Kate Hannigan's Girl

by Catherine Cookson

  She was standing pressed against the far wall, and the anguish in her eyes tore at his heart; they were staring wildly out of her dirt-smeared face. Her hair was hanging in lank, damp streaks, and a sleeve of her coat hung torn from the shoulder. Never had he seen her looking like this. For a terrifying moment, he wondered if the strain had unhinged her.

  He swung the light away from her, and said, ‘Come on, Annie.’

  She gave a whimper like a child.

  ‘It’s all over now; come along,’ he coaxed.

  She made an inarticulate sound, and when he went to take her hand, she slid away from him along the wall. His fear of a moment ago seemed confirmed.

  ‘Annie, the tide’s rising; there isn’t much time. Listen to me.’ He followed her, but she kept moving away from him, her eyes fixed in a dull, unblinking stare. She moved the whole way round the cave until she came to the slit that formed the exit, and there she stopped. He came close to her and said gently, ‘If you stay, I stay, Annie.’

  For a moment his words seemed to penetrate the mist surrounding her. She moved her head from side to side and the expression of her eyes changed. Her lips parted and formed words, but with no sound.

  He said eagerly, ‘What is it? Speak to me, Annie.’

  For answer, her expression changed, and again he was confronted with the blank stare.

  Panic seized him; he could do nothing with her like this. His idea had been to tie the rope about her and haul her on to the ledge. In a little while they would be caught like the proverbial rats in a trap. Even if he should manage to swim around in the bay until the tide went out, which was most unlikely as the water was icy at this time of the year, she could never hope to survive. Unless she could be shaken out of her apathy they were both doomed. Gentleness had failed; as a last resort he must try the other way.

  He rapped out harshly, ‘Snap out of it, Annie! Do you hear? You won’t be so apathetic once the water starts swirling round your neck.’ He saw a shiver pass over her, and he went on, ‘Have you thought of Kate and Rodney up there, nearly mad? I’m telling you this, if anything happens to you, Kate will go mad, and I mean literally mad. Can’t you stop thinking of yourself for a minute and see what chaos you are going to leave behind you? It’s always the cowards who take this way out, through pure selfishness. And don’t forget, you who believe so much in God, you’ll go over to him just as you are now, for that’s your belief, isn’t it? You see, you won’t be able to get rid of yourself.’

  He paused for breath, and in the pause the wash of the waves came to him, conveying a sense of immediate urgency. Talking, he saw, was having no effect on her, for she still stared at him with that blank look. He put the torch down on the sand at a convenient distance from them, and as he went towards her again its light played about her feet, showing them wet and mud-caked. He thrust aside the pity the sight of them aroused; pity was lost on her at present.

  As he gripped her firmly by the shoulders, she started and tried to draw away from his hands. But he pressed her back against the rock, saying, ‘Listen to me…I’m going to pull you up on to the ledge. Do you understand?’

  With a quick and surprising movement she shook herself free from his hands, and she was half-way through the opening before he realised her intent. He flung himself at her and pulled her back into the cave. Now there was no need to pretend anger; it was in his voice and his hands as he shook her and cried, ‘Snap out of it! Do you hear?’

  Momentarily he forgot the strain that had led up to her present condition, and in the forgetting he broke through the barrier that would have destroyed them both, for as her head wobbled wildly to his shaking she began to gasp out words.

  The word ‘convent’ brought him to an abrupt stop. He stood still; his hands, gripping her shoulders, supported her. She seemed almost on the verge of collapse, and he thought frantically that that stage would be worse than this. He said firmly, ‘Listen, Annie; we’re going home. Do you hear?’

  She opened her mouth wide, taking in deep gulps of air as if she had been suffocating. Then the sobs came, tearing cries that made him feel helpless. He could do nothing but hold her up while his own body shook with the force of her emotion. Then again words came: ‘I…I…can’t go…into convent. I…I can’t go…not now.’

  He said softly, ‘You’re all right, Annie; you can go into the convent if you want to.’

  The sobs slowly subsided, and she muttered incoherently, ‘Not now…not now.’ She sagged under his hands and would have fallen had he not put his arm about her. She made no move to repulse him, for she seemed hardly aware of him now. He led her to where the torch lay, and bending her with him he picked it up, then led her unresisting out of the cave.

  As he tied the rope firmly about her waist, he talked to her, saying, ‘Don’t be afraid. Keep tight hold of the rope and you’ll be all right. And when you come to the ledge, shout. Will you shout? Do you hear, Annie? If you shout I’ll stop pulling, and you can ease yourself on to the roof. Do you understand?’ As a double precaution against her untying the knot, he left a long loose end and tied it behind her back.

  In the second before leaving her he shone the torch in her face. Even the sudden glare only caused her to blink her eyes slowly, and for a brief moment he thought: If she’s lost her reason it would be better we stay here. But again he was instructing her, saying, ‘Try not to be afraid. When the rope tightens you’ll be pulled a little way into the water.’ She gave no answer and made no move, and he forced himself to turn from her.

  How he reached the fissure again was never really clear in his mind. When he later recalled the climb, he remembered the agony of the rope burning his hands as he laboriously pulled himself up to the shelf, and his knuckle bones seeming to force their way through the already grazed and torn skin. After lying for a second on the slope to regain his breath, he fixed his feet in the fissure and began to pull on the rope. It came easily, without any resistance, and wildly he thought: She’s untied the knot. Then it seemed to stiffen in his hands, and setting all his weight against it, he pulled hand over hand. The weight brought his back off the rock, almost pulling him down the slope. Again he pulled, and this time the rope seemed to come alive. A scream came up to him, followed by another and another. They were so shrill and petrifying that he almost loosened his hold. In his mind’s eye he could see her swinging dizzily out over the water, then in under the rock. Seagulls, which had been perched on the cliff, began to fly over his head. One after another they came, confusing him, their wings making a flapping canopy above him. He continued to pull until the agony of his hands blotted out everything else from his mind. The rope was tearing the skin from his palms; they became sticky, and he was wondering how much more he could bear when his misted eyes saw her face; it was upturned to him; she was on the ledge. The torch, set in a crevice, shone full upon her; she was like an apparition. He hadn’t thought she could be near the ledge yet; she must have pulled herself on to it very quickly.

  He realised the strain on his hands was lessening; she was helping herself with her feet. Their hands touched; then hers gripped his arms. She was beside him and he was wedging her feet into the fissure and gabbling, ‘You’re all right. You’re all right.’ His relief was so great that he felt a choking in his throat. He lay back on the slope and, pulling his coat towards him from the jut of rock, he placed it over her, saying, ‘You mustn’t move; we’ll have to stay here until it’s light. It won’t be long.’

  He waited for some word, but none came.

  Lying staring up into the heavens, waiting for the first streaks of light to appear, he thought: If she’s lost her mind completely I swear I’ll finish Stannard.

  As if in answer to this he felt her hand groping by his side. He remained still, waiting for the next move. It came when her hand found his. The fingers touched his torn palm, and their contact was agony. His hand was lifted and carried to her face; the torture of her flesh against his was exquisite, the straightening of his palm to cup h
er face almost unbearable. He shivered, partly with cold and partly with a feeling of blinding happiness. He did not caution her to be careful as she turned towards him and lifted half of the coat over him. If he needed any further assurance of her return to sanity, it came when her hand tucked the coat around him; it was such an ordinary action, yet a loving, maternal one. Again her hand cupped his, gently, soothingly.

  He could bear no more. He turned and put his arms about her, crying, ‘Annie. Annie.’ He buried his head on her shoulder and her hand began to stroke his hair. And as he felt her lips press hard against his temple, in some strange way he knew that the girl Annie Hannigan had gone, and it was a woman he was holding closely to him.