THE WHIP

By
CATHERINE COOKSON














Copyright 1983 by Catherine Cookson
All rights reserved including the right of
reproduction in whole or in part in any form
Published by SUMMIT BOOKS
A Simon and Schuster Division of Gulf and
Western Corporation
Simon and Schuster Building
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10020
SUMMIT BOOKS and colophon are
trademarks of Simon and Schuster.
Manufactured in the United States of
America

First American Edition


BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

A NOVEL

Like many wonderful English novelists before
her, Catherine Cookson writes with such
remarkable vibrancy and insight that her characters and
their surroundings take on a dimension rarely
seen in fiction today.
In The Whip, Catherine Cookson
takes us to Tyneside, a remote pastoral
region in northern England where the rugged
countryside, capricious elements and brutal
inequities of the nineteenth-century class
structure make life a matter of simple
survival for all who come to live there, with one
remarkable exception.
Emma Molinero is the orphan daughter
of a local farm girl and an itinerant
Spanish carnival performer. Sent to live with
her maternal grandmother after her father's death,
Emma must suddenly adjust to the bitterness of
life in Tyneside. The graceful young
Emma becomes a woman whose fiery
independence and skill at performing with the whips--
her father's only legacy--make her a
figure of mysterious fascination to the
suspicious villagers among whom she must
live. To save her honor and her life,
Emma must turn to the whips of her childhood.
In Emma, Catherine Cookson has
created one of her finest characters. Full of
passion and gentleness, warmth and courage, she
finally triumphs over the harshness of her
situation.
To weave her tale, Catherine Cookson
has assembled a glittering cast of characters. There
is Ralph Bowman, the wise and sensitive
painter who opens Emma's heart to the beauty
and art of the world; Barney Yorkless, the
compassionate and gentle farmer who loves
Emma from afar as a child; his diabolical twin,
Luke Yorkless, whose ardent hate for Emma
brings tragedy to all who know her; Annie
Yorkless, Emma's troubled daughter whose
wildness is untempered by her mother's grace; and
most of all for Emma, there is Henry
Grainger, the village parson whose passionate
love and undying devotion for her
ultimately change her life.
The Whip is Miss Cookson's finest
novel to date, a richly detailed, totally
absorbing story of an indomitable woman that will
surely add many new readers to the millions
who are already devoted Catherine Cookson
fans.

Catherine Cookson was born in Tyne
Dock, South Shields, England, in 1906,
and this river area, Tyneside, and its people
provide the settings and characters for her many
novels. Mrs. Cookson has recreated this
area so successfully that in 1968 she was the
recipient of the Winifred Holtby Award of the
Royal Society of Literature for the best
regional novel of the year, and in 1974 she
was awarded the Freedom of the County Borough of
South Shields in recognition of her
services to her home town. Mrs. Cookson
and her husband live in Northumberland,
England.













For Lisa Mallen
whose youth was short
but joyful
THE WHIP

PART ONE
The Child



"Will the new medicine make Dada well?"
The enormously fat woman moved her head
and her triple chins wobbled over the collar of
her bright red voluminous cotton gown. "Oh,
sure, sure," she said.
"The apothecary here is good, isn't he?"
"Yes, yes; he's very good." The chins
wobbled again.
"Not like the one in Dewsbury."
"Oh, he was a good apothecary too."
"He didn't make Mama better, did
he?"
"Oh, look down there." The fat woman
pointed to where the carriages were drawing up before the
Mansion House in the long beautiful street and
she said, "Come, let's go and see the
justices; they'll be trying the culprits this
Monday mornin' again." When they reached the Mansion House there were
only a few people on the pavement and they were able
to see the Mayor, the Town Clerk and the three
justices ceremoniously entering the building.
"Will they send everybody to the House of
Correction?"
"No, no." The fat lady shook the
small hand reassuringly, adding as she began
to walk on, "Just the bad hats. They're very
good justices here; folks get a fair
crack of the whip."
She opened wide her mouth which was small for
such a large face, but the laughter that issued from
it had a deep sound, like one would expect from a
man, and looking down on the child, she said, "That
was funny, eh? Fair crack of the whip. You
can give a fair crack of the whip, can't you?"
"Yes, yes, I can. Dada's gona
make me a full-size one when he gets
up. I ripped the peg out yesterday with mine."
"Did you now? Did you now? Well, as
I've always said to Mr Travers, you have the
makin' of a show lady, every inch of you."
"Dada says I'll be as good as him one
day. But nobody could be as good as Dada with the whip, could they, Mrs Travers?"
The question was solemn and the fat lady answered
in a similar tone, "No, no one could be as
good as your dada with the whip." And then she added
by way of good measure, "Or with the knives.
Ah!" She brought the child to a stop at the
bottle-glass window of the apothecary's shop,
exclaiming, "Here we are, and I'm going in
to get this wonderful bottle of medicine for your
dada. In the meantime, you go down to the pastry
shop and get a sugar dolly. Here!" She
thrust a halfpenny into the small hand, and the child,
looking up at the enormous bulk of flesh,
said on a high note, "Oh ta, Mrs
Travers. Oh ta." And on this she turned and
scampered down the long street.
When, a few minutes later, she returned
with the pastry untouched and held triumphantly
in her hand, Frances Travers was waiting for her
on the pavement, and looking down on her she
said, "You've got it then."
"Yes. Ta."
"Well, aren't you going to eat it? It's for
eating, isn't it?"
The child now broke off a leg from the pastry and, handing it towards the bulbous stomach, said,
"There's one leg for you and I'll keep one
leg for Dada."
As the fat fingers closed round the tiny leg
the woman said, "It's a good child you are,
Emma, a good child. Come, we'll take a dander
down to the market before going back, eh?"
"Oh yes." Then looking up wi/lly, the
child said, "We never see the market when it's
goin', do we? 'cos it's on a Saturday.
But do you think we'll see the big fair?"
"Huh! haven't we got a fair of our
own? Doesn't that satisfy you?"
"Yes." The child laughed now. "But ... but it
isn't like the big fair, is it?"
"Big enough. Don't start turning up your
nose at our fair, Emma Molinero."
Emma knew that the fat lady was teasing her
and she did a little skip along the edge of the
pavement and the cobbled road; then returning to her
companion's side, she put her head well
back as she looked up at her and asked, "Will
we be here for the St Leger?"
"Ah now, now, that's a point. That's not
until well into September, and here we are still in August and been here two weeks
already. There's a saying, you can get too much of a
good thing you know, and so we've always made it a
policy to keep movin'. Two to three
weeks, three at the most."
"But Dada is sick."
The fat lady made no answer to this, and it
was some seconds before Emma broke the silence
between them by saying, "I like it here, I like
Doncaster. It's a lovely place, nice
and clean, not muddy." She looked down at the
pavement. "And the people are nice; even the rich
ones, like Mr Casson. He lets us have the
two fields, doesn't he? And the horses can
gallop. Some people don't like you to let the
horses gallop, do they?"
"No; you're right there, Emma, they
don't."
"Do you think Dada will let me go on the
full show tonight, Mrs Travers?"
"Well, well now, I couldn't say about
that. He's not for you going on the full show. You
might as well know he's not even for you doing your
bit before the tent, so I shouldn't set your heart
on him being talked round. He's got his own ideas, an' rightly I suppose, but," she
ended, muttering to herself now, "can't see the harm
in it. It's got to come."
They had walked almost the mile length of the
main Doncaster street and were now on the towpath
by the river and in sight of the first field where stood
a jumble of tents, one large and four smaller
ones, together with three caravans and two flat
carts, their shafts resting on the ground. In a
further field five horses were grazing.
A number of people, seven in all, could be seen
moving between the tents in the first field. And these
made up Travers Travelling Show, not
counting the man who lay dying in the first of the two
caravans, or the fat lady and the child.
The fat lady was panting visibly and
audibly as she entered the field, and almost
immediately her husband, a tall thin man,
approaching her, greeted her with the words, "Good
for business that is, with a stone of grease running
down you. Why couldn't you let Charlie go?"
"Because," retorted his wife curtly, "he
needs to keep in shape more than I do." Her
stumpy arm, seeming to shoot out, pointed to where a
youngish man was pummelling at a bag of sand strung between two poles.
Septimus Travers, looking from his wife
to the child, said, "Flogging a dead horse." Then
turning abruptly, he walked away, and the
fat woman and the child went towards where a
middle-aged woman was talking to four dogs.
The animals were of indiscriminate breeds and
size: they were lying on the ground, front paws
straight out before them, and on each one's back
sat a tabby cat.
Addressing the end one, the woman commanded,
"Stop that clawing, Betsy." The cat sheathed
its claws and the dog on which it was sitting opened
its mouth and yawned. Then the woman, putting
her hand to her shoulder on which sat a rook, its
feathers gleaming like polished black-lead, said,
"Hooky," and the bird flew lopsidedly, owing
to its clipped wing, from her shoulder and alighted
on the back of the first cat, then proceeded
to jump from one furry back to another. This
done, the bird dropped on to the grass and
began pecking vigorously, only to be brought
up by the trainer's voice yelling, "Round,
Hooky!"
On this, the bird circled the company of dogs and cats before finally coming to a standstill in
front of them.
As the fat lady passed them she said,
"He's comin' on fine, Martha. You're a
marvel, a real marvel."
For answer, the small woman wagged her
head from side to side: she knew she was a
marvel and she knew she was fitted for better
set-ups than this. Oh yes, the time would come
when her strange ability was not advertised on
a strip of canvas bearing the words: Martha
Newbourn, Amazing Animal Trainer, but
would be on a wide board emblazoned in
gaslight, advertising the acts of a circus,
and she would perform under a big tent which would be
full of people.
The fat lady came to a stop at the foot
of the steps leading into the first of the three caravans.
She did not attempt to go up them but, poking
her head forward into the doorway, called, "I
got it, Georgie."
The voice that came back to her was thick and
weak saying, "Thanks, Frances."
"She's enjoyed her trip to town."
Again the voice said, "Thanks, Frances." Taking the medicine bottle from her
basket, Frances Travers handed it to Emma,
then pushed her up the steps and into the caravan.
Jos`e Layaro Molinero, known among his
companions as Georgie, or Mollo,
turned slowly on to his side in the bunk and
held his hand out to his daughter, and she, placing
the medicine bottle in it, said, "This'll
make you better. When you drink it all, it'll
make you better."
He did not look at the bottle but laid
it behind him on the narrow bunk; then touching her
arm lightly, he said, "Sit. ... Sit,
my Emma."
Emma sat on the stool at the head of the
bunk, her face on a level with her father's,
and she smiled at him as she said, "It was
lovely in the town. The sun was sh*' and
everybody was nice to us and no one called after
Mrs Travers today. But that was perhaps 'cos the
boys were all at school."
"Wouldn't you like to go to school, my Emma?"
Her head to one side, the child thought for a moment,
then said, "Some time, but not all the time, not when
I'm practising. Did you hear that I whipped out the pegs?"
"I heard. ... I want you to go to school,
Emma, and learn to read and write."
"But you learned me. I can do my name."
"Your name is nothing, it is only the
beginning. I had the chance to go to school, but I
scorned it. I, too, preferred the whip, but
... but it was a big mistake. The whip leads
you nowhere, only to the end of it, and the end stings.
You understand? No, no, you don't. But my
Emma, me ... I want you to learn, to learn
your letters. And a lot more things. You are like me, you
would be quick to learn. I was quick to learn what I
thought was all I needed, and that was the language.
I was but ten when I came to this country, but ten,
three years older than you are now, but I ...
I learned the language. I speak good,
don't I?"
"Yes, Dada, you speak good."
"But"--he shook his head slowly now--"I
do not speak too good. There is another way
to speak and I want you to be learn-ed that way.
... Do you know you have a grandmama?"
Her eyes widened and her lips moved into a
smile as she nodded at him, saying, "Yes, you have told me, in Spain."
He hitched himself slowly up on to his
elbow now and brought his face close to hers as
he said, "You have another grandmama, Emma.
She is here in ... in this country."
"Here?" Her eyes grew wider, and he
nodded at her and repeated, "Here. She is your
mama's mother."
"My mama's mother? And she is here?"
Emma now looked towards the open door of the
caravan, and he put in, "Not here, but not so
far away."
"We are going to see her?"
"No, not me. I not go to see her, but you go.
She ... she doesn't like me." He smiled
faintly now.
"Then I don't like her."
He patted her hand, saying softly, "She
has good reason. My Eliza, she ran
away from her mother to marry me, and her mother never
want to see her again."
"She don't want to see me then."
"Oh, I think she will."
"I won't go to see her without you. And
anyway, I can't go 'cos Mr Travers is learnin' me to get right for the fair day. When the
big fair comes we will join them like last year,
and Mr Travers says ...."
"I don't want you in the big fair day."
"But, Dada."
"No more. No more." He closed his eyes and
shook his head. "El latigo, it is
finished for both of us."
"The whip? Why?"
"Because, my Emma--" he was holding her
two hands now on top of the striped blanket and
he pressed them down into it as he said,
"Better things, better things for you besides the
whip, or the knife."
Slowly he eased off his elbow and lay
back, and his breathing became heavy, accentuating
the silence that had fallen between them.
Presently, she said softly, "Dada."
And he answered, "Yes, my Emma?"
"I would rather go to my grandmama in Spain."
He made a sound like a throaty laugh now
and he raised his eyes up towards the painted
roof of the caravan just above his head as he said,
"And so would I, my Emma, so would I, but
... but it cannot be. Spain is too far away, and ... and your Spanish grandmama ...
well, she would be too old to bother. She will be
nearing ... oh--" he screwed up his eyes as
he reckoned his mother's age, and then said, "coming
up to seventy years, my mother will be."
Turning his head, he gazed at his daughter.
"You have her eyes, kindly eyes," he said,
"b"--now he pursed his lips slightly--"you
have her temper too. Oh yes, my Emma, you
have her temper too. You smile, but yes, you
are your Spanish grandmama's other self.
Your mama, she had no temper, my Eliza
had no temper, she was. ... What was she,
my Eliza? She was agreeable. Oh yes,
agreeable. And you too are agreeable." He
nodded now at Emma. "You have her hair, like the
chestnut shell when rubbed, only darker." He
put out his hand and stroked the thick long waves
that fell below the child's shoulders and he said now,
"Always look to your hair. Wash it. Whenever you
come to a river, wash it, 'specially if the
river is runnin' fast. And ...."
Of a sudden he began to gasp, and she stood
up and, bending over him, said, "Take some of
your new medicine, Dada, it will make you better."
After a moment he gasped, "Bring ...
Robert ... or Annie."
She scrambled down the steps of the caravan and
ran to where two young boys, looking startlingly
alike, were practising tumbling on the grass
and she called to them, "Andy! Billy! where is
your Dada?"
They stopped and together they pointed to the next
field where a man was riding a horse
bareback. One minute he was sitting on it,
next standing on its back, and the next minute
he had done a back somersault and landed on
his feet, and all the while his wife held the
horse by a long rope.
Running to the gate of the field, Emma
called, "Uncle Tummond! Aunty
Tummond! Dada wants you."
They both stopped, turned, and looked at
her; then the woman, going to the horse,
unloosened the rope and followed the man towards
her.
They did not ask her any questions but they
passed her, and she followed them. She liked the
man she called Uncle Tummond, but she was a little afraid of his wife who could eat
fire. She was a fearsome sight, his wife when
eating fire. And she was teaching her sons,
too, to eat fire. At present, though, they
were just tumblers.
She did not follow the couple into the caravan
but sat on the steps and listened to their voices.
Her father's voice came to her, distant,
saying, "You sent it off?" And the answer came,
"Yes Georgie, six days ago. It
caught the Edinburgh mail that would drop it off
at Newcastle. The coach went out on the
dot, like every day, at six minutes afore two.
It would be in Newcastle that night and get to that
place beyond Gateshead Fell the next day."
"There's been time to answer."
"Perhaps they cannot write." It was Auntie
Tummond speaking now, and her husband
answered, "They could have got a preacher or
somebody."
"That's if they ever see a preacher up there in
the wilds."
"Don't be silly, woman! How far did
you say it was from the town, Georgie?"
"Oh." Her father's voice came faintly now, hesitantly saying, "About five miles
from the city of Newcastle. Beyond Gateshead
Fell there ... there was a village ...
Fell-burn. Yes Fell-burn, above that.
Above that."
"Well then, the letter should have got to her all
right. Perhaps she has died, Georgie."
"Perhaps ... but no, no. Alive she was when
Eliza died. And she can write. I sent letter
to her then, an' she return a bitter letter.
No, I do not think she died. ... Robert."
"Yes, Georgie?"
"I don't want my Emma to travel;
I ... I want her to grow up in a ... a
home."
"There's worse homes than this,
Georgie." It was Auntie Tummond's
voice again. "She'd be well looked after,
we'd see to that."
"I know, I know, Annie, and I ... I
do ... do thank you, warmly I do, but I
promised Eliza she would never go into the show.
Play the whips, yes; learn to use 'em,
yes; but not for the show. Eliza, she's very upset
when I show Emma how to throw the knife, but Emma take to both the knife and the
whip."
"Aye, she's amazin' for her age. An'
Georgie, that's why Sep wants her in the
show; just for this once when the fair comes. You
see, you're a big miss, Georgie, like
Eliza was. Things haven't been goin' too
well. It ... it would do him a favour if you
let her go in just this once. I would see ... in
fact I promise you, Georgie, it'll just
be this once."
"No, Robert, no. I ... I know you
are not askin' for yourself, if it were so I would say
yes, because I owe you, always have, and now you give
me shelter to die in."
"Nonsense. Nonsense." Annie
Tummond was speaking again. "It's share and share
alike. The lads like sleeping under canvas and
so does Emma. Oh yes, she does, she
prefers the canvas to this any day. You know yourself
she'd rather sleep outside than sleep in your
wagon. ... Oh! now, now; don't distress
yourself."
When Emma heard the sound of her father's harsh
coughing she rose from the steps and looked towards the open half of the door, and when the
coughing
subsided she leant forward towards the lower
half of the door and strained her ears to what her
father was now saying. But the words came muddled and
all she could make out of them was, "Promise
me, Robert, promise me." And Mr
Tummond's voice answering, "It'll be as
you say, Georgie, it'll be as you say."



The people of the town were very kind: some sent flowers,
some even followed the small cort@ege to the
graveyard. The remarks they made about the
Spaniard were all kindly: some of them could
look back over the fifteen to twenty years that
the Travers Travelling Show had come each
year to join the big fair, besides putting on its
own displays. The Spaniard had always seemed
a handsome-looking man and strong. He had no
spare flesh but people were amazed at the strength of his
arms as he manipulated the whips, some only
three feet long, others ranging fifteen
to twenty feet. They recalled how the women in
the audience would squeal when the whip trapped the legs of a husband or brother, never of
themselves, but so gently that the captives felt no
hurt.
And they recalled too how he threw the
daggers all round the lovely young girl who was
his wife. It had been a great pity, they said,
and very strange that she too should die in this very
place only eighteen months back. He was
being buried on top of her. Now wasn't that
unusual? Not unusual for townsfolk but for
travelling show people. Well, it was something
to remark on.
The townspeople also remarked to each other that
all the members of the Travers Travelling
Show were superior-like people, that is superior
to gipsies and such. Some had even warned their children
not to tease the fat lady, although she seemed so
good-natured that she didn't appear to mind.
But what surprised those townspeople who were
following the coffin which was laid on the flat cart
and draped with a many-coloured shawl, the whole being
drawn by a horse, was that the travelling people had
allowed the child to be present. The little girl, they
noticed, was walking between the fat lady and the
fire eater; and she wasn't dressed all in black, but in a brown coat and a green
bonnet. For that matter, none of the travelling
people were in black. Of course it was understandable, they
supposed, black clothes cost money, and the
travellers usually dressed gaily even if
the colours were faded with many washings.
Emma was crying. She knew she was crying
inside but her face was dry. There was a terrible
pain in her chest and also a feeling of resentment.
This latter was centred round the apothecary: she
had laid such stock on that bottle of medicine
and she had seen that her dada had taken every drop
of it. But it hadn't helped, he had died. Like
her mama had died.
When she stood by the graveside and watched the
long plain box going into the ground and listened to the
parson's voice, she knew that he was telling
lies. If her dada was going into heaven he
wouldn't be going into the earth, they would have put wings
on him like in the windows of Christ Church, the
one with the tall spire. She had been in there;
Mrs Travers had taken her when out for a dander
one day. She had liked the church. It was very
nice and very big, but it made you seem smaller
than you were. No, she didn't believe this person. There was something wrong somewhere.
The clods were dropping on her dada,
hitting him. No one had ever hit her dada;
they were frightened to because he could use the whip so
well.
Something exploded in her chest. She heard
someone yelling. She didn't know it was herself
until Uncle Tummond lifted her up,
saying, "There, there. There, there," and carried her
away.
She cried on and off for three days, while
those about her kept talking, talking. When she
finally stopped crying she slept for a long
while, and when she woke up everybody seemed
different. They spoke to her in low voices,
their words kindly, and she knew they were saying
good-bye.
Auntie Tummond woke her up one
morning from the straw pallet at the head of the
caravan, told her to dress, and then gave her
a mug of milk and a shive of bread, after which
both she and her husband sat on the edge of the
bunk and, looking at her, said, "Emma,
you're going to your grandma the day."
She made no reply, just swallowed the mouthful of bread and continued to look at them. And
now it was Uncle Tummond who said, "Your
dada wanted it, we ... we didn't. We
wanted you to stay, everybody wants you to stay,
but Georgie made us promise to send you to your
grandma's. She ... she lives on a farm and
it'll be very nice, animals and all that. Your
dada wrote to her, so--" he gulped in his
throat before ending, "so she should be expecting you,
likely waiting for you." He looked at his
wife as if for confirmation, but Annie
Tummond was staring at the child and it was she who now
took from the pocket of her voluminous skirt
a little leather pouch and placed it on the stool in
front of her. She shook it gently and from it
there sprayed a number of golden sovereigns.
"This is your dada's savings. He ... he
wanted you to have it. There are fourteen
sovereigns. It is quite a bit of money and you
must take care of it. I'll pin it to the inside
of your bodice. And don't let anyone know
it's there until you get to your grandma's."
Emma looked down at the golden coins;
then silently she picked up one in each hand and
then extended her arms towards the couple sitting on the bunk, and at this they both shook
their heads vigorously, saying, "No, no!
It is for you."
"Dada would have given you them."
"He has given us enough, his cart and horse
and odds and ends. ..."
"Not the whips and his knives?"
"Well"--Annie Tummond shook her
head--"he didn't say anything about them."
"I want them, please. Please."
She leant towards them, and Robert
Tummond, putting out his hand, patted her arm,
saying, "All right, all right, you'll have anything
you want, but they'll be a bit of weight."
"I can carry them." Now rising to her feet,
she asked simply, "How do I go?"
"Well, we've been talking about it," said
Robert Tummond. "There's two ways: either
by the express from London which calls at the
Reindeer and then goes on to Newcastle, but it
comes in here on three in the morning. And then
there's the Highflyer. That stops at the Black
Boy and that's a bit later, just on five, but
it only goes as far as Durham, and Charlie
who knows these parts says it's longer from Durham to Fellburn village than 'tis
from Newcastle to the village, so we think the
earlier one would be better for you. We don't
know exactly what time it goes out but we'll have
to be there close on three. And don't
worry"--he put out his hand--"you'll be in the
charge of the guard, and they are nice fellows.
And there'll be lots of people travellin' and
they'll look after you. You'll have the address of
your granny pinned on your coat, and when you
get to Newcastle, well"--he blinked now
before adding--"the guard will likely put you on
another coach or carriage. Oh he's sure
to put you on something that'll take you to the
village. Now"--he forced a grim smile
to his face as he ended--"it'll be a great
adventure. Don't you think so, Emma? A
great adventure."
She stared back at these two dear friends, then
pushing the stool aside, she threw herself towards
them, and again she was crying.

They were all there with the exception of
Septimus Travers for, as he said, somebody
had to stay and look after the camp. But then Emma knew he wasn't pleased that
she was going to her grandma's. And she also knew
it would have been fruitless to tell him that she too
wasn't pleased that she was going to this strange
grandma's. But if her dada said she had to go
then she must obey her dada. She had always
obeyed her dada. ...
She was the last to enter the coach. Dawn was just
breaking and through her blurred gaze she saw all
their faces, and like her the women were crying, even
Miss Newbourn, and she had never seen her
cry but once before. That was the day her new dog,
a greyhound, had run after the performing rabbit and
killed it, and Miss Newbourn had taken a
stick and beaten the dog till it was almost dead
too, then she had hugged it to her like someone does
a child and cried over it. And the men had to pull it
from her and Mr Travers had shot it. But she was
crying now and Emma felt that it was because she had
liked her as much as she had liked the greyhound
and all her animals.
She would miss the animals. But then
Uncle Tummond had said there'd be lots of
animals on the farm, big animals and little
animals, lambs. They'd never had a lamb in the troupe.
A gentleman had been sitting in the corner
seat but he had moved up to let her be near the
window.
The last faces she saw were those of Auntie
and Uncle Tummond, for they ran alongside
the coach until it reached the main road when the
horses started to gallop.
When, with the sudden jolt, she almost slipped
off the edge of the seat the gentleman next to her
put his hand out and steadied her, and she turned and
looked at him. He was a young man; his face
was clean, he had no beard; his clothes were
black, and he had a high white collar. These
things she took in, and when he said, "You have a
lot of friends. It's good to have a lot of friends,"
she did not answer because the lady on the end seat
opposite who had joined the coach when she did
leant towards the gentleman and in a whisper
said, "She's from the circus. Well, it's a
kind of circus, travelling players. Her
father died and she's going back to his people I
think." She made a motion with her head, then
tapped her chest which indicated the label pinned
to Emma's coat, and the gentleman said, "Oh. Oh, I see." And he turned
to Emma once more and smiled down at her. Then
bending forward he read what was written on the
label:

I am Emma Molinero.
I am going to my grandmother's,
Mrs Crawshaw at Boulder Hill Farm,
Near Fellburn Village,
Close by Gateshead Fell.

Now the gentleman, smiling widely into her
face, said, "Well, well, we are for the
same destination, for I too am going that way."
"Taking up a new parish, reverend?"
Emma looked at one of the two men sitting
next to the woman, then at the gentleman at
her side, and she now remembered what the high
collar represented. He was a reverend. She
listened to his voice saying, "I'm taking
over the parish of St Jude and the vicarage is
in the village of Fellburn."
"Interesting. Interesting." The gentleman
nodded his head, then seemed to lose interest, and the
one who had turned into a preacher which was different from a gentleman, smiled down at her again,
and
this time she took more stock of him. He had a
nice face, but he was very young for a preacher, he
didn't look as old as Charlie ...
Charlie Lamb the boxer, and Charlie was young.
In a way, he didn't look unlike
Charlie for his chin was square, but Charlie said his
had been knocked square with the punches from the
locals. Anybody could fight Charlie for a
shilling a go, and sometimes he let them win and they
had their shilling back and another for winning.
The preacher had grey eyes, his nose was
large and his mouth wide. She noticed he had
a crossed tooth in the bottom set. Her
mama had had a crossed tooth. She couldn't
tell if he was tall or short but he was very
thin because she noticed his knee bones pressing
up out of his tight trousers.
The lady opposite started asking him questions
now. Her voice was monotonous and made her
sleepy because she had been awake since the
middle of the night. She heard the preacher's
voice, and it was like no other she had ever heard,
say, "I had a curacy in Kent." Then,
"Yes, this is my first fully-fledged living." Then, "Oh, Chester-le-Street. That
isn't so very far away. I hope you will come
to St Jude's for a service sometime."
His voice was very low. Likely he didn't
want to disturb the gentleman who was snoring, and
when the man gave a big snort at the same
time the coach lurched she jumped slightly, then
she felt an arm go about her and her cheek came
to rest on the rough serge of a coat that smelt of
smoke, not wood smoke or pipe smoke, just
smoke, and it wafted round her and then lay
heavily on her and she went to sleep.



She was standing on the pavement outside the
Queen's Head in Newcastle. When the coach
had arrived the parson had taken her inside and
given her a meal while waiting for her grandmother
to come.
But now the parson's own conveyance had arrived
in the shape of a gig driven by a man with a beard
who for the third time was saying, "Shall we be on our
way, Parson?" And the parson for the third time
looked down questioningly on Emma, and now bending his knees, he brought his face closer to hers,
saying, "Does your grandmother expect you? ...
Does she know you are coming?"
"I don't know. Dada wrote to her."
"Did your da ... father have a reply? Did
he ... did he have a letter from her?"
She shook her head, and on this the parson
straightened himself and looked at the man who was
standing impatiently at the horse's head and
said, "You will know Boulder Hill Farm, I
suppose?"
"Oh aye, I know Boulder Hill Farm.
But the folks aren't called Crawshaw.
Jake Yorkless works that place, has done
since his old man died, and he had worked it
afore him, and again his father."
"Do you know anyone called Crawshaw who
lives near there?"
The verger shook his head, saying, "Not that I
can recall, it's ... it's a way out. Yet
wait. There's a woman there. She comes in with the
farmer and his family now and again. Feast Days
like, but I don't know her name. It's a
scattered parish as you'll find out, Parson.
You wouldn't get half of them in on a Sunday if it wasn't for the gentry comin' and them
being their landlords."
"You're a cynic, verger. Anyway, what
are we going to do about this child?"
"None of our business, I would say,
Parson."
"You would?" The young man looked at the older
one: his head was thrust slightly forward, a big
question not only in his words but in his eyes, and now his
voice soft, he added, "Suffer little children, eh
verger?"
John Haswell stared back at the new
vicar. Huh! it looked as if they were in for
something here. Holier than God, this one was going
to be. Parson Crabtree had kept his
sermonizing for the pulpit, and he had shovelled
out hell fire and brimstone from there, but that once
done, he became an ordinary man an' he
let folks get on with it, except for
burials when he sent them off, destination
unknown. He had been a tactful man, old
Crabtree, made friends with those who had money
to support his church and reprimanded those who
hadn't, and closed one eye, both eyes at
times, when it suited him, spirit-wise, so to speak. But here was this one not five minutes on
the ground and holding up things because of a little urchin
that looked as if she had just stepped out of the poor
house, or was about to step into it.
"It doesn't look as if anyone is coming
for her, not at the moment, so we'll take her
to this farm. Will it be much out of the way?"
Reluctantly the verger had to admit they
would pass the bottom of the road leading to it, but
as he watched the young fellow lift the child into the
gig and he himself took his seat he said, "Not
taking the gig all the way up from the coach
road, Parson. It's rutted and it rained
all last night, the animal would be mud up
to the hocks. Anyway, it isn't all that
far."
Emma had taken in the whole of the conversation.
The outcome of it was that she liked the parson, but
she didn't like the driver, Mr Verger.
As they crossed a fine bridge over a
river she looked down on the ships both lining
its banks and those with sails set gliding beneath the
arches, and she turned an ecstatic look on
the young parson, saying, "It's a big river,
isn't it?" "Yes, it is, a fine river."
"There was a river in Doncaster"--she nodded
at him--"but it wasn't like this one. 'Tis a
fine river."
They smiled at each other and he said,
"Indeed, indeed it is."
As they left the bridge and entered another
town, she said, "What's this place?"
"I understand it is called Gateshead but"--
he bent down to her--"i'm almost as ignorant
of the vicinity as you are."
"Oh." She continued to look at him and
smile, and she took it that what he meant was
he didn't know very much about the place either.
Having passed through the township they were now in
open country with cultivated fields stretching
away into the distance. Then once more they were running
between houses, a village this time. And Emma's
remark was, "Nice."
"Yes, it's a nice village," the
parson said and then he added, "I can from now on
call it my village."
"Your village?" She nodded at him.
"It's your village?"
"Well, in a way, since I shall be its pastor. You know what I mean?"
When she made no answer he said, "The
vicarage is just beyond, over there, see." He
bent down towards her and pointed. "In front
of those trees."
"Oh, it's a big house."
"Yes, too big. And now--" he looked
towards the verger's back as he added, "you will
soon have to alight, my dear. Do ... do you
think you can manage to carry that bag? It looks
very heavy."
She smiled broadly at him now as she
said, "No, it isn't, not really. There's
only two petticoats and a dress, and a
pair of shoes, besides Dada's knife belt
and the whips."
He screwed up his face at her as he
repeated, "Whips?"
She nodded her head. "Dada was very good with the
whips, catch even a moth in the air. Yes
he could." She nodded as if expecting a
denial. "And I can take out pegs."
"Really?"
The gig had stopped now and, getting down from
it, he held out his arms and lifted her to the ground; then taking the cloth bag from where
it was lying at the side of the verger's feet, he
tested it with his hand, saying, "Are you sure it
won't be too heavy?"
"No, no, mister ... Parson, it won't
be too heavy. And ta. Thank you. Thank you
for the ride."
"How far is the farm up that lane?" The
parson was speaking to the verger now, and the man
replied, "She'll be there in five minutes,
ten at the most." The young man stared at the
verger for a long moment as if he was about to say
something; then he turned to the child again, saying,
"Well, good-bye, Emma, for the present.
We shall meet again very shortly."
"Good-bye mister ... Parson." She
bobbed her head to him, then looked at the man
seated and, remembering her dada's teaching, she
inclined her head towards him too, saying,
"Ta. Thanks, mister." Then she turned
away, the cloth bag held in her arms against
her chest in an effort to show the kind man that it
wasn't heavy at all. And she had gone some
distance before she heard the wheels of the gig grinding
on the road. It was then she stopped and dropped the bag to the ground and looked about her.
There were fields on all sides of her. In
some the corn had been cut and stooked, but it was
still standing in others. There was no sight of a
habitation of any kind. She turned round and
looked in the direction the gig had come, but she
could not even see the village. She bit on
her lip, her face began to crinkle, and she was
suddenly filled with fear, because for the first time in her
life she was alone. Always before she had been in
the midst of people. Always she could put her hand out and
touch someone. When it had rained or the weather was
very cold they had shared the caravans, sleeping
side by side. All except Miss
Newbourn, because she wouldn't leave her
animals. And anyway the dogs and cats
kept her warm. But here she was in the great open
space, no houses to be seen, no people to call
to, to touch, let alone laugh with. And no
Dada to run to.
She gripped the bag now with both hands and at
a stumbling run she went along the endless lane
until of a sudden it sloped gently upwards
between the two hedges, and when it turned to the right
she stopped again and, dropping the bag to the ground once more, she stood still and gazed down
at the farm about a hundred yards away.
She could see the yard with the outbuildings
flanking two sides, and the square-looking
house at the head of it, and there were hayricks in
the yard and cows moving about, but more important
there were people there, a woman and two men.
She did not attempt to run now but, still
holding the bag up to her chest, she went slowly
forward through the gap in the stone wall; then came
to an abrupt stop and in not a little fright because
ambling towards her were a number of cows, and they
were making for the gap in the wall.
Darting now to the side, she pressed herself
against what appeared to her like a contorted piece
of iron work. Then when the cows had passed into the
lane the boy who was behind them stopped and looked
at her. He took her in from her bonnet to her
boots; then glancing over his shoulder to where a
man and woman were standing in the middle of the yard,
he thumbed towards her before continuing on his way
after the cows.
She walked now towards the two people. What
she noticed first was that they were both very tall. The
woman tall and thin, the man tall and broad. When she was standing quite close to them she had
to put
her head back to look up into their faces, and
her eyes settled on the woman as she said
softly, "Are you me grandma?"
"What? What did you say?" The
woman's voice sounded strange, thick,
guttural, the words running into one another.
She repeated, "Are you me grandma? I'm"
--she now tapped the piece of paper pinned
to her coat--"i'm Emma Molinero."
When the woman made no answer but turned
and looked at the man, fear and loneliness
swept over her like a wave and she began
to gabble. "He said this was the farm, the parson
man. They brought me on the cart to the bottom.
I was set off the mornin'. It was very early,
I got up in the middle of the night. I
didn't want to come an' they didn't want
me to come, but Dada wished it because of Mama.
..."
"What on earth." The woman now bent down
and, her voice not unkind, she said, "You're
at the wrong place, hinny. I'm not your
grandma. What did you say your name was?"
She now bent forward and read the label. Then straightening up, she gazed at her
husband for a moment before muttering under her breath,
"My God! Lizzie. This one's
Eliza's. He was a foreigner, wasn't he,
down at the fair, with a name like that?" She was
pointing down to Emma's chest. "And she's known
about this, the bitch! Remember the letters? Well!
Well! Well!" She drew her chin in.
"She's going to get a gliff, isn't she?
She wouldn't tell us who they were from ... the
letters, but I guessed it could only be connected
with Eliza, or her man, Eliza now being
dead."
"Where is she?" It was the first time the man had
spoken and his voice came to Emma like that of the
woman, thick, guttural, and the woman
answered him, saying, "Doing her stint for the
painter. She should be up about now. Well!
Well! Well!"
The woman now bent down again to Emma and
what she said was, "Don't cry. Your
granny lives here. Well, not here"--she
jerked her head back to the house--"but over
there." She pointed beyond the outhouses. "She
works for us an' Mr Bowman in the cottage." She now pointed in the opposite direction
towards the open gap in the wall and the lane beyond.
"So you'd better come away in and wait for her.
Here, give me the bag."
As she lifted the bag she said, "My! my!
this is heavy. What have you got in here, stones?"
"No"--Emma's voice was small--"it's
me dada's whips and his knife belt."
"God above!" The woman was now looking at
her husband as she spoke. "Whips and knife
belts. Huh! We've got somethin' here.
Well, come away in."
Emma followed the woman across the yard and
round the corner of the house, through a back door
and into a room that seemed chock full of all
kinds of things.
"Sit yourself down there." The woman pointed
to a stool near an open fire with bars across and
an iron spit dangling above it. She was hot
and tired and thirsty; the last place she wanted
to sit was near a fire. The room seemed
stuffy and it was filled with a number of smells
she couldn't put a name to because none of them
represented onions, or herbs, or wood
smoke, or wet grass. She was deciding she didn't like this
woman or the man very much when the woman said
to her, "Would you like a drink of buttermilk?"
"Yes, please." She knew what
buttermilk was, she'd often had it from the
farms at which they stopped to buy eggs and
vegetables.
She accepted the mug of buttermilk
thankfully, and when she drained it almost at one
go the woman said, "By! you were thirsty." Then
looking towards the open door she exclaimed
to the man who had now taken a seat at the end
of the wooden table which was placed in the middle of the
room, "Here she comes."
Emma imagined she had stopped breathing and that
her chest was swelling because it was getting tighter,
and it wasn't until the woman crossed the
threshold, then came to a dead stop and stared at
her, that she let herself gulp at the hot air.
"You've got a visitor, Lizzie.
Didn't you know you were gona have a visitor?
She mistook me for her granny." The
farmer's wife now gave a deep chuckle before
going on, "The wages of sin, and in the flesh
an' all." Emma almost started from the stool as the woman
now rounded on her mistress, crying, "It was
no sin, she was married. She sent me the
marriage lines. You saw them."
"Mind your tongue. Mind your tongue,
Lizzie Crawshaw. You forget who you're
talkin' to." All the banter had gone out of the
farmer's wife's voice now, and the woman standing
in the doorway came back at her, crying,
"I'm not allowed to forget that ever, am I?
Thirty-nine years out of me forty-five
I've been reminded of it every day with one and
another."
"Well! well! do you hear her?" The tall
woman turned to her husband, and he replied,
"Aye. Aye, I hear her. Steppin' out of
your boots, aren't you, Lizzie?"
Emma looked from one to the other, noting that the
man's voice wasn't as unkind as his
wife's. But her eyes came to rest on the
woman in the doorway. She was much shorter
than the farmer's wife and inclined to be plump.
She was wearing a linen bonnet with a frill at
the back. The strands of hair showing on her
cheeks were fair. Her eyes were a vivid blue and full of anger. ... And this was
her grandma, and she was saying, "Put beggars
on horseback an' they ride to hell."
The farmer's wife's voice now startled
her, crying at her, "Get up out of that and go with
your granny!"
She did not immediately obey the command but looked
towards the smaller woman as if waiting for her
to speak. And after a matter of seconds she
did speak, saying, "Come away with you."
Quickly she lifted up the bag and walked
towards her grandmother who without looking at her, for
her eyes were on the farmer's wife, placed her
hand in the middle of her back and pushed her
forward into the yard. Then moving ahead she
muttered something which Emma couldn't catch, but she
followed her, having to trot to keep up with her,
past a row of cow byres, some stables and a large
barn, then round a corner and by two pigsties.
These were placed at the head of a field in which there
were long hen crees. After crossing a space
strewn with old farm implements, both wooden
and iron, they came to an open flat piece of
ground on which stood a cottage.
Even to Emma it looked a very small cottage. It was made of rough stone which had
been cemented together haphazardly. There was a
window, and a door, in the front of it. It had
a slate roof out of which a chimney stuck.
Once inside the room, Emma blinked her
eyes in order to take in her surroundings. She
noted there was another window, a smaller one,
and a door at the far end of the room, and on the
wall to the side of it was a big cupboard.
To the right of her, and seemingly stuck in the
corner of the walls, was a fire grate with a
round iron door above it, and in the middle of the
room stood a small wooden table. It had
one chair under it and to the side of it was a
rocking-chair. On the wall to the left of her
was a low narrow cupboard with shelves above it,
and near it a ladder leaned against the wall. There
was no sign of a bed.
They stood confronting each other in the
dimness, Emma staring at her grandmother and her
grandmother staring at her.
Emma wanted to speak, she wanted to touch the
woman in front of her and, in some
extraordinary way, comfort her.
Her grandmother was the first to break the silence. She said, "He shouldn't have done it.
He had no right to send you."
"He's dead. My dada is dead."
"I know that, else you wouldn't be here. But still
I say he had no right to send you. You've got
no claim on me. I washed me hands of her
when she went off with him. Slaved to bring her up
decent, then to go off with a fair man. ...
Scum."
Up till now Emma had not heard the word
scum, and did not know its meaning, but she gathered
from her grandmother's tone that she hadn't liked her
dada. And so she said in a voice that trembled
but held defiance, "My dada was a good man.
Everybody loved him, and he was clever. He
could stand in for nearly everything except the
fire-eatin'."
She watched her grandmother now close her
eyes and turn her head away. Then turning
back to look at her again, she said, "What am
I gona do with you? I'm past takin' on
responsibility of another one. And she'll
make you work. By God! she'll make you work.
Do you understand that?" She poked her head down
towards Emma. "I can work."
"You can work? ... Huh! What would you know
about work goin' round with a circus, a lazy,
thieving crew?"
"They weren't. They weren't." There was no
tremble in Emma's voice now. "They were all
good an' nice and I didn't want to come."
"Then why did you?"
"'Cos Dada made Uncle Tummond
promise to send me to you."
"Oh, dear God." Emma now watched her
grandmother shake her head wildly from shoulder
to shoulder, then sit down in the rocking-chair and,
gripping the sides, rock herself backwards and
forwards for some minutes before stopping suddenly and
saying, "Well, you're here. Get your things
off, and the quicker you know the ropes the better it'll
be for you."
Emma took off her coat and hat, and when
she went to open the bag her grandmother said, "What
have you in there?"
"Dada's whips an' mine, and his knife
belt."
"What?"
Lizzie Crawshaw now watched this new granddaughter of hers lifting out from the
bag what looked like a piece of polished
black wood about fourteen inches long around which
was twisted a leather thong, thick in parts then
tapering off to an almost thread-like end. This was
followed by two similar ones but on a smaller
scale. Next, she brought out a roll of soft
leather from which protruded a number of wooden
handles.
"God in heaven!" Lizzie's head was
moving in small jerks as she asked softly,
almost in awe, "What were those for?"
Emma's face looked bright as she
answered, "To throw. He could throw them all
around Mama, an' me an' all. And I can
throw them. He was showing me. Only mine
didn't always stick." Her smile broadened.
Then thrusting her hand down into the front of her
dress, she struggled for a minute as she
unpinned the chamois leather bag.
Holding it in her outstretched hand, she went
towards the rocking-chair, saying, "These are for
you, you can have them." She watched her grandmother
look down at the bag before taking it into her hand;
she then moved it up and down as if weighing it; after which she undid the string and tipped the
contents
into her palm, then sat gazing down on the
twelve sovereigns. Her lower jaw slowly
sinking, she looked from them to the child standing before her,
the child who showed no resemblance to her daughter.
And now she muttered, "Sovereigns?"
"There's twelve of 'em. There were fourteen,
but I gave one each to Auntie and Uncle
Tummond, because Dada liked them and they were very
kind. They said these were mine, so you can have them."
Emma now watched her grandmother's eyes
close tightly, then her chin droop down
towards her chest as she muttered something. But it
was so low that Emma couldn't catch the words
until her grandmother lifted her head again and said,
"Twelve sovereigns, over two years work.
Twelve sovereigns." Then nodding towards
Emma, she went on, "Do you know, I've
never seen so many at once in all me working
days. It all had to go home until he died,
me dad, three years gone; then the following
year I went mad and spent all me earnings,
five pounds in one go." She closed her eyes
again and shook her head, then muttered, "What
am I sayin'? But child"--her voice changing, she eased herself towards the front of the
rocking-chair and she put her hand on Emma's
shoulder, only to take it off again as if it had
burned her, and she swallowed deeply before
muttering, "Don't mention this money to her, the
missis. Don't mention it to anybody. Do you
hear?"
"Yes."
"But do you understand?" The hand came on her
shoulder again and this time it stayed. "If they thought
I had this much they'd have it off me one way or
another. You know somethin'?" She screwed herself
back on the chair now, saying, "I could up and
walk out of here this minute."
There followed a silence during which Emma
waited for her grandma to go on and she watched her
smiling to herself, before of a sudden her chin drooped
again and she murmured, "But I wouldn't, I
can't, I'm tied, in more ways than one I'm
tied." And now she rose to her feet and, going
to the table, she stood with her hands flat on it
looking down on them, and Emma stood looking
at her.
Presently her granny asked, "Are you
hungry?" "Yes."
"Well, there's mutton an' bread in the
cupboard an' milk in the jug. It's over
there." She pointed. "Go and get it; the sooner
you make yourself useful the better. ... By the
way, what do they call you?"
"Emma."
"Emma ... well, that's plain enough. And
here, before you do anything else take that label
off your coat. And in future don't call
yourself by that name."
"Not by Emma?"
"No, your surname, the foreign name. I
don't want to hear it. From now on you'll be
known by your mother's name, Crawshaw, Emma
Crawshaw, you understand?"
No she didn't, not fully, and she liked
her name, but she wanted to please this grandmother.
Yes, she did, she wanted to please her because
she felt in time she could like her, so she said,
"Yes, Grandma."
On the name the woman again closed her eyes.





During the next few days Emma was
introduced into a new life. She learned that
she had to call Farmer Yorkless's wife
missis, and Farmer Jake Yorkless mister.
The twelve-year-old twins she could call
Barney and Luke, and after her introduction
to these two she realized that she liked Barney but
she didn't like Luke. The eleven-year-old
Pete and the ten-year-old Dan she looked upon
as being almost her own age for, whereas Barney and
Luke were tall, the latter two appeared
under-sized.
Billy Proctor the cowhand she saw as an
old man because of his side-whiskers. Her
grandmother she saw as an old woman, yet she
had no wrinkles on her face.
On the morning following her arrival she had
been given her place in the farm. The farmer's
wife had evidently arranged it overnight.
She was to get threepence a week. The tasks
allotted to her were odd jobs in the farm kitchen
such as sweeping the floor, scouring the pans and washing up the crockery, all under the
supervision
of her grandmother. Outside, she had to attend to the
hens. Besides gathering their eggs and replacing the
straw in the boxes, she had to scrape the
floor of droppings. This would be made easier
she was told if she would take the ashes from the
hearth and sprinkle them in the crees.
Apparently this job had previously been in
Dan's domain.
She took to the work and she learned fast. She
liked working in the hen crees best of all because this
took her outside, for during the time she spent
in the kitchen she felt she couldn't breathe
properly.
Then there was their form of eating. Her grandma
helped to prepare dinner but neither of them sat
down at the table; instead, their meal was ladled
into a bowl by the farmer's wife and they took it
across to the cottage and ate it there. The same
procedure applied to Billy Proctor,
only he hadn't any cottage. He,
Emma discovered, ate his meal in the smelly
room where the pig boiler was, that's if it was
raining or cold, otherwise he ate it where he
slept in the loft above the stables. As it was still summer everyone returned
to the fields after the evening meal. The stooks had
all been brought in but now there was raking and
gleaning to be done, and Jake Yorkless saw that
the last wisp of straw was lifted: he was apt
to reiterate in a sing-song voice, "Waste not
want not, for there'll come the day when you'll need
that lot."
In the fields the farmer was a jolly man.
He would slap his wife on the buttocks and
call her Dilly, and cuff his sons around the
ears and make them laugh. And he would joke with
Billy Proctor. The only one he
didn't joke withand didn't laugh with was her
grandmother.
She was slightly afraid of the farmer and his
wife, and of Luke too; that was until she used
the whip for the first time when the fear left her and
defiance took its place.
She had now been at the farm for five
weeks. The weather had changed: the keen winds
were coming in from the sea, there was a slight rime on
the grass in the mornings, and when she went over
the yard to the hen crees she ran to keep herself
warm. She had got into the habit of talking to the
hens. They were a mixture of White
Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds, and all
dominated by one cock. He was a fine fellow
and he had got used to her approach for he would
strut towards her when she came through the gate.
With the exception of two, she liked the hens.
These two were thickly feathered Rhode Island
Reds and they had almost stripped a White
Leghorn of its plumage. The poor
bird's head and behind were quite bare, and on this
morning when she entered the field she saw that they
had started on their victim again, tearing at its
breast now, and the poor thing was running round in
circles squawking its head off.
As she ran to separate them she shouted at
them, "You'll find yourselves in the pot, you two,
if you're not careful. Leave her alone!
Poor Betsy."
When, after being chased away, one of them
returned and attacked its victim again, there
crossed Emma's mind the picture of Miss
Newbourn training the rook. She would lasso
it to bring it back into line, for Miss
Newbourn could also use the whip. As she had explained to her, you had at first to get
them to do what you wanted, but you had to do it
gently.
Well now, that's what she would do with these two
beggars, she would train them to behave themselves.
Running, she made for the cottage, not
towards the door but round to the side where a
broken and rickety ladder led through a hatch
into a space below the roof which couldn't, under any
circumstances, be given the name of loft for at
its highest point it was only five feet,
tapering to two feet at each side. And this was
where she slept. Her grandmother slept in the big
cupboard bed that let down from the wall in the
room below; she wouldn't have her sleeping with her,
she had said so on that first night, and she had
taken a bale of straw up into the roof space,
where apparently at one time she herself had
slept. Inside the cottage you entered the roof
space by the other ladder and a trap door.
Through bits and pieces her grandmother had let
fall she had gathered that the tiny cottage had
at one time been attached to the original
farmhouse that had stood here, and that part of the
cottage had been used for the animals. A fire had destroyed the main building and most
of the stone had been used to build the present
farmhouse. That was nearly a hundred years
ago.
She didn't mind sleeping in the confined
space because she could push the hatch outwards, and
lie on her side and look up into the sky and it
was just like sleeping in the tent.
Now she scrambled up the ladder, crossed the
roof space on her hands and knees to where her
cloth bag was lying and, delving into it, she brought
out the smallest of the three whips. Untying the
thong from around the handle, she worked her wrist
back and forth to get the leather into play again for it
had become twisted when rolled up. It had
never been out of use so long since her father had
made it for her.
Down the ladder once more, across the yard and
into the field she went. The two bullies were
at their victim again. Standing some little way from
them, she began to manipulate the whip. At
first her wrist was stiff and as her small hand
weaved this way and that, she told herself she must
practise or else she would forget all her
dada had taught her. Suddenly it seemed that the six foot
thong came alive. It flicked low down over
the ground, its end curled and the Rhode Island
Red's legs were tied together and the bird let out
such a squawk that the cock, giving voice,
came flying to her assistance. Then the whole
company of fifty hens set up such a
cackling, screeching, and squawking that she
yelled at them, "Shut up you lot! Shut
up!"
She had not noticed Luke's arrival on
the scene and as he stared at the big red hen lying
on its side, its legs held by the end of the
whip, he yelled at her, "What do you think
you're doin'?"
And she yelled back at him. "Training it.
It's pickin' Betsy to death. Look." She
pointed with her other hand.
"Let it go. You're barmy, you can't train
hens."
Still shouting above the chorus of the hens, she
cried, "You can, you can train anything. Miss
Newbourn said so."
"Da! Da!"
She heard his voice calling now and saw him standing on the low brick wall that edged the
field.
In the next minute it seemed to her that the
farmer must have sprung the two fields that
divided them; and Luke's yelling had also
brought his mother from the house, together with Dan from the
barn.
"God in heaven! Let go that hen."
Taking small steps, her arm still taut, she
circled the squawking hen while looking up at
the farmer and saying, "It was pickin' Betsy
to death." She indicated the almost nude Betsy
with a sideward movement of her head.
"Let go the bloody thing." The farmer made
to grab her hand and her arm jerked and the hen, being
pulled some inches along the ground, became
hysterical.
Now Jake Yorkless was gripping her wrist
as in a vice, but he had to force her fingers from the
handle of the whip and in this he was aided by his
wife who was now holding her, crying as she did
so, "You little vixen you! There'll be no whips
used here unless it's on you, madam. Oh
yes, unless it's on you. And that's what you
want. I've said so from the beginning." Emma stood aside now holding her
wrist that seemed to be broken, and as she watched
the farmer take the handle of the whip and bring it
across his raised knee, her teeth became tight
in an effort to stop herself from screaming.
The tears were raining down her face as he
flung the broken whip at her feet, yelling,
"You use that again, me girl, and I'll take
it across your back. You hear me?" Then looking
at the hen that was now staggering on its feet, he
said, briefly, "One of the pullets." And his
wife answered, "Yes, a good layer."
"Will it be all right?"
"I doubt if she'll lay after this fright.
We'll see when I try them the night." And
nodding now towards Emma, she finished, "If
she doesn't lay regular you'll pay for her
eggs with your threepences, miss."
Threepence a week, Dilly Yorkless
reckoned, amounted to a shilling a month. She
was no fool was the farmer's wife where counting was
concerned. Moreover, with regard to the hens she
knew how many eggs were to be expected each day,
for on the previous evening she would make the
rounds of the hens, trying them, as she termed her method of feeling how far the egg was ready
to lay, so there was no chance of anyone helping
themselves.
As they left the field, the farmer's
wife's last words to Emma were, "You'll go
short on rations the day, me girl. That'll
learn you. An' wait till your granny comes
up from the cottage, I'll have something to tell
her."
The only bright spot in the day was when
Barney came slyly up to her andwitha broad
grin on his face whispered, "Is it true you
roped one of the hens an' set up a
hullabaloo?" When she made no reply,
only bowed her head, he went on, "I wish
I'd seen it. You must be clever with a whip 'cos
hens are sprightly on their feet when they want
to be. And it was one of ma's best, the
Rhodey." He started to chuckle now, then
ended, "You're a funny little lass, aren't
you?"
She raised her head and looked at him.
He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a big
mouth. It was a slack mouth but looked kindly.
She liked Barney. She answered him sadly now, "They'll kill Betsy, the big
ones; she has hardly any feathers on."
"That happens, it always happens with hens, they
pick on the weakest. It's the same with all
animals, you can't do anything about it."
She wanted to be cheeky and say, "Can't
I?" because she was feeling angry inside. But
what could she do? And they had broken her whip;
her dada would have been so upset if he knew.
Anyway, she still had the thong and she could make
another handle, and she would. She was nodding
to herself. Yes, she would, she'd make another
handle and she'd practise on the quiet.
She'd show 'em.
She had a mental picture of herself plying
her dada's whip and bringing it round Farmer
Yorkless's legs and when she saw his feet
leave the ground and he fell on to his side,
like a horse brought down by Uncle Tummond,
she smiled to herself. Then the smile gave way
to laughter, and now she was looking at Barney and
on a giggle, she said, "It squawked louder
than the pigs, it did." And on this he pushed
her gently in the shoulder, saying, "You're a
funny little Spanish onion." The action of his hand told her she had at
least found one friend in this place, but his words
brought home the fact that she was different. How
or why she couldn't as yet work out.
The missis and her granny were in the kitchen
talking, and she sensed it wasn't nice talk.
Although the words seemed ordinary they were talking
about her. The missis was saying, "Anyway,
you're more use up here."
"You're late in finding that out." Her
granny's tone conveyed temper.
"No, I'm not late in findin' it out, but
there was no other to take your place. Now there
is, things are different."
"She's but a bit of a bairn."
"She's an old-headed bit of a bairn,
if you ask me. And she's got to learn,
anyway; she's on eight and you started when you were
six, if I remember rightly."
"We both started when we were six, if I
remember rightly."
"Oh yes, you remember rightly, Lizzie;
you always remember rightly about that."
There was a short silence; then her granny's voice came again, saying, "She can't
bake and make a meal for him."
"I'm not expectin' her to do it the day, or
the morrow, but you'll take her with you for the next
few weeks an' break her in. She can do the
housework, what there is to be done, 'cos as
you've said yourself he won't let you touch anything
in his paint room."
Again there was silence; then her granny's
voice said, "You know what you are, Dilly
Tollett, you're a vindictive bitch."
"Don't you use that tone with me, Lizzie
Crawshaw, or I'll have Jake speak to you."
"Oh you will, will you? And what will he be able
to do?"
"He could take your job away."
"Huh! I can see him. I can see him and
havin' to house someone decent, and feed them
decent, and pay them decent. Oh ... I can
see him doin' that. And anyway, I'd still be
on your doorstep, I'd still be in the cottage.
You can't do anything about turfing me out of there,
because it's in black and white. Payment to my mother
for services rendered to the dirty old bugger his
father was. And let me tell you, Dilly, if everybody had their rights this is the house she
should've been in with me standin' where you are the day."
"Get yourself out afore I lose me temper."
"Oh, that'll be a pity. That's when you show
your true colours, isn't it, when you lose
your temper. You manage to cover them up most
of the time, I must admit."
"Get yourself away. Go on, get yourself
away."
There was a long pause before Emma heard the
kitchen door bang. Then a minute later she
saw the missis standing in the pantry doorway.
Her face looked red, her lips were pressed
tight together, and she wagged her head from side
to side before saying, "Get yourself out of that and go with
your granny. Leave it! Leave it!"
Emma dropped the cloth with which she had been
wiping down the pantry shelves back into the
bucket and went out, drying her hands on her
coarse apron. But she had to squeeze past the
missis in the doorway because she hadn't moved,
and when she looked up at her she couldn't see
her face for the quick rising and falling of her bust.
Her granny was in the cottage and she made
no remark on her appearance except to say, "Take off your apron and roll it
up. And go and put a comb through your hair."
As Emma now hurried towards the ladder her
granny's voice halted her, saying,
"Don't go up there, there's not time. Come here."
And reaching to the low mantelpiece, she took
down a black comb and for the first time in their
acquaintance she touched her grandchild's head.
The combing wasn't gentle but it wasn't rough
because when her granny came to a tat she held
the upper part of her hair in her hand while she
combed through it.
It was a nice feeling having her hair
combed, it was nice to feel her granny's hand
on her hair. It came to her suddenly that she
could like her granny, in fact she did like her,
and she imagined what it would be like if her
granny were to put her arms about her. Oh, that
would be nice. She would like that.
Without further words they left the cottage and
went out, but not through the farmyard; her granny led
her round by the back of the farm buildings. Their
journey took them across three fields until
they came to a cart track, and it was as they
stepped on to this that her granny began to talk. With no lead up, she said, "Behave yourself in
front of Mr Bowman, he's a gentleman.
An' whatever you see or hear when you're in the
house, don't repeat it, ever." She turned
her head sharply and looked at Emma, adding,
"You understand?"
Emma nodded her head, and her granny went
on, "You likely heard what went on back
there, you've got ears. You know somethin'?" She
now stopped in her tracks and stared down at
Emma. "Her and me were brought up together,
played together, worked together, were young lasses together.
Now would you credit it? She was brought up in the
cottage where we're going to now. Her da was the
ploughman, mine the shepherd. Old man
Yorkless, his wife had died so my mother saw
to the house ... an' to him. Aye and him.
Jake fancied me. Aye he did. But that
one"--her head jerked backwards--"got her
hooks into him and saw to it that he had to marry
her. Anyway he was no cop, big gormless
lout, and I mightn't have had him had he
offered, even with all that was tagged on to him. I
didn't mind her having him, not at first. Some
of us have got to be lucky I thought, until she started to play the lady, imitating the
Hudsons." Her head jerked to the left.
"They're the big farmers over yonder.
Visits them she does, him and her. And goes
to church on Sundays. My God!"
Her last statement seemed to swing her from the
ground and she was hurrying forward again, Emma
having to trot to keep up with her.
They had come in sight of a stone cottage
situated seemingly at the end of the cart track
on one side and fronted by a road on the other
when her granny spoke again, saying almost
to herself, "She can't stop me seeing him. I'm
finished at seven. Then there's Sunday."
Emma had noticed the pony and trap standing
in the shade of a tree at the other side of the
road before her granny had. The sight of it
caused her granny's step to slacken, and when
they came abreast of it she stopped and looked
at it, then turned her gaze on to the front
door of the cottage. It was open and while she
paused before going towards it there appeared in the
doorway two figures. One of them Emma
recognised immediately as the parson who had been
kind to her on the day of her arrival. And the recognition was mutual for the parson, stepping
on to the rough path, smiled broadly towards
her, saying, "Well, well, my companion
of the coach. How are you?" He came up to her
and as she answered, "Quite well, sir." He
looked towards Lizzie, saying now, "And this
is your granddaughter?" It was a question and when
Lizzie didn't answer immediately, Emma
said, "Yes, sir."
The parson was speaking to her granny now,
saying, "I've been meaning to come and visit you,
and I'm just getting round to it now. The parish is
very scattered and the days fly." He paused a
moment before adding, "I am sure that you are
delighted with your granddaughter; she is very good
company."
Still Lizzie did not speak and there seemed
no need, for now the parson had turned to the other
man saying in a different tone, "I'll call
on my way down again, Ralph." Then he
added, "This is the greatest surprise and
pleasure I've had for many a long day."
"Me too, Henry. Me too."
Emma decided that the one they called painter
man had a nice voice. They both had nice voices, different from them at the farm.
She couldn't understand some of the things that were said up
there, especially when the boys were talking.
The parson was looking down on her again,
saying, "You haven't been to Sunday school
yet, have you?"
"No, sir. No, sir."
"Well, you must come on Sunday. I understand
that the farmer's boys attend; you must come with them.
I'll look forward to seeing you."
Emma noticed that he hadn't asked
permission of her granny. But he was speaking
nicely to her granny now, he was even shaking
her hand as he was saying good-bye to her. Yet
her granny hadn't opened her mouth to him.
Emma watched him get into the trap and when
he lifted his hand to wave goodbye she was in the
act of responding when her granny muttered,
"'Tisn't for you." And looking to the side, she
saw the painter man waving and of course she
knew she had been wrong to think that the parson was
waving to her. Still he had been nice to her. She
liked him, she liked him very much. Would her
granny let her go to Sunday school? What
was Sunday school? She'd have to find out. She was in the cottage now. It wasn't
really unlike their own cottage, only much
bigger and it had furniture in it. An oak
table was set under one window, and a big leather
chair stood to the side of an open fire which was
set in a high grate with an oven next to it.
Fronting the fireplace was a brass fender
and a brass stand from which hung a long pair of
tongs and a poker. Two wooden chairs and a
stool completed the furniture in the room.
However, what drew Emma's eyes
straightaway was the colour that seemed to flood
the room, for there was hardly an inch of wall
space that was not covered with frameless
pictures, all set higgledy-piggledy
yet seeming to fit one into the other like a
puzzle.
The man was looking at her now and smiling;
then dropping on to his hunkers, his face
level with hers, he said, "Hello, Emma."
Her eyes flickered up to her granny, then
back to him, and she said, "Hello, sir."
"What's your other name?"
"Emma"--she paused--"Crawshaw."
He now brought his face forward until it was only inches from hers. She could see that
his eyes were bright and laughing as he said, "Your
real name, your dada's name?"
Again she was looking at her granny, but
longer this time. Her granny though made no
indication of how she should answer, so she answered
in the way she wanted to and with pride as she said,
"Emaralda Molinero."
He repeated her name, "Emaralda Mol
... in ... ero. That's a beautiful name, much
nicer sounding than Crawshaw." He glanced
up at Lizzie, and on this she swung round and
went down the room and passed through a doorway.
Rising from his hunkers, he pointed towards the
wooden stool, saying, "Sit down."
Obediently she sat down, and he now seated
himself in the leather chair opposite and stared at
her, his head slightly to the side. He stared
at her until she began to feel hot, and then
he said, "You're beautiful. Do you know that,
Emaralda?"
She was about to say no, when her granny's
voice rang in her ears, crying, "Don't
talk like that to her, her head'll be turned soon
enough. And there's no room for beauty in her life and what it'll bring."
"There's room for beauty in everybody's
life, Lizzie, and all the sourness in the world
won't drown it."
"She's but a child and ...."
"Well, the sooner she learns
to appreciate the beautiful things in life the
better for her."
Emma stared somewhat apprehensively at the
painter now. He sounded angry, and he looked
angry; his blue eyes had lost their laughter.
She watched him take his hand and ruffle his
thick hair that was very long, almost on to his
shoulders. He wasn't very tall, something of the
height of Charlie Lamb the boxer. She often
likened people to Charlie Lamb the boxer, she
didn't know why. But then Charlie had been
thickset and strong. This man was thin, thinner
than the parson, and his face looked pale. But
it was a big face, and he had a big mouth
an' all. All his features appeared large,
yet in her mind they seemed to fit his face because
he looked nice, not bonny nice, just nice.
Her granny, grabbing her hand, almost whipped
her from the stool. She took her through the door into the other room. This she recognized
as the kitchen, but it was a very small kitchen.
Besides the fireplace and oven, it held only
a little table, a pump which stood over the stone
trough, a plate rack on the wall, and a
small delf rack and cupboard. Through the open
back door she could see a paved yard, with
outhouses of some sort beyond. One thing more she
noticed in the kitchen was a ladder attached to the
wall, and this she guessed was used to reach a roof
space similar to the one in their own cottage,
but bigger of course.
Her granny was speaking to her now, saying,
"Put that apron on and then peel eight
taties out of that basket"--she pointed down
towards the side of the sink--"and a turnip an'
some carrots, an' don't take all day over
them. If you want water you pump it." She
now pushed the handle of the pump up and down, and a
spurt of water fell into the sink. Next, she
tied a rough coarse apron over the white
bibbed one she was wearing, and went into the other
room.
Emma had to concentrate on peeling the
potatoes for she found she was continually glancing out of the small window above the sink. The
fields
beyond stretched endlessly away. Some were bright
yellow, some brown, some black. Her eyes
grown used to the distance, she espied a ploughman
and a host of seagulls trailing behind him.
She was telling herself that she liked this
cottage, it was a much better cottage than
theirs, and she liked the painter man, when his
voice came to her, saying softly but loud enough for
her to hear, "Don't worry about me,
Lizzie." The tone sounded impatient. "I
get along five days in the week, don't
I? No, six days in the week, counting
hours, and I'll be pleased to have the child."
She stopped what she was doing and put her
head to one side in order to hear her granny
saying, "You won't miss me then?"
"Oh, Lizzie. Lizzie."
"You didn't always say my name like that, your
memory's short."
"Oh, Lizzie; the years are going on,
I'm no longer the sick boy needing comfort and
you're no longer ...."
Emma dropped the carrot into the dish and
waited, and her granny's voice came almost in a whisper, a bitter sounding whisper,
"I'm getting old, I've hit forty. I'm
past it, that's what you think."
"No Lizzie, no, that's not what I
think. I'm still fond of you. You know that. I'll
ever be grateful to you for all you did for me
years ago, and have continued to do."
"But you don't want me to continue any more."
"No! No! You get me wrong."
"Oh yes; you can say what you like. But you've
no objection to the bairn taking over. If I
can't come here during working hours there's only the
late evening or Sunday, and it only needs
them out for their walks to see me here on a
Sunday and the tongues'll wag. And Dilly and
Jake, pious as they are now, will be on to you
to move."
"I doubt it." The painter's voice sounded
calm now. "As you've so often pointed out, the
two shillings a week I pay for your
services pays your wages up there. And who
else would pay six pounds ten a year for a
place like this? Oh no, they won't ask me
to go and they can't turn you out, so I don't think
you need fear in that quarter." "That being said, you don't mind if you don't
see me again?"
"Oh Lizzie, how can you say such a thing?"
In the ensuing silence Emma put the cleaned
potatoes, turnips, and carrots into fresh
water. Then she dried her hands and stood
looking about her before moving tentatively towards
the living-room door, and there she stopped,
brought still with mouth agape by the sight of her
granny standing with her arms around the painter, and
he holding her. And her ears seemed to stretch
as she listened to her granny saying in a voice
that she had never heard her use before, "You're
all I've got in life, Ralph, don't
throw me aside. I'd die. I tell you
I'd die. Seeing you is all I live for,
there's nothing else."
"You have the child now." The painter's voice was
soft.
"Oh that, she means nowt to me. She's but the
sperm of that Spanish circus man."
"She's a beautiful child and an engaging one,
the little I've seen of her."
"Yes. Well, it won't do her any good;
looks like she's got never does, together with her temper."
"She's got a temper?"
"I'll say she has, I told you about the
hen business. Well, she stood up to Luke
the other day an' all. She doesn't like him.
I don't meself. He's a bully of a
boy yet she stood her ground with him and he
didn't like that."
"Good for her."
"But us, Ralph; you'll never say you
don't need me, will you?"
"No, Lizzie, no; I'll never say
that."
Emma's eyes spread wide as she watched
her granny hold the painter's head in her
two hands and put her mouth to his. Her mouth was
still on his when she turned back to the kitchen and
stood against the sink biting hard on her lip.
She had seen her dada and mama kissing and
somehow that was right, but her granny was an old
woman. And the painter man ... was he old?
No, he wasn't old, not like her granny.
Her granny said she hadn't to let on about
anything she saw or heard down here, but it
came to her in a puzzling sort of way that the missis up at the farm already knew. And that was
why she was sort of happy in stopping her
granny from working for the painter.
She didn't know whether she was sorry for her
granny or not because she had turned into somebody
else, somebody who was no longer an old
woman.



She had been seven times to Sunday school.
She would go down to the village walking behind the
boys, on two occasions tramping knee-deep
through the snow; this very much against her granny's
wishes.
Although by her granny's own words she now
knew that she meant nothing to her, it had not
altered her own feelings towards her and she
kept trying to please her. She obeyed her in
most things, yet when she had tried to stop her
going to Sunday school she had raised a
fuss, even going to the length of using a form of
blackmail by saying she would ask the missis for
permission instead, and she'd let her go. This had
caused her granny to stare at her in a very odd way and say something that she didn't
fully understand, which was, "Your brain's too
big for your head, and your head's too big for
your body, miss, and it'll explode on you
one of these days."
She had got her own way that day, and now she
was once more tramping through slushy snow on this
particular Sunday on her way to St
Jude's.
Apart from what she learned in Sunday school
she liked going through the village for the people spoke
nicely to her, but most of all on a Sunday
she liked talking to the parson.
Emma hadn't had any experience of
churchmen of any kind so she wasn't to know that this
parson was very unusual: he wasn't pompous
as most parsons were, he wasn't always
talking about heaven or hell as most parsons
did, and he didn't insist on the boys
sitting separate from the girls in Sunday
school. But Miss Wilkinson didn't
approve and as soon as the parson had finished
his lesson she would split them up and in no
gentle way. The children would wait for this and giggle
and laugh during the change-over. Sometimes Emma would try to walk with
Barney, but when she did so Luke would take
his place on the other side of her. She had
come to recognize that everything the twins had they
shared. Not so Pete and Dan; these two fought
continually, and not in fun but often with a viciousness
that left them scarred in knees and shins.
Moreover, besides the pleasure of learning her
letters and the Bible, which in a way seemed
secondary except that she liked some of the
stories, she had met other little girls like
herself: Lily Mason the butcher's daughter,
Angela Turnbull the grocer's daughter,
and Jane Tate, whose father kept the inn, they were
all nice to her. Angela Turnbull
nearly always gave her a sweet, and this she
looked forward to.
The room behind the vestry was cold and the breaths
of the children rose like steam. She was sitting between
Barney and Luke, and Luke kept nudging
her with his hip which distracted her attention from what
the parson was saying. He was telling the story of
Jesus and about Him liking little children.
When an extra strong nudge came from
Luke, Barney put his hand behind her and pushed at Luke, and Luke just grinned at
him. But he stopped his nudging.
Then the parson was saying: "Miss
Wilkinson is going to take you for your letters.
I hope you have done a lot of work on them this
week. I'll be looking at them later. God
bless you all." And they answered in chorus,
"God bless you too, Parson."
Immediately he left the room Miss
Wilkinson's arm came out, her finger pointing,
and it scrambled them as a fork might have done
eggs. And now Emma was sitting next
to Angela Turnbull and Angela pushed
something into her hand and when she looked down at it
her eyes widened with pleasure for the gift was a
coloured sugar stick. She had the desire
to put her arms around Angela and kiss her, but
she knew you musn't put your arms around people and
kiss them; it was bad. She hadn't thought it was
bad until she had seen her granny and the
painter, because in the travelling show, which life now
seemed to have taken place some long, long time
ago, people often hugged each other, especially if
there had been a very good audience. Or they'd had
a fine meal and some bottles of beer. But what she said to Angela was, "Oh ta, thanks,
thank you. You are kind." And Angela smiled
her plain round-faced rosy-cheeked smile and
basked in the gratitude of her dark,
bright-eyed companion who looked different from
all the other children in the village.
After the lesson was over in which they had learned
to spell Bible, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
Holy Land, and lastly, an absolute
puzzler, a frightener to both the tongue and the hand
... Jerusalem, they all scrambled
thankfully outside, there to be greeted by the
parson who patted each one on the head and
gave him a word. As usual he left Emma
to the last, and today, bending over her, he said,
"How are we getting along, Emma?"
"Fine, Parson. Fine."
"You like coming to Sunday school?"
"Oh aye, yes."
"Have you a book at home?"
"A book?" She narrowed her eyes and then
shook her head, saying, "No Parson, I
haven't got a book."
"Well then, I want you to take this." He
now handed her a small parcel, saying, "It's a little book of simple stories, together
with a writing pad and a pencil."
"A real pencil?"
Her mouth was wide and he nodded at her, his
wide too, saying, "Yes, a real pencil,
not a slate pencil, a vine pencil."
"A vine pencil?" She made a small
movement with her head that indicated incredulity.
"And I'll be able to draw like on slate"--she
now indicated the church with her thumb--"back
there?"
"You will indeed, just like on the slate."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Parson."
"You're very welcome, Emma. I'm sure
you'll make good use of it."
During this exchange the four boys had been
standing a little apart looking on as they usually did
when the parson spoke to Emma. They couldn't quite
understand why he always kept her till the last and
why he wanted to talk to her. They had remarked
on this to their mother and her explanation had been that the
child was ignorant, much more ignorant than
others, and wild with it, and the parson was trying
to calm her down, make her normal like. So
they stood watching the parson making Emma normal like. They all noticed how her face
shone, and they were all touched by something they couldn't
as yet explain to themselves. Perhaps Luke
understood the tangent that was attached to this feeling,
and the tangent urged him to destroy the cause of the
feeling, and this he attempted to do on his way
home.
They hadn't gone far along the road when
Pete said, "Open it, Emma, and let's have
a look."
"When I get home," she answered. "I
might drop it and it'll get all slush."
"You haven't got butter-fingers, have you?"
She turned and glanced at Luke, saying
primly, "No I haven't got
butter-fingers, but I don't want to open it
till I get home."
"Leave her alone." It was Barney speaking
to Luke now; and Luke replied, "I'm not
touchin' her. But she's Parson's pet an'
she sucks up to him, else why didn't he
give us books and pencils, make us all
alike? 'Taint fair. 'Taint fair.
Anyway she's nowt but a charity bairn.
That's what Ma says, she's a charity bairn."
"I'm not! I'm not!" Emma didn't know
exactly what the term charity bairn implied
but that it was something detrimental was conveyed
by Luke's sneer.
Saying, "Yes, you are!" Luke thrust out
his hand to grab the little parcel, and when she
pressed it to her with both hands and cried in
childish retaliation, "Leave go or I'll
slap your face mind," he bawled at her,
"You'll what? I'll show you."
And now he was wrestling with her amid the
cries of the three brothers, Barney protesting
but Pete and Dan egging him on.
When the little parcel was wrenched from her hands and
it fell into the mud, they sprang apart and
looked at it for a moment; and now there arose in
Emma a feeling that turned her into a vixen, a
trapped vixen, and in this moment it was well that
she hadn't the whip in her hand. But without it and
against this big boy her hands seemed useless;
yet as always when in a fix she was finding her
mind would hark back to the company and it did at
this minute. And as this fix was a fight her thoughts
concentrated on Charlie Lamb the boxer. She had watched Charlie practising but never in the
ring because her dada had never allowed her to go into the
boxing tent. But she now recalled a particular
movement of his; he doubled his fists tight,
pushed his left arm straight out, then swung his
right arm in a curve, she now did just this, and had
her head been on a level with that of Luke's
she might have caused him more damage than she
did: her left fist coming with almost lightning
speed caught him unawares under the chin. He
had his mouth open and his lower jaw being suddenly
pushed upwards, caused him to bite his tongue.
And as he went to yell out, Emma's small
right fist coming upwards caught him on the side
of the nose, and when the blood spurted both from
between his lips and down his nostrils there was
consternation.
The bleeding wasn't heavy but it was enough to stain
the pocket rags of his three brothers, and when
he began to run homewards his brothers
followed him, even Barney deserted her, and
she was left standing in the muddy road looking
down at the little parcel that had now been
trampled on.
After picking it up she made no attempt to clean it but held it tightly to her,
oblivious of the mud marking her coat, and she
too made her way home.
She was trembling in every limb as she
approached the farmyard. She was very sorry now
for hitting Luke. But he had hurt her and
nipped her in different places as they struggled
for the parcel. She shouldn't have hit him so hard
to make him bleed though; but anyway, he was
bigger than her and older than her. She looked
down at her small mud-covered hands. She'd
get wrong: the missis would likely go for her.
The missis certainly did go for her. She
was awaiting her approach outside the kitchen
door and she didn't give Emma any time
to defend herself against the accusation, but crying, "You
wicked little bitch you!" she grabbed her by the
coat collar and hauled her into the kitchen, and
there before the staring eyes of the family she tore the
parcel from her now limp grasp and threw it
into the heart of the fire. Then taking a leather
shaving strop that was hanging to the side of the
fireplace beneath a small mirror, she again
grabbed hold of her before bringing the strop
viciously around her legs between the top of her boots and the bottom of her coat.
Although Emma had woollen stockings on, the
leather stung her into a dance and as she howled out in
pain Dilly Yorkless yelled above the
narration, "I'll learn you, if nobody else
will; you're not gona bring your circus tricks
here. You're a wicked ungrateful little
bitch." She now threw the strop down but, still
holding Emma, she hauled her outside into the
yard and as a final gesture she brought her hand
in a sweeping slap across the side of the child's
face.
It should happen that Billy Proctor had just
come out of the cowshed and, seeing what was happening,
came hurrying over, saying, "Let up,
missis. Let up."
"You mind your own business, Proctor."
"Me business or not, she's but a child, you could
have knocked her deaf."
"And that I will. I'll knock her brains out
if she as much as raises her hand again
to anybody in my family. You should just see
what she's done to Luke."
"Luke? Huh!" The cowman was laughing.
"Her go for the big 'un?" "Yes, she went for the big 'un, as
you call him, and he's bleeding from the nose and
mouth."
As Emma, now swaying on her feet and
crying loudly, staggered past the cowman,
Billy gave one glance at his mistress before
turning with the child and leading her out of the yard and
towards the cottage. There he explained
to Lizzie the little he knew, ending by saying,
"I heard the bairn screamin' in the house when
I was inside the sheds. She must have been at her
there."
"What did she do to you?" Her granny was
bending down to her now and Emma, still sobbing,
pointed down towards her ankles.
Lizzie pushed her towards the cracket and
when she was seated she pulled down one stocking
to reveal a number of weals and scratches, some
oozing blood; then looking up at Billy
Proctor, she said bitterly, "My God!
She'll answer for this. She will that." Then
turning to Emma, she commanded, "Stop it! Stop
that snivelling and tell us what happened."
Brokenly now Emma related the incident
as she recalled it, and when she ended Lizzie said, "Well, where's the thing that caused all the
trouble?"
"She ... she put it in the fire."
Lizzie was looking up at the cowman as she
said slowly, "If ever there was a spiteful
bitch in this world, she's one, Billy." And
he, nodding down at her, said, "You're right
there, Lizzie. Put the devil on
horseback and he'll ride to hell, but when
he has a skirt on he goes twice as
fast. Never you worry, lass, I don't,
I just keep tellin' meself I'll see me
day with them, for they're a mean lot. And
hypocrites, into the bargain: sitting in church
every Sunday mornin' and old Crabtree
closing a blind eye to all that was going on as long
as his share was left in the vestry. But this young
one's different." He now bent over Lizzie
and laughed into her face as he said, "They're
all up a gum tree, they're shakin' in their
boots 'cos he doesn't take it. Milk
or water's his drink and he's put it over from
the pulpit an' all, the evils of strong
liquor." Billy's shoulders were shaking now as
he went on, "In The Tuns last night they were on about it. Even George
Tate's belly wobbled until he had
to give over laughing. Of course it would be a
good thing for his custom if it was stopped, but they
might as well try to stop the tide comin' in,
eh Lizzie? ... I wonder what the young
parson would say if he knew what he was
sitting on, or preaching on, 'cos it must run
right under the pulpit."
"'Tis a pity somebody doesn't tell
him, if it was only to potch that lot over there"
--she jerked her head to the side--"because he's
got a well-stocked cupboard. ... For two
pins ...."
"Aw now, Lizzie." The cowman
straightened his back and, his face grave, he
said, "Never do owt like that. Don't even think
'bout it, 'cos you'd have the village down on
you, most of 'em anyway. And then there's the
House. Mr Fordyke's in on it you know, and
even does a run when he's down from London
town. And you know something?" He grinned at her
now. "I think Miss Christina Leadbeater,
Spinster, likes being handled. If she'd had
half the men lifting her in her lifetime as she's had since lifting her headstone, she
wouldn't have remained a spinster long, eh?"
"Enough of that. Look, hand me that dish with the
water in, there, till I clean these legs, and
then I'm goin' over there. And if you're in the
cowshed, Billy, and the door's shut you'll still be
able to hear what I say."
As the cowman went out laughing Lizzie said
quietly, "It's all right, hinny, I
won't hurt you. It's just that I must get the
black hairs from your stockings out of these
scratches or else you'll have trouble later
on."
Emma sat quiet now for replacing the
terror and pain that she had recently experienced
was a warm feeling which encircled her, for her
granny was speaking kind to her. She didn't
mind if her legs did get bad, in fact
she hoped they would because her granny would then see
to them.





PART TWO
The Friend



Emma had been on the farm for two years
now and she had learned many things and managed
to create some pleasures for herself, secret
pleasures that could only be enjoyed in the night.
For the rest she had been forced to understand the difference
in position between the boys in the farmhouse and
herself. This situation had come about after the time the
farmer's wife had thrashed her. From that day she
had been given to understand that she was a servant and the
meanest of the type; consequently, when her
granny wasn't present the treatment was rough.
The boys were forbidden to speak to her, and they
didn't, with the exception of Barney who would
sometimes give her a word on the sly. But this
didn't stop Luke or the two younger ones from
setting traps for her, such as laying trip
ropes or attempting to push her over when she
was in the pigsty, all without uttering a word and so
obeying the commands of their mother. But during the last year she had found a way
to come back on them. Should they succeed in
knocking her down she would no longer cry, but from
where she lay she would twist like an eel and throw
handfuls of pig slush at them, and her aim was
nearly always direct.
During this time Emma had acquired three
staunch friends: one on the premises in the form
of the cowman Billy Proctor. Then there was
Mr Bowman the painter. They had become
talking friends. Although at times she couldn't
grasp the meaning of what he was saying, he
made her laugh. And then there was the parson.
Oh she liked the parson. When he visited the
farm he always went out of his way to see her.
If she should be working in the barn or down in the
hen field, he'd make a point of having a
word with her, and sometimes he would say, "I've
left a little parcel for you in the cottage,
Emma." And she knew it would be a book with
holy pictures in it or a pad and pencil.
Last Easter he had given her a picture
made up of pressed wild flowers, and she had
nailed it to a post in the roof.
Then there were her secret pleasures, and they were secret, no one knew about them, not
even her granny, least of all her granny.
For had her granny known that on certain nights
she got out of the hatch door and clambered down
the broken ladder that had three rungs missing,
she would have undoubtedly torn the ladder from the
wall and nailed up the hatch.
Her granny was a heavy sleeper and was in the
habit of snoring so she never made her
escape until the snores were deep. And she
also pushed some straw into a hump under the
blanket because she knew that once or twice
her granny had come up the indoor ladder and
poked her head through the trap door, but had not as
yet ventured further, for this would have meant
crawling on her hands and knees across the floor
to where the pallet was.
When first the urge came on her to walk in the
moonlight, she hadn't thought of taking the whip
with her, until one night, having wandered the
length of the farm, she had come to the wood that
separated the farm boundary from the Fordyke land.
It was called Openwood. Her granny had
explained that the land yon side of the wood had
once been common land, open to the people of Fellburn village and thereabouts to graze their
cattle on, and when Mr Fordyke claimed it
as his, he had railed it in. But he hadn't
railed the wood, perhaps because it was a dirty
wood, being full of scrub, yet it held some
good big trees and the villagers gathered kindling
from the twigs and there would have been a hullabaloo
had he gone the whole hog and railed it in an'
all.
It was just as she crossed the border of the
wood, for she was really fearful of entering it and so
hadn't as yet plucked up the courage to do so
until this night, that she had, as she put it,
almost jumped clean out of her skin when she saw
shadowy forms passing before her. She was too
terrified to scream and had become immobile;
and this likely had saved her from being noticed,
forwith her dark head and black cloak she had
merged into the scrub against which she stood.
However, so great was the fright she got this
particular night that it put a stop to her wanderings
for some weeks. But the next time the moonlight
became irresistible she took with her the small
whip for which she had painstakingly made a new
handle. What she hoped to achieve with it were she surrounded by a group of men didn't
enter her mind, she only knew she felt
safer carrying the whip.
Her second pleasure was a daylight one and
it was her discovery of the river. She had been
six months at the farm before she really saw the
river, and it only two miles away. It was
Billy Proctor who took her down one
Sunday afternoon, and as she stood on the bank and
looked at the different kinds of ships, forming a
panorama that stretched away along both
banks and made up of scullers, keel
boats, barges, small sailing vessels, and
large ones that looked gigantic to her eyes,
she had been speechless. Even when Billy had
said to her, "Don't you think that's a bonny
sight?" she hadn't replied until he came
back with, "You don't like the river then?"
Then she had cried, "Oh! yes. Yes,
it's beautiful, lovely. I've never seen so
many ships."
"Oh, this is nowt," Billy had said;
"it's dead on a Sunday. But from the morrow
morning at five o'clock when it comes alive,
you've never seen owt like it." Then he had ended somewhat sadly, "I wanted to go to sea as a
lad, but they wouldn't let me. They were gettin'
old and had to be kept, an' when they both went
I was too old for change, too old to run
up a riggin'."
Emma realised he was talking about his parents
and was sad because he hadn't been able to go to sea.
She liked Billy; she wished she could make
him happy in some way.
On that particular Sunday, Billy had
walked her back through Openwood, and she had
become excited, running here and there, trying
to recognize the paths she followed in the
moonlight. It didn't look so nice in the
daytime, and not all that big; in fact, when the
trees were bare you could see through it from one end to the
other and into the field beyond. One thing in the wood
appeared new to her, and that was the big oak. She
couldn't remember seeing a tree as big as that
before. Yet some of the trees she did
recognize and they looked smaller in the
daylight.
As she stood looking at the trunk of the oak
tree there came into her mind a picture of her
dada throwing knives at such a tree. He had marked a head and body on it that was
almost a replica of her mama's and his aim was
accurate, each dagger striking the tree two
inches outside the chalk line. It came to her
that she would like to practise with her dada's
knives. She knew she could throw straight but
she also knew there was a great difference between throwing
a ball or a stone straight with a flick of the
wrist and the strength of the wrist needed to throw the
knives. But it was just a thought, and it slipped out
of her mind as quickly as it had come in.
But from that day, whenever she could, with or without
Billy, she went and looked at the river and the
boats, and so used did she become to the short
cuts across the fields and through the wood that she
told herself she could find her way there blindfold.

For the past six months she had taken over
her granny's duties for the painter. Two
mornings a week she went to the cottage and
cleaned it, all except the paint room; she
peeled vegetables to make his broth, and she
cooked him pancakes, but as yet she didn't
bake his bread. The missis sent him down
two loaves a week for which she charged him tenpence, and ninepence a dozen for his eggs, some of
them only pullets', which her granny said was
downright robbery because you could get them anywhere
else for fourpence a dozen or sixpence at the
most.
There were times when the painter took a day off
and strolled to the fish quay on the river and he
would bring back a dozen or more fresh herring.
She would get them, bone them and, after rubbing them
with sage leaves and salt, would roll them up and
put them in a dish in the oven. She liked these
days for he would say to her, "Tuck in,
Emma," and she tucked in because she loved
herrings; moreover, she always felt hungry.
This morning she was on her hands and knees, a
bucket by her side, scrubbing the stone floor
of the living-room, and when the painter stepped over
the clean part to stand on the step of the cottage she
paused a moment in her scrubbing to look at him
because he was speaking.
"It's a beautiful morning, Emma," he
said. "Too nice a day to be buried, and
Henry's burying his grandfather today."
Henry, she knew, was the name of the parson and
she had heard that his grandfather had died and he had gone back to his home to take the
burial service.
"Nice fellow, Henry. He should never have
been a minister." He turned and looked down
at her. "Last person in the world I would have
thought would have taken the cloth. A rip when he was
a lad, up to every kind of mischief and trick you
could imagine. He was up to us older ones.
Me, I could give him six years but I always
looked upon him as an equal." He smiled
down at her, then looked out again as he went
on, as if talking to himself, "Life's queer and
yet it has a pattern. There we were, brought
up within a few miles of each other in that
picturesque village and we went our
different ways. I, of course, went mine
long before he went his and now here we are, come
together like two immigrants in a foreign
country, because you know, Emma"--he was glancing
down sideways at her now--"this is a foreign
country, a rough alien foreign country, where the
folks appear kind on the surface but are
devious beneath. Oh yes, Emma"--he was
nodding at her--"devious, that is the word. Your
mistress up above"--he thumbed in the direction of the farm--"and her man, they are good
examples. And the farm worker, all the farm
workers, whether they be quiet or loquacious,
they're all devious. They look at you and they
can tell you weren't born here, so you are
somebody strange, somebody to be taken down in
one way or the other, someone to drag a penny out
of. But there again, that streak doesn't run through
only one class. Oh ... oh no. Your
Fordykes are another example, only they go
one better, they don't wait to do the foreigner,
they take it out of the skin of their servants and
all those under them. Yet they are not as bad as the
mine owners. Oh, no, no, Emma. You know
something? If I want to draw a leech or a
tyrant I think of a coal owner getting his
pennies out of children's sweat. ... Have you ever
been down a mine, Emma?"
"No, Mr Bowman."
"Then you're fortunate. Do you know that?
You're fortunate to be scrubbing that floor. And
yet at times when I see you scrubbing that
floor I want to drag you up from it. But then
I say to myself, well if she doesn't
scrub the floor Lizzie will come down and scrub the floor. And do I want
Lizzie to come down and scrub the floor?
No; I would rather have Emma." He was grinning
at her now. Then turning about, he ended,
"Life's very complicated, Emma, very
complicated." And with this he stepped again over the
clean part of her floor and was making for his
studio when a giggle turned him round and he
stared at her, his eyebrows raised, his mouth
pulled down at the corners in an expression
of enquiry.
"You're laughing at me, Emma?"
"I like to hear you talk, Mr Bowman."
"And you find what I say funny?"
"No." Her face became serious as she
thought of an answer. "Not what you say but
somethin' in your voice," she said.
She hadn't known what he would say to this but
what she didn't expect him to say and in a
loud voice was, "Hold it. Keep like that."
She found it difficult to obey his command because
one hand was on the scrubbing brush on the floor,
the other was splayed over the stone slab and her
head was up and to the side. What was more, a beam
of sunlight coming through one of the small glass panes in the window was shining right into her
eyes.
And now he was saying in a loud voice,
"Remember just how you're kneeling, and what
you're doing, can you?"
There was a long pause before she said, "I'll
try, Mr Bowman."
"Then get up; bring that bucket and your
brush and come in here."
She had never before been in the paint room;
she had caught glimpses of it as he opened the
door to go in, but all she had seen was the bare
floor. Now he was propelling her into the
room.
She put down the wooden bucket and quickly
looked about her. It was a much larger room than
the living-room which she now realised was really the
original kitchen. To the side of the window was a
large easel with a canvas on it and round the
walls, four and five deep, similar
canvasses were stacked. There were rafters in this
room, as in the kitchen, and across them lay
boards and on them what looked like rolls of
brown material. There was a fireplace but no
fire in it, and the only furniture in the room
was a long wooden table, half of it covered with trays of paint. The other half
held a slanted drawing-board with a stool on
the floor in front of it.
"Get on your hands and knees again, Emma.
Now remember how you looked next door."
She did as he bade her. Then he was
squatting in front of her pushing her hand here,
turning her head this way and that, scraping the
wooden bucket to different positions on the
floor. And then he said, "Don't smile."
She didn't feel like smiling, she felt
cramped.
"Look at me. Can you think of something
sad?"
"Oh yes." She could think of something sad,
she could still recall quite clearly the last time her
dada spoke to her.
He made her start when he cried, "That's
it. That's it. Now just stay like that, Emma. Just
stay. Just ... stay ... like ... that."
He had rushed to the table and taken up a
large pad; now he was squatting in front of
her and he began to draw quickly.
She still tried to keep her thoughts on her
dada and what he had said to her on that last occasion they were together. But other things began
to intrude, such as what would her granny think
when she knew she had been in the paint room?
And she hoped the sun wasn't shining where the
Parson was burying his grandfather, because it would be
better to be buried if the sun wasn't shining.
"Just a minute more, that's it. Don't move
your head."
The minute seemed to stretch into an hour before
she heard the painter cry, "That's it. Enough
to start on. ... Child with a bucket, that's
what I'll call you. Child with a bucket."
She sat back on her heels now, asking,
"Can I finish me floor?"
"Yes, finish your floor, Emma." There
was laughter in his voice. "And do all the work
you've got to do in the house today because on
Thursday I want you to sit for me. Oh"--
he laughed out loud as he saw the expression
on her face--"not on your knees again, you can
sit on a cracket." He pointed down to the
floor. "And I just want to get your face as
I saw it today."
She smiled at him now; then she asked a
question. "Can I tell me granny?"
His mouth formed a large pout now and he brought
his chin into the soft collar of his shirt as he said,
"No, Emma. No, don't tell your
granny. This is just a secret between you and me.
Eh? ... Right?"
She smiled at him before she repeated the last
word, "Right." She didn't add "Mr
Bowman", and the thought entered her mind it was a good
job her granny wasn't here, else she'd
get a shaking for not minding her manners. Yet
her granny didn't mind her manners when she
was with the painter, she talked back at him, like the
mistress did the master up at the farm. This
would only happen of course when she herself was out
of the way, but she had good ears and she kept them
open. There was some deep connection between her
granny and Mr Bowman that she couldn't quite
explain to herself; in fact, she didn't want
to explain it to herself, because she knew that once she
found the explanation she wouldn't like it for it had
to do with her granny kissing the painter. And she
wanted to keep on liking her granny. Her
granny was kind to her at times. She had given
her a penny to spend on fair day down in the village. She had debated whether to buy a
hair ribbon with it or some cinder taffy, and the
cinder taffy had won. But she hadn't enjoyed
the fair day because it reminded her of the company,
and the people at the fair didn't seem nice like the
members of the company. She hoped that the company
would sometime come this way. But Mr Travers had
always worked the circuit into Yorkshire and beyond.
It appeared that people expected them at certain
times and saved up for their coming. ...
Her work finished, she knocked on the paint
room door and when after a moment Mr
Bowman's voice called, "Yes?" she said,
"I'm off, Mr Bowman." And to this he
answered, "Go on then. Go on then." His
voice sounded short, full of impatience.
Her granny had told her never to disturb him
when he was in the paint room.
On her way back she had reached the
second field when she saw Barney. He was
mending a fence. Barney was now fourteen years
old, he was growing not only tall but broad with
it. Emma thought he looked nice. But Luke
who had the same colouring and similar features
with the exception of his mouth, which was thin and straight, didn't look nice to her. She thought
his face looked mean, like his character.
Barney had stopped hammering the post in some
time before her approach and when she came up to him
he was standing, his arms by his sides, the hammer
gently swinging backwards and forwards from one hand.
"Finished?" he asked.
She nodded at him before saying, "Yes."
"Do you like workin' down there?"
"Yes."
"Better than up here?"
What could she say to that? If it had been
any of the others she might have lied, but to Barney
she could say, "Yes, it's cleaner."
"You shouldn't have to see to the pigs. It's
Dan's job, and he would do it, I know he would
... only ...." He wagged his head in some
embarrassment. And she put in quickly, "Oh,
I don't mind, I like Fanny an' she knows
me; even with the litter she never goes for me."
"No, she doesn't." Barney said this with
some surprise in his voice as if the knowledge had just
come to him, which it must have done because he went on,
"When you come to think of it, she doesn't, and
she's a bitch is Fanny. She's lifted Pete clean over the railings afore the day,
an' she can't stand the sight of me da. You going
to the river on Sunday?" He was looking down
at the swinging hammer now, and she answered,
"Perhaps, if Billy's goin'."
Her granny had made it an unwritten
law that she didn't go anywhere by herself,
especially to the river, for as her granny had
once prophesied she could wake up on one of
them boats out in the ocean and not know how she got
there. Funny things happened on the river bank
between Newcastle and Shields. What her
granny would say ... or do if she knew that
she had got within sight of the river on a
moonlight night only last week didn't
bear thinking about. She still sometimes felt afraid
on her midnight jaunts, but not so much now when
she carried the whip with her.
"I might be going down to the river on
Sunday meself. They say there's a great
sailing ship in, one of the biggest yet. Masts
almost touching the sky."
"Really?"
He nodded at her. "Aye, that's what they
say. Tony Hudson was telling me. His da and granda had not only seen it, they'd
been on it. They know the first mate."
"It must be wonderful to be on a boat, a
big boat with sails."
"Aye." He nodded at her, then said
thoughtfully, "Sometimes I wish I could go on a
boat."
"You do? You don't like being on the farm?"
"Oh"--he wagged his head now--"sometimes; but
sometimes I'd like to get away, be on me own you
know. But ... but there, I never will."
"Why not? People go away; they run away
to boats."
"Aye, so I've heard." He was laughing
at her now. "But I don't think I'm the
runaway kind, haven't the gumption."
"Oh"--she was strong in his defence now--
"yes you have the gumption. Yes you have, Barney.
You're the best of the bunch."
He looked at her for fully a minute before
he said, "I'm glad you think that, Emma.
Aye I am. Eeh! well, better get
on." He turned abruptly now and, lifting
up the hammer, banged it down on top of the
post, and she went on her way up to the house. Barney was nice. There were a lot of nice
people in the world to sort of make up for the other kind.


It had been stifling hot all day, but the
wind had risen in the evening and had cooled things
down, except under the roof. Emma knelt on
the straw pallet and opened the worm-eaten
hatch below the roof and let the wind waft round
her. Her calico nightgown was sticking to her
skin. She would like to go out, but it was a very dark
night and the moon wouldn't be up till later.
After easing her nightgown from her body in
several places she suddenly twisted round on
the pallet, tore off her nightgown and,
grabbing up her shift from the floor, she pulled
it over her head, then drew on her print
dress. Quickly now she pulled on her
stockings and got into her boots, and finally,
stretching up, she unhooked her black cape
from a nail in the rafter post. She never went
out at night without her cape, even as now when
she only intended to go down by the burn. The
water in the burn was very low but it still trickled over the stones and even the thought of it
cooled her.
A few minutes later she was pushing herself
backwards out through the hatch door and her feet
were groping their way down the broken ladder and on
to the rough grass.
The wind was stronger than she imagined for it
billowed her cloak into a balloon so that she
had to gather the two ends and hold them tight in
front of her.
Surprisingly, the night wasn't as jet
black as she had imagined and when her eyes
grew accustomed to the darkness she found her way
easily to the stone wall bordering the first
field, then over this, across another field and so
to the stile beyond which was the coach road.
She did not cross the stile but continued
along the border of two more fields. When she
came to the darker blur of a group of small
trees she knew she had reached the bank of the
burn with Openwood beyond.
It wasn't until she had taken off her
boots and stockings and was standing in the cool of the
water that she realised she hadn't brought her
whip with her because she had been in such a scurry to get out. Well, it didn't matter tonight,
because
she would be going straight back.
When the wind lifted her hair and brought it
over her eyes she almost stumbled, then giggled
softly to herself. That would be it, wouldn't it, if
she fell in the water and wet her dress? How
would she explain that to her granny? Then she
told herself practically that even if it should get
wet she could hang it up and, with the hatch left
open, it would dry in the draught by the morning.
Gingerly now, she stepped on to the bank and
after sitting down she tucked her feet up and
dabbed them dry with the hem of her dress; then she
pulled on her stockings and laced up her
boots and was on the point of rising when she
became transfixed into stillness by a muffled
sound coming from further along the burn. It was a
strange sound, not recognizable, like footsteps
yet not like footsteps. One minute she could
hear it, the next minute she couldn't. She was
frozen with fear. Was it ghosties?
When the wind swirled the sound towards her
once again she knew it wasn't ghosties, and like
lightning now she scrambled up the bank. But
immediately she realised she couldn't make her way home because she would have to pass the
noise. So what she did was to run into the
thicket that surrounded the trees of Openwood,
and there she almost did die of shock for no
sooner had she crouched down than she knew she
was not alone, for she was touching something, and as the
lesser of the two evils seemed to be the
approaching noise she had opened her mouth
to scream when a hand was clapped over it, and her
back was pressed against a body. She then
felt a hand going over her hair. It was a
gentle touch which told her immediately it belonged
to no one from the farm, not even to Barney, because there
was no farm smell from whoever was holding her.
Now she was aware that the noise was coming nearer
and she distinguished it as the careful tramping of a
number of feet.
As she stared fixedly before her through the thin
screen of bramble the burn bank became
faintly illuminated by the dispelling clouds across
the rising moon. The light wasn't strong enough
to show up individual shapes but what she saw
appeared to her imagination like a long animal with
weird-looking humps on its back. It
wasn't until the tail end of the animal had almost disappeared from her view that the moonlight
becoming stronger showed her a man with a box on his
shoulder.
The weird procession had passed some while
before she felt herself drawn from the bushes. The
hand was still around her mouth and when the fingers left
her face and a head bent over her and a voice
said softly, "Emma," she almost did yell
out, but not any more in fear, just in sheer amazement
because she recognized the parson. When she went
to repeat his name it came out like a grunt from her
throat. Then he was bending down to her, the dark
blur of his face before her as he whispered
harshly, "What on earth are you doing out at this
time of the night, child?"
She gulped deeply before she could whisper
back, "I was very hot, sweatin'. I came
down to the burn to put me feet in."
She heard him sigh, then say, "What do you
think would have happened to you if those men had seen
you?"
"I don't know, I forgot me whip."
"You forgot your ...? Oh, dear Emma,
your whip wouldn't have stood you in good stead tonight
I'm afraid. Do you know who those men were?" She surprised both him and herself
now when after a moment's hesitation she said,
"Yes, I think I do; they are smugglin' the
liquor from the ships."
She saw his shape stretch upwards in the
dim light of the moon; then he said, "Well!
Well! And what more do you know about these men?"
"Only that those who help get a share of the
bottles."
He now reached out to her and took her hand,
saying softly, "Come, we'll sit down by the
burn and have a little talk, for you seem to know as
much, if not more, about these gentlemen than I do.
And since you've been the means of stopping me
finding out any more tonight, perhaps you'll tell me
what more you know, eh Emma?"
When she was seated side by side with the
dark-cloaked parson the moon came fully out
and she turned and looked at him. His face
looked very grave and his eyes large and dark, and
she said to him, "The moonlight's nice on the
water, isn't it? Coolin' like."
"Yes, yes, Emma, the moonlight's very
nice on the water. But now, as we cannot remain
here for very long because I'm sure that at least some of those gentlemen will be returning this
way to their
ship, I'm going to ask you again to tell me what
more you know about their activities."
She gave a long audible sigh as she set
herself to think. What did she know about the liquor
running? Only that everybody seemed to know about
it, well everybody of her acquaintance. And
she said this.
"I don't know nothin' more than t'others,
Parson; everybody seems to know about it an' that
it's stuck in a place where the customs would
never dream of lookin'."
"And where's that?"
"Oh, I don't know, except that it's in
...." She stopped and, her head going back,
she screwed up her eyes as she peered at the
scudding clouds now passing over the moon.
What was it Billy had said to her granny that
time the missis had knocked her about, something about
the parson standing on the place, or some such?
His voice broke into her thoughts, saying with
some urgency, "Yes, Emma, it's in where?"
"Well, I don't know, except Billy
said to me granny about you standin' on the place
where it was, or something like that." "You mean the stuff is hidden near
the church?"
"Yes, an' there was a name they mentioned but I
can't remember it, Parson."
She watched the parson now put his head
back and look up at the moon the while he
talked to her, saying, "I've been on their
trail three times of late and they mostly, I
notice, pick a dry night to bring their catch
in from the river, where I assume it is stored
by the gentlemen who return this way because I've
seen them coming back before. They are all very
cute, Emma, very cute. I have kept watch
on several nights but tonight was the only time I have
been fortunate enough to watch them on their way
inland. Then you, Emma"--he now glanced down
at her--"almost frightened me to death when you
appeared from nowhere and trod on my feet."
"I'm sorry, Parson." She didn't
add that she herself had nearly died of fright.
"Well, the incident has its compensations for
never have I enjoyed sitting by the burn like this before.
But I'm afraid we must cut short this
idyll. You must now hurry back and get
into bed before your granny discovers you're missing."
"She won't, Parson; I hump the
blankets up and she never comes through the let, just
pokes her head in."
"You're a wicked child, Emma." His voice
denied what his words implied and she laughed
gently as he went on, "And what would she think
of me keeping you standing out here, when I should be
taking you by the collar and yanking you home?"
"Oh, she wouldn't say anything to you,
Parson, because she thinks you're too good to be
true."
Now it was the parson who made a strange
sound in his throat, and after a moment he said,
"Your granny thinks me too good to be
true?"
"Yes, Parson; she's not like the rest of
'em, she has a good word for you."
"Indeed, and ... and who do you mean by the rest
of them?"
"Well ...." She felt slightly
embarrassed now and didn't wish to go on in
case she should implicate anyone in
particular, but when he said, "Yes, Emma?"
she muttered, "Well, them on the farm and down in the village and about."
"And what do them ... they say about me?"
Her embarrassment grew; she felt she was
telling tales, yet it wasn't really bad
what they said about him and so she told him,
"Well ... well they say you seem to know
everything that's going on in heaven, but ... but you
don't see what's goin' on under your nose."
"Is that what they say, Emma?"
"Yes, Parson."
"Well, well."
The moon was fully out again and she could see
he was smiling as he asked now, "Is there
anything else they say about me, Emma, that
might help me to mend my ways and enlist their
favour?"
She thought a moment, then said, "Well the
only other thing they've got against you is you use
big words. Old Parson Crabtree, the one
that was afore you, they said called a spade a
spade, and he only used big words when he
had the bottle, I mean when he was drunk.
Although I didn't know parsons got drunk,
do they, Parson?"
"Some do, Emma; but go on." "Well, that's all I can think of,
Parson, except that Billy ... Billy
Proctor's for you, because he said you might be a
fool, but you're no idiot."
She was now somewhat amazed at the sound that
came from the parson, it was as if he were choking;
and then bending down to her, his face close
to hers, his eyes looking startlingly bright, he
whispered, "You know something, Emma? I think the
good Lord directed me here tonight precisely
to meet you, and for you to enlighten me as to the measure
my parishioners have of me. And not only that; I
think He wanted to establish that we are going
to be friends, firm friends. Will you be my friend,
Emma?"
She had no hesitation in saying, "Oh,
yes, Parson. Oh, yes, I'd like to be your
friend."
"Then that is settled. And as a friend you will
keep me informed of the opinion my parishioners
continue to have of me, whether it changes for the
better or for the worse. Will you, Emma?"
"Yes, Parson, but on the quiet like."
"Oh, yes." He chuckled now and
repeated, "On the quiet like." Then his voice changing, he said, "One more thing,
Emma, before we part, I want you to read all
you can, use every spare moment you can to read and learn
to use big words too. Any fool can call a
spade a spade, Emma, even an idiot can
call a spade a spade, but you have to be of a
certain intelligence before you can use big words
coherently. Now there's a word to set you
puzzling ... co ... her ... ent ... ly.
Once a month I will give you a new book
to read, and once a month I will test you on the
big words. You understand?"
"Yes, Parson." Her voice sounded
flat, she wasn't very enamoured of having
to learn big words. She liked reading stories
but up till now she had skipped the big
words.
"Go now, child." He pushed her gently from
him, then quickly caught hold of her shoulder,
saying, "Do be careful when you come out at night,
child. I would rather you promised me that you'll never
take up this escapade again, but I feel it
would be too much because your blood would drive you
into the open. But go now, go now, and God bless
you." She went without further words and puzzling over
why her blood should drive her into the open. That
was a funny thing to say.

Once again, as she later said to herself, she
almost jumped out of her skin when, having skirted
the small barn and about to run across the open
space to the cottage, she saw a movement in
the yard. Through the dim and flickering moonlight
she made out the tall figures of Farmer
Yorkless and two of the boys, but from this distance she
couldn't tell which two. And she shivered from the
top of her head to the soles of her feet as she
imagined what would have happened if the master had
been in that trail of men and they had caught
sight of her. He would have whipped her raw; if
not he, then his missis would have done so.
Although they had now disappeared into the house she
waited until the moon was hidden again by the
clouds before she scurried towards the ladder and
up through the hatch. And she was still shivering as she
pulled off her boots and clothes and climbed
under the blanket. But lying secure once more,
her thoughts, now calm, traced back the
happenings of the last hour, and what emerged was the highlight: the parson had asked her
to be his friend. Oh, she liked the parson, she
liked him better than anyone else on earth.
Besides the honour of being friends with the parson, in some
way it formed a barrier against hell.
It was as she was dropping off to sleep that the
word Leadbeater came into her mind. And it was still
there the following morning when she awoke. And she
remembered where she had heard it, Billy had
been telling her granny about it being on a
headstone and her mind, groping back to the
conversation, knew that the name was connected with the
place where the liquor was hidden.
Now that would be something to tell the parson,
wouldn't it? But she'd have to wait till
Sunday.

It was on this day that Emma became aware of
her body. The first instance took place in the
grain shed. She had gone in to get some boxings
to make the crowdy for the hens, and Luke happened
to be there getting the horse fodder. She never
spoke to Luke and he never directly spoke
to her, but he talked at her whenever he was near
her. This morning, however, his approach was different.
She knew he had gone towards the door and
when he shut it and came back up between the
wooden bins that held the grains she straightened
herself and looked at him. He was a good head
taller than her and he seemed to tower over her
as he said, "Growin', aren't you?"
She made no reply, and he went on,
"Ma says that you're black underneath, it's
only your face that's become tanned with the sun,
bleachin' it like. Are you black underneath?"
"No, I'm not!" Her voice was
indignant.
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care if you believe me or not.
Let me by, I've got to make the
crowdy."
For answer his hands shot out and pulled the tin
dish from her and threw it to the side so that the
boxings sprayed out all over the stone floor,
and as she gasped he said, "You can tell Ma that
you tripped. She'll skin you 'cos they're good
boxin's, an' she'll stop your pay for
weeks."
She was still gasping in her throat, as she imagined the reaction of the missis, when
he said, "Tell you what. I'll say it was
an accident an' I dunched you if you let me
see if you're black or not."
"Let me by." Her voice was trembling
now.
"Who's stopping you?"
He had moved his hand to the side but in order
to get past him she'd have to squeeze her body
between him and the stanchion post of one of the bins and
when she made no move to do so he moved, now
almost throwing himself on her, his upper body
pressing her backwards over the bin. While the
palm of his left hand was tight under her chin
thrusting it upwards and so preventing her from
screaming, his right hand was pulling up her long
skirt. But as his hands groped above her ragged
garters that held up her black stockings and on
to her bare flesh, there came into her small
body a power bred of desperation.
She fought him with the strength of someone equal his
size and age. When her back seemed to break,
her hands left his hair and her nails found the
flesh of his face and tore at it, and as the
pressure on her chin was suddenly released she let out a piercing scream, and it seemed that the
same instant she was tumbling backwards,
legs over head, into the bin of soft boxings.
Almost choking from the boxings in her throat, she
coughed and spluttered while clawing herself up the
wooden frame, and as she gripped the edge and
hung over the top she saw Barney and Luke
facing each other in the corner of the grain shed.
And Luke was saying, "I was only havin' a
bit of fun with her."
"It looks like it by your face!" cried
Barney. "If you weren't my brother,
by God! I'd--" She saw Barney's head
move from side to side, then he finished,
"We've got on till now, but this I'm
tellin' you, our Luke, you touch her again like that
and that'll be the finish atween us. Mind, I
mean it, I'll have no more truck with you. I've
said it afore but I mean it this time."
"She's a troublemaker: there's been no
peace since she came. And you've always taken
her part."
Luke now moved towards the door, dabbing
at his face with a piece of hessian, and
Barney came towards her and, putting out his hands, he helped her out of the bin, and
when she was unable to stand he put his arms about her
and held her to him, saying, "There, there, it's
all right. Don't cry."
She lay against him gasping and spluttering,
"It wasn't me, Bar ... Barney; he
came at me and he spilt the boxings, and ...
and ...."
"It's all right. It's all right, Emma.
I'll make it right with Ma, don't worry.
..."
"My God! Let go of her."
Emma wanted to spring away from Barney's
arms but at this moment she hadn't the strength;
nor did Barney thrust her from him, but
quietly pushed her against the support of the bin
and turning, he faced his enraged mother, saying,
"You can't blame her."
"Get out of here; I'll deal with her."
"Oh no, Ma, fair's fair."
"What did you say?"
"I said, fair's fair. It was Luke's
fault; he was at her, trying it on."
"She egged him on, he's just told me. That
chit"--she thrust out her arm, her finger now almost touching Emma's face--"egged him on. That's
her Spanish blood comin' out. Shameless they
are, those women."
"Ma--" He had moved so that he was standing in
front of Emma now. His voice slow and his
words emphatic, he said, "You would like
to believe that. I'm tellin' you I saw him.
He had her bent double over the bin, in fact
she fell into it. He had his hand up her
clothes."
"Shut up you! Get out of here."
"No, I won't, Ma. Oh no, I
won't."
"My God! boy. Do you know who you're
talking to?"
"Yes, Ma, I know; and I'll do what
I told you an' me da I'd do only a
few weeks ago, I'd up and go off to sea
if there was any more trouble. That's what I'll
do."
He watched his mother take in one long deep
breath; then she spat at him, "You're but a
boy."
"I'm doin' a man's job here, Ma, and
I could do a man's job on board ship. Many've done the same thing afore me.
Aye, many have."
At this point Lizzie appeared in the
doorway and, taking in the situation at a
glance, she said, "Come on, lass. Come on,
hinny. I'm glad you left your mark on him.
I hope you went deep enough for the scar to remain
there as a reminder."
"She's a dirty little slut and I won't
have her in my house. For the future she's
outside and in the dairy. Do you hear?"
"I hear. And that suits us both. As for being
a dirty little slut, one has to be trained in
that line, don't you know, Mrs Yorkless?
Both me and me daughter, although she was foolish
enough to run away, we were both married without our
bellies being full. But that's something we
won't go into the day."
Lizzie's voice was so tantalizingly
calm that the farmer's wife looked as if she
would have a seizure at any moment, but she
managed to cry, "Mind your tongue, Lizzie
Crawshaw, or you'll be ...."
Lizzie was leading Emma towards the door
now but she stopped and, turning about, asked enquiringly, "I'll be what?" She waited;
and when all the answer she received from her
mistress was a grinding of the teeth, she said,
"Oh yes, if it wasn't for my cottage
I know where I'd be, but I have my cottage
and you can't do anything about it, or, by the way, me
bit field that goes with it, the bit that your
husband has turned into barley, I'm told
I could ask for rent on it. We'll have to go
into that."
They were out in the yard now and crossing it in
silence, which lasted until they entered the
cottage. But here Lizzie's attitude
changed: her calmly irritating voice was
replaced by agitated tones as she said, "In
the name of God, child, what happened?"
When, between gasps, Emma had related
exactly what took place, Lizzie said,
"There's one thing sure, lass, he was just a young
groping lout afore, the need could be seen in his every
look an' action, but from now on you can take it
from me he'll be a groping man and he'll not
rest until he has his own back on you. I
know him, I've known him from a nipper, he
bears malice over the least thing. Now I'm gona say this to you an' before God I
never thought I would 'cos I don't hold with
whips and such, but whenever you go out to the river or
for a dander on your own take one of them with you,
'cos you're gona need protection. And
likely not only from him, the way you're
blossoming out. You know what I mean, lass?"
Lizzie was bending down to Emma who was
sitting on the cracket, and Emma, looking
up into her face, said honestly, "Well no,
Granny."
"Oh God in heaven!" Emma now watched
her granny straighten up and walk over to her
bed and back again before bending towards her again and
saying, "You haven't got to let anybody
touch you, any man. Don't you understand?"
"Oh yes, Granny, I understand that." She
didn't go on to say what she didn't understand
was about this blossoming out.
Letting out a long almost painful breath,
Lizzie sat down on the rocking chair
opposite and said, quietly now, "Has
anybody ever tried to touch you before ... in that
way I mean?"
"No, Granny. But ... but I know what you mean, and I'll never let anybody touch
me, never."
"Never's a long time, hinny. But until
you're grown up see to it that nobody does.
Now I've got to get back or else
I'll have me mistress after me." She gave
a wry smile and shook her head while still
looking down at Emma; then she added, "Wash
your face, comb your hair and tidy yourself up, and
then go down to Mr Bowman's. You're well
past your time."
"But ... but the hens, the crowdy, he
knocked the dish out of me hand and it went all
over the floor and ...."
"Don't worry about the hens' crowdy,
I'll see to that the day. Go along now."

Ralph Bowman seemed in very high spirits.
She had hardly got through the back door than
she heard him coming out of the paint room; and then
he was in the kitchen, holding out his hand to her
saying, "Come here; I've got something to show
you." He didn't seem to notice that there was
no smile on her face this morning and that her
manner was subdued but, taking her by the hand, he almost ran her through the living-room and
into the paint room, and there, putting her before the
easel, he said, "Child with a bucket. Child with a
bucket."
She was looking at a picture of a girl
about her own age kneeling on a stone floor,
a big wooden bucket at her side, a
scrubbing brush in one hand, her other resting on
the stones while she looked up at someone above
her.
Her head poking slowly forward, she screwed
up her eyes as she stared at the face. It
looked like her, the bit that stared back at her from
the cracked mirror above the razor strop in the
farm kitchen. Yet it wasn't her; that
girl's face was bonny.
"Well?"
"'Tisn't me, is it?" She was looking
sideways up at him.
"Of course, it's you, you dunderhead. Who
else would it be? You sat for it, didn't you?"
"Yes, I know"--her voice was as brisk
as his now--"but I don't look like that."
"Who says you don't look like that?"
"Well, I don't ... do I?" The question at the last was subdued, and now
dropping on his hunkers before her, he put his
hands on her shoulders as he said, "Emma
Molinero, that is you ... yet not you, because I
couldn't do justice to a face like yours, ever."
She liked the sound of her name, it was a long
time since she'd heard it. She smiled at
him, but not her usual smile, and noting that she
was different this morning, he said, "What's the
matter with you? Aren't you well?"
"I'm not bad," she answered; "but I've
had an upset."
"What kind of an upset?"
She lowered her eyes and turned her head to the
side; it was difficult to talk about her upset
to a man. And he repeated, "What kind of an
upset?"
"It was with Luke, I--" She now turned
and looked into his eyes before ending, "I had
to scratch his face."
"Oh." His mouth formed the roundness of the word and,
slowly rising to his feet, he said, "That's
how it is? And what happened to Master
Luke?"
"His face was bleeding. But ... but the mistress blamed me."
"She would. Of course she would, that's
understood." He was nodding at her. "But
Emma, my dear, you've got to expect things
like that happening to you."
"I have?" Her voice sounded indignant.
"Oh yes, yes; and it'll happen more often
as life goes ...."
"It won't, they won't." She had
stretched her neck upwards now. "I'm gona
use the whip; me granny says I've got
to take it with me. I'm gona practise it
an' all, the big one."
"Your granny says you've got
to practise using the whip?"
"Yes, she did."
"Well, well." His face was straight
now. "It must be serious when your granny says
you should practise the whip because she's not for
whips, is she?"
"No, she's not ... she wasn't, but ...
but she is now. ..."
"Hello! Anyone there?"
The painter hurried towards the door,
crying, "Henry! Come in. Come in." When the parson came into the room he said,
"Well, well, 'tis Emma," as if he
hadn't seen her for weeks and not just last night;
or was it this morning? So many things had happened.
"How are you, Emma?"
Before she could answer, Ralph Bowman said,
"She's not very well this morning, Henry, but
... but we won't talk about it yet. Look
at this though. What do you think?"
Henry Grainger stood in front of the
portrait. He didn't speak for some long
while, but then he looked down at Emma, then
at his friend, and he said very softly, "Perfect.
It's the best thing you've ever done."
"I think so too." Ralph's voice was
also soft.
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Nothing; it's already sold."
"Sold?" Henry's voice was high now.
"I had two visitors yesterday from the
Hall." He jerked his head towards the wall.
"Very honoured, indeed."
"You mean the Fordykes?"
"Yes, James and his lady, as ever was."
"And they bought it?" "Yes, she did. Apparently she
is very interested in art, brought up with it. She's
the daughter of Peter Rollinson, and it's
going to his house."
"How marvellous! I hope you charged them a
good price for it."
"Thirty guineas."
"Huh! thirty guineas. It would have brought a
hundred in London."
"Perhaps. But we're not in London, and
thirty guineas is not to be sneezed at. Yet
at the same time I didn't want to part with
it." He looked down at Emma now, adding,
"But we've got the model here, and she'll
sit for me any time, won't you, Emma?"
"Yes, yes, Mr Bowman."
"Do you think you could make us a pot of tea,
Emma?"
"Yes, Mr Bowman." She left them and
went through the living-room and into the kitchen; and she
knew they had followed her for their voices
came to her low but distinct and by what she heard
she knew that Mr Bowman was telling the parson
what had happened to her. But when she took the
tea into them Mr Bowman changed the conversation to talk about a book he was reading and the parson
said nothing, he just looked at her and his face
had a sad look.
She returned to the kitchen and began
to prepare the vegetables for Mr Bowman's
dinner. She could hear them talking again, but so
softly that she couldn't catch what they were saying
until, the conversation changing once more, they were
discussing the book that the painter had mentioned when
she had taken the tea in. The name of the man who
had written it sounded very plain, Sydney
Smith. There were two Smith families in the
village; Peggy Smith came to Sunday
school. She heard Mr Bowman say, "You
put me very much in mind of Sydney." And the
parson answered laughingly, "Oh, that's
funny, it's the woodman being compared with the king,
and to me he is the king of satire and of humour.
When I am very down and feeling very much alone and
asking the great why, I read one of his
pamphlets and I seem to get some kind of an
answer. I think there are times when God sends
such as him to show a new concept of religion,
that the ingredients for the preparation for the after-life do
not consist of the fear of hell and of continually keeping the smell of brimstone in one's
nostrils. You know, Ralph, I never wanted
to be a minister, the church was the last thing I
thought of and I'm surprised to find myself in it
... and you know too, I think so are my
parishioners."
She didn't fully understand what he was on
about but she liked to hear the parson laugh, he
had such a nice deep laugh, a happy
laugh; and he was saying as he laughed now, "But
what strikes me as rather unfair is they
expect so much from their pastor, he has to give
twenty-four hours a day service. Twice
last week I was called out of the dead of night
to help Mrs Brigham in the passage from this
life to the next, but just as she was about to step over
she changed her mind ... both times. I
don't think she liked what she saw, at least
it wasn't what she had envisaged all her
life, and this morning when I called she was
sitting up and eating raw eggs."
She could hardly hear the rest of the sentence for
Mr Bowman's laughter. His was a different
kind of laugh, almost a bellow, and it rose as
the parson ended, "She sucks them from the shell. It has to be seen to be believed. Of course
I don't think that's her only sustenance because
there was a strong smell of rum when I entered the
room this morning."
There was more laughter and more conversation that she
couldn't distinguish, until she heard Mr
Bowman say, "And the plate, is it any
heavier these days?"
"No, about the same. They expect
services of all kinds but they are dilatory
in paying for them. I'm finding difficulty in
keeping up that huge old house, and the services
of Miss Wilkinson. I don't know how on
earth my predecessor managed to bring up
eight children on his stipend."
"Oh, from what I can gather, Mr Fordyke
senior helped out a lot there. But when his son
married he left the Hall and now, I understand,
he lives out Jesmond way. But he pays
frequent visits here, for I've seen him now
and again stalking the hills. Of course, he was
up to his neck in the smuggling business and
likely kept old Crabtree and his brood
supplemented because of the storage provided by your
said predecessor. Which reminds me, have you found out anything more?"
"Not really, except that I'm held as a
fool by some of my parishioners but not quite an
idiot."
He was repeating what she had said to him last
night; and as this thought came to her it also revived
the name of Christina Leadbeater. She stopped
peeling the potatoes and dried her hands on the
hessian towel, then stood looking towards the
door that led into the living-room, asking herself:
should she tell him? Or would it do any good if
she did?
As things stood now she mightn't get the
chance to go to Sunday school, the missis might
do something to stop her, and then she wouldn't see the
parson. Unless he came up to the farm.
She stood in the doorway and said,
"Parson."
"Yes, Emma?" He turned quickly
towards her.
"I've remembered somethin' about the
rum-runners."
"You have?" He came quickly towards her, and
then drew her towards the middle of the room where
Mr Bowman was sitting, and she looked from one to the other now, then back to the parson before she
said, "It's to do with a headstone."
"A headstone?"
"Yes; Billy said to me granny that the
headstone was called Christina Leadbeater, or
some such name, and it was often lifted from the wall."
Henry stared at her for a long moment, then
turned and looked at Ralph Bowman and
saying quietly, "There is a headstone with the name
of Christina Leadbeater on it. It dates
back to sixteen hundred. It's quite a large
headstone, and it's lain there so long it's sunk
into a groove. A number of the old headstones
are lying against the north transept." Then
turning and looking down on Emma again, he
said, "And I'm supposed to be sitting on
top of the stuff. That's it, Emma, isn't
it?"
She hesitated before saying, "Yes, something
like that, Parson."
She was startled as Mr Bowman, jumping up
from the chair, cried, "Of course! Henry,
that's it. There's no crypt there, but there must be
a cellar or some kind of place they used as a
store room. Oh! Emma. Oh! Emma Molinero." She felt herself
swiftly lifted off her feet and held up and
her face was in front of the painter's. Then he
kissed her and cried, "You're not only a
beautiful model, my dear Emma, you're a
God-given solver of liquid mysteries."
She was very red in the face when she hurried
back to the kitchen. She felt disturbed in a
strange way. It had been a most strange
disturbing morning. It had been a disturbing time
altogether. It had really started last night when she
had become a friend of the parson's. Then she had
experienced the awful feeling of Luke putting
his hands on her, and the gentleness of Barney's
arms. And now Mr Bowman had kissed her;
he was the first man to kiss her since her father
died: she didn't count the kisses of the
members of the Travers Travelling Show the
morning she left.
This is what her granny must have meant
by blossoming out.






Emma did indeed blossom out over the
next four years. She was now thirteen years
old, tall for her age, her figure already
developing, her features, set in a mould
under the creamy tanned skin, combining to make her
face one that was so different from any in the
neighbourhood as to set her apart. Mothers of
sons saw that she was someone to be slightly wary
of; mothers of daughters looked on her with envy;
and the daughters, those with whom she attended the
Sunday school, with the exception of two,
Angela Turnbull the grocer's daughter and
Peg Hall whose father was the blacksmith, took
their opinions of her from their mothers.
On the farm the atmosphere towards her had
changed but slightly, except that Dilly
Yorkless had been forced to subdue her feelings
under the threat from Lizzie that she would send
Emma into service. And Emma had become a
very good worker: not only could she attend to all the
business of the dairy, see to the pigs and
chickens, but she could also help with the milking. Without Emma, Mrs Yorkless knew
she would have to employ a full-time hand and wouldn't
get half the work out of her. Moreover, she
knew the parson had taken an interest in the
girl, lending her books and some such, and as much
as she would like to stop this she knew she couldn't,
because Jake wanted them to stand well with the parson
for the parson stood well with those up at the
House: not only was he invited there to dinner
once a week when the family were at home, but
they also loaned him a horse for the hunting.
Then there was the painter. When she had first found
out that he was painting the little hussy and selling his
work she had objected strongly, and she had
made it known to him through Lizzie that the girl was
paid for work and not sitting. And Lizzie had
made it known to her that the painter was interested in
moving to another cottage for there was one vacant
on the Hudsons' farm, and Jane Hudson
would jump at a tenant like him, paying through the
teeth in rent, not forgetting what he had to fork out
for household services twice a week.
So, much against the grain, Mrs Yorkless
left things as they were. But she kept a sharp
eye on her sons, warning them what would happen if she ever caught one of them talking to the
hussy.
Lizzie's time was taken up cleaning the
eight main rooms of the farmhouse, scouring the
stone-floored pantries and store rooms, and
helping with the cooking and curing. When she did
manage to get outside it was into the fields because
there were now only three of the four boys working,
Dan the youngest of the family having two years
previously contracted the chest complaint so that
he now spent most of his time lying in bed in the
back bedroom; only on days when it was warm
and sunny did he venture outside, then he
was wrapped up almost to the eyes in winter
clothes.
Should Emma happen to go round the back of the
house she would always look up at Dan's
window, and should his pale face be near the pane
she would wave to him and he would wave back. It
was he who had first lifted a hand in salute, and
she had answered it immediately, standing gazing up at
the blurred image behind the pane. They could never
have a word because the window was tight closed, but she
often mouthed a message to him, mostly
appertaining to the weather. If it was sunny she would point up to the sky, if it was
cold she would hug herself.
When he had been about the farm she hadn't
cared much for Dan for, like his brothers with the
exception of Barney, he didn't speak
to her. And Barney only spoke when they met
away from the farm, or they happened to be in either
the byres or the barn and no one else was there.
And then his words were always stilted: "How are you,
Emma?" he would say, to which she would answer,
"I'm fine, Barney. How are you?" And to this
he would answer, "Me an' all."
Barney was a big fellow now. He and
Luke were both about the same size, only
Luke was a bit thicker in the shoulders and perhaps
better looking; but he was still nasty. She
couldn't stand the sight of Luke; nor he of her
apparently, for he always turned his head away
when she was near. She hoped he would soon
leave the farm for he was courting the verger's
daughter, Mary Haswell; she was seventeen
and rather pretty. Her granny said the missis
wasn't for the match, Mary was too dollified
and the verger and his wife had spoiled her, and that
she would have to change her ways when she became a farmer's wife.
She never bothered about Pete. Pete was a
dour kind of fellow. He didn't talk much.
Her granny said it was because he was the deep kind
that took all in and said nowt, but he did what
he was told without question. There was one man on the
farm though that she was afraid of, even more than
she had once been afraid of Luke, and that was
the farmer himself. Like his son Pete, he, too,
hadn't much to say, but it was the way he looked
at her. She always felt she had done something
wrong when he stood looking at her. Sometimes
he would turn away with a shake of his head. But
a few weeks ago he had really frightened her.
It was the morning after there must have been a liquor
run for he came into the cowshed and his hair was
all wet where he had been holding his head under
the pump and he had almost knocked over the
bucket of milk she had just taken from Daisy
Bell. And he had gone to kick it; then
realising what he was about to do, he had stopped
and, putting his hand to his head, had stared at
her, and as she looked back at him from the stool
he had said something very strange.
"You know what, you young Spaniard?" he had said. "You're going to cause more
bloody upset and trouble than all the customs
in the bloody country. You know that?" And she had
looked at him squarely as she answered, "I
don't cause any trouble, mister. I do me
work and mind me own business; you can't say I
cause trouble."
He had seemed a little surprised at her
stand and after a moment of gaping at her had mut-
tered, "You've got a tongue like your granny.
As for not causing trouble, you were made for trouble.
Do you know that? You were made for it, cut out for
it. Aye." He turned his head away now and
he paused before he repeated, "Aye, cut
out for it." Then he had walked up the byre,
leaving her puzzled and frightened and feeling very
exposed to whatever it was that emanated from him.
Away from the farm she never felt frightened for
she had got into the habit of carrying the whip with
her. She always concealed it inside her skirt,
the handle just visible above the waistband and in line
with her elbow, the thong wrapped in such a way
below the butt of the handle that it would unwind once
she flicked it.
From the time her granny had warned her to carry the whip she had practised whenever the
opportunity presented itself, which was mostly
late at night when the farm animals were bedded
down and the members of the family inside. Then
she would take the big whip out beyond the field and
flick and twist and twirl the long leather thong
until now she could almost, as her granny said,
make it speak.
It always amazed her that her granny liked
to watch her antics with the whip. On the other
hand, though, she didn't like to see her
practising with the knives. But there was really no
place to practise the knives around the farm
except for throwing them at the wooden beam that
ran up the side of the cottage.
It had taken her some long time to get the
hang of throwing the knives. She tried
to remember all that her father had done with them. But
watching and doing were two different things: the art
wasn't only in having a good eye, it was in the
strength of the wrist, and knowing how to use it. She
had chipped a knife badly on the stone of the
cottage during her early practising, but now
she never missed the beam. It didn't, however,
give her enough scope, not like the oak tree in Openwood. But it was very rarely she
had the time to visit Openwood in the daylight,
and so it was only on a strong moonlight night
that she could attempt to do any throwing.
But if the weather held and it didn't rain
there would be a lovely harvest moon tonight, and
she'd go into the wood and practise. She
hadn't been going out at nights very often.
Sometimes she was too tired; once she lay
down on her pallet she would be fast asleep
and when the cock crowed at five o'clock in the
morning she always felt she hadn't slept for
five minutes. What was more, a lot of the
excitement had gone from her night strolls.
When she first came here and had slept in this
enclosed roof space she had imagined she would
suffocate, and all she longed for was the open
air. But now she had got used to being closed
in. In fact, on winter nights what she
enjoyed most was sitting on the mat in front
of the cottage fire roasting potatoes in the
ashes while her granny sat knitting in the
rocking-chair. Sometimes her granny talked and
told her of things gone by and how it was when she was
a young girl. It was then that her voice and manner softened, and she understood her more than she
did in the daytime when for no apparent reason she
would go for her, while warning her of dire things
to come. Only last week she had cried at
her, "'Tis a good job that parson's getting
married, 'tis that." Now why had she said that?
And she herself hadn't known the parson was going
to be married. She had been surprised how the
news had affected her; she had felt upset
and when he had spoken to her after Sunday school
and asked her what she thought of her latest reading
by Sir Walter Scott, he had appeared
to her just the same, not a bit as if he was going
to be married. But how did you appear if you were
going to be married?
She was impatient this morning to get down
to Mr Bowman's to hear the latest news, because
she could talk to Mr Bowman, ask him questions,
just like she could the parson.
She doubted, if the parson was going to be
married, that he and Mr Bowman and herself would
laugh together, like they did sometimes, for instance like
they did over the parson finding the liquor
store. Oh, how they had laughed about that.
The parson and Mr Bowman had gone in the dead of night and moved the stone that
bore the name of Christina Leadbeater on it and
there, behind, was a flat slab and when they moved
it, it showed a hole only big enough to allow one
man through it. But there were three stone steps leading
down into a goodly sized passage running well
under the church, and on each side were stacked
bottles of liquor, each one covered with a
straw cap.
They had replaced the stone that night, and the
following day had decided on a course of
action. At the bottom end of the churchyard there
was a vault that held the body of John
Freeman Ellis. It hadn't been opened for
years until the vicar went in when he first
came to the parish. He had obtained the key from
the vestry, and he still had it. Another quiet
visit to the vault gave him the idea where he
could store the liquor, and the very next night they
transferred seventy-eight bottles, but
left the straw covers standing as if there were still the
bottles underneath them.
It was almost a week later when the rumpus
broke out in the village. It was kind of a
secret rumpus but nevertheless evident. Billy had said to her granny there was one thing
sure, it was somebody in the know, and when they found
him, or them, because one man couldn't do the job
alone, he would be skinned alive.
On that particular Sunday the parson preached
a sermon on trust and on man loving his
neighbour; he had used a lot of big words,
and she'd had a hard job not to splutter.
Mr Bowman had warned her not to let on
to anybody, including her granny, about what
had happened. Amidst laughter he told her
that he had been very tempted to help himself to a
few bottles, feeling he had deserved them for
all the work he had put in. But then her
granny had a nose, he said, and a mind for
prying, so he had ended, discretion was the better
part of rum valour! ... The parson and he had
laughed a lot.
And they had all laughed until their sides
ached when the parson described the looks on
certain faces in the congregation as he
admonished them to love their neighbours, knowing
full well what their thoughts were regarding their
neighbours at that present moment.
She had taken the news to them the following week, having gathered from Billy's and
her granny's conversation that it was suspected the
culprits had come from The House, likely
the butler and the footman or some high-up
servants had got their heads together and now had
their own private store of French brandy and
Jamaican rum.
It had come to Emma some time ago that Mr
Bowman and the parson in some ways treated her as
a grown-up, while other people treated her as a
child, and those on the farm as the lowest form of
servant. She had sometimes thought if it hadn't
been for the parson and Mr Bowman she would have
run away before now. But then her good sense had
asked her, to where would she run? To whom would she
run? She had no one, only the parson, Mr
Bowman and her granny. But when it was summed
up that was a lot. And she was thankful, oh yes
she was, because as her granny had once said when
in a temper, she was lucky that she hadn't been
brought up in the poorhouse over the bridge in
Newcastle for then she would now be in the mines,
for no matter how hard this Mr Ashley tried
to stop the bairns going down he might as well
try to spit against the wind, for the owners maintained the pits would close if the bairns' labour
was
withdrawn. She didn't know who this Mr
Ashley was but he must be a nice man, and
somebody high up too. And yet her granny
only heard of him through Mr Bowman.
Mr Bowman read the newspapers and he
talked to himself about them, sometimes raging up and
down the room when a thing didn't please him.
And when the parson was there they both talked
ninety to the dozen. Sometimes about heaven and hell
and things in the Bible. It was then that they would
argue; but they generally ended up laughing.
She had finished her morning chores and was
ready to go down to Mr Bowman's. She
hurried across to the cottage and, going to the end
of the room where a tin bowl stood on a block
of wood, she took up a hessian towel and,
having dipped the end into the water in the bowl, she
wiped her face with it, rubbing well round her
nose, the part of her that seemed to attract
splashes of glar from the piggery. Following this,
she took off her rough coarse apron and put
on a white one, the hem of which reached to the
bottom of her skirt. A bib was attached
to the apron and she pinned the top to the shoulders of her blue serge dress near its
frayed collar. She was feeling ashamed in this
frock as it was no longer decent because she was
growing so fast the hem didn't reach the top of
her boots and the sleeves were half-way up her
forearms. But she consoled herself she would soon have
a new one. Last November her granny had
gone to the shoe fair in Gateshead and she got
a big gentleman's cloak and a lady's
blue cord dress for ninepence from a woman
who was selling old clothes. Her granny had
spent a good part of the winter turning the cloak
into a working frock for her, and she said she would
make a blouse of the lining. She wished she had
started on the cord dress first because it was such a
pretty colour: the material was very good, but the
lady who had worn the dress must have walked
through a lot of mud for the bottom of it was badly
stained. Still, her granny said she would get more
than enough to make her a Sunday frock. But it
took a long time to make a dress and she had
the thought that she would ask her granny to cut it out
and she would get at the sewing herself, 'cos she
wasn't a bad hand at sewing, her stitches were
nearly all the same size except here and there and when they went out of line it was mostly when
the
candle was guttered because of the wind coming down the
chimney, or when she was dog-tired. Finally,
she took a comb from the corner of the
mantelpiece and combed the front of her hair
under her white linen cap.
She always felt a kind of elation when she
went to Mr Bowman's. It was like entering a
different world. And it was a different world for she was
beginning to liken her life at the farm as being in
the house of correction where the warders had been
struck dumb. Very often the only voices she
would hear in the course of a day were those of the
animals. She loved the animals,
especially the pigs. Oh yes, she had a
special feeling for the pigs. But children in the
village called each other dirty pigs,
yet she had found that pigs weren't really
dirty; they got wet and their feet churned up
the ground into clarts, but they did their business in
a special place. Oh, she liked the
pigs, and she suffered agonies on slaughter
day. Last year was the only time she hadn't
cried her eyes out. Instead, she had run to the
far end of the chicken field and had stuffed her fingers in her ears to shut out their
squealing; and she had prayed for them, prayed that
they wouldn't feel it. She could understand the mister
and Luke killing the pigs but not Barney. But
Barney always helped.
She purposely made her way round the
back of the farm this morning, and there she saw
Dan at the window. She stopped a moment and
smiled and waved her hand, and he waved back.
His face looked smaller today. She was so
sorry for Dan; he was going to die. It was
awful to die when the sun was shining like it was now, so
warm that it got right through your clothes to your skin.
She half turned her head away and,
looking upwards, she pointed to the sky, then
looked back at him, and he nodded at her.
He knew she was saying it was a nice day.
She wondered why they didn't let him
outside when it was so warm; her granny said the
fug in the room would knock you back and there was
a nasty smell there, a kind of scenty smell
that spoke of death. Poor Dan. She waved
to him again, walking a few steps backwards as
she did so; then she turned and hurried towards
the wall and the beech hedge that cut off the yard. When she knew she would be out of his sight she
slowed her step.
She was finding it pained her to look at Dan
yet somehow she felt that he needed company,
outside company. She wondered where he would go
when he died; would it be straight to heaven? Or
would he have to suffer in hell for the things he had
done, such as laying traps for the rabbits and the
fox and clubbing half of Bonny's litter with a
wooden mallet? She had cried all night
over that. Even when her granny had explained
they only kept the best of a litter to be
trained to look after the sheep, and what would they do
with eight dogs running round the place.
She would ask the parson where he thought Dan
would go when he died.
The parson was going to be married. ...
She had just come in sight of the bridle-path
when she saw the parson. He was driving his
horse and trap and seated beside him was a lady.
She knew that he had espied her for he drew
the horse to a stop, then hailed her with his hand.
She was walking by the border of the field that was
full of corn and she had to keep to the edge of it
until she came to the bank and could drop down into the road, and she had to watch her
skirt going down the bank because it generally
rolled up to her knees. Then she was standing on
the road looking up at the parson and the lady.
The lady was nearer to her. She was young and
pretty, she had a round face and a pink skin,
her eyes looked clear without colour and she had
curly brown hair which showed under her bonnet.
She wasn't smiling.
"This is Emma, Christabel. Emma, this
is Miss Braintree."
Emma bent her knee, then said politely,
"Good-day to you, Miss Braintree."
Miss Braintree, besides not smiling,
didn't speak, she merely inclined her head.
And the parson spoke again. His voice seemed
extra loud to Emma; it was as if he imagined
her to be in the middle of the field, and what he
said was, "Emma's a very bright girl,
Christabel. She's one of my brightest
Sunday school pupils. She can read and
write as well as I can and I'd like to bet she
could get up in the pulpit and preach a
sermon." He laughed, and Emma smiled, but
with her lips tightly pressed, knowing that the parson was making a joke, but Miss
Christabel Braintree still neither smiled nor
spoke. And the parson now said, "You on your
way to Mr Bowman's, Emma?"
"Yes, Parson."
"Well, you'll find him in high fettle this
morning, he has sold another one of your
pictures. What do you think of that?"
Her mouth opened widely now and she said,
"'Tis good to know, Parson."
"Surely 'tis good to know." She knew he
was imitating her way of speaking.
"Well, we must be off and you on your way.
I shall see you on Sunday, Emma."
"Yes, Parson. Good-bye, Parson.
Good-bye, miss." She again bobbed her knee
and the young lady inclined her head; and then the trap
was bowling down the road.
Funny, she had never opened her mouth, not
even to say, "Pleased to be seeing you," or
"'Tis a fine day," or anything like that. She
was pretty though. But why had the parson been so
hearty? She had never known him be so hearty,
he must be pleased.
She entered the cottage by the back door as usual and she hadn't had time to put
on the table the coarse apron she used for
kneeling in before she heard her name being called:
"That you, Emma?"
"Yes, Mr Bowman."
He met her at the kitchen door, saying,
"I've news for you."
"Yes I know, you sold another
picture." She grinned at him.
"Oh!" He always did a funny thing with his
mouth when he said, "Oh!" like that. He pushed it
out almost like a pig's snout and it always made her
want to laugh. But she wasn't feeling inclined
to laugh this morning, not very much anyway.
"Did you come upon them?"
"The parson, you mean?"
"Yes, the parson and Miss Christabel
Braintree. My God!" He turned from her
and walked into the room saying, "She's as much
fitted for a parson's wife as ... as ...."
She watched the back of his head moving as he
searched unsuccessfully for words to explain the
antonym of a parson's wife. He turned
to her again, saying, "Far better if he took
Miss Wilkinson. She might be a few years older but she's got some sense in her
head; and she knows how to stretch a penny. But that
one will need a servant to dress her. He's
mad ... mad." He was shaking his head again.
"And he hasn't been courting her six
months. Met her of all places at his
brother's funeral. That's four deaths in that
family in as many years. He used to be the
second youngest, now he's the second eldest.
But that's where he met her." He looked down
at her, saying slowly now, "I don't know
what's come over him these last few months;
he's even questioning his religion. Now I'm
allowed to question his religion, and any
religion, but he's in it up to the neck. And
now the transubstantiation is bothering him.
Well, not exactly bothering him but he's
taking it to pieces, if you know what I mean.
... And you don't know, do you?" He poked his
chin out at her. "Oh, Emma, what a pity it
is you've got to grow up; and you're doing that at
a gallop. Do you know that?"
She answered him solemnly, saying, "I
know I'm getting too big for me clothes."
"Huh!" He let out his bellow of a laugh as he said, "As long as you don't
get too big for your boots." Then
appraising her, he said, "I've been thinking.
My next of you is going to depict you as a young
lady, a sixteen-year-old. I'll drape
your top." His hand went out towards her now but it
didn't touch her, it made waving movements
around her shoulders as he said, "White silk
with a rose or two just there." His finger was pointing
to the nape of her neck. "Not too much flesh
showing, your hair loose." He now went to whip
off her cap and she gave a startling squeal as
the pin in the back tore at her hair.
All contrition now, his hands were on her head
and he was repeating, "Oh! Emma. I'm
sorry, I'm sorry. I'm an unthinking
brute. Did I hurt you? Oh! Emma,
my dear."
"It's all right. I ... I've got to pin
it."
"Of course, of course. Oh, I'm
sorry." He was nodding at her now. But then his
thoughts jumping to the posing of her again, he added,
"No, no; your hair must be piled up high,
not loose, not loose. ..." "Are you havin' the rabbit stewed the day, or
do you want it roasted?" She watched his head
suddenly droop forward on to his chest then jerk
back on his shoulders, and again he was laughing and
talking to the ceiling, saying, "Do I want my
rabbit stewed today, or do I want it roasted?
Come down to earth, Ralph Bowman. Come down
to earth." Then he lowered his gaze and now said quite
seriously, "I think I'd like it roasted,
Emma. Then get through your chores as quickly as
possible, I want to make a sketch of you.
And by the way ... here--" He turned towards
the window under which was a small table with a drawer in
it and, pulling this open, he took out a
sovereign and a shilling. Going to her, he
lifted one of her hands and placed the sovereign
in it, saying, "For your secret hoard;" and then
putting the shilling into her other hand said,
"Hoodwink money for your granny."
She smiled at him. "And it is
hoodwinkin' her, Mr Bowman, and I feel
awful."
"But she takes the shilling, doesn't she?"
"Yes."
"Well, if she knew you got a sovereign she'd take that too. And
Emma--" He now took a step towards her
and, bending until his face was on a level with
hers, he said, "Some day you're going to need
money, perhaps to take a journey to fly away,
and this I know, anything anyone wants to do is
always made easier by money. How much have you got
in your hoard now?"
"I've got thirteen sovereigns. This will
be fourteen. It's a fortune. I ... I
really wouldn't know what to do with it, not all that
money. And I know me granny at times would.
..."
"No! Emma. No! That was a bargain
between us, wasn't it? You don't tell your
granny what you're getting for sitting for my
pictures. Your granny is taken care of,
she's not left without an odd shilling, but she
spends it, and that's her business how she spends
it."
She knew how her granny used her extra
money, she used it for buying liquor on the
quiet. The rum-running still went on, but she
had no idea now where they stored it, but she
gathered from Billy it was difficult to come by and that the price had gone up. She only knew that
what they bought came through the blacksmith and the
verger. She also knew that the knowledge that the verger was in
on the game made the parson angry. He could
make allowances for the others but not for the verger.
He had called the man a smarmy hypocrite
when talking to Mr Bowman, and she had been
surprised that the parson could not only sound
angry but look angry; always when he talked
to her his voice was kind, even when he was
reprimanding her for not reading as much as she should.
With regard to this, he didn't seem to understand that
she had only late night-time to read and she
got very tired and all she wanted to do was climb
the ladder and roll on to the pallet. Sometimes
she was so tired she didn't take her clothes
off, and once or twice she had been too
tired to eat the evening meal and had fallen
asleep. But missing a meal didn't worry
her because it was usually just wishy-washy stew which she
often had to force herself to eat. The only meal she
liked was the rough porridge in the mornings.
Eaten with fresh milk this filled you up for
hours. If there was any over she would have it
later when it was cold and almost solid. There was always plenty of porridge because her
granny could help herself in the mornings, though
for the other meals, the missis doled them out. But
the twice a week down here at the cottage
she had nice food because there was always
left-overs. Mr Bowman didn't seem
to eat much, likely because he stuffed himself between
meals with cheese and bread and beer: there was always
a big platter in the paint room holding a
loaf and a big collop of cheese, and one of the
Stoddart lads from the village trudged up every
day with beer from the inn. It was Willy who was
doing it at present, and it was a long way for a
little lad. But still he got a penny a week and
that wasn't to be sniffed at. Georgie had
done it afore him, and Bill afore that, but they were
both working five miles away in Birtley
now. One in the Brine Spring from where they got
the salt, and the other was down the pit; and neither of
them was ten yet.
He had gone into the paint room and she had
returned to the kitchen but his voice reached her
clear, saying, "I had a visit from Madam
Yorkless yesterday. Smooth as butter she
was. Wanted to know if I was still comfortable and if I was satisfied with your service. I answered
both in the affirmative. She surprised me
by saying she had an interest in pictures. Now
would you believe that? Our Mistress Yorkless
turning to the arts! She was breaking her neck
to get into this room, and I had a strong desire
to break her neck. Can't stand the woman; she's
like an elongated snail."
As his voice went on and on Emma smiled
to herself: he could talk for half an hour on end
and not expect an answer. She liked to hear
him talk; although he jumped from one thing to the other
she always seemed to learn something fresh every time she
came down here. She didn't do much talking
herself, simply answered his questions.
At first she had been in the habit of jabbering
to him about the doings on the farm, but one day,
having told him what the usual routine of her
day was, he had become angry. And later that
week her granny had gone for her and told her
to keep her mouth shut about what she had to do because
the painter, being the kind of man he was,
wouldn't be above telling the missis what he
thought of her expecting a child to work twelve
to fourteen hours a day. And so now, she mostly just listened.
She had skinned and prepared the rabbit. She
didn't mind handling the rabbits when they were dead
because then they couldn't feel any more; and when she
took the skin outside and laid it on a bench
ready for scraping, salting, and stretching, she
paused a moment and looked away across the
fields. It was a beautiful day; she wished
she could turn about now and walk and walk right
down to the river, or perhaps just to the burn and through
Openwood, just walk. And as she stared over the
wide countryside there rose in her a feeling,
like a compelling urge, to get away, to go on
until she came to a village, a different
village like Birtley--funny, she had never
been to Birtley--then onwards, through
Chester-le-Street to the city of Durham.
She knew all their names, she had learned them
from a map in a book that the parson had loaned
her. Durham seemed the end of the world one way,
but t'other way was the even greater city of
Newcastle, and it was surrounded by villages,
with names like Gosforth, Jesmond, and
Lemington. She liked the sound of the names; she
had a different picture in her mind for each one.
Billy had told her about the towns that
bordered the river right down the south side to a
place called Shields from where the sea opened
out and covered a great expanse of the earth.
Billy said it was a wonderful sight and, one of
these days, he said, he would take her down on
a Sunday river trip.
She didn't hold much to Billy's
promises because he never seemed to have any
money, for whatever he had he spent at the inn
in the village. And when he couldn't go to the inn
he was very testy. Often on these occasions she had
given him the penny that her granny gave her
back when she handed her the shilling she had received
for sitting for the picture.
It was at times like this when the urge came upon
her that she thought of the travellers and wondered
what had happened to them. A big fair, she
knew, came to Newcastle every year, and there were
little ones an' all in between; but she knew none of
them would be Mr Travers's company, for each
fair had what it called its circuit, and there
was always trouble if anyone crossed into another
man's. She could remember vaguely a big disturbance when a troupe from a foreign
country had set up on one of Mr
Travers's sites.
Sighing deeply, she turned to the bench and the
rabbit skin and, taking up a hammer and a few
tacks, she nailed it to a board.
A short while ago she had thought it was a
beautiful day, and it being so she should feel
nice, but she didn't feel nice: she
didn't like this rushing, churning, urging inside of
her, it made her discontented. And then there was the
parson: he was going to be married and she knew
she wasn't going to like his wife.
It wasn't a nice day. Even though she was
down here with the painter, it wasn't a nice day.

The restlessness of the day had crept into the
night. She was sitting with her knees drawn
up under her on the pallet, looking out through the
open hatch. The full moon was low in the sky
and hazy; there was a feeling of storm in the air,
and when it came it would likely be heavy for
they'd had no rain for the past three weeks.
She was still in her day clothes except for her
boots and stockings; it was no use lying down for she knew she wouldn't sleep, her mind was too
active, and strangely she didn't want to go
out.
What did she want?
She looked at the words in her mind as if
they had been spoken by someone else and she bowed
her head because she knew the answer but felt too
shy to voice it, even to herself. And even if she
had voiced it she wouldn't have been able to say that
she wanted company, someone of her own age or
thereabouts to walk with, someone like Barney. She
liked Barney, if she liked any of them,
yet she kept telling herself he was still the son
of the mister and missis and neither of them was nice,
so how could he really be nice. And yet he
was; he was nice to her. And last Christmas
he had slipped her a handkerchief. And she still
had it; she hadn't used it, it was in the box on
the floor in the corner over there. It was the first
present she had received since she left the
company, the first from those on the farm. She had
four books, though, which were all her own and which the
parson had given her.
What's to become of me? There was the voice
in her head again. But there was no answer in her mind,
except that some part of her refuted the idea that
she would spend the rest of her life on this farm.
The haze had left the moon now and the land
looked bright and beautiful, almost like daylight.
... Bright enough to practise the knives.
No sooner had the thought come to her than she
twisted around on the pallet and crawled two
paces on her knees over the wooden floor
and, reaching out, picked up a pair of rope
sandals. These were what her granny had made for
her. Her granny was good with the rope; she could
make mats and things. The sandals had a thick
sole of plaited rope, with a band to hold the
toes and a larger one to go over the ankle. Two
pieces of rope were attached to the heel. These
came round the ankle and held the sole in
place. They were light on the feet and she often
wore them at night like slippers.
Having put on the sandals, she now picked
up the middle whip of the three that were lying on
top of the box at the foot of her bed. Then on
her knees again, she reached to where the knife
belt lay rolled up and, extracting two
knives from it, she stuck them in two roughly made rabbit-skin sheaths and pushed them down the
band of her skirt. Lastly, she pulled her
black hooded cloak from a nail in a beam
and, putting it on, she poked her head slowly
through the hatch, looking first to right then the left.
Because the moon was low this side of the cottage was
in deep shadow and she knew she could be
unobserved while going down the ladder; but once
away from the cottage she would be in open ground
until she reached the wall. She guessed it was
close on twelve o'clock and in consequence there was
very little likelihood of any occupant of the farm
being awake, with the exception perhaps of Dan, for
they all had to rise at five o'clock.
And she had no fear now of meeting up with the
rum-runners, for since the business in the
graveyard they had taken another route. But
she was wary of meeting a poacher or a tramp:
sometimes a road tramp passing through made off
with a chicken.
Having reached the wall she bent low and hugged
it until, the field dropping into a hollow,
she was lost to the cottage and the farm buildings as
a whole.
She stopped now and drew in a long breath of the cooling night air. It was
wonderful to be out again. It must be all of nine
months since she last took a midnight
walk. That had been in the autumn. The air
had been crisp and there was a wind that had caused
the clouds to race across the moon. And she had
raced too. Like a wild March hare she had
run hither and thither over the bottom field.
And then she had lain on the earth and laughed
to herself. But after that night she had questioned whether it
was a normal thing to do and if there was something wild
in her that should be restrained? Because if anyone had
seen her they would have surely thought she was mad.
But she didn't feel mad tonight, in fact
she was feeling sad.
She came to the burn, but didn't go down
to it and put her feet in the water: her body
urge was for some form of activity; not the sort that
would make her run wild like a hare again, yet
one that demanded action, excitement, yes
excitement, something different to break the
monotony of her days and nights. At this
moment she even hoped she would come across a string
of the rum-runners again.
The moon had misted over once more and she would have to wait until it was clear before she started
throwing.
Her step slowed before she entered the wood: she
was questioning herself again, asking if this wasn't as mad
a thing to do as what had happened on the autumn
night last year; in fact, in a way more mad,
throwing daggers at an oak tree in the
moonlight. What if her granny got to know?
This question raised a slight titter inside of
her. She could even hear her granny crying,
"They'll have you locked up, girl. They'll have
you locked up." And yes, they did lock people
up for doing odd things: if you were considered
unnormal they tied you up and put you in the
madhouse with chains round your ankles.
The thought brought her to a stop within the deep
shadow of the wood. Eeh! she'd better go
back. She had been mad to come out anyway;
if she came across a tramp even her whip
wouldn't save her because some of the tramping men were
hefty. They weren't really tramps, just
hungry men who couldn't get work. And they were
known to come this road on their way to the city.
Well, not exactly this road, not through the
wood, they travelled by the coach road or the bridle-path.
But anyway, if she went back now without
doing anything she'd just feel the same and might
as well have never come out, and as she had got this
far she would have one or two throws. There was no
harm in it. And what was more, she liked throwing the
knives even better than practising with the
whip. You needed more skill throwing the knives.
There was an open space around the big oak and
in the spring it was covered with the remaining acorns
that lay on the winter leaves that had been mulched
into a carpet by the feet of the wood animals as
they emptied the acorns. But now, at the
height of summer, the ground round the oak was
almost bare and the great trunk of the oak was clean
except where it was shadowed by some stunted holly
and brush that grew between its roots. These caused
a shadow over the lower part of the trunk but where she
would aim for was now lit by the low full moon.
As she came off the narrow path and rounded a
bank of low scrub she put her hand under her
cloak and withdrew a knife from its sheath. Then
taking up a similar stance to that which she had seen
her father assume so often, she half closed her
eyes, lifted her arm, bent her wrist back, and let the knife go.
The scream that rang through the wood almost
lifted her clear from the ground. Her mouth wide
open, her eyes staring out of her head, she now
saw two figures spring from the foot of the
oak, stand for a moment transfixed before
apparently grovelling on the ground, then flying
in opposite directions as if through the air.
One she took to be a woman who was still
screaming, the other a man, whose legs looked
starkly white and who was, as far as she could
make out, wearing only his shirt.
It was some seconds before she was brought to herself
through the pain in her hand. She was clutching a
briar bush and all she could say to herself was,
"Eeh! did I hit them? Eeh! did I
hit them?"
After a moment spent standing, gasping for breath,
she slowly approached the tree. There above her
head shone the handle of the knife. It was almost
six feet from the ground, and they had been lying
down. She couldn't have hit them. But that woman
screaming, she would have woken the neighbourhood
up, at least those down on Hudson's farm.
Reaching up, she pulled out the knife and quickly tucked it into the sheath in her
skirt band.
Scurrying now, she made her way out of the
wood; then almost bent double, she ran along by the
walls and the hedges until she came to the
hollow in the field below the cottage, and there,
dropping on to her knees, she gasped for
breath. And in this position there crept into her
mind the picture of the two people scrambling to their
feet, both half-naked, the woman with her
mouth wide open from which emitted the awful
screams, and the man whose hair seemed to be standing
on end, although it might have only been tousled.
As the picture presented her with a pair of
bare legs disappearing into the trees there passed
through her body a quiver that turned into a
muttering shudder which escaped her lips in the form
of a series of huh! huhs!.
When the sound grew louder she threw herself
face down into the grass, pressing her mouth
tight to the earth in an effort to stifle the
convulsions of laughter that were rocking her.
Presently, her body still shaking and aching, she
pulled herself round into a sitting position and
adjusted her cloak and the hood over her head, and she rocked herself gently.
Who had they taken her for? The devil? And
who were they anyway? She hadn't been able
to make out their faces because they had been so
distorted, only that the man must have had very thick
hair.
Oh dear me, she had a pain in her side.
Anyway, she felt better, not sad any more.
It had been worth going out. But eeh! what would
happen to the woman? She must have been
misbehaving because if she had been married she
wouldn't have needed to be carrying on under the oak
tree, would she now? And her yelling had given
her away. But perhaps she had got home without
being stopped. Eeh! she had screamed; it was
unearthly, like somebody coming up out of a grave.
But enough, she herself would be in a grave if
she didn't get back under the roof and quick. It
was a good job the moon had hazed over again.
Pulling herself to her feet, and again bent double,
she scurried up by the wall, then ran across the
open space to the corner of the house.
The shadows had moved now and because she knew that
the old ladder would no longer be quite so shielded
she cautiously put her head round the corner of the wall. And then it was she who almost
screamed, for there, standing at the foot of the ladder,
was the figure of a man looking upwards.
Unconsciously she gasped, and the sound
brought him around; then almost in a spring he was
standing beside her, towering over her. She had closed
her eyes and was waiting for a blow or the sneer of
Luke's voice or his arms coming about her, but it
was Barney's voice she heard saying, "What
do you think you're up to, Emma?"
"Oh! Barney." She opened her eyes.
"I ... I wa ... was"--she was stammering
now with relief--"I wa ... was just taking ...
I mean ... I ... I had just been for a str
... stroll."
"At this time of night!" His voice was a
hissing whisper.
And she answered, "It was very hot up there."
"Did you hear somebody scream a little while
back?"
Again she closed her eyes and it was some
seconds before she said, "I heard something but I
thought it was ... was an animal trapped like."
"That was no animal, I ... I thought it
could be you." "Me?" Her eyes were wide now as she
looked at him.
"Yes, you, out on one of your night
jaunts."
Barney had known she went out at nights and
he ... he hadn't split on her. Oh,
Barney was nice.
"How ... how did you know?"
"Oh, I knew; you're not the only one who
likes to wander."
"You never let on."
"I ... I didn't want to frighten you, or
stop you from having a little ... well, freedom,
sort of."
"Oh, Barney, thank you, thank you."
There was a silence between them, and for all they
stood in the shadow she could still make out his face.
His eyes were soft and kind and now his voice
came soft and kind as he asked her a question:
"Do you like me, Emma?"
She had no hesitation in answering, "Oh,
yes Barney I like you, I like you best of the
lot. I always have."
"You're only thirteen, Emma, and I'm
eighteen. I'm ... I'm ready for a wife. You understand, Emma?"
She did, and she didn't, so she remained
quiet, and he went on, "But ... but I'm
willin' to wait. I'm gona wait for you,
Emma. Do you understand?"
Her mouth was dry, she gulped in her
throat, gathered some spittle, wetted her
lips with it, then said, "You mean, till I'm
ready for courting like?"
"That's about it."
She felt warm, nice, protected; but that
was only for a moment. "Your mother?" she said.
"My mother can't rule me life, an' she
knows it, as does me da. I'll pick where
I want to."
"But she wouldn't have me here, she'd go mad."
"There's other farms in the world and I've got
a pair of hands on me. I know I'm no
scholar, not like your other friends the painter and the
parson, but I've me wits about me and could
always make a good living for us both. What do you
say, Emma?"
"I say, thank you, Barney."
His eyes were very bright, his lips were shining with
moisture, his head was moving from side to side in small movements, and his voice sounded thick as
he said, "It'll just be between us then, nobody
to know only you and me?"
"Yes, Barney."
He put his arms out now and when they came about
her and she was pressed close to him, her stomach
seemed to whirl upwards and lodge against her
throat. She felt she was going to choke; she
didn't know whether she was happy or afraid.
His mouth was on hers; the lips were closed, as
were hers, and they remained there for what seemed a
long time, long enough for the feeling of fear
to subside and a warm glow to take its place.
They were standing apart now and he said, "Go on,
get up that ladder, and no more night jaunts.
I've got to get back to old Dobbin."
"Is he bad?"
"Aye; I don't think he'll see the
night out, he's had his day. He's twenty
gone and he's been worked out. That's what they do
on farms, Emma, they work you out. But they're
not going to work me out, and they're not going to work you
out. I'll see to it."
He leaned forward now and looked round the
corner; then taking her hand, he drew her to the foot of the ladder.
When she had mounted it and was about to go through the
hatch she looked down at him, and he smiled
up at her and raised his hand.
A few minutes later she was lying on the
pallet bed staring at the rafter that sloped
steeply over her head. She had wanted
adventure, something to happen, and it had
happened. She was named. Barney had named her.
Somehow it didn't matter about the parson
getting married now, at least not so much.

Emma had come to the end of the last milking for the
day. She lifted her head from the soft belly
of the brown cow, sat still for a moment on the stool,
let out a sigh that spoke of weariness,
swivelled round and was about to rise and pick up
the wooden bucket when her attention was caught
by the sight of the missis standing in the opening of the cow
byres talking to her husband who had just been
leaving the byres with a pail in each hand. The
missis had on her Sunday bonnet and her
black beaded Sunday cape which she wore when
she went visiting; and this wasn't often, but today
she had been into Gateshead Fell and had apparently stopped in the village on her
return for now she was saying, "I tell you the
village is agog with it. Midnight they say
when she came screaming down the road. Woke
up the Turnbulls and they are some distance from her
cottage, which is yon side of the graveyard.
In fact, as Ann Turnbull said, she thought
the dead had risen. Anyway it brought the
parson out. He was in his study writing. Miss
Wilkinson says he's sometimes there till one
o'clock in the morning. She spluttered to the parson
... I mean Peggy MacFarlane did, that
she had seen the devil and he had thrown a
dagger at her and just missed her heart. He was
of a great height with horns and was black from head
to foot."
"She must have been drunk."
"No, she wasn't, not Peggy
MacFarlane."
"Then she's going off her head. Anyway,
what did she want traipsing out at that time of
night for? And her man's away, isn't he?"
"Aye; he's drovin' some cattle down for
Hudson and Crosby."
"Aye, so he is ... Crosby ... so he is. Well now, what did she
want out at that time of night, I ask you? And
up near the Openwood, you say? Oh! oh!"
The farmer now laughed. "I'd like to bet Eddy
'Farlane's aware what she gets up to when
he's out of the way an' managed to slip back
and take a shot at her. And I don't
blame him."
"Well, there could be something in that, but I
don't think so, 'cos he's been gone over
two days, and if he had been back here
somebody would have spotted him. He'd have a job
to hide himself, would Eddy MacFarlane, the
size he is. Anyway, she's in a state
an' she says the knife was as big as a spear
and it shone in the moonlight, an' when she ran
the devil ran after her an' tried to catch her.
But as soon as she reached the churchyard wall and
clung on to it he disappeared, he couldn't come
near holy ground."
At this Emma swung herself round on the
milking stool again and once more her head was
pressed against the warm belly of the cow, but now
her hand was tight across her mouth. Eeh! the
devil; and a knife as big as a spear; and the devil chasing her to the churchyard wall. When
she lifted her face up it was wet. Quickly
drying it on her apron and now assuming a
solemn look, she rose and picked up the
bucket of milk and went down the byres. The
farmer and his wife were still talking and they had
to move to one side to let her pass; but she was
stopped by Dilly Yorkless suddenly stretching
out her hand and touching the bucket and, her thoughts
back to the business of the day, she said, "That from
Primrose?"
"Yes, missis."
"It's down, isn't it?"
"Yes, a bit, missis."
"Haven't been stuffing yourself, have you?"
Emma straightened her weary back and
looked straight at her mistress as she said,
"I never touch the new milk; I don't like it
warm, never have."
"Go on with you, and no backchat."
Emma went on and the farmer's wife's words
followed her, saying, "Getting too big for
her boots, that 'un. Wants taking down a
peg, and I'll see to it, surely I will.
..." Later that evening, Lizzie had
hardly put down on the table the dish of
mutton stew that she had brought from the house before
she said, "Something going on in the village; her
ladyship came in full of it. You know Peggy
MacFarlane, the drover's wife, who
lives in the cottage down in the dip yon
side of the church? Well, she's supposed to have
seen the devil last night. And what I say
is, it's about time he paid her a visit an'
all; the antics she gets up to when her
man's away. Anyway," Lizzie
chuckled, "whoever the devil was he was up to her
capers. I wonder who her partner in crime was
this time? Hudson, while supposedly on his
last rounds? Or it could be that son of his,
Anthony, for he's a spark all right. It could
even be Joe Mason; he thinks he's got
enough charm to kill, does Joe. Not satisfied
with knocking his beasts on the head, he serves
them over his counter with a smile on which you could
slide. Oh, it could be anyone of them. ...
What you doing up there? Washing yourself away?"
It was a moment before Emma turned from the tin
dish and said, "I'm coming, Granny." Quickly now, she dried her hands on the
towel, wondering as she did so what Barney
would make of the news. Would he be bright enough to put
two and two together and make four? He just could,
because he had his wits about him, wits enough to make
him pass her a number of times the day without a
word. Only once had he looked at her, and
then his gaze was soft and had a kindly
message.
As she went to the table she wished she could
tell her granny. Oh she did; she wanted
to have a good laugh.

She had a good laugh the next morning. She
was somewhat late arriving at the cottage; the
missis had been in a funny temper and had
kept her at it until the last minute. Ten
o'clock was the time she was supposed to be at the
cottage and at half past nine the missis
had come into the dairy and complained that the pans
hadn't been scrubbed properly; she said there
had been stale cream on one of the rims.
Emma knew that was a lie: she couldn't have
left stale cream on one of the rims because she
always ran her hand round it when she finished, and if it wasn't absolutely smooth
she went over it again. So it was almost on ten before
she left the farm, and she'd hardly had time
to tidy herself up, and she had run all the way
and was panting for breath when she reached the back
door.
She knew the parson was here because his trap was
in the road, and so she went into the kitchen very
quietly.
She paused a moment to get her breath and was
pushing back the hair that had escaped from her
cap when the two figures appeared in the
kitchen doorway. It was as if they had been
waiting for her. And she was a little startled by their
manner.
It was Mr Bowman who spoke first.
"Ah-ha!" he said; "what have we here? A young
lady or a demon? Come here, miss."
He was beckoning with an outstretched arm and
slow-moving forefinger, but as she moved towards him
her eyes rested on the parson who had his head
bowed and his chin pulled into his stiff white
collar; and his eyes were turned up, almost
seeming to disappear beneath his eyebrows in a questioning
manner. He looked very funny. But when she neared them it was Mr Bowman who said in a
deep voice, "Emma Molinero, what have you
got to say for yourself?"
They both now backed away from her into the
living-room, and after hesitating a moment she
followed them, her teeth tight pressed down
on her lower lip, her head thrust forward. And
now she was staring at the slabs on the stone
floor, unconsciously taking in the fact that
they weren't very dirty and would just need to be washed
this morning and not scrubbed, as the weather had been
so dry there was no mud marks to be got off.
"Come here, Emma."
The parson was now sitting down on the chair
by the window, and when she was standing in front of him,
their faces on a level, he asked
quietly, "What have you got to tell us,
Emma?"
She looked from the parson up to the painter and,
her voice very small, she said, "You mean about
the devil?"
"About the devil, Emma," the parson said,
"about the devil. He was dressed all in
black and threw a spear at a defenceless
woman." Her teeth dragged in her lip again
and, her head bending further down now, she
muttered, "It was very hot and I went out for a
walk." Her head jerking up now, she looked
at the parson, adding quickly, "I hadn't done
it for a long, long time." Then her glance taking
in the painter as well, she said, "I ... I
wanted to do something ... well, not just walk. I
don't know." She shook her head.
"Anyway, it being a bright moonlight night,
I thought I could practise throwing the knives.
I don't get much chance otherwise and they
remind me of Dada. They sort of bring him
back because"--again her gaze was centered on the
parson--"he gets dim in me mind. I can't
remember what he looked like at times. But when
I touch the knives or the whip he comes
back, and so I ... I took a couple of
knives and went into the wood, and I just threw
one." Her mouth opened wide now, her eyes
stretched, and she made a gasping sound in her
throat as she looked at the painter who had
dropped on to his hunkers by the side of the
parson. They seemed almost as one, and now she was
spluttering as she said, "I'd ... I'd hardly thrown it, it just left me hand, and ...
and I didn't hear it hit the tree 'cos she
yelled. An' then they were all mixed up
scrambling around, and ... and then they ran
dragging their clothes. ..." Her voice
trailed away on the word clothes; she couldn't
go on to tell about the man with bare legs.
Her head was down, her body was shaking when
two pairs of arms came round her and she was
clasped between the parson and the painter, and their
combined laughter filled the room.
When she was standing alone again the painter was
sitting on the floor, his head almost between his
knees, and the parson was rubbing his face
vigorously with a handkerchief, and he muttered,
"Oh, Emma, Emma, what are we going to do
with you? You have caused the devil to walk, and ...
and after all, though I say it, it may not be such
a bad thing, my congregation may swell on
Sunday." Then impulsively he reached out and
caught her hand and, his voice changing, he
added, "Oh, Emma, in more ways than one you
bring brightness into life."
"That I endorse," said the painter getting
to his feet. "That I endorse. And come, let's drink on it, eh? Tea,
Emma, and I'll see if there's something left
in the bottle to strengthen it. All right! All
right!" He now nodded towards the parson. "You
can have it plain, but I like mine polished."
She was running back into the kitchen, only
to be stopped at the door by the painter's voice
calling, "The man, Emma, did you see
him?"
"Oh yes, I saw him, Mr Bowman."
"Would you know him again?"
She thought a moment, then shook her head,
saying, "No; only his hair."
"His hair?"
"Aye, it was very thick. Well, I mean it
seemed to stand up from his head a long way and
looked light, not white, not old hair, just
light."
"Huh! That's a very good description,
Emma."
As she went into the kitchen she heard the
painter say, "Not old, light and thick,
describes our neighbour Hudson's head.
What do you say, Henry?"
And she heard the parson's voice answering jovially, "I would say you have an artist's
eye, Ralph. Thick and fair and standing
straight up. ... I bet it was standing straight
up. What do you think?"
Again there was laughter, rollicking and deep
now; and then she heard the parson say a
strange thing: "I shouldn't be in the church,
Ralph, not with my mind. I shouldn't be in the
church."
No laughter followed this, but the painter said,
"That's another thing I endorse, Henry, and
wholeheartedly."
As she made the tea she wondered if the
parson hadn't been a parson, what he would have
been. She couldn't put a trade to him. But
still, if he hadn't been a parson she would never
have met him, and if she had never met him that would
have been a great miss in her life, even if
he was going to be married.

Routine is subject to the weather, it is
lengthened or shortened by it. Now at the beginning
of December the cock didn't crow so early,
the hens didn't lay so early, pigs grunted
later, the horses didn't neigh for their first
drink of water before the light showed; only the
cows seemed to be indifferent to the seasons, and
at times their bags were painfully full
to overflowing before they were relieved.
The farm didn't waken till six o'clock
during late autumn and early winter. Even with
this respite the pallet dragged at Emma.
She would descend the ladder in the bleak
flesh-shrinking mornings and have to grope towards the
table for the candle and the matches because her granny
wouldn't allow her a candle up in the roof, it
would be too dangerous. Often she would find her
granny curled up like a ball under the blanket and the sheepskin mat and it would take a
great deal to waken her. Sometimes she let her
lie until she had the fire going and a cup of
hot milk ready. They didn't often have tea;
it was only at Mr Bowman's that tea seemed
to flow like water in the burn, always there when you
needed it.
But this morning Lizzie was up and dressed and
had the fire going. They didn't usually
exchange more than a sentence or two in the
early morning, but this morning, Lizzie,
pointing to a tin dish which was set before the stool in
front of the fire, said, "Put your foot in
that; it's a bit hot, but the hotter the
better."
"But it's all right, Granny, it's healed
over."
"You were limping last night."
"Well, it's just a bit sore on the
scab."
"It was a rusty spike, wasn't it?"--her
granny's voice was harsh now--"and near the
big toe, and anything near a big toe or a
thumb can cause lock-jaw. Put your foot
in there and do what you're told." Although the hole pierced in the sole
of her foot by the nail which had also pierced her
boot had healed over, it was, as she said, still
sore. And so she was warmed by her granny's
concern. She was also warmed right through by the hot
water covering her foot and to add to it she put
her other foot in the dish; as she did so
looking up at her granny through the candlelight
and saying, "No use wastin' good hot water."
Lizzie made no reply to this light jest
but, going to the fire, she took off the black
iron pan full of porridge and ladled
half a dozen dollops into a bowl, and after
pouring some milk on to it she handed it, together with a
wooden spoon, to Emma, saying, "You sitting
for a picture for him these days?"
"No; he hasn't done any painting for
weeks, not since his cough got bad again. He
sits over the fire most of the time." She
stopped abruptly because she knew that her
granny knew he sat over the fire most of the
time, because she sometimes slipped up there at
nights. But apparently he didn't tell her
what he did during the day, and she hadn't had
the extra shilling for some time now. Emma's mind went to the niche in the rafters
where the little bag of sovereigns lay, and she
felt guilty and somewhat mean. What could she
do with the money? She couldn't even buy a
ribbon, and oh, at times how she longed for a
new hair ribbon! Her desire didn't
range as far as a bonnet or a coat, new
clothes were something that were bestowed on the children of the
gentry; or on Mary Haswell, or on
Miss Kathleen Hudson, Farmer
Hudson's granddaughter, they seemed to be
dressed in different clothes twice a year.
"'Tisn't going to be an all-day job."
Her granny brought her thoughts back to the
present and so she hurriedly wiped her feet,
then reached out to the fender where she had laid her
stockings and boots to warm. She put them on
before she started on her breakfast.
Ten minutes later she began her day's
work, and the only comfort during the following four
hours of grind before she made her way to Mr
Bowman's was the warmth in the cow byres and in the
chicken run.
She was limping quite a bit when she arrived at
the back door of the cottage, and she was surprised when she entered the kitchen
to hear voices coming from the living-room. The other
one she recognized immediately as that of the parson,
and the absence of his gig outside pointed to him
having walked. Twice recently she had seen
him walking, but at a distance.
She couldn't hear exactly what he was
saying until she unwound the woollen scarf that
covered the hood of her cape, when his voice
sounded clear in her ears as he said, "I know
it's for the best yet I feel guilty. Part of
me though is relieved; but the greater part of me
feels disappointment, rejection and not a little
foolish."
"Best thing that could have happened." It was Mr
Bowman's voice, thick and husky as he
went on, "I told you at the beginning, and it
would have been a catastrophe if it had gone
through. You're well out of it, and she was wise
to realize this. ... Man, she stuck out like a
sore thumb. If you were so badly in need of a
wife far better you had taken Miss
Wilkinson because she's been apprenticed to the
job for years, she would have fitted your situation
like a glove and ...." "Don't be silly, Ralph. To me
Miss Wilkinson is a spinster lady of
uncertain years. She's almost forty if a
day."
"Well, what's ten or eleven years between
friends?" The painter began to cough now, and the
parson said, "You should get away from here,
Ralph, the air's too harsh."
"Yes, I should. ... Yes I should." The
words were said between gasps. "And if pigs and
paupers could fly, I'd be away tomorrow."
"I wish I could help."
"You do, you do, more than you know. Oh yes, more
than you know, Henry. Anyway, I'm not
worried, I've got over worse spells
than this. And I don't intend to die, not for a
long time."
"Have you had the doctor recently?"
"Yes, Henry, I've had the doctor
recently, and he assures me it's not the
consumption; bronchial tubes and other bits of
odds and ends stopped up, that's all. Once
we get the winter over they'll all empty.
It's as simple as that."
"Nothing's simple." "Well, perhaps you're right, except
perhaps the truth when one is honest enough to face up
to it. And I can tell you this, Henry: you face
up to the truth in yourself and you'll find you're
damned glad to have escaped."
She had by now put on a clean apron,
smoothed the front of her hair from her forehead,
taken off her muddy boots and put on her
rope sandals, and all done quietly. But now
she clattered the pan in the bottom of the dish that
was standing on the little table, and the painter's voice
came from the other room saying, "That you,
Emma?"
The next minute the parson was looking at
her through the kitchen door. He did not speak
immediately; when he did his voice sounded ordinary
as he said, "Nasty morning, Emma."
"Yes, Parson; where the ice has thawed
on the road it's very muddy."
"I found it so."
She smiled at him. It was a smile of
greeting, it was as if he had returned from being
away for a long time: she was seeing him now as she
had seen him before the threat of marriage hung
over him, or over her. She couldn't work it out; she only knew she was glad that young woman
wasn't coming into the parish, and into his life.
She must have given him the push. Well, whichever
one had done it, she was glad.
She walked towards him now and he moved
aside to allow her to enter the room. Going
straight up to Ralph Bowman, she stood in
front of him, saying, "How are you today, Mr
Bowman?"
"As you see me, Emma. As you see me."
"I've a message for you from Billy."
"A message for me from Mr William
Proctor? Well! well! Let me hear
it."
"Well"--she nodded her head towards him--
"he says you could be rid of your cough within a
week or so if you rubbed your chest every night with
goose fat and sucked some houghhound, or put
it in some hot water and drank it."
"Well now. Well now. Is that a
fact?"
"That's what Billy says. And it's worth
tryin', houghhound's cheap enough, and I could get
you the goose fat."
"What do you think of that, Henry?" The painter was looking up at the parson,
and Henry said, "Sounds a very sensible cure
to me, especially the houghhound, for I think
you've already tried the goose fat."
"Not for a long time--couldn't be bothered--but this
combination sounds very good. Henry, the next time
you're in Gateshead Fell, for I don't
suppose the village shop would stock it, you
could get me some houghhound. Houghhound ginger that's
the term, isn't it, houghhound ginger?" He
appealed to Emma.
"Yes"--she was nodding at him now--
"houghhound ginger, or houghhound candy, it's the
same thing."
"Talking of cures, Emma, how's your
foot?"
"Oh, it's nearly better, Mr Bowman,
thanks."
"Emma trod on a rusty nail. It went
through the sole of her boot." Ralph Bowman
was again looking at Henry, and he, all concern,
turned to Emma, saying, "I thought you were
limping. Have you had it seen to?"
"Oh aye. Yes. It's all healed.
It's just when I step on it at the side like .... Shall I make some tea?" She had
spoken to Ralph Bowman again and he said,
"Yes, Emma, make some tea."
While she busied herself filling the kettle
and preparing the tray for the tea her ears were alert
to the conversation in the next room, but it didn't
bring her to a stop until she heard the
parson's voice low and angry-sounding saying,
"Utter scandal, the way they have her working on that
farm, and she but a child."
And now Mr Bowman's voice answering,
"I agree with you in part, but you know, Henry,
what's escaping you and has escaped me till
recently is that our Emma is no longer a
child; at times she is even no longer a little
girl. The last picture I did of her, which
is all of seven months ago now, even then
I saw the young woman emerging. In a couple
of years' time she could be married."
"Oh no! No!" The words sounded vehement.
"Oh, yes, yes. There's three hefty
fellows on that farm and you can't tell me that
they've closed their eyes to her. Henry, you go
around with your head in the clouds and your eyes on
the stars, you don't see what's below your nose."
"That isn't right, and you know it. I'm no star
gazer, Ralph, and I know what goes on under
my nose, only too well, and that has made
me uneasy, so uneasy that I am every day questioning
my position. I've told you before I feel
I'm in the wrong job so to speak. But as for
Emma being fit for marriage in two years.
... No!"
"Oh, Henry." There was a long pause now
before the painter went on, "You've always seen
Emma through coloured glass. She's a woman
in the making and, let me tell you, she's going
to be a very disturbing woman. As for not being ready
for marriage, what about the latest stir in the
village with your little Nell Highpen, fourteen
years old and about to give birth, and they don't
know whether it's her father or her brother or one
of the customers from The Tuns from whom she was seen
begging pennies. ..."
"There's a difference between that poor child and
Emma. Emma has intelligence, she can read
and write, better I should imagine than any
of the children of the gentry, better I do know than
John and Peter Fordyke. I've seen their hand with the pen, and their mother's too, and she a lady
in her own right. That kind of thing will not happen
to Emma, except ... except ...."
"Yes, Henry?"
"Well, you know what I mean, unless it is
forced on her."
"And that could be. Yes, it well could be.
She thinks she's only got to carry that whip in
her waistband and she's protected from the devil
himself. But you let some determined big lout get
...."
"Be quiet, Ralph."
"All right. I'll be quiet. The only
thing I'll say is, the quicker she's married the
better for all concerned, Henry ... for all
concerned."
A deep silence followed this statement during
which Emma stood still near the table, her ears
strained towards the next room from which there came
no sound of movement, and she imagined that the two
men might be standing looking at each other.
For herself, she was looking out through the little window
into the bleak day and she was feeling slightly
indignant that these two friends of hers, and she
did class them as friends although one was her employer and the other a parson, should, in
a way, be arranging her life and that the only
escape they saw for her was through marriage and that
as soon as possible. Well, she wasn't
going to get married just to escape. ... But what
about Barney? She was promised to Barney. But
that wouldn't happen for a long time, well, not
until she was eighteen, or nineteen, or perhaps
twenty years old. ... Would Barney wait
that long? Barney had said he'd be quite willing
to wait until she was ready, and she would have to be
very ready before she married, 'cos it was a frightening
thing. She knew that already, yes a very frightening
thing, for Miss Wilkinson let her read some
of the Bible stories to the Sunday School
class now, and last week she read about the
Marriage at Cana. And afterwards, Kate
McGill collared her outside and started
telling her about what happened when their Mary
got married. They all worked on Mr
Crosby's farm and they'd had a big tea and
dance and great do's in the barn; then when they were
all rowdy they had carried both Mary and her
Tommy half a mile down the road to the
cottage and pulled their clothes off them and stuck them in bed together. But it didn't matter
because Tommy had been too drunk to do anything
to their Mary.
That was marriage.
She wanted none of it, not even with Barney.
She took the tray of tea into the room.
They were talking to each other now about the House of
Parliament up in London town and a Mr
Peel doing something about corn.
She returned to the kitchen and went about her
work, and decided it wasn't a nice morning
at all, and her foot was hurting her worse
than ever.

It was just turned twelve when she left the
cottage. The weather had worsened, the wind was
blowing now and there were specks in it. Her hands were
freezing. Her granny, she knew, was
knitting her some mittens for Christmas; she
wished she had them now.
She had left the bridle-path and was beginning
to cross the second field when she saw the
riders in the distance. There were two of them. The
hunt often crossed this way, but there was no
hunt on today that she knew of; they were just two men, she supposed, out for a gallop,
and they were galloping in her direction. She
kept on walking, hurrying now to where there was some
low scrub and an outcrop of rock, thinking that
they wouldn't come near that. The only reason she
wanted to be out of their way was that the horses
kicked up so much earth she would be spattered with
it.
When she reached the rocks she paused and
looked to the side. The riders seemed to have
changed their course and to be riding away from her;
then of a sudden they wheeled the horses about and
came galloping straight towards her, and she
gasped and was on the point of yelling when they
brought their horses to a skidding stop close to the
outcrop and almost to her side.
Looking up at the riders, she saw that they
were Masters John and Peter Fordyke from the
House; she had seen them in the hunt, and also the
time when they had accompanied their father to the farm.
But that was a good two years ago, and then they had
appeared like two young lads but now they looked like
young men. The elder must be all of seventeen,
if not more, and it was he who spoke to her, shouting
at her, "You're the girl from the farm, aren't you, Yorkless's?"
She nodded.
"I hear tell you're out of a circus?"
She made no answer to this.
"Have you lost your tongue?"
"No sire, I haven't lost my
tongue."
"Oh, she's alive." The elder turned his
head and looked at the younger rider who now
spoke, saying, "They said when you were little you used
to do fancy tricks with the whip. Can you still do
them?"
"Yes, if need be."
They both stared at her now while their
horses pawed the ground and tossed their heads.
What happened next was so sudden that she was
taken off her guard, for the older boy, flicking
his riding crop towards her, shouted, "Catch
that!"
The short lash flicked across her eyes and
her hand coming up swiftly grabbed at it, and as
the rider jerked at the other end of it the leather
seared the skin of her palm. But at the same
time it also revived in her the old flashing rage
and with the sudden twist of her wrist she caught hold of the lash and the next minute the
stock had been wrenched from the young man's hand, and
almost in one movement she swung it round and
towards his leather-booted leg. But such were her
feelings and the unbalanced stance she was placed in
because of her sore feet that she missed her aim
and the crop stung the animal's flank and the
next minute it was rearing on its hind legs,
only to plunge downwards, bringing its rider
toppling over its head.
There was a sickening thud, and her eyes
became fixed on the inert figure now lying between
the rocks. The younger man had dismounted and was
shouting unintelligible words; he had already
caught his brother's horse and tied it to a
stump of a tree. When he knelt down on the
ground beside his brother, Emma was still standing staring:
her life seemed to have stopped; she felt no
beat in her heart; a great dread had frozen
her body and fixed it to the ground; the only thing
that was left alive within her was her mind. She
had unseated the son of the House and he looked
dead.
"Help me to lift him!" The shout from the
younger boy brought life back into her and it jerked her forward.
Without hesitation she put her arms under the
shoulders of the prostrate figure and helped
to pull him clear of the outcrop of rock and on
to the flat muddy ground of the field. When he was
straightened out she stood with her back bent
looking down on the still form, watching the younger boy
shaking his brother gently while pleading,
"John! John! Come on, wake up."
When there was no answering movement to his
plea he turned and, staring up at Emma,
said, "You ... you see what you've done!
You've killed him. Go and get help. Go to the
farm and get help!"
Again the boy's command seemed to bring life
back into her and she was already racing over the
field. The mud, clogging her boots, impeded
her, and once she fell forward on to her hands but
was up again in a second. And she didn't
take the back way which would lead her first to the
cottage, she made straight for the farmyard
yelling, "Mister! Barney! Pete!"
She hadn't called Luke's name, but it was
he who appeared in the yard first, and she came
to a running stop a few yards from him and cried, "One of the young masters is hurt, they
want help. Fell off his horse, near the
crop stones in bottom field."
Jake Yorkless was by now looking down on
them from the hay loft and he shouted, "What is
it? What's the nuration?" And Luke answered
him, "Young master, he's had an accident. In
bottom field."
Jake now turned to Emma, demanding,
"What kind of an accident?"
"He ... he's hit his head; he hasn't
come round."
"Better take the old gate." Luke was
calling to his father as he ran towards the barn,
and Jake Yorkless, who had come down into the
yard, shouted after him, "Give Barney a
call. He's mending west fence, he'll hear
you through top loft."
"What is it? What's the nuration about?"
Dilly Yorkless was in the yard now, with
Lizzie behind her, and the farmer, thumbing in
Emma's direction, said, "She says young
master's been hurt: fell off his horse;
lying in the outcrop."
"Fell off his horse?" Dilly Yorkless looked at Emma, then said, "How did that
happen?"
Emma remained mute: they would know soon enough
and then the heavens would open above her.
"Well, answer me, girl. were you there or
weren't you?"
"I ... I was there." But she was saved from
going on further by Luke appearing in the yard
with the gate, for his father, taking hold of the other
side, said, "Well, let's get going. And
you"--he was nodding towards his wife now--"you'd
better come along. Bring a towel and things in
case they're needed."
Without further ado his wife turned and
hurried back into the kitchen; then reappeared
within seconds it seemed, her coat on, a
shawl over her head, and a bundle of towels
under her arm.
"Will I come an' all?" It was Lizzie
asking the question, and Dilly Yorkless answered
abruptly, "Can't see the need, and there's
plenty to do inside. As for you!" She nodded at
Emma. "Get about the day's business; you've
wasted enough time as it is."
The yard empty, Lizzie looked at Emma, saying now, "You're as white
as a sheet, girl. What happened?"
Before she could answer, Barney came running
into the yard calling to Lizzie, "Something wrong?
What's our Luke yelling about?"
"There's been an accident to the young master of the
House, so I understand. He's down in the
bottom field among the outcrop. They want
you down there."
"Oh. Bad?"
"I know nothin' about it. Emma here has just
brought the news."
"Is he bad, Emma?"
Her mouth opened to say, "I don't know,"
but there was a great heave in her stomach and she
turned from him and ran towards the cowshed wall
and, leaning her head against it, vomited.
Barney made to go towards her, but Lizzie
stopped him, saying, "I'll see to her; you'd
better get along with the rest, they need four
hands on a gate."
"What is it?" Lizzie was speaking
quietly now as she bent over Emma, and
Emma, lifting her apron from between the folds of
her coat, wiped her mouth and, looking at Lizzie, all she could say was, "Oh!
Granny; I ... I did it."
"What!"
"He ... he went to hit me with his crop for
no reason, and I grabbed it. ... Look"--
she held out her hand--"it burned it, so ... so
I pulled it from his hand but ... but--" She put
her hand over her mouth as if she were going to retch
again, then finished in a rush, "I missed me
aim, I ... I lost me balance 'cos of
me bad foot; I went for his leg and I hit
the horse and it up-ended and threw him."
"In the name of God!"
Lizzie groaned aloud now; then taking
Emma's arm, she said, "Come on into the
house." And like that she took her through the yard and
to the cottage.
When Emma was seated shivering before the
banked-down fire, Lizzie, looking at
her, said slowly, "Trouble seems to follow you,
girl, as the sparks fly upwards. What'll
be the outcome of this only God knows. You and
those whips! I'll burn 'em. I will, so
help me God! I'll burn 'em. And what
if he dies? Child"--she bent right down to her-- "what have you done? And to the son of the
House. My God! It's well Fordyke
doesn't own this farm or else him and her and the
rest of them and you and me together would be out on the
road this very day. But you ... it's more than
likely they'll see you on the road, me
girl, after this business. Nothing I could say will
change their tune concerning you from now on. I can
bet me last halfpenny on that. And where will you
go, she won't give you a reference for
service? There'll only be the pits, and
likely you're too big to go down there now,
it's the little 'uns they're after. Oh God!"
She began to pace the room now, her hands to her
head, and all the while Emma sat staring at the
dull embers of the fire.
Her mind was racing. She already knew what
she would do if she was sent away; she would find
the company and join them. But her granny's
next words shattered that hope as if it had been
struck by lightning, and, as lightning sears, so was
her brain seared by the words: "If he dies,
they could hang you, girl. That, or at best
send you to Botany Bay, you're not too young for
that, or put you in the house of correction for life. Oh! God in heaven, why am I
to suffer this? All my life I've been
plagued: work and disaster, that's all I've
known, and a love that turned sour. ..." She
caught herself up on the last words; then slowly
coming back up the room she stood before Emma
again and quietly now she said, "Stay put here.
One or t'other of them should be back shortly,
likely her. I'll stand the brunt of it before
they get at you, and I'll pray to God, and you
do, too, that he's still alive."

It seemed to Emma an eternity of painful
lifetimes until at three o'clock when, going to the
cottage door for the countless time, she heard the
commotion in the yard and knew they were all back.
She heard the missis's voice raised high;
then her granny's voice even higher; but she
couldn't make out what they were saying, yet the
substance of it she knew only too well.
Standing against the stanchion, she pressed her head
back and closed her eyes tight while her
joined hands were gripping the front of her
dress.
Her eyes sprang wide when she heard the steps coming round the side of the house and
when Barney appeared she let out a long
shuddering breath.
Quickly he came to her and, standing against the
opposite stanchion, he said, "'Tis all
right, he came round. He was concussed and his
head split open at the back, but he'll
survive. 'Tis all right, 'tis all right,
don't cry. Oh, Emma, don't cry;
you've been through enough. What did he do to you?"
She couldn't speak because of the enormous lump
clogging her throat, and he went on, "His
brother said you struck out at him with a crop."
Spluttering and choking and her head moving up
and down, she muttered, "It was hissen. He
brought it across my face and ... and I grabbed
it." She held out her hand and showed him the weal.
It had turned blue now and there were two parts
where the skin was broken and the blood was oozing through.
"I ... I pull ... pulled it out of his hand
and went to ... to ...."
"'Tis all right, don't distress yourself
any more. But you've got to face up to it,
they'll likely send for you."
"Who?" The question came from high in her head. "Them up at the House; they are not the kind
to pass it over. But you stand up for yourself. Do you
hear? Stand up for yourself. ... I've got to go
now."
As quickly as he had come he disappeared around
the side of the house, and within seconds her
granny came from the other direction, and all
she said was, "One thing, you've been saved from
the gallows. But don't think you'll get off
scot-free; if she never had it in for you afore,
she's got it in for you now, and somethin' to hang
on to. Anyway, go on and get about your work.
Keep out of sight if you can. I've told her
what'll happen if she lays a hand on you, so
you needn't be afraid of that. But I don't
know which is the worse, her hand or her tongue,
and that's gona flay you if I know her. Still,
don't answer back. There's only one thing
I hope." Lizzie nodded to herself and finished
on a private note as she said, "I hope
God lets me live long enough to see me day with
them. That's all I pray for."



Three days later she was summoned to the
House. The message was brought by a groom,
by word of mouth. Riding into the yard, he looked
down disdainfully on the farmer's wife as he
said, "Your girl, one Emma Crawshaw, is
to be at the Hall at eleven o'clock this
morning." And on this he turned away, having
showed more arrogance than his master might have done.
Almost joyfully, Dilly Yorkless took
the message to Lizzie. Without preamble, she
said, "She's for it. They want her up there at
eleven o'clock."
Lizzie rose from her knees where she had
been scrubbing the short stone passage leading from
the kitchen into the hall and, drying her hands, she
said, "Aye, well, she'll need company, and
she's having mine."
"Oh, no she's not!"
"But oh, yes she is. She's not goin' up
there alone to be eaten alive."
"If anybody's goin', I'll go with
her." "No, you won't. You're no kin to her,
you've got nothing to do with her."
"I'm her mistress. That's kin enough in the
circumstances." Dilly Yorkless ground her
teeth together as she looked at her lifelong
opponent; then she ended weakly but harshly,
"If you insist on leaving your work I'll go and
tell Jake."
"Do that. Do that." Lizzie picked up the
bucket, went to the side door and threw the
slops into the yard; then placing the empty
bucket to the side of the door, she looked again
at her mistress, saying, "Yes, do that. And
tell him to come and try and stop me. Do that,
Dilly." And on this she went out and walked
steadily across the yard. But once clear of it,
she scampered towards the chicken runs where she
knew Emma would be at this time of the morning, and
opening the door she knew a moment's sadness as
she saw the thin figure of her granddaughter
scraping the hen droppings from the top of the egg
boxes over which ran the roosting barks.
Emma was using the scraper so hard that she
hadn't heard the door open and not until her
granny's voice said, "Emma, you're wanted," did she turn and go towards
her.
"You've been called to the House. You've
got to be there for eleven. It's ten now; get
inside and give yourself a good wash and put on
your good frock." She was walking by the child's
side now and she added, "Don't worry,
I'm comin' along of you."
"You are, Granny?"
"Aye, I am."
"Oh, ta. I ... I'd be terrified on
me own."
"You'll be terrified in any case. I
don't suppose they'll let me into the
House. Still, we'll wait and see. ..."
Fifteen minutes later they left the farm.
They did not take the short cut along the
bridle-path but went by the coach road, and it was
five minutes to eleven when the lodge keeper
let them through the iron gates and they walked up
the drive, and for the first time they saw the frontage
of Head Hall. From a rise above the coach
road only the chimneys could be espied standing out
above the surrounding trees, but from here the House
was a monument of imposing stone, with a pillared front and turrets at one end.
Knowing better than to approach the House from
the front, Lizzie drew them to a stop for a
moment. To the left of her she saw a path
skirting a high hedge, the top of which had been
cut into the shape of birds, and she drew
Emma along it. As she had surmised it led
to the side of the courtyard.
Emma's life was mostly spent in the
farmyard and its surrounding buildings, and so she
gazed in amazement at this space which was four
times the size of the farmyard, with a whole row of
horse-boxes flanking one side, most of them
showing horses, their heads bobbing over the
half-doors. But her amazement at the size
of the yard was nothing to that as they entered the kitchen.
Her granny had knocked on the door and it
had been opened by a girl of Emma's own
size but dressed, oh so differently, for she was
wearing a light blue print dress, over which was
a stiff white bibbed apron, and over that a
waist apron of dark blue material. She
had a cap on her head that had a goffered
front, and under it her face was round and
red-cheeked. She smiled at them but it did nothing to reassure Emma, for here she
was standing in this wonderland of a room, and she could
count five people. They were all working, yet at the
same time they were all looking at her.
A cook spoke to them. She was of medium
height, round in the body, and her tone was not
unkindly as she said, "You can sit down there."
She pointed to a settle set back in the
fireplace alcove. Some form of meat was being
grilled above the large open fire. Then
turning to a young girl, she said, "You Lily,
go and tell Mrs Atkins they're here."
The cook now came and stood in front of
Lizzie, saying, "I can't offer you a sup of
anything 'cos you could be called any minute."
At any other time Emma would have loved a
sup of anything, but now she was feeling sick and
trembling inside. Yet she was taking in all
the things in this enormous kitchen, the beautiful
things: the shining pans, the great steel and brass
fender, the huge black oak dresser that
stretched into the far dimness of the room and which was
weighed down with china, all beautiful coloured
china. And then there was the ceiling of the kitchen. This
end of it seemed to be covered with bunches of herbs hanging from hooks, while further along
were other shapes which she couldn't quite make out. The
floor was stone, she saw, like the farm kitchen,
but this was clean as a new pin. And then she saw
why, all of them in the room were wearing
slippers.
Of a sudden she was on her feet, and her
granny too, for there, coming towards them, was a
black-dressed figure of a lady. Well,
she looked a lady.
After looking at Emma for a long moment, she
spoke to Lizzie, saying, "I'm Mrs
Atkins, the housekeeper. The master is ready
for her."
"Can't I come an' all?"
"No."
The thin trimly dressed woman turned
to Emma and said, "Come." And Emma, glancing
at her granny, hesitated. But then both the
housekeeper and her granny spoke together, the
housekeeper saying again, "Come," and her
granny muttering, "Go on."
She followed the housekeeper up the kitchen,
through a green-baized door into what looked like a
small hall with a lot of doors going off, and from one a young boy in a dark green
suit poked his head out and stared at her. Then
they were going through another door, and she was in a
big hallway in which two uniformed men were standing
and to her eyes they looked gaudy, like the men at
the fair dressed sometimes. The housekeeper
spoke to the taller one, her voice in a low
mutter, and he, bringing his gaze to bear on
Emma, let it rest there for a while before lifting
his hand and crooking his little finger, which seemed
to press his head back and bring his chin out.
Now she was walking just slightly behind the
imposing figure and having to suit her step
to his. They mounted a staircase that curved
round and which was so thickly carpeted that she could
feel the softness through the soles of her heavy
boots. And at the head of the stairs it was as if
the butler had been thinking about her boots for,
pausing, he brought his dignified gaze round and
on to her bonnet for a moment before it lowered itself,
seemingly against its better judgment, to her
feet. And there it rested for some seconds before it
caused him to take a sharp intake of breath.
Then again they were moving on down a corridor that
had windows on one side and marble heads of men on stands set between them; through another door,
along another corridor, and then they stopped.
As she watched the gingery-brown-clad arm
lift and knock twice on the door Emma
felt her knees were about to give way and her
mind gabbled a prayer: at that moment, the
worry that was churning her stomach wasn't so much
concerned with what was about to happen to her, but that she
wouldn't be sick on these lovely carpets.
The butler had opened the door and now was standing
aside with his hand on the knob, motioning her
inside.
Ten seconds could have been counted before she
crossed the threshold and when she heard the door
close behind her she jerked her head to the side,
but the grandly dressed man was no longer there.
She was staring wide-eyed at the occupants
of the room: she took in first of all the younger of the
two riders, then a man of medium height,
youngish but inclined to be stout. These two were both
standing, but sitting in a wheel-chair was a man with
white hair and a white moustache, and his face
looked thin and his body looked thin, what she
could make out of it, under the rug that was over his
knees. Part of her mind wondered why he needed a rug because the room was stifling;
yet in spite of this she was shivering.
"Come here." It was the plumpish man who
spoke, and now she walked slowly until she
was standing with her toes pointing towards the head of a
tiger, whose skin was set in front of the hearth like
a rug.
"Your name?"
"Emma Crawshaw."
The three pairs of eyes were fixed on her.
And then the man spoke again: "Do you know that you
nearly killed my son?" he said.
She gave no answer, but the man in the
wheel-chair made a sound like a grunt.
"If justice was being done, you'd be in court
this very morning being tried for your crime, but ...
but because my father-in-law considers your age we have
decided to treat you with some leniency." He now
looked down on the older man. But there was no
movement from the figure in the chair who continued
to stare at Emma, and so his son-in-law went
on, "We have brought you here to see what
punishment is fit for people who act like wild
animals and attack riders. ..."
"I never did." The words were loud and out before she could stop them,
and her chin, like the butler's, was thrust upwards.
And now having spoken, she repeated, "I never
did attack them ... he did me."
"You struck out with a crop and hit his
horse."
She was glaring at the youth now, and as if he
were an opponent who was her equal she cried
at him, "I had no crop of my own, 'twas
his. He brought it across my face and I
grabbed at the end and pulled it out of his hand."
"You mean to say that you grabbed the end of his
crop and pulled it out of my son's hand?" The
plump man had his head poked out towards her, and defiantly she answered him, saying,
"Yes, I do. And look, that's what happened
to me hand." She held the palm upwards and the
man's head came further forward as he looked
down on it through narrowed eyes. Then he turned
and looked at his son. Neither of them spoke, but
their heads were jerked round, as was Emma's, when
a voice like a deep growl came from the chair, saying, "Here! girl."
Slowly now, she skirted the tiger's head,
then stepped gingerly on to its back and walked towards its tail and stood within a
foot or so of the chair.
"Your hand." It was another growl.
She turned her hand palm upwards towards
him, and the man brought his upper body forward in the
chair and peered at it. Then turning his head
slowly towards his grandson, his voice even more
gruff now, he said, "This is a different
story. Did John or did he not strike
at her?"
The youth glanced at his father, looked down at
the carpet and was about to speak when the old man
bellowed now, "Answer, boy! Yes or no.
Did John strike at her first?"
"He ... he just flicked his crop,
Grandfather."
"Across her face?"
The boy swallowed deeply and said, "I
... I couldn't see from ... where ... where I
was."
"But you could see that she retaliated and hit
back, you could see that, couldn't you?"
"Yes, Grandfather." The voice was small.
The old man stared hard at the young one's
bent head before turning and looking at Emma again and asking, "How did you manage to get the
crop from my grandson's hand?"
Emma looked into the sunken blue eyes for a
moment. The skin round them was very wrinkled but the
eyes themselves were bright, and as she held their gaze
a little of the fear in her subsided, and almost
brightly now she said, "It was with a flick of me
wrist, sir, like that!" She demonstrated.
"Where did you learn the trick?"
Before she could answer the plump man put
in, "She's of gypsy stock."
"I am not. I am not of gypsy stock."
The plump man seemed to swell before her
eyes, his face assuming an expression of
instant anger, his mouth opening wide, but before he
could utter any reprimand the old man
forestalled him by saying, "Of what stock are
you?"
Her breathing had quickened and she had to swallow
before she said, "Me father was Spanish, sir.
He worked in a travelling show. He was a great
man with the whips and the knives."
"And he taught you to use the whips?"
She moved her head downwards, saying,
"Yes, a bit sir. He ... he died when I was seven, and I was sent here--"
she thumbed over her shoulder now and ended, "to the
farm an' me granny."
The old man surveyed her for a long moment.
"Did you purposely hit out at the horse
with the intention of unsaddling my grandson?"
"No, I did not, sir; I went to aim for
his leg. And I wouldn't have hurt him, 'cos
he had a leather boot on, but I have a bad
foot where a nail went through the sole of me
boot an' I didn't have a good balance an'
... an' what's more"--her voice sank--"I
was afeared."
The old man took his gaze slowly from her
and let it rest on his son and his grandson. Then
addressing his son, he said, "What have you got
to say to this? Has the boy got nothing to do in his
free time but to search out menials to taunt? This
settles it: no more school, it's the army for
him."
She watched the plump man's head droop
downwards. Then the old gentleman was saying
to her, "Does your hand hurt badly?" and she
answered, "No, sir."
"Could you show me how you use your whips?" The widening of her eyes seemed to have affected
her lower jaw for it dropped open and it was on a
gulp she said, "Show you, sir?"
"That's what I said."
For a moment she forgot about the other two
occupants of the room and she smiled at the old
man and said in an almost light tone, "I'd be
pleased to, sir."
"What kind of whip do you want?"
"I can swing anything up to ten feet, perhaps a
little more. I haven't had much practice
lately, not with the long ones."
She watched the old man turn and nod
towards the mantelpiece, and his grandson, who
was nearer to him, put his hand out and pulled on a
thick red cord. Within seconds there was a tap
on the door and the butler entered. Bowing
slightly, he waited, and the old man barked
at him, "Have an assortment of whips sent up
from the stables."
She had turned her head towards the butler
expecting his mouth to fall agape at the
strange order, but he again merely moved his
body forward before turning and going out.
"Do you throw knives too?" The question came at her as sharp as a knife, and she
jerked her head round so quickly that her neck
bones seemed to crack as she answered, "I'm
not so good at them, but ... but I think I could
split a peg from here to there." She pointed
towards the foot of the wall to the left side of
her on which she now took in the wild animals'
heads and glass cases holding stuffed birds.
"Do you think you could hit that animal's
nose?" The old man was pointing to a big
horned beast's head nailed up on the wall.
Emma studied the head for a moment, then said,
"It's higher up than I usually aim at, but
if I stood there"--she pointed to where an
oblong table about three feet long was placed
at the end of a couch--"I'd likely hit it from
there."
"See to it." The old man was nodding towards
his son-in-law who now went to pull the bell
rope, but the old man's bellow stayed his hand
as he cried, "Move it yourself, man, there's
two of you. It won't bite or break your
back."
Emma saw the plump man's face turn
from pink to red and then to an almost purple hue as he walked towards the table, from where he
motioned
to his son to take the other end of it.
The old man spoke again. "Take the
knife out of its sheath," he said, pointing to a
leather pouch hanging on the wall next to a
large wooden plaque.
It was the youth who obeyed this order. However,
when he went to give the knife to his grandfather the
old man didn't take it, instead he pointed
towards Emma, and the boy, turning about, offered
it to her. She took it without looking at him.
She stood weighing it in her hand for a moment
before looking at the old man and saying, "'Tis
heavy, heavier than two of Dada's put
together."
"What did your father do with the knives? What
did he aim at?"
"Mama. She stood against the board and he
threw them round her, thirteen of 'em."
"Thirteen of them?" The old man's eyes
widened, and when she nodded, he repeated,
"Thirteen of them? Handy man. Handy man.
Well now, see what you can do with that bison."
She now looked from one to the other of the three
men, then down at the knife in her hand. She took the handle between her finger and thumb
and swung the knife gently backward and
forward. The blade seemed long, much longer
than her dada's knives. She now went and
stood at the end of the couch, and looked at the far
wall. The animal's head was really much too
high for her and the knife was too heavy. She
swung it again between her finger and thumb, then let
her wrist sway back and forward taking its
weight. Of a sudden she brought her elbow up
on a line with her chin; then her hand hanging just
behind her ear moved twice from the wrist before
letting the knife go. There was a pinging noise as
the point of the blade pierced the tight drawn
skin of the animal and entered the head at a point
between the nose and the upper lip.
She turned slowly and looked towards the
old man. His wrinkled face had moved into a
grin; his lips were pressed together, his nostrils
had widened showing more clearly the hairs growing out
of them. It was some seconds before he spoke,
when he said simply, "Good." And then, looking
at his son-in-law, he said another word which
overshadowed the first, "Remarkable."
Another knock on the door and the butler returned carrying a number of whips, the
handles tucked under his arm. The expression on
his face had altered somewhat and Emma couldn't
put a name to it, except that she thought he
hadn't liked being sent for the whips.
"What's the longest one?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Then find out, man."
The butler stooped his stiff back and, taking
what appeared to be the longest handled whip, he
stretched out the thong.
"That's the four-in-hand," the old man said;
"should be ... should be twelve feet. Think you can
manage that, girl?"
Emma moved a step forward now and, picking
up the whip from the floor, she said, "Yes,
sir. But there's not much space here."
The old man now looked round the room and
grunted before he said, "You're right, you're right,
not much space here. Take up a smaller
one."
She now took up a whip with a thong measuring
about five feet and, weighing it in her hand, she
said, "This is a nice one." She had
directed the words to the old man and it seemed to her in this moment that there were only the
two of them present in the room, the others had
ceased to count. And, strangely, all fear had
left her. She was experiencing a new sensation,
one which told her that with some people she could hold her
own, people that were like the old man.
She was quick to recognize that the master in this
house was the old man and not his son-in-law,
yet everybody took Mr Fordyke to be the
boss. She also took in the fact that Mr
Fordyke stood in awe of his father-in-law. She
guessed that in a way he must be rather weak and as
fearful of the old man as she had been of himself
when she had first set eyes on him. But she was
afraid of him no longer. She wished her
granny was up here to see this all happening; she
wouldn't believe her eyes. Oh, and how she
wished the missis had come with her. Oh, she
did. Mrs Yorkless fully expected that she
would be sent along the line, she had said so only
yesterday, and that alone had kept her awake
most of the night.
She was flicking the whip now, making it curl
above her head. She made it form an S then
an O; then stopping suddenly she looked towards the chair and said, "I can whip a peg out
of the ground, but I cannot show you here."
The old man twisted slightly in his chair
and looked about him, then said, "You see that
wooden idol, that statue on the table there."
He was pointing now. "Could you whip that off there
without breaking it?"
She looked at the wooden idol. "I can
whip it off," she said, "but I don't know
whether it will drop to the floor or not, because when
I take out the pegs I've got to swing round
to keep them going, then pull them into me." She
demonstrated with her hands now as if she were
plaiting rope.
"Take one of the short ones." He pointed
to the floor, "Try it."
As she moved towards the whips lying on the
floor she caught the look of the youth. His
eyes were round but not in admiration, the look in
them was more akin to that in his father's eyes, which was a
mixture of disdain and arrogance, yet threaded with
something she couldn't name and wouldn't have credited it
to be fear.
Having taken up a whip with a four-foot
thong she went towards the table and looked at the idol; then stepping back some paces,
she set her wrist into a circling motion which
grew larger and larger; then a wide flick of
her wrist sent the thong outwards. The tip
curling around the wooden idol brought it off the
table in a flash; but it was much heavier than she
had imagined and it was dropping to the floor when
she raised her arm with her wrist still moving and
brought the piece to her chest. And there hugging it
to her, her face in a smile of triumph, she
looked towards the chair and the old man. He was
smiling too, his mouth open wide now showing a
row of brown discoloured teeth at the bottom of
his mouth and three brown stumps in the front of
his upper jaw. Then of a sudden the smile
disappeared from his face as he looked at his son
and said, "Well, court's over, send me
daughter to me."
For the first time since Emma had come into the
room James Fordyke made an open stand
against his father-in-law, saying, "Something's got
to be done with her, she's got to be taught a
lesson, you can't just ...."
"I should think she's taught you a lesson."
The old man's voice was a growl again. "What you want to do, James, is to teach your
sons a lesson, teach them how to deal with the
peasantry. Tell them there's a difference between
them and the animals, although--" his voice changed
for a moment as he interspersed, "some animals
are far superior to any human. Still, there's
an estate to be run here, so I gather, and
Master John should be old enough now to have some sense
of responsibility and not run the earth playing
tricks, spiteful tricks, on children. As I
said, send my daughter to me."
When James Fordyke turned abruptly and
walked down the room, the youth now said in a very
subdued tone, "Have I your leave to go,
Grandfather?"
"You have; but remember what I've said, the
same applies to you."
The two Fordykes were followed by the butler;
and now she was left alone in the room with the old
man, and there returned to her a feeling of
apprehension. He was a terror, he seemed
to have everybody frightened. Did he frighten her?
Funny, not much, but she knew she'd have to be
careful or else he'd fly off the handle.
"Sit down." "What?"
"Are you deaf, girl? I said sit down."
"On there?" She pointed to the
velvet-covered high-backed chair at the other
side of the fireplace, and now he laughed again,
and his voice changing, he said, "Yes, on
there."
Gingerly she planted herself on the edge of the
chair, her black boots sticking out below the
long skirt of her blue serge dress. She
was hot. She wished she could take her coat
off. If she'd had a nice frock on
underneath she would have asked his permission.
"Tell me about yourself ... your father, your
mother."
She hesitated for a moment, then began
to talk, recalling what she could remember of the
travelling show. She went on to tell him of
her work on the farm and what she did at Mr
Bowman's, and how she sometimes sat for him.
She had just come to the point when she was about to mention
the parson when the door opened and a lady entered.
She was of medium height with brown hair and
wearing a gown which almost matched its colour. The
skirt was very full and as she walked into the room there came a rustling sound from beneath it,
like when you
rubbed the heads of ripe corn between your hands and the
grain fell out.
The lady paused for a moment and looked at
Emma, and the look brought Emma to her feet and
she bobbed her knee. Then addressing the old
man, the lady said quietly, "So what's the
verdict?"
"Not guilty."
"Somebody would be displeased."
"Somebody was, my dear. Anyway, the
cause of all this narration"--he now waved a
bony blue-veined hand towards Emma--"has
been entertaining me for the last half-hour and I
think she needs some reward. What do you say?"
"Whatever you wish, Father." The lady now
turned and looked at Emma and she smiled, and
her smile was kindly. She had the same
colour eyes as the old man.
Now changing the subject and seeming to forget
about her, the old man brought his daughter's
attention round to him again by saying, "He's going
into the army." And to this she answered, "I'm
glad."
"This business has settled it." "Then I should say it is well it
happened."
Again the old man changed the topic by pointing
to the wooden idol that was now reposing back on
the table and saying, "She whipped that off and
didn't drop it. What do you think of that?"
"Clever. Very clever." The lady was nodding
towards the idol; then she added, "What would have
happened if she had? Would your luck have
broken?"
"Probably, probably. But it isn't
my luck I think about nowadays. Anyway,
she has given me the brightest half-hour
I've had in some long time. Arrange that
she'll come back when I need her, will you?"
"Yes, Father."
"Well now, I think a hamper of some
kind; from what I gather from Pearson, those
Yorklesses are a tight lot. The girl
lives with her grandmother, fed on the side. This
I've learned from her." He nodded towards
Emma without looking at her. "So a hamper.
Eh?"
"Yes, Father."
"But don't leave it to Atkins. Send Bella to the kitchen to supervise it; there's
nobody stingier to the working class than the working
class. Funny thing that is, isn't it,
Kathleen?"
"Yes, Father, 'tis a funny thing, but
only because it's a part of life, and life is a
very funny thing."
Emma now watched the lady put out her hand
and touch the stubbly cheek of the old man before
turning towards her and saying, gently, "Come
along."
Before obeying the lady, Emma took a step
towards the chair and, dipping her knee more than
usual, she said, "Good-bye to you, sir. And
thank you. I'm glad you liked the whips."
"Good-bye, child. You must come again."
"Oh"--the word seemed to come out of the top of
her head--"oh, that I will, sir. Yes, that I
will." She dipped her knee again, then walked
backwards for two or three steps before turning
and almost bumping into the lady.
Once outside the room, remembering her
manners, she kept two paces behind the lady
until they came to the big passage that was
filled with the carved heads of men, and there the lady met another lady. This one wore a
plain grey alpaca dress with white cuffs and
collars, and the lady spoke to her saying,
"Take this little girl down to the kitchen,
Bella, and see there is a hamper made
ready for her. Her grandmother I understand is in the
kitchen; and so make it sufficient that they can
carry it between them."
"Yes, ma'am."
The lady now turned and looked down on
Emma, and Emma, who had hardly been able
to believe her ears, bobbed her knee and said,
"Thank you, ma'am. Thank you most warmly."
And the lady smiled and inclined her head towards
her, then motioned her to go with her companion.
The woman called Bella waited for her
to come alongside her, and like that they walked down
the main staircase, across the hall, through the
corridors and into the kitchen.
Immediately her granny sprang up from her
seat and looked towards her, and in this moment it
came to Emma that her granny looked old.
Her face was drawn and her lips were
trembling, but when Emma, going towards her,
smiled at her widely, saying, "'Tis all right. 'Tis all right," Lizzie's anxiety
left her features and she whispered, "Thank
God. Thank God." Then they both turned
and looked to where the lady in the grey frock was
talling to the housekeeper and the cook, and the
housekeeper was saying, "A hamper, Miss
Noble?" And the lady in the grey frock
answered, "Yes, that's what I said, Mrs
Atkins, a hamper. And Cook, bring a
small ham out, will you please? And some pressed
tongue and--" She put her head back now as
if thinking; then nodding, she brought it forward
saying, "A basin of brawn and some jars of
preserve."
There was a long pause before the cook turned
away and went through a door into a larder, when
Miss Noble, looking at the housekeeper,
said, "The fruit loaves. You always keep a
number to hand, don't you, Mrs Atkins? I
think the hamper will hold one, say a medium
size, four pounds, and a little sugared fruit.
You always have a store of that, haven't you?"
Emma's ears detected a soft
persuasive note in the grey lady's
voice, but it seemed to cover a sternness that the others recognized, because now the
housekeeper obeyed without any question, except
by the look on her face.
When the hamper was eventually filled, Miss
Noble turned to Lizzie and Emma who were standing
side by side in front of the settle and she
said, "Do you think you can carry this between you?"
Emma almost answered for her granny because it
seemed such a long time before she said, "Yes.
Oh yes, Miss. And ... and thank you very
much. Oh, thank you indeed. All that stuff!
Well, well." She laughed, a shaky
laugh, then added, "'Tis for us and not for the
missis?"
"'Tis for you, or at least for your
granddaughter to share as she thinks fit. It is
the mistress's orders."
"Well, will you please thank the mistress
most warmly from ... from me? Please do. Oh
yes indeed, please do."
Not only the staff from the kitchen but others, a
number of them and all dressed in different
uniforms, were gathered at the top of the kitchen
watching their departure. Then in the stable yard there
were men standing outside different doors and Emma realized that they were all looking at her as if
she was the devil or something. She was glad
to get out of the yard.
They had only gone a little way down the
drive but out of sight of the house when Lizzie
eased her end of the hamper down on to the ground and
Emma did the same, and Lizzie looking at
Emma, a look she had never bestowed on her
before, said, "How in the name of God did you do
it, child?"
"I'll ... I'll tell you all about it
when we get home." And with this Emma picked
up her end of the basket again, and Lizzie had
to do likewise, and it seemed in a way in this
moment that Emma had come into her own. Fortune had turned its face towards her, she no
longer felt the least of all the creatures,
nor, no matter how the Yorklesses treated
her in the future, would she imagine herself to be
of no consequence.



The village was agog. It had spread around
that Emma Crawshaw had been accepted up at the House, not by Fordyke, no, but by the
real boss there, Sir Peter Rollinson, the
man whose daughter had married James Fordyke
and had saved his place from being sold up.
Three years ago when his ancestral home
yon side of Durham had been burned down
she had brought her father and all his trophies they
could save to live at the House. He was known
as a great hunter in his young days, and a great
gambler in his middle life, and admired as such,
but not so his son-in-law: James Fordyke was
known as a gambler, yes, but also as a woman
chaser, a chaser of very young women. Two young
servants had been dismissed from the House not for the
simple reason that they had obliged him, but because
they had showed evidence of it with full bellies.
Yet he went to church every Sunday and sat in his
sheltered pew, and the villagers bowed their knee
to him. One thing they did know and it was said
openly, if the outcome of the incident had rested
with him, young Emma Crawshaw wouldn't have been
stuffing her kite and that of her grandmother up in the
cottage after the visit to the House, but would have
been along the line in one way or another.
And it was said ... and she said herself, that she had been invited back to show her tricks to the
old
man. Did you ever hear the likes of it? It
had come down through Mr Winters, the butler, that
she had done her tricks up in the old man's
private apartments, throwing knives at
buffaloes and deers and such animals that were
stuck on the wall, and roping all the vases and
things. Did you ever hear the like? What were things
coming to? And to think of those two having all that
special food when ordinary food was as
scarce as gold dust owing not only to the bad
harvests but to the flood of Irish who were coming
over in their boat-loads at fourpence a head
and working for next to nothing, so doing the honest
Englishmen out of their rightful work. Hams and
tongues and all kinds of luxury they were stuffing
themselves with, and all because that young Spanish-looking
Emma Crawshaw brought the young master down from
his horse. I ask you, they said, what was the world
coming to, it had turned topsy-turvy.
So too thought Emma, for there had come a
lightness on her life, and she sang whilst about
her work, except when in the cow byre or the
yard. Her granny and she joked together and they
ate their fill for nearly a month from that hamper.
The news even seemed to affect Mr
Bowman's chest, for his cough had eased off. As
for the parson, on the following Sunday, after
gazing at Emma as if in wonder, he had
said, "Of all the people to captivate Sir
Peter ... the giant on the mountain, the
dragon in his den, the bane of--" he paused,
then finished in a mutter, "a certain person's
life. You are a female incarnation of Saint
George, Emma."
She liked to listen to the parson when he
rambled on like this, and although, like when she listened
to Mr Bowman, she didn't always understand
clearly his every word, she got the gist of what he
meant. Then he had ended, "From now on,
Emma, I think you can consider yourself safe, and
have no need to carry your whip on your"--he had
leaned towards her and whispered--"evening treks.
You have come under the protection of Sir Peter and
so you have nothing to fear."
And Emma thought that too, that she had nothing
to fear from anybody any more. But she was
mistaken, and it was brought home forcibly to her
one morning in the new year when Luke deliberately kicked her bucket of milk
over the cow-splattered dirty floor of the
byre, after which they had stood glaring at each
other.
The morning was deadly cold, the ice
seemingly inches thick on everything. Her hands
had just thawed out on the warm flesh of the last cow.
She had lifted the bucket of milk to the side
and was rising from her stool when Luke's tall
figure darkened further still the entrance to the stall
and after staring down on her for a moment he had
lifted his foot and kicked the bucket over.
As it clattered on the cobbled floor it hit
the cow's hind leg, and the animal jumped, its
motion overbalancing Emma and she fell back
on to her bottom, her hands splayed out in the
slush. But no sooner had she hit the ground
than she was up, yelling now, "You beast! That's
what you are, you're a beast. I'll tell her,
the missis."
He stood aside, laughing at her as she
grabbed up the bucket, and as she made for the
door he called, "Tell her, an' see
what you get."
With that particular rage that she hadn't experienced for a long time filling her,
she ran across the slippery yard and without
ceremony pushed open the farmhouse kitchen
door and definitely startled both Jake and
Dilly Yorkless who were finishing their breakfast
at the table and, presenting them with the empty
bucket, she cried, "He kicked it over on
purpose. He came in and kicked it over on
purpose."
"Who"? The farmer had risen to his feet,
and she cried at him, "You know who, your
Luke. And I'm not gona stand it. Do you
hear? I'm not gona stand the blame. I'll
go. I can you know. I'll go." She was repeating
what her granny had said to her only
recently: You needn't fear that 'un, meaning
Dilly Yorkless, any more, 'cos she won't
get anyone to do what you do. And what's more,
she'd be afraid of what you might say up at
the House to the old 'un, for in a way they're
still dependent on the House, 'cos they've got
only thirty acres of freehold land and that
includes my patch, the rest is rented from Mr
Fordyke.
Emma had turned towards her mistress as she spoke, and now Dilly Yorkless cried
at her, "Get your mucky self out of this
kitchen. Look at you!"
"Yes, look at me." Emma held out
her filth-covered hands. "But ... but
'twasn't my fault, so there. Don't
blame me."
She turned and marched into the yard, and Jake
Yorkless followed her and on the sight of his
son going into the stables he called, "You
Luke!" and when Luke turned towards him,
he demanded, "What's this? You kicked her
bucket over?"
"Kicked her bucket?" Luke came
slowly towards them. "She's at it again,
spinning her yarns. She slipped with the bucket
in her hand."
Now Emma was almost screaming at him: "If
I'd slipped with the bucket in my hand, I'd
be covered with milk. What you did knocked me
off the stool. And look!" She turned her
back to the farmer now and thrust out her bottom.
"I would have been flat on my back but my
hands saved me." Now she was thrusting her hands
out towards him. Jake Yorkless stared at her for a
moment right into her face; then he said in a
quiet voice, "Get about your work."
"Yes, and don't think because ...." His
wife's voice was cut off by him now almost
barking at her, "Shut up! woman. Shut
up!" And on this he almost pushed her back into the
kitchen and banged the door.
Emma was left in the yard with Luke, and as
she marched past him making for the yard pump, he
stood still and his lips didn't seem to move as
he said, "I'll get you one of these days.
See if I don't."
The parson had said she'd no need to carry the
whip any more when she went out on her midnight
jaunts. He might be right there, but she knew
now that it would be wiser to carry the whip during the
day when in the vicinity of Luke Yorkless, for
no matter how often she told herself she
wasn't afraid of him, she knew that deep
down he created a feeling of terror in her.
Every Sunday following this incident she prayed
a special prayer that Luke would get married
soon and leave the farm. She felt she could
only give the matter detailed thought on a Sunday when kneeling in the side pew and
looking up at the parson, because he was the nearest
thing to God she knew, and he looked at her so
kindly when his eyes lit on her from the
pulpit. During the week there was no time for
praying, she was too busy and too tired at
night and often too cold to think of anything but the
need for sleep and warmth.
Dan Yorkless died early in March and the day
he was buried the snow was so thick on the ground
that the horses couldn't get through and the men from the
village came and helped to clear a path from the
farm down to the coach road, and a similar one
to the churchyard.
Even so, a roughly made sledge had to be
used to convey the coffin; they had tried to harness a
horse to it but the animal had slithered so much and
they were fearful that should it fall they'd never get
it up again in the narrow path. So Dan was pushed
to his final resting place on a door nailed
on skids.
The farmer's wife's attitude to her
son's going puzzled Emma, until her
granny explained, but kindly for once when speaking of her mistress, that why she
wasn't crying or wailing aloud was because she was
relieved of a burden, because the boy had been
completely bed-ridden for four months now and
bleeding from inside, and she had had her hands
full with him. As for the boy, he was now at rest
and, as her granny said, would be glad of it.
She had cried about Dan, he seemed so young
to have to die. You shouldn't have to die until you were
old, as old say as Sir Peter. But then
she hoped that he would live for a long time yet;
she hoped she would soon have a call from him because
she had a number of new twists to show him. Practising was very difficult: the only free
times she had to herself were one whole Sunday in a
month and half a Sunday for the rest of the time.
Sometimes it would be in the morning when she could go
to church, other times in the afternoon when she could go
to Sunday school, but always for some time on a
Sunday she would sit on the floor in the roof
and practise with the whip.
She couldn't practise outside on the
Sabbath day, and it had been a long winter and
she had never ventured out at nights, but still, as
she assured herself, she was keeping her hand in. Even so, it wasn't like having plenty of
space. The only time she had played the whips
outside was one day last year when the mister and
missis had gone into the market on the dray
cart, and Luke and Billy had driven in the
cattle that were for sale. That day she had gone
round to the back of the house because she knew that
Dan would be sitting up, and she had done her
tricks for him, and when she was finished she put
her fingers to her lips and he had responded in
the same gesture. She could have liked Dan as
she liked Barney.
But now Dan was being buried. They said if you
lay deep enough in the snow you got warm. She
hoped he'd be warm always.
Yesterday the missis had ordered her into the
kitchen to help prepare for the big funeral
spread. It was years now since she had worked in
the kitchen, and she hadn't been in it half an
hour before she knew she wouldn't like working inside
ever again. After the hall kitchen it seemed a
poky place, nothing to be proud of; but the
missis, she knew, was very proud, not only of
her kitchen, but of her whole house.
She had peeled vegetables for broth, she had scraped the meat off the bones and
chopped it up together with onions and herbs ready
for the meat pies. She scored the skin of the
newly dressed pig and rubbed salt into the
cuts. She hadn't liked doing this for she knew
which pig it was, she had called her Nosey
because she always pushed her snout into her hand like the
dogs did.
Between times she had washed pots and pans,
kept the fire going, scoured the steel knives
and forks with bath brick then washed them ready for the
table, and lastly towards the end of the day,
Dilly Yorkless took her into the main room
where the meal was to be served. It was a
sitting-room but two trestle-tables had been
placed in it to seat the mourners. It was the first
time she had been in this part of the house and before her
visit to the House she would have considered it
lovely, but now she saw it as a very ordinary
room, stuffed to suffocation with furniture, and
all ugly. A black horsehair couch,
two black horsehair chairs, unrelieved
with cushions or antimacassars. The walls
were dark with pictures all in black and white
like photographs of people long dead. The mantelshelf above the fire, which was set for
lighting on the morrow, was weighed down with
ornaments, the like she had seen at the fairs,
while the front of it was draped with a long
piece of red material tucked up here and there
like a lady's overskirt.
Pointing to the thin carpet that covered the stone
floor, Dilly Yorkless had said, "I
want you to wash it."
"Wash the carpet?"
"That's what I said. You're not deaf,
girl, are you?"
"But how'll it get dry? I ... I mean
for the morrow."
"When you're finished put a match to the
fire. It'll be dry all right."
"What'll I do it with?"
"Don't be stupid, girl. What do you
usually wash with? Hot water'n soda."
Emma stared down at the carpet. Its
background was grey with what had once been a
blue flowered pattern on it and when some
minutes later she started to scrub it she told
herself it wasn't fair, she had done a long
day's work, twelve hours so far, and she couldn't work harder, and she likely
wouldn't work half as hard if she had a job in
the House kitchen, or even, as her granny
feared, down the mines.
At nine o'clock that night when, bone weary,
she entered the cottage she said as much
to Lizzie. But Lizzie, who had been on
her own feet the same number of hours and was
tired to the heart of her, suddenly sat down in
the rocking-chair and, her hands joined on her
knees, she said, "Don't talk so, girl.
I've enough to put up with in me life without you
goin' off now."
So Emma knew that was that: in her own way,
her granny was telling her she needed her. So
she was stuck here, and would be all her life
until ... until her granny died.
The thought dragged on her legs as she
climbed the ladder to her bed.

She had been ordered to stand at the door and
take the men's coats, and this she was doing. She
looked at them standing out black against the snow,
each one as he came to the door kicking his
boots against the wall and scraping the sole on the iron footscraper that stood to the side, then
coming in and stamping his feet on the roped mat.
She had noticed that men never seemed to wipe
their feet properly, they banged them up and
down instead of rubbing them backwards and forwards
like women did.
And some of them, after she had taken their coat
tugged at it in her hand in an endeavour
to extract a flat flask or a half
bottle from the inside pocket, before proceeding
into the front room where the missis was sitting
all in black on one of the horsehair chairs
awaiting their condolences. In all, the mourners
numbered twenty-two.
From what she had heard, a funeral tea
always started like this but ended like a wedding. That's
what the bottles were for, she supposed.
The front door closed, she was going into the
kitchen when she met Lizzie bearing a tray
full of food, and Lizzie said, "Go and see
to the animals, they'll be burstin'."
And at this she whispered back, "But I've
got me good frock on."
"Then change it. It's his orders."
She had a great inclination to disobey the order as she stood looking down at her good
frock over which was tied a clean white apron.
She didn't want to get into her stiff
smelly working clothes again; what was more, she had
washed herself down from head to foot before the fire the
night before last. This, of course, was after her
granny had tucked herself in bed and was almost
asleep before her head touched the pillow. She
had felt wonderfully clean, her body glowing
warmly in the firelight, and she had paused a
while to compare the skin of her hands with that of her
rising breasts. Her hands looked ugly, red and
chapped, with the nails broken down to the quick. Her
nose had wrinkled at the comparison and she
determined from then on to rub goose grease
into them every night, if not, some pig fat. ...
But here she was now in her everyday clothes again
with the routine as usual.
She collected the buckets from the dairy and
went into the cow byres. One good thing about it, it
was warm in here. Two of the cows were bellowing: there
was a shuffling and snuffling and rattling of their
tethers, and as she passed them she said, "All
right, all right, I'm here."
Her thoughts were still rebellious as she settled down to the milking and she was half-way through
it when
she heard the byre door open. She turned a
startled eye towards it, for this she imagined was just
the time Luke would put in an appearance while
everybody else was busy in the house. But it
wasn't Luke, it was Barney, and she stopped
her milking and rose to her feet. It was very
seldom they had a minute alone together.
When he stood in front of her she saw that
his face looked sad, and he sounded sad as he
said, "I'm going to miss Dan."
To this she answered simply, "You liked
him?"
"Yes." He nodded. "Best of the bunch
really. Oh! Emma." Of a sudden his arms had
come out and he was holding her close to him. Their
breaths were wafting across each other's eyes
dimming their vision, and when he said, "Oh, how
I wish I could put a couple of years on you
this minute," she made no reply for of a sudden
she didn't want the years on her for that would
mean. ... Well, what would it mean? It would
mean being held like this tightly, but in a way that
brought no comfort, only a kind of fright. This was
only the second time she had been in his arms. She had liked it the first time, now she
wasn't sure. Yet she liked him. Oh
yes, she was quite sure of that, she liked
Barney. But not the way he was looking now.
Her body seemed like a reed pressed into the
middle of his; one of his hands was on the lower
part of her back and the other between her shoulder
blades. When he closed his eyes and the colour
seemed to leave his red cheeks she forced herself
away from him, muttering, "Eeh! Barney,
what if they come in."
He was standing with his head down now, his eyes
closed. "You still like me?" he said.
"Oh, yes, Barney. Yes, I still like
you."
He raised his head and, the colour seeping
back into his cheeks and his eyes looking
straight into hers, he said, "Remember I'm
gona go on waiting for you, till you're
ready."
She nodded her head once, swallowed
deeply, then said, "I ... I know
Barney."
Smiling quietly at her now, he said,
"That's all right then. I ... I'd better be gettin' back."
He made a move to go, then turned, saying
quietly, "We'll have to try to arrange
to meet on the quiet somewhere, eh?"
She made no answer but again nodded her head
once.
Sitting down on a milk stool again, she
did not begin milking straight away but leant
her head against the cow's flank and pondered why
she was feeling like this, frightened of the years that were coming
on her and what was in them for her. She wished she
could talk to somebody about them: she should be able
to talk to her granny about such things but she
couldn't. This only left the parson and Mr
Bowman, and she would as soon think of jumping in
the river as talk of feelings like this to them.
She felt miserable. It was a long time
since she had felt as miserable as she did at
this minute; but it wasn't miserable enough to wish she
was dead. No, she wanted to live, but ... but
... how could she put it? ... have a say in her
own life. Yes, that's what she wanted, to have
a say in her own life. But Barney was
waiting for her and, in his words, she would be ready
for him in a couple of years. At one time years seemed to have been
made up of endless time. You didn't think about
them as years, just seasons, and between one season and
another there were months, weeks and days. And the
days were endless; twelve to fourteen hours of
endlessness, distinguished only by your body sweating
or freezing. But over the past year time had
changed; it was moving faster. And next year, it
would move faster still. And the next ....
What was the matter with her anyway? She
didn't know which end of her was up at the moment.
Marriage. Marriage. Gettin' married
.... Would the parson marry her? What was
she saying? She had meant, would the parson
marry her to Barney?
She stared at the flank of the cow, and then her
hands shot out and gripped the teats so tightly that
the animal kicked, and at this she said, "I'm
sorry. I'm sorry."
Really, as she had just said to herself, she
certainly didn't know which end of her was up when
she could think a thing like that.



PART THREE
The Wedding



Now fifteen and a half years old, Emma
appeared like a fully grown young woman. She
carried her five foot four inches very
straight, her hair had lengthened considerably
and had darkened to a shining black, the process
making her skin appear like warm cream. In
contrast, her eyes, which at times appeared too
big for her face, were a deep brown and
heavily lashed; her eyebrows were almost straight
and did not follow the curve of the eye
sockets. Her lips were red but not over full,
and her teeth looked strong and evenly spaced.
And she was, as she had heard the parson
remark to Mr Bowman, well above average
intelligence for her class.
When she first heard him express this opinion
she had experienced a feeling that, to say the
least, spoke of annoyance. He was her friend,
yet obviously to him she was still of an inferior class, even though she could read the
same books as he read. Of course, she
couldn't speak in a foreign tongue nor could she
understand any of the Latin phrases that sometimes
appeared in a book. Perhaps you had to know such
things before you could rise from your class. She
pondered these thoughts at such times when she couldn't
sleep at nights, and this was often of late, for
she knew the time was almost upon her when she would be
ready for Barney. Besides the other troublesome
feelings she had on the subject, the thought his
declaration would have on his mother caused her at times
to close her eyes tightly. The woman would go
mad, as would his father.
Tempers were short enough on the farm. There had
been torrential rainstorms which had flattened
the fields of barley, and the place had been a
quagmire for weeks. Farming all round was in
a bad way: the average price of wheat was
eighteen shillings for five pecks, and last
year flour had gone up to three shillings and
sixpence per stone, and all other grains and
meals in proportion. Then potatoes were
selling at one shilling and sixpence per stone, and
beef and mutton reached eightpence a pound. Moreover, to make matters worse there were
frequent although small outbreaks of the cholera.
There had been one in Gateshead and the missis
hadn't taken anything into the market for a month,
and the mister had gone for her saying it was merely
diarrhoea, and anyway, towards the end of the
year people's bowels always became slack.
Emma had heard the painter reading from the
newspaper that the guardians of the poor in
Gateshead Fell had been appointed
to distribute bread and soup tickets in order
to allay further disease caused by malnutrition
among the poor. But the parson had come back
at him saying they might as well take a
bucket and try to scoop the River Tyne
dry, for the damage was already done, people were living in
filth and squalor, their only relief being
beer and raw spirit, and they didn't mind what
manner of means they used to provide the money
to acquire it.
Emma liked to hear them talking; it sounded like
arguing at times, but they still nearly always ended up
laughing. Besides discussing the daily news, they
talked of all kinds of things. She could now
picture what the parliament in London must be like. First, she had imagined it peopled
with courtly gentlemen, but from what she could gather
and the way the gentlemen shouted at each other it
seemed more like The Tuns on a market day.
But today was fine, the sun was shining and shining
hotly, so much so that the earth was steaming. It was
half past ten in the morning. She was in the big
barn breaking a bale of straw with which to replenish
the nest boxes in the hen cree when Barney
came round the partition and put his arms around her.
There were two partitions in the barn where once the
horses had been stalled, and now he pulled
her down behind the end one until she was on her
hunkers, and he whispered to her, "Come out tonight,
Emma." And to this she whispered back, "I
can't. I ... I'd better not."
"It'll be dark, the moon won't be up."
"I'm ... I'm afraid."
"What of? You ... you've done it afore."
Her head went down, and then she muttered,
"All right."
He pulled her face towards him and his mouth
fell hard on hers, and for a moment she was lost in
his kiss; and he too, or he would have heard the
footsteps even on the straw that was strewn on the floor. The next minute an almost
unearthly cry overbalanced them and Barney
found himself yanked back by the collar; then his mother
was screaming, "I knew it! I knew it! I
knew there was something on with that bitch. ...
You!"
As the tall woman sprang towards where
Emma lay, Barney regained his feet and
gripped hold of her from the back; then swinging
her round, he stood between her and Emma, bawling
now, "Leave her be, Ma. Leave her be.
She's mine. You might as well know, she's
mine."
"Never! Never as long as I breathe."
Barney pushed his mother from him now and still
yelling, he cried, "You can't keep me here.
The world's wide; I'll go and she along of
me."
"You won't get a penny, nor a rag.
..."
"I will though." He was now yelling as high as
she. "There's what's owing me, years of
labour."
"Not a penny. And you'll rue the day you ever
took her. She's bad meat, that 'un, bad meat. Things have never been the same here
since she entered the gates. But you, you sneakin'
young swine you!" Her rage brought her hand, fist
doubled, up above her head, but she held it there.
Then they both turned and looked towards the
door where Pete was hissing at them, "'Tis
a groom from the House, he's in the yard, and you
screamin'."
Dilly Yorkless brought her clenched fist
slowly down from above her head; then after glaring
at her son she turned her eyes on Emma,
who was leaning against the partition, her hands tight
pressed against it, and she spat at her, "I
curse you! Do you hear? And your offspring.
You'll live to regret this day, you foreign
bastard you!" And on this she went out.
Barney now turned towards Emma. Her
face was drained of colour and her head was
hanging, but still her hands were pressed tight against
the wood of the partition, and he said, "If I go,
you'll come along of me." It wasn't a
request but more of a command and she lifted her head
and looked at him, saying, "There's me
granny."
He now shook his head at her, saying, "She's got to let you go sometime."
"I'm ... I'm not yet sixteen."
"What difference does that make?" His
voice had begun on a bawl but suddenly
dropped, and he repeated, "Susan Croft
down in the village, she had a bairn last
year and she but fifteen then an' married."
"She had to get so." Emma had taken her
hands from the wood now, but had them pressed
tightly together in front of her chest, and she
said, "It wouldn't be that way with me."
"I know, I know." His voice had a
soothing note to it; but then almost bitterly he
went on, "Don't I know! I ... I
want you, Emma, I need you. Here I am,
a man twenty years old and never yet have I
taken anybody. I'm as clean as you because"--
he gulped deep in his throat--"I ... I
love you, Emma. Have done, always. You seem
to have been in me life from I can remember, not from
when you just came. ... Oh, Emma." As he
put his hand towards her and repeated again, "Oh,
Emma," Lizzie's voice came on them
also saying her name: "Emma!" But it had a
harsh sound and Emma sprang from behind the partition and looked down to where her granny was
standing in the barn doorway.
Seeing them, Lizzie looked from one to the
other; then the rising of her shoulders indicated
her great intake of breath before she said, "You've
been called up to the House."
Emma's eyes stretched wide and her lips
moved into the words, "The House?" but made no
sound.
After her visit to await sentence on that
memorable day she had waited to be called again,
but as time passed and no bidding came from the
House she knew it had been a thing that happened
but once. She had gone on though practising
for a time with the whips and the knives whenever the
opportunity allowed, until some months ago
when, realizing the futility of it, she had
stopped after asking herself what use it was
anyway, she had learned all the tricks she
could with the whip and she'd never really be expert, not
like her dada, with the knives. You had to have the
strong wrist and accurate eye of a man to be
able to cut string with the point of a dagger, and that's
what her dada had been able to do.
Barney followed her up the barn and when they both came close to Lizzie, she looked from
one to the other as she said, "You've let hell loose, the pair of you, haven't you? And where's
it gona end?"
"It'll end, Lizzie, where I always knew
it would end, she'll be me wife. She's known
for a long time she's gona be me wife."
Lizzie had turned but, looking back at
him now, she said, "And I've known for a long
time what the game was atween you, and I've just
been waitin' for this day. Now it has come and I
can't see the end of it. But go, you"--she had
turned to Emma--"and tidy yourself. An'
change. And you'll have to go alone as I can't go
with you, I'm ... I'm needed here."
Emma walked on past her granny saying
nothing, but minutes later, having washed herself and
about to put on her other dress, she felt in a
way as if God had stepped in and saved her from
some catastrophe.
As she went to put on a clean cap she
suddenly stopped and looked at it in her hand;
then with a gesture almost as fierce as that which had
been shown by her mistress a few minutes
earlier she flung it aside and, tearing off the apron that she had just tied to her waist,
it followed the cap. Then she took the bone comb
from the mantelpiece and pulled it through each
side of her hair. Following this, she sat
down and almost ripped off her big mud-covered
black boots and, reaching out to the side of the
fender, she picked up her rope sandals and
put them on. Then her defiance carrying her
forward, she made her way through the farmyard in
view of her master and mistress and her granny
who were in loud conclave outside the farm kitchen
door.
Her passing brought them to silence, and then
Dilly Yorkless screamed, "Where does she
think she's going like that!"
"The House, I would think." It was her
granny speaking.
"Come you back here and dress decently, you
slut!"
"Leave her be: I wouldn't attempt
to stop her if I was you. She won't be long
here anyway. You can't keep her, she's not
bonded, and neither is your son."
Dilly Yorkless's reply came as a
jumble of enraged words to Emma as she walked into the road, but she hadn't got far along it
when her defiance flowed from her as if a
lock-gate inside her had been lifted, and
her body slumped and she began to tremble through
fear not of her mistress so much as of what her
granny's words had implied: "She won't be
long here anyway, she's not bonded, and neither
is your son."
She wanted to go away, to get away from the
farm, but not with Barney. The truth was, she
didn't want to marry Barney.
She became sick with the knowledge that she had dared
to give voice, if only to herself, to her true
feelings. ...
When she reached the lodge gates she was very
hot and she took her one and only handkerchief
from the cuff of her dress and dabbed her face with
it.
The lodgeman had closed the gates behind her
before he said, "You've got to go to the front
lawn, the old master is out there."
"Where is that?"
"Take that side path"--he pointed--
"it'll bring you through the shrubbery and the rose
garden, and then there's the lawn. You can't miss it." He smiled at her.
It took her all of four minutes to reach the
lawn. She came on to it from a tree-shaded
walk, and there at the head of it, just below the steps
leading from the second terrace that edged the wide
drive approach, sat a muffled figure in
a wheel-chair. He was sitting in the shade of
an awning and there was a table to his side with
jugs and glasses on it. At the other side
of him sat his daughter and standing some distance behind the
awning were two liveried servants.
Hesitantly, she walked across the lawn, but
stopped when she was about five yards from them, and
she remained still until the lady beckoned her
forward with the lift of her hand. Then she was standing
once again looking at the old man and he at
her.
He had shrunk, he wasn't as she
remembered him. His eyes looked like
pin-points, and the skin of his face was hanging in
flaps at each side of his jaws. He was
changed; and apparently he must have thought the same
about her, for when he mumbled something to his
daughter she leant towards his ear and said slowly
and clearly, "It is the same girl, Father, but she has grown."
When he muttered something else the lady
looked at her and said, "You didn't bring your
whips with you?"
"No, ma'am."
"Do you still use them?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Bennett." She had turned her head to the
side and the name immediately brought one of the
menservants to her, and to him she said, "Bring an
assortment of whips from the stables."
The old man now shuffled in his chair and,
bringing his head forward a little, he said in a
voice like a croak, "Grainger tells me you
are a scholar. Tell me, what do you know?"
She looked from him to his daughter somewhat
perplexed. What could she answer to that? What
had the parson meant by saying she was a scholar?
She could only read and write, and so this was the
answer she gave him: "I can read and write,
sir, that's all."
"What does she say?" He turned to his
daughter who, putting her mouth again to his ear,
said, "She claims that she is only able to read
and write." "Enough. Enough." He was nodding at
her. "What do you read?"
She thought a moment. She often kept one of the
parson's books a month or more because her
granny only allowed them one candle a night
after which she had to read by the firelight, and sometimes
in the morning her eyes were red. One night, the
moon had been so clear she had been able to read
up in the roof, but it only happened the once and
because in that particular book the print was larger
than usual.
She began to recall the books she had read
over the past year or so. Speaking loudly, she
answered him: "Books. Er ...
Mansfield Park. This was written by a
lady, Jane Austen. And er ... The
Lady of the Lake. This though was written by a
man named Walter Scott." When she seemed
to have finished, the old man made no comment for a
few minutes, and then not to her. Turning to his
daughter, he repeated the two titles, then
went on, "A pig girl reading! And reading a
book by Jane Austen and The Lady of the
Lake."
"Yes, it is amazing," his daughter said. Then looking at Emma, she smiled at her and
asked quietly now, "Do you like working on the
farm?" And after a moment's hesitation, Emma
replied quietly, "No, ma'am."
"What does she say?"
The lady turned to her father again and said, "She
doesn't like working on the farm."
"Understandable. Understandable." The skin on his
jowls flopped up and down. "What do you want
to do?"
She shook her head as she said, "I don't
know."
He seemed to have got the gist of her reply
for he repeated, "You don't know? ... Go
into a circus?" His face moved into what
resembled a smile and she nodded brightly back
at him, saying, "Yes, sir. Yes, that would
be nice. I should like that, to go into a circus."
And yes, she would like that. Oh she would,
to travel from one place to the other, to be in the
open air most of the time, the clean open air,
no more smell of cattle. She didn't really
mind the smell of the cattle though, but the
cesspit behind the house, that smell she couldn't
stand. And part of her job was to empty the slops that were left in buckets in the yard on
to the heap, until it went ripe enough, as
Farmer Yorkless termed it, to take to the ground.
The servant had returned with the whips and laid them at her feet. She counted ten, and
one looked almost as long as that which her dada had
used. She picked up a medium-size one
first; then looking at the lady, she said, "Do you think, ma'am, I could have some pegs or
pieces of wood?"
Again the servant was given an order, and
until he returned she played the whip
into rings and snakes and twirls around her head,
and lastly she skipped through a loop.
When the servant came back once more he
laid at her feet an assortment of pieces
of wood: four six inch pegs, a number of
ordinary clothes pegs and some odd pieces of
wood that were like kindling. She took the four
large pegs first and after placing them some distance
apart, going directly away from where she now
stood, she proceeded to whip them from the ground.
This completed, she looked at the old man; but
he was looking at his daughter and saying in an
almost excited tone, "She's like Rad, you know, I told you when you were small about Rad."
"Yes, Father. Yes, I remember."
"Well, she's like Rad. His was just a
rope, but he could throw a loop over a running
beast as easily as she whipped out those pegs.
Rad. Rad." He shook his head and, now
looking back at Emma and his voice seeming
stronger, he commanded, "Well, go on. Go
on."
And she went on. Sometimes she misjudged
her distance or her stance wasn't right, or her
wrist wasn't working properly, and the trick
didn't come off; and at this she would look at
him apologetically, but he always jerked his hand
upwards and she would go on and have another try.
It was as she was demonstrating what she could do
with the longest whip that the lady signalled her
to stop, and when she looked at the old man his
head was bent forward and he looked asleep. The
lady now rose to her feet and one of the
servants came and drew the chair gently from
under the awning, but as he did so the old man
raised his head and, looking about him, said,
"'Tis finished?"
"Yes, Father." His gaze came to rest on Emma
andwitha weary gesture he beckoned her to him, and
when she was standing by his side, he looked at
her kindly, saying, "Do something with yourself,
girl. You understand?"
Yes, she understood, and she nodded at him,
saying, "I will try, sir."
He nodded back at her and, turning to his
daughter, said, "See to her."
Emma watched the men lift the chair up the
steps and push it across the drive before she turned
and looked at the lady. She too seemed to have
got much older: she wasn't beautiful but she
had a nice face, a quiet face, like her
voice, and she was speaking to her now, saying,
"Thank you for entertaining my father. He enjoyed
it."
"I'm happy he did. May I say,
ma'am, he seems a grand gentleman."
The lady's eyelids blinked and her head
moved slowly now as she said, "You're right, he
is a grand gentleman." Then she added, "Now
what would you like? Some food, or would you prefer
money?"
"It doesn't matter about either, ma'am, I was just pleased to do it."
"You must have something, he wished it."
"Then if you don't mind, ma'am, I'd rather
take the food."
"Very well. Have ... have you got someone with
you?"
"No, ma'am; I came by meself."
"Oh. Then you won't be able to carry a
hamper. I will see that it is sent down for you."
"You're very kind, ma'am."
"Good-bye, and thank you."
"Thank you, ma'am." She stood still while
the lady turned away. To her eyes, she
looked like a picture out of a book. She was
wearing a pale lemon-coloured summer
dress. The material was very soft, for the skirts
billowed gently as she walked up the steps, and
there was no breeze. At the top of the steps she
saw the lady pause when a man approached
her from the side of the drive. The exchange between
them was very short and the lady walked on while the
man came down the steps towards her. She
recognized him immediately as Mr Fordyke. He
was more plump than when she had seen him last and
she was about to turn away when he spoke. "Up to your tricks again?" His
voice wasn't unkind; she knew it was meant
to be a joke and she looked at him, saying,
"Yes, sir."
He came to a halt about a yard from her and
he stood saying nothing but looking at her.
Although his eyes were on her face he seemed
to be looking all over her and he said now,
"You've grown somewhat since last we met."
"Yes, sir."
"Still working on the farm?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not much future in that, is there?"
She made no reply. She was beginning
to experience a strange sensation, her skin was
pricking and it wasn't with the heat. She knew
at this moment that she would rather have this man angry with
her than smiling at her as he was doing now.
"I've ... I've got to be getting back,
sir. Ex ... Excuse me."
"I haven't given you leave to go." The
smile had gone from his face. "You don't
seem to know your place."
She was even surprised herself as she heard
her voice saying, "My place is on the farm, sir. My master too is there."
As she watched his colour change she
recalled that once before she had seen it look like
this. And now, his voice and manner of the
haughtiest, he said, "You're insolent,
girl."
"I didn't mean to be, sir. I was
merely pointing out that I don't work for you, so
therefore I cannot be expected to obey your
orders." Eeh! she was talking like the parson,
or like some character in the book she was reading just now.
"Get out! Get off my land, and don't
let me see you here again. Do you hear? No
matter who sends for you, don't let me see
you here again."
She backed from him, then turned and only just
stopped herself from scurrying like a rabbit across the
lawn. With an effort she kept her head up and
her shoulders straight and her walk steady, at
least until she got into the avenue of trees,
where, as it had done earlier in the day, her body
sagged.
Two rumpuses in one day. It was too
much, and now she was likely walking into another
one. What would her reception be when she got back to the farm? Oh, why had things
to happen to her like this? There was that in her that wanted
to run and skip and laugh and be happy. She
knew that she could tend the animals and do all the
work that was laid upon her and still be happy if it
wasn't for people. Yes, that was the trouble, people: the
mister, the missis, and Luke, even Barney.
Oh yes, Barney. Barney was assuming a
different kind of trouble in her mind.
She skirted the farm and went straight to the
cottage and changed into her working clothes.
She found the farmyard empty. The whole
place seemed quiet, but as she was about to enter
the byres Luke came out.
"You're back then, me ladyship," he
greeted her. "And I suppose you'll be
pleased to know that you've put me mother to bed. The
first time in her life she's taken to her bed in the
day, but you've managed to do it, as you've
managed to hook our Barney. But there's
somethin' between hookin' and gettin' the fish out of
water. You've got to play the big 'uns; a
lot can happen in between times."
She slid past him into the byre and made for the
far end where she stood with her back to one of the partitions and closed her eyes tightly. Of a
sudden she wanted to cry. ...
She hadn't finished the milking of the second
cow when Barney came into the byre, and standing
over her as she leaned forward on the stool, he
asked quietly, "How did it go?"
"All right," she mumbled. Then lifting her
eyes to him, she said, "Your mother's in bed?"
"Yes, 'tis the diarrhoea; she's had it
for a few days. But her temper brought it on
worse."
"It wasn't just the row then that's made her
bad?"
"No, no." He shook his head. "She
came back from church on Sunday with it." He
laid his hand on her shoulder now, saying,
"Don't worry, things will plan out, you'll
see. One way or another they're gona be
all right for us, you'll see."
And on this he turned and went out, and she
repeated to herself, "All right for us," and then went
on with the milking.
It was as she reached the end of the byre and the last
cow that Pete poked his head through the doorway,
shouting, "Emma, there's a fellow from the House wants you."
When she went into the yard she saw a small
brake and a liveried man lifting a large
hamper down from it, and as she neared him he
looked at her and said pleasantly, "'Tis for
you."
"Thank you." Then his voice lowering and his
head poking towards her, he said, "You're
lucky to get it; the master was for stopping it, but
the mistress said you had to have it, an' what she
says in the end goes." He nodded at her, and
then after looking at her enquiringly for a moment,
he said, "Got on the wrong side of His
Highness, did you, lass? I saw him as he
came up from the lawn, he looked like a
frustrated bull. But then that's nothin' new for
him. Anyway you amused the old boss, and
that's something, 'cos he's never been out of
doors for almost a year. He used to be very
lively at one time. I worked over at his
place, you know." He jerked his head. "I
came to the Hall when he did, he asked for
me. A fine man he's been in his time. You
should have seen him when he came back from
abroad. Strappin' he was, strappin'. Been a great hunter, you know"--again he nodded
at her--"and that's why he likes your tricks
I think." Then he added somewhat sadly, "But
he's going downhill fast, he'll be lucky
if he sees another year out. Anyway"--he
thumbed down towards the hamper--"you've got
stuff in there that'll last you a week or more.
Miss Noble saw to its packing, so I understand.
If it had been left to Mrs Atkins or
Cook you would have had short shrift, I'm
tellin' you. Every man for himself up there. Times
are changin' and you'll likely live to see
them, lass. Yes, they're changing. Well,
I must away."
"Thank you, and"--she moved towards him as
he mounted the brake--"please thank Miss
Noble, will you?"
"Aye. I won't be able to see her
meself, but I'll get word into her that you're
grateful."
"I am. I am."
As the brake was turning in the yard before moving
away, Lizzie came out of the farmhouse door
and as she looked towards the hamper her face
brightened for a moment; then without any preamble she said, "We better get it across." And
she taking hold of one handle and Emma the other
they went out of the yard and into the cottage. But after
they had placed it on the table, Lizzie
didn't immediately go to open it but, looking across
at Emma, she said, "She's right bad, it's
the diarrhoea. She's had it for days but wouldn't
give in. I've told him he should get the
doctor. You see"--her voice dropped--
"Billy told me there's a rumour of cholera
going round in Gateshead Fell, and in
Gateshead itself. It's come over from
Newcastle, and if it gets a hold there could
be a repeat of what happened in the thirties.
All over the country that was, and they were
dropping like flies in Newcastle and about.
Anyway, I've told him he should have the
doctor, so it's up to him what happens now."

What happened after that Emma looked back
on as a nightmare.
The doctor came to visit Dilly
Yorkless the following morning and at first he
diagnosed just a fever and a touch of the autumn
bowel epidemic, but the following day he brought another man with him, and when he left they knew
that the cholera was among them.
Emma had never seen her granny run, but
when she came running from the house across the yard
and met her as she was emerging from the hen field,
she asked, "What is it?" And Lizzie
replied, "'Tis as was feared."
"Oh, no, no!"
"Aye. An' look. Listen, girl,
don't you come near the house, nor me. I've
got to be over there. You see to the animals,
an' you've got enough stuff in that hamper to last you
for a week or so. Scour all the cans.
I'll wash all the kitchen utensils that's
needed in the house, and I'll get the lads
to empty the slops. You're not to touch them, do you
hear?"
"Yes, Granny."
"Now do as I bid you: see to the cows and the
animals but keep to this side of the yard, don't
come near the house no matter what anybody
says, him, or anybody else. Do you hear
me?"
Again she said, "Yes, Granny." Then
putting her hand out towards her, she said, "But you ... you could get it."
"I won't get it, I'm as strong as a
horse. But listen to me. Once you've finished
your work don't go out of the door, stay in the
cottage and keep washing yourself. And don't go
near the middens unless you have to. Take your
slops down to the burn and throw them in there."
"But Granny, I ... I wash me hair
in there at times."
"But you can still wash your hair in it, girl,
it's running fast. But now, do as I bid you and
don't come near me. If you want me for
anything, shout across the yard. Now do you hear,
lass?"
Emma nodded and stared at her granny for a
moment, and the tender look on Lizzie's face
made her want to put out her arms to her, she
wanted to hold her, and be held; she wanted
to talk to her, ask her what she should do about
Barney, ask her about ... marrying ... and
after, but what she said was, "Take care,
Granny, please. Please take care."
"I'll take care, lass. Don't
worry about me." And the glance they exchanged now
was full of tenderness and simultaneously they both turned away from each other.

For four days Emma kept to her side of the
yard and whenever she was in the open she looked across
towards the house. One time there was an argument
going on between Barney and Pete about the
buckets of slops standing outside the door.
It was apparent that Pete didn't savour the
job of emptying them.
She was becoming bone weary, for she was rising
at four o'clock in the morning and staying on her
legs till nine at night. The only one she
spoke to was Billy. He too had been
ordered to stay away from the house and, like hers, his
work had almost doubled.
On the sixth day of her working isolation she
saw the parson. It was late in the evening. She
was making her way to the cottage, almost dragging
her feet, when she saw him through the dusk coming from the direction of the field. She reached the
cottage door and opened it expecting him to come
in, but when he was still some feet away from her he
stopped and said quietly, "I won't come any
nearer, Emma. I just wanted to know how you are
faring." She looked at his face. It had
taken on the hue of the coming night and looked
grey, his eyes were red-rimmed; and he did not
look spruce as he usually did. "How are
you, Emma?" he continued, and she answered,
"I'm all right."
"You look very tired."
"I am a bit."
"You mustn't get over-tired because the ...."
He put his head down as he stopped speaking.
When he lifted it, he added, "It's a
terrible time."
"How are they farin' in the village?"
"There have been two more deaths today. Katie
McGill died."
"Oh no!" She put her hand to her mouth.
She had liked Katie McGill. Her father
was a shepherd and they lived in a cottage no
bigger than this one, and there were eight of them altogether.
Poor Katie.
"And Mr Collier you know."
Her mouth opened and closed and she shook her
head. "That's six," she said.
"Yes, six. And ... and I'm afraid
there may be more. But it is much worse in the towns, although they tell me they've got it under
control in Gateshead. I wish we could say
the same for the village and hereabouts. And I'm
sure you will be sad to know that Sir Peter
Rollinson died last night, not from cholera, it
was old age."
Her hand was pressed tightly across the lower
part of her face now and she leant against the
stanchion of the door and closed her eyes. That
lovely old man, the only man of the class
that had given her a kind word. The rest
galloped past you and bespattered you with mud from
their horses; or when coming out of church a look
from them would push you aside to give them a
straight way. But that old man had been so
nice to her on the two occasions she had met
him, and his daughter too.
"Emma."
The parson had taken a step nearer to her, and
he was within two arms' length of her when she
brought her attention to him and saw that he was in some
agitation. And when he spoke his voice was low
and had a tremble to it: "I, like everyone else,
am in God's hands," he said; "I don't
know my hour. I am visiting the sick, so therefore my call may come any time,
and, Emma, I would not like to go to my maker without
first telling you that I ... I hold you in high
esteem, in the greatest esteem. I've had your
concern since I first made your acquaintance on
the coach, but over the years I have come to care for
you deeply. Whatever God wills I would like
you to remember this, Emma."
She was aware that her eyes were wide and wet
and that large slow tears were running down through the
sweaty grime on her face, and her heart was
aching with the pain that was new and strange and
beautiful, the pain that she wanted to hug to her,
to press it so hard into her body that it would
increase until she was enveloped in it.
"Don't cry, Emma. Don't cry."
She opened her eyes and after a moment said,
"Take care. Don't ... don't--"she was
about to say die but changed it to, "don't run
risks."
"There are so many brave people running risks
at the moment, Emma, my part is very small,
and as I said, we're in God's hands, but what
His purpose is I don't know." He shook
his head as he looked down at her and added, "I dare at times when in the depths to question His
motives, but I've told myself perhaps He
has sent this scourge to make those in authority
aware of why these things happen, aware of the
conditions that breed them."
His head was moving slowly now as he finished,
"I don't know. I don't know. Anyway
Emma, I say to you, take care, great care
and keep away from the house. And by the way, Mr
Bowman wishes to be remembered to you."
"Is ... is he all right?" Her voice
sounded like a croak.
"Yes. I have called to him from the gate, and
he seemed well enough yesterday. But he is very
concerned for you and your grandmother. ... Goodbye,
Emma."
She brought herself up straight from the support
of the stanchion and, her lips trembling, she
muttered, "Good-bye, Parson," and in a
gabble she added, "I too hold you in high
esteem." Then turning about, she rushed into the
cottage and closed the door, and, throwing herself
down on to the mat in front of the dead fire,
she laid her arms on the seat of the
rocking-chair and buried her head in them and gave way to a paroxysm of weeping,
all the while muttering to herself that she would never
marry Barney, never marry anyone. Never.
Never. And if God would only keep the
parson safe, she would do anything He asked of
her.



The morning was heavy with rain. It had rained
incessantly for twenty-four hours. The yard
and everywhere about was like a sea of mud, and, as her
granny would have said, her spirits had dropped to her
boots. She had now been eleven days on her
own and she was filled with worry, not about being
alone but about her granny. She had seen her
last evening across the yard. Her face had
looked drawn, her shoulders rounded and there was
no life in her voice as she called, "Are
you all right, lass?"
If her granny took the cholera, what would
she do? She pushed the thought out of her mind and
went on scraping the cow dung from the floor of the
byre.
When she heard the door open she turned about and saw Barney standing there. He did not come
towards her, nor did she move towards him,
but when he said, "Ma's gone, Emma," her
whole body jerked and she let go of the rake and
it dropped on to the slime of the floor.
In a normal way, she knew she should be
terribly sorry, and she was feeling sorry, but
not because she had any liking for the woman who had
treated her worse than she did the animals,
she was sorry that the excuse she had for not
marrying Barney had been taken from her by death,
for she had made up her mind to say to Barney,
"I can't come between you and your ma, I couldn't
live with it." It would have been a lie, but it would
have been the gentlest way of telling him that she
wasn't for marrying. Now that excuse had gone.
"I'm sorry to the heart, Emma. We
didn't get on all the time and she stood in
my way, but she was a good mother, she brought us up
well." He was speaking with his head lowered, but
when he lifted it he spoke with a voice that
sounded full of authority as he said, "There'll
be changes, Emma; the way'll be clear
now." Then he swung round and went out.
She turned slowly and looked into the face of a cow, and it opened its mouth and gave
a small moo that sounded like a moan, and it could
have come from her own lips at this very moment.

They buried Dilly Yorkless two days
later. There was no long cort@ege to this
funeral, no big spread in the farmhouse; in
fact there was no meal at all for the men in the
farmhouse for Lizzie had gone sick.
It wasn't, she assured Emma from her bed
in the cottage, the cholera, it was just that she was
tired, for she couldn't remember when she had
last had a night's rest. The men, she said,
had all taken their turn, but after all, they were
men and no good at nursing. But now it was over,
a day, two at the most, and she would be on her
feet again.
Lizzie seemed to have forgotten that she wanted
no contact with Emma, but when your master says
to you, "If you're going to be bad, Lizzie,
you'd better get to your own bed," what could she
do?
When the diarrhoea started to get real bad,
Emma cried aloud as she emptied the
buckets, "Oh, no! God. Oh no! Don't do this. Don't do this."
The doctor came on the third day and he
heartened her by saying that her granny would
likely pull through; there had been no deaths in
the village for over a week now, and those who were
sick were recovering. The scourge had worn itself
out.
The parson came and he no longer stood a
distance from her but he walked into the cottage and
sat down by Lizzie's bed; and he talked
to her, but strangely not about God or heaven or
anything like that, which somewhat surprised Emma.
He told her she'd soon be on her feet and
she must get well for she was needed in the
farmhouse now. "You can't expect four big
men to look after themselves," he said. But her
granny hadn't spoken at all, she had just
lain and looked at him.
When he was about to take his leave he
beckoned Emma outside, and there he said
gently, "She'll survive. With God's
help, she'll survive, as I have done,
Emma." Then his head slightly bent, he
said, "I'm sorry I disturbed your mind that
night past, but things were very bad and people were going like flies, and of course being merely a
human being in contact with them I was fully
expecting my call to come any time. I ...
I hope I didn't worry you."
"No, no, Parson," she answered; "you
didn't worry me."
"Good. I ... I shall call again tomorrow.
Good-bye, Emma."
As she returned into the room she knew that the
parson wanted her to forget what he had said on
that past night.
She went to the bed and, kneeling down by its
side, she wiped her granny's brow with a
piece of wet rag; and as she did so
Lizzie made a sound like a laugh. But no
muscle of her face had moved, and, her
voice slow as if each word was an effort, she
said, "Men wanting me in the farmhouse. After
all these years. I ... I could come into me
own, what ... what should have been mine in the
beginning; but now I'll never do it. 'Tain't
fair. Life ain't fair. No"--her
voice sank deep in her throat--"life
ain't fair."
She closed her eyes for a moment and Emma stopped wiping her face and went to rise from her
knees. But Lizzie spoke again, saying,
"Marry him lass, Barney, and you'll come
into what should have been mine. It'll be justice
... justice. I might rest easy knowing that you
were reaping the benefit of me havin' been cheated;
for she cheated me. Oh aye, barefaced she
was, barefaced." Her voice trailed
away, and Emma turned towards the fire and
leant her head against the wooden mantelshelf
and the tears rolling down her cheeks made tiny
pinging sounds as they dropped from her chin on to the
hot ashes on the hearth.
The parson wanted her to forget what he had
said ... and implied. And he had implied.
She wasn't a fool, she knew what he had
implied as plain as if he had put it
into words. Somehow she had always known how he
felt about her; she had always known how she had
felt about him. And her granny wanted her
to marry Barney. ... Her granny thought she
was going to die. Oh, no! No! No! She
musn't! She musn't die.
Dropping on to her knees, she began
to beseech God for her granny's life.
Lizzie didn't take as long to go as
Dilly Yorkless; three days later she was
dead.
Emma couldn't take it in. She had tended
her up till midnight. The diarrhoea had
eased off and she was lying quiet. Her face
had looked pink in the candlelight and Emma had
said, "You look better, Granny, you've
got over the turn."
Lizzie hadn't answered but had taken her
hand between her own two and given it a weak
grasp, and so it was with a feeling of relief that
Emma had sat in the rocking-chair that was
pulled up to the side of the bed and in utter
weariness she had fallen into a deep sleep.
It was the cock crowing that woke her up. The
room was dark and was dead cold; the candle had
guttered itself out, as had the fire. Pulling herself
awake, she scurried about getting a candle.
When it was lit, she placed it on the box to the
side of the bed. Her granny looked
peacefully asleep. Next she blew up the
fire and put the kettle on and, having filled
a little pan with some milk, she placed it to the side of the hob.
Going to the bed now, she gently straightened the
bedclothes under her granny's chin. It was then,
for the first time, she noticed the stillness about her.
Her hands trembling, she touched the pale
cheek; then she was kneeling by the bed, both hands
now on Lizzie's face, crying,
"Granny! Granny! wake up. Granny!
Granny!" But Lizzie was past waking.
Emma lifted up the candle the better
to see. It looked as if her granny was
smiling one of her rare smiles.
"Oh! no. No! No! Granny.
No! Granny." She was wagging her head from
side to side, talking aloud now. "You were
better last night. Oh no, no, don't be
gone. Oh Granny. Granny."
The sound of the kettle spluttering and the milk
boiling over brought her to her feet and she rushed
to the fireplace and retrieved them both from the
flames and put them on the hearth, then she
turned and stood looking towards the bed, her
hands joined in front of her face, her teeth
biting down on her two thumbnails.
The cock was still crowing. She now turned to the door and, taking a cloak from the back
of it, she pulled it around her and went out. The
wind was driving a thin rain before it and as she
entered the farmyard she saw the kitchen door
open and Jake Yorkless emerge.
"Mister."
He stopped when he heard her voice. Then
lifting the lantern he had in his hand, he said,
"What's up? Stay where you are."
She came to a standstill some yards before him,
saying, "Me granny, she's ... she's
gone."
He did not speak for a moment but she saw him
turn his head to the side and bite hard down on
his lower lip. Then he uttered one word:
"God!"
Now he was looking at her again, saying,
"Get back to the cottage. I'll tell them
down at the village; they can come up and get
her."
As he was turning to go back into the house she
said, "I ... I want her buried decent."
He swung round and lifting the lantern again,
he asked, "Where's the money coming from?"
"I've ... I've got the money." "You've got the--?" He stopped and took
a small step towards her. "Where did you get
the money, enough to bury her?"
"It was given to me. It doesn't matter.
And ... and me granny should have some an' all.
I brought it with me when I came here. I
gave it to her."
"Begod! you did." There was high surprise
in his voice. And she heard herself answer,
"Yes, begod! I did."
It must have been the manner of her answering him
that brought his head poking forward and moving from side
to side as if he wasn't sure it was she who
had spoken. And he was standing like that as she turned
away and went back to the cottage. ...
The parson came at ten o'clock.
She had washed her granny, laid her out in
a clean calico nightgown that Lizzie had
sewn many years back and had kept for this very
purpose. She had combed her hair. And now
her head rested on a piece of clean sheeting
that she had laid over the striped tick of the
feather pillow.
Yesterday she had washed and managed to dry
one of the three twill sheets they possessed, and now it covered her. Following this,
she had opened the two windows, and the door too,
and let the cold damp air sweep through the
room, for the smell in it was beginning to make her
feel sick. Lastly, she had brought a
bucket of water from the stream and washed her own
face, arms, and feet in it. Then she had
cleaned up the room as best she could, so when the
parson arrived everything was as tidy and as clean
as she could make it.
As Henry Grainger looked at this girl, this
budding woman, his heart was so filled with sadness
that the usual words of comfort he kept for the bereaved
would not come to his lips. He only knew that
if anything should happen to her, if she should
follow the woman on the bed, then his faith in
God would be snapped entirely. He had for
some time been in great agony of mind over the
infallible ways of the Lord. He could understand Him
taking the old but not the young, not those to whom he had
given life and whom he had allowed to glimpse
the waters of spring but had then forbidden them
to taste them. But this girl before him, who had been
destined to work so lowly and who was now left without
a guardian and at the mercy of men, and those men near at hand, one at least of whom was known
to be
a licentious creature even though he was
promised to a young woman in the village, what
was to become of her? What were God's plans for
her? This was a big question mark in his mind.
His voice sounded ordinary as he asked,
"How are you, Emma?"
"I'm well, Parson, but heart sore.
She ... She was all I had, and ... and we
got on together." Her voice broke as she
ended, "I ... I think, under her roughness she
was fond of me."
"She was more than fond of you, Emma, she
loved you. I know that."
After staring at her lowered head for a moment, he
walked up the room and, kneeling down by the low
bed, he began to pray softly. Using ordinary
words, he asked God to accept this hard-working
woman into his care and to give her a place in
heaven where she would find rest for all eternity.
... That last was a phrase that sometimes troubled
him. Eternity was long, and could a soul rest
forever in it? That is if it was to carry any of its
earthly character over the border of death.
When he rose to his feet, Emma was still standing where he had left her and she said
to him, "I want her to be buried decently,
Parson, not in a common grave. I can pay for
it, I have money."
He said nothing, but at the look of enquiry in his eyes she reminded him that Mr Bowman
paid her for the pictures, and she added, "I think
me granny might have something in her kist, I
haven't looked yet. But anyway, there'll be
enough for a decent coffin and a grave."
"They'll ... they'll want to take her
tomorrow, Emma."
"Yes, I know; but Mr Farrow would
surely have a decent coffin on hand."
"Yes, yes, perhaps so, Emma. Anyway,
I'll talk to him. But don't worry,
she'll be put away decently. I'll see
to that."
"Thank you, Parson."
"Parson."
"Yes, Emma?"
"Will you tell Mr Bowman?"
There was a pause before he said, "I'll
tell Mr Bowman, I'll go right there now.
He'll ... He'll be very sorry." They nodded at each other and he went out, and
slowly she sat down on the rocking-chair and
looked towards the bed. Mr Bowman would be
sorry. Had he loved her granny? She
didn't know; that he had used her at one time
she did know, but she also knew that usage and
love weren't the same thing.



It was a week since Lizzie was buried,
and no one had invited Emma into the farmhouse.
There was no woman at all in the house, the men
were looking after themselves. And now this morning,
shamefacedly Barney stood in front of
Emma admitting that they tried to get someone from
the village to see to things indoors, but that no
one would come near the place.
Two women had died here within a short time of
each other, and they were women who had been hail
and hearty. So, no mothers were offering to come up and
give a hand, much less allow their daughters
to take up work on this particular farm.
With her eyes cast down Emma listened to him
saying, "In a way, Emma, it could be a good thing, a godsend because they'll have to have you
in, in the end. The place is like a pigsty and
beginning to smell like that an' all, and we
haven't had a decent meal since me mother
went. None of us were made to cook, Pete
least of all." He smiled weakly at her,
then he ended, "You've only got to bide your
time."
On this she turned to him, bringing his face
stretching with something akin to amazement when she
added, "I mightn't want to bide me time.
I'm free, I can up and go, and that's what
I'm thinking of doin' an' all, the way
I've been treated here. Dogs have a better
life and I don't have to put up with it any more.
I'm going to talk it over with the parson and see
what he says."
Barney's mouth opened and shut twice before
he said, "What's come over you? I ... I
thought you wanted it as much as me. And ... and
there's a chance you could ... yes you could"--he was
nodding vigorously at her--"you could be
mistress over there one day. And if you want
to know anything, I've already spoken to the parson,
yesterday." It was her turn to stretch her mouth, and she
barked at him, "Well, you shouldn't! You
shouldn't!"
"Why? We've been promised, haven't
we?"
"I don't know." She shook her head from
side to side now. "I was but a bairn, well
just a young lass. I'm no longer a young lass,
I'm coming up sixteen and I'm not going to be
tret like a black slave any more. I read that
all the slaves aren't treated the same, some have
kind masters. Well, it hasn't been my
lot, has it? So I'll make up me mind
later and let you know." And she surprised him
still further by swinging round and throwing the empty
milk bucket against the byre wall, then marching
out across the yard to the cottage.
There she sat down at the table and, joining her
hands on it, she beat them up and down on the
bare wood as she asked herself, could she go to the
parson and ask his advice? Slowly she shook
her head. No, not about getting married
to Barney, she couldn't. But she could go to Mr
Bowman. Yes, that's what she would do, she would
go to Mr Bowman. She would get cleaned up proper, not to do his work, because he had
likely been managing these past weeks himself,
but to ask if she could talk to him, because as she
saw it now he was the nearest thing to her granny
she had left.
It was half an hour later when she went
across the fields and dropped down on to the
bridle-path. She had seen no one, not even
a farm cart rumbling along the coach road; the
mail coach she knew had passed some time before.
But as she approached the cottage she saw that
someone had arrived before her, as the parson's
trap was outside in the lane.
Quietly now, she let herself in the back
door and as quietly she closed it behind her.
The door leading into the living-room was open and the
voices came as clear to her as if she were
facing the men who were speaking. It was Mr
Bowman's voice that was saying, "Don't think
it hasn't entered my head, Henry. Oh,
yes, yes. And you may not believe it, but I
have my own standard of morals and every time I have
looked at her with desire in my heart I've
had Lizzie before my eyes. You're under the
idea that God gives us life, Henry. Well, for my part I think if that is so
He's a creature with a wry sense of humour:
He turns our hearts to things that are good
to look upon, but when the years touch those things and the
skin wrinkles and the temper frays it is not our
hearts that are touched but the dark depths within us and
we want rid of the things that we once loved,
or thought we loved. You see, Henry,
Lizzie was very good to me when I first came here.
I didn't expect to last long, but here was this
woman, a pretty woman in her early
thirties, not old enough to be my mother but old enough
to act like one to a twenty-one year old sick
lad, and I've got to admit she created in
me a desire to live and to take up the painting
again. And, as you guessed, from the beginning she
became my spare-time wife. At what stage
I became tired of the situation I don't know,
perhaps it was as I said when age began to gallop
on her. Man is a mean thing, Henry, no
real gratitude in him. Emma came as a
blessing in disguise, at least I thought so, for she
would curtail Lizzie's visits. But then
Lizzie found a way. I was cruel
to Lizzie, Henry, more so I think when I saw her granddaughter growing into a thing
of beauty. So Henry, unless you want Emma
to become another Lizzie under this roof, don't
press me to take her on as my little
housekeeper and nurse, for the inevitable would
happen. Oh yes it would. Your faith in me
is misplaced, my dear fellow, very
misplaced. ... But now, there's you. What about
you?"
"It's impossible, I've told you."
The parson's voice came to Emma like a
thin whisper on the air, and she screwed up her
eyes against it. But her ears were wide to his
next words: "Apart from the villagers not
accepting her, my stipend barely keeps me
alive."
"You could get rid of Miss Wilkinson."
"No, no, Ralph, I couldn't. It is
expected that one has a housekeeper or a
maid of some kind in the parsonage; the
parson's wife has a number of duties that
would keep her occupied. Then ... then there
might be a family, and I've had experience
of how these are brought up in some parishes, the
farm worker's children are better fed than many of them."
"Can't you ask the bishop to supplement your
stipend? It's known that he lives like a rajah
up in Auckland there. Or what about applying for
another parish? There's some rich ones kicking
around the North. Doesn't the Hall pig
in?"
"Mr Joseph did a little, but I doubt
our present Mr Fordyke is inclined that way;
from what I can gather his interests lie in other
directions."
"Yes, yes. I've gathered that too. But
look, Henry, nothing could be worse for her
than the life she leads up there. And it's not
going to be much better if, as you say, she
marries young Barney, although he appears to be
the best of the bunch."
"It's out of the question, Ralph. And what's more,
she's so young, and here am I thirty-two, almost
seventeen years her senior."
"Oh! God almighty." The painter's
voice faded away from Emma and she knew he
must be walking up the length of the room. Then, his
voice becoming clear again, she knew he was
approaching the kitchen door and so, swiftly, she let herself out.
Standing with her back to the cottage wall she
looked up into the sky. The clouds were high with
puffs of white down resting on patches of
pure blue and she wished from the bottom of her
heart that she was up there, alongside her
granny. There they were back in the room
discussing her as if she was something that could be
weighed, and then sold. ... And then there were those
up at the farm waiting for her to be cleared of the
plague so that she could be taken into the house and
work fourteen hours a day after the four of them, and
be expected to be thankful. Six men, three
of them supposedly loving her, one of them hating
her as deeply as the three loved her and the fifth
one indifferent, because Pete seemed too dim of
mind to show emotion one way or the other. And then
the mister. She could not put a name to his
feelings for her, but at times he frightened her
almost as much as Luke did.
What was she to do? The painter couldn't have her,
the parson wouldn't have her. That hurt her most,
it was like one of her dada's knives grinding beneath
her ribs. But like a salve in the hurt was the
indignation she felt: she wasn't a thing to be pitied, she was her dada's daughter, and she
wasn't bad to look upon. Moreover, she could
read and write and she had gathered a little knowledge from the
books she had read. No, she wasn't a
creature to be pitied and bargained over like
something in the market at the shoe fair. The
feeling of indignation brought her from the wall.
She'd be mucked about no longer. There was one
channel open to her and that was to marry Barney, and
if the mister didn't marry again she would, as
Barney had said, one day be mistress of the
house. She would aim for that, yes she would, and
once inside that house she would see to it that they
got somebody else to look to the pigs and the
animals.
With this thought she checked herself: she was never
happy encased in the house, she preferred to be
outside amongst the animals. Well then, her
mind came back at her, you can't get everything
you want in this world, as her granny so often had
said; you plumped for whatever was at hand, you
sorted out the grain from the chaff, and the grain in this
situation was Barney.
She turned about andwitha great to-do she thrust
open the kitchen door, quickly passed through the little room, then faced the two men who,
surprised at her entry, stood staring at her.
Looking straight at the parson, she said in
as formal a tone as she could muster, "I'll be
sixteen on the first of February, Parson, and
I aim to marry Barney. I gave him me
word two years gone, so would you kindly put up
the banns from that day please?" And looking at the
painter, she said, "I hope I find you
well, Mr Bowman? Now I must get
back. Good-day to you." And she jerked her head
first to one, then to the other before turning about and
hurrying from the room.
When they heard the back door close,
Henry Grainger looked at Ralph Bowman
and, his hand gripping his chin, he said, "She must
have overheard us. In ... in some way she must have
overheard us. Oh, my God!"



"I cannot take the service, Ralph."
"But you've got to. It's your church, your
parish."
"Well, I can't do it. I'll have to make some excuse. My father hasn't been well
lately. I ... I can ask the Reverend
Blackett from Gateshead Fell
to officiate."
Ralph surveyed the man before him. He was
thirty-three years old, a tall
good-looking, virile man, but a man who
looked more capable of working with his hands than he
did preaching from a pulpit. He said
quietly, "Is it as bad as that?"
"Yes, it's as bad as that. But once she
is married, things will be different."
"You hope."
"Oh yes, they will." Henry nodded
emphatically now. "Once the marriage is
consummated I will know it is done and that'll be
that."
"You know, Henry, what I think? I think
you're much too clever to be a parson and too
much of a fool to be a man."
"Yes, perhaps you are right. But tack the
latter to the former and there'll be more truth in it.
I was a fool ever to enter the church, because in it
black is black and white is white, there's
no allowance for grey, and life is made up of grey."
There was silence between them for a moment; then on a
laugh Henry said, "You know something? This'll
surprise you more than anything that has gone before,
I think. Last week I drank a glass of
spirits, the first in my life."
Ralph put his head back and let out his
usual bellow, which hadn't been heard in the
cottage for some time now, and he said, "Well,
well! the man's beaten the parson. What about
trying it again?"
"I wouldn't mind, although were it to become known
it would ruin my reputation, and the only good
quality I have in the eyes of my parishioners
is that of being a staunch teetotaller. They
tell me that I'm the only parson in
Northumberland and Durham that doesn't
resort to the bottle."
"Well, your secret's safe with me."
"But not with Miss Wilkinson; she watches
me like a hawk.
"I bought a small flask of spirits when I
was in Newcastle and, believe me, I had a
job to know where to hide it. I have locked it in a
drawer with my sermons." Again Ralph laughed loudly as he cried,
"That should put some spirit into them."
"Oh, Ralph, I think you could do better
than that. Still, it's adequate because I'm
afraid there's very little spirit in what I have to say
these days from the pulpit. I see that crowd of
faces looking up at me; I know things about every
one of them; I know the majority of them come
only out of habit, and that the things they are
praying to God to forgive them for, they will continue
to do as soon as they leave the church, such as
slander, spite, not forgetting fornication. If I
were a real man of God, I would forgive them
all these things, but looking down on them I am
thinking as I talk to them, you are a band of
hypocrites and you are not alone, as I am your
leader. And at times I think of all that
liquor reposing in the vault. ..."
"Yes, yes I do too. Somebody's going
to get a haul someday. Now there's an idea,
instead of buying the stuff why don't you go in and
...?"
"Never! I'm bad enough as it is ... oh
no!"
"Oh, laddie. Here! drink that. You're too hard on yourself. As you said, you
shouldn't have entered the church. No, you shouldn't, you
should have gone into a monastery, the strictest
order."
Henry was sipping on the raw spirit and he
spluttered now and choked before he was able to say,
"What! and frizzle up inside with the thoughts that
consume me?" Then looking tenderly towards the
painter, he said, "I'll tell you something,
Ralph, and please don't sneer, but each
night I thank God for your friendship. Without
it, I don't know what I would have done in this
place. You, to me, have been my father confessor.
Not the bishop. Oh no, not the bishop. I'm
very wary what I tell the bishop."
Ralph did not answer, he put his hand out
and gripped the shoulder of the younger, tormented man
in front of him, saying as he did so,
"Well, for my part I'll tell you, I may
not pray at night, but every time I see you,
Henry, I welcome you in my heart, for I
too don't know what I would have done over these
years without your friendship, and the openness that is between
us, no sham, no pretence, just plain speaking.
Well, here's to however long it lasts." Gently they touched their glasses and in an
embarrassed silence they finished their drink.
Then Henry, picking up his hat to take his
leave, said, "If you should see her just before the day
wish her well for me, will you? Tell her that
I've been unexpectedly called away."
"I'll do that, Henry. But I must say this,
Emma's no fool and if she hadn't guessed
before, she'll know now the reason why you won't
perform the ceremony."
"It won't come as any surprise to her,
Ralph, she's known since the time of the
cholera." On this he made a small motion with
his head, then turned about and walked out. And
Ralph, watching him from the doorway,
muttered, "The fool. The fool."

Emma was so changed that in some ways she
didn't recognize herself. She still knew
fear, mostly of Luke and not without cause.
She still knew apprehension, apprehension
concerned with her coming marriage. But as far as
respect went and bowing her knee, even
metaphorically speaking, to the four men on the
farm, this was now a thing of the past, and she wondered why she hadn't stood up for herself
before.
That the men were aware of the change in her was shown
in their individual attitudes towards her.
She remained the same only to Billy
Proctor. Billy had told her that she had
given him more laughs of late than he'd had in
his whole life on this farm, and he wished at
her age he'd only half the spunk that she
had now.
She didn't look upon her attitude as
spunkish, she only knew inside herself that she
wasn't going to be messed about any more. Yet
at times, as her wedding day drew near, she
lay in the dess bed, the bed in which her mother had
been born and in which her granny had died, and
she cried, often well into the night.
For weeks now she had only glimpsed the
parson at a distance. She hadn't been
to Sunday school nor church since the cholera,
and her absence was put down by the villagers
to resentment that no one had gone near the farm because
of the plague.
A fortnight after her granny was buried,
Barney had come to her and said, "Me da wants
you indoors, Emma." He spoke the words as if he had achieved a victory for her, but he
was soon disillusioned by her saying, "If mister
wants me to go into the house then he must come and
ask me himself, and arrange me pay."
"Now, look here, Emma." He had taken
a manly stand before her. "Don't look a
gift horse in the mouth; the very fact that he's
sent word for you to come over is a battle half
won."
Again she surprised him by looking him
straight in the face and saying, "To add to your
knowledge, Barney, the battle hasn't even begun.
Now you can tell that to your da in any way you like.
And remember, I'm free, and I can walk out
of here this minute if I want to. And I can
get work; they'll have me up at the House, or
anywhere."
This last she knew was just wishful thinking, because
the House was the last place she would go for work,
remembering who was the real master there now, and she
knew that however kind his wife was, she could
expect no favours from him.
What Barney said to her then and slowly was,
"Have you gone out of your mind, Emma?" And she
answered him, "Yes, I have. And I've come to me senses, and not afore time. Me
granny put up with this life because she had to,
but I'm not me granny and as yet I have no
ties."
Barney had stared at this new being. The old
Emma was no more. The girl who'd had to defend
herself with a whip could do it more effectively with her
tongue now. He didn't like it, and he wanted
to tell her so, but he held his tongue because their
wedding day was nearing and he was athirst for her.
Always he was athirst for her. She had, in a
way, got beneath his skin and he couldn't think of
anything else but her. Even in his sleep he
now dreamt of her, and he hadn't been given
to dreams. ...
So Jake Yorkless came to the cottage
late in the evening and knocked on her door, and
mockingly, when she opened it, he doffed his cap
deeply to her, saying, "You sent for me,
ma'am?"
But the grim smile left his face and there
issued a bawl from his mouth when she said, "You
needn't come funny with me, mister."
"Begod! no, I'm not comin' funny with you,
Emma Crawshaw, I've come to tell you, you come to the house the morrow mornin' at half
past five and get going, or else you go."
"Well, I can do that an' all, and if I
go Barney goes with me. I suppose you know
that? And what's more you'll get nobody from the
village, because it'll be some long, long time
afore any woman puts her foot in your
door, because the smell of the plague is now
joined by the dirt of the lot of you."
She knew she had gone too far and a wave
of fear swept over her when his hands came out like
claws towards her, but she cried at him, "You
touch me, mister, and I'll flay you." She
sprung back into the room and picked up from the
table one of the whips that were lying there. She had
only a few minutes earlier brought them down
from the roof, wondering what she would do with them because
she couldn't see her being allowed to take them
into the house, and if she left them here, one or
the other would surely come in and destroy them,
even perhaps keep one to use on her. She
wouldn't put it past Luke. Oh no.
"By! God, I never thought to see the day."
Jake Yorkless was almost foaming at the mouth.
And now, the whip gripped tightly in her hand, she dared to answer him, saying,
"'Tisn't afore time, mister, and I'm paying
back something that you owed me granny, for you never
stopped your wife from taunting her, and you knew
full well she should have been in her place."
As they glared at each other in the fading
light she was amazed to see the fury drop
away from his face. Then slowly lowering his head,
he said grudgingly, "If your granny had had
your spunk, she would have been." But his head
quickly jerked up again and he added, "But that's not
sayin' you're coming the high and mighty with me,
miss. If you're coming into my house, you'll
keep your place."
"And what is that to be?"
For a moment he seemed lost for words, but then,
his lower jaw moving from side to side, he said,
"Remains to be seen how you act."
"Well, that'll depend on how I'm
treated."
"Oh, God almighty!" He now held his
brow in his hand and, closing his eyes, rocked
himself backward and forward, saying, "In all
me born days I've never listened to anything like
it. If our Barney hadn't gone mad, I'd ...."
He stopped, took his hand from his head and
stood looking at her in silence.
Then he turned and was about to move away when
she said quietly, "I can't be expected to do
all the work meself. It took the missis and
me granny all their time, and me outside. I
can't do three folk's work, I'll have to have
help."
He stopped and looked at her. Then, his
voice low and his words slow, he said, "Well,
I'm afraid you'll have to try, because if I could
have had anybody from the village I wouldn't be
standing here putting up with your claptrap. Do you
know that?"
"Yes"--she nodded at him--"I'm well
aware of that. But ... but I know somebody who
would come."
He pulled his neck up out of the rough collar
of his coat and said, "You do?"
"Yes. Mrs Petty."
"Mary Petty?"
"Yes."
"But she's got a squad."
"They look after each other, so she says. She could come from eight till five, but
only for me."
"Well! Well! Well! You've got it
all worked out, haven't you?"
"I do better than most."
Again he was staring at her in silence. Then he
almost flung himself round and marched off into the
darkening night. And she went back into the
cottage.
Holding her hand tightly against her chest, she
pressed it as if to assist her breathing while
she asked herself, how in the name of God had she
dared to make that stand? What was in her? Something was
happening ... had happened. Six months ago
she would as soon have thought herself capable of throwing
knives at him as of stabbing him with her tongue
as she had done. But she had won. In a way,
she had won, but as she had said to Barney, the
battle hadn't yet begun, and it wouldn't
till she was married and had some kind of status.
That's what she wanted, some kind of status
to make up for the rejection of others.
These others she didn't name, not even in her
mind.



"Eeh! you look bonny, lass," Mary
Petty said; "I've never seen anybody
look so bonny. And your frock's a right
picture. Fancy you makin' it yourself. You are
a clever lass, Emma. Altogether you're a clever
lass. I used to say to my Katie, Emma
Crawshaw's a clever lass and she shouldn't be
used like she is on that farm, and now in two
hours time you'll have come into your own, you'll be a
missis. Huh--" the little flabby-bodied
woman grinned now as she said, "an' that's what
I'll have to call you, no more Emmarin', but
missis."
"Oh, Mrs Petty, there'll be no
need."
"Oh, aye there will. Mightn't be from your part
but from--" She now thumbed towards the bedroom
door. "He'll see to it. If not Mr
Barney, his da will. I thought he was a bit of
an upstart, Jake Yorkless. You know I
worked outside alongside your granny all those
years ago, an' if everybody had had their rights she should have been in here. But then the
Lord decides, an' you wouldn't have been who you
are with Yorkless for your granda. You certainly
wouldn't look like you do the day 'cos you're past
bonny. And this is to be your bedroom." Mary
Petty looked round the room, nodding as she
went on, "And you've got it nice. It's a
decent size, you can get round the bed. That's a
nice chest you have there; an' what's that little door
next to it?"
"It leads into the roof, it's used as a store
room. There's another door at yon end of the
house, you'll have seen it. I think they used
to put the winter feed up here afore they had so many
outhouses."
"Aye, an' I've seen somethin' like it down
at Tilson's old mill. ... Well
lass, you're ready." She now gave her
full attention to Emma who was standing in the
middle of the room dressed in the first new
article of clothing she'd had since coming to this
place. The dress was of white linen, stiff enough
to allow the skirt to billow a little; she hadn't
had enough material to make it full and
fashionable. The bodice was not fitted to her shape because she was conscious of her fast rising
bust, so she had made the upper part of the dress
in the form of a blouse. But both the skirt and the
blouse were drawn into her narrow waist by a belt
of the same material and on the front of which she
had embroidered a bunch of forget-me-nots.
And it was forget-me-nots she was to carry as a
small nosegay.
Although the May day was bright it was still chilly,
but she had prepared for this with a soft pink,
shop-bought shawl. The extravagance of this
purchase which had cost four shillings and sixpence
had given her a guilty feeling, but she had
told herself it was only once in a lifetime you
got married. Following quickly on that thought had
come the ardent wish that something would happen before the
promised day which would make it impossible for her
to go through with the ceremony; the thought of the parson
joining her to Barney created in her a feeling that
if persisted in she knew would erupt in
sickness.
But it was only yesterday that she knew she was
going to be spared that ordeal, that on the previous
day he had been called away to attend his father
who was ill. This news convinced her that God could be kind when He liked.
The painter had given her this news. He had
given her a wedding present of her own
picture, the one where he made her sit by the
fire and pretended she was sewing. In fact she
had sewn during that sitting, she had hemmed him
a handkerchief from a piece of fine lawn that had
once been the back of one of his shirts. He
didn't seem to care how he dressed on top
but he had two drawers full of good shirts and
underwear.
He had wished her happiness, he had held
her hand between his two and stared into her face as he
said, "I wish your granny could have been alive
to see you tomorrow. She was a good woman, your
granny. She had her faults, but then who
hasn't? And although you may not have known it,
Emma, she loved you."
She had wanted to cry then, she had wanted
to lean against him and feel his arms about her like those
of a father. She wished he would have given her
away.
Then he had given her the message Henry
had given him some time ago. And he had gone
on, "Henry is grieved that he cannot officiate at your wedding because he is very, very
fond of you, Emma."
She had said nothing, but she had looked hard
at him, and his gaze had dropped from hers. Then
without further words she had turned about and left
the house, carrying the picture. And now it was
hanging on the wall to the side of the bed.
Mary Petty was still chattering: "There'll be
a lot of villagers there; they're all looking
forward to seeing you wed. 'Tis a pity you have no
soul of your own, you need a woman relation at
a time like this. Anyway, you won't be in for a
rough night 'cos there's going to be no big do
after. 'Tis a pity in one way, I mean about
the do, not about the rough night. Oh no. I can
remember the night I was married. They carried
us both into the room and practically tore the
clothes off us. Drunk as noodles they all
were. And Ned too, he was so drunk he
couldn't tell which was top or bottom of me."
She now put her arms round her waist and her
body shook with laughter; then she added, "He
soon found out after, as my squad proves. But
you're gettin' a better start than I had,
lass, or many another like you that has been brought up on the farms, one-room hovels
were our mansions. Our Letty and Jane think
they're in clover now 'cos they've got two
rooms an' a scullery, but they are still
mud-floored. I suppose I should be
thankful to God that I'm not still living in
Newcastle. That's where I was born, you know
lass, in Newcastle. But as I've said
to himself time and again--that's when I get fed up with
me life--the only difference is that the midden
is now at the back of the house instead of in the
gutter as it was when I was a bairn in the city.
Life's a funny thing. Aw, well now,
lass, you're ready. By the way, I wouldn't
expect your new brother-in-law to be at the
church, 'cos from what I can gather he was in The
Tuns last night shoutin' his mouth off. He
left on Laura Nixon's cart, and you're
old enough to know what that means."
When Emma shook her head slightly,
Mary said, "You don't? You don't know about
Laura Nixon from outside of Birtley
township? Oh, Laura's known far and near.
She lost her man in the first year she was
married, but she hasn't gone short since. Didn't you know she was the cause of Mary
Haswell giving Mr Luke the push? Her
brother followed him one night and there was a
fisticuffs show up. He lost a good thing there
because old man Haswell isn't without a
penny, 'tis known."
"I'm ready, Mrs Petty." Emma was
getting a little weary of Mary's chatter.
However, she was grateful for the last piece of
news, but most of all she was grateful that there
would be no big do afterwards; she had heard more than
once what happened to the bride and
bridegroom, and she felt the whole thing to be
indecent, besides being embarrassing. She had often
wondered how the bride could stand it. Yet she
also understood that by the time they were ready for bed, the
bride was often so full of mead the happenings
meant little to her except to make her giggle.
Well, she wouldn't be full of mead; but then
perhaps it would be better if she were.
Jake Yorkless was standing in the kitchen
awaiting her and he stared at her as she walked
the length of the room towards him. His jaw was
slack, his eyes veiled, he uttered no word
but looked her up and down for perhaps thirty seconds, and in complete silence; the
break in it came when he turned abruptly and
walked out of the door into the bright hard sunshine.
After a moment's pause Emma followed
him.
He did not help her into the trap and she had
to gather her skirt well above her new
slippers in order to take the high step, and she
had hardly seated herself when he set the horse
in motion, and she had to grab at her small
straw hat. She had come by this only last week
on a second-hand stall in the Gateshead
Fell market. She had walked all the way
there and back and so saved the price of the hat which
was tuppence.
Besides Billy Proctor who was to give her
away, there were a number of people standing outside the
church and she recognized them as members of
families that weren't God-fearing, such as the
Farrows, the Hobkirks, the Charltons and the
Wheatleys. Wheatleys and Charltons were
notorious characters: the Charltons were drovers, the
Wheatleys helped with the tanning over at
Chester-le-Street. Mr Wheatley had the
nickname of "the skinner", and he was so mean about standing his turn in The Tuns that it was said
he
would skin a louse for its hide. But all these people
waved to her. Their expressions were kindly and some
of them called, "Good luck, Emma. Good
luck. Happy life, Emma. Happy
life." And their warmth almost brought her to tears.
The church was dim and there were a number of people in
the pews. Miss Wilkinson was playing the
organ, and the pumping of the bellows worked
by Tommy Price interspersed a wheezing sound
in between the notes. It sounded no different today
than from any Sunday, yet she was more aware of
it. She had once told the parson that the
organ sounded like someone with a bad chest
attempting to sing soprano, and that made him and the
painter laugh. But the painter hadn't come, he
said he wouldn't. She was sad about that.
The man who was standing where the parson usually
stood at the top of the two steps leading to the
altar was short and plump. He looked so
well-fed; likely he had come from a town
parish. She did not look at her
bridegroom although she knew that Barney was
staring at her.
While they were kneeling side by side in front of the strange parson her mind
took a great jump and she thought, will I have
to take me frock off and do the milking when I
get back? Because it's only twelve o'clock now
and the tea should be over by about three as there's only
six outsiders, and they include Billy.
The others were Anthony Hudson who was now
standing to the side of Barney, acting as his best
man, Farmer Hudson himself and his wife, and
Mr Haswell the verger and his wife. As
regards a wedding it would be classed in the
village as a shabby one; but then she knew a
lot of the villagers wouldn't have accepted an
invitation if they had been sent one, for, after
all, who was Barney marrying? A nobody, just
a farm skivvy when he could have had the pick of a
number of lasses in Fellburn village
or even as far away as Gateshead proper
on the one side, and Birtley or any of the
hamlets around on the other, because he used to get
about, did Barney. And she had to admit he
wasn't at all bad-looking and was well set
up in his body.
At this point her mind flew off at a
tangent again. If during the past weeks the travelling show had happened to come this way, she
was telling herself now, she would have run off with them
like her mother had done; but not to marry someone, just
to work among them. She would have loved that. She
didn't want to marry anybody, she ....
"Barnabas, wilt thou have this woman ...?"
"I will." Barney's voice was low but
firm.
"Emaralda--" the parson seemed to stumble
over her name--"wilt thou have this man ...?"
She was brought back to the present with a start
when she became aware that Barney's elbow was
nudging her gently, and she said, "I will."
He was leaning towards her, putting the ring on
to her finger. She listened to the parson's voice
mumbling on, he didn't speak clear like
Henry. Her whole body jerked. That was the first
time she had ever thought of the parson as Henry.
...
She was married now, she was Mrs Yorkless.
She didn't like the name. She hadn't liked
Crawshaw, but she liked Yorkless even
less.
They had signed their names in the vestry and she
had walked down the church aisle, her arm through Barney's. Now they were outside with
most of the people from the church milling about them. Some
shook their hands and others patted Barney on the
back. The verger was saying to Jake Yorkless
that he and his wife would be along later as he had
to see to the Reverend Blackett.
They were in the trap again: Jake Yorkless was
driving and she and Barney were sitting behind.
Barney was holding her hand tightly. It had a
reassuring feel. For the first time she had turned
and looked fully into his face and she smiled
at him. She was his wife, she would do what
duty was expected of her, and he would be good
to her. She felt sure of this. He would stand up
for her and not let her be abused. She drew
comfort from this. Life mightn't be too bad.
There were things in it you had to remember and things in
it you had to forget, but it was difficult to forget the
things that you wanted to remember, and that was a task
that lay ahead of her.
It was nine o'clock in the evening of the same day.
She had long since changed out of her wedding
dress and laid it in the bottom of the
mahogany three-drawer chest that stood to the side of the window. The bedroom had once been
Dan's. Luke had refused to move out of the
larger one where he and Barney had slept together
since they were children. And although she had opened the
windows wide in this room, whitewashed the
walls and scrubbed the floor boards a number
of times, to her mind the smell of death still lingered
about it. Moreover, the bed, though not a single
one, was yet not a double one and its size
suggested close proximity, whether one wished
it or not.
There had been no merriment at the wedding
tea, only stiff and polite conversation, and as
soon as the guests had gone, which wasn't very
long after they had finished eating, Jake
Yorkless, who was now her father-in-law but whom
she still addressed and would go on addressing as
mister, had turned to the bridegroom, saying,
"Well, as our Luke doesn't intend to put
in an appearance or lift a finger and those
animals are blaring for release, an'
Proctor doesn't seem to be doing much about
it, 'tis best we get our glad rags off,
eh?"
Barney had looked at his father, a hard resentful look, then he had turned
his gaze on Emma, and she had given him no
sign, except to droop her head, before walking
out of the kitchen to go to her room and change. But as
she left she heard Barney say, "You
couldn't make allowances even for today, could you,"
and his father answered, "What is there to make
allowances for? You've got the night to come,
haven't you?" ...
And the night had come, almost. The lamp was
burning on the centre of the kitchen table. For the
past hour or more, Jake Yorkless and Pete
had sat at the table drinking. Pete hadn't
drunk as much as his father, but enough to make him
fuddled-headed, giggly and thick-tongued.
Jake Yorkless too was thick-tongued, and
his tongue had become loose for he was talking
incessantly at Barney where he sat on the
settle, a mug of beer to his hand. Barney
was far from drunk for he had taken little, and he
had said little, he just sat listening to the prattle
at the table, until his father, addressing Emma, said, "You know, girl, you're lucky. Or
maybe you're not. It all depends on how you
look at it. But if this was happening in me grandfather's time, or even in me father's, you would
be
in that barn now being tried out. 'Twas the custom
for the father to break in the bride. Still goes ... still
goes some places, an' I don't see
..."
"Shut your mouth! Da."
Barney had risen to his feet and was now
looking down at his father. "Now get this, an'
you're not so drunk as you don't understand what
I'm sayin', she's me wife and as such she's
due for respect. And what's more"--his
voice was low now, but more telling than when he
had shouted--"let anyone lay a hand on her,
and I'll do for them. Do you hear? Kith or
kin, I'll do for them."
"What the hell's up with you? Who's touching
her? ... Who wants to touch her? Not me, or
any other bugger on this farm, except yourself.
Your brother who's close blood of your
blood can't bear the sight of her. An' when
you're on about respect, let me tell you this.
I'm still master here, but she's not mistress, and
it won't be past me to take another to me bed,
an' not afore long. And then she's back where she
was." "Never! Get that into your head,
Da, never. You marry again and I go out. I've
said it afore and I repeat it, the world's wide and
I've got a pair of good hands on me, and
she's proved she can work as good and as long as
two women. By God! she has."
"Huh!" Jake Yorkless lay back in his
chair and thrust his thumbs into his trouser
pockets and glared up at his son as he said,
"You know somethin', Barney boy? You've gone
soft an' you'll regret it. 'Twill come a
day when you'll regret it. You've taken on a
dark horse and once you straddle her she'll
ride you to hell. Remember that, she'll ride
you to hell."
Barney glared at the man who had sired him
but for whom he had never had much liking, and now that
little was no more. Turning about, he walked to where
Emma was standing in the shadows and, taking her arm
firmly but gently, he turned about and walked
her out of the kitchen, across the small hall and up
the stairs into their bedroom. There he lit the
candle; then taking her by the shoulders and pressing
her gently down on to the side of the bed, he
sat beside her, saying softly now, "Take no notice. They're ignorant, they've seen
nothin' but the land, they know nothin'. I don't
know much more, only this, I love you, Emma, and
always have done, and in a way it's cleansed me
an' softened me and learned me that there was something
more to this living than mucking out animals. Although
I've learned an' all that animals are
cleaner than men in many cases. And I
promise you this, Emma, I'll always be good
to you, and I'll wait for the day until you can
look me in the face and say, "I love you, Barney." Because you've never said it, have you
Emma, you've never said, I love you?"
An emotion was oozing itself through her pores.
She could give no name to it because it wasn't a
feeling, like she had for the parson, it wasn't like
any feeling she had ever had before. She couldn't
put the name compassion to it, she only knew that
all fear of this night had gone from her, and she
remained still and pliable under his hands as he
loosened her clothing. And when she eventually
laid down beside him his flesh brought her comfort.



PART FOUR
The Mother



"Well, you'll just have to get on with it,
won't you?"
"Yes, I suppose I will, Mrs
Yorkless." Ralph Bowman laughed at her;
then added, "But she gets on my nerves, she
never stops chattering."
"Well she brings you all the village
news, doesn't she, and that from up above?"
Emma jerked her head backwards.
"Yes, you're right there, she does. But if
she tells me once she tells me the same
thing six times over with hardly any variation. The
woman hasn't the smallest amount of
imagination."
"Then you'll know what she's telling you is
true."
"Clever. Clever." Ralph Bowman now
put his head on one side and said, "How long
do you think it'll be?" "What are you asking me, how long is it
afore it's born or how long is it going to be
before I'm comin' back here?"
"Both."
"Well, I give meself three days at
the most to when it's due; as for when I'll be
back, it all depends how I feel. If
I'm able I won't leave it long, a couple
of weeks or so."
Ralph Bowman looked at the young woman
standing before him. The only part of her still
recognizable from the girl he remembered before her marriage was her hair and eyes, for her
face was puffed and her stomach was a miniature
mountain suspended from her waist, while her
ankles were swollen over the top of her shoes.
And that was the outside of her. Inside too there
had been a change. But of course he knew this
was a natural thing. In the ordinary way,
marriage changed a woman, or a girl, or
a child as he had thought of her--it seemed only a
short while since she sprang through the kitchen
door and said she was going to marry Barney. He
wondered if she knew how many lives she had
affected on that day. Materially she had affected his because after her marriage she
came down to him only once a week, when she
cooked for him and sometimes did a sitting. He
had done a picture of her with her stomach
high. In a way she didn't look unlike
Van Eyck's "The Marriage of
Giovanni" in which the maiden looked already
pregnant. But all told, he was grateful
that he saw her at least once a week; more
often if he was sick, for she was tender to him in
sickness, and he was always worse in the winter.
He had continually been amazed after spring would
arrive and he was still here to see it. He should have
been dead years ago. What kept him going
he didn't really know. Here he was, stuck
in this isolated part of the world, isolated in
spite of all its industry. But the whole
country seemed isolated, and nobody of his
acquaintance seemed to bother about the world
outside. Beyond this island the world was raging with
revolutions, crowned heads were being torn from their
thrones, men were dying in their hundreds and
thousands. Yet life strolled on here, the
classes keeping strictly apart, the owners
defending their place in society and seeing that the lower classes kept within the boundaries they
were
told God had destined they should live ... and
be content.
In his early days in London and Paris he
had raged with those of like mind against the conditions of the
workers, especially of the young children, and had longed
to join up with the pioneers. ...
"You're miles away."
"What, Emma? Oh." He laughed.
"Well, you set me off. Anyway what are
you hoping for, a boy?"
"Doesn't matter."
"What does Barney want?"
"He says it doesn't matter."
"Do you ever wonder, Emma, what he or
she is going to grow to be in this strange world of
ours?"
"Yes, I have wondered; but as long as
they're healthy, and as happy as life affords,
then I'll be satisfied."
"As happy as life affords. There's a
bit of cynicism there, Emma. You know what
I mean?"
"Yes"--she poked her head towards him--
"if you're asking what cynicism means, I do. And I didn't mean my words
to be like that. I was only thinking whatever job he
or she has to do they'll be happy in it."
"And I hope so too. And being your child,
Emma, she'll, or he'll be happy. I have
no doubts on that. Anyway you'll let me
know, send some word down?"
"Yes, Mr Bowman."
"Emma, how long have we been friends?"
She hesitated for a moment, then said,
"Well, I suppose since shortly after I
came here, when my granny brought me down.
Ten years, I should say."
"Yes, 'tis ten years. And don't you
think it's about time that you used my christian name
and called me Ralph?"
"No I don't." Her voice was
loud. "How could I? I think of you as Mr
Bowman or"--she laughed now--"the painter."
He was laughing too as he said, "You do? You
think of me as the painter? Well, call me
Painter."
"Don't be silly."
"You sound like a wife, Emma." He was
smiling, but she wasn't as she turned to him now and said, "And that's what I am."
"Yes, yes, of course." His face was
solemn, and he repeated, "Yes, yes, of
course." Then on a lighter note he added,
"Well, let me know how things go. Send the
big mouthpiece down."
"I'll do that. And take care of yourself.
Don't go outside without a shawl around you, the
wind is keen."
He was about to say, "You still sound like a
wife," but checked himself, and quietly watched
her put on her cape and pull the hood over
her head and smile at him before going out of the
door.
Going to the window, he kept his eyes on her
until she disappeared around the bend in the road,
and all the while he cursed himself for the fact that
he couldn't call her wife. Why hadn't he
taken the risk last year? She would have understood
the business between him and her granny, the main
ingredient of which had been over and done with years
ago. He was thirty-nine years old and, even
with his chest trouble, there was still life in him. She
would have renewed that life. True, she hadn't
been in love with him no more than she had been with Barney. What her feelings were
towards Henry he couldn't really gauge,
only Henry's for her, and they were a torment to the
man, while his own were but a longing ache and a
void. Still, he could look at her from time to time
and he could even touch her as he arranged for a
sitting. And then there was her face staring at him
from the canvasses he was supposed to have sold.
He had sold the first half-dozen but the rest were
carefully wrapped in oil sheeting and lying across
the rafters in the roof. At times he would bring
them down and look at them, and each picture of
her face told him he had loved her as a child,
and then as a girl, and now, but they could not convey
the strength with which he now loved her as a wife
and a mother to be. Had she any idea of the effect
she had on a man? He doubted it. She was so
unselfconscious about herself. He even doubted
if she realized how beautiful she was.

After the heavy frost the road was slippery,
and a late February sun had not yet melted
the thin layer of ice that lay on the puddles in
the road. There had been no snow for more than a
fortnight now, but that didn't mean there wasn't more to come. However, those lambs that had been
born
and had survived the last heavy downfall should be
inured to what was to come. They had lost eight
sheep and ten lambs in the drifts, and Dobbin
had slipped and broken his leg and had to be
shot. She had been so upset about that. When she
suggested putting the leg into splints, the mister,
as she still thought of her father-in-law, had bawled
at her, "Don't be a bloody fool!"
And for the first time in her life she had used a
swear-word and yelled back at him, "Don't
you bloody well bawl at me." That night in
bed Barney had hugged her with no intention of
leading up to loving her, he had just hugged her and with
his head on her breast he had laughed until the
springs of the wooden bed had almost given way.
He said it was the funniest and most surprising
thing he had heard in many a day, and that the look
on his father's face was a picture, because his mother,
although rough-tongued with everyone else, had never
dared to swear at her husband.
Barney had been kind to her and her feeling for
him had grown deeper. Into what, she couldn't
actually say. She sometimes asked herself if this
was real love and that the feelings she had for that other person just the outcome of a young
girl's romantic fancy. Whatever it was,
it was a growing comfort to her.
She was also aware that if it wasn't for the
presence of Luke in the house there would be a
sort of family happiness here. Pete in his
way had taken to her, and the mister, although he never
gave her a word of thanks, seemed
to appreciate her cooking and the different order
she had brought into the house. She had opened up
the front room and on a Saturday night and
Sunday night she lit the fire there. Her first
suggestion that they should make use of this room in
the only spare time they had in the week brought
derision from Jake Yorkless; then after a time
he had taken his place by the fireside in the
horsehair armchair.
The only one who didn't make use of the
room was Luke. In a way, she was glad of
this for she herself couldn't have sat at peace for,
wherever he was his eyes would dwell on her;
sometimes it was as if he were looking right through her
without seeing her. At other times, across the
kitchen table at a meal when he raised his
head, his eyes would pierce her, and at such times she knew he was seeing her all right and that
the
resentment he bore towards her was corroding in
him.
She had spoken to Barney about Luke and he
had said, "Take no noice, he'll come
round, he's bound to, he can't keep this
attitude up forever. It was the same when he was
a lad. He would go into the sulks for weeks on
end, then one day he would greet you bright and
smiling as if nothing had happened. You'll
see," he said. "Just wait, he'll come
round."
She didn't know if she wanted Luke
to come round; as he was now she knew where she
stood with him and she was on her guard against him.
She turned the bend in the road and there,
only a few yards from her and also on foot, was
the parson. She knew that at the sight of him the
colour had swept over her face; it was
burning as if the frost had seared her cheeks.
"Hello, Emma."
"Hello, Parson."
"How are you, Emma?"
She paused before answering, then said, "As you
see, Parson." Then dared to refer to her condition, saying, "Nearing my time."
It was an indelicate thing to say and she was
surprised at herself, yet she had found that when
she was in his presence there came a tartness in her
tongue.
She had not come face to face with him for over
three months now. He did not visit the farm
and she no longer attended church. He had
grown much thinner, yet his face looked
prettier. ... That was a silly word to apply
to a man, particularly this one: handsomer it should
be. Yet there was a ruggedness about his features
that denied that description.
With some dismay she noticed that there were slight
hollows in his cheeks. In her chatter Mary
had said that he lived on hard tack in the
vicarage and that Miss Wilkinson was neither one
of two things, a good housekeeper or a good
cook, but she had to work hard as she had no
help to run that big place, and that she only
stayed on in the hope of hooking him. It was
known in the village that she had her sails
fully set for him, and her almost eight years
older. But as it was said in The Tuns, she had
as much chance of becoming the parson's wife as Granny Frinton had and she was eighty-two.
Mary had added it was a pity old Sir Peter
had died because the parson hadn't been invited
back there since, and his weekly visits to the
House had assured him of one square meal at
least.
The sparseness of him caused her to say,
"Are you well?"
"Yes, yes. I am well, Emma.
What makes you imagine that I am not?"
She cast a glance to the side before she said,
"You have got thinner of late."
"Yes, yes, perhaps I have; but then I walk
a lot these days. I got rid of the trap you
know, the old horse was past it."
She hadn't known that, and she remembered the
horse wasn't all that old. It was money
again, he hadn't been able to afford to keep it.
And it must mean too that the verger was out of a
part-time job, and that wouldn't please him, because part
of his work was to see to the horse and trap.
As she looked at him there returned to her the
old feeling, so different from that which she had for
Barney, and it turned into an ache that was sharpening
itself into a stabbing pain which caught at her breath. When she put her hand to the collar of
her coat and gripped it, Henry moved a step
towards her and, his voice full of concern, said,
"What is it, Emma? Are you ...? Are you
...?"
For answer she gulped, drooped her head as
any young woman of her age and condition should do
before a parson, and muttered, "I ... I must
get back."
"Yes, yes, of course. Will you be all
right? Or would that I come with you?"
"No, no"--she shook her head--"I'll
be all right. 'Tisn't far now."
He was holding out his hand to her, not with any
expectation of her taking it, but in a way that
indicated a plea, which came over in his voice
as he said softly, "If ... if you should need
me, you'll send for me, won't you, Emma?
I mean--" He did not go on to explain what
he meant, but now added, "I'll be thinking of you
every moment, I'll be thinking of you till your time
is over."
She found it was impossible to give him any
sort of answer, even to say briefly,
"Thank you, Parson," and she had to close her eyes for a moment so she wouldn't look into his
face; then abruptly she turned from him and
hurried away up the mud-ridged road, not
taking care now to step over the ice puddles.
Barney was leading a horse across the farmyard
and he left the animal and came hurriedly
towards her. Taking her arm and lowering his head so
he could see into her face, he said "'Tis
about?"
"No, no; I'm just cold."
"Oh, we'll soon put that right." He now
called across the yard, "You Billy!" And when
Billy Proctor poked his head out of the corn
store Barney thumbed towards the horse,
saying, "See to him." Then he followed
Emma into the kitchen, and there he called to Mary
Petty as if she too was at the other end of the
farmyard, "Put that gruel pan on again, and
look slippy." Then going to where Emma was taking off her cloak, he took the garment from
her and, flinging it over the back of the settle,
he said, "Sit yourself down. The gruel should be
ready in a minute and a good dollop of rum in
it will put you right." Now he bent down until
his face was level with hers, and his voice lower, he added, "And skite the devil out of
you whatever it be, one or t'other."
A few minutes later, sipping the laced
gruel, she looked to where Barney was now
sitting by her side and she said, "I'm all
right. Go on ... I'm all right."
"I can spare a minute." He smiled at
her, a soft warm smile, and she was overcome
with a feeling of guilt and betrayal and for a moment
she felt that her only release would be to droop
her head forward and let the tears flow.
But Mary Petty saved her with her tart
remark: "My, my! some folks is lucky,
pampered like ladies. Now there was me"--she
nodded towards them both--"I nearly dropped
me first in tatie field. 'Tis true."
She jerked her chin upwards. "'Tis true as
I'm standing here. I'd been in the field since
five pickin'. 'Twas on nine and we were
going to sit down for a break--five minutes we
got for skimmed milk and a shive--and then
bang! I was doubled up. 'Twas just as well
the cart was ready to take the sacks back to the
farm, for I got a lift and only got into the
room just in time. 'Twas all over in an hour. Himself knew nothin' about it, he was away
droving. And you know what he said when he came
back three days later? I should have waited and
hung on. Aye." Her head was bobbing up and
down, a wide grin on her face now, seeing
that she had got them smiling. "And you know something
else? And I bet you won't believe this. That
very night he sat down and reckoned up in his
head, because he could neither read nor write, no
more than meself, but he was sharp up here." She
tapped her forehead. "He worked it out if I
had one a year for the next ten years, not counting
twins or triplets, how soon they'd be in
work, for the quicker they were in work the quicker his idea of
having a place of his own could come about. I said
to him, "Would you like to exchange me for a stud
mare?"' an' he said ...."
She had never expected to laugh this day, and
now she didn't know whether she was laughing or
crying, but her body was shaking, as was
Barney's, and the tears were rolling down her
cheeks, and now handing the almost empty bowl
to Barney, she rose to her feet, saying,
"Oh, Mary, Mary." Then looking down at
her husband, she added, "Go on. Go on, or else we'll be having the mister in
to find out what all the nuration's about."
Still laughing, Barney patted her arm; then as
he was leaving the kitchen he glanced at Mary,
saying, "You're a case. You know that, Mary
Petty? You're a case."
As soon as the door closed on Barney,
Mary turned and, giving her full attention
to Emma, she said firmly, "Fun and jokes
apart, get yourself upstairs and put your feet
on the bed, for if I know anything you're going
to have a visitor sooner than you expect.
It's in your face."

And Mary was right, the visitor came two
days later after hours of agonizing pain and
straining, during which at times Emma longed for
death. Even when her daughter was put into her
arms she felt too weak, too tired to hold
her. For some time she was only dimly aware of
Mary hovering over her and of the doctor talking
about the difficulty of the afterbirth; then of someone
holding a cup to her mouth and making her drink
something, and she recognized what it was, for she
had given her granny doses of laudanum to ease the cramp.
At one period she imagined the parson was in
the room and bending above her and she put her hand
up and touched his face; and then she went
to sleep, and slept on and off for the next two
days.



She was a fortnight in bed, and she was
surprised to learn that she had nearly died.
Mary had informed her there had been complications
after the baby had come and that she was lucky to be in
the land of the living.
She didn't fully realize how ill she
had been until she attempted to walk, when
she felt weak and had a job to put one foot
in front of the other. She couldn't imagine that
she had ever run and sometimes, when no one was
looking, jumped the stile.
Barney assured her that her strength would
return. He was very gentle with her, tender, and
so proud of his daughter. There was an ache in her heart when she watched him holding the child, yet
at the same time she felt comforted in the knowledge that she had given him something, repaid him
in a
way for his kindness to her. She marvelled at his
kindness and consideration. He was so unlike the
rest of his family that it would seem there was no
blood connection between them. He showed none of his
mother's characteristics and little of his father's, except
that, like the mister, he was a good worker.
They had been snowed up for a fortnight, and
afterwards the roads had run with slush and rain, and
so the child was almost two months old before it was
christened. Henry held it in his arms and named it
Annie Yorkless. Barney had wanted the name
Annie because he said he remembered his grandmother
with fondness. When Henry placed the child back in
Emma's arms, their hands had overlapped for a
moment, and it was a moment of which they were both
aware.
When, later at the church door, Henry
looked at her he said with conventional
politeness, "May she be of comfort to you both."
But it was Barney who answered, saying, "I'm
sure she will be, Parson, I'm sure of that.
And seein' who her mother is she couldn't be
else." He had cast a warm glance towards
Emma, but she was looking down on the child, wrapping her up and covering her face against the
bitter winds, thinking as she did so that she should
be proud of Barney because he always acted with
courtesy, he always knew what to say, not like
some of the farmers' sons who were as gauche as the
meanest of their hired hands.
On the drive back, Barney said to her,
"He's a nice chap that parson. We're
lucky to have such. Not many would have tramped out here
every day for a week as he did when you were so bad.
And you know what?" He turned and grinned at
her. "You patted him on the cheek one day and
called him Henry. I thought I would have died,
I thought I would have died meself. But he
didn't take it as a liberty as old
Crabtree would have done. Oh, you had to know your
place with old Crabtree. But he held your
hand and soothed you, he was full of concern.
He's a good man, no matter what they say
about him in the village. The fact is he's
too straight for them, gets under their skins, the
hypocrites. But that's what they're calling
him now. They say he had a hand in emptying the
cellar all those years back 'cos he was against
the drink, but that now he's doing it on the sly himself. That's what they're saying.
Willowy Wilkinson put that around. 'Twas
after he brought the young lady to see the vicarage,
the one that he was going to marry. Huh!" He
laughed now. "Wilkinson had had her eye on
him, a good-looking young fellow like that and a
gentleman into the bargain. She should have had sense
to know that young parsons come from the class, and they
marry the same. They may be poor but it
makes no difference, they don't stoop. If
they did 'twood never work. Something in the
calibre. You get it in animals, horses
particularly. Something you can't put your finger on
except in the voices. Like the painter." He
turned and grinned at her. "He even swears
differently, doesn't he, the painter?"
She looked at him with fondness. She liked
to hear him talk. He talked a lot,
especially in bed. Sometimes she went to sleep
listening to him talking and he laughed at her the
next morning, saying, "I sent you off again."
But there was always a lot of sense in what
Barney said, especially in the fact that the
class didn't stoop. Yet at the same time
this fact caused a form of irritation for she knew for instance that Barney had a better thinking
mind than some of the folks round about who considered
themselves near-gentry. These were the ones that joined the
hunt after the fox, these were the ones who had two
to three hundred acres of land.
"The painter fellow's a funny bloke,
isn't he? I had a crack with him yesterday.
I was in the lower field and he was on the road
coming back from Newcastle. That's where he said
he had been, and he was three sheets in the
wind. He had come back on the carrier cart and
had walked from the village. Must have been paying
his monthly visits. Cheaper than keeping a
wife, eh?" He turned and laughed at her,
his mouth wide, his eyes portraying the
familiarity that existed between husband and wife.
But when he saw there was no answering gleam of
amusement in her expression, his voice more
sober now, he added, "Well, 'tis only
natural. And he's never touched on the
village lasses. Not that there's much to choose
from there, I'd say, if you go by looks. But then
again--" Once more there was a note of amusement
in his voice as he ended, "looks ain't the question
in this matter, shut your eyes and hope for the best as they say."
"Barney!"
"Oh, all right." He pulled a face at
her, then grinned as he added, "You sounded like
Miss Wilkinson there in Sunday school.
It's gone down, the Sunday school, they
tell me. Now if you were to take it up, by!
they would get stuck in the doorway."
And so it went on, and she listened to his
bantering knowing that he was happy. With the exception
of one cloud on his horizon, his sky was clear
and full of promise. And the cloud was the man in
whose veins his own blood ran.

It was on the day that she first took the child down
to the painter's that she met up with James
Fordyke. She had not come face to face with him
since the time of the cholera, and now there he was
riding his horse across the corner of the field of
ripening barley. She had the child in her arms or
she would have taken to her heels and run, but what
she did do was to shout, "See what you're
doing!" She called at the top of her voice,
and it was loud enough for him to check the horse and
look in her direction. He now brought the animal round and, instead of taking it to the edge
of the field, he brought it straight across towards
her, and she stood gasping for breath as she
watched the animal treading down the growing
shoots. They'd had two hard winters, they'd
lost sheep and lambs, the milk yield was
down, moreover, so was pig flesh in the open
market, and you couldn't get more than one and
sixpence for a fully dressed hen. Yet in the
weekly paper she had read yesterday that the
hungry forties were over and a golden era was
dawning for the industrial areas which included the
Tyneside, and this might stop people rushing off to the
gold diggings in California, and that the Bank
of England had a lot of money in it and so
interest rates would lessen; also that the working man
was happy and contented now that the loaf had been
reduced to sevenpence. The rest of the world had gone
mad with revolutions and things but England under good
Queen Victoria was a haven of peace and an
example to the world.
Well, her private comment on this had been,
they must have missed their part of Tyneside for there
had been talk of doing away with Billy
Proctor's services. But she had stood out against this and said that, as the cottage was
hers, if they dismissed him she'd put him in
there. So determined had been her attitude that
Jake Yorkless had passed over the idea.
But this five acre field and the ten acre beyond
had been cropped for the first time. They had worked
on the land for two or three years
previously, clearing it of stones and tilling it,
then leaving it fallow to the frost to cleanse it,
and the result had been this promising crop. And
there he was mowing it down.
And now he was sitting above her glaring at
her.
"Did you speak to me?"
"Yes, I did." She added to her offence
by not saying sir. "You're taking your horse
over a clean crop, 'tis against all
rules."
"Whose rules ... who made the rules?"
She paused for a moment, lost for words, her
lips rubbing against each other. She lifted the child
from her left to her right arm, then said, "'Tis a
known fact that you don't cross, don't take
animals over ripe fields. You wouldn't
take it over your own land." She saw his hand twitching on his riding
crop; then bending towards her, he growled,
"You forget, madam, that this is my land."
"'Tis nothing of the kind."
"'Tis nothing of the kind." His voice
mocked her tone; then his voice in a growl
again, he said, "I rent this land to Yorkless.
If my memory serves me right he owns
nothing but thirty acres and he pays yearly
rent on fifty. I can recall it tomorrow if I
wish, and I just might. Yes, yes"--he
straightened in the saddle now and his head moved
slowly up and down--"I just might, young
matron, and that will teach you to keep a civil
tongue in your head and to learn how to bend your
knee and to address your betters when they deign
to speak to you. What you need, madam, is a
taste of one of your own whips."
On this, he kicked the horse viciously in
the sides, and it plunged away down the
perimeter of the field, leaving a churned path in
its wake, and she stood for a moment swaying as
if she were about to fall. She was even so affected
that she went and rested her back against the dry
stone wall. What would they do if he took the land away? And all through her. He had
looked at her as if he hated her, loathed
her; and this had all come about because she had afforded
a little entertainment for his father-in-law. It was
strange the trouble that those whips had brought into her
life; and she wondered, were she to burn them now,
if their influence would die away. Yet she
knew she could never burn them, they belonged to her
dada. They were the only things she had that
recalled to her that at one time she had a father,
and a mother, and that she hadn't always lived on this
farm where peace was an elusive thing. It was there
hovering outside herself, sometimes in the form of
Barney, sometimes in the form of her child, but always
overshadowed by Luke. That was strange. As she
saw them now there seemed no difference between her
brother-in-law and the master of the Hall. In her
mind they merged and formed one person from whom
emanated evil. ...
She was still shaking when she reached the cottage.
"Is that you, Mary?" Ralph Bowman
called from the inner room, and when she answered,
"No, 'tis me," he appeared in the
doorway, his face bright, his smile
welcoming, saying, "Well, hello stranger ... strangers. So this is it, is it?"
As he took the child from her arms he said,
"What is it? You're shivering."
"I've had an encounter with Mr Fordyke."
She now proceeded to tell him what had
happened and when she had finished, he said,
"He's got no bloody right to cross sown
fields and he knows that. 'Twas a form of
aggravation and if it went to the justices that's
what they would say ... or should say, but they're
all hand in glove. Yet I don't know if
there's many would take his part, not even in his own
class."
A few minutes later, sitting opposite
to her, a hot drink in his hand, he said, "What
perhaps you don't know, Emma, and it just came about
in a roundabout way seeping downwards from Miss
Noble to Mrs Atkins and through his mightiness the
butler, then Pearson the steward and down through the
stable-hands et cetera until it reached The
Tuns, is that had the old man lived, Sir
Peter you know, you were going to be asked up there
to be trained as a lady's-maid. Some said it
was Mrs Fordyke's idea and some said it was
Miss Noble who suggested it to her because she was getting on, Miss Noble I mean,
and she saw you as a bright young lass able to read and
write, educated as it were by Henry. Then of
course came the cholera and all that was knocked
on the head. But that wasn't the only thing that
soured Mr James Fordyke, for the old man
had left everything, every penny to his daughter, and
tied it up in such a way, and very cleverly too,
that only she could touch it. They say it was a very
bizarre will: She had a personal allowance and
she could draw any money for living expenses but
nothing to enhance the house or to reduce the
mortgage that was on it or anything appertaining
to the upkeep. They say his will was like an act of
parliament. The old fellow knew what he was
doing and whom he was dealing with, for 'tis known that
James Fordyke has gone through two fortunes,
whispered in ways best not talked about, so the
man you met this morning is a very frustrated
human being, Emma, and likely he was taking
out of you what he wanted to take out of his wife.
But it won't do him any good to cut off
Yorkless's leased land: the rent can't be all that
much but it's still something, and what's sure is he
can't employ men to work it. And another thing that must be an irritant to him, he used to spend
most part of his year up in London. He had
a place up there they say. Now that is gone and
he's stuck here. Awful life for him. Poor
soul!" He grinned at her; then leaning towards
her, he added, "Don't let it worry you.
If he tries anything about the land, all you've
got to do is to go and see Mrs Fordyke. After
all, it is she who holds the whip hand there.
Talking of whips"--his smile widened now--
"what became of all those whips you had?"
"They're still there under the roof."
"Henry and I were talking about them the other
day. You wouldn't know how to use them now, would
you?"
"Oh, it would come back; you never lose the
knack."
"No, I suppose not."
He looked now to where the child was lying in the
corner of the big chair and after a moment he
asked, while keeping his eyes on the bundle,
"Are you happy, Emma?"
Her answer did not come immediately; then it was
truthful. "In a way," she said.
He turned to her and he repeated, "In a way?"
She nodded. "Barney's good to me, kind,
I couldn't wish for a kinder, but there's a feeling
in the house. 'Tis Luke, he hates me.
You can--" she closed her eyes now and moved
her head from side to side--"well, sort of
smell it. The only time I'm free of it is
at night. Even then you're aware he's across
the landing and 'tis as if his eyes are piercing the
wall. Sometimes I ... I find him standing
staring at me and I haven't known he was there."
Ralph Bowman looked at the young girl
sitting opposite him. She didn't look like
the mother of a child, although she did not any longer
appear like a young girl untouched, something
outside nature; there was about her now a stronger
appeal than that which had lent fascination to the
girl, she was a woman with a quality that caught
at a man's breath, all the more so because she was
unaware of it. She was still not as yet conscious of
her own value. No mirror had reflected
her beauty, or if it had her eyes had been
closed to it. It pained him to sit here looking
at her. Did she know she had altered his
life, made him want to go on living because, once dead, he would no longer be able to see
her, hold her in the heart of his eye? ...
He had an advantage over Henry, because he
could gaze on her when she was no longer
present. And Luke. Oh yes, he could
understand Luke hating her.
He bent towards her now and said quietly,
"You've got to accept, Emma, that people will either
love you or hate you. And there'll be no
happy medium where you're concerned, particularly
with men. And they only hate you because they are not
able to love you, because there is something in you that has
repulsed them, you can see through them, and it comes
over in a kind of disdain. ..."
"I don't disdain anybody. 'Tisn't in
me to look down on anybody."
"Oh, don't delude yourself on that point,
Emma. We all disdain somebody; there's always
somebody lower than ourselves. You would have to have your
nose in the mud before you could say to yourself, there is
no one I look down on. 'Tis a
natural feeling, not conscious all the time.
Take Henry for instance. He appears to the
outsider to be the humblest fellow on God's
earth, whereas half his time he is scorning this one and that one. His saving grace is that
he knows it. By the way, I don't think
we'll have Henry with us much longer. Did you know
he's applying for another parish?"
The constriction in her throat impeded the words
that she would have used in polite astonishment and so
she just stared at him as he nodded quietly at
her, saying, "He's had it in mind for some time.
Of course it all depends on the bishop, and the
bishop may find it difficult to fill an
uninteresting little hole-in-the-earth like
Fellburn village and hereabouts. Then again the
bishop might think him too good to lose in this
quarter, for although some of the diehards have
transferred their allegiance to Gateshead
Fell, he's brought in a number of the
villagers who had never been inside the church,
except when they were christened. Unfortunately
though, these haven't any money, and the plate is
barely covered at the week-ends."
Ralph rose from the chair now and, walking
to the window, he looked out of it as he said,
"If my persuasion will carry any weight
he'll remain here. He's the only friend
I've got, the only friend I want. He's a good man, is Henry." He turned and was
looking at her again. She had put on her
shawl and had lifted the baby from the chair and he
slowly walked towards her, saying, "What
he's always needed is a wife, someone on whom
he could lavish that mountain of affection that is within
him; but I doubt that'll ever come about now. You
know what I believe, Emma? I believe that
everybody in this life is offered one chance of
happiness, real happiness, and if they let it
slip by they can never hope for anything to fill its
place."
He was being cruel, and he knew he was being
cruel, but that in a way he was not intending it for
her, he was explaining something to her, and she knew
what it was. She said, "I came down to say
I'll be startin' next week, that's if you
want me."
"Thank God for that." His manner changing,
he now grinned at her and pushed at her shoulder
with the flat of his hand, saying, "If I want
you? How do you put up with Mary's chatter, she
never stops?"
"Well, likely she's given you all the
village news." "Yes, she has that." He laughed
again. "And the latest is, Miss Wilkinson
slapped Miss Bonney's niece.
Apparently the dressmaker's had the young miss
staying with her. Eighteen she is and buxom, and
she acquired the habit of visiting the
vicarage at night, about eight o'clock and it on
dark, saying she wanted some advice from the
parson. And when it was the third time within a
week, Miss Wilkinson apparently
administered advice with a clout across the lug.
... Oh! the things that go on in that village.
Since Mary's been coming here I've never
bothered to read the Newcastle newspapers. As
she said yesterday, love runs through that village
every spring like a dose of senna. Anyway,
Miss Bonney's niece has now taken her
departure."
As Emma went out the door she turned andwitha
small smile playing round her lips, she
said, "Miss Bonney's niece, I understand,
paid you a couple of visits too. What a
pity you hadn't a housekeeper to slap her across
the lug."
She went down the path to the sound of Ralph's laughter, and then his voice came
to her: "The poor girl was only wanting
practice, she'll be scared stiff of the
proof."
The painter did her good. She was fully
aware now of how he felt about her as she was of
Henry's feelings for her. She could and she did
call him Henry too herself, and her mind
sometimes sang his name, but she had to be careful that
she didn't think about it while in bed in case
she called it out. But in bed she felt comforted:
if she had to have a compensation for love in this life
then God had been good to her and given her
Barney.

"What the hell does he mean by it! Going
to stop us renting the land come Michaelmas."
Jake Yorkless appealed to his three sons
who were standing round the kitchen table. "Sending
Pearson the steward, and out of the blue, no
reason or rhyme, just to say his master says
come Michaelmas he wants the land. And where
does that leave us? Thirty bloody acres.
Back to where we started, all me grandfather had
almost a century ago. Why? Why?" He spread out his hands before them.
No one spoke for a moment until Luke,
thumbing over his shoulder to where Emma was stirring
the fire, said, "Better ask her."
"What's she got to do with it?"
Luke thrust out his chin at his father, saying,
"Ask her, or ask her husband there." He
thumbed towards his brother now and Barney, his
face grim, said, "What do you mean? What
are you up to?"
"Well, didn't I hear her tell you that
she had seen Fordyke riding across the barley and
she had told him he shouldn't do it?"
Jake Yorkless now brought his gaze on
Emma, where she had turned from the fire and his
voice was quiet as he asked, "You told him
he shouldn't ride through the barley?"
"Yes, I did. You go mad if one of the
bullocks gets into the field, and you were going
to shoot Pearson's dog, you said yourself, if it
cut across that way to the river again."
"But Mr Fordyke, he wouldn't have gone
ridin' through it."
"Go down and see it, Da." Jake now
turned and looked at Barney, and Barney went on, "One corner's flat and there's a
path wider than this table right through the middle of
it. I was waiting for you to find out for yourself."
Of a sudden Jake Yorkless dropped on
to a wooden chair and, again looking round him, he
said, "But surely he wouldn't take the land off
us for that?"
"You've got his answer." It was Luke
speaking again. "It's known he's a vindictive
bugger, and anybody with any sense would have gone
carefully, but no, somebody has to ride him,
so much so that he must have been in a blazing temper
to send his steward straight over here."
"I'll fight him. I'll go to the
justices."
"A hell of a lot of good that'll do, he's
one of the justices. What you want to do is
make her go and apologize to him."
"She'll do no such thing."
The twin brothers were facing each other now like
enemies, which they had become. Then Barney
spoke again: "As Da says, we can fight him
in court. But she's not going on her knees
to him or anybody else."
"You'll lose in court." They all turned and looked at Pete. Pete rarely
had an opinion about anything, at least that's
what they thought, but now he went on, "It's a
waste of time, land's his, just let to us, waste
of money going to court. There's nowt you can do about
it. Better to make the best of what's left."
It was a long speech for Pete, and for a moment
it seemed to take their minds off the issue.
Then Barney said, "I'll go and see him."
"Why should you go?"
Barney glared at Luke.
"Because Da there doesn't want to go. Do
you?" He looked at his father and Jake, staring
down at the table now, muttered, "Likely
lose me temper."
Turning and confronting Luke, Barney said
harshly, "And I'm the next in charge."
"Aye, by a few minutes. That's another
thing I'd like to air: we should be equal, twins
should be equal."
"God in heaven! shut up will you at this time."
Jake had sprung to his feet. "If
Fordyke gets his way there'll be nowt left
to be equal about. Go on you Barney, and see
what you can do. And as she won't apologize for herself, apologize for her."
Emma was about to make some retort but
Barney gripped her arm and led her from the
room.
Up in the bedroom, as she watched him
change into his Sunday suit, she said to him,
"You ... you don't blame me for goin' at
him for crossing the field?" And looking at
her, he said soberly, "No, I don't
blame you; but it would have been better if you
hadn't met up with him and we never knew who
did it, 'cos he's vindictive, he's known
to be vindictive."
"I'm sorry, Barney."
He smiled weakly at her now, saying,
"I'll have to tell him that, although the lie'll
stick in me teeth. But don't worry."
Putting his arms about her he kissed her on the
lips, then said, "If the worst comes to the worst
we'll have to pull our horns in some way and do
different planning. But still, we won't go into that
until I come back. Be a good lass." He
patted her cheek, then went out; and she sat
down on the edge of the bed and bowed her head over
the solid wooden footboard and chastised herself for having such a ready tongue.

Barney came back and they knew what the
answer was before he spoke. His father followed him
into the kitchen, and he had just begun to speak when
Luke came bursting through the door, saying,
"Well, what happened?"
"I didn't see him. I got no further
than the steward who had delivered the message.
His master he said had gone into town, but it would be
no use seein' him for he was firm on the
point that he was taking over the land. And what's
more, he's fencing in Openwood and the last of the
common beyond."
"He can't do that."
Barney looked at his father saying, quietly
now, "He can; there's been a law or some such
passed: if common land lies within a man's
boundary he can fence it in."
"There'll be murder done if he does that."
Barney now looked at Luke and said, "And
where will that get them? Anyway"--he unloosened
the narrow white neckerchief that showed above the
top of his grey collarless coat and, pulling it
from his neck, he turned to his father and said, "The sheep will have to go, but not before the
back end.
We'll get a better price for them then. In
the meantime, I think it would be wise to try and
clear the stone fields."
"Don't talk so bloody soft."
Barney rounded on Luke now, crying,
"What else is there for it? You tell me."
"Those fields are full of boulders and
stones for two foot down."
"So was the bottom field at one time, and the
dip paddock, but I can remember seeing
Granda clearing those."
His father's voice cut in between the two of them
now, saying, "Aye yes, but it took all of
two years, workin' every odd hour of the day and
night, moonlight nights, until we
dropped."
"Well--" Barney's voice was calmer
too now as he leaned across the table and, looking
into his father's face, said, "There's four of us
now, hail and hearty, an' Emma there can lend
a hand; Billy will do most of what's to be done
in the yard."
"I've said it afore, Billy'll have to go at
the end of the year, can't afford to keep him on eight shillings a week. Anyway,
he's past a good day's work, he'll have to be
put out."
"But he's not bein' put out." It was the first
time Emma had spoken and they all turned and
looked at her.
"Well, what plans have you got for him,
missis?" Jake's tone was sarcastic.
"Well, as I said afore an' all, he can
have my cottage, and it is my cottage, and as
I'll be workin' as good as any man, I should
deserve some kind of wage an' I'll take
it in the form of grub for him."
They were all looking at her with open mouths.
Even Barney was stunned by the fact that a
woman ... no, a chit of a lass after all,
should expect pay for being a wife instead of being
thankful to God He had seen fit to place
her in such an advantageous position. It was
beyond even him. He turned away and walked up
the kitchen, through the door into the hall and he could
hear his father's heavy hobnailed boots
screwing round on the stone floor and making a
screeching sound as he cried, "Let me get
out of this an' all." But Luke remained for a moment, glaring at
her with a look of such ferocity that she turned from
him and, going to the basket that lay to the side of the
hearth, she picked up the child, although it was still
asleep, and pressed it to her.
When the kitchen door smashed closed, it
seemed a signal for Mary to come out of the long
larder where she had been washing down the shelves.
She said nothing, but she opened the back door and
threw the bucket of dirty water into the yard
where it trickled towards the channel that took the
slush from the byres at the other side. Then
having closed the door, she thrust the bucket
noisily under the shallow stone sink before turning
to Emma and saying, "Some how-d'you-do! Might
as well try to move mountains as clear those
two fields, I would say. Talkin' of
getting rid of Billy, they'll be gettin'
rid of me next, eh?"
"Not if I can help it, Mary. If I'm
to be in the fields I'll need someone in the
house to see to her"--she patted the child's back
--"and the meals and such."
"You're right there, they'll still want feedin'.
But I'll tell you what. You can put it to the mister if you like. I've got three
youngsters, six, seven and nine. Dickie,
he's the nine-year-old, he was down the pit
till recently, till all the stink started about
bringing the bairns up. Some of them are still down
sayin' they're twelve, but they have still two
years to go. But Dickie's small. He was
on the bogies, pulling through the low drifts you
know. They like the little 'uns in there. Well
anyway, he's out now. Bird scaring, a
penny a day when he can get it. The other two
have been stone pickin' for Mr Rice, down at
Gateshead Fell, but that's finished."
Emma looked at Mary. "I ... I
thought there was a school starting and they had to go
to school," she said. "The ... the parson
...."
"Aw! school. I ask you, what good is
schoolin' gona do for them? It's not gona put
any bread into their mouths. Besides, they know how
many beans make five. And what's more, they can
tell every coin up to a pound. Nobody's going
to dupe them. Not that they'll ever earn a pound a
week in their lives. But what I'm gettin'
at is, they're sturdy, the three of 'em, an' used to bendin' their backs all day, and
I'd like to bet, atween them, they'd do the work of
two men, but they'll be worth more than a penny
a day. My Dickie could get as much as five
shillings a week doing overtime, but there'd be
nowt like that here, I know. Billy was telling me
he's never had more than eight shillings a week
in his life. And there's my Ned grumblin'
'cos he only picks up twelve, unless
he does a bit on the side, an' who's
to blame him? Anyway, ask the mister for
tuppence a day each. How's that? Do you think
he'll rise to it?"
Emma knew her father-in-law would not rise
to tuppence a day for the young six-year-old boy,
but she would. Even after burying her granny
decent, she still had quite a bit left of the
painter's money in the bag under the rafters in the
cottage. And along with that there were her
granny's savings which she had discovered after her
death in a little locked box at the back of the
cupboard bed. She had always imagined her
granny spent all she earned on the smuggled
liquor when she could get it, but it hadn't been
so, and the painter must have been generous to her an' all, for in the box she had found an
assortment of coins, mostly silver. But there
were four sovereigns among them and the whole amount
had come to nine pounds. She felt guilty about
her hoard at times because she had not even mentioned
it to Barney. So she now said to Mary, "I'll ask him for a penny a day for each of them and
I'll supply the rest, but keep it to yourself."
Mary's eyebrows moved up; her eyes
became circles of amused light and there was
admiration in her tone when she said, "You're young
but you've got your head screwed on the right
way. I wish I'd been as wise at your
age. Aye, I do. 'Tis well to have friends."
Mary had gone down the kitchen and through the
door before the implication in her tone dawned on
Emma.
Almost dropping the child into the basket, Emma
ran the length of the room, thrust open the door
and caught hold of Mary as she was about to mount the
stairs and, pulling her roughly round, she said,
"I don't know what you think, not really, but
let me put this straight to you, Mary: the money
I have, which is very little, was--" She was going
to say, "was given me by the painter for sitting for his pictures," but someone like Mary would not
believe that, because sitting for a picture wouldn't
be classed in the light of work to her, so she
ended, "I found in my granny's box, she
had saved bits and pieces over the years. I
used some of it to bury her decent. There's a
little left."
"Oh. Oh well, lass, but I meant
nothin'. Well, I wouldn't, would I? I
wouldn't think bad of you. But I can understand your
granny havin' a bit put by. Oh aye,
yes I can, workin' for the painter all those
years."
She withdrew her arm from Emma's grip,
saying now, "I'm sorry if you mistook me
meanin', and I wouldn't upset you, not for the world
I wouldn't, 'cos you've been decent to me.
No, I wouldn't upset you." She stepped
backwards up one stair and stared down at her
mistress who was but a chit of a girl, yet a
woman in so many ways, and she thought, astonishing
it was that she should defend her honour with such spirit,
it wasn't usual in one her age. 'Twas
her foreign blood, she supposed; they always
said in the village she was different because of her foreign blood.
She turned and went quickly up the stairs, and
Emma returned as quickly into the kitchen.
What were they saying in the village now? Her
granny had gone and she was continuing to go to the
painter's ... that she had taken her granny's
place in his bed? That's what had been in
Mary's eyes.
The world was a dirty place.
She stood for a moment shaking her head. No;
no, it wasn't. The world was beautiful, it was this
thing that went under the heading of love that was dirty.
And yet it wasn't, it wasn't. Her mind was
at war within her. You could have love without it.
Deep within her there was a spring brimming over with
love. It was strong and at times ran fierce,
but it could never rise to the surface. But oh,
oh, how she wished it could. ... This was bad
thinking, but it was the only comfort she derived from this
spring.
But this was no time to dwell on such things, what
she must think about at the present was stones.
Strangely, somehow the two things seemed
connected, for the spring at the moment was assuming that
weight of a boulder inside her.
"It's a lovely day. You should get out,
take a walk. In the winter you're always saying
you'll feel better when the warmer weather comes,
and then when it does come, what do you do? Stick
in that room." Henry jerked his head back
towards the studio, and Ralph Bowman laughed
as he said, "It's the weather, man. I just
don't like weather of any kind. When they invent
something else to keep us going I'll take
advantage of it. Anyway, up till now it
hasn't done me any good."
They laughed together now; then Ralph, in a
high voice, cried, "You're the one to tell
me what to do for my health's sake, walking in
all weathers soaked to the skin. I don't
believe you can't afford to run the horse and
trap. If you stopped spreading your cash around
you could. And you're blind, you know that? That Nolan fellow for instance, he's never out of The
Tuns.
As for the Stoddarts, within minutes of your
departure your silver shilling is filling a can
to be carried home by one of the youngsters whose mouth
you'd hope to fill with bread."
A wry smile came on Henry's face.
"By! By! you seem well informed for someone
who doesn't like to go out in the fresh air. You
must have had visions."
"No, simply a good runner. When Emma
can't come she sends Mouthy Mary."
"Oh. Oh, that explains it. Anyway, the
little I have to give away wouldn't mend the
horse's harness let alone buy him oats.
And you know, Ralph"--his voice dropped
to a deep serious note--"things are bad all
around. I don't suppose Mary's brought you
the latest news of what happened yesterday on
Newcastle quay?"
"What was that?"
"Oh, just a boat-load of emigrants
leaving for the United States of America. A
lot of them from Allendale way. All the
result of a strike."
"Yes, yes, I read about the strike in the Newcastle Guardian. But it's
their own fault, they must know they can't fight men
like Beaumont. I'm sorry though to know they're
emigrating."
"And they weren't the only ones. And one
incident on the quay will always stick in my
mind: there was the weeping and wailing of
families, but some men, standing apart, booed two
poor individuals who were getting on to the
boat with cries of "Dirty blacklegs!"
I heard later that the miners had threatened them with
death, even said that they had dug graves ready
for them and that they didn't know their time, whether it
would come night or day. I couldn't believe
it."
"Oh, I could. Most pitmen are
barbarians, else who would take their children down
into the mine with them, and them hardly shortened.
Anyway, I wouldn't worry too much about
them. Look at Mary Petty and her brood.
Dragged up by the scruff of the neck and all
hale and hearty. It seems some children thrive
on muck. Put them in a mansion nursery and
half of them would have been dead before five."
"Half of them are dead before three in the towns. I think they survive out here because there's
a little more space and the air is fresher. ...
Well, if I want to survive I'd
better get to my bed."
"You look tired, Henry." Ralph had
walked to the door with him.
"Yes, but naturally tired, otherwise
I'm as fit as a fiddle."
"Well, I can't see you have anything to brag
about there, you're all skin and bone."
"It's the thin ones that last longer. Isn't
it a lovely evening? Look at the mist coming
over the hill! I love this time of night; the
worries of the day seem to seep away with the
light. Of course"--he turned and grinned at
Ralph now--"they come back full of vigour
with the dawn. Anyway, I'm off. Take
care. I'll see you sometime next week, if
not before. Good-night, and get inside before the mist
falls."
"Good-night, and yes, Father, I'll get
inside before the mist falls."
At this, Henry walked away smiling. He
walked slowly, savouring the evening. At the end
of the bridle-path he climbed the small incline leading to the stile, intending
to take the footpath through Farmer Hudson's
field which would eventually bring him out at yon
side of the village. But from his position on the
rise he saw in the far distance a number of
figures still working in one of the lower fields.
Farmer Yorkless and his sons must be still at it.
Would she be there? For answer the afterglow of the
setting sun seemed to illuminate the stretch of
land reaching from the village to the river, and from this
height he could espy a steely gleam of
water, but what the afterglow showed up more clearly
was the dark heads of men and the cotton-bonneted
one of a woman.
It was no conscious decision that turned him from
the stile and caused him to leap the low wall and
make his way in almost the opposite direction
to that which would lead to the village, but as he came
nearer the group in the field he saw that they were
leaving, for a man was leading a horse on to the
narrow road. He could just make out that the
animal was pulling a kind of sledge, behind which,
at intervals, three figures were walking; but
the bonneted woman still remained in the field.
He crossed a wide field, leapt another stone wall, and dropped into the pasture
beyond and made his way towards the figure. She
was stooping, and he saw that she was putting cans
into a basket, and as he approached her from behind
he saw her whip off her cotton bonnet,
then put her hand into the crown and use it as a
towel about her face.
"Good-evening, Emma."
She almost left the ground as she turned round
to him, and he saw that her face was streaked with
dirt and sweat and the hand that gripped the bonnet
black with soil.
"Oh, I'm sorry if I startled you."
"You did, Parson." She was gasping
slightly. "One minute there was nobody here
and the next minute"--she gave a little laugh--
"there you were."
He repeated, "I'm sorry," then added,
"You look very tired. Why are you working so
late?"
For answer she flung her arm wide.
"It's got to be cleared if we want
to plant. Another week I should say and it'll
be done."
He narrowed his eyes in the fading light and looked around the field. The walls
looked uneven where boulders of all sizes were
piled roughly against them. He turned to her again,
saying quietly, "What a colossal
task."
"Yes"--she nodded at him--"I think that's
the word for it, colossal task. I never thought
to see the end when we started. It's not so bad
when it's dry but last night it rained and the earth
gets sticky." She looked at her glary
hand. "'Tisn't too easy. Still"--she
turned and picked up the basket--"that's how it
must be. But some good frost on it this winter and
we'll have taties in it next spring. God
willing." She smiled a small smile and he
answered it, saying, gently, "He will be."
There was a tightness in his throat. It hurt
him to see how she had to work like any peasant
woman, even harder for they had set hours. But
she was a farmer's wife and there was no six
till six or six till eight for such
wives.
"Let me carry that basket."
"No, no." She pulled it away from his
hand. "It's all mucky." "Mucky or not, give it here." He tugged
the basket from her. The tone of his voice was
different, it had a rough note to it like
Barney's had at times. She walked on, he
by her side, silence between them now, until he
said, "'Tis a beautiful evening, don't you
think?"
"Yes, yes it is." She moved her head,
looking about her as if she had only now become
aware of the soft air falling with the night; then as
if to herself she said, "By! it's been a
scorcher." Then glancing at him, she added,
"This afternoon we were all wet through."
His eyes caught her glance and held it as
he said softly, "You shouldn't have to work like this,
Emma. And the child, she alone must take your
strength."
"Huh!" She made a small sound as she
looked at him and the smile on her face held
a sadness not untouched with pity and a flicker of
criticism: "And the child," he had said, "she
alone must take your strength." Sometimes he
seemed like a being from another world. He lived on
the outskirts of the village, and his mind, she
felt, must be on the outskirts of real living. What about the women who had child after child,
some of them born in the tatie fields. He was
so dear, so wonderful, so clean and beautiful
to her, it was like balm to her body just to look at
him, yet at times like now he seemed so young.
Although he was just about old enough to be her father, of
late she seemed to herself to be older than him.
And this feeling would come over her sometimes at
night when lying awake, and she knew she was
betraying Barney by her thoughts. Yet the
desire in her then was only to hold this man's
head against her breast like one did a child, like she
did her child.
In the light of day she wondered how she could
think such things; but the light of day was going now and
her thoughts as she looked at him were beginning
to run riot. She'd have to get back among
them, among those four men who in their different
way forced her to acknowledge that she had a life
to live and in order to live it she had to work and
sweat and even groan under its weight, as she
had groaned many times this day carrying the rocks
to the sledge.
Now, as if she couldn't wait to continue this
life of labour, she put out her hand and, gently tugging the basket from him, she said, "I
... I must hurry, I've things to do. And
Mary will be wanting to get away home. You'll
be cutting across here?" She pointed to the opening in
the stone wall, and he stopped and said, "Yes.
Oh yes. Well, good-night, Emma."
Stepping two paces back from him, she
nodded towards him, answering, "Good-night,
Parson." And with this they parted.
He did not hurry across the field, nor
did he raise his eyes to the beauty of the fading
afterglow, he looked at his feet walking between the
ridged cattle imprints and the tufts of
thistle here and there. If it had been day he
might have said to himself: This is a dirty field,
Hudson is an indifferent husbandman, but it
was coming night and, denying his observation to Ralph
that the troubles of the day slipped away with the
twilight, his were presenting themselves to him as if the
dawn had changed places with the night. And now
he was asking of God why the ache in his body
seemed to increase with the years; and indeed, not
only with the years but with each new sight of her.
A minute ago he had looked on her, her
face streaked with dirt, her nails broken down to the quick, her hands black with
mud, the bodice of her dress showing great arcs of sweat beneath her oxters and the dress itself clinging
to the clefts of her breasts, and her beauty had
shone through it and almost blinded him to the fact that she
was no longer Emma the girl but Emma the
wife, and the longing to touch her had become almost
irresistible.
Of a sudden his pace increased. He would go
home, he told himself, and when it was
sufficiently dark he would go down to the brook
where it deepened beyond Openwood and there, lying in
the water, his ache would ease. His father used
to tell him and his brothers after a day of running
wild during the holidays to get themselves into the
river and cool their capers. They had been
innocent capers, easy to cool, but the caper that
was running wild in him now would, he felt,
heat the water.
As he neared the outskirts of the village his
head jerked upwards at the sound of loud
voices and cries coming from the end of the main
street where the inn was situated. Mr
Turnbull's son Billy was standing on the
kerb in front of the grocer's bottle-glass window and he called to Henry, "Skull and
hair flying along there, Parson, the night.
'Tis likely the pit blokes, being the night
of the pays, can't get rid of their money soon
enough. All they'll have left the morrow will be
thick heads and empty bellies."
Henry nodded to him and passed quickly on down
the street, noting that Peggy MacFarlane was
at her cottage door, as was Mr Farrow the
carpenter at his, with his wife and members of his
large family around him. And Mrs Farrow was
having a job to restrain the older ones from leaving
her side to get a closer view of the fray.
There was no one outside the butcher's shop, but
then Mr Mason only opened it twice a
week. But he could see Mason's wife and his
daughter Lily, the one who made him uneasy
with her staring, through the parted lace curtains at the
window. In the fading light he could not really
distinguish their faces but he knew it to be them,
peering, as he himself was now, towards half a
dozen men bashing each other on the cobbled
square.
Coming to a halt some yards away he wondered
what to do, but told himself it would be little use appealing to them, the noise they were making
would drown his voice. Yet the next minute
he heard himself yelling, "Stop this! Stop it!
Do you hear?"
Almost before he finished speaking a man was
hurled backwards and almost fell at his feet.
His opponent, staggering towards him was yelling,
"Think you own the bloody place. Could work you
off your feet, you Fellburn nowt you! Come
to the Phoenix and you'll see what work is."
And the man lifted his foot and went to kick the
prostrate one but was halted by Henry rushing at
him and grabbing him by the arm, crying, "Don't do
that! Do you want to kill him?"
The pitman who was dressed in his best,
wearing a bright-coloured neckerchief with a red
handkerchief dangling from the breast pocket of his
coat, stood for a moment slightly amazed at
being confronted by a parson, easily
recognizable from his black garb, high collar
and flat hat; but he was no respecter of
churchmen and so he made to throw this new
opponent off, crying, "Take your bloody
hands off me, ranter!"
"I will, when you decide to go home." "Who the hell do you think you're talkin'
to, eh?" He made another effort to loosen
Henry's grip, but when he couldn't he became
filled with a sudden fury and with his free arm he
struck out and caught Henry a resounding blow
on the side of the head which knocked his hat off and
caused him to release his grip on the man's
arm and to stagger back from him. Then, as he told
himself for days afterwards, he didn't know what
possessed him but the next minute his own fist
shot out as it hadn't done since he was a lad
sparring with his brothers, particularly with
George who could box as well as a booth
man. In fact, George had had a whipping
from their father once because he had challenged a booth
man. And now there was no one more surprised than
himself when he saw the miner stretch his length on
the cobbles alongside the man he had himself
floored only a while ago. Then Henry's
anger was replaced by a moment of terror when the
pitman lay prone and still.
Now there was movement all around them: the others
had stopped their sparring and were bending over the two
prostrate figures, and George Tate and
Tom Bessell were looking into his face. Tom was saying, "'Tis you,
Parson?"
He didn't answer for a moment but gently
rubbed his clenched fist with his other hand for the pain in
it from contact with the pitman's jaw was radiating
up to his shoulder. And when another man shouted,
"'Twas the parson. 'Twas the parson, I
tell you. Look!" he seemed to come to himself, and
now he asked Tom: "The man ... is he?
... is he?" and he bent over the pitman.
When the man made a queer groaning sound,
he closed his eyes and muttered a short
silent prayer.
George Tate was yelling, "Carry them in
... carry them inside." And combatants from
both sides came and picked up their
respective member and carried him into the inn.
And Henry followed, because he had to know what
injury he had done to the pitman. He
recognized too that the other man was Willy
Stoddart. Well it would be, wouldn't it? But the
little pitman must have given him a mighty blow
to knock him senseless because Willy was known to be
a tough fellow.
Willy was groaning loudly now and holding the back of his head. The other man too was sitting
up. They had propped him against the wooden
settle, but his face was all askew, and now
he was holding his hands to it and making moaning
sounds, and it was Mary Petty's husband Ned
who, looking at Henry, said in a voice
filled with awe, "You've knocked his jaw out,
Parson."
"Knocked his jaw out? No, no." Henry
shook his head.
"Well, look!"
Henry looked closer and saw that Ned
Petty was right, he had put the man's jaw
out. "Dear God!" he said. "Go and fetch
Doctor Rainton."
He hadn't given the precise order
to anyone in particular, but Eddy MacFarlane
said, "Aye, aye; better get the doctor.
But 'tis all of two miles away." And he
turned and looked at one of the other two men who
were kneeling beside their mining companion. "You had a
hand-cart, hadn't you?" he asked in a
conversational tone, as if a few minutes
earlier he hadn't been at this particular
man's throat. The man looked up and nodded before
saying, "Aye."
"Well then, put him on the hand-cart, and
on your way back home to Birtley call in
at the doctor's. Best thing, save time."
The other man, answering as civilly, said,
"Aye, you're right. And it would be on our way,
as you say. Aye, it would."
Strangely, they all seemed to have sobered
up somewhat, although Willy Stoddart was being
plied with ale to refresh him.
Within minutes they were all outside again. The
pitman being assisted on to the flat barrow
looked up at Henry without the slightest
animosity in his eyes, and Henry said in a low
voice, "I'm sorry. I'm very sorry
I've hurt you."
The pitman raised his hand as if in
salute, at which George Tate turned
to Eddy MacFarlane saying, "Go along of
them, Eddy, and see what the trouble is.
Parson'd like to know ... wouldn't you, Parson?"
"Oh yes, yes." Henry nodded at the
publican. "Yes, I must know."
There were eight now standing outside the inn watching the small cavalcade zig-zag its
way up the road, one man pulling the barrow,
and the man behind being assisted by Eddy
MacFarlane. Then as they all turned to go
back into the inn, they stopped as if governed
by one mind and peered through the swinging lantern light
at Henry.
"We'll send you word along, Parson, when
we hear," George Tate said, and Henry
answered, "Thank you, Mr Tate.
Good-night."
A chorus of good-nights came at him now:
"Good-night, Parson. Good-night to you,
Parson. Good-night, Parson."
There were men among them whom he had never seen
in church, but for a moment he felt himself to be
nearer to them than to most of his regular
parishioners.
Entering the front door of the vicarage he was
greeted by Lena Wilkinson saying, "I
didn't go, I was worried; you were late."
"I'm sorry I kept you, Miss
Wilkinson. You mustn't wait for me.
Please don't do that." His voice sounded
stiff even to himself and then she answered as stiffly, "'Twas only through concern;
you never know on nights with strangers about, and them
coming in from across the river pinching and stealing.
Crosby's had four chickens gone last
night."
"I'm sorry, but I must insist: you are not
to wait. Good-night, Miss Wilkinson."
He pulled the door wide now and stood
aside while she lifted her cape and bonnet
from the antlered hallstand, and when she passed him
and went out into the night without further words, he
felt a moment of contrition. Why couldn't he be
pleasant to her? But no, he knew what
pleasantness would lead to in her case.
He closed the door and drew the bolts and
went through the candle-lit hall into the long gaunt
kitchen, through the scullery and to the back door,
which he found already bolted. He did not then
make his way straight upstairs, but picked
up the candlestick from the hall table and went into the
sitting-room.
In the daytime the straight-back chairs and
hard brown leather couch seemed to offer no comfort
and he often likened the atmosphere to a monk's
cell, only in a monk's cell you did know why you were suffering the austerity, it was for Christ.
But here he knew he didn't suffer for
Christ. He found no joy or penance in
ugliness, and every room in this vicarage was ugly.
Yet the Reverend Blackett lived in
sumptuous conditions compared to this, and the bishop and
his underlings over in Auckland lived in such style
that the only thing seeming to be missing was a
harem.
Oh my God!--he put his hand to his head
--he was protesting about so many things these days.
Vindictive in fact. At one time he'd had
great high hopes of serving God, now in the
secret cells of his mind he was asking himself
if there even was a God to serve. And these
cells were not impregnable any more, for his thoughts
must have seeped through them because he knew his sermons
were not pleasing his congregation.
He had faced up to himself. He knew he was
not a good man and that most of his time he was living
and preaching a lie. Apart from the ethics of his
religion he was breaking so many commandments,
daily, hourly. ... Thou shalt not covet
thy neighbour's wife.
If a man strike you, turn the other cheek. And what had he done this
night? He had struck a man to the ground, and
he would not be able to go to bed until he knew of the
consequences of his blow.
It was no good, he would have to see the bishop,
talk to him, tell him exactly what was in his
mind. ... But not all. Oh no, not all,
only that which concerned the church. The coveting of his
neighbour's wife had nothing to do with the bishop,
for it was only in his mind and would never bear
fruit.
His head was aching from the blow he had received and
he didn't feel like writing anything in his
diary tonight, but through force of habit he went over
to the window where his desk was placed and, opening his
coat, inserted two fingers into a small
pocket in his waistcoat from which he took a
key and then opened the bottom drawer in the
desk. From there he lifted up a thick black
book and he began to write in it.
The book was a third filled with closely
written work and now, starting on a blank
page, he wrote:

God, You are a jester. You know that, don't You? You are a jester, a sadistic jester, for
why else do You give to Your priests the power
to love in concentration. You ordain us to love
all mankind, then You confront me with a human
being, one who has such magnetism in her that
dilutes ... nay, eclipses all other
feelings. You did it with Abelard and Donne
and countless others, and to men like Augustine and
Erasmus You added the power to explain Your
method of working.
Your idea of justice is irrational. You
state that those who sin and do not chastise their
bodies in repentance will eventually find that this
life is but a spark in an ever-erupting
volcano, which is eternity, and in it they will
burn forever, and all because they have loved and could no
longer deny that love. Yet You who made us in
your image, and gave us our natures, also
gave us the power to love and the instrument with which
to express it in ecstatic exaltation.
I ask You, are You a God? Or have I
been worshipping man?
And I answer my own question; if the kingdom of
God is within man, then man reigns over that
kingdom and man is God and God is man; and now I know I have been afraid of
man and not of God. And where does this leave
me? Only with the knowledge that I'd rather be afraid of
You as God as of man, because man has used
Your name to stamp his laws and give power to the
baseness and greed within him. He uses Your name
to feel righteous in his own eyes. Is this not so?
As I await Your answer my mind tells
me I only think like this because of the frustration
born of my tethered love; but no, that is not
true, for from the day before I was ordained, You will
remember, I knelt in the chapel in the dead
of night asking You to show me the way, repeating,
"I believe, help Thou my unbelief."
Was there ever such a self-revealing statement
written in Holy Writ: "I believe,
help Thou my unbelief"?

Following this, his pen became still for some
minutes. Then he closed the book, locked it
away and returned the key to his waistcoat
pocket and, folding his forearms on the desk,
he laid his head on them as he muttered,
"Oh God!" ...
It was almost two hours later when a thumping on the front door woke him. Blinking the
sleep from his eyes, he picked up the almost
guttered candle and staggered to the door and, pulling
it open, saw through the swinging lantern light
Eddy MacFarlane panting and peering up at him. He was saying, "'Tis all right,
Parson. Doctor pushed his jaw back an'
strapped it for him. I'll bet he'll think
twice afore he strikes out at a parson again,
eh? What do you say?"
What Henry said on a long-drawn-out
breath of relief was, "Thank you, Eddy.
I'm glad it's no worse."
"It'll keep his mouth shut for a time, I should
say. Got to go careful, the doctor said.
Good-night, Parson."
"Good-night, Eddy. And thank you."
"You're welcome. Best journey I've
ever enjoyed, that." He was about to turn away but
then he stopped and, putting a hand to the side of the
door stanchion, he leant forward and in a
hissing whisper said, "Done you more good in the
village an' thereabouts than all the sermons you
could preach, that blow, Parson. And I'm
tellin' you, better than any sermon you could preach." He jerked his head upwards
now and, turning about, ran into the night; and
Henry, bolting the door once more, leant against
it and there came into his being a rising of
laughter. It was loud and he knew it touched on
hysteria and he checked it; then pulling himself from
the door, he looked upwards, saying aloud
now, "I had to break a man's jaw to get a
standing in the village. Your ways are indeed
strange."



"Eeh! the village is agog. And not
only the village, they tell us it's all
over Birtley and Gateshead Fell.
Parson Grainger, they're sayin', is
somebody to be dealt with. A fellow who could
bust Gerry Gordon's jaw with one blow is
no pulpit pap preacher. But mind, there's some
in the village who are sayin', tut! tut!
tut! Them are the ones who don't like his
sermons. Well, when you come to think of it, he
does talk a bit funny, doesn't he?
Our Bella came back one Sunday sayin' the parson said there was no hell, not the fire and
brimstone hell. Now would you believe that?
Well, old Parson Crabtree used
to make me smell the brimstone when he was up
there in that pulpit when I was a lass. But our
Bella said that Parson Grainger said, 'twas
us ourselves that made the hells. She said he said
we made hells for ourselves and for each other, and
there was no worse hells. Well, she was all
puzzled 'cos in Sunday school Miss
Wilkinson had told them all they're bound for
hell, the lot of 'em, and that was just for scrumping
apples and pinching eggs. Of course the eggs our
Bella nicked were all addled, the hen had been
sitting on them for a week. I said to her,
"Haven't you any sense not to know that you only
have one egg in a nest at a time, that's if you
want to eat it without a chicken inside?"'
Anyway she was fuddled in the head about this hell
business. An' she wasn't the only one, there
was a lot of talk in the village about it.
Well I ask you, Emma, if you hadn't
to come to a hell just think of the things you would do, just
think of the things that would happen. And what about the
rich? Now if they're gona sit pretty all their lives and not suffer for it,
well where's the justice in that? I mean they're
havin' their heaven here, aren't they? And if
there's no hope of us having one in the hereafter,
what's the purpose of it all? That's what I
said to Ned, and even he, thick in the top as he
is, could see that parson had gone astray in his
jabbering. And then there's this latest business.
Well, you wouldn't believe it, I'll bet
there'll be some strange faces under that pulpit
on Sunday. But lookin' at him, you wouldn't
think he would break somebody's jaw, now would
you? One straight blow, our Ned said, and up that
pitman went, soared through the air like a shot
duck an' landed plonk, with his bottom jaw
trying to pick his nose. I mean it's hard
to take in, isn't it? It's unbelievable,
'cos a man with his ideas, you know odd talkin'
ideas, they don't usually have a punch in them,
do they? Eeh! 'tis unbelievable."
And so thought Emma: it was unbelievable that
Henry could break a man's jaw, that he would
even attempt to do such a thing; and only the
night before last she had looked on him, as they
stood in the road, as someone who had no conception of real life. The word she thought offor
him was idealist. Yet no, that wasn't right.
Nor was mystic. Oh no, not mystic, there was
no faraway look in his eyes. She couldn't
put a name to what he was, she only knew
how she felt about him, the sensation the sight of
him created in her, how she longed to touch him or
he to touch her. Even when she had grabbed the
basket from his hand she had made sure that her
fingers were well away from his. Yet here was
Mary telling her that he had broken a man's
jaw, and that now the village was for him. People were
funny, odd. It was a good job she hadn't
time to sit and ponder, or else things would
worry her.
She said to Mary, "I'm off now the
milking's done. Wash your hands mind, Mary,
before you touch anything in the dairy. I've left
two dishes ready for skimming."
"All right, I know what to do, lass. But
'tis Sunday, and I think you should give that
field a miss the day, the stones'll still be there
the morrow."
"Yes, that's the trouble, they'll still be there the
morrow." She now stooped and picked up the gurgling child from the basket and having
placed it in the crook of her arm and partly on
her left hip, she took up a basket of
food from the table and made for the door, and Mary
opening it for her said, "Hello, Mister
Pete. What you after?"
Pete didn't answer her but said to Emma,
"Ready for the field?"
"Yes, as you see." Emma nodded at him.
Lifting his arms towards her now, Pete
said, "I'll take her. I want a word with
you."
Relieved of the child, she now carried the
basket in both hands in front of her and
walked slightly ahead for the length of the
farmyard. Gauging they were now out of both sight
and earshot of Mary, she stopped beyond the big
stone barn and, looking at Pete, said,
"Anything wrong, Pete?"
She had come to like Pete, because she felt he
was for her: he neither sided with Luke nor went
against him, he was neutral as it were, saying
little, but when he did it was to the point. She was
beginning to realize that they underestimated the
intelligence of this fair-haired, rough-looking, twenty-year-old young fellow. She watched him
tracing his finger through Annie's hair as he
said, "I thought I'd see what you think of it,
Emma."
"Think of what, Pete?"
"Me goin' for a sailor."
"Goin' for a sailor? You mean ... you mean
joining a boat?"
"Aye; aye, just that."
"But why?" Even as she asked the question she
knew what his answer would be.
"Well ... well, with fields going ain't
enough work, not even enough for Da, Barney, and
Luke."
"Your ... your father won't like it." "He'll say he won't, but on t'other
hand he'll be relieved."
She continued to gaze into the rough face.
Yes, there was more in Pete than anyone
suspected.
He humped the child from one arm to the other before
saying now, "Big field's nearly cleared."
"When were you thinking of going?"
He was looking towards the ground now as he
said, "Soon. There's a boat sailing next Saturday. 'Tis in dock now. I
saw the mate yesterday night, he was in The
Tuns. They're wanting hands, he said. Good
ship, he said, going to the Americas."
"But ... but you've never been to sea, I
mean never been on a boat."
"I know, but 'tisn't that I haven't
wanted to, Emma. Any spare times,
Sundays like, I've made for Newcastle
quay, like Billy used to take you, you know, but
further along where they unload. It's always
packed along there."
He now looked her fully in the face as
he ended, "Thought I'd see how you took it,
Emma, 'cos you've got a head on your
shoulders. Think I'm right?"
She studied him for a moment, then smiled
softly at him as she said, "Yes, Pete,
I think you're right. 'Tis a hard life they
say on these ships, but you'll see different
places, see the world. I ... I think it will
be good for you, Pete."
She watched his face stretch into a great
smile; then nodding at her, he said, "Good enough
for me then, Emma. I'll tell them." "You'll have to be prepared for squalls."
She was smiling at him now, adding, "And that's
before you hit the German Ocean."
"'Tis good that, Emma, 'tis good. You've
got a good way with your tongue. Learned, that's
what you are."
"Oh no"--she shook her head--"I'm not
learned. I wish I was."
"Well, some folks think you're learned."
He nodded his head briskly at her as they
walked on now. "'Tis said in The Tuns that
you read the same books as the parson. Now
that's something. You must be learned if you read the
same books as the parson."
Learned. The first books he had loaned her
were stories from the Sunday school shelf, always about a good little girl and a good little boy. She had
liked only three of the big books he had
loaned her. One was called Mansfield
Park, the others were written by a titled
gentleman called Scott, one was The
Lady of the Lake, and the other was called
Kenilworth. It had taken her a long time
to read these books because the print was small; even
when her granny had, after much persuading, allowed her a candle under the roof she was
often too tired to take advantage of its
light. And she hadn't been able to read much in the
presence of her granny, for the sight of her
reading had always seemed to irritate her
granny and she would keep talking at her about the
events of the day which were mostly filled with
animosity against her mistress. No, only very
ignorant people would put the stamp of learning on
her.
She glanced at Pete. She would miss him
as she wouldn't have missed his father or Luke had
they said they were leaving. ... Oh, if only
Luke would take it into his head to go to sea,
then life would take on a peace which, as the
Bible said, was past understanding.

Voices had been raised. Jake
Yorkless, Luke, and even Barney had tried
to dissuade Pete from, as his father said, taking this
mad step. Everybody knew that except for the
captain and the chief officers life was hell for the
crew. But Pete was quietly adamant.
He said he could but try.
It would be a long try, his father said, two years away and once that boat had left the
dock he might as well consider himself
manacled, for he wouldn't be a free man
until it docked again in the same spot.
But Pete went into Newcastle and signed
on as deck-hand on the Fullmer. And on
Saturday gone, the three men had dressed in
their best and accompanied him to Newcastle
quay; and afterwards, lying in bed that night,
Barney had said to her he never knew he had
been fond of Pete until he saw him
walking up that gangway with that canvas bag on
his shoulder.
More to make conversation than to know the answer,
she asked Barney, "Did you envy his going?
I mean, would you like to have gone with him?"
"Oh! Emma." He pulled her into his
arms with such force that she gasped for breath. "Would
any man but an idiot exchange you for a trip
on the sea, even as a captain? Oh!
Emma. Emma. When will I convince you that I
think I'm the luckiest fella alive? I
had to wait for you, and as you grew older each
night became an agony that burnt me up.
But"--he chuckled deep in his throat now-- "I've slaked my thirst and I'll
never tire of doing it. Not for me the Laura
Nixons or the Peggy MacFarlanes. I
pity them that seek such relief. And then you ask
me, do I envy Pete? Aw! Emma.
Emma."
While he slaked his thirst once more she
let her mind roam to things that might have been but
would now never come about.

It was Monday morning and Billy
Proctor was brushing one of the horses down in
the stable. He was working sullenly. He had been
on this farm since he was a boy, and he knew
now that if it hadn't been for Emma he, as he
put it, would have been thrown out on his backside
and likely ended his days in the workhouse.
Emma had said to him, "Just do what your hands
will allow, Billy." Well, his hands wouldn't
allow him to do much, nor yet his back, every bone
in his body ached. But then it had been so for many
a year, but he had worked with good grace ignoring
the pain. But now the pain was uppermost, brought
to the fore by ingratitude, was the way he saw it.
Emma passed him on her way to the big barn. She did not stop to give him a word, she
was in a hurry; there was a lot to do, and she must
get back into the house before the child woke up.
Mary had gone down early to the painter's. He
wouldn't like that, but she herself was too busy today
to see to him.
She intended to bring some oats back to the stable
and, while she was in the big barn, throw a bale
of hay down from the upper storey because she would
need it later to fill the nests. She had said
to Barney only yesterday that she thought the hens were
starting to eat the hay because she was always filling the
boxes. But as he said, and as she well knew,
it was the red cock strutting about like a lord that
scattered the hay. He was a character, was the red
cock. The only time he acted in the manner
of a known cock was when he was tending to his
wives, other times he would race round the
field very much like a colt that had just been let
out. Barney had a name for him. The crazy
coon, he called him.
She half filled the sack with oats, then
leaned it against the old millstone which had once
graced the mill that stood to the side of the
bridle-path about half a mile from Mr Bowman's cottage. When the mill
was burnt to the ground, leaving only one room
at the end with a loft above, Jake Yorkless, his
father, and two horses had brought the millstone
to the farm, thinking to make some use of it. They
had rolled it on its end into the barn and brought it
to a standstill just below the platform that extended over
one third of the barn. Whatever use they had
hoped to put it to had not materialized, except
that it was used for sharpening scythes and such
implements.
Emma climbed the ladder to the platform above.
She went to the far corner where the bales of hay
were stacked and was about to pull the top one down when
she stifled a cry as Luke appeared round the
end of the stack with a pitchfork in his hand. He
seemed amused at her fright and he muttered,
"Nerves on edge?"
She made no reply and he turned and
pulled a bale on to the floor in front of
her feet, not to help her but to impede her way.
Then after staring at her for a moment, he said
flatly, "Nowt's gone right on this place
since you came into it. Do you know that? I've said
it afore and I'll say it again, you put a spell on it, you've got an evil eye ...
a foreign evil eye. You helped to knock me
mother off." She clamped on her lips
to prevent a retort and he went on, "Now
you've talked Pete into taking to the sea.
You'll not be happy until you get rid of me
da and me and then you'll have the place
to yoursel'."
As she turned her back on him and bent
down from the waist to pick up the bale, it
happened. Lifting the pitchfork, he thrust it
into her buttocks, and the scream she let out
caused him to screw up his face and yell at
her, "Didn't kill you! Soft you are in some
parts, soft you are."
She stood for a moment, her hands pressed
tight to her bottom; then gasping, she turned
her head from side to side as if in search of a
weapon, and she saw it, one that she could handle.
It was a piece of thick rope with a frayed
end. She sprang towards it and with lightning
speed she had gripped the end of it and given it
one swirl about her head before bringing it fully
across his face.
Now it was he who screamed and the sound was like a roar of an injured beast, and like a beast
he sprang on her and bore her to the floor,
where they rolled together tearing at each other,
until at last he had her spreadeagled, his
body on top of hers. And now her terrified
eyes were looking deep into his throat for his
wide-open mouth seemed like a lion's jaws,
and she knew terror as she had never known it
before.
When she felt his teeth go through the lobe of
her ear she screamed to the heavens. Then they were
rolling again. Now she was tearing at his face with
her nails, but even as she did so she knew
she was weakening, his weight was too much for her.
At one period when she managed to free one
hand she stuck her thumb into his eye, and when his
head went back she screamed, "Barney!
Barney!" And almost immediately it seemed that her
cry had been answered for the weight was dragged
off her leaving her limp and gasping and covered with
both Luke's and her own blood. For a moment
she thought she was going to slip
into unconsciousness; then the growls and the curses
to the side of her brought her on to her hands and
knees from where she was again knocked on to her back by the two struggling forms.
It was as Jake Yorkless came running
into the barn that the locked figures reached the edge
of the platform and before a cry could escape his
lips he saw his eldest son topple over.
There was a dull bone-crushing thud, then a
strange stillness.
With a mixture of horror and incredulity he
looked to where Barney hung backwards over the
millstone for a matter of seconds before his body
slid slowly and quietly on to the floor of the
barn. He now lifted his head and looked to where
his other son was dragging himself back from the edge
of the platform; then his gaze moved from him to see
his daughter-in-law kneeling further along the
platform looking downwards. Her whole face
appeared to be covered with blood.
Then the silence was broken as he let out a
great oath and, dropping on to his knees by the
prone figure, he straightened out his son,
calling loudly now, "Barney! Barney!"
When there was no response to his appeal he
looked towards where Luke was staggering down the
ladder and he cried at him, "You bloody,
bloody madman! You've killed him. You've killed your brother."
"'Tweren't me. 'Tweren't me." Luke
was standing apart now, shaking his head. "'Twas
her. 'Twas her. Look at me face."
As Luke drew his hand over his bloodstained
face, Jake Yorkless turned his gaze
upwards again to where Emma was now descending the
ladder. Having reached the bottom she still clung
to it for a moment before she tottered towards the
millstone and there, dropping on to her side near
her husband, she now cried, "Barney!
Barney!" Then she was tearing at his jacket,
her good ear against his chest.
Turning her eyes to look at her
father-in-law and her voice merely a whimper,
she said, "He's ... he's breathin'. Get
... get the doctor."
"You!"--Jake Yorkless was bawling at
Luke now--"come and give me a hand to get him
into the house."
"No! No!" Emma flung herself across
the prostrate form, crying, "He won't touch
him. I won't let him touch him." Then she
looked towards the door to where Billy was standing
and she yelled to him, "Go to the Hudsons', Billy. Tell them we want help. Tell
them to ride for the doctor, and send Tony.
He'll help. He'll help."
Neither Jake Yorkless nor Luke made
any protest at this, but she, with growing strength,
got on to her knees now and looking at her
father-in-law she cried, "Take him away."
She thrust out her hand towards Luke. "I
tell you, take him away."
When Jake Yorkless didn't move, her
voice in a scream came at him again, "I
tell you, get him out of this, or I'll do
something to him. I'll stick the pitchfork into him like
he did me."
His eyes widening, Jake Yorkless looked
towards his son, and he said, "Pitchfork?"
"Yes, that was the start. He ... he stuck
the pitchfork into me as ... as I bent down."
"Bugger me!" Jake Yorkless's face
screwed up and his eyes became almost lost in
their sockets as he stepped towards Luke.
Stepping back from him, Luke yelled, "I
only did it after she gave me this"--once again
he drew his hand over his bloodstained face--
"with the pulley rope. How would you like it across your face?"
"Get out!" Jake Yorkless jerked his head
stiffly to the side and Luke obeyed him,
backing slowly towards the open door of the barn.
But there he stopped and, almost screaming now, he
said, "Whatever's happened she's to blame.
There's no luck where she is; she'll be the
death of us all afore she finishes. Mark my
words. Aye, mark my words."
For some moments after he had disappeared into the
yard his father stood looking towards the door.
Shoulders rounded, his head hanging, he had the
pose of an old man. But then, seeming
to pull himself together, he turned and walked back
towards the millstone, to where Emma had raised
Barney's head and had it rested against her
knee.
Looking up at her father-in-law and her
voice and her attitude now depicting her
age, she muttered as a young girl might, "I
didn't start this, 'twasn't me. Believe
me, mister, 'twasn't me."
He gave her no answer but continued to stare
down on them both; then with a shake of his head he
turned slowly away. ... It was twenty minutes later when Alec
Hudson and his son Anthony arrived, and
during that time Emma had had to fight a great
wave of sickness and faintness that threatened to overcome her. Her body was aching as if it
had been pummelled by a mallet. But there was a
different pain in the side of her face. The
blood had clotted around her ear and there was
something dangling from it. She daren't, however,
put her hand towards it, but when Alec
Hudson came into the barn he stopped in his
stride and, looking towards her, he said, "My
God! girl, what's happened to you?"
And for answer she said, "Have you got the
doctor?"
"Andy's ridden for him; he should be here in a
short while. Shall we get him into the house?"
He was looking down on the prostrate
figure.
"I don't know. He ... he hit the stone
when he fell." She lifted a weak hand
towards the stone. "He hit it with his back. I
fear ... I fear--" She drooped her head
forward.
"All right, lass. All right. Come on, get to your feet."
It was when the kindly man's hand came
towards her and she felt herself being assisted
upwards by him and his younger son that the wave of
faintness became so great that she sank beneath it and
dropped into peaceful blackness.

Twice she had begun to emerge from the
blackness but each time sank back again into it.
The first occasion because she told herself she didn't
want to face the day; the second time through pain,
something was happening to the side of her face. The
third time it was Mary's murmuring that brought her
up, and the soothing feeling of warm water on her
neck and chest. She lay savouring the comfort of it
for a while until, full realization sweeping
over her, she jerked her body in an effort
to rise.
But Mary's hands kept her down. "There,
there," she said. "There, there. Quiet now,
till I get you dried."
"The doctor?" Her mouth seemed stiff,
her whole face seemed stiff.
"He's upstairs."
"Barney." "You'll know in a short while. But you've
got to prepare yourself, lass; least that's what
I think 'cos me sense tells me that you can't
fall backwards on to a millstone and bounce
off again whole."
"Oh." She put out her hand towards her ear
and felt a bulge there, and Mary, nodding her
head at her now as she tossed the towel aside
and buttoned up the front of Emma's
dress, said, "You're going to be short of a
lobe, lass. It was hanging, he had to cut it
off. In the name of God, how did it all
happen? But quiet now, quiet, there'll be
plenty of time for talk after."
Not that Emma had any intention of talking,
she only wanted to get up and go to Barney.
At that moment, however, the doctor came into the
room.
Doctor Rainton was a big man with a
small voice and a gentle manner. He bent
over her, saying, "How are we now?"
"I'm ... I'm all right, doctor."
Her words came out on gasps; then she added,
"Barney. What's wrong with him?"
The doctor straightened his back, moved his lips one over the other for a moment,
then, bringing his chin into the collar of his grey
tweed jacket, he said, "You'd better steel
yourself, Mrs Yorkless. Indeed yes, you'd
better steel yourself."
"He's ... he's not?"
"No, he's not dead, and I don't know as
yet whether he's going to die, at least soon.
But what I can tell you is that his back is
broken and he is paralysed."
She put her two hands up to her face, then
moved the one quickly away from her left cheek and
placed it on top of the other that was across her
mouth, and the "No! No!" that was yelling
inside of her, did not escape, but her eyes
stretched as far as the pain in her face would
allow.
"He ... he can move his head and his right
arm, but that is all as yet. And ... and he
has regained consciousness. But I have given him
some medicine; more I shall leave you, which will keep
him from thinking for the next few days. The
realization of his condition will definitely come as a
shock, and it is this that we have to be prepared for.
It is a tragic happening; his father tells me he was so sure-footed and cannot understand how he
slipped off the platform." He had now bent his
head towards her and his eyes were asking the question of the
words he had just uttered: were they true or
false? But she did not answer the question, she was
too numb. Yet her mind was asking, if this was
the story that the mister was putting about, how would he
account for Luke's face, because the frayed rope
had drawn blood and he would be scarred for some
time. And then, her ear. But that didn't matter,
what mattered was that Barney, dear Barney was
paralysed and all through her screaming for help.
Yet if she hadn't screamed, what would have
happened to her? Would he have taken her there and then
as he lay on top of her, his body screwing
her into the platform? No, no; the desire that was
in him at that moment wasn't for her body but for
her life. He had wanted to kill her. She
had seen it in his eyes and she knew that as long
as she lived and while he was alive, she would
fear him. There were some things she could stand up to,
but not such a hate as was in her brother-in-law.
And what was the end to be?
When she shivered violently and her head
dropped back on to the hard rolled horsehair bolster, the doctor,
turning to Mary, said, "Stay with her, see
to her. She needs to sleep too. I'll leave
you something that will make her sleep."
On this Emma raised her head with a jerk,
saying now, "No, no, doctor. I want
no more sleep. I'll be all right. In a
short while I'll be all right."
And she knew she must be all right, and now, in
order to speak to the mister, for she'd have to ask him
... no, tell him that his murdering son could
no longer stay in this house. He had a woman
over at Birtley who would no doubt
welcome him. Moreover, if the mister made
any bones about it she wouldn't lift another hand
inside the house or outside it, she would see
to her husband and her child and that would be all; to cook
for, or sit at the table with, or even look at
that fiend of a man, never, never again.
As she swung her feet to the ground and sat
up the doctor stood above her, amazed at one
so young, who had just come through some great physical
struggle, if her torn ear and bruises on
her face, neck and arms were anything to go by,
yet who could show such resistance to the pain she must be suffering. But then women were strange
creatures, all different and no accounting for
them. But this one had foreign blood in her,
Spanish blood he understood, and Spaniards
he also understood were a fierce people, as their conquering
history showed.
All he could say to her now was, "Go
easy. Go easy. I shall be back in the
morning."
And her answer to this was simply, "Thank
you."
Mary escorted the doctor to the front
door and when she came back into the room and
saw Emma standing supporting herself against the head
of the couch she cried at her, "Oh, you're a
silly young bugger. Don't push yourself, lass,
you can barely stand on your feet."
"I've got to stand on me feet, Mary,"
Emma said quietly. "I'll have to stand on me
feet." And to this, after a moment's pause,
Mary raised her eyebrows, then looked down
towards the floor, muttering, "Aye lass,
I suppose you're right. You'll have to."




Emma stood at the side of the bed holding
Barney's hand, looking down at him, and the pain
in his eyes was almost too much for her to bear. It
was five days now since his body had hit the
stone and only this morning had he seemed to take
in the fact that his life was broken and never again
would he walk. He could move his head and his right
arm, but the rest of his body was dead. It was as
if he had been dismembered and all that was left
was the part of him that recognized his dismembering and
could brew the horror and the pain of it.
"Why couldn't it have taken me altogether?" His
voice was a croak.
"Don't say that."
"But what use am I, Emma? Oh
Emma"--his head moved slowly on the
pillow--"what use am I? Do you understand what
has happened? I'm no use, in no way,
I'm no use."
"You'll always be of use to me." She now
sat down on the side of the bed close to him and
his lips trembled as he looked up to her and asked, "Why had it to happen? Why? What have
I done to anybody that this should happen to me?"
When she did not answer but bowed her head,
he remained silent; then his voice stronger,
he said with bitterness, "He's always been mad.
If he couldn't get his own way, he ... he
made somebody pay for it, but mostly Dan,
because Dan was the weakest. Why he should go for you
though is beyond me. But no." Now he closed his
eyes tightly and repeated, "No, 'tisn't
beyond me. I wanted you and he's resented it; you
were young and clean and lovely, not like the trollops
he's favoured since the first urge took him.
And he couldn't get at me, so he got at
you." He opened his eyes and asked quietly,
"Where has he gone? Da wouldn't tell me,
but I know he's not here, I can feel that he's
not here any longer. Funny that, but I
suppose 'tis because the same blood flows
tightly through both of us."
"As far as I know he's gone to that Laura
Nixon outside Birtley township, and
Billy says he's working on a farm down
Lamesley way."
Pressing his head back into the pillow, Barney gritted his teeth together, then
said, "I hope his time there is short and he
soon goes to hell and the devil sticks a
pitchfork into him and lops off his ear."
She started slightly; she hadn't told him
about the pitchfork or her ear. But now he opened
his eyes and said, "I know, the doctor told
me. Da tried to hoodwink him and me an'
all, but the doctor's no fool. I'm glad
you marked him. He was always vain about his looks,
thought he was pretty. Well, doctor says
you did a good job on him, and for that I'm
grateful."
"Oh. Oh." She bowed her head and almost
whimpered now, "I'm not proud of it, Barney.
I didn't want to mark him or anybody but
when the prongs pierced me flesh I too went
mad for a minute. He says I hit him first
but I had no reason to." She looked at
him now and, moving her head slowly, she said,
"I never liked him, I couldn't like him, but
ask yourself, would I take a rope at him out
of the blue like?"
"Don't distress yourself; and I say again
I'm glad you did it. But Emma--" He was now gripping her hand and she watched his lower jaw
tremble before he brought out, "About us, do ... do
you know what this means? I ... I love you
Emma; I've always loved you; but ... but never
again will I be able to show it. Never, never." His
lower jaw was wobbling, his eyelids were blinking and
when the tears burst from his eyes she took him
into her arms, crying, "Oh Barney. Barney,
it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, not
that. Don't please, don't cry Barney.
Barney. I ... I can't bear it if you
cry."
She had never thought to see this broad strong
young man shed a tear; nothing in life she
imagined--if she had even thought of it--could be of
such pain as to make a man cry, especially this
one.
Her tears now mingled with his and as his cheek
pressed against her lacerated ear which was hidden now
by a pad under the white cap she had taken
to wearing, she did not wince, and when his whispered
words coming as if through a layer of blankets
pleading now, "Say you'll not stop loving me.
Say it'll make no difference," she lifted
her face from his and as she blinked the streaming water from her eyes and gazed down on
him, it came to her that never yet had she spoken
the word love, never once had she said to him,
"I love you, Barney"; he had just taken
it for granted that she couldn't have married him
otherwise. But now she said slowly and firmly,
"I'll never stop loving you, Barney; not
till the day death separates us will I stop
loving you."
"Oh, Emma. Emma." His face was
screwed up, his eyes tight, his lashes
dripping, the water running from his nostrils over
his lips.
Her breasts heaving, she withdrew her arms from
about him and, taking up the corner of her white
apron, she gently drew it around his face
saying as she would to the child, "There, there, my dear.
There. There, no more now, no more."
When his crying had eased and he lay staring at
her, he asked, "What are we going to do? I
mean, how are we going to manage?"
"Leave that to me, I'm very good at working things
out. And Billy's had a new lease of
life." And now she forced a smile to her lips
as she said, "And ... and Mary has stopped talking and is filling the time with extra work.
It's all arranged. That side of it's all
arranged. Now lie still." She made a slight
movement as if to bite her lip on the words but
rose from the bed, saying, "I'm goin' down for
your broth and to make sure that your daughter
hasn't wrecked the kitchen. I'll bring her
up in a little while." She bent over him now and
pressed her lips tightly to his; then
straightening herself, she touched his cheek lightly
with her finger before turning and hurrying out of the
room.
She didn't go immediately downstairs but went
into the closet where the linen was kept at the end
of the landing, and there she laid her head on her
arms on the slatted shelf, and the sobs
attacking her afresh, she cried the agony out
of her. And when at last she could cry no more she
reached out and, taking a towel, she wiped her
face vigorously with it. When she had finished
she did not prepare to take it downstairs with
her or fold it up and put it back on the
shelf, but, holding it in both hands, she
smoothed it out and stood looking down on it.
God has strange ways of working; but his punishment wasn't just, He made the
innocent pay for the guilty. A minute ago
she had said to her husband she would love him
until death separated them, and this she must do,
no matter how long that be, or how the body
burned to be eased. The last time he had
slaked his thirst, as he named his loving, she had
let her mind drift away from it and had asked
herself how the parson would have gone about the same
process; but, as she knew then, the answer to that
would remain a mystery. She knew now only
too clearly that never again would any thirst be
slaked on her, and this was the penalty God was
extracting from her for letting her mind rest on
another and a particular another ... one of His
chosen, like in the Bible. She was, in a way,
being made to pay for committing a sacrilege.








PART FIVE
The Daughter

Pete sat to the side of the single bed in the
sitting-room of the farmhouse. To the parson who
was seeing him for the first time since he had left
home thirteen years earlier when he was already a
man, he seemed to have grown to twice his size,
not in breadth, for he was sparse of flesh, but for
some reason in height. He was even taller
than himself. His voice too had changed; no
longer was it slow nor was he hesitant with
words. This apparently was his fourth visit
home, and as on the other occasions so now he was
holding his audience riveted with his tales, and
neither of his two listeners was concerned that he
exaggerated.
"You have to see it, the river in London I
mean. I have no words with which to tell what it's
like. Newcastle is like a plaything to it. Wide
it is past Greenwich, and so full of ships
unloading and loading with everything you could put your mind to. The river's packed but the
quays is crammed. You know, out foreign parts
I once saw an ant-heap almost up to the
ceiling." He raised his head and his arm
simultaneously and the eyes of both Barney and
Henry followed the direction. "'Twas
crawling alive with billions of 'em.
Well, the London quays, 'tis like that, with
yards and docks and cranes and houses. Aye
yes, livin' dwellings all jumbled up together.
And I thought when I last saw it, which was but a
week gone, I had never seen no port in the
world so full of franticness, an' when inshore
no such mixture of rich and poor. There's
poor enough around here; you know that, Parson." He
nodded towards Henry, and Henry answered,
"Yes, indeed, Pete. Yes indeed, I know
that only too well, and I have thought that parts of
Newcastle would be hard to beat. But from some of the
things you have told us before, there are many worse
places."
"Oh aye, Parson. Oh aye, many
worse. And 'tis the children that make it worse for
them. And"--he grinned widely now--"worse
for your pocket if you're not wary. Oh aye. An' 'tis no use to pity 'em, that's
fatal: give to one and you have 'em on you as
thick as that ant-heap I was tellin' you about.
An' the children are not the only ones who rook us,
we sailors. One of me mates last trip
was beaten up an' was only saved from death by our
captain and his brother. They nabbed the
culprits but what did they get from the
judges? Hardly anything, so our captain
said, but the same day a man was sentenced to penal
servitude for stealing half a crown from the
housekeeper of a rich man, an' he did it for
bread for his bairns. There's no justice, not
in London city."
During Pete's pause for breath Henry
said, "But you seem to like the sea more and more,
Pete."
"Oh aye, I like it, Parson. I wouldn't
say more and more. But I didn't like it at all as
you've heard"--he now laughed from one to the other
--"those first two years. Oh no! I longed for
this room and me bed upstairs. When the skin
came off me hands as they stuck to the frozen
rails, I thought to myself, Pete Yorkless, you
were considered a mutt back there in the village, an' they're right."
"You were never any mutt, Pete."
Henry's face was straight now. "It would be a
fool to himself that would put such a name to you. You know
what I would say of you?"
"No, I don't, Parson, no I
don't."
"Well, I would say, Pete, that you have it
in you to be a writer."
The roar of laughter that Pete let out echoed
round the room, and his shoulders were still shaking as he
said, "You be funny, Parson, you be funny.
Here's me can but write me name and count a
bit, and you say to me I could be a writer. You meant of a book, didn't you, Parson?"
"Yes, I meant of a book, Pete. And
there is plenty of time yet for you to learn
to write."
Again Pete's head went back. "Never
me, Parson. I haven't a head on me
shoulders like me brother there." He thumbed
jovially to where Barney was propped up against a
pile of pillows set on a wooden frame.
"Now, you have learned him to write, good and
proper; and read an' all. And he was telling me only last night, weren't you, lad?"--he
pushed his closed fist in Barney's direction
--"that in a way you saved his life, I mean from
goin' barmy, you've given him somethin' to think
about. Why, he talks an' natters like a
gentleman, he can even match yourself now."
"He can that. Yes, he can that." Henry was
laughing at him.
"Well then, well then, get him to write
your book."
"Not a bad idea either." Henry looked from
one to the other. "You keep telling him your
tales, Pete, and he'll put them down."
Barney now thrust his head back in the
pillow and gazed upwards. His face had
changed little over the thirteen years since he
had broken his back, but his hair had receded from
his brow and the side-whiskers that came down to below
his cheek-bones were in contrast to the brown on the
top of his head, being almost white in parts, and the
effect lent premature age to his face.
He turned his head slowly now for his brother
was speaking again and as he listened to him, he thought,
the parson's right. 'Tis a great pity he can't
handle a pen, for his words create pictures before your eyes. Listen to him now:
"Frozen mits and hard tack an' maggot
meat can be forgotten for a moment at certain times.
Have you ever seen a four-master going before the wind,
Parson?"
"No, never, Pete."
"Then it's somethin' you should hope for, 'tis
somethin' that affects every man on board from the top
to the bottom, be they good 'uns or bad 'uns,
decent men or murderous bullies. They stand
still and look at a sight like that. You can't see it
on your own boat, but on one passin', there you
have the picture. You talked about me writin' a
book a minute ago, Parson. Now that never
entered me head, but it has done to paint a
picture. Oh aye. But not being able to paint a
picture, nor know how to start, I took up
whittling, for you have a knife always to hand and wood
for the picking up, and as you have seen I haven't
done too badly." He now pointed to the
mantelpiece on which stood three small
carvings of sailing ships.
"Not too badly?" Henry shook his head.
"They're splendid! Splendid."
"I'll do you one on my next trip should you like, Parson."
"I would indeed, Pete. Oh, I would
indeed."
"I've done a number"--Pete was now
nodding towards Barney--"an' I've sold
them. What do you think about that?"
"I think there's more in you than meets the
eye. Always have done."
"You may be right there"--Pete was nodding and laughing at Barney--"chief mate gave me
half a crown for the last one."
"You'll soon be a rich man." There was a
trace of tiredness in Barney's voice now,
and as Pete said, "Me? No, I'll never be
rich, but I'm savin' me money, an' for a
purpose." He nodded knowingly. Then seeing that
Henry had risen to his feet, he said, "You
on your way, Parson?"
"Yes, Pete; I think Barney's had enough
chatter for one day."
"Aye, yes. They tell me once I
get started I forget to stop." He again thumbed
towards Barney.
Looking at this brother of his, Barney could
not believe that at one time this was the man whom, truth to tell, he had considered a little
dull in the wits, kindly but nevertheless not as
bright as his age demanded.
Henry now moved up the side of the bed and
bending slightly forward said to Barney, "I
may not be able to look in tomorrow, Sunday being my
working day"--he pulled a face--"but likely
Monday."
"Thanks, Parson."
As Henry made to go out of the room, Pete,
also nodding towards Barney, said, "Leave you
to rest for a while, eh, and get me hand in
outside. The only thing is, once I start out
there among them the feeling comes back and I ask
meself should I or shouldn't I go?"
"You can't help yourself, the sea's got you
now."
Barney smiled gently across the room to this
strange seafaring brother, and Pete, nodding as
he followed Henry, said, "You're right.
Yes, I think you're right."
The two men crossed the hall and went into the
kitche, there to see Emma, her hands pounding a
large lump of dough on a floured board on the
kitchen table. "He seems tired," Henry said; "I wouldn't let him do too much today."
Looking up at him, Emma said quietly,
"He won't take much notice of what I
say. Anyway you started it."
They now exchanged a quiet smile and
Henry said, "Yes, I have that on my
shoulders, and I feel guilty at times because
I get more enjoyment from it than he does."
And as she thought, I too, she took her
doubled fist and almost rammed it into the middle of the
dough; then lifting it up, flicked it over and
kept her eyes on it as she answered his
good-bye.
When Pete said, "I'll go and tackle that
bit of dry-stone wall, Emma," she said,
"Will you Pete? Oh, thank you." And then when
he asked, "Where's Annie?" she answered,
"Down at Mr Bowman's."
"She works regular down there now?"
"Well, she dusts and that, but I still cook for
him. Anyway, she prefers that to doing anything
around the yard."
"Well, she would, she is but young," said
Pete as he opened the door to go out.
Emma paused in her pummelling and looked towards the small window and into the yard.
She was worried, and it was a strange worry,
a worry she couldn't put a name to, or at
least she wouldn't put a name to. The worry
had begun about two years ago when Annie was
eleven. Up till then life had taken on a
pattern, a smooth if painful pattern. The
pattern was set within weeks of Barney's
accident: the parson was then calling twice a
week and he asked Barney if he would like
to hear some stories, stories of adventure,
those written by Sir Walter Scott, and
Barney out of politeness had answered,
"Yes, Parson."
At first, she hadn't sat in on the readings
for she couldn't waste time. Mary continued to do her
utmost, having taken over the household, the
cooking and the seeing to the child, while she herself
attended to Barney's wants, his main demand
being for her presence. But Billy Proctor's
energy had soon flagged, and so for most of the day
she had to be outside, helping with the milking and
churning, seeing to the pigs, the chickens, and in the
seasons helping with the crops. They no longer
had any sheep and their cows only numbered eight, but she had trebled the heads of poultry
and those of the pigs, and this in some way made up
for the loss of the sheep and lambs. Her day started
at five in the morning and very rarely ended before
ten at night.
It was the parson, too, who suggested that they
bring Barney's bed downstairs in order, he
said, to afford Barney some interest, as one of the
two windows in the sitting-room looked on to the
yard. But she had known that this suggestion of his was
also to save her legs up and downstairs to the
bedroom, necessitated by the carrying of meals,
water and slops.
Besides the reading of stories, the parson brought
newspapers, and as time went on she was amazed
to hear Barney referring to national and world-wide
events. At night when she lay down by his
side and when all she wanted was to drop
into deep sleep to ease her weariness, he would
say such things as "That Napoleon the Third
is starting something. If we don't watch out
there'll be revolutions here. Wealth's badly
divided; Parson himself says so." Another
time it would be, "Navy's gone to pot.
Cutting down all round, them up there. Big piece about it in the paper this mornin'.
One mornin' we'll wake up and find the
Frenchies have swum across."
At other times it was the Russians.
"Maniacs them Russians. Parson says
they're after India now."
There were times when she would force herself to stay
awake and listen to him, for although his knowledge was
fragmented he was talking about places he
hadn't even dreamed existed a few years
ago, and although she could never get interested in the
events of the day other than what was happening about
her she felt proud and pleased that he was
learning.
Then there were evenings in the summer when Ralph
Bowman came up. His first visit had amazed
her for he had never been known to enter any house
in the village or thereabouts; and sometimes when the
parson and he were with Barney there would issue from
the front room great gusts of laughter. At
these times the mister would be sitting in the kitchen
nursing Annie. He had quickly grown very
fond of the child. And he might look at Emma
and smile or pass some remark such as, "Must
have been mustard in that joke." He himself spent very little time with his son. Sometimes days
would go by before
he went into the front room; and then their
conversation would be brief: "How are you, lad?"
"All right, Da."
"Been a nice day." Or, "A cold
'un."
"Aye, it has. How's things?"
"Goin' good."
"Stone field doing all right?"
"Aye." Sometimes: "Fine. Barley
straight as a die." Or, "Oats middlin',
but 'tis the weather. Good-night."
"Good-night, Da."
Emma felt that the only pleasure the mister
now got out of life was through his grandchild, and she
returned his affection equally. Strangely, like
her grandfather, she would spend no time with her father.
Even when she was small and Emma put her on
the bed to kiss him good-night she would dutifully
do this but scramble into Emma's arms again, or, as
she grew older, on to the floor. She had
always been a pretty child and big for her age, but
now at thirteen years old she could have passed
for much older. The buds of her breasts were already
risen; her buttocks were forming fast; but it was her face that gave the impression of
age. Her eyes were large, almond-shaped and
pale blue in colour; her brows followed them
in the arc; her nose was small; her mouth too
was small but full lipped; her face was round;
her skin like her hair very fair; and as she grew
she promised prettiness but no beauty. Her
manner was pert, saucy. She could be amusing,
especially when there were men present. Although she
attended Sunday school she had no special
girl friends, but she always made a point of coming
back with Jimmy Petty. Jimmy was Ned
Petty's nephew, and when the boy's father and
mother had died of the typhus, Mary had taken him
into their overcrowded home, and from when he was seven
Jake Yorkless had employed him on the
farm, with a starting wage of sixpence a week,
till now at sixteen years old he earned
seven shillings together with his food and one pint of
skimmed milk a day to take home, as well
as three eggs and half a stone of potatoes a
week.
Annie had followed Jimmy around from the first
day he had come to the farm and he hadn't seemed
to mind until lately, when he had become surly. Annie had, in fact, complained that
he had pushed her and cheeked her. The first time
she complained was about six months ago when she
came into the house saying petulantly, "I
don't like that Jimmy Petty." And Emma,
on her way down the kitchen carrying a tray
into Barney, said over her shoulder, "You're
late in finding that out, aren't you?"
But when she arrived back in the kitchen she
heard a commotion in the yard. Going to the door,
she saw the mister wagging his finger threateningly in
Jimmy''s face and saying, "You lift a hand
to her again, my lad, and it'll be the last hand you
lift to anybody. You hear me?"
Jimmy didn't answer, he just hung his
head; but he didn't move until the mister
cried at him, "Get back to your work or
else I'll let you have me hand across your ear in
advance."
It was later on that day that Emma went into the
cowshed and drew Jimmy aside and said
quietly, "Did you push her, Jimmy?"
"Yes, missis."
"Why did you do it?"
When he hung his head and didn't answer she said, "I want to know, Jimmy.
Why did you do it? You won't get wrong if
you tell me, but I must know."
Slowly he lifted up his head and muttered,
"She's always pushing me, missis, and ... and
when I was gatherin' the apples she took the
ladder away and I nearly fell on to the
roof."
The gnarled old apple tree, whose age
nobody knew, grew by the side of the house and
one of its branches touched the roof near the
fanlight in the same attic that ran off the
room where she and Barney had slept during those
first months of their marriage.
Still muttering and his head hanging again, he went
on, "I had to hang on the end branch. I was
frightened, and when I got down, well, I
pushed her."
She looked at him. After a moment she said
gently, "Well, if she annoys you again,
Jimmy, don't touch her, but come to me. Do it
on the side, you know what I mean? and ... and
I'll deal with her." He looked up into her
face saying, "Aye, missis. Thank you,
missis, I will." Jimmy was a good lad, a hard worker; of
late he had been doing the work of a full-grown
man; and what was more he was quiet and sensible.
The parson spoke highly of him. He said that
he was bright at his reading and writing. The parson
had once tried to persuade Mary to let him go
to the new school in Gateshead Fell, but
Mary wasn't for it. Three shillings a week
then was three shillings a week and most of her
family were married and away making homes of
their own now, and since, she said, it took Ned
all his time to work for his beer the family was kept
mainly on what she earned and the wages coming in from
her fifteen year-old, who was her youngest son,
and from Jimmy.
When had she become afraid for her
daughter? She couldn't actually put a finger
on the time: she had been pleased to see her
nestling in the mister's arms and he patting and
stroking her. Her father could have patted and stroked
her, but she seemed to want nothing from him. It
had been some time before Emma realized that her
daughter was drawn to vitality; even a sick
animal did not evoke her pity, but she would
race with the dogs, roll with them in the grass as if she were a puppy herself, and she would
disappear at times when she knew the hunt was
on. One day about two years ago she was
missing for a whole morning and she found her perched
on a wall waving to the riders as they passed
her. The fact that she didn't care anything for
Mr Bowman showed further there was this tendency in
her to avoid all contact with sickness of any
kind, for Ralph, as she had come to call him,
could now feel so low that he spent his days in
bed. She had been deeply saddened one day
only last week when he said to her, "I never
thought dying would take so long. If I had I
would have assisted it earlier on when I had the
courage. But now, strangely, I'm
appreciating the days."
She liked Ralph. She had found out something
a long while ago: not through any spoken word or
look that had passed between them had he indicated
that he loved her, yet she knew he did; if
only in a way, she thought, that he might have
done had she been his daughter. Nevertheless, it was
love. But it was a different kind of love altogether
from Henry's. Henry's love was in his eyes,
in everything he did for Barney, in his wading through snow, hail and rain just to come here and be
near her
and allow her to be near him without question. She
felt, at times when she let herself think about it,
that Barney's accident had come as a sort of
blessing for them both. It was a dreadful thought, but
nevertheless it was true. She had come across a word
of late that seemed to fit their position,
sublimate was the word, it sort of meant you
replaced one thing by another. Well, that
wasn't quite right, you gave up one thing for
another. And no, that still wasn't right, but she
knew that the word fitted the position she was in with
regard the needs of her body and the presence of
Henry.
When later she went in to Barney he said,
"Did you ever see such a change in a man in
your life as in our Pete?"
And she laughed as she answered, "Never. And
talk, he'd talk the hind leg off a
donkey, and you remember you could hardly get a
word out of him at one time. I suppose it's
because of all the places he's been and all the
sights he's seen, and ... and living with
strange people."
"Yes, yes, I suppose it's that, but I've been thinkin' of late that a
man hasn't got to go abroad to see sights
and learn things, there's lots of things happening
round here you know, Emma, that we know nothing
about."
"Yes, I dare say." She straightened the
quilt at the bottom of the bed.
"Durham for instance. Amazing the things that
happen up there. As the parson said only
t'other day, one is apt to think that the only
things that take place is where there's industry.
But each man has to live his life, and his
life is the most important thing he has and
so there is happenings all around him. He's good
at explaining things is the parson."
"Yes, yes, Barney, he is that."
Barney now moved his head on the pillow and
more to himself than to her he said, "Wonder he's
never married. Some woman's missin' a good
man, for he's very presentable, isn't he?"
This time she didn't answer, "Yes;
yes," but went across the room to a small table
on which stood a basin and ewer, and, taking up the
ewer, she poured the remaining water from it into the
dish, then went to walk out of the room when he stopped her, saying, "Mary says that Miss
Wilkinson is still breakin' her neck for him.
She gets worse, Mary says, makes herself
a laughing-stock. Huh! As if he would take
anybody like her. She should have the sense to know he
could only marry the class, for he's a
gentleman. He only has to open his mouth for
you to know that. But some women get queer fancies
into their heads, and if I remember rightly he was
going to be married once. Do you mind that,
Emma?"
"Yes, yes, I mind that."
"Do you know what happened?"
She paused a moment and drew a deep
breath before saying, "As far as I recall the
house wasn't to her liking and the parish didn't
seem up to her standards."
"Well, well!" He paused and narrowed his
eyes at her as he looked across the room,
asking now, "What's the matter?"
"Nothing, why do you ask?"
"You ... you look peeved."
"I'm not peeved."
"No, no, you're not peeved." His voice
had a flat note and so, quickly now, she put down the ewer on the floor and went
to him, and bending above him said, "I'm all right.
What makes you think I'm not?"
He stared up at her, his face sad. "I
don't know, just something that came over me.
Couldn't say really, something in your face because you
know, Emma"--he gripped her hand with his one
good one--"I know every shade and flicker of your
eyes. When you're not here I'm still seein' your
face. And, Emma ... Emma--" He
pulled her closer towards him until their
breaths were mingling, and his voice now low in his
throat, he said, "I ... I know what you must
be goin' through. Yes, I do, although me
meself, I ... I have no feelings left that
way except in me heart, and that is full
to bursting for you. But t'other, God yes"--he
closed his eyes tightly now--"I have a good
memory and because of it I know what you must be
feeling."
There was a lump in her throat, her eyes
smarted and she had to gulp before she was able to say,
"You're wrong then, you know nothin' about it.
You're creating a worry that's not there, at least
not in me. It makes no difference, it doesn't matter; just as long as you're here,
that's all I want."
His eyes were wide now, staring into hers, and his
voice held a note of resignation: "'Tis
a strange life we lead," he said, "but we
lead it as best we can, don't we?"
"We do. We do." She bent closer to him
and put her lips on his, and he held her
tightly in his arm for a moment before pushing her
away and turning his head to the side; and she
left the bed, walked across the room, picked
up the ewer and went out into the kitchen. And there she
wiped the tears from her face with a swift rub of
her hand as she saw Mary entering by the other
door.
Mary stopped and looked at her closely
for a moment; then said, "Something wrong?"
"No. Well, nothin' more than usual.
He ... he gets sad at times."
"'Tis to be expected. You've got
somethin' on your plate, I must say that for you.
And now I'm gona add to it, and not afore time.
'Tis Annie. She was with Mr Luke
yesterday again, I saw them. They didn't see
me. Somethin' passed atween them, a little parcel of some kind he gave her,
an' ... an'--" Mary could not go on to say,
"she threw her arms around his neck and kissed
him," that would have been too much, and so she
simply said, "You did warn her, didn't
you?"
Emma's jaws were tight: she could hear the
grinding of her teeth through her skull. Warn
her? She had warned her not once, not twice,
but a number of times. What was wrong that she should
have a daughter so wilful? The girl was like no
one she knew: not her own mother or father, not herself
or Barney, not her grandmother Dilly
Yorkless, but from somewhere she had inherited a
strain, a bad strain. She was a liar and she was
inclined to favour. ... Her mind jerked away
from the word men. "I'll deal with her," she said.
"Well, Emma, when you're dealing with her,
I've got to say this: tell her to stop pestering
our Jimmy, else I'll feel inclined
to skite her across the lug meself. The lad's
worried an' he doesn't know what to do, because
as he says the boss won't believe a word
against her. You've got a handful there, Emma.
I'll say that, you've got a handful there." Emma took no offence at Mary's
attitude: this wasn't a situation of
mistress and maid, Mary was now an elderly
woman and Emma had looked upon her as a
sort of substitute-mother right from the time she had
come to work here, when nobody else would for fear
of the cholera.
She passed her now without a word and went out
into the yard. Making straight for the store room,
she called sharply, "Annie! Annie!" But
there was no answer. Next, she went into the cow
byre. Jimmy was swilling out and she asked,
"Have you seen Annie, Jimmy?"
"Saw her goin' to the barn a minute ago,
missis."
As he jerked his head in the direction of the
barn she turned from him and went hastily down the
yard. There was no one on the ground floor but
she heard a rustle from above. Quietly she
climbed the ladder and as her head came above the
platform she saw Annie on her hands and
knees in the far corner pushing something behind a
broad stay-beam. As Emma pulled herself on
to the platform, Annie swung round from the
corner, jumped to her feet and, dusting the straw from the bottom of her dress, said,
"You want me, Ma?"
Emma walked close up to her and, looking
down into her face, she said, "Yes, I want
you. What did I tell you some time ago about
... about speaking to a certain person?"
"I don't, Ma. I don't."
"Don't lie, Annie!"
Emma had yelled, and now she hung her
head and closed her eyes tight; then taking a
pull at herself, she lowered her voice as she
said, "You're lying, Annie. I know you are
lying. You were talking to your uncle yesterday."
Annie shook her head, then flounced round,
pushed her thumb into her mouth and began to nibble
on it.
"Look at me!"
When her daughter refused, but shook her
shoulders, Emma said, "What have you got in that
corner?"
Now Annie swung round, saying,
"Nothing. Nothing. I thought I saw a rat
there and I looked down."
"Stop it, stop it, girl. You say you're
afraid of rats and mice, would you go hunting them?" And she pushed her to one side and now
made for the corner of the loft. But Annie raced
before her and crouched down beside the beam, saying,
"'Tis nothing. They're nothing, just bits ...
bits."
Gripping the collar of Annie's dress,
Emma jerked her to the side; then bending down,
she pulled the straw away from behind the sloping
beam and saw four small wrapped packages,
and as she lifted them up, Annie made
to grab them from her, crying, "They are mine!
They are presents."
Emma swung round and tore open one of the
four parcels, to disclose a string of gaudy
glass beads. She had seen many such on the
stalls at the big fairs when she was a child, and
similar tawdry wares at the Gateshead
market and at Newcastle hoppings.
The next small parcel displayed two
hair-slides decked with bows of ribbon. In
the third were three handkerchiefs, and these made
her ponder because they were of fine lawn with soft
lace edging. When she opened the fourth parcel
she almost dropped the others for this disclosed a
locket, a heart-shaped locket with a yellow chain that wasn't made of brass,
nor yet was the locket.
She swung round on her daughter who was now
standing with her hands gripped tightly behind her
back, and holding out her arm with the locket
hanging from her index finger she demanded, "Where
did you get this?" Then she yelled, "Answer
me girl! Where did you get this?" But Annie
didn't answer.
Maddened, Emma threw the locket and the rest
of the packages on the ground and, almost springing
at her daughter, she gripped her by the shoulders
and shook her till her head wobbled, stopping
only when she herself had to gasp for breath.
Looking into Annie's face, she said,
"Tell me! where did you get that locket, and
... and the handkerchiefs?"
"Uncle ... Uncle Luke."
Again she was shaking her. "Your Uncle
Luke could not have bought you things like that, girl. The
hair-slides and the beads, yes, but not that
locket and chain and handkerchiefs. Where ... where
did you get them?"
"I ... I found them; they ... they had
dropped on the road. They ... they were in a little box. I opened the box and ... and I
took them out and threw the ... the box into the
ditch. I ... I can show you, Ma. I can
take you, Ma. I'll show you."
Emma released her hold on her daughter,
she had been gripping her so tight that for a moment
she had a job to straighten her fingers. Then she
drew in a long slow gasp of air and let it
out before saying, "Well, this is one time you'll
prove if you're a liar or not."
"I ... I can. I can, Ma, I can.
I'll show you." Annie was running towards the
ladder now, and Emma followed her. She
followed her out of the barn, across the yard, through the
gateless gap in the wall, along the lane,
down the hill until they reached the coach
road, then some way along it Annie dropped
into the ditch and began searching. Presently,
looking up with real fear on her face now, she
said, "'Tis gone."
"Oh!"--Emma stood above her--"you're
wicked. Do you know that? You're a wicked
girl. There was never any box."
"There was, there was, Ma." Annie
began to scramble along the ditch; then with an almost joyful cry she held up a
small wooden box about three inches in
diameter. It was covered with velvet which had
once been blue but was now discoloured.
Scrambling out of the ditch, she pushed it at her
mother, saying, "There ... there. And that's where I
found it." She pointed along the road.
Emma stood, her head bowed. She was
feeling faint with relief: it didn't matter
so much now about her lying over Luke, but the
implication of that lovely locket and those
handkerchiefs had been terrifying. She thrust out
her arm now and pulled her daughter towards her,
saying, "I'm sorry, dear, I'm sorry,
but ... but I was worried. Yet nevertheless"--
her tone changed--"you promised me you would
avoid your Uncle Luke, and you haven't, have
you?"
"No, Ma. But then, you see he stops me
and speaks, and he's nice."
"Your Uncle Luke is not nice, he is
not nice, Annie. I've told you that before,
he's not a nice man, and when he speaks
nicely to you it isn't because he likes you."
"He does, he does." Annie had pulled back from her now.
"What makes you think that?" Once again there
was a stiffness in Emma's tone.
"Well ... well, I know. You ... you
always know when somebody likes you, or doesn't
like you. Mr Bowman doesn't like me and me da
doesn't like me."
"Oh, that's wicked, Annie; your da
loves you, and he's hurt because you don't spend
time with him."
"He's sickly."
"Yes, yes, of course he's sickly.
His back's broken so he's bound to be
sickly, but that doesn't stop him loving you and
needing your company. Promise me you'll go
into him more and talk to him."
Annie hung her head but after a moment she
muttered, "All right, Ma."
"Come on, let's get home." As Emma
went to put her arm around her daughter the sound of
galloping hoofs stayed them. A coach was coming.
They couldn't see it as yet but they knew it must
be nearing the bend in the road.
The sound of galloping dropped to a trot and
round the corner came a coach and four, and on the sight of it Emma drew Annie
from the road back on to a patch of ground where the
verge widened and the ditch narrowed, and they were standing
there close together when it passed them and they both
saw clearly the faces within: James Fordyke
was sitting at one window and his lady at the
other. It was many years since Emma had
looked on either of them but the lady she
recognized immediately for she had scarcely
changed. The man showed his years for his face and
neck looked fatter than ever; only his eyes
were as she remembered them, and for a flashing moment
they looked into hers, and she had the idea that he
smiled at her.
The coach passed and she turned and put her
arm around Annie again, but the girl, staring like
someone dazed after the coach, murmured, "'Tis
lovely, isn't it, Ma, the coach?"
"Coaches are just things," Emma replied
tartly; "'tis people that matter. Come, let's
get back."
As they walked Emma couldn't get the idea
out of her mind that Mr Fordyke had smiled at
her, and not unkindly ... But why would he do that,
when he still kept the land enclosed and spitefully made no use of it for it was full of tares and
weeds which blew into their own field? But what
matter, her mind was easy with regard
to Annie. Dear God! that locket had
frightened her ...
Later that night she knelt by Annie's bed
and, taking her daughter's hands tightly between her
own, she gazed down at her through the candlelight
where she lay, her hair rippling over the
pillow like sunlight on water and her blue
eyes like pools beneath, and she said to her, "You know
it's a sin to tell lies, don't you,
Annie?"
"Yes, Ma."
"And you do tell lies, don't you?"
There was a pause. "Yes, Ma."
"Well now, I want you to promise me,
promise me on God's honour. Do you know
what that means?"
"Yes, Ma."
"Well, promise me that if your Uncle
Luke speaks to you again and you can't but answer him
back, you'll come straight and tell me. Now
will you promise me that?"
"Yes, Ma." "Honest?"
"Honest, Ma," she said, and made a
cross on her breast as she related the
promise: "Cross me heart if I tell
a lie and hope the devil takes me when I
die." Looking down at their joined hands and
knowing how worthless such words were, Emma
murmured, "That's only a children's rhyme,
Annie. You're a big girl, you're
thirteen, you know the difference between right and wrong,
don't you? ... Don't you?"
Annie didn't answer, and Emma shook
the hands within her own, saying in a low whisper,
"I've told you, haven't I, the things you must
not do, and how you must not let men touch you except
to take your hand; and what to expect shortly when
your time comes and not to be afraid, haven't
I?"
"Yes, Ma."
"Well now, you'll remember all this,
won't you?"
"Yes, Ma. I do, and I don't let
them touch me. They want to, but I don't."
"What? Who?"
Annie tried to pull her hands away from the grip that was holding them, as she said pettishly,
"Well, I don't know who, just boys, men.
I ... well, I know they want to touch me but
I remember what you said and ... and I don't
let them."
"Who has wanted to touch you?" Emma's
words were spoken slowly and hard now and Annie,
flouncing on to her side said, "Nobody,
nobody. I just thought, the things they say ...
an' well--"
"The things who says, girl?"
"Well, anybody I speak to."
Annie's voice was loud now, her tone almost
defiant, and Emma, releasing her hold of the
tugging hands, rested her elbows on the bed and
bent over her forearms for a moment before rising and
saying, "Go to sleep. Good-night."
"Good-night, Ma."
About to close the door, Emma stopped
suddenly for she imagined she had heard her
daughter giggle: she stood staring at the candle,
her eyelids flickering like its flame in the
draught from the landing. After pulling the door
closed she still did not move away but put her
ear to it: there was no sound; it must have been imagination.



"She's a little scut. Whatever way you
look at her, she's a little scut."
Henry, standing with his back to the fire, his head
bowed, muttered, "I'm afraid you're right, but
how has it come to be, with a mother like Emma and a father
as nice as Barney?"
"A throw-back likely, but wherever she's
got it from, she's got it bad. She has the
makings of a whore."
"Oh!" Henry shook his head vigorously
now. "Don't say that, Ralph. She's at
the age when life is stirring in her as it
stirred in all of us, whether we like to admit it
or not."
"Last thing I'd think a parson would
admit." Ralph slanted his gaze towards
Henry, and to this Henry answered, "Christ was
human." Then added, "You know, I often think
about that: how did he manage the problem?"
"I don't know"--Ralph was laughing now,
his head back against the pad on the rocking-chair --"but I'd like to bet, if you had been one
of the
twelve you wouldn't have reigned long, not with your
ideas. It's a wonder you don't let them
slip through that pulpit of yours."
"They do, but in a different form." Henry's
mouth went into a quizzical smile now.
"I've got to be careful, and every time I'm
careful I despise myself. I wonder sometimes
how long I can keep it up, with my true
feelings about things."
"You wouldn't have kept it up this long, let's
face it, if you hadn't been tied to the farm."
Henry didn't answer, but swung round and
looked down into the fire now, and Ralph said,
"I'm sorry; that was a winding punch."
"Not more than I deserved. I despise
myself for that too. But man"--he turned again and
faced Ralph--"I cannot help myself, I've
got to see her. Years ago I thought once
she was married that would be that, I'd get her out of
my system; and then when I found her marriage
made no difference, I prepared and applied for
another living. You remember? Then Barney's
accident happened, and God forgive me"--he
turned his head to the side and gritted his teeth for a moment--"I welcomed it in a
way, because I thought that the poor fellow was going
to die. And I made up my mind that no
matter what the village might say, or the
bishop, or anyone else for that matter, I was
going to ask her to be my wife. I was quite
prepared to leave the church if there were any
fuss. And then he doesn't die, but, base
individual that I am, I invented a way in
which I could see her two or three times a
week, and which would bring no censure on either of
us. And so it has gone on, and will I suppose
to the end, for Barney could outlive me with the care
he gets. Here I am, forty-seven years
old and as the years go on the difference in the age
between Emma and myself seems to widen. When she was
sixteen and I but thirty-three the difference
didn't seem all that great, but now she at
thirty, a beautiful woman, more beautiful
than she was as a girl, and I feel I am
galloping towards old age. ..."
"Nonsense! You haven't even reached your
prime. Do you ever look at yourself, man? You
look in your early thirties. Forty-seven
indeed! Nobody would take you for that, and the best thing you ever did I think was to get rid of
your
pony and trap, for you must be the only man for
miles around that hasn't got a paunch, and you
have the stature of a soldier. ..."
"Only because I haven't had to use my hands
like other men."
"Ho, ho!" Again Ralph's head went
back. "Only to break a fellow's jaw.
By! you know, that's talked about even yet, so
Mary tells me. But speaking of Mary leads
me back to Jimmy. There I was sitting to the
side of a bush, sketching the old ruined
millhouse, when along comes Jimmy and her.
They were on the towpath and when they weren't but
half a dozen yards from me but couldn't see
me, he turned on her, bawling at her,
"Get yourself away, you brazen bitch! You'll
lose me me job. And if you do that I'll not
go quiet, I won't keep me mouth shut,
I'll tell the mister what I know you're up
to." And then she turns and says to him,
"Do it, and he'll knock you flat." Then
... then you know, Henry, she actually stepped
up to him, almost pushed her bust into him, she
did. It was like watching a whore at work, a real seaport trollop with no shame.
And you know what she said then?" He looked at
Henry who moved his head slightly. "She
said, "You're soft; I dare you to touch me."
Yes, that's what she said. I felt like getting
up and taking my hand and swiping her across the
face. I never take in all Mary's
chatter, but a short while ago she told me
that Mrs Pringle--you know, her husband's a
drayman; they live just off the coach road
going into Gateshead Fell--well,
apparently Miss Annie had set her
sights on him: waylays him at every possible
chance. But after what I saw with my own eyes,
I'd believe anything. And no wonder that the
schoolmistress wrote to Emma, saying that she
thought her daughter needed special tuition.
My God! yes, she does. If Emma had
been wise she would have used one of her whips on
her."
"It wouldn't have done any good."
"No?"
"No. Some people are born with the desire whole
in them, in others it matures through growth,
except where it's forced by necessity, you can see that in the back streets of Newcastle any
night of the week. There is a company of good men
and women who travel those streets at night
trying to save the brands from the burning. The
Reverend Stoker's one of them. He says if
he has one success in a year he praises
God. He thinks the only cure is to feed and
house them, but he admits that once they start,
some at the age of nine, food and shelter only
satisfies them for a time. I think the best thing
that could happen to Annie is to get married as
soon as possible. It's a pity in a way that
Jimmy has no fancy for her, it would be a
solution."
"Only for a time. A girl such as Annie
would never be satisfied with one man. ... Are
you off then?"
"Yes; and thanks for the dram."
"Oh, you're welcome ... you
hypocrite." Ralph punched at the air in
Henry's direction and Henry, a half
smile on his face, said, "Yes that's the right
name for me, fits me like a glove."
"Go on with you. Get out. You're too good
to be true. You always put a doubt in my mind and make me feel I should turn
to something. Not religion. I don't know what,
only something. Go on, get out. And by the way,
tell Emma I'm running short of bread:
she shouldn't cook so well and I wouldn't eat
so much."
"I'll tell her." They nodded at each
other, and Henry went out, bending his head and
leaning forward against the strong wind. And like this he
walked for most of the way, until he reached the
stile and as he made to cross it he saw in the
distance Emma standing on the rise. She had her
hand over her eyes shading them against the sun, and
she was calling, "Annie! You Annie!"
He left the road and crossed the field,
leapt the dry-stone wall and so came to the
bottom of the rise where she was still standing. She had
seen his approach and was waiting for him, and before
he came up to her she called, "Have you seen
Annie?" And he shook his head, saying,
"No, not today. Where is she supposed to be?"
She did not answer until he was standing
facing her and she put her hand flat on her
head to secure her starched cap as she said to him,
"She was supposed to be feeding the hens and doing her morning chores, but the hens haven't been
fed nor anything else done, and it is now
three hours since breakfast when I last saw
her. She didn't come in for her break."
"I'll go and look round by Openwood.
It's full of cowslips, she likes gathering
flowers. She may be there."
She nodded, her face puckered with
anxiety, and as he made to move hastily
away she said, "Have you been to Ralph's?"
"Yes"--he turned towards her again--
"I've just come from there. And don't worry, if
she's not in the wood I'll take a walk
along the coach road." He was thinking of what
Ralph had said about Mrs Pringle's husband:
if the man was a drayman he would use that
road on his way between Gateshead Fell and
Birtley.
For a while she watched him walking away,
then turned and scanned the country around her.
There was a deep fear in her that Annie was
nowhere in the vicinity. Over the past years, as
she had watched her daughter grow, she had fought
the mounting idea that her child was wanton, that there was
something in her nature that was bad, not evil bad like the badness in Luke, but body bad
like that which was in low women. But her daughter
wasn't yet a woman, she was not yet
fourteen, that was in years, but to look at her and
to note the size of her bust and the roundness of her
buttocks, anyone could be forgiven for taking her
for someone of a marriageable age. But where was she?
Dear God, where was she?
She hurried down the slope, then running,
made her way back to the farm hoping that she would
find Annie sitting in the kitchen having her
dinner or teasing her grandfather, if you could call
it teasing, sitting on his lap and playing with his
whiskers. She had tried to stop her from doing this,
telling her that she was no longer a little girl; but
the reply her daughter always gave her was that her
granda liked it. And she knew the mister did like
it; he was in a way besotted with her, too much
so. That, too, had made her uneasy.
There was no sign of her on the farm. Jake
Yorkless met her in the yard, saying,
"Well?"
"I can't see hilt nor hair of her."
"God almighty! she must be somewhere. I'll
go to the wood." "The parson has gone there."
He stopped and looked at her.
"I met him on the hill."
"What about the painter?"
"Parson says she's not there. I'll go to the
village." She now ran across the yard and,
pushing open the lower sash of the window, she leant
forward and said to Barney, "We can't find
Annie."
"Can't find her, what do you mean?"
"Well, she's not"--Emma was yelling
back at him now--"anywhere. I'm going to the
village." She watched him let his head
fall back on to the pillow in a manner which
indicated his frustration, then she pulled down the
window and began to run again.
The sweat was oozing out of every pore when she
reached the village street and she stood for a
moment with her hand pressed tight into her side
to ease the stitch that had seized her. The first
person she spoke to was Ann Turnbull:
she was shooing some birds away from the top of the
bags of pulses displayed on a slab of
wood resting on barrels just below the
bottle-glass window. "Have you seen my daughter, Mrs
Turnbull?"
"Annie?"
"Yes, Annie."
"No. No, Mrs Yorkless. I saw her
on Sunday in church; then again going down the
street to Sunday school in afternoon, but not since.
But look, there's Lily." She pointed across
the street to where the butcher's daughter was coming
down the three steps leading from the shop, and
Emma, saying, "Thank you," hurried across the
road.
Lily Mason was of her own age; they had
been to Sunday school together for years. She was
still unmarried and was now as fat as a porker.
She said to her hastily, "Have you seen my
Annie, Lily?"
And Lily called back, "Seen your
Annie, Emma? Not the day. Why? She done
a skip to the fair?"
The fair. Yes, there was a fair on the
Town Moor in Newcastle. But she would never
go all that way on her own, never, and without
saying a word. She had been to Newcastle and
Sunderland and Durham, but she herself had always taken her.
"Fair's very attractive for young 'uns"--
Lily was grinning down on her now--"and she's
spritely, is your Annie. Huh! I'd
say." She jerked her head and chuckled, and
Emma turned away as Ann Turnbull
shouted to her, "Try The Tuns, a number of
them's in there at this time. Some of them'll
likely have seen her. Or look, there's
Miss Bonney. She's just come off the coach
at the crossroads and heavy with material,
been to market, looks like, p'raps she saw
her on the road."
Emma now hurried towards the prim little
dressmaker, calling to her well before she came
abreast: "Have you seen my Annie, Miss
Bonney?"
"No. No, Mrs Yorkless. I have not
seen Annie since ... when?" She stopped and
cocked her head to one side as if the answer
to her question would come out of the air; then looking at
Emma again, she said, "A week yesterday.
That's it, I saw her a week yesterday when
she was talking to the gentleman."
"The gentleman?" "Yes, he was staying at the inn,
on holiday I suppose. But as you know, I"
--she shook her head vigorously and the
pompoms hanging on the velvet ribbons from
her bonnet danced against her rosy cheeks--
"I never frequent The Tuns, never. But that
was the last time I saw Annie. Yes, I
had been to Mrs Freeman's to measure her for
her new bodice and it was on my way back that
I saw Annie and the gentleman in conversation,
enjoyable conversation. They were laughing together and I
remember I said, "Good-day to you,
Annie," and the gentleman doffed his hat
to me, and I bowed to him. Yes, that was the last
time I saw Annie ... and ...."
"Thank you. Thank you, Miss Bonney."
Emma was again running along the street,
towards The Tuns now. Talking to a
gentleman, laughing with a gentleman. That
locket, those handkerchiefs. She had never been
able to find any other present she might have
received.
She herself had never been in The Tuns, but
without hesitating she pushed open the door to be
confronted immediately by what seemed to be a sea of eyes. There must have been twelve to fifteen
men
in the main bar and each one had turned and stared
at her, some with their moustaches still in their beer
glasses. It must have been the way she burst
into the room.
They made way for her as she came to the
counter where, addressing George Tate, she
said, "Have ... have you seen Annie?"
"Annie?" The publican screwed his
face up at her. "You mean, your Annie?"
"Yes, yes."
"No, no; never set eyes on the child, not for
days, even weeks. Me not going to church like."
He looked round his customers and laughed, and
some of them laughed with him. "But why should you think
I've seen your Annie?"
"I ... I can't find her. She's been
missing all morning. By the way--" She
glanced to each side of her now before moving
closer to the counter and saying, "You ... you had a
guest staying with you?"
"We still have two guests staying with us"--he
thumbed up towards the ceiling--"a Mr and
Mrs Watson. Like this part of the country they do.
Come every year. Have done for this past six ...." "I mean a gentleman. Er ...
a lone gentleman?"
"Oh, you mean Mr Gardiner. He left this
morning first thing. Well, not all that early, but
he caught the nine o'clock coach going through."
"Where to?"
He pursed his lips. "Well, as far as
I know back to Newcastle. Traveller he
be, so he said. Doing business in
Newcastle. Went into the city every day he did
from here. Why?"
She was gripping the counter now and looking down
into the bubbles of froth on it and seeing for the first
time the myriad flashes of colour radiating
through them. When of a sudden the colours faded she
knew someone had passed the window and
temporarily blotted out the sun.
She lifted her head and looked at Mr
Tate. "Thank you," she said and turned
away, and the men in the bar moved aside and let
her pass.
She spoke to no one else, and she walked
back to the farm, not running any more. Mary met
her in the lane outside the gap in the wall.
She waited until she came right up to her before speaking, and then her voice was a whisper as she
asked, "Any word?"
"No."
They both walked into the yard together. Emma
couldn't see Barney through the window so she knew
his head would be back on the pillow. As they
neared the kitchen door Jake Yorkless came
out and he looked at Emma, and she looked at
him. Then she shook her head, and now he
demanded, "Didn't you see anybody who'd
had a glimpse of her? She just couldn't have
disappeared."
She looked him full in the face now as she
said, "She was seen talking to a strange man;
he's been staying at The Tuns this past
week."
"What does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?"
"God in heaven!" He took a handful of his
grey hair as if he was going to pull it from the
roots, and now he yelled at her, "She could
speak to a man in the village and that wouldn't be
a sign that she was going to disappear."
"I'm afraid in this case it was."
"How do you make that out?" "I don't know, only Miss
Bonney said they were laughing together. And it
wasn't in the village, it was well out of it,
near Freeman's, and Freeman's is well
away."
He now bent towards her, his fists clenched
by his sides, and said, "Are you meaning
to imply?"
Still unflinching, she looked back into his
face as she said, "I'm implying nothing from that
incident, I'll just let you judge for yourself, but
what I will tell you is, that if she is gone it
hasn't really come as any surprise to me."
"What!" She watched him bring his lips
back from his teeth and she thought for a moment that he
looked like a horse that was about to neigh. And,
yes, he did have a face somewhat like a
horse. But now his neigh was more like a bellow from
a bull as he cried at her, "You're an
unnatural mother, that's what you are. She's but
a bit of a lass, an affectionate, lovin'
bit of a lass."
She dared to answer him, still in a steady
voice: "Yes, affectionate and loving all
right, but with a twist. And inside she's no bit of a lass. And--" Now her voice was almost as
loud as his and her manner as ferocious as she
almost bent her body double as she leaned forward
screaming, "And you are a blind, thick-headed,
stupid, ignorant old man."
From the corner of her eye she watched Mary clamp her hand over her mouth, and as Jake
Yorkless drew his fist up to strike her she
screamed at him, "You do. Just you do, mister, and
I'll promise you I go up those stairs to that
attic and bring down one of those whips that I
haven't touched for years and I'll make you
dance this yard, because now, let me tell you,
I've put up with enough from you and yours since I
entered this yard: first your wife, then your son,
then you encouraging my daughter from she was a child
to defy me, petting her in a manner that no
man should, except a father, and then not even him.
You can pet a little lass, a baby, yes ...
a child, yes ... but not a girl that's growing up
fast into a woman. So let me tell you,
mister, I've stood enough from you and yours. The
only decent one among you is crippled"--for the
moment she had forgotten about Pete--"and if it
wasn't for him I'd walk out of this place this minute. So I'm tellin' you, watch
out."
They were both shaking with their anger and she
outstared him until he swung round and marched
across the yard.
She was swaying on her feet as she passed
Mary; then she covered her eyes for a moment before
going into the kitchen, through it and into the
sitting-room.
Barney was waiting for her and he moved his
head on the pillow, then brought it upwards, and
when she stood looking down at him he said,
"I heard it."
"Then that'll save me wasting words, won't
it?"
She was amazed at her own manner now
towards him.
"Why do you think she's ... she's done it?"
"Don't ask me why I think she's done
it"--she was bawling at him now--"she had it in
her. She's always had it in her."
"Look ... look, don't shout, Emma,
don't shout ... but ... but just think. What's
gona happen to her?"
She had turned away from him; now she swung herself back and, almost glaring at him, she
cried, "Whatever happens to her, she'll enjoy
it."
"God Almighty!" He brought his hand up,
his fist clenched, and beat it against his brow, saying
now, "What's come over you? Our daughter's
gone God knows where and to what doesn't bear
thinkin' about, and you say she'll enjoy it."
She came back to the bed and now taking his hand
gently from his brow she opened out the clenched
fingers, then stroked his hand, saying, "You are
bound to have seen quite a bit from the window over the
years: you know how she's carried on, running
after Jimmy; you've even checked her yourself from
pawing round the parson."
"That was years ago."
"No, it wasn't years ago. Anyway
she continued to do it until he slapped her
hands."
"The parson slapped her hands?" There was
anger now in Barney's voice, and she said,
"Yes, and rightly. He did it gently but
firmly, and because of it she's never liked him
since."
He moved his head slowly and bit hard down on his lip before saying, "What if she
suddenly turns up and has just been to the fair,
or someplace, with this man?"
"I'll be surprised, but I won't
recall any word I've said this day."
He put his head back now on the pillow and
through his gritted teeth said, "I wish I was
dead."
Then his eyes sprang wide as her voice
came to him quietly now, saying, "That makes
a pair of us, for you couldn't wish it more than I
do at this minute." And on that she turned about and
went into the kitchen.
Mary was standing at the open door. She was
rolling the corner of her coarse apron between her
two palms and she said to Emma, "I don't
want to tell you this but I think I'd better.
Our Jimmy said he saw Annie talking
to her uncle last night, and on his way home
one night during the week he saw Mr Luke
with the man who was lodging in the inn, not the one who
has his wife with him, 'cos they come often and are
known, but this man was a stranger. He was
clean-shaven and well put on, Jimmy said,
not like a gentleman, but not like a working man either. They were coming out of the bar together
and they stood on the
cobbles and talked a bit. Then Mr Luke
went on his way towards the Lamesley road
an' the man went back into the inn. Well, for
what it's worth I thought you'd better know."
Emma said nothing for a while, then quietly
she asked, "Will you go and tell mister what
you've just told me?" And Mary said, "Aye,
I will; but he might aim to hit me an'
all."
"I don't think so, but I think he should be
told, and I can't do it."
Mary went to turn away, but she turned
back as quickly and asked under her breath, "What
if she should turn up, like if she had been to the
fair or something?"
"That's what her father's just said, and we'll have
to wait and see, won't we?"
"Aye, that's all we can do, Emma, wait
and see."

They waited all that day and the next; then
Jake Yorkless put on his Sunday suit and
went into Gateshead Fell and spoke to the
justice. And when he returned he seemed to have aged still further.
Sitting down on the settle without even
taking his hat off, he looked at Emma and,
his tone subdued, he said, "They tell me
it's happenin' all the time. The justice said that
people should look after their daughters and not let them
wander. He said there were people like that man at the inn,
respectable soft-spoken men who act as
go-betweens. He said he would pass word on to the
dock authority. When they get reports like this
they search the ships before leaving port, at least
those that are suspect of taking lasses
abroad."
"What?"
He blinked his eyes and repeated, "Of
taking lasses abroad."
Emma now took her first finger and thumb and
pressed them tightly on her eyebrows, moving
them backwards and forwards over the bones as if
aiming to remove a picture from her eyes.
Her thoughts hadn't led her that far, not for her
to be shipped away. Oh God! No, not that.
But would it be any worse, for what would happen
to her in a brothel here?
She brought her hand from her face and it trembled as she extended it towards her
father-in-law as she said, "Luke ... you know
about Luke talking to the man, you've got to go and
ask him what he knows."
Jake Yorkless straightened his back
suddenly and, taking off his hard hat, he threw
it on to the settle beside him, saying, "Confront
our Luke with that! He may not be the best of
men, but he'd never stoop to that, not his own flesh
and blood, 'cos after all she is his brother's
child. No, no; me go to him, after me telling him
to get out? What do you take me for, woman?"
What did she take him for? She would like
to tell him and say, a coward inside that big
rough frame. He would strike young Jimmy or
he would strike her, but the idea of coming to blows
with his son was another thing. There was a name for men
like Jake Yorkless: he was boast inside, as
her granny often said and truthfully, full of
wind and water, but no guts.
She went from him and into the hall and up the
stairs and into the bedroom and, opening the wardrobe
door, she took down her Sunday coat, and
from a hatbox on top of the wardrobe her
Sunday bonnet; then took off her boots and put on a pair of shoes.
When she stood ready she looked in the
mirror as she tied the bonnet strings under her
chin, making sure to pull it slightly to the
left side in order to cover her lobeless ear.
Her skin looked white, not creamy as it
usually appeared; her eyes had dark rims below
them; and she thought, I'm old before my time. But
what does it matter how I look? Then
turning from the mirror she closed her eyes and
joined her hands together and prayed: Lord, help
me to keep my temper when I see him, and
help me to find her and bring her back. Yet
even as she made the last request the pattern
of life it presented to her made her shiver.

She had timed her visit to the evening. She
rode on the flat cart from the village towards
Birtley, and the driver stopped before the
outskirts and she walked down the narrow winding
road to the hamlet of Lamesley. She did
not know exactly where Mrs Nixon lived. It
was Mary who said she had moved from Birtley
township to the adjoining hamlet.
As she passed the church she saw a woman coming out of the side door and she approached her,
saying, "Could you tell me please where a Mrs
Nixon lives?"
From the immediate expression on the woman's
face, her slightly lowered lids, the pursing
of the lips, she knew that the name had not met with
favour and there was a slight motion of the head that
wasn't quite a wag but sufficient to cause the
lady's straw hat to slip further down on
to her brow, and when with an impatient movement
she said, "Mrs Nixon or Miss Nixon,
I suppose it's all the same, but she
lives over there"--she pointed--"about a quarter
of a mile distant."
"Thank you. Is the house on the road?"
"The house you refer to is merely a
cottage, and you won't be able to miss it,
you'll be able to recognize it by its neglect and
dilapidation."
"Thank you. Good-day."
"Good-day."
At another time the woman's manner would have
brought from Emma an amused chuckle: she was
evidently the parson's wife and she was what
one would expect a parson's wife to be like. Her mind swung away from the woman
and her position and she asked herself how she would
begin. What would she say to him? What if he
wasn't in yet from work? Would the woman let
her into the house and allow her to wait? By the sound
of it, it was a shambles.
Within yards of the cottage she saw that the
parson's wife, or whoever she was, had not
exaggerated in her description of the habitation.
The railing fronting it was down in parts, what
had once been a little garden in front of the
cottage now appeared like a dump, for rubbish,
ashes, bottles, and pieces of ironwork lay
scattered about, the only clear part being the path
to the cottage door.
Her heart was thumping so violently that she
almost became afraid she would have a seizure;
she could feel the sweat running down from her
oxters as she lifted her hand and knocked
gently on the paintless wood.
The woman who opened the door was a
surprise in all ways. She was tall, her
face and hands were clean, her capless hair
tidy, and although her blouse and skirt were gaudy
they fitted her well. What was more surprising still, she appeared near her own age.
It was she who spoke first, saying, "Yes,
and what do you want?" She stretched the "you,"
then leaning forward to get a better look at
Emma, she emitted a long, "Oh!"
"I'm Mrs Emma Yorkless. I ...
I wondered if I might speak with Luke?"
"Mrs Emma Yorkless. Oh my
God!" The young woman shook her head from
side to side, her mouth wide with laughter now.
"Of all the visitors on this earth, you're the
most unexpected. And you want to speak
to Luke? Well, all I can say, you're not
without spunk. Well"--she sighed--"he should be
here any minute. Come in." She pulled the
door wide and, having slowly passed her,
Emma was once again amazed at what met her
eyes, for the room, unlike the garden outside,
was neat and showed comfort. She moved her body as
she looked round it, and then she was startled by the
woman's high laugh, saying, "Surprised,
are you? Asked your way down there, I'll
bet." She jerked her head in the direction of the
hamlet. "Bad name I've got down there, in
more ways than one. And I won't let them across the door, keep them guessing.
Drive them mad I do, with piling muck
outside. Sit down." She pointed to a brown
leather chair to the side of an open fire which had
a hob in front of it and an oven to the side,
both brightly blackleaded, the hearth in front
being whitewashed and framed by a brass fender.
As she sat down the woman said, "I hope
you're prepared for sparks, because if there's
anybody alive that Luke hates more than
another in this world it's you. And it's the first time
I've had a good look at you. I've seen you
from a distance once or twice. But you know"--she
lifted her shoulders high round her face--"you
don't look the tartar that you're made out
to be."
"I don't think of myself as a tartar."
Emma's voice was stiff, and the woman laughed
and said, "Nobody does. But you've done things
to Luke that no man could stand forand ...."
"I did nothin' to Luke, only in
self-defence."
"You marked him. He'll carry the scar
till the day he dies. They say you're clever
with whips, and yet, lookin' at you--" She shook her head now, no smile on her face
as she ended, "I would say you were the last to hurt
anybody. Yet who can tell what's under the
skin? I know that. The skin's the biggest liar
on God's earth. Anyway, what do you want
with him? Has your man gone, I mean died?"
"No, but ... but my daughter's gone."
The woman now leaned her head towards
Emma and narrowed her eyes as she said, "The
young lass Annie?"
"Yes, Annie."
"You say she's gone, what do you mean by that?
She's run off?"
"No, not run off, she's been enticed off
by some ... man."
"And you think Luke's got somethin' to do with
that?"
The woman's voice had risen sharply; there
was anger in her tone now and she ended,
"By God! you're askin' for trouble if you
confront him with that."
"I'm ... I'm not blaming him, but I
feel that he might be able to lead me, or tell
me something about the man who enticed Annie.
He ... Luke was seen talking to him." "Luke talks to everybody who'll
talk to him: he tells them the story of his
life, how he's lost his inheritance to the farm and
... and separated from his family through a woman.
And that woman's you; that's what Luke would
talk about to that man or anyone else. Oh
God above!" She turned and went to the window
now and drew the lace curtain aside, saying,
"Here he comes. Well, if I were you,
missis, I would go very careful. I know Luke
an' I know what he's capable of."
"So do I."
With these words Emma had risen to her feet
and the two young women confronted each other for a
moment before turning to the door to watch it being
thrust open. And there was Luke. His gaze was
directed towards Emma and, strangely, there
was no surprise on his countenance. Without
speaking he took off his hat and threw it onto
a backless wooden settle, then slowly took
off his coat and did the same with that, and now in his
shirt-sleeves he came across the room
towards her, and if he had screamed at her,
or had gone to strike her, the fear would not have
been as great as it was when, with a note of laughter in his voice, he said, "Why! hello Emma.
This is a pleasure. Isn't it, Laura?"
He did not look at the woman as he
spoke. "'Tisn't every day we have visitors.
The front garden puts 'em off. Didn't it
put you off, Emma?"
Her name had ended in a high note of
enquiry and she turned her eyes from him, drew
in a shuddering breath and said, "Stop playing
games, Luke. You must know the matter is
serious or I wouldn't be here."
"Yes, yes, I understand that, Emma." He
was now stroking the red weal on his left cheek that
ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. It was a
faint mark but nevertheless noticeable.
"You ... you know a man called Gardiner.
He was staying at The ... The Tun ...
Tuns." She stammered on the word and when he
nodded at her without speaking further she said,
"Annie is missing. There are those who have seen
her with this man and also those who have seen you talkin'
to him."
"I've been seen talking to a man who was
staying at the inn." He had now turned his
face fully towards Laura Nixon, and went on, "Now isn't that strange?
Somebody's seen me talking to a man who was
staying at the inn."
"Stop acting, Luke." She had forgotten
about her prayer to God asking Him to control her
temper, and now she was yelling, "Annie has
been taken away by a man and you know what that
means."
Now the Luke she knew was facing her. In
an instant his face was transformed. His sudden
rage had turned it almost purple and he
bellowed at her, "Don't you dare talk to me
like that, Spanish Emma. I'm in me own
house. And let me tell you something, the news
you have brought is the best I've heard in years,
but it's not unexpected. Your daughter's a
whore, a little ready-made whore. She takes
after her mother. But then her mother hadn't the nerve
to come into the open, she concealed it running after the
painter and the parson till she nabbed me
brother. But every inch of you's a whore. Laura
here is classed as a whore but she couldn't
hold a candle to you because she was made into one. You
were born one. But your little daughter ... well,
she wasn't afraid to show her wares. Do you know she even offered them to me? She had a
fancy for older blokes and I bet at this
minute she's making some old fellow very
happy. ..."
"Shut up, you! You're a devil, that's
what you are, and I know now you're in it.
Whatever happened to her you were a part of it, and just
to get at me."
"Now you be careful. You say anything like that
again and I'll go to the justices. Aye, by God
I will. I'll go to Mr Fordyke. Yes ...
Mr Fordyke, that's who I'll go to and he'll
take me case up for me, for he's got as
much love for you as I have, 'cos you gave his
son a taste of the whip, didn't you? Very handy
with the whip, aren't you, Emma? And you know
something?" His voice dropped to the bantering tone
he had assumed when he first saw her. "You were
very foolish to come here on your own, very foolish,
for now I've got you alone it could be my
turn. I've got one out in the yard an' could
skin the hide off you. Oh aye, Emma, I
could skin the hide. ..."
"Leave her alone, Luke." The woman
had caught hold of his arm now and she turned to Emma, her voice grim, saying,
"Get out. Get out."
Like someone drunk Emma stumbled towards the
door, and she opened it but didn't close it
behind her and Luke's voice followed her,
yelling to the woman, "I haven't started to pay
her off yet. I'll do for her, I tell you.
If it's the last thing on this earth, I'll do for
her."
She stumbled out through the broken gate and into the
road.
Beyond the bend she stopped and leant over a low
dry-stone wall, muttering to herself, her thoughts and
words all jumbled up, asking God why? What
had she done that this should come upon her? Why should a
man hate her so?
As the turmoil in her mind lessened it
left one thing outstanding and clear: he had been the
instigator of Annie's going, and he knew
what was happening to her and was taking joy in it.
She had been mad to seek him out; she should have
known, past events should have warned her. But what
could she do about it? Could she go to the justice?
No, she had no proof. And as he said, he
himself could go to Mr Fordyke and find an ally. And now she must go home and lie. She must
lie to Barney and to the mister, for as weak as she
imagined the mister was, she knew that were she
to tell him his son had purposely sent his
only grandchild, his beloved granddaughter, into a
life of ... what was the word? sin, horror,
degradation, he would in all probability try
to kill him.
She did not wait for the carrier cart--in
any case this would not pass within the next hour
or so--but she set off to take the long walk
back to the farm. Before reaching it, however, she had
faced the awful truth that the horror of the
situation was being felt much more by those Annie had
left behind than by Annie herself, no matter
what was happening to her, for there was something in her
daughter that needed men far beyond a woman's
natural desire.


The summer passed and the autumn came and the
thick morning mists that covered the land were no
heavier than the gloom that pervaded the house.
Emma had experienced tension before Annie had gone, but now the weariness that tension
creates had dissolved into apathy, and not only in
her, but more noticeably in Barney and his father.
Although Barney was deprived of mobile life,
his voice at times had been vibrant, but now
when he spoke it was in a level, listless
fashion.
As for Jake Yorkless, he worked as he
always had done, hard; he ate as he always had
done, gobbling his food in order not to waste time;
but the spare time that he had he no longer spent
in the kitchen but would sit in the late evenings in
the tack room making tallow for the candles or
repairing harness.
Emma herself had always been overworked, but now
her workload had increased because she had to fit in
the little that Annie had done and also do part of
Mary's work.
Mary's legs had become very swollen and so
she couldn't make the return journey every day but
had been forced to cut her time to three days a
week; even so, she had to be met at the
bottom of the lane by the cart, and then dropped in
a similar way in the evening, which meant late
work harnessing the horse and bedding it. As the winter drew on Mary did not always
manage to make her three visits a week,
as during this particular week when the snow was lying
thick. Emma this morning was making Barney
comfortable and answering his question of what she was going
to do without Mary's help by saying, "What cannot be
done must be left undone. The animals come
first; after I see to the meals." She did not
mention her attendance on him for that had to be done
whatever else went by the board.
"When do you think the parson will be back?" he
asked, and she answered briefly, "I've no
idea."
"He's been gone nearly two weeks; his
sister will either be better or have died."
"Yes, I suppose so."
He turned his head and looked at the
snow-smeared window, saying now, "I ... I
miss him. He's become sort of ...
well, necessary to me. He seems to bring the world
into the room. You know what I mean?"
She bent over him to fasten the top button
of his shirt, but she didn't say, "Yes, I
know what you mean," because what Henry brought
to each of them was so different, but she thought, if he had the power to read my mind would he
still welcome him? There was a small derisive
laugh echoing somewhere inside herself as her inner
voice said, "He'd forbid him the house."
Men were odd; all men were odd, even Henry.
Time and time again he'd had the chance to touch her
hand, an action which would have been like balm on her
tormented spirit, but he hadn't done it. He would
open doors for her, carry trays for her,
take them from her hands, but he would always avoid
contact with her, even when there wasn't a soul in
sight. Sometimes she thought God stood between them,
his God, for she had little use for God or
prayer now. What had God ever done for her but
taught her in deep measure the meaning of
frustration? She knew that if Barney were to die
tomorrow her life would be no different from what it was
today ... at least with regard to what lay between the
parson and her.
During the past months her thoughts had turned
bitter towards him. At one time his presence
had been enough; to sit for a few minutes in the
room of an evening doing her mending and listening
to him talking to Barney had been sufficient; but
not any more, particularly since Annie had gone. It was as if her daughter had left her
wanton desire behind her for lately she herself
had tossed and turned so much that she had kept
both herself and Barney awake, with the resulting
consequence she had said she would sleep upstairs
for a time; and some irrational part of her had known and
experienced an added hurt when he raised no
objection to this.
It had been the first Christmas since
Annie was born that there hadn't been a child in the
house, and the holiday had passed as a normal
day except that Alec Hudson and his wife
called on Christmas Eve to see Barney.
But their stay had been short and, naturally,
without jollity.
The waits had not come up from the village this
year, and Mary had explained to her, if it
needed any explanation, it had been discussed
down below but that under the circumstances they had thought
the better of it. ...

It was now evening on this bleak day. The house
was quiet and the meal was over. Jake Yorkless
had gone to the tack room as usual; Jimmy
had left the farm before darkness set in, in case there was another heavy fall of
snow that would prevent him getting back to the
village. It wasn't yet time to settle
Barney down for the night, and for the countless time that
day she filled the kettle from the pump and set
it on the hob. Then she blew up the fire with the
bellows to get some red-hot cinders to put into the
warming-pans, for the mister liked his bed warm. And
now she stood undecided, one arm stretched out
against the mantelshelf as she stared down at the
fire, asking herself should she sit down for a few
minutes before she washed the crocks; but immediately
deciding against it because, she told herself, once
she sat down she would have a job to get up again,
she was so tired, physically tired. The work was
wearing the flesh off her bones, her skirt was
hanging slack at the waist now. Her waist
had always been narrow but of late she'd had
to put a tuck into her skirt band. This would not have
mattered so much if her mind had been at
peace, but, with the combination, she wondered how much
longer she could go on. She felt old and worn
out. Here she was just turned thirty and she
didn't care if she were to die tomorrow, or this
night even. What was there to live for anyway? Her hand left the support of the
mantelshelf and her body jerked round as a
tap came on the kitchen door. She heard the
kicking of feet against the boot scraper. There
was only ever one person who knocked on the
kitchen door like that.
He entered hat in hand, having banged this
against the wall, and she moved forward towards the
table and leant against the edge of it.
"Hello, Emma."
There was a long pause before she could answer,
"Hello, Parson."
"Have I startled you? I'm sorry."
"No, no, not at all. But what brought you
out on a night like this?"
"Oh, I've been cooped most of the day."
"You ... you've just got back ... I mean
today?"
"About four o'clock."
A little warmth came into her heart. He had
arrived back at four o'clock and now it was only
twenty minutes to seven and he had come all the
way from the village on foot. It must have
taken him an hour at least because the drifts were
high in parts. She almost sprang round the table, saying, "Let me take your coat.
Come up to the fire and I'll get you something
hot; there's broth in the pan."
She went to take the coat from him but he said,
"Just a minute," and putting his hand into a large
inner pocket, he brought out two flat
wrapped parcels, one of which he handed to her,
"That is from my sister."
"For me?"
"Yes," he laughed, "for you. It mightn't
seem of much value but she treasured it."
"Is she?"
"No, no; she's well on the mend again.
But I was telling her about you, and she thought you
might like it. I must warn you it is nothing much
to look at, but she always found its contents very
helpful and very precious."
Swiftly she unwrapped the paper and saw
a much worn soft leather-bound book, and opening
it at random she gazed at it for a moment. Then
lifting her head to him, she said, "They're
poems."
"Yes, an anthology of poems. She's
had it since she was a girl."
Pressing the book against her breast, she gazed at him for a moment. She was deeply
touched and found it hard to speak; then she said,
"She must be a nice person ... lady, so
thoughtful to ... to give me this." She patted
the book twice with her hand. "Will you tell her
when you write that ... that I thank her and
I'll treasure it as much as she did."
"I will. I will, Emma. This too is a
book." He put the other brown paper
package on the table. "It's for Barney.
Much different from poems; it's a book of
puzzles that exert the mind. It was in our
schoolroom long before we made use of it. I
don't know from where it came or who thought the
puzzles up but none of us boys ever managed
to solve them all. I ... I think Barney
might find it useful to fill in a little time."
She moved her head slightly. "Yes,
yes," she said; "I'm sure he will. Look,
come to the fire. I'll pour you some soup out.
Come and get warm."
A few minutes later he was sitting on the
settle to the side of the fire and she was standing before
him holding out a tray on which was a bowl of
broth and a spoon. He put his hands on the tray but did not actually take it from
her, but staring into her face that was just slightly
above his now, he said, "I'm so glad to be
back, Emma."
The tray trembled between them. It was like a
declaration of love and her voice was a whisper
as she answered, "And I'm so glad to see you
back." She did not add "Parson".
He now took the tray from her and placed it
on his knees, and looked down into the broth.
She turned away towards the fire. Had
she ever felt bitterness towards him? Had she
ever wanted to die? If she had ever seen love
in a man's eyes she had seen it a moment
ago. It was enough; she'd survive on it.



The winter, like all winters, was hard. The
hope was for the spring, and when it came it was wet
and wild. The earth was heavy to plough; the
horses became bogged down to their knees in the
marshy parts. The yard was awash with mud: it
tramped into the kitchen and from there to the hall and, as
Mary could no longer go down on her knees to scrub the stone floors, Emma had to do it.
It was the middle of May before the weather
changed. The fields drained, the yard dried,
the sun shone, and she had opened all the windows
in the house to let the air through. She had even
opened the door into the attic with the fanlight in the
roof. It was seldom she went under the roof. It
was generally bare for Dilly Yorkless had had
little enough furniture to fill the house, let
alone storing it in the attic.
Emma paused a moment and looked about her.
There were her whips, dust covered. She picked
one up and smiled to herself. The mice had had a
feed of the leather-bound handle. The wooden handle
of another had been nibbled too, also the end of the
thongs. Next, she unrolled the belt of
knives and took out one of them from its sheath and
laid it across her palm. It conjured up the
picture of her father. His memory was dim now
and that of her mother almost non-existent, and the
travelling show folk seemed like shadowy characters in
a half-forgotten dream, coming and going with no
substance. She thought for a moment with welling
sadness how different her life might have been
if her father had lived: she herself would have travelled over a large area of the
country; she would have lived in the open; she would have
been brought up with compatible people, people who became
friends; she would have become expert with the whips, and
perhaps the knives too. Instead, what had
happened to her?
Oh, enough of back thinking.
She rolled up the belt and laid it down
near the whips. Somebody ordered your life.
Whether it was God or the devil, she didn't
know, but whoever it was, you had to go through with it.
There was a saying that God made the back to bear
the burden, but to her mind He didn't make the
back, He simply made the burden, and the
burden either broke your back or strengthened it,
it all depended on who you were and how much you could
bear.
She went to the roof fanlight. It hadn't
been opened for years, and she had a job to get
the sneck out of the staple. And when she succeeded
she had to make another big effort to push the
frame upwards. She could hardly see through the
glass. The weather had kept the outside clean
but inside hadn't been touched, not in her time
anyway. She told herself she must bring a bucket of water up here and clean it; it would
let in more light.
The window pushed outwards. She pulled down
the iron rods at the side that supported it,
then she found she was looking into the branches of the
old apple tree, and she smiled to herself. The
buds were full. Oh, it was lovely to see
new growth again. And from this angle she could see
over the fields, and right along the track to where
it dropped to the coach road. ... There was
somebody coming towards the farm. She screwed her
eyes up against the sunlight, moved her head
to get a better view through the branches. The
figure disappeared from view for a minute or so,
and when she next saw it she cried aloud,
"Pete! Why, Pete." Now she was racing out
of the attic, through the bedroom, across the landing and
down the stairs, and she stopped for a moment to push
the sitting-room door open and to shout
to Barney, "'Tis Pete! 'Tis Pete!"
"Pete?" His head moved quickly.
"Yes; I saw him from above."
She met him in the yard and actually put her
arms about him and kissed him, a thing she had never
done before, and he cried at her, "Well, well! Emma, after that I'll come
home every week."
He looked about him. "Nothing's changed,"
he said. "Never will. How are you, lass?" He
put his arm around her shoulder and when she didn't
answer but bowed her head, he lowered his too and
tried to look into her face. In the excitement
of seeing him she had forgotten what lay over the
house, until he had said nothing has changed.
"Barney, he's still all right?"
"Yes." She turned and pointed, and when Pete saw his brother's head as if it was
resting beyond the window sill and his one arm raised
in the air he waved back to him, then made
hurriedly for the kitchen, saying, "Where's
Da?"
"In the stone field I think ....
Pete." They were in the kitchen now. He had
dropped his kit-bag and he had thrown off his
straw hat, and now looking at her straight
face he said, "Somethin' wrong, Emma?"
"Very wrong, Pete. I'd better tell you
afore you see Barney."
And she told him. Half-way through the
telling he had dropped into a chair; when she finished he didn't speak, his head was deep
on his chest. After some moments he raised it and,
looking at her, he said simply, "She was
lively that way, Emma."
And she answered, "Yes, she was,
Pete. But ... but God help her. She
wouldn't know what she was in for."
"Aye"--he shook his head slowly--"God
help her. Indeed, God help her. I've
seen them ... lasses." He closed his eyes
tightly, and jerked his head, then rose to his
feet, asking now, "How did Barney take
it?"
"It's altered him."
"Wouldn't be human if it hadn't. And
Da?"
"Well"--she looked to the side--"all I
can say is, I think it's affected him worst
of all. He's ... he's become strange.
He ... he doesn't stay in the house at
nights, just to sleep."
"God almighty! the things that happen." Then
looking at her closely, he said, "An'
you're changed an' all, Emma. You've lost
flesh. What about help?" "We have Jimmy. I don't know
what we'd do without him. But ... but Mary
only comes part-time. It's her legs." She
watched him sigh deeply, then say quietly,
"The justices? Was nothing done in that quarter?"
"Well, I went in every week for two
months or more, but I could only see the
clerks. I somehow got the impression they
didn't think it was an unusual case, in
fact one said the week that ... Annie
disappeared another child from Birtley was missing
an' all. And one from Durham. The
Birtley girl was younger than Annie. There
are different people, private people, bestirring themselves
about such happenings, and they did find one young
lass trussed up in a sailor's bag.
'Twas on a foreign ship but it was an
English sailor who carried the bag. You can't
believe it, can you?"
"Oh aye"--Pete was still looking downwards
--"I can believe it all right, Emma.
Sometimes I've been sick to the heart at the
things I've witnessed. Half the people round about
don't know they're born; they think that when they
see the poverty and the slums that's it, but there's some things that take place. ... Aw,
to hell!" His head came up with a swing.
"Enough's enough. I'll away to see
Barney."
She watched him stride up the kitchen and out
of the door. Could there be worse things than had
happened to Annie? ... But she didn't know
what had happened to Annie, and even Pete
had suggested that Annie was different. Oh
yes, she was different all right.

During the next few days a little lightness
came into the house: Pete's presence, his
tales of the sea, his cheery manner helped them
all; especially so did it affect his father, and
Jake Yorkless took to sitting in the kitchen
again.
It was on the last Thursday in May, a day
that heralded summer. Emma was walking across the
farmyard with Henry. He had been sitting
by Barney's side for the past two hours listening
to Pete's crack, and Pete, she knew, had
gone out of his way to make the parson laugh, and
laugh he did.
He chuckled now. "There's a big streak of the comedian in Pete, don't you
think, Emma?" he said.
"Yes, he has a way of taking one out of
one's self."
"Indeed he has. And I never cease
to marvel at the change in him from when he was a
young man. Of course, he's still a young man but
so different. Yet what do we know really what
another person is like? We hide most of our
selves within ourselves." They had stopped by the gap
in the farmyard wall: the long twilight was
deepening; he was looking at her averted face
as he added softly, "Don't you agree with
me, Emma?"
She did not turn to him but continued to stare
over the fields as she answered as quietly as
he had asked the question, "Yes, I agree with
you. But then it must have always been so for everybody,
because if people really spoke the truth about what was
inside them life would be unbearable. You have got
to bury things within you, bury them alive so
to speak if you want to go on living. I mean"
--she looked at him now, her voice taking
on a brisker tone--"it must happen
to everybody." "Yes, yes, Emma, you're right." He
nodded slowly at her. The sound of a cow mooing
came from the byres. This was followed by a
fluttering and cackling in the distance: a hen must have
decided to change its place on the barks and so
had caused an uproar.
He broke their silence by saying on a light
note, "You know, you've given me an idea for
my next sermon: What is truth? or Our
hidden selves. Sounds like one of those stories
in the new magazines, don't you think?"
"Yes. Yes."
"I have difficulty in finding subjects for
my sermons, I mean suitable ones, because were
I to express my true ideas from the pulpit,
I'm afraid they would not be welcomed." There
was a little laughter in his voice now, and she
answered it in the same vein by saying, "I'm
sure they wouldn't; I'm afraid you'd get
your marching orders."
"To tell you the truth, Emma, I'm
surprised I haven't had them before now. And it
isn't for want of some people trying, so I
understand."
"People would find fault with God." Why had she said that? Because she was one of those who
of late had made a habit of finding fault
with God.
He laughed outright now and said, "You're right,
Emma, you're right, but I'm sure He's
used to it. Now I must away, if not it will be
dark and some highwayman will set about me and rob
me of my purse and my jewelled watch and my
rings." He held out his bare hand, his fingers
spread towards her, as he ended, "You heard
about the hold-up outside of Durham of a
private coach?"
"No; I haven't heard about that."
"Well, it happened four days ago. So
now I must away in case it happens to me."
He paused and, his voice dropping, he said,
"Good-night, Emma. I'm glad to see you
looking a bit brighter."
"Good-night." She could not add "Henry" and
she rarely now addressed him as "Parson".
...
Henry walked slowly homewards, and the
night was well set in when he reached the
vicarage. He could see the dim reflection
of a light shining through the curtains in the sitting-room, which meant Miss Wilkinson
had departed, and he thanked God for that. Time and
again when he went out visiting and told her he
might be late and not to wait she would nevertheless be
there to greet him, her face stiff with
disapproval, her tongue wagging like a mother at
an errant child: "Why didn't you wear your
overshoes? ... You haven't a muffler on
... You're soaked to the skin ... Why
didn't you eat your meal tonight? ... Isn't it
cooked well enough for you?"
How had he put up with her all these years?
Because, he supposed, he was too lazy
to bother; or truth to tell, oh yes, let him
speak the truth to himself, too afraid of the
rumpus her dismissal would cause in the
village, and all because he knew that it wasn't
every housekeeper who could take Sunday school
and play the harmonium for the children. Nor one
capable of playing the church organ if she had
got the chance. But Tom Bessell never gave
her the chance these days; he had even threatened
what he would do to her if she touched his organ.
... He sometimes wished he had the courage of
Tom where she was concerned. He let himself into the house, took
off his coat and hat, then went to the kitchen and
into the pantry and there poured himself out a glass of
milk from the metal can. He carried it to the
sitting-room and after placing it on the desk he
sat down, took his keys from his pocket and
unlocked the bottom drawer. He took out the
leather-bound book and he unlocked its brass
clasp.
He sat looking down on a blank page
telling himself if he were to do any writing tonight it
should be to prepare his sermon. But she had looked
better tonight, happier; he must think of her for a
few minutes and then he would get down to work.
So he began to write:

My dearest Emma,
It did my heart good to hear you laugh; you have
been so sad of late. I have seldom seen a
smile on your beautiful face since Annie
left, yet when you do smile the pain in my
heart grows deeper, because then I have to restrain
myself from putting my arms about you. I must tell
you, Emma, that I dreamt last night I had
you in my arms and was holding you tightly and I felt no sense of sin, only of exaltation.
It was the most strange experience, for I knew
that God was pleased with me.
I seem to have come to terms with Him of late,
Emma, for as you know I've asked Him time and
again why He allows evil. But He has shown
me time and again the goodness and strength that is born
in people who have suffered evil, like yourself for instance, for
since Annie has been gone I have detected
a new strength in you, not physical, no. Would
that it were partly that to help you over your tasks for
it pains me deeply to know the work that you have
to contend with. And how thin you have become under it; the
flesh seems to have dropped from your bones. Yet
it has left you more beautiful still.
You said tonight that we all carry secrets, and
that is so true, but I wonder if there are any
others as heavy as ours. Of course we all
imagine, as individuals, that our body aches
and heartaches have never before been experienced,
yet in our case I do not know of a parallel
where two people have met so frequently over the
years. How many years, Emma? It is
fourteen since you were married, but I loved you
before that, from the first moment I saw you on the coach. As a father loves a child then, but
not so later. No. And yet not one word of love
has passed between us: we speak only with our
eyes. We rarely touch hands. I avoid that
for I cannot trust myself. And so it will go on I
suppose until the end of our days and no one
shall know about you and me except Ralph. And he
loves you too but in a different way perhaps.
Nevertheless he loves you, and if circumstances
had been different in his situation he would have
married you. Would I rather have had that, he as your
husband? No, I don't think so. I would have
been jealous then because he has a mind and you would
have learned from him. Yes, indeed I would have been
jealous of that, for I have always been your teacher.
Abelard and Heloise were much luckier than
we, my dearest, because they experienced love in
its fullness before the church parted them. Strange
that. I've always thought it strange the cruelty
latent in the church, physical and mental.
They have practised it down the ages; what
religion has slaughtered more than
Christianity?
Another of my torments, Emma, is the
Blessed Trinity. I can be thankful that you do not suffer in this way too. You do not say to God:
"If You sent Your beloved Son to earth, You
would expect the enemies He made through His
goodness to slaughter but not His followers to do
likewise and in His name. Since no one
suffers alone in any form and since every experience
has been experienced before, would that I could meet
someone of like mind and we could talk this matter
over. I cannot go too deeply into it with Ralph
for he will not have it that You exist at all, and in
my heart I know You exist. What I cannot
understand is Your ways. But then, if I did
I too would be God."
It is strange how when I write in this little
book I talk to Emma and God on the same
level. Am I blaspheming?
As if in answer to his question there came the
sound of thumping on the front door and he
jerked so violently that he toppled the
inkwell. As he jumped to his feet he righted
the brass stand and sopped up part of the ink with the
blotter; then pulling out a handkerchief, he
quickly dabbed on his fingers before lifting up the
lamp and going towards the door. There he
withdrew the bolts, then pulling the door wide he peered through a lantern light at a
woman standing before him. She had a shawl over
her head but although it did not hide her face he
did not recognize her as one of his
parishioners until she spoke, saying,
"I'm Mrs Pringle, Parson, from along the
road." And he said, "Oh yes, yes, Mrs
Pringle," his groping mind telling him she was the
drayman's wife. Neither of them had ever been
in his church and he was surprised to see her now
and to feel that she had any need of him. He said
quietly, "Is there something wrong? Is there
anything I can do for you?"
"'Tis me man Alf, he's right
poorly. He was kicked in the leg by a horse
last week gone an' has been in a fever.
He's had doctor but it got no better,
an' then the night he asked for you. I wouldn't
come 'cos I thought he was ravin' 'cos he's
no man of God, don't believe in it,
says God done nowt for him, but he kept on
askin' for you. He said he hadn't gone off his
head, just wants to talk to you."
"In that case I shall come and see him. Step
in a minute." He stood back. She put her lantern
on the step before passing him, and with her head back
she stood peering round the hall. Quickly now he
left her after placing the lamp where it would give
light to both the hall and the sitting-room. He
hurried to the desk, locked the book, placed
it in the drawer and then locked the drawer and
returned the keys to the inside pocket of his
waistcoat. Going into the hall again he put on
his coat, picked up his hat, lit a lantern
for himself, and once more opening the door, he said,
"Shall we go then?"
As he locked the door on the outside she
said, "You ain't got a trap now?"
"No."
"Nor a horse?"
"No."
"Act as poor as we then?"
"I'm afraid it's no act, Mrs
Pringle, it's a necessity."
She swung her lantern and saw him
smiling. And now she caused him to laugh gently
as she said, "'Tis right what they say, you're
a queer chap. 'Tis likely 'cos you're like
no real parson that my Alf wants to see you."
"Very likely. Very likely."
When he entered the cottage he stopped himself
from pulling out his handkerchief and covering his nose
with it. It was the usual cottage, one room,
a scullery off, and a space under the roof. There
were two beds in the room. In one was a huddle
of small bodies with heads at the top and
bottom of it. Two dogs were lying to one side
of the fireplace; at the other side was another
bed and the man lying under a patchwork quilt
looked asleep. His cheeks and chin were covered
with heavy whiskers, the growth of days. His eyes
were sunk into his head and his hair was matted with
sweat. It was evident he was in a fever and the
first thought that came into Henry's head was
typhoid; he had heard of odd cases of it
in the city.
The woman now pushed a stool towards him and
as he sat down she leant over the bed, saying
quietly, "Alf. Alf, I've brought him.
He's here."
Slowly the sunken eyes opened and, after a
moment of dazed staring, recognition came
into them. The man's hand came slowly out and it gripped Henry's as he said, "Not afraid
to go, understand? Not afraid to go. Don't want
no blessin', but trouble on me conscience. ...
Never should have done it, but five quid is five
quid with mouths to feed."
He now turned his gaze on his wife and,
taking his hand from Henry's, he motioned her to go;
and she, after looking from one to the other, shambled out
of the room.
"Take your time. Take your time," Henry
said, quietly now. He watched the man moving
his tongue over his dry lips; then, his voice
throaty, the man mumbled, "The lass,
Annie Yorkless ... know where she is."
When he stopped and gasped for breath Henry
bent nearer to him, suffering the foul breath on his
face as he strained his ear to hear more.
"Shouldn't ... shouldn't have done it. No,
shouldn't have done it." He lay with closed
eyes, saying nothing further, and Henry said
urgently, "What shouldn't you have done, Mr
Pringle?"
Slowly the eyes opened and the whisper came:
"Taken her to that house."
"Which house?" "The one in Newcastle."
"Can you tell me the name of the house?"
"Aye, aye." Again there was silence until
Henry urged, "Please, please, Mr
Pringle, give me the name of the house."
"What? Oh aye. Eight. ..." His
voice faded away and Henry repeated what
he thought he had heard, "Eight Motherwell
Row, did you say?"
Again the man spoke, saying, "Aye, aye.
Nowt to look at on outside ... plenty in
... good guise, old bitch an' her family
with the bairns, some never seen ... upstairs."
"What is the name of the people?"
"Name? ..." The man was gasping again.
"D'know, just Ma. Big fellows there. Stall
in the market. Cover ... cover. Polis no
use ... too many nobs ... back-handers.
... Dry ... dry ... drink."
Henry looked about him. There was a mug on
the table, next to a ewer. He went to it and as
he poured some water out two small heads
raised themselves from the foot of the other bed and the
sight of them evoked the usual response against
the poverty he encountered daily, Dear God! Dear God! He couldn't gauge in the dim
light how many children were in the bed, six or eight;
yet they were luckier than some. Oh yes, far
luckier.
He returned to the man and, lifting his head,
placed the tin cup to his lips. When his head
was on the pillow once more, the man gasped again:
"Not afraid to go. Never had no use for
parsons, want no blessin', just ... just want
me mind easy."
When the head began to toss on the pillow,
Henry said quietly "Rest easy, your
conscience will be at peace now. Rest easy."
But in his heart he said: God, forgive him for
only You can. Then rising from the chair he went
across the littered room and tapped on the door
leading into the scullery, and when the woman opened
it he said quietly to her, "I would attend
to your husband: he would find some comfort if you
sponged him down with lukewarm water."
"Aye"--she nodded her head--"I'll do
that, though I can't see 'tis much use. He's
goin' an' he knows it, an' what am I
goin' to do with that squad?" She pointed towards
the bed. "Seven of 'em and only two fit to work yet."
He looked at her coldly for a moment before
saying, "Should it be necessary I shall see that you have
help."
"'Tis kind of you."
"Good-night."
"Good-night, Parson. I hope you find
her."
He had half turned away from her; now he
stiffened and, looking at her over his shoulder, he
said, "You knew of this?"
"I knew he was up to somethin', you don't
get five sovereigns for picking your teeth."
"Who else is aware of this, I mean in the
village?"
"No names, no pack-drill as he used
to say." She nodded towards the bed. "An'
me, I don't want me face bashed in,
an' 'tis better that Alf goes now for he'd
go anyway if it were found out he snitched."
Henry stared at her in bewilderment. He had
imagined he knew everything that went on in his
parish. Hadn't he found out about the smuggling of the
liquor? Wasn't he aware of who committed
adultery once their husbands went on the droving journeys, and of the men who took
advantage of the journeys? Wasn't he
aware that his verger was a hypocrite, as he was
also aware that there were good God-fearing people in the
village? As he stared at this dirty
dishevelled woman he felt like a child who was
being laughed at because of his ignorance. And
likely that's what many of them did, laughed at
him behind his back, because he knew so little that went
on below the surface behind the smiles and nods and
"Good-day, Parson". They paraded to church on
Sunday in their best and some of them, he was
sure, tried to live life at its best, but
there were others, and he must now think these others were
in his village and they had enticed a child
into corruption.
He turned from her and, picking up his
lantern from near the door, he went out into the
night. But he did not hurry towards home.
He knew he could do nothing until first light.
It was no use going to the farm now, and even when
he did go they could not just up and march to this house
in Newcastle. He must think. But first he must
get a little sleep for he was very tired.
Life as a whole, he was finding, was tiring. People were tiring. He wished he was
miles away. There came over him a longing for
his childhood home again: the serenity of his father's
face, the caring love of his sister, the comfort of the
timbered house sitting comfortably in the centre
of the now overgrown gardens, and the softer air and the
softer atmosphere of the south country. He had
been here, what was it, twenty-four years? and the
land was still alien to him. And the majority of the people.
Yes, he had to admit the majority of the people
too.
He had imagined through his vanity that the
episode outside the inn had changed their
attitude towards him, made them see him in
a different light, but not really. In their minds
he was still someone who could be duped. Yet he was
not the only one who had been duped. The
innkeeper had been duped over his guest Mr
Gardiner, at least he hoped he had, as others
in the village had been duped by the civil,
nice-spoken man.
Oh, let him stop thinking, let him get
home and lose himself in sleep for a while and
forget that he was the minister of a parish, and forget
that with the light he must go up to the farm and give them the news ... give Emma the news.
What would her reaction be? He didn't know,
he only knew in this moment that he wished he
had never set eyes on Emma Molinero the child
who had led him to become obsessed with Emma
Yorkless the married woman, for then he would no
longer be in this parish, but in some place more
compatible, in a house less large and more
comfortable, and with someone to see to his needs who was the
antithesis of Miss Wilkinson. ... Oh!
Miss Wilkinson. That woman was really
getting on his nerves.

It was a quarter to seven the following morning
when, walking out of the drive into the road, he
ran into Miss Wilkinson, and she, staring at
him and with her mouth slightly agape, said,
"My! we're up afore our clothes are on this
morning. Are you going on a call?"
"Yes."
"Who's dying?"
"No one as far as I know, Miss
Wilkinson." Though as he said it he thought of
Alf Pringle.
"You haven't had your breakfast?" "I've had a hot drink."
"What time am I to expect you then?" He
had passed her and she was talking to his back.
"In an hour, or a little more," he called
over his shoulder.
"You haven't got a coat on and the mist is
thick."
He walked quickly on. He had been aware
for some long, long time of Miss Wilkinson's
feelings towards him and of her ultimate
intention, and to this intention he always said to himself,
"Over my corpse, and not even then." Yet,
having said that, part of him was sorry for her. Her
history was that of thousands of other women: she had
looked after her parents until they died, then
at quite an early age became housekeeper
to his predecessor and now, well into her
fifties, himself and the vicarage were all she had
in life; not forgetting the Sunday school, for the
power she asserted over the children was that of a
frustrated mother. He knew that she was laughed
at behind her back by the villagers, and that her
feeling for him was a joke amongst them and had
been for a long time.
The morning was misty, but when he left the coach road and ascended the hill the sun came
out and the whole world seemed bathed in a silver
glow. He stood for a moment letting its peace
fall upon him; but even as he did so his mind was
asking what would be the outcome of this day.
Well, it was no use standing here, he must go
and set the outcome in motion.
The first person he saw as he entered the yard
was Pete, and Pete stopped in his tracks, narrowed his eyes through the thin mist that was still hanging
around the farm and said, "That you, Parson?"
"Yes, Pete."
"My!"--he used the same threadbare term
that Miss Wilkinson had uttered--"you're up
afore your clothes is on this mornin'."
Henry made no comment but asked briefly,
"Where's Emma?"
"Oh, she's back in there." Pete pointed
and jerked his head towards the farmhouse.
"Seein' to Barney she was little while gone, but
she'll be makin' the meal now I should think.
Anything wrong?"
"I don't know how you'd look at it,
Pete, but I ... I think you had better come
indoors for a moment, I have something to tell you. Where is your father?"
"In the byre."
"Would you care to fetch him too?"
Pete said nothing, but his head moved
slightly to the side as if in an enquiry; then
he turned and went towards the byre. Henry
crossed the yard and opened the kitchen door without
knocking and so startled Emma that she almost
dropped a bowl of porridge she was placing
on a tray, and she, asking the same question as
Pete, said, "What is it? Something wrong?"
"I have news about Annie."
Emma gripped the corner of the table with her
hand. "She's not ... not?"
"Dead? No, no. But ... but I have found
out where she is."
"Who from?"
"I'm ... I'm afraid I can't tell
you that, Emma, but .... Oh, here is Mr
Yorkless."
Jake Yorkless came into the room followed
by Pete and they both stood staring at him for a
moment. Looking from one to the other, Henry said,
"I have found out the whereabouts of Annie."
"What!" Jake Yorkless took a step forward then added, "Where?"
"As far as I can gather she's in a house in
Newcastle. I think it's eight Motherwell
Row or something like that. Do you know Newcastle
well?"
"I don't know it at all 'cept the
market."
Henry now looked at Pete, and he, going
to the table, pulled a wooden chair from under it and
sat down and nipped at his lip before he
slanted his eyes up towards Henry and said,
"I know it a bit and--" His eyes moved
away as he continued, "the district she's
likely to be in."
When he next spoke he was staring up at
Emma and he said, "There's Bucketwell
Row. Used to be big houses, sailors'
boarding-houses now supposedly, captains and
such, not common lodging houses. They stand well
back, bordering on fields at one side if
I remember rightly. How I know about it
is--" He glanced from one to the other now with a
shamefaced look on his countenance, adding, "Had
to go and find captain once, went along of
chief mate." He now turned his head sharply and
looked at his father who was striding up the kitchen,
and he called to him, "Where you off to, Da?"
"Where the hell do you think I'm off to?"
"Don't be so daft." Pete got to his
feet. "You've got as much chance of getting in
there as I have into the Queen's bedchamber." He
turned and gave a quick apologetic look
towards Henry, then went on, "They've got
bullies who'd smash you up as quick as look
at you."
Jake Yorkless turned slowly about and, his
voice grim now, he said, "Well, what do
you propose to do? Just stand there?"
"No, no. But give me time to think.
Give us all time to think. There's one thing
certain, us two alone would be less than
useless, we've got to have help."
"Alec Hudson, and Joe Mason, and
...."
"No, no, Da. You would set the village
alight by asking any of them for help, an' the
flame so to speak would spread into Newcastle
afore you could say water. Whoever was in on this is
still in the village. Am I right? Am I right, Parson?" Pete was looking straight at
Henry now, and Henry hesitated before saying,
"I ... I would say you're right, Pete."
"God Almighty!" Jake Yorkless
came slowly up to the table now and sat down
heavily and bent his head over his joined hands.
And there was quiet in the kitchen for a moment.
Emma herself hadn't moved, but it was she who
spoke now. Looking at Pete, she said,
"What do you think should be done, Pete?" And
he glanced at her while he nipped the end of
his long nose between his thumb and the knuckle of his
first finger; then, as if speaking to himself, he said
"We can do nothin' in the daylight, that's for
sure, and we'll want to know where we're
goin', that's for sure again, and we'll want
lads with us who know the ropes of them places."
He turned now and looked fully at Henry
as he ended, "A man could be murdered and thrown
in the river and not be missed, so to speak. It's
happened, when they get too inquisitive like,
because there's big fellows behind some of those
places. 'Tisn't only the madams who
run them. Look"--he got abruptly to his
feet--"I'll go in and have a walk round, and I know two or three of me
shipmates'll be glad to flex their muscles
in a little bit of a bust up. There's the
donkey-man, Johnny Robson: he's
doin' watch on board time her backside's
being scraped ... the boat you know." He nodded
at Henry who said, "Yes, yes, I know."
Another time he might have laughed, but this was no
time for laughter, and Pete went on, "And
Carl. He's a square-head ... Swede, the
size of a house end. He lives out Denton
way, married a lass out there. I know his
house, I've been there. And then if we could
get Ratty Mullin. But he's in South
Shields, down the river. He's not the size
of two pennorth of copper but he's got hands
on him like a pair of sledge-hammers. I've
seen what he can do with them an' all. If I
could get the three of them, something might be
done."
"I would come along."
"What!"
Now Pete actually laughed; then bowing his
head and wagging it from side to side, he said,
"Oh, Parson, you don't know what you're sayin'."
Henry's voice was stiff as he answered,
"I know what I'm saying all right, and I've
been known to use my hands on occasions."
"Aye, aye, you might, Parson, but I
bet me life you've never seen anything like them
on the waterfront, not the bully boys who
take care of the madams. Anyway, too many
can be worse than too few at times, and
believe me, Parson, I know what I'm
talkin' about. Anyway"--he turned and
looked at his father--"the place's got to be
found first, if there is a Motherwell Row.
Might turn out we're on the wrong track.
So the best plan I think, Da, is for me
to get meself over there now and see what's
to be done. What d'you say?"
Jake Yorkless didn't speak for a moment,
but he put his hand up and ran it through his
grizzled grey hair before muttering, "Well,
you seem to know all about it, so the quicker you get
movin' the better." And he now rose from the
table and, passing them, went into the yard again, and
Pete, his voice quiet, looked at
Emma, saying, "I'll change me things and have a bite afore I go. By the way,
we'd better not let on to Jimmy, and
certainly not Mary or else you may as well
get the town-crier out."
She nodded back at him and watched him go
up the kitchen and out into the hall before she turned
and looked at Henry and asked quietly,
"How ... how did you find out?"
He hesitated for a moment before moving to the
table and standing to the side of her, when he said,
"It wasn't a confession, so I can tell you.
But don't tell the others, please. The man
Pringle took her there."
"Pringle?" The word was a whisper.
"Yes."
"Who's behind him?"
"He didn't say, but it's someone from about
I should think."
"Luke?"
"I would hate to think that, but I don't know.
One thing I do know, if Pringle hadn't been
near death's door and wanted to clear his
conscience we wouldn't have heard anything; it was
obvious he goes in fear of the instigator or
the instigators of this business." "Dear God." She lifted up the bowl of
porridge now in both hands and she looked down
into it as she said, "If ... if they get her,
what will she be like? Will she ever be able to live a
normal life again?" And she slowly turned
her eyes towards him; but he could not answer the
question, the only thing he could do was to shake his head.
She now went to the stove and scooped the
porridge back into the black cooking-pot which
she then pushed into the centre of the fire, and as she
stood stirring it she said, "Have you eaten?"
"No," he answered; "but I ... I
don't feel like breakfast."
Presently she pulled the pan on to the
side of the hob again and when the surface of the
porridge subsided into slow plops she
turned once more from the fire, saying, "I
meant to go down to Ralph's this morning, but I
don't think I'll be able to now. Would you be
passing that way today?"
"I'll make it my business, in fact
I'll drop in on my way back."
As Henry was speaking Pete re-entered the
room. He was once again in his sailor's
clothes and Henry said to him, "You won't have any idea when you'll be back,
Pete?"
"Well, not quite, Parson. I can round up
Johnny Robson any time and he'll get
somebody to stand in for him, and Carl, he'll be
about somewhere, he likes fixing things in his house,
but Ratty, well, I'm not sure where I'll
find him. He's likely the one that'll take
me time. And then I've got to look round the
place. S'afn at the earliest, Parson,
I should say."
"I'll look in around teatime. Good luck,
Pete."
"Thanks, Parson."
"Good-bye, Emma."
"Good-bye."
After the door had closed on him she looked
at it for a moment before turning again to the stove.
She emptied two ladlefuls of the porridge
into a bowl and when she placed it before Pete he
said to her, "You know what you'll have to do, Emma,
don't you?"
"What do you mean?" she said.
"Well--" He picked up the milk jug
and poured milk over the porridge before saying, "'Tis on a year she's been gone, and if you
do get her back she won't be the same as when
she left, you'll ... you'll have to understand. ..."
"I know that, Pete."
"And there's another thing that's just come to me
mind. They ... they may have moved her on."
"Yes, I've thought of that an' all."
"But nevertheless, we've got to hope she's still
there and chance gettin' her out. But it's going to be
risky business, for it's no use gettin' the
polis in on this. You understand?"
"Yes, Pete. And Pete, I'll be
going with you."
He bounced in his chair and almost choked on the
porridge. "Begod! you won't," he said;
"not if I know anything, Emma."
She stared at him quietly. "I'm going with
you," she repeated.
"And I say you're not, Emma. You've
got no idea. ..."
Now, her voice raised, she almost yelled
at him, "I have got an idea, my mind's
full of ideas of what's been happening to her every
day, every night since she left. Nothing I could
see or hear in the future can come up to what I've already thought. I almost go demented
at times with ideas. And so Pete, whoever you
get to go along with you, I come too."
"Oh my God!" He put his hand to his
brow now, saying, "The lads wouldn't stand for it,
there'll be some roughin' up."
"Pete." Her voice was quiet now and he
looked up at her and she said, "Perhaps that's one
of the reasons why I feel I should be there, for
if there's fighting she ... she may be frightened
and ...."
"Oh, Emma--" He sighed and drew in a
long breath as if begging for patience before he
said, "If she's been there a year, you've got
to face it there'll be very few happenings that
she'll be afraid of, a fight least of all
I should imagine. I'm sorry ... I'm
sorry to have to put it like that."
She turned from the table and went to the sink, and
she stood looking over it and into the yard before she
said quietly, "In any case, I'm goin'
along of you. You needn't tell your mates,
I'll just be there on the cart."
There followed a silence before she turned and,
walking past him, said quietly, "Now I'll go and break the news to Barney."



Dusk was deepening when Pete drove the
flat farm cart down on to the bridle-path and
from there to the coach road. Everyone in the
village knew he was home on leave from the
sea and no one would question his driving the cart at that
time of night. He could be on his way to The
Tuns or into Birtley for a spree; but as he
turned towards Gateshead Fell the few people
he passed guessed that his revelling was going
to be enacted further afield, for it was known that
he favoured a drink and a sing-song.
He was half a mile out of the village when
he came across the parson supposedly taking
an evening stroll, and the parson took his seat
beside him on the front board. It was unusual
that he wasn't wearing his clerical hat, and no
white collar showed above his collarless jacket.
Another half-mile along the road, Jake
Yorkless and Emma appeared from behind a hedge.
With regard to the presence of Emma and the
parson, there had over the past two hours been the most heated arguments. Pete had
pointed out to Henry that they might all end up in
... the clink, then what would he do about it? As
for Emma, her very presence might put a
spanner in the whole works.
Henry's answer to all the talk had been that
someone would be needed to stay with the horse and cart,
you couldn't just leave an animal standing
unattended in the middle of a street at night.
So, if nothing else, he could be in charge of it
and if any questions were asked he could say he was
waiting for someone, which was true.
Emma's answer had been brief: "If you
don't take me along of you, I'll simply
follow you."
And so it was a half an hour later that they
passed over the river by the High Level
Bridge and into Newcastle. Their next stop
was opposite the station, where Emma saw three
men emerge from the gloom into the light of the
lantern swinging from the side of the cart. One had
great bulk, another was of medium size, and the
third had the figure of a boy with a wizened
face above it.
They didn't attempt to get on the back of the cart but the middle-sized man spoke
to Pete, saying, "Set are we?"
"Aye, all set." Then as Pete went
to urge the horse on, one of the men catching
sight of the hooded figure sitting in the back
of the cart leant over the side, saying, "Who's
that?"
Without turning round, Pete answered, "The
mother."
"In the name of God!"
"'Tis all right. 'Tis all right,
Johnny; she knows what she's doing."
"I hope so. Begod! I hope so."
The cart moved on and Emma could make out the
three figures taking up their positions behind
it, and as she looked at them she wondered how the
big man was going to get through the back window which
Pete had said wasn't all that big. The
place they were making for was Bucketwell Row
as Pete had imagined, and, as he had told
them earlier, there was no hope of getting an
entry in the front way. Through standing a man a
couple of pints of ale he had been able
to gather from him that one of the streets in which he
regularly played the mouth-organ was Bucketwell Row and that number
eight was a kind of special house. No
customers during the day; the madam went out
sometimes accompanied by a couple or so of young
lasses, supposedly her grandchildren. Her sons
were hefty fellows; one had a barrow in the
market, for cover as much as anything, he thought.
'Twas at night time the custom started there, and
not just ordinary customers, the man had said,
toffs most of them, he thought. There had been
raids on some of the houses round there by the polis
but to his knowledge number eight hadn't been touched.
Perhaps after all, he said, it was still a family
house for these houses had at one time all been
family houses, the homes of the moneyed
merchants. He remembered one being occupied
by the family of a cheesemonger; and he had a
bacon factory an' all. And the clog-maker
from number six had only moved out within the last
ten years. And in number three there had lived
the owner of the paper mill in Scotswood. The
Row had been quite fashionable at one time. It was
still fashionable--the man had laughed--but not in the
same way.
Pete had seen that the top windows were barred; likely the windows of a one-time nursery now
put to good stead, he had said. And he had almost
given up the idea of gaining an entry when he
had taken a walk through the fields at the back
which bordered the courtyards. It had been one
chance in a thousand that as he was passing the back
door of number eight it had opened and a
middle-aged woman swept the dirt from the yard
outside into the field. He had hurried up
to her, saying, "Could you give me a drink of
water, missis, I'm as dry as a fish?"
She had looked him up and down in his sailor
rig-out before saying, "You lost your way?"
"No"--he smiled at her--"but I see so
much sea water that I like to walk on a bit of
grass now and again."
She had stepped back into the yard and looked
about her, first one way and then the other, then said,
"I'll give you a drink but stay where you are."
And when she disappeared, he stood on the step and
peered into the yard and almost opposite to him he
saw what looked like a kitchen window. It was a
sash window and could be easily opened with a
knife, that is if it wasn't nailed. But then
it wasn't likely to be nailed because further along the yard he saw a similar one
and this was open a few inches both at the top and
bottom. Yet, as he had said, they had to be
prepared, there could be blocks at both top and
bottom to stop them being opened any further.
If that was the case, then the only way to get a
door open was to create a commotion outside and
he hoped they hadn't to do that, there would be plenty
time for that once they were inside.
The woman had returned with a tin mug full
of water and she stood with the door in her hand
shielding the yard from him; and when, having drained the mug, he handed it back to her and, smiling,
said, "Thanks missis, that was as good as a
draught of beer," she said nothing but went so
quickly to close the door that he almost tumbled
back on the grass. It was, Pete said, as
if she was regretting her hospitality and was
afeared of what she had done.
One thing, he noticed, was that there must be comings
and goings from that back door for there were two paths
worn in the grass. One led across the field,
the other round the corner to the front of the house.
This he imagined had once been a right of way
until the stile had been removed and railings put in its place.
The horse was struggling to pull the cart up the
cobbled street, and the three men had to put their
hands to the back of the tail-board and push. At
the top of the incline Pete had to drive the
horse on to the mud pavement to give way to a
coach and pair. The driver yelled at him and
he yelled back like any Newcastle
drayman would, an oath punctuating each word.
A short while later Emma knew now by the
smoothness of the cart that they were in a field and her
heart began to beat so hard against her ribs that
she had to press her hand tight against her
breasts.
When the cart stopped with a jerk they all
dismounted, except Henry, and she heard Pete
say softly to him, "Take it over by the hedge, you'll be nearer the road that way. But whatever
happens, stay by it. Do you hear me, Parson?
Don't come into anything, please."
She did not hear Henry's answer because of the
scrambling in the cart and knew they were gathering
up the lengths of rope they had cut earlier in
the evening.
The cart had moved away and they were in darkness now. There was no moon as yet and the
wind had come up. It attempted to take her
hood back from her head, and as she put her hand
up to keep it in place Pete took hold of
her other arm, whispering urgently now, "You
stay by Da, remember? And if there's any
big shindy, get back to the cart and tell him
to drive away."
She made no answer. They were now close
against a wall. She heard a slight scuffling
and she knew that the small man called Ratty
was scaling it.
It seemed that the next minute she was being
pulled through a doorway and she knew by the feel
of the hand she was beside the mister; then she was
encircled by the men, all standing perfectly still. In a lull of wind she heard a slight
grating noise. Following this, there came a
thump between her shoulder blades. It was the
signal that the window was open and they were going in.
For a moment she was almost paralysed with fear, and
her other emotions were so mixed that it was
impossible for her to tell herself what she felt
about the coming encounter ... if there was to be an
encounter. Then she and the others became absolutely
rigid as a muffled cry came to them. As if
of one body they stood huddled round the window
waiting for what to her seemed like an eternity;
then the small man's voice which seemed much
larger than himself came hoarsely to her ears,
saying, "'Twas an oldish wife, I fixed
her."
The next minute Emma was being dragged
shoulders first into a dark passage and when she was
on her feet she was pressed slowly forward
towards where in the distance was a faint light coming
through an open door.
When she entered the kitchen of the house the
lamplight seemed so bright that she had to blink
her eyes tightly against it. They were all in the
kitchen now, the five men and herself. Beyond the table
was the bound and gagged figure of a middle-aged
woman, her eyes staring out of her head in
abject fear. Then she herself knew an added
fear as she saw the man called Johnny
draw a knife from under his coat, and the tall
fair man bring from a pocket of his jacket a
short piece of wood that looked like a stick
with a nob on the end. Then they all became rigid again as the kitchen door opened
and a young woman said, "Meg," before her mouth
went into a scream that was choked before it reached its
height. Pete, who had been nearest the
door, had sprung at her. His hand round her
mouth he dragged her inside and within a split
second he had pulled a rag from his pocket
and rammed it into her mouth; then as if she had
been a bale of hay he whipped her off her
feet and threw her face down on the floor.
And Johnny Robson, jumping forward and
acting as if the rope in his hands was greased, had
the girl's legs and arms trussed up almost as
quick as it had taken Pete to gag her.
One thing penetrated Emma's whirling mind:
it was that the girl's stifled scream had not brought
any one to her assistance, and so screams or
squeals perhaps were a natural sound in this house.
But within a minute her thought was disproved.
Two abreast, the men had moved through the
kitchen into the hall, followed by Jake
Yorkless and she herself close on his heels.
She had only time to take in that the hall was a
large one with broad stairs going up from its
middle, for coming rapidly down the stairs was one man while another was emerging from a room at
the
far side of the hall.
A confusion of muffled blows and yells
followed. She was rammed against the wall near the
kitchen door, her way blocked by the Swede and
Pete and the man seemingly bigger than the
Swede throwing his fists left and right; further in
the room the other two sailors were fighting with the
second man. As she eased herself along the
wall to get away from the flailing arms, she
saw a woman standing at the far side of the
room. Two girls were near her, one with her
mouth wide open. Perhaps she had screamed but the
noise in the room had drowned it. As she now
rushed towards the stairs she saw the woman
turn towards the girl and strike her across the
face with such force that the girl fell on her
back.
She was half-way up the stairs when she was
almost pulled down again by a fierce tug on her
skirt, and as she gripped the bannister and
swung round there was the woman below her, her fist
raised again. Emma took in that she was
elderly, well into her fifties, and what she
did now was instinctive, for she lifted her foot and kicked the woman in the
stomach and she herself almost let out a cry as she
saw the figure tumbling back down the
stairs.
She was on the landing now: Or was it the
gallery? For there were railings round it and before her
was a square area with doors leading off.
Two pedestals stood close to the wall, a
lamp on each, and the light from them showed up the
thick red carpet covering the floor. There had
been no carpet on the hall floor, only
some form of linoleum. There were pictures on the
walls here too. For one frantic second
she stood in the middle of the landing looking at the
array of doors. The sound of the fighting
downstairs had become dim, just a series of
gasps and groans. She swung round twice
as if she were in a game and had to choose a
door; then springing forward, she turned the handle
of the door nearest her. But it didn't move and
as she listened for a moment she thought she detected
a moan or a whimper.
The next door she tried wasn't locked
and before thrusting open the door she paused for a
second, her body so taut that she wouldn't have been surprised if she had screamed herself. But
the room was empty. There was a lamp, though,
burning near a bed and her mouth fell into a
slight gape at the luxuriousness it showed.
Hearing from across the landing voices like those of children
at play, she turned swiftly around. The
door to this room wasn't locked, but she did
not thrust it open; quietly she eased it forward
and what she saw brought every feature in her face
stretching as if away from itself. The man was
elderly but the total ages of the three children in
bed with him wouldn't have reached thirty.
She closed the door and leaned against the wall
for a moment, and as she did so Pete appeared
on the landing and slipped across to her and whispered,
"Well?"
She made a slight movement with her head,
then again he whispered: "Have you tried them all?"
She moved her head and gasped, "Not those
two." She pointed, and as she did so she
noticed for the first time the stairs leading upwards.
Pete too looked towards them. Then, jerking
his hand forward, he ran from her and as he mounted the
stairs she made her way across the landing
to another door, and it was as she went to open it that she heard the giggle. It swung her
around and brought her for an instant frozen to the
spot; the giggle had come from beyond the door
opposite and it was a well-remembered sound.
She didn't seem to hurry as she made
her way towards the door and her mind was telling
her that if it was locked she must run to those
stairs and scream for Pete. She put her hand
on the handle, but she did not ease the door
quietly forward because open or locked she meant
to get into this room, so she thrust at it and it
sprang open, and there before her stood her
daughter.
Annie had been halted in her running, but
her running had definitely not been in fear for
her face was alight with laughter, as was the
man's. They were standing a yard apart now, staring
at her as if she were an apparition, and as she
stared back at the two stark-naked figures,
that of her daughter, different yet still her
daughter, and of a man of whom the recognition
burst something in her mind, she knew that if she
had been carrying a knife she would in this instance
have thrown it with her father's aim into his fat
white body. "Ma!" The word held amazement.
As Emma tore off her cloak and rushed
at her daughter, the man also rushed towards the
bed and, taking up a silken cover, pulled it
around himself; and then he stood glaring at her, the
hate in his eyes almost matching that in her own.
But now she was struggling with her daughter,
trying to keep the cloak round her until,
rage overcoming all her other momentary
feelings, she grabbed Annie by the hair and
dragged her out of the door on to the landing. But when
she saw Pete come running down the far
stairs, she pulled the door quickly closed behind
her. If Pete saw who was in there, there would be
real murder and he would hang. Oh yes, he
would hang.
She thrust the struggling figure of her
daughter towards him, saying, "Carry her."
And after one glance at the naked shoulders and arms
pushing out from the cloak, Pete grabbed up the
slight body and made for the lower stairs.
Stumbling after him, Emma looked down into the
hall. The woman was lying where she had fallen
at the foot of the stairs, her skirts well
above her knees and one leg twisted underneath her. But she was conscious, and her face
didn't look that of a woman but of a devil.
The two girls were crouched in a corner and on
the floor lay three men, one appearing to be
motionless; the big man was half propped up
against the wall, his hands tied behind him. His legs
likewise were tied, and there was blood streaming
down the side of his face. She remembered that
when he had entered the hall he had been
dressed in only his shirt and trousers. Now his
shirt was in ribbons hanging down over his belt
and there was a trickle of blood oozing out from a
spot near his ribs. The third man on the
floor was the mister. He lay on his side, his
hand to his head, and his hair and his hand were covered
with blood. The three sailors all looked the
worse for wear, but Pete called to Carl,
saying, "Here, take this one. Put her in the
cart. I'll be with you in a minute." And
to Johnny Robson and the small man, he
said, "Give me da a hand; I'll be there in
a minute." Then going across to the woman lying
at the foot of the stairs, he bent over her and
said, "You filthy old bitch, you! Now listen
here. If those lasses on the top floor aren't set free, them that wants to, and the
bairns sent back to where they came from by the
morrow night, I'll have every bloody
decent-minded man off that Newcastle
waterfront up here and if nothin' else
we'll burn you out, even if we've got
to swing for it. Do you hear? And you needn't bring
your friends the polis in, back-handers'll be no
good in this case." He thrust his foot against her
shoulder, and as she spun round on the linoleum
she groaned aloud. When he went to repeat the
process, Emma pulled at his arm, saying,
"Pete. Pete, come on. Come on."
They did not go out the way they had entered because
now the heavily barred front door was open, and
so they walked through it and into the darkness.
The street was still, there wasn't a movement in
it; if the rumpus had been heard the other
residents were minding their own business, likely
thinking it was the police who were doing some
investigating because they wouldn't all be blinkered
or bribed.
The cart was standing in the rough road bordering the
field. The mister was lying flat in the back of
it and in the light of the cart lantern Emma saw that Annie was still struggling in the
Swede's arms, but Pete, taking in the
situation, dragged her from him and standing her on her
bare feet in the road shook her by the shoulders
as he hissed down into her face, "Stop it! you
little bitch you. Stop it, or you'll get my hand
across yer lug."
She became quiet; and he hoisted her up
into the back of the cart; then, turning to Emma,
he said, "Get yersel' up, lass."
Emma eased herself over the tail-board and
next to her daughter, and she closed her eyes
tightly as if through a stab of pain as the girl
shifted her body away from her and pressed it
against the side of the cart. Dimly she heard
Pete saying to his mates, "See you in the
mornin' then, at the Bell, 'round twelve.
And ta ... thanks." There were muttered words and
then the cart rocked as Pete pulled himself up
into the seat beside Henry, and they were moving once
more.
Emma leant her head against the side of the
cart which rocked from side to side with the motion, and
her thoughts rocked with it. What now? How was she
going to keep her? How was she going to control her? This wild thing who hadn't wanted to be
saved from a life of degradation and iniquity.
Never until the day she died would she forget the
look of joy on her daughter's face as she
had first opened the door of that room and seen her
with that man. Dear God, that man! Only she
and Annie knew his identity. If she once
let that slip the world would explode. Yet, oh
how she wanted to bring him to justice, to see him
standing in a court of law exposed for what he
was. She had said a court of justice, but there
was no justice, there was nothing, nothing in this
life but pain, work and frustration ... and
beastliness.
They were now passing through one of the main
lamplit streets of the city and she turned her
head in amazement and looked at her daughter
who, from being crouched in the corner of the cart, was
now sitting upright, her head strained over the
side, presumably taking in the shops and
houses shown up in the lamplight. The action which
in itself was simple seemed to set the seal on the
creature her daughter had become. No ...
not had become, had always been. They were all in the sitting-room. Pete and
Emma were standing but Jake Yorkless was slumped
in a chair. His head was bandaged, and every now and
again he leaned it to one side and placed his hand
over his ear as if to ease the pain. But no one
of them was looking towards the bed where Barney
lay, his head turned to the side, his eyes
fixed on his daughter who was dressed in last
summer's frock, and the change in her was shown,
if by nothing else, by the fact that the hem of her
dress barely reached the bottom of her
calves and that her breasts were straining the
buttons at the front. But for the men gazing at
her, the change was more apparent in her voice and
brazen attitude, for now she was yelling at
them, "I'll not stay. You can't make me. I
hate it here. I always hated it here. It
stinks. Mud, animals, smells and ... and it's on you all." She now jumped back
towards the fireplace wall as Jake
Yorkless made to spring from his chair only to be
held back by Pete, saying, "Steady.
Steady. Watch your head," and he pressed his
father back into the chair for he was already holding his
head in both hands now as he muttered, "She's
gone demented."
"No, she hasn't gone demented, she knows
what she's saying."
They all looked towards Emma now where she
stood supporting herself against the back of the
horsehair chair, and she went on, still
quietly, "You've got to face up to it, all
of you, there's no difference in her now from what there
was before she left. It was there then, but you closed
your eyes to it, all of you." Her moving gaze
settled on Jake Yorkless, and he held it
for a moment before drooping his head and muttering,
"God Almighty! That this should come upon us. The
village will be alight by noon."
"It needn't be." Emma's voice was
quiet. "It can be said she's come back on her
own, she just walked in late last night.
She's been no further than Howdon staying with some folks, friends of yours." She
nodded again towards Jake Yorkless. "I've
told her what to expect if she says
otherwise." She turned and stared at her
daughter, and Annie returned her look
defiantly, as she had done half an hour
ago when Emma had said to her, "Open your mouth
as to who was your companion and your granda or
uncle will swing. You understand that, don't you?" And
Annie's answer had almost driven her to lift
her hand and fell her daughter to the ground, for she
had said, "I like him. He's nice. He
buys me nice things, scent and that."
They had been standing in the room that had once
been used by Barney and Luke. It was
situated above the sitting-room and she'd had
to clamp her hand tightly over her jaw to stop
herself screaming, but she hissed, "Shut up, you
dirty little trollop you!" And the helplessness of the
situation almost overcame her as Annie
retorted fearlessly, "I'll not shut up. And
you can't keep me locked up forever. He'll
come for me; you'll see."
Then overwhelming rage overriding all her
other emotions, she had sprung forward and gripped her daughter by the shoulders and had shaken
her till her head wobbled. And when she ceased,
the girl had leant against her for a moment gasping
and she thrust her from her, but had then leaned
towards her, saying, "You've got to promise
me one thing, just one thing, and I won't lock you
in. Don't mention his name downstairs. If
they ask you for names, or who took you there, say
you didn't know them by name. Just that, you didn't
know them by name." And she stopped herself from adding,
"Only by the sight of their nakedness." Then she
had stood looking down at the girl, her fair
hair tousled like that of a child about her face, her
blue eyes wide, her red lips in a wet
pout. Like this, she still appeared the child, and no
doubt she acted the child, but beyond that face there was a
woman, a ravenous woman that had come inffbeing a
long time ago.
As she lay wide-eyed in bed waiting for the
dawn, she had tried to find excuses for this
girl who was part of her, because she herself knew
only too well what suffering the frustrated
urge of the body could bring to a woman. At
times you longed for your body to be separated from
your mind, yet she knew it was in the mind that the longing started. Pictures of love
conjured up by the mind seeped like a poison into the
bowels and there brewed the torment. Oh, she
knew all about the longings of the body. But they
hadn't attacked her until she had become a
woman.
But when did one become a woman? This was the
question she had asked as she stared into the blackness
of the night, and when the answer had come to her, from
birth, when you first suckled the breast, she had
tossed her head against the idea, for that smacked
too much of the painter's reasoning. Oddly, her
mind would always call him the painter when she
connected her thinking with him.
At one point during the night she had argued
with herself. Who was she to condemn, what about the
parson? ... Dear, dear Henry. This disparity
in their ages now seemed little; yet hadn't she
loved him from the first time she set eyes on him,
when she was seven and he twenty-four years
old? What about that then? Oh that was different,
different, the parson was a man of God. ...
The parson was a man. And wasn't she
reminded of the fact every time their eyes met, so
much so that they didn't even dare touch hands. At first light she rose and went into her
daughter, and after their encounter she then brought her
down to face her father and the others, for what had
to be said amongst them had to be done before Jimmy
and Mary put in an appearance.
During the whole proceedings, Barney did
not open his lips, his head lay sideways on
the pillow; like the rest of his body, it too could have been dead. His eyes were unblinking as he
stared at his daughter, and she had hardly looked
at him since coming into the room. And her words
upstairs concerning him were still ringing in Emma's
ears, for she had said, "I don't like me da.
I never did, 'cos he's sickly." If
there was anything more needed to confirm that this girl was
so alien as to make her think that she hadn't been
born of her own flesh, it was this utter lack of
compassion. As she stared at her daughter now she
wondered what she was going to do with her, what
life was going to be like in this house from now on.
She would have to watch her every move.
When Barney's head moved on the pillow and
lay straight, his eyes staring upwards towards
the low ceiling, Emma went to her daughter and,
taking her arm, she pulled her out of the room, across the hall and into the kitchen, and there
she said, "You'll help Mary in the house.
You're not to put a foot outside this door
today, do you hear? Leave me to do the talking.
And--" She leaned forward to look hard
into Annie's eyes and, her voice low and
grim, she said, "And if I find you making up
to Jimmy, I'll take you up into that attic and
I'll whip the hide off you meself. Do you
hear?"
But if only Jimmy would take her and
marry her. That would be a life-saver. But
Jimmy was no fool, he had resisted her for
years and now he wouldn't likely touch her with a
barge-pole. As wouldn't any other lad in the
village. They might take advantage of
her nature. Oh yes, they would do that all
right, and she'd be only too willing to let them.
But marriage, no, because most of them had mothers,
and as mothers they weren't fools, they would put
two and two together as to where Annie Yorkless
had been over the past year; and her return would
certainly be linked up with her grandfather's bandaged
head and Pete's black eye and busted lip.
No; people weren't fools. She was turning away from her daughter when
Annie let out a long yawn and to Emma's
amazement she saw the girl stretch her arms
well above her head. It was as if she had just
awoken from a long and untroubled sleep; it was a
natural action, but under the circumstances it
caused Emma to turn away and walk into the
kitchen, her shoulders stooped, her whole
attitude one of hopelessness.
As she entered the yard Jimmy came through the
gap in the wall, and he touched his forelock,
saying as he did so, "Morning, missis."
"Good-morning, Jimmy."
"Gona be another fine day."
"Yes, yes, I should think so."
He came abreast of her now, saying,
"Riders out early this morning. Must have been up
afore their clothes is on." He laughed.
"The hunt?" There was a slight note of
surprise in her voice.
"Well, no not at this hour, but lady from the
House is out and about. Saw her jumpin' stile
further back and she's makin' for this way.
She'll be along in a minute, should say.
I've seen her out ridin' in the mornin's afore but not as early as this. She must like
gettin' up better'n I do." He grinned
at her, then went on towards the tack room.
She was about to turn and go into the byres when she
saw a horse and rider filling the gap. She
stopped in her stride, turned her head and stared
towards them, and when the rider's hand was lifted in
a beckoning motion she made no move towards
it. If Jimmy hadn't told her who it was
she would have recognized her, and she knew why
she was here. It wasn't until she saw her
dismount with the intention of leading the horse into the yard
that she herself moved.
Emma came to a stop about a yard from
Kathleen Fordyke. Neither of them spoke for a
moment; then Kathleen Fordyke said, "May I
have a word with you, Mrs Yorkless?"
Emma gave her no answer but continued
to stare at her until she saw the woman bow
her head and mutter in a broken voice, "It
is terrible that I should be called upon to do this."
Then after a moment, lifting her head, she added,
"Will you walk with me a little way along the
lane?"
Emma glanced back into the yard. It would be better to comply than to stand here because if Pete
or the mister saw who the early morning
visitor was they might start asking questions.
For answer Emma now walked out through the
gap, and Kathleen Fordyke, picking up the
skirt of her riding-habit in one hand, took
the horse's bridle in the other and slowly now
began to walk down the lane. Neither of them
spoke until, after some distance, they rounded the
bend when Kathleen Fordyke drew the horse
to a stop in the shadow of a clump of trees. And
now facing Emma, she said, "I ... I
don't know how to begin. I only want you to know
that I'm not doing this for my husband's sake."
The question, "Then whose?" was on Emma's lips
but she didn't voice it, she only stared at
the woman in front of her for whom she had
held kind memories over the years.
"I ... I am here to plead for your silence,
Mrs Yorkless, as I said, not for my
husband's sake, but for my sons'. They have
both grown up into fine men with excellent
careers, and ... and this has been a source of
comfort to me, seeing--" now she swallowed
deeply in her throat before she ended, "who their father is. Fortunately, they have
developed traits of my own father whom you will
remember was a fine old gentleman.
Well--" She now began to pick nervously
at the fabric of her riding-habit, an action
similar to that of plucking a chicken, and for a moment
Emma felt pity well up in her for this
woman and she could have stopped her talking at this
point by saying, "Don't worry, I don't
want this made public no more than you do, because
I have a care for my brother-in-law and even
... however little the regard I have for my
father-in-law, I would not wish to see him suffer
through what he might do to your husband;" but she
remained quiet, listening to the refined voice
saying, "My eldest son is to be married
next month. His future wife is of high
standing, her ... her mother is a lady-in-waiting
to the Queen. They are a truly religious
family, and should any ... of ... of this matter
be voiced abroad, then I'm afraid there would
be no marriage, and ... and John is in the
army, his career would be affected too. My other
son Peter is also engaged to be married. They
have both taken time in choosing wives and Peter's choice is ... is"--again she
swallowed--"is similar to that of his brother. It
is because of them that I am here, and ... and not because
of how the scandal would affect my husband for--"
Her head came up and her chin wobbled
slightly and her words seemed to tumble out now as
she said, "He ... he deserves
horsewhipping, and ... and not only now. Your
daughter is not the first. Oh no, no." Her
head now moved from side to side. "You are a
married woman and I can say this to you as one
to another, he and I have never lived together in that
way since my second son was conceived. It was
then I discovered his predilection. I was for
returning to my father at that time, but he, my
husband, swore it was but a slip and that there was
nothing other than a fondness that he felt for
... little girls. He hoped our second child
would be a daughter. I thank God she
wasn't. Later, again I was about to leave him but
on the advice of my father I stayed, for as he
said a reason must be given for our separation and
would I be able to stand up to the exposure of my
husband's weakness? I knew I wouldn't. The
disgrace would have been too humiliating. And my husband at one time said--" She
turned her head away now and, taking her hand from
the rein, she drew it down the horse's neck
as she added, "It was a sort of compulsion he
couldn't conquer and that the only happiness he had
in life was when he was with the young, and ... and that he
meant them no real harm."
"No real harm." Emma's voice
disturbed some birds in the trees behind them and as
they fluttered noisily away she put her hand
over her mouth. It was the first time she had spoken
and she had yelled. But wouldn't it make God
in heaven yell, this woman, this lady, to say that
such men as her husband meant no real harm to young
girls and little children? She felt sick.
"Oh, Mrs Yorkless, I can understand how you
feel, I can. Believe me I can, but I
beg of you not to take this matter up, not
to expose him. He ... he has promised it
will never happen again, because although he is what he
is, he is very fond of his sons and would not
willingly hurt them, especially their careers."
Emma closed her eyes for a moment; Dear
God! He would not willingly hurt his sons,
especially their careers. ... They thought differently, the gentry, they didn't think about
their lives, they thought about careers.
"He has said he will return the land to you and
... and even make it freehold. ..."
She only just stopped herself from yelling again, but
her voice now came from deep within her as she
said scathingly, "You can tell him I want
none of his hush money through the land. He took it
from us out of spite, well, he can't buy me with
it now. I want none of it."
There was silence between them for a moment; then
Emma watched the head in front of her bow low
and when the muttered words came to her: "I feel
humiliated to the soul of me," she had the
instinctive urge to put out her hand and touch the
woman and say, "It's all right. You needn't
worry," because it wasn't good to see a woman
of this standing brought low. And what she must have felt
when that white slug of a man crawled to her in the
night as he must have done, begging her to be the
means of shielding him from exposure.
It was of no comfort for her to realize that the rich
could also suffer the torments of the damned, even more
so than ordinary folk for they stood to lose more,
position, respect, the being brought down from high places, from pinnacles. The poor
had no pinnacles to cling to, so really their
suffering was more of the body than the mind. But here was
she herself, and she wasn't of the gentry and her
suffering was all of the mind.
As she couldn't stand to witness any more of this
woman's pain she said, her voice still stiff,
"You need have no worry. Up till now,
anyway, I've told no one and I've
warned my daughter what will happen to her grandfather
and her uncle should she mention your ... husband's
name, because then I wouldn't be responsible for what
would follow, especially from her uncle. But you
can tell him this from me, that my silence only
holds as long as he makes no move towards
her, nor pays one of his cronies to do so."
"Thank you. Thank you, Mrs Yorkless.
And ... and I can promise you there will be no
repetition. ..."
"How can you, if he's got an obsession like
that?"
Emma watched the head droop again and the
voice was merely a mutter now as the woman
said, "You're right; but ... but I swear to you he
will not come near your daughter again." The head lifted now. "May I add this: if ever you or
yours are in need of help which I could provide,
you have only to approach me. It is strange"
--a sad smile now touched the lips--"you know,
if my father had lived you yourself might have been in
a different position altogether. He talked of you
often. He recognized your intelligence and
felt that something should be done for you and was intending
to do it after your second visit, but then ...
well"--her shoulders moved slightly--
"God's ways are strange."
Emma could not stop the words spurting out: "And
man's more so."
"Yes, yes I agree with you, man's more
so."
They stared at each other; then Kathleen
Fordyke said again, "I'll be forever in your
debt, Mrs Yorkless. Now I will go.
Good-bye, and thank you." At this she led the
horse slightly forward, then looked about her
for a place from which she could mount, a tree stump,
or a gate, and after a moment's hesitation
Emma stepped forward and, joining her hands together,
she bent her body, indicating that she would act
as a hoist. But Kathleen Fordyke shook her head, saying, "No, no, Mrs
Yorkless. Thank you." As Emma straightened
her back and her hands dropped to her sides,
they again stared at each other and as equals for in
a strange way Emma knew that the woman in
refusing to use her as a hoist had lifted her
momentarily up to her own level, and on this
plane there rose in her for this woman a feeling
of respect that outweighed all other emotions
at the moment.
She stood now watching the rider and horse
walking up the lane. Then she turned and
walked slowly back into the farmyard.
Pete was at the far end, about to go into the barn,
and as she herself went towards the kitchen door it
opened and the mister came out, saying, "Pete's
yelling for you." And then he added, "Me head's
burstin', and what for, I ask you?" He glared
back into the kitchen and Emma said, "Wait, and
I'll bathe it for you."
"It's been bathed; it's no good; it feels
as if the fellow's boot went inside it.
I'll have to see the doctor."
She stayed a moment watching him go across the
yard, his shoulder hugged up to his ear. Last night the big man had kicked him in the head as
he lay on the floor and she had been told that
the man would have repeated the action if the little
fellow hadn't jumped on his back and knifed
him.
Last night was like a bad dream, a
mixed-up nightmare. Had she really seen men
battling with each other? And had she ever lifted
her foot and kicked an old woman in the
stomach? And her eyes ever witnessed what they
had when she opened those doors?
But it was no nightmare, as the figure
sitting to the side of the fireplace reminded
her. Her daughter wasn't sitting like an
unruly child hugging her knees, but rather like a
woman, her left hand under her right oxter and her
right hand gripping her left arm; and like this she was
rocking herself backwards and forwards.
"Set the breakfast."
When Annie didn't turn her gaze from the
fire Emma barked at her, "Did you hear
me?"
The girl now getting to her feet said,
"Aye, I heard you, but I'm not gona do
any work. I'm not used to it anyway. And I hate this place. It ... it ...."
"Yes, I know how it smells," Emma
interrupted her; "it smells of the earth, and that's
a clean smell, and you're goin' to help keep
it clean, because now you're goin' to set that table and
then you're goin' to get a bucket in your hand and
scrub out the hall and then this kitchen."
"I'll not."
"Oh well, we'll see if you won't.
Take your choice, it's either that or locked in
your room with bread and scrape. And you'll have
plenty of time to do nothing up there, for I'll
take the mattress away and your clothes. But
you won't mind that, will you? And anything else that
might give you comfort. Now I'm going in to your
father and when I return I'll know if you've
made your mind up or not."
With this, she turned abruptly and went out of the
kitchen and into the hall, and from there she heard
Barney shouting, "Emma! Emma!" As she
opened the door he had his mouth open ready
to yell again, and now he demanded, "Where've you
been?"
"Outside; there's things to see to."
"Aye. Aye." His head stopped moving restlessly on the pillow as he said quietly
now, "It's come to a pretty pass, by God it
has. I've had the worst night since this
happened." He now lowered his lids and looked
down the length of his inert body. "I couldn't
sleep, and of all things I kept thinking about
love." He glanced at her. "It became
strange, for in the darkness I imagined I could
see it. It was a funny experience. It
looked wider than the world; it had so many strings
to it and all tangled up with other strings, like
hate. Love's near hate, you know,
Emma." He slanted his eyes again towards
her. "I loved me ma at times, but at others
I hated her. And me da an' all. Aye,
I loved him once. And then there was our
Luke. That was a different kind of love, but
strong, it was like loving meself. Natural,
I suppose, with the same blood running in our
veins. Yet here I am, hating him with a
feeling stronger than any love I ever had for
him. The parson says it's no use hanging
on to retaliation, it only wears you out.
Well, our Luke left me nothing to wear out
but me mind and as long as that works I'll hate him. Then there was you, Emma." Again his
eyes were turned towards her, and he now kept
them fixed on her as he said, "I think I
loved you from the minute I first saw you, but there
came a time when I hated you. Aye, I did
when wantin' you and couldn't have you and you burnt me
up so much that you came between me and me wits.
Pictures of you blotted out everything I was
handling, whether it was milking, mucking out, herding the sheep, or ploughing. As the earth used
to spurn the blade as I went up the furrow and
showed itself naked, so I would see you, an' because
I couldn't ease meself on anybody
else, with you in me mind, I began for a time
to hate you. You never knew that, did you?"
She did not even shake her head, but stood
staring at him, thinking, He's talking just like the
parson, taking things to bits and looking inside
them.
When he looked away from her and up at the
ceiling he said quietly, "And there's the love
you feel when your child is born and you hear its first
cry. That's somethin' different altogether, as is the
hate you have for her knowin' she's gone wrong.
Why?" His head jerked upwards, his eyes glaring at her. "Knowing she comes from us two
ordinary living folk, I say again to you,
why?"
As she saw the tears spurting from his eyes
she could bear no more, she swung around and rushed
from the room.



Henry wrote in his book:

It has been a beautiful day; the sun has
been very hot, too hot. What a pity we have
no power to moderate the weather. Last week it
rained incessantly for days; added to which the wind
bleew and a lot of the crops looked
devastated. This week the sun has shone, but
again the weather has shown no happy medium.
It's like a capricious child, all sunshine or
tears. Which brings my mind to Emma and
Annie. I say brings, but is my mind ever
free from the former? She is looking so
care-worn, she has no flesh on her. And that
child ... no, she is a child no longer, not even a
girl. Yet she is not a woman. God help her, for she is the essence of
all mythology: she is Venus and she is a
Gorgon, for the child is ugly inside. When I
spoke to her, she answered me like a woman of the
streets. What's to be done? What is
Emma to do with her?
Emma is quiet now; she has very little
to say to me. She has told no one what she
witnessed upstairs in that house, except, as
Pete said, to say that the girl was with a man.
There is so much unhappiness around me, and in
me too. The bishop detected it yesterday.
"Are you well?" he said. "Yes, my lord,"
I answered. Then he said, "You seem
troubled. Is there anything you wish to tell me
about your parish?"
"No, my lord," I answered. "Very little
happens in the village"--and that was a lie--
"things go on as they always have done." And to this he
replied, "Then it's a happy situation."
Oh, if only I could have given the answer,
"It is not a happy situation, my lord, neither
physically, mentally, nor spiritually, and since
my spiritual welfare concerns yourself, I must
tell you that I no longer feel a man of God. ..."
Yet that would not have been right: it isn't that I
no longer feel a man of God, but that I no
longer feel able to accept all the doctrine that
man has put into the mouth of God, or, coming
nearer to earth, into the mouth of Jesus. His
enemies crucified Him, but his friends split
Him up into so many denominations that religion
has become like a parliament, one party fighting
for power against another.

He dipped his pen in the inkwell again and was
placing it on the paper when his hand flew
half-way across the page, ending in a scratch
and a blot, and he swung round in his chair
to see Miss Wilkinson standing in the middle
of the room. Still turned towards her, he put out
his right hand and closed the book as he said, "I
thought you had gone some time ago?"
"Well, I was doing the church for the morrow
with the flowers'n things. Mrs Wilson's hurt
her hand and you can never rely on Lily
Mason, and I was short of a vase. I ...
I came in to see if I could get you a
drink?" "No, thank you. I've already had
my evening meal, you know."
"Yes, I know; but that's a long time ago and
I just thought you might be thankful for a drink."
"No, thank you, Miss Wilkinson.
It's very kind of you, but I'll have nothing more
tonight."
She didn't move, but said now, "I've
mended that rent in your coat. I don't know how
you managed to do that."
"I told you, I caught it on a thorn
bush."
"Yes, yes, you told me."
Still she didn't move. And so, turning to the
desk again, he took up the book, placed it
in the drawer and locked it, then as usual put
the key in the inside pocket of his coat, and as
he turned back to her she said, "You know what
they're saying in the village, an' round about,
about the latest?"
"What is the latest, Miss
Wilkinson?"
"Well, you know as well as I do, about
Annie Yorkless being back, don't you?"
"Oh, that." He jerked his chin upwards and closed his eyes for a moment, saying, "Yes,
yes, everybody knows that Annie's back."
"'Tis a funny business that, don't you
think?"
"That she's back? She likely got
homesick."
"That's all in me eye an' Granny
Martin."
For a moment he felt inclined to laugh.
Anyone else could have repeated that saying, but coming
from the prim Miss Wilkinson, it wasn't in
keeping. However he managed to keep his face
straight as she went on, "Homesick?
Well, I wonder if it was her that gave her
Uncle Pete his black eye and split
lip, or knocked farmer Yorkless half
daft, as Mary Petty says, for he's gone
around holding his head for days. And it all
happened on the night she was supposed
to return home. People are not stupid, you know,
Parson, nor blind, and things link up. The
latest comes from young Simon Tate. He was out
rabbiting the very next morning and what does he
see? The lady of the manor, Mrs Fordyke
herself, and Emma Yorkless in deep conversation. And not at the farm, but along the lane,
hidden like, and this just turned six in the morning.
I bet you didn't know that."
She now nodded at him, and when he remained
silent she went on, "'Tis the opinion of
many in the village that young Annie Yorkless
has been in service of some kind through the
influence of Mrs Fordyke, that Emma, wanting
to push her daughter on, took advantage of the
times that she was invited up there by the old man to do
her circus tricks and got the girl set on
with some of her ladyship's friends."
"Don't be silly, woman. Have you
forgotten that Annie went missing."
"She was supposed to." Miss
Wilkinson's voice was stiff and her hands
joined at the band of her black serge skirt
showed the knuckles to be white where the bones were
pressing against her skin. "It was all a
tale."
"Why? In the name of God, why? Have they
worked that out?"
"No, but they will." Her head was nodding at
him now. "They're not the fools that some people take
them to be." "I'm surprised at that then, Miss
Wilkinson, because only a fool would suspect
there was any connection between Annie's
disappearance, or her return, and the Hall."
"You needn't get yourself in a frazzle,
Parson, I was just telling you what's been said,
thinkin' you should know 'cos ... 'cos it's my
opinion"--and now she made one deep
obeisance with her head--"that you close your eyes
and your ears to lots of things that should be stretching
them."
"That is enough, Miss Wilkinson."
Her mouth went into a tight line; then as if
it were being drawn by a thread, it puckered,
causing the lines of her skin to appear like
channels running from her nose. Swinging round,
she made for the door and from there her voice came
back to him. "I don't know why I stay
here," she said.
And he answered her, "I don't know either."
His words halted her for a second, and then the
door banged on her.
Sitting down at the desk again, he leant his
elbows on it and covered his face with his hands.
He said he didn't know why she stayed, he knew all right, and she had given herself
the place she desired, acting like a nagging
wife in all quarters of the house except his
bedroom.
After rising to his feet he walked to the
window. It was open, and, looking out into the darkening
night, he drew deeply on the soft warm
air. The window was at the front of the house and
faced the drive, and now he bent sharply forward
as he saw a figure coming down the drive.
He knew that step; he knew the height of
her; if she had been walking in a battalion
of women he would have recognized her. Within
seconds he was at the front door holding it
open, looking down at her as she mounted the
three steps.
"Emma."
"I've been to see Mary, she's ...
she's in a bad way. I couldn't get down
until now, with things to do and that ... and I thought
that if you weren't busy, I might ... I
might--"
Her words were low and hesitant and he held
out his hand towards her, saying, "Come in. Come
in." When he had closed the door he pointed towards the sitting-room, saying, "It's many
years since you were in this house, Emma."
"Yes it is. The last time I came
to Sunday school, I think."
They were in the sitting-room now and she looked
about her. She considered the farm to be rather comfortless,
though the cushions and covers and mats that she had
made over the years during the long winter
evenings had added a little warmth here and there; but this
room was stark, not that the furniture wasn't
good, she could see that the chairs and tables were
made of either mahogany or oak, but everything in
the room appeared heavy, brown and drab. The
floor was covered with brown linoleum and even the
mat at the fireplace was brown.
"Sit down." He had drawn a chair
forward towards the window, and he added, "The
light's fading, but I never light the lamp
until I must, I like the twilight."
After he was seated opposite to her they
became silent while they looked at each
other, and then she turned her head from him and
gazed out of the window as she said, "I ... I
suppose I shouldn't have bothered you, but when I was in the village, well, it suddenly
struck me--" She was looking at him again as
she finished rapidly, "I had to speak
to someone, talk to someone about it. I promised
I wouldn't but I can talk to you and it will never go
further. There was no chance up there; anyway,
I couldn't talk about it up there."
When she stopped for a moment he said softly,
"Something else has happened?"
"No"--she shook her head--"it's already
happened, it's filling my head both night and
day. I thought if perhaps I told you, it would
... well ... Oh I don't know." She
put her hand to her throat.
"Does it concern what you saw upstairs in
that house?"
"Yes," she nodded at him; "but not only
that, it's ... it's who I saw, the man I
saw Annie withandthe condition they were in."
"Luke?" His voice was merely a whisper,
but she shook her head quickly, saying, "No,
no. I could have understood it more if it had been him. No, it wasn't Luke. But he was in
on it. Oh yes, I know that, he was in on it.
No, it was--" For a moment it appeared that there was a stoppage in her throat and that only
by gulping quickly could she get rid of it, and after
a moment she released the name from her lips,
"Mr Fordyke."
Slowly his body bent towards her, his mouth
opened, his eyes narrowed, his mouth closed again
before he said softly, "Emma, do you know what
you're saying?"
"Yes, I know what I'm saying."
"Mr Fordyke?"
"Yes, Mr Fordkye."
"You couldn't have been mis ...."
"No, no, I couldn't have been mistaken.
He hadn't a stitch on him, but I not only
recognized him, he recognized me, and for the
moment was frightened out of his life, so much so that he
crawled to his wife and she came to me early
that following mornin' and begged for my silence.
And although I promised her for her sake and that of
her sons, who I understand are about to be married,
I still want to stand in the village square and
scream his name out aloud. Can you understand that?"
He made no answer but he got to his
feet and walked away from her to the end of the
room, where he stood for a moment before turning towards her again; and as he looked down
on her bent head he thought: A few minutes
ago I scorned the villagers through Miss
Wilkinson, thinking them a lot of ignorant
tactless fools, but, as many of them were apt
to say, they knew how many beans made five,
and in connecting Annie with the Hall, they had
been on the right road but had gone off on the
wrong track.
Emma raised her head, saying softly,
"I had to tell someone."
"And who better than me? But it's lucky
Pete didn't know of this, or else the
business might have been more serious than it is."
"Yes." She looked towards the window again,
saying now, "I miss Pete; he was such a
help in all ways. I wish he'd come back
to the farm, but I doubt now that'll ever be for
he's met a young lady. She's the sister of
one of his shipmates; they live in London.
He talked quite a bit about her. I think he
might be serious, and should he marry he'll
dock there and we'll see less of him than
now."
"Yes, that's possible." Henry nodded at her; then said, "I talked with him yesterday for a
few minutes while he was waiting for the carrier
cart. He says it will be a short trip this
time, just a few months perhaps, a year at the
most. His face is still badly bruised and I
asked him if there would be any comment on board.
He laughed and said, "They only comment on you
after shore leave if you return with a clean
face and your hair still on." He has a
sense of humour, has Pete."
He now took the seat opposite to her again
and asked, "How is she?"
"Still defiant, and lazy; she works only
because if she doesn't I lock her up. What
am I going to do?"
When she held out her hand as if in plea
towards him he instinctively grasped it. It
was the first time since she had married that he had
touched her hand, and the feeling that went through him was as
if he had plunged his arm into fire yet without
experiencing the agony of burning. Her hand was
rough, the palm hard, but from it he was now drawing
a feeling that coursed like fire through his body.
He whispered her name softly now, saying,
"Emma. Oh Emma." And she remained still, not answering, simply staring through the
dimming twilight into his face. Then as if
she had been stung she jerked her hand from his and,
springing to her feet, she turned her back on
him, saying, "I've got to go, it's getting on late."
When he made no response she turned
again and saw him standing with his head deeply bent,
and she said, "I'm sorry."
"So am I." He was looking at her now and
he repeated, "So am I, and for so many things.
Yet, no, I take that back, I'm not
sorry that you came into my life, nor that you're
still in it."
"You should have moved on to another parish," she
said quietly.
"Yes, it would have been wise, I
suppose, but the price of wisdom in this case
would have been too great." He sighed. "I'll
walk a little way with you; we'll go out through the
back."
As she followed him out of the back door and
through the large overgrown garden she was quite aware
why he had chosen this way: they could reach the
coach road without passing through the village; there was only one cottage on the way, that of old
Janet Crosby and she was bedridden most of the
time. They could of course meet someone on the
road, but it was hardly likely at this time of
night; the model citizens in the village
went to bed with the dark to save oil; the others, at
least the male section of them, would be in The
Tuns.
Having reached the coach road, they walked not
close but not too far apart. They were like a
couple out for an evening stroll and as such he
remarked on the weather. "It's a beautiful
evening," he said, and she answered, "Yes, it
is. And it was a very red sunset, which augurs
good for the morrow."
"Yes; yes, indeed."
As they turned from the coach road on to the
lane that led to the farm, she wanted to say,
"Don't come any further," but such was the longing
in her to lengthen these moments alone with him,
to walk with him like this, that she made no protest.
But half-way along the lane he stopped and,
turning to her, said, "I'll come no further,
Emma. I ... I think I'll cut across the
fields and have a word with Ralph. I haven't seen him for three or four days."
"I saw him yesterday."
"How did you find him?"
"Not too bad at all. He's ... he's
like a creaking door, I think he'll go on for
ever."
He paused, then said, "I would like to think
so."
The twilight had almost gone; their faces were
veiled with the coming darkness, the slightest move and
they could have fallen against each other, and as if he
had suddenly become aware of the danger, as she
herself had earlier on, he stepped back from her,
saying, "Good-night, Emma," and, turning
abruptly, hurried away across the field.
Very soon he was lost to her sight and, as she
was wont to do when greatly distressed, she
clamped her hand across her mouth before she too
turned and forced herself to walk towards the farm
whereas the urge in her was to throw herself into the
grass and to cry her heart out at the hopelessness
of her life at this present moment and the fear of
what this hopelessness might drive her to in the
future.
There was a light in the cottage and Henry,
after tapping on the door, went to open it, but
finding it locked, which was unusual, he called,
"You there, Ralph?"
After a moment the door was opened and Ralph,
dressed in a thick rough dressing-gown although the
night was so warm, said, "Yes, I'm here; where
do you expect me to be? And what's brought you out
at this time of night?"
"I was taking a stroll to calm my nerves
and I saw your light in the distance. What are you
doing up so late?"
"Oh, I can't sleep these nights and I
find it's much more comfortable in front of the fire."
As he took his hat off Henry turned
round and looked at the door, saying, "You never
used to lock it. Have you had an intruder?"
Ralph sat down in his chair, pulled the
dressing-gown over his knees, and arranged its
lapels over his chest before saying, "Not yet; but
it's prevention."
"What do you mean?"
Ralph put his hand into his hair now and
scratched his scalp for a minute before saying,
"You've been up above these last few days?" "Yes, the day before yesterday."
"How did you find Lady Annie?"
"Much as I told you in the first place,
defiant, if not more so."
"Who's keeping an eye on her?"
"Well, now Pete's gone there's really
only Emma, because Farmer Yorkless is in a
bad way. That blow to his head is becoming
serious; I think there must have been some internal
damage done."
"Where are they sleeping her?"
"Annie?"
"Who else?"
"Well, as far as I know in the upper
room. And Emma locks her in at night."
Ralph now put his head back and laughed,
repeating, "Locks her in at night. By!
if ever there was a born madam in this world, she's
one. I thought they were made by circumstance, or
came to it by the evil touch of man. ..."
"Look, talk plainly, Ralph. What
are you getting at?"
"Only that our dear little Annie manages
to escape her prison at night."
"No!" "Oh yes. There you've got"--he jerked his
head now--"the reason for the locked door."
"She's been here?"
"Not exactly; but she certainly had it in
mind."
"Explain yourself."
"I will, Parson, I will," Ralph said
mockingly. "It was around one o'clock this morning.
The old machine here"--he patted his chest--
"was working at top speed. I got up to have a
drink. I passed the window there"--he pointed
--"the moon was shining and at first I thought:
Ralph, you've done it at last; you've died,
old fellow, and here's one of the angels come
to guide you to your heavenly home, because there, coming
along the road, was what I took at first to be
an apparition. Then, as the saying goes, my
eyes nearly popped out of my head when it
paused at the gate and I recognized the
angel. She had grown certainly, but no one
could mistake our Annie, could they? I
don't know what she had on her feet, but I
do know what she had on her body, and it was
simply her nightgown. Of course, the night
was warm, but as you yourself know a cold mist can roll up in a second. Still, I
don't suppose that would have affected dear
Annie, for there she stood at the gate
deliberating. Yes, I'm positive of that,
she was deliberating whether to come in or not.
Fortunately, she moved straight on and I
breathed again, because, Parson"--his voice was still
mocking--"I cannot give you my word that I would have
been able to withstand her charms at that time of ...."
"Shut up!" Henry was on his feet.
"Oh, don't sound so shocked. It isn't
like you."
"I am not shocked, I am only defending
your character against your opinion of yourself."
"It's very kind of you, Henry, it is."
Ralph looked at his friend, a half-smile
on his face, then said seriously, "In my
opinion it's a great pity they ever brought her
back. Emma had enough on her hands without this. And
I'll tell you something, Henry, while I'm
on. I'm worried about that girl, Emma I
mean. I fear she's at breaking point. And
no wonder. And the visitors are not helping.
She was telling me yesterday she's being
plagued: she didn't know she had so many well-wishers, she said; people that she's hardly
spoken two words to hereabouts dropping in on her
just to say how pleased they are that she's got her
daughter back, and wanting to meet the
daughter."
"She said nothing about this to me."
"Well, you're not her only confidant and
she's likely afraid you'll go to your
parishioners and tell them to mind their own
bloody business or else you'll name them from the
pulpit for lack of charity."
His bantering tone changed again and he added,
"Have you heard anything further about the house in
Newcastle?"
"No; only that when the police went the
following day after being notified of what
happened, they found the whole house empty;
stripped of furniture, too, not a stitch of
anything in it."
"Amazing. Yet not so. That madam would
likely have a number of such going, and willing
hands make labour light, so they say.
Anyway, what do you think should be done about the
midnight strolls?"
"Emma will have to be told." "Yes, I thought of that, but how can
she prevent her, short of tying her up? You
know what I would do if I were her?"
"No."
"I'd let her get out during the daytime and go
back to where she's been for the past year, because if
anybody was made for it that girl is. And
you'll never alter her, not in this life."
If only because of his calling, Henry should have
protested loudly at this, but he said no word because
he knew that what Ralph had said was
absolutely true. Annie, only God
knew why, had been made for that kind of thing.
Yet he did not want to connect "that kind of
thing" with the midnight strolls for he remembered
that her mother, his dear, dear Emma had been in the
habit of taking midnight strolls.
As if Ralph had just that moment picked up
his thoughts, he said, "Funny, but Emma used
to take midnight jaunts when a girl,
didn't she? Yet it would seem it's the only
thing she's passed on to her daughter and our dear
Annie is not going to waste the trait if she
knows anything about it. I wonder what will happen
if she meets up with someone, say one of the poachers, or the moler." He began to laugh
now as he ended, "You know, she'd be
disappointed, for at the sight of her in that white
nightie they'd take to their heels and run,
especially if they'd just left The Tuns."



Emma had imagined that nothing more her daughter
could do would have the power to upset her further; yet
the news that Annie had been walking the
countryside in the middle of the night in her
nightgown raised such anger in her that she felt
capable of murder. However, she had warned herself
that shouting and yelling, and shaking and slapping, had
proved of no avail, she must try other
tactics, she must try to reason with the girl.
And that's what she had been doing for the last
half-hour or so. Annie was sitting on the
edge of the pallet bed in the attic, her
ankles crossed, her knees sticking up at
an angle so that her calves were exposed making
Emma want to interrupt her reasoning and say,
"Pull your clothes down, girl. That's how
boys sit." And she might have done so except she felt that her daughter would have
laughed.
When she had confronted her with the fact that she
had been out at night, the girl had answered
calmly, "Well, you won't let me out on
me own during the day, will you, Ma?" And when she
had come back sharply, saying, "I should have thought
you would have been used to being locked in by now,"
Annie had retorted, "'Twasn't like that at
all, I wasn't locked in."
And now Emma had become reduced
to pleading: "Annie--" She leant towards the
girl saying softly, "Won't you try to be
different? Try to act like other young lasses of
your own age, just until it's time for you
to marry?" Her words were crushed by the thought, who
would marry her? Who would take her on? No
one from around here, that was certain. But she ended,
"You could be married when you're fifteen."
Annie made no response to this and Emma
straightened herself and asked now, "What makes
you do it? Why?"
The girl lifted her head and for the first time her
face looked serious, as her voice sounded when
she said, "I don't know, Ma; I've always felt like this. I want ... well, I want"
--she shook her head--"I don't know how
to put it."
Emma's own head now moved slowly from
side to side and, her gaze directed to the bare
wooden floor, she said, "It's bad,
Annie, it's bad."
"No, Ma."
"What!" Emma was looking at her daughter
now through narrowed eyes. "You don't think it's
bad?"
"No, Ma. ... And Ma--" Annie
uncrossed her ankles and, drawing her feet
under her, she half knelt up and leant towards
Emma, saying in a tone that held a plea and
seemed to ask for understanding, "I ... I liked
it there. I did, I did, Ma. Don't
look like that, Ma. 'Twas a nice house and
'twas warm; it had nice furniture and
lovely curtains and we had lovely things
to eat."
"Oh, Annie. Annie." Emma's head
dropped on to her breast and Annie said, "We
weren't locked in like you think. Well, at least
I wasn't, or Alice or Rene, and Mrs Boss took us out. ..."
"Mrs Boss?"
"Well, she was called the boss an' we
called her Mrs Boss. And she did, she
took us out on a Saturday. We went to the
market, and once"--her face spread into a
wide smile--"we went to the Newcastle
theatre. Eeh! it was lovely, Ma,
beautiful, the ladies on the stage. And we were
dressed up to look like ladies an' all."
"Be quiet, Annie! Be quiet!"
Emma's face was screwed up tight.
"But Ma, I'm just tryin' to tell you. And
Fordy, Mr Fordyke, he was kind. I liked
him, Ma."
Emma rose hastily from the broken-backed
chair, crying now, "Shut up! Shut up!"
"Ma! Ma!"
The cry halted Emma as she reached the low
door of the attic that led into the bedroom and, with
her hand on the sneck, she said, "Yes, what
is it?"
"Ma"--her daughter was behind her--"don't
lock me in, please Ma. I promise I
won't go out at night. Honest to God I won't go out at night." Slowly Emma
turned round and faced the girl and she repeated,
"You promise?"
"Yes, Ma. But will you let me walk round
in the daytime on me own?"
Emma swallowed and looked to the side, and
Annie said, "I won't go far; I just like
to wander the fields."
"Have I your word that you won't run away
again?"
"Yes, Ma."
"And you won't go near the village?"
"Oh no, Ma." Annie's voice was
louder now. "I won't go down there; they
don't like me down there, the women anyway."
Oh Lord, Lord, what was she to do? She had
no choice; and so she said to her daughter now,
"Come down into the kitchen and do the dishes and
clean up; Mary's legs are too bad, she
won't be able to make it for days, and I have your
granda in bed this mornin'."
"All right, Ma." The voice was full of
willingness. "And ... and I'll dust the rooms
if I can go out this afternoon. Can I?"
For answer, Emma nodded her head twice; then bending her back, she went through the
door, and Annie followed her.
When they were on the landing Annie ran ahead
of her down the stairs, and Emma stood watching
her for a moment, the pain in her heart so great that
she likened it to a crucifixion. ...
"This all comes about of foreign blood."
Jake Yorkless spoke from the bed in which he was
propped up, his hand held seemingly now in a
permanent position against the side of his head.
"Nowt in my family that would bring out anything like
this, nor was there in Lizzie's as far as I know
but that foreigner of a circus man."
"He was a Spaniard, and he wasn't a
circus man, and as far as I remember he was
a good and respected man, and there's nothing in
me that I have passed on to Annie. But if I
recall what you said on the night of my wedding,
that your grandfather tried his son's bride first, then
I don't think you've got to look much further
for the reason why your granddaughter is as she is.
'Tis known that these traits jump generations.
..."
"By God! if my head wasn't in this state
I'd give you the length of me tongue, if not me hand."
"You'd give me neither, mister, and you know it.
I was pretty young when I took your measure.
You made a brave show of going rescuin'
Annie, but underneath you were like a frightened rabbit.
You've always been like a frightened rabbit; if you
hadn't been, you would have married me granny and
not the tartar you took on although she had her
belly full of you. Now, I've seen to your
head, and the doctor says that you've got
to rest." And on this she turned away and lifted
the bowl of water from the washhandstand, and as she
passed the foot of the bed he said, "What's
goin' to happen down yonder?"
She paused for a moment, looking over the
brass rail as she said, "I don't know.
Something will have to go, and it'll have to be the house, for
we depend on the animals for our bread and
there's no money to hire another hand, at least
not that I know of. Do you know of any?" She
watched his eyelids flicker before he replied,
"How should I?"
"Well, you do the buying and selling."
"You know what I get and you know where it
goes." "I thought I did."
On this she turned and left the room, thinking
as she went down the stairs, Yes, I thought
I did, but Jimmy had come back from the
market yesterday after delivering butter and eggs
and milk and he had given her three shillings and
sixpence more than the mister was supposed to get
for the same amount of produce.
Her next task before she went outside was
to go and see to Barney. When she entered the room
his voice was querulous as he greeted her,
saying "Here it is near the end of the morning and
I haven't seen a soul. Where've you been?
What's happenin'?"
"I told you, your father's in bed, the doctor
says he's got to stay there, and Mary hasn't
come, and she's not likely to with the state of her
legs, so there's only me and Jimmy." She
did not mention Annie's name to him as he
hadn't spoken it since the morning he had
talked of love that had turned to hate.
"What's to be done?"
She did not answer him in the same vein as
she had answered his father but said, "Don't
worry; we've weathered storms before, this one will pass."
"Not before they bury you."
"Well, you only have to die once, so they
say."
Softly he said, "I get lonely,
Emma."
"I know you do." She went closer to him and
took his hand, adding, "I wish I could be with you
more."
"'Tisn't fair." His lips trembled
slightly. "This place has turned you into a
cart-horse, more so, because horses get their rest
periods. 'Tis a good job you're healthy, with
no aches and pains. They say the wiry ones
last the longest."
If there had been a laugh left in her she
would have bellowed. Did she ever have any aches and
pains? Her body should be inured to aches and
pains, yet when she dropped into bed at night
there was a protest in every limb; but it was worse
in the morning when every fibre of her being resisted
rising from the bed. Did she ever have any aches
or pains! But what were body pains compared to those
of the heart? Oh, for God's sake, don't
let her start on that tack at this time of the day, especially with all that lay before her.
She was about to say, "I must get going,
Barney," when his next words stayed her. "I
don't want to see the parson today," he said.
"You don't want to see ... why? I thought
you looked forward more than anything to his readings
and your chats and ...."
"Well, I just don't want to see him
today." His voice had changed, the whole
expression of his face had changed, and her
voice changed, too, when she retorted,
"All right, all right, you don't want to see
him, so I'll tell him. I'll say to him,
"Parson, Barney doesn't want to see
you. You've travelled this road for years now
coming up here in rain, hail and sunshine, when many
a time you must have had better things to do, but you just
wanted to help somebody out. But now I've
got to tell you that that somebody doesn't want
to see you. No explanation, just that, he
doesn't want to see you.""
She was really glaring down at him when he
came back at her, saying, "Well, what's
the good, where's it gona get me, eh? All the
readin' of books and discussin', discussin'. Discussin' writers and them what's running the
country, not forgetting religion. Where is it
gona get me? I'll end up in a box and the
sooner the better." She did not now soften and
say, "Oh, don't talk like that, Barney,"
but what she said was, "Yes, if that's how you
feel, the sooner the better, for if you're just
going to lie there like a stuffed dummy waiting for
my flying visits then I agree with you."
She watched him turn his head to the side and
mutter something, and when she said, almost demanded,
"What was that you said?" he moved his eyes in her
direction and, his voice loud now, he cried,
"You're gettin' hard. You never used to be like
this."
Her voice matched his now as she replied,
"I never had a farm to run practically on
my own; I never had another sick man
upstairs; and I never had a daughter that is a
...."
She had almost said the word. What was she coming
to, going for Barney like this? She should be able
to understand and sympathize with his frustration, but at
the moment she was carrying more burdens than her
back could or would bear and if something didn't happen to relieve her then she would
surely sink under them.
She turned and was at the door when his voice halted her, saying pathetically, "Emma." And
now she looked at him and her voice quiet,
even soothing, she said, "'Tis all right,
Barney, 'tis all right. I'll be back
shortly."
And her burdens seemed immediately to be
lightened when, in the kitchen, she saw her
daughter scrubbing the table with sand and she was quick
to notice there were no dishes in the shallow sink,
and when the girl smiled at her, her face so
fresh, fair and innocent looking, she wanted
to throw her arms about her and hug her tight into her
breast for she felt she had been given a
sign: her daughter could change, her daughter
would change; she would grow up and marry and be like
other girls. Please God. Please God.

Jimmy came earlier and stayed later.
Emma rose earlier and went to bed later.
Annie did not rise before seven but from then
until three in the afternoon she worked in the house and
without a word of grumbling. But after that time she would go upstairs, wash herself, put on a
clean
frock, tie a ribbon in her hair, then go out
whatever the weather. If it was raining she put on
Emma's old cloak, if it was fine she went
out as she was and with no covering on her head either of
cap, bonnet or hat, which was a daring gesture
in itself. But Emma did not reprimand her, for
Annie had promised she would walk no farther
than Openwood one way, to the coach road the
other, and on the path that led to the river she would
stop at the old turnpike. Sometimes she would
be out for three or four hours. Out of
curiosity, mixed with fear, Emma had one day
followed her and for part of the time she saw that she
sat on a knoll overlooking the coach road
but some good distance from it, then she crossed the
fields in the other direction and sat on the
stile near the old turnpike.
Another time when Emma went out after her, if
she hadn't caught a glimpse of the wind blowing
Annie's loose fair hair above the grass
she might have stepped on her had she walked
on; but then she saw her rise from her elbow and
place something round her neck, it was a daisy
chain. The sight had caused Emma as much pain as if she had found her daughter out in
another indiscretion. ...
And so the summer wore on. Once or
twice Emma had experienced the old dread and
fear when Annie did not return till
dusk; but these times were few and far between.
Jake Yorkless had become worse, and now
there was talk of him being taken to hospital.
Over the past weeks a lump had emerged behind
his ear which the doctor said would need medical
attention. Emma had to face the fact that she
wasn't upset by this decision, forof all her
tasks the nursing of the mister was the most trying,
and the most thankless, for he never had a civil
word for her and there was scarcely a time when she
entered the room but he would upbraid her for being
the cause of his trouble: if she hadn't had a
daughter like she had this wouldn't have happened to him.
He seemed to have forgotten that he had ever adored
his granddaughter, and just as it seemed his son had,
so he too had thrown off all
responsibility for her; never once yet had
Barney asked to see the girl, nor had she
visited him or even mentioned his name; it was as
if he didn't exist for her. One task she'd had to let fall from her shoulders and that was
the work down at the cottage. She still baked
bread for Ralph, but she had got a woman from
the village to do the cleaning and cooking for him.
However, she made a point of slipping in
to see him now and again. At such times as when she
was tatie or turnip-picking in the bottom
field she'd fill a basket, hurry along
the road with it and there have a few words with him.
She had seen a difference in him these last few
months and she thought it would be a miracle if
he survived the coming winter; the disease was reaching
its height and she knew that when he went she would
miss him. He was someone she felt who had
always been in her life, someone who had been
kind to her and who had loved her. Yes, who had
loved her, and still did. ...
It was the beginning of November when they took
Jake Yorkless into hospital. The day was
biting cold. They brought him downstairs
wrapped in blankets and laid him on the
flat farm cart. Jimmy drove it and Emma
sat in the back and tried to make the journey as
comfortable as possible for the irate man, and irate
he was. But she could understand more now his irritation, for the doctor had explained
to her that he suspected there was something touching the
brain. This kind of thing often altered a man's
character, he said, but he would soon be himself again, they
were very clever in the Newcastle Infirmary and the
doctors there did all kinds of marvellous
operations.
Last night she had tried to convey this to her
father-in-law, but his response had been to tell
her that she had always wanted him out of the way so
she could run the place on her own, as if she
hadn't been doing that for months now.
She had always liked Newcastle, that was
until that night she had made the journey in the
dark; now, all she wanted was to get out of it.
The ward they carried him into was a bare
place. It had beds along each side with men in them, some lying prone, some propped up, all
looking ill. The place smelt strongly of
carbolic combined with the smell of a dirty
floorcloth that hadn't been wrung out to dry:
sour, arid.
A big woman dressed as a nurse told
her to wait in the corridor for his things, and when
they were later brought to her the big woman appeared again and said, "You can have a few
minutes, that's all."
When she stood looking down on the man who
had been her master since she was seven years
old she did not chide herself because she could rouse
no feelings of pity for him, for he had worked her
hard all her life. She couldn't remember
him giving her one kind word, and lately she had
wondered at times how she had suffered him while
tending to his needs ... all his needs, for he
had been completely bedridden for the past month.
Yet she managed to say, "You'll soon be
well; they're very clever here, as I told you."
"Bloody liars, the lot of them, you an'
all. You want to see me finished, don't you?
And 'tis all through you I'm here, don't forget
that. If I die I'll be on your conscience.
Just remember that. Got me clothes there I can
see, sell them likely."
She turned away for she could stand no more and
when she got outside the hospital gates and
climbed up on to the seat where Jimmy was
sitting patiently waiting, he looked at her
and said, "Don't cry, missis, he'll be
all right." And she turned to him and slowly she
said, "Jimmy, I'm not crying for the mister,
I'm crying because I'm sorry for meself."
He smiled at her broadly now, saying,
"Not you, missis, not you. Got too much
gumption. Me ma said that an' all just last
night. She said you must have gumption to put up
with what's been shovelled on you."
She dried her eyes and smiled at him, then
said, "Let's get back, Jimmy." ...
But his repeating of what Mary Petty had
said was literally made evident when they entered the
yard, for the first thing she saw was that the coalman
had been and there on the ground near the
coal-house was a huge load of coal.
"Crickey! that would have to come the day, wouldn't
it?" Jimmy jerked his chin upwards. "And
there's the milkin' and the horses."
"You see to the animals, Jimmy, and
I'll see to the coal."
"No, no, missis."
"Yes, yes; you're better at the horses
than I am, and they behave for you. Paddy
made to bite me yesterday."
"He makes to bite me every day. He's a devil is that one, but he can pull. He's
got his good points, and that's what we need him
for, isn't it, missis, pullin'?"
"Yes, yes, that's what we need him for,
Jimmy." She was making her way towards the
kitchen door when it opened and Annie stood
there bright-faced greeting her with, "You frozen,
Ma?"
"Yes. Yes, I am cold. I shouldn't
be surprised if we haven't some snow
shortly."
Annie stood back, the door held
wide, and Emma saw why: the table was set for
tea; there was a plate of cut
bread-and-butter, a dish of apple jelly
preserve; there was the remains of the boiled
bacon they'd had for their dinner yesterday; there were
two cups and saucers set beside the plates; but
best of all there was a tray with a single cup on
it and a plate holding two bacon sandwiches.
She turned and looked at her daughter.
Annie's face was bright, like that of a child who had
presented her mother with a surprise present.
Again she wanted to put out her arms and draw her
tight, but something held her back; yet she said with deep feeling, "Oh, that is
nice. What a welcome! And is the tea
mashed?"
"Yes, Ma. I poured the water on as
soon as I heard the cart come in. It should be
drawn in a minute."
"Oh, I could do with a cup of tea."
"I'll pour it out for you, Ma."
As she took her hat and cloak off she
watched her daughter scurrying backward and
forward between the fire hob and the table, and again she
wanted to cry. Things would come right, there were all
the signs of it. She didn't know how long they
would keep the mister in hospital. Likely
when he returned he would no longer be bedridden
and perhaps his temper would be improved too. But that
was in the future. Here she was drinking a cup of
tea and eating bread-and-butter that her daughter
had made ready for her. The load of coal that
she had to move would appear light after this. ...
Half an hour later she had changed into her
working clothes, seen to Barney, and now she was about
to tackle the coal, but because it was growing
rapidly dark she lit a lantern, and as she
did so Annie, coming to her side, said, "I'm going out for a little, Ma."
"But it's on dark, lass."
"I know, but I want a breath of air and
I won't stay out long. I promise you.
I'll just walk down to the road and along by the
field. I won't be long. But I've been
in the house all day and ...."
"All right, all right; but come back before it's
real dark, won't you?"
"Oh aye, Ma."
"Wrap up well, it's enough to cut you in two
now."
"Yes, Ma. I'll put a shawl over
my head."
"Do that. Do that."
Emma went outside, and Annie now ran
down the room and, taking a coat from a wooden rack that was nailed to the back door, she
hurriedly dragged it on. The sleeves were much
too short and the hem of it hardly came to below
her knees. From another peg she took down a
shawl which she threw over her head, crossed the
ends over her breast and tied them in a knot at
the back. Then she ran back to the kitchen
door, but after opening it her walk was slow and it even turned into a saunter as she
passed her mother who was shovelling the coal
into wooden buckets at either side of her
prior to carrying them into the coal-house and she
said, "Won't be long, Ma."
"All right, all right, Annie." Emma
had paused for a moment, and she shook her head,
wondering again at her daughter's craze for
wandering. Perhaps it was because she had been shut up in
that place so long. Yet, in her own words, she
hadn't considered herself as having been shut up;
in fact, even before that business started she had
wandered. Was that something she had inherited from her own
line, from her grandfather who had wandered from one town
to another, and from herself who had loved to wander when
she was a child? Oh, enough that her daughter was changing
for the good now. ...
When Annie was through the narrow alleyway between
the stables and the barn her sauntering ceased and she
began to run, then skip, and the path she skipped
along was not that towards the coach road but one that
went off at right angles in the direction of the
river and Openwood. Openwood was now wired
off but the wire was obliterated by a dense growth
of scrub that had been left uncut over the years. There were openings here and there where someone
had
forced their way through, likely poachers, and it was
to one of these that Annie made her way, even
though it was almost dark now.
She did not go through the opening but stood to the
side, her head cocked as if listening, and when
the sound of crushed undergrowth came to her she
smiled and her smile broadened into a grin when
a voice said, "You there, Annie?"
"Aye, Uncle."
"How's tricks?"
"Fine. They took me granda into hospital
the day."
"Did they now? Did they now?"
"He's gona have an operation."
"Is he now? Is he now?"
The voice being thrown forward through the hedge
appeared bodyless.
"Did you find them, Uncle?"
"I did, Annie. I did that."
"Did you tell her what I said?"
"I did that an' all, Annie. Yes,
I did that an' all."
"And what did she say?"
"Well, what do you think, Annie?" "She wants me back?"
"That's just it, Annie. She'd welcome you
back, she thinks you're a fine girl. Oh,
yes indeed."
"Where are they then, Uncle?"
"Well now, 'tis a bit difficult
to describe and it's farther out than the last
place, but I'll take you there, Annie,
any time you're ready. But I'd leave it
until the nights get a bit darker, say the
first week in December and you'll be all set
in afore Christmas. They have some high times at
Christmas, don't they, Annie?"
"Oh aye, Uncle. Oh aye."
"Listen to me, Annie."
"Yes, Uncle?"
"We mustn't be seen together, not at all, you
understand?"
"Oh yes, I understand that. She'd go mad,
Ma would."
"She would indeed, Annie. She would
indeed." The words came deep and soft and
borne on laughter. "So caution's the
watchword, eh?"
"Yes, Uncle." "Well now, you come out for your jaunts
mostly in the daylight, don't you?"
"Yes, Uncle."
"Well, one day I'll tie a bit of
blue ribbon on the post just to your left, it
holds the wire, it'll just be a tiny scrap so
it won't be noticed. Now when you see that,
get yourself ready for the next day. Rain, hail
or snow, just walk out as if for a saunter and
take the road to the river. And you know where the
path leads to the top of the bank, it's the first
place from where you can see the water and the
jetties, you know that?"
"Yes, Uncle, I know the place."
"Then make for there, an' I'll be waiting.
Now you've got that?"
She now repeated slowly, "The day after I
see a bit of ribbon on the post here, I'm
to make me way to the top of the bank overlooking
the river."
"That's the girl. No grass will grow on
you, Annie, you're sharp and you'll get somewhere.
Oh aye, you'll get somewhere, Annie. Now
I've got to be off, you get back."
"Ta, Uncle. Thanks." "You're welcome, Annie,
you're very, very welcome. Good-night to you."
"Good-night, Uncle."
She turned and ran all the way back to the
farm. Emma was still shovelling the coal and when
her daughter said, "I'll give you a hand,
Ma," Emma straightened her back and said,
"No, lass, you'll get all dirty. But
I'll tell you what you can do, you can go into the
dairy and do a bit of churning for me. You know
what to do, don't you?"
"Aye, Ma."
"And then peel some taties for the dinner.
There's those fresh herring the fishwife brought
yesterday, I'll fry them when I come in;
they'll be tasty."
"Aye, Ma."
Her hand tight against her thigh, Emma stood
for a moment tensing her back muscles. Her
daughter had offered to shovel coal with her. She
closed her eyes and smiled to herself: God
seemed to be at last paying attention to her
prayers.
She attacked the coal with renewed vigour.
Three days later a man came from the
hospital, knocked on the front door, then
was directed by Jimmy to the farmyard and into the
byres. There, facing Emma, he doffed his
hat and said, "I'm very sorry to inform you,
missis, that Mr Yorkless died this morning at
half past eight. The operation was successful but
apparently his constitution couldn't stand up to it."



Soft flakes of snow were falling when they
buried Jake Yorkless, and there was a good
turn-out at the funeral for he was of an old
farming family and, as one of those present said
later when seated round the kitchen table, one of the
few freeholders hereabouts.
Not more than twenty people had returned for the
meal; these included the pall-bearers of whom
Luke was one.
They had brought the farmer's body from the
hospital already boxed and he had lain in the
hall on trestles for three days, his head
bandaged like a mummy, only his eyes, mouth and
nose evident. He was a weird sight and Emma had had to force herself not to look
at him as she passed back and forth to the
sitting-room to attend to Barney. As for
Annie, once she was downstairs in the morning
she wouldn't go back into the hall until she
made for bed at night.
Emma couldn't stop Luke from attending his
father's funeral or helping to bear his coffin down
the lane to where the hearse waited on the coach
road. Nor could she prevent him entering the
house and sitting down to a meal. Only one thing
she was glad about, Annie paid no attention
to him, in fact she seemed to ignore him. She
had not even answered his, "Hello there,
Annie me dear," when he first came into the
kitchen.
Now the mourners and sympathizers had gone and
there he stood facing her across the table, saying,
"I want to see me brother."
"You're rather late in the day wanting to see
him, aren't you?" Emma answered.
"Things are different now, this is business."
"Business? What business?"
He poked his head towards her as he said,
"The business of me share in this place." "You must be joking."
"Oh no, Emma, I'm not joking. It's
a matter called inheritance, and I'm equal
to Barney in this."
"No, you're not." Her voice was deep and
full of bitterness.
"Well, we'll see. Anyway, are you
going to try and stop me seein' me brother?"
She knew that there was no way in which she could
stop him seeing Barney. He was a big man,
thickset, brutish looking now, any good
looks he had had were long since gone, and she
knew if she attempted to bar his way he would
enjoy struggling with her. And so, after a moment's
pause, she moved from the table and walked up the
room, and he followed her through the hall and into the
sitting-room. As she opened the door she
called in an over-loud voice, "You have a
visitor, Barney."
Barney lifted his head from the pillow and stared
at his brother coming towards him, and Luke, coming
to a stop at the foot of the bed, stared at the white face with the eyes buried deep in it and the
brow receding well into the head that was now bald
to the crown, and he said, "Well, hello there." "What do you want here?"
"I should have thought it would be evident to you,
brother, since you haven't lost your senses.
As I told her"--he jerked his head towards
Emma--"I've come to claim part of me
inheritance."
"Get out. Get yourself out."
"Not afore we come to an understanding, for I
don't suppose the old man had the sense
to leave a will. I've been informed that as I stand
I am due to me share and this business about you being
the elder wouldn't stand up in a court of law."
"There you're wrong on both counts."
Barney now lifted his thin arm and thrust one
bony forefinger at Luke, repeating, "On
both counts, because I am the elder and that stands,
and the other thing is the old man did have some sense
and after what he found out about you he made it his
business to put it in writin'. You can go
to Gateshead, to Hedley and Stocks,
solicitors. They'll give you all the
information you need. But I can tell you now what
they will say to you: the farm was left to me,
solely, and when I go I leave it to me
wife. That's been seen to an' all." Luke's face was a study. Emma
expected to watch it becoming contorted with rage,
but when he smiled the effect was much more disturbing
than rage could have been. But there was no smile
in his voice as he said, "We can all have
lawyers, and I'll fight you for this. And
anyway, how can she run the place on her
own?"
"She's done it for a long time now and she'll
do it to the end."
"We'll see, we'll see, brother. Oh
aye, we'll see." His head nodding the while,
Luke backed two steps from the foot of the bed;
then turning suddenly about, he left the room,
and Emma, after casting a quick glance towards
Barney, ran after him.
In the kitchen she stood just within the hall
doorway and watched him grab up his coat from
the back of the settle, then take his tall hat
from the hook behind the back door. When he had
put it on his head, he tapped the top of it;
then looking at her across the room, he said,
"You'll be seein' me, Emma. Don't
forget that, you'll be seein' me. Oh aye,
bet on it, you'll be seein' me." She was actually shivering as she
leant against the door. She had no doubt in her
mind but that she'd be seeing him, in one way or
another she'd be seeing him. There was something
frightening about Luke Yorkless, there was an evil
in him, and she herself in some way always managed
to bring it to the fore.
Well now, she sat down on the settle and
looked at the fire, to all intents and
purposes the place was theirs. Strange, but it
was really hers for she would have to see to the money
side of it now. She had said to Barney last
night, "You could help me with this, I mean with the
bills and things and the buying and selling." She
knew she was quite capable of dealing with these matters
herself but she had thought it would give him a new
interest; but he hadn't seemed enthusiastic
over the suggestion, there was an apathy about him that
was getting deeper each day. Yet when he was
going for Luke he had sounded like his old self.
But sitting here wouldn't get the work done.
Yet oh, how she longed to sit for half an
hour or so looking at the fire and thinking. At
night-time, if she had attempted to do so, she
would have immediately fallen asleep. She rose, saying to Annie, "Clear the table now and put
the best china away, there's a good lass. I'm
going to change."
Annie was very quiet. She had been so for
days now, and she answered briefly, "Yes,
Ma."
Ten minutes later Emma was in the yard
making for the byres when Jimmy came hurrying
down from the barn saying, "Can I have a word with you,
missis, special like?"
She smiled at him as she said, "You can always
have a word with me, Jimmy. What kind of a
special word do you want to have?"
He pushed open the byre door and they went
in and stood in the steamy dimness, and there, moving
from one foot to the other and his head slightly
lowered, he said, "I'm courtin' strong and I
don't want to go on for years like some, and ...
and I thought, well, sort of killin' two
birds with one stone, you need a man round here
all the time like, don't you?"
She nodded her head. "Yes, you're right
Jimmy, I do."
"Well, I wondered if you would let me have
the cottage. I'll do it up meself and everything, so we could get married,
Alice and me. An' she would be handy round
about. She's in service in Gosforth, but she
doesn't like it much. An' she doesn't want
much pay. Well, she wouldn't expect it because
you can't afford it yet, I know how things are, but
we'd manage fine on what I get, if we
had the cottage."
"Oh! Jimmy." She put out her hand and
grabbed at his dirty square red one and, shaking
it warmly, she said, "Oh, you're welcome,
boy, you're welcome. But then you're no
longer a boy, are you?" She laughed now. "And
I'll be glad to see the cottage occupied
again. Of course it's not much of a cottage. I
thought little of it when I first saw it and it's
pretty dilapidated now; it'll want working
on both inside and out."
"Oh, missis, don't you worry"--his
face was one broad grin--"I'll do that,
nights after work an' Sundays. The parson
won't get at me for breakin' the Lord's Day
up here 'cos he won't see me. Not that he
would say anything, not him, if he did see me breaking the Sabbath. What do you think?" "I think the same as you, Jimmy. Well,
go ahead as soon as ever you like."
"Well, the nearest I think would be Easter,
'cos she's tied you see, and her time will be up
at Easter. Funny that, isn't it? They can
throw you out at a minute's notice if you do
owt wrong, but if you want to leave you've got
to work your time."
"Yes, it is funny." Emma now leant
towards him and in a mock-menacing tone she said,
"But as soon as you're married I'll bond the
both of you, ten years each."
It was a long time since the byres had rung with laughter. Although it was soon over and they both
went on with their work and it didn't exactly
efface Luke's threat, it lightened Emma's
day, for the prospect of having Jimmy
permanently on the farm she considered to be a
blessing, especially if his wife should turn out
to be a companionable lass. And there was the added
thought that, being young, she would perhaps have a good
influence on Annie. ...
It started to snow in earnest the following day.
The ground was frozen hard and so it lay, and in the
afternoon Annie played snowballs in the yard. She threw one at her father's window and
it spread across the pane and obliterated the
shadow of his head behind the glass; she threw one
at Jimmy, but he didn't stop and throw one
back; then she ran out from the farmyard and across the
field. But she was back within half an hour,
her cheeks glowing, her eyes bright, her voice
high as she burst into the dairy, crying, "Oh,
it's lovely out, Ma."
"Well, get out again." Emma shooed her
back towards the door. "Look at your
feet! I've just done this floor. We want
no muck in here, go on."
Annie went out giggling, and Emma smiled
quietly to herself. Her daughter was changing.

The following morning Emma awoke to a
hushed world. Her shoulders hunched against the
cold, she went to the window and peered out into the still
black morning, black in the sky that was, and
she had to look upwards to see it, for the snow had
piled itself on the deep window-sill and formed a
drift a third of the way up the panes. She
screwed up her eyes and shook her head,
shaking the sleep from her. If that window-sill was any indication they'd soon be cut off. She
lit the lamp and quickly got into her clothes and
went downstairs.
The hall was freezing. She glanced towards
the sitting-room door. She hoped there were still
some embers left in Barney's fire. In the
kitchen she took the bellows and blew the
slack coal to a red glow; then taking a
newspaper from a box at the side of the
fireplace, she opened it wide and placed it
across the whole grate, and with her arms spread she
held it like that until the centre of it became
brown and was on the point of bursting into flames,
when she quickly pulled it away and folded it up
and replaced it in the box before lifting the black
kettle from the hob and putting it in the heart of the
now flame-licking fire. Following this, she
went to the door and, after unbolting it, she
gently pulled it open. But even so the drifted
snow fell inwards. Pushing the door quickly
closed again, she muttered to herself, "Good
gracious! it must be deep. I wonder if
Jimmy will make it." And she looked at the
clock. It was turned six. On fine
mornings he would be here by now. She was going to have a job if he didn't turn up.
Oh, but he would. If it was at all possible
he would.
She went back to the stove and mashed the tea;
she then took a cup into Barney. He was
awake and he greeted her with, "The room's like
an iceberg."
"I'll get the fire goin' in a minute.
Here, drink this." Supporting his head while
he gulped at the tea, she said, "It looks
as if we are going to be snowed up. I'm
worried in case Jimmy doesn't make
it."
"What's to stop him? I used to go through
drifts waist-high, in fact fell into them up
to me chin. They've got things too soft these
days."
She said nothing but she was asking herself what had
happened to Barney to bring about this change. For
weeks now he had been like this, his attitude
almost like that of his father. He was hardly civil to the
parson and she had to apologize to Henry for his
behaviour. But Henry had said that it was understandable
in Barney's case, a breaking point must come
at some stage. It was all the outcome of frustration and she should be patient with him.
The only way she could be patient was to bite
her tongue and say nothing. This she did now and,
turning from the bed, she went to the fire and got it
going. Following this she went upstairs and roused
Annie. Her daughter was curled up like a
ball under the bedclothes and when her head emerged
she looked so pink and glowing and fresh, almost like
a child again, the sight brought tears to Emma's
throat and softened her voice as she said, "Come
on, dear." It was a long time since she had
called her daughter dear. Then she repeated,
"Come on, dear. Time to get up. The snow's
thick, you'll enjoy it."
"Oh Ma, it's cold."
"Yes, I know, so jump into your clothes,
then have a hot drink and you'll feel fine."
For answer Annie pulled the blanket
over her head again and wriggled her body, and
Emma turned away and went down the stairs,
and her face broke into a smile of relief
when she entered the kitchen and heard a scraping
at the back door and knew it was Jimmy with the
shovel clearing a way out.
Opening the door gently, she said, "You've made it then."
"Aye, yes, missis. It wasn't too
bad; it's just the drifts. But it's still comin'
down. Won't be able to say it's not too bad
by the night if it keeps on like this though."
"Here"--she opened the door further now--
"step inside and have a cup of tea, you must be
frozen."
"Oh, I wouldn't say no, missis.
Ta." He kicked his boots against the wall,
took off his cap and dashed it against his shoulders
and arms, then stepped over the threshold and
closed the door and stood with his back to it,
saying, "I'll come no further, the heat'll
drip me and it'll be all over the floor."
"It'll be all over the floor afore the
day's out, Jimmy, you can depend upon that." She
was smiling happily as she handed him a mug of
tea, and as she stood looking at him drinking,
the steam wafting round his pleasant square
face, she realized that this youth was the only
person in this place who had never caused her
any trouble; in fact, his presence had brought a
kind of lightness to her life, especially where
work was concerned. And what was his reward? Ten shillings a week now and his rough food, with
lately, a sack of potatoes at
Christmas and the same of turnips, and in the
summer all the apples he could gather from the
topmost branches of the old tree. But then he
had always had this latter perk since he was a
lad because he was the only one who could get up
there. The branches wouldn't bear the men and they
hadn't a ladder long enough to reach. As he himself
had grown older and heavier he had devised a
way of climbing the tree and supporting himself
against the roof. Even so, there were always a few
apples he couldn't reach, and these had to be
left until they dropped. But what dropped
to the ground was the farmer's, even those that were bored
by the wasps because then, as she remembered only
too well, her chore had been to cut the good
parts out ready for stewing and straining to make
jelly, always supposing the sugar wasn't too
dear. Otherwise, Dilly Yorkless used
to put them in a vat with yeast and make a kind of
wine that was like vinegar. She had never attempted
to make it herself.
"I got a note off to me lass last
night," Jimmy said. "Ted Conroy. He goes into Newcastle every day, he's
apprenticed to a marble mason. 'Tis a good
job that, because there'll always be cemeteries an'
they'll always want headstones an' them that can
pay always have marble. And he has to pass where
Alice works so he's gona pop it in the
back door. She'll be over the moon. ...
Well, I mustn't stand here jabberin', else the
snow'll have blocked us in again." He handed her
the mug, saying, "That's gone where it was needed.
Ta, missis."
When she turned about, Annie was coming into the
kitchen. She was yawning and stretching her arms
above her head. Her hands at right angles to her
wrists made her look as if she was giving an
offering to the gods. ...
Now what had made her think that? It was
something that Ralph or Henry would say, in
fact had said more than once about offerings being
made to the gods.
"Come and get a drink. And I think you should
stay in the house the day because ...."
"Oh no, Ma. No." Annie came
hurrying towards Emma now. "Oh, let me
go outside. I'll help to clear the yard. You know I love the snow."
"But it's freezin'."
"Oh, I can work hard enough to keep meself
warm. Oh Ma, I don't want to stay
inside, please."
"Well, it's up to you. If you don't mind
gettin' wet up to the knees and chilblains on
your hands."
"I've never got chilblains."
No, that was true, she never had. Her skin
was without blemish of any kind. ... What was
she saying? She was not only thinking like a doting
mother now, she was almost believing what she thought.
Her skin without blemish. Dear God! Her
voice was brisk now as she said, "Well, you
can go out later and help, but now there's this room
to clean up and the beds to be made."
"Oh, I'll do me inside work, Ma, I
needn't go out until this afternoon. But as long as
I can go out for a bit."
"That's all right then. Get on with it." ...
And Annie got on with it. She had worked
hard all morning, as Emma saw when she
came in to make the dinner. She had even taken
out the ashes, a chore she hated doing; but she hadn't attempted to blacklead the
stove, she couldn't stand the sight of blacklead
because of the mess it made on her hands. But
by three o'clock in the afternoon it was impossible to see
a finger before you, so thick was the snow falling. And
now a wind had got up and part of the yard was as
clear as if it had been swept by a broom
while there were drifts six foot high against the
barn and the byres.
Peering out of the window, Emma said, "You can't
go out in this. You'd get lost."
"Don't be silly, Ma. Anyway, I
won't go that far to get lost, I'll just walk
round the yard or to the chicken run. That's what
I'll do. I'll go and see if they're all
right over there, will I?"
"You could fall into a drift, girl."
"Oh Ma, fall into a drift goin' to the
chicken run! Anyway, if I did I could
scream and you would hear me." She laughed, and
then she stood staring at Emma while she
picked at the nails of one hand with the fingers of the
other.
Emma had never seen her do this before and she
said, "What's the matter with your hand?" Annie quickly drew her hands apart, looked
at them and said, "Nothin' Ma, only I ...
I've got a snagged nail."
"Well, take the scissors and cut it
off, don't stand picking it like that. Go on now."
Annie went to the table drawer and took out a
pair of scissors and with these she clipped at
her nail. Then swinging round, she faced
Emma, saying, "I must get out for a little
while, Ma, I feel choked up, I want
air."
Emma stared back at her helplessly,
saying, "All right, all right, you want air.
Well look, go to the barn and take a scoop
of oats down to the chickens. Spread it about,
mind. And see what eggs there are; some of them
are late layers. I got a good few this
mornin' but they are going off. We'll have
to wait for the young pullets I suppose. At
this time of the year they don't pay for their feed,
never mind their lookin' after."
"Yes, Ma. Yes, Ma."
"Now wrap up well. Put my old
cloak on and put the shawl over the hood. And
don't stay out long mind, because I don't want to have to go out in that and look for you."
"No, Ma."
A minute later Annie came down the
kitchen. Emma's cloak fell to the caps of
her boots, her face was lost in the hood and the
shawl covering it. And then she did an
unusual thing, she came round the table and,
poking her face forward, she kissed Emma
lightly on the cheek. "You're nice you know,
Ma," she said, her eyes blinking as she
looked at her mother. "You're nice you know."
Then turning, she ran to the door, pulled it
open and went out into the yard.
Emma stood, one hand on the table, one hand against her cheek. That was the first time her daughter
had voluntarily kissed her in years. She was
a strange girl, strange. But there was good in
her. Oh yes. She had proved it of late;
there was good in her.

It was dark and Annie hadn't returned and
now the snowstorm had turned into a blizzard.
Emma had a coat on, a shawl on her head
and above that a split sack, one bottom
corner acting like a hood and protecting her back as she struggled from one end of the farm
buildings to the other shouting, "Annie!
Annie!" As yet she hadn't called on
Jimmy for assistance. She had warned Annie
not to go near him, and for his part he had never needed
any warning to keep away from her, but now staggering
into the stable, she called, "Jimmy! Jimmy!"
And he left what he was doing and came
swiftly towards her and she clutched at his arm
as she said, "Annie hasn't come back and the
drifts are neck high in parts, see if you can
make your way down the lane towards the road.
She might have got stuck some place. I'll
go by the chicken runs; she was going to gather the
eggs."
Jimmy buttoned up his coat, and took his
cap from a nail in a wooden stanchion. Then
as he took his lantern from another nail she
said, "If it isn't one thing it's another."
"Don't worry, missis; she's likely
in a drift. She should never have gone out. 'Tis
madness to risk out a day like this if you haven't
got to. I was gona say to you meself, I
would stay put the night and sleep in the loft
'cos if I don't I'll never get up here the morrow, by the looks of it."
"That would be a good idea, Jimmy. Yes,
yes."
They were outside now and she said, "If it's
too thick on the lane, come back. I might
have found her at this end; don't you get stuck
an' all."
"Don't worry about that." He went towards
the gap in the stone wall while she turned and,
with body bent almost double, made her way up the
yard towards the passage that divided the byres
from the barn, but this she found almost half-blocked
with snow. When she eventually got through it was
only by instinct that she found the hen crees, for the
lantern did nothing but show up a circle of
whirling flakes.
The wind had drifted the snow away from the
front of the crees and when she pushed open the
door and stepped inside there was a fluttering and a
cackling and the birds jumped off the barks, then
jumped on again. She put down the lantern on
top of one of the egg boxes and stood quietly
until they settled. It was peaceful in here and
relatively warm. After a moment or two she
moved along the row of egg boxes. There were a number of hens sitting in them and, putting her
hand underneath one after the other, she felt to see
if there were any eggs, and out of the twelve nests
on one side and ten on the other she picked up
six eggs, which in the ordinary course of events
was very good for a late laying at this time of the year.
But the significance of it was frightening. Annie
hadn't been here. Even if she had intended
to pick up the eggs on her return journey
she wouldn't have taken the oat scoop with her, she
would have left it here, and the lantern light showed
no empty scoop.
As her mittened hand gripped the handle of the
lantern it became still and her other hand went to her
face as she thought, Oh no, she couldn't be,
not as devious as that. No, she wouldn't believe
it. No, she couldn't believe that that had been a
kiss of good-bye, because then it would mean that all
these weeks she had been biding her time while
playing the reformed girl. No, if she
believed that she would have to believe that her daughter
was not only bad but evil, for if she had gone
off again she would surely know her destination; she
liked her comfort too much to chance wandering round
Newcastle aimlessly, she wasn't that kind of a whore. ...
Oh my God! what was she thinking? "No!
No!" she cried aloud now, and once again the
hens were startled. Her daughter wouldn't do a thing
like that, she couldn't, not after the softness and
sweetness of the past weeks. She pulled open
the door and the wind brought a swirl of snow on
to her and the hens fluttered and the cock protested.
No. No. She kept repeating the words to herself
as she struggled back to the yard. Her daughter
was out there somewhere and she would find her.
Two of the eggs were broken when she put them
on the kitchen table; then just as she was she went out
of the kitchen, through the hall, and into the
sitting-room. The lantern was still in her hand and
it added to the glow of the oil lamp on the centre
table, and she looked such a weird sight that
Barney's body seemed to rise momentarily in
the bed as he asked, "What is it? What's
wrong?"
"Annie. She went out for a walk, she
hasn't come back. I ... I'm goin' out
to look. Jimmy'll be here. I won't be
long."
"Emma." His head was raised well up from the pillow now, his one arm extended towards her.
"Don't go."
"I've got to."
"How long has she been gone?"
She paused a moment thinking. "Almost ...
two hours I should say."
"She's not worth it, Emma. There's a
blizzard out there. It's been raging all day and
all night. Haven't you noticed?"
"Aye; aye, I've noticed, but
Barney, I've ... I've got to go. I
won't go all that far, and Jimmy's helping.
Anyway, I'll tell him to stay put. Ring
the bell hard and he'll hear it."
"In the name of God, Emma, how long do
you intend to be?" He was yelling now.
She peered at him with a dazed look in her
eyes. How long did she intend to be? As
long as it took to find her daughter. But why was
she bothering? As Barney said, she wasn't
worth it. What was the matter with her? She put
her hand up underneath the sacking and pressed her
forehead. Her head was aching, she felt sick.
But it was no use standing here. She turned and
went out of the room, his voice calling after her, "Emma! Emma!"
As she opened the kitchen door, there was
Jimmy. The rime was standing on his thick
eyebrows and his lashes, and he gasped before he
could speak, saying, "See nothin' of her,
missis, and there's no footprints 'cos
they're covered up as quick as they're made with this
lot. Where you off to?"
"I'm goin' to look, Jimmy, and after
you've tended the animals stay in the kitchen, will
you? And when his bell rings, go in, go in to him."
"But, missis, you'll get nowhere in this."
"I'll get as far as Mr Bowman's
cottage. She ... she may have taken shelter
there."
"I don't think you should go, missis." He
put his hand tentatively out towards her, but she
passed him, saying, "Do as I say,
Jimmy. Do as I say." Then with body bent
again, she was pushing her way towards the opening and
into the lane.
Once when she found herself walking on
practically exposed ground, she stood for a
moment and shouted, "Annie! Annie!" But the
falling snow seemed to whirl her words about her within a radius of the lantern; and so she went
on, sometimes walking on a clear bit of
road, the next minute she was in drifts almost
up to her waist.
Sometime later she saw the old signpost
sticking out of the snow, and she realized she had
missed the path that cut off to the cottage.
Perhaps it was just as well because she would never have got
through that way, whereas there had been some kind of
traffic along the coach road up till
recently and in places the newly fallen snow
was lying in hard packs, so the going was easier this
way.
She wasn't aware of how long it took her
to reach the cottage, nor of what was happening
to her mind for at times she imagined the object
of her journey was to see that Ralph had plenty
of fuel inside and had enough food to see him through
the storm.
She actually fell against the door and
slumped on to her knees before she lifted her
fists and banged on it. It was some minutes before
it was opened, and then she felt herself being hauled
inside. And again she fell to her knees and
only managed to steady the lantern as it hit the floor.
"In the name of God! girl, what's brought
you out in this?"
She remained posed, resting on her hands for a
moment, before flopping to the side and looking up
at him, saying, "Annie ... I'm looking
for Annie. Is she here?"
"Come on, get up. Come to the fire." And
he helped her to her feet, saying now, "No,
she isn't here, and not likely to be. Get that
sack off you and out of those things."
"I've got to look, Ralph."
"You're looking no further until you thaw
out." He was now seized by a bout of coughing and
after wiping his mouth with a handkerchief he said
harshly, "Go on, get your things off, woman.
I've got some soup heating in the kitchen."
When he left her, she slowly took off
her head shawl and coat. Another time she would
have carefully shaken the snow off them in the hearth,
but now she just let them drop to the side of the
chair on top of the wet sack; then flopping
down on to the chair, she leant her head back
for a moment, closed her eyes and began to mutter
to herself, "Oh dear me. Oh dear me." She wanted to go to sleep. That's all she wanted,
just to go to sleep.
"Here, get this into you." She opened her eyes
and reached out and took the bowl of soup and, putting
it to her lips, she drank it greedily. When
she had finished she handed him the bowl, then laid
her head back in the chair again. She felt
better now, more awake, but she understood how people
could readily lie down in the snow and die.
That's what her Annie had done likely.
Oh yes, yes, that's what had happened. Her
mind grabbed at the idea. Well, it would be
better so than .... Now her mind jumped, as
did her body when there came a thump on the
door, and she was on her feet and rushing towards
it. She was right, she was right, the lass had found
her way here. Ralph was beside her when she
pulled the door open to see there in the lantern
light the tall snow-covered figure of
Henry.
Her body seemed to fold in two. She
stepped back and watched him knocking the snow
off himself right and left; then he was in the room,
the door closed, taking off his hat and
overcoat and these he dropped to the floor by the side of the door before walking to the
fire. And all the while he had not given one
answer to Ralph's rapid cough-punctured
words: "Are you another mad one? What in the
name of God has brought you out? Well, say
something man."
Henry was bending over the fire, his hands
extended to the flames as he said, "Let me
thaw out a bit."
"Thaw out! You don't deserve to thaw out.
Mad, that's what you are. I told you this
morning I'd everything I needed."
"I know, I know." Henry now turned
round, his voice sharp. "But I went up above"
--he jerked his head backwards--"and Jimmy
told me that--" He now turned his gaze on
Emma and said slowly, "You needn't worry
about Annie lying in the snow, she's gone,
Emma. She's gone."
"Gone? What do you mean?" As if she
didn't know what he meant she repeated again,
"What do you mean? What are you saying?"
She watched him turn and look at
Ralph, and he, taking a seat beside her now,
put his hand on hers as he said, "She's gone back to where you took her from, Emma. She's
been preparing for it for some time. You've got
to face up to the fact that she's made that way and
nothing on God's earth is going to change
her."
"Preparing?" She swivelled round to the edge
of the seat, her manner bristling now. "What do
you mean, preparing?"
Again she watched the two men exchange
glances, and now it was Henry who spoke to her
saying, "She's been meeting Luke in
Openwood for some long time. Billy the ratter
saw them and heard them. He's a discreet old
fellow, not a gossip, and he didn't say
anything until a few days ago when he told
Ralph here, and he said he thought you should know,
but--" He stopped, and it was Ralph, his head
hanging, who now ended, "I ... I couldn't
bring myself to tell you, Emma. In fact I
made up my mind that I wouldn't tell you, because
if she didn't go now she would go sometime."
There was a deep silence now in which you could almost
hear the hush of the falling snow outside. Then a
blast of wind, coming down the chimney, blew
smoke into the room and Ralph coughed. Emma sat back in the chair and
after looking from one to the other she closed her
eyes, and again the feeling came over her that she
wanted to sleep, not only to ease a great
tiredness that was on her but to shut out life,
dirty life, body-aching, mind-bedevilling and
soul-searing life. What was it for anyway?
... It was for living and working at. You must
get back and see to Barney. It was as if a
voice had shouted loud in her head and she sat
up straight, saying, "I've got to get
back."
"I'll go with you, you'll never make it
alone."
"You'll both have a job to make it. Why
don't you stay, there's plenty to eat and drink
inside?" Ralph jerked his thumb towards the
kitchen, but it was Emma who shook her head,
saying, "I must get back, there's no one
to see to him."
She now began to scramble into her outdoor
things, and when she put the sack over her head
its warm wet weight seemed to drag her down
and she pulled it off again.
Henry was standing ready at the door and saying to Ralph, "We'll go by the coach road, I
think it'll be the safer." And Ralph
answered, "Try to find the middle of it, because
remember, there's ditches at both sides and
they'll look solid enough on top."
Ralph had his hand on the latch of the door
when he turned to Emma, saying quietly,
"Face up to it, lass, and as soon as you can,
for your own good."
Face up to it, he said, face up to the
fact that her daughter was a sneaking, lying,
filthy little bitch, that she had been smiling her
angel smile on her for weeks now, while
on her jaunts for air she had been meeting
Luke. Face up to it, he said. He didn't know what he was talking about. She went
through the door without giving him any word of
farewell, and when she felt Henry's hand
gripping her arm, his touch brought no fever to her
body.
Close together now, their heads bent, they
pushed as one against the snow-filled wind and, like the
bow of a ship dipping and rising in the waves, they
were walking on firm ground one minute then
wallowing in deep drifts the next. Emma had left the guidance
to Henry and when he stopped and turned them about,
their backs to the wind, she knew instinctively
that he had lost all sense of direction. They
should still be on the coach road, but the last drift
they had gone through had taken her above the waist and
he'd had to haul her upwards.
"I think we've come off the road," he
yelled at her.
She made no answer but she lifted her
lantern higher. He did the same, but the
light showed them nothing but swirling snow, and a
pinky white circle that turned to grey beyond the
penumbra.
He had taken her arm again and once more they were
stumbling on. Twice they stopped and leant
against each other, his arm about her shoulders; but their
closeness meant nothing now.
At one place the wind had almost cleared a
path ahead, and when she felt the ridged hard
ground beneath her feet she knew they were in a
ploughed field. But which one? If it was their
bottom field they had only to find the wired
fence and it would guide them to the farm. If it was
one of Alec Hudson's fields, then they were on the wrong track and going away from the farm.
When he hauled her on, she gasped,
"'Tis a field ... a ploughed field."
And he yelled back to her, "Yes, I
know."
When they came up against a post in the wire
fence, she thrust her hands deep down into the snow
beside it, and when she could feel only two wires
leading from it she knew it wasn't their field.
Jake Yorkless had put three wires round
one field he kept for his few sheep, the other
wiring that had been done under Mr Fordyke's
orders had been a kind of mesh. They were,
she knew now, on the other side of the road and
going away from the farm and so she shouted,
"Hudson's field."
Henry didn't answer but peered at her through
the lantern light before gripping her arm again and
leading her now along by the wire fencing. But when
the posts ended abruptly she lifted her
lantern high above her head and through its light
she saw through a gap the dark blur some distance
away to the left. She knew where they were. It
was she who now gripped his arm and pointed. Then
they were struggling through drifts of snow waist high, and when they came up to the ruined
mill they leant against the wall for a moment
gasping for breath.
Presently, pushing herself from the support of the
wall, Emma gasped, "The ... the door to the
side."
The snow at the side of the building came
only up to their knees but it had drifted through the
partly open door, yet when they pushed it open
it was as if they had come out of a raging sea and on
to a beach, for they both dropped down on to the
earth floor and lay flat for some minutes
while they regained their breath.
Henry was the first to get to his feet. Going
to the door, he kicked the snow to one side
until he could push the piece of rotting wood
back into its original position. But even then
it hung drunkenly. Now lifting the lantern,
he looked about him. He had passed this place
literally hundreds of times but only seen it as
a dirty ruin with a leaning chimney and a broken
roof, the holes of which got bigger as the years
went by as different villagers or farmers
helped themselves to the old tiles, some of which were
eighteen inches square and made of thick flat stone. He surmised that the whole roof would have
gradually disappeared if the tiles hadn't been
so heavy to get down.
The room they were in was about twenty feet
long. There was a window at one end but only the
frame of it was left and the snow had come through and
piled up on the floor. There was a ladder
leading upwards from the centre of the room to the
floor above, but there was thin snow at the bottom
of it which suggested that the upper storey was mostly
open to the heavens.
Emma had risen to her feet and was standing beside
him now. "'Tis the old mill," she said.
"Yes," he answered. Then looking down at
her, he added, "It saved us."
Yes, she supposed it had, for they surely
couldn't have gone on much longer outside. But
what now? How long would they have to stay? Would they
send people to find them? But how could Jimmy send
anyone to find her? He was up there alone and had
to see to Barney. But Henry .... Miss
Wilkinson would surely report the parson was
missing. But perhaps not until tomorrow morning. They
... they would have to stay here all night. She
closed her eyes against the thought of what this would have meant at one time, but now it brought
her
no sensation at all. Her body seemed
numb, her mind seemed numb. Was she ill?
Or was it just the shock about Annie? Annie.
Could one go to hell for cursing one's own. If
she had run away immediately after she had been
brought home she would, in some way, have been able
to forgive her. But that she should act the part of the
dutiful little daughter all these weeks while
deceiving her, laughing at her ... well, she
wouldn't be human if she didn't feel
devastated and bitter.
"You can't sit on the floor."
"What?"
"I said, you can't sit on the floor, you'll
get your death ... it's sodden. What's through
there?" He pointed to a door at the other end
of the room, and she said, "An old scullery,
I think."
She did not follow him but went towards the
ladder and, putting her arm through one of the rungs,
she leant against it. Even after some minutes when
she heard him enter the room again she didn't
leave its support, but when she heard the dull
thud on the floor she turned her head and looked through the flickering light and saw that he
had brought a door in and was placing it
lengthwise against the wall.
He came to her now and, without speaking, drew
her from the ladder and over the wet floor, and when
they reached the wall he pressed her gently
down on to the door. Then having fetched the
lanterns, he blew one out before seating himself beside
her.
Their backs against the crumbling wall, their
heels stuck in the muddy floor, their forelegs
raised slightly above it, they sat in silence
for some minutes until Emma shivered and
Henry said, "Here, take my coat." But as
he went to unbutton his coat she put out her
hand quickly, saying, "No, no; you'll
freeze. I'm ... I'm all right."
He hitched himself closely to her now and
taking her hands, he chafed them between his own,
saying, "They'll start searching. It'll be all
right, someone will soon come."
She looked at his face. It looked grey
and pinched in the dim light, only his eyes
looked warm. She could not see the colour of them
but she knew his look was tender. "No one will get through tonight," she said
flatly.
He looked to the side and nipped at his lip
before saying, "No, I suppose not." Then
turning his head, he brought his gaze on her again
as he said wi/lly, "You know, Emma, this is
the only time we've ever really been alone
together. Even when you called at the vicarage and
we walked along the road we were afraid of
prying eyes. Now we are cold and exhausted
and our only thought is for someone to come and rescue
us. Strange, isn't it?"
Yes, it was strange, when she came to think
about it: they would be here all night together sitting
on this board, and what would be made of that? Oh,
a great deal. The consequences made her stir.
"Don't you think we could have another try, I
mean at getting home? I know where we are
now," she said.
"So do I, Emma, and we're half as far
again from the farm as when we left Ralph's."
Yes, that was true. She nodded her head at
herself. Anyway, it was silly to suggest that they
should attempt to get back. She was so tired.
All over she was tired, she just wanted to sleep, but if she fell asleep like this she
would fall over. She said to him, "I would like
to lie down, I feel very tired." She was
looking into his face; his eyelids were blinking
as he said, "Yes, yes; I'll pull it
slightly away from the wall, it will give us more
room."
He assisted her to her feet, then pulled the
door a few inches from the wall, and when she
sat down she hitched herself backwards, then
lifting her feet up, she dropped on to her
elbow before laying her head down, only to raise
it, saying, "It ... it breaks your back without
a pillow."
"Try lying on your arm."
She put her arm underneath her head, then said,
"'Tis a bit better until I get the
cramp."
She was surprised that she was talking in an
ordinary voice for there was so much going on in her
head, questions, answers, protestations, even
swearing, and cursing; yes, cursing her own
flesh.
"Sit down," she said now; "there's plenty
of room." And he sat down, his hips against her side, and he reached out and took
her free hand and again he chafed it. Then as he
sat peering through the dim light of the lantern down
the rank smelling desolate room, he began
to talk. He talked about his boyhood and the
happy times he had with his brothers and sisters.
She had heard part of all this before but now he was
talking about when he was a young man and her eyes
became wide and she checked her wandering thoughts and
brought her mind to him as he said, "I should never
have gone into the ministry, Emma, I wasn't
really cut out for it. I'm a protester
by nature and I have come to the stage now when I
don't know whether there's a God or not. I
sometimes think that this life is all we have; then
I am very, very sad because if it is I have wasted
it, wasted the opportunities to live and love
like an ordinary man should. You understand what I'm
saying, Emma?"
"Yes, Henry, I understand." And she did
understand, she had understood for a long time.
"When you came and said you were going to marry
Barney, I should have said, "No, you are not
going to do any such thing." But what did I do?
In my weakness I pointed out all the obstacles to Ralph, and you heard them from the
kitchen. I've never forgiven myself for that,
Emma, and over the years time and again I've
been going to leave this place to get away from the
sight of you, the sight of your beauty, the sight
of you having to work like a drudge, the sight of you
living a marriage that was no marriage, the
sight of you going through the torments of hell through
your child. But I stayed because I knew that all this
I could bear more than never seeing you again. Do you
know?"--he turned and looked down on her--
"Every night for years I have written to you, and about
you. The last thing I do before I go to bed, I
take out my book and I talk to it about the
doings of the day, my feelings towards my
vocation, which is not a vocation at all, but
mostly I talk to it about you."
Every night he talked to his book about her.
But he wouldn't do it tonight, for there'd be no need,
they were here together, really alone at last, as he
had said. And what did it mean? What did it
portend? ... Nothing. Nothing that was connected
with love for him, the love that nightly burned
her body, for at this moment she would have forsworn
everything connected with her bodily urges for a dry warm bed, a hot drink, and the knowledge
that her daughter was safely tucked up in her
bed across the landing.
But what if no one came in time to get them
out of this place and they died here? Well, they were
in God's hands. ... Oh! God. What had
He ever done for her, or him for that matter.
If he hadn't been a servant of God they
would have come together. But now it was too late, and
Henry knew it. Oh, yes, in his heart he
knew it, for he had substituted a book for
her.
Oh, she was cold, and so tired, so very
tired.

She awoke in the dark. The lantern was out.
For a moment she didn't know where she was,
only that her back was numb, that her hip was
aching, as also was her head. Oh, her head was
splitting. Where was she? What had happened?
"It's all right, dear; the lantern went out.
I ... I think it must be near morning. Go
to sleep."
When next she woke she pulled her stiff
body further up the door and peered through a dim grey light and saw him coming down the ladder.
He came to her and dropped on to his
hunkers and, taking her hands, he rubbed them between
his own stiff ones, saying, "You're very cold."
"Yes." A shiver came over in her
voice. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Yes. Yes, I slept. Come. I'd
get up and walk about."
As he helped her to her feet she said,
"Can't we make a move now that it's light?"
He didn't answer her for a moment but,
taking her hand, he led her to the door and, easing
it open a little way, he said simply,
"Look."
And when she looked she saw a blank wall
of snow; the drift had reached the top of the low
door.
"I've been up above," he said. "It's
unbelievable. It looks twice as deep as
when we came in. It has stopped snowing but you
can't see a post or a fence or a wall
anywhere. Of course, we're in a bit of a
hollow, which I suppose makes it worse."
She turned from him and hurried to the glassless
window at the end of the room. The snow had fallen in for some distance but the whole
aperture was blocked. Swinging round, she said,
"But we've got to make an effort, Henry.
We ... we could scrape the snow from the
doorway into here; the drift mightn't be that
deep."
He didn't answer her for some seconds;
then he said, "We could try. But looking at it
from above, it looks pretty hopeless.
Nevertheless, anything is better than sitting still;
and we haven't any food. As for water,
well, we're not short of that."
For the next hour or more they clawed at the
snow, dragging it into the room until, both
exhausted, they returned to the door and sat
down; and there he put his arm about her, saying
soothingly, "They are bound to come soon. They will
know that we're missing by now, at least they'll
know about me, which doesn't matter. But the men
of the village, I'm sure, will make some
effort to search ... headed by Miss
Wilkinson." He put his head down and gave
a small wavering chuckle, and she said, "Oh
yes, Miss Wilkinson. She's very fond of
you is Miss Wilkinson." "And I've suffered from her fondness for
years. You know something, Emma? I've been
tempted to treat Miss Wilkinson like any
married man would who has for years been
plagued by his wife, and take the dinner she
had served him and, if it was liquid such as
stew, pour it over her. ..."
"Oh, don't even make me want
to laugh."
"It's funny, Emma, but I want
to laugh." His voice was deep in his throat
now. "I'm cold, I'm hungry, I'm
stiff and tired, and at the bottom I'm in
despair if we'll ever get out of this place
before we are frozen to death, yet I am
happier at this moment than ever I've been in
my life. Just because I'm really alone with you at
last. I've got my arm about you, you are
close to me. If we get out of here I may
never be able to hold you again and the memory of this will
have to suffice, without happiness; but as for now,
well, I'm holding you close to me,
Emma."
In answer she simply leant against him; she
didn't want to talk. The effort in moving the snow had taken her back to the
exhaustion of last night. Her head was aching
terribly; she felt she was in for a cold, and
could one wonder at it? Her wet clothes had
dried on her but the dampness seemed to have soaked
into her very bones; she was shivering deep inside.
She found herself trying to recall why she had come
out in this weather. Then, like a knife piercing an
already open wound, she remembered Annie.
That's why she had to come out ... Annie. And
Annie now could be the death of her, and of Henry
too. "We could freeze to death, Henry," she
heard herself saying.
"No, no, my dear, nothing like that. I
shouldn't have said that. Come, walk about, keep the
circulation going."
As he made to pull her to her feet, she
said, "No, Henry; I'm too tired, I'd
like to lie down."
He did not speak for a moment; then he said,
"Yes, you lie down, dear." And when she had
lain down he took off his coat and put it
over her, and she made no protest.
Kneeling beside her, he gazed at her. Her
eyes were closed, her teeth were chattering. He looked about him helplessly; then suddenly
pulling himself to his feet, he went outside
once more and began to tear madly at the snow.



Six men working with shovels and a horse and
cart to take the snow away had worked
incessantly for two full days before they reached
the farm, only to find that the parson wasn't
there; nor was Mrs Yorkless. Later in the
day, continuing along the coach road they reached the
painter's cottage. He was safe and sound and
warm, but he got into a state when he heard the
news, and he told how the parson had left
him two days before to escort Mrs Yorkless
back to the farm. Mrs Yorkless had been out
looking for her daughter, he said, but he himself
had been able to tell her that her daughter had
gone into the town some time previously.
"Well now," said the village men, "where
could they be? Two nights and two days. They
would never have survived in this. Likely buried
in a snowdrift." Farmer Hudson had lost
fourteen fine sheep. Stiff as pokers they were when he dug them out, and not two
fields from his house. This had been a storm and a
half.
Well, they would keep searching. That's all
they could do. One thing was sure: they were both lying
somewhere near the coach road.

It was half past seven that evening that
Florence Bessell banged on the vicarage
door and gasped at Miss Wilkinson as she
opened it, "They've found them. They've found
them."
"Them?" said Miss Wilkinson as she let
Mrs Bessell into the hall.
"Yes, Mrs Yorkless and him."
"I ... I didn't know she was lost."
"Lost and found." Florence Bessell's
mouth went into a wide grin. "And how were they
found?" She nodded at Miss Wilkinson;
then bending her head forward, she said, "Mr
Bessell said he hadn't seen anything like it.
There they were lying on the same boards, 'twined
together like ivy round a tree. Couldn't have got
closer if they had been forged together, he said, and
as stiff as boards." Miss Wilkinson put her hand up to her
mouth, saying now, "He's ... he's dead?"
"No, no. They took him to Mr
Bowman's cottage, that being the nearest,
'twasn't very far from there. They were found in the
old mill-house, you know. They must have taken
shelter and made the most of it." She giggled
now. "Eeh! this'll cause a stir. Mrs
Yorkless; they took her back to the farm but
she's in a bad way. Couldn't get her round.
They've taken the cart for Mary Petty to go
up and see to her. And if it hadn't been for her
Jimmy, Barney Yorkless wouldn't have
survived, so they say. Perhaps it's a pity he
has, isn't it? Well, I must get off but
I thought you would like to know." Her eyes narrowed as
she gazed at Miss Wilkinson. Everybody
knew what Miss Wilkinson thought about the
parson. And she herself knew what her husband
thought about Miss Wilkinson: she was an
interfering nosy busybody and would have taken the
organ position off him if she could have. Well
now, she was glad she was able to bring her this bit
of news. As she made for the door she said,
"He'll likely be down in a day or two ... when he thaws out. But he'll have
something to face, won't he? because Joe Mason
was one of them that found him, and George Tate
another, and neither of them can keep their tongues
still, can they?"
Lena Wilkinson would like to have said at this
moment, "And you're another one that can't keep
her tongue still;" instead, she said, "Thank you for
letting me know."
When she shut the door on her visitor she
stood a little way from it, her hands clenched at
her waist. She knew it, she'd always known it.
He was never away from that farm, supposedly
reading to the paralysed farmer! Even when Emma
Crawshaw was a girl he'd had his eyes on
her. She hadn't been blind. He'd favoured
her from the others, giving her books to read that were
far above her class, and himself teaching her
to write. ... To write. That book he was
always writing in and locking up. It was in that
drawer. She marched into the sitting-room and
stood looking towards the desk.
For the past two days and most of the night she
had paced the floor of this house wondering what
had happened to him, praying that he wouldn't be dead. Even if he was never to give her a kind
look she still prayed that he wouldn't be dead. But
now this, lying with that woman. She knew that
bodies huddled together for warmth if lost in the
snow, but Florence Bessell had implied
something deeper than that. She turned quickly about
now and went into the kitchen and, taking a strong
knife from the table, she came into the room and after
inserting it into the drawer she levered it backward
and forward until she managed to loosen the
lock, and when with one final tug the drawer
opened she stood gazing down on the black
leather-bound book with the brass clasp.



Emma knew she was lying in the kitchen, but
how long she had lain there she didn't know.
At times her body burned so much she longed
to fling it into the snow, in fact she struggled to do
just that; other times she lay in a half-world just
conscious that Mary was hovering over her, and
Jimmy too. She smelt Jimmy rather than
saw him. Jimmy had the byres on him; it was
a warm smell mixed with the taste of sour milk on the tongue. And there were other faces
too that came and went before her vision; but she
never saw Henry. She wanted Henry near,
she wanted to feel his hand on her brow. She
called out to Henry but he never came. Henry
must have died in the old mill. She was going
to die. She wished it would happen soon; she
would wait though till after the snow went so they
could get the coffin down the lane to the coach
road. It was an awful business that. She
couldn't see why they couldn't bring the hearse up
to the yard. But no; it was all glass and the
rocking on the rough road might crack it.
That's what they said. Well, the coach road was
rough enough in parts.
"Lie still, dear. Lie still. You're better
this morning."
Was she better? Was she not going to die? She
was very tired, she was very very tired. If you could
die in your sleep it could be a good way to go, not
knowing anything about it.
She continued to drift in and out of sleep.
She seemed to float away on the subdued
voices. Sometimes she could hear what the
voices were saying; but it didn't make much sense to her. Mary was talking to someone down the kitchen now.
... "That Mrs Bessell was talking to her
man, and Bett Skinner who was there doing the
washing heard that apparently Mrs Bessell
called at the vicarage the next morning and there
was Miss Wilkinson having hysterics. As
far as Bett could make out it was over some book
or other she had found that the parson used
to write in. Filthy, she said it was. Can you
believe it? The woman's gone off her head:
man starvation attacks spinsters like her an'
they'll say anything. But Bett said there must have
been other things in the book; blasphemous,
Mrs Bessell said they were, not believing in
God and things like that. Now I ask you, our
Jimmy, can you believe it? People will say
anything, make mountains out of molehills, like
they did about finding them together. As I said, what
did you expect them to do freezing to death, sit
at each end of that sodden floor? Daft, that's
what people are, daft. Not that I don't think they
weren't fond of each other, mind. Well, he
practically brought her here, didn't he. But
as for hanky-panky, well he wouldn't get up to that, would he, not in his position.
Although mind, I've often wondered about a man
like him not being married, because he didn't look like
an ordinary parson, white-livered you know like
some, or barrel-round like others with noses you could
strike a light off. No, he hadn't the
face of a parson; nor the voice for that
matter, not that I ever heard him preach. But
that's another thing about him: because you didn't go
into his church he didn't pass you in the road
without a word. Asked after everyone of mine he
did from they were nippers; knew them by name an'
all. Anyway, there was hell let loose
down there as far as I could gather yesterday, but more
about him writin' something about potching the
rum-runners years ago. Aye; aye;
they're saying it was him, but they can't prove it
like. An' he didn't say in his book where the
stuff was. They've been turnin' over
headstones in the night, they say. Eeh! the
goin's on. Pity I wasn't there all the
time, I'd 'ave got me ears stretched as to the
latest. As for you, our Jimmy, you're like a
clam."
"Enough talkin' when you're at it, Ma. By the way, how long do you think she's gona be
like this?"
"Oh, it'll take some time to pull herself
round. But I hope it isn't too long 'cos
I want to get down home; I don't know
what they're up to there."
"Oh, they're managin', they're big
enough."
"Aye, you said it, three hulkin' brutes.
Any road, I'll be shot of two of them this
year and maybe then I'll be able to put me
legs up ... that's until their bairns start
runnin' about me again."
Bairns running about. Emma saw a
bairn running about: she was running all round the
kitchen table, dancing as she sang:

Two, four, six, eight,
Mary at the cottage gate,
Eating cherries off a plate,
Two, four, six, eight.

She was bonny like a fairy. She was dancing
up the kitchen. Now she had jumped on the bed
and thrown herself across her and made her cry out against the weight.
"There! There! Come on, drink this. Open your
eyes, that's a lass, open your eyes."
Emma opened her eyes and muttered something,
and Mary said, "What is it, lass?"
"The book."
"The book? You want the book?"
"Yes." It was the breath of a whisper.
Mary turned from the bed now and, looking down
the kitchen, she said under her breath, "She
wants the book, the Good Book. It's in the
sitting-room on his table; bring it."
A few minutes later Mary placed the
Bible in Emma's hands which now looked white and
soft, only to have it thrust slowly away.
Mary handed it back to Jimmy, saying,
"She doesn't want it now."
"Ma."
Jimmy beckoned her from the bed, then said
quietly, "You were talking about the parson's
book; do you think she heard?"
"No, no, me voice wouldn't carry up that
far."
"You could use your voice for a hunter's
horn, Ma." She pushed him now, saying, "Go on, get
outside afore I clip your ear. Isn't there
any work to be done?"
"Mary." The whisper came from the bed, and she
hurried back to it and, bending over Emma,
said, "Yes, me dear."
"What ... day ... is it?"
"What day is it? Well, the morrow's
New Year's Eve, lass. And look, can you
see, the sun's sh*'. Would you believe it?
The sun's sh*' an' the morrow's New
Year's Eve. It's got a nerve after the
weather we've had lately. But there it is,
lass. Can you see the window?" She raised
Emma's head gently from the pillow. "It's
gettin' us ready for the New Year and brighter
things ahead. They would have to be brighter, they
couldn't be worse than this one's been.
Anyway there it is, the sun, and it'll soon
have you on your feet. Nothin' like the sun for
gettin' people on to their feet."

It was the second week in January when she
put her feet to the floor and it was snowing again,
but a fine thin snow, and Mary said it wasn't lying.
It was only with the aid of Mary's thick arm
that she could stay upright, and when she reached the
chair by the fire she felt faint with weakness.
She had been in bed for more than a month and it was
the first time in her life, apart from when she had the
child, that she'd been ill, and now she was feeling so
weak she doubted if ever her strength would
return.
After a few moments she looked at Mary
who was heating some milk on the fire and said,
"How is he?"
Mary straightened her back and, her head
jerking towards the far end of the room, she said,
"You mean mister?"
"Yes."
"Oh, just the same. Well"--she suddenly
lifted the pan from the fire and blew at the
rising froth--"he's missed you. That's only
natural. And he hasn't much to say, not even
to Mr Hudson or his missis when they come in
to see him, and you. But perhaps you don't
remember."
Emma shook her head slowly, and Mary
went on, "And then there's Tom Turnbull; he's been up twice. I nearly asked him
what brought him 'cos he's a Nosy Parker
if ever there was one."
"Mary."
"Yes, lass?"
Mary had poured the milk into a cup and was now
sprinkling cinnamon on the top of it, and as she
stirred it she brought it back to Emma, saying
again, "Yes, lass?"
"The parson, was ... was he here before when ...
when I didn't know anything?"
Mary drew a cracket from the side of the
fireplace and placed it by Emma's chair;
then putting the cup of milk on it, she turned
to the fire again and, taking up the poker, she said,
"Truth to tell, lass, I haven't seen
hilt nor hair of him. But ... but then it's
understandable."
Some seconds passed before Emma said,
"What's understandable, Mary?"
"Oh, lass, we'll talk when you get a
bit better."
"Mary--" Emma put her hand out and
clutched at Mary's skirt, staying her
hurried departure from the fire, and now she said, "Please. I'm ... I'm all
right, but tell me what's happened to him.
I'll only worry."
"Well"--Mary tossed her head from side
to side--"there's nobody likes a bit of
gossip more than meself, you know that, Emma,
but down there it's all hearsay--he say, an'
she say."
"Tell me, Mary."
Mary went to the seat placed at the
opposite side of the fire and, sitting down,
she lifted up her apron and began to smooth the
bottom hem of it between her finger and thumb as she
said, "'Twas all started by that skinnymalink
Miss Wilkinson. She found a book of some
sort that the parson had been writin' in, what
they call a dairy, or a diary, I don't
know which, but anyway he had been writin' in it
every day for years apparently. And because she's always
had a fancy for him, an' that's well known through
the village, she has hysterics. So what
does she do? She ups and sends it to the
bishop."
"No! No!"
"Aye, lass, that's what she did. An' well now, the latest is, he's on the
carpet, an' some say he's likely to get the
push."
There was a long silence. Mary sat still plying
the hem of her apron, her eyes cast down
towards it, while Emma's gaze was centred
on the heart of the fire.
It was when Mary suddenly said, "Drink your
milk, lass, while it's still warm," that Emma
looked at her and asked, "Was ... was he
ill too?"
"Well, he was out for the count for some days, I
understand, but not like you. You got the pumonia an'
more besides. I've seen pumonia afore, but the
dose you had went to your head good'n proper."
There followed another silence; then Emma
asked quietly, "How is Mr Bowman? Do
you know?"
"Coughing worse, I understand from our Jimmy.
I send him down now and again. 'Course I
haven't seen him. Jimmy takes the bread
down and gets his coal in an' does odds an'
ends for him. ... By! Emma, I've got
to say this to you although it's like braggin' 'cos he's
as good as me own, but you would have been hard put to it if it hadn't been for our
Jimmy."
"Yes, I know that, Mary, and I'll be ever
grateful."
"Well, you've started by lettin' him have the
cottage; he's luckier than most at his
age."
"It's nothing, the cottage."
"It's as good as what we've got except
that we've got an outhouse and a lean-to. By the
way, the mister was asking when you'd be able to get
up. Do you think you could toddle in and see him in
a little while?"
"Not today, Mary; I don't feel up to it
yet."
And she knew she wouldn't feel up to it tomorrow,
or the next day either. She didn't know how she
was going to face Barney, for she wasn't the
same person he had looked upon before the
snowstorm. She would never be that person again.
Those two nights and two days spent alone with
Henry had changed her, but more so had Annie's
craftiness, leading up to her desertion. That would
leave a mark on her she'd never be able
to erase.
It was three days later when she went into the
sitting-room, and the change she saw in
Barney's face was as great as the mirror showed
her in her own; and there was no welcoming look in
his eyes. He didn't speak until she
reached the foot of the bed and had pulled a chair
towards him and sat down, when he said,
"Well, here we are then."
"Yes, Barney, here we are. How are you
feeling?"
"Oh, me? I'm feeling fine. Lying here
doing nothing all me life, just thinkin',
thinkin'; what else could I feel but fine?"
"What's the matter, Barney?" Her voie
was quiet. "What's making you like this? I've
been ill, you know I have, or else I would have
been about me duties afore now."
"Yes, I know you've been ill, and I know
how you got ill. The whole countryside knows
how you got ill, trapped in the old mill with the
parson. But you didn't expect to be snowed
up, I suppose."
She pulled herself to her feet, then hung on
to the back of the chair as she said, "It's not true, it isn't. I was out looking for
Annie. I went down to Mr Bowman's
cottage thinking she might be there. I was
half-demented. The parson came and he was
to help me home. You will have heard what kind
of a night it was. Well, you could see from the
window." She pointed. "Do you think we stayed
in there on purpose? We dug at the snow with
our bare hands for hours." Her voice was rising
and weak tears were raining down her cheeks now, but
they did not seem to have any softening effect on
Barney for he cried back at her, "Aye,
and by all accounts you must have lain together for hours
an' all. And he's losing his job over it,
because he's been writing about you and him for years.
They came up from the village bustin' to tell
me, but I couldn't tell them it wasn't any
news to me. Oh. Oh, you can look
surprised. It was a long time afore I
cottoned on. I used to think it was out of
kindness for me condition he came and read his
blasted books and talked his high-falutin
talk. But no, it was so that he could eye me
wife and more likely have it on the side afore you
got to the mill. Or was that a meeting place?" She wasn't aware that Mary had come into the
room until she felt herself being turned about
while Mary yelled at Barney, "You want
somethin' for your corner, goin' on like that! You should
be damned glad she stuck to you all these years.
Another would have been off an' you would have ended up
in the poorhouse hospital. If she'd had
ten men, could you have blamed her? Who do you think
you are, bawlin' your head off?"
"Get out of here! out of my house."
As the sitting-room door closed on them,
Mary repeated, "Out of my house. Well,
whoever sees to him from now on, it won't be me.
Come on, lass. Come on." She led Emma
forward, adding now, "Stop your crying, it's not
gona do you any good. And when I get back
to that village I'll skite the hunger off
Tom Turnbull, you see if I don't.
That's all he came up here for. I knew it,
I knew it, because after he was gone that one was
unbearable, like a bear with a sore skull,
nothin' pleased him.
"There now. Sit down, sit down." She
pressed Emma into the chair by the fire; then
bending her face close to her, she said, "That parson should have married you years ago,
an' him a young fellow full of stridin'
life. It was bustin' out of him then. Yes,
that's what he should have done, married you years
ago, and you would have had none of this, 'cos what
life have you had? I'll tell you this, I
wouldn't swop mine for it. No lass, I
wouldn't, for you've been nowt but a skivvy from the
day you stepped into this yard."
Mary was right. Oh yes, she was right; she was
Mrs Yorkless the farmer's wife but she was still
a skivvy and was likely to go on being so. Why
hadn't she died in the mill? It would have been
good to die there.



"After I'd said my piece with regard
to resigning he dismissed his chaplain with a nod,
and the other God-fearing men, and then he bade me
sit down, after which the business of the diary came
up."
"He was very interested in the part about the
liquor. He laughed. Did I actually
remove it? And where was it now?" ""Well, my lord," I said, "you've
read the diary."
"You see I had made a joke about that part,
and I had never actually stated in my writing that
we'd moved the stuff. The only clue he would
have got from his reading was, I mentioned the number
of bottles. It's a good job I didn't
refer to the tomb of John Freeman
Ellis. Anyway, I felt sorry for I
saw he was embarrassed; he practically
apologised for having read my diary. I've
always known he was a gentleman, and a very learned
one, but at our meeting I found him to be a very
human one too."
"And then what happened?"
"Oh."--Henry swivelled round in his
chair and held out his hands towards the fire before
continuing with a smile,--"he began to talk. And
he talked, and he talked, and he talked.
How such men can talk!
"And they are good to listen to, even if you
don't believe what they are saying. There he
sat behind his magnificent desk, a great
blazing fire in the grate, the room as
sumptuous as any I have ever seen, much more so, and he spoke of the flock who had to be
defended and protected. He didn't say from
such as me, but somehow I got that feeling. Yet
all the while, I knew he was aiming to be
kind and understanding."
Henry now gave a deep laugh and moved his
head and said, "There were parts in my diary that
I'm sure he enjoyed, the parts were I spoke
of my love for Emma. I recall I
sometimes became quite flowery and poetic; it was my
only outlet. He even touched on that. He
said that he could not understand the liaison when it was
open for me to take a wife. Here I was,
he said, in the prime of life, still a very
presentable man. Yes"--he smiled again as
he nodded towards Ralph--"that's what I
am, a very presentable man, so why did I
frustrate myself by ... lusting? Yes, yes,
he did, Ralph." He was laughing now.
"He used the word lusting, but tentatively.
Why did I demean myself by lusting after a
married woman, and she handicapped by an
invalid husband?"
"You should have said that was the reason."
"You know something? I did in so many words. The poor man; he didn't know I was drunk with a
kind of spiritual freedom. Anyway, he
changed the subject back to my ministry. And
at this point I told him I'd never voiced
the opinions in the book from the pulpit. But he
came back at me here, saying that it was
impossible for man's inner beliefs not to seep
through into the words of his mouth, and that there was a section
of Christians who weren't blind believers, and it
was they who would read between the lines; it was they whom
I might set thinking. I said, wasn't it a
good thing that they should think? And you know what his
answer was to that? When one had faith one did not
question. He pointed out that that was why the Roman
Catholic church was so strong; they were taught not
to question. He regretted, he said, that there was a
tendency in our church today for a section of the
flock to ask questions with regard to their faith. It
wasn't a healthy sign, but one of sickness.
... And more and more. We got in deep here, and
I got the feeling that if I'd known him
better I might still be in the ministry, for he
obviously had a feeling for the poor. Yet,
at the same time, I felt bound to ask him
what the church really did for the poor, and pointed out the one and two roomed cottages from
which the church drew rent, their assets being mud
floors and dungheaps. I wished I hadn't
liked him for then I could have let myself go.
Anyway, by offering my resignation, I saved
him the trouble of having to defrock me or having
me brought up before a consistory court ... or
whatever.
"At the end he shook my hand and said he would
pray for me, and his final words were, "You should
never have come into the church because you have never found
God; you are really an agnostic.""
Henry now looked at Ralph for a moment in
silence; then holding out his hands again to the fire,
he said softly, "I'm not, you know. I'm not.
And if it wasn't for Emma I should feel an
entirely new man at this moment."
"What are you going to do about Emma? Why
haven't you gone up there and seen her?"
"First, what can I do? And the reasons I
haven't been up are ... well, I can't
trust myself. The other is, I don't want
to give the dear parishioners anymore fuel for
their fires: I'm leaving, but she's still got
to live here, and they are watching my every move. The funny side of it now is they are beginning
to question Miss Wilkinson's sanity. Poor
Miss Wilkinson. I have it in my heart
to feel sorry for her, and strangely I feel
no animosity towards her for what she did.
It would have had to come sooner or later. If this
hadn't happened to bring the truth out of me something
else would."
"You'll see Emma before you leave though,
won't you?"
Henry's jaw tightened and the muscles of his
cheek-bones stood out under the taut skin for a
moment; then he muttered, "Yes, I'll have
to."
"Does your father know you're coming?"
"Oh yes; yes." A little lightness came
into Henry's eyes. "He says he's counting
the days, as is Clare. He has great plans
as to what we're going to do in the garden, at least
what I'm going to do." He smiled wi/lly
now, and Ralph said, "What are you going to do?
I mean with your life."
"I've been thinking about that. It would be
pleasant just to spend the remainder of it at
home just pottering. But then I might live to be as old as my father, and what a
lot of time I would have wasted just pottering. One
thought is very serious in my mind, it concerns
writing. I'd like to put down all I think about
God and man ... and woman. And you know
something, Ralph?" His voice took on an
eager note now. "From the moment I left the
bishop's palace I felt nearer to God
than I've done since I was ordained; in
fact I wasn't near to Him then at all;
He was like the bishop and I the poor
poverty-stricken peasant; He was someone afar
off, someone that had to be looked up to; but
strangely, and yes Ralph"--he nodded his
head now towards the man muffled up in the chair
before him--"I felt so near to Him that He could
have been alongside me. You won't understand that."
"Who says I won't understand it? I have my
own ideas about whatever is there; and to my mind
it's here." Ralph now dug his fingers into his
chest, and this resulted in a bout of coughing which
left a pink stain on his handkerchief, and when it
was over he went on, "I understand perfectly
how you felt, and I believe you when you say you
are nearer to God now than ever you'd been before. And I say to you also, hang on to that idea and
use it. Write. And may I give you a word
of advice?"
"Why ask, you'll give it to me whether I
like it or not."
A chuckle passed between them, then Ralph
said, "Write stories like you tell them,
don't go in for the heavy stuff, theology, or
philosophy. Well, if you must use the
latter, weave it in, but you'll get more people
to listen to you through a good story than any
high-falutin pamphlet on the whys and wherefores
of Protestantism, Catholicism,
Mohammedanism, and all the other isms."
"I think you're right."
"I know I am. By the way, when do you say
you've got to leave the vicarage?"
"The end of the month, if not before. I've got
to the first of March anyway."
"Will you do something for me?"
"Anything. Anything, Ralph."
"Will you come and stay here a couple of days before
you finally go from the place?"
"Yes." The answer was unhesitating, and
he repeated, "Yes, of course I will." "Once you're gone, Henry,
you'll be gone for good; I won't see you again."
"Don't talk like that." Henry got to his
feet. "Spring will soon be here. You've
weathered worse winters than this. You always say
that; you've said it every year that I can remember
back."
"Yes, haven't I?" Ralph was laughing
now, his hollowed cheeks puffed out, and he said
again, "I'm a devil for repeating myself. And
talking of repeating myself, I've got to say
this. I've made out a little will. What I have is
left between you and Emma. The only value is
in the pictures, and--who knows?--some day you
may be able to get half a dollar on them."
"Oh! Ralph."
"Don't say, oh! Ralph, like that,
Henry. Let's face it. I've been
lucky. Who would have thought when we met years
ago that I'd still be here today? Now who would have
thought it? I've been lucky in more ways than
one, and one of them is in knowing you ... and
Emma."
It was too much to bear. There was an emotional
breaking point, and he was near it. He would blare like any child any moment. He picked up
the tray that held the two empty cups and went
hurriedly down the room into the kitchen and,
putting the tray on the little table, he stood with
his body bent over it and, his throat full, he
repeated, "Oh! Ralph. Oh! Emma."

It was the last Friday in February.
Emma was about her duties again. Mary had
returned to the village to attend to her
family. Jimmy came early in the morning and
stayed till last thing at night, sometimes working
inside the cottage by lamplight. It had
taken her days to get into the routine of the house
again. When Mary was still here she had done the
lighter work, breaking herself in as Mary called
it, but now, when she had everything to do herself, she
reached the evening feeling utterly exhausted.
However, each day her strength increased and she'd
made up her mind that what couldn't be done in the
house must be left undone. She would see to the
meals and attend to Barney and help where she could
outside. And this she did. But the task that she
found the most wearing was her attendance on her
husband, for when he talked at all he talked at her; but most of the time he was silent
and surly. He picked over the food she
gave him, and when one day he said, "I could
starve myself to death and then you could be rid of me,"
she had to clamp down on a retort for she
knew she had no energy to waste on rowing with
him. Yet at the same time she wondered how
long they could go on in this way.
Then a little brightness came through the door late
on this particular Friday. He threw his
sailor bag in, took his hat off and flung
it with dexterity on to the knob of the settle, then
cried to her astonished face, "Well! where's
me welcome?"
And Emma gave him a welcome. She
ran to him, put her arms round him and kissed
him, and he, holding her at arm's length, said,
"Well now, that's more like it." Then his eyes
narrowing, he added, "They're right. I heard
down in The Tuns that you'd been through a bad
patch, and it's told on you."
"Oh! Pete. Oh! I am glad to see
you. Oh! there's no one, no one I'm more
glad to see at this minute."
And at this minute she was actually speaking the truth, for Pete would lighten the burden of work,
he would also do something of much more value, he'd
cheer them up, bring a brightness into the house, perhaps
he'd bring Barney back to his old self
again.
"Come on, sit up; I've got some
mutton stew here and there's new bread. I just
baked it today."
"Now you're talking. How's his nibs?"
He jerked his head towards the end of the room, and
when her face clouded, he said with a change of
tone, "I was only in The Tuns long enough
to hear the bits and pieces. But things have been
happenin' round here, I understand."
"Yes, Pete, things have been happening. Go
and look in on him, and have something to eat, and then
we'll talk. ..."
And later Emma talked as she hadn't
talked for many a long day. She told him all
there was to know, and when she finished he'd said,
"To think we went through all that to get her out of that
place. And it was the means of doin' me da in
an' all. Well, you can wash your hands of her,
Emma, for good an' all. Some lasses are
made like that. Oh yes they are. You wouldn't believe it, Emma, but they are. But
about the parson. I'm sorry to hear about him.
... You liked the parson, didn't you,
Emma?"
She looked him straight in the face as she
said, "Yes, Pete, I liked the parson.
I've always liked him."
"More than liked, Emma?"
"Yes, Pete, more than liked."
"Is it true then what they were saying about you
and him being found together in the old mill? Had you
gone in there and got trapped?"
"No, no, Pete. Haven't I told
you? He was bringing me back after I'd been
looking for Annie."
"Aye. Aye, that's what you said, but one
doesn't like to own up to these things."
She wasn't annoyed, not even slightly
vexed, but she put her hand out and caught his as
she said, "I can swear to you, Pete, there was
never anything between the parson and myself."
"Well, if there had been I wouldn't have
blamed you, Emma, for you've had a pretty
scanty time of it with our Barney, the way he
is. 'Tis a wonder you haven't strayed afore now; there's plenty round about who would have been
ready and willing to help you. Anyway, the
parson's leavin' they say?"
"Yes."
"And he hasn't been near you?"
"No. The last time I saw him was when we
lay down so exhausted that we were prepared
to die."
"You were?"
"Oh yes. It was two days and two
nights. The cold was indescribable. And the
wet. And no food. As you know, you can be
blocked in here for weeks at a time. We had
tried to claw our way out by pulling the snow into the
room. You have no idea what it was like,
Pete."
"Oh aye, I have, Emma; I've had me
hands frozen to the rails and when I've pulled
them off it's left the skin behind. Oh, I know
what intense cold's like an' what it can do to you
an' all. And now, Emma, I've got
somethin' to tell you. ... I've left the
sea."
"What? You mean for good?"
"For good, Emma. An' that's not all. I'm gona be married."
"Oh! Pete." She held out her hands again
to him. "Oh, I'm glad. Who is she?"
"Well, it's nobody hereabouts."
"No?"
"Oh no. It's the sister of one of me
shipmates. I think I told you. An' that's
not all. I've got a proposition, sort
of, to put to you. But mind, it's just up to you 'cos
either way doesn't matter to me. ... Aw"--
he tossed his head from side to side--"that's a
lie, but I'll go along with whatever you say.
How would you like me to come back here and give you a
hand and bring Beth along of me?"
"Oh! Pete." She opened her mouth
wide. "I ... I'd like that better than
anything in the world." And again she meant what she
said at this moment. She was now shaking his hand up
and down. "Oh! Pete. Not only to think of the
work that would be off my shoulders but to have you about the
place, it ... it would be like the sun coming out."
"Aw, lass." His weather-beaten face
took on a deeper hue. "I'm not as bright as
all that."
"You would be to me, Pete. And oh! I'd welcome your wife."
"You'd like her, Emma. She's your sort:
hardworking, down to earth. But she wants to get
away from London. It's no place to live
in, although they're decent enough folk. Her father's
a gaffer in the docks and her brother works there
an' all. It's a tight place to find work
in, they tell me, but they would get me set
on, havin' influence; that's if you didn't
want me back here."
"I'll set you on any day of the week,
Pete." She was smiling widely at him now.
"And it would be share and share alike."
"Oh, I didn't mean that, Emma."
"Well, I meant it, because you worked all your
young days here, slaved is a better word.
We've all slaved."
"Aye; aye, we did slave, didn't
we? But we were lads, then men, while you were just
a bit slip of a lass. I never thought it was
fair, but I kept me mouth shut. They used
to think I was dim, you know, because I didn't
say much. Took it all in and said nowt, because you
couldn't get past me ma or me da. And then
there was our Luke. He was a bad 'un from birth. Still is, by what you've just told
me. Barney was all right though, Emma. But
he's changed like, hasn't he?"
"Yes, he's changed, Pete. He
doesn't look good."
"Has he seen the doctor lately?"
"Yes; I think the doctor went in to him
when he visited me."
"Had he anything to say about him?"
"Not to me; but he said something to Mary about there
being more deterioration. At times he can hardly
lift his right arm now, and he's almost completely
helpless. But"--she turned her head away--
"I wouldn't mind that, Pete, I wouldn't mind
what I did for him, if he was only
civil."
"He's jealous, Emma. An' that's
understandable; even in his state he could be jealous
because he's still got his mind."
She looked at him now without speaking, and she
realized that Barney must have confirmed what
Pete had heard down in The Tuns.
She said, "When is the wedding to be?"
"Well, all depends, Emma. If it's
gona be up there I'd have to stay in the parish for a certain time, I understand, and have the
banns
called. But as I put it to Beth, why not have it
down here? An' she was all for that, havin' it
down here, because she's not the drinking kind. Not that
she objects to me having a pint or two, but
her da and the lads can almost swim in it, and when
they're full there's always high jinks. She's
been brought up with it and I think she'd give
her eye-teeth to get out of it. So I could lay
it on that I'm wanted back here an' bring her
down. Of course there'll be objections, but I
hope they're sober when they're objectin'"--
he now laughed and pushed his hand out towards
Emma--"else there won't be much left of me
for any weddin'. ... No; they're all right
really. But Beth's different. She's steady,
and all she wants is a good home ... an'
me of course."
"Well, she'll get both here, Pete."
"Eeh! I can't believe I'll be comin'
back. Me feet on solid ground again.
Anyway"--he clapped his hands together--"for the
next few days I'll get meself outside
and give Jimmy a hand. He's done
marvellous to manage on his own, and him an' me'll get along like a house on
fire. But first of all this very night, I'll
write Beth a note tellin' her to get herself
ready. I can be up there an' back with her within
three or four days going by the railway.
Marvellous thing, trains; next best thing
to ships. What am I talkin' about? I
don't like ships any more. I don't really
think I ever did, except when I was on dry
land afore I had found out what they were like. ...
Well, am I sleepin' in the same
hammock, Emma?"
"Yes, the same hammock, Pete."
"Well, good-night, lass."
"Good-night, Pete." She went to him now
and kissed him gently on the cheek, saying,
"I never thought to meet with any good in me life
again. Oh, I'm so glad you're coming back,
Pete."
He seemed too touched to answer, but he
patted her shoulder, then turned away and
walked up the room; and she went and sat down
by the fire and, joining her hands on her knees,
she dropped her head back and, looking up to the
smoke-covered ceiling, quietly said, "Thank you, Lord."



Pete stayed five days on the farm and he
worked like a Trojan outside. Sometimes she
heard him and Jimmy laughing together; and it was a
good sound. Yet when it happened she always
turned her head in the direction of the
sitting-room: Barney's hearing was still good and the
sound must irk him. Yet he, too, seemed
better for Pete's presence.
The night before he left Pete went down
to The Tuns on the cart and brought back some
bottled ale which he took into the sitting-room,
and long after Emma had gone to bed she could still
hear the murmur of their voices from down below, and
her thoughts were that the ale had loosened Barney's
tongue.
It was around seven o'clock in the morning when
Pete left the farm to catch the carrier cart
into the town. The sun was shining, the morning was bright
and brisk, and Emma set him to the gate and
wished him a safe journey, for to her the
journey to London was as dangerous as a journey in a boat on the high seas.
Her last words to him were, "I'll be counting the
hours until I see you again, Pete."
She watched his figure marching away down the
road. He was dressed in an ordinary suit,
but his walk had a slight roll to it. It was a
sailor's walk.
As she crossed the yard back to the kitchen
door Jimmy called to her, "I'm goin'
to miss him, missis. I'll be glad to see
him settled back."
"You're not the only one, Jimmy. But he
won't be long. Four days at the most, he
said."
She went inside, and immediately the kitchen
seemed different, and when later she lifted the
breakfast tray to take in to Barney she thought,
he will be different too--he had been
civil-spoken to her whilst Pete had been
here.
She placed the tray across his lifeless
knees and, lifting the spoon, handed it to him.
But he didn't take it; what he did was
to grasp her hand and, looking at her, he said,
"I'm ... I'm sorry, Emma, I've been a bit rough on you." Then lifting her hand
upwards he pressed it gently to his cheek.
The change was so sudden and unexpected that she
could say nothing. The tears gathered to a great
knot in her throat; she closed her lids
tightly as he said again, "I'm sorry,
Emma; it's taken Pete to make me see
things more reasonable like. As he said, you've had
one hell of a life with one and another of us, not
countin' Annie."
"Oh! Barney. Barney." She drew her
hand from him and turned away and stood with her head
bowed, the tears raining through her fingers; and when his
voice came to her brokenly, murmuring,
"Emma. Emma, forgive me. I'll ...
I'll try to be different and ... and understand."
She couldn't bear it, and ran from the room, into the
kitchen where, throwing herself on to the settle, she
leant her head on her arm and cried until she
could cry no more.
When at last she pulled herself upwards it was
as if she had been washed clean of feeling.
Her mind was at rest. The future lay clear
before her: her life need not be that unhappy; she
would tend Barney and love him; yes, in a way she would love him and comfort him; and
as a stay she would have Pete and his wife, and
Jimmy and his wife; and there would be times when she
would forget altogether that she had a daughter. This would
be the hardest task of all, but one which she must
work at. She would not allow herself to think of the other
person she must forget.
She went to the pump near the sink and after
drawing a dishful of water she sluiced her
face, dried it, then reaching up to the
mantelpiece she took down a comb and pulled
it through each side of her hair. This done, she
took in one long slow deep breath, made her
way back into the sitting-room and without any
words sat on the edge of the bed and put an arm
under Barney's head and held him to her.

It was as if Pete had taken the sun with him
for a wind came up and brought rain with it; then it
freshened still further and by the evening it was blowing a
gale.
It was almost nine o'clock when she saw
Jimmy's lantern swinging down the yard. He
had been working on the cottage: he had done
wonders with the inside; he had mended the dess bed and varnished and comb-grained the doors; he
had brought up from the village an old broken
cupboard, taken it to pieces and made a
delf rack. By the time he'd finished, the
cottage would certainly be fit to live in.
She bolted the door, emptied the teapot
on to the fire to damp it down and stood back from
it for a moment coughing as the cinder-smelling steam
wafted about her face. Then picking up the
lamp, she went into the sitting-room to say
good-night to Barney; but finding he was already
asleep, she quietly turned down the wick
of his lamp to a mere flicker, then went up the
stairs.
It was sometime before she went to sleep. As
always, the doings of the day tumbled through her mind, and
again as always she ended up thinking about two people,
Annie and Henry; then finally, just before sleep,
she thought, I wonder if he'll come and see
me before he goes. The thought took her over
into a dream.
It was the kind of dream she'd often had before:
she was in the midst of people, all misty faced, and
she was peering at them in the hope of recognizing
one. At times she thought she saw her father, and when she imagined she was looking at her
mother the face would turn into that of Annie and she
would go and put her arms about her, only to find
she was embracing a man.
Tonight the dream was following the same pattern
and she had reached the point when she had her arms
around the strange man when she screamed; and she
ran from him and through the village, only to meet
him again. When he put his arms about her, then
threw her to the ground, she screamed once more and
it wasn't like a dream scream when your mouth
opens and no sound comes out, or that you've
imagined that you've yelled to the pitch of your
lungs only to wake up murmuring; now she
knew she was actually screaming and that she was no
longer in a dream but was actually struggling with a
man. When his body came thumping on to hers and
his hand was ramming something into her mouth she tried
to bite on it; but the next instant her head
spun as she received a blow to the side of it and
she was only vaguely aware that she was being
thrust on to her face.
She came to herself screaming in her head as she
felt herself being dragged from the bed. Her hair was
being torn from her head. She knew now she was being pulled into the attic and as she emerged from
the
darkness of the bedroom into the light of the lantern the
terror in her almost caused her heart to stop, for
she saw plainly now who her assailant
was. Yet subconsciously she had known that
from the moment in the dream when her own screams had
echoed those of another.
The agony her body had endured in being
dragged over the uneven floor boards was nothing to that of her mind when, as she lay on her side,
he brought the lantern and, swinging it so close
to her face that she thought he intended to spill the
oil on her, he said, "Comfortable, Emma?"
Her eyes, wide like those of a trapped
animal that knew it was about to die, stared back
at him.
"Didn't tie you too tight, did I?"
He took his foot now and kicked at her bare
ankles where the rope was searing the skin.
"Anyway, you won't mind that in a minute or
two, you'll have forgotten all about it."
He now stood the lantern on the floor and,
dropping on to his hunkers, he brought his
face close to hers and his spirit-laden breath
wafted over her as he growled, "You don't know how long I've waited for this
minute, Emma, just you and me alone, nobody
to interfere. Years and years I've waited for
it, ever since you first toddled into the yard, I
think. It was from that minute you blasted me life.
Do you know that, Emma? You blasted me life.
You separated me from me family; you turned
me out of me home; you lost me inheritance that you
are now handing on to Pete; an' you made me
somebody to be pitied and scorned because I'd
busted up me brother's life an' all.
I've had to carry the blame for that. I just
told him so downstairs. Did you hear him
yelling? He was trying to warn you while I was
giving him a kind of picture of what I was
gona do to you. But he's quiet now; I saw
to that. That's one chalk mark off me slate,
'cos he never liked me nor me him. But we
would have got along if you hadn't stepped in.
You should have seen his face when I told him what
I was going to do to you after I had taken you. But you
know something, Emma? I don't want you, not that
way; not even years ago I didn't want
you. Didn't mind lookin' at you or havin'
a tickle, but you had no fire in you; not like Annie. Aw now, Annie's got fire in
her. And I'll tell you something more, Annie's
worth a hundred of you."
He now took the flat of his hand and brought it
fully across the side of her face, and when her
head hit the floor she again almost became
insensible. But she came to herself when she felt his
hand grip the front of her nightdress andwitha
savage tug rip it clean down to the hem, and
there he had to use two hands to tear the calico
apart.
"Skin and bone, not really a woman. Open
your eyes, Emma; I'm lookin' at you."
"Well now." She knew by the sound of his
voice he had turned from her; and slowly she
forced her lids open and then her mind cried,
"Oh! Jesus. Jesus," as she saw what
he was about to do. He had taken the lantern to where
the wall sloped and he was examining the whips that
had lain in the corner for years. She saw him
pick one up after the other before he appeared
to choose what her dada had called the standard.
This had a heavyish handle and a single strand of
leather, broad at the top and narrowing to almost a
thread at its end. It was very like the one she had used to whip the idol off the table in those
far gone days up at the house.
He next picked up the belt of knives,
and when he held the cloth case by its strap it
unrolled and two of the knives dropped out and
fell hilt first to the floor. Throwing the case
down, he said, "We might come to you later."
Coming over to her now, he bent over her once
more and pulled the gag, a dirty cloth, out of
her mouth, and smiling at her he said, "It's
easier to yell, Emma, and I want to hear you
yell ... scream, screech. It's a windy
night and it's not likely that anybody's around
at this time. Even if a fellow was poaching he
would just take it for one of the owls, or a fox because
you'll be screamin' like a vixen afore I've
finished with you."
"Luke." His name trembled on her lips,
and he said, "Aye Emma, what is it?"
"Pl ... pl ... please, do ... do ...
don't do this, Luke, please."
"You pleading with me, Emma?"
"Yes, Luke, pl ... please." As her
lips trembled out the word and she looked into his
contorted face an even deeper terror filled her, for what she saw in his eyes she
recognised as madness. It wasn't only that
he had been drinking, for he wasn't really
drunk, but he was mad; and it wasn't only the
madness of a moment she was witnessing, it was an
insanity that had taken him over. She could
smell it; it was almost tangible; and the fearfulness
of it was in the seeming reasonable animosity of his
next words.
"Oh, what a pity, Emma, you didn't
think about pleadin' afore now. Funny; if you
had, things might have been different. No ...
Emma--" His voice changed now and he jerked
himself to his feet and, cracking the whip over the
floor boards, he said, "I'm gona take
payment for me life, an' for this." He pointed
to the weal on his face. "Remember this,
Emma? You did that with a rope. Well, just in
case you had got rid of the whips I brought some
along of me. But this one is better. Oh, much
better." Again he cracked the whip. Then
swinging round, he brought his arm in a lightning
flash over his head and the end of the whip across her
face.
As her body bounced on the floor, her screams seemed to deafen herself, and as the
blood ran into the corner of her mouth he lashed
out at her again and once more her body bounced.
This time she rolled on to her face, her open
mouth pressed against the dirty boards. But she
wasn't there seconds before his foot had brought
her on to her side again. And now he was flaying
her. No part of her body did he miss. And
when his arm became tired he stood gasping, his
own body heaving almost as much as hers. But she was
past hearing when he bawled, "That's only the
beginning. An' don't think there'll be somebody
comin' to your rescue, because I've arranged it.
There's a note left for your dear helper
to say you've gone to the painter's. How's that for
thinkin'? And when they eventually find you and him
I'll be miles away. And I've people to vouch
that I'd been with them every minute for the past week,
because I've made meself scarce, said I was
goin' into Newcastle to look for a job and some
place to kip. And of course that's natural
since me and Laura broke up. The bitch!
The bitch, to leave me. I'll do for her an'
all. I will! I will. ... Emma." He again
pushed her with his foot, and when there was no movement from her he brought the lantern and held
it above her. Her face was streaming with blood,
the crossed lines on her breast, stomach and
legs were oozing blood; the torn nightdress
was now bespattered with blood and split in
places and had ridden up beyond her thighs.
He took his hand and gripped her shoulder,
shouting now, "Come on! Come on! You're not
goin' as easy as that." Then when her head
rolled to the side, he straightened himself,
saying, quietly, "Well, rest a while.
That's it, rest a while. An' me an' all.
It's hard work lashing out. I don't seem to have
your knack, Emma, but I'm not doin' so
badly, am I? 'Tis hard work. An' me
head's aching. Want a drink. Me head's
aching."
And on this he threw the whip down and went and
sat on the floor opposite her. His back
against a box, he sat gazing at her wealed and
bleeding body, as another man might have done
at a picture that soothed his senses. And time
went on and he continued to look at her, and the
only movement his body made was when his jaw
sagged. From then on his mouth remained open as if in astonishment.



It was the day for the market. Jimmy came
into the yard around six o'clock. The first job he
did was to water and feed the horses; he then
put the mash on in the boilerhouse for the pigs;
following this, he let out the hens earlier than
usual simply to stop the cock crowing its head
off; and before he started the mucking out of the cow
byres and the milking he got the horse and cart
ready for the market.
Later, on looking towards the attic he
noticed there was a light showing dimly through the
fanlight. But he had seen no sign of the
missis, and market day she was generally trotting
backward and forward to the dairy getting the stuff
ready for the cart. And she always called him over
about this time and gave him a mug of something hot.
Perhaps she wasn't well. Perhaps the boss had
taken worse.
He went to the kitchen door and tapped on
it. When he received no response he pushed it
open and stood looking round the kitchen. The fire wasn't blazing; the kettle wasn't
boiling on the hob, as he would have expected
to see; but the table was set for breakfast as it
always was the night before. She couldn't be up yet.
But there was a peice of paper stuck in
front of the jug.
He took a step further into the kitchen and
went towards the paper and read his own name on the
top of it. Picking it up, he saw that it said:
Jimmy, been called to Mr Bowman's.
Carry on as usual. I've seen to Barney.
Don't trouble him. I'll soon be back.
He stared at the piece of paper, then he
looked down the room to the far door before bringing
his eyes back and reading the note again. She had
written her husband's name calling him
Barney. She never called him Barney, not
to him, she always called him the boss, because
crippled or no he still owned the place. And
he had always thought it a nice gesture of her
to refer to him as the boss. But here she was calling
him Barney. But that wasn't all. The
writing, it was big and scrawling. He had seen
her writing before on the orders she had written
out for him when he had taken the cart into Gateshead Fell for horse feed
and such. There was something funny here. And she said
he hadn't to go in to the boss. Why? when he had
looked after him those days when she was cut off by the
snow, and for sometime after an' all, to help his ma
out.
He turned about and left the kitchen. Then,
going quietly along the yard, he stopped
outside the sitting-room window. The head of the
boss's bed had been placed so that he could see
out of the window. Jimmy stood a pace back from
the window, looking at it for some seconds; then
leaning towards it, he pressed his nose to the
glass and looked in. There was the boss in bed
where he expected him to be. He looked
asleep; yet no, he wasn't.
Jimmy moved his head against the reflected
light, then cupped his hand over the side of his
face and his mouth opened wide as he stared at the
face on the pillow. The eyes were open, the
jaw was hanging slack, and one eye was black
and blue as if he had been in a fight.
He stood back, his doubled fist held
tightly against his mouth now. The boss was dead.
He was dead. And the missis? There was something wrong. He looked upwards towards the
windows. Should he go in, and upstairs?
No, no, he must go and get somebody. There
was something radically wrong here. But where was the
missis?
He ran across the yard now towards where the
cart stood. He had to go and get somebody, he
couldn't tackle it himself. He was just about to mount
to the seat when he stopped as he remembered
something. The light, that light coming from the attic.
He had thought it was the reflection of the rising
sun spread through the branches of the apple
tree.
He turned from the cart and ran across the yard
to the side of the house; but there he stopped and,
moving cautiously, he crossed the square of
grass in which stood the old tree. Then backing
two or three steps, he looked upwards, and
yes, there it was. It was dimmer now in the
broader daylight but it was nevertheless a light, and
what was it doing in the attic. Nobody, to his
knowledge, slept in the attic. Well, there was
nobody to sleep in the attic, was there?
He looked up into the branches of the tree.
He had skimmed up this old tree more times than he'd had weekly wages. He
put his hands up and gripped the stout lower
branch and within seconds he was standing on it, and
from there he threaded his way as if up a known
staircase to the top.
He wasn't quite on a level with the fanlight
and the sun coming through the branches of the tree was still
dappling it. He put his hand gently out and
laid it on the roof, then brought his face round
to the edge of the dirty pane, and through narrowed
eyes he squinted into the room below. And what
he imagined he saw almost brought him toppling
backwards. He could see the dim outline, also
dappled by the sun's rays, of a trussed naked
figure on the floor. It was red in parts, and
sitting not a yard from it, his back against a box,
was the hunched figure of a man. And he
recognized the man.
His lips formed the words, Eeh! God in
heaven. Eeh! Then he was again moving
cautiously through the branches. But once on the
ground he seemed to cover it in leaps until
he reached the cart; then mounting it, he cried,
"Gee up there!" and the horse trotted out through the
opening on to the lane, with Jimmy again urging it on: "Up! Up!"
At the coach road he pulled the animal
to a halt and looked first one way and then the
other. He had to get help. But it was a
couple of miles to the village. Just along the
road though there was the painter's cottage and the
parson was staying there, and he was no weakling. This
was the day he was leaving, so it was said; his ma said
his big trunk had been sent on to the station
yesterday.
Having turned the horse's head in the
direction of the cottage, he put the animal
into a fast trot, and when they reached the cottage
he jumped from the cart almost before the horse had
come to a stop. Tearing up the path now, he
hammered on the door.
It was opened by the painter, with a shawl over his
shoulders. "Oh, Mr Bowman"--Jimmy
leaned forward, one hand clutching the stanchion of the
door--"is ... is the parson with you?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm here, Jimmy."
Henry appeared by the side of Ralph.
"Oh! Parson. Parson, you've got
to come, there's somethin' going on up there, bad.
I ... I think the boss is dead, and the missis." At this point he closed
his eyes tight, drooped his head and shook it as
if to fling off the picture in his mind; then on
a gabble of words he said, "Luke Yorkless.
He's got her up in the attic. She ...
she looked stark, stark-naked. She's trussed
up and as ... as far as I could see .... I
... well, I might have been mistaken but
... well, she looked as if she was bleedin'
in parts."
For a second Henry and Ralph remained
mute; then Henry rushed down the room,
grabbed up his coat and was back within seconds,
to find that Ralph had thrown off his shawl and that
he too was lifting a coat from the back of the
door. "No! No! man. No! No!"
Henry bawled at him.
"I'm coming with you."
"No! I tell you. Anyway, what use
would you be? You're in no fit state to
...."
"Don't waste words, Henry. I don't
know what use I'd be, I only know I'm
coming with you."
Henry looked from where Jimmy had mounted the cart to where Ralph was now pulling the door
closed behind him, and he shook his head. It was
no use wasting time arguing.
He helped Ralph up on to the seat beside
Jimmy and he himself jumped on to the back of the
cart.
It was some five minutes later when they
neared the farmyard, and before they went through the opening
Henry called, "Stop a minute." He
jumped down, went round to the front of the cart
and, looking up at Jimmy, he said, "Had
he a gun?"
"Oh, I couldn't see that, Parson; I just
stayed long enough to see what I did. But he could
have; he used to poach along of the moler, 'twas
known."
"Come on, get down." Henry put up his
hand and caught at Ralph's sleeve, then
added, "Not you, Jimmy. What you must do is
turn about and get into the village as quickly as
possible and bring some help back."
"I've been thinkin', Parson, most of
'em'll be in the fields or away
into Gateshead. An' Mr Tate's not much
good with his fists although he's an innkeeper. And it being market day the butcher won't be
there. And Tom Turnbull, well ...."
"All right. All right. Well look, go
back the way you came and beyond to Farmer
Hudson. Anthony will come along with him. Go
on now; get away as fast as you can."
Before the cart had turned about he and Ralph
had entered the yard. Henry opened the kitchen
door and they went in quietly, and both stood
looking about them for a moment before Henry said
softly, "Stay where you are, he's dangerous."
And Ralph answered as softly, "Well,
I'll leave you to tackle the danger. By all
accounts Emma will need some help."
Henry let out a quick short breath, then went
cautiously up the kitchen and across the hall.
At the foot of the stairs he hesitated and after
looking towards the sitting-room he moved
swiftly to the door, opened it, and went in.
Ralph followed.
They stood looking down on Barney, and
Henry moved his head in a pitying gesture,
muttering, "He's mad. He's mad. This was
his brother." He now looked at Ralph whose
lips were spread from his teeth which were clenched, and he seemed to speak through them as he
said, "He's
been pummelled."
Henry looked upwards; then turning
swiftly, he went from the room and up the
stairs. Ralph followed more slowly but he
gained Henry's side as he paused outside
the bedroom door.
Henry knew the layout of the house; he had
sat in this particular bedroom many times after
Barney had first had his accident and he knew
of the low door that led into the attic. Quietly
now he gripped the handle and, turning it
slowly, he pressed the door open; then on
tiptoe, they both entered the room, and their
eyes were directed straight to the bed. All the
bedclothes were on the floor, and the patch quilt
was lying under the window with a pillow near it. There
were various articles of clothing strewn about the
floor but the way to the attic door was clear.
Standing in front of it, he turned his head
on his shoulder and listened. But he heard no
sound at all. After nodding once to Ralph he
leaned forward andwitha jerk pulled open the door;
then bending his length, he almost dived into the
room, there to see a sight that was to remain with him to the end of his days. The sun was
dappling the almost naked figure on the floor.
It looked like an animal that had been trussed
and badly slaughtered, and to the side of it sat
the slaughterer.
The eeriness and horror of the situation was
heightened by the fact that the man on the floor
didn't move; that was until Ralph
muttered, "Oh my God!" Then it was as if
he had bellowed, for Luke's head jerked to the
side and, looking at them, he smiled.
Henry spoke not a word. Within a second
he was kneeling by Emma, and for a moment his hands
hovered over her as if afraid to touch her.
There was in him an agony as like to a
crucifixion as he would ever know. When he
loosened the ropes that bound her hands and feet it
was as if the nails of the cross were being driven in
to him and he was crying, Lord, why hast Thou
forsaken me? for surely God was punishing him
through the torn bloody body before him.
"He's mad. He's gone mad."
He was aware that Ralph was speaking but he
paid no heed to him. Putting his arms gently under
the contorted and blood-sticky limbs, he lifted Emma gently up and, holding her
to his breast, he stumbled from the room.



She had lain in the kitchen for two weeks,
but after the third day her mind became quite clear,
and she was fully aware from then of what was going
on and what was being said in whispered words or
normal talk. She knew for instance that they had
buried Barney, that the papers had been full
of the tragedy, that people from as far away as
Newcastle were taking Sunday trips to see the
farm where the woman had almost been flayed
alive. She knew that Pete had cried like
any woman when he had looked down on her,
and that the girl he was going to marry was nice.
She was small and tidy in her person, but had
a strange way of talking. She could understand little
of what she said. She also knew that Luke
Yorkless had been put in an asylum and they
were saying in the kitchen that he might as well be
dead, but she knew that for her he would never be
dead, he would live forever all over her body
... and her face. Yesterday, when a strange doctor
came from Newcastle he had ordered them
to take off the pig fat muslin wrappings that
covered her body up to the chin and said that all that
was needed now was a light gown. She had seen
her body, at least at the front. It had not
shocked her because each lacerated piece of flesh
was engraved on her mind, except those Luke
had accomplished with his last effort when he must have
turned her over on to her face ... kicked
her over.
Her face! It was only in the night that she
put her hand up to her face and let her fingers
follow the weals. She had asked Mary
yesterday to give her the looking-glass from the
mantelpiece, but Mary's answer had been,
"There's plenty of time. And that one from
Newcastle said they'll heal an' they'll
fade. You'll hardly be able to notice them in
time. You'll see, they'll vanish."
But the rope mark she herself had laid on
Luke's face hadn't vanished. In his
demoniac hate it had stood out like a piece
of red cord.
She hadn't imagined that she cared overmuch about her looks. She had never been pretty, not like
other girls. But Barney had told her so
often in that first year of their marriage she was
beautiful, and Ralph had told her she was
beautiful; and Henry had told her she was
beautiful that night in the mill when they thought they
had been going to die. He had said her beauty
had made him ache, that sometimes he couldn't bear
to look at her for the pain her image had on
him. And that night she had been glad she was still
good to look upon. Tired out with work, her mind
weary with grappling, that she could still be thought
beautiful had been a great comfort. But now she was
beautiful no more; nor ever would be in her life
again.
She had heard Mary talking to Pete's young
woman, saying, "She's lucky to have her
sight. He likely only left her that so she
could see his handiwork for the rest of her days; that's
if he intended her to go on livin'. 'Tis a
wonder that she's alive anyway."
Yes, it was a wonder that she was alive.
And a pity, for if ever before she had longed for death
she longed for it now. Henry's loving words could
not soothe her. There was nothing standing in their way now, he had said; he was leaving and as
soon as she was well enough to travel she was going
with him. She would love his father and sister, and they
would love her; and she would love the house and the
countryside. ... On and on he had talked,
but not once had she opened her mouth in one word of
reply of acceptance of the future he
portrayed or of refusal to share it with him.
There was a great stillness inside her as if the
world had stopped moving. It had come inffbeing from the
time she had regained full consciousness.
Prior to this her mind in her lucid moments had
been screaming out to the heavens a great why. And
now this silence seemed to be the answer.
She looked down the kitchen. There was no one
in it. Pete's girl was upstairs doing the
room, Pete was outside with Jimmy, Mary
had gone into the dairy.
Slowly she pushed the bed cover back and
slowly still she brought her legs over the side.
The stone was cool to the seared soles of her
feet. With the support of the bedhead she pulled
herself up, and the effect of moving was such that she
imagined all the skin on her body had become
brittle and was now cracking. Her head bent, she stood gasping for a moment before moving one
foot in front of the other like a child attempting
to walk. Painfully she made her way from the
bed to the table, and after resting there for a moment she
turned about and went towards the fireplace at
the side of which hung the shaving mirror. ...
The only thing she recognized about the
woman's face looking back at her were the
eyes, for below them, following the cheekbones, were
two red weals that gave the impression they were the
lower rim of a large pair of spectacles.
On her left cheek the lines were so
criss-crossed that they melted together. There were
only two marks on her right cheek. These
came down from her temple and curved beyond her
lower lip to the middle of her chin.
She was hideous. Hideous. She turned
from the mirror, her hands covering her face, her
mouth wide open.
Oh no! No! No! No! She
couldn't bear this. If she couldn't stand the sight
of herself, how could other people bear to look at her?
Why had God put this on her too? Why?
Why? What had she done to deserve it?
Knowingly she had committed one sin in His eyes, that was loving Henry, but to her it hadn't
been a sin, no more than lust was apparently
to Annie. God Almighty! what was she
thinking? She'd go out of her mind. That'd be the
next thing He'd do to her. Just to let her see
there were worse things than losing your looks,
He'd send her mad, as He had sent Luke
mad so that he wouldn't have to pay the penalty for
killing Barney.
As she reached the table the door opened and
Henry stood poised for a moment before moving
swiftly towards her, saying almost harshly now,
"Why are you up? You shouldn't have attempted
to get on your feet for another week or more."
She looked up at him into his face and,
slowly turning, she pointed to the mirror; and
at this he cried, his voice overloud,
"Well! what about it? In time they'll heal.
... Oh! Emma. Emma." His voice
dropped and he put his arms about her, saying
softly now, "Believe me, the scars will fade
to nothing. And look"--he thrust his hands into his
coat pocket and brought out a round box--"I
went into Newcastle yesterday and saw a
Doctor Fenwick, and he made up this ointment. This is specially for your face. He
says it will soften the skin and reduce the weals
in no time."
She put out her hand and laid her fingers
gently on the box, then shook her head, and in
a voice that was merely a croak as if from
disuse she said, "Don't hoodwink me."
As they were the first words she had spoken during
the past two weeks he smiled at her,
saying, "Who could hoodwink you, Emma?" Then
he added, "But I'm telling you the truth.
Doctor Fenwick is a skin specialist.
Now come on back to bed because you've got to get
your strength up, and quickly, because I can't wait
to take you home."
When she was once more in bed, he sat on the
side of it and, taking her hand in his, he
traced each finger gently with his own as he said,
"I never, never thought we'd ever be together,
Emma. And now the prospect of spending the
rest of my life with you is so overwhelming I
can't believe it's about to happen."
When she made no response he asked
quietly, "You won't mind leaving the farm, will
you?" Would she mind leaving the farm? She
never wanted to see this farm again, not in this life,
or the next. She even startled herself when she
said in a voice that was like a cry, "Oh no!
No!"
"That's all right then. I've talked it over
with Pete. He says if you pass it on to him
then you must be recompensed in some way, but I
said that I thought that you wouldn't want anything.
Am I right?"
"Yes." She nodded her head twice: she
wanted nothing from this place, she wanted to be
away from it, to fly ... fly away from it.
Yet she couldn't fly away, not with him. It
wouldn't be fair. She would be an embarrassment
to him; he'd have to explain how she had come by her
disfigurement. He'd always have to explain, and so
many things. It was because of her he'd lost his
ministry. Mary had said as much. She turned
her head away from him now, saying, "I ...
I can't go with you, it's too late."
"Emma"--he brought her face gently
towards him--"you ... you don't care for me
any more?"
Oh--she looked into his eyes--if she had ever loved him before, she loved him at this moment,
and the weight of the love that was opening up in her was
like a physical load pressing her body
double, for now she was bending forward over the bed her
face in her hands, and when he forced them apart and
brought her round to him again he said, "Answer my
question."
She stared at him while her tears followed
the channels of the weals and spread over her
face, and what she answered was, "I'm ...
I'm different now; I'll never be the same
again, inside or out."
Once more he said, "Answer my question. Do you
care for me still?"
"Oh! Henry; I can't go with you, it's too
late."
"Emma, do you love me? Because if you do and
you want to stay here, then I stay too."
"No, no; you musn't stay here ... oh
no. Oh! Henry." Her head fell forward and
when it touched his shoulder his arms went round her and
he looked over her head down the kitchen to where
the rain was streaming down the window and he said
softly, "That's settled then. That's settled.
Our lives here have run full circle because I, in a way, brought you here, and it's
been left to me, and thank God for it, to take
you away from this tormented house. And I
promise you, Emma, that for the remainder of my
life my main concern will be your happiness."
Raising her head from his shoulder, he now
placed his lips firmly on hers; then stroking
her hair back from her forehead, he said
softly, "So it is sealed, Emma, so it is
sealed, for life, what is left of it."

Three weeks later, Emma, dressed in
a new cloak and a wide-brimmed bonnet that
shadowed her face, was sitting by the side of
Ralph. Their hands were tightly clasped and
words were coming difficult to both of them. He
coughed, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, then
turned to her, saying softly, "I'll have the
pictures sent on ... later."
"I hope it won't be for a long long time."
"It likely will." He coughed again, then
smiled at her, saying, "You know me, I've
been dying every winter since you first put your nose
through that door. What is it, twenty-three,
twenty-four years ago? Twenty-four years ago. A lifetime. But you ... you Emma,
you've got another lifetime before you and if
anybody can make you happy he will. He's
loved you from the first minute he saw you. And I
did an' all." He now wagged her hand up and
down. "Oh yes, I did, but"--he turned
his head away as if in shyness now--"you knew the
circumstances." Then looking at her again, he
added in a whisper, "And what might have happened
but for those circumstances?"
"Oh! Ralph. Ralph." She looked
lovingly into his emaciated face and they both
knew that this was the last good-bye. "Go now," he
said; "he's out there straining at the leash."
He did not kiss her but brought her hand to the
side of his face, and she, bending forward, put
her lips to his brow and they held each other
tightly for a moment. Then blindly she rose from the
chair and went out of the cottage to where Henry was
standing near the trap talking to Jimmy who was
sitting in the driving seat, and after Henry had
helped her into the back of the trap he said,
"I'll be back in a minute." Then hurrying
up the path, he went into the cottage and stood
looking down at Ralph for a moment before sitting down beside him.
"I hate to leave you like this," he said
brokenly. "If ... if there was only some
way."
"Don't be silly, man. We both know
I'll be leaving myself in a very short time. But
I want to say one thing to you, and that is, thank
you for the friendship you've shown me over the years.
I sometimes have wondered how I would have gone on
without you ... and your crack." He jerked his
head and blinked rapidly. "If you'd been an
ordinary parson, you'd never have stood the pace,
but you were never an ordinary parson. You should never
have been a parson; you know that, don't you?"
Henry couldn't speak, but what he did was
put his arms about the muffled figure and, holding
him tightly, he muttered through the tightness in his
throat, "I've loved you dearer than father or
brother."
"Go on. Go on." Ralph pushed him
away, then turned his head towards the fire as
Henry went out, the tears streaming unashamedly
down his face.

The train was puffing noisily; the smoke was billowing down the platform enveloping them in
cloud as if in mist; Pete and his future
wife and Jimmy stood around her, and one after the
other they shook her hand and wished her all the
happiness in life; but it was Pete who kissed
her, then whispered, "Don't worry. I'll
do what you asked an' let you know if ... if
I should hear anything. Go now and be happy."
And she went, lifted up the high step
by Henry, and then they were both standing at the window
until the whistle blew and the train moved
slowly out of the station. And when they had stopped
waving they sat down side by side, their hands
joined as they were to be whenever possible for the rest of
their lives.










EPILOGUE

On a day in June of eighteen
ninety-three, a woman sat in the front
room of a house in a respectable quarter of
Newcastle. She was nearing her middle forties
but with her slim body and babyish-looking face
she could have claimed to be in her early
thirties. She was reading the deaths column in
The Times. Her late husband had always
taken The Times, and because it set a sort of
social pattern she hadn't stopped its
delivery. She read again the words:

GRAINGER.--ON the 4th June, 1893,
peacefully, at the Towers, Burnside,
Emaralda Grainger, two days following the
decease of her husband, Henry Francis
Grainger. Both greatly beloved of their son,
Ralph Francis Grainger, and their
daughters, Mrs. Elizabeth Scott
Mather and Mrs. Mary Barrington. Funeral
at Burnside Parish Church, the 8th inst.,
at 2 o'clock. They were inseparable in life, they are inseparable in death.

The woman got up and walked to the window.
The paper hung slack in her hand, and as she
stood gazing out on to the neat back garden her
thoughts ran wildly back down the years to the
day when she was sixteen and Bill had bought her
out from Ma Boss's and had married her,
actually married her. She was still wondering why
to this very day, for he hadn't wanted all that much out
of her, just snuggle and cuddle. And he had known
of her side capers, but he hadn't minded as
long as she was there. And she had stuck by him.
Yes, she owed him that much, she had stuck by him
until he had died in his dotage. But he had
repaid her well, she was set for life. ... and
after all, what was life for but for living?
She now recalled the day that she'd first heard
of her Uncle Luke flaying her mother, and it
hadn't been till after Bill had brought her
out. She'd felt dreadful about that and had gone
up to the farm, but it was all changed and her mother
had gone and her Uncle Pete wouldn't tell
her where. But he had said he would let her ma
know that she was all right and respectably married.
And now she was dead. And the parson was dead.
And Uncle Pete was dead, and his young son was
running the farm, so she understood.
She lifted the paper and again read the
notice. Her mother had had a son and two
daughters. She had a half-brother and two
half-sisters, and now she knew where they were.
... Well, they could remain there. She'd never
be able to undo all the damage she had done in
her life, but she would cause no more. But she
could go down there to the funeral couldn't she? On
the quiet like?
She turned from the window. No, no; the
doctor was calling later in the day. He
called every week to see to her heart. She
smiled to herself: appearances had to be kept up.
And then it was almost time for Jack's boat to be
in, it could be any day now. She looked forward
to that. He was her nephew ... for the neighbours.
He had to be to stay a fortnight or more at a
time. It took all sorts to make life
worth living, and life was for living according to how you
were made. Aye, according to how you were made.
She laid the paper down on the table and went out of the room and across a well-carpeted hall and
up the stairs and into a very comfortable bedroom and
got ready to meet the doctor. ...
Life was for living.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Catherine Cookson was born in Tyne
Dock, South Shields, England, in 1906.
This river area, known as Tyneside, and its people
provide the settings and characters for her many
novels. And in the tradition of many great
English novelists, Mrs. Cookson
captures the mood of her settings with
remarkable clarity. In fact, so successfully
has Mrs. Cookson re-created this area that
in 1968 she was the recipient of the Winifred
Holtby Award of the Royal Society of
Literature for the Best Regional Novel
of the Year, and in 1974 she was awarded the
Freedom of the County Borough of South
Shields in recognition of her services to her
hometown. Mrs. Cookson and her husband
live in Northumberland, England.