The Blind Years, page 6
‘Practically halfway.’
‘What do you mean?’
Yes, what did she mean? In another moment if she wasn’t careful, she’d be accusing this woman—but of what? Of being unable to forget a dead love? And it was dead. Laurence had said so. ‘There’s no-one in my life now but you.’ She had to believe that. She did believe it. There was no reason why Mrs Crofton shouldn’t be resting in this copse during a walk. The fact that she had thought it was Laurence with the dogs proved she didn’t know anything concerning his plans and the fact that he was by this time in Holland.
‘I said, what do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing.’
Again there was silence between them while they stared at each other.
‘You are very young, aren’t you?’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘It can be a handicap, a serious handicap.’
‘I understood it was an advantage…In most cases.’
‘It is only an advantage when you want to attract, but it is less than useless when you want to hold anyone…a man, a passionate, mature man.’
The blood rushed into Bridget’s face. She stood, a child now and vulnerable before this embittered woman, unable to stand up to her, to make any retort on her own behalf.
Now Mrs Crofton’s tone altered: her voice dropped and she threw her words like a chain of icicles into Bridget’s burning face: ‘You’ll never hold Laurence, never, neither mentally nor physically. You’ll be a plaything for a time…a very short time at that. I could be sorry for you if it weren’t that you’ve asked for all that’s coming to you, for you’ve chased him for years, pestered him with your schoolgirl’s pash, and that’s what it is…a pash, and he’ll treat it like that. And it serves you right…Do you hear? It serves you right.’
Bridget moved slowly back from the white, yet enraged countenance. Her hands were gripping the front of her cardigan, and under it, like a piston running wild, her heart raced. She could give no answer whatever to this beautiful, tormented creature. She could only deny loudly in her head all she had said.
‘If you go through with it the twenty-ninth will be one day you’ll remember and regret until you die.’
‘Gip…Gip, Roy.’ As if shouting the dogs’ names would blot out Mrs Crofton’s voice, Bridget called them to her and when they were running around her feet she cried, ‘Come! Come!’ Then swinging about she darted away, away from the woman who she felt would, even at this late moment, tear her happiness away from her. And she ran the few yards to the end of the copse and over the Dickensons’ land as if Mrs Crofton were at her heels.
When at last she came to a gasping halt she leant against a boulder and pressed her hands across her straining ribs. There was only one comforting thought in her mind: Mrs Crofton was a woman without hope. Only a desperately jealous woman who could see no light ahead would have acted as she had done.
After a moment or so she set off again, with the dogs trotting quietly by her side now. When she reached Balderstone she did not enter the house but after letting the dogs in the front door she turned about and went down the garden towards the pool. She wanted to be by herself for a while longer: if she went indoors she would likely run into someone and be forced to talk, and no doubt have to give some sort of explanation for her strained appearance. But a few minutes by the pool would help her to regain enough composure to carry her through dinner.
A few minutes later Bridget lowered herself onto the grass above the pool. The turbulent surface of the water was churning the pink hue of the sky into lustrous jewels. The glow of the sunset was touching Mickle Fell with gentle fingers, streaking softness down her sides. The carpet of treetops that roofed the forest, on whose outskirts she had recently walked, appeared still now. It was like the stillness inside her, a waiting stillness, for soon the trees would be swaying under the wind that was beginning to drive up the valley, and soon, too, her mind would give way under the pressure of probing. As soon as she was alone for the night it would sink under the hail of questions prompted by Mrs Crofton’s bitter words.
Mrs Crofton had said she was young, immature, and she was right. She had longed of late to appear older, to act older, but she really didn’t know how to set about it, except by applying heavier make-up. She had never talked brashly, never tried to be witty and bright, except when she displayed some mimicry, but with regard to this she knew that Laurence and her uncle and aunt saw it as the efforts of a young girl…and not of an entertaining young woman.
There was a depth of sadness in her eyes as she stared down the valley. There would be rain before morning, and as the days sped into autumn more wind and more rain. Then wind and rain and sleet, and finally snow, until all the valleys and fells would be stilled. The birds would walk on the snow without making footprints. The sheep, those that weren’t buried deeply in the white blanket, would huddle on the leeside of the stone walls…The winter would be long and hard; they were always long and hard up here. Even as a child she had thought it strange that there was sunshine in other parts of the country while here, and through the Cheviots into Scotland, the sky would be leaden and low, straining as it were to meet with that part of itself it had dropped to the earth.
But then would come the spring. Always after the winter came the spring. It was so simple. If you waited, spring came. If you waited…happiness came. The two seemed synonymous with waiting. What would she be feeling like in this coming spring? In the spring she would have been married for six months, have known Laurence intimately for six months.
‘Ooh.’ The shudder and start she gave were not caused by the thought that had been in her mind but by a figure high up on the rock about the waterfall that fed the pond. Scrambling to her feet she gazed upwards, then in relief said, ‘Oh, it’s you, Bruce. You did frighten me.’
Bruce Dickenson was of medium height, thickly built, with sandy hair and dark eyes. Bridget had never seen his expression other than kindly. His face was plain, yet overall there was a virile attractiveness about him. But as he dropped down the face of the rock and came towards her now with over-cautious steps, Bridget exclaimed to herself in surprise. Good lord! Bruce is tipsy.
And Bruce was tipsy. He stood before her smiling. It was a silly self-conscious smile and his voice did not hold his usual brisk north-country accent as he said, ‘Hello, Bridget.’ It sounded thick and fuddled.
‘Hello, Bruce. You startled me.’
‘Takin’ a short cut…often come this way. His nibs would have fits, wouldn’t he, if he knew?’ He giggled now and Bridget was forced to laugh with him, and she nodded at him, saying, ‘He would that.’
‘Cuts off…cuts off a mile and a half or more when I haven’t the van. Bridget.’ He swayed gently towards her.
‘Yes, Bruce?’
‘I’m tight.’
‘You can say that again.’ She nodded solemnly at him. ‘Have you been celebrating?’
‘Been to a weddin’. You know Ned Taylor?’
She shook her head.
‘Farmer, yon side of Newbiggin. Married a nice girl from Birtley. Grand do.’
‘Oh!’ It was all Bridget could find to say. She did not know how to deal with…this different Bruce.
‘May I sit down?’
‘Yes, of course, Bruce.’
Slowly the young man lowered himself onto the grass, and leaning back supported himself with his elbows; then looking up at Bridget, he said, ‘You sit down an’ all. Come on, sit down.’
Bridget sat down, but she did not look at Bruce, nor he at her now. He had fixed his misted gaze on the top of Mickle Fell and he kept it there for some time before saying, ‘This bring anything back to you, Bridget?’
‘Yes.’ She was gazing ahead too. ‘Yes, the first time you came up over the cliff wall.’ She pointed to where the water was spilling over the edge.
‘An’ I nearly scared the daylights out of you, although it was moonlight.’ He laughed, a thick laugh. ‘I’d climbed up there night after night for years just to get the view from this point in the moonlight, and that night…there you were.’ He turned his head slowly now and leaned it to one side as if it were too heavy to support. ‘Won’erful summer that, Bridget. You were seventeen and like a being from the planets. An unawakened princess. Oh, aye.’ His head wagged now. ‘That’s how I used to think of you. Yet they wouldn’t have believed it, them over there.’ He thumbed over his shoulder. ‘They would have killed me if they had found out. Laurence would. Oh aye, he above all of them would have thought it his duty to do me in. And yet I never even kissed you, did I, Bridget? Did I now? Did I?’
Bridget was feeling an uneasy tremor in her stomach; she did not know how to deal with Bruce in his present condition. But it was true what he said. Night after night she had slipped from the house to the pool and they had sat perilously near death on the top of the rock here. One hasty movement and they would have been hurled into the valley below. Sitting dangerously indeed, as Bruce had said. And there were two occasions when Bruce led her down the rock face to the woods below, and he had done nothing but hold her hand: as he had said, he had never kissed her. Now, for the first time, she was realising just what that meant, what control this young man, this virile young man had exercised. The trembling in her stomach eased and she smiled towards him and said quietly, ‘You were wonderful to me that summer, Bruce. It was an awful holiday; lonely, that’s why I used to come to the pool, but from the time we went adventuring together it was different.’
Bruce’s face was straight now, even surly, and he repeated, as if she had not spoken, ‘I never kissed you. You were seventeen, a young seventeen, so I never kissed you, but now you’re twenty-two and going to be married. Whenever I think of that summer I know I must have been daft, barmy, not to have kissed you.’
The trembling suddenly started again and was stronger now.
‘Bridget.’ He swung his thick body round until he was kneeling before her, supporting himself again with his hands, but to the front of him now, which made him look like a shaggy pony. But his voice held something of his ordinary tone as he said quickly, ‘I’ve been up here every night for weeks—do you know that, Bridget?—hoping I’d see you. And I’d given up. And now here we are and I’m tight. It isn’t as I wanted it…Bridget’—he moved forward on his hands—‘you can’t marry him. I wanted to tell you, you just can’t marry him.’
Bridget moved quickly and pulled herself up. She watched him get to his feet. And then he was standing before her, and she said to him, ‘I’m not going to listen to you, Bruce.’
‘Oh, yes, you are…you are, Bridget.’
As she made to turn from him his hands shot out and caught her arms. His hold was not rough but she said, ‘Let me go. Please, Bruce, you are hurting me.’
‘I wouldn’t hurt you, Bridget. You know that, an’ I’ll let you go when I’ve had me say, what’s been rotting in me since I heard about you and him. I got used to the idea that I didn’t stand a chance, not with them lot around you and me tied to the farm. And I would have said nothing an’ let things bide if it hadn’t been him. But when I knew it was to be him, that dirty swine, I was boiled up.’
‘Stop it, Bruce, I won’t listen.’
‘You don’t want to know the truth about him, do you, Bridget? Because if you did you would run a mile afore you’d let him lay a hand on you. He’s like his old man, not a pin to choose atween ’em. The old un’s running one in Durham now. But I’ll say this for him, his woman is without a man, but not so Master Laurence.’
‘Leave go, Bruce.’
‘No, Bridget, I’ll not leave go.’ His grip had tightened and his face had become flushed with anger. ‘He’s got to take a woman with two bairns and the man a decent sort. I know Crofton, I’ve had business with him. He’s a gentleman as neither of your Overmeers will ever be, and our great Master Laurence is his wife’s lover.’
‘Leave me alone, Bruce, leave me alone, let me go, I’ll scream! I don’t believe you…I’ll scream!’
‘Scream, Bridget, scream. Bring them all here, and then I’ll tell him to his face. And you know what I’d say to him? You know what I’d say to him?’
‘Let me go!’ Bridget was struggling wildly now and her voice was high and breaking into tears.
‘You know what I’d say? “Was it cold in Marlow’s Hollow last night, Mr Laurence Overmeer?” I’d say, “An’ don’t you think it’s cruel to tie two dogs to a post for hours and bid ’em stay and be quiet?” That’s what I’d say.’
‘You’re lying, you’re lying, it’s not true. Let me go!’
He released his hold on her arms, and the next moment she was pressed close to him, his whisky-laden breath wafting over her face as he went on thickly but more quietly now, ‘It’s true, Bridget. He and she were in that hollow for God knows how long. It’s just beyond the border of our land on the other side of the wood, as you know. It was the soft whining of the dogs that first drew me notice. I had the ferrets out after rabbits an’ I was sitting behind the shrub when I heard ’em, and I stayed to hear more. Aye, Bridget.’ He shook her in his hold. ‘Aye, I stayed to hear more so that I could convince you.’
She was struggling fiercely, pounding at his chest, kicking at his shins, ‘Let me go! I’ll scream, I’ll scream, and they’ll come.’
‘Let them come…that’s what I want. Let them come.’ His voice had risen now almost to a shout. ‘Let them find us together; he hasn’t a leg to stand on. I could have had you, Bridget, if I hadn’t been such a fool. I know now that if I’d played me cards right you would have come away with me. My father says it would have been all right with him. I told him about it. Bridget, it’s not too late…and you can stop struggling, you can’t get away.’
All of a sudden Bridget stopped struggling. She became limp in his hold and, looking into his face, pleaded, ‘Bruce, please, please let me go…there’ll only be trouble.’
‘Do you believe what I said, Bridget?’
‘Let me go, Bruce, please. I beseech you, let me go.’
‘Do you believe what I said, Bridget?’
She shook her head wildly.
‘He’s a swine. The minute you’re married, he’ll go on the same as his father did, don’t you understand? Last night those two were at each other like love-starved savages.’
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Her voice was really a scream now, and on this she felt herself lifted from her feet and carried forward. When she realised he was taking her into the hut she struggled and cried, ‘No, Bruce! No!’ and for a moment she stopped their progress by gripping the stanchion of the door. But then with a jerk they were rocketed inside and into comparative darkness. Her body had become rigid and her mind so frozen that she could make no protesting sound when he said, ‘I love you, Bridget. It’s not too late. I’ve got to make you listen to me. Kiss me, Bridget. Kiss me.’
It must have been her startling spasm of energy, together with the cracket—a three-legged stool which she sometimes used when she was painting—which caused Bruce to topple her over backwards. As she felt herself being brought to the ground with him a scream escaped her, and for a moment blackness engulfed her as a searing pain shot through her neck and shoulders.
‘You hurt, Bridget? Oh, my God. Have I hurt you? Bridget, speak to me.’
She opened her eyes and looked into his face, twisted now with genuine concern, and she murmured tremulously, ‘Oh, Bruce.’
In his fuddled state Bruce must have taken her tone and quiet attitude for acceptance to his pleas, for the next moment her head and shoulders were lifted from the floor and his arms were around her, and so great was the pain now in her shoulder that his kisses brought no protest from her for some moments. And then she could only protest weakly with one hand as she gasped, ‘No, Bruce! No, Bruce!’
It was at the point when he seemed to be snatched away from her that the blackness of deep night descended on her…
When she regained consciousness it was to imagine that she was clawing her way up the face of the cliff in inky blackness, and she gasped for air as she flung an arm upwards to get a grip on the slippery surface. When her fingers felt a hard substance beneath them they dug themselves in and she hung on, until she tried to raise her other arm, and then she was shot blindingly into awareness, and for a moment she imagined she was dead and travelling the strange road of the dead, or that she had suddenly gone mad, for she was being carried on some weird vehicle that jolted her body, and each movement rent her with excruciating pain. She imagined the strange vehicle was carrying her up the rowan walk. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to remember what had happened. When, with thankful suddenness, the pain eased she saw herself floating away from the strange contraption on which she had been lying, then her uncle’s voice checked her as it called loudly, ‘Bridget! Bridget!’ Now another voice, which she recognised as Ned Ryder’s, was saying, ‘I couldn’t leave her there, couldn’t chance it, sir. I knocked him out with the butt of me gun.’
She felt arms beneath her, her uncle’s arms, and they brought the pain to the fore again, causing it to spurt its protest from her mouth in a loud yell. Following this there was complete nothingness.
When Bridget finally regained consciousness she remembered with a chilling clarity most of what had happened, and she lay with her eyes closed repeating to herself, ‘Oh, dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord.’ She had a strong feeling that she should pray, but for what? And for whom? For herself, for Laurence, for Bruce? The name of Bruce coming into her mind brought no condemnation with it. She could feel sad for Bruce, and he had told her the truth. She tried to shut her mind against the memory of his words but the door was wide open and could never again be closed. She felt in some strange way that the years of her life that had gone before, twenty-two full years, were as nothing, as if they were the time she had spent in her mother’s womb and only now was she drawing her first breath. Never again would she be surrounded by mists of fantasy; no more would her dreamy character be a screen behind which she could hide and peep out at the world…at people she liked, and withdraw when confronted by people she didn’t like.
