by Jenny Holmes
Brenda studied Bernard’s careworn features as he put on his worn overcoat; the lines seemed deeper, his pallor more grey. ‘It’s Sunday; you ought to take it easy.’
‘I will after I’ve moved half a dozen ewes down from the moor top. I don’t want to risk them being stranded up there if we get more snow.’
It struck her how hard Bernard’s life had been, grinding on from day to day, year after year, without any help, yet how little he complained. And he doted on Dorothy, pandering to her every whim. ‘Wait there; I’ll come with you,’ she volunteered, one foot on the bottom step of the stairs.
‘No – I’ll manage. You stay here with her.’
So she went upstairs with the tray and knocked on Dorothy’s door.
‘Is that you, Dad?’ a faint voice said.
‘No, it’s me.’ Balancing the tray with one hand, Brenda opened the door to find Dorothy curled up on her side underneath a mound of blankets, with only the top of her head visible. Brenda ventured forwards and set the tray down on the floor by the side of the bed. Every surface was cluttered with magazines, make-up, hairbrushes, talcum powder and bottles of scent. ‘Can you manage a cup of tea?’
‘No,’ Dorothy whimpered, curling into a tighter ball.
‘Will you at least try?’
‘No.’
Brenda cleared magazines from the wicker chair in the corner then set it down by the bed. She sat down and leaned forward to pat the mound of bedclothes. ‘Your dad put three sugars in for you.’
Dorothy’s head slowly emerged. Her curls lay flat against her head, her pupils were large, her eyes dull. ‘Three, you say?’
‘Yes, here; let me plump up those pillows. Sit up and lean forward – how’s that?’
‘Better. ‘Where’s Dad now?’
‘Up on the fell.’
‘And where’s my precious brother?’ Dorothy took the cup from Brenda then obediently opened her mouth for the pills.
‘Gone – I don’t know where.’
Dorothy sipped then swallowed and handed back the cup. ‘Do you know what he’s done?’
‘I do,’ Brenda said cautiously. It was obviously not a good idea for Dorothy to get upset again.
‘He only got married without telling me.’ Dorothy sounded like a child whose doll had been taken from her. Her bottom lip quivered. ‘How could he?’
‘You’re talking to the wrong person. You’ll have to ask him.’
‘He didn’t even let on to me and I’m his sister!’ she repeated. ‘Honestly; Cliff and his secrets!’
‘Maybe he knew you’d be upset if he told you,’ Brenda suggested. ‘It seems to have been done on the spur of the moment.’
‘Why; what did he say?’ Dorothy made her sudden, characteristic transition from soft, sighing helplessness to needle-sharp focus, looking directly at Brenda and waiting impatiently for her reply.
‘Not much. Anyway, I only heard bits of the story from Evelyn.’
‘But what did he say?’
Brenda knew she was in too deep to pull back now. ‘Evelyn says there was an argument about Gladys being pregnant. Gladys said she was, he said she wasn’t. Evelyn didn’t know who to believe and to be honest, neither do I.’
‘A baby?’ Dorothy sank back against her pillow.
‘Yes, I expect he intended to tell you but then everything went wrong between him and Gladys so he decided to keep schtum.’
‘When?’
‘A few years back – at the start of the war.’
Dorothy slotted this into place. ‘That must have been after he’d fallen out with Dad over Cliff not doing his fair share of farm work. Cliff upped sticks and went to live in Northgate to work as a joiner. But then he and Dad patched things up and Dad got him the gamekeeper’s job at the castle.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘It’s three years ago and never a word.’
‘Drink some more tea.’ Brenda wanted to steer away from the subject of Cliff and Evelyn. At this rate she would find herself sticking up for her friend and telling Dorothy exactly what she thought of her cheating, dishonest brother.
‘Did Evelyn know he was married?’ Dorothy asked sharply, making Brenda feel even more uncomfortable.
‘Of course not! She’s got her bottom drawer ready and a pattern for her wedding dress – everything. Last night came as a terrible shock.’
Dorothy closed her eyes and groaned. ‘What will she do now?’
‘I don’t think she’s decided.’
A silence developed, broken by a door banging in the yard.
‘Poor Evelyn,’ Dorothy said after a long pause. ‘I could kill Cliff; honestly I could.’
Nancy was milked at last and food put down for the hens and rabbits. Bernard was still out on the fell when Geoff and Giles dropped by before the morning service.
‘Well?’ Geoff asked Brenda who was heading to her wagon to smarten herself up for church. ‘How’s the patient?’
‘Better,’ she reported.
‘Is she awake or asleep?’
‘Sleeping.’ Brenda had watched Dorothy nod off after their talk then taken the tray downstairs. She’d washed up and tidied around the kitchen, found some cold beef in the larder that Bernard could have for lunch and made sandwiches for him. A quick check upstairs had told her that the patient was sleeping peacefully.
‘Good; that’s what she needs. Will we see you at church?’
‘You will,’ she assured him as they drove away.
She’d gone inside and chosen her white blouse and black slacks when there was a knock on the door and Joyce stood there in her Sunday best, looking fresh and rested. Her cheeks were rosy and she wore a cream silk headscarf over her dark brown hair. The Land-Rover from Black Crag Farm was parked outside the gate.
‘Come in!’ Brenda whisked her inside.
‘I thought you might appreciate a lift down,’ Joyce told her.
‘Yes, please; I won’t be a tick.’ She ran a brush through her hair and perched a black velvet beret on top of her sleek bob.
‘I didn’t drive here,’ Joyce said with a hint of mystery.
‘So who did?’ As far as Brenda knew, Laurence Bradley was not a regular Sunday worshipper.
‘Alma.’ Joyce’s face broke into a smile. ‘With a little help from me. She was up early this morning to take her first driving lesson from Laurence, learning how to steer and change gear. It turns out she’s a natural.’
‘And he let her drive along the lane?’ Brenda peered out through the window, expecting to see Alma in the Land-Rover. ‘Did she stall the engine?’
‘Once or twice. Otherwise she did well.’ In fact, Joyce had kept a steadying hand on the steering wheel for most of the way.
The car was empty. ‘So where is she now?’
‘In the house.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘She brought Bernard a pot of stew and a pan of soup.’
Brenda stared at Joyce as if the answer had been that Alma had flown to the moon.
‘Don’t look at me like that.’ Joyce went on beaming. ‘It’s good of Alma, don’t you think?’
Brenda popped her lips. ‘Good? If you ask me, it’s bloody marvellous!’
Alma knocked on the farmhouse door and when there was no reply she screwed up the courage to step inside. She decided to leave the food she’d prepared on the kitchen table with a scribbled note to Dorothy and Bernard saying that she would call back for the pans in a few days’ time.
The kitchen was empty as she’d expected. Partly relieved that she didn’t have to talk to anyone face to face, she wrote the note and was almost finished when Dorothy appeared in her dressing-gown at the foot of the stairs.
‘What are you up to?’ she asked indignantly, supporting herself by leaning one hand against the doorpost.
Alma dropped the pencil with a startled gasp. ‘I heard you were poorly.’ The colour rose in her cheeks and her hand flew up to hide her scars. ‘I’ve brought you and your father something to eat.’
&nb
sp; ‘Good Lord!’ Dorothy advanced slowly, clutching the neck of her dressing-gown. She circled Alma in amazement. ‘I can’t believe … I mean, it’s very good of you but … well, you of all people!’
Alma said nothing but her cheeks went on burning as she pulled out a chair for Dorothy to sit down.
‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you … your face is nowhere near as bad … well, I expected it to be much worse.’ Pleased to have tackled the subject head on, Dorothy smiled encouragingly at her visitor.
Alma stared back at her without flinching. ‘Same here. I expected to find you at death’s door.’
‘But here I am, large as life!’ Dorothy plonked herself down with a breathless thank-you. ‘We’re a pair of frauds, you and I. Now, Alma, you have to stay and tell me all your gossip. We have years and years to catch up on.’
‘Fourteen,’ Alma reminded her. ‘But I don’t have any gossip. When I was eight I went to live with my Aunty Muriel; The End.’
‘It was as bad as that?’
‘Worse,’ Alma said. ‘Unless you want to hear all about how to measure customers’ heads and make hats.’ Or what it had been like to live with a face that no one wanted to look at, to do as I was told and not make a fuss, to be neither seen nor heard.
‘But not as bad as being cooped up here with a weak heart.’ Dorothy held a trump card that even Alma couldn’t beat. ‘At least you must have had a cinema on your doorstep.’
‘I did,’ Alma conceded. ‘I enjoyed going to watch films when Aunty Muriel let me. It meant I could sit in the dark without anyone staring.’
‘You see!’ Dorothy crowed, turning to Joyce and Brenda who had just sidled in. ‘You hear that? This lucky thing has been to see all the Hollywood films in glorious Technicolor. Who’s your favourite film star, everyone? Mine is Ginger Rogers.’
‘How about Greta Garbo?’ Joyce suggested.
‘She’s too glum,’ Brenda argued. ‘If you ask me, no one can beat Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Brenda and Joyce drove down the hill to church, leaving Dorothy and Alma to carry on chatting.
‘Don’t say a word,’ Joyce warned as they came to the end of the lane and stepped out on to the green. She glanced back up the hill and held up two sets of crossed fingers.
‘About Alma coming out of her shell?’
‘Yes, and Dorothy being on the mend. We don’t want to put a jinx on it.’
Brenda gave a hop and a skip of celebration then adopted a more sober expression. ‘I had a heart-to-heart with Evelyn last night.’
‘How is she?’ Joyce noticed a gathering in the church porch and saw that the door was still locked.
‘Heartbroken.’ Brenda too spotted the cluster of parishioners outside the church. ‘It’ll take her a long time to get over Cliff’s shenanigans.’
As they drew nearer they made out Geoff and Giles talking with Dr Brownlee and his wife. Fred Williams and Emma Waterhouse stood in the centre of the group, surrounded by other church regulars. Faces were puzzled, voices raised.
‘What’s going on here?’ Brenda opened the gate and marched up the path.
‘We don’t have anyone to take the service.’ Emma, in her Sunday hat of brown felt, with a fox fur stole around her neck, had appointed herself official spokesperson. ‘No one has a key to let us in.’
‘Why? What’s happened to Mr Rigg?’ Joyce glanced across the graveyard towards the vicarage and saw that the curtains were still drawn. The tall, narrow house looked bleak in the grey winter light and its ivy-clad walls gave off an air of neglect.
‘We think he must be poorly.’
‘Has anyone knocked on his door?’
‘Of course; what do you take me for?’ Emma tutted and fussed. ‘I’ve knocked twice. I’ve even been round the back and tried the tradesmen’s entrance. No joy there either.’
Fred voiced what many people were thinking. ‘If the vicar doesn’t turn up soon, I’m off. It’s too cold to hang around much longer.’
‘Even if he’s poorly, surely he would have sent word,’ Brenda pointed out. ‘And what about little Alan? Who’s looking after him?’
No one knew. The church was locked, the vicarage closed up and silent. At the click of the gate latch they all turned and watched an unfamiliar, flustered figure hurry up the path.
‘I’m sorry, everyone. It took me longer than expected to get here.’ The newcomer was an angular young man with a narrow face, dressed in a grey overcoat, trilby hat and a dog collar. He pushed his way through the crowd and inserted a large iron key in the lock. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me this morning. My name’s Charles Nicholls; I’m the curate from St Margaret’s in Rixley.’
There was a flurry of gasps and low mutterings. What’s going on? Where’s our proper vicar? Why weren’t we told?
‘I’m afraid Mr Rigg is indisposed.’ Nicholls turned the key, removed his hat then led the way into the church. He moved jerkily towards the vestry as if not quite in control of his long limbs. ‘They’ve asked me to stand in for him.’
Emma scuttled ahead to show the curate where the surplices hung on a hook behind the vestry door. ‘There’s a Bible on the pulpit,’ she informed him. ‘It’s open at St Matthew’s gospel, chapter two, verse one. The vicar’s hymn book is on that table over there, next to the wedding register.’
‘Thank you, thank you. I wasn’t expecting … ice … almost skidded off the road. No time to prepare.’
Emma watched Nicholls pull an ill-fitting surplice over his head. ‘Mr Rigg is a lot bigger round the middle than you and a good six inches shorter,’ she commented. ‘Still, it’ll have to do.’
He tugged at the hem of the garment then glanced through the vestry door at the sparse congregation. Only the three front pews were filled. ‘Should we wait a while longer?’
‘No, let’s get on with it,’ Emma told him in her no-nonsense way. ‘And I’d keep the sermon short, if I were you. That’s what I tell Mr Rigg every year in the run-up to Christmas; short and sweet is what we like, followed by “Hark the Herald Angels” and a quick closing prayer.’
*
Dorothy took a cup of tea from Alma. ‘I always thought you were a strange one,’ she commented as Alma sat down opposite her.
‘Did you?’ How could Dorothy bear to live in this pigsty? she wondered. Nothing was where it should be – there was a pair of her shoes on the table, next to a stack of old newspapers and some of her lacy underwear was spread out to dry over a rusty fireguard.
‘Yes, and you still are. You turn up in Shawcross after all these years and we’re ready to welcome you with open arms. But what do you do? You hide yourself away at Black Crag. We didn’t have a single sighting for months. To be honest with you, everyone suspected that new husband of yours was holding you prisoner, like Bluebeard in his castle!’
Alma gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Who’s everyone?’
‘Me, for a start. “Alma must be under lock and key” – that’s what I thought.’
‘No. I’d rather keep myself to myself, that’s all.’ There was a pile of library books on the window sill, threatening to topple on to the floor, and a trail of dried mud from door to hearth. Alma’s fingers itched to pick up a dustpan and brush.
Dorothy shook her head and sighed. ‘That’s what I mean; you’d rather be stuck out there in the back of beyond. Whereas me, I’d be at my wits’ end. I don’t know why I’m surprised, come to think of it. I remember you at school, always in the corner of the playground with your head stuck in a book. I think that was you. Or was it your sister Connie?’
‘It was Connie,’ Alma said quietly. Three years older, the studious one.
Dorothy frowned at the gaffe she’d made. Sometimes her tongue ran away with her. ‘Sorry; I didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s all right.’ Connie with her head in Grimm’s Fairy Tales – ‘Rumpelstiltskin’, ‘The Red Shoes’. Edward who ran everywhere full tilt and climb
ed trees by Mary’s Fall. Their mother with her hands covered in white flour, her round face flushed from the oven. Memories flooded back.
‘Sorry; I’m an idiot.’
‘No need to apologize. Connie taught me to read. I’d forgotten that.’
‘Still …’
‘Really, it’s all right.’ Alma decided she would take a book out to the waterfall when summer came. She would sit on a rock and read, letting the written words and splashing water fill her head. ‘Shall I say what sticks in my mind about you, Dorothy? You were never allowed to play out at playtime. You had to sit inside, even when it was sunny.’
Dorothy gave a sad little laugh. ‘Strictly no running about for me – just sitting, twiddling my thumbs.’ The teacher watching me like a hawk. Me in my yellow summer dress and white ankle socks, not daring to get out of breath.
‘Now I’m the one that should say sorry.’
Heart hammering at the least exertion, struggling to squeeze enough blood through its chambers and out into the arteries. Sit still as a statue in the dress with the zigzag trimming or the one with the bows around the hem, wait for it to stop thumping. Do not move. ‘You got married. How’s that been?’
‘How do you mean?’ The sudden switch took Alma by surprise.
‘Being married – you know!’
‘Oh, that.’ Alma took the pair of shoes and placed them firmly on the floor. ‘I’d rather not go into it.’
‘Of course I’ve had one or two boyfriends.’ Dorothy ploughed on. ‘But we’ve never – you know.’
‘Would you have liked to?’ Alma’s heart fluttered as she pictured her closed bedroom door at Black Crag, her single bed.
Dorothy gave her a wide-eyed stare. A man’s arms around you, his lips on yours and whatever follows, which is something I might never know. ‘Of course I would – wouldn’t everyone?’
Night silence was broken by terrifying noises: scratching and rustling, screeches and hoots. The whispering darkness was so thick Alan could reach out and touch it.
He hadn’t slept, scarcely even moved. He was cold as a block of ice and every time he’d closed his eyes another sound had invaded his black world. A hedgehog, disturbed by his low whimpering, had crawled out from its winter nest of twigs and leaves and snuffled at his face. Something – bats? – had flapped and squeaked above his head, tree branches had creaked all night long in the high wind.
