Pride

It was one of those grey and wet days of Autumn, when the cold creeps into the fabric of your jacket and insinuates itself, like a snake or a spider crawling under a rotten timber floor, looking for a crack to insinuate itself and nest into a warm house.

The mood was somber during the function. Even the Pastor seemed to rush through words that rang hollow. People shuffled their feet, trying to keep warm, but also betraying an urge to leave the damp, cold room as soon as possible.

But John Fletcher had other worries, more pressing than the bad weather, to keep his mind occupied. Now and then, he reassured himself that he had been through similar situations before, that his situation was as safe as a Chubb safe, that the presiding judge himself, an old friend in fact, had assured him just the night before over cocktails that there was nothing to worry about: the case was but a formality.

But you never knew.

Margaret Fletcher could sense her husband was restless. She never worried about business: she often repeated with pride to anyone who would lend her their ear, that in matters of money and politics she completely deferred to her dear John. After all, he had never given her cause to worry: they were the largest landholders of the county, and didn’t everyone say that ‘you couldn’t pull wool over John Fletcher’s eyes’ or that ‘Old Fletcher had never done a bad deal for himself in his life’?

She cleared her throat, and when John looked at her, she gave him a stern eye. As a prominent family, sitting in the front pew, they were looked up to, and they must maintain the decorum that was expected of them.

He grunted; he stuck out his chin, but remained still for the rest of the function, nearly trembling with annoyance under his coat.

Margaret’s face resumed her serene look, as she committed every word of the sermon to mind, or tried to, because the Pastor was even more dull than usual. She could not make heads or tail of what he was talking about.

‘These are new times, of peace and understanding. Jesus preached love for all…’

Margaret found the Old Testament, with its stricter code and its unbreakable laws, much more comforting. She accepted Jesus as her saviour, and she was ready to admit that it must be her fault, that her views were possibly a little antiquated, but the New Testament was certainly unsettling, confusing. It wasn’t until you reached the fire and brimstone of the Apocalypse, that things seemed to find their rightful place.

She had spoken to the Pastor a few times, but he couldn’t submit to reason.

‘The Country itself is changing,’ he said.

She shivered every time people uttered those words. She saw things on television. Luckily, their community was unchanged. The old families still in their pews as she remembered them from when she was a little girl. Once, a friend had marvelled that nobody from the different elements of the community had crossed the tracks and tried to join their parish. After all, it was allowed now.

‘They wouldn’t like it here, dear,’ Margaret had replied. ‘I’m not a bigot, but we all need to be in our element.’

And that was that.

Margaret, quickly glanced at her daughter, sitting beside her father. Obviously, she wasn’t paying any attention to the service: her broad smile betrayed her thoughts: that William Mullins she was engaged to. He was back in town, as he had a break at university, and had come to visit. Elizabeth and William were sitting, arm in arm.

It was only natural, she thought. He was a good boy, they had known since he was a child, from a good and respected family. And they two kids were only children. Their marriage would possibly make the property the largest of the entire state.

‘Hard work, that’s what it takes,’ Margaret always said when the subject of the immense family fortune came up in conversation.

But sometimes, help came in their way. This time, in the shape of William Mullins.

*

The road was muddy. The heavy, incessant rain washed over the windshield. John didn’t even see the man crossing the road. They all heard a loud bang, and a dark shape flashed before them.

John stopped and car.

‘Stay in there,’ he ordered.

Margaret and Elizabeth tried to look outside through the rain, but they couldn’t tell what was happening.

The side door slammed open.

‘Margaret, get in the back with Elizabeth,’ John cried over the drumming noise of the rain.

Then, he heaved a man into the front seat and jumped back into the car.

‘Oh, my!’ exclaimed Mrs. Fletcher.

Young Elizabeth wouldn’t dare say a word: her daddy had run over a man. Was he dead? Had he killed this stranger. But surely, it was not his fault: with this rain, it was not possibly for anyone to see if there were people crossing the road; surely, it was the man who was a fault; surely, it was his responsibility to watch out for daddy’s car.

Elizabeth cowered into her mother’s bosom, whimpering, whishing she was a million miles away, whishing she was with her William. But no, he had to visit various relatives, so they wouldn’t see each other until Monday. Why was the World, so horrible, she asked herself?

John stepped on the accelerator and drove the last mile towards home like a mad man.

Some of the staff helped take the stranger in.

‘Why isn’t he saying anything? Is he dead?’ Elizabeth kept asking.

‘I’m sure he’s just unconscious, dear,’ her mother said. But she wasn’t sure either.

The doctor was called in. Even though it was the weekend, and despite the deluge that was pouring from the heavens, Dr. Collins arrived in no time.

‘Just a concussion,’ he reassured everyone.

He mentioned the possibility of taking the man to a hospital, at least not to burden the family, but John shook his head. He did so in the name of hospitality, and in the name of not involving the insurance company in the matter. He could negotiate a good settlement with this man: he was sure he could dismiss him in no time with a couple of bills of fifty.

Elizabeth, reassured by the doctor’s words, was calm enough to glance at the man, as the staff was lifting him off the sofa, carrying him to one of the guest rooms, a small room buried into the house, far away from the living quarters. A room you would give to someone who nobody wants to see around. She was startled when she noticed the man had dark skin. For some unknown reasons, knowing that such a person was in the house filled her with discomfort, almost with terror.

‘We keep the help – how shall I say? – within our kind,’ her mother bragged often. ‘It may cost a little extra, but it gives the house the right tone.’