by James Wilson
There was a kind of boyish eagerness in his manner that suggested he welcomed the excuse to delay his departure – either because he feared a wetting, or because he was less than enthusiastic about his next engagement; and, before I had a chance to reply, he turned abruptly and led the way back into the Institute. The ground floor was chill and gloomy, with dark-painted doors marked ‘Library’, ‘Reading room’ and ‘Classroom’; but a cheerful brightness fell on the stairs, as if they rose from this world to the next. And indeed, as we ascended towards the gas-lit landing, we heard – more loudly with every step – the breath-catching tones of a tender adagio – which, if not quite an angelic choir, yet seemed heavenly enough in contrast to the sullen drumming of rain on roof and windows.
Directly before us, as we reached the top, was a pair of heavy panelled doors. My guide opened one, and wedged it ajar with his body so that I might see past him. A few people just inside, hearing our arrival – or else feeling the sudden blast of cold air against their necks – turned towards us, greeting me with a stare that was neither hostile nor friendly, but merely curious; and then nodding and smiling as soon as they saw my companion, who smiled and nodded back.
I found myself looking into a long room running the entire length of the building, and set out as a lecture hall, with tightly packed rows of chairs – every one, so far as I could tell, occupied – and, at the far end, four or five men sitting behind a baize-covered table on a raised dais. The musicians were clustered round the piano at one side of the stage; and one glance was enough to tell me why my guide had brought me here, and why his eyes were even now searching my face, in anticipation of some evidence of astonishment. The piano-player and the violinist were just such a young woman and a young man as you might expect to see appearing in the public hall of any small provincial town; but the third performer was something else entirely. He was no more than eighteen or nineteen, with close-set eyes, dark ringlets and a hook nose. He stood before a music stand, following a score like the others – but his only instrument was his own lips, which he was using to whistle his part, with a range, and a depth of feeling, that I should not – had I not seen him – believed possible.
My guide laid a finger on my arm and whispered in my ear:
There. That’s Whistling Albert.’
‘Whistling Albert?’
‘Printer Walker’s boy.’
‘Ah,’ I said, trying to give the impression that I knew who Printer Walker was, and realized that he was an adequate explanation of the miraculous whistler. I was evidently unsuccessful, however; for my companion said:
‘You haven’t heard of the Printer?’
I shook my head.
‘I thought maybe you’d come to see him,’ he said. He backed out on to the landing, leaving just his foot in the door, and continued in a louder voice: ‘We don’t get many visitors in Otley, and most of them are for him. Or Dawson and Payne.’
No point in further pretence. I smiled, and shrugged helplessly.
‘Why, they make “Our Own Kind”,’ he said; and then, seeing I was still baffled: ‘The printing machines. That’s what we’re principally known for, nowadays, Mr. . . .’
‘Hartright.’
‘Hartright. Yes, the Printer says in a few years Otley machines’ll be known all over the world. Or rather, “celebrated in every clime and corner of the globe”; for he’ll never use a simple English phrase when an ornate Latinized one will do.’ He gave a pleasant laugh, with no hint of malice in it. ‘He would find it hard, I think, to rise to the challenge I once set myself, of composing a sermon entirely in words of one syllable.’
A clergyman; but of what denomination? A Methodist, like as not, in a place like this. For an uncomfortable moment I imagined his sharp eyes uncovering the secrets of my soul, and making a damning catalogue of all the levity and wantonness he found there. I was relieved when at length he said:
‘I’m Joshua Hart, the vicar here.’ He held out his hand. ‘And what does bring you to Otley, Mr. Hartright, if not the printing trade?’
‘I’m writing a book.’
‘Ah, the printing trade after all – at least, after a fashion. We should have had you here tonight.’ He made a gracious little bow in the direction of the hall. They always like to hear literary men. Doubtless the thought of all that paper from the mill, and all that occupation for their machines.’ He laughed, again without any appearance of ill-feeling. ‘And what, may I ask, is your subject?’
‘The life of Turner.’
His eyes brightened. ‘J. M. W., R.A.?’ he said; and then, before I had time to reply: ‘Ah, I understand. Farnley Hall.’
‘I go there tomorrow,’ I said.
He nodded. Encouraged by the warmth of interest in his face – and by the sudden reflection that a vicar should be at least as well placed to advise me as a druggist – I went on: ‘I was hoping tonight that I might find someone in Otley who had some reminiscence of him.’
‘There, I’m afraid, I cannot help you,’ he said, smiling. ‘I only came here in ‘thirty-sev-’
At that moment, the music ended; and a sudden explosion of clapping made all conversation impossible for the next half minute, during which time we could do nothing but stand smiling impotently at each other. As the applause finally died away, however, his eyes seemed to stray past me; and then he nodded to himself, as if acknowledging some sudden insight. Leaning over and touching my arm again, he said:
‘No, I may be able to help you,’ He held up his hand, signalling me to wait, and looked towards the hall, where one of the men at the table had begun to speak in a deep, treacly voice:
Thank you, Miss Binney; thank you, gentlemen – a charming musical interlude. We now come to the moment that certain small boys have been waiting for’ – laughter from the audience – ‘the lecture on electricity by Dr. Kerr and Mr. ‘Druggist’ Thompson. Ladies of a sensitive disposition should be warned that at some point during the demonstration an electric spark will be used to fire a concealed cannon.’ (More laughter, and squeals.) ‘If you want to leave now, no-one will think worse of you for that.’
‘Come,’ said Mr. Hart. ‘Let’s go before we’re trampled to death by fleeing women.’ As he guided me towards the staircase, he said:
‘When we met just now I was on my way to see three of my parishioners. One of them, Mrs. Swinton, is a widow. No more than sixty, I should guess, or thereabouts. But she grew up at Farnley.’
‘Ah.’
‘She is in a sad way now, poor woman; very lonely since her husband died, and crippled by arthritis; but some company would do her good, if I can persuade her to it. Where are you putting up?’
‘The Black Bull.’
There were footsteps on the stairs behind us. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and urged me hurriedly to the door.
‘If you care to wait for me there,’ he said, ‘I’ll see what I can do, and call in on you on my way home to tell you how I’ve fared.’
I thanked him, and asked him
Later
Am I just seeing monsters in the dark?
God knows the soberest man might fancy he glimpsed something in the shadows after such an evening as this.
But surely
No. I must keep myself in check.
Once again – record what happened – judgement later.
*
He came for me about ten, when I had almost given him up. His face was tired and weatherbeaten, and his clothes so wet that they had abandoned all pretence of protecting him, and merely hung like dripping rags; but he seemed cheerful enough.
‘I’m sorry I’m so late; my first call was a mother who’s lost her boy, and these things won’t be hurried. But the upshot is, Mrs. Swinton’ll see you, if you’re still willing. She’s a strange old body, and I don’t know what you’ll get from her; but nothing ventured, eh?’
I followed him like a blind man, guided more by sound than by sight; for the rain was coming down so hard when we got outside that it s
tung my eyes; and even when I shielded my face with my hands I could see little more than an unbroken sheet of water, which all but hid the buildings on either side of us, and made it impossible to make out where we were going. Beyond the clack of his boots and the gush and gurgle of the choked gutters was another, more distant noise: an ominous rumbling, so vast and portentous that – like the Chevin – it seemed to speak of some power unimaginably greater than ourselves, which might at any moment sweep us and all our puny works from the face of the earth, leaving not a trace behind.
‘What’s that?’ I shouted, pointing towards it.
‘The weir!’
‘Is it always so angry?’
He shook his head. ‘There’ll be floods tonight, if this don’t let up.’
How long our journey took, I cannot say – for when you are as wet as it is possible to be (a state I attained in less than two minutes); and your clothes stick to you like drowning men clinging to a log; and you can discern no change in your surroundings from one moment to the next, time quickly loses all meaning. At length, however, we came to a row of small stone cottages, with roofs of tattered, dripping thatch, and odd little mismatched windows that looked as if they had been set into the walls anyhow, with no concern for symmetry or proportion. Mr. Hart paused at the second door, and knocked; and then, without waiting for an answer, lifted the latch and went inside.
A smell of smoke and fat and bacon – the feeble glimmer of two or three tallow candles – a brilliant orange fire in the grate, with the dark shape of a cooking pot cut from its heart, and a pair of old bellows hanging to one side: those were my immediate impressions. It was only after I had cast about for a few moments that I noticed her. She was sitting in the darkness on the far side of the hearth, wearing a black dress and a grubby old crinkled cap, with her arms protectively hugging a large bowl in her lap, as if she feared we might be robbers, and meant to take it from her. Next to her was a chair laid on its front, with planks placed across the back to form a kind of table. Her bright unsmiling eyes never left me as Mr. Hart said:
‘Dolly, this is Mr. Hartright.’
‘Good evening,’ I said, removing my hat. She did not move or speak, but only nodded. As she did so, the light from the fire caught the contours of her face, showing a broad brow and high cheekbones and a mouth held so tightly shut that it was no more than a black crater between nose and jaw.
‘Poor Mrs. Swinton – she finds it difficult to get up now,’ said Mr. Hart, as if by way of explanation.
‘Oh, please don’t stir on my account,’ I said – somewhat redundantly, for it was plain she had absolutely no intention of doing so.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Hart, quietly, holding his hand out to me. ‘I’ll leave you now.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I hope some good may come of it.’ He smiled. ‘If it does, you may recompense me with a copy of your book.’ He turned towards Mrs. Swinton, and raised his voice.
‘Good night, Dolly.’
‘G’d neet, Mr. ‘Art,’ she muttered – and the sound of her voice startled me, for it was almost as deep as a man’s. She watched him leave, as alert as a wild animal; and then said:
“E en’t put the sneck ‘ome.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.
‘The sneck,’ she said. She extended her hand and pivoted it at the wrist, from which I deduced she meant the latch. ‘Neet like toneet, wind’ll ‘ave t’door off ‘is ‘angers if ‘e’s not fixed reet.’
As if to prove the point, the door flew open as I reached it, and would have knocked me off my feet if I had not jumped out of the way in time. My struggle to close it again, and to secure it firmly (no easy matter, for the wood was badly warped) must have made an entertaining spectacle; for when I turned back suddenly towards Mrs. Swinton, she was shaking with silent laughter. As soon as she saw she was observed, however, she resumed her previous dour expression; and said:
‘Tha’s nivver ‘Artright.’
‘What?’ I said, too taken aback to make any other response.
Tha reet name’s not ‘Artright,’ she said, looking squarely into my eyes.
‘What is it, then?’ I said, with a sheepish smile, and an uncomfortable tightness in my throat. I held my breath, convinced, for one wild giddy instant, that she was going to say ‘Jenkinson’. After studying me for a few seconds more, however, she merely shrugged and said:
“Ahsumiver, tha’s sodden wi’ weet. Come by t’fire, and get dry.’
I accepted gratefully, even though the stench of burnt lard and dirty clothes and unwashed flesh grew riper and more oppressive with every step. As I drew near – mastering my revulsion by breathing through my mouth, and so contriving to smell nothing at all – I saw that the makeshift table next to her was lined with rows of little freshly cooked cakes; and that suspended from the beamed ceiling was an ingenious kind of rack – much like the ‘creels’ I have seen in cottages in Limmeridge, save that it was attached to a pulley and a length of rope that allowed her to lower and raise it without leaving her seat – to which she had transferred a dozen or so dry. She must have seen me looking at them, for she said:
“Ayver-bread. Will tha teeaste ‘un?’
In truth, the thought of it turned my stomach; but I felt I could not politely refuse, so I reached up to take one.
‘Nay,’ she said, ‘tha oughta ‘ave it ‘ot, to warm tha guts; I’ll make tha one fresh’; and pulling a piece of dough from the bowl in her lap, she quickly pinched and patted it into a little disc. As she laid it on the bakestone in the fireplace I tried to persuade myself that the dark smears on the surface were a trick of the dim light, rather than grime from her filthy fingers; but it was with some difficulty that I forced myself to take it from her, and bite half of it off, and say:
‘Thank you, it’s very good.’
‘Tha don’t want to stand,’ she said, gesturing to an old chair – crudely held together with thick wooden slats nailed to the legs and the back, that put me oddly in mind of a child sitting on the floor holding his knees – which was half hidden in the shadows on the other side of the hearth.
‘Tha’s been to th’Institute, parson says,’ she said, as I pulled it out, and sat down. ‘What’s tha reckon to tha’?’
‘I was very impressed,’ I said. ‘I don’t know when I’ve heard better, even in London.’
‘Oh, ay?’ she said, with an odd little smile, which I could not decipher, and found slightly unsettling.
‘Yes. It’s a fine hall. And Whistling Albert is a phenomenon.’
She let out an almost soundless gust of derision – though whether it was directed at me, or at Whistling Albert, or at the Institute, I could not tell.
‘Why,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’
She laughed. ‘They reckon as I’m addled. And I reckon as they’re a cletch o’ gawbies.’
‘Gawbies?’
‘Don’t use their yeds,’ she said. ‘Tha’s what I mean. Think on account they don’t see nowt, there b’ain’t owt to see.’
Cold as I was, I suddenly felt colder. ‘See what?’ I said.
Perhaps she had not heard me; for she made no reply, but gazed at the fire, shaking her head sadly, and muttering ‘Ay, ay’ under her breath. After a few moments she picked up an emberrake, and absently riddled the grate with it; and then, without looking at me, said:
‘Hast tha bin up on t’Chevin?’
‘Not yet.’
She nodded, but said no more, merely studying the flames in silence. At length I said:
‘Why, what’s up there?’
She laughed. ‘Nowt, if tha’ll credit t’Printer, and Druggist Thompson, and t’doctor man, wi’ all their bangs an’ flashes.’
‘But you -’ I began.
‘Tha ivver ‘eeard tell of t’Barguest?’ she said, suddenly looking me full in the face.
‘The Barguest?
She nodded, and rattled the ember-rake against the cooking pot.
I was bemused
for a second or two, but then all at once – miraculously, I think now – seemed to grasp her meaning.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Is he in chains?’
She nodded. She was watching me intently now; and I knew that if my expression betrayed the slightest sign of mockery or disbelief she would clamp shut, and I should get no more from her.
‘What kind of a creature is he?’ I said. ‘A ghost? Some poor fellow that was hanged there years ago?’
She shook her head. ‘A beast,’ she said, in little more than a whisper. ‘I ‘eeard ‘im once, years sin, when the bairns was small, and we was up there bleggin’. It were a’most dark, and rawky, so’s tha couldn’t hardly see; and Adam, our boy, ‘e were freetenin’ th’ lasses – tha know, “Best run, or t’Barguest’ll get tha,” an’ sich-like – and I were tryin’ to ‘ush ‘im, when there were this gert noise be’ind us – like a snufflin’, tha’d call it, and a tiftin’, and -’
‘Tifting?’ I said.
She pushed her tongue out, and took two or three rapid breaths, before going on: ‘And ‘e were roarin’, and pawin” – here she made her hands into claws, and scraped some imaginary surface – ‘and jumpin’ at ‘is chain, so’s tha could ‘eear it twangin’.’
‘How near?’ I asked.
‘Reet there,’ she said, pointing towards the door. ‘No more’n ten paces.’
‘And did you see him?’
She shook her head. ‘We was too flayed to look. We just ran, tumblin’ an’ bangin’ all t’way down; but there were no bones brak, thank the Lord, tho’ we was tha’ clarty an’ moithered comin’ ‘ome the mester a’most died o’freet to see us.’
I nodded. A dog, presumably – perhaps an escaped mastiff; but if I said so I should indubitably offend her. She seemed to guess my thoughts, however, for she went on:
‘Course, all tha doctors and druggists and ranters says t’were nowt – we fancied it, or t’were nobbut a dog, or a doddy, or a sheep, or some sich – but there were summat there, reet enough, an’ I nivver ‘eeard mortal beast make sich a noise, not afore or sin.’
‘It must have been very frightening for you,’ I murmured, thinking that a show of sympathy might be enough to reassure her that I took her story seriously, and so deter her from asking whether I actually believed it.