Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  Paul's mouth drooped at the corners. 1 don't mean to be bad.'

  'You aren't bad,' Amy reassured him. 'You're just a bit thoughtless, that's all. So when you go back down Dumpers Lane, if you've dammed up that river so it floods someone's land, kindly un-dam it.'

  'It's our land down there.' Paul's eyes sparkled as he realised she wasn't cross at all. 'D'you know, Mum, that's the best thing about living here – so much of it belongs to us. I can run through fields shouting that they're mine.' He paused for breath. 'Well, Gran's! But that's kind of the same, isn't it?'

  'Yes, love.' Amy hugged him to her chest. Even through the winter, when the wind shook the windows and frost stayed on the bare branches all day, Paul had found new pleasures here. He didn't seem to feel the cold as he skipped out to collect eggs, or staggered over to the pigsty with a bucket of hot swill. 'It's ours. I hope one day your little boys will be paddling down the lane. Now off with you to wash and put some clothes on, and wear your Wellingtons this time, that's what they're for!'

  'That boy goes through trousers like a fox through hen houses.' Mabel picked up a pair of grey school shorts from the mending basket and examined the tear in the seat. 'Is this the new pair?'

  Amy was sewing buttons on one of his shirts, wrenched off because he rarely stopped to unbutton them.

  'I'm just glad he's behaving like a real boy at last,' she said. 'I didn't think he'd ever have the courage to go out and mix with other kids, let alone be naughty. I don't care if I mend a hundred pairs of shorts.'

  Mabel snorted as if in disapproval, but Amy knew better. The relationship between Paul and his grandmother was based on mutual approval. Paul liked his gran being considered weird, he liked her old men's clothes, the fact she could shin up a ladder, drive a tractor and help deliver a calf or a litter of pigs. He sat enthralled while she drew him fantasy pictures of dragons and monsters, he helped her bake bread and he considered her the font of all wisdom.

  In turn Mabel adored him. She loved his sensitivity, the way he turned his sad brown eyes on her like a dog. She saw how bright he was, his love of animals and his natural sympathy with all humanity. He looked very like Bill MacDonald, even she agreed to that, but maybe it was because Bill had never acknowledged Paul that she wanted him for her own.

  Paul had something special about him. All those years of anticipating his father's moods had left him supersensitive. He knew instinctively when someone was sad, ill, anxious or just in a bad mood, and he had the knack of deflecting it. He was such a serious little boy, and sometimes that alone made people laugh and feel better.

  'Look at him now!' Mabel chuckled. 'To think a year ago he was even nervous of the chickens!'

  They went over to the kitchen door to watch as Tara and Paul rode up the lane on Betsy.

  Tara sat at her desk idly stroking her cheek with the end of one thick, golden plait. It was sixteen months since the day the family had left their father for good and the changes in Tara were dramatic.

  She had grown two inches in height and her skinny gawkiness had gone. Small breasts pushed out the bodice of the checked school dress, the long slender legs wound round the chair were shapely and lightly tanned. Her plaits, dress and sturdy sandals signified she was still a child, but her face and body were those of a beautiful young woman.

  Delicate fair eyebrows framed her wide amber eyes above a small straight nose. Her mouth, once too big for her face, was now perfection. Full, luscious lips with a well-defined bow shape gave more than a hint of her generous and loving nature.

  She was supposed to be writing an essay on the birds at Chew Valley lake, but instead she was dreaming about Harry.

  Gran had been very prickly about George and Harry, in fact she still had reservations about them. Although they kept in touch by letter, so far Gran hadn't agreed to invite them down. But she was softening now, mainly because George had written telling them he had proposed to Queenie. Tara was delighted by this news. Although, unlike Gran, she had once hoped Uncle George would marry Amy, this suited her better.

  They all liked Queenie, and they all knew she was the perfect partner for George, but just now Tara's pleasure was based on entirely selfish thoughts. Once he was married off, Uncle George's would make an ideal place to have holidays without her mother. Then she could be alone with Harry.

  An interest in boys had come around the time her figure began to develop. Beryl had a boyfriend called Tom and she was always mooning over him and talking about kissing. Tara had looked around at the local boys and found herself comparing them all unfavourably with Harry. Even the sixth-formers seemed such country bumpkins next to his sophistication. They didn't have smart suits, they couldn't drive and she hadn't spotted anyone as handsome.

  A year apart from him, with letters the only contact, had created a kind of golden aura around his memory, a collection of mental pictures she liked to dwell on.

  The picture of him lifting her mother up from the floor that terrible day had stayed with Tara. His strong features had shown anger and disgust at the injuries her father had inflicted on Amy, yet such tenderness, too. Once she had taken him an early cup of tea and caught him asleep, dark hair falling over those bright blue eyes, prickly stubble on his chin. But best of all was the memory of the last hug out in the yard – the strength of his arms around her, the smell of Old Spice wafting from his skin, his lips against her ear and the words he had said to make her strong. 'Don't think you can marry some spotty-faced farmboy, I'll be watching you.' In reality she knew he had been telling her not to give up on her dreams of being a designer, but now she preferred to interpret his words as an admission of dawning love.

  Loving Harry was a secret she hadn't shared with anyone. It made her feel good inside, like knowing your school report was excellent or getting the most goals at netball.

  She was happy to be living in the country now. She had friends at school, she knew most of the neighbours and shopkeepers. During the long winter nights her dressmaking skills had improved dramatically, with Mum teaching her the difficult bits of collars and sleeves. Gran had let her use the old treadle machine, and she quickly progressed from dolls' clothes to things for herself.

  Gran encouraged big ideas. She didn't throw a wet blanket over ideas of art college, of painting in Paris, or opening her own boutique. She said anyone could do anything if they had a mind to stick at it. Well, she would make it to the top. One day she would be driving a Mercedes down Park Lane, there would be pictures of her and her designs in every fashion magazine and, best of all, Harry would be her man.

  An outraged yell outside made her start. Pushing her chair back from the desk Tara stood up and went over to the window.

  She saw Paul scrabbling over a pile of timber in the woodyard on the other side of the river. Colin was with him and, even at a distance of some five-hundred yards, Tara could sense their panic.

  'Stop, you little toads!'

  She laughed at the abusive order coming from an unseen man and wondered what Paul and Colin had done this time.

  It was just after seven in the evening. The sun perched just above the square church tower and the shadows of the tall poplar trees were reaching out like fingers across the meadow. As Tara leaned out of her window to see better, she saw the owner of the loud voice come into view. He too was climbing up the wood pile, a big, dark-haired man wearing a singlet and waving a stick.

  The two boys disappeared for a moment, then emerged seconds later to jump down into the river from a low wall, and wade across. They looked over their shoulders fearfully as they reached the bank of the meadow but, as the sound of the man's boots rang out from the stone bridge, they began to run to the farm.

  Another shout of outrage made them halt for a second, but as they saw the man leap over the meadow fence they fled, arms and legs going like pistons.

  'I'll get you, don't think you'll get away with it!' The man ran after them, brandishing the stick.

  'What's happening?' Gran called out from the yard below
. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. 'Who's that shouting?'

  'There's a man chasing Paul and Colin,' Tara shouted down, realising her grandmother's line of vision was obscured by the dry-stone wall between her and the meadow. 'They must have upset him!'

  Gran frowned in irritation. "They'll get a hiding from me, too, if they've been up to no good.'

  The man was gaining on the two boys with each long stride.

  'Getting back to your gran won't save your skin!' he yelled. 'Stop now or it'll be the worse for you!'

  The air was so still Tara could hear the boys' feet thudding on the uneven ground and the rasp of their breath. She was laughing, wishing she dared cheer her brother on, when out of nowhere came a premonition of disaster. Fear caught her stomach, freezing the smile on her lips, clutching at her heart and throat.

  Paul was some three-hundred yards from her now, purple with exertion, cheeks puffed out, eyes bulging with effort as his thin legs sped over the rough ground. But it was mindless terror that drove him, the kind of wild-eyed panic she'd seen on heifers' faces as they were herded into the abattoir.

  'Whatever is all the noise about?' Amy came out of the dairy drying her hands on her apron.

  Tara froze at her window, unable to move a muscle. She saw Colin give up the race and sink panting to his knees in the long grass, but Paul raced on relentlessly towards the wall between him and the farmyard.

  From her position Tara could see everything – her gran striding over to the wall, her back stiff with indignation; Amy standing still, blonde hair tucked under the white cap she always wore to work in the dairy, her hands flapping as if she sensed something was about to happen. Paul was steaming towards the wall at break-neck speed. As he lifted his arms in readiness to vault it, suddenly Tara screamed.

  'Stop, Paul! The potato digger!'

  The ancient rusting implement had two big spiked wheels on the back and it was hidden from his view, on her side of the wall. How many times had Gran warned them not to climb on it? How many times had their mother suggested it should be disposed of?

  It seemed to Tara that everything went into slow motion. She saw the man bend over Colin and haul him up by the shoulder. She saw her gran put her hands on the wall and peer over. But in the same instant Paul's body hurtled up and over in a graceful, perfect arc, and she heard her mother scream.

  *

  She had no recollection of running from her room, down the stairs and out through the kitchen. It was only the screaming she remembered, but whether it was from Paul, her mother, grandmother or even herself she didn't know.

  The only vivid picture was of Paul impaled on those spikes.

  He could have been a guy ready for a bonfire, a doll-like figure tossed carelessly as washing over a thorn bush. But one hand was still twitching, stained bright red with the strawberries he'd been stealing. His dark eyes and mouth were wide open in shock.

  It wasn't until her mother tried to lift him that Tara realised the full horror. One spike had entered his neck, the other penetrated his spine at waist level. As Amy tried to free him blood gushed out, splattering her clothes, and trickled down to the ground beneath.

  'Don't try to move him.' Gran took command, pulling Amy back, shouting at Stan to phone for an ambulance.

  The man from the field came over the wall and in that second Tara knew exactly why Paul had been so terrified. He bore a strong resemblance to Bill Mac-Donald, with the same purple-tinged face, dark hair and big, muscular frame.

  'I would never have chased him if I'd known.' The man's face blanched as he saw Paul. 'I was mad because they trampled on my strawberries. God forgive me!'

  The sequence of events following that was all mixed up. Was it then that her mother clawed at the man's face, or later? Did Gran really strike Amy to stop her screaming? Or was she silenced when the ambulance men pulled Paul from the spikes?

  But Tara did remember Gran standing by Paul with her hand all bloody on his throat and saying he was dead. She recalled Amy showering his face with kisses and she wished she could touch him herself, only she seemed to be frozen to the spot.

  It didn't seem real. Tara expected that any minute someone would shake her and point out Paul and Colin cruising down the road on their bikes.

  But it was real. People were thronging into the yard. Some immediate neighbours, such as Mrs Hewitt and Mrs Parsons, sobbed openly. Others just stared at the potato digger as Tara did, watching the blood drip down its vicious spikes, forming a puddle on the cobbles beneath.

  Colin vomited in a corner, tears making clean stripes on his grubby cheeks.

  'We never meant no harm,' he bleated to one of the many policemen who arrived. 'We was only eating a few strawberries.'

  'It's times like these when I wish I was anything but a doctor.'

  Mabel Randall looked up at the rosy faced man with kind brown eyes and bit back her customary sarcasm.

  'Will she be all right?' Her heart was beating too fast, she felt giddy and weak with the events of the evening and she didn't know how to comfort her daughter or Tara.

  She was holding back her own anguish; trying hard not to think that she would never feel that little hand in hers again, or pat that firm little bottom. She had loved him so much. She had envisaged him taking over the farm one day. He was her future. Now he was gone.

  'I'm certain it's just a temporary state brought on by shock.' Dr Masterton touched Mabel's shoulder reassuringly. 'It's just nature's way of protecting her.'

  Among all the drama, noise and questions, no-one but Tara noticed that Amy had withdrawn into a silent world. Mabel had given the police all the information she could and Tara had been able to go up to her bedroom and point out what she'd seen. But even when everyone had gone and silence and darkness descended on the farmhouse again, Amy was still sitting dry-eyed on the old kitchen settle, staring into space, unaware of anything.

  'It's not the silence, that's understandable.' Mabel lifted the boiling kettle from the Aga and filled the teapot. 'I feel it's something more dangerous, something that might hold her for ever unless we nip it in the bud quickly.'

  The doctor glanced across at the open hall door. Tara had led her mother up the stairs after his examination and he could hear her murmuring something to Amy as she put her to bed.

  He had witnessed the strong bond between Amy and her two children almost as soon as they arrived in the village. Their reluctance to speak of their past, a certain distrustful nervousness in all three, suggested to him they'd suffered prolonged hardship and violence.

  'It may just be that she's holding on until she feels strong enough to let go,' he said carefully. 'Like you, I'd feel better if she was handling her shock and grief in a more demonstrative way, but all of us have different ways of coping with disaster.'

  Gregory Masterton was in his late forties, the third generation of Mastertons to be doctor in the village. Except for his years at university, medical school and his national service he had always lived in Chew Magna. He knew everyone, every child, farm worker and landowner, and in his profession he often uncovered secrets he would rather not have been privy to.

  He had been called to Bridge Farm perhaps only four or five times in twenty years, but each time he had left disturbed by its atmosphere.

  Bridge Farm always had an air of tragic mystery. He felt in his heart that Paul's death was possibly just the start of more tragedy for the little family. What would happen to them now?

  Mabel seemed so controlled, but only a short while ago the children in the village had dared one another to creep into the farmyard to spy on the woman who talked to herself. They had frightened each other by saying she cut children's throats and fed their bodies to her pigs. Would losing the grandson she'd come to love so dearly push her back that way?

  What about Tara? She'd said something about Paul believing it was his father chasing him; that made the boy's death even more tragic. How could an adolescent girl come through such an e
xperience and not be permanently scarred?

  Then there was Amy. How could she stay here and keep her sanity? She must have brought her children here for some good reason, and now each time she looked across the yard or out of the window she'd see Paul on those spikes. What could anyone do or say to comfort her?

  Amy Manning was one of the loveliest women he'd ever met. Now her big blue eyes were vacant, but only two days ago, when he'd passed the time of day with her in the High Street, they had sparkled at his clumsy attempts at flirtation.

  She was the kind of woman any man would yearn for, not least a sometimes lonely bachelor like himself. He admired her quiet, gentle manner, her ability to listen and to draw people out. A mother, sister and friend to all, she was held in esteem by everyone in the village. Why should fate be so cruel to her?

  'Tea seems inadequate, but it's all I've got.' Mabel shuffled over to the table and put down the teapot and two mugs.

  'I'll just see if Amy needs anything first,' Gregory said.

  Mabel merely nodded, sitting down heavily at the table.

  It was happening again! What had she or her family done to deserve another kick in the stomach? If God had wanted a sacrifice why couldn't he have taken her?

  Two years ago she had sat in this very kitchen contemplating killing herself. She could remember looking up at the beams and wondering if there was enough of a drop to hang herself, or whether to slash her wrists with her butcher's knife.

  Mabel lifted her eyes up again to the beams. Not one spider's web hung there now, just polished copper pots and bunches of dried flowers. New red gingham curtains hung at the windows, and pots of geraniums stood on the sills.

  All Amy's doing! Battered and abandoned as she was, she'd got down on her knees and polished the tiled floor, scrubbed everything clean and made it a real home. But instead of happiness and prosperity, life had slapped her in the face again, and taken her son.

  The doctor paused on the landing, looking through the open door, not wishing to intrude.

  Tara had her mother sitting on the edge of the double bed, wearing a pink cotton nightdress, and she was brushing her hair. Amy sat just as she had done earlier, eyes vacant, staring straight ahead, her lips slightly apart, her hands resting on her knees.