‘Oh, I couldn’t see that, Parson; I just stayed long enough to see what I did. But he could have; he used to poach along of the moler, ’twas known.’
‘Come on, get down.’ Henry put up his hand and caught at Ralph’s sleeve, then added, ‘Not you, Jimmy. What you must do is turn about and get into the village as quickly as possible and bring some help back.’
‘I’ve been thinkin’, Parson, most of ’em’ll be in the fields or away into Gateshead. An’ Mr Tate’s not much good with his fists although he’s an innkeeper. And it being market day the butcher won’t be there. And Tom Turnbull, well …’
‘All right. All right. Well look, go back the way you came and beyond to Farmer Hudson. Anthony will come along with him. Go on now; get away as fast as you can.’
Before the cart had turned about he and Ralph had entered the yard. Henry opened the kitchen door and they went in quietly, and both stood looking about them for a moment before Henry said softly, ‘Stay where you are, he’s dangerous.’ And Ralph answered as softly, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to tackle the danger. By all accounts Emma will need some help.’
Henry let out a quick short breath, then went cautiously up the kitchen and across the hall. At the foot of the stairs he hesitated and after looking towards the sitting room he moved swiftly to the door, opened it, and went in. Ralph followed.
They stood looking down on Barney, and Henry moved his head in a pitying gesture, muttering, ‘He’s mad. He’s mad. This was his brother?’ He now looked at Ralph whose lips were spread from his teeth which were clenched, and he seemed to speak through them as he said, ‘He’s been pummelled.’
Henry looked upwards; then turning swiftly, he went from the room and up the stairs. Ralph followed more slowly but he gained Henry’s side as he pushed outside the bedroom door.
Henry knew the layout of the house; he had sat in this particular bedroom many times after Barney had first had his accident and he knew of the low door that led into the attic. Quietly now he gripped the handle and, turning it slowly, he pressed the door open; then on tiptoe, they both entered the room, and their eyes were directed straight to the bed. All the bedclothes were on the floor, and the patch quilt was lying under the window with a pillow near it. There were various articles of clothing strewn about the floor but the way to the attic door was clear.
Standing in front of it, he turned his head on his shoulder and listened. But he heard no sound at all. After nodding once to Ralph he leaned forward and with a jerk pulled open the door; then bending his length, he almost dived into the room, there to see a sight that was to remain with him to the end of his days. The sun was dappling the almost naked figure on the floor. It looked like an animal that had been trussed and badly slaughtered, and to the side of it sat the slaughterer.
The eeriness and horror of the situation was heightened by the fact that the man on the floor didn’t move; that was until Ralph muttered, ‘Oh my God!’ Then it was as if he had bellowed, for Luke’s head jerked to the side and, looking at them, he smiled.
Henry spoke not a word. Within a second he was kneeling by Emma, and for a moment his hands hovered over her as if afraid to touch her. There was in him an agony as like to a crucifixion as he would ever know. When he loosened the ropes that bound her hands and feet it was as if the nails of the cross were being driven into him and he was crying, Lord, why hast Thou forsaken me? for surely God was punishing him through the torn bloody body before him.
‘He’s mad. He’s gone mad.’
He was aware that Ralph was speaking but he paid no heed to him. Putting his arms gently under the contorted and blood-sticky limbs, he lifted Emma gently up and, holding her to his breast, he stumbled from the room.
Fifteen
She had lain in the kitchen for two weeks, but after the third day her mind became quite clear, and she was fully aware from then of what was going on and what was being said in whispered words or normal talk. She knew for instance that they had buried Barney, that the papers had been full of the tragedy, that people from as far away as Newcastle were taking Sunday trips to see the farm where the woman had almost been flayed alive. She knew that Pete had cried like any woman when he had looked down on her, and that the girl he was going to marry was nice. She was small and tidy in her person, but had a strange way of talking. She could understand little of what she said. She also knew that Luke Yorkless had been put in an asylum and they were saying in the kitchen that he might as well be dead, but she knew that for her he would never be dead, he would live forever all over her body…and her face.
Yesterday, when a strange doctor came from Newcastle he had ordered them to take off the pig-fat muslin wrappings that covered her body up to the chin and said that all that was needed now was a light gown. She had seen her body, at least at the front. It had not shocked her because each lacerated piece of flesh was engraved on her mind, except those Luke had accomplished with his last effort when he must have turned her over onto her face…kicked her over.
Her face! It was only in the night that she put her hand up to her face and let her fingers follow the weals. She had asked Mary yesterday to give her the looking-glass from the mantelpiece, but Mary’s answer had been, ‘There’s plenty of time. And that one from Newcastle said they’ll heal an’ they’ll fade. You’ll hardly be able to notice them in time. You’ll see, they’ll vanish.’
But the rope mark she herself had laid on Luke’s face hadn’t vanished. In his demoniac hate it had stood out like a piece of red cord.
She hadn’t imagined that she cared overmuch about her looks. She had never been pretty, not like other girls. But Barney had told her so often in that first year of their marriage she was beautiful, and Ralph had told her she was beautiful; and Henry had told her she was beautiful that night in the mill when they thought they had been going to die. He had said her beauty had made him ache, that sometimes he couldn’t bear to look at her for the pain her image had on him. And that night she had been glad she was still good to look upon. Tired out with work, her mind weary with grappling, that she could still be thought beautiful had been a great comfort. But now she was beautiful no more; nor ever would be in her life again.
She had heard Mary talking to Pete’s young woman, saying, ‘She’s lucky to have her sight. He likely only left her that so she could see his handiwork for the rest of her days; that’s if he intended her to go on livin’. ’Tis a wonder that she’s alive anyway.’
Yes, it was a wonder that she was alive. And a pity, for if ever before she had longed for death she longed for it now. Henry’s loving words could not soothe her. There was nothing standing in their way now, he had said; he was leaving and as soon as she was well enough to travel she was going with him. She would love his father and sister, and they would love her; and she would love the house and the countryside…On and on he had talked, but not once had she opened her mouth in one word of reply of acceptance of the future he portrayed or of refusal to share it with him.
There was a great stillness inside her as if the world had stopped moving. It had come into being from the time she had regained full consciousness. Prior to this her mind in her lucid moments had been screaming out to the heavens a great why. And now this silence seemed to be the answer.
She looked down the kitchen. There was no-one in it. Pete’s girl was upstairs doing the room, Pete was outside with Jimmy, Mary had gone into the dairy.
Slowly she pushed the bedcover back and slowly still she brought her legs over the side. The stone was cool to the seared soles of her feet. With the support of the bedhead she pulled herself up, and the effect of moving was such that she imagined all the skin on her body had become brittle and was now cracking. Her head bent, she stood gasping for a moment before moving one foot in front of the other like a child attempting to walk. Painfully she made her way from the bed to the table, and after resting there for a moment she turned about and went towards the fireplace at the side of which hung the shaving mirror …
&nbs
p; The only thing she recognised about the woman’s face looking back at her were the eyes, for below them, following the cheekbones, were two red weals that gave the impression they were the lower rim of a larger pair of spectacles. On her left cheek the lines were so criss-crossed that they melted together. There were only two marks on her right cheek. These came down from her temple and curved beyond her lower lip to the middle of her chin.
She was hideous. Hideous. She turned from the mirror, her hands covering her face, her mouth wide open.
Oh no! No! No! No! She couldn’t bear this. If she couldn’t stand the sight of herself, how could other people bear to look at her? Why had God put this on her too? Why? Why? What had she done to deserve it? Knowingly she had committed one sin in His eyes, that was loving Henry, but to her it hadn’t been a sin, no more than lust was apparently to Annie. God Almighty! what was she thinking? She’d go out of her mind. That’d be the next thing He’d do to her. Just to let her see there were worse things than losing your looks, He’d send her mad, as He had sent Luke so that he wouldn’t have to pay the penalty for killing Barney.
As she reached the table the door opened and Henry stood poised for a moment before moving swiftly towards her, saying almost harshly now, ‘Why are you up? You shouldn’t have attempted to get on your feet for another week or more.’
She looked up at him into his face and, slowing turning, she pointed to the mirror; and at this he cried, his voice overloud, ‘Well! what about it? In time they’ll heal…Oh! Emma. Emma.’ His voice dropped and he put his arms about her, saying softly now, ‘Believe me, the scars will fade to nothing. And look’—he thrust his hands into his coat pocket and brought out a round box—‘I went into Newcastle yesterday and saw a Doctor Fenwick, and he made up this ointment. This is specially for your face. He says it will soften the skin and reduce the weals in no time.’
She put out her hand and laid her fingers gently on the box, then shook her head, and in a voice that was merely a croak as if from disuse she said, ‘Don’t hoodwink me.’
As they were the first words she had spoken during the past two weeks he smiled at her, saying, ‘Who could hoodwink you, Emma?’ Then he added, ‘But I’m telling you the truth. Doctor Fenwick is a skin specialist. Now come on back to bed because you’ve got to get your strength up, and quickly, because I can’t wait to take you home.’
When she was once more in bed, he sat on the side of it and, taking her hand in his, he traced each finger gently with his own as he said, ‘I never, never thought we’d ever be together, Emma. And now the prospect of spending the rest of my life with you is so overwhelming I can’t believe it’s about to happen.’
When she made no response he asked quietly, ‘You won’t mind leaving the farm, will you?’
Would she mind leaving the farm? She never wanted to see this farm again, not in this life, or the next. She even startled herself when she said in a voice that was like a cry, ‘Oh no! No!’
‘That’s all right then. I’ve talked it over with Pete. He says if you pass it on to him then you must be recompensed in some way, but I said that I thought that you wouldn’t want anything. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded her head twice: she wanted nothing from this place, she wanted to be away from it, to fly…fly away from it. Yet she couldn’t fly away, not with him. It wouldn’t be fair. She would be an embarrassment to him; he’d have to explain how she had come by her disfigurement. He’d always have to explain, and so many things. It was because of her he’d lost his ministry. Mary had said as much. She turned her head away from him now, saying, ‘I…I can’t go with you, it’s too late.’
‘Emma’—he brought her face gently towards him—‘you…you don’t care for me any more?’
Oh—she looked into his eyes—if she had never loved him before, she loved him at this moment, and the weight of the love that was opening up in her was like a physical load pressing her body double, for now she was bending forward over the bed her face in her hands, and when he forced them apart and brought her round to him again he said, ‘Answer my question.’
She stared at him while her tears followed the channels of the weals and spread over her face, and what she answered was, ‘I’m…I’m different now; I’ll never be the same again, inside or out.’
Once more he said, ‘Answer my question. Do you care for me still?’
‘Oh! Henry; I can’t go with you, it’s too late.’
‘Emma, do you love me? Because if you do and you want to stay here, then I stay too.’
‘No, no; you mustn’t stay here…oh no. Oh, Henry!’ Her head fell forward and when it touched his shoulder his arms went round her and he looked over her head down the kitchen to where the rain was streaming down the window and he said softly, ‘That’s settled then. That’s settled. Our lives here have run full circle because I, in a way, brought you here, and it’s been left to me, and thank God for it, to take you away from this tormented house. And I promise you, Emma, that for the remainder of my life my main concern will be your happiness.’
Raising her head from his shoulder, he now placed his lips firmly on hers; then stroking her hair back from her forehead, he said softly, ‘So it is sealed, Emma, so it is sealed, for life, what is left of it.’
Three weeks later, Emma, dressed in a new cloak and a wide-brimmed bonnet that shadowed her face, was sitting by the side of Ralph. Their hands were tightly clasped and words were coming difficult to both of them. He coughed, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, then turned to her, saying softly, ‘I’ll have the pictures sent on…later.’
‘I hope it won’t be for a long long time.’
‘It likely will.’ He coughed again, then smiled at her, saying, ‘You know me, I’ve been dying every winter since you first put your nose through that door. What is it, twenty-three, twenty-four years ago? Twenty-four years ago. A lifetime. But you…you Emma, you’ve got another lifetime before you and if anybody can make you happy he will. He’s loved you from the first minute he saw you. And I did an’ all.’ He now wagged her hand up and down. ‘Oh yes, I did, but?,’—he turned his head away as if in shyness now—‘you knew the circumstances.’ Then looking at her again, he added in a whisper, ‘And what might have happened but for those circumstances?’
‘Oh, Ralph!Ralph.’ She looked lovingly into his emaciated face and they both knew that this was the last goodbye. ‘Go now,’ he said; ‘he’s out there straining at the leash.’
He did not kiss her but brought her hand to the side of his face and she, bending forward, put her lips to his brow and they held each other tightly for a moment. Then blindly she rose from the chair and went out of the cottage to where Henry was standing near the trap talking to Jimmy who was sitting in the driving seat, and after Henry had helped her into the back of the trap he said, ‘I’ll back in a minute.’ Then hurrying up the path, he went into the cottage and stood looking down at Ralph for a moment before sitting down beside him.
‘I hate to leave you like this,’ he said brokenly. ‘If…if there was only some way.’
‘Don’t be silly, man. We both know I’ll be leaving myself in a very short time. But I want to say one thing to you, and that is, thank you for the friendship you’ve shown me over the years. I sometimes have wondered how I would have gone on without you…and your crack.’ He jerked his head and blinked rapidly. ‘If you’d been an ordinary parson, you’d never have stood the pace, but you were never an ordinary parson. You should never have been a parson; you know that, don’t you?’
Henry couldn’t speak, but what he did was put his arms about the muffled figure and, holding him tightly, he muttered through the tightness in his throat, ‘I’ve loved you dearer than father or brother.’
‘Go on. Go on.’ Ralph pushed him away, then turned his head towards the fire as Henry went out, the tears streaming unashamedly down his face.
The train was puffing noisily; the smoke was billowing down the platform enveloping them in cloud as if in mist; Pete
and his future wife and Jimmy stood around her, and one after the other they shook her hand and wished her all the happiness in life; but it was Pete who kissed her, then whispered, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll do what you asked an’ let you know if…if I should hear anything. Go now and be happy.’
And she went, lifted up the high step by Henry, and then they were both standing at the window until the whistle blew and the train moved slowly out of the station. And when they had stopped waving they sat down side by side, their hands joined as they were to be whenever possible for the rest of their lives.
EPILOGUE
On a day in June of eighteen ninety-three, a woman sat in the front room of a house in a respectable quarter of Newcastle. She was nearing her middle forties but with her slim body and babyish-looking face she could have claimed to be in her early thirties. She was reading the deaths column in The Times. Her late husband had always taken The Times, and because it set a sort of social pattern she hadn’t stopped its delivery. She read again the words:
GRAINGER.—On the 4th June, 1893, peacefully, at the Towers, Burnside, Emaralda Grainger, two days following the decease of her husband, Henry Francis Grainger. Both greatly beloved of their son, Ralph Francis Grainger, and their daughters, Mrs Elizabeth Scott Mather and Mrs Mary Barrington. Funeral at Burnside Parish Church, the 8th inst., at 2 o’clock. They were inseparable in life, they are inseparable in death.
The woman got up and walked to the window. The paper hung slack in her hand, and as she stood gazing out on to the neat back garden her thoughts ran wildly back down the years to the day when she was sixteen and Bill had bought her out from Ma Boss’ and had married her, actually married her. She was still wondering why to this very day, for he hadn’t wanted all that much out of her, just snuggle and cuddle. And he had known of her side capers, but he hadn’t minded as long as she was there. And she had stuck by him. Yes; she owed him that much, she had stuck by him until he had died in his dotage. But he had repaid her well, she was set for life…and after all, what was life for but for living?
The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift) Page 46
