Authors: Yelena Kopylova
bidden to meet in the cottage she would have gone
gladly.
MacFell had been over to see John
Hodgson about a young bull he had for sale.
Hodgsons had been tenant farmers of The Manor
for generations, yet none had prospered. It was still a poor farm, due mostly to the layout of the land which was fit only for sheep grazing and a few cattle; even
so MacFell scorned him for it.
He knew that John Hodgson needed to sell the
bull and so he quibbled about the price, and but for the fact that he wanted to be back
on his farm before five o'clock, he would have gone on
quibbling until he eventually wore Hodgson
down. Instead, he told the man that he would leave it
for another day and let him think over his offer.
MacFell had no doubt but that Hodgson's
curses helped him on his way back over the
fields. However, this troubled him not at all, what
concerned him at the moment was that his son's needs must be met; then once that was out of the way the boy would apply himself solely to his work, the work of becoming a
scholar, an educated man who would be able to converse
with the best3 be better than the best, the best anyway that lived within the folds of these hills. What were they after all, them in the big houses and their manors, but idle good-for-nothings who had never earned a penny of the money that they were spending, nor yet contributed a
stick of furniture to their mighty rooms? Oh, his
son would show them. He might not after all decide that he should take over the farm, he could become a
barrister, a judge, or even enter Parliament; with
education such as he was receiving in the grand school in Newcastle he could go on to a university, and from there he could pick and choose caret be
TCP 2
whatever he desired, and marry whom he liked, even
into the class. Yes, definitely into the class, the
top class, from where he could even look down his
nose at Chapman's horsy daughter. . . . But
what about the land? Well, after all it meant
more to Chapman than it did to him. Chapman, for all
his style, had no freehold land.
He passed the narrow way that led down to the
village of Kirkwhelpington, then a little further
on he left the road and mounted the grassy bank
and, bringing his horse to a stop for a moment, he glanced at his watch. He had left it late, he must
hurry.
When he drove his heels into the horse's side
it set off at a gallop and he kept it at its
pace for the next three miles until the sweat was
running out of the beast. Then when he came to the top of the rise from where, over a rough copse, he could see his
farm and its outbuildings lying as if in the palm of a
hand, he let the animal drop into a canter before
taking the path that ran down through the copse and to the burn.
His intention was not to cross the burn but to remain in the shadow of the trees and watch the Benton chit going to her breaking, if all her mother said was true, and,
in his imagination, relish his son's pleasure.
Charlie did not stay long at Brooklands
Farm. Mrs Chapman and her husband welcomed him
most warmly and said how disappointed Victoria and
Nellie would be to have missed him, but Josh
Pringle had ridden over from Bellingham way that
morning and they had gone back to his place to see a
new foal. Mrs Chapman asked after his dear mother,
his father, and his sister Betty; then when she received the invitation she said they'd all be delighted to come over on Saturday evening, wouldn't they, Hal?
Hal Chapman endorsed his wife's sentiments;
then, his hand on Charlie's shoulder, he once again
took him on a tour of his farm, and it was as if he
were showing him everything for the first time as he pointed out the value of this horse and that cow, and the fine breed of pigs, and the sheep dotting the hillsides far away.
And so it was with relief that Charlie said his
good-byes and made his way hurriedly back home
for there were two things he had made up his mind to do.
First, he was going to tell his father that he had no
bodily needs that couldn't wait to be satisfied.
When just before setting out for Brooklands his father had told him whom he had chosen to initiate him
into manhood, he was so amazed as to be unable
to voice any protest. The indecency of it shocked
him. That his father could use big Polly and calmly
arrange for him to do the same with young Polly was
utterly abhorrent to him. In some way, it even
sullied the feelings he bore Polly, it
ripped from them the secret sweetness of his first love and left it smirched, brought down to the level of "the other thing" enacted in the hay.
The second thing he must do was to find Polly and
ease her mind. How he would go about this he didn't
know.
The farm seemed devoid of life; there was no one
about the yard except young Peter Benton who, as
Charlie unsaddled the horse in the stable, took the
saddle from him and with surprising strength and agility for one so young threw it over the saddle stand, then said,
"I can see to him, Mister Charlie," in reply to which Charlie, smiling at him, said, "You'll have to stand on something then, Peter."
"Aye well, I've done it afore an' I like
rubbing him down."
"Where's everybody?"
"Oh, about." The answer and attitude was that of a man, and for a moment Charlie forgot the weight on his
mind and laughed down on the youngster. He was a funny
little fellow was young Peter, he'd be a card when he
grew up.
Then as if belying this impression, the boy turned
a serious face up to Charlie and said, "What's
wrong, Mister Charlie? Is our Arthur in
for it? What's he done?"
"Arthur? Done? Nothing that I know of. What
makes you ask?"
"He's been goin' around in a tear all day,
wouldn't open his mouth. That's not like our Arthur, he's always goin' for me. He was in a while back for a
rope and 1 said what did he want it for, was he
thinking of hangin' hissel, an' he clipped rne
lug, knocked me flyin' he did. Is he in for
it, Mister Charlie? What's he done?"
Charlie stared down at the boy before he repeated,
"Nothing that I know of, Peter. Where is he now?"
"He went the copse way." He thumbed over his
shoulder.
"Don't worry"-Charlie grinned now-
"Arthur gets that way, he has fits and starts, you should know that by now."
"Aye. Aye, Mister Charlie, but. . . but
something up, "cos me ma didn't come in to her
dinner an" our Polly was sick in the sink. Is
the boss gona do somethin' to us, Mister Charlie?"
Polly sick in the sink. . . . "The boss. .
. . No, no, don't be silly. Whatever it is,
it's got nothing to do with your work, you're all
splendid workers." He absentmindedly
ruffled the boy's hair; then looking at the horse,
he said quietly, "You'll give her a good rub,
won't you?"
"Aye, Mister Charlie, aye, I'll see
to her well," and taking the bridle, the boy tugged the horse forward into its stall, and Charlie went out into the yard and stood looking about him for a moment.
Polly had been sick in the sink. She had
heard what she had to do and was terrified at the
prospect. And Arthur knew and he was mad about it,
and of course he would be, because in his rough way he was fond of his sister, deeply fond. And the mother, she was keeping out of the way, likely unable to face her
husband, a poor sick man.
He turned quickly about. He must find
Arthur and tell him, and he could tell Polly and
put her mind at rest. He went past the cut that
led to the cinder path, through the big barn and out of a side door, then across the field to the rise and the copse.
As he entered the piece of woodland he asked
himself what Arthur would be wanting with a rope in here for all the dead trees had been taken down last
Christmas and hauled up to the sawing bench; he himself had helped and enjoyed doing so.
It was at this point of his thinking that he saw
Arthur. He was crouched down behind a stunted holly
growing near the foot of an oak tree. Almost
immediately, he heard the approach of a horse from the far end of the copse. It was coming at some speed and although he couldn't see the rider he knew it would be his father.
He remembered afterwards how he had stood
rigidly still and wondered what had kept him so, why
he hadn't gone straight on down the slope towards
Arthur. But no, he had remained stock still until
the horse and rider came into view around the curve
of the path. The horse was cantering, sending the dried leaves like spray from its hooves. Then he saw his
father rise from its back into the air
as if he was beginning to fly, except that he was doing so in reverse. His head back, his arms widespread
like wings and his legs like a divided tail, he seemed
to hover in the air for a moment, then his limbs converging together he fell to the ground, at the same time as the horse's forefeet struck the path and the frightened
animal's neighing died away. It was like a scene
enacted in the blink of an eyelid.
Dear God! Dear God! Charlie was conscious
that his mouth was wide open and that his face muscles were stretched to their fullest extent, but for the life of him he couldn't move from the spot, until he
saw Arthur spring up from his hiding place and clutch
at the bole of the oak, tearing at something there. It was then he moved. Like a goat leaping down a mountain,
he sprang down the hillside and reached the
prostrate, huddled form lying amid the leaves just as
Arthur stopped in his frantic running, the rope
loose in his hand, and stared down at his master.
The two boys now lifted their eyes from the man
on the ground and gazed at each other. Then Charlie,
dropping onto his knees, went to turn his father from his side on to his back, but no sooner had his hands
touched him
than they left him again, for as he went to move the
body the head lolled drunkenly on to the shoulder.
Again the boys were gazing at each other, Charlie
looking upwards, Arthur looking down; and it was
Arthur who, on a deep gulp, spluttered,
"God Almighty no! Maim him, break his leg,
his arm, aye, that's all I meant, to stop him. You
don't know what he was up to. But no, no!
Almighty God! no, not kill him. No!
Charlie. No." He was backing away now, the
rope dangling from his hand, his words incoherent. "Just to stop him go in' to the cottage. Our Polly,
she's too young For it, for him anyway."
Of a sudden he stopped his jabbering and, his head
dropping forward, he looked at the rope in his right
hand. Then as if already experiencing the consequences of his act his left hand came up sharply and gripped his
throat. It was this action that brought Charlie out of the dazed, dream-like feeling that was enveloping him. His father was dead, His father was dead. And Arthur would be hanged for it.
The first fact stirred no emotion whatever in him
at the moment, but the second alerted him. He stood
up, then looked down at the
twisted form for a moment longer before turning back
to Arthur, whose face was now drained of every vestige of colour and whose whole body was shaking, and so, taking the rope from his* hand he ran with it to the other tree,
unloosened the end from it, then quickly looping the rope over his hand and his elbow, as he had seen Fanny
Dimple do with the clothes line over the years, he
thrust it inside his coat. Grabbing the dazed boy
now by the arm, he turned him about and ran him through the copse down towards the burn, then along it until
they came to the cottages on the rise.
Panting, they both stopped and their eyes lifted
upwards towards the end of the row where big Polly and
young Polly were standing facing each other
evidently arguing. But as Charlie, still hanging on
to Arthur, led him up the slope the mother and daughter turned towards them, and big Polly, moving a few
steps away from her daughter, cried, "What's now?
What's up?"
When the two boys reached the pathway, big
Polly's hands went out towards her son and, taking
him by the shoulder, she looked into his face and her
voice was low in her
throat as she asked, "What is it? What's
happened to you?"
Arthur didn't speak but his head drooped onto
his chest, and it was Charlie who said, "Let's . . .
let's go in here." He pointed to the empty house,
and one after the other they went into the dank room. It was noticeable that young Polly hadn't opened her mouth,
but all the while her eyes were fixed tight on her
brother.
"There . . . there's been an accident."
Charlie's mouth was so dry the words came out gritty
as if they'd been dragged over sand.
"An accident? Who?"
Charlie looked at the woman who had caused his
mother so much heartache all these years yet who had
been as much a victim of his father as his wife
had been. Everybody knew why big Polly had
to serve the boss; as he had heard Arnold
Dawson once laughingly say, "She paid the
rent."
"My father, he fell from his horse."