The Hidden People
Page 7
Helena stiffened beside me. She caught her breath, ready to throw out some sharp remonstrance at this countryman who deigned to think he could correct her choice of dress, but I took her arm.
“That will not be necessary, thank you,” I said, and I led her towards the coach and handed her into it. The man turned to stare after us, shrugging his shoulders; thankfully, he chose instead to swallow down his bread rather than speak. I asked after the other pallbearers—there should surely have been six, at the least—but he made some excuse about the others having been called to the harvest.
We made a small procession, but I hoped it would suffice; I had not thought a larger fitting for such a rural setting. The church, after all, stood within our view, and in a matter of moments we were at the door. The boys and the undertaker handled the rough coffin between them with only a modicum of fuss over the pall, and it was not until we were taking our seats in the first row of pews that I realised we had seen no one else. The parson made his appearance at last, moving to stand at the front of the church, his hands folded in front of him.
The pealing of bells stopped abruptly and we sat and waited in silence. I looked around at the brightly coloured windows, the pews, the pulpit with the Good Book open upon it, and I thought of what I could not see: the spire, and clock and all its workings somewhere above us: the clock with its white face and its several iron hands. Perhaps we were in the wrong time after all and soon the peal would ring again and the doors would open and all of my cousin’s neighbours and friends would be there. They could not all continue in the fields, not on such a day; they would fill the seats around us, ready to join together to bid her farewell, to sorrow over the terrible thing that had been done to her—to show that they too felt her death keenly, both a misfortune and an injustice.
The parson cleared his throat as Helena leaned towards me and whispered, “Did you hire no mourners? No feathermen or mutes?”
“Of course I did not,” I whispered back. “Such artifice is for the City. I thought . . .”
But I did not say what I had thought: that we should see an outpouring not paid for but spontaneous and heartfelt and fitting for the memory of a simple country girl as innocent and clean as spring water. I abhorred the practice amongst the genteel classes of sending their empty carriages to mourn at the lychgate, as hollow as the sentiment they were meant to express. Surely here there could be no requirement for professional mourners, those black crocodiles with their false tears; there would be no more need for them in the country than there was for wax flowers. But now, looking around the empty church, it struck me that I might have done my cousin a disservice. Had these rural denizens stayed away in protest at the simplicity of the funeral, the lack of gloves and weepers and feathers?
Helena’s whisper came again. “Did you have invitations sent out?”
“There was no time for such—the landlord took care of it all.”
She gave a little toss of her head, but there was no more time for words or to compose myself or to collect my mind into the correct mood of solemnity because the parson had stepped forward. Without even looking at us, he began, and I quickly realised my earlier surmise had been accurate after all. He started to drone in dirge-like tones as if he were speaking to the air or the walls rather than the small group seated before him.
I stared down at my hands. I could not concentrate upon his words. All I could think of was, what had I done wrong? For surely something had gone amiss. I had known that Widdop himself would be absent, kept busy by the inn and the preparations for our refreshments—but where was everybody else? Had he failed to inform the villagers? Surely there must have been some mistake? They had been told the wrong time or the wrong day—a more auspicious one, perhaps. I should have taken it all into my own hands—but then, I did not know who were my cousin’s especial acquaintances and friends. I rubbed my eyes. Everything was a blur. Words floated around me, and then I realised that Helena was tapping my shoulder, that she was standing.
“We shall sing a hymn,” the parson intoned. “‘All Things Bright and Beautiful.’”
Of course: I had chosen it myself. I had pictured the gathering, all our voices joining as one in some poor semblance of my cousin’s song, and now here we were, two of us and the undertaker’s boys, them trying hard not to snigger as our voices wavered, failing utterly to fill the church with our song.
And such a hymn it was. I had not before thought upon its length. We stumbled onward, verse after verse, my wife’s voice becoming quieter and quieter, the parson’s little more than a dry rasp, until I could hear only my own thin tones. I sang more loudly, deliberately, trying to overcome the deficiency as I stared at the sad object in front of us, at the dust tumbling through the air and settling upon the coffin’s pall, and I thought of its contents: a young girl turned to ash, her skin cracked and blackened, her white teeth, her soft green dress, and I wondered what on earth she could possibly be thinking about it all.
Finally, with a How great is God Almighty, who has made all things well, it was over and I could sink gratefully into my seat. I realised only when Helena leaned over and wiped my cheek that it had become quite damp.
I felt then it must surely all be over, but another trial awaited: my last farewell to my cousin, which took place at the graveside. As a member of the fairer sex Helena naturally awaited my return and as I went on alone, peace came over me at last. There was the little graveyard, quiet and still all around me. I cast a little dirt onto the coffin, though thankfully I saw none of it; I could see only Lizzie’s face peeping from below her bonnet, the brightness of life shining from her eyes. I did not even look at the parson as he said his final droning words. I did not look into Helena’s face as I met her once more and we did not speak as we made our way back towards the inn.
To my surprise, the undertaker and his boys declined our offer of refreshment, and for a moment the retreating clop of hooves on the lane was the only sound. Inside, I was not sure what I expected to see—red faces, perhaps, burning with their shame, but what we saw was nothing; not even our landlord was anywhere to be found. I heard some slight noise coming from the parlour—the snuggery, he had called it—where our tea was to be laid, and I led Helena in that direction. There we found Widdop laying out crockery and silver at a small table, perfectly unperturbed. Another table bore cold veal, stuffed chine, pork pies, potted meats, bread and butter and boiled eggs, glasses of porter and a steaming pot of tea. In quantity it was little more than a handful of people would require, and I stared at it for long after he stood back to allow us to be seated.
“Where, sir, is the rest?” I asked.
He shifted uncomfortably.
“You did tell them—you did invite them, as I asked?”
“Aye, sir, I did.”
“And yet . . . ?”
He cleared his throat. “Everyone’s that busy, sir, in t’ fields, an’ that. I knew they—if there’s nowt else, sir . . .”
Helena’s hand closed on my arm and squeezed hard. “Thank you,” she said, betraying no emotion in her low, clear voice, and the landlord made his retreat. She poured out the tea and filled our plates before settling herself before the repast. After a moment I sat also, but I could not eat. Helena picked at the food. Neither of us had anything to say.
When for a time we had sat and stared quite stupidly, she drew a deep sigh. “Shall we retire to our room, my dear? Or go for a walk? Taking some air might—”
I turned to look at her. “I shall wait,” I said. “There has been some error, I am quite sure. A young lady has died in the most horrific circumstance, and the least her neighbours could do is pay their respects. To fail to do so would surely be the most impertinent neglect.”
She nodded; she could hardly do otherwise. After a time she went over to a rack in the corner where were displayed some periodicals and idly leafed through them, tut-tutting over the seed catalogues and issues of Farm, Field and Fireside before finally returning with a single uncut newspa
per. She perused it as best she could, though I believe she could scarcely have taken in a word, such was the promptitude with which she abandoned it once more.
No one came. I rose; I looked into the taproom. I tried to remember when I had seen the place so entirely empty and realised that I never had.
The teapot emptied. The landlord did not return. I stood and paced.
“My dear, this is most trying,” Helena said. “I really must—in my—I must return to our room. I need to rest a little.”
My brow clouded at her words; I could not think when she had become so unfeeling. But I merely nodded and saw her to the door. She swept her skirts—her pale grey, shining skirts—through it and did not look back.
I sat there alone for a while, then I stood and went to the window. The lane was empty and the day was wearing on; it had become a little dull. Eventually I left the parlour and took a seat in the public bar. A box of dominoes had been abandoned on a settle and I laid them out, lining up the edges of each tile with a sharp click.
After a time, the landlord’s daughter came in. She asked if there was any other thing they could provide and I told her there was not. Shortly afterwards, I heard her clearing away the plates in the snuggery. Still no one came; there was no boisterous talk, no pouring of ale, no fiddle.
A mistake, I told myself. It was all a mistake.
I fetched the newspaper Helena had abandoned and read it, focusing upon each word in turn until the light began to fail, and still no one came, and I do not remember a single line of what I read. The landlord came back and I watched him bustling about, running a cloth around the serving hatch, tidying the rows of gleaming pots, glasses, jugs and bottles on the shelves in the room behind.
“It is quiet, this evening,” I said.
“Aye, sir.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“No reason. ’Appen folk are tired. Lot o’ work, this time o’ year.”
“And yet, it has been so busy of late—you must be happy to have such business.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Odd, is it not, that none at all have come today?”
He slowly raised his head. “’Appen.”
“But you knew that they would not do so. The supper—it was meant for two, was it not?”
More slowly he said, “’Appen.”
“So where are they?”
He appeared alarmed at so blunt a question and I myself felt the rudeness of my glare, though I could not bring myself to soften it. I do not think that I expected a response, or perhaps I expected only to hear something vague about the attractions of a working man’s own hearth, but that was not his reply.
“There’s a house on t’ lane,” he said softly. “As you go south out o’ t’ village. They calls it t’ beer house, though there in’t a sign. There’s a chap brews a bit, an ’e keeps a room—t’ farm folk sometimes drink in there, see, so as not to meet wi’ t’ young squire when ’e’s in t’ inn. They can be a rafflin’ lot and ’e dun’t allus approve o’ their ways. You unnerstand?”
I did understand, all too clearly, though I thought the squire had little to do with it; not this evening, at any rate.
I stood without another word and left the inn.
The beer house was quite simple to find. It stood a matter of moments beyond the crossroads, a short walk from the Three Horseshoes, and the rising moon lit my way along the rutted lane. I heard the place before I noticed it. It was a moderately proportioned brick house with shabbily painted shutters, nothing more than a decent-sized worker’s home. I would not have known it at all had it not been for the merry sound of a fiddle drifting into the cool night air and the rough shouts of encouragement that underlined its chorus. I felt my feet falling into time with its tune as I walked towards the door. I did not know what I should do or say. I lifted a hand to knock and let it fall again, listening to the numerous voices within, and then I turned the handle and pushed it open.
The music grew louder at once, accompanied by unruly voices, which rose in song:
I can kiss but I can’t wed you all,
But I would if I could, great and small,
I long for to cuddle you all,
For you see I’m a beautiful boy
Aye, you see I’m a beautiful boy.
The passage was narrow, distorting the sounds so that although loud, the song appeared to be coming from a great distance. The house was somewhat shabby; it had once been got up with cut paper, but this now hung loose and torn at the corners. I walked down the passage to an open doorway, following the clamour.
The heat of their bodies, heavily worked and tightly pressed in together, hit me at once. I could smell their sweat and their beer-addled breath. The fiddle’s high notes floated above the bass rumble of their chatter, wherein no words could be distinguished.
They were working men, in working men’s dress; their rough trousers bore the stain of the fields despite being buttoned at the bottom against the mud, and some still had gaiters of sacking tied about their knees. Dirt and powdery chaff had spilled from their boots, soiling the floor. Some wore drab fustian waistcoats over their shirts, in shades that put me in mind of the poorhouse. Others were in their shirt-sleeves, indifferently clean mufflers at their necks, and some wore smocks yellowed with careless washing, or perhaps the lack thereof. Their faces were apple-cheeked and shining and their smiles were all the same, though their eyes, in that moment, appeared entirely devoid of expression.
I stared as, one by one, they felt my presence and turned to face me, stopping their idle chatter. The fiddle music rose once, twice, and then faltered and was silent.
I did not speak; I had no need of words. They knew their own shame; they had shunned her. They had shunned my cousin just as if every last one of them really thought her a fairy or some other hobgoblin creature and my real cousin vanished into the air. Or perhaps it was as the parson said: as if she were a devil, as if she were the one who had sinned rather than the brutish man who had killed her.
Another moment and I had stepped out again at the door and was walking quickly away. I did not stop until I reached the crossroads, when I realised that the moon had risen over Pudding Pye Hill. It was almost full and I could see the shape of that prominence quite clearly against a sky that was brilliant with stars, but I could not see my cousin’s cottage. No lights shone through the chinks in its shutters. Perhaps they never would again. The injustice returned to me anew, and with it, the shadowy form of the man who had wrought it.
I looked about me at the crossroads, at the lanes leading away into the dark and the fingerpost that marked their directions. This might have been a place where a gallows once stood. Perhaps one should again; but then, they had taken the murderer away, to a town large enough to hold him. He would face the judgment of man; then he would be sent to face that of a higher power still.
I found myself trembling with rage at the thought of him. At least now he could not steal my cousin’s rest, though he might yet disturb mine.
I walked on and did not look up again until I was in my room at the inn. I closed the door and saw that Helena was watching me from her place in an upright chair. I wondered if she had been sitting there since retiring; her cheeks were wan and there were shadows in her eyes. She rose to her feet and reached out her hands towards me. “My dear,” she said, and I went into her embrace, relieved that the differences between us had somehow been resolved. After a few moments she raised her head. “At least, my love, we may go home now.” She smiled; her eyes shone. A dimple furrowed one pale cheek.
I drew away from her. “My dear, of course I cannot.”
“But why?”
“Why—you need ask me why? After the way they have treated her?”
Her eyes glared into mine with renewed intensity. “She is dead, Husband. She is buried. What need have we to stay longer?”
“They shunned her—after what has happened!”
“And what can we do? What can you do, Albie?”
“Albie, you are being ridiculous! A terrible thing has happened, it is true. But she is gone and he will be hanged and there is nothing left for you here. Why should you stay—what is she to you, that you would?” Her eyes glistened, not with tears, but with anger.
“It is common decency, Helena. Someone must stand by her—do you not see? I must know. I must understand.”
“We cannot stay here!” She actually stamped her foot. “I cannot stay in this awful inn—in this room! Albie—”
“Then I will set you on your way, Helena. I did not ask you to come here. You must return home; indeed, I really think it best. But—perhaps you are right . . .”
For a moment, she did not speak. I think she could not. She drew in a great gasping breath, and then she straightened. “My place is at your side. I am your wife.”
“Helena, it is better that you go. Who will manage everything at home for my father? And perhaps it is right that I should be alone.”
“I will not go. I shall not! You are wrong to ask it.”
I shook my head, lost in frustration, half turning away. And then, almost without my volition—as if the words had been waiting there all along—I said, “Very well. I absolutely cannot go home as yet, and you insist you will remain. But you are quite correct: there is absolutely no possibility that we can remain in this place.” I crossed to the window and stared out. I could not see the moon, though the world was bathed in its silvery light. “We must find somewhere else to stay.”
Chapter Nine
We removed the next morning to my cousin’s cottage. It was not until I turned the key in the lock that it occurred to me that this was the last thing I had ever considered I would do. To stay in the place where such terrible things had happened . . . yet now it felt a proper outward sign of standing alongside my cousin, to say, I am with her and you are wrong and ignorant, and if not entirely wicked, then foolish.