The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens) Read online

  She ran into her room, and, not stopping to take off her pyjamas, she dragged over them a pair of slacks and pulled on her shoes. Then, rushing on to the landing again, she was about to pick up the lantern, when she realised that in taking it she would leave Jennifer in the dark. And to be left alone in the dark would be as frightening to Jennifer as running across the fens. There was no time to stop and light another lamp, so she said quickly, ‘I won’t bother with the lantern, it’s practically broad daylight.’

  Jennifer’s relief came over in her voice as she said, ‘I’ll have the lamps lit by the time you get back. Hurry, Rosie; please hurry.’

  Rosamund said no more but ran down the stairs and into the dark hall. Groping knowingly past the table on which there were a number of brass ornaments, she opened a cupboard door and pulled out a short coat, and she was thrusting one arm into it as she unlatched the front door.

  The bright moonlight illuminating the much-loved scene from the front steps did not touch her at this moment, for suddenly she was overcome with irritation and was thinking along the lines that Jennifer so often voiced. What was rural beauty if you couldn’t have a telephone or electric light, or electric appliances of any kind? And what was rural beauty without mains water? To have to draw your drinking water from a well that had a suspiciously river flavour, and hump your bath water by buckets from the river to the old sedge-roofed wash-house at the back of the house…she was right, Jennifer was right.

  She stepped into the little ferry and began to pull frantically on the chain. The water felt cool, and there intruded into her irritation the thought that it would be nice to have a swim. By the time she had reached the other side and scrambled up the path through the tall reeds on the bank she was almost back to her normal way of thinking and she chided herself by saying, Now stop it and thank God for what you’ve got…for what we’ve all got…Oh, she did, she did. She did thank God every day of her life for Heron Mill. Her only fear was that one day they would have to leave it. The fear rose in her now and almost checked her running. That day could be imminent. If anything happened to her father, that would be the finish. If he died, Heron Mill would die too, and they would have no home, with or without electricity. But Jennifer could have a home. Yes, that would be the one thing that would make Jennifer take Andrew. And when that happened she herself would have to do what she had always planned to do in such an emergency: take a job as a domestic—she was better at that than at anything else.

  She was sprinting at an even greater pace now, thinking as she ran, Oh, dear God, don’t let him die…Like a child, her prayer was twofold, for there was a great deal of personal benefit to be derived from its being answered. Much as she loved her father—and she did love him, not as a daughter loves a father but rather as a mother a wayward child—she loved the mill house equally, because in Heron Mill she had come to know her only home, she had come to feel a sense of security never experienced before. Almost every day during the last six years she had told herself that all she wanted out of life was a home and security.

  As she raced over the field towards the little wood she thought, I’ll make for the top end and jump the dyke there. But as soon as the word dyke came on to the surface of her mind she shrank inwardly away from it and told herself, Don’t take any chances. Go over the bridge at the Goose Pond—it’ll only take you a few minutes more.

  She might love the fenland and the rivers with an almost passionate feeling, but she would never be able to bring herself even to look on the dykes with a favourable eye. These deep silt-filled slits in the black bog-like earth, which were as necessary to this underwater land as veins are to the body, had always filled her with a strange fear. Even in the daylight, when she forced herself to look down to the bottom of one she would shudder and imagine herself falling in and then trying to get out. An ordinary ditch had sloping sides, but those of most of the dykes were vertical. The thought of what would be the impossible task of trying to claw one’s way up those soft silted banks always filled her with horror.

  She was in the wood now and, her thoughts directing her route, she took the path to the left which would bring her to the Goose Pond, a name given to a broadening of the cut that was more in the nature of a miniature lake than a pond. The far side of the pond formed part of the boundary between Willow Wold Farm, Andrew’s place, and the grounds of Thornby House, as also did the old, almost rotten wooden bridge that spanned the cut just beyond the pond.

  For years now they had used the path through the woods in the Thornby grounds as a short cut to Andrew’s farm, for to go along the river bank on their own side, even as far as the Goose Pond, would have taken nearly three times as long owing to the winding nature of the river.

  It was not really dark in the wood, not at this end anyway, for the trees were tall and well spaced. Towards the river, however, where the sapling willows made a denser undergrowth, it would be much darker. But as she knew the wood almost as well as she did every inch of the mill, the darkness presented no problem, and certainly no fear. For mile on top of mile in the fens it was possible to walk and not meet a soul. A chance encounter would nearly always be with someone known. Even in the holiday season, the hirers of the motor cruisers rarely ventured into the fens proper.

  So the encounter was all the more startling when it took place.

  She was nearing the edge of the wood and was a little out of breath. She also had a stitch in her side, when the thing loomed up in front of her. For a split second she imagined it was one of the cattle that had strayed from Andrew’s land. This happened sometimes in spite of all the precautions Andrew took. But when she found herself pinioned in a grip as tight as a river grab, she let out a blood-curdling scream, at the same time lifting her foot and using it on her assailant. That her foot had found its aim on the man’s shin became evident, for, emitting what sounded like a curse, he jerked his leg backwards.

  ‘What the devil? What’re you up to, eh?’ She felt herself shaken like a rat. ‘Answer me! What’ve you been up to?’

  ‘Take…take your hands off me.’

  There was a moment’s silence, a moment during which she stopped struggling and the man’s hands slackened their steely grip without actually releasing her. She could not see his face, she was held so close to him, but she knew that his jacket was of a rough tweed, also that he had been smoking, for she recognised the particular brand of tobacco—it was the same as her father used. Strangely, this last thought seemed to calm her, and she was just going to demand, ‘Who are you?’ for she was sure he was no-one who lived within a wide radius of the fens, when she was dragged forward by the shoulder, and before she could protest effectively they were beyond the perimeter of the wood and in open land. And there for a long moment they both stood surveying each other.

  The man before her was broadly built, thickset she would have said if it had not been for his height, but it was his breadth that gave him the massive look, for he was under six foot. He was bareheaded and all his features stood out clearly in the moonlight. His cheekbones were high, his nose thin, as were his lips. His chin was squarish and looked bony. In contrast to the blackness of his hair, his eyebrows were light and not bushy as one would have expected with the quantity of hair on his head and the bristle on his cheeks. They were narrow and finely curved and gave to the face a delicacy that every other feature on it contradicted bluntly. She could not see his eyes, for, although the eyebrows did nothing to shield them, the bone formation formed a deep cavity in which they now lay peering through narrowed slits at her.

  Although she could not see his expression, her valuation of herself gave her his summing-up: a slip of a thing, of no height at all, with an oval-shaped face and a mouth much too big for it, a nice-ish enough nose, copper-coloured hair, too long to be smart and not long enough to be attractive, and eyes…Like his own eyes, hers were screwed up and he would not be able to see them. Anyway, they changed from hazel to grey according to moods, and sometimes even to a dark sea green when she wa
s angry. They could be that at this moment. She guessed the surprise on his face was caused by her sex, and this was proved when in the next moment he said, ‘What are you up to, running mad like that? I thought you were…Who are you?’

  Who was she? Who was he? was the question that should be asked. ‘What business is that of yours?’ Her voice was high and still held a tremble of fear in it in spite of her outraged feelings.

  ‘You’re trespassing on my land. I think that should give me the right to call this incident my business.’

  ‘Your land?’ She felt her eyes opening wide and her mouth following the same pattern. Then she brought it closed on a gulp and began, ‘You’re…?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Mr Bradshaw?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘Well, I thought…I didn’t know you were back…you’ve been coming back for…for years and never have.’

  ‘I’ve been in residence for three days.’

  The ‘in residence’ sounded stuffy and on another occasion she would have laughed, but all she could think now was, Three days and we didn’t know.

  Then, she rarely went up that way near the house. Still, Andrew would have known. But Andrew had been away for the last three days at the cattle show.

  She said, lamely now, ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I would have called if I had known.’

  ‘I don’t expect visitors.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was slightly nonplussed, but too bewildered now to be annoyed at his tone. ‘Very well.’ She nodded her head once before turning away.

  ‘Wait. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Rosamund Morley from Heron Mill.’

  She had merely hesitated in her walk and she was conscious now that he was following her.

  ‘Where are you going at this time of night?’

  ‘I’m going to Willow Wold Farm, Mr Gordon’s farm. I’ve got to get a doctor.’

  ‘Someone ill?’ He was by her side now.

  She kept her gaze directed ahead as she replied, ‘My father. He was smoking in bed and set the mattress alight.’

  ‘Is he badly burned?’

  ‘He’s not burned at all as far as I could see; the mattress didn’t catch alight until we threw it out of the window…my sister and I. But he’s overcome by smoke, we can’t get him round.’

  ‘Wait.’ His hand came out and pulled her to a stop, and although she shrugged away from it she stopped and faced him.

  ‘If the road to that particular farm is no better than it was twelve years ago and the doctor’s got to find his way along here’—he stretched his hand downwards indicating the path—‘it would be an hour, very likely two, before he gets here. Your…your father should have that smoke out of his lungs as soon as possible, if it hasn’t already done the trick.’

  She shivered at the crudeness of his words.

  ‘Where have you left him? In the air?’

  ‘No. No, he’s a big man, we couldn’t move him. He’s on the landing. I was going to get Andrew…Andrew Gordon to give us a hand.’

  ‘Come on.’ His voice sounded quiet now, ordinary, and as she looked at his retreating figure going back into the wood she called to him, ‘Are you a doctor?’

  Now the voice changed again and the answer was flung back to her, ‘No, I’m not a doctor.’

  She hesitated, her hands moving tremulously near her mouth. Andrew wasn’t a doctor either, he would have done no more than lift her father on to a bed; but had she reached Andrew’s place she would have phoned for a doctor. What was more, she didn’t like this man. Yet, nevertheless, if he could do anything for her father …

  He was well ahead of her now and his voice sounded indifferent, even as it said, ‘Well, anyway, I’ll go and have a look at him.’

  Pulling herself as if out of a daze, she muttered aloud, ‘But I still must get the doctor.’ And she had turned about and taken half a dozen paces, when she was brought to a stop in her tracks. The next instant she was running frantically after the man. If he barged into the house—and barge he would, for that seemed to be part of his nature—Jennifer would have a fit, literally. She could almost hear her screaming. Jennifer had not the trust in the fens or its people that she herself had, that was why the doors had to be bolted at night, even although at times they never saw anyone for weeks on end, with the exception of Andrew and workers in the distant fields. At one time, when the Cut was kept clear, dinghies used to come up from the pleasure cruisers berthed on Brandon Creek, but not now, for the great clump of reeds breaking away from the bank had formed thick barriers here and there right up past the mill.

  ‘Wait…wait a minute!’ She was gasping hard as she came up to his side. ‘My…my sister would be taken by surprise if you went in…if you went in on your own. I must go with you, but…but I still must get the doctor.’

  ‘How long have you lived at the mill?’

  She was trotting behind him now. ‘Six years.’

  ‘What became of the Talfords?’

  ‘I don’t really know. My uncle bought the place from an old couple—that’s all I know.’

  ‘What do you do? Farm?’

  ‘No, we haven’t any land, just about an acre. Mr Brown, he lives at yon side, he bought the land right up to the back of us. We…we make jewellery.’

  ‘What?’ He paused in his walk and turned his head towards her.

  She said with dignity now, ‘My father was a silversmith…still is.’

  ‘Oh…odd pursuit for this part of the globe.’

  ‘I don’t see why it should appear so.’ Her voice was slightly huffy.

  ‘I thought that kind of thing would have done better in a town.’

  ‘Whatever is sold in the shops has to be made…we make the jewellery.’ We did, she added ruefully to herself at this point.

  They were out of the wood now and could see the gleam of the river. When they came to the ferry he looked down on the little red boat with scorn.

  ‘Huh!’ The sound was deprecating in itself, and the words that followed more so. ‘A new innovation. What’s happened to the old punt?’

  ‘How should I know?’ She was snapping and hating herself for doing so, but this man’s tone got her on the raw.

  ‘It’s likely lying somewhere upstream with its bottom out.’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened to it.’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t know.’

  ‘I didn’t know it had been used as the ferry; there’s an old punt lying round the bend there, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘That would have lasted another thirty years with a bit of care. It was a fine-built punt; I used to see to it when I was a boy.’

  She did not ask, ‘Did you live here as a boy?’ She knew from the little gossip she had heard about the owner of Thornby House that he had been born here and had not left it until about twelve years ago.

  When they reached the little boat landing he did not offer to help her out but climbed the bank and stood looking towards the mill. But when she reached his side he said, ‘It’ll soon need stilts. The land must have sunk a foot since I saw it last. Have you had another step put on?’

  ‘No.’ She walked past him. ‘The steps are the same as when we came. I’d better go in first and tell my sister.’ She ran up the five steps and into the hall, calling softly, ‘Jennifer! Jennifer!’

  ‘Yes?’ Jennifer came out of the room with the lamp in her hand. ‘You’ve never been there in this time. What…’

  ‘Listen, I can’t explain now. I’ve met Mr Bradshaw from the House. He’s back, he’s coming to have a look at Dad.’

  ‘Mr…But where?’

  ‘Ssh! I’ll tell you later.’

  As she turned the man stepped into the hall—just one step, for there he stopped. He was looking over her head, and she smiled a little cynically to herself. She knew what had halted him: Jennifer, with her flaxen hair hanging over her shoulders, her frilly nightdress gushing out from beneath her three-quarter-length dressing gown, a
nd then her face, touchingly feminine in all its features. The wide blue eyes, the curved lips, the slightly uptilted nose and the thick creamy skin, and all this enhanced by lamplight. Definitely the Lady with the Lamp, Rosamund thought without any malice, for in spite of being the antithesis of her sister she loved her, and at this moment she was rather proud of her, for she was indeed having an effect on this brusque-mannered individual.

  ‘This is Mr Bradshaw…My sister.’ The introduction was accompanied by rather an impatient movement of her hand, and then she asked, ‘Has he come round?’

  ‘No.’

  Jennifer was still staring at the man as he followed Rosamund up the stairs.

  As she crouched down beside her father, Rosamund looked across to where the visitor was kneeling on the other side, and she said, ‘He seems better now; he’s breathing more deeply.’ She watched the man lift her father’s lids, then put his ear to his chest. Afterwards he raised his head slowly and stared into the older man’s face.

  ‘Is he…is he all right?

  ‘Yes, yes, I would say he’s all right. At least, he will be after this sleep. Let me get him up.’ His voice had the effect of pushing her aside, and she got to her feet as he stooped with bended knees and, to her amazement, lifted the heavy form from the ground with no more effort than if it had been herself he was carrying.

  ‘Show me his room.’

  ‘In here.’

  Rosamund snatched up the Tilley lantern from the table as she hastily made her way to her bedroom. Placing the lantern on the top of the chest, she flung back the rumpled bedclothes, then stood aside to make way for the man as he lowered her father on to the bed.