Feathers in the Fire Read Free

tobacco was sufficiently shredded, almost simultaneously they filled their pipes and Ned lit them from the same spill.
    While this was going on Davie had been standing looking out of the small window and along the mud-dried road that curved in front of the house to end abruptly, cut off by a railing that circled a dark mass of trees.
    The Armstrongs’ cottage was the end one of the three labourers’ cottages farthest from the farmhouse, which was a hundred yards away. They had been built ninety years ago when the new additions had been made to the farm. There were no gardens at the front, but at the back of each was a piece of land as wide as the cottage, which was sixteen feet. It ran in a narrow strip for about seventy feet downhill to the brook which supplied water for all purposes. The ashes from their fires formed dry middens, the contents of which, together with that from the house, was collected once a week by a farm cart and dumped in the old workings of a lead mine half a mile away.
    Davie had been born in this cottage, and up till this very day he had considered himself lucky to have been brought up on this particular farm, for the master, although strict in all ways, and narrow and churchy in his views, was a go-ahead progressive employer, as his efforts at modern sanitation proved – no stinking cesspools and middens near the house for him. He had once overheard him say, the excrement from animals was sweet compared to that of humans, and it was the badness in humans that made it as it was. Moreover the master had not allowed him to start work until he was six. No child on the farm started work until he was six, even at scarecrowing. And then, since the master took over, twenty years ago, every child on the farm attended Sunday School, and this was long afore school going was made compulsory. He had been very strict about them all going to Sunday School, and so they all learned their letters, those who could take them in. He himself had taken them in, sucked them in, he had lapped it all up. He still did; the older he got the more he knew there was to learn. He was proud of what knowledge he had; he could count, he could add and subtract, he could write a letter. However, he had never yet written a real letter to anyone, there was nobody to write to, but if it ever came to pass that he had to write a letter he would be capable of doing it. And he could read, oh aye, he could read.
    He had got this far in book learning because he was interested. He wanted to learn something else besides milking cows and the other work on a farm, and Parson Hedley was out to learn anybody who wanted to learn. Not so Parson Wainwright; oh no, old-nose-in-the-air Wainwright only gave you his blessing when he knew how much money you were likely to leave to the church, or, to put it plainly, to him.
    Parson Hedley had said only last week, ‘I’m going to lend you a book by Mr Dickens, Davie; it is called Great Expectations. And you know, Davie,’ he had added, ‘that is a very good title, Great Expectations; it’s based on hope, and hope is a mighty fine thing to carry you through. And by the way,’ he had ended, ‘bring Molly to the readings. She hasn’t been for a long time and she was getting along fine.’
    Bring Molly to the readings! She hasn’t been for a long time. No, Molly had been otherwise occupied. Blast her! . . . But with who? Who? His granda was right about smelling a rat. There was a big stink here somewhere. Nothing escaped his granda.
    He turned slowly and looked at him. He was puffing quietly at his pipe, his eyes were closed, his shoulders stooped; he looked old, worn out, yet mentally Davie knew he was much more alert, even at his age, than was his son-in-law.
    He cared deeply for his grandfather and he always felt a pang of anxiety when he saw him sitting like this, his body sagging, his lids drooped, for then that vital spark of life which showed in his eyes was hidden. He said flatly, ‘I’m off,’