Until that moment John had been unable to recall who the man was. And then the name hit him. This was Teddy, Rosie’s Teddy; Edward Golding, whom he had first met at the garden party, on Beatrice’s twenty-first birthday. But this wasn’t the Teddy who had ruined Rosie’s life. He had changed. The other Teddy had been more like his name; young, very young. This one was a mature man. And now he was being asked if everything was all right back in Fellburn. And he answered stiffly, ‘Yes; when I left three days ago, things were much as usual.’
His voice low and his face now unsmiling, the young man said, ‘How is Rosie?’
The nerve of the fellow, to ask how Rosie was; so he answered bluntly, ‘She’s very well and apparently enjoying her work.’
‘Rosie working? Is she better then?’
John put his head to one side, saying, ‘Better? I have never known Rosie to be ill, except with a cold.’
‘You what? You . . . you are her doctor, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am her doctor.’
‘And . . . and you say she has never been ill?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
John now watched the young fellow look towards the traffic that was passing thickly on the road, then put out his hand as if to rest it against the shop window, as if he were changing his mind. And now speaking briskly, he said, ‘There’s . . . there’s a coffee shop further along. Would . . . would you mind if . . . if we talked for a moment?’
What John answered now was, ‘I have an hour before my train goes. All right.’
Neither of them spoke again until they had entered the coffee shop and taken a seat in the far corner. They had the place almost to themselves; there were only two other customers seated. It was John who ordered the coffee and while they waited for its coming John watched the young man run his hands through his thick hair before he said again, ‘You said that Rosie had never been ill?’
‘That’s what I said, except . . .’ but John was interrupted by the young man saying, ‘But . . . but twice when I called she had what was supposed to be measles. And then after her father died, I met you and . . . and you wouldn’t let me see her.’
‘No, I wouldn’t let you see her because I had given her a sedative. She needed one. She had just learned the truth about her father’s character. He had left them up to the eyes in debt through his women and gambling.’
‘But . . . what about the problem she had inherited?’
‘Inherited? Inherited what?’ John watched the young man now grip his forehead with his stretched hand and say, ‘The grandfather’s sister, the one who died in the asylum. I . . . I saw the letter and . . . and it had been passed on and I couldn’t . . .’
‘What in the name of God! are you talking about?’ John now hitched himself forward on his seat and Edward Golding swallowed deeply as he murmured, ‘Beatrice, she . . . she came to Newcastle and . . . and showed me the letter. It related how the old aunt had died in the asylum, the grandfather’s sister. It . . . it explained her mania.’ He stopped for a moment, wetted his lips, then seemed to be troubled with swallowing before he went on, ‘She . . . she apparently had fits and . . . and what I imagined was a . . . well . . . a sort of hysteria that caused her to disrobe . . . I recall that word the solicitor had used, she disrobed, he said and well . . . went tearing around the place. And . . . and Beatrice said that,’ he now put both elbows on the table and gripped his head for a moment until John asked very quietly, ‘Said what?’
And still in the same position, but in a whisper, the young man said, ‘Rosie had inherited . . . and that’s why I couldn’t see her when I called on those two occasions. She . . . she suggested that because the news would have to be broken to me sooner or later she felt duty-bound to tell me then. As she put it, it would be dreadful for both of us if this happened in America; here, she could have treatment and understanding.’
He now stared at John across the table, but John felt unable to make any comment, and the young man went on, ‘You . . . you will remember that Rosie was very gay; in fact, when I first saw her she was up a tree. And she danced about and sang.’ Again he closed his eyes. ‘It all seemed to fit into the pattern. I . . . I was devastated. I loved Rosie deeply then’ – the words had been muttered – ‘And I . . . I still do. My heart has been sore for her these past years.’ Then, his voice becoming almost demanding, he leaned towards John and said, ‘Why? Why? Why would she have done this?’
The reply John could have given him at that moment was, ‘Because she’s an evil, deceiving woman.’ What she had put to this man about Rosie was an evil thing; what she had done to himself was a deceiving thing: she had ensnared him into marriage with a soft side, a part of a character that didn’t belong to her. She had played on her loneliness. She was afraid of being lonely, which very likely had been the cause of her determination to separate the young couple and so keep Rosie with her.
The young man was speaking again, saying, ‘She made me promise never to tell Rosie the reason for breaking off the engagement, because this would only increase her trouble.’
Suddenly John put his hand across and gripped the young fellow’s wrist as he said, ‘Come back with me; Rosie is there. She has never got over you, I’m sure. It was a dreadful thing you did, but I can see now that you’re not to blame.’
Once more Edward Golding drooped his head and he said, ‘I . . . I can’t. I’m married. I . . . I had a daughter only a month ago.’
John’s grip slackened and fell away and he sat back in his seat and stared at the bent head opposite, and he repeated to himself, ‘Married, and has a daughter.’ Well, it was a natural thing to do to seek solace with someone else.
‘That woman!’ The young man was sitting up straight and taut now. ‘I could go to her now and throttle her, really throttle her. Why? Why did she do this?’
‘Simply because she couldn’t bear to be left alone. Likely if you had married Rosie and lived in Newcastle, you would have heard nothing about this, but the thought of Rosie going so far away, and with her other two sisters already cut off from her, apparently she couldn’t bear it. But oh, that is no excuse. It was an evil thing to do. Dear God! I’ll say it was.’
Now, Edward Golding was leaning across towards him and in an intense whisper asked, ‘Will you tell Rosie? Will you explain to her? Tell her I . . . I’ve thought about her every day in sorrow for her—’ he gave a shake of his head as if throwing off the word he was about to say, ‘disease. At times it was unbearable to think about it. She was so beautiful, so . . . so gay. That was it.’ He nodded. ‘That’s what she stressed, Beatrice, her gaiety, which had been the symptom of the other poor woman.’
‘Did you actually read the letter?’
‘Oh yes. Yes. She handed it to me first before she said a thing. I tell you I nearly went berserk. But I see now that she had it all planned out. I wasn’t to see Rosie. And the fact that I would have to get permission to marry and take her with me all worked in to her plan. And then there was something else. As Rosie seemed so unhappy, Beatrice suggested that . . . well, she was aware of her condition and that’s why she wanted to get away from home, thinking that marriage would cure her. The other poor woman had never been married. She . . . she even suggested that her grandfather was slightly unbalanced, which was why he had given the land to his batman or sergeant, or someone. You know, the fellow next door whose son now has the place.’
John closed his eyes and for the moment his thoughts centred entirely around his own condition. He was married to her and she would never let him go, unless he divorced her. And on what grounds could he get a divorce? That his wife was an evil woman, a schemer?
‘Will . . . will you do something for me?’
‘Yes, if I can.’
‘Will you tell Rosie? Will you explain to Rosie? That would ease my mind a lot if she knew the truth of why I se
emed to scamper off like a cur. And I can tell you I felt like a cur of the lowest order.’
There was a short silence between them before Edward Golding spoke again. And then he asked, ‘Is Beatrice still there, in the house? I know she had no money.’
At this, John buttoned the top button of his coat, put his hand along the seat and picked up his hat and case; then, getting to his feet, he said, ‘Yes, she’s still there. I married her eighteen months ago. The outcome of another of her plots.’
‘Oh, my God!’ The young man, too, was on his feet now, and he was stammering, ‘I . . . I’m . . . I’m so . . . sorry. But . . . but I didn’t know.’
‘Please! Please! Don’t worry yourself more than you have to. I found my mistake out some time ago. Come on, let’s get out of this place.’ He thrust his hand into his pocket, brought out some loose change and placed it on the bill that had been left on the corner of the table. Out on the street again, they stood facing each other until John asked quietly, ‘Are you happy in your marriage?’
There was a pause before Edward Golding said, ‘Yes. Yes, in a way, for she is . . . well, she is a lovely girl.’
A lovely girl . . . a lovely man. He could hear Helen using Rosie’s words, ‘He’s a lovely man.’ What did it mean; a lovely man, a lovely girl?
He held out his hand now, and when it was grasped, he said, ‘You’ve got your life before you. Forget this end of it. I think that Rosie will eventually find happiness with Robbie . . . Robbie MacIntosh. He’s the fellow next door. She’s looked upon him as a brother for years, but he doesn’t see her in that relationship. And they’ve been working close together for some time now. So, try not to worry about her any more. Get on with your life. You owe that to your wife and child.’
The young man seemed to find it difficult to speak. When he did, his words were halting. ‘In one way I’m glad we met up. But in another, not, because the burden is on you now. I . . . I didn’t know, you see.’
‘Please! Please! Think no more about that. I’m used to dealing with problems; I’ll deal with this one.’ As he finished his words, a voice loud in his head cried, ‘By God, I will! Yes, I will!’ for the anger in him was rising, but it had yet to reach its height.
Eleven
John arrived at the house in the early evening and took the side drive to the annexe.
His mother was in the sitting room, reading. Seeing him, she threw the book aside, started to say, ‘Hello, dear,’ then changed it to, ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’
He drew in a long shuddering breath as he stood looking down on her, saying, ‘A great deal. First of all, I’m going to lock the inside of the communicating door. I don’t want her in here with you, and neither will you when you hear what I have to say.’
‘Dear Lord! Sit down, man. Sit down. What is it?’
Very briefly, he gave her the outline of his meeting with Teddy Golding. And when he finished she was sitting with her hand across her mouth, muttering, ‘No! No! She wouldn’t!’
‘She did! Now stay quietly there, and don’t distress yourself, at least try not to.’
‘She’s . . . I told you, she’s been different of late.’
‘She’s always been different, Mother. As she planned Rosie’s future, she also planned mine. And I’ve said this more than once. But there’s a limit.’
‘John! John!’ She called to him as he went to the door, and when he stopped and looked back at her, she pleaded, ‘Please! Don’t lose your temper with her. Please! Remember, I’m still here, and . . . and I need you.’
He said nothing, but went out and through the grounds and into the front door of the house. Seeing Frances going towards the kitchen door, he called to her, ‘Where’s your mistress?’
‘Oh, it’s you, sir. You’re back? Oh, well, she’s gone down to the bottom land. She’s very angry, for the gypsies have gone into the field again. You know, they used to do it, but they haven’t been back for some time. She had already been down and warned them, but they took no heed and went into the field and . . .’
She broke off but he didn’t wait for her to go on; instead, he hurried down the corridor and into Beatrice’s office. And there, pulling open one drawer after another of her desk, he rummaged through the neatly stacked papers. But when he didn’t find the letter he was about to leave the room when he noticed a deed box on the top shelf of the alcove near the fireplace. Then he returned to the desk, the middle drawer this time, where he knew her keys were kept, and within seconds he had the box on the table and was taking out one parchment deed after another until he came to a long white envelope. The heading of the letter inside told him it was what he was looking for. After he had read it, he understood how easy it had been for Beatrice to ruin her sister’s life.
He returned the letter to the envelope and put it in his pocket, put the deeds back into the box, and returned it to the shelf.
When he entered the hall, Frances was still standing there, and she hurried towards him, saying, ‘Doctor, sir, I . . . I didn’t tell you—’ She didn’t add that he hadn’t waited to be told, but went on, ‘the mistress took a gun with her.’
‘What!’ He jerked his head in her direction as if he had just become aware of her presence.
‘She . . . she was angry, and she took a gun.’
He left her at a run, went straight across the lawn, through the gardens and wood to the field that bordered the river. But before he reached it he could hear the yelling.
A yellow caravan, one horse between the shafts, another tied to the back, was being urged back towards the gate by an elderly man and a woman, with two youths and other children all yelling at the figure standing by the tree with the gun poised.
He had approached Beatrice so quickly from behind that he was able to knock the gun upwards before she was hardly aware of him. And then he was wrestling with her. He had no compunction in using his fist to knock her flying up against the tree trunk, where she stood stunned for a moment, her eyes wide and glazing, her face scarlet.
He was in possession of the gun now, and he yelled to the man to stop, then he called, ‘Get back! Stay as long as you need. You won’t be troubled again.’
They were all silent now, staring at him. ‘Thank you, master. Thank you,’ the man called. ‘’Twill only be for a day or so. Thank you, and God’s blessing on you.’ Then one of the younger men led the horse and caravan onto the road, turned it about, and they all re-entered the field.
He stood watching them until they reached the place where the spring water ran into the horse trough and spilt over into a pipe that led to the river. He had heard from Robbie that until the grandfather died the same family of gypsies had come each year, and that he himself had watched some of the children grow up. If he remembered rightly, the old man had had six sons and there used to be three caravans. Now there was only the one, and two box carts which were likely used as sleeping quarters. The old lady was a fortune teller, and they eked out a living by making clothes pegs and baskets, the younger ones going round the doors selling them.
He now turned back to Beatrice and saw her standing away from the tree, her hand on the back of her head. ‘How dare you!’ she yelled. Then again, ‘How dare you!’
‘Get up to the house!’
Her eyes widened, the colour deepened, if that was possible, then she muttered, ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, get up to the house! Because if you don’t, I’ll bring this across your back. Before God! I’ll bring this across your back, that’s if I don’t throttle you.’
She backed away from him: he looked like a madman. All at once she knew a deep fear of him. But when he made another step towards her, she moved, and she was about to make for the wood when he grabbed her arm and dragged her along by the bottom fence until it opened abruptly into another field edging the river. As he made toward
s the bank, still dragging her, she cried, ‘You’re mad! You’re mad!’
He did not release his hold on her until they reached the river, at which point, lifting the gun by the end of its barrel, he swirled it around his head before letting it fly and into the water. She could not have been more startled if he had tried to drown her. ‘That . . . that was Father’s.’
‘Shut your mouth! and get back to the house and upstairs.’
‘What?’ She was stepping back from him now, one step at a time as if she were measuring the ground, or perhaps to give her enough distance to turn from him and run. And this is eventually what she did do. She ran up over the field and into the wood, and he hurried behind, keeping her in sight all the way.
When he entered the hall, the two maids, Frances and Janie both turned sharply and on the sight that he presented they, too, stepped back; then with awe-filled gaze, they watched him take the stairs two at a time. And when the door clashed overhead they looked at each other before moving to the foot of the stairs and, with their heads cocked to the side, strained their ears to hear what the doctor was yelling. ‘You evil, wicked, horrible creature! If your great-aunt’s madness was passed on to anyone, it was you.’
Beatrice was standing near the head of the bed now, her hands clutching her neck. Then her eyes sprang wide and her mouth became a gape as the light dawned on her: it wasn’t her attitude towards the gypsies that had made him mad, but . . . Oh no! Oh no! She was shaking her head now and he came back at her, ‘You can shake your head, woman; and at this moment I’d like to shake the life out of you. You’re evil. I repeat it, you’re evil. To ruin your sister’s life. Yes, open your mouth wider. It’s unfortunate for you that I ran across Teddy Golding in London. His first enquiry was about Rosie. Was she still at home or – he didn’t actually say – in the asylum? For that’s where you suggested, like the one mentioned in this letter.’ He now pulled the envelope from his pocket and said, ‘That’s right, sit down on the bed; you’re going to need all the support you can get. And why didn’t you, when you were on, burn the evidence of the letter you got from the solicitor, eh? You took it to prove to him that your lying, filthy scheme had some foundation.’
The Obsession Page 16
