by Nicola Upson
It was a relief to get away for a bit. As she left the college behind and headed out on the Lewes road, she felt herself breathe out, and realized for the first time what a strain she and George had been living under. The girls chattered away about films and music hall, which they both seemed to love, entering into a spirited debate about the respective talents of Max Linder and John Bunny. Harriet joined in at first, relieved that the general topic of conversation among the students had moved on from Dorothy’s death, but after a while the countryside demanded her full attention, as it invariably did. It was the landscape of her early childhood, this patchwork of fields and farms and tiny churches, and even now she found something enchanted in these green-tunneled lanes and hazy blue skies, something that spoke to her as nowhere else did. Returning here with George had been one of the happiest times of her life, and the country had woven itself even more deeply into the fabric of her being by charming the person she loved. For a while, she had thought they might settle here. For a while, it felt like home.
The old market town of Lewes stood on raised ground, with the beauty of the Downs lapping at its feet, and she never tired of its narrow streets and pretty cottages. The town was defined in most directions by the stark silhouette of a castle, which appealed to her love of history, but still there was a softness about it, a safe, homely feel to the mellow redbrick houses and peaceful walled gardens that—in another life—she could see herself tending. Today it was looking its picturesque best, with the sun bringing a clean, fresh dignity to the high street, warming the pavements, and adding a sparkle to the old bow-fronted windows that encroached at regular intervals.
There was no town square as such, but stalls had established a regular twice-weekly spot at the point where the high street widened and converged with Market Street, whose name suggested the continuation of a long tradition. The center had struggled to come to terms with motor transport of any sort, and a combination of medieval lanes and steep inclines was perilous to drivers. Harriet made careful progress up School Hill, suddenly conscious that her arrival was a matter of great interest to the passersby on either side of the street. The van was well known in the town by now, and with the exception of a small group of children who refused to be distracted from a game of hopscotch, everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. “Looks like we’re going to be the afternoon attraction,” she said, her tone more defiant than she felt. “I suppose we should have expected that.”
“Then we’d better put on a decent show.”
Harriet smiled at Josephine, encouraged by her boldness, but she couldn’t entirely shake off the ominous feeling that to show themselves in town like this was a terrible idea. The queue at the butcher’s fell silent as the van parked in its usual place outside, and she heard the quiet but unmistakable whisper of “brazen bitch” as she got out. She looked at the line of women, trying to shame the culprit, but it could have been any one of them and the comment proved contagious, giving rise to a stream of muttered insults which grew steadily more audible as she opened the back door and began to unload. The girls came round to help, and Harriet felt guilty for involving them in something so uncomfortable; this was her battle, not theirs, and one glance at Josephine’s face was enough to show how fragile her bravado was. Mags just seemed bewildered, as if she couldn’t understand why anyone would behave so rudely, and Harriet envied the girl her innocence.
Across the street, she noticed that their designated space was filled with empty crates and other rubbish, all spilling over from the stall next door. “Obviously we weren’t expected,” Harriet said. “Either that, or they’re trying to tell us something. I’ll go and ask them to move that before we take anything over. You wait here and look after the van.”
“Perhaps we should go somewhere else instead,” Mags suggested. “There’s a space free farther up the road, just outside the post office.”
“Why should we? People know where to look for us here.” Not that there would be much of that today, she thought to herself; they would be lucky to sell a quarter of what they had brought. Still, the principle and a determination not to lose face drove her across the road. The neighboring stall sold hardware, a motley selection of dusters, pegs, mops, nails, and other ironmongery, and Violet—the woman who ran it—was in her seventies, born and bred in the town. Harriet knew her reasonably well, as she was never short of a story and loved to talk about the old days in a lull between customers. She often brought her young grandchildren with her while her widowed daughter was out at work, and Harriet let them arrange the fruit and count the money, making sure that they took plenty home for themselves at the end of the afternoon. Today, Violet was on her own, and stony-faced, and she looked steadfastly past Harriet as if she didn’t exist.
“Good afternoon, Violet,” Harriet called, determined to keep things as normal as possible. “We’re a little late today, so you might have thought we weren’t coming, but we’re here now, and we’d like to set the stall up. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to move your things?”
“We don’t want you here—not today or any other day.”
The blunt certainty of the statement threw Harriet, but she recovered quickly. “I’m afraid that’s not your decision to make. We’re here, and we have every intention of staying, so I’ll ask you again—please move your things. If you’d like any help, just ask.”
Violet ignored her, turning to straighten a basket of doorknobs that were already arranged with military precision, so Harriet began to move the crates herself, piling them up on the pavement in between the two stalls. Josephine and Mags brought the produce across, and she arranged it as it arrived, all the time knowing that people were watching her every move. When it was done, they sat together on upturned boxes, waiting in vain for some trade, but no one came anywhere near them; meanwhile, the rival stall at the bottom of the hill—whose produce was always inferior to theirs and far more expensive—was doing a roaring trade.
Harriet shifted her seat to follow the sun and noticed how many soldiers were walking the streets; occasionally they gave her a smile or a nod, strangers to the town and ignorant of her outcast status, and she despised herself for feeling grateful. In the distance, a bell sounded from the rose-red tower of Southover Church and was answered immediately by St. Michael’s in the High Street, but even these sweet summer chimes sounded strangely discordant in the hostile atmosphere. It was only two o’clock, and she doubted her ability to see the afternoon out; although she would never have wanted to show it in front of the girls, she felt more vulnerable and exposed than she ever had in her life, and she didn’t need the ugly Martyrs’ Memorial to remind her that people had been burnt at the stake on this very spot for lesser crimes than the ones of which she was suspected.
“As we’re not exactly rushed off our feet, I might as well go and do some shopping,” she said, unable to bear the idleness any longer. “If the doors aren’t mysteriously closed in my face, that is. Will you be all right? I won’t be long.” Josephine nodded and Harriet walked back down the steep slope of School Hill to the newsagent’s. It was cool inside the shop, in every sense of the word, and she was relieved to find only a couple of other customers there before her. Obviously, the man behind the counter didn’t feel that he could be overtly rude, but neither did he want to offend his existing clientele, and his brusque grunt of acknowledgment was a halfway house between civility and insolence. He turned to serve her immediately, bypassing the woman already at the counter as if he wanted her out of his shop as quickly as possible, and she opened her mouth to ask for some cigarettes, but a pile of local newspapers stopped her in her tracks. A school photograph of Dorothy Norwood stared back at her from the front page, inset with a picture of Charleston, and although there was no image of her or George as far as she could see, the headline was damning enough without it: “Tragic Schoolgirl’s Final Hours at College of Shame: see inside for the full story.” The pictures took up two-thirds of the page, eclipsing even the heroic reports of S
ussex regiments that had become the paper’s standard fare, and she stared down at them, cold with shock and feeling foolish because she should have expected this and been ready for it. A jolt of anger surged through her when she thought of the story taking pride of place on every newsstand and bookstall in the county, and the only response left to her was contempt. “Fame at last,” she said sarcastically, and there was a sharp intake of breath from the woman behind her, which only goaded Harriet further. “Such a shame it wasn’t the nationals, but I suppose it’s only a matter of time. Twenty Capstans, please, and I’ll take this to read over supper.”
“We haven’t got any Capstans, I’m afraid.”
Harriet glanced over his shoulder at the familiar blue and gold packet. “What do you mean? I can see them—they’re on the shelf right behind you.”
“I think you’re mistaken about that.”
“Then I’ll have Benson & Hedges.”
“We’re out of those too.”
There was a quiet giggle behind her, but it might as well have been as loud as a scream. Harriet threw the money for the newspaper down onto the counter and faced the other customers. “We’re thinking of offering guided tours of the greenhouse too, if you’re interested,” she said, taking a fleeting satisfaction from the horror on their faces, then wishing she’d had the strength to stay quiet. She left the shop, knowing that it had been a mistake to rise to the bait; anything she said would be twisted and distorted, and repeated in the next day’s paper as truth, and the last thing she needed was to aggravate the situation. If what she had just said got back to Moira House or, worse still, to Dorothy’s parents, they would stand no chance of keeping the college going.
“What’s wrong?” Josephine asked as soon as she saw her.
Harriet threw the paper down in disgust. “No wonder we’re so universally popular here today—and there was I, thinking it was just our natural charm.”
“What does it say?”
“The coward in me hasn’t got any further than the headline. Will you read it and tell me the worst?” She lit the last cigarette in the packet and waited for Josephine to finish. “Well?”
“It says that Dorothy had made a complaint about the college she was attending, and although it’s not known what the nature of the complaint was, the coincidence of her dying so soon afterward is suspicious. They haven’t mentioned your names, but with the photograph of the farmhouse and the college sign outside, I don’t suppose that matters.” She folded the paper up again and nodded toward their vegetable crates, which were lined with the edition from the week before. “Try not to worry too much, Miss Barker. That’s where this will end up before long, and they’ll have moved on to something else. Once the inquest has been held and everyone knows the verdict, no one will be able to print or say anything that isn’t true.”
“But the damage will have been done by then.” There was a silence as they both looked down at Dorothy’s photograph. “You’ve never asked us if any of these rumors are justified,” Harriet said quietly. “You must have talked about it, you and Jeannie.”
“We’ve talked about what happened, but that’s all. As for asking you about the rumors, we really don’t need to. We’re there on the spot, and we can decide for ourselves what’s fair. If we didn’t trust you, we’d have gone back to Moira House when we were told to.”
“Thank you, Josephine.” She was about to suggest that they call it a day when two women with empty shopping baskets headed in their direction. “Perhaps our luck’s about to change,” she said, getting up to serve them. “They’re actually smiling at us.” Either the women were both strangers to the town and hadn’t heard the gossip, or they were brave enough to take no notice, but Harriet was so grateful that she didn’t care which. She helped them to select the best fruit and vegetables, weighing things out a little more generously than usual, while Josephine and Mags packed the baskets to the brim and kept a tally of the prices. When nothing else would fit, the younger of the two smiled and turned away, signaling to her friend to follow. “Excuse me!” Harriet called after them. “You’ve forgotten to pay.” The women kept walking, throwing back their heads with laughter, and Harriet shouted again, angry this time. “Come back! You can’t just take what you want and walk away. That’s theft.”
One of the women turned round. “And what are you going to do about it? Kill us? You’re the one who deserves to be lynched. It’s sick, what you two get up to when you think no one’s looking.” She threw a quick, ugly glance at her partner in crime, and the two of them disappeared out of sight, down Market Lane, swinging their baskets and still laughing. Harriet sat down and put her head in her hands, the taunt still ringing in her ears. She understood now that Dorothy’s death had given their neighbors the excuse they had been waiting for to hate them. Any bigotry and prejudice that people might have felt before now had remained in the shadows, always there but kept in check; now they had found a crime they could put a name to, something that warranted their hatred, and for the first time Harriet feared for her own safety. “Let’s go,” she said, feeling utterly defeated.
“Absolutely not.”
To Harriet’s surprise, Josephine began to fill a basket of her own, and she couldn’t remember a time when she had seen anyone look quite so determined. “What on earth are you doing?” she asked.
“Taking the mountain to Mohammed.” Josephine tore off her tie and removed the band from around her hat. When she was sure that she had got rid of all the colors that linked her to the college, she picked up the fruit and headed for the houses at the bottom of the street. “I won’t be long,” she called back over her shoulder. She was as good as her word, returning twenty minutes later with an empty basket and a handful of coins. “I knocked on each door and told them I was a student from the college in Glynde,” she said, grinning at Harriet. “They were delighted not to have to come out in this heat.” She handed over the money. “It’s not much, I’m afraid, but at least we won’t go home empty-handed, and there’s still time for Mags and me to do a few more rounds.”
Harriet laughed for the first time in days. “I don’t know what to be more proud of—your loyalty or your sense of enterprise.” She looked at Josephine and spoke more seriously. “And you’re wrong about it not being much, you know. These few shillings mean more to me than all the money we took last year, and George will feel the same.”
The girls filled two more baskets with the most perishable fruit and went off together, and Harriet sat in the sun and played word games in her head to pass the time. A little girl began to run over to the stall, attracted by the fresh, bright colors, and she got up to give the child a plum, but her mother pulled her back so violently by her hair that she screamed and began to cry. It was an instinctive reaction on her mother’s part, borne of genuine abhorrence, and it hurt Harriet more than any of the conscious attempts to humiliate her. She realized, to her horror, that she was afraid to touch a child now, in case her affection was misconstrued. She was afraid of being alone with one of the students, when she had never thought twice about it before; afraid of laughing with the girls and appearing too intimate; of saying George’s name in public in case her tone gave her away. In everything that mattered, she felt her true self slowly but surely disappearing, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
By the time Mags and Josephine returned, Harriet had loaded most of what was left unsold back into the van, determined now to leave as soon as possible. She went round to the driver’s side to get in, and a car coming the other way swerved toward her, sounding its horn as a threat rather than a warning; it had been done deliberately, she knew that—done to scare the “brazen bitch” and make her run—and suddenly they were surrounded by jeers and laughter, by a slow handclap which began as a small ripple of protest and gathered momentum until she felt the hatred as a physical force. She threw herself behind the wheel, longing to mow them all down and caring so little for her own safety that only the presence of two innocent people in the va
n kept her sane enough to drive away from the trouble and not toward it.
No one said anything on the way back to Charleston. Josephine, in particular, was pale and withdrawn, and Harriet was all too aware of how she must be feeling as the possible consequences of her relationship with Jeannie began to dawn on her. Most mornings, when she came downstairs to make breakfast, Harriet heard Josephine stealing quietly from Jeannie’s room, going back to her own bed before the house came to life; she had seen how her face became animated—beautiful, even—the minute that Jeannie entered the room, how she had grown in confidence until it was Jeannie now who seemed happy to follow. It was wrong that their love should be tainted by the scandal going on around them, but inevitable that it should leave Josephine feeling confused and afraid—and she was right to be worried. Nothing that intense could stay forever hidden, and even Peter had noticed the affair. It was only a matter of time before they gave themselves away in less forgiving company. If they had been alone on the journey home, she might have tried to say something reassuring, but Mags was too bright to miss even the most veiled of hints, and any general words of comfort that might have helped died in her throat long before she could give voice to them.
“We’ll unload,” Josephine said when they got back, and Harriet was glad to let her. She made her way through to the gardens to look for George and tell her what had happened, but her attention was caught by shrill cries coming from the orchard—not the usual conversation of the girls at work, but something strident and more disturbing, the sounds of children in a playground. She changed direction to take a look, and found a group of small boys playing among the trees, some of whom she recognized as the farmworkers’ sons. They were waving sticks at one another and yelling, and one of them was holding a tin of what looked like paint or creosote and flicking it at the trees; on the far side of the orchard, the word “witch” had been crudely daubed onto one of the trunks, and God only knew what insult they were trying to spell next. “Stop that at once!” she shouted, her anger flaring again. “Go away now, or your parents will hear about this.” It was an idle threat—their parents had probably sent them in the first place—but they ran off when they saw her, tossing the tin of creosote onto the ground, where it spilled out into thick, poisonous puddles on the grass.
