The Tide of Life

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘You think so?’ The question was a frightened whisper now.

  ‘Aye, yes. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No. Well, I knew…I mean I felt she was sick with something, but I thought it was just being sort of bloodless like, not consumption, not that.’

  ‘Well, you ask the doctor to have a look at her next time he’s round. It’ll cost you a couple of bob but it’ll be worth it.’

  ‘Aye, yes, I will. An’ thanks.’ Then of a sudden she exclaimed, ‘Eeh, the pie! I’ve forgot it. I left it in the oven. I’ll have to come back and finish.’ She stopped on the point of a run, and he said kindly, ‘Don’t rush yourself, I’ll see to it. And I’ll stoke up for you. You can wash the pans when you’ve time.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks.’

  She was now running across the farmyard, through the arch and towards the kitchen, her mind a maze of conflicting impressions: Her master not being a gentleman; her mistress being enticed into marriage with a farmhand; and her father being a colonel. Then her master again being thick with Mrs Rowan’s daughter. And then the rabbit pie! Eeh, if the crust was burnt! And Lucy, their Lucy, having the consumption.

  As she burst open the kitchen door she nearly knocked Hannah Rowan on to her back, only Larry Birch’s outstretched arm saving her.

  ‘My, my! Somebody’s in a hurry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Oh I am, Mrs Rowan, I am. But it’s the rabbit pie.’ She was retreating across the kitchen now pointing to the oven.

  She lifted up the heavy iron sneck and opened the oven door; then heaved a big sigh as she turned her face towards them. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘it isn’t quite done.’

  Both Larry Birch and Hannah Rowan looked at her for some seconds, then at each other, and simultaneously they burst out laughing. Putting her hand over her eyes and bowing her head, Emily joined them; but she didn’t give her laughter rein, not as Lucy was doing.

  ‘Well, there’s one thing that can be said for her,’ Hannah Rowan said, looking at Larry Birch, ‘she’s quick at least at opening doors, and she’s concerned for her pastry…Goodbye, girl.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Rowan.’

  ‘And goodbye to you.’ Hannah was now nodding towards Lucy, who was at the sink, and she added, ‘And don’t leave one eye in them taties or they’ll wink at you out of the pan.’

  Again Lucy was laughing, her head back.

  The little woman went out into the yard now, saying over her shoulder, ‘You say Con’s working on the bottoms, what’s he doing there? Them fields are full of boulders and bracken.’

  The closing of the door cut off their voices, and Emily, turning now to Lucy, exclaimed, ‘You’re not still on with those vegetables, are you?’

  ‘I’m nearly finished, Emily.’

  She was about to add, ‘Well, put a move on’, but she checked herself and looked at her sister’s back, the fair hair tied with a piece of faded ribbon, the narrow shoulders, the thin body. She herself was thin, but Lucy’s was a different thinness, she was skinny. Yet only this morning she had told herself that Lucy was putting on weight. Her face seemed to be fuller. Had she the disease? Eeh! People died with that like flies. But when they coughed they spat blood. Lucy had never spat blood. Ena Blake up the street died when she was seventeen, and John Purley from around the corner, he had died an’ all, and just when he had started work. But they had both spat blood, she had seen it. Her mother had always said Lucy’s was a kind of tickly cough caused by nerves and thin blood.

  She went slowly towards her now and putting her arm around her sister’s shoulders she brought her face down to hers, saying, ‘You feelin’ all right?’

  ‘Oh yes. Oh yes, Emily, I’m feelin’ fine now, I’m not tired any more…Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh me, I always feel all right.’

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  She didn’t know what she would do if anything happened to Lucy. Lucy wasn’t just like a sister, she was more like…well, a child; she had looked after her since she was a baby.

  Back at the table preparing the pudding, she began to pray, using the prayers she had heard the ranters pray in Mrs McGillby’s bedroom, for they seemed much stronger, more in touch with God than the prayers she had learnt at school.

  It had turned eight o’clock; she had cleared up the kitchen and was setting the table for breakfast the following morning. She set only two places. These were for the master and Con, as she had come to think of him. Abbie Reading didn’t eat with the family at all; he didn’t even come and collect his meals from the door, she had to take them to his place above the coach house. She and Lucy had their breakfast after the others were finished. At dinner time she laid the table in the dining room for the master and Con, and for their evening meal too.

  She had finished setting the table when, looking towards Lucy who was sitting near the fire, her head nodding with sleep, she said, ‘You go on up and get into bed; I’ll be there shortly.’

  ‘I don’t like to go up on me own, Emily.’

  ‘You’re not frightened, are you?’

  ‘No, not really, but it’s a long way.’

  ‘Aw, don’t be silly.’ She went to her and pulled her playfully from the chair, saying, ‘Go on; you’ll be asleep afore your head touches the pillow.’

  As Lucy went out of the kitchen Larry Birch entered, saying, ‘Goodnight, Lucy,’ and she answered, ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  Emily was now throwing a bucket of coal onto the fire and she did not stop in her work. Afterwards, taking the big teapot, she emptied the contents over the top of the coal, then stood back and coughed as the steam rose hissing from the black mass.

  She was at the sink washing her hands when he said, ‘Come and sit down a minute, Emily, I want to talk to you.’

  She turned swiftly, grabbed a hessian towel that was hanging to the side of the sink, then went obediently to the table and sat down, and for a moment she was reminded of the kitchen in Pilot Place, with Sep sitting at one side of the table and she at the other. But Mr Birch didn’t look a bit like Sep. He was better looking, taller and not so bulky in the body, and he held himself very straight. She sometimes thought his back looked too straight, and his neck always seemed to be stretching out of his collar, yet now as she stared at him she was even more reminded of Sep because his shoulders were sloping downwards and his head was slightly forward, his chin almost touching his chest. He looked a bit weary, in fact he looked as tired as she felt.

  He did not lift his eyes towards her as he said, ‘Emily, you must not spend time combing your mistress’s hair, or bathing her.’

  ‘No, sir?’ There was a high note of surprise in her voice. She watched him lift his head, and now he was looking straight at her as he repeated, ‘No, Emily.’ Then moving his body round in the chair, he placed his forearms on the table, joined his hands together, and, his head to one side, said, ‘There are one or two things I must tell you. The first is that your mistress is quite capable of doing her own hair and washing herself down. Admitted she cannot use her legs, but there is nothing wrong with her arms or her upper body. Up till now she has always attended to that part of her toilet herself; all you are required to do for her is to provide her with the water and towels, make the bed, and keep the room tidy.’

  She was now sitting with her hands tightly clasped on her lap, and her face was straight as she said, ‘But what if she demands I do it, sir?’

  ‘Tell her I’ve said that you can only spend half an hour up there, except when you’re through cleaning the room, and that only requires doing once a week. Just do as I’ve told you and then come away.’

  ‘But if she should get angry?’

  ‘Let her!’

  She started, for he had almost shouted. And now she watched his hands gripping each other until the knuckles showed white.

  His head was bent again and there was silence in the kitchen except for the slight hissing still coming from the banked-down fire.

  When he raised his h
ead he looked hard at her and began to speak. His voice was calm and his words came slow but with quiet emphasis as he said, ‘There are a number of things you have yet to learn about us, Emily. For a start I have no doubt that Abbie has already put you in the picture with regard to myself and my position here.’

  She could not help the flush sweeping over her face, nor her eyes from blinking, and he went on, ‘I thought as much. Well, believe what you like, but I will say this, Abbie is an embittered old man, a frustrated, embittered old man, who imagines I’ve usurped his place here. What is more, he has always been very fond of my wife, having seen her grow up from a baby. But what Abbie Reading says or anyone else for that matter doesn’t worry me.’ On the last words his tone had suddenly become defiant and from it Emily deduced he wasn’t being quite truthful on this point; people didn’t get mad about something that didn’t annoy them, and what people said about him evidently did annoy him. And of course, it was natural.

  Her hands on her lap moved apart, her body sank against the back of the chair. It was odd, but she had the strong feeling that she was once again in Pilot Place and that it was Sep sitting opposite her, for she was now experiencing the same feeling towards this man as she had done towards Sep. She felt sorry for him, and because she felt sorry for him she liked him. He might be an upstart as old Abbie said, but she was beginning to see that he had quite a lot to put up with.

  ‘Anyway’—his head jerked to the side now—‘I’m not concerned about Abbie. I just want you to know where you stand; you will take your orders from me…And there’s something else I must warn you…tell you about. Because of her illness my wife suffers from nervous bouts. She is just as likely, when frustrated, to pick up something and throw it. Now should this happen you mustn’t show her you’re afraid, or run from the room. You know what you must do?’ He leant further across the table now and, his voice low and with a quirk of a smile to his lips, he said, ‘Should she try that on, threaten to throw something back at her, and make a good act of the threat. You understand me?’

  Yes, she understood him. He was telling her she must throw things at her mistress should she get uppity. Why, surely her number would be up if she as much as lifted her hand to her.

  As if reading her mind, he said, ‘Don’t worry about her reactions, but if she thinks she’s got you cowed, you’re finished, I mean as regards your ability to cope with her. That’s where Chrissey went wrong…the other girl. She gave in to her, she showed her she was afraid.’ He again paused, and now his smile widened as he said, ‘But somehow, Emily, I don’t think you’ll be afraid, not of her or anyone else. Am I right?’

  Her lips were compressed; she was blinking now; then, her face breaking into a broad smile, she replied, ‘Well, I wouldn’t let anybody trample on me, sir. Yet at the same time I cannot see meself’—again she pressed her lips together—‘throwing something at the mistress.’

  He was laughing quietly now, his mouth wide, his eyes crinkled at the corners. She noted that he had all his teeth and that they looked good.

  As his laughter died away he shook his head, saying softly, ‘I’m glad you came, Emily. One more thing. Don’t be surprised if you should find her door barred and she won’t allow you into the room.’

  ‘Barred!’ Her eyes stretched slightly. ‘But how can she bar the door, sir? She can’t get at the lock.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to. I suppose you’ve noticed the wooden loops at each side of the door.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have.’

  ‘And the wooden post resting against the stanchion?’

  Her eyes widened still further; then she said, ‘I knew it was a bar for droppin’ into the slots, but I couldn’t see what use it was there.’

  ‘Oh, it has a use, Emily. My wife likes privacy, especially when her nerves are at fever pitch. It is then that she pushes the bar across the door. It’s quite easy from where she’s sitting.’ He smiled cynically now. ‘She thought it up herself when she first took to her bed.’ Now he sighed and ended, ‘I suppose it’s understandable; she hadn’t been used to people entering her room unless they were bidden. Sometimes her door can be closed for a full day. When this happens just go about your work in the usual way. There’ll come a time when the bar is removed.’

  Well, well! She made the remark to herself. There were some queer people in the world. Yet in a way, if somebody had been brought up private like, that bar was one way to ensure that they could still be private when they wanted. That was to be understood, she supposed.

  And that was the word he used to her now. ‘You understand, Emily?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Well now, get yourself off to bed, I’m sure you are ready for it. Goodnight.’ He rose from the table and without more ado left the kitchen.

  She stared along the room towards the door that had just closed. You imagined that people only had to have money and a big house and they’d be happy. Well he’d got both, but there was one thing certain, he wasn’t happy. He was paying a high price for his coveting so to speak. Another thing Abbie had said, and this, inside herself, she knew to be true: her master wasn’t a real gentleman, for a gentleman would never under any circumstances advise his servant to throw things back at his wife; a gentleman was more likely to tell you to put up with it and if you didn’t like it you could go. No, Abbie was right, he wasn’t a gentleman. And there was one more thing that went to prove this. While he sat at the table his way of talking had been ordinary. But then he was no worse in her eyes for that.

  Two

  Emily had been at Croft Dene House for a month when she asked her master if it would be possible to take her half-day every Monday instead of every Sunday for she would like to go into Gateshead and visit her aunt. She could not remind him of what he had said when he was driving her from Fellburn market and through the town on that first day, that she would often see the town. But over the past four weeks on the numerous occasions he had driven the trap or the waggon into the town he had never suggested that she should change her half-day off and he would give her a lift into the town. Yet when she did put the suggestion to him, he agreed without any demur.

  And now this Monday morning she was scrambling round to get everything done before eleven o’clock, at which time the waggon was to leave the yard. She was running up the stairs now towards her mistress’s room when she met Lucy, her arms stretched wide carrying a laden breakfast tray.

  Emily stopped on the first landing and watched her for a moment as she came down the right hand set of stairs; then exclaiming, ‘Oh, be careful!’ she grabbed at the tray and held it while Lucy leant against the banister.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘She’s been goin’ on at me.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Everything. She called me stupid and…and a nitwit.’

  ‘Did she indeed!’

  ‘And she kept talkin’ at me.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Well, things like, we won’t reign long. Then she said, who stole the pie and hid it in her room?’

  Emily, putting one foot on the next step, balanced the tray on her knee as she said, ‘She didn’t!’

  ‘She did, Emily.’

  ‘She knows it was Con.’

  ‘She said it wasn’t, it was me.’

  ‘Oh!’ Emily now shook her head. There had been high jinks last week when the whole bacon and egg pie that she had made for supper disappeared overnight from the pantry and she herself straight away accused Con of taking it. ‘What have you done with the pie?’ she had demanded, and he had answered quite innocently, ‘What pie?’ And she had come back at him, ‘You know what pie, the bacon and egg pie that I made last night.’

  He was swearing blind that he hadn’t taken it when the master came into the kitchen and when she told him about the pie disappearing he looked at Con and said, ‘Not again, Con. For God’s sake! Don’t start that again.’ And Con had started to cry, and there followed an awful scene when the mast
er yelled at him, saying, ‘Stop denying it, Con. Just own up. Why do you have to steal food? You may go and stuff yourself until you burst—’ He had waved his arms wildly indicating the whole kitchen, then had pointed to the store cupboard and yelled at him, ‘Go in there and slice up a whole side of bacon and stick it in the pan, but do it openly.’

  She herself had been very upset, mostly by witnessing the helpless crying of the tall young fellow, for he had cried like a child, and when the master had left the kitchen she had gone to him and put her arm around his shoulder and, just like a child or their Lucy, he had turned and buried his head against her neck, and put his arms around her waist; and strangely she had felt no embarrassment because it wasn’t like a man holding her.

  When he had calmed down and dried his eyes he said to her, ‘I didn’t…take it, Emily. They say I take…things just because I used to take a bit of cake up to bed. I like eating, Emily, I like eating…I do…like eating, Emily.’ And she had said, ‘Yes, I know you do, Con. And take what you like out of the pantry, only let me know.’

  At this he had stared at her, then had slowly turned from her and walked out, leaving her with a bewildered feeling.

  Now she was handing the tray back to Lucy, saying, ‘Go on; carry it steady now and don’t take any notice of her. I told you what the master said, didn’t I?’

  ‘Emily.’

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘I’d better tell you, ’cos if I don’t she will. I was in the linen closet and I felt sick, and I brought a bit up on to a towel. She heard me and called me names and things.’

  Emily closed her eyes for a moment, then said, ‘You didn’t touch your breakfast, are you eating on the sly?’

  ‘No, Emily; but I’m feelin’ sick now and again.’

  ‘I’ll give you some bicarb when I come down. Go on.’

  Emily now walked slowly up the remainder of the stairs. With one thing and another life was very harassing; she looked back to the days in Pilot Place as to a dream holiday. She hadn’t realised how happy she had been, especially when she was running the house on her own. Oh, if only Sep hadn’t died…She wished she could stop thinking about Sep.