The Visitor

by Chris Simpson

  Holly trees are as mysterious in their habits as mushrooms. One year they are groaning with berries, the next there are none. Just as a field yielding mushrooms in abundance will stay bare of the fungi for no apparent reason for years. But Jos could always rely on this tree. Leaving Beelzebub to rumble away to itself and, with his nephew looking on, he balanced precariously on the wall top and drew a pair of secateurs from his Barbour. He snipped away diligently, the green twigs laden with berries dropping down so that he quickly had all the holly he needed. Scrambling down again they dropped the twigs into a sack, and slipped Beelzebub into gear.

  It was an unforgettable day. Having put the holly in the toolshed, they loaded two bales of hay on to the trailer and set out to the rack in the middle of the five-acre field where the sheep were wintered. Impervious to the cold in their fleeces, they clustered around the tractor on the trampled snow, casting wary glances at the dogs while the men unloaded the bales into the frame, cutting the twine and spreading the sweet smelling hay along the troughs.

  Before they were aware of it, the morning had slipped away and they found themselves sitting once again at the table, this time with a bowl of soup and large crumbly slices of Wensleydale cheese and bread. Emily’s chair by the fire was still empty.

  Jos looked across to Laura, catching her expression of concern and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. The glance was not wasted on the young man.

  ‘She was out like a light when last I went up,’ said Laura, as she spread a cloth on the tray, adding a bowl of light broth and cutlery and carried it upstairs.

  Nothing was said around the table and the ceiling creaked with footfalls above their heads. There were muttered far-off words, then more footsteps down the stairs. The sneck lifted and Laura reappeared, her homely face a study in concern. It was clear from the uncertainty in her eyes that all was not well. Jos got up from the table and she spoke quietly to him before he went upstairs. When he returned his face was grave. ‘I think yesterday was a bit too much,’ he said. ‘We’d ’appen best get t’doctor to have a look at ’er.’

  Only an hour earlier they had been gathering holly, just another little step to making it all a bit more like Christmas, and now the grey pall of worry was down upon them again, like rain clouds on Whernside. Walter was despatched to get Dr Norton, as there was no way he could be reached on a dead phone, and Jos took his subdued leave and went upstairs to sit with his wife.

  The young man looked up to the ceiling again and there was something in his stance that stopped Laura in mid pudding mix, the broken eggshells and wooden spoon momentarily forgotten. It was almost as if he were watching or waiting for something, and in a strange way it was quite unnerving.

  ‘I think I’ll take a walk,’ he said quietly, reaching for the old coat and muffler. The door closed behind him.

  He was quite alone, a dark figure in the bleak winter landscape, striding along the narrow path that led upwards along the side of the Ghyll towards the snowy heights of the fells beyond. At one point he turned and gazed steadfastly down the valley towards Keld Farm, the grey eyes unblinking and seemingly bottomless in their compassion.

  Chapter 6

  TUESDAY, 24 DECEMBER. LATER THAT SAME DAY

  WALTER’S LITTLE green van, heard long before it was seen, pulled into the yard with snow spraying from the snowchains. Jos was waiting for him, standing in his shirtsleeves, oblivious to the cold outside the porch door.

  His question died on his lips, unspoken, as a four-wheel drive pulled in behind Walter. Andrew Norton walked hurriedly across the yard, black bag in one hand, the other outstretched to meet Jos in greeting. They had known each other for many years, and Arnold Robertshaw and Jeremy, Andrew’s son, were still the best of friends.

  ‘Not so good, I gather, Jos.’ The two men walked inside. ‘Let’s be having a look at her then.’

  Walter crossed the yard, a puzzled frown on his face. It would be all right now, he thought, with the countryman’s implicit trust in doctors. You would just about be shaking hands with the Grim Reaper before you “troubled the doc,” but once done the confidence was total. It was something else that had caught his eye on the way back down the lane.

  He had left all the gates open for Andrew Norton driving behind him and was just swinging the last one back on its hinges when he chanced to look upwards along the skyline above the Ghyll. It could have been a trick of the light but it seemed for an instance that he saw a tall figure standing motionless at the very point where the skyline met the snow-tinged blaze of the afternoon sun. He blinked and looked again and thought that he must have been imagining things, for there was no sign of anyone.

  * * *

  ‘Usual thing, Jos.’ Andrew Norton snapped the handles of the black leather bag shut. ‘Lots of rest and, hard to say it at this time of year, but not too much excitement. If she feels like getting up, bring her down by all means, for too much time in bed, you know, and the spirit starts to weaken. Emily likes folks around her.’

  ‘Thanks, Andrew. Can I get you something?’ Jos waved his hand in the general direction of the bottles on the table.

  ‘No, thank you all the same. Still got surgery and it wouldn’t do looking down somebody’s throat and knocking them out with whisky fumes.’

  They both laughed, a moment born of long knowledge and respect for each other.

  Andrew left a prescription form on the table. ‘Best you go down for this, Jos, if she suddenly feels sick again then it should help.’

  Both men walked to the door and out into the porch, leaving Laura getting Emily’s chair ready.

  Jos shifted his feet, rubbing his hands in his hair.

  ‘Come on up an’ see us over t’season, Andrew, an’ tell Jeremy that our Arnold will be here, An’,’ he paused, and the doctor could see the wetness in his eyes, ‘I know there’s nowt tha’ can really do, but thanks all t’same. A very merry Christmas to you.’

  The doctor gripped his hand and walked off to the car. His four wheel drive ate the gradient up the lane but looking back he could still make out the tall figure of Jos standing at the door. He had seen so much in a country practice, from death to measles but, if he lived to be a hundred, he would never be able to understand why so often it was that the worst villains somehow seemed to glide through a life of profligacy, unscathed, while the good people, through no apparent fault of their own, caught it in the neck. The Robertshaws, he mused, true salt-of-the-earth folk, consumed with a natural honesty and goodness that did not shout from the rooftops. And now Jos had to watch, helpless, as she slipped slowly away.

  What made it even harder was that little fledgling glint of hope he sometimes observed behind Jos’s eyes that maybe, just maybe, Andrew could do something, yet knowing in his heart of hearts, as he would with any farm animal, that the situation could only end in the oblivion of death. Was it not Jos who once told him that animals could teach humans a lot about the dignity of death? That they knew when their time had come and accepted it as part of the natural course?

  Andrew Norton sighed and swung left onto the main road at the top of the lane.

  * * *

  Jos had gently carried Emily down to her chair by the fire. ‘Now then, you just sit still and let Laura get on with things.’

  He took the Land Rover keys from the peg by the door and was about to head out when Emily’s voice stopped him. ‘Where’s nephew, Jos?’

  He slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Lord, what’s the matter with me? I keep forgettin’ he’s here. No sign of him.’

  Laura put down the tea towel. ‘He’s a strange one for sure. Went out before the doctor came an’ didn’t say nothin’ about where he was going.’

  ‘I hope he’s all right.’ Jos went to the window. ‘If he’s gone up the Ghyll there’s unfenced shafts up there, and… well I never, here he is. The wanderer returns.’

  There was much stamping of feet outside and the young man peered around the door. He nodded and smiled at Emmy, ‘Are you feeling an
y better?’

  ‘A little tired, but better than I was. Andrew Norton has been and Jos is off to the village for a prescription.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Aye, lad. Get your boots on.’

  Emily looked so tiny under her rug but at least it was good to see her back in the chair and Laura was about to put a chicken in to roast. Jos added that they would not be long and he would get stuck into the milking with Walter when he got back.

  * * *

  The Land Rover bounced and jolted up the lane. It was as if every rivet and stanchion was designed with one purpose in mind, to shake up any occupant unlucky enough to be inside. By the time they got to the top of the lane he felt as if he had been through a stone crusher. They turned down towards the village.

  The light was fading fast and the skies deepening to velvet above the stone rooftops.

  Jos parked by the surgery and went inside for the medicine. Greetings were exchanged and inquiries as to how Emily was keeping, to which he muttered, ‘bearin’ up’ then together they walked on up the side of the square, nodding to this person and exchanging greetings with another. Jos stopped outside a store with the legend, “Harkers”, above the door. It appeared to sell just about everything.

  ‘I’m just goin’ in here a minute,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Must get summat for your Aunt for Christmas.’

  ‘No, problem, I’ll have a look around.’

  Jos, not used to such things, took his time in the shop, chatting here and there after the way of country folk and picking up on the odd strand of gossip. After much deliberation he finally settled on a shawl of fine Kashmir, exquisitely worked.

  He tucked his wrapped parcel under his arm, and bidding farewells and ‘compliments of the season,’ went off in search of his nephew.

  * * *

  By now night had enveloped the village. The Christmas tree lights flashed and sparkled and above Tomkinson’s electrical shop a large star of Bethlehem winked on and off. Whenever Jos looked away, the star of Bethlehem was still there imprinted on his retina. The age-old sound of a carol came drifting across the frozen square, ‘Once in Royal David’s City…’ He was drawn to the sound. Standing a little apart, his giftwrapped present securely clasped under one arm, he listened and looked this way and that for any sign of Ambrose. Then he spotted him, standing a little apart from the singers, framed in a shop doorway, listening. Odd for a minister, Jos thought, who should be used to such things. But he seemed to be in a deep rapture, oblivious to anything but the carol. Well, maybe in South Africa, it being hot an’ all, they didn’t set too much store by carols. Strange though. He nudged his way forward and slipped some coins into the tin.

  ‘Thank you. Happy Christmas.’

  He watched Jos and smiled, ‘Is it time to go?’

  ‘Aye, lad. We’d best be on our way. Walter will be on his own again.’

  ‘What did you buy?’ he asked, as they walked on back to the car.

  Jos muttered, ‘One of them fancy shawls.’

  He pulled the Land Rover round in a tight circle, up towards the road and past the singers again. The young man turned to look at them, watching them disappear from sight.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ he said.

  They turned in over the cattle grid and down the lane. Shutting the gates behind him, Jos noticed that a low bank of cloud was moving slowly up and across the stars behind the rising moon.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, as he eyed it carefully. ‘T’wind’s still in t’north and that means snow at some point. You have to keep an eye on it in case t’sheep get snowed in.’

  Down at the farm there was so much that was already familiar, the wedge of light across the yard from the mistel door, the puttering of the milking machine, the rattle of chain as Tip and Bess came on out of their barrels, the glowing windows.

  Jos parked the Land Rover by the log store and, after some deliberation, hid Emily’s present in the toolshed with the holly. Together they went into the house, going through the familiar routine of stamping the snow off their boots.

  It was as cosy and cheery as ever, with the smell of roasting chicken and potatoes spitting in the fat around the bird. Laura, who never seemed to stop working, was making sage and onion stuffing in one bowl and bread sauce in another. Emily was in her familiar place in the chair by the fire, the face more pinched and tired, but the eyes alert and alive.

  Jos opened the bottle of pills and together with a glass of water, gave Emily her tablets. He then made himself a swift brew and offered a mug to his nephew, who, now aware of its consistency, respectfully declined.

  ‘Ah, well,’ Jos said, as he set down his mug. ‘It’s that time again.’ And he went off to join Walter in the mistel.

  Chapter 7

  TUESDAY, 24 DECEMBER. EVENING

  THE SKY had filled with cloud. The wind that had blown so fitfully and bitterly the few days since the last snow had lost none of its sting, but it shifted cadence now down to a low moan, the very anthem of desolation.

  They had sat, heads bowed, around the table as he said Grace. There was an extraordinary power to his words and Emily, who stayed in her chair by the fire, felt as if something or someone beyond the circle of light and warmth had infused the space between them all with an age-old and timeless presence. She could imagine him in his little church in Bloemfontein, filling the hearts and minds of his people with goodness.

  Yes, she thought to herself, he’s more than just a chip off the old block.

  ‘Are you feelin’ any better, love?’ Jos looked across at her.

  ‘I do believe I am,’ she lied splendidly.

  God, how much he meant to her. The lean, rangey figure with the greying hair, the calloused hands that she had known in so many different ways in their time together. She found herself, as she did so often these days, thinking down the years, the twists and turns of the life road leading into the half-remembered landscape of the past. She recalled the awkward young man, almost shy, who came to court her, the great harvest moon sliding like a cheese above the heady scent of the hayfields. Chapel on Sundays and Jos, ill at ease and shuffling in his pew to offset the shoes that pinched his toes, and those insufferable collars.

  Then there was all their work together. Bringing in the hay; planting out the garden and, half dead with weariness, wrapped in blankets on a pigging rail, helping the piglets into this world, stripping off the cowls and putting them behind the rail in case mother felt like eating her offspring, or as was sometimes the case, inadvertently rolling on them.

  Then there was their own baby. Right up to the last minute she had been making butter, ironing and washing and bottling and then the breaking of the waters, the pains. Andrew Norton as unflappable as ever, and baby Arnold, born in the same bed upstairs in which he was conceived. The gatherings of old friends and family. All around this same scrubbed pine table.

  Tired haymakers, with a hundred itchy things and seeds down the back of their sweatsoaked shirts, demolishing meat pies, sausage, cheese and potato pies, salad and apple crumble, washed down with cider or “lotion”. The conversation, she recalled, was always very local, very funny and rich in scandal and farming lore. Their laughter shook the beams and on not a few occasions she recalled the tangible relief of being inside and the hay home as the rain lashed down on the cobbles of the yard outside.

  Emily sighed. The conversation over at the table was desultory, the odd problem to do with the farm that had cropped up during the day and, the most discussed topic of all, the changing weather.

  It was time for Walter and Laura to head on back home.

  ‘Well, tomorrow it’s Christmas Day then,’ Walter said, and stretched his sinewy arms behind his head. ‘Best be goin’ because it’s goin’ to snow for sure.’

  Jos walked over to the phone, picked it up and listened for a moment. ‘Still dead, and we’re none the wiser as to what time Arnold is goin’ to show up.’

  Casual goodbyes were said and they took their places by the fire.r />
  ‘Look!’ The young man pointed to the window where, whirling like dust, the snowflakes began their dance across the windowpanes. ‘Aye it’s doin’ it’s best,’ Jos observed it thoughtfully. ‘Lord alone knows what’s goin’ to ’appen if t’phone stays off.’

  He paused by the side of Emily’s chair, adjusting the rug on her knees. The young man watched them intently.

  She suddenly took Jos’s hand between hers, stroking and kneading the long brown fingers and then pressing it to her face. She looked up into his eyes with tears brimming in her own and tried to speak. But no words came, and it was left to the unspoken message in her face to tell him just what he meant to her.

  There was silence save for the occasional spit of the logs and the ticking of the clock, broken momentarily by soft sobbing from Emily where she and Jos clung one to another.

  He gently let go of her. ‘It’s time for your medicine, love,’ he said. Walking across to the dresser, he took the pills from a drawer. The pain came in again like waves on some rocky shore, savaging the frail form.

  Then it was as if the young man made up his mind. He walked over to her, looking down into her eyes.

  ‘God, help me!’ Emily’s face was contorted with the pain and the foulness of the medicine.

  ‘He can, and He will.’ Again, words carried quiet authority. ‘Miracles do happen. You must believe.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Nay, lad, I think it’s a bit late for all that. Miracles is what you read in t’Bible an’ that were long ago. I’ve seen that many folks in distress an’ tried to hope for ’em, pray even, but something’s definitely wrong somewhere for nowt ever comes of it.’ She gasped as a sudden swathe of pain cut through her body.

  He took her hands in his.

  ‘Please believe me. All it takes is a little bit of faith and leave it to the Powers to do the rest.’

  Jos broke in, agitated and upset that their little world was being challenged by a well-intentioned stranger, relative or not. ‘It’s all very well to say that, nephew, it’s thy line of work, so to speak, but for us ordinary folk it’s different.’