More Tales of the West Riding (2 page)

His absolute sincerity carried conviction.

“You're a good man, Simon,” said Emily.

“I shall always be good to you, love. You can count on that.”

“And to the child?” panted Emily.

“And to your child. You agree, then?”

There was a pause. Then Emily raised glowing eyes.

“I agree”.

“Give us your hand on it,” said Simon, smiling.

Her warm, pulsating hand quivered in his, which she found cool and sinewy. But it was not only her own reputation, her own future which she thought of as she entrusted herself to Simon; it was the coming child's. He would be safe and cared-for, no bastard, but the legitimate son of a strong and prosperous father. For herself, she would never love any man now Harry was gone; Simon would be as good a husband as any.

They arranged to be married at Eastertide. The Marthwaite folk, when they heard of the approaching nuptials, imagined they had been mistaken when they thought Emily was sweet on Harry Emmett and Harry on Emily.

“Happen it was a kind of cover, like, for Simon.”

“Aye. Or happen Harry backed out, like, when he saw Simon was serious.”

“Aye, happen. It's true Harry had a dozen girls, he didn't need to take Simon's.”

“You'd think a girl would fancy Harry, though, of the pair.”

“There's no accounting for women's fancies.”

“There is
not.
Still, Simon's a right decent chap. Steady and that.”

“He is. He's all right, is Simon.”

Old Mr Shepherd, when he discovered his daughter's condition, gave. Simon, to whom he naturally attributed it, a
furious harangue about his immoral anticipation of wedlock. Simon listened in silence.

“Don't you care at all for your sin?” thundered Emily's father.

“I regret the matter with my whole heart and soul,” said Simon emphatically.

Old Shepherd was somewhat mollified.

At any rate, the secret of Harry's paternity was firmly kept, and Simon and Emily were married at Easter without more than the mild scandal usual in such cases of belated weddings.

They took up their abode with the old aunt. She, however, had been broken in spirit by Harry's death, for he had always been her favourite, and physical decay, accompanied by the customary lack of control of foot and hand, soon followed mental incoherence. Emily tended her with loving care, but it was not long before Simon was summoned from work by the news that his aunt had had a serious fall. She died two days later. The landlord of the cottage was perfectly willing to rent it to Simon, but though at first Simon seemed to mean to accept this offer, his intention presently wavered. This was after his wife had been delivered of a son, a fair, pretty, delicate child who was baptised as Wilfred.

When Wilfred was a month or two old, Simon asked for an interview with the owner of Syke Mill. He was shown into the presence of Mr Brigg Oldroyd the younger, who turned on him one of those piercing glances which his workmen had learned to dread. His tone, however, was not unkind as he asked Emmett his errand.

“William Brearley, my brother-in-law, tells me your lot are wanting a gamekeeper for your shooting on Marthwaite Moor.”

“That is so.”

“I should like to apply for the job.”

“But why?” said Brigg, surprised. “You know nothing about gamekeeping.”

“Aye, but I do. I've been about with William Brearley a lot, and he's taught me the job.”

“You've a good job here. You're a good worker, and I've been expecting to promote you to foreman in a few years.”

“I want to leave.”

“Why?”

“That's nobody's business but mine,” muttered Simon.

“That is true,” said Brigg coldly. As he spoke he remembered having heard something, some sort of gossip, about Emmett's wife. He added in a more sympathetic tone:

“Are your workmates making you uncomfortable?”

“They'd best not try,” said Simon grimly.

There was a pause. Brigg observed that sweat stood on the man's forehead.

“Well, I can't promise anything, but I've reason to believe you're an honest man and a conscientious worker, so I'll recommend you to our shooting syndicate. But I think you're making a mistake, Emmett, to leave a good job for some foolish notion.”

“I can't seem to fancy the place since Harry—died,” blurted Simon.

“Ah. I see. I respect your feeling. I'll recommend you,” said Brigg, nodding dismissal.

Simon obtained the gamekeeper's post, and he moved with Emily and his cousin's child to a neat stone cottage in a fold of the moors, built for their gamekeeper by the shooting syndicate. It was a remote spot, though with a handy stream and a glorious view. Simon was happy there. Something in the bleak landscape—the dark rocks, the rough pale grass, the purple heather, the stubborn winds raging over the long slopes—fed his soul, and he enjoyed “keeping down” the vermin. Besides, it was good to be alone, not always on one's guard. Nobody asked what Emily thought about the move,
and Emily offered no comment. She had always been quiet and submissive, and she continued in this dutiful trend. Emmett was a considerate and devoted husband and in good employment, and they lived in modest but dependable comfort. Pity they had no (or, no more) children.

In fact the Emmetts enjoyed a quiet peace for several years, until little Wilfred began to walk and talk and play. It then appeared that unfortunately he was a little—it is difficult to find a word, for the disability was very slight, but he was really a little silly, a little “wanting”. His eyes were very wide and bright, his laugh shrill and loud; he ran about grinning, he asked silly questions and pestered people, and if rebuked burst into violent tears. When he had a bad cold, which was all too often, he kept his mother on the run all day, wanting this and that, calling her to his bedside and clinging frantically to her when she came.

“It's strange a sharp 'un like Simon Emmett should have such a daft lad,” mused Marthwaite men.

“Well, you never know with children,” replied their wives. “Besides, Emily—she's not over clever.”

“True. Happen that's what's wrong.”

“And she spoils Wilf.”

“She does. But Simon's a good father. He does his best, choose how.”

But as Wilfred grew into a thin, lanky, febrile boy and his overbright eyes, his high giggle, his long clumsy feet, his sudden frenzies, remained permanent features of his personality, Marthwaite's respect and sympathy for Simon in his handling of the boy turned to a certain irritation. The truth was, Wilfred's silliness increased and became tiresome. At times Marthwaite actually expressed its irritation to Simon, who received it in dour silence.

“I'm sorry Wilf's been a bit trying tonight, William,” said Simon to the Brearleys as they left the Emmett's cottage one Sunday after an evening of silly, maddening exhibitionism
on Wilfred's part. The boy had upset his teacup, reached across the table to snatch a scone, at his mother's mild rebuke pulled a face and struck out at her, struggled wildly, wailing, when Simon gently but firmly restrained his hands, and later continually interrupted the grown-ups' talk round the fire by childish demands for attention.

“I don't know how you can put up with it, Simon,” said Brearley, his usually kind tones rough with vexation. “I couldn't be so patient with him myself. If I were your father I'd give you a good clout over the ear-hole,” he said sharply to Wilfred, who was dancing, giggling, round the departing guests. “It might do him good, you know, Simon.”

“I don't like to upset Emily,” said Simon lightly, glancing back at his wife. “She dotes on him, you see.”

“Emily spoils him,” said Alice with some asperity.

If they only knew, thought Simon, compressing his lips, what an iron control he had to exercise over himself to behave calmly over Wilfred's silly escapades, so foreign to his own decorous inclinations! But of course Emily had suffered a shock from Harry's death, while she was carrying the boy; hence his disability; there was no more to be said.

Wilfred reached the age of twelve, and a new trouble arose.

“He wants to go and be a half-timer, Simon,” said Emily.

“Oh, nonsense,” said Simon. “Why should he want to go into the mill so young?”

“Two of Alice's boys go. They're his cousins, after all.”

“William and Alice have four children to rear, we've one. I can well afford to keep him full time at school.”

“Your father doesn't want thee to be a half-timer, Wilf,” said Emily gently to her son when he returned from school.

Wilfred threw himself on her breast with a wailing cry.

“I want to go. I want to go wi' Bill and Jack.”

Emily's arms closed about him and she rocked him gently to and fro with that glowing look of love in her soft dark
eyes which always turned Simon's bowels to water. “Never mind, love. Never mind.”

“I want to go,” wailed Wilfred.

“You're too young yet. We want you at home for a while yet,” said Simon.

Throbbing with fury—for the matter was one of status—and with frustration because he had no child of his own, Simon yet commanded his tone to a decent mildness as he told this lie.

Wilfred looked up from his mother's breast and cried shrewdly:

“No, you don't. I want to go wi' Bill and Jack,” he repeated, sticking out his heavy lower lip.

“After all, Simon, if he doesn't go to the mill, where will he go?” said Emily. “When he gets a bit older, I mean. I mean—on the moors with you—I don't think—”

Her voice trailed away, submissive as always, but in this case she spoke sense, reflected Simon. Wilfred could certainly not be trusted with a gun.

The argument—mute on Emily's part, hysterical on Wilfred's, outwardly calm on Simon's—continued for several days. Eventually Simon, as he had expected from the first, gave in. Application had to be made to the head teacher at Marthwaite school, regulations explained, exemption from school sought. It appeared that Wilfred would be obliged to put in some three hundred attendances at school every year. This sounded a large number, but when worked out meant only a few hours at school, morning or afternoon, each week. The rest of his time he could spend at a mill.

“I can't see how they learn anything,” grumbled Simon.

“He wants to go, Simon,” said Emily softly.

“That's you all over, Emily, you give in to what anybody wants,” thought Simon, remembering (of course) her surrender to Harry's wishes.

But he did not say it aloud. Instead, though it was September,
the height of the shooting season, he made time to go doggedly down the Ire Valley to Syke Mill to ask for a half-timer's job for Wilfred.

“You, Emmett? I hope you're not wanting to change your job again?” said Brigg.

“No. I hope I give satisfaction on t'moor,” said Simon.

“You do.”

Simon made his request. Brigg raised his eyebrows and thus confirmed Simon's private view: that Wilfred was dragging him down, would always drag him down. The request, however, was granted. Simon went off up the moor having made, he thought, all necessary arrangements for the boy's début as a half-timer next Monday, but sore at heart.

It was afternoon by the time he got home. Emily was pleased when he told her of his arrangements for Wilfred, and this further darkened his mood. Having snatched a hasty meal, he took down his gun from above the hearth and went out to empty and reset his traps. Stoats, weasels, foxes and poachers were his eternal enemies—nothing scared off poachers more than the sight of a gamekeeper with a gun, reflected Simon grimly. The weekend would see a big shoot on his moor, and he meant his employers to have plenty of birds available.

Suddenly, towards the end of the afternoon, Wilfred came running over the edge of the moorland towards him. The boy plunged down into the hollow where Simon happened to be standing, waving his arms and shouting wildly:

“You
did it!
You
did it!”

“Is there summat wrong wi' your mother?” cried Simon, alarmed.

“No.
You
did it! You didn't want me to go to the mill!”

“What are you talking about, Wilfred?” said Simon in his artificially mild tone, biting back his vexation, for malice blazed in the boy's mad blue eyes and his thin pale face was horridly distorted.

“You
told them!
You
made them!”

“Tell me what is wrong, Wilfred,” said Simon soothingly.

“The head teacher says I can't have exemption and be a half-timer,” panted Wilfred.

“But why not? He told me he thought you could.”

“Yes, yes. But now he says he's enquired about me, and I haven't reached the necessary standard of proficiency,” screamed Wilfred, blurring and muddling these obviously quoted words. “I can't read.”

“What, at twelve years old?” cried Simon.

“Mother's been trying to teach me,” whimpered Wilfred. “They haven't time to bother with me, at school. But you told them.”

Suddenly all the frightful exasperations of his life—Harry, Wilfred, Emily's love for Wilfred, no children of his own, his own everlasting repression, this imbecile boy impossible to get rid of, his unnecessary humiliation, now doubled, about half-timing, Emily's love for Harry's son—all this boiled up agonisingly in Simon's brain. The fury of years seethed, exploded. He raised his gun, placed it against Wilfred's breast, and fired.

After the shot, a strange silence.

Simon lowered his gun to the ground, leaned on it and sighed heavily.

The boy was dead, it seemed. Yes, he was dead; his body lay sprawled and motionless. Another matter about which Simon must learn to keep silence, for Emily must never know her husband's part in Wilfred's death. Never. The boy's death would break her heart, in any case. For the time. But she would get over it. Wilfred had snatched Simon's gun, of course—it was just the silly sort of thing he would do—and accidentally jerked the trigger and shot himself. Such accidents were always happening. Well! So it was, then. No more Wilfred. A relief, after all!