the maltese angel (15 page)

It was as he reached the bridle path that once more the clouds obscured the moon; but he was on a path he knew, and it was only a short way to the tree. The wind seemed to be getting stronger, for it was bending the hedge growth almost into the middle of the path;

at one time a branch whipped his cheek.

When he reached the oak the clouds were clearing just the slightest.

He lifted his arms and gripped the lowest branch and pulled himself up to the top of the wall. Astride it, the position was very

uncomfortable, for the top stones were angled. But instead of lifting his right leg over and dropping into the field he became perfectly still as, further along on the field side of the wall, he watched the dark bulk of a figure swinging a can. He knew it to be a can, for he caught the glint of it. When the can stopped swinging the widening of his mouth and the intake of breath were but the precursors to the loud yell he emitted when the flames shot up from the grass and rivulets licked their way towards the stooks.

When he was gripped by the shoulders and hoisted upwards he was still screaming, until his face was bashed against the tree trunk, when all went quiet.

How long he lay on the edge of the field he didn't know, but he was brought into startling life by the realisation that his hair was on fire; also his coat. His reaction was to stagger to his feet and to break into the

war-dance of a dervish. With one hand he frantically tore at his hair the while dancing on his coat in an endeavour to put out the flames.

As yet he wasn't aware of what was happening in the field; but when with startled and unbelieving eyes he saw the flames licking hungrily at the dry stubble and climbing one stook after another, he was again screaming, but running drunkenly as well.

The moon was again clear of the curtain of clouds;

and his throat was sore and his step almost flagging when he reached the yard. But his screaming penetrated the bedroom and brought Ward down the stairs and into the yard, to see the boy grabbing at Annie's apron and yelling, "It's the field. It's afire! Afire! All of it."

"What are you talking about, boy?"

Before the lad could answer Ward, Annie cried, "Look! His hair's all singed, and his coat, look! Dear God in heaven!"

"Buckets! Buckets! master." The boy was staggering towards the boiler house.

Ward himself was now running frantically after Carl and yelling, "Get Billy! Get Billy! He's in the cottage."

Carl was running again, but so muddled was he in his mind that he

hammered on the door of the empty cottage next to Billy's. But this brought Billy out of his own door, crying, "What's up, lad?" He was dressed only in singlet and trousers, and when Carl yelled at him, "The cornfield! It's afire ... blazin'," Billy paused only a second before leaping forward, Carl behind him now.

From the boiler house door Annie threw two pails at her husband's feet, while she cried to the boy, "Run to the Hollow an' get the men!

Look at that sky! "

The moonlight was now tinted by the delicate flame flush that seemed to be borne on the wind; and as Carl went stumbling off behind Billy, she screamed at him, "Don't go empty-handed!" and a milk pail came rolling to his feet, and her voice hit him again, crying, "And put a move on!"

When he reached the field, he brought himself to a sudden halt: at the sight before him. Billy himself too had become stock-still, and he was whispering in dismay, "Oh my God! My God!" But then a cry from Ward brought them both running again, and he yelled to Carl what Annie had said, "Go to the Hollow! Fetch the men." He hadn't said the village, but the Hollow. And to Billy he cried, "Get to the rill, Billy. Hand me the buckets, I'll douche the hedge, else it'll get into the bottom field."

Carl had jumped the tiny stream that ran between the two fields, and when he reached the hill which formed one side of the Hollow he slotted down it like a ball, crying, "Mr. Riley! Mr. Read! Mr.

Mackintosh!"

As he banged on the first cottage door, others along the row opened and voices cried through the darkness.

"What's it? Is it a fire or something?"

And in answer to this usual first reaction, Carl yelled, "It's master's cornfield. All ablaze. He wants you."

More doors opened to cries and statements such as:

"My God!"

"Jesus in heaven!"

"Can you believe it?"

Then someone cried, "Look at that sky! God, it's a fire all right.

Let's away! Eeh! let's away. "

Eight men and seven young boys, not one older than twelve, scampered along the Hollow, then up the hill;

but strangely, Carl made no move to follow the yelling mass that had disappeared into the darkness, for the moon had momentarily hidden itself again. There was something wrong with him: he couldn't make his legs move, yet they felt light. All his body felt light. It was as if he were about to fly. But of a sudden it wasn't into the air he went but deep into the ground.

"The lad's collapsed. Well, I never did! An' look at his hair! It's been on fire. And his shirt's singed an' all. Poor young 'un," said a large woman.

"Will I throw some water over him, Ma?"

^5

"I'd throw a barrel full over yersel if I'd one near at this minute.

An' don't hang over him, you lot. " She pushed the children and two other women aside.

"Move your hides till I lift him." She gave a wiggle of her wide hips, and two children suddenly sat down on the mud road;

then she stooped and picked up Carl in her arms and, stepping over her youngest, she went sideways through the door into the cottage, and laid her burden down on a wooden bench covered with a straw tick, saying to her daughter in an aside, "Bring the lamp nearer. Then wet the small coarse towel in the bucket and let's have it." The nine-year-old girl did not run immediately to do her mother's bidding, but muttered under her breath, "You always bring me da round by douching him."

"As sure as God's in heaven this night, Patsy Riley, I'll douche you with your own blood if you don't do this minute what I'm asking' of you. An' you lot back there! Settle down, else I'll scud your hides one after tother. An' you know me, I waste neither spit nor words."

Five small but interested spectators, three boys and two girls,

scuttled away towards the open hearth where a fire, built up with slack coal, was endeavouring to show a glow. They sat all close together and watched their mother wrap coarse towels round the visitor's head; and they listened to their sister Patsy saying, "He's Mr. Gibson's lad.

He's got a cushy job there, an' he knows it, 'cos he never gives you the time o' day when he passes you. You'd think his nose was smellin'

a midden. He's comin' round. He's blinkin'. An' I bet when he wakes up he won't thank you for landin' him in here."

The children hunched their shoulders when their mother yelled, "Will you shut that wobblin' gob of yours. Patsy Riley, or else I'll shut it for you, an' with such a bang you'll think a cuddy's kicked yer."

During the short silence that followed this exchange, Mrs. Riley

looked down at the blood-stained face: the nose was caked with dried blood, and blood had been running from a cut in the lad's brow.

Someone had given him a right bashing. And for why? she would like to know. But all in good time.

"Hello there," she said.

"Are you feelin' better then?"

Carl lifted his heavy eyelids but he couldn't really make out the face hanging over him, yet he knew who it was;

at least he knew it was one of the Irish women from the Hollow ..

He had come to the Hollow for the men.

He tried to rise, saying, "The fire."

"Lie yersel back, lad. Lie yersel back for a minute. They've all gone.

"Twill likely be out by now." She again spoke in an aside to her daughter, saying, "Go and get me the hairn's flannel."

"The hairn's flannel? His face'll mucky it up. You won't let any of us use it."

Mrs. Maggie Riley's voice was still low as she said, "One of these days, Patsy Riley, I'll use a hammer on you, as sure as God's me judge, I will that, I'll use a hammer on you." With a swift movement, she now turned and barked, "Get me the flannel!"

The sound of her raised voice startled Carl, and he made another effort to get up; but Mrs. Riley's voice was once again calm and soothing:

"Lie still, lad. Take no notice. The storms are always risin' an'

fallin' in this house. But would you like to tell me who did that to your face?" She stretched out her hand to the side now and took the piece of wet flannel from her daughter; and when she applied it, and gently, to Carl's cheeks, he winced and whimpered, "No! No!"

"All right. All right; we'll leave it."

"I must get back to ... to help."

He now managed to pull himself upright from the bench, and after slowly sliding his feet to the floor he put his hand to his head and held it there for a moment, saying, "Thank you very much, ma'am, for your kindness."

"Oh, 'tis nothin', lad.

"Tis nothin' at all. But I don't think you're goin' to make it on your own back to the farm."

The suggested inability of his walking back to the farm brought him to his feet, and for the first time he took in his surroundings. Although the image was hazy he made out the group of children by the fire, the kale pot hanging on a chain over smouldering coals, the clutter in the room of boxes and bedding. There seemed to be only two chairs. The table was littered with pots and pans.

At the door, he held on to the stanchion for a moment;

and it was then that Mrs. Riley said to her daughter, "Go along of him, Patsy, an' see that he gets there."

The girl having made no objection to this command, and Carl none to her accompanying him, they had nevertheless walked in silence until, having emerged from the wood and on to the bridle path, Carl stopped and, putting a hand out, supported himself against a tree for a moment. It was then that Patsy, her voice as soft as her mother's could be, said,

"Let me give you a hand."

And so for the first time, Patsy touched him, and they were both to remember this.

When they reached that part of the wall which, with the help of the oak tree, he had climbed a short time before, he now leant against it and peered over the top. To him, a haze of smoke seemed to be still

covering the field with a red patch here and there breaking through; and he could just make out a dim line of dark figures. They seemed to be standing still looking towards him. Then he imagined them to be all running towards him, and he was rising from the ground once more and about to fly.

As he slid down by the wall Patsy Riley shook him by the shoulders, crying, "Come on, man! Come on!" But when he made no attempt to move, she did what he had done earlier: she pulled herself up and on to the wall with the help of the long branch and, with its support, she stood on the coping and yelled, "Somebody come! Hi! there. Hi! there.

Somebody come! He's passed out again. " Then finally, she screamed, "

Da! This is Patsy. The lad's conked out! "

There was a break in the dim line of figures, and when three of them reached her, she pointed down to the other side of the wall, saying,

"It's Mr. Gibson's lad. He's been battered, and he's conked out."

It was Ward, hardly recognisable from his two companions one of them being Fred, who clambered over the wall and dropped to his knee beside Carl.

Lifting him, he handed him back to Fred, saying, "God above! Look at his face." Then looking wildly beyond Fred at the men, all of whom were now gathered together, he cried, "I swear to you on my oath, when I find out who has done this, not only to my field, but to the lad, I'll kill him, even if I have to swing for it."

The men remained silent, for each knew that if Ward Gibson were to find the perpetrator within the next few hours he would likely do what he said, and swing for him. But they also knew that the one who should swing was he who was so low he would set fire to a man's field, the work of a year, his livelihood; for one of the worst crimes against a farmer was to set fire to his barns or his fields. And no man standing there this night could recall it ever having happened, not around here, anyway. Accidents, yes, would happen; and there had been fires of

sorts; but nothing ever deliberate.

They all knew that this had been a deliberate act, and all because he had married someone other than Daisy Mason; and here and there the thought passed through a man's mind: God help those two Mason lads if it could be laid at their door.

Ward clambered back over the wall, and taking the boy from Fred

Newberry's arms, he paused a moment to look at the smoke-blackened faces of the men who had helped him; then he said quietly, "Thank you all. Thank you very much. Without your help, the hedge would have

gone and the other field an' all. I'm grateful."

There were grunts and murmurs, but no-one made any rational reply as Ward stumbled away, the boy hugged to him.

The men dispersed, some making their way along the bridle path towards the village; while those from the Hollow moved away in the opposite direction.

As Patsy's father held her by the hand, he did not ask why she had come to be there with the boy, the one she would often speak about as being the stuck-up skit from Gibson's farm. He loved his daughter and he knew why she talked about that particular lad; it was because she was wise enough to know that from where she was placed now she could never hope to link up with someone like him .. even the farmer's boy that he was.

You could have said that the field had looked almost pretty in the moonlight, with a flame here and there spitting through the haze of smoke. Everything last night had looked pink or silver grey, only the men had looked black. But as Ward gazed on the devastation of his land in the early morning light, the dirty blackened sight of the charred stooks that yesterday had been golden pyramids fanned the rage that was still boiling in him.

When he first saw the licking flames the name that had sprung

immediately to mind was the Masons; and while battering the ground with a sack between grabbing the buckets of water and drenching the hedge, his mind had dwelt on the name. And it did so until Fred, who came back later, happened to say, "I don't know who did it, Ward, but you can count the Mason lads out," at which Ward had swung round, growling,