’
‘All right, Ruthie, I’ll try to fix up something. Goodbye now, and don’t worry; it’ll be all right.’
‘Goodbye, miss. And thank you, thank you.’
Agnes walked down to the bottom of the hill where she had left the trap in the care of a boy. She gave him a threepenny piece and mounted and turned the horse for home, thinking as she did so. Well, that’s the end, nothing more can happen. But something did.
The following morning she had a letter from Stanley. It contained a threat that brought a cynical smile to her face. It started briefly,
Dear Agnes,
I hear that you intend to marry that fellow. Should you do so, I am warning you that, acting in place of Arnold as head of the family, I have the authority to remove Millie to an Institution, and this I shall do immediately should you take the step that you have so blatantly advertised . . .
She sat down and wrote the following,
Dear Stanley,
You are at liberty to take any step with regard to Millie that you feel might be for her benefit. Just ask Doctor Miller when she can be removed from here.
She signed herself briefly, Agnes.
It was well into the New Year when she received another letter from Stanley. Ruthie brought the letter to her as she sat in the sitting room massaging Robert’s fingers. His left hand was without bandages now. The skin of it looked cracked and brittle and there seemed to be no pad below his thumb. Two fingers of his right hand were still bandaged, but the others, like the left hand, were stiff and scarred. She took the letter from Ruthie, saying, ‘Thanks, Ruthie,’ then added, ‘Would you like to make a pot of tea? I’m as dry as a fish.’ Ruthie smiled widely. ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ she said. ‘It’ll be there in a minute.’
