The Parson's Daughter

by Catherine Cookson

  Over in the Dower House, her grandmama was more sprightly than she had seen her in years. She had taken to walking and visiting Graham, which seemed to please him. She herself had kept out of Graham’s way as much as possible. And she would not allow herself to dwell on why she did so; she would just not allow her mind to ask questions concerning him.

  Then there was Peter. He had married his Eva a year ago and they now had a little house in Durham outside the school and both appeared extremely happy. But their marriage had caused an irritation, at least to Dennison, for it seemed to have given Mr Harry McKeowan the idea he was now connected with the House, was of the family, and, given the slightest excuse, he made it his business to call, sometimes accompanied by his wife.

  She herself often worried about James. She had had only four letters from him since he’d gone to Canada. In the last two he had mentioned he had a companion. He did not say whether man or woman, but she guessed it was a woman, and she didn’t feel at all shocked.

  The letters had all come from Toronto. Apparently he was teaching in a school there, and from what she could gather it was in a comparatively poor quarter of the town.

  In her replies to him she never told him that she’d had two visits from his father-in-law Mr Hobson, demanding to know his whereabouts. The first time she had lied and said she had not heard from him. The second time she had said she had no intention of telling him where her brother was.

  She was never to forget that second visit, because Dennison had been present, and after he had told Mr Hobson that his visits would not be welcome here again, he had further shocked him, and herself a little too, by saying, ‘What have you decided to do with your daughter? Put her in a convent, or send her out to stud when necessary?’ The man had looked as if he was about to explode, but had then left their presence without further words. And he could hardly have reached the hall door when Dennison threw himself onto the couch, his head back, and let out a great bellow of laugh, crying, ‘I enjoyed that. I bet nobody’s ever hit the mark before with that fellow.’ …

  She was in the bedroom finishing dressing: she was winding a silk scarf around her hair because they were going out for a walk in the grounds. It was a daily routine when the weather was fine, and whenever Dennison was accompanying them the children were apt to run wild, and he with them, especially with his son for he simply adored the boy. She always enjoyed watching them; but she rarely joined in the romps, she who had loved romping.

  This morning, she was feeling a little tired. Yesterday had been a busy day. In answer to an urgent call, Beatrice had returned to her cousin’s: apparently Miss Delia Ferguson had taken a bad fall from a horse and hurt her leg; she would be obliged if Beatrice would come home as soon as possible.

  Beatrice had pointed out those words to Nancy Ann, saying, ‘Note, obliged if I would return home. Well, what can I do? But I hate to leave here, and you.’

  Strangely, it would seem, Nancy Ann had answered, ‘And I shall hate to see you go, Beatrice. We all shall.’ But it was really true: Beatrice’s visits were welcomed now by the whole household; the children loved her, the staff respected her. This Lady Beatrice was no longer a painted lady who had to be waited on hand and foot, but one who would go into the kitchen and chat with the cook and discuss recipes, one who arranged flowers, one who did exquisite needlework. Even her dolls were accepted and spoken of as people by such a thoughtful person as Jennie: Lady Jane was the tall clouty one, Miss Priscilla was a pretty china-faced one, Sambo was the little black boy, the larger black doll was Mrs Sambo, and so on.

  Jennie had become very fond of Lady Beatrice. And Nancy Ann knew she did special things for her on the side. Jennie, too, had become a different person.

  Whether or not Dennison had recognised her, Nancy Ann did not know: he never remarked on her, but then he very rarely saw her; she had learned the art of disappearing when he was about. Jennie’s life had changed in more ways than one in the last two years. Happenings had taken place that had not only altered her life, but had freed Nancy Ann from providing for David’s schooling. The boy had been in the Newcastle House school only three months when Jennie received a letter from her uncle enclosing a bank note for fifty pounds. The grocery business was apparently doing so well that he and his partner had invested in pieces of land, supposedly a good thing to do out there.

  But apart from the money, the main point of the letter was about David. As soon as he had built a decent house, the uncle said, David could go out and join him.

  Jennie had shown some concern when telling Nancy Ann of her breaking the good news to David. Apparently he had been emphatic in stating that he didn’t want to go to Australia, that he would never go to Australia.

  Jennie couldn’t understand his attitude, but Nancy Ann, herself, had a glimmering of it. The boy was so full of affection and, because of the circumstances, he had had very little open love from Jennie, although there was no doubt about her feeling for him, and so he sought it from other quarters. His continued visits to the nursery were confined nowadays to the times when he was on holiday and knew that the coast was clear, which meant when the master was out. He was particularly fond of Rebecca, and she adored him and would prattle on about him.

  It had been a worry to Nancy Ann at first, and then a bit of mystery that her daughter didn’t mention the boy’s name to her father. But this was cleared up when Mary told her that Agnes had explained to Rebecca if she once mentioned David’s name to her father he would stop David coming up to the nursery, because, after all, he belonged to the kitchen quarters. And apparently this had been enough to make even such a young child use discretion. It was all part of a game, Mary said.

  Last night, Pat and George had been here for their weekly supper and card session, and their visit had lasted longer than usual, in fact, until nearly one o’clock in the morning. George and Dennison had become involved in the state of the country. George, though retired, still endeavoured to keep up with the times. His views, however, did not coincide with those of Dennison, and some wrangling had taken place.

  She recalled there was some heated talk over a man called Alexander MacDonald who was in Parliament and who supported the working classes but who apparently seemed to lean towards the Conservatives for, he had said, they had done more for the working classes in five years than the Liberals had done in fifty.

  This was from George. Then Dennison had put in that it was the Liberals who had made parents responsible for their children’s attendance at the board schools, and when Pat had laughed at him, saying, ‘Don’t be daft, Denny, working-class parents don’t want their broods to waste a full day at school, it’ll cut down their earning time,’ neither of the men had welcomed the interruption.

  As Nancy Ann tied the knot of the silk scarf under her chin, she recalled the heated exchanges of the early morning, and she wondered why women were never taken seriously. The height of a woman’s intellect, in Dennison’s mind she knew, was the playing of an instrument, singing, being good with her needle, a confident hostess, a devoted mother…and, of course, a pleasing wife. Well, for herself, she couldn’t sing, and her efforts on the piano were mediocre; she questioned herself as being a competent hostess for, try as she might, she found she couldn’t appear overjoyed at greeting people she didn’t like, and unfortunately Dennison had a number of friends in this category; she could, however, give herself points on being a loving mother, and also congratulate herself on being an entertainer when in the company of those she classed as friends. Yet, these days, Dennison rarely asked her to show off her prowess. As for being a pleasing wife…Her innate modesty forbade her to take this further.

  The thin voices of the children carried to her from the hall which meant they must be yelling at the tops of their voices. She went out of the room smiling and when she reached the top of the stairs she looked down on to the two shining faces and demanded in mock sternness, ‘Who is that who is making all that noise?’

  ‘Come on, Mama, Papa is waiting.
We are going down to the river.’

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she held her hands out and both the children tugged at them, William more strongly than Rebecca, although he appeared to be a head shorter.

  Rebecca was growing into a beautiful child: her skin was a warm peach tint; her eyes were large and appeared to lie flat on the skin at the top of her cheeks; her mouth was well shaped, but the evenness of her teeth was marred by an overlapping tooth at each side of the upper jaw, both of which became evident when she laughed.

  Her brother was not what one would call a pretty child: his face was a compressed replica of his father’s; his body was sturdy and seemed unsuited to the petticoats, dress and short coat in which he was attired. Although he was fourteen months younger than Rebecca his appearance and boisterous vitality made him appear quite as old, if not older than her in many ways.

  They were pulling her towards the door when Mary came quickly to her side, saying, ‘Could I have a word with you, ma’am?’

  Such was Mary’s tone that Nancy Ann, releasing her hold on the children, tapped them towards the porch door, saying, ‘Go to Papa. I’ll be there in a moment.’

  She turned, asking now, ‘What is it, Mary?’

  ‘I thought, I’d better tell you, ma’am, David has arrived.’

  ‘But he’s only been back at school two weeks. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am, only Jennie told me just a moment ago. She seemed agitated. She seemed to know the reason but she didn’t stop to tell me. I think she wanted to get back to him.’

  ‘Well—’ Nancy Ann looked perplexed for a moment, then said, ‘Tell Jennie to…to keep him out of the way.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll do that, ma’am, if possible, but you know he’s been stubborn of late.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m well aware of that, Mary. Anyway, see what you can do.’ And she turned from Mary and went slowly out through the hall doors and into the porch. But there she stood for a moment. Yes, indeed, the boy had become stubborn of late, in fact he had ceased to be a boy. He was nearing sixteen, but an onlooker could be forgiven for thinking that he was a youth of eighteen. He was of striking appearance, being tall for his age and so very fair. As her own son took after his father, so did the boy take after his father, whose portraits had been banished to the attics years ago. She remembered seeing four of them lined up against a row of boxes. They had definitely been placed there so they could be viewed.

  Over the past years the boy had not made evident his feeling for her in any way, but he had openly expressed a deep affection for Rebecca. It was understandable to her that he did not bother so much with William, no doubt seeing him as the son of his father.

  There had been glowing reports of the boy’s progress from the school, especially in French and Latin. The headmaster’s report stated that he took naturally to languages; mathematics was not his strong point, nevertheless, he persevered with this subject and the results were quite good. The report went on to state that there was every possibility of his reaching university entrance standards.

  But why had he come today?

  ‘Mama!’

  She answered the call and went out. Rebecca was at the bottom of the steps and she pointed to where Dennison, with William by the hand, was running him across the sunken garden. Then she gripped her mother’s hand and endeavoured to make her run after them, shouting all the time, ‘Papa! Papa!’

  Her high-trebled voice stopped Dennison and he turned around, laughing, then swung the boy up into his arms and held him above his head, shaking him the while.

  Now Rebecca had left loose of Nancy Ann’s hands and was climbing to Dennison’s side, crying, ‘Lift me, Papa! Lift me!’

  He dropped the boy to the ground; then, putting his hand to his back and stumbling a few steps, he said, ‘Oh, you’re too big and I’m a very old man,’ at which both the children started to laugh and tugged him forward.

  By the time they had left the garden and reached the woodland she was walking by Dennison’s side and the children were scampering ahead, chasing each other around the boles of the trees.

  Nancy Ann smiled as she watched them, saying, ‘The weather has kept them in the house so long the air seems to have intoxicated them.’ Then she shouted, ‘Be careful, Rebecca! Don’t be so rough; you will pull his arms out.’

  ‘That’ll take some doing. He’s as sturdy as a little bull. He’ll have a fine figure as he grows.’ There was pride in Dennison’s words and there was pride in his face. Quickly now, he took her arm and pulled her close, saying, ‘You know, Nancy Ann, I’ve never been so contented in my life before as I have been of late.’

  They had reached the edge of the wood, but the river being high, the grassy area sloping to the little bay was mostly under water. The children were running round them both and he cried at them, ‘Now, now! That’s enough. Calm down.’ And as they sped away, he said to her, ‘I was about to say, “Thank you, Mrs Harpcore, for giving me such a son…and a daughter, and making life worth living”…’

  What happened next Dennison described some long time later as: The devil had heard what he said, had opened the gates of hell and dragged him in, for Rebecca’s voice came to them on a high scream, yelling, ‘William! William! No! Leave it! Leave it!’

  They both turned sharply and looked to where the children were. William was standing on a piece of rock that normally formed a seat. The water was lapping over it. He was bending forward as if trying to pick up something, while Rebecca was standing to the side above the rock. They could see a long black piece of wood in the water, one end of it jutting against the rock, and it was this that the child was trying to pull in. Then a higher scream rent the air as he toppled forward onto the piece of wood, and his impact on it caused it to swing around and into the fast-moving water.

  Dennison, leaping down the bank, reached the river’s edge and plunged unheeding into the river, his arms outstretched to grab the plank of wood to which his son was now clinging and screaming. Although the river here was running fast the surface was not turbulent and the boy’s head and shoulders were well above it with his arms tight round the plank. Twice, Dennison’s hand was within grasping distance of the child, but each time the river whirled him away.

  The water had been up to Dennison’s waist and then up to his chest, when all of a sudden, he himself gave a cry and disappeared for a moment under the fast-running water, to reappear, thrashing wildly. And it was only Nancy Ann’s hands gripping his hair that saved him, too, from being swept down the river.

  Her reaction to follow him had been as instantaneous as his: that he was unable to swim and she herself could manage only a few strokes had not been considered. Now she was dragging Dennison to the bank, but no sooner had he reached it and had stumbled to his feet than he turned about and, sweeping the wet hair from his face, he peered down the river to see his son now well into the thick of the current, still clinging to the plank.

  Now he was running swiftly, with Nancy Ann stumbling behind him and Rebecca behind her still screaming at the top of her voice.

  It was at this moment, further down the river, that Jennie was standing arguing with her son. She had just been saying to him, ‘They are out walking. What are you asking for: trouble? What’s the matter with you, boy?’ And he had answered sullenly, ‘It’s her birthday. I…I wanted to give her something.’ And to this Jennie had hissed at him, ‘You must be mad. You would know that he would be here and there would be a party on.’ And in answer he had thumbed behind him to where some thirty yards away stood the bridge that formed part of the estate’s boundary at this end. And he said, ‘He’s not likely to come this far, he never does. And he couldn’t get through the wood.’ Now his thumb jerked at the right of him and up the bank where the woodland looked dense with undergrowth; and he finished, ‘He wouldn’t go through there, would he, and soil his pretty clothes?’ The last words were said in disdain. And it was at that moment they both heard the scream which caused them to glance at each
other, and when it came again, he muttered, ‘That’s Rebecca.’

  ‘She must be playing a chasing game likely.’

  When the scream came once more he said, ‘That’s no chasing scream.’

  They both hurried to the water’s edge and looked towards the slight bend of the river. Almost immediately they saw the figures racing along the bank, all yelling, and then their eyes were directed to the middle of the river.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Jennie exclaimed. ‘It’s…it’s the child. It’s the child.’ She now glanced backwards towards the bridge, crying, ‘He’ll be swept through there, it’s free.’

  She looked at her son. He seemed frozen. Then she watched him tear off his elastic-sided boots, then his short coat and muffler, and his mouth opened into a gape as he dashed from her and plunged into the river. Her eyes never left him as he swam strongly against the now turbulent water. The cries on the bank had ceased, even Rebecca’s screams, for their attention was on the strongly swimming boy, who himself was being swept down stream but not as fast as the oncoming plank of wood. They had all reached Jennie’s side now and like a combined body they seemed to hold their breath as they watched David’s arm come out of the water to grasp the end of the plank. Then there was a concerted gasp of dismay as the wood, being caught in the turbulence caused by the water converging towards the arch of the wooden bridge which was half blocked by a square structure, swung round, but on a high hysterical note Rebecca’s shrill tones voiced their relief as she cried, ‘He’s got him? David’s got him.’

  Now they were all again running towards the bridge, and it must have entered David’s mind, as it did that of Nancy Ann and Dennison, that he mustn’t allow himself to be swept through the archway, for, beyond, the river widened considerably and ran for a good way between steep wooded banks.