BY PHILIP LOWE

My dearest wife has written her own memories in a book and has inspired me to write my own. I feel a little cautious in sharing my own memories of relationships and journeys. As long as everything I have experienced has brought me here, it is excusable.

I pray that our children do not experience the doubt, duplicity, and pain that I had.

I do not wish to deny the work my father must have effected, yet I believe, as my own future has taught me, he could have behaved differently—not only towards me.

My early teenage years became ripe picking fields. As I grew, my opinions changed.

At times, I recalled memories I thought were lost. Some were too uncomfortable. I have been able to reflect many times on motives and aspirations, yet it seems there has always been a different hand directing my path.

I do not know how my wife has relieved her life and her own difficulties. She must be so much stronger than me. Reader, I love her.

The Peak District

I had many tutors. Each strove to instil in me ethical values. As I grew my reading materials moved from the Bible, fables and moral stories. I often went back to the Bible, but I was less and less satisfied by the answers provided and it became more and more difficult to find answers. I was encouraged to practice and develop my writing skills. My father saw my handwriting once and shook his head with an expression of disdain and intolerance.

I found arithmetic rather dull, although my father encouraged my education to go in this direction.

Some tutors would lend me their books to read; one gave me El Cid which I found rather dry. Another slid towards me his copy of Delphine with a wink. That book soon disappeared, so did the tutor.

My education was always more enjoyable when backed up with experience, even arithmetic when possible.

I was excited to be told that a new geographical expert would arrive and share his vast experience.

My geographically experienced tutor had red hair, the workers in the kitchen said he had a “lusty” beard. I did not understand what this meant. He also had a very freckled face.

Unusually I found that we were going out for the day. Even more unusually my mother entered the carriage with us alone. I assumed that Pierre was with his own teacher.

My tutor said how lucky he—and we—were that the “Peaks” were so close. We were going to see the White or Low Peak that day. As the travel continued my tutor became more and more excited.

He talked at length about the beauties of the country nearby; about several journeys he had made to Dovedale and Peveril castle. I wanted to see the lake and stepping stones he spoke of at Dovedale. He laughed appreciatively at my enthusiasm.

Then he talked of the loveliness of the Lakes. They seemed very far away and he spoke almost with tears in his eyes. He said if ever I got the chance to visit Wastwater, the deepest lake next to the highest peak, Scafell Pike, which he said he had climbed as the hosts climbed with him. I had never climbed anything.

Through all this my mother just looked out of the window, saying nothing.

The carriage stopped at the “White Peak.” As I left it I found that outside it was freezing cold. My tutor was not suitably dressed, for walking and for the weather. He alighted the carriage, looking at me with a strange, almost worried look. Then there was much activity outside. The driver unhooked the horses and led them to graze and drink nearby.

A man—a farmer?—arrived and he began talking with my tutor. I think some sheep were trapped in a nearby gate. I thought I heard the term “kissing gate” but I may have been mistaken. The farmer and my tutor soon walked away, laughter ensuing.

My mother climbed back in the carriage and fetched some blankets from a box under the seat.

I looked at the landscape before me. Beautiful, but the sun shone in and out of the clouds. When the sun shone uninterrupted the landscape was lovely. The carriage had stopped in the tight place; the ground rose to meet trees and rocks and fields. Sights too lovely to describe.

My mother distracted me, putting a blanket around my shoulders as if in preparation for colder weather. Together we sat on a nearby bench. After a long pause in which my tutor walked away to become a tiny spot. The driver returned and hooked the horses on again but less securely and began to turn the carriage around so it faced the way we came. Then the horses were uncoupled once more and the driver slowly walked off with them again, sucking on his clay pipe. He was clearly not used to such journeys.

My mother then stood and sat, several times and after a while she said the following:

“What a beautiful prospect.”

(Then she paused for a long while.)

“A shame you never met your aunt, my sister, who died but a few months after you were born. She was so gentle, mild. Loving.

“The match between your father and I was arranged. He seemed caring at first and my parents were delighted at his status. His parents were very quiet and still but ‘normal’ I felt. Lord and Lady Rochester. I was honoured. I knew that his monies largely came from foreign trade, through sherries and the like.

“Now I am here I will talk to you.

“He has hit me; and my sister. Lor, how he hit us. He tended to slap us around the face. With such ferocity. He still does. I have even seen him draw a breath before hitting. It seems to increase the spite, the force behind it.

One time he hit my sister so hard she was dizzied and fell. I do not think she was the same after that. Soon after he left for overseas with his work. My sister stayed with me at Thornfield.

“The first time he hit me was extremely unexpected. I had been laughing and do not think I did anything to provoke the attack.

“As things progressed we were engaged then married. He was able to mask his secret temper with alarming ease. Bruises would appear on my head which seemed to annoy him more. That is I assume they annoyed him given his behaviour but I soon learned that unpredictability was his milieu.

“On a visit to my sister I unexpectedly started crying so she asked about it and everything tumbled out of me. My sister was living and listened, offering no solutions as there were none. She applied powder gently to hide my bruises. Together we laughed and sang; I was able to forget things.

“At one point—on the second or third day of my visit, I think, she told me that my husband— your father—occasionally looked at her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. If only we had spoken more about that. Yet there were no real options open for us to escape. I would have done anything to escape. Also, anything for my sister.

“Your father is overseas at the moment, heaven knows where, somewhere in Spain I believe. He knew your Aunt… I am saying this all wrong. My heavens.

“I heard your father in a nearby bedroom with my sister. With her screams and warnings, shrieks and fighting. What could I do? I found that it was best to relax as much as I could when an attack was immanent. It did not stop the shock, however. On that night your father struck us both with terrifying ferocity. You may still see a wound I received on that night in my left eyebrow. My sister at her breakfast with horrifying bruises. I do not know what I looked like.”

“He left for overseas soon after that. My sister became a great confidante and solace. She was left pregnant by him, which he did not know about. She walked uneasily as time went on. I noted that her head shook and she wobbled as she moved. She said that she was struck on the head which left her unbalanced. I too was struck on the head but did not suffer as she did.

“As months progressed she spent more time abed. She suffered with her pregnancy terribly. For some weeks she could not eat. I was worried how this might affect her baby.

“Her lack of appetite ended but she still stayed in bed. Then she stopped talking altogether and lay with her eyes closed most of the time and she ate very little.”

She then wept loudly and rocked on the bench, holding herself. I did not know what to do; it was some time before she could start talking again.

“She went into labour, I felt very prematurely. She screamed throughout but fortunately the labour did not last more than an hour. She lost a great deal of blood, yet there was no doctor there. There was just someone from the kitchen; she took the baby away to feed it as my sister could not herself.

“After the birth my sister did not acknowledge the baby; physically she seemed to be well but she often held the side of her head, then slept a great deal.

“I have to say—uncomfortable as I feel saying it—that I blame your father for her condition. He left her with bruises that were slow to heal and a loss of balance. My sister’s life became simply not worth living. Someone that loved her as much as I would not have found it difficult to end her life. She did not complain and moaned so little. Her breathing was so shallow and at the end did not even call for her new child.

 “I called for the police who arrived remarkably quickly; they saw the numerous contusions—many wounds on her body. There was no major investigation into how she died. There was the doctor who tended her throughout her pregnancy, and he did not suggest that there was anything out of hand in her death. So she was not examined as thoroughly,as would normally the case, thank goodness. Furthermore I was with her until her end, her doctor and I had a nodding acquaintance. I did not want to see anyone else getting near her. She was, an angel. Your mother. An angel.

“I have witnessed your birth which fills me with pride. I have seen you emerge from my sister’s womb. Within a month after she left it was assumed I would take on the mantle of mother to the new baby. To you—which I gladly did.

“A meeting was convened with the staff who were told that I was your mother and should be treated as such. There were no objections and as far as I know the police knew nothing. Obviously your father was told that he had a new child. When he returned within a month or two he saw you briefly. He was not remotely interested in my sister, your mother. Nor would have been to know the true mother. He continued to hit me. Continues to hit me.”

 We sat in silence for what must have been at least an hour; my head was feeling from what I had just learned.

I looked at the scenery which looked more like a painting of scenery to me.

After a while my mother—I still thought and think of her as my mother—blew a whistle. This seemed to alert the driver who returned with the horses. I did not see my bearded tutor again.

We returned to the house in silence.

Had I been travelling with my father, he would not have accepted or tolerated any questions, not that I was confident enough to ask , from me. Even here with a more accepting audience I do not think of anything to say. On arrival back at Thornfield the door was opened and immediately I went upstairs to my room, shaking my head when a member of staff asked me if I wished to eat. They must have been made ready.

I sat in my room and stared out of the window, watching the sky grow darker and some flecks of rain approaching.

I was stunned to discover that my mother was not as I imagined. This story certainly made clear why her connection with Pierre was stronger—a closer familial link, I imagined. Then again I knew nothing of motherhood.

I was shocked to discover who my real mother was. I yearned to talk with her even though she had passed.

I knew and experienced of what my father was capable. It sounded like pure evil, which terrified me. I must be careful daily to examine my mother’s face to look for any bruises or evidence of any violence. Yet if I found any what should I do? What could I do?

Why should my mother tell of such things at this time?

I could never understand the adulation afforded Jesus’ mother. Two of the four gospels do not even describe the birth. In any event I always thought that Mary’s son was the main character and she an insignificant one. Now I see at least the childbirth she went through was immeasurably difficult; then she watched his life and fame progress. She could only watch and do nothing, which must have been intolerable.

Yet she did not have to tolerate violence from her husband. So the adulation afforded to Jesus’ mother is still unwarranted, I feel.