‘You’re almost thirteen years old, Nancy Ann; you should know right from wrong by now. I’m disappointed in you. Go to your room.’
She was crying audibly now as she left the room.
When the door had closed on her they looked at each other. Then Jessica’s body began to shake, and when her laughter became audible John remonstrated with her severely, saying, ‘Mother!’
‘Yes, yes, I know, she’s put you in a fix, but it’s funny when you think about it. And—’ The laughter going from her voice, she ended, ‘As for that silly, flighty, man-crazy girl, it’s the best thing that could have happened. Because whether you’ve noticed it or not, John Howard, she’s cow-eyed James every Sunday as far back as I can remember. And as for the older one, Jancy, if all tales are true, Farmer Boyle almost took a gun to her because she was after his eldest and the lad was already promised and had been for three years. Now, John Howard, you take my advice and let things be as they are. If it gets round, which it will, that James is engaged, well and good. You write to him and, after laying into him, tell him to look round and put some truth into the rumour, but see that she’s got a bit of money behind her. And—’ She looked at her daughter-in-law now, and a softer tone creeping into her voice, she said, ‘And, Rebecca, remember, she is but a child still. But I’ll say now, which I haven’t up till this time, I agree with you that she needs direction of another kind from that given by her doting parents and her stupid grandmother.’ She nodded her head at herself. ‘Your idea of school was a good one, and there is enough to see her through until she is sixteen or seventeen. Now, go on up to her. Be firm, but not too firm: you’ll only have her another week, and then life will change for all of us.’
Almost on the point of tears now, Rebecca muttered, ‘Thank you, Mother-in-law,’ before turning away and hurriedly leaving the room.
Jessica looked at her son. ‘Why in the name of God,’ she said, ‘did you ever want to become a parson, because your children are always going to disappoint you, for not one of them will ever become a saint?’ And all John could answer was simply, ‘Oh, Mother.’
A week had passed. She had been kept in her room for the first two days with the strict order that she must not divulge to the maids why she was being punished; she was just to say she had told a lie. But today was her last Sunday at home. Yesterday, she had said goodbye to her friends in the village: Mrs Taylor, from the grocers, had given her a box of candy; Mrs Norton had given her a blue hair ribbon, and Mr Norton, who had been sober, had said he would miss her face; Mary Jane Norton gave her an embroidered needle case; Miss Linda Waters, the dressmaker, had given her a velvet band for her hair; in fact, everybody had been so kind and seemed sorry that she was going away.
There had been no mention of her attending Sunday school, or the evening service. She had attended morning service and her father had preached a sermon on lying and the different forms it could take, such as deviousness. She had never heard that word before, but somehow she knew that it applied to her and what she had said to Miss Eva McKeowan.
With a little surprise she had noted that the gentry stalls had been almost full, at least that there were lots of servants in them, but no real gentry sitting in the high front pew, even though she knew that the master of Rossburn House was home and had a lot of friends with him. Later, she had asked her mama if she could go out for a walk along by the river bank for the last time, and after some hesitation Rebecca had said, ‘Yes, but put your shower coat on because I think it could rain, and if it does, come straight home. You will, won’t you?’ It was put in the form of a request and she had answered, ‘Yes, Mama.’
And so, here she was walking by the river bank. The water was grey and choppy; the sky was low and grey; the whole world was grey. She hadn’t brought Gyp with her. Although he had whined when she had passed through the back gate, she had resisted the temptation to go to him and let him have one last run with her, because she didn’t want anything more to happen that would upset her mother and father.
She had gone some distance when she decided to leave the river bank and go through the copse and so call in and say goodbye to Granny Burgess.
Granny Burgess was a very old lady, but she still looked after herself: did her own housework and garden, and even made treacle toffee. She liked Granny Burgess. She was the only old person in the village and round about who, Peggy said, didn’t expect you to go trudging through the snow, carrying soup to her in the winter, because she would always have her own broth pan on the hob and a ladleful for anyone who was passing.
She had no sooner reached the road than she heard the McLoughlins. She couldn’t as yet see them but she recognised their raucous voices; and there was one thing she knew for certain, she mustn’t meet up with them today. Apart from wearing her Sunday dress, she had on her shower coat and her second-best hat; her best, a brown straw, was being kept for the journey tomorrow.
But the McLoughlins were all fast runners and before she could retrace her steps again to the gate that led down to the river bank, they had come round the corner and espied her. And now they were whooping towards her and she knew that if she turned and ran down the river bank they would come after her, and the encounter could be fraught with more danger on the river bank. So she took a deep breath and held it for a moment as she walked slowly forward.
They had stopped now and were waiting for her, shoulder to shoulder across the road. This was their usual form of mustering for an attack.
She came to a stop in front of the eldest one who was just as tall as herself but twice as broad. The other children were small-made, but all were wiry. Her mind was telling her that whatever she did, or whatever they did to her, she must not retaliate: it was her last day at home and she mustn’t upset her mama and papa. Oh no. So, slightly to her disgust, she heard herself saying in a placating tone, ‘Will you please let me pass?’
‘Will ya please let me pass?’ The eldest boy was mimicking her in a broad Irish accent. ‘Pass, she said, she wants ta pass.’ And he looked at his two brothers and two sisters lined up either side of him. The smallest girl standing at the end of the row could have been about seven years old and she was the only one who wasn’t laughing.
Nancy Ann’s lips began to tremble. She said a hasty little prayer as the boy stepped closer to her. He was now within an outstretched arm from her and, putting his head on one side, he said, ‘’Tis true then what I’m hearin’, that they’re packin’ ya off to a fancy school to make a lady out of ya?’
When she didn’t answer, he turned his head towards the others, saying, ‘She’s lost her tongue. She didn’t last time though, did she now? She was brave last time, wasn’t she now? ’Cos she was at the end of the village near the blacksmith’s shop. An’ what did she call us then?’ He nodded towards one brother, and the boy shouted, ‘Scruffs.’ And the other one added, ‘Dirty scruffs. That’s what she called us, dirty scruffs.’
He was facing her again. ‘Are we dirty scruffs, Miss Vicarage? Miss Parson’s Prig? ’Cos that’s what you are.’ His voice lost its banter now and his arm shot out and he pushed her as he added, ‘A prig. A stuck up little nowt. A Protestant prig!’
‘Don’t do that!’ All placation had gone from her voice now: her face was tight, her whole body quivering.
‘Who d’you think you are, tellin’ me what to do?’ His arm came out again and now pushed her so hard that she stumbled backwards and almost fell.
It wasn’t to be borne. In a flash her doubled fist caught the boy on the side of the mouth; and the impact brought his lip sharply against his teeth and a trickle of blood ran down his chin.
In amazed silence the brothers and sisters stared at her for a moment; then came a loud chorus of, ‘Get her, Mick! Let her have it, Mick!’ And as quick as her own fist had contacted his chin, so he was now pummelling her, or at least trying to, for only some of his random punches were finding a target; she was warding most off with her forearms.
This tactic seemed to infuriat
e the lad further, because he had his own method of fighting, a few punches, then get his arms around his opponent, bring his knee up and they were on their back. But the next moment he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. Encouraged by the jeers and cries of his brothers and sisters, he had been about to clutch her when he felt a searing pain in his face and he imagined that his eye had been knocked out. But that was nothing to what he experienced when her knee caught him in the stomach and his feet left the ground and the back of his head came in contact with the stony road.
The children were all screaming now, the two girls kneeling by their brother, one of them crying, ‘Mick! Mick! Are you all right, Mick?’ And when Mick merely groaned, she screamed, ‘Killed him, she has!’ Then looking towards her other two brothers, she commanded, ‘Get her!’
Nancy Ann wasn’t prepared for the next move. The boys weren’t as big as their brother, but their impact and flailing fists bore her to the ground.
So intent had they all been on the fight that they hadn’t noticed or heard the two horsemen galloping across the field beyond the ditch at the other side of the road.
When the horses jumped the ditch there was something akin to pandemonium in the road for the two boys scrambled off their victim and ran to where their sisters were dragging their brother to his feet.
‘What is this, eh? What is this?’ One of the riders had dismounted, but no-one answered him. He looked towards the boy with the bleeding lip who was holding one hand to his stomach and the other to an eye, and the eldest girl cried, ‘She hit him. That one from the vicarage, she knocked him out.’
The rider now turned sharply when a small voice from behind him said, ‘Mick hit her first.’
‘He did, did he?’ He stared down on the child and her large blue eyes looked up at him fearlessly as she said, ‘Aye, Mister, he did. But she belted him right, left, an’ centre, she did at that, Mister.’
‘Shut that squawkin’ mouth o’ yours, Marie McLoughlin.’ Her bigger sister was now making for her, and the small girl, rounding on her, shouted, ‘You lay a finger on me, our Cathy, an’ I’ll tell me da.’
While this was going on the other rider had dismounted and raised Nancy Ann into a sitting position, and when he asked, ‘Are you hurt?’ she answered weakly, ‘I’m all right, sir.’
She wasn’t all right, she was feeling battered all over. Dazedly, she looked at one of her hands. It was tightly clenched, and when slowly she opened it, it was to disclose a strand of brown hair. Quickly she flicked it from her, and the man who was holding her smiled and said, ‘Spoils of war. You should have kept it as a souvenir. Come on.’ And he assisted her to her feet, but finding that she was unable to stand, he put his arm around her shoulder and she leant against him. She felt dizzy. Her mind was muzzy. Then, her eyes were brought open by a raucous shout coming from somewhere behind her and the resulting consternation among the group standing a few yards in front of her.
‘’Tis our da comin’ up from the river.’
‘Oh God Almighty!’
‘He’ll belt the daylights outa you, our Mick.’
‘He’s had the daylights belted outa him.’
‘You shut up, our Marie, else when I get you on the quiet, I’ll skin you.’
‘You and who else?’
This exchange among the McLoughlins was carried on in loud voices while they waited for their father to approach. And now here he was, doffing his cap to the two gentlemen and crying, ‘What have I here, sirs? What have I here? You’ve knocked them down?’
‘No, McLoughlin.’ It was the man holding Nancy Ann who spoke. ‘We haven’t knocked them down. More’s the pity. It was this young girl here whom your son attacked, and in defending herself, she floored him…Look at him.’
‘In the name o’ God! Tell me me eyes are not seein’. You…you big lout!’ The man was striding towards his son now who was still holding a hand to his eye. ‘Don’t tell me. Aw, please God, don’t tell me that you let the little chit from the vicarage knock you out. Oh, you gormless idiot, you!’
‘She kneed me, Da.’ The words came as a mutter.
‘She kneed you? Begod! I’ve heard it all. She kneed you, that bit lass? Then if she did, I’d like to shake her hand, an’ after that I’m gona kick your arse from here to the Crown and Anchor…Get!’
They got, the older girl helping her brother, the younger boys walking behind, rubbing different parts of their anatomies as they went. Only the little girl stayed. Her face unsmiling, she looked to where the gentleman was leading the vicarage girl towards his horse and talking to her da as he did so. His voice was almost as loud as her da’s, and he was saying, ‘I’ve warned you, McLoughlin, haven’t I? And now for the last time…’
‘I’ll belt him, sir, I will. I’ll take it out of…’
‘Don’t change the subject, McLoughlin; you know what I’m referring to. Birds, McLoughlin, birds. I hear they’ve thinned out.’
‘Never, sir. Never me, sir, your worship, your lordship.’
‘Shut up! Shut your mouth!’ The man now turned to his friend, saying, ‘Here, hold her a minute till I get up.’ And when he was mounted, he turned a hard glance down on the Irishman, saying, ‘One more time, McLoughlin, and you go along the line. Now that’s my last word, understand?’
The man remained quiet for a moment. Then touching his cap, he said, ‘Good enough, sir. Good enough.’
‘Give her here.’ The rider bent over and caught Nancy Ann under the arms as his friend hoisted her up towards him.
There was a buzzing in Nancy Ann’s ears and a strange aroma in her nose, a mixture of sweat, tobacco fumes, and leather mixed with a distinctive smell of horseflesh. Her body was being rocked and she found it soothing. She could go to sleep like this …
Hilda Fenwick had just changed into a clean white apron preparatory to going downstairs to serve the afternoon tea when she happened to look out of the attic window. The window was in the back of the house which was only separated from the road by the kitchen garden, and was bordered by a low drystone wall. Behind this wall she could see the tops of two horsemen riding but there was something peculiar about one, yet something familiar. Quickly she pushed up the lower sash of the window and poked her head out. The road curved as it made its way to the front gate of the vicarage; then she exclaimed aloud, ‘Eeh! Dear Lord!’ The next minute she was flying from the room, down the attic stairs, along a passage and onto the main landing, then down the main staircase, and as she reached the hall she shouted, ‘Mistress! Mistress! Ma’am! Ma’am!’ And at this she burst into the sitting room and there startled its only occupant as she gabbled at her.
Rebecca had been sitting quietly reading but now she was on her feet, crying, ‘What did you say?’
‘’Tis true, ma’am, two horsemen and…and Miss Nancy Ann lying across the front of one of them.’
Rebecca stared at her maid, wondering if the girl’s mind had become deranged. Then she looked towards her husband standing by the door; and Hilda turned to him now, saying, ‘’Tis right. They should be comin’ up the drive now. She was half lyin’ across the saddle.’
Almost as soon as John reached the front door Rebecca was at his side, and they stood close together at the top of the steps open-mouthed watching the two riders come slowly towards them. And there was their daughter lying limp in the saddle being supported by none other than Mr Dennison Harpcore.
Rebecca told herself she wouldn’t believe it, she wouldn’t: the child’s things were all packed, the arrangements were made; the appointment at the school was for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.
Nancy Ann was lifted carefully into the house and placed on the sitting-room couch. She wasn’t unconscious, she hadn’t fainted, but she wasn’t fully aware of what was going on.
Dennison Harpcore had given an explanation of what he had seen to happen and he ended, ‘She may be slightly concussed. I would get the doctor to her to be on the safe side.’
Rebecca forced herself to t
hank him for his services, and he said, ‘Please don’t thank me; it brought a little sauce to a very unappetising Sunday. Although I would wish that she hadn’t suffered in the process. Yet I can assure you she did not suffer half as much as her opponent. She must have put up a fight to floor that boy; he’s a lout of a boy, a chip off the old block.’ He now turned and, glancing down on Nancy Ann, he commented, ‘She looks delicate, rather fragile, yet I understand she succeeded in delivering a black eye and a belly’—he coughed—‘a stomach punch, with her knee. Of course’—he nodded now—‘Your two boys, or young men as they must be, they most likely have been her tutors. Where are they now?’
It was John who answered him, saying, ‘They are both at Oxford.’
‘Oxford! Oh, good, good. What are they taking?’
‘My eldest is reading Mathematics, the younger one Natural Science.’
‘Indeed! Indeed!’
John did not like the note of surprise in this visitor’s tone; there was even a touch of condescension in his manner. He looked at the man. He hadn’t seen him for two or three years. How old was he now? Nearing thirty, he imagined. He looked much older, the result of the life of dissipation that he led no doubt. He also noticed that Harpcore’s friend hadn’t spoken a word since he came in. He was much older than Harpcore, and both his silent manner and his look were supercilious.
Mr Harpcore was bidding farewell to Rebecca, saying that he hoped the doctor would find nothing serious wrong with her daughter, other than perhaps a few bruises and, as he had suggested, slight concussion.
John accompanied the two men to the door where he thanked Mr Harpcore formally before making his way back across the hall to the sitting room. But he was stopped halfway by the sight of his mother descending the stairs and asking loudly, ‘What’s all the narration about? There’s horses on the drive, who’s here?’
The Parson's Daughter Page 6