The Last Resort

The Last Resort

Hugh stopped to look at the bottom field and the spectre of his father rose up to meet him.

In his father’s day, that field had always been lush and green with crops divided into eight sections of similar dimensions; potatoes, cabbages and beans, onions, carrots and turnips and a glass house in each of the bottom corners, housing tomatoes that were laden with sweet juicy fruits, crisp green salad leaves and cucumbers.

Those were golden days of richness and plenty; days when the cows’ milk flowed and the egg yield, from the ten chickens was plentiful.

A nauseous feeling spread through Hugh as he looked on and the bile scalded the back of his throat. The field lay fallow now, a tangled mass of bindweed and ragwort. His father’s much-loved greenhouses were in a state of near collapse, their glass removed like the eyes of dead animals picked out by the murder of crows that used to frequent the beech trees that surrounded the house. He felt glad that his father was no longer around to witness his fall.

Hugh turned sorrowfully to Meg, his wife of twenty-five years. Her hard, bitter, and unforgiving face stared back at him. His sorrow cut deep furrows into his brow, but she neither noticed nor cared. She had been such a bright, pretty thing. He remembered how his father adored her when he had first taken her home for afternoon tea.

          “Hughie, she’s a booty.” he had said in his rich Devon tones, exchanging knowing looks with his wife as she set down the tea on her best china. She had also been captivated by Meg and he often noticed her smiling in her presence whilst she mentally planned their wedding.

His parents had not lived to see the wedding. A stroke robbed Hugh of his father. He died in his beloved field. The rapid decline of his mother followed and resulted in her death two months later. He never grieved for them, but he felt enormous sorrow as he remembered them now.

Meg’s brother, Jack was a rakish, unprincipled man, fresh from University and jealous of his sister’s life on the farm that she and Hugh inherited. She had landed on her feet, with her ready-made home and the fertile lands that came with it, by virtue of her girlish sweet looks and a fortuitous marriage. Jack had never her seen her cry from exhaustion at the end of a long day, or noticed the calluses that were forming upon her pretty hands from hours of tending her bequest.

It had started with one night out a week and Hugh felt honoured to be seen in the company of the Oxford-educated lady-killer, Jack. Their weekly drinking excursions soon extended from one to seven and three lunch times if they could manage it, from which Hugh would return at 3.30 in the afternoon, unpleasantly intoxicated and unfit for anything other than his bed.

The husbandry then fell squarely onto Meg’s shoulders. She bore the responsibility with such fierce pride that at times Hugh hardly recognised her. It pleased her to see the farm thrive under her inexperienced hand whilst he lay, stinking and insensible in his bed. Hugh would sometimes call to her to join him and spend the late afternoon making clumsy, drunken love but she would fix him with a look of icy disdain and refuse, berating him for his indolence and selfishness.

On the four occasions during the long cold winters that she had responded to his demands, pregnancy followed and Meg’s duties included bringing up their two daughters and two sons. Her temper became shorter and her pretty looks became drab and careless. Her smiles became rarer and the silence between them grew.

Jack had introduced Hugh to more pleasurable female company at The Abbot’s Inn in Torquay. The women they picked up outside were fleshier, warm and rounded. They had the curves and good humour that Meg lacked. They drank with him and made love on demand – in those days before the drink diminished his ability, his sexual appetite was insatiable. When Tommy, Hugh’s youngest son arrived quietly and without drama in the bed he sometimes shared with Meg, he was enjoying a frivolous threesome with two buxom women in a scantily furnished room in the notorious inn and was brought home on a neighbour’s farm cart, comatose and close to hypothermia. He remained sick for days and met Tommy for the first time when he was almost two weeks old. He thought that Meg had never forgiven him for that.

Now Tommy had departed to join his brother in the Army. Both of his sisters had married good, steady, reliable men and lived in Bath. He was glad that his own self-inflicted ruin would not affect his children as badly as it was going to affect Meg.

The gambling started within weeks of Tommy’s birth and for a while, Hugh’s beginners luck held. He was able to lavish money on himself; dress like a lord, take his pick of the higher class of whores, and rent rooms that often cost more than their company had. He strove to emulate Jack; now in prison for the spate of burglaries he had committed to fund his own gambling habit. In hindsight, that should have been a warning.

The weak winter sun disappeared behind a bank of menacing black clouds that had gathered beyond the hill marking the boundary of his former property. An eerie darkness fell upon the land and threw up further painful memories of his failings. Hugh shivered and pulled the threadbare coat that once belonged to his father, more tightly around him. He did not want to remember any more.

The minor stroke had left him weak and he was confined to the homestead, dependant on Meg for even his most basic needs. During his time of recuperation, she was petulant and cold, feeding him and bathing him as if he were one of her children. He hated his reliance on her.

He had slowly recovered, but his need for drink to soften his world increased. He raided Meg’s cellar of homemade wines, taking two bottles at a time and drinking himself senseless behind one of the greenhouses with its plenitude of crops. The crops reminded him of Meg, that cold woman he had the misfortune to marry. He imagined her standing beside him, scolding him for every mouthful he swallowed. Each time he told himself this would be the last bottle; he would stop and become the husband that he knew Meg deserved.  One day it was. The rickety wine rack that his father had fashioned from an old farm cart stood empty.

Instead of facing himself, he pilfered the money that Meg had carefully saved from the sale of the eggs, butter, cheese, crops and herbal remedies and the gambling began again. He befriended the dull-witted son of a neighbouring farmer who placed his bets for him, brought his brandy and his rare winnings. Meg shouted at him but he drunkenly asserted himself as the man of the house and sometimes slapped her so hard that she cried. The silence returned.

The years passed and Meg grew more tired and distant. The money she used to purchase the seeds that kept them fed was spent at the gaming tables. The scant, weak crops were grown from saved seed from the previous year’s harvest. The herd of cows dwindled to two and the chickens to four. This year she had only managed to grow a few fragile potato plants in an old barrel.

She was pulling those potatoes, earlier than normal for fear of blight, when the striking bailiff arrived and fluttered the official looking document before her eyes. The house and the land were to be sold to cover her husband’s gambling debts.

Hugh had arrived home in a state of belligerent inebriation from The Abbot’s to find her on her knees, crying and pleading with the bailiff. He noticed the genuine look of compassion on the other man’s face and misread it. Jealousy gnawed relentlessly at Hugh and he rushed indoors for the shotgun. Meg had accepted the bailiff’s condolences and his handkerchief by the time he unhitched and loaded it.

          “Get away from my wife!” he thundered, as he had taken his aim at the bailiff’s head.

Meg had screamed and he had tripped and fallen. The gun spiralled away from him, discharging its cartridge with an almighty blast. It punctured the water barrel and the gallons of hoarded rainwater seeped all over the dusty courtyard.

          “Better for us all if it had taken your head off,” Meg had said without flinching at the report and watching the precious liquid draining away into the ground. “The water, at least, had some value to me.”

Hugh cringed with mortification as he remembered the scene. The slow poison of Meg’s words continued to seep through him. She was correct, of course. He saw that now. He was a failure; a low-life, a whore-chasing drunkard who had gambled away his good fortune and he was unworthy of her. He never even had the guts to be present when his home and land went under the hammer. He could not understand why she had not left him years ago except for the fact that there was nowhere else for her to go.

That was two months ago and Meg had handled the situation admirably. The expected endless whining and angry outbursts from her did not occur. If it were possible, she became more distant but exuded an air of confidence, which he could not understand, although her complete removal from the bedroom, her nights spent in her daughters’ vacated chamber, he understood entirely. He turned to her once more and thought he caught a bitter smirk on her face.

          “I’m sorry,” he felt compelled to say. It was the first time he had uttered the word and it was eating away at him. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Why wouldn’t she speak? Even her shrill admonitions were welcome. Anything was better than this veil of ice across her face. “Really, I am,” he tried again. “I have been a fool.”

          “You’re not wrong there,” she spat at him. “But I will get the last laugh.”

Something portentous in her voice sent a shiver of disquiet rippling down his spine. He twitched the reins and the old mare moved slowly on. The cartwheels squeaked and drew attention to their plight as they journeyed through the village. It seemed that the entire population were waiting for this moment. Men who should be out earning their crust stood together outside the public house and their women gathered by the village pump, pitchers in hand to make the charade more credible. No one would be sorry to see them leave the place. Hugh cast his eyes down to the horse’s neck full of shame and guilt. Meg, held her head high, a slight flush upon her cheeks and to Hugh, she seemed almost cheerful. He watched her wave sarcastically at the gaggle of women and each one of them dropped her gaze. The last laugh was surely hers.

The road rose steeply out of the village, past the church and the Blacksmith’s. The exhausted mare struggled to keep up the pace Hugh demanded of her. On Meg’s insistence, he let her rest half way up the hill and watched as Meg fed her a handful of hay. He felt reproachful. “Saint Meg,” he mumbled to himself as he turned to view his lost land one more time. He knew that he would never return here and felt the tears smart his eyes.

          “Forgive me,” he cried, allowing his emotions to explode in a wash of snot and brine. “I never wanted it to come to this. Your brother...”

Meg put her finger to her lips and he fell silent, believing that she understood that he was not wholly to blame. She watched him with a vague interest in his sudden repentance – perhaps thinking the man possessed a conscience after all. Shyly, she took his hand and led him slowly back to the stationary cart.

The warmth of her touch startled Hugh and he felt a hint of optimism pervade his soul. Was this forgiveness at the last minute? Was there still something left? He turned tremulously to look at her properly for the first time in many years. He had never noticed the creases from years of worry etched into her face or the heavy streaks of grey in her thinning brown hair, but she was still beautiful and he knew he still loved her. Maybe he had not fallen so far after all. He could endure the poverty and shame if she remained at his side.

          “We’ll be alright, maid,” he spluttered, wiping his sodden face with his ragged sleeve.

Meg smiled as she twitched the reins and the mare moved forward. The unexpected smile empowered Hugh. He felt the smothering cloak of doom and guilt that he had worn ever since the auction, gradually slipping from his spineless frame.

          “I’ll ask around for work as soon as we get to Exeter,” he said. “Perhaps we could get the children to help out in the short term, just until we get ourselves back on our feet.”

The nervous twitch of her shoulder, at his mention of the children, forced a tiny thorn into his dream; maybe she had already approached them and been refused.

          “Well whatever,” he said acknowledging her minute reaction but determined not to let it deflate him. “We won’t be in the Poor House for very long. I’ll make it work this time, Meg. I promise.”

Meg smiled again but he sensed her unease. It was to be expected, of course. Why should she trust him? He knew that she needed actions and not words.

It first struck Hugh how few possessions she had brought with her when the rain started as they arrived on the outskirts of the city. He gallantly offered to take the reins so that Meg could seek some shelter under the tarpaulin at the back of the cart. She refused with a show of dreary pride that Hugh interpreted as a show of solidarity. They were in this together, their bond still unbreakable. As she guided the weary mare through the puddles and mud, he thought of the small crate containing her clothes stashed away in the corner behind the driver’s seat. Dear Meg, she had sacrificed so much in order to allow him his few comforts in what would be an otherwise cheerless life. He thought he might buy her a new dress when he started earning.

A crack of sunshine split the black sky as Meg turned the cart into the drab street, full of squalor and malcontent, where the Poor House stood – the dismal last resort for one fallen so spectacularly from grace. A cheeky hint of a rainbow reflected in the windows of the neighbouring properties that still held glass. He turned to Meg, about to point it out as a sign that all would be well but something in the animated expression on her face and faraway look in her eyes wrested the words, unspoken from his lips. He watched her wave at a small gathering of people by the Poor House door and felt fear. 

He had never once contemplated the moment of his arrival or what would happen to him from here on. He had to admire Meg’s strength of character at that moment. The small crowd waved back. Hugh could not help but borrow his wife’s resolve and waved at them too. There was no answer to his gesture except a collective drooping of heads towards the ground. Hugh felt his stomach churn with apprehension. Who were these people? He squinted to see if he could recognise any of the faces.

A man in a tall hat was dashing towards them. Hugh sensed something familiar about him, but he could not remember where they might have met before. Perhaps he was the master of the Poor House. The rest of the group followed, six of them, all younger than The Master, four men and two women. Again, Hugh thought he recognised the figures but his overwhelming anxiety clouded his vision. He was not expecting a welcoming committee.

Meg brought the mare to an abrupt halt as the man in the hat reached them. Hugh watched the smile ignite Meg’s eyes, causing them to sparkle with such love and optimism he felt bedazzled. He recognised the man then as the compassionate bailiff, whose name he never bothered to learn. Although that same jealousy seized him relentlessly by the throat, he could not speak.

The others arrived and Hugh felt heartened as he recognised they were his children, his sons tall and proud, a credit to their Army training; his daughters beautiful and bonny on the arms of their fine, respectable husbands. He wanted to smile at them but their only interest appeared to be with Meg. She accepted the bailiff’s hand and stepped down from her seat leaving him alone and vulnerable atop the farm cart, feeling like the court jester.

Tommy patted the uneasy mare’s neck in an effort to soothe her as his brother removed the crate that containined his mother’s clothes from the back of the cart and laid it at her feet. Hugh glanced nervously around, desperate for some recognition and respect from his children. They did not speak, only stare and Meg seemed strangely triumphant. As the rain began to fall again, the bailiff stepped forward.

          “You might remember me,” he said in tones of gruff authority. “I’m Archie Waycott and now it is my pleasure to present you with your wife’s petition for divorce.”

Hugh blinked with surprise and then guffawed loudly, urgently trying to locate a backbone and some pride.

          “Divorce?” he sneered in an unnatural falsetto voice. “I don’t think so. How can we afford a divorce? Look at us; we’re on our way to the Poor House.” He felt Archie’s cold eyes piercing his soul and looked to Meg for support. “Besides, we’re alright aren’t we Meggy?”

Meg turned away to the comfort of her daughters. Archie Waycott forced a sardonic smile and ran his fingers through the sleek grey hair beneath his hat.

          “Correction Mr Garrish,” he replied forcing the papers in to Hugh’s unwilling grasp. “You are on your way to the Poor House. Meg will be staying at The Clarion Hotel tonight and I’ll be driving her home tomorrow; the home that you lost but she retained through me and her children.”

Hugh felt dizzy as he tried to digest this unwelcome information.

          “You bought my house?” he stammered uncertainly, reeling at the open hostility that showered him from the eyes of his children.

Archie took Meg’s hand and nodded. “Yes and all the land.”

          “And my wife, it seems.”

Meg straightened her shoulders and glared at him. “He did not buy me!” she said in a clear cold voice. “Archie and I were betrothed before I ever had the misfortune to meet you. It was only a silly misunderstanding, all those long and painful years ago that prevented us from being wed. I was blessed with my children but I never stopped loving Archie.”

Hugh felt his soul shrivel and tears of disappointment slip, unrestrained from his eyes. “But Meg, I love you,” he wailed dismally.

Meg turned away, embarrassed by his reaction. Archie slipped his arm around her shoulder and drew her protectively towards him. “You have a strange way of showing it, Mr Garrish. I am paying for the divorce so that we might be wed as soon as possible. You should do the decent thing and sign the papers. Prove this love and give her the chance of some happiness at last.”

Before Hugh had a chance to speak again, an austere man in a shabby black coat and a hat similar to Archie’s was heading towards the gathering.

          “Ah Mr Garrish, at last. I must ask you to come with me immediately. We have been waiting for you this past hour and the doctor really needs to be going. You must understand, I cannot admit you to our institution without a reasonably clean bill of health and then you’ll need to plead your case as a worthy one to the committee,” he said impatiently as he drew level with Hugh.

Hugh looked despairingly at Meg, silently pleading with her, urging her to save him from his new life. Tommy took up the reins and moved the cart forward towards the imposing building that was to be Hugh’s new home as the company turned their backs on the scene. They had a table booked at The Clarion and Meg had a new life of her own to look forward to, a life that no longer included the fallen Hugh Garrish.

THE END