The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift)

by Catherine Cookson

  The room they were in was about twenty feet long. There was a window at one end but only the frame of it was left and the snow had come through and piled up on the floor. There was a ladder leading upwards from the centre of the room to the floor above, but there was thin snow at the bottom of it which suggested that the upper storey was mostly open to the heavens.

  Emma had risen to her feet and was standing beside him now. ‘’Tis the old mill,’ she said. ‘Yes,’ he answered. Then looking down at her, he added, ‘It saved us.’

  Yes, she supposed it had, for they surely couldn’t have gone on much longer outside. But what now? How long would they have to stay? Would they send people to find them? But how could Jimmy send anyone to find her? He was up there alone and had to see to Barney. But Henry…Miss Wilkinson would surely report the parson was missing. But perhaps not until tomorrow morning. They…they would have to stay here all night. She closed her eyes against the thought of what this would have meant at one time, but now it brought her no sensation at all. Her body seemed numb, her mind seemed numb. Was she ill? Or was it just the shock about Annie? Annie. Could one go to hell for cursing one’s own. If she had run away immediately after she had been brought home she would, in some way, have been able to forgive her. But that she should act the part of the dutiful little daughter all these weeks while deceiving her, laughing at her…well, she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t feel devastated and bitter.

  ‘You can’t sit on the floor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, you can’t sit on the floor, you’ll get your death…it’s sodden. What’s through there?’ He pointed to a door at the other end of the room, and she said, ‘An old scullery, I think.’

  She did not follow him but went towards the ladder and, putting her arm through one of the rungs, she leant against it. Even after some minutes when she heard him enter the room again she didn’t leave its support, but when she heard the dull thud on the floor she turned her head and looked through the flickering light and saw that he had brought a door in and was placing it lengthwise against the wall.

  He came to her now and, without speaking, drew her from the ladder and over the wet floor, and when they reached the wall he pressed her gently down onto the door. Then having fetched the lanterns, he blew one out before seating himself beside her.

  Their backs against the crumbling wall, their heels stuck in the muddy floor, their forelegs raised slightly above it, they sat in silence for some minutes until Emma shivered and Henry said, ‘Here, take my coat.’ But as he went to unbutton his coat she put out her hand quickly, saying, ‘No, no; you’ll freeze. I’m…I’m all right.’

  He hitched himself closely to her now and taking her hands, he chafed them between his own, saying, ‘They’ll start searching. It’ll be all right, someone will soon come.’

  She looked at his face. It looked grey and pinched in the dim light, only his eyes looked warm. She could not see the colour of them but she knew his look was tender.

  ‘No-one will get through tonight,’ she said flatly.

  He looked to the side and nipped at his lip before saying, ‘No, I suppose not.’ Then turning his head, he brought his gaze on her again as he said wistfully, ‘You know, Emma, this is the only time we’ve ever really been alone together. Even when you called at the vicarage and we walked along the road we were afraid of prying eyes. Now we are cold and exhausted and our only thought is for someone to come and rescue us. Strange, isn’t it?’

  Yes, it was strange, when she came to think about it: they would be here all night together sitting on this board, and what would be made of that? Oh, a great deal. The consequences made her stir. ‘Don’t you think we could have another try, I mean at getting home? I know where we are now,’ she said.

  ‘So do I, Emma, and we’re half as far again from the farm as when we left Ralph’s.’

  Yes, that was true. She nodded her head at herself. Anyway, it was silly to suggest that they should attempt to get back. She was so tired. All over she was tired, she just wanted to sleep, but if she fell asleep like this she would fall over. She said to him, ‘I would like to lie down, I feel very tired.’ She was looking into his face; his eyelids were blinking as he said, ‘Yes, yes; I’ll put it slightly away from the wall, it will give us more room.’

  He assisted her to her feet, then pulled the door a few inches from the wall, and when she sat down she hitched herself backwards, then lifting her feet up, she dropped onto her elbow before laying her head down, only to raise it, saying, ‘It…it breaks your back without a pillow.’

  ‘Try lying on your arm.’

  She put her arm underneath her head, then said, Tis a bit better until I get the cramp.’

  She was surprised that she was talking in an ordinary voice for there was so much going on in her head, questions, answers, protestations, even swearing, and cursing; yes, cursing her own flesh.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said now, ‘there’s plenty of room.’ And he sat down, his hips against her side, and he reached out and took her free hand and again he chafed it. Then as he sat peering through the dim light of the lantern down the rank smelling desolate room, he began to talk. He talked about his boyhood and the happy times he had with his brothers and sisters. She had heard part of all this before but now he was talking about when he was a young man and her eyes became wide and she checked her wandering thoughts and brought her mind to him as he said, ‘I should never have gone into the ministry, Emma, I wasn’t really cut out for it. I’m a protester by nature and I have come to the stage now when I don’t know whether there’s a God or not. I sometimes think that this life is all we have; then I am very, very sad because if it is I have wasted it, wasted the opportunities to live and love like an ordinary man should. You understand what I’m saying, Emma?’

  ‘Yes, Henry, I understand.’ And she did understand, she had understood for a long time.

  ‘When you came and said you were going to marry Barney, I should have said, “No, you are not going to do any such thing.” But what did I do? In my weakness I pointed out all the obstacles to Ralph, and you heard them from the kitchen. I’ve never forgiven myself for that, Emma, and over the years time and again I’ve been going to leave this place to get away from the sight of you, the sight of your beauty, the sight of you having to work like a drudge, the sight of you living a marriage that was no marriage, the sight of you going through the torments of hell through your child. But I stayed because I knew that all this I could bear more than never seeing you again. Do you know?’—he turned and looked down on her—‘Every night for years I have written to you, and about you. The last thing I do before I go to bed, I take out my book and I talk to it about the doings of the day, my feelings towards my vocation, which is not a vocation at all, but mostly I talk to it about you.’

  Every night he talked to his book about her. But he wouldn’t do it tonight, for there’d be no need, they were here together, really alone at last, as he had said. And what did it mean? What did it portend?…Nothing. Nothing that was connected with love for him, the love that nightly burned her body, for at this moment she would have forsworn everything connected with her bodily urges for a dry warm bed, a hot drink, and the knowledge that her daughter was safely tucked up in her bed across the landing.

  But what if no-one came in time to get them out of this place and they died here? Well, they were in God’s hands…Oh, God!What had He ever done for her, or him for that matter? If he hadn’t been a servant of God they would have come together. But now it was too late, and Henry knew it. Oh, yes, in his heart he knew it, for he had substituted a book for her.

  Oh, she was cold, and so tired, so very tired.

  She awoke in the dark. The lantern was out. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, only that her back was numb, that her hip was aching, as also was her head. Oh, her head was splitting. Where was she? What had happened?

  ‘It’s all right, dear; the lantern went out. I…I think it must be near morning
. Go to sleep.’

  When next she woke she pulled her stiff body further up the door and peered through a dim grey light and saw him coming down the ladder.

  He came to her and dropped onto his hunkers and, taking her hands, he rubbed them between his own stiff ones, saying, ‘You’re very cold.’

  ‘Yes.’ A shiver came over in her voice. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I slept. Come. I’d get up and walk about.’

  As he helped her to her feet she said, ‘Can’t we make a move now that it’s light?’

  He didn’t answer her for a moment but, taking her hand, he led her to the door and, easing it open a little way, he said simply, ‘Look.’

  And when she looked she saw a blank wall of snow; the drift had reached the top of the low door.

  ‘I’ve been up above,’ he said. ‘It’s unbelievable. It looks twice as deep as when we came in. It has stopped snowing but you can’t see a post or a fence or a wall anywhere. Of course, we’re in a bit of a hollow, which I suppose makes it worse.’

  She turned from him and hurried to the glassless window at the end of the room. The snow had fallen in for some distance but the whole aperture was blocked. Swinging round, she said, ‘But we’ve got to make an effort, Henry. We…we could scrape the snow from the doorway into here; the drift mightn’t be that deep.’

  He didn’t answer her for some seconds; then he said, ‘We could try. But looking at it from above, it looks pretty hopeless. Nevertheless, anything is better than sitting still; and we haven’t any food. As for water, well, we’re not short of that.’

  For the next hour or more they clawed at the snow, dragging it into the room until, both exhausted, they returned to the door and sat down; and there he put his arm about her, saying soothingly, ‘They are bound to come soon. They will know that we’re missing by now, at least they’ll know about me, which doesn’t matter. But the men of the village, I’m sure, will make some effort to search…headed by Miss Wilkinson.’ He put his head down and gave a small wavering chuckle, and she said, ‘Oh yes, Miss Wilkinson. She’s very fond of you is Miss Wilkinson.’

  ‘And I’ve suffered from her fondness for years. You know something, Emma? I’ve been tempted to treat Miss Wilkinson like any married man would who has for years been plagued by his wife, and take the dinner she had served him and, if it was liquid such as stew, pour it over her …’

  ‘Oh, don’t even make me want to laugh.’

  ‘It’s funny, Emma, but I want to laugh.’ His voice was deep in his throat now. ‘I’m cold, I’m hungry, I’m stiff and tired, and at the bottom I’m in despair if we’ll ever get out of this place before we are frozen to death, yet I am happier at this moment than ever I’ve been in my life. Just because I’m really alone with you at last. I’ve got my arm about you, you are close to me. If we get out of here I may never be able to hold you again and the memory of this will have to suffice, without happiness; but as for now, well, I’m holding you close to me, Emma.’

  In answer she simply leant against him; she didn’t want to talk. The effort in moving the snow had taken her back to the exhaustion of last night. Her head was aching terribly; she felt she was in for a cold, and could one wonder at it? Her wet clothes had dried on her but the dampness seemed to have soaked into her very bones; she was shivering deep inside. She found herself trying to recall why she had come out in this weather. Then, like a knife piercing an already open wound, she remembered Annie. That’s why she had to come out…Annie. And Annie now could be the death of her, and of Henry too. ‘We could freeze to death, Henry,’ she heard herself saying.

  ‘No, no, my dear, nothing like that. I shouldn’t have said that. Come, walk about, keep the circulation going.’

  As he made to pull her to her feet, she said, ‘No, Henry; I’m too tired, I’d like to lie down.’

  He did not speak for a moment; then he said, ‘Yes, you lie down, dear.’ And when she had lain down he took off his coat and put it over her, and she made no protest.

  Kneeling beside her, he gazed at her. Her eyes were closed, her teeth were chattering. He looked about him helplessly; then suddenly pulling himself to his feet, he went outside once more and began to tear madly at the snow.

  Ten

  Six men working with shovels and a horse and cart to take the snow away had worked incessantly for two full days before they reached the farm, only to find that the parson wasn’t there; nor was Mrs Yorkless. Later in the day, continuing along the coach road they reached the painter’s cottage. He was safe and sound and warm, but he got into a state when he heard the news, and he told how the parson had left him two days before to escort Mrs Yorkless back to the farm. Mrs Yorkless had been out looking for her daughter, he said, but he himself had been able to tell her that her daughter had gone into the town some time previously.

  ‘Well now,’ said the village men, ‘where could they be?’ Two nights and two days. They would never have survived in this. Likely buried in a snowdrift. Farmer Hudson had lost fourteen fine sheep. Stiff as pokers they were when he dug them out, and not two fields from his house. This had been a storm and a half.

  Well, they would keep searching. That’s all they could do. One thing was sure: they were both lying somewhere near the coach road.

  It was half past seven that evening that Florence Bessell banged on the vicarage door and gasped at Miss Wilkinson as she opened it, ‘They’ve found them. They’ve found them.’

  ‘Them?’ said Miss Wilkinson as she let Mrs Bessell into the hall.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Yorkless and him.’

  ‘I…I didn’t know she was lost.’

  ‘Lost and found.’ Florence Bessell’s mouth went into a wide grin. ‘And how were they found?’ She nodded at Miss Wilkinson; then bending her head forward, she said, ‘Mr Bessell said he hadn’t seen anything like it. There they were lying on the same boards, ‘twined together like ivy round a tree. Couldn’t have got closer if they had been forged together, he said, and as stiff as boards.’

  Miss Wilkinson put her hand up to her mouth, saying now, ‘He’s…he’s dead?’

  ‘No, no. They took him to Mr Bowman’s cottage, that being the nearest, ’twasn’t very far from there. They were found in the old mill-house, you know. They must have taken shelter and made the most of it.’ She giggled now. ‘Eeh! this’ll cause a stir. Mrs Yorkless; they took her back to the farm but she’s in a bad way. Couldn’t get her round. They’ve taken the cart for Mary Petty to go up and see to her. And if it hadn’t been for her Jimmy, Barney Yorkless wouldn’t have survived, so they say. Perhaps it’s a pity he has, isn’t it? Well, I must get off but I thought you would like to know.’ Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at Miss Wilkinson. Everybody knew what Miss Wilkinson thought about the parson. And she herself knew what her husband thought about Miss Wilkinson: she was an interfering nosy busybody and would have taken the organ position off him if she could have. Well now, she was glad she was able to bring her this bit of news. As she made for the door she said, ‘He’ll likely be down in a day or two…when he thaws out. But he’ll have something to face, won’t he? because Joe Mason was one of them that found him, and George Tate another, and neither of them can keep their tongues still, can they?’

  Lena Wilkinson would like to have said at this moment, ‘And you’re another one that can’t keep her tongue still;’ instead, she said, ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  When she shut the door on her visitor she stood a little way from it, her hands clenched at her waist. She knew it, she’d always known it. He was never away from that farm, supposedly reading to the paralysed farmer! Even when Emma Crawshaw was a girl he’d had his eyes on her. She hadn’t been blind. He’d favoured her from the others, giving her books to read that were far above her class, and himself teaching her to write…To write. That book he was always writing in and locking up. It was in that drawer. She marched into the sitting room and stood looking towards the desk.

  For the past two days and
most of the night she had paced the floor of this house wondering what had happened to him, praying that he wouldn’t be dead. Even if he was never to give her a kind look she still prayed that he wouldn’t be dead. But now this, lying with that woman. She knew that bodies huddled together for warmth if lost in the snow, but Florence Bessell had implied something deeper than that. She turned quickly about now and went into the kitchen and, taking a strong knife from the table, she came into the room and after inserting it into the drawer she levered it backward and forward until she managed to loosen the lock, and when with one final tug the drawer opened she stood gazing down on the black leather-bound book with the brass clasp.

  Eleven

  Emma knew she was lying in the kitchen, but how long she had lain there she didn’t know. At times her body burned so much she longed to fling it into the snow, in fact she struggled to do just that; other times she lay in a half-world just conscious that Mary was hovering over her, and Jimmy too. She smelt Jimmy rather than saw him. Jimmy had the byres on him; it was a warm smell mixed with the taste of sour milk on the tongue. And there were other faces too that came and went before her vision; but she never saw Henry. She wanted Henry near, she wanted to feel his hand on her brow. She called out to Henry but he never came. Henry must have died in the old mill. She was going to die. She wished it would happen soon; she would wait though till after the snow went so they could get the coffin down the lane to the coach road. It was an awful business that. She couldn’t see why they couldn’t bring the hearse up to the yard. But no; it was all glass and the rocking on the rough road might crack it. That’s what they said. Well, the coach road was rough enough in parts.