The Parson's Daughter

by Catherine Cookson

  She let out a high laugh, then clapped her hand tightly over her mouth. Her father, this man of God, as her grandmama sometimes referred to him, could say such funny things. Oh, she loved him. She went to his side now and leant her head against his shoulder, and his frankness, as it always did, encouraged her own and she said, ‘I don’t like Sunday school, Papa.’

  ‘I know you don’t, my dear. But it is necessary, and it shows a good example.’

  Still with her head pressed close to him, she murmured, ‘I can’t stand Miss Jancy or Miss Eva McKeowan. They yammer.’

  A slight shudder under her cheek found an answering gurgle in herself and it was a few seconds before her father replied, ‘They mean well. They are good women.’

  ‘The younger one, Eva, makes eyes at James.’

  ‘Oh, now.’ He pressed her from him, and pulled his chin into the high collar on his thin neck, and, his voice reproving, he said, ‘Now you mustn’t say things like that.’

  ‘’Tis true, Papa. And James is scared of her.’

  ‘Oh, that is nonsense: James is scared of nothing and no-one.’ There was a proud note in his voice now as he went on, ‘James is a very strong character. In a way, he takes after your grandmama.’ And his tone altered as he ended, ‘I’m afraid I know somebody else who does, too.’

  ‘You think I’m like Grandmama, Papa?’

  ‘You are showing many of her characteristics.’

  ‘What ones?’

  ‘Which ones? Oh, we won’t go into that. Anyway, I must get down to work. You know I go to Durham tomorrow to meet the Bishop and the Dean, and I’ve got to think about that.’

  ‘Mama said would you give me a suitable reading, Papa?’

  ‘Suitable reading.’ His eyes travelled over the bookshelves lining the wall in front of him, and he got to his feet, saying, ‘Ah…Ah. Suitable reading for a Sunday.’ And looking down on her, he said, ‘You have your books upstairs.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but Mama told me to ask you.’

  ‘Dear, dear. Suitable reading.’ He was walking along by the bookshelves now and touching one book after another, murmuring as he did so, ‘Not suitable, not suitable.’ Then picking one from the shelf, he scanned through it before replacing it, saying, ‘Too old. Too old.’ Then turning about, he went to another row of shelves to the right of his desk, and she watched him take out one book after another and read a line here and there. And a smile passed over his face before he returned the last book to the shelf, saying regretfully, ‘Not Sunday reading. Adventures.’

  ‘I could take Gyp for a walk, Papa.’

  He nodded at her, seeming to consider for a moment, then sighed and said, ‘Yes, yes, you could.’ But now, once again bending his long length towards her, he added, ‘But I’d go out this way.’ He pointed to the half-open window. ‘It’s closer to the kennel.’

  They looked knowingly at each other, and when he pushed the sashed window further up she bent to step through it; then quickly straightening, she reached up and put her arms around his neck and planted a quick kiss on the side of his bony chin before scrambling through the opening, then along by the side of the house, and to the dog’s kennel.

  At the sight of her the young labrador pranced wildly and gave a howling bark, and she shushed him by gripping his mouth tightly between her hands and looking into his eyes, saying, ‘Quiet, Gyp, else we’ll both get wrong.’ Then unlinking the chain attached to his collar, she threw the offending deterrent against the wall where the other end was fastened to an iron loop. And once again she told herself that when she was older and had more to say, she would see that Gyp wasn’t attached to that thing. Animals shouldn’t be tied up.

  ‘Come on,’ she whispered to him now, and wagged a warning finger at him; and seemingly taking her cue, he walked quietly beside her. But as soon as they left the vicarage grounds and entered the field that ran down to the river she grabbed up the skirt of her Sunday dress until it came just below her knees, then raced down the field, the dog bounding at her heels. And they didn’t stop until they reached the bank of the river where, dropping down on the grass, she put her arms about him, and when his lolling tongue travelled the complete length of her face, she fell back onto the ground laughing.

  She looked up into the sky. It was high and clear blue. She blinked her eyes against the glare of the sun, then brought her gaze down onto the river, but it too made her blink, for there were a myriad stars dancing on the water. It was running fast here and would continue to do so all the way until it reached Durham.

  It was a beautiful river; she loved walking beside it. The only thing was that such walking was checked by the Rossburn estate on her left, for just round the corner about a quarter of a mile away the boundary railings, all barbed wired, went down into the river. She always felt slightly resentful when she came up to them, telling herself it wouldn’t have hurt him to let people walk along the towpath. No damage would ever have been done because it was only afternoon strollers and fishers who used the bank, at this end anyway; the children from the village had access to the river right on their doorstep.

  She always thought of the owner of Rossburn House as ‘He’. She had only once glimpsed him, and that seemed a long time ago. He was rarely at home as he had other houses he stayed at, so she understood. At times, Peggy and Hilda talked about the goings-on at the House, but their voices always sank to undertones and she could never follow the gist of their words: their sentences were always short and often remained unfinished. They named names. One in particular she had heard more than once, and she connected it with one of the women, the pretty one, who came to church every other Sunday.

  But the House and its doings were of no interest to her, other than that the man who owned the place had made it impossible for her to continue her walk along the river bank.

  Last year there had been a kind of rumour going around that it was questionable if the owner of the House had a right to bar the public from the towpath; it concerned ancient rights or something. But she had heard no talk of it lately; and so, as Mr McLoughlin had shouted when he had come to the school drunk that day, she presumed, there was one law for the rich and one for the poor.

  Mr McLoughlin had been angry because Mr Bolton had lathered Mick good and hard with the strap. That was after Mick McLoughlin had lit a candle in a jar and pushed it under the desk at Katie Thompson’s feet and the bottom of her frilly pinny had caught alight, and she had screamed, and all the children had screamed with her. And Miss Pringle had run in from the other room with a wooden bucket of water that always stood at the door, and she had thrown it over Katie, and Katie had screamed worse. And there had been a terrible to-do. She herself had rather enjoyed it all, and later she had made her grandmama laugh describing how Mr McLoughlin had challenged the head teacher to a fight. And Mr Bolton had let the children out of school early and had locked himself in with Miss Pringle until the constables came and took Mr McLoughlin away.

  She leant forward and hugged her knees. She’d miss the school. She had been happy there, and she liked Miss Pringle because Miss Pringle let her read aloud to the class; and she picked her for monitor, too. What would it be like at this Dame school? She hated the sound of it. Would Sundays be the same there as here? Perhaps worse. Yes, perhaps worse.

  She rose to her feet now and walked slowly along the bank. Ahead of her was the fence going down into the water. Again she felt frustration. She’d often thought if it hadn’t been for the barbed wire on the top she would have climbed the fence and sneaked along the bank.

  Gyp was sniffing in the long grass to the side of the path and she called him, ‘Here! Here, Gyp. Stay. Stay with me.’

  For once, Gyp took no notice of his young mistress’s voice but went on sniffing through the long grass until it gave place to a green sward and at the far side of it, sitting near the fence, were two rabbits. One second they were there, the next they were scrambling under the fence with Gyp in hot pursuit. But being unable to follow them through the s
mall opening at the bottom of the wire, the dog ran madly backwards and forwards; and then, of a sudden, he disappeared.

  It had all happened so quickly that Nancy Ann hadn’t even found her breath to shout out. But she raced to where the dog had disappeared and recognised that he had got easily through a badger walk. In a moment she was on her hands and knees with the intent of trying to scramble after him; but realising that this was impossible, she began to call, ‘Gyp! Gyp! come here. Gyp! Gyp!’

  But there was no sound from Gyp, not even a bark.

  She stood with her hands tightly across her mouth. There were traps. Gentlemen laid traps all over their estates to catch foxes. It was illegal, so she understood, but they still did it. He might be one of them who defied the law. Oh, dear me! Dear me! She was now running up and down by the fence.

  Suddenly she stopped and looked to where it went down into the water. In a second she had her shoes off, and she tied the laces together and slung the shoes from her neck, but she left her stockings on, telling herself that they would easily dry in the sun. Then, pulling her skirt above her knees, she stepped down into the water which immediately swirled round her calves. Gripping the staves of the railings, she made towards the end one, and she shivered visibly as the water gradually came above her knees and soaked the bottom of her dress at the back. But she was round the end railings and now scurrying towards the bank, and having climbed up it, she knelt for a moment gasping; then again began calling softly, ‘Gyp! Gyp!’

  She now pulled her shoes onto her sodden feet and grimaced as she did so; then she was running along the towpath, again crying, ‘Gyp! Gyp!’ Once she stopped and looked to the side and into where the thick brushwood between the tall trees cleared a little, but with the thought of traps in her mind she was afraid to venture near them.

  Once more she was running along the bank. Then quite suddenly she stopped dead. The trees had opened out, and there before her was a grassy sward and a kind of sandy-pebbled beach leading into the water, and sitting on a flat slab of rock was a small boy, and by his side was Gyp. On the sight of her, the boy didn’t move, but the dog turned and whined.

  She approached them slowly and, looking down at the dog, she said, ‘You are a naughty boy, Gyp,’ then staring at the child, she said, ‘You…you caught him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You…you caught my dog?’

  ‘No. He…he came and sat down.’ The voice was hesitant but the words were rounded: he spoke like some of the younger children in the school who were learning their letters.

  ‘Nice dog.’ The boy put out his hand and patted Gyp’s head.

  She stared at him. He was an odd-looking child, at least part of him was. His face was round and he had two large brown eyes, but it was his hair that gave him the odd appearance; there was something wrong with it. It was wet and there was a brown stain running from it down one side of his face.

  He now surprised her by saying, ‘Hello,’ as if he hadn’t previously spoken, and she answered, ‘Hello.’ Then she added, ‘My name is Nancy Ann. What is yours?’

  ‘I’m David.’

  She now looked about her. He was a little boy. What was he doing here on his own? Was he from the House? Well, that was the only place he could come from. But she didn’t know that He had a family. Somehow she had imagined He wasn’t married, because He was very old. But this child could belong to one of the servants. She said, ‘Where is your mother?’

  ‘In…in the kitchen…sometimes.’ He had added the last word as an afterthought.

  ‘What is your other name?’ She watched him consider. Then when Gyp suddenly turned onto his back, the boy put out his hand and gently rubbed the dog’s stomach, and he continued doing so for some time before he answered, ‘My mother is called Jennie.’

  ‘Does…does she know you are here?’

  He looked up at her and blinked his eyelids and said, ‘No, but…but I like to walk. It is hot up in the roof. I came down the back stairs. No-one saw me.’

  He spoke so clearly for such a small child, and she shook her head in bewilderment, then said, ‘Your hair’s wet.’

  He put his hand up and ran his fingers from the crown downwards, and the sun, glinting on it, brought out the different shades. It looked almost white in parts, then brown, and white again, but the ends were all brown. She screwed up her face in enquiry when he said, ‘It’s the tea.’ And she repeated, ‘The tea?’

  ‘Yes. Jennie washes it in tea. I don’t like the tea, it’s sticky.’

  ‘And…and you try to wash it off?’

  ‘Yes.’ For the first time he smiled, a small tentative smile, then said, ‘Do you wash your hair in tea?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head and put her hand up towards her hair and instinctively thought: Oh, dear me. She had been walking outside without a hat and that was almost unforgivable, and on a Sunday too. She should have gone to the summer house and got a straw bonnet.

  ‘I would like a dog.’ He continued to stroke Gyp’s tummy; then thumbing over his shoulder, he said, ‘There are dogs over there but they are all big and they bite. Jennie says they bite and I mustn’t touch them.’

  They both started now as a voice came from the wood beyond the little bay, calling in a sort of hiss, ‘David! David!’

  The child rose to his feet. He was dressed in a frock that reached his ankles. And now he started to run from her; but stopping, he said, ‘Will you bring the dog again?’

  She did not speak but nodded her head; then, grabbing Gyp by the collar, she dragged him back along the little bay and up into the shelter of the trees. She did not see the meeting between the child and the owner of the voice, but she heard a strong reprimand in the tone as it said, ‘You mustn’t. You mustn’t. Oh! Just look at you. I’ve told you now, I’ve told you.’ Then the voice faded away.

  She had to keep her body bent while holding tightly on to the dog’s collar as she made her way back to the railings. And there she was confronted by an obstacle. If she let go of the dog he would likely make back, not for the rabbits now, but for the child, and she couldn’t go through the tangle that was to the right of her and find the place to push him through. There was nothing for it, she saw, but to take him into the water with her. And she wouldn’t be able to take her shoes off while holding on to him; they would just have to get wet, as the rest of her would likely be before she got round the barrier.

  Gyp was nine months old and as yet had had no acquaintance with the water, but once he had been dragged into it he paddled for dear life, and his effort was much easier than Nancy Ann’s, because now, with one hand holding him and the other grabbing at the railings for support her long skirt became wet almost up to her thighs. And when eventually she dragged herself and the animal out onto the bank she let go of him and lay face downwards gasping. When the dog shook himself vigorously all over her, she made no protest.

  After a few minutes she got to her feet and looked down at herself. She knew her skirt was ruined, as were her shoes because they would dry hard and she wouldn’t be able to wear them because her toes were tender and skinned easily.

  As she walked along the path, the dog quietly at her heels again and steam rising from both of them, she continually asked herself what she was going to do, how she was going to explain what had happened without telling lies.

  It wasn’t until she had crept stealthily along by the back of the buildings and tied up Gyp again, which surprisingly he didn’t seem to resent this time, but went into his kennel and laid down on the sacking almost immediately, that she decided the only avenue likely to offer any help was the kitchen. She now ran back along the way she had come earlier, then entered the courtyard and in a scampering dash made for the kitchen door, and her bursting into the room caused a gasp from the three women sitting at the table. Two of them rose simultaneously to their feet, but Cook, Mrs Peggy Knowles, just looked at Nancy Ann and shook her head, and it was she who said, ‘Child! What’s this latest?’

  ‘I…I fell i
nto the river…slipped.’

  ‘Slipped? You?’ She now rose and walked between her two companions and, putting out a hand, she felt the top of Nancy Ann’s dress. Then looking at Jane, her assistant and maid-of-all-work, she said, ‘She fell in the river, slipped, and dry as a bone up top. Eeh, miss, what next! Your mother’ll go mad.’

  ‘She needn’t know. We can dry her out.’

  Cook looked at the housemaid, Hilda Fenwick, and said, ‘How much time have we got?’ and glancing at the clock she answered herself, ‘Not an hour afore tea.’ Then grabbing hold of Nancy Ann’s shoulder, she commanded, ‘Let’s get them off. And you, Jane, put the irons on the stove; her things’ll want pressin’.’

  Three pairs of hands now almost tore the clothes from her, but when they came to her shoes, they looked at each other and it was Hilda who said, ‘Well, nothing can be done with these. Anyway, they won’t show the wet. She’ll just have to put them on as they are, although it won’t be much use dryin’ her stockin’s.’

  ‘Here, put this round you.’ Cook was bundling her into a large shawl, and as she did so she looked at Hilda, saying, ‘Could you sneak a pair of bloomers and a couple of petticoats downstairs? We’ll never get all these dried and ironed in that short time. Where’s the mistress, do you know?’

  ‘In the little sitting room; the master’s still in his study, at least that’s where they were five minutes or so gone.’

  ‘Well, go and see what you can do and be sharp about it.’

  During all the fuss Nancy Ann hadn’t opened her mouth, and it wasn’t until Hilda had returned with a pair of bloomers, a pair of stockings, a waist petticoat, and a bodice petticoat that she looked from one to the other and said, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’