Authors: Yelena Kopylova
act in the name of friendship.
“I have missed you. Ben.” Of course, that could be said from one friend to another, but.
but did you
write it?
What should she do? Her father had said the letter had been posted on Thursday. Were
she to ask her
mother if she could spare her this after noon, and galloped over the hills to him, what would he think?
Well, what had he thought when she hadn’t put in an appearance last week, after never
missing one
week during the past months? No, she couldn’t go today . “. she wouldn’t go today; one didn’t pick up
one’s skirts and fly to a friend as they would to a lover. She would go tomorrow.
She did not vouchsafe them the information they were all waiting to hear and by the time it came to their
evening meal there was a further feeling of constraint in the house.
Later that night, when in bed and lying in Hal’s arms, Mary Ellen said, “I’m worried
about her. And that
letter could have been from nobody but him. Why has she turned so secretive? She was
never like this.”
“Likely because we’re a nosey lot. And it’s partly my fault, because in my anxiety for her future I
grabbed at the first fellow who showed any interest in her, and she’s frightened it happens again. You
know what Annie said to me the day? She said, “ You lot press her the way you’re doin’
and she’ll walk
out one of these days, just like I did to get rid of me da. “
“Oh! Fancy comparing you or any one of us with her da, that man!”
“Well, she’s right in a way. We’ve got to let up, and treat her for what she is, a fully grown sensible
woman, not a daft lass who doesn’t know her own mind.”
“She couldn’t have known her own mind when she promised to marry Harry Baker, a
fellow like that.”
“Oh, she knew her own mind all right. What she wanted was a family of her own, I’ve
told you that
afore, and she would have taken a clothes prop with trousers on at the time to get it.”
“Oh, you!” she pushed him.
“A clothes-prop with trousers on.”
He pulled her tighter and kissed her and for the time being they both forgot about the daughter she had
had before she had married him, but whom, she knew yet couldn’t understand, he loved
better than those
from his own loins.
The sun wasn’t shining when she rode out the next afternoon. The sky was low and
everyone on the
farm and roundabout was saying, “It’s a sign of rain, and thank God.”
She did not know what she was going to say to him about her non-appearance last week.
She was bad
at lying. She could of course say that she hadn’t been well, but that, she considered, would be tempting
providence, because when other people were affected by sniffles and colds, and sore
throats and aches
and pains, she herself never experienced them. She was very healthy. Yet, she suffered pain, a strange
pain underneath her breastbone. It had been there since she first saw her reflection in the mirror, and it
had grown in intensity with the years.
About half a mile from the fork in the track which would lead to the cottage, she was
approaching the
bridle-way which she knew led down to and crossed the river when he suddenly emerged
from it. She
saw him pull his horse in for a moment, then set it into a gallop. And when he drew it to a skidding stop
abreast of her, he said, “Hello there.”
“Hello.”
“It looks as if it’s going to rain, “ he said, putting his head back on his shoulders and looking up into the
sky.
“Yes, it does, and it will be welcome.”
He turned his horse and came alongside of her, saying, “You got my letter?”
“Yes, yes, I got it.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Not until yesterday?”
“No. As my father says, the post delivery is much worse now than when one had to
collect one’s mail.”
“Why didn’t you come last week?”
“I...!”—she blinked “I was busy.”
“Is that the truth?”
“No.”
“What is?”
She let out one long breath before saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t explain.”
“I can. Charles told me he thought he had dropped a bombshell when he spoke of us as
mutual friends.”
They now rode slowly on, but at the turning into the bridle path he put out his hand and caught at her
reins and said, “You remember, last time we met, I told you my departure depended quite a’ bit on
yourself, and that in two or three weeks I should be able to tell you why? Well, since your family now
know of our acquaintance the decision could be made earlier. Will you ride with me
along here?”
“Where to?”
“A building, a house I would like you to see.”
She nodded, the while questioning: Which house, which building lay along here that
could be of interest
to her? There were a number of reasonable farms, but he had said a building, a house.
And a strange
uneasy feeling entered into her, and it grew as they rode on and he became singularly
quiet. And so she
wasn’t all that surprised when, a mile and a half further on, having crossed the river, they were riding by
the broken walls of Rooklands Farm.
She knew all about Rooklands Farm. It had been like the ogre fairy tale during her
childhood, as it had
been too, for all the others.
When they stopped at the entrance where once had been a gate, he said, The house is
empty. “ And
she answered, “ Yes, I know. It has had a number of tenants, but they don’t stay long.
Have you been
inside? “
“Yes. Come.”
She hesitated and he said again, “Come.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Please.” There was an appeal in his eyes.
Slowly she followed him through an archway into the yard. The once well-scrubbed stone slabs were
grass—covered, the doors of the horse boxes were hanging loose, an upper window was
open and an
old curtain was trailing out of it.
He helped her to dismount, then tied the horses to a rusting iron post that supported a dry horse trough.
Thrusting out his hand now, he caught hers, saying, “Come this way; there’s a window
open in the
kitchen quarters. We can get over the sill.”
“But ... but....”
“Please, do this for me.”
Oh, dear God! She knew what he had brought her here for. He wanted her opinion of the
place with a
view to buying it. If that was the case, it would be goodbye friendship, for her father over the years
would not even do business with anyone who had taken on Bannaman’s farm. The very
name of the
place had the power to incense him or make him distraught. The years had not obliterated what both his
father and himself had suffered at their hands.
But she was being drawn towards the side of the house, and now he was helping her over the sill and
into, what must have been, a large store room. Still holding her hand, he led her along a passage where
the paper was peeling from the walls. Then he opened a thick oak door and they were in a hall twice the
size of the one at home, and off it, a broad shallow oak staircase rose to a half gallery.
This must have been a sort of drawing-room. “
She was now standing in the room which she knew, from what she had heard, was where
Mr.
Bannaman had faced the constables, and her father, and her stepfather.
Strange thought that, that she had a father who might still be alive.
She had ceased many years ago to ask questions about him, because she knew it would
not only hurt
her mother, it would also hurt the man she thought of as her father.
“Look at that ceiling, isn’t it beautiful?”
Yes, the ceiling was beautiful. The centrepiece was beautifully painted like a star with spines of light
stretching from it towards each corner of the room, and inset were painted panels.
“This couldn’t always have been a farm, could it? It must have been part of a grand house at one time.”
“Yes,” she nodded, ‘it was a sort of manor-house. “
“And look at the dining-room.” He was beckoning to her now, and she followed him
back into the hall
and through another door, and now he was pointing to the floorboards, saying, “They
must be all of
twelve or fourteen inches wide. There were some old Colonial houses back home with
floors like this.
And aren’t the windows nice? Long and wide.
That must have been a beautiful garden out there at one time. “
She now silently followed him into a library, then in and out of several other small
rooms, and upstairs
through the bedrooms. He never allowed her to miss even a cupboard. Lastly, he ended
his tour by
opening the kitchen door and saying, “Isn’t it a shame that a house like this has been let go to rack and
ruin?”
“It isn’t a good house.” She turned and faced him. And he, looking at her, said quietly,
“No, the house
isn’t bad, it’s the people who were in it sometime back.”
“Well, that’s what I mean. A family lived here who were evil. You see I know all about this house. The
man who once owned it was a murderer. What you don’t know is that the man I call my
father, Hal
Roystan, is not my father. My father’s name was Greenbank, and Mr. Roys—tan is my
stepfather. My
mother was not married when I was born.”
“I know of that.”
Her eyes widened.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Then you might also know that the man who owned this house by the name of
Bannaman killed my
grand father, that is my real father’s father, and attempted to do the same with him. But that’s not all. He
also murdered my stepfather’s father, who was a clerk at the smelting mills. He was
returning with the
workmen’s pay and he was struck down, then buried by this man and his servant. And
that still is not
all. He had a daughter who was even more wicked than him, for one day at gun-point, she and her
brother forced my stepfather up into the barn.”
She pointed through the smeared kitchen window towards the outbuildings.
“They tied him up in such a way that is really indescribable: his ankles to his hands at the back; they
gagged him, then strung him to a beam so that he couldn’t move. After that, they packed straw round
him. The only thing they didn’t do was set it alight. But this evil woman wanted him to die slowly, and he
almost did. He was left like that for four days and was only saved by his dog. I think she must have
been the most evil woman in this world.”
She watched his face quiver, his eyes darken to a blackness that was like jet, but there was no hardness
in their expression, only a look of pain and a great sadness, and the pain now came over in his voice as
he said, “She was the most evil woman in the world. Yes, yes, she was.”
She stared at him. Slowly her mouth fell agape. There was a truth dawning on her too
great to grasp,
but when he thrust it into her hold she felt she was going to faint.
“I know that for sure,” he said now, ‘for she was my mother. “
When she fell back from him he pleaded, “Please. Please. Don’t turn from me, not like
that. Please.
Hear my side. Let me tell you why I am here. Come, sit down, you are faint.” He looked round the
kitchen, then pointed to the settle that was attached to the side of the great rusting fireplace, and hurrying
to it, he took out his handkerchief and laid it on the seat, then waited for her to move towards him. But
she still stood where he had left her. And now, going to her, he pleaded, “Kate. Please, Kate. Come
and listen to me. There is so much to be said between us.”
She resisted his outstretched hand but went towards the seat and sat down. With her head bent she
waited.
From her lowered gaze she watched him pacing up and down in front of her; and then he
stopped and
said, “I will start at the beginning.”
But it was some seconds before he did begin: “When my mother and her brother and my
grandmother
sailed from this country in eighteen hundred and twenty-two, they were bound for my
grandmother’s
cousin in America. The journey had apparently been arranged sometime before, and by
the boat sailing
when it did my mother and uncle escaped being brought to trial for the attempted murder of your
stepfather. It should happen on the boat a gentleman befriended them, his name Roger
Fraser Hamilton,
and he fell in love with my mother. Such was his passionate attachment to her, I
understand, they were
married shortly after the boat landed. Within the allotted time I was the result of their union. The
passion, I should imagine, was all on my father’s side, for my mother had no love in her to give to
anyone. She was a being consumed by hate. I say she had no love to give to anyone. I
think she had
given it all to the man from whom she had inherited her evil traits, her father. Yet he had been known to
horsewhip her for her slack, I could say immoral, adventures.
“It wasn’t very long before my father discovered he had married a very strange
individual, a mother who
didn’t care for her child. If it hadn’t been for my grandmother I think I should have come off much worse
than I did. But nevertheless, I was subjected to unmerciful thrashings. My father was in business which
forced him to do a great deal of travelling. It was his father’s firm, they were coach builders on a big