‘Over in the house. I’ve got to get her away to Katie’s as quick as possible.’
‘Aye, the sooner the better. But how will she go? It’s the other end of the country, she’s never been farther than Hexham in her life.’
‘I’ll take her meself.’
‘Right away, down there?’
‘Aye, right away down there.’
‘You’ll come back?’
‘Oh aye, Winnie; I’ll come back.’
They both looked at each other; and they both knew why she would come back.
Molly asked quickly now, ‘What time’s Davie goin’ in for the stores?’ and Winnie answered, ‘Around twelve I should say.’
‘He would take us into the train, wouldn’t he? He could pick us up along the road on the quiet.’
‘Aye. Aye, he could do that.’
‘I’ll go an’ ask him.’
They both hurried away as a door banged overhead, and in the kitchen Molly asked, ‘Will you look after the lads for me the time I’m gone, Winnie?’
‘That’s the least of your worries, lass,’ Winnie answered. ‘Go on now, and arrange it with Davie.’
She found Davie in the grain store where the rats had been playing havoc, and without any preamble she said, ‘You goin’ into Hexham the day?’ and he nodded as he replied, ‘Aye, I’m going into Hexham the day.’
‘Around twelve your mother says.’
‘Yes, that’s right, around twelve.’ It was an aggravating habit of his to repeat everything she said.
‘Will . . . will you give us a lift, Biddy an’ me? I’m taking her away.’ Now she had his attention.
‘Why? What’s happened?’
She looked down for a moment; then moved one lip over the other. ‘He . . . he wants to marry her.’
‘No! You mean?’
She still had her head down as she nodded. ‘He’s playin’ hell, goin’ mad. Even when he knew how they stood to each other he still went and asked her. I’m . . . I’m takin’ her down to our Katie’s. It’s a long way an’ I can’t let her go on her own.’
‘No, no, of course not. Where will I pick you up?’
‘Round the bend of the Tor.’
‘Good enough . . . How . . . how are you off for money?’ His voice was gruff.
‘Oh, I can manage, I’ve got a bit put by.’
‘Enough to take you there and back? You’re coming back?’
She looked up at him, a gleam of hope in her eyes. ‘Yes, I’m coming back.’
‘What if he won’t let you?’
She nodded her head now as she said, ‘Oh, he’ll let me all right, he can’t do anythin’ else; I told him what I know about . . . about what he did.’
‘You told him that?’ He asked the question in a thin whisper.
‘Aye, I had to. He was giving me the shove an’ . . . an’ this is me home, it’s the only place I’ve got. An’ what’s more I like working along of Miss Jane.’ As she lowered her gaze again he asked quietly, ‘Do you think it’s wise to come back? You could get a job anywhere.’
‘I know that, but as I said this is me home, I was born and bred here.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of what he might try an’ do to you?’
‘I put a stop to that an’ all; I told him I’m not the only one who knows.’
He stared hard at her before he asked, ‘Did you tell him it was me?’
‘Oh no, no, of course not; he might try and do us both in. I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘He might at that.’
She heaved a sigh, then said dully, ‘Don’t let on about where she’s going, will you? I mean not to Will Curran, ’cos he’d sell his soul for a penny bun. I’ll have to tell the lads, but he won’t get it out of them.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said; ‘he certainly won’t get it out of me. Be along there around twelve.’
‘Ta,’ she said, then she went out; and he picked up a handful of grain and ran it through his fingers. There was going to be trouble when he found Biddy gone, for she must have been his one solid hope of fulfilling himself as a man. He remembered the lad used to act as if he owned her when they were small children together. That feeling must have increased rapidly with the years. In this moment he experienced a strong sense of pity for the boy; but the very pity created a stronger sense of foreboding.
Of a sudden he had a longing to be back at sea.
Seven
‘Where’s she gone? Where’s she gone I’m asking you, woman?’
‘Take your hands off!’ Jane slapped out at him. ‘Take your hands off me. I tell you I don’t know. Amos, stop it!’ When she fell back on to the foot of the stairs she let out a high cry as her elbow struck the wood and the pain of it for a moment blotted everything from sight; but she was conscious of steps running from the kitchen and Winnie shouting, ‘Give over! Master Amos, for God’s sake, give over!’
But she wasn’t aware of Davie’s presence until Amos was lifted bodily from her; then she saw Amos scrambling on all fours towards the wall where he grabbed at one of his crutches and hurled it at Davie’s legs. She closed her eyes tightly when the other crutch went hurtling after the first one. And then Davie’s voice, seeming to shudder the roof, yelled, ‘Don’t you come any of that with me, Mister, for you’ve picked the wrong one!’
‘Come away. Come away out of it.’ Winnie was pulling her to her feet, and she groaned with the pain in her elbow. She glanced fearfully to where Amos and Davie were confronting each other, both strangely of a like breadth, the only difference being in height; yet Amos’ lack of legs did not seem to handicap him, for of the two at this moment he looked the more ferocious.
She was passing through the door when she heard Amos speak and she went to turn back, but Winnie pulled her on into the kitchen and banged the door behind them.
What Amos had said was, ‘You’ll find it better, Armstrong, if you mind your own business.’
‘I take it as my business to stop you beltin’ into your sister. What’s up with you anyway? What’s come over you?’
‘You’re not stupid, so why do you ask? You know what’s come over me? And you know where she’s gone, don’t you? You know where that bitch has taken her. They didn’t walk to Hexham, you must have given her a lift on the cart.’
‘That’s right, I gave them a lift on the cart. But I don’t know where they’ve gone. An’ if I did I wouldn’t tell you.’
He lied so convincingly that Amos believed him, and like the
draining of a barrel the anger and the rage slowly seeped out of him, and he was left with a great sense of frustration and the futility of going on; for the moment the farm and his new power were as nothing to him.
Slowly he turned away, and as Davie had taught him to do years ago he shambled towards the stairs by throwing his body from side to side. When he reached them he sat down on the bottom stair and, gripping the oak post, he laid his head against it, and there welled up in him the torrent of emotion that had been dammed for years, and for the first time in his life he began to cry, great, tearing, shoulder-shuddering sobs. But when Davie’s hand came gently on to his shoulder he turned fiercely on him. The water spurting from his eyes and nose and spluttering from his mouth in bubbles, he gasped, ‘Somebody will pay for this, they will! they will! God Almighty! they will. I’ll see they will.’
And they did.
BOOK FOUR
1898
One
‘Now, my dearest Jane, don’t worry; nothing can happen. A week from today we will be together . . . forever, for ever and ever; living or dead, we’ll be together.’
Arnold Hedley held her thin hands tightly to his breast; his nondescript features glowed with love and happiness. He had waited so long for his superior to die and for Jan
e to throw off the chains that bound her to Amos, but now everything at last had come about, everything was arranged. Seven days hence she would leave the farm for good and all, and come here to the Vicarage to make it a home. And he so wanted a home, he had never known a home. His parents having died young, he had been brought up in the care of an uncle who had rid himself of him as soon as possible by sending him to boarding school; from there he had gone into the seminary, and from the seminary he had come to this house, this house that had been dominated by John William Wainwright, a man whom he knew in his inner heart was not really of God, for he had been a selfish, vain, self-seeking man. But he must not think harshly of him any more, for he was where God willed him to be these past three months, since which time the bishop had confirmed him in the living and so made his way clear at last to make Jane his wife.
Yet although he had said to her that nothing could go wrong, there was an uneasiness in him and he knew he wouldn’t feel that all was right until Jane was safely installed in this house and away from the farm . . . or rather, Amos. Never had he been so mistaken in judging human nature as he had in that boy. Through all his early days he had prophesied great things for him. With such an active mind he could have become a writer, a profession he could have followed without exposure to the public. But what had he done? Used his powers to become a gambler. As a child he had been adroit at the game of marbles. He himself had been amused by his prowess in this direction. Now he was horrified at where the simple game had led him. The farm faced utter disaster if some check was not put on his activities. But who could check such a one as Amos had become? And then there was not only the gambling; oh no, there was the scandal of his trips into Hexham, trips that kept him there two and three nights at a time. His jaunts on this business would take him as far away as Newcastle. He could be away for as long as four days to a week. Only one good thing resulted from his absences; the inhabitants of the farm during such times knew a little peace.
He recalled the time when he first came to this parish. There were eighteen souls all told at Cock Shield, now there were but seven. In the last twelve months two more had gone from the place: Johnnie Geary had married and taken his young wife with him to another farm, and Winnie, that hard-working faithful servant, had gone to her long rest but two months ago. It was strange that old Sep should have outlived his daughter and her husband, and also weathered the epidemic that took four of them in a week. He supposed there was a purpose in it; God’s ways were strange. He was thankful for one thing, that the Lord in His wisdom had seen fit to bring Davie Armstrong back, for without him he dreaded to think what might have come to the place. He had not been wrong in his summing up of Davie. A fine man was Davie in spite of his lack of faith and hot-headedness and sharpness of tongue at times, but nevertheless a fine, honest man. He was very fond of Davie; as was Jane.
He led her now across the brown-painted, dismal hall and into the brown-painted, brown-furnished, dismal sitting room, and, pressing her into a chair, he said, ‘Now sit there quietly, my dear, and I’ll go and tell Mrs Spense you’ve come, and she will make you a hot cup of tea.’
‘Yes, Arnold, that would be nice,’ Jane said dutifully, knowing at the same time that Mrs Spense was well aware that she had arrived and that if she made her a cup of tea it would be with reluctance. Mrs Spense was not looking forward to having a mistress in the house.
She looked slowly around the room. How would she ever be able to think of this place as home? Would she even succeed in making it homelike? Would she ever be able to erase Parson Wainwright’s presence from that great leather chair, the indentations, which even now gave the impression that he was sitting in it, smiling at her while he fought her off with unctuous charm? She looked at the heavy black sideboard taking up almost one wall of the room; the high glass cabinet of stuffed birds dominating another wall; the curtains of an indefinable colour hanging limply at each side of the narrow, deep stone window and which she guessed had never been washed for fear of disintegration.
If she’d had some money of her own and had been able to strip the whole place and refurnish it, she would have been happy, at least it would have given her an interest in her future, but she had no money. She would come to Arnold with only her clothes and her books, and a little jewellery which, under the present state of affairs, she had no right to. She had handled no money for almost two years now; since Amos had taken over he had seen to all the bills. Amos had treated her shamefully, and she didn’t deserve it. No, she didn’t deserve it, not from him, for she had given him her life.
He had blamed her for helping to spirit Biddy away. For months after that dreadful night when he had smashed nearly all the furniture in the sitting room, he had refused to speak to her, treating her much in the same way as her father had treated him. Their normal relationship had never really been restored until three months ago when Parson Wainwright had died and she told him that she was going to marry Arnold and make her home in the Vicarage. She had been surprised at his first reaction to her news for he had appeared again like the young Amos who had demanded her whole attention. ‘No, you can’t,’ he had said. ‘Oh Jane, you can’t. You wouldn’t leave me here on my own.’ But she had replied that he had little need of her now.
‘That isn’t true,’ he had said, ‘I do need you, I need you all the time. You’re the only thing I have left. No matter what I do or how I act, you know you’re the only thing I have to call my own.’
Although this had touched her, she had remained quietly adamant. She was going to marry Arnold, she said; it was settled, finally settled.
Shortly after this Amos had compromised. ‘All right then,’ he had said, ‘all right, but come and live here. I can’t be left alone, Jane, I can’t.’ But even against this entreaty she had remained firm, saying she was sorry but the place of a parson’s wife was in the Vicarage.
The place of a parson’s wife was in the Vicarage. She now looked into the black iron grate where a low, dull fire was burning. She hated this house, she had always hated it, but it was her only refuge, that, and Arnold. Dear Arnold; so kind, so thoughtful, so loving; she wasn’t worthy of him. If he could see into her heart he would be astounded for he would find nothing there but a thirty-year-old shrivelled case. How long ago was it since she had given the core of herself away? She didn’t know, for at the time she hadn’t realised she had parted with it. It was only these two past years that the knowledge had come to her, the shocking knowledge that she loved a man who, even in her reduced circumstances, was beneath her. Davie might be managing the farm, what was left of it, but he was still remembered as McBain’s cowman.
Arnold came hurrying back into the room. He was smiling. He closed the door behind him – it was a precise action – then came towards her, his hand extended.
‘There you are, that’s settled. The kettle is on, ten minutes and we’ll have a cup of tea.’ It was as if he had achieved some extraordinary feat of diplomacy.
When he drew his chair up to hers she put her hand on his and said, ‘There was no need to trouble Mrs Spense, Arnold; it’s not long since I had dinner.’
‘You’ve walked all this way and I’m not going to allow you to walk all the way back without some refreshment.’ He now leaned nearer to her and, his voice dropping, he said, ‘I have a nice surprise for you, I have acquired the third book in the trilogy by the Reverend Ingraham, The Prince of the House of David, and two of Mrs Henry Wood’s books. Ah-ha!’ He wagged his finger at her. ‘I am not going to tell you the titles of those, I am keeping them as part of our recreation. I have it all planned out. One evening you shall read to me, the next I to you; when we’re . . . ’ Only just in time he checked himself from making use of the embarrassing terms ‘in bed’, and substituted, ‘resting’.
Jane looked at him with a deep tolerant warmth in her eyes. She had a vivid picture in her mind of them both sitting up in bed, one reading, the other liste
ning, and although the picture didn’t bring her any joy she appreciated the gesture he had made in buying the latter two books, for his taste did not incline towards Mrs Henry Wood, but to much deeper subjects, slightly controversial subjects, such as science. He talked a great deal about Mr Huxley; he admired him yet could not countenance his attitude to religion. Mr Huxley, she understood, had brought into being a new word with regard to irreligious people, they were called agnostics.
Arnold was now moving his fingers gently around her wrist. Back and forward, back and forward they went, as if forming a bracelet. She couldn’t stand it; she had never been able to stand this affectionate gesture of his. She wanted to jump to her feet, but she forced herself to rise slowly, saying, ‘I must be getting back, I have so much to do.’
‘But, but what about the tea?’
‘Oh, thank Mrs Spense and apologise for my going.’
‘Yes, yes, my dear.’ His voice was hesitant; then he added, ‘I feel guilty at not being able to accompany you, but I have the meeting with . . . ’
‘Arnold, Arnold,’ she chided him gently, ‘how often have I walked those two miles on my own, don’t be silly.’
‘You might have, my dear, but I still want to accompany you. And let us say, in place of guilt I feel a sense of loss in being denied your company.’
They stood under the porch of the Vicarage looking at each other; then he bent forward and kissed her gently, as a father might, and she went from him down the grass-grown gravel drive to the gate and out into the road, telling herself all the while not to be silly, she mustn’t be foolish, she must not cry.
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