Henry now looked at Ralph for a moment in silence; then holding out his hands again to the fire he said softly, ‘I’m not, you know. I’m not. And if it wasn’t for Emma I should feel an entirely new man at this moment.’
‘What are you going to do about Emma? Why haven’t you gone up there and seen her?’
‘First, what can I do? And the reasons I haven’t been up are…well, I can’t trust myself. The other is, I don’t want to give the dear parishioners any more fuel for their fires: I’m leaving, but she’s still got to live here, and they are watching my every move. The funny side of it now is they are beginning to question Miss Wilkinson’s sanity. Poor Miss Wilkinson. I have it in my heart to feel sorry for her, and strangely I feel no animosity towards her for what she did. It would have had to come sooner or later. If this hadn’t happened to bring the truth out of me something else would.’
‘You’ll see Emma before you leave though, won’t you?’
Henry’s jaw tightened and the muscles of his cheekbones stood out under the taut skin for a moment; then he muttered, ‘Yes, I’ll have to.’
‘Does your father know you’re coming?’
‘Oh yes; yes.’ A little lightness came into Henry’s eyes: ‘He says he’s counting the days, as is Clare. He has great plans as to what we’re going to do in the garden, at least what I’m going to do.’ He smiled wistfully now, and Ralph said, ‘What are you going to do? I mean with your life.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. It would be pleasant just to spend the remainder of it at home just pottering. But then I might live to be as old as my father, and what a lot of time I would have wasted just pottering. One thought is very serious in my mind, it concerns writing. I’d like to put down all I think about God and man…and woman. And you know something, Ralph?’ His voice took on an eager note now. ‘From the moment I left the bishop’s palace I felt nearer to God than I’ve done since I was ordained; in fact I wasn’t near to Him then at all; He was like the bishop and I the poor poverty-stricken peasant; He was someone afar off, someone that had to be looked up to; but strangely, and yes Ralph’—he nodded his head now towards the man muffled up in the chair before him—‘I felt so near to Him that He could have been alongside me. You won’t understand that.’
‘Who says I won’t understand it? I have my own ideas about whatever is there; and to my mind it’s here.’ Ralph now dug his fingers into his chest, and this resulted in a bout of coughing which left a pink stain on his handkerchief, and when it was over he went on, ‘I understand perfectly how you felt, and I believe you when you say you are nearer to God now than ever you’d been before. And I say to you also, hang on to that idea and use it. Write. And may I give you a word of advice?’
‘Why ask, you’ll give it to me whether I like it or not.’
A chuckle passed between them, then Ralph said, ‘Write stories like you tell them, don’t go in for the heavy stuff, theology, or philosophy. Well, if you must use the latter, weave it in, but you’ll get more people to listen to you through a good story than any high-falutin pamphlet on the whys and wherefores of Protestantism, Catholicism, Mohammedanism, and all the other isms.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘I know I am. By the way, when do you say you’ve got to leave the vicarage?’
‘The end of the month, if not before. I’ve got to the first of March anyway.’
‘Will you do something for me?’
‘Anything. Anything, Ralph.’
‘Will you come and stay here a couple of days before you finally go from the place?’
‘Yes.’ The answer was unhesitating, and he repeated, ‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘Once you’re gone, Henry, you’ll be gone for good; I won’t see you again.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’ Henry got to his feet. ‘Spring will soon be here. You’ve weathered worse winters than this. You always say that; you’ve said it every year that I can remember back.’
‘Yes, haven’t I?’ Ralph was laughing now, his hollowed cheeks puffed out, and he said again, ‘I’m a devil for repeating myself. And talking of repeating myself, I’ve got to say this. I’ve made out a little will. What I have is left between you and Emma. The only value is in the pictures, and—who knows?—some day you may be able to get half a dollar on them.’
‘Oh, Ralph!’
‘Don’t say, oh! Ralph, like that, Henry. Let’s face it. I’ve been lucky. Who would have thought when we met years ago that I’d still be here today? Now who would have thought it? I’ve been lucky in more ways than one, and one of them is in knowing you…and Emma.’
It was too much to bear. There was an emotional breaking point, and he was near it. He would blare like any child any moment. He picked up the tray that held the two empty cups and went hurriedly down the room into the kitchen and, putting the tray on the little table, he stood with his body bent over it and, his throat full, he repeated, ‘Oh! Ralph. Oh, Emma!’
It was the last Friday in February. Emma was about her duties again. Mary had returned to the village to attend to her family. Jimmy came early in the morning and stayed till last thing at night, sometimes working inside the cottage by lamplight. It had taken her days to get into the routine of the house again. When Mary was still here she had done the lighter work, breaking herself in as Mary called it, but now, when she had everything to do herself, she reached the evening feeling utterly exhausted. However, each day her strength increased and she’d made up her mind that what couldn’t be done in the house must be left undone. She would see to the meals and attend to Barney and help where she could outside. And this she did. But the task that she found the most wearing was her attendance on her husband, for when he talked at all he talked at her; but most of the time he was silent and surly. He picked over the food she gave him, and when one day he said, ‘I could starve myself to death and then you could be rid of me,’ she had to clamp down on a retort for she knew she had no energy to waste on rowing with him. Yet at the same time she wondered how long they could go on in this way.
Then a little brightness came through the door late on this particular Friday. He threw his sailor bag in, took his hat off and flung it with dexterity onto the knob of the settle, then cried to her astonished face, ‘Well! where’s me welcome?’
And Emma gave him a welcome. She ran to him, put her arms round him and kissed him, and he, holding her at arm’s length, said, ‘Well now, that’s more like it.’ Then his eyes narrowing, he added, ‘They’re right. I heard down in The Tuns that you’d been through a bad patch, and it’s told on you.’
‘Oh! Pete. Oh! I am glad to see you. Oh! there’s no-one, no-one I’m more glad to see at this minute.’
And at this minute she was actually speaking the truth, for Pete would lighten the burden of work, he would also do something of much more value, he’d cheer them up, bring a brightness into the house, perhaps he’d bring Barney back to his old self again.
‘Come on, sit up; I’ve got some mutton stew here and there’s new bread. I just baked it today.’
‘Now you’re talking. How’s his nibs?’ He jerked his head towards the end of the room, and when her face clouded, he said with a change of tone, ‘I was only in The Tuns long enough to hear the bits and pieces. But things have been happenin’ round here, I understand.’
‘Yes, Pete, things have been happening. Go and look in on him, and have something to eat, and then we’ll talk…’
And later Emma talked as she hadn’t talked for many a long day. She told him all there was to know, and when she finished he’d said, ‘To think we went through all that to get her out of that place. And it was the means of doin’ me da in an’ all. Well, you can wash your hands of her, Emma, for good an’ all. Some lasses are made like that. Oh yes they are. You wouldn’t believe it, Emma, but they are. But about the parson. I’m sorry to hear about him…You liked the parson, didn’t you, Emma?’
She looked him straight in the face as she said, ‘Yes,
Pete, I liked the parson. I’ve always liked him.’
‘More than liked, Emma?’
‘Yes, Pete, more than liked.’
‘Is it true then what they were saying about you and him being found together in the old mill? Had you gone in there and got trapped?’
‘No, no, Pete. Haven’t I told you? He was bringing me back after I’d been looking for Annie.’
‘Aye. Aye, that’s what you said, but one doesn’t like to own up to these things.’
She wasn’t annoyed, not even slightly vexed, but she put her hand out and caught his as she said, ‘I can swear to you, Pete, there was never anything between the parson and myself.’
‘Well, if there had been I wouldn’t have blamed you, Emma, for you’ve had a pretty scanty time of it with our Barney, the way he is. ’Tis a wonder you haven’t strayed afore now; there’s plenty round about who would have been ready and willing to help you. Anyway, the parson’s leavin’ they say?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he hasn’t been near you?’
‘No. The last time I saw him was when we lay down so exhausted that we were prepared to die.’
‘You were?’
‘Oh yes. It was two days and two nights. The cold was indescribable. And the wet. And no food. As you know, you can be blocked in here for weeks at a time. We had tried to claw our way out by pulling the snow into the room. You have no idea what it was like, Pete.’
‘Oh aye, I have, Emma; I’ve had me hands frozen to the rails and when I’ve pulled them off it’s left the skin behind. Oh, I know what intense cold’s like an’ what it can do to you an’ all. And now, Emma, I’ve got somethin’ to tell you…I’ve left the sea.’
‘What? You mean for good?’
‘For good, Emma. An’ that’s not all. I’m gona be married.’
‘Oh, Pete.’ She held out her hands again to him. ‘Oh, I’m glad. Who is she?’
‘Well, it’s nobody hereabouts.’
‘No?’
‘Oh no. It’s the sister of one of me shipmates. I think I told you. An’ that’s not all. I’ve got a proposition, sort of, to put to you. But mind, it’s just up to you ’cos either way doesn’t matter to me…Aw’—he tossed his head from side to side—‘that’s a lie, but I’ll go along with whatever you say. How would you like me to come back here and give you a hand and bring Beth along of me?’
‘Oh, Pete!’ She opened her mouth wide. ‘I…I’d like that better than anything in the world.’ And again she meant what she said at this moment. She was now shaking his hand up and down. ‘Oh,Pete! Not only to think of the work that would be off my shoulders but to have you about the place, it…it would be like the sun coming out.’
‘Aw, lass.’ His weather-beaten face took on a deeper hue. ‘I’m not as bright as all that.’
‘You would be to me, Pete. And oh! I’d welcome your wife.’
‘You’d like her, Emma. She’s your sort: hardworking, down to earth. But she wants to get away from London. It’s no place to live in, although they’re decent enough folk. Her father’s a gaffer in the docks and her brother works there an’ all. It’s a tight place to find work in, they tell me, but they would get me set on, havin’ influence; that’s if you didn’t want me back here.’
‘I’ll set you on any day of the week, Pete.’ She was smiling widely at him now. ‘And it would be share and share alike.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that, Emma.’
‘Well, I mean it, because you worked all your young days here, slaved is a better word. We’ve all slaved.’
‘Aye; aye, we did slave, didn’t we? But we were lads, then men, while you were just a bit slip of a lass. I never thought it was fair, but I kept me mouth shut. They used to think I was dim, you know, because I didn’t say much. Took it all in and said nowt, because you couldn’t get past me ma or me da. And then there was our Luke. He was a bad ’un from birth. Still is, by what you’ve just told me. Barney was all right though, Emma. But he’s changed like, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s changed, Pete. He doesn’t look good.’
‘Has he seen the doctor lately?’
‘Yes; I think the doctor went in to him when he visited me.’
‘Had he anything to say about him?’
‘Not to me; but he said something to Mary about there being more deterioration. At times he can hardly lift his right arm now, and he’s almost completely helpless. But’—she turned her head away—‘I wouldn’t mind that, Pete, I wouldn’t mind what I did for him, if he was only civil.’
‘He’s jealous, Emma. An’ that’s understandable; even in his state he could be jealous because he’s still got his mind.’
She looked at him now without speaking, and she realised that Barney must have confirmed what Pete had heard down in The Tuns.
She said, ‘When is the wedding to be?’
‘Well, all depends, Emma. If it’s gona be up there I’d have to stay in the parish for a certain time, I understand, and have the banns called. But as I put it to Beth, why not have it down here? An’ she was all for that, havin’ it down here, because she’s not the drinking kind. Not that she objects to me having a pint or two, but her da and the lads can almost swim in it, and when they’re full there’s always high jinks. She’s been brought up with it and I think she’d give her eye-teeth to get out of it. So I could lay it on that I’m wanted back here an’ bring her down. Of course there’ll be objections, but I hope they’re sober when they’re objectin’’—he now laughed and pushed his hand out towards Emma—‘else there won’t be much left of me for any weddin’…No; they’re all right really. But Beth’s different. She’s steady, and all she wants is a good home…an’ me of course.’
‘Well, she’ll get both here, Pete.’
‘Eeh! I can’t believe I’ll be comin’ back. Me feet on solid ground again. Anyway’—he clapped his hands together—‘for the next few days I’ll get meself outside and give Jimmy a hand. He’s done marvellous to manage on his own, and him an’ me’ll get along like a house on fire. But first of all this very night, I’ll write Beth a note tellin’ her to get herself ready. I can be up there an’ back with her within three or four days going by the railway. Marvellous thing, trains; next best thing to ships. What am I talkin’ about? I don’t like ships any more. I don’t really think I ever did, except when I was on dry land afore I had found out what they were like…Well, am I sleepin’ in the same hammock, Emma?’
‘Yes, the same hammock, Pete.’
‘Well, goodnight, lass.’
‘Goodnight, Pete.’ She went to him now and kissed him gently on the cheek, saying, ‘I never thought to meet with any good in me life again. Oh, I’m so glad you’re coming back, Pete.’
He seemed too touched to answer, but he patted her shoulder, then turned away and walked up the room; and she went and sat down by the fire and, joining her hands on her knees, she dropped her head back and, looking up to the smoke-covered ceiling, quietly said, ‘Thank you, Lord.’
Thirteen
Pete stayed five days on the farm and he worked like a Trojan outside. Sometimes she heard him and Jimmy laughing together; and it was a good sound. Yet when it happened she always turned her head in the direction of the sitting room: Barney’s hearing was still good and the sound must irk him. Yet he, too, seemed better for Pete’s presence.
The night before he left Pete went down to The Tuns on the cart and brought back some bottled ale which he took into the sitting room, and long after Emma had gone to bed she could still hear the murmur of their voices from down below, and her thoughts were that the ale had loosened Barney’s tongue.
It was around seven o’clock in the morning when Pete left the farm to catch the carrier cart into the town. The sun was shining, the morning was bright and brisk, and Emma set him to the gate and wished him a safe journey, for to her the journey to London was as dangerous as a journey in a boat on the high seas. Her last words to him were, ‘I’ll be counting the hours until
I see you again, Pete.’
She watched his figure marching away down the road. He was dressed in an ordinary suit, but his walk had a slight roll to it. It was a sailor’s walk.
As she crossed the yard back to the kitchen door Jimmy called to her, ‘I’m goin’ to miss him, missis. I’ll be glad to see him settled back.’
‘You’re not the only one, Jimmy. But he won’t be long. Four days at the most, he said.’
She went inside, and immediately the kitchen seemed different, and when later she lifted the breakfast tray to take in to Barney she thought, he will be different too—he had been civil-spoken to her whilst Pete had been here.
She placed the tray across his lifeless knees and, lifting the spoon, handed it to him. But he didn’t take it; what he did was to grasp her hand and, looking at her, he said, ‘I’m…I’m sorry, Emma, I’ve been a bit rough on you.’ Then lifting her hand upwards he pressed it gently to his cheek.
The change was so sudden and unexpected that she could say nothing. The tears gathered to a great knot in her throat; she closed her lids tightly as he said again, ‘I’m sorry, Emma; it’s taken Pete to make me see things more reasonable like. As he said, you’ve had one hell of a life with one and another of us, not countin’ Annie.’
‘Oh, Barney! Barney.’ She drew her hand from him and turned away and stood with her head bowed, the tears raining through her fingers; and when his voice came to her brokenly, murmuring, ‘Emma. Emma, forgive me. I’ll…I’ll try to be different and…and understand.’ She couldn’t bear it, and ran from the room, into the kitchen where, throwing herself onto the settle, she leant her head on her arm and cried until she could cry no more.
When at last she pulled herself upwards it was as if she had been washed clean of feeling. Her mind was at rest. The future lay clear before her: her life need not be that unhappy; she would tend Barney and love him; yes, in a way she would love him and comfort him; and as a stay she would have Pete and his wife, and Jimmy and his wife; and there would be times when she would forget altogether that she had a daughter. This would be the hardest task of all, but one which she must work at. She would not allow herself to think of the other person she must forget.
The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift) Page 44
