Part 2 (1/2)

He no longer wished to work in the quiet country village where there was little for him to do. Instead, he had applied to be sent to one of the most desolate and poverty-stricken areas in the North of England, and within two months of his wife's death he had been appointed to Barrowfield.

It had all happened so quickly that Torilla had hardly realised what was going on, until she found herself in a strange, alien place away from everything that was familiar with only Abby to cling to in her unhappiness.

To the Reverend Augustus it was a relief from his misery and also a challenge that no one had realised he had wanted all his life.

Driven by a fervent desire to help those less fortunate than himself and imbued with a crusading spirit, he flung himself wholeheartedly into the problems and difficulties he found in the terrifying squalor of a Northern mining village.

It was as if he took on the hosts of evil entirely by himself.

Only Torilla and Abby knew that in his fervour he would, if they had not prevented him, have gone without food and sleep in his efforts to improve the conditions he found in his new parish.

Every penny of his stipend and the little money he had of his own was spent on the people for whom he worked.

It was only because Abby insisted on his giving her enough money for the housekeeping as soon as the cheques came in that they were saved from starvation.

As she seated herself now at the dining room table, Torilla knew that the real difficulty in getting her father's permission to go South would be the cost of the journey.

”I have had a letter from Beryl toady, Papa,” she said as the Vicar poured himself a gla.s.s of water, and Abby came in through the door carrying the leg of mutton.

”From Beryl?” the Vicar asked vaguely as if he had never heard the name.

”Beryl is to be married, Papa. She begs me to go and stay at The Hall and help her with her trousseau. And she has asked me to be her bridesmaid.”

”Oh, Beryl!” the Vicar exclaimed, picking up the carving knife and starting to slice the mutton.

”You will not mind if I go, Papa?” Torilla asked.

”No, no. Of course not,” the Vicar replied.

Then, as he cut a slice and put it on the plate, he added, ”But I doubt if we can afford it.”

”I will go by stagecoach,” Torilla said, ”and if I go alone and leave Abby to look after you, it will not cost so very much.”

She had thought at first when Beryl's letter came that she would be able to take Abby with her, but now she knew, not only because of the expense but because the Vicar would not look after himself, that Abby must stay with him.

Abby could bully him into eating and sleeping more effectively even than she could do.

”I was thinking,” the Vicar said, almost as if he was talking to himself, ”that any spare money we have should go to Mrs. c.o.xwold. She is expecting her ninth child and I am sure the oldest girl has consumption.”

”I am very sorry for the c.o.xwolds, Papa,” Torilla answered, ”but you know as well as I do that Mr. c.o.xwold goes to the Public House every Friday evening and drinks away at least half his wages.”

”I know, I know,” the Vicar said, ”but a man is ent.i.tled to spend what he earns.”

”Not when his children are starving,” Torilla retorted.

”The second girl will be five this month and I think they will send her to work in the mine.”

”Oh, no, Papa!” Torilla cried. ”She is too young! Don't you remember how ill the little Barnsby child was after she worked in water up to her knees and contracted pneumonia?”

The Vicar sighed.

”They have to eat, Torilla.”

”And so have you, sir,” Abby said coming back into the room.

She carried two dishes one of which contained potatoes and the other some rather unappetising-looking cabbage.

”I have had enough,” the Vicar said vaguely, looking at the very small pieces of meat on his plate.

”I'm not taking this mutton off the table until you've helped yourself properly, sir,” Abby said in the affectionate bullying tones of a nanny talking to a recalcitrant child.

The Vicar picked up the carvers and added two small slices to those on his plate.

Having stood with the vegetables at the Vicar's side until he had helped himself to two tablespoons of potatoes, Abby waited in the room until Torilla had finished before she said, ”I wonder, Miss Torilla if you would get the suet pudding out of the oven for me? I don't trust that girl in the kitchen. The treacle is here so all we need now is the pudding.”

”Yes, of course,” Torilla said obediently.

Abby handed her the mutton and she carried it out to the kitchen knowing as she went that Abby would speak to her father.

”Miss Torilla has told you, sir,” Abby said as soon as she had left the room, ”that her Ladys.h.i.+p has asked her to go South for her wedding.”

”Yes, Miss Torilla has told me,” the Vicar replied. ”The fact is, Abby, we cannot afford it. Stagecoaches cost money and it is a long way to Hertfords.h.i.+re.”

”But it's high time, sir, if you'll excuse me for speaking frankly, that Miss Torilla went back and saw some decent folk for a change.”

The Vicar looked up in surprise and Abby went on before he could speak, ”Do you realise that Miss Torilla's been here nearly two years and hasn't exchanged half-a-dozen words with a lady or a gentleman? Her poor mother would turn in her grave if she knew what sort of place you've brought her to a and that's the truth!”

The Vicar looked startled.

”I had not thought of that, Abby.”

”Well, I have, sir! Miss Torilla's eighteen, and if Mrs. Clifford were alive, G.o.d rest her soul, she would be looking out for a suitable husband for Miss Torilla, giving parties for her and having friends of her own age to the house.”

Abby snorted before she went on, ”What sort of people could we invite here? Ragged, dirty creatures covered in coal dust.”

She spoke scathingly, but, as the Vicar put up his hands, she added, ”Oh, I know sir, they've souls to save, they're Christians and they're the same as us in the sight of G.o.d. But you're not expecting Miss Torilla to marry a coal miner, are you, sir?”

The Vicar looked uncomfortable.

”To tell you the truth, Abby, I had not thought of Miss Torilla as being grown up.”

”Well, she is, sir, and it's a crying shame a it is really a that she should be buried alive a because that's what it is a in this dreadful place.”

”I am needed here,” the Vicar said in a low voice, almost as if he was pleading his case in the dock.

”That's as may be,” Abby replied, ”and I'm not saying sir, as you're not doing the work of G.o.d, and doing it well. It's your chosen profession, so to speak. But Miss Torilla's not a Parson nor a Preacher, she's a young woman, and a very beautiful one at that!”

There was no time to say more because Torilla came back into the room with a small suet pudding in the centre of a rather large dish.

She set it down in front of her father and for a moment he did not seem to see it, as deep in his thoughts he appeared to be quite oblivious of her presence.