The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift) Page 5

  The only bright spot in the day was when Barney came slyly up to her and with a broad grin on his face whispered, ‘Is it true you roped one of the hens an’ set up a hullabaloo?’ When she made no reply, only bowed her head, he went on, ‘I wish I’d seen it. You must be clever with a whip ’cos hens are sprightly on their feet when they want to be. And it was one of ma’s best, the Rhodey.’ He started to chuckle now, then ended, ‘You’re a funny little lass, aren’t you?’

  She raised her head and looked at him. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a big mouth. It was a slack mouth but looked kindly. She liked Barney. She answered him sadly now, ‘They’ll kill Betsy, the big ones; she had hardly any feathers on.’

  ‘That happens, it always happens with hens, they pick on the weakest. It’s the same with all animals, you can’t do anything about it.’

  She wanted to be cheeky and say, ‘Can’t I?’ because she was feeling angry inside. But what could she do? And they had broken her whip; her dada would have been so upset if he knew. Anyway, she still had the thong and she could make another handle, and she would. She was nodding to herself. Yes, she would, she’d make another handle and she’d practise on the quiet. She’d show ’em.

  She had a mental picture of herself plying her dada’s whip and bringing it round Farmer Yorkless’ legs and when she saw his feet leave the ground and he fell onto his side, like a horse brought down by Uncle Tummond, she smiled to herself. Then the smile gave way to laughter, and now she was looking at Barney and on a giggle, she said, ‘It squawked louder than the pigs, it did.’ And on this he pushed her gently in the shoulder, saying, ‘You’re a funny little Spanish onion.’

  The action of his hand told her she had at least found one friend in this place, but his words brought home the fact that she was different. How or why she couldn’t as yet work out.

  The missis and her granny were in the kitchen talking, and she sensed it wasn’t nice talk. Although the words seemed ordinary they were talking about her. The missis was saying, ‘Anyway, you’re more use up here.’

  ‘You’re late in finding that out.’ Her granny’s tone conveyed temper.

  ‘No, I’m not late in findin’ it out, but there was no other to take your place. Now there is, things are different.’

  ‘She’s but a bit of a bairn.’

  ‘She’s an old-headed bit of a bairn, if you ask me. And she’s got to learn, anyway; she’s on eight and you started when you were six, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘We both started when we were six, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Oh yes, you remember rightly, Lizzie; you always remember rightly about that.’

  There was a short silence; then her granny’s voice came again, saying, ‘She can’t bake and make a meal for him.’

  ‘I’m not expectin’ her to do it the day, or the morrow, but you’ll take her with you for the next few weeks an’ break her in. She can do the housework, what there is to be done, ’cos as you’ve said yourself he won’t let you touch anything in his paint room.’

  Again there was silence; then her granny’s voice said, ‘You know what you are, Dilly Tollett, you’re a vindictive bitch.’

  ‘Don’t you use that tone with me, Lizzie Crawshaw, or I’ll have Jake speak to you.’

  ‘Oh you will, will you? And what will he be able to do?’

  ‘He could take your job away.’

  ‘Huh! I can see him. I can see him and havin’ to house someone decent, and feed them decent, and pay them decent. Oh…I can see him doin’ that. And anyway, I’d still be on your doorstep, I’d still be in the cottage. You can’t do anything about turfing me out of there, because it’s in black and white. Payment to my mother for services rendered to the dirty old bugger his father was. And let me tell you, Dilly, if everybody had their rights this is the house she should’ve been in with me standin’ where you are the day.’

  ‘Get yourself out afore I lose me temper.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be a pity. That’s when you show your true colours, isn’t it, when you lose your temper. You manage to cover them up most of the time, I must admit.’

  ‘Get yourself away. Go on, get yourself away.’

  There was a long pause before Emma heard the kitchen door bang. Then a minute later she saw the missis standing in the pantry doorway. Her face looked red, her lips were pressed tight together, and she wagged her head from side to side before saying, ‘Get yourself out of that and go with your granny. Leave it! Leave it!’

  Emma dropped the cloth with which she had been wiping down the pantry shelves back into the bucket and went out, drying her hands on her coarse apron. But she had to squeeze past the missis in the doorway because she hadn’t moved, and when she looked up at her she couldn’t see her face for the quick rising and falling of her bust.

  Her granny was in the cottage and she made no remark on her appearance except to say, ‘Take off your apron and roll it up. And go and put a comb through your hair.’

  As Emma now hurried towards the ladder her granny’s voice halted her, saying, ‘Don’t go up there, there’s not time. Come here.’ And reaching to the low mantelpiece, she took down a black comb and for the first time in their acquaintance she touched her grandchild’s head.

  The combing wasn’t gentle but it wasn’t rough because when her granny came to a tat she held the upper part of her hair in her hand while she combed through it.

  It was a nice feeling having her hair combed, it was nice to feel her granny’s hand on her hair. It came to her suddenly that she could like her granny, in fact she did like her, and she imagined what it would be like if her granny were to put her arms about her. Oh, that would be nice. She would like that.

  Without further words they left the cottage and went out, but not through the farmyard; her granny led her round by the back of the farm buildings. Their journey took them across the three fields until they came to a cart track, and it was as they stepped onto this that her granny began to talk. With no lead-up, she said, ‘Behave yourself in front of Mr Bowman, he’s a gentleman. An’ whatever you see or hear when you’re in the house, don’t repeat it, ever.’ She turned her head sharply and looked at Emma, adding, ‘You understand?’

  Emma nodded her head, and her granny went on, ‘You likely heard what went on back there, you’ve got ears. You know somethin’?’ She now stopped in her tracks and stared down at Emma. ‘Her and me were brought up together, played together, worked together, were young lasses together. Now would you credit it? She was brought up in the cottage where we’re going to now. Her da was the ploughman, mine the shepherd. Old man Yorkless, his wife had died so my mother saw to the house…an’ to him. Aye and him. Jake fancied me. Aye he did. But that one’—her head jerked backwards—‘got her hooks into him and saw to it that he had to marry her. Anyway he was no cop, big gormless lout, and I mightn’t have had him had he offered, even with all that was tagged on to him. I didn’t mind her having him, not at first. Some of us have got to be lucky I thought, until she started to play the lady, imitating the Hudsons.’ Her head jerked to the left. ‘They’re the big farmers over yonder. Visits them she does, him and her. And goes to church on Sundays. My God!’

  Her last statement seemed to swing her from the ground and she was hurrying forward again, Emma having to trot to keep up with her.

  They had come in sight of a stone cottage situated seemingly at the end of the cart track on one side and fronted by a road on the other when her granny spoke again, saying almost to herself, ‘She can’t stop me seeing him. I’m finished at seven. Then there’s Sunday.’

  Emma had noticed the pony and trap standing in the shade of a tree at the other side of the road before her granny had. The sight of it caused her granny’s step to slacken, and when they came abreast of it she stopped and looked at it, then turned her gaze onto the front door of the cottage. It was open and while she paused before going towards it there appeared in the doorway two figures. One of them Emma recognised immediately as the parson
who had been kind to her on the day of her arrival. And the recognition was mutual for the parson, stepping onto the rough path, smiled broadly towards her, saying, ‘Well, well, my companion of the coach. How are you?’ He came up to her and as she answered, ‘Quite well, sir,’ he looked towards Lizzie, saying now, ‘And this is your granddaughter?’ It was a question and when Lizzie didn’t answer immediately, Emma said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  The parson was speaking to her granny now, saying, ‘I’ve been meaning to come and visit you, and I’m just getting round to it now. The parish is very scattered and the days fly.’ He paused a moment before adding, ‘I am sure that you are delighted with your granddaughter; she is very good company.’

  Still Lizzie did not speak and there seemed no need, for now the parson had turned to the other man saying in a different tone, ‘I’ll call on my way down again, Ralph.’ Then he added, ‘This is the greatest surprise and pleasure I’ve had for many a long day.’

  ‘Me too, Henry. Me too.’

  Emma decided that the one they called painter man had a nice voice. They both had nice voices, different from them at the farm. She couldn’t understand some of the things that were said up there, especially when the boys were talking.

  The parson was looking down on her again, saying, ‘You haven’t been to Sunday school yet, have you?’

  ‘No, sir. No, sir.’

  ‘Well, you must come on Sunday. I understand that the farmer’s boys attend; you must come with them. I’ll look forward to seeing you.’

  Emma noticed that he hadn’t asked permission of her granny. But he was speaking nicely to her granny now, he was even shaking her hand as he was saying goodbye to her. Yet her granny hadn’t opened her mouth to him.

  Emma watched him get into the trap and when he lifted his hand to wave goodbye she was in the act of responding when her granny muttered, ‘’Tisn’t for you.’ And looking to the side, she saw the painter man waving and of course she knew she had been wrong to think that the parson was waving to her. Still he had been nice to her. She liked him, she liked him very much. Would her granny let her go to Sunday school? What was Sunday school? She’d have to find out.

  She was in the cottage now. It wasn’t really unlike their own cottage, only much bigger and it had furniture in it. An oak table was set under one window, and a big leather chair stood to the side of an open fire which was set in a high grate with an oven next to it.

  Fronting the fireplace was a brass fender and a brass stand from which hung a long pair of tongs and a poker. Two wooden chairs and a stool completed the furniture in the room. However, what drew Emma’s eyes straight away was the colour that seemed to flood the room, for there was hardly an inch of wall space that was not covered with frameless pictures, all set higgledy-piggledy yet seeming to fit one into the other like a puzzle.

  The man was looking at her now and smiling; then dropping onto his hunkers, his face level with hers, he said, ‘Hello, Emma.’

  Her eyes flickered up to her granny, then back to him, and she said, ‘Hello, sir.’

  ‘What’s your other name?’

  ‘Emma’—she paused—‘Crawshaw.’

  He now brought his face forward until it was only inches from hers. She could see that his eyes were bright and laughing as he said, ‘Your real name, your dada’s name?’

  Again she was looking at her granny, but longer this time. Her granny though made no indication of how she should answer, so she answered in the way she wanted to and with pride as she said, ‘Emaralda Molinero.’

  He repeated her name, ‘Emaralda Mol…in…ero. That’s a beautiful name, much nicer sounding than Crawshaw.’ He glanced up at Lizzie, and on this she swung round and went down the room and passed through a doorway.

  Rising from his hunkers, he pointed towards the wooden stool, saying, ‘Sit down.’

  Obediently she sat down, and he now seated himself in the leather chair opposite and stared at her, his head slightly to the side. He stared at her until she began to feel hot, and then he said, ‘You’re beautiful. Do you know that, Emaralda?’

  She was about to say no, when her granny’s voice rang in her ears, crying, ‘Don’t talk like that to her, her head’ll be turned soon enough. And there’s no room for beauty in her life and what it’ll bring.’

  ‘There’s room for beauty in everybody’s life, Lizzie, and all the sourness in the world won’t drown it.’

  ‘She’s but a child and…’

  ‘Well, the sooner she learns to appreciate the beautiful things in life the better for her.’

  Emma stared somewhat apprehensively at the painter now. He sounded angry, and he looked angry; his blue eyes had lost their laughter. She watched him take his hand and ruffle his thick hair that was very long, almost onto his shoulders. He wasn’t very tall, something of the height of Charlie Lamb the boxer. She often likened people to Charlie Lamb the boxer, she didn’t know why. But then Charlie had been thickset and strong. This man was thin, thinner than the parson, and his face looked pale. But it was a big face, and he had a big mouth an’ all. All his features appeared large, yet in her mind they seemed to fit his face because he looked nice, not bonny nice, just nice.

  Her granny, grabbing her hand, almost whipped her from the stool. She took her through the door into the other room. This she recognised as the kitchen, but it was a very small kitchen. Besides the fireplace and oven, it held only a little table, a pump which stood over the stone trough, a plate rack on the wall, and a small delf rack and cupboard. Through the open back door she could see a paved yard, with outhouses of some sort beyond. One thing more she noticed in the kitchen was a ladder attached to the wall, and this she guessed was used to reach a roof space similar to the one in their own cottage, but bigger of course.

  Her granny was speaking to her now, saying, ‘Put that apron on and then peel eight taties out of that basket’—she pointed down towards the side of the sink—‘and a turnip an’ some carrots, an’ don’t take all day over them. If you want water you pump it.’ She now pushed the handle of the pump up and down, and a spurt of water fell into the sink. Next, she tied a rough coarse apron over the white bibbed one she was wearing, and went into the other room.

  Emma had to concentrate on peeling the potatoes for she found she was continually glancing out of the small window above the sink. The fields beyond stretched endlessly away. Some were bright yellow, some brown, some black. Her eyes grown used to the distance, she espied a ploughman and a host of seagulls trailing behind him.

  She was telling herself that she liked this cottage, it was a much better cottage than theirs, and she liked the painter man, when his voice came to her, saying softly but loud enough for her to hear, ‘Don’t worry about me, Lizzie.’ The tone sounded impatient. ‘I get along five days in the week, don’t I? No, six days in the week, counting hours, and I’ll be pleased to have the child.’

  She stopped what she was doing and put her head to one side in order to hear her granny saying, ‘You won’t miss me then?’

  ‘Oh, Lizzie. Lizzie.’

  ‘You didn’t always say my name like that, your memory’s short.’

  ‘Oh, Lizzie; the years are going on, I’m no longer the sick boy needing comfort and you’re no longer…’

  Emma dropped the carrot into the dish and waited, and her granny’s voice came almost in a whisper, a bitter sounding whisper, ‘I’m getting old, I’ve hit forty. I’m past it, that’s what you think.’

  ‘No Lizzie, no, that’s not what I think. I’m still fond of you. You know that. I’ll ever be grateful to you for all you did for me years ago, and have continued to do.’

  ‘But you don’t want me to continue any more.’

  ‘No! No! You get me wrong.’

  ‘Oh yes; you can say what you like. But you’ve no objection to the bairn taking over. If I can’t come here during working hours there’s only the late evening or Sunday, and it only needs them out for their walks to see me here on a Sunday and the tongues�
��ll wag. And Dilly and Jake, pious as they are now, will be onto you to move.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ The painter’s voice sounded calm now. ‘As you’ve so often pointed out, the two shillings a week I pay for your services pays your wages up there. And who else would pay six pounds ten a year for a place like this? Oh no, they won’t ask me to go and they can’t turn you out, so I don’t think you need fear in that quarter.’

  ‘That being said, you don’t mind if you don’t see me again?’

  ‘Oh Lizzie, how can you say such a thing?’

  In the ensuing silence Emma put the cleaned potatoes, turnips, and carrots into fresh water. Then she dried her hands and stood looking about her before moving tentatively towards the living-room door, and there she stopped, brought still with mouth agape by the sight of her granny standing with her arms around the painter, and he holding her. And her ears seemed to stretch as she listened to her granny saying in a voice that she had never heard her use before, ‘You’re all I’ve got in life, Ralph, don’t throw me aside. I’d die. I tell you I’d die. Seeing you is all I live for, there’s nothing else.’

  ‘You have the child now.’ The painter’s voice was soft.

  ‘Oh that, she means nowt to me. She’s but the sperm of that Spanish circus man.’

  ‘She’s a beautiful child and an engaging one, the little I’ve seen of her.’

  ‘Yes. Well, it won’t do her any good; looks like she’s got never does, together with her temper.’

  ‘She’s got a temper?’

  ‘I’ll say she has, I told you about the hen business. Well, she stood up to Luke the other day an’ all. She doesn’t like him. I don’t meself. He’s a bully of a boy yet she stood her ground with him and he didn’t like that.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘But us, Ralph; you’ll never say you don’t need me, will you?’