‘But you and Emily have been to the little chapel to give thanks for this, or pay respects to that, for someone departed, weddings or whatever. Surely it all meant something for that is faith, not just a habit.’
‘Aye, well, that’s as maybe, but miracle things don’t ’appen now for t’times ’ave changed that much. It were different then.’
It must be that vile tasting medicine, she thought to herself. He still held her hands, massaging them in his long fingers. It had seemed as if nothing could stop the encroaching waves of pain and yet, slowly, almost unnoticeably at first, she felt an electric tingling sensation of warmth, spreading gently, soothing as balm and moving in over the bands of pain, extinguishing them one by one. It was as if the very source of the pain were being stifled at its roots and denied its power source.
‘That medicine’s working at last,’ she said, drowsily, as the soft warmth swept upwards and over her, drawing curtains of blessed darkness across her vision. The pain dwindled and died and in so doing her head sank forward and, save for the rise and fall of her breathing, all was still.
Jos could stand it no more.
‘Nay, lad what’s ’appened? Can’t you see she’s had enough?’ He strode past his nephew and bent down to take her in his arms, as he had done every evening for so long now. Slipping his hold securely around her, he moved to the door.
The young man unsnecked the door, standing back as Jos swung his burden around a little to begin his ascent of the stone staircase. She lay silently in his arms. Jos’s face was bleak with despair.
‘God help us.’
The door swung behind him as he made his way upwards.
The young man stood motionless in the centre of the room, eyes following the sounds across the ceiling above, whilst outside the snow whirled softly over the landscape.
Chapter 8
WEDNESDAY, 25 DECEMBER. CHRISTMAS DAY
IT SNOWED all night long, with the skies clearing just before dawn.
Walter had promised he would help with the milking, Christmas Day or not. He had made heavy weather of the lane, chains and all, through the freshly fallen snow. Opening a gate and pushing the snow back against the wall, he glanced upwards.
Way over on the skyline, the tall still figure was again looking down towards Keld House Farm.
Walter shaded his eyes against the glare and, though he could not be sure, for a moment it seemed as if the figure waved in slow farewell. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again, the skyline was empty.
‘Who in God’s name was that?’ he muttered to himself, and carried on down the lane to the farm.
* * *
Jos came slowly up to the swirling light from the depths of a deep and dreamless sleep. Deeply troubled at first, the mysterious anaesthetic of slumber had smoothed away the creases and sponged the troubles of the night from his mind.
Slowly a sound came cutting through his awakening consciousness, like the jagged edges of a knife scraping across metal. He struggled to gather his faculties and then he realised. It was the telephone’s shrill ring that pierced his senses.
The telephone, back on again!
He jumped from his bed, pulling on the clothes discarded like fallen afterthoughts upon the bare planks of the floor and, in so doing, knocked the clock over, noting with horror that for the first time since he could ever remember, he had slept in.
He rushed along the landing, barely noticing that the guest bedroom door was open. He half registered an empty room, the bed still made.
Down the stairs in his stockinged feet he all but skidded to a halt by the dresser. He seized the phone, oblivious to an unusual noise above.
‘Robertshaw.’
The phone line crackled with static but the voice was clear. ‘Uncle Jos, is that you?’ There was no mistaking the edge of a South African accent: ‘It’s me… your nephew, Ambrose… from Bloemfontein. Did you get my letter?’
Jos felt his mind spin. He sat down, running his hands through his hair. ‘Who… who is this?’
There was desperation in the voice on the other end. ‘Me, Uncle. I wrote to tell you there were some complications with the seminar and I would have to stay an extra day in London. I’ve tried to call you again and again but your line was out of order.’
Jos found his tongue at last: ‘You wrote to me…?’
‘Yes.’
Dumbfounded, he could only add, ‘I never got it.’
‘Well, Uncle, I took the precaution of coming up last night and I’m here in the Fleece at North Appleton, and I…’
The sneck went up on the door to the stairs.
‘Jos, who’s that? What’s going on, Jos?’
She stood on the bottom step, hands twisting over and over, her eyes bright and filling with tears, her face showing no trace of the ravaging disease. Emily standing. Standing as she had not done in what was it… how many years?
‘Uncle? Are you there? Uncle?’
The dropped phone swung back and forth on its cable, ignored as they stared speechlessly at each other.
* * *
Outside, the snow that had fallen long into the night now lay banked, deep and unblemished, across the yard. Of the visitor there was no trace. Not so much as a single footstep in the unbroken surface that Christmas morning.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Simpson began life in an old stone house on a hilltop in Nidderdale, without the luxury of electricity. He refers to it as a golden time. Educated at Harrogate Grammar School and King’s College, London, his guitar took him on a journey across the world. He has written some twenty-five albums for his band, Magna Carta, toured seventy-eight countries across forty-eight years and sold eight million records. The Dales background left an indelible mark on his writing. For much of his time, he lives with his wife Cathy on a Narrowboat, near Skipton, North Yorkshire.
COPYRIGHT
Published by McNidder & Grace
Aswarby House
Aswarby
Lincolnshire NG34 8SE
www.mcnidderandgrace.co.uk
© Chris Simpson 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Chris Simpson has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9780857161758
The Visitor Page 6