Ralph, though, had not cringed from looking her in the eye. In his own well-meaning manner he thought his quiet discreet smile might bring her a measure of comfort. He was shocked when she did not return his smile, but instead stared long and hard at him. He wondered at her thoughts in that moment, he felt her great strength. Such was the force of her emotion in him that he had to look away. And so he stood, his back to the cell, his shoulder resting against the door jamb and, like the others, he now cast his gaze elsewhere.
Soon, they brought her out, one officer in front, one behind, and – being manhandled through the door between the two other officers – Rebecca Norman, head high, defiant as ever. And then something happened. In the instant that she drew level with him, she turned to Ralph; her smile was exquisite, her proud beauty never more bewitching. In a hoarse whisper, she told him, ‘I made it for you. The tallow image. Take it. Cherish it.’
Before he could reply, she was whisked away, her bare feet making a pitiful sight amongst the heavy boots that resounded a menacing march against the hard ground beneath. In a moment they were gone. Only the chaos lingered, and then the silence, the unbearable inauspicious silence. For a long aching moment, Ralph stared after her. He shivered. It was suddenly cold. A whispering cold that crept right into a body’s bones and numbed them.
It was gone five p.m. The shift was over. Morgan lost no time in gathering up his various paraphernalia: his coffee mug, the belt from his trousers – which he had draped over the back of his chair – his cudgel, the ledger and newspaper from beneath. ‘Thank God this day’s over,’ he told Ralph as he hurried away. He did not look back. Ralph suspected he would not be in this work for very much longer; in fact, he doubted whether the poor fellow would ever report for duty here again.
It was deathly still. There were no occupants now in the padded cells. In the far distance, Ralph could hear a whistle being blown, then the muted sounds of many movements, voices raised in authority, the low drone of a multitude of noises, not too far off. He felt oddly isolated.
Sighing deeply, he turned and strolled into the cell, her cell. A chilling, pleasurable sensation came over him. She was still here. The essence of her was all around. His glance fell to the garment, straw-like, crumpled. In its folds lay what looked like a doll. He bent, stretched out his hand to retrieve it, and her words throbbed in his mind. ‘I made it for you… the tallow image.’ He hesitated, but did not know why. An instinct, a small persistent voice cautioning. ‘Take it,’ she had implored, ‘cherish it.’
Grasping the doll in his fist, he raised it to the fading daylight. He gasped aloud. It was her! Fashioned in the image of Rebecca Norman herself, it was incredibly beautiful. Its gown was a threadbare remnant torn from her convict dress. It was crudely made, drawn over the doll’s head and reaching to the calves of its trim, shapely legs; the garment was drawn in at the waist by means of a slender thread; the sleeves were short and ragged, the hands and feet perfect in every detail. Altogether a primitive thing, though cleverly created. The face, though, was unbelievably exquisite. Perusing the strong classic features – the slender throat, the mass of dark hair and those latent hollowed eyes where the shadows mysteriously flitted – he was overawed. With loving fingertips he stroked the moulded features; they felt unexpectedly silken to the touch. In that moment he had never felt more alive.
With the likeness of Rebecca Norman burning the palm of his hand, Ralph wondered at the pathos inside him. All caution had left him. His heart was uniquely calm. Taking a moment longer to enjoy her beauty, he then slipped the doll into his pocket. At the door he turned and smiled into the room. He could not know how alike their smiles were, his and Rebecca’s – secretive, sinister.
Now, as he swung to shut the heavy wooden door, the vibration trembled round the cell, along the wall and to its very heart. Here lay the duplicate likeness which Rebecca Norman had malevolently fashioned from the depths of her black vindictive soul. A likeness, yet not a likeness! In the wake of the reverberating din, the doll trembled, shifting slightly, its empty eyes looking towards the source of the noise. As it slipped deeper into its hiding place, it made a soft rushing sound, a sigh. The silence settled once more.
‘What is it, Ralph? Why can’t you tell me about it?’ Maria had woken to find that Ralph had left his place beside her in the big iron bed they shared. On sitting up, she had seen him in the far corner of the room, seated in the wicker chair, the incoming moonlight from the window bathing him in its hazy yellow glow. He was bent forward with his head down, looking like a man who had the world on his shoulders. He was not a man at peace – Maria had known that since the previous evening when he had returned from his place of work. There had been something about him that troubled her, a sense of loss… a strange mood that had taken him far away from her. It was on him now, that uneasy, oddly tranquil mood which she had never seen in him before. It frightened her.
limbing from the bed, Maria shivered in the cold night air. There was a chill in the room, sharper than she could ever remember. Yet, by the same token, the air was sultry, a clinging stillness, almost claustrophobic. Taking her shawl from the foot of the bed, she wrapped it about her, clutching the ends together over the mound of her stomach. The child kicked, making her smile.
‘No, Maria. Go back to bed.’ Ralph was looking up, pleading with her. He made as though to rise from the chair but Maria was already there, standing before him, her anxiety reflected in the way she reached out to place her hand on his face, gently stroking the thick tousled hair and, after a while, drawing him to her, burying his face in the warm uncomfortable bulge that was their unborn. For a time no word passed between them, only love, and comfort, and a great sense of belonging.
No sense of peace passed between them, though, no reassurance that all was well. No answers. Only unspoken questions. Presently, Ralph moved away, leaning back into the chair, sighing deeply. ‘Please, Maria. Go back to bed,’ he implored. His voice was low, no more than a whisper.
‘No. I won’t do that,’ Maria replied softly, falling to her knees and searching that familiar face, all the love she felt for him strong in her eyes. ‘I know you’re troubled. Please, Ralph, let me help you.’
‘You’re imagining things,’ he lied, ‘there’s nothing troubling me, as you say.’ Ashamed, he could not bear to look on her.
‘Is it money?’ she persisted. ‘Oh, you mustn’t worry, because we’re managing well enough.’ When he did not reply, she went on, ‘There is something! If it isn’t money, then what?’ She slid her hand in his. Still he could not bear to look on her. ‘Are you still plagued with the fever, then? Is that it?’ Still he was silent. ‘Or is it your work? Has something there caused you anxiety?’
Now, when he turned to gaze on her, she was startled by the anguish in his brown eyes. Suddenly, she recalled something she overheard between Elizabeth Manners and another of the neighbours. They had stopped outside her front door in the moment before that good woman had made one of her frequent checks on Maria. The other neighbour had made mention of a hanging. Poised to open the door and admit Elizabeth, Maria had been shocked to learn that the one to be hanged was a woman. It was not too rare an occurrence for a man to be taken to the gallows, but, for a woman to be hanged, that was not a regular thing. Maria had thought it a sad and terrible fate for any human being, let alone a woman. She had said as much to Elizabeth Manners soon after, but that dear woman would not be drawn on such a horrendous subject, especially with Maria, who was so close to her time.
All the time, it played on Maria’s mind, so much so that she had been tempted to mention it to Ralph in that quiet time after the evening meal, when Agatha was sleeping and the two of them happily exchanged news of the day. But Ralph had come home in such a quiet unreceptive mood, that Maria had thought better than to depress him with matters that neither of them had the power to alter. And so, she had gladly pushed the whole issue from her mind. Now, though, it had bounced back with a vengeance, illuminating her mind and
answering so many questions there. ‘It is to do with your work, isn’t it?’ she persisted gently. ‘It’s the hanging in a few hours’ time, the woman known as Rebecca Norman.’ She squeezed his fingers, leaning in to him, desperate to share his troubles.
‘I don’t want you to talk of such things,’ he said, looking her directly in the eyes and with such vehemence that Maria was shocked. He saw her reaction and was mortified. ‘Oh, Maria… Maria!’ He reached out and tugged her into his embrace. ‘Forgive me.’ He kissed the top of her head and stroked one hand down the long loose tresses of her silky brown hair. ‘You’re so good for me, such a good, fine woman. I don’t deserve you.’ He laid his head against hers, a measure of peace entering his agitated spirit. ‘You’re wrong, though,’ he lied again, ‘work isn’t playing on my mind, not Rebecca Norman… not money, and nor am I still plagued by the fever.’ Only fever of a different kind, he thought. Instinctively, his sorry gaze was raised to the window, to the garish moon and its incandescent halo of light, to the dark mysterious sky and the twinkling specks high, high up, beyond all human dimensions. Thoughts of her came into him. Was she also gazing at the night, those wide black eyes uplifted, their magnificence shaming even the heavens? Soon, those eyes would be dulled for ever, devoid of life, empty of light. In a few more hours, when the dawn began to chase away the darkness, she would be immersed in darkness for all time. From somewhere beyond his own perception a soft laughing voice called to him. She was not afraid, he knew that. She entertained no terror of the fate that awaited her. But he did! In turmoil he drew his gaze from the world outside his window. It was a cold, unfeeling night. He shivered.
‘I believe you’re worrying unnecessarily about me and the child,’ Maria gently chided him.
‘Yes, that must be it.’ In all of their time together he had never deceived Maria, yet, on this night, he had deliberately lied to her three times. Why was he not more ashamed? Why could he not tell her of these alien feelings that made him a stranger to her?
‘We’ll be all right, me and the infant,’ Maria assured him, ‘you’ll see.’ She smiled into his face. ‘Come to bed.’ Stroking the goose-pimples on his arms, she told him, ‘You’re icy cold.’
Her smile was returned, but it was not a smile to reach his heart. ‘I’m a foolish man,’ he confessed.
‘No, not foolish, my darling,’ she protested. Clambering to her feet, she groaned, then laughed when he helped her up. ‘Soon the baby will be born, and things will get back to normal,’ she promised. She did not realise it was not her promise to make.
When they were lying side by side and quiet with the onset of sleep, together once more, his arm embracing her, and she nestling into his broad shoulder, Maria was at peace with the world. Before too long her weary body succumbed to a deep slumber.
After a while he tenderly eased her from him and got quietly out of bed, before quickly dressing. Going downstairs, he went into the passageway and towards the front door. He took no candlelight, knowing the way well and beckoned by the brilliance of the moon, which gentled through every window to penetrate the shifting shadows.
Every evening on his return from work, it was his habit to hang his jacket on the nail behind the front door. It was there now, one side dipping slightly from the weight in its pocket. As he withdrew the tallow image, his fingers were trembling, his heart palpitating. The touch of it spread through him in a warm glow.
On silent footsteps he returned to the parlour, to the window and the moonlight. He held the doll up, watching with pleasure when the soft translucent light bathed the features, highlighting the deep hollowed eyes so that they came alive. A melody came to his mind, one he could not recall, but which now whispered to him in its entirety – a haunting, lovely melody that hummed on his lips and flooded his heart with joy. And all the while he could not take his eyes from her face, no longer a fabrication, no more an inanimate thing, but real, alive, pulsating with life. He could hear her calling him, her eyes dancing with fire, laughing, making love to him. There rose in him such passion, such longing, that all of his strength went before it. Rebecca Norman was here. Here in this very room! She wanted him. And he had no power to resist.
‘Ralph!’ Maria had been awakened by the rush of cold air into the bedroom and now, on realising that she was alone, she had got out of bed, flung on her shawl, and was already hurrying down the stairs, the lit candle in her hand. The sound of the front door, banging to and fro in the wind, struck the fear of God into her. ‘Ralph!’ Each time she called his name, it was with greater urgency. A swift glance into the parlour told her there was no one there, all was exactly as they had left it on retiring to bed; her attention was only momentarily diverted by the trinket on the floor, a doll of sorts, probably one of Agatha’s.
She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece… three thirty in the morning. Soon it would be dawn. ‘Ralph!’ Panic filled her voice. She rushed along the corridor, the palm of her hand shielding the flickering candlelight from the inrush of wind. At the door she stepped over the threshold; the hard pavement shocked bitter cold through her feet. The candle was blown out, shadows leaped from every corner. Up and down the street she looked; there was no sign of him. ‘RALPH!’ Her voice startled the night. She recalled how strange of mood he had been last evening; she remembered the anguish in his eyes. It had frightened her then, it frightened her now even more. She tried to reason with herself. He must have gone for a walk… the sea was always a source of comfort to him. But no, she was not convinced. There was something wrong, every instinct in her being told her so.
‘Mammy! Mammy!’ Agatha’s voice sailed from her bedroom. Maria was frantic. She strained her eyes towards the ocean. There was not one living soul out on this hostile night, not a soul but Ralph, she told herself. She had to find him! Going to her neighbour’s door, she banged her two fists against it, the ensuing noise sounding like a death knell. All along the street nervous faces appeared in the bedroom windows.
Elizabeth Manners flung open the door, gasping in horror when she saw Maria there, barefoot, still in her nightgown and only the thinness of her shawl to keep out the night chill. ‘God above, child!’ she cried, sheltering the candle flame with the crook of her arm. ‘You’ll catch your death!’ Her frilly nightcap was askew, strands of greying hair blew about her shoulders like cobwebs in the wind.
Convinced that Maria had started in childbirth, and wondering why it was not Ralph who had come for her, she would have pulled Maria into the shelter of the passageway, but Maria resisted.
‘It’s Ralph!’ she told her in a rush. ‘I have to find him… please, see to Agatha!’ Even now, the child’s voice could be heard screaming for its mammy.
Before the other woman could reply, Maria took flight, desperation filling her with strength, fear stripping her of all reason. Behind her, she could hear all manner of noises – doors clanging shut, shouts, hurrying footsteps. She took no mind, but ran on, now and then calling his name. Her shawl was gone with the howling wind, and the bitter chill had penetrated her every bone. Tears sped down her face; cold wet rivulets that clung to her skin, chafing it. The breath was caught in her throat and her heart felt as though it might burst wide open, but still she ran, the weight of her unborn child pulling her down, crucifying her. Some inner terror drove her on, a deep certain knowledge that her man was in mortal danger. In that fearful moment, nothing else mattered.
Now, as she rounded the corner, Maria saw him, only a dark distant shape but unmistakably her man; tall and straight, broad of shoulder, the familiar smart manner in which he strode away. That same determined stride was taking him along the beach, but there was something horribly wrong. Maria’s heart leapt. He was going towards the ocean! She called his name. The sound was caught in the thresh of the wind. It was howling now, wild, whipping at her hair, numbing her face, clawing at the hem of her nightgown.
Screaming his name, frantic, she stumbled on, the night playing tricks, the moonlight silhouetting him, and another, t
he figure of a woman close beside him, her naked skin glistening in the half-light. Disbelieving, Maria blinked her eyes. When she opened them the ghostly figure was gone. ‘Ralph… stop! For God’s sake… Stop!’
She came on to the sand; it sucked her down. Behind her she could hear people shouting; the sound of running footsteps. The child lurched inside her, shifting, agitated. And the pain! Doubled up, she fell to her knees, her stricken eyes holding the image of her man. Now she could see only the upper part of his familiar figure, now the waters were lapping over his shoulders and still he went on, unseeing, not hearing, like a man entranced.
Ralph Ryan did not feel the rush of water about his body, nor the cold wet grave that gently devoured him. Maria’s desperate calls never reached his ears, nor at any time did he sense the danger he was in; all he knew was that she was calling. Rebecca – now before him, now beside him, ever constant, beckoning him onwards, her dark mysterious eyes compelling him to follow. There was pleasure in him, and a great longing, and such peace, oh, such peace that he had never known before. There was nothing else, no other sensation, no fear. Only Rebecca.
When she took him by the hand, a warm memory fled through him. His mouth shaped the name ‘Maria’, but then it was gone.
The sultry black eyes burned into his; the silvery laughter was a haunting melody. His senses were lulled. He went with her, willingly, gladly. She caressed him, the touch of her hands feeling like the gentle lapping of the ocean, pulling him down, floating him away. He knew no pain. He felt no sorrow.
They had all seen Ralph Ryan drown. Only one other, besides Maria, saw the ethereal figure that went beside him to his watery grave. Elizabeth Manners had been distraught when Maria fled into the night. Taking only a minute to pull on her gown, she had raised the alarm and sent a neighbour to Maria’s house where the child could be heard loudly sobbing. At once she had pursued Maria, whose very real terror seemed to have lent wings to her feet. When Elizabeth came upon her, Maria fell into her arms, exhausted, bleeding and beside herself with grief. In that moment, when Elizabeth cradled the devastated young woman in her arms, she raised her eyes to the ocean, to the spot where he had gone from sight. There was nothing to be seen. Not now. But she had seen the apparition in the same moment that Maria had seen it. The chilly night air made her gasp aloud. She clung to Maria, drawing her in to the warmth of her own body. ‘You’ll be fine, child,’ she whispered, the image of Ralph Ryan strong in her mind. Had she imagined the figure of a woman? No! She had never been one to see things that were not there. Making the sign of the cross on herself, she clung all the more tightly to Maria.
The Tallow Image Page 8
