‘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. Goodnight, 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 candlelit 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. Goodnight, Parson.’
‘Goodnight, 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.’
Four
‘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 of for 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 realise 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 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 deckhand 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.
The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift) Page 26
