The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift) Read online

  The scream that rang through the wood almost lifted her clear from the ground. Her mouth wide open, her eyes staring out of her head, she now saw two figures spring from the foot of the oak, stand for a moment transfixed before apparently grovelling on the ground, then flying in opposite directions as if through the air. One she took to be a woman who was still screaming, the other a man, whose legs looked starkly white and who was, as far as she could make out, wearing only his shirt.

  It was some seconds before she was brought to herself through the pain in her hand. She was clutching a briar bush and all she could say to herself was, ‘Eeh! did I hit them? Eeh! did I hit them?’

  After a moment spent standing, gasping for breath, she slowly approached the tree. There above her head shone the handle of the knife. It was almost six feet from the ground, and they had been lying down. She couldn’t have hit them. But that woman screaming, she would have woken the neighbourhood up, at least those down on Hudson’s farm.

  Reaching up, she pulled out the knife and quickly tucked it into the sheath in her skirt band.

  Scurrying now, she made her way out of the wood; then almost bent double, she ran along by the walls and the hedges until she came to the hollow in the field below the cottage, and there, dropping onto her knees, she gasped for breath. And in this position there crept into her mind the picture of the two people scrambling to their feet, both half-naked, the woman with her mouth wide open from which emitted the awful screams, and the man whose hair seemed to be standing on end, although it might have only been tousled. As the picture presented her with a pair of bare legs disappearing into the trees there passed through her body a quiver that turned into a muttering shudder which escaped her lips in the form of a series of huh! huhs!

  When the sound grew louder she threw herself face down into the grass, pressing her mouth tight to the earth in an effort to stifle the convulsions of laughter that were rocking her. Presently, her body still shaking and aching, she pulled herself round into a sitting position and adjusted her cloak and the hood over her head, and she rocked herself gently.

  Who had they taken her for? The devil? And who were they anyway? She hadn’t been able to make out their faces because they had been so distorted, only that the man must have had very thick hair.

  Oh dear me, she had a pain in her side. Anyway, she felt better, not sad any more. It had been worth going out. But eeh! what would happen to the woman? She must have been misbehaving because if she had been married she wouldn’t have needed to be carrying on under the oak tree, would she now? And her yelling had given her away. But perhaps she had got home without being stopped. Eeh! she had screamed; it was unearthly, like somebody coming up out of a grave.

  But enough, she herself would be in a grave if she didn’t get back under the roof and quick. It was a good job the moon had hazed over again.

  Pulling herself to her feet, and again bent double, she scurried up by the wall, then ran across the open space to the corner of the house.

  The shadows had moved now and because she knew that the old ladder would no longer be quite so shielded she cautiously put her head round the corner of the wall. And then it was she who almost screamed, for there, standing at the foot of the ladder, was the figure of a man looking upwards.

  Unconsciously she gasped, and the sound brought him around; then almost in a spring he was standing beside her, towering over her. She had closed her eyes and was waiting for a blow or the sneer of Luke’s voice or his arms coming about her, but it was Barney’s voice she heard saying, ‘What do you think you’re up to, Emma?’

  ‘Oh! Barney.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I…I wa…was’—she was stammering now with relief—‘I wa…was just taking…I mean…I…I had just been for a str…stroll.’

  ‘At this time of night!’ His voice was a hissing whisper.

  And she answered, ‘It was very hot up there.’

  ‘Did you hear somebody scream a little while back?’

  Again she closed her eyes and it was some seconds before she said, ‘I heard something but I thought it was…was an animal trapped like.’

  ‘That was no animal, I…I thought it could be you.’

  ‘Me?’ Her eyes were wide now as she looked at him.

  ‘Yes, you, out on one of your night jaunts.’

  Barney had known she went out at nights and he…he hadn’t split on her. Oh, Barney was nice.

  ‘How… how did you know?’

  ‘Oh, I knew; you’re not the only one who likes to wander.’

  ‘You never let on.’

  ‘I…I didn’t want to frighten you from having a little…well, freedom, sort of.’

  ‘Oh, Barney, thank you, thank you.’

  There was a silence between them, and for all they stood in the shadow she could still make out his face. His eyes were soft and kind and now his voice came soft and kind as he asked her a question: ‘Do you like me, Emma?’

  She had no hesitation in answering, ‘Oh, yes Barney I like you, I like you best of the lot. I always have.’

  ‘You’re only thirteen, Emma, and I’m eighteen. I’m…I’m ready for a wife. You understand, Emma?’

  She did, and she didn’t, so she remained quiet, and he went on, ‘But…but I’m willin’ to wait. I’m gona wait for you, Emma. Do you understand?’

  Her mouth was dry, she gulped in her throat, gathered some spittle, wetted her lips with it, then said, ‘You mean, till I’m ready for courting like?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  She felt warm, nice, protected; but that was only for a moment. ‘Your mother?’ she said.

  ‘My mother can’t rule me life, an’ she knows it, as does me da. I’ll pick where I want to.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t have me here, she’d go mad.’

  ‘There’s other farms in the world and I’ve got a pair of hands on me. I know I’m no scholar, not like your other friends the painter and the parson, but I’ve me wits about me and could always make a good living for us both. What do you say, Emma?’

  ‘I say, thank you, Barney.’

  His eyes were very bright, his lips were shining with moisture, his head was moving from side to side in small movements, and his voice sounded thick as he said, ‘It’ll just be between us then, nobody to know only you and me?’

  ‘Yes, Barney.’

  He put his arms out now and when they came about her and she was pressed close to him, her stomach seemed to whirl upwards and lodge against her throat. She felt she was going to choke; she didn’t know whether she was happy or afraid.

  His mouth was on hers; the lips were closed, as were hers, and they remained there for what seemed a long time, long enough for the feeling of fear to subside and a warm glow to take its place.

  They were standing apart now and he said, ‘Go on, get up that ladder, and no more night jaunts. I’ve got to get back to old Dobbin.’

  ‘Is he bad?’

  ‘Aye; I don’t think he’ll see the night out, he’s had his day. He’s twenty gone and he’s been worked out. That’s what they do on farms, Emma, they work you out. But they’re not going to work me out, and they’re not going to work you out. I’ll see to it.’

  He leaned forward now and looked round the corner; then taking her hand, he drew her to the foot of the ladder.

  When she had mounted it and was about to go through the hatch she looked down at him, and he smiled up at her and raised his hand.

  A few minutes later she was lying on the pallet bed staring at the rafter that sloped steeply over her head. She had wanted adventure, something to happen, and it had happened. She was named. Barney had named her. Somehow it didn’t matter about the parson getting married now, at least not so much.

  Emma had come to the end of the last milking for the day. She lifted her head from the soft belly of the brown cow, sat still for a moment on the stool, let out a sigh that spoke of weariness, swivelled round and was about to rise and pick up the wooden bucket when her attention was caught by the
sight of the missis standing in the opening of the cow byres talking to her husband who had just been leaving the byres with a pail in each hand. The missis had on her Sunday bonnet and her black beaded Sunday cape which she wore when she went visiting; and this wasn’t often, but today she had been into Gateshead Fell and had apparently stopped in the village on her return for now she was saying, ‘I tell you the village is agog with it. Midnight they say when she came screaming down the road. Woke up the Turnbulls and they are some distance from her cottage, which is yon side of the graveyard. In fact, as Ann Turnbull said, she thought the dead had risen. Anyway it brought the parson out. He was in his study writing. Miss Wilkinson says he’s sometimes there till one o’clock in the morning. She spluttered to the parson…I mean Peggy MacFarlane did, that she had seen the devil and he had thrown a dagger at her and just missed her heart. He was of a great height with horns and was black from head to foot.’

  ‘She must have been drunk.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t, not Peggy MacFarlane.’

  ‘Then she’s going off her head. Anyway, what did she want traipsing out at that time of night for? And her man’s away, isn’t he?’

  ‘Aye; he’s drovin’ some cattle down for Hudson and Crosby.’

  ‘Aye, so he is…Crosby…so he is. Well now, what did she want out at that time of night, I ask you? And up near the Openwood, you say? Oh! oh!’ The farmer now laughed. ‘I’d like to bet Eddy ‘Farlane’s aware what she gets up to when he’s out of the way an’ managed to slip back and take a shot at her. And I don’t blame him.’

  ‘Well, there could be something in that, but I don’t think so, ’cos he’s been gone over two days, and if he had been back here somebody would have spotted him. He’d have a job to hide himself, would Eddy MacFarlane, the size he is. Anyway, she’s in a state an’ she says the knife was as big as a spear and it shone in the moonlight, an’ when she ran the devil ran after her an’ tried to catch her. But as soon as she reached the churchyard wall and clung on to it he disappeared, he couldn’t come near holy ground.’

  At this Emma swung herself round on the milking stool again and once more her head was pressed against the warm belly of the cow, but now her hand was tight across her mouth. Eeh! the devil; and a knife as big as a spear; and the devil chasing her to the churchyard wall. When she lifted her face up it was wet. Quickly drying it on her apron and now assuming a solemn look, she rose and picked up the bucket of milk and went down the byres. The farmer and his wife were still talking and they had to move to one side to let her pass; but she was stopped by Dilly Yorkless suddenly stretching out her hand and touching the bucket and, her thoughts back to the business of the day, she said, ‘That from Primrose?’

  ‘Yes, missis.’

  ‘It’s down, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, a bit, missis.’

  ‘Haven’t been stuffing yourself, have you?’

  Emma straightened her weary back and looked straight at her mistress as she said, ‘I never touch the new milk; I don’t like it warm, never have.’

  ‘Go on with you, and no backchat.’

  Emma went on and the farmer’s wife’s words followed her, saying, ‘Getting too big for her boots, that ’un. Wants taking down a peg, and I’ll see to it, surely I will…’

  Later that evening, Lizzie had hardly put down on the table the dish of mutton stew that she had brought from the house before she said, ‘Something going on in the village; her ladyship came in full of it. You know Peggy MacFarlane, the drover’s wife, who lives in the cottage down in the dip yon side of the church? Well, she’s supposed to have seen the devil last night. And what I say is, it’s about time he paid her a visit an’ all; the antics she gets up to when her man’s away. Anway,’ Lizzie chuckled, ‘whoever the devil was he was up to her capers. I wonder who her partner in crime was this time? Hudson, while supposedly on his last rounds? Or it could be that son of his, Anthony, for he’s a spark all right. It could even be Joe Mason; he thinks he’s got enough charm to kill, does Joe. Not satisfied with knocking his beasts on the head, he serves them over his counter with a smile on which you could slide. Oh, it could be anyone of them…What you doing up there? Washing yourself away?’

  It was a moment before Emma turned from the tin dish and said, ‘I’m coming, Granny.’

  Quickly now, she dried her hands on the towel, wondering as she did so what Barney would make of the news. Would he be bright enough to put two and two together and make four? He just could, because he had his wits about him, wits enough to make him pass her a number of times the day without a word. Only once had he looked at her, and then this gaze was soft and had a kindly message.

  As she went to the table she wished she could tell her granny. Oh she did; she wanted to have a good laugh.

  She had a good laugh the next morning. She was somewhat late arriving at the cottage; the missis had been in a funny temper and had kept her at it until the last minute. Ten o’clock was the time she was supposed to be at the cottage and at half past nine the missis had come into the dairy and complained that the pans hadn’t been scrubbed properly; she said there had been stale cream on one of the rims. Emma knew that was a lie: she couldn’t have left stale cream on one of the rims because she always ran her hand round it when she finished, and if it wasn’t absolutely smooth she went over it again. So it was almost on ten before she left the farm, and she’d hardly had time to tidy herself up, and she had run all the way and was panting for breath when she reached the back door.

  She knew the parson was here because his trap was in the road, and so she went into the kitchen very quietly.

  She paused a moment to get her breath and was pushing back the hair that had escaped from her cap when the two figures appeared in the kitchen doorway. It was as if they had been waiting for her. And she was a little startled by their manner.

  It was Mr Bowman who spoke first. ‘Ah-ha!’ he said, ‘what have we here? A young lady or a demon? Come here, miss.’

  He was beckoning with an outstretched arm and slow-moving forefinger, but as she moved towards him her eyes rested on the parson who had his head bowed and his chin pulled into his stiff white collar; and his eyes were turned up, almost scorning to disappear beneath his eyebrows in a questioning manner. He looked very funny. But when she neared them it was Mr Bowman who said in a deep voice, ‘Emma Molinero, what have you got to say for yourself?’

  They both now backed away from her into the living room, and after hesitating a moment she followed them, her teeth tight pressed down on her lower lip, her head thrust forward. And now she was staring at the slabs on the stone floor, unconsciously taking in the fact that they weren’t very dirty and would just need to be washed this morning and not scrubbed, as the weather had been so dry there were no mud marks to be got off.

  ‘Come here, Emma.’

  The parson was now sitting down on the chair by the window, and when she was standing in front of him, their faces on a level, he asked quietly, ‘What have you got to tell us, Emma?’

  She looked from the parson up to the painter and, her voice very small, she said, ‘You mean about the devil?’

  ‘About the devil, Emma,’ the parson said, ‘about the devil. He was dressed all in black and threw a spear at a defenceless woman.’

  Her teeth dragged in her lip again and, her head bending further down now, she muttered, ‘It was very hot and I went out for a walk.’ Her head jerking up now, she looked at the parson, adding quickly, ‘I hadn’t done it for a long, long time.’ Then her glance taking in the painter as well, she said, ‘I…I wanted to do something…well, not just walk. I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, it being a bright moonlight night, I thought I could practise throwing the knives. I don’t get much chance otherwise and they remind me of Dada. They sort of bring him back because’—again her gaze was centred on the parson—‘he gets dim in me mind. I can’t remember what he looked like at times. But when I touch the knives or the whip he comes back, and so I…I took
a couple of knives and went into the wood, and I just threw one.’ Her mouth opened wide now, her eyes stretched, and she made a gasping sound in her throat as she looked at the painter who had dropped onto his hunkers by the side of the parson. They seemed almost as one, and now she was spluttering as she said, ‘I’d…I’d hardly thrown it, it just left me hand, and…and I didn’t hear it hit the tree ’cos she yelled. An’ then they were all mixed up scrambling around, and…and then they ran dragging their clothes…’ Her voice trailed away on the word clothes; she couldn’t go on to tell about the man with bare legs.

  Her head was down, her body was shaking when two pairs of arms came round her and she was clasped between the parson and the painter, and their combined laughter filled the room.

  When she was standing alone again the painter was sitting on the floor, his head almost between his knees, and the parson was rubbing his face vigorously with a handkerchief, and he muttered, ‘Oh, Emma, Emma, what are we going to do with you? You have caused the devil to walk, and…and after all, though I say it, it may not be such a bad thing, my congregation may swell on Sunday.’ Then impulsively he reached out and caught her hand and, his voice changing, he added, ‘Oh, Emma, in more ways than one you bring brightness into life.’

  ‘That I endorse,’ said the painter getting to his feet. ‘That I endorse. And come, let’s drink on it, eh? Tea, Emma, and I’ll see if there’s something left in the bottle to strengthen it. All right! All right!’ He now nodded towards the parson. ‘You can have it plain, but I like mine polished.’

  She was running back into the kitchen, only to be stopped at the door by the painter’s voice calling, ‘The man, Emma, did you see him?’

  ‘Oh yes, I saw him, Mr Bowman.’

  ‘Would you know him again?’