Killigrew Clay

by Killigrew Clay (retail) (epub)

  ‘You’ll not leave me, whatever happens, will you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Morwen said roughly. Right or wrong didn’t come into it, though in past weeks, Morwen had begun to think uneasily about tampering with nature. Women had been driven mad from losing a child naturally. They had bled to death… she musn’t let herself think of it! She must think positively, for Celia’s sake. She must have the strength for both of them…

  They knocked at Zillah’s door, and when it opened, the remembered smells met their nostrils, pungent, aromatic, thickly nauseating. The old woman’s bead-like eyes went from one white face to the other. Her gash-like mouth tightened still more.

  ‘So one of ’ee needs more help. Which one requires the needle to pay for your funning, my pretties?’

  They gasped, and Celia babbled, almost incoherently.

  ‘Don’t you have another potion, Zillah? One that will send the – the trouble away? I’ll not try any other way – I’ll die first – I’ll not have red-hot needles thrust in me—’

  ‘Who’s told ’ee about red-hot needles?’ Zillah spoke with fearsome indignation. ‘’Twould be done tidily without fuss, but I can see that ’ee wouldn’t lie still long enough. Where’s the brave maid tonight then? There was one red-hot tip that didn’t frighten ’ee, that got ’ee in this state—’ she cackled.

  Celia was suddenly screaming. ‘Will you help me or won’t you? I’ve no one else to turn to, you old hag—’

  Morwen grasped her hands and held them tight, feeling them tremble. Zillah glowered at them both, her various cats winding themselves around her legs and growling at the intruders.

  ‘Help her, Zillah! She doesn’t know what she’s saying! Please mix her a potion, for God’s sake. I’m afraid for her!’

  Zillah studied Morwen thoughtfully, and addressed her words directly to her, as if Celia wasn’t there.

  ‘How far gone is she?’ Her practised eyes swept over the shivering girl, the belly hardly rounded, but the breasts were full and heavy and would give her away to anyone who wondered…

  ‘It was the night we went to the Larnie Stone,’ Morwen couldn’t stop the bitterness in her voice. Jude’s treachery seemed no less than Ben’s to her now. She blamed them both. Neither could she have gone to Ben for help, and Celia would as soon ask a toad for help as go to Jude Pascoe.

  ‘Near to three months?’ Zillah exclaimed. ‘’Tis too long to expect the potion to work well. The needle would be sharp and quick and less painful—’

  ‘No!’ Celia screamed again. ‘I want the pain. I need the pain to scour myself of the guilt—’

  ‘You need a good dose of common-sense,’ Zillah said sourly. ‘The deed’s been done, and you’re wanting rid of it. Either stop your screeching, or get away from here. I’ll give ’ee a potion, but don’t tell me tales of wanting pain, miss! When it begins, you’ll wish you’d never spoken so rashly. Wait while I prepare it, and take half of it one hour before the rest, or you’ll remember the severity of the pain all your days.’

  They sat on the edge of Zillah’s settle while she worked, feeling trapped like flies in a honeypot by their own actions. At last, Zillah handed Celia a small dark bottle. The girls knew this potion had lethal qualities. It could kill.

  ‘’Twill work soon after the second dose,’ Zillah said crisply. ‘Stuff a towel in your mouth to stop you crying out, and have another ready to catch the waste.’

  Morwen felt faint for a moment, not daring to look at Celia. The waste. She wouldn’t think too deeply about what they were doing, but the waste of which Zillah spoke so cruelly was a living child, however unwanted, and the thought of destroying it suddenly seemed terrible. But she knew Celia wouldn’t back out now. It had been her decision in the end.

  They couldn’t wait to get out of the cottage, and make their plans. Each would tell her family she was staying the night with the other. They had done so often enough in the past, and no one would question it. There was a tumbledown cottage on the moors, isolated and nearly overgrown by grasses and gorse. They had to go home first and behave normally, and then make their way back to the derelict cottage. They couldn’t think farther ahead than that.

  By the time they were installed there, it was growing dark. Each had brought a towel as Zillah had instructed, each avoiding mention of it.

  ‘You’d best take part of the potion—’ Morwen began.

  Celia held out the empty bottle.

  ‘I couldn’t wait. I’ve already taken it all,’ she said jerkily.

  ‘God, Celia, you know what Zillah said! The pain—’

  ‘I don’t care! I thought you’d understand—’ She was stopped in mid-sentence by a searing, knife-like pain that seemed to tear her apart. She doubled up, retching and choking, and clutching at Morwen for support.

  ‘Christ Jesus, help me!’ Celia croaked, as powerful waves of pain ripped into her, intensified by the wrongly taken potion. ‘Morwen, I’m so frightened. Devils are raking my body—’

  She clung to Morwen, bathed in sweat, and shivering violently. Morwen’s nerves felt battered to a pulp at seeing her in such agony.

  ‘We’ll have to trust Zillah, Celia, and pray that the potion won’t harm you,’ she said harshly. ‘But you may as well have had the needle, sharp and quick, as take the stuff all at once—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t lecture me now!’ Celia screamed. ‘Lecture the bastard who did this to me! I swear I’ll never let another man touch me, Morwen.’

  She threshed about, hitting her head on a stone until it bled and not noticing. The pain enveloped her, more savagely than any induced abortion, because of the double dose of the potion. When she vomited it was black and stinking, and Morwen was terrified she was going to die.

  How long it lasted, neither could have said. It seemed to go on for ever, until at last Celia gave a great gasping, her teeth clenched over the towel, and there was a sudden expulsion from her body. Celia’s eyes rolled, and Morwen had no choice but to put the second towel between Celia’s legs to trap the bloody mess that seemed to be the stuff of which nightmares were made. Celia slumped back on the ground, breathing shallowly, and it was Morwen who had to bundle the waste inside the towel, tears burning her eyes at knowing what she did. A child, who hadn’t had the chance to live…

  ‘Is it over?’ Celia’s thready voice said. ‘Am I rid of the trouble, Morwen?’

  ‘Well rid, love,’ Morwen said huskily. ‘Lie still a while. We’ve plenty of time before we go home. We can take an hour or two until you get your strength back.’

  They clung together for a few moments.

  ‘We must bury it, Morwen,’ she muttered. Tears were suddenly pouring down her face. ‘I can’t look at it, but it must be buried. We can’t just leave it here, all alone—’

  ‘All right,’ Morwen said quickly, hearing the hysterical note come into Celia’s voice. ‘I’ll dig the earth with a stone and make a mound, and say a prayer over it like any preacher would. God will take care of it, Celia.’

  Celia nodded, and Morwen carried out the task, her heart beating sickly, the enormity of what she did threatening to overcome her. It was wrong, blasphemous, and she wondered if she would be damned because of it… but it was preferable to seeing Celia’s brain turn at leaving this night unfinished.

  At last they left the place, and made their slow, painful way home, pausing many times for Celia to catch her breath. They had to pass through Killigrew Clay Number One works, and Celia scooped up some of the pale green clay water and dribbled it into her mouth to assuage the dragging pains in her body.

  ‘The men say it helps,’ she grimaced. ‘Though what ails me is a far worse pain than mere stomach gripes. Mebbe I should immerse myself in the pool, Morwen. Would it rid me of the memories as well as the pain?’

  ‘Don’t talk so wildly, Celia,’ Morwen said roughly.

  ‘This time tomorrow, you’ll feel better. You’re young and strong—’

  ‘I feel like a murderer,’ she mu
ttered. ‘Can’t you see that, Morwen? You’re meant to be so clever!’

  They moved away from the clay pit, and Celia’s feet dragged as though she were an old woman. Morwen was afraid for her, and prayed that tomorrow would restore Celia’s usual optimism. She hated Jude Pascoe with a fierce hatred for what he had done to Celia, forcing her into tonight’s actions. She hated every bastard male in the entire world at that moment, for the way they used women to gratify themselves.

  By the time she had helped Celia crawl silently into her own bed, and crept away into the night and her own private corner of the Tremayne cottage, Morwen was near to weeping with fatigue and brittle nerves. She felt as old as the hills, yet no wiser than a new-born babe. And she could have wished for a less emotional simile to be churning around in her brain as she curled up beneath the cold bedcovers.

  Chapter Nine

  Soft warm rain fell gently over moors and towns and hamlets, a reminder that the long hot summer couldn’t last for ever. Bess Tremayne glanced inside her daughter’s snug bed corner, and decided to leave her curled up there a while longer. It was Sunday, and Morwen didn’t often lie abed like this. For once it would do no harm, while the rest of them went to church over at Penwithick. A spot of rain never hurt anyone, and God wouldn’t object to a steaming congregation any more than the preacher did.

  Bess roused the rest of her family, noting that Matt was missing again, and hoping Hal wouldn’t make too much of it. Matt was moving away from the family. It saddened Bess, even though she knew it was only right and proper for a boy to grow into a man and stand on his own feet.

  A family should be like a tree, the roots strong but spreading outwards. Matt was hinting that he’d like to lodge in the town, to be nearer to his work at the port. It made sense, and it would give them more room at the cottage, however much Hal may oppose the idea.

  When the rest of them left for church, Morwen still hadn’t stirred. By then the rain had stopped, and the morning was beautiful, spangly with dew, the mist dispersing in the first pale rays of sunlight. Bess walked beside her man, her two older sons behind, the younger ones in front, slicked and polished for the day, and was well content.

  In another church in St Austell, the Killigrew family gathered, making their regular appearance, though one of them fidgeted, and wished he were elsewhere on this Sunday morning.

  Jude Pascoe had arranged to meet Matt Tremayne later that day. The Tremayne boy was less prissy than the rest of his family, Jude thought. Together they might be able to set up a nice little connection in contraband goods to supply to the kiddleywinks, if Matt was as agreeable to adding a bit of spice to his life, as Jude suspected.

  He caught his mother’s frowning glance and bellowed out the words of the hymn with the rest of them. But he wished to God he was with Matt right now, and meeting up with the old sea-salts who were far more entertaining than these religious old farts.

  * * *

  Charles’s mind wasn’t on the sermon that day. He was irritated at his son Ben’s casual attitude towards Jane Carrick. Charles was anxious for his grandchildren to carry on the Killigrew name. It suddenly seemed more urgent since the goddamned doctor had alarmed him a few days ago, telling him his heart wasn’t what it used to be, and ordering him not to rant and rage so much. What did goddamned doctors know of the clay owner’s lot?

  He hadn’t told Ben of the doctor’s warning. Ben would only fuss, and Charles wanted to give him free rein a while longer. All the same, even a little peccadillo might be something to brighten the days, if Ben couldn’t manage it legally. He wasn’t as short-sighted as Jane’s fond Mama seemed to be where their relationship was concerned…

  * * *

  ‘You haven’t seen Ben lately, have you, Jane?’ her mother asked her that same Sunday. She found it hard to disguise her impatience. Didn’t Jane see how eligible the Killigrew boy was? He was strong and handsome and rich… what more could any girl ask?

  ‘Ben and I aren’t in love with each other, Mama,’ Jane said flatly, deciding the time had come to be as truthful as she dared about where her affections lay.

  ‘Love will come, dear,’ Mary Carrick said blithely, echoing Charles Killigrew’s own thoughts. ‘You’re fond of each other, aren’t you? I’m sure he thinks of no one else!’

  Jane hid a smile, uncaring whether Ben thought of another girl or not. She only cared about Tom Askhew. His brashness excited her, his occasional coarseness more stimulating than she had imagined. She loved him to the exclusion of all others. And Ben – dear Ben – would understand that she couldn’t marry for less than love. She turned to her mother with a winning look.

  ‘Ask Ben to tea any time you wish, Mama! I’ve no objections!’

  ‘Then so I will! What a tease you are, Jane, to make me think you don’t care for one another!’ Mary said fondly.

  And what a fool you are, Mother dear, Jane thought gently, to listen and not to hear. She cared for Ben Killigrew, but not in the way Mary imagined. She cared for him more just lately, for helping her in seeing Tom whenever he could. She liked Ben enormously, the way she would a brother.

  Ben was willing to help, but he didn’t really care for deceit. It surprised him that Jane could so readily agree to it, although he saw that Tom Askhew was hardly the husband the Carricks would have chosen for their daughter.

  As he listened to the interminable sermon in church that Sunday morning, his thoughts drifted towards Morwen Tremayne, as they often did nowadays. He still felt furious at the happenings of that night he’d gone with Jude to the Larnie Stone. He knew he should have gone to see Morwen again to find out if everything was well with her and her friend. He despised himself, knowing he was afraid of a rebuff – Ben Killigrew, who was never afraid of anything… and knowing the reason made him all the angrier at himself.

  He had cursed himself a thousand times for accompanying Jude that night, and for not stopping the whole jaunt happening. He hated himself for witnessing the pagan ritual, and he still couldn’t decide just what he felt for Morwen Tremayne. His feelings for her were more powerful than any he’d felt for a girl before…

  He caught Jude’s eye, and scowled at him. Each time he met his cousin’s leering look, he remembered the awful screams of the Penry girl that night on the moors. He hoped to God her screams had frightened Jude off before anything had happened… no matter how he’d tried, he couldn’t get anything out of his cousin, other than that the girl had been willing.

  Ben knew he shouldn’t leave it there, but even he never guessed at the far-reaching consequences of his cousin’s gaming. He scowled at his hymn-book again, aware that he wasn’t giving of his best in church that day. He wondered briefly if he should warn the dreamy-eyed Matthew Tremayne to keep away from his cousin… and then thought fervently that the whole damn Tremayne family could sort out their own problems.

  * * *

  Matt had finally made up his mind to move out of the cottage. He’d spent the night drinking and jawing with the old sea-salts who coloured his nights, and had decided he would lodge with the shipworkers and fishermen in the harbour lodging house, and he’d simply move out, leaving a note to avoid arguments.

  He felt a wild freedom inside as he tramped towards home that morning. The countryside looked freshly laundered after the early rain, and he felt good to be alive. He felt a renewed urge to break away from home, and he strode jauntily in his long leather boots, as useful in his new occupation at the docks as they ever were at the clay works. He took the short cut through the pit, wanting to get everything cleared up and be away before his folks got home from church.

  Suddenly he stopped dead, his heart nearly leaping clear out of his chest. He had skirted the pit, the milky green pool below him. Sunlight danced off its surface in opaque jewelled globules, and outlined the shape of something – someone – lying face down in the milky water. He could see the once-bright long dark hair, lying in dull rats’ tails over the inert body…

  Matt scrambled down the sloping
gravel of the pit, his heart thundering in his chest. He could only think of Morwen, his sister Morwen, and he heard the blood screaming in his ears as he waded into the shallower rim of the pool. The water quickly went over the top of his boots and chilled him through, but he heeded none of it as he reached for the cold limp arm of the girl, twisting her around until he could see her face.

  ‘Christ Almighty. Celia!’ He croaked out her name, almost puking with shock and guilty relief that it wasn’t Morwen after all. He stared in disbelief, remembering Celia pert and pretty and rounded enough for a man to warm towards her…

  Nobody would warm to her now, Matt thought with a shudder. Her face was white-slimed from the clay slurry, her lips distorted as though with some private agony. Her eyes were wide open as though she’d walked into the clay pool deliberately, keeping her senses intact until she drowned.

  Matt hauled her out of the pool. His thoughts raced jerkily. He’d have to get her away from here, before the early shift workers arrived on Monday morning. He couldn’t take her home like this. It would kill her father to see his pretty Celia covered in such muck. The Tremayne cottage was nearer. He’d have to clean her up before he told Thomas Penry to come and fetch his daughter home…

  Matt tried not to notice he carried a dead body in his arms. He wished he’d closed her eyes, so he wouldn’t have the terrifying sensation that at any moment Celia would turn to look up at him with those staring dead eyes…

  He finally stumbled through his own cottage door, kicking the door shut behind him, and thanking God that all God-fearing clayworkers were away at church. Morwen’s curtain still hung across her sleeping corner. He would lay Celia there for now. He pulled the curtain back, and the next minute he thought he was being accosted by demons.

  Morwen leapt up in bed, her nerves still jangling from last night’s ordeal. In an instant she took in the sight in front of her. Matthew held something in his arms. Something that dripped clay water and stank of it. Something cold and dead that was her friend Celia…