The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘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.

  Five

  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 changeover.

  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 recognise 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 mustn’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 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 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, ‘Letup, missis. Letup.’

  ‘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

  One

  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 c
ome 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.