by MARY HOCKING
‘He was but a boy.’
The juggler looked at her and looked away again. He knew by the drawing together of the features that the mood was on her.
‘He was like my son, very beautiful. In fact, I think he was my son; he recognised me and that was why he made me a gift. He is very rich and he owns land that stretches in all directions.’
She sat hunched, holding her arms tight around her stomach, bowed as if in pain. It was like being with child again, the thing struggled so within her. But this creature found no natural way out; year in, year out, she must carry it, tearing and rending. Sometimes its labour ceased and it seemed to withdraw to a secret place where she could not reach it, but it was always there.
‘I hope they are kind to my boy,’ she shouted. ‘Else I’ll have them whipped.’
‘Now that is beautiful stitching,’ Dame Priscilla said. ‘Aren’t you pleased at how beautiful it is?’ She knew that pleasure in one’s achievements was very wrong, but there was no one but Joan to hear her say it, since Dame Ursula had succumbed to the sickness.
III
Edward Tresham had taken Rhoda and Veronica into Mellor, where they had stayed for two days. This was an expedition he had set his heart on. It was inconceivable that in the course of his enforced stay with Rhoda’s relatives he should not spend some time in the one town which was of any interest to him – the seat of a noble family whose castle, he had ascertained, might by arrangement be open to those wishing to view the portrait gallery and the armoury. In order to realise his ambition he was prepared to subject himself and his family to rigours he would not have permitted in any other circumstance. He was aware that Harold had been doubtful of his ability to handle the wagon and was pleased, not to say relieved, at the way he had acquitted himself. On a journey of some three hours they had encountered little traffic; the hazards lay in the waywardness of the tracks they must follow. But the sedate old horse had lived a lifetime on the moor and was well versed in meeting its challenges and, provided he could go at his own pace, could be relied on for safe transport. Edward, more sensitive to the whims of animals than those of his fellow humans, allowed him his vagaries, patiently enduring stops while he drank from peaty hollows or inspected, and was inspected by, his moorland cousins.
On their return journey, they stopped at a field gate to eat the food the innkeeper had provided for them. Here the horse found succulent nourishment in what appeared to be a rather thorny hedge, and Edward the opportunity for discourse. Above them lay the moor and beneath was spread out a great tapestry of green and brown and blue, field, river, hamlet and distant town. Sitting with his back to the moor, Edward looked down into that ordered landscape and said, ‘This is what God created out of chaos.’
He talked of purpose and pattern, of the harvest of the centuries which incorporated change and development, new agricultural methods and improved forms of transport, the canal system and the wonders that would come with the construction of railways. ‘We are remaking Eden,’ he affirmed in a rare moment when feeling and intellect were at one.
Rhoda, listening to him, thought, ‘And the people who have lived here, what of them? They, too, must be part of this pattern, a stitch in the tapestry, myself included.’ Together with the awareness of pattern in the land, of how it gathered together all of history, there emerged the concept of a person who was, child and woman, Rhoda Tresham, with a life that was not a disconnected series of episodes but one in which the sadnesses and failures, the disappointments and longings, the contradictions and seemingly unrelated impulses were all of a piece, leaving nothing to be discarded. Could it be that the way back to Eden required the wanderer to come bearing the fruit and scars of experience? If this was so for her, then the same must be true for the two women who kept her company and whose scars seemed sometimes to itch beneath her own skin.
‘Roberta!’ their daughter exclaimed in triumph.
‘What are you talking about?’ Edward asked, startled.
‘She’s talking about her family’ Rhoda explained gently.
‘What family?’
‘I’m always telling you, but you’re not interested. I’m going to have lots of children, seven at least, but I couldn’t think of the name of the youngest and it suddenly came to me. She’s Roberta.’ She scrambled from the wagon and went to impart this news to the horse, who nuzzled her shoulder.
‘The new school will soon put those ideas out of her head.’ The day had turned sour for Edward. ‘In fact, if what I hear is true, she will probably lose the ability to bear children.’
He was morose on the long ride across the moor, which looked at its most bleak and forbidding, the sky grey and a mean wind blowing. It was two in the afternoon when they drove through West Bentham.
‘That will be Mr Jory’s school.’ Rhoda pointed to a squat building in a clearing where trees had been cut down recently. Faintly, the sound of children’s voices came to them, raised in unmelodious song. Her eyes moved towards the church, wondering whether at this moment he might be there, sitting in a side aisle as she had seen him once before the morning service, his face composed in prayer or meditation. The trees in the graveyard moved in the light wind and suddenly she experienced the warm, healing release of tears; yet it was not she who cried.
‘I shall send Roberta to that school,’ Veronica announced, and proceeded to chant, ‘And Nathaniel and Rudolfo and Hortensia and Gunhilde and Sylvester and Etheldreda and Marmaduke . . .’
‘There would seem to be some advantage in being the last,’ Edward commented drily.
‘And Nathaniel begat . . .’
‘What about John or David?’
‘That would be very dull, don’t you think.’
She went to sleep planning the second generation of her family.
When they arrived at the farm they found Jory had walked over from West Bentham and was talking to Harold and Eleanor. Veronica was very tired after the long journey. ‘She’ll need her bed, poor lass,’ Millie said. She prepared a dish of porridge for the girl, who thought it odd to have porridge at night but ate it without complaint.
When she and Rhoda were in her bedroom, Veronica said, ‘Has the parson come about the little girl?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because then I never see him. You won’t let me into the room. And I like to see him. He knows some wonderful names and he doesn’t mind hearing about my family.’
‘You think about your family now, my darling. By the time you’ve got to Gunhilde begat . . . you’ll be asleep.’
But as she lay in bed and Rhoda adjusted the lamp which must be lit in case the child woke and was frightened, as she so often was, of the dark, Veronica whispered, ‘Did he really kill his daughter?’
Rhoda sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the sheets. ‘Do you worry about it? If you do, we must go home. Is that what you would like?’
‘It won’t make any difference, will it?’ Veronica said with that uncomfortable logic of which children can be capable. ‘The little girl will still be dead.’
Rhoda, having no answer to this, said, ‘I love you, darling. And your father loves you.’
But Veronica had perceived there was badness in her world that a loving mother and father could not put right. She began to recite, ‘And Nathaniel begat Justinia and Rudolfo begat. . .’ But she was not asleep by the time she got to Roberta and it was an hour before Rhoda went downstairs.
Whatever had been said in the parlour had tired and tried them all. Eleanor was talking about the child. While her voice recounted excitedly incidents of great pathos in the innocent life of Ellie, Edward sat rigid with rage, knuckles gleaming white on knotted fingers. Harold looked uncomfortable in his chair; at the best of times the farmer scarcely knew what to do with his body when indoors and now he looked as if he might break loose and run at any moment. Jory, in contrast, was still and Rhoda was aware of that reserve she had noted before when Eleanor spoke of Ellie’s fate.
Edward, gr
eeting his wife, said, ‘Apparently, while we were staying in Mellor, they brought Jarvis in. I’m amazed we did not hear of it.’
‘They took him at night, quietly,’ Jory said. He, too, looked at Rhoda.
‘And why did they do that? Why did they protect him?’ Eleanor exclaimed. ‘They should have dragged him through the streets.’
‘He’d not have survived had they done that.’ Jory sounded unutterably weary.
‘Nor should he! It says in the Bible that anyone who offends one of these little ones should be hanged with a millstone round his neck. Our Saviour didn’t say anything about taking them into jail by night and having a trial.’
Harold got up as if his wife’s outburst freed him from restraint. He said to Edward, ‘Seemingly Millie’s gone to sleep out there. While Eleanor sees to tea, I’ll see to the horse.’
Edward, who thought he himself had seen to the horse, was only too willing to accept this excuse. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Eleanor paused on her way out to say to Rhoda, ‘When I think o’ that sweet little soul struck down in all her innocence, I don’t have no charity in me. And I hope that no one’s going to suggest I should be the means of persuading his children to visit him. ’Cos I think that would be a wickedness.’
She went into the kitchen, where she set up a great rattle among the pots and pans while berating Millie. Rhoda looked enquiringly at Jory. He passed a hand wearily to and fro across his brow as if trying to restore some inner rhythm to his thoughts. She seated herself opposite to him, waiting. Eventually, he said, ‘Jarvis wants to see his children. If it’s a means of bringing him to repentance, I think he should.’
‘Do you think he does repent?’
‘He repents of being caught, that’s sure enough.’
He seemed unaware of the pious expressions of outrage and grief that were the normal currency of exchange at such times. What a strange man he was, she thought, and was aware of him looking at her as if wondering how much he could say to her. She trembled inwardly, being unsure of her ability to withstand this test. He was a man capable of deep thought; but whereas Edward’s intellectual gifts seemed to drain him of feeling, Jory’s presence became ever more powerful as he spoke.
‘Jarvis is dissolute, unreliable, dishonest; he is also uneducated, of low intelligence and has no skills. Bringing up a family of four, deserted by the mother, was quite beyond his capability and his pocket. Do you understand what I am saying?’
She shook her head. ‘But I can see it is very important to you and that you have thought a great deal about it; whereas my dear cousin Eleanor never thinks at all. She knows instinctively what is due to all occasions, while I, increasingly, know less and less.’ But she knew in her bones that she could never accept the killing of this child and her throat constricted with the fear of what might be asked of her.
‘I think Jarvis is guilty of a terrible crime and that he should, and must, pay the penalty for it’. But his situation was so far from anything I have ever experienced that I find I cannot judge him. Over the last years I have seen terrible destitution, have witnessed people living in such despair with no hope of the improvement of their lot. I have stood by while better men than Jarvis crumbled.’
‘I have glimpsed something of this,’ she said tentatively, remembering the couple living at the abandoned mine.
‘And the child. This is very difficult. Will you listen to what I am trying to say and not translate it into something not meant?’
He looked intently to where she sat, so close to the lamp it was hard to tell whether the glow of light emanated from flesh or flame. Beneath his gaze she felt that more was being asked of her than the words implied and when she nodded her head she felt as impetuous as if she had permitted an impropriety.
‘Ellie was not likeable. Far from being innocent, she appeared knowing beyond her years; she lied and constantly provoked trouble and knew how to play on people’s bad feelings. Her life was so devoid of good influence one could hardly expect that she would be otherwise. But people who found her unpleasant and did not hesitate to make harsh judgements about her, calling her a “mischievous little baggage”, now speak of her as if she were an angel. Mrs Tibbs, far from taking the child to her heart, was constantly complaining to Jarvis about her. It was quite beyond Jarvis to manage her. The pinafore, of which you have heard so much, belonged to one of the Tibbs’ children and Ellie stole it. Mrs Tibbs let the child keep it after pleas from your cousin, Eleanor, whose heart is open to the needs of all children, even the unlovable. It is a terrible story which involves us all, because it makes plain to us the extent of rural poverty that is beyond any of us to solve. If we vent all our rage on Jarvis, we have learnt nothing and it will never be solved. And if it isn’t, I sometimes fear there will be no hope for any of us.’
This sombre thought was rather beyond Rhoda, whose mind in any case had fixed on something else while he talked. She said in a low voice, ‘It makes me realise how little I understand of love; how I confuse it with mere liking.’
He looked at her with an admiration so ardent her hand went to her throat. ‘You go to the heart of the matter. Loving Jarvis is not within my compass. But I begin to see this may be a failure in me that I cannot afford.’
Eagerly, he went on to tell her how many times over the last few years he had had to remind himself that the very people whom he scorned were the ones with whom Christ cast his lot. ‘We paint sentimental pictures of the poor and rejected in order to make ourselves comfortable with the idea that Our Lord consorted with them, but when we are confronted with the scabrous reality it sickens us. But we must not turn away; for our own sake as much as theirs, we must learn to see Him in these people. If we fail to do that, there is no hope for humanity.’
She listened, astonished that he should share his vision with her, should admit to his own failures and falterings, and she began to envisage dimly what a blessing it would be, what an outpouring of grace, to spend one’s life with another with whom one could explore such depths and heights. From this it was but a small step to thinking how she might assist him, support him. His thick hair was already streaked with grey, she noted, and felt its stubbly mat between her fingers as she ministered to him when he was weary. Perhaps she might even give him strength when he was discouraged. And from there the way was open to the forbidden pleasure of how she would best comfort him and he her. She found herself suddenly faint and then he was kneeling beside her.
‘I am so sorry, I had no right to talk to you like this, to upset you . . .’
‘I am all right.’ She was unused to the nearness of a man. Edward, for all his love of her, was not passionate or demonstrative. The mixture of masculinity and tenderness in Jory which had already attracted her, now seemed overwhelming.
‘No, Mrs Tresham,’ he was saying, his eyes warm with concern. ‘You are not all right. You have often seemed to me to be deeply unhappy and I have longed to help you and have found it hard to restrain myself from speaking of it.’
‘No, no.’ She made little gestures of agitation. ‘I am a very foolish woman – indeed, you would think me shallow and frivolous were I to tell you . . . after the things we have spoken of this afternoon, my troubles . . .’
The door swung back and Millie came in with the tea tray. Fortunately, she had backed through the door and this gave Jory and Rhoda some seconds to compose themselves, she turning her attention to the fire while he cleared papers from the table.
Edward was too angered with Jory to join them for tea and he retired to the bedroom, excusing himself on the grounds that he had correspondence to attend to. Harold was in a hurry to catch the last of the daylight and neither Jory nor Rhoda had an appetite. Eleanor was too upset to take much note of her companions and the meal was soon over.
Rhoda said, ‘I will walk some little way with Mr Jory, Eleanor, otherwise I shall suffer from the cramp after so long in the wagon.’
The smell of cooling earth refreshed them after the stale ai
r of the parlour. The dry leaves of the thorn bushes rustled like taffeta. Rhoda was much shaken by her behaviour and would have walked the whole time in silence had it been left to her, but Jory spoke as though there had been no interruption, no interval since the moment when he knelt beside her.
‘How can you imagine I would ever see you as shallow and frivolous?’ He laid a hand on her shoulder; she trembled but did not draw away from him. Her breathing was fast, a mere snatching for air. On the branch of a tree a blackbird fluted the seconds away, every note pure and unstressed.
‘I came to this place because it means so much to me, I thought it was everything, that I could lose myself in the vastness of the moor, that I could breathe again, that I would find freedom.’
He said, ‘And then?’
‘Then?’
‘There’s always a then, isn’t there? I, too, am much moved by the moor; but I can’t live there, I have to go back to my home, ponder upon whatever thoughts came to me as I walked.’
She said sadly, ‘I told you I was frivolous.’
‘No,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s only that you haven’t gone far enough. Can’t you see? Moorland is only moorland; it’s not a reflection of our need, it’s grass and bog, stone and running water. It won’t embrace us, provide a refuge – except in death. It would give death all right, if one used it unwisely. The moor is free; yes, I too feel that. But free to be itself, not personal freedom for us. It’s all very well for the poets, that sort of thing, but it doesn’t solve our problems, help us to live our lives. Whatever Mr Wordsworth may say, one impulse from a vernal wood does not teach us more of moral evil and of good than all the sages can. We can’t identify with land, make it an image of ourselves. We are not hewn of this rock.’