The Parson's Daughter

by Catherine Cookson

  She now walked on, keeping her step as sedate as possible. She knew she had saved the man from at least a bullying reprimand, by claiming knowledge of his family, and she considered it a small price to pay for the enjoyment he had given her, for she had never wanted to laugh so much for a long time. Oh, when she got home she would do him for her mama and grandmama. She had the desire to skip and run.

  The decorum and sedateness which she had been made to acquire over the past months was begging to be thrown off. And she threw it off, once she had left the precincts of the formal gardens and entered the woodland that formed a shield between the house and the river, for here, picking up her skirts, she ran along the narrow path before leaving it and winding her way between the trees. At one point she stopped and stood with her back leaning against a trunk and she looked up through the branches that were just beginning to show a spattering of green to where the white clouds were racing across the sky. And she thought, as she had often done after running when she was a child and stood puffing, Oh, that was lovely. Then she asked herself why it was that running was considered most unladylike? Men ran, then why not women? This question she had put to her grandmama some time ago and the answer she received was more puzzling still: ‘It’s all because of the Queen,’ her grandmama had said.

  She turned from the tree now and, walking slowly, she decided to have a look at the river before making for the farm. She was walking on the path again and as it was opening out onto a green bank she could see in the distance, sitting on a piece of rock near the water’s edge, a boy. It was the sight of him that lifted her back years.

  She was halfway across the green when he turned a startled look on her; and he jumped to his feet. Seeing he was about to run, she called to him, ‘’Tis a nice day, isn’t it?’

  The tone of her voice checked him, and when she came up to him she stood looking down into his face for a moment before she asked, ‘Were you fishing?’

  He shook his head, then said, ‘No miss, just sittin’.’

  ‘Well, come and sit down again.’ And she held out her hand to him. But he didn’t take it, yet he obeyed her as though she had given him an order and sat down on the long slab of rock. And she, seating herself some distance from him, said, ‘You won’t remember me, but…but we have met before, and at this very spot. Do you remember a girl looking for her dog?’

  He was gazing at her wide-eyed, his face unsmiling, but he answered her, ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Are you sure you remember? It’s a long time ago.’

  ‘I remember, miss, ’cos I was kept in for a long time after.’

  ‘Kept in?’ She screwed up her face, and he nodded, adding, ‘In the roof. I’m not now though; I work in the boot room with Jimmy.’ He turned his glance from her and, looking at the water, he said, ‘I like the river, but I can only come sometimes.’

  She did not question why he could come only sometimes. He was looking at her again, and as she stared back at him all the joy of the previous half-hour slipped from her. He had a most beautiful face. The great dark brown eyes held a depth of sadness that should never have been portrayed in one so young. His hair fell to the collar of his short navy blue jacket. It was quite brown at the ends and for some way up, and then it became streaky. But from where she was sitting she could see his parting, and the hair was silvery fair for about an inch on each side of it. ‘Do you often come down to the river?’ she asked.

  He shook his head, then said, ‘When Jennie lets me.’

  ‘Jennie?’ Her voice was soft and enquiring, and he said, ‘She’s…she’s Jennie. I sleep with her. She works in the kitchen.’

  The sadness was deep within her now: she remembered he had called his mother Jennie before.

  He rose suddenly from the slab, saying, ‘I must go back, Jennie’ll be vexed.’

  She too rose, saying now, ‘I don’t suppose she will if she allowed you to come out.’

  ‘No…no, she never, but the sun was out’—he looked upwards—‘an’ the breeze was blowin’ an’ they were all in the servants’ hall, an’ so I came.’ He stooped down now and retrieved something from the back of the stone, which she could see was a slate and a pencil, and she said brightly, ‘Oh, you do lessons?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I just write.’

  ‘You can read?’

  ‘Yes—’ He nodded at her. ‘There are lots of books in the big attic, boxes of ’em.’

  ‘Who taught you to read and write?’

  ‘Jennie.’

  ‘And what have you been writing today?’

  ‘Just words.’

  She held out her hand and after a moment’s hesitation, and reluctantly, he passed the slate to her. And she read in printed letters the words: Birds have wings, trees have leaves, and rabbits play, but they all die.

  She raised her eyes slowly from the slate and looked at the boy. She was amazed, not so much by the words, but at the meaning behind them. Her voice soft, she asked, ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘I am nine.’

  ‘And…and you have never been to the day school?’

  ‘Day school? No.’

  She’d have to do something about this. She must do something about the child. It was strange, but it was as if she had first seen him only yesterday. He had made an impression on her then and it had remained, only now it was stronger. It had become an issue. She handed the slate back to him, saying, ‘You’re a clever boy to be able to write words like that. Now, sit down again and write more of those words.’

  As if partly mesmerised, the child sat down once more on the stone with the slate on his knee and his head turned towards her, and she nodded at him now, saying, ‘We’ll be seeing each other again. Goodbye.’ He made no answer, but screwed round on the stone to watch her walking away into the wood.

  A great deal of the light had gone from the day. It was wrong, very wrong that a child with that intelligence wasn’t having some form of education. She’d talk to her father about it and ask his advice how best to broach the subject to Denny.

  She had emerged from the wood and was on the main path again leading to the farm, and the outbuildings were actually in sight when she heard hurrying footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Dennison and such was her feeling at the moment that the sight of him swept away the darkness surrounding her thoughts and she was in the light again, so much so that she picked up her skirts and ran to meet him. She had never imagined herself doing any such thing, but she was actually doing it now, and when they met his arms went about her and he lifted her from the ground and swung her round. Then he was kissing her. Hard and long he kissed her, and when at last he released her they were both breathing heavily. Her head strained back from him and resting in the circle of his arms, she gazed into his face. And then he said, ‘Oh, Nancy Ann, how many years ago is it since I last held you?’

  She was gasping for breath, but, answering his mood, she said, ‘It must be all of ten.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, that long.’ Again his lips were on hers, and she was amazed at her own response and the enjoyment she was experiencing in his embrace. And her mind was telling her that she liked him. Oh, she liked him very much. And, as if picking up her thoughts, he said, ‘I’m glad I went away, because you’ve missed me, haven’t you? Tell me you’ve missed me, and that you like me, even…even…’ He stopped and his head slightly bent, he waited while she admitted softly, ‘Yes, yes, I have missed you. And I do like you very much.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, my dear. All right, all right’—he wagged his hand between their faces—‘I won’t start again, because if I do, I won’t be able to stop. Come.’ He put an arm around her, then added, ‘Look at me in my town clothes, I didn’t even stop for a moment when they told me where you were bound for. And isn’t this a beautiful day! And tell me what have you been doing with yourself.’

  And to this she answered, ‘Oh, you have a very good idea of what fills my days, but I, in turn, haven’t the slightest notion what fills yours. You tell me wha
t you have been doing with yourself.’

  They were walking into the wood again and he said, ‘Well now, let me think. I went to the bank as was my intention and had a long talk with the head of that establishment. “How are my affairs, sir?” I said, “because I want to buy a piece of jewellery for my future wife.” But he said, “What about those in the vault? There are two tiaras, a number of necklaces and rings.” But I said, “I want something new and fresh, because it is for a very new and fresh young lady.”’ He squeezed her waist and pulled her into his side as she muttered, ‘Oh, no, please. I don’t want jewellery; I’m not fond of jewellery.’

  ‘Be quiet. You want to know what I did with my days. Well then, I went to my tailor and ordered three suits, and then to the shoemaker to have shoes made to match them, but my main shopping was to a famous store that deals in silks and satins, brocades and taffetas, cords and velvets, and I chose a selection that had to be sent on to an establishment in Newcastle where this young lady that I have in mind will oblige me by being measured for several different outfits.’

  She pulled herself from his grasp, saying, ‘Oh, no, Denny, no. Papa wouldn’t like that.’

  His face losing its look of merriment for a moment, he said, ‘Your papa, my dear, will shortly have no say in your life; we shall be travelling abroad after the wedding and you will need to be suitably attired.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ She sighed, then added, ‘It is so good of you. But I am not used to lots of outfits, and…and…’

  In mock astonishment he now raised his arms above his head, crying, ‘I’ll swear to the gods you are the only young lady alive who spurns the thought of being well attired.’ They halted near a tree and he gripped her by the shoulders and, pressing her against it, he bent his face towards her, saying, ‘Your education is going to be much more difficult than I imagined. After our marriage you will become a different being, you will have to.’

  He was amazed at the strength of her hands that pushed him backwards; and now she was standing upright, facing him and saying, ‘I won’t be a different being, Denny. I may be clothed differently, but I shall remain myself. I…I know I shall. And I don’t want to be changed; I don’t want to have my values and…’

  ‘My dear. My dear.’ He shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Don’t take the matter so seriously. You’re the last person on earth I want to change, that way. I…I think that was what first attracted me, your independent spirit, and that is the person who I want to grow to love me. But you see, my dear, you’ll be expected to attend functions and dress accordingly. As for changing you, changing my Nancy Ann? Never! And’—he now pulled a comical face—‘there’s one thing I’ll have to accept, and it is that my future wife was trained by her brothers in combat. Haven’t I witnessed it! Those fragile looking arms’—he looked from one shoulder to the other—‘have proved the case in point. Oh, yes, a little bit further and I’d have been on my back.’

  ‘I’m…I’m sorry.’

  He held out his hands to her now, saying, ‘Never say you are sorry to me, my dear.’ His arms went about her again and he held her gently and they remained quiet, looking at each other. And then they were both startled and drew apart when there came the sound of running steps quite near, and out of the brushwood to their side scrambled the boy.

  He was as astonished as they were and came to an abrupt gaping halt.

  Nancy Ann opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again for she was looking at her companion’s face which had suddenly flushed to a deep red. He was gazing at the boy and the boy at him, and his voice, like a loud bark, yelled, ‘Get away!’

  As the child sped through the trees, Dennison turned from her, his hand pulling the skin tightly across his cheek. She did not speak until perhaps a full minute later after he had turned towards her again and, his voice a mutter, had said, ‘I can explain. I…I will some time.’

  ‘You have no need to; I know all about it,’ she said.

  His eyes widened, then narrowed, and he said, ‘Oh, you do?’

  ‘Well—’ She seemed embarrassed for a moment, then said softly, ‘I know some of the circumstances, and…and I can understand your feelings in part, but not all.’

  ‘Not all. What do you mean?’

  ‘The child is not to blame.’

  ‘Oh, please, my dear, don’t take that tack. He’s a reminder that I was deprived of someone I loved dearly.’

  ‘I…I still think you cannot lay the blame on him, and if you were to recognise…’

  ‘What?’ His interruption was in almost as loud a voice as when he had shouted at the boy. ‘You don’t know what you’re suggesting. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You know nothing whatever about it. One doesn’t recognise the likes of him, flyblows. There’s a lot you have to learn.’

  When she turned abruptly from him and walked hastily away, he stood nonplussed for a moment; then he was running after her, saying, ‘Nancy Ann! Nancy Ann! Please! Please!’

  Once again he was holding her by the arms; but she remained stiff and unyielding, and when he bent his head and said, ‘I’m sorry I spoke like that, but this is a matter that has seared me over the years. Come, let us go to the bank and sit down by the river and…and I will try to explain.’ He took her gently by the arm, and they did not speak again until they had reached the river bank and he had sat her down on the very rock that she and the boy had sat on earlier. He did not take her hand or look at her but, placing his hands on his knees he looked down into the water and began quietly. ‘It was in this very river that my brother died. Whether he drowned himself or drowned accidentally, I’ll never know. But I lost him at a time when I needed him most. My mother died when Tim was seven years old. I was twelve and at boarding school. My father never got over her going, they were very devoted. He was in such a state that I didn’t want to leave him and go back to school, but he insisted I did. The school, though, was just in Newcastle and so, under the circumstances, the headmaster allowed me home at weekends. Each time I saw him he seemed to have let go a little more on life. I understood that he spent most of his days on horseback, riding until both he and the animal were exhausted. Then one day he didn’t return and they found him at the bottom of the small gully: the horse had thrown him and broken its leg but my father had broken his neck.’

  He straightened his back now and turned to her, then continued, ‘Tim was alone in the house, that big rambling place. He was missing our parents very much. It was then I made a decision. Tim had a tutor, he was a good man and learned. He knew as much or more than any of the teachers at the school, so I decided to stay at home myself and join Tim in the classroom, and in a way I became mother and father to him. He was like my shadow, we did everything together. Although there was five years between us we enjoyed the same things; the only difference between us was that he was of a more emotional nature, more temperamental, I suppose. And his ideas tended that way. He could paint well, and he was already a great reader. He wrote poetry from an early age, and kept an extensive diary that read like a book. We travelled together too. Went through France; did the usual trip through Italy, museums and palaces. But most enjoyable was the time we spent in Scotland, riding and shooting, or just walking the hills. Mr Bennett, of course, always accompanied us. Even though I was getting older I felt that Tim should continue his studies. I myself had always harboured the desire to go to university, Oxford by choice, but at twenty-two I imagined I was too late. However, Mr Bennett had different ideas. He had a friend who was a don in the university and who, he was sure, could press my case as an older-than-usual student.

  ‘Tim was nearing eighteen and, as Mr Bennett pointed out, it was really time I stopped mothering him, and let him stand on his own feet. And so arrangements were finalised for me to go up to Oxford at the start of the next academic year. It was during this period that Tim was left to himself quite a bit, and at first I didn’t notice the change in him, but when I did, I thought it was because of our coming separation and that he
was already preparing himself for it by distancing himself from me. Then one day—’ He now turned from her again and, taking off his hard hat, he laid it on the stone to his side, then ran his fingers across his brow before going on, ‘just as today as I espied you in the wood, there I saw him with a girl in his arms. Her face was familiar, as naturally it would be; she was a housemaid. What immediately followed I won’t go into. When he told me he intended to marry her I imagined he had gone mad, but he assured me he hadn’t as it was a matter of honour with him that he should marry her because she was heavy with his child. I remember laughing at this stage and attempting to put my arm around his shoulder while I explained that these things were happening every day in big houses all over the country, and what would happen if the sons of the house were to think it their duty to marry all the maids that fell to them during the course of their adolescence. But he threw off my hand and declared that he intended to marry this girl, that he had proposed to her sometime earlier, and what was more, he had put his intention in writing, and what was even more still, he had been to see her only living relative, an uncle, a carter in the village, and to whom he had given his solemn promise to take care of her, as the man apparently was about to emigrate to Australia. As you can imagine, I flatly refused to countenance even the idea of such an association, and the war between us raged for days. I called Bennett in to discuss the matter. Apparently, he had known about the association but hadn’t told me in case it should arouse my anger. Anyway, he had imagined it was a young man’s passing fancy and was, in a way, perfectly natural, because, as he said, in our society such licence wasn’t afforded the women of our class until they were married.’

  At this point he sighed deeply and said in a different tone, ‘My dear, don’t look so shocked. You are not coy, and you are so sensible. You know, it is this part of your character, I might as well tell you, that amazes me, because your upbringing I should imagine, has been on a par with that of a nun in a convent. Of course, there’s your grandmama, who must have brought a little light from the outside into your existence at an early age. You should be very grateful for her. Anyway, do…do you wish me to continue?’