The Dwelling Place, page 25
‘She is the mother of the child, isn’t she?’
‘There is no-one disputing that, and least of all me.’ His Lordship’s anger was now evident, but it seemed to make no impression on his son.
‘You didn’t say how she got her money.’
‘Cunningham takes it to the habitation.’ His words were cold and stiff.
‘The habitation?’ Now Clive was looking at his father.
‘She lives on the fells in a makeshift house. That is her own fault; she has enough money to rent a decent place.’
‘On the fells, the open fells? Why do you think she continues to live there?’
‘How should I know? These people are like rats, they cling to their homes.’
There was a pause. There was no sound between them, no sound from the child even, for he had stopped and was examining a dead, blackening rowan frond that covered his two small hands. No bird sound broke the silence in these seconds, no wind in the branches of the trees; it was Clive’s voice that cut it, saying with strange bitterness, ‘For a rat she did rather well in my opinion.’ Then, moving quickly forward, he gathered up the boy in his arms and held him above his head; and for the first time he really looked at him. And the boy, surprised by the playfulness of his papa, did not respond for a moment, not until his papa put him down on the ground and, taking his hand, ran him forward towards the end of the park to where the grass drive led into the forbidden distance; and, standing close to the tangle of undergrowth, lifted him up in his arms again and, pointing into the distance, said, ‘I think that’s a rabbit.’
‘Where, Papa?’ The child leaned forward and peered along the path.
‘Oh, he’s gone. Rabbits are very quick little fellows.’
He held the child in the same position until his Lordship came almost to his shoulder, saying, ‘Don’t encourage him to go along there. He could easily slip into the wood; it’s heavily trapped.’
He put the child down now and, patting his bottom, sent him forward at a run and laughing gleefully. And then he said, apparently in some surprise, ‘But I was through there last week. I never came across a trap.’
‘There weren’t any last week. But we found a place where they were getting in; there must have been a number of them. It could have been the scum from Rosier’s village or one of the gangs that sell to the markets. Anyway, they certainly thinned the birds out; even came as far as the pens and helped themselves…And not a dog barked; they’re elusive as vapour.’
‘I understood it was illegal now to set spring traps.’
‘Illegal or not they’re staying. I have placed a notice on the south wall to the effect that it is dangerous to enter the woods. I have not stated that there are traps set; they’re clever enough to deduce why the notice is there.’
Clive gave a huh of a laugh now as he said, ‘They won’t need much evidence to prove that there are traps if they show they’ve one leg missing, or blinded.’
‘What can one do? You tell me. They’re scourging the country like vermin, no man’s property is safe from them. Do you know that Bellingham had a keeper tied up, gagged, then thrown face downwards in the lake to drown. And he would have but one of the other keepers had been watching from the undergrowth and managed to get him out in time. Travel may have widened your sympathies, Clive, but I would like to wager that, when you inherit, your forbearance on such matters will be wanting.’
‘Very likely, very likely.’ Clive was nodding his head thoughtfully now. Then he went on, ‘Touching on the matter of inheritance reminds me that I’ve also been rather negligent about visiting Compton and getting my matters settled. You said, didn’t you, that I would have around four thousand a year from the trust?’
‘Yes, about that. Perhaps a little more; the investments abroad have been very favourable of late.’
‘Quite enough to set up a small establishment?’
‘Yes, if you go careful. Were you thinking of doing this?’
‘Yes and no. My mind is rather unsettled at the moment.’
‘You have given up the idea then of returning to the sea?’
‘Not entirely. Captain Spellman is anxious that I sail with him again; but there’s plenty of time for me to consider that because the ship is doing a coastal run, and in the spring, when the sea’s open, he’ll be trading to Bergen, so I understand. Anyway, he’ll be near enough at hand should I change my mind.’
‘What if he should have taken on a permanent first mate in the meantime?’
‘Oh!’ Clive’s tone was airy. ‘He’ll arrange matters.’ He paused before ending, ‘You know, you made a deep impression on the Captain, Father.’
His Lordship’s face took on a slight tinge of pink and when the child came running back towards them now and flung himself against his father’s legs and hugged his thigh he hoped with a deep intensity that his son would, in the end, decide to return to the sea, and for more reasons than one.
Six
It was early November. For eight days now they had seen no sun; the fog shrouded the grounds in a white mist in which the trees floated and men’s heads appeared in the distance as if disembodied.
In almost every room in the house a fire was blazing. The whole place was warm, even the great hall and the stone passages, and the atmosphere was light, almost gay. The servants bustled and looked happy in their bustling; all day long there were men and women carrying big skips of wood and buckets of coal, or big copper cans of hot water for baths. The master, Miss Isabelle, and the child bathed every day; only Master Clive had no use for daily hot baths. Up till a fortnight before, he had taken his bath in the river. In the opinion of the indoor servants Master Clive was a funny one; they would even have dared to say not quite a gentleman any longer, for he didn’t have a valet, and he had the plebeian way of thanking servants for doing him a small service. This latter might go down with some, but servants of long standing knew that these weren’t gentlemen’s ways.
On this morning of thick fog and air so chill that it penetrated even the thickest clothing and probed the skin, Clive left the warm comfort of the house and took a walk. No-one had inquired as to where he was going. His father was closeted in the study with his bailiff and Isabelle was playing with the child.
Once outside the North Lodge he turned right along the road until he came to the oak tree, and there he stopped. She would not have been here for days. How intense must have been the hunger that brought her here in the first place, that made her create the hidey-hole and run the risk of discovery.
He walked on sharply now and mounted the fells at about the place where he had remembered her going up the bank. Away from the shelter of the wall and the sunken road the air caught at his breath and made his chest heave. He could see no farther than sixty feet ahead; and for the first time since leaving the house he asked himself a question: ‘If I do see her how will I bring the matter up?’
Long before he had gone into Newcastle the week before to sign the deed claiming that the child, christened as Richard Brodie, was his son and rightful heir and would henceforth take the name of Richard John Horatio Fischel, he had known what lay behind his change of attitude; but he also knew it would take time before he could present it to the girl in an acceptable fashion, time in which he must convince her that he was up to no trickery, that his one aim was to recompense her for the wrong he had done her.
Each night since he had surprised her in the hidey-hole he had gone over the incident second by second. It was much clearer in the dark, much more real; he felt her body close to his for the second time in his life. He saw the blood press to the surface of her face where his fingers squeezed her mouth. He saw the creamy film and the texture of her skin, and he smelled the smell of her, that woman’s smell that her old shabby clothes could not smother. He had smelled it on the day he had taken her, and never had he smelled it since on any other woman. Women all had particular smells, but there had been none like the odour that came from her; and there, as he had held her pressed tightly to him while their child laughed and called on the other side of the bramble fence, he had been more aware of the odour of her than he had been of the strangeness of the situation.
He knew that he could wander about up here for hours, even go round in circles and never come across a living soul. After some time he took out his watch and peered at it and was surprised to see it was only a quarter to eleven, little more than an hour since he had left the house. He felt he had been away from the confines of the Hall for days.
When the fog lifted for a moment, and he saw in the distance the figure of a woman, he stopped. The woman had seen him, and she, too, had stopped. He couldn’t make out in the swirling fog if it was the girl or not, but when the figure came hurrying towards him he knew it wouldn’t be the girl. The woman stopped within twenty feet of him. There was a look of surprise on her face; it was as if she had thought she would see someone else. He saw that she was a big, ugly woman but not poorly clad; and when she turned and almost ran back the way she had come, he remained standing, puzzled by her appearance and quick disappearance. It was evident she had not expected to see him.
After a moment he, too, turned and retraced his steps the way he had come; but fifteen minutes later, when he hadn’t reached the road, he realised he had missed his way. Then ten minutes later still he came on the dwelling.
It seemed to rise out of the ground like an eruption. It was akin to something he imagined a man would build if wrecked on a desert island; it looked like a number of poor cow sheds at different levels stuck against the outcrop of rock. He saw it was in three sections but that only the middle section had a window, and there were only two doors. The larger door was open and revealed what looked like a woodshed, the other door was closed. He was staring at this door, wondering whether he should knock, when it opened and there she stood. But only for a second. At the sight of him she heaved in a deep breath, sprang back into the room, and banged the door shut. And then he heard a bar being dropped into its socket.
God Almighty! She was still all that afraid of him. Couldn’t she believe that he meant her no harm, only good? If he could only get her to realise just how much good he meant her.
He knocked on the door sharply as he said, ‘Open the door, please. I must speak with you.’
He heard a small voice which wasn’t hers say something, and again there was silence. And again he said, ‘I have no intention of going away until I can speak with you, so you might as well open the door. I have something to say to you that is of great interest to you. It, it concerns the child.’
Two full minutes passed before the bar was lifted; then slowly the door was opened, and there she stood, one hand gripping the door and four children standing round her, their eyes wide, with fear in them. The sight brought his head down, and after a moment he asked quietly, ‘May I come in?’ And now she pushed the children from her and opened the door further to allow him to walk into a room that wasn’t a room, but the strangest place he had ever seen, and he had seen some strange places.
The wall of the outcrop jutted roughly into it; there were odd bits of old furniture here and there, and at the far end a tiny fireplace…She and the rest of them had lived here, according to his reckoning, for five years, and here his son had been born and nurtured by her until he was five months old. He looked at the children, all girls—they were grouped together now at the side of the fireplace—and turning his gaze to her, he said, ‘Do you think I might have a word with you in private?’
When she went and picked up a shawl from the top of a chest, he said, ‘No, no, it is bitter out. Is there no place to send the children?’ And on this she made a motion with her head and the tallest girl, still with her eyes on him, sidled past him and to a door at the far end of the room, the others following her.
When they were alone he looked at her where she was standing by the far corner of the fire, her face averted from him, and he said, ‘Won’t you sit down?’ When she made a small movement with her head he said under his breath, ‘How can I convince you of what I said the other day, I mean you no harm?’
She still made no answer, but her shoulders moving up and down showed him the rapidity of her breathing, and the terror of him that was still in her; and so, throwing aside his formulated plan of slow approach, he said, ‘How would you like your child back?’
Her body was slow in turning, her lips were apart, her eyes wide, and the fear had gone from her as if it had never been, but the look that had replaced it lasted only a matter of seconds; and when her shoulders slumped downwards they seemed to drag with them a veil of blankness over her face, and she said dully, ‘You’re just sayin’ that. There’s no chance; he…he would never let me, not now.’
‘My father has no power over…your child.’ He had almost said ‘our child’. ‘I am the person, who, from now on, will dictate what will happen to it.’
The eager look was creeping back into her face and she said in a whisper, ‘You…you really mean that…that I could have him again?’
‘Yes, yes, that is what I mean. But you would have to have a suitable place in which to bring him up.’ His eyes flickered around the room. ‘May I…may I ask you a question?’ He waited a second, then went on, ‘Are you thinking of being married?’
The question seemed to surprise her for she jerked her chin before turning her head to the side and looking down as she answered, ‘No; an’ I won’t, never!’
He was surprised at the answer and the authoritative tone in which it had been given, and he allowed a moment to pass before he went on, ‘Well, now what I have in mind is this. I will settle a sum on you that will enable you to take a house in a respectable healthy neighbourhood, say on the outskirts of Newcastle, and when he reaches the age of five, you will send him to school. It could be a day school, but a good one. I would wish him to be known as Richard John Horatio Fischel; he has recently been registered under this name.’ He stopped as he saw her hands going out towards the table, and gripping it as if for support; and then, her gaze still cast downwards, she asked, ‘Why…why are you doing all this?’ to which he answered quietly, ‘Isn’t it evident? I wish to make reparation to you for the harm I brought on you, and I wish to settle it before I return to sea.’
She raised her eyes to his now and stared at him, and she saw him, for the first time, not as a demon but as a young man of pleasing appearance, with an expression that was serious, and grey eyes that were kindly, and she couldn’t associate him with the other being, who on two of the three occasions they had met, had held her to him and created in her fear-tearing panic.
When she asked softly, ‘What of your father? I…I think he is very fond of the child,’ he paused before answering because, deep within him, he knew that he should ask the same question of himself as she had in reply to his former question, ‘Why are you doing all this?’ and if he were to be truthful he would answer with another question: Why should his father have it all ways? He had banished him for raping a young girl, hadn’t he, and yet had himself been quite prepared to enjoy the fruits of that act? Moreover he had taken upon himself a halo for his clemency. Clemency, when, as she had said, he had got the child, not for money, but for two lawn handkerchiefs!
His answer to her was now checked by the door opening and a thickset powerful man entering. He stared at the fellow and the fellow stared at him; then she, in great agitation, exclaimed, as she moved down by the side of the table towards the man. ‘Oh! Matthew! I didn’t think to see you the day.’
Matthew came slowly into the room, and after glancing at her he returned his gaze to the visitor and, his voice grim, said without preamble, ‘What’s your business here?’
‘Whatever my business I cannot see what it has to do with you, sir.’ Clive’s voice was no longer that of the sailor, or the pleasant individual who talked to the outside staff, but that of a Fischel, a man who demanded respect and obedience as his right. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll allow me to ask you the same question. Who are you?’
‘Everybody knows who I am. I’m Matthew Turnbull, the miller, from Brockdale.’
Clive now cast a glance towards Cissie. She was staring at the fellow, pleading in her eyes. Hadn’t she said she was not going to be married, nor ever would be? Then who was this man who spoke as if she were his property? Well, it would be easy to find out, he was the miller at Brockdale.
He turned and looked at her, saying now, ‘You’ll be hearing from me again. In the meantime good day to you.’ He made no motion of farewell to the man who had his eyes fixed hard on him but went out through the door and into the mist; and as he walked, the face of the miller intruded on to a picture that had formed in his mind when he had said to her, ‘You will take a house on the outskirts of Newcastle.’ The picture had shown him returning from sea and going to the house to visit his son…and his son’s mother…
‘Who’s he?’
Cissie closed her eyes, rubbed her hand all round her face, and finished by smoothing her hair back; but even then she didn’t answer Matthew’s question. Sitting down on a chair, she joined her hands tightly together before looking up and saying, ‘It’s…it’s him. His Lordship’s son.’
‘What!’ Matthew looked as if he were going to bound towards the door, and she leaned swiftly across the table and grabbed at his arm, saying, ‘No, no! It’s all right. Let me tell you. I’ve…I’ve got somethin’ to tell you. He…he didn’t come lookin’ for me, plaguing me; he came to tell me I…I could have Richard back. Aye, he did.’ She moved her head slowly at him. ‘You see, it was like this…’ And now as he stared stiffly down at her she told him what she had kept to herself for years, and had made Joe keep to himself, the hidey-hole from where at intervals she had watched her child grow, and she finished, ‘He…he could have given me away but he didn’t; instead, he’s gone about makin’ it possible for me to have the bairn back.’
‘There is no-one disputing that, and least of all me.’ His Lordship’s anger was now evident, but it seemed to make no impression on his son.
‘You didn’t say how she got her money.’
‘Cunningham takes it to the habitation.’ His words were cold and stiff.
‘The habitation?’ Now Clive was looking at his father.
‘She lives on the fells in a makeshift house. That is her own fault; she has enough money to rent a decent place.’
‘On the fells, the open fells? Why do you think she continues to live there?’
‘How should I know? These people are like rats, they cling to their homes.’
There was a pause. There was no sound between them, no sound from the child even, for he had stopped and was examining a dead, blackening rowan frond that covered his two small hands. No bird sound broke the silence in these seconds, no wind in the branches of the trees; it was Clive’s voice that cut it, saying with strange bitterness, ‘For a rat she did rather well in my opinion.’ Then, moving quickly forward, he gathered up the boy in his arms and held him above his head; and for the first time he really looked at him. And the boy, surprised by the playfulness of his papa, did not respond for a moment, not until his papa put him down on the ground and, taking his hand, ran him forward towards the end of the park to where the grass drive led into the forbidden distance; and, standing close to the tangle of undergrowth, lifted him up in his arms again and, pointing into the distance, said, ‘I think that’s a rabbit.’
‘Where, Papa?’ The child leaned forward and peered along the path.
‘Oh, he’s gone. Rabbits are very quick little fellows.’
He held the child in the same position until his Lordship came almost to his shoulder, saying, ‘Don’t encourage him to go along there. He could easily slip into the wood; it’s heavily trapped.’
He put the child down now and, patting his bottom, sent him forward at a run and laughing gleefully. And then he said, apparently in some surprise, ‘But I was through there last week. I never came across a trap.’
‘There weren’t any last week. But we found a place where they were getting in; there must have been a number of them. It could have been the scum from Rosier’s village or one of the gangs that sell to the markets. Anyway, they certainly thinned the birds out; even came as far as the pens and helped themselves…And not a dog barked; they’re elusive as vapour.’
‘I understood it was illegal now to set spring traps.’
‘Illegal or not they’re staying. I have placed a notice on the south wall to the effect that it is dangerous to enter the woods. I have not stated that there are traps set; they’re clever enough to deduce why the notice is there.’
Clive gave a huh of a laugh now as he said, ‘They won’t need much evidence to prove that there are traps if they show they’ve one leg missing, or blinded.’
‘What can one do? You tell me. They’re scourging the country like vermin, no man’s property is safe from them. Do you know that Bellingham had a keeper tied up, gagged, then thrown face downwards in the lake to drown. And he would have but one of the other keepers had been watching from the undergrowth and managed to get him out in time. Travel may have widened your sympathies, Clive, but I would like to wager that, when you inherit, your forbearance on such matters will be wanting.’
‘Very likely, very likely.’ Clive was nodding his head thoughtfully now. Then he went on, ‘Touching on the matter of inheritance reminds me that I’ve also been rather negligent about visiting Compton and getting my matters settled. You said, didn’t you, that I would have around four thousand a year from the trust?’
‘Yes, about that. Perhaps a little more; the investments abroad have been very favourable of late.’
‘Quite enough to set up a small establishment?’
‘Yes, if you go careful. Were you thinking of doing this?’
‘Yes and no. My mind is rather unsettled at the moment.’
‘You have given up the idea then of returning to the sea?’
‘Not entirely. Captain Spellman is anxious that I sail with him again; but there’s plenty of time for me to consider that because the ship is doing a coastal run, and in the spring, when the sea’s open, he’ll be trading to Bergen, so I understand. Anyway, he’ll be near enough at hand should I change my mind.’
‘What if he should have taken on a permanent first mate in the meantime?’
‘Oh!’ Clive’s tone was airy. ‘He’ll arrange matters.’ He paused before ending, ‘You know, you made a deep impression on the Captain, Father.’
His Lordship’s face took on a slight tinge of pink and when the child came running back towards them now and flung himself against his father’s legs and hugged his thigh he hoped with a deep intensity that his son would, in the end, decide to return to the sea, and for more reasons than one.
Six
It was early November. For eight days now they had seen no sun; the fog shrouded the grounds in a white mist in which the trees floated and men’s heads appeared in the distance as if disembodied.
In almost every room in the house a fire was blazing. The whole place was warm, even the great hall and the stone passages, and the atmosphere was light, almost gay. The servants bustled and looked happy in their bustling; all day long there were men and women carrying big skips of wood and buckets of coal, or big copper cans of hot water for baths. The master, Miss Isabelle, and the child bathed every day; only Master Clive had no use for daily hot baths. Up till a fortnight before, he had taken his bath in the river. In the opinion of the indoor servants Master Clive was a funny one; they would even have dared to say not quite a gentleman any longer, for he didn’t have a valet, and he had the plebeian way of thanking servants for doing him a small service. This latter might go down with some, but servants of long standing knew that these weren’t gentlemen’s ways.
On this morning of thick fog and air so chill that it penetrated even the thickest clothing and probed the skin, Clive left the warm comfort of the house and took a walk. No-one had inquired as to where he was going. His father was closeted in the study with his bailiff and Isabelle was playing with the child.
Once outside the North Lodge he turned right along the road until he came to the oak tree, and there he stopped. She would not have been here for days. How intense must have been the hunger that brought her here in the first place, that made her create the hidey-hole and run the risk of discovery.
He walked on sharply now and mounted the fells at about the place where he had remembered her going up the bank. Away from the shelter of the wall and the sunken road the air caught at his breath and made his chest heave. He could see no farther than sixty feet ahead; and for the first time since leaving the house he asked himself a question: ‘If I do see her how will I bring the matter up?’
Long before he had gone into Newcastle the week before to sign the deed claiming that the child, christened as Richard Brodie, was his son and rightful heir and would henceforth take the name of Richard John Horatio Fischel, he had known what lay behind his change of attitude; but he also knew it would take time before he could present it to the girl in an acceptable fashion, time in which he must convince her that he was up to no trickery, that his one aim was to recompense her for the wrong he had done her.
Each night since he had surprised her in the hidey-hole he had gone over the incident second by second. It was much clearer in the dark, much more real; he felt her body close to his for the second time in his life. He saw the blood press to the surface of her face where his fingers squeezed her mouth. He saw the creamy film and the texture of her skin, and he smelled the smell of her, that woman’s smell that her old shabby clothes could not smother. He had smelled it on the day he had taken her, and never had he smelled it since on any other woman. Women all had particular smells, but there had been none like the odour that came from her; and there, as he had held her pressed tightly to him while their child laughed and called on the other side of the bramble fence, he had been more aware of the odour of her than he had been of the strangeness of the situation.
He knew that he could wander about up here for hours, even go round in circles and never come across a living soul. After some time he took out his watch and peered at it and was surprised to see it was only a quarter to eleven, little more than an hour since he had left the house. He felt he had been away from the confines of the Hall for days.
When the fog lifted for a moment, and he saw in the distance the figure of a woman, he stopped. The woman had seen him, and she, too, had stopped. He couldn’t make out in the swirling fog if it was the girl or not, but when the figure came hurrying towards him he knew it wouldn’t be the girl. The woman stopped within twenty feet of him. There was a look of surprise on her face; it was as if she had thought she would see someone else. He saw that she was a big, ugly woman but not poorly clad; and when she turned and almost ran back the way she had come, he remained standing, puzzled by her appearance and quick disappearance. It was evident she had not expected to see him.
After a moment he, too, turned and retraced his steps the way he had come; but fifteen minutes later, when he hadn’t reached the road, he realised he had missed his way. Then ten minutes later still he came on the dwelling.
It seemed to rise out of the ground like an eruption. It was akin to something he imagined a man would build if wrecked on a desert island; it looked like a number of poor cow sheds at different levels stuck against the outcrop of rock. He saw it was in three sections but that only the middle section had a window, and there were only two doors. The larger door was open and revealed what looked like a woodshed, the other door was closed. He was staring at this door, wondering whether he should knock, when it opened and there she stood. But only for a second. At the sight of him she heaved in a deep breath, sprang back into the room, and banged the door shut. And then he heard a bar being dropped into its socket.
God Almighty! She was still all that afraid of him. Couldn’t she believe that he meant her no harm, only good? If he could only get her to realise just how much good he meant her.
He knocked on the door sharply as he said, ‘Open the door, please. I must speak with you.’
He heard a small voice which wasn’t hers say something, and again there was silence. And again he said, ‘I have no intention of going away until I can speak with you, so you might as well open the door. I have something to say to you that is of great interest to you. It, it concerns the child.’
Two full minutes passed before the bar was lifted; then slowly the door was opened, and there she stood, one hand gripping the door and four children standing round her, their eyes wide, with fear in them. The sight brought his head down, and after a moment he asked quietly, ‘May I come in?’ And now she pushed the children from her and opened the door further to allow him to walk into a room that wasn’t a room, but the strangest place he had ever seen, and he had seen some strange places.
The wall of the outcrop jutted roughly into it; there were odd bits of old furniture here and there, and at the far end a tiny fireplace…She and the rest of them had lived here, according to his reckoning, for five years, and here his son had been born and nurtured by her until he was five months old. He looked at the children, all girls—they were grouped together now at the side of the fireplace—and turning his gaze to her, he said, ‘Do you think I might have a word with you in private?’
When she went and picked up a shawl from the top of a chest, he said, ‘No, no, it is bitter out. Is there no place to send the children?’ And on this she made a motion with her head and the tallest girl, still with her eyes on him, sidled past him and to a door at the far end of the room, the others following her.
When they were alone he looked at her where she was standing by the far corner of the fire, her face averted from him, and he said, ‘Won’t you sit down?’ When she made a small movement with her head he said under his breath, ‘How can I convince you of what I said the other day, I mean you no harm?’
She still made no answer, but her shoulders moving up and down showed him the rapidity of her breathing, and the terror of him that was still in her; and so, throwing aside his formulated plan of slow approach, he said, ‘How would you like your child back?’
Her body was slow in turning, her lips were apart, her eyes wide, and the fear had gone from her as if it had never been, but the look that had replaced it lasted only a matter of seconds; and when her shoulders slumped downwards they seemed to drag with them a veil of blankness over her face, and she said dully, ‘You’re just sayin’ that. There’s no chance; he…he would never let me, not now.’
‘My father has no power over…your child.’ He had almost said ‘our child’. ‘I am the person, who, from now on, will dictate what will happen to it.’
The eager look was creeping back into her face and she said in a whisper, ‘You…you really mean that…that I could have him again?’
‘Yes, yes, that is what I mean. But you would have to have a suitable place in which to bring him up.’ His eyes flickered around the room. ‘May I…may I ask you a question?’ He waited a second, then went on, ‘Are you thinking of being married?’
The question seemed to surprise her for she jerked her chin before turning her head to the side and looking down as she answered, ‘No; an’ I won’t, never!’
He was surprised at the answer and the authoritative tone in which it had been given, and he allowed a moment to pass before he went on, ‘Well, now what I have in mind is this. I will settle a sum on you that will enable you to take a house in a respectable healthy neighbourhood, say on the outskirts of Newcastle, and when he reaches the age of five, you will send him to school. It could be a day school, but a good one. I would wish him to be known as Richard John Horatio Fischel; he has recently been registered under this name.’ He stopped as he saw her hands going out towards the table, and gripping it as if for support; and then, her gaze still cast downwards, she asked, ‘Why…why are you doing all this?’ to which he answered quietly, ‘Isn’t it evident? I wish to make reparation to you for the harm I brought on you, and I wish to settle it before I return to sea.’
She raised her eyes to his now and stared at him, and she saw him, for the first time, not as a demon but as a young man of pleasing appearance, with an expression that was serious, and grey eyes that were kindly, and she couldn’t associate him with the other being, who on two of the three occasions they had met, had held her to him and created in her fear-tearing panic.
When she asked softly, ‘What of your father? I…I think he is very fond of the child,’ he paused before answering because, deep within him, he knew that he should ask the same question of himself as she had in reply to his former question, ‘Why are you doing all this?’ and if he were to be truthful he would answer with another question: Why should his father have it all ways? He had banished him for raping a young girl, hadn’t he, and yet had himself been quite prepared to enjoy the fruits of that act? Moreover he had taken upon himself a halo for his clemency. Clemency, when, as she had said, he had got the child, not for money, but for two lawn handkerchiefs!
His answer to her was now checked by the door opening and a thickset powerful man entering. He stared at the fellow and the fellow stared at him; then she, in great agitation, exclaimed, as she moved down by the side of the table towards the man. ‘Oh! Matthew! I didn’t think to see you the day.’
Matthew came slowly into the room, and after glancing at her he returned his gaze to the visitor and, his voice grim, said without preamble, ‘What’s your business here?’
‘Whatever my business I cannot see what it has to do with you, sir.’ Clive’s voice was no longer that of the sailor, or the pleasant individual who talked to the outside staff, but that of a Fischel, a man who demanded respect and obedience as his right. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll allow me to ask you the same question. Who are you?’
‘Everybody knows who I am. I’m Matthew Turnbull, the miller, from Brockdale.’
Clive now cast a glance towards Cissie. She was staring at the fellow, pleading in her eyes. Hadn’t she said she was not going to be married, nor ever would be? Then who was this man who spoke as if she were his property? Well, it would be easy to find out, he was the miller at Brockdale.
He turned and looked at her, saying now, ‘You’ll be hearing from me again. In the meantime good day to you.’ He made no motion of farewell to the man who had his eyes fixed hard on him but went out through the door and into the mist; and as he walked, the face of the miller intruded on to a picture that had formed in his mind when he had said to her, ‘You will take a house on the outskirts of Newcastle.’ The picture had shown him returning from sea and going to the house to visit his son…and his son’s mother…
‘Who’s he?’
Cissie closed her eyes, rubbed her hand all round her face, and finished by smoothing her hair back; but even then she didn’t answer Matthew’s question. Sitting down on a chair, she joined her hands tightly together before looking up and saying, ‘It’s…it’s him. His Lordship’s son.’
‘What!’ Matthew looked as if he were going to bound towards the door, and she leaned swiftly across the table and grabbed at his arm, saying, ‘No, no! It’s all right. Let me tell you. I’ve…I’ve got somethin’ to tell you. He…he didn’t come lookin’ for me, plaguing me; he came to tell me I…I could have Richard back. Aye, he did.’ She moved her head slowly at him. ‘You see, it was like this…’ And now as he stared stiffly down at her she told him what she had kept to herself for years, and had made Joe keep to himself, the hidey-hole from where at intervals she had watched her child grow, and she finished, ‘He…he could have given me away but he didn’t; instead, he’s gone about makin’ it possible for me to have the bairn back.’
