No Mercy

by J. T. Brindle

  ‘Be off with you!’ yelled Rosie, reluctant to share the picnic and noisily crashing one of the crutches to the ground as the curious visitors approached. At once they retreated, amidst a volley of squealing, fighting and a furious beating of wings. ‘Bloody cheek!’ Rosie exclaimed, shaking her fist in the air. Suddenly the blackbird returned, staying just out of reach of Rosie’s crutches, from where, remaining motionless as a statue, it stared at them through keen, brilliant eyes. At first, Rosie continued to thump the tip of her crutch into the ground in a bid to frighten the blackbird away. When it defiantly stood its ground, observing them all the while, Rosie took hold of Ellie’s hand, digging her bony fingers deep into the flesh and whispering to Ellie, ‘Don’t move. It ain’t the bird that’s watching us!’ Astonished by the strange action of the blackbird, and the effect it was having on the woman beside her, Ellie did as she was told. She could feel the hand trembling violently as it closed ever tighter about her own – the long, uneven nails slicing into her skin and making her want to cry out. The blackbird appeared lifeless; as though carved out of coal. Only the eyes moved; piercing, darting shafts of liquid black – staring at them. Staring. Then, suddenly, it was gone, its wings unfolding from its small slender form and thrashing the air for a brief time, before soaring into the sky and melting with the sun’s blinding rays.

  For a moment, Ellie was almost afraid to move. Still in awe of what had happened, she looked at the old woman. She was astonished to see Rosie unperturbed by the incident and actually softly singing. When, sensing Ellie’s eyes on her, the old woman looked up, it was to say in a quiet voice, ‘It was dying.’ She laughed, nervously. ‘You get to know these things… when you’ve lived in such an isolated place for a long time.’ She stared after the bird, which was now only a mere speck on the horizon. ‘It’s eerie… when they stare at you like that. It’s as though… you can see its very soul… yet…’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Rosie?’ Ellie was intrigued.

  Laughing nervously and nodding towards the direction in which the blackbird had flown, Rosie said, ‘Gone to its maker, I expect. Like we all will one day.’ She lapsed into a brief silence, before slapping Ellie on the hand. ‘Don’t let it worry you, dearie,’ she said, ‘it’s just one of them things. One of them… strange things we’ll never understand.’ She glanced sharply about, giving Ellie the impression that, try as she might to disguise the fact, Rosie had been unnerved by the incident. ‘Sometimes I suspect this place has too many mysteries.’

  ‘What do you mean, Rosie?’ Ellie sometimes felt that, too; in the house, and out here. Especially when she was all alone.

  ‘Oh, I’m just being an old fool,’ Rosie told her. She then completely changed the subject, outlining in detail how ‘that silly man, George, has kept me awake half the night with his bad dreams and hobgoblins’. When Ellie asked why the old man had not been persuaded to come out with Rosie on such a lovely morning, Rosie rolled her eyes and flung wide her hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Because he’s like bloody Dracula, that’s why!’ she moaned. ‘Afraid the sun might shrivel him up!’ They laughed at the idea.

  For the next twenty minutes, the conversation between Rosie and Ellie was concerned mostly with what progress had been made at the big house in the past months. Ellie spoke with pride of their achievements, regarding the immediate living areas and the three bedrooms they were presently occupying. The walls and ceilings in these particular rooms had been stripped, repaired and repainted. Rotting floorboards had been taken up and replaced with new timbers, purchased at a discount through Alec Harman, from Wentworth Estates. Ellie had taken immense pleasure in tearing down the old threadbare curtains and hanging the new ones, made up by her own hands from a batch of pretty pink and white floral material, bought in the summer sales in Medford town. It was the ever-helpful Rosie who had remembered the old treadle sewing-machine; triumphantly unearthing it from the mountain of debris in the outhouse. In all, only five rooms had been renovated; the three bedrooms in the West Wing, the big room downstairs, and the kitchen, whose long, wooden cupboards had taken on a new life beneath the onslaught of hot, soapy water and scrubbing brush. One Saturday afternoon, Alec Harman had arrived with a huge tin of wood varnish. ‘It’s the stuff we use to preserve certain batches of timber… special orders,’ he explained.

  Ellie and her father had a heated exchange of words when Alec Harman offered his help. Ellie had been pleasantly surprised, but her father was immediately suspicious. ‘You’re not to give that fellow any kind of encouragement,’ he snapped. She insisted on being allowed to decide for herself what friends she made in this new place and, ‘after all… it will be me who spends the most time in the kitchen. You have enough to occupy you with the rest of the house!’ Grudgingly, her father conceded. Alec Harman applied the varnish, and Ellie was both astonished and delighted with the transformation of the kitchen cupboards.

  With the red quarry floor tiles scrubbed and polished, the window dressed in pretty gingham curtains and the lovely old cupboards rich and gleaming again, the kitchen quickly became Ellie’s pride and joy; her very own retreat, where she and Alec had spent a few magic hours working together. Being close to him was a great source of pleasure to Ellie, and though he never once betrayed as much to her, she sensed that he also found pleasure in her company. Alec Harman was a man of few words. A man who had stirred something deep inside her; an all-consuming emotion which she could not fathom. He made her curious, certain that beneath those dark, seductive eyes were kept many hidden secrets. He intrigued and fascinated her. He made her feel wanted, yet he constantly and silently rejected her. They had toiled together, shared a meal together and, very occasionally, laughed together. And still, she did not know him. Always he held something back, keeping the essence of himself from her. He was a strange man, a loner, unpredictable and irritatingly aloof. She could never be certain of what he was thinking. She was in awe of him; a little afraid of him and yet, when he was close beside her, her every nerve-end tingled for joy. No one had ever made her feel like that before; not the boys she had met during her college years, and not even Barny, who still held a very special place in her heart.

  ‘You’re miles away.’ Rosie tugged at the short sleeve of Ellie’s blue blouse. ‘Dreaming of your sweetheart, are you?’ she asked, with a knowing smile.

  ‘Sort of,’ Ellie replied, gathering her meandering thoughts and thinking how perceptive Rosie was.

  ‘What did you say the young man’s name was?’

  ‘Barny Tyler.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. From what you tell me, he sounds a likeable, hard-working fella. So… when do I get the pleasure of clapping eyes on this “Barny”, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ellie answered truthfully. What she did not reveal was that she had posted a letter to Barny only yesterday, catching the Thursday noon postal collection from Mrs Gregory’s shop.

  ‘Shouldn’t hide yourself away in this God-forsaken place!’ Rosie growled, regarding Ellie through curious brown eyes. ‘Lovely girl like you… it’s a crying shame.’ She snatched her gaze from Ellie’s lovely face and, viciously ramming a sandwich in her mouth, she tore at it with strong, square teeth, the crimson lipstick from her mouth leaving an ugly, vivid stain on the bread. Ellie’s protest that she was not ‘hiding herself away’ was received with a suspicious sideways look, followed by that wide, disarming smile that was Rosie’s most endearing quality. ‘Well… happen you’re not, dearie,’ Rosie chuckled, ‘but there’s many a young heart that would carry you off, given half a chance.’ She sighed, tore at the bread again, and spoke out, with niblets of wet, chewed bread splaying into the air. ‘There ain’t too many young men round these parts… not now. There’s no industry here… apart from the big distribution warehouses just beyond the hamlet. That’s where most of the folks work round here… loading goods to be sent all over the country. But it’s a thankless, boring job I’m told… the young ’uns don’t like it too much, so they move into M
edford town… working in the railways and brickyards. The girls go into the factories… or become nurses. No, there ain’t much here in this hamlet. And you have to remember that the war took its toll of the young men. It might be over ten years since the war ended, but those brave men can never be replaced.’ She shook her peroxide head and a sadness came over her. ‘Terrible thing… war. So many lives.’ She eyed Ellie and was suddenly smiling again. ‘’Course, there’s farming… but that way of life don’t appeal to everybody.’ She cocked her head to one side and squinted her eyes to the sun as she looked deeper into Ellie’s soft, friendly eyes. ‘The Harman fellow’s taken a fancy to you,’ she said in a quiet, intimate manner.

  Ellie felt the hot blush spread over her neck and face. At first she looked away, feigning renewed interest in her discarded apple, but the excitement had been aroused in her. She could not resist asking, ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Aha!’ Rosie laughed out loud, tapping her nose and peering more closely into Ellie’s embarrassed face. ‘I know, that’s all. And I suspect that his attentions ain’t wasted… am I right?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Rosie.’ Ellie’s face was burning like a beacon beneath the old woman’s amused stare. ‘Alec Harman is… a man who keeps himself to himself,’ she reminded her.

  ‘Huh! I may be old and crippled, dearie,’ Rosie retorted, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth and spreading a crimson veil over her face, ‘but I ain’t too far gone to know when a man hankers after a woman. True… Alec Harman does keep himself to himself, but, after all, he is a man. He has the heart of a man, and the needs of a man. He has eyes that can appreciate a lovely thing like yourself.’ She chuckled and leaned forward, making Ellie obliged to meet her knowing gaze. ‘Like I said… he’s taken a real fancy to you. But then, you must know that.’ The smile lingered round her mouth. ‘Handsome bugger, ain’t he, eh? I bet you ain’t never seen such a handsome fellow. Secretive and private, yes, with them dark eyes that could melt any woman’s heart; even mine… if I weren’t so long in the tooth and past all things beautiful!’ In a swift, unexpected movement she grabbed Ellie’s hand. ‘You could do worse, my girl!’ she chided. ‘I know he’s secretive… a loner… unpredictable and even hostile at times. But, deep down, he’s a good man. That’s all you need to know.’ Suddenly her mood was unusually serious as she warned, ‘I suspect he’s not a man to be used. But, if you treat him right… you’ll not be sorry, I’m sure.’

  ‘Rosie, you’re imagining things.’ Ellie wondered at the old woman’s words. ‘Alec Harman has never given me reason to believe he… he… “fancies me” as you say. And though I know you mean well, I think this conversation’s getting out of hand. Besides… don’t forget Barny.’

  For a long, irritating moment, Rosie ignored Ellie’s comment, turning her sandwich every which way and meticulously examining it. Eventually she said, without looking up, ‘No, Ellie. Don’t you “forget Barny”!’

  Without knowing it, the old woman had struck a chord in Ellie’s conscience. Everything Rosie had said was true. In her innermost heart, Ellie had also sensed Alec Harman’s interest in her. Yet, he had never once made a move or said anything that gave credence to these feelings. For a long time now, she had come to realise how close she was growing to this strange, quiet man, with the dark, sensuous eyes that at times appeared uniquely sinister. In his silent, bewitching way, it was almost as though he had woven a spell over her. Sometimes, in the dark hours, she would lie in her bed, lonely and aching for him. But then, she was reminded of the same two things that raced through her mind now – that she had no way of knowing exactly how Alec Harman felt towards her, and, with a pang of conscience, she would remember Barny; his natural, easy manner, the wayward shock of brown hair and those kind, green eyes that were brimming with love whenever he smiled at her. In spite of herself, she missed him so.

  Ellie had lost count of the numerous attempts she had made to start a letter to Barny, asking him to understand why she had to leave; pleading with him not to turn his back on her completely, and begging him to come here, to Thornton Place, where they could talk through all that had come between them. But, each attempt to compose such a letter always ended in tears. Finally, driven by guilt and loneliness and the need to feel wanted for herself, she had written to Barny, but it was a restrained and polite letter, more to a friend than a lover. In it, Ellie had told him how much he was in her thoughts. She told him of the big house and of the work they had undertaken. She described how magnificent was the area, how isolated the community, and how they still had many months of hard work before the house was recovered from the awful neglect that had brought it so close to being lost forever.

  When reading the letter back to herself, Ellie was astonished to find that she had used up almost four pages, describing and praising the house and the surrounding area. She was shocked to find, also, that she had made excessive mention of ‘Mr Harman… so handsome… intriguing’. For this reason only, she had rewritten the letter, omitting all mention of Alec Harman, and trimming back her seeming obsession for both the man and the house. Strange, she thought, how Thornton Place and Alec Harman were so alike; dark, secret beings, that had somehow etched themselves deep into her soul. She wanted them both!

  ‘Have the owners paid a visit yet?’ Rosie had been regarding the young woman before her, taking pleasure in the attractive study she made and gently enjoying Ellie’s petite figure that was almost lost in the paint-spattered overalls and the cornflower-blue blouse that softly billowed in the breeze. She was so young, so very lovely. Her warm, amber-coloured eyes and the wild, pretty hair that held the golden brilliance of sunshine made a body want to reach out and touch the beauty, feel its vitality. Take it to themselves.

  ‘No. Since the envelope was delivered to the shop, we’ve heard nothing at all,’ Ellie replied, simultaneously replacing the flask into the hessian bag. ‘It’s a funny way of going on. In this day and age, I’m surprised that the owners should choose to pay their employees in such a way.’

  ‘It’s not uncommon, though,’ Rosie admitted, ‘and there’s no accounting for the manner in which money-folk behave… a law to themselves, that’s what they are. Before you came, me and George were paid in exactly the same fashion… a special delivery to the shop every six months… wages twice a year, and no choice but to make it last over the six months. Sometimes there’d be a bit extra for urgent work, and occasionally there’d be some small instruction or another from the solicitors… like when we were told of your father’s appointment and ordered to move into the cottage until further notice. It’s a good job I was careful over the years… got a bit put by to see us through.’

  ‘Do you mind living in the cottage, Rosie?’ Ellie looked at the woman, seeing the deep wrinkles incised into her neck and face, and thinking how, in spite of them, Rosie did not seem aged. Yet she was. Rosie had told them herself that she was ‘past seventy years of age’. There was something about her, though, something that shone from inside, belying those long, ravaging years. It wasn’t just her joy of life, or the thick, tinted make-up that she plastered into the folds and dips of her skin; it wasn’t the crimson lipstick that even now was smeared across the bottom half of her face, giving her the peculiar appearance of a clown. Nor was it the twinkling dark brown eyes, that sometimes laughed and sometimes mocked. To Ellie, it was a more intangible essence. It was not something to be questioned or analysed. Rosie was special. And Ellie admired her greatly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind living in the cottage,’ Rosie said, haphazardly slinging the hessian bag round her neck. ‘What you forget, Ellie, is that me and my old fella lived in that there cottage for quite a while afore he died… o’ course, that were when George and his missus took over the duties at the big house. We’d grown old, d’you see… couldn’t take proper care of it. When Wentworth Estates sold Thornton Place to a private buyer, well… me and my old fella were quickly given our marching orders. Quite rightly, too!’ She leaned into her
crutches and hoisted herself upright. A look of sadness tinged her merry eyes. ‘We had some good years in that cottage, but… well… there were the other things.’

  There it was again! Ellie was convinced that Rosie knew more than most about the dark secrets which this place coveted. ‘What… “other things”?’ she asked, knowing in her heart that she would not learn the secrets in Rosie’s mind; not on this day, and maybe never.

  ‘What did you say, dearie?’ Rosie was deliberately evasive, cursing herself for letting slip her innermost thoughts. She had not wanted to alarm the girl. There were things that should never be revealed; things that brought terror to a body’s soul. And yet, it had been some long time since… since… The memory made her shudder inside. There had been a spell of peace, when the nightmares had stayed away. But, somehow, Rosie knew they would be back; she could never tell when. But, they would be back! Now, she purposefully hurried away, chattering nonsense so as not to hear the girl’s repeated questions. ‘I must get back to George,’ she called, digging the tips of her crutches into the ground as she stumped away at a furious pace. George would be watching for her. Frantic! For that poor, haunted soul, the nightmares never went away.