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.
Three
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 sermonising for the pulpit, and he had shovelled out hellfire 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 poorhouse, 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, goodbye, Emma, for the present. We shall meet again very shortly.’
‘Goodbye 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 a 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.’
The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift) Page 3
