Catherine Cookson by The Garment

Author:The Garment
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-08-27T22:40:43+00:00

PART THREE

Grace was the only one seated. She sat at the end of the couch, her head bowed, her eyes fixed on her tightly joined hands resting in her lap. At the head of the couch Andrew stood with his left hand pressed into the padded upholstery. To his right, and both standing with their backs against the end of the grand piano, were Beatrice and Jane, and on the hearth rug in front of the fire stood Stephen. Grace could see his legs and his knee-caps twitching from time to time. She could not bear to look at him and see the hate of herself pouring like steam from his bloodless face. His colour was that of. rice paper, his skin had the same smooth texture. He had been talking for some time, spewing words out, words coated with venom, words that ill-became a prospective man of the Church. But at this moment Stephen was nothing but a young man fiercely defending his heritage and denying with every pore of his body the claim of this rugged Scot as his father.

' . If you . if you were to go on your knees and swear on the Cross I wouldn't believe you, do you hear? I know what I am, I know where I came from . inside here. " He thumped his chest, and the action, although intent, had nothing dramatic about it.

"I know I'm like my father. My father, do you hear? His thoughts are my thoughts, his ways, his principles, everything ... everything.."

Grace raised her head, and Andrew, thinking she was about to protest, placed his hand on her shoulder. But Grace had not been going to protest. She was just looking at her son to try to convince herself that he was wrong, for listening to him she was imagining that it was Donald who stood once again on the hearth rug his back to the fire.

And it wasn't Stephen's stance alone that conjured up Donald, for even without the slightest facial resemblance to Donald he was, at this moment, almost his chosen father's double. The doubt that had assailed her over the early years from time to time recurred, and if it would have been any help now she would have said, "All right, there is a doubt, take the benefit of it." But she knew, even if she could have made the last great effort and brought herself to say such a thing, that it wouldn't have helped in the least. She had talked for what seemed hours trying to tell them the facts while endeavouring not to blacken Donald, trying to put him over as David had always described him . a sick man, even knowing as she talked that this was merely white-washing. But in spite of her knowledge she had done it, and with what result? Merely to bring forth Stephen's hate. She knew that her son had never really loved her, but now his distaste of her amounted to loathing.

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