The Tide of Life

by Catherine Cookson

  When finally he said, ‘Emily’, she did not immediately turn to him but stood still. She was at the dresser, the candlestick in her hand, her back to him.

  ‘Emily.’ His voice was low and hoarse.

  She turned towards him now and they stared at each other.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He did not say for what he was sorry but she knew he was remembering clearly the incident in the drawing room. The seconds ticked away before he spoke again. ‘What am I going to do, Emily?’ he said.

  Oh dear God! She put her hand under her breast and pressed it tightly against her ribs. How could anybody stand straight and unbending and keep remembering two nights ago when a man such as he had been was now going to pieces before her eyes?

  She stretched out her hand backwards and placed the candlestick on the dresser again, but as yet she didn’t move towards him, for she couldn’t help remembering the look on his face when he had bawled at her, ‘And look here, me lady, if you think I’ll marry you because I’m finished, you’ve got another think coming. I’ll never marry you or anyone else as long as I live.’

  But would the man he now was think along the same lines? If she went with him up to that stone cottage on the windy hill, would she go as his wife or his woman?

  What did it matter? She would go anyway.

  She went towards him and put her arms about him and as she had done before she pressed his head into her breasts, and neither of them spoke. Her future was set.

  Six

  Mr Tooton, George Archer, and Emily stood looking at the long, old dray cart, its wheels half-buried in grass where it lay in the field behind the barn, and George, glancing at Mr Tooton, said again, ‘The will stated as much as he could get on the dray, you said?’

  ‘That’s right. That’s right.’

  ‘But it didn’t specify like what dray?’

  ‘No, no, it didn’t. But from what I’ve seen of the farm implements I’m sure she meant the small dray that you use for carrying things to the market.’

  ‘Oh aye, I won’t argue with you there, she meant it to be that one all right, but she just said a dray and…well look at that, that’s a dray.’

  Mr Tooton looked at the old cart, but it was Emily who asked, ‘Would one horse be able to pull it if it was laden?’

  ‘Aye, out of the gates and along the flat road. I walked along as far as the turnpike yesterday, you could get all your stuff as far as that; then it would have to be humped over the hill and along the valley and up the other side, but that won’t be too much of a problem, for as soon as you got the cart outside on the road you could let the livestock off and that would make it easier for the horse.’

  ‘The livestock?’ Mr Tooton’s countenance showed surprise.

  George now bent towards him and his voice low, he said, ‘Aye, Mr Tooton, livestock. There was no mention of what kind of stuff had to go on the dray, was there? And they’ve got to survive up there; they’ve got to have something to start with; an’ by God! he deserves that if nothin’ else. Bloody crying out shame, that’s my opinion of the whole affair. And I’ve said it afore, haven’t I, Mr Tooton?’

  ‘You have, you have indeed, you have.’ Mr Tooton nodded emphatically; then he added, ‘But the old man?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve thought of that,’ said George. ‘One of your lot sent him a letter an’ I had to read it to him. On Monday he has to go into Newcastle to sign some paper or other, so he’ll be out of the way and the cart will be gone afore he gets back. An, if he should say anything…well, I have me own way of dealing with the old boy. Never hit a man when he’s down I told him yesterday, ’cos the tables could turn on you, an’ human nature being what it is, the sympathy could go to the loser…But’—he shook his head—‘I’ve me doubts about it in this case.’

  ‘Yes, and so have I, George.’

  Turning to Emily, George said briskly, ‘I’d get busy, Emily. Make out a list of all the things you want to set up with. There’s plenty to pick from, and so if I was you I wouldn’t be mean with meself. What do you say, Mr Tooton?’

  Mr Tooton smiled primly and replied, ‘I’m sure Emily will take nothing but what is required, and, speaking from experience, there’s a great deal required when setting up house.’ His smile widened and as he turned away George remarked, ‘He’s a bit of all right is Mr Tooton. Surprisin’, when you think of it, to find somebody in his position with understandin’ of a situation like this…Well now’—he poked his head towards her—‘what do you think of that idea?’ He was pointing to the old dray cart, and she nodded and said, ‘I think it’s a grand idea, George. An’ thanks, I’d never have thought of it meself.’

  ‘Aw aye, you would; you think of most things, Emily.’ He was staring at her now, and his face took on a sombre look as he went on, ‘I’m going to miss you, the place won’t be the same without you. Do you know something, and I’m not jokin’ when I’m sayin’ it, but I’d give anything to be in his shoes.’

  As her eyes widened slightly he moved his head slowly up and down, then cast his gaze to the side as he confessed, ‘I cottoned on to you from the start. But there it is, you’ve made your choice, an’ you’d made it long afore I put in an appearance. I know that now, but I’ll say this, if ever you’re in need of a friend, Emily, and I’m anywhere about, all you have to do is to shout.’

  She swallowed deep in her throat and lowered her head slightly. ‘Thanks, George, I won’t forget,’ she said.

  As she was about to turn away he said, ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes, anything George.’

  ‘Is…is he going to wed you?’

  Her head did not droop now but she looked past him as she said, ‘I shouldn’t think so, now or ever.’

  For the next three days they walked silently side by side up onto the hill, down into the valley and up the further rise to the cottage. The first day she lit a fire inside and got the thick of the dirt out of the place, then brushed the inner walls down ready for whitewashing, while he cleared the shippons and hung the doors back on.

  It wasn’t until she watched him taking a scythe to the long grass that was reaching up to the front door that she saw return a flicker of the man who had raged. Changing from the slow, steady rhythm, he suddenly began to slash at the grass as if each clump were part of a mob which he was aiming to exterminate.

  She stood to the side of the small window and watched his progress towards the broken gate, and when he reached it he threw down the scythe, tore up the gate from the tangle of matted bracken and flung it aside, the rotten wood, as it hit the ground, falling away quietly like so much mush. Then, as if exhausted, she watched him lean against the low stone wall, and, allowing his head to fall back between his shoulders, stand gazing up into the sky.

  She could imagine him as a boy standing like that, dreaming of his future, asking the stars at night what they held for him, willing them to guide his destiny away from the restrictions that threaded his life in this two-roomed cottage, away onto a plane even beyond that of his grandfather, the small farmer; onto a plane where he could be looked up to.

  This is what she had always sensed he had needed most, to be looked up to. He must have seen himself as a pattern for other men, and he must have thought that he had reached his goal when he became master of Croft Dene House and farm. It was true he had turned the farm into a pattern for other farms, but as a pattern for a man he had failed, for his own would not recognise him as master, and those to whose level he aspired would not recognise him as friend. And now he was back where he had started, or even further back to where his father and mother had started, for they, too, must have cleared this ground, mucked out the shippons and tried to make these two rooms habitable.

  Her heart was full of pity for him.

  … And love? The question sidled into her mind.

  Yes, and love, for how otherwise could she do what she was about to do? She had always sworn inside herself she would never become a man’s kept woman, and that she knew would be the
tag they’d put on her in the village. Well, damn them in the village!

  She moved from the window and, taking up a narrow branch of wood, snapped it over her knee into three pieces and threw them onto the fire…There was one thing she would do, she’d show that lot down there that she wasn’t frightened of them; she wasn’t going to hide away as if she’d committed a crime. No, she’d show them. She didn’t know yet how but she’d think of something to let them see that they hadn’t got her so scared she daren’t put her foot in the village.

  On the Sunday, which was the third day, he carried the bag of lime, two wooden buckets and brushes, and she carried a basket of food, a clean pail, and a kettle, for she was determined there wasn’t going to be a repeat of the last two days when they hadn’t had a bite or sup from the time they left the house until they returned; and even then he had hardly touched the food Mrs Riley put before him.

  There was a thin rain falling and it was driven on a wind that could have foretold snow, so biting was it, and when finally she pushed open the door and they entered the bare, mouldy smelling room she looked at the grate and said as lightly as she could, ‘Oh, look! The ashes are still warm; we’ll soon have a fire goin’ and the kettle boiling. Will you get some water?’

  She turned towards him. He had just straightened his back after depositing the buckets and sack on the floor, and he didn’t give her any answer as she handed him the pail but he looked hard at her, and she couldn’t define the expression on his face. There was no surliness in it, nor aggressiveness. Yet there was something. The explanation she gave herself was that he looked like a dumb man, a frustrated dumb man.

  It was half an hour later when, she sitting on a low log at one side of the fireplace, and he on the upturned wooden bucket at the other, sipping at the hot tea, that he spoke. Putting his mug down onto the uneven stone hearth, he looked into her face and said, ‘You haven’t got to do this, Emily; I can look after meself. I’ll get by.’

  She took a long drink from the mug; then picking up a spoon from the food basket and putting it into the mug, she scraped up the unmelted sugar from the bottom of it, and she licked the spoon for the last time before she said, ‘I know I haven’t got to do it, but I’m goin’ to.’

  He was still looking into her face as he said softly, ‘You haven’t experienced the winter up here; it can be terrible.’

  ‘No worse than the river front at Shields with the snow up to the window sills many a time.’

  ‘There’s no comparison. You can be snowed up for weeks. And the wind, it never seems to lessen. You feel you’re going mad.’

  ‘Well, I’d say you’re more likely to go mad on your own than if you have company.’

  ‘It’s different for a man.’

  ‘Look.’ She put the mug down on the hearth and gazed back into his face as she said, ‘I’ve made up me mind. I’m stayin’. And tell me’—her voice was rough edged now—‘tell me the truth. What would you feel like if I walked out on you an’ all? Because I haven’t seen many friends rallying round you. Where’s that Mrs Rowan? She’s never shown her face. Now that to my mind is very odd, ’cos when they thought you had come into a house and a fortune they all turned up. My, didn’t they! But not any more…’

  She watched him rise to his feet, turn his back on her and go towards the door, and she didn’t say to herself now, ‘Eeh! You shouldn’t talk like that to him,’ because, as she saw it, she was to be his wife and was, therefore, entitled to speak plainly.

  As if he had heard her thinking, he said, ‘You know I won’t marry you. What I said the other night in anger I say it now quite calmly: I won’t marry you, Emily. And for more reasons than one. But one is, that if I did I’d be tying you, and some day you’ll want to walk out. Oh yes, you will.’

  He turned slowly about and looked at her, and as she gazed up at him she wanted to jump up and fall on his neck and cry, ‘No, no! Not me. I’ll never walk out on you. It could be the other way about, but I’ll never leave you, not as long as you need me.’ But what she said was, ‘Well, you’ve had your say, so let’s leave it at that an’ get on with some work, eh?’ for she had discovered he wasn’t a demonstrative man except when emotionally upset. It was a disappointing discovery, but there it was. And if you knew what to expect you wouldn’t be disappointed, would you?

  As she rose to her feet she had a silly thought, for she said to herself, and wistfully, ‘I’m only seventeen.’

  Seven

  They were all ready to go. The big dray was packed high at the front with a conglomeration of household goods, and each side was buffered by two large trunks which held Larry’s clothes and personal effects—Emily’s filled her bass hamper and two bundles. A space had been left up the middle of the dray into which they hoped to marshal the cow and the three sheep, and the crate of hens. If the situation had not had its tragic side Emily would have laughed long and loud at the sight the dray presented.

  They were almost ready to go but there was one thing she must see to before leaving. She had earlier unpinned the watch from her shift, and now she must ask Mr Tooton to do her a service concerning it.

  She had just stopped Mrs Riley from putting another tub of butter onto the already laden dray, saying, ‘It’ll only go rancid, it won’t keep.’

  ‘You can boil it up, girl, an’ it’ll be as good as new.’

  She sighed as she said kindly, ‘No, we’ve got plenty already; you’ve put enough food on there to last us for the next six months.’ Then, she exclaimed pointing towards the drive, ‘There’s Mr Tooton. I…I want a word with him,’ and she now ran through the kitchen, into the hall, to meet Mr Tooton as he entered by the front door.

  Panting, she asked, ‘Can I have a word with you, Mr Tooton, please?’

  ‘Of course, Emily.’ The clerk’s voice was grave. Then, as if he had lived in the house all his life, he led the way to the drawing room; standing aside to allow her to pass before him he closed the door and walked towards the fire, saying, ‘Now, I’m at your service, Emily.’

  ‘Well, it’s this way, Mr Tooton, I…I fear we’re goin’ to need all the money we can get. I know in a little while he’ll get the lump sum of his wages, but in the meantime we’ve got to live and…and get things going. And I don’t know how much he’s got on him. But I have this.’ She pulled the watch from her pocket, laid it on her palm, then extended her hand towards him, and Mr Tooton stood gazing down on it. Then he looked up at her and said briefly, ‘This belongs to you?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. It isn’t the mistress’s!’ Her voice was rising. ‘Don’t think that.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t, I wasn’t. Don’t mistake me, Emily. But it’s a very beautiful piece.’

  ‘Yes, it is; and it was given to me by the man I was goin’ to marry afore I came here.’

  ‘Really!…He must have been a very wealthy man.’

  She saw immediately that he didn’t believe her, and so she protested firmly: ‘This watch is mine, Mr Tooton. An’ Mr McGillby wasn’t a wealthy man, not like the master…I mean like he was. Mr McGillby was a gaffer in the docks, and his wife died and I looked after the house. I’d been there two years afore she died, an’ we were going to be married when I was seventeen. He was a very honourable man…Mr McGillby. Well’—she now moved her hand with the watch in it—‘he met a lot of sailors—you see it was in Shields on the river front we lived—and these sailors were often hard up and they had brought things home with them, what they had bought abroad, trinkets an’ things, and Mr McGillby sometimes bought a piece of them. Well, he had a number of pieces, but when he saw this he had to sell all his other pieces to get it, so that makes me think it’s worth something.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, indeed, Emily, I should say it’s worth something…may I?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She handed it to him, and then she watched him move his finger gently along the row of stones on the strap from the pin down to the winder on the watch; then around the edge of the gold strap, and lastly around the face of the
watch itself.

  ‘Do…do you think it’s valuable?’

  ‘Well’—Mr Tooton pursed his lips—‘there are a great many stones in it. Of course, I’m no authority on jewellery, but yes, I would say offhand it is worth a good few pounds. I presume you want to sell it, Emily?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I want to sell it; but…but I thought if I went into Fellburn or Newcastle and tried to get money on it, even in a pawnshop, they might think I’d stole it. An’ I’d have to explain about Mr McGillby, an’ then they might think he’d stole it. But he didn’t. Oh, he didn’t! Mr McGillby would never steal anything; his wife had brought him up Chapel.’

  She now nodded her head slowly, and Mr Tooton nodded as slowly back at her as he said, ‘Chapel are mostly honest people.’

  ‘Mr McGillby was honest.’

  Mr Tooton made no comment on this but, looking at her, he said, ‘How much do you think it is worth in your own mind?’

  ‘Aw, I don’t rightly know, but all of thirty pounds…or…or more, I should say.’

  ‘Thirty pounds…or more.’

  ‘Do you think I’m overstepping the mark?’

  ‘No, no, Emily, no. But, of course, as I said, I’m no authority. But if you wish me to dispose of it…and that is what you do wish, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Tooton, yes. I’d like you to…to dispose of it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do my very best for you. I may be able to sell it outright, or on the other hand I may only be able to pawn it.’

  ‘Either way it wouldn’t matter, Mr Tooton, because you see I’ve never been able to wear it, an’ I’ve less chance now than ever, haven’t I?’

  ‘That’s true, Emily. That’s true. Well now’—Mr Tooton looked up towards the ceiling—‘today is Monday. I’ll be going into town to report on Wednesday. I should be back here on Thursday. If I have managed to sell it, I’ll come up to your cottage…’