by Ruth Wade
Another few paces and the white was clearly a piece of cloth. She stopped treading lightly; it was probably something that’d blown off Wilf Drayton’s washing line – except she wouldn’t have expected it to be so clean. A yard further brought a halt to speculation: it was the body of a boy, sprawled face down across an ivy-covered grave.
‘Edith ...’
The voice was so unexpected it felt as though it was in her head. Edward emerged from behind the figure of an angel, its right arm – which should have been pointing heavenward – severed at the elbow. The front of his jacket was splodged with dark stains; long smears tracked down the sleeves. He had a twisted expression, caught halfway between guilt and terror.
‘What have you done to him?’
‘Nothing ... it was an accident ...’
‘Why aren’t you in London?’
Questions kept popping into her head; stupid pointless questions that she didn’t need to know the answers to because whatever he said wouldn’t change the appalling nature of the scene at her feet. She couldn’t stop staring at the pathetic bundle of clothes and flesh. The skin on his bare legs was a bluish-grey and lacerated from thigh to ankle as if he’d been dragged through a bramble thicket; one shoulder had been dislocated, the scapula protruding sideways in the area where the child’s ribs should’ve been rising and falling with his breath. A large patch of hair on the back of his head was glued to his skull with blood. The small defenceless wrists protruding from his shirt cuffs were ringed with black bruises.
‘I came back ... wanted to tell you ... Edith ... all my dreams, my dreams for our future ... There is to be no sponsorship ... He wasn’t interested in the expedition, only curious to meet someone who was as big a fool as the old Dutch prospector ... I’ll be a laughing stock; he’ll have queered my pitch with everyone of influence ...’
‘Edward, what have you done?’
‘Nothing, I told you ... He tripped and fell, hit his head. I gave chase when I saw him climbing out of your study window ...’
Edward loosened his arms from his sides, raising them palms upward as if in supplication to the stonehearted angel. ‘I did it for you ... to protect you.’
‘We have to go to the police. You can explain, they’ll understand.’
‘I can’t ... they won’t ...’
‘Of course they will. PC Billings knows they’ve been hanging around my cottage, he’ll see it was only a question of time before one of them tried to break in. You weren’t to know I wasn’t inside; as you’ve said, you were protecting me.’
‘I did ... I was ...’
Edward was pacing around in broken circles. Sparks of agitation flew off him, filling the air between them with electricity. Edith felt the soft hairs on her arms stand to attention; she knew how easily the simple fact of being in the wrong place at the wrong time could result in nightmarish consequences. If her mother hadn’t laid her down for a nap when she did ...
‘Come on, the Police House is up at The Cross; let’s get this over with.’
‘He had something of yours ... I had to stop him ...’
‘And if you repeat all that without leaving anything out then even that halfwit of a constable can’t fail to see that you were simply attempting to apprehend a thief.’
She kept her voice deliberately even, hoping the analytical tone would rub off on Edward. If he didn’t get a grip on himself then he almost certainly would find fingers of suspicion pointed his way. For a man so supposedly inured to the life and death nature of the jungle, he was bordering on the hysterical. She tried to think of any arguments she could marshal on his behalf.
‘I’ll tell them the truth: that you knew Dr Potter from childhood, have just returned to this country, was horrified to learn the circumstances of his death. Add all that to the shock of seeing someone running from my cottage and it’s no wonder you would assume the perpetrator had returned.’
‘Do you have a cigarette on you, Ede?’
‘I don’t smoke. And I’d rather you didn’t call me that in the circumstances.’
‘What circumstances?’
‘There’s a boy lying here dead, Edward! Or have you conveniently put that out of your mind?’
‘Of course not ... Only I can’t keep my thoughts going in the same direction for long. I got so far as dragging him here to give me time to develop a plan, but it isn’t working ... I admit I’m in a bit of a panic. I was going to leave him here and go to the cottage to ask you what I should do …’
‘I’ve already told you: go to the police.’
‘No ... no, that’s out of the question. I’m not as sure of myself as you, and I know that under interrogation I’ll get confused and end up saying something foolish.’
‘Can’t you think of anyone but yourself?’
‘Who else ever really matters when the chips are down?’
‘Me ... I thought you cared about me.’
Edith was ashamed to hear how feeble her voice sounded; how it trembled with the wound of a heart hurt by a casual betrayal.
Edward ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I do ... of course I do. We can’t let this misadventure ruin everything we have together, everything we’ve ever meant to each other ... This untimely death will serve to remind us of how much of our own time we’ve lost, wasted ... what little there is left in which to make amends.’
She couldn’t stop herself from glancing once more at the body. A stab of self-loathing went through her as she thought that, whether Edward’s prospects of riches were scuppered or not, she’d have to leave the village right away. This hadn’t been her fault, but to be the unwitting cause would be enough for the parents to blame her. Was his mother even now wondering why he was still out so late at night? Or had she left him safely tucked up in bed and he’d sneaked out for a bit of moonlit adventure? Edith shut her imagination down before she ended up in the same state as Edward. One of them had to resist giving in to their emotions. Except it wasn’t that easy.
‘But, Edward ... couldn’t you tell he was just a boy?’
‘The places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen ... you act first and think later. And my concern was only for you. Your safety ... the privacy I know you’d do anything to preserve ... I did it for you. I read somewhere – a very long time ago – that the person who loves the most is the weakest and must suffer ... And that’s me, Edith. So pity me, please. I’m not as strong as you ... as sure ... But I’ll do anything to keep you from harm; that is my burden, willingly carried for your sake ...’
His voice had begun to assume a whining quality that set Edith’s teeth on edge. Her sympathy had started to drain away the moment it dawned on her what was behind the words he was babbling. He was trying to exonerate himself by laying the responsibility for everything that had happened firmly at her door. It was her fault he’d travelled back to England in the first place, come to Fletching, rushed down from London to tell her how his proposal had been received. Her cottage he’d witnessed burgled; he’d acted for her sake, been her gallant knight. So she didn’t have to wait for the villagers’ condemnation after all: the man who’d said he’d always loved her had got in first. The easy charm that had beguiled her less than thirty-six hours ago now looked to be a close cousin of the childish desire to evade accountability.
‘Our future together rests on me finding another means of securing funding for my project. Only I need to know that everything here has been taken care of or I won’t be able to concentrate ... Can’t you come up with something? ... Tell me what I can do with the body. Somewhere it won’t be found for a long time – if ever. Then there’s his bicycle, it’s back there. If we can get rid of both then there’ll be no questions to ask. Our secret will be safe. Please, Ede, please ... We’ve been parted twice; it’ll be against all odds for us to survive a third time. Now I’ve found you again I can’t lose you, I can’t lose you ...’
Gone was the beseeching tone: in its place a low, harsh urgency. Edith couldn’t think of anything beyond
his desperate need of her. And the depth of her need to be loved.
‘Use the sexton’s wheelbarrow – he’ll think the children have stolen it again to ride in. There’s an abandoned chalk quarry a third of the way along the ridge between here and Tilgate. Follow the hedge that curves around to a line of trees and keep going up until you cross the old drovers’ track. Head east. After you’ve ... done what you have to ... stay on the path. It skirts the edge of Cowden. The road to Uckfield is beyond the dairy.’
Edward held out his arms and made a move as if to hug her but she plunged through the tombstones and headed for the cottage to change into her gardening clothes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Edith got off the bus and waited for it to pull away. The street was full of traffic and the noise – both inside and outside her head – was disorientating. She walked down the main road for a hundred yards or so and then plunged into the welcoming peace and quiet of a side street. After a series of twists and turns she arrived at the square, in the corner occupied by the police station. The bright light from the low September sun glared off the shop windows and she had to look down at her shoes to stop her eyeballs being stabbed with hot needles. She careered into a string of shoulders as she darted into the nearest strip of shade.
Once her head had stopped throbbing, she glanced around to get her bearings. It was market day and the space was thronged. She was tempted to take the succour offered by the blue lamp above her head at face value and ask the desk sergeant for a glass of water but, sorely in need of refreshment though she was, there was something else she needed more: to talk to Edward.
She braved the sunshine to cut the corner of the square. Once on the north side it was a question of darting between a vegetable stall and a group of young men wheeling bicycles to reach the Chequers’ protruding entrance porch. The air in the doorway smelt of furniture polish and fried bacon. It was cool inside. An official in a bowler hat was standing at the end of the reception counter tapping with his pencil on a clipboard whilst the hotel clerk was shuffling through a boxful of index cards.
‘Excuse me, do you happen to know if Mr Rochester is on the premises?’
‘I’ll be with you in a moment, madam, only I have to find the details wanted by his nibs over there or it’ll be me travelling from pillar to post with no fixed abode.’
‘If you give me his room number then I can go up and check for myself – it is rather pressing.’
‘Just give me a minute and I’ll deal with your request in full ... Ah, here it is.’
He walked away, placed the card on the official’s clipboard, and returned to reoccupy the space in front of Edith.
‘Now, madam, what was it you were after?’
‘Mr Rochester. He’s been staying with you for a few days.’
The clerk flicked over the pages in the register.
‘No one here of that name.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Perfectly.’
And then it came to her that perhaps Edward had assumed a different identity; more than once he’d mentioned having to keep his quest – in fact even his very presence in the country – secret from those who would want to keep him from the fortune he sought. Behind her a dog started barking; the clerk pointed an accusatory finger.
‘Tie him up outside. It was disgusting what he did all over the sofa in the residents’ lounge.’
‘But I only want a drink.’
‘Not in here with him, you don’t.’
‘Spike will be as good as gold; yesterday was on account of something he ate but it’s free of his system now.’
‘The cleaner who had to clear it up knows that well enough –’
‘Would it help if I described him to you?’ Edith could feel her focus sliding; she had to see Edward, talk to him. It was important – urgent. Would it help to win the clerk’s undivided attention if she told him it was a matter of life and death?
‘Madam, I came on duty this morning, having been brought in especially for market day and already I’ve seen more faces than a barber’s on a Saturday. Look ... Oy! You take one more step over that threshold and I’ll have the both of you slung out ... I’m sorry I can’t help you. There are one or two other decent hotels in the town and you could consider checking with them in case you got the establishment wrong.’
She hadn’t. Edward had crossed this carpet, was possibly walking above her head at this very moment. But although she couldn’t demand to search the premises, neither could she stand here all day on the off-chance he came down the stairs. Edith rubbed at her temple which had begun to throb with the tension headache behind it. The action was both soothing and seemed to release a stuck memory; Edward wasn’t at this or any other hotel in Uckfield: Edward was up in London. If only she’d remembered the fact before she’d left home then she wouldn’t now be having to put up with the racket caused by the clerk and the man in the doorway playing at tug-of-war over an over-excited collie.
Back in the sunshine, Edith zigzagged from the shelter of one stall’s awning to another, absentmindedly weighing down her pockets with pilfered trinkets as she went. Her progress was slow as all around her people were haggling over prices, catching up on gossip, shoving and getting in her way. Flocks of young children ran in circles around their mothers and shouted at the tops of their voices. It was too much. Edith lowered her head like a bull about to charge, and pushed and stumbled her way to the nearest exit from the square. When she looked up again she was at the mouth of the road she knew led down to the sanctuary of the library. The panic in her stomach subsided to the sort of queasiness she often got prior to a bout of indigestion. She continued walking until she came to the chemist’s. As she paused to consider whether it was worth going inside for some chalk tablets, she caught a flash of her reflection in the plate glass. It was distorted by the rows of coloured jars and bottles but it was clear that her features were pinched and she looked about a hundred years old. She didn’t need Dr Mackie’s medical qualifications to know that whatever was upsetting her constitution wasn’t going to be cured by even a basketful of patent medicines. Something much stronger was called for.
*
The Rising Sun was surprisingly clean and, it being just after opening time, mercifully empty. Edith stood at the half-moon bar with its high shelf and two small etched-glass panels at either end. She purchased her malt whisky and took it over to a table by the fireplace where she sat beside a strip of wallpaper recoiling from a badly executed painting of a hunting scene that was all trees and few hounds. Rattling around in her head were recollections of a life so distant she felt as though she was observing herself through the wrong end of a telescope. Or, rather, a kaleidoscope where the images were fractured colours requiring contemplation to make sense of. She sipped at her drink and, as the first slick of peaty smoothness slid over her tongue, she thought of golden fires and a house decorated with candles and streams of coloured paper, and a large Christmas tree in the corner like the one her father had shown her in Trafalgar Square. He’d been to a meeting at the Institute and had taken her with him. She must have been about six or seven – she remembered the chafing of her woollen tights against the still-tender scars. She’d been allowed to sit at the back of the room with a jigsaw puzzle on her lap. But she couldn’t do it without risking the pieces falling on the floor and she’d known how disappointed he would have been if she hadn’t been able to keep more still and more quiet than any ordinary child would have done. She’d been grateful at the time for the trouble he was taking, for the attention. Only much later did she see through it to the warped ego of a selfish man.
The glass felt light in her hand as she let the last few drops touch her lips. She hadn’t realised that she’d drunk it all quite so quickly. There was a movement beside her and the landlord was standing at her table holding another whisky.
‘On the house.’ He put it down in front of her. ‘We don’t get nearly enough of your sort in here. Add a touch of class, you do.’
In whisky-fuelled weakness, she clicked the kaleidoscope around once more. The image stared dully back at her in shades of grey. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, dry-eyed, tearing up the pages of her diary into confetti-sized pieces. Her grandmother had removed it from under Edith’s pillow and placed the slim volume on the counterpane, where she’d found it after her bath. It had contained nothing but comments on the weather, the lessons she’d undertaken that day, or what she’d had to eat, but the lack of childish secrets to mock didn’t make the humiliation of its discovery any less searing. It came to Edith that there were some memories that were impossible to inhabit without wondering why she’d selected them as worthy of being laid down in the first place. Because nobody could possibly salt away the detail of every moment or they would be too preoccupied to experience anything new and would forever be running to catch up with themselves. A particular problem if cursed with a tendency to over-analyse. Had that started in childhood? She couldn’t answer that now, and she certainly couldn’t have then: you never can make objective judgements about yourself when you’ve nothing to measure against. There could never be any conception of what you could have been had someone given you a different set of rules to live by, a brand-new box of pieces to fit together. If they had, would she have done the sky first or the edges? What if no one had ever shown her the picture, would she still know what it was supposed to be? Could she finish it if someone had jumbled up the puzzle with another one or would she have ended up with something so mystifying that the frustration outweighed any challenge the extra complication might pose? A little like her life.
