Christmas at Emmerdale

by Pamela Bell

  And now that was done, and the funeral tea was done and there was no more she could do for her father. He was gone.

  Maggie didn’t remember her mother. She had died when Maggie was barely two, and her father had never remarried. Maggie had always imagined that he had loved his wife too deeply to bear the thought of putting another woman in her place, and although the village gossips had disapproved of the way he let Maggie and her brother run wild, the truth was that Maggie had never missed having a mother. Her beloved father and Andrew were enough for her.

  But now they were both gone and she was alone

  Except … Ralph had come back.

  The sight of him in the doorway had jolted Maggie’s feelings back to life, the rush of awareness so piercing that it blotted out everything except the unthinking joy of knowing that he was there.

  Ralph still loved her. He hadn’t needed to say anything, she knew just by looking at him. He had come back for her.

  Too late, too late, too late. The bitter realisation drummed along Maggie’s veins. She was married to Joe. She had wed him with her eyes open. She had needed a home and he had provided one. She had stood in front of the altar in St Mary’s and promised to stay with Joe till death parted them, not until her father died or Ralph came home.

  Ralph loved her and she loved Ralph, but love wasn’t a good enough reason to break the vows she had made, Maggie realised. She had made her choice the year before. There was no point in grieving for what was lost. All she could do was what her father had always said, to keep her head up and keep her promises.

  And that meant going back to Emmerdale Farm and making the best of it.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Joe demanded.

  Maggie stood in front of the mildewed mirror and secured her hat onto her hair with a pin. ‘Church,’ she said. ‘It’s Sunday.’ She looked at Joe’s reflection. ‘You should come.’

  ‘I’ve got better things to do than listen to t’vicar droning on.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like keeping this bloody farm going.’ Joe jerked his head in the direction the river. ‘We’ve still got to get in hay from t’far fields.’

  The fields should have been done the week before but Maggie knew better than to say anything.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten that you promised Frank he could go home today? He hasn’t had a day off for three weeks now and his mother will be looking for his wages.’

  ‘The lad’s simple,’ said Joe in disgust. ‘His ma should be paying me to feed him!’

  Maggie said nothing. Frank was not the brightest of lads, but he had a way with animals and cheerfully milked the cows twice a day. Joe wouldn’t want to take on that job again, she knew.

  Joe stomped over to the mantelpiece and took down the tin where he kept his money. He flung the coins at Maggie. ‘Take it then,’ he growled as if she had been nagging him for hours.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to manage with George.’

  ‘George won’t work when he finds out Frank’s having a holiday.’ Joe looked out of the window, his expression morose. ‘We may as well do the fields tomorrow.’

  He would waste the whole day, Maggie realised with an inner sigh. She knew that he had begged his father to leave him in charge of the farm but no sooner had Orton Sugden set sail for Australia than Joe had started to resent the responsibility. He lived his life in a constant state of dissatisfaction, yearning for something only to turn around once it was achieved and blame it for not making him content.

  He had been the same when it came to her. He had wanted her only until he had her, and now it seemed that she was to blame for everything that went wrong.

  At fourteen, Frank was already as big as many men, but his expression was childlike with a round face and round blue eyes. He looked alarmed when told he was to accompany Maggie to Beckindale, but he was used to doing what he was told, and seemed to be reassured by Toby, who greeted him joyfully and ran around in excited circles as they set off down the track.

  Maggie tried to talk to him while they walked, but couldn’t get anything beyond a nod or a shake of his head, so after a while she left him alone and they walked in companionable silence, down the track, along the lane and over the bridge into Beckindale. It was another oppressive day, the heat pressing down from a hazy, strangely colourless sky, smothering the countryside which had a raggedy, inert look.

  Surely it would rain soon? Maggie scanned the hilltops with narrowed eyes but she could see no sign of clouds, just a faint purple smudge along the horizon. All along the lane, the grass had collapsed and was leaning forward as if anticipating a blow while the normally muddy ruts had hardened into ridges that made for hard walking.

  Nancy Pickles lived on the far side of the village in a mean cottage that seemed to be full of children, but her face lit up when she saw Frank and she took the money Maggie gave her gratefully.

  ‘Thank ee, Mrs Sugden,’ she said, fingering the coins. ‘Likely as not the great gowk would have lost it if left to himself,’ she added with an affectionate look at her son. ‘I’ll make sure he’s back in time for milking, never you mind.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘Enjoy your day, Frank,’ she said, and he blushed fierily and ducked his head.

  Maggie’s smile faded as she approached the church. Most of Beckindale – those who weren’t Chapel, anyway – would be inside. She hadn’t seen anyone since the scene at the funeral tea, and she was not looking forward to the stares and the whispers. If it hadn’t felt like cowardice, she would have made an excuse not to come. At least everyone was already inside in the cool, so she could slip into a pew at the back.

  Toby went to lie in the shade of a yew, and she squared her shoulders before pushing open the church door. Its loud creak cut through the murmured conversations and half the congregation turned to see the late arrival. Ava Skilbeck – now Bainbridge, Maggie remembered – was there with her husband and three timid stepchildren. Maggie saw her lean forward and exchange a significant look with Betty Porter, who twisted round, her plump face bright with curiosity. Janet Airey raised her brows at Mary Ann Teale. What did they think? That she was here to seduce Ralph in front of them?

  Maggie met their looks with a defiant lift of her chin, but beyond the nodding bonnets and speculative gazes she had glimpsed a familiar wheat-coloured head in the front pew and in spite of her resolve, her heart lurched into her throat and lodged there, hammering.

  Ralph was sitting between his stepmother, the young Lady Miffield, and the slumped form of Lord Miffield who was famous for sleeping through the service. As if sensing her gaze, Ralph turned to look over his shoulder, and Maggie slipped quickly into a pew right at the back where she could hide behind a pillar. Her knees were trembling and she bent her head to rest on her hands, fists clenched in a pretence of prayer, to give the heat in her face a chance to subside.

  Keep your head up, keep your promises, she told herself.

  A buzz of anticipation ran around the church as the Reverend Haywood climbed weightily into the pulpit.

  ‘There is a grave and troublous time before us,’ he said in his sonorous voice. ‘We are now at a point of crisis. I must tell you that today Germany has declared war on Russia and has invaded Luxembourg. If they continue to Belgium, our ally France will stand in dire need of our help, and Britain will always stand with its friends. War may be upon us if Germany does not retreat.’

  The congregation stirred uneasily.

  ‘Whatever lies before us, know that we will all do our duty,’ Charles Haywood continued, gripping the pulpit in his fervour. ‘Honour, freedom, civilisation itself are at stake. We pray today for those who hold the well-being of our country in trust, and for our forces that may be called upon to fight for King and country and for the principles of our Lord Jesus Christ.’

  Maggie stared at the vicar. She had heard rumours of conflict in Europe ever since the Archduke was assassinated in Sarajevo, but she hadn’t thought that it would c
ome to war, to fighting and to dying.

  ‘We may be but a small village in the Dales,’ Charles Haywood went on, ‘but we are England too. If the call comes to serve, as it may, we will answer it. We will serve in whatever way we can and fight to preserve our country and our empire.’

  Swept along by his fervour, the congregation was nodding and murmuring support, and when he suggested that they sing the national anthem together, they rose as one to their feet while the organist pumped the pedals for the opening refrain.

  God save our gracious King

  Long live our noble King

  They sang lustily in unison, and Maggie found herself singing too. For those few short minutes, she forgot her grief for her father. She forgot her loneliness and the bleakness of her marriage. She even forgot Ralph in the conviction that something momentous was unfolding, and that somehow she would be part of it.

  Chapter Four

  After the service, the congregation filed out of the church. It was a slow business, as everyone paused to exchange sombre words with the vicar in the porch. The Verney party in the front pew left first, as was customary. Naturally, they weren’t expected to shuffle along and wait their turn with everyone else.

  Maggie was ready, and as Lady Miffield’s hat appeared around the edge of the pillar, she dropped her hymn book and bent down to pick it up so that Ralph wouldn’t see her if he happened to glance to the side. Pretending to fumble with it, she stayed down as long as she could, and when she did straighten it was just in time to see Ralph’s back disappearing into the porch.

  Ignoring the curious glances slid her way, Maggie fixed her eyes on the stained-glass window that her grandfather had donated to St Mary’s after the church was gutted by fire in the previous century. It showed Christ in a rich red robe, holding a fat lamb, with hills in the background. Maggie liked to imagine her grandfather choosing a familiar scene from the pattern book, eyeing up the lamb with a Dalesman’s critical eye.

  She had never known William Oldroyd, but by all accounts he had been a formidable figure and one of the wealthiest men in Beckindale. What would he think if he knew that his granddaughter had to empty the slop pail and get down on her knees to polish the kitchen floor? Would he despise her for accepting her lot, or be proud of her for doing what needed to be done?

  Outside the church, the people of Beckindale would be exchanging greetings and discussing the sermon, jostling to get a closer look at Lady Miffield’s hat or perhaps even have a word with Ralph Verney. And there would be some, Ava Bainbridge chief amongst them, who would be waiting avidly for Maggie to emerge, hoping for another scene that they could shake their heads over for weeks and months to come.

  Maggie had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of even noting that she walked past Ralph without saying a word. She sat on, watching the way the sunlight through the stained-glass windows threw puddles of soft colour onto the pillars, and thinking about the possibility of war.

  It had been an expectedly uplifting moment, listening to the Reverend Haywood, the entire congregation united as they sang the national anthem. For those few minutes, she had felt as if she was part of Beckindale, but those sidelong looks as everyone left had reminded her that she didn’t belong here, any more than she belonged at Emmerdale Farm. She belonged up on the fells, at High Moor, which was hers no more.

  Loneliness wrapped itself around Maggie, settling onto her shoulders like a heavy cloak and she allowed herself a sigh.

  War. Could it really come to that? She would be hard pressed to put Germany and Russia on a map, let alone Luxembourg. The vicar had talked about freedom, about honour and civilisation, but what did those things have to do with them? Maggie couldn’t imagine anything changing at Beckindale. War or no war, they would carry on ploughing and harvesting, shearing and lambing, milking and making cheese. She would carry on being married to Joe. She would carry on grieving for her father and her brother. Her heart would carry on breaking for Ralph.

  Nothing would change.

  The verger was collecting up the hymn books and eyeing Maggie askance. Reluctantly, she got up to go, and was relieved to see that the congregation had dispersed. The vicar had abandoned his post in the porch and was walking back to the vicarage with his daughter, pretty Rose Haywood with her sweet face and the big brown eyes that held unmistakable hostility when she looked at Maggie.

  As Maggie watched, she saw Rose tuck her hand in Charles Haywood’s arm and lean against his shoulder. It was a simple gesture of affection, and Maggie’s heart twisted savagely as she remembered doing the same with her own beloved father.

  Toby had bellied out from under the shade of the yew and was jumping around her, anxious for attention. Maggie forced a wobbly smile as she bent to pat him. ‘Good dog,’ she told him. ‘You’re right. I’ve still got you.’

  The streets of Beckindale were quiet as Maggie walked back to the bridge across the beck, Toby at her heels. In spite of the heat, most people would be sitting down to roast beef. Dot didn’t come on a Sunday, so Maggie had left a huge joint in the oven at Emmerdale. They would have it for dinner when she got back, and the leftovers would see them through the week.

  It felt wrong to be thinking of dinner when the country teetered on the brink of war. There was an ominous purple smudge behind the hills, and disquiet stirred in Maggie’s stomach as she paused on the bridge to look down at the beck. It ran broad and shallow here, barely rippling over the rocks and slipping into quiet pools under the trees.

  ‘Maggie.’

  Her heart stuttered at the quiet voice.

  ‘Maggie,’ it said again. ‘Down here.’

  She leant over the parapet and there was Ralph, waiting for her in the dappled shadows under the bridge, a patch of sunlight picking out the gold in his hair.

  ‘Come down,’ he said.

  Maggie shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘We have to talk,’ said Ralph and when she still said nothing, ‘I’ll come up there then.’

  He turned as if to climb up the bank, and Maggie found her voice. ‘No,’ she said, glancing around her. The road was empty but there was no telling who might come along and see her with Ralph and the whole cycle of gossip would start again. ‘No, I’ll come down.’

  With a quick glance over her shoulder to check that no one was watching, she ducked under the branches of an elderflower and slipped down the bank into the damp cool shade under the bridge, Toby eagerly leading the way.

  Ralph offered her a hand to help her down the last bit onto the sandy bank. Maggie felt his fingers close around hers and she clung to them before she made herself pull out of his grasp.

  Toby was fawning over Ralph, pawing him and rolling onto his back, stubby tail wagging frenziedly. Ralph laughed and bent to rub the dog’s stomach. ‘Good boy, Toby!’

  ‘He remembers you,’ said Maggie and Ralph straightened with a final pat.

  ‘At least he’s pleased to see me.’

  Maggie clutched her hands together to stop them reaching for him. ‘How did you know I’d be coming? I didn’t think you’d seen me in church.’

  ‘I knew you were there. I could feel you,’ he said. ‘When you’re near, the air changes,’ he tried to explain. ‘Like it’s brighter and sharper somehow, and everything feels more vivid – like it does now,’ he added, reaching for her.

  She stepped back. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Maggie …’

  ‘We can’t do this, Ralph. I’m married.’

  ‘To Joe Sugden! How could you do that, Maggie?’

  ‘You know how. You know why.’

  She couldn’t tear her eyes from him. It was as if she was devouring every familiar detail, testing her memory of the way his hair grew, the line of his jaw, of his mouth. His mouth. She could step towards him, kiss him and she knew exactly how it would feel, how he would taste. She wanted to do that, more than anything, so she made herself take another step back, made herself take a steadying breath. ‘How could yo
u leave me?’ she countered.

  ‘I couldn’t stay and watch. I couldn’t stand it. My beautiful Maggie, shackled to a brute like Sugden!’ Ralph’s face twisted at the memory. ‘Just thinking of him putting his hands on you made me sick!’

  And what did he think it had been like for her? Maggie thought with a flash of resentment.

  ‘It sounds as if you got over me fast enough,’ she said sharply. ‘There are no secrets in Beckindale, you should know that. New York, the Riviera, London. Champagne and balls. Seems to me that you managed to enjoy yourself all right.’

  ‘Enjoy myself? Ha!’ Ralph gave a crack of mirthless laughter. ‘If only you knew. Yes, I tried to forget you, Maggie. I really did. But I was just going through the motions. I’d be at a party, dancing and flirting, or at the theatre, or drinking champagne on a yacht, and I’d find this terrible loneliness creeping over me, and I’d realise that all I wanted was to be with you. So I came home. I thought it would be easier if I was near you, if I could breathe the same air as you, but it isn’t easier, it’s harder. It’s harder knowing that you’re just up there at Emmerdale Farm and I can’t touch you, I can’t talk to you, I can’t even see you.’

  He paused. ‘The truth is, part of me was hoping that when I saw you again, the magic would have died. That I’d realise I didn’t need you after all.’ He looked down into Maggie’s eyes, his fingers tightening around hers. ‘But when I walked into the room and saw you … you looked so tired and so alone, but you were just the same. And then Sugden was drunk and I didn’t realise … I should have realised,’ he said, ‘but God, Maggie, Sugden! The thought of you and that brute … How do you bear it?’

  ‘I bear it because I have to,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have come, Ralph. You humiliated Joe, and you humiliated me.’