The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift)

  ‘It’s altered him.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be human if it hadn’t. And Da?’

  ‘Well’—she looked to the side—‘all I can say is, I think it’s affected him worst of all. He’s…he’s become strange. He…he doesn’t stay in the house at nights, just to sleep.’

  ‘God almighty! the things that happen.’ Then looking at her closely, he said, ‘An’ you’re changed an’ all, Emma. You’ve lost flesh. What about help?’

  ‘We have Jimmy. I don’t know what we’d do without him. But…but Mary only comes part-time. It’s her legs.’ She watched him sigh deeply, then say quietly, ‘The justices? Was nothing done in that quarter?’

  ‘Well, I went in every week for two months or more, but I could only see the clerks. I somehow got the impression they didn’t think it was an unusual case, in fact one said the week that…Annie disappeared another child from Birtley was missing an’ all. And one from Durham. The Birtley girl was younger than Annie. There are different people, private people, bestirring themselves about such happenings, and they did find one young lass trussed up in a sailor’s bag. ’Twas on a foreign ship but it was an English sailor who carried the bag. You can’t believe it, can you?’

  ‘Oh aye’—Pete was still looking downwards—‘I can believe it all right, Emma. Sometimes I’ve been sick to the heart at the things I’ve witnessed. Half the people round about don’t know they’re born; they think that when they see the poverty and the slums that’s it, but there’s some things that take place…Aw, to hell!’ His head came up with a swing. ‘Enough’s enough. I’ll away to see Barney.’

  She watched him stride up the kitchen and out of the door. Could there be worse things than had happened to Annie?…But she didn’t know what had happened to Annie, and even Pete had suggested that Annie was different. Oh yes, she was different all right.

  During the next few days a little lightness came into the house: Pete’s presence, his tales of the sea, his cheery manner helped them all; especially so did it affect his father, and Jake Yorkless took to sitting in the kitchen again.

  It was on the last Thursday in May, a day that heralded summer. Emma was walking across the farmyard with Henry. He had been sitting by Barney’s side for the past two hours listening to Pete’s crack, and Pete, she knew, had gone out of his way to make the parson laugh, and laugh he did.

  He chuckled now. ‘There’s a big streak of the comedian in Pete, don’t you think, Emma?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, he has a way of taking one out of one’s self.’

  ‘Indeed he has. And I never cease to marvel at the change in him from when he was a young man. Of course, he’s still a young man but so different. Yet what do we know really what another person is like? We hide most of ourselves within ourselves.’ They had stopped by the gap in the farmyard wall: the long twilight was deepening; he was looking at her averted face as he added softly, ‘Don’t you agree with me, Emma?’

  She did not turn to him but continued to stare over the fields as she answered as quietly as he had asked the question, ‘Yes, I agree with you. But then it must have always been so for everybody, because if people really spoke the truth about what was inside them life would be unbearable. You have got to bury things within you, bury them alive so to speak if you want to go on living. I mean’—she looked at him now, her voice taking on a brisker tone—‘it must happen to everybody.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Emma, you’re right.’ He nodded slowly at her. The sound of a cow mooing came from the byres. This was followed by a fluttering and cackling in the distance: a hen must have decided to change its place on the barks and so had caused an uproar.

  He broke their silence by saying on a light note, ‘You know, you’ve given me an idea for my next sermon: What is truth? or Our hidden selves. Sounds like one of those stories in the new magazines, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘I have difficulty in finding subjects for my sermons, I mean suitable ones, because were I to express my true ideas from the pulpit, I’m afraid they would not be welcomed.’ There was a little laughter in his voice now, and she answered it in the same vein by saying, ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t; I’m afraid you’d get your marching orders.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, Emma, I’m surprised I haven’t had them before now. And it isn’t for want of some people trying, so I understand.’

  ‘People would find fault with God.’ Why had she said that? Because she was one of those who of late had made a habit of finding fault with God.

  He laughed outright now and said, ‘You’re right, Emma, you’re right, but I’m sure He’s used to it. Now I must away, if not it will be dark and some highwayman will set about me and rob me of my purse and my jewelled watch and my rings.’ He held out his bare hand, his fingers spread towards her, as he ended, ‘You heard about the hold-up outside of Durham of a private coach?’

  ‘No; I haven’t heard about that.’

  ‘Well, it happened four days ago. So now I must away in case it happens to me.’ He paused and, his voice dropping, he said, ‘Goodnight, Emma. I’m glad to see you looking a bit brighter.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ She could not add ‘Henry’ and she rarely now addressed him as ‘Parson’ …

  Henry walked slowly homewards, and the night was well set in when he reached the vicarage. He could see the dim reflection of a light shining through the curtains in the sitting room, which meant Miss Wilkinson had departed, and he thanked God for that. Time and again when he went out visiting and told her he might be late and not to wait she would nevertheless be there to greet him, her face stiff with disapproval, her tongue wagging like a mother at an errant child: ‘Why didn’t you wear your overshoes?…You haven’t a muffler on…You’re soaked to the skin…Why didn’t you eat your meal tonight?…Isn’t it cooked well enough for you?’

  How had he put up with her all these years? Because, he supposed, he was too lazy to bother; or truth to tell, oh yes, let him speak the truth to himself, too afraid of the rumpus her dismissal would cause in the village, and all because he knew that it wasn’t every housekeeper who could take Sunday school and play the harmonium for the children. Nor one capable of playing the church organ if she had got the chance. But Tom Bessell never gave her the chance these days; he had even threatened what he would do to her if she touched his organ…He sometimes wished he had the courage of Tom where she was concerned.

  He let himself into the house, took off his coat and hat, then went to the kitchen and into the pantry and there poured himself out a glass of milk from the metal can. He carried it into the sitting room and after placing it on the desk he sat down, took his keys from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer. He took out the leather-bound book and he unlocked its brass clasp.

  He sat looking down on a blank page telling himself if he were to do any writing tonight it should be to prepare his sermon. But she had looked better tonight, happier; he must think of her for a few minutes and then he would get down to work. So he began to write:

  My dearest Emma,

  It did my heart good to hear you laugh; you have been so sad of late. I have seldom seen a smile on your beautiful face since Annie left, yet when you do smile the pain in my heart grows deeper, because then I have to restrain myself from putting my arms about you. I must tell you, Emma, that I dreamt last night I had you in my arms and was holding you tightly and I felt no sense of sin, only of exaltation. It was the most strange experience, for I knew that God was pleased with me.

  I seem to have come to terms with Him of late, Emma, for as you know I’ve asked Him time and again why He allows evil. But He has shown me time and again the goodness and strength that is born in people who have suffered evil, like yourself for instance, for since Annie has been gone I have detected a new strength in you, not physical, no. Would that it were partly that to help you over your tasks for it pains me deeply to know the work that you have to contend with. And how thin you have become under it; the flesh seems to have dropped
from your bones. Yet it has left you more beautiful still.

  You said tonight that we all carry secrets, and that is so true, but I wonder if there are any others as heavy as ours. Of course we all imagine, as individuals, that our body aches and heartaches have never before been experienced, yet in our case I do not know of a parallel where two people have met so frequently over the years. How many years, Emma? It is fourteen since you were married, but I loved you before that, from the first moment I saw you on the coach. As a father loves a child then, but not so later. No. And yet not one word of love has passed between us; we speak only with our eyes. We rarely touch hands. I avoid that for I cannot trust myself. And so it will go on I suppose until the end of our days and no-one shall know about you and me except Ralph. And he loves you too but in a different way perhaps. Nevertheless he loves you, and if circumstances had been different in his situation he would have married you. Would I rather have had that, he as your husband? No, I don’t think so. I would have been jealous then because he has a mind and you would have learned from him. Yes, indeed I would have been jealous of that, for I have always been your teacher.

  Abelard and Heloise were much luckier than we, my dearest, because they experienced love in its fullness before the church parted them. Strange that. I’ve always thought it strange the cruelty latent in the church, physical and mental. They have practised it down the ages; what religion has slaughtered more than Christianity?

  Another of my torments, Emma, is the Blessed Trinity. I can be thankful that you do not suffer in this way too. You do not say to God: If You sent Your beloved Son to earth, You would expect the enemies He made through His goodness to slaughter but not His followers to do likewise and in His name. Since no-one suffers alone in any form and since every experience has been experienced before, would that I could meet someone of like mind and we could talk this matter over. I cannot go too deeply into it with Ralph for he will not have it that You exist at all, and in my heart I know You exist. What I cannot understand is Your ways. But then, if I did I too would be God.’

  It is strange how when I write in this little book I talk to Emma and God on the same level. Am I blaspheming?

  As if in answer to his question there came the sound of thumping on the front door and he jerked so violently that he toppled the ink well. As he jumped to his feet he righted the brass stand and sopped up part of the ink with the blotter; then pulling out a handkerchief, he quickly dabbed on his fingers before lifting up the lamp and going towards the door. There he withdrew the bolts, then pulling the door wide he peered through a lantern light at a woman standing before him. She had a shawl over her head but although it did not hide her face he did not recognise her as one of his parishioners until she spoke, saying, ‘I’m Mrs Pringle, Parson, from along the road.’ And he said, ‘Oh yes, yes, Mrs Pringle,’ his groping mind telling him she was the drayman’s wife. Neither of them had even been in his church and he was surprised to see her now and to feel that she had any need of him. He said quietly, ‘Is there something wrong? Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘’Tis me man Alf, he’s right poorly. He was kicked in the leg by a horse last week gone an’ has been in a fever. He’s had doctor but it got no better, an’ then the night he asked for you. I wouldn’t come ’cos I thought he was ravin’ ’cos he’s no man of God, don’t believe in it, says God done nowt for him, but he kept on askin’ for you. He said he hadn’t gone off his head, just wants to talk to you.’

  ‘In that case I shall come and see him. Step in a minute.’

  He stood back. She put her lantern on the step before passing him, and with her head back she stood peering round the hall. Quickly now he left her after placing the lamp where it would give light to both the hall and the sitting room. He hurried to the desk, locked the book, placed it in the drawer and then locked the drawer and returned the keys to the inside pocket of his waistcoat. Going into the hall again he put on his coat, picked up his hat, lit a lantern for himself, and once more opening the door, he said, ‘Shall we go then?’

  As he locked the door on the outside she said, ‘You ain’t got a trap now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor a horse?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Act as poor as we then?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s no act, Mrs Pringle, it’s a necessity.’

  She swung her lantern and saw him smiling. And now she caused him to laugh gently as she said, ‘’Tis right what they say, you’re a queer chap. ’Tis likely ’cos you’re like no real parson that my Alf wants to see you.’

  ‘Very likely. Very likely.’

  When he entered the cottage he stopped himself from pulling out his handkerchief and covering his nose with it. It was the usual cottage, one room, a scullery off, and a space under the roof. There were two beds in the room. In one was a huddle of small bodies with heads at the top and bottom of it. Two dogs were lying to one side of the fireplace; at the other side was another bed and the man lying under a patchwork quilt looked asleep. His cheeks and chin were covered with heavy whiskers, the growth of days. His eyes were sunk into his head and his hair was matted with sweat. It was evident he was in a fever and the first thought that came into Henry’s head was typhoid; he had heard of odd cases of it in the city.

  The woman now pushed a stool towards him and as he sat down she leant over the bed, saying quietly, ‘Alf. Alf, I’ve brought him. He’s here.’

  Slowly the sunken eyes opened and, after a moment of dazed staring, recognition came into them. The man’s hand came slowly out and it gripped Henry’s as he said, ‘Not afraid to go, understand? Not afraid to go. Don’t want no blessin’, but trouble on me conscience…Never should have done it, but five quid is five quid with mouths to feed.’

  He now turned his gaze on his wife and, taking his hand from Henry’s, he motioned her to go; and she, after looking from one to the other, shambled out of the room.

  ‘Take your time. Take your time,’ Henry said, quietly now. He watched the man moving his tongue over his dry lips; then, his voice throaty, the man mumbled, ‘The lass, Annie Yorkless…know where she is.’

  When he stopped and gasped for breath Henry bent nearer to him, suffering the foul breath on his face as he strained his ear to hear more.

  ‘Shouldn’t…shouldn’t have done it. No, shouldn’t have done it.’ He lay with closed eyes, saying nothing further, and Henry said urgently, ‘What shouldn’t you have done, Mr Pringle?’

  Slowly the eyes opened and the whisper came: ‘Taken her to that house.’

  ‘Which house?’

  ‘The one in Newcastle.’

  ‘Can you tell me the name of the house?’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ Again there was silence until Henry urged, ‘Please, please, Mr Pringle, give me the name of the house.’

  ‘What? Oh aye. Eight…’ His voice faded away and Henry repeated what he thought he had heard, ‘Eight Motherwell Row, did you say?’

  Again the man spoke, saying, ‘Aye, aye. Nowt to look at on outside…plenty in…good guise, old bitch an’ her family with the bairns, some never seen…upstairs.’

  ‘What is the name of the people?’

  ‘Name?…’ The man was gasping again. ‘D’know, just Ma. Big fellows there. Stall in the market. Cover…cover. Polis no use…too many nobs…back-handers…Dry…dry…drink.’

  Henry looked about him. There was a mug on the table, next to a ewer. He went to it and as he poured some water out two small heads raised themselves from the foot of the other bed and the sight of them evoked the usual response against the poverty he encountered daily, Dear God! Dear God! He couldn’t gauge in the dim light how many children were in the bed, six or eight; yet they were luckier than some. Oh yes, far luckier.

  He returned to the man and, lifting his head, placed the tin cup to his lips. When his head was on the pillow once more, the man gasped again: ‘Not afraid to go. Never had no use for parsons, want no blessin’, just…just want me mind easy.’

&n
bsp; When the head began to toss on the pillow, Henry said quietly, ‘Rest easy, your conscience will be at peace now. Rest easy.’ But in his heart he said: God, forgive him for only You can. Then rising from the chair he went across the littered room and tapped on the door leading into the scullery, and when the woman opened it he said quietly to her, ‘I would attend to your husband: he would find some comfort if you sponged him down with lukewarm water.’

  ‘Aye’—she nodded her head—‘I’ll do that, though I can’t see ’tis much use. He’s goin’ an’ he knows it, an’ what am I goin’ to do with that squad?’ She pointed towards the bed. ‘Seven of ’em and only two fit to work yet.’

  He looked at her coldly for a moment before saying, ‘Should it be necessary I shall see that you have help.’

  ‘’Tis kind of you.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Parson. I hope you find her.’

  He had half turned away from her; now he stiffened and, looking at her over his shoulder, he said, ‘You knew of this?’

  ‘I knew he was up to somethin’, you don’t get five sovereigns for picking your teeth.’

  ‘Who else is aware of this, I mean in the village?’

  ‘No names, no pack-drill as he used to say.’ She nodded toward the bed. ‘An’ me, I don’t want me face bashed in, an’ ’tis better that Alf goes now for he’d go anyway if it were found out he snitched.’

  Henry stared at her in bewilderment. He had imagined he knew everything that went on in his parish. Hadn’t he found out about the smuggling of the liquor? Wasn’t he aware of who committed adultery once their husbands went on the droving journeys, and of the men who took advantage of the journeys? Wasn’t he aware that the verger was a hypocrite, as he was also aware that there were good God-fearing people in the village? As he stared at this dirty dishevelled woman he felt like a child who was being laughed at because of his ignorance. And likely that’s what many of them did, laughed at him behind his back, because he knew so little that went on below the surface behind the smiles and nods and ‘Good day, Parson’. They paraded to church on Sunday in their best and some of them, he was sure, tried to live life at its best, but there were others, and he must now think these others were in his village and they had enticed a child into corruption.