by Rosie Clarke
‘All the time, I suppose?’
‘He hit me on our honeymoon.’
‘You should have told me—’ He stopped as my eyes swept up to meet his. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have listened. I’m sorry, Emma. Believe me. I was mistaken in his character. If I’d known – if I’d realized he could be like this I would never have made you marry him. I thought he cared for you.’
‘Perhaps he’s the way he is was because he cared for me, Father. At the start, I think he did care … but watching another man’s child grow inside me has turned that caring into hatred.’ My eyes looked directly into his. ‘You should be able to understand that.’
My words went home. Father’s eyes stared at me bleakly and I knew then that he had suffered in his own way all these years, perhaps as much as my mother.
‘You shouldn’t have made her marry him,’ Mother said from the kitchen doorway. ‘She’s miserable, Harold – and it’s your fault.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ he admitted, eyes narrowing. His face was cold with anger, but with my husband this time, not her. We heard a door slam downstairs. Richard had obviously gone out again. ‘I’ll speak to him when he comes back. Don’t worry, Emma. I’ll make him behave decently.’
I saw him flinch as he spoke. The colour was leaving his face.
‘Are you in pain again?’
‘Yes. It’s just started to come on again,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a while. Give me your arm, Emma.’
‘Go with him,’ Mother urged. ‘I’ll clear this mess up. If I were you, I’d lock your bedroom door tonight, Emma. Let Richard sleep on the sofa if he comes back.’
‘He’ll come back,’ Father muttered sourly. ‘He knows which side his bread is buttered.’
I helped my father back to the bedroom. He had started to shake now; he was clearly very ill indeed. I settled him against the pillows, then fetched some of Gran’s herbal drink in a glass.
He sipped it slowly. As I watched, his colour gradually returned. It was obviously easing the pain. I took the glass from him and was about to leave when he stopped me.
‘Wait a moment.’ He laid a hand on my arm. ‘If anything should happen to me, Emma, before I’ve had time to put things right—’
‘Don’t,’ I begged. ‘You’re getting better. You’ve been a lot more comfortable these past few days.’
‘That stuff helps,’ he admitted, ‘but it won’t stop me dying. She told me that straight out.’ He grimaced. ‘She’s an old witch, Emma, but honest. A decent woman, which is more than I can say for her daughter.’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Don’t be bitter about Mum. Not now.’
‘Not now I’m dying? Going to forgive me when I’m gone, and pretend I was a saint?’
‘No, of course not!’ I flushed. ‘I don’t hate you, Father. I might have done for a while, but only while I was angry with you for hurting Mum. And I don’t blame you for anything else either. It’s my own fault I’m in this mess.’
‘Part of it – but I made you marry him. I was wrong.’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘You were wrong. But it’s done now so there’s no point in going on about it.’
‘If I should die,’ he said again. ‘There’s money for you, Emma. I always meant you to have it one day. It’s hidden somewhere safe. Keep it to yourself. Don’t tell Richard or your mother. You’ll find it in the—’ He broke off as the bedroom door opened and Mother came in. ‘Never mind, it will keep for another day.’
I nodded. I bent to kiss his cheek, then stopped to kiss my mother on the way out.
I had always suspected Father had hidden money somewhere. I locked my bedroom door and undressed. He had never deposited his money in the bank, and I knew the shop made a profit, though not quite as much these past weeks. I wasn’t sure why. Once or twice I’d thought money might have gone from the till, and I believed Richard might have taken it.
I’d seen him behind the counter in the shop on a couple of mornings, and when I’d looked, the money had been less than I’d left in the float the previous evening. Of course Father could have taken it, but I didn’t think so. At first it had only been a couple of shillings, then ten or fifteen. If Father had wanted money he would have taken it all, as he had in the past.
I suspected my husband of taking his beer money. I thought he might have been doing it from the beginning, but recently it had been a couple of pounds rather than shillings. It was as if he didn’t care any more – as if it didn’t matter.
Because he thought Father was dying?
I knew Richard still respected my father, or at least feared his power. What he had been doing was theft, even if the shop did belong to his wife’s father. He knew Harold could have made trouble for him if he’d wished.
Richard would have no such respect for me or my mother. If Father were to die … I shook my head. I was worrying for nothing. If my father died, Mother would own the shop. We could sell it and go away somewhere else. I could leave Richard.
He would never give me a divorce. Not while there was any money left. I knew he had married me for the money. I wasn’t sure what my father had promised him, but he seemed to think he could help himself to the till whenever he chose.
Was that why Father had been going to tell me about his secret hoard – so that I could put it somewhere safe? Did he guess Richard had been taking money? Perhaps he had tolerated it because of their arrangement?
I felt angry and shamed in turn. Father had bribed Richard to marry me. I felt the tears on my cheeks and made no attempt to check them. It was my own stupid fault.
Yet my father had been planning it even before I became pregnant. He’d agreed Richard could take me to the church social without asking me. He had thought marriage to Richard would make sure I stayed where he wanted me, a prisoner of the shop, at his beck and call.
I dried my tears. Crying wouldn’t help me. For the moment I was trapped, but it wouldn’t be for ever. One day I would escape somehow. One day I would be free.
I was woken by the frantic pounding on my door.
‘Get up!’ Mother called. ‘Your father has brought blood up all over the bed. You’ve got to fetch the doctor, Emma. Emma! Wake up.’
I was out of bed in seconds. I rushed to unlock the door. Mother was in a panic, really frightened. She grabbed at my arm.
‘I think he’s dying,’ she gasped. ‘There’s blood everywhere. It’s awful. Oh, Emma! I didn’t want this to happen. You must believe me. Honestly, I didn’t.’
‘Of course not. It’s all right, Mum. You put your coat on and go to Mary’s house. Ask Mr Baxter to phone for the doctor. I’ll look after Father. There’s no need for you to worry.’
‘Yes. Yes, all right.’ She looked grateful. ‘I can’t go back in there. I can’t.’
I left her in a hurry. I felt apprehensive as I went into Father’s room, but when I saw him lying with his eyes closed I was overcome with pity. The blood on the bedcovers didn’t seem to matter. Reaching out for his hand, I held it and bent over him.
‘It’s all right, Father,’ I said softly. ‘Don’t worry. The doctor is coming. He’ll get you into hospital and—’
‘No.’ His eyes flickered open. He looked up at me. ‘It’s too late,’ he said, and for a moment his fingers tightened about mine. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. Forgive me. Please?’
‘It’s all right,’ I said and touched his face with my free hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I promise you.’
‘The money,’ he croaked. ‘It’s in the sto—’ He got no further. Gasping in pain, his eyes rolled upwards and his body jerked for several seconds, then there was a rattling sound in his throat and his hand slipped from mine.
‘Father …’ My throat tightened with emotion. I hadn’t loved him, but neither had I wanted to see him like this. ‘Oh no …’ My eyes stung with tears. I blinked them away. It was a senseless, useless waste of a life, but I wasn’t going to cry.
I was never sure afte
rwards how long I sat there by my father’s body, alone, stunned, disbelieving. It might have been ten minutes or half an hour before the doctor came.
He sent me out of the room while he examined Father’s body. I sat next to my mother on the settee in the parlour, staring at the empty fire grate and thinking how cold it was. Mother never let the fire go out, but this time she had; she seemed numbed, unable to take it all in.
‘I always thought it would be me first,’ she said, her hands shaking. ‘Harold was such a strong man. I never expected him to die.’
I sensed her fear, though not its cause. I reached for her hand and squeezed it. She clung to me, seeming to need comfort, reassurance – as if she felt guilt now that her husband was dead.
‘I hated him sometimes,’ she said in a strangled voice, ‘but I didn’t wish him dead, Emma. Not really – not dead.’ She choked back a sob. ‘Just before the last … he told me he was sorry … told me he wished he had treated me better.’
I glanced at her. She was very distressed and nervous. What was she frightened of? Or was she just regretting the lost years, blaming herself for his death?
I tried to comfort her. It wasn’t her fault that Father had been so ill. He had neglected his health for too long.
‘Of course you didn’t,’ I said. ‘It was his own fault, Mum. He should have seen the doctor ages ago, and he should have gone into hospital for those tests. Perhaps they could have done something for him if he’d gone in time.’
‘The doctor’s coming out.’ Her face went chalky white as the doctor came into the hall. She looked at me as if seeking help, her hand reaching for mine. ‘I can’t—’
I stood up and went to meet the doctor. He held out his hands to me and I took them gratefully.
‘What a terrible ordeal for you and your mother,’ he said. ‘I was afraid this might happen if he neglected himself. You recall we spoke of it the first time I came?’
‘Was it an ulcer?’ I asked hesitantly. ‘Will – will you have to do a post mortem? That’s what they call a special examination after someone dies suddenly, isn’t it?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, and I was conscious of an overwhelming relief, though I wasn’t sure why. ‘I don’t doubt my diagnosis was right. Your father had an ulcer. The internal bleeding led to complications and he died of heart failure. There is no need for a formal investigation, my dear. It was not unexpected. I shall sign the death certificate. You and your mother have enough to cope with without a lot of fuss and trouble for nothing.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind,’ I said. ‘I wish Father had taken notice when you wanted him to go into hospital. If he had, he might still be alive.’
‘Probably it wouldn’t have helped, not at this late stage. His illness had been coming on for years.’ Doctor Barton patted my hand kindly. ‘At least he isn’t in pain now. You must look after yourself and your—’ He broke off as Richard came up the stairs. He was unshaven and looked dishevelled. ‘Ah, yes, Mr Gillows.’ There was disapproval in his voice as he looked at my husband. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to break the sad news, Emma.’
‘I’ll see you out first.’ I threw a look that spoke volumes at Richard, going past him without a word. The sight of him like that turned my stomach, and I blamed him for making such a rumpus earlier, bringing my father from his bed. What had happened that night had killed any lingering sympathy I had towards Richard. As far as I was concerned, our marriage was finished. ‘It was very good of you to come, sir. I am grateful for everything you’ve done for my father.’
At the door I hesitated. Ought I to mention the pills Father had been taking? I had always thought they might be harmful, that some of them might actually have contributed to his illness.
Something made me hold back. There was no point now. He was dead. Nothing could change that – and I wasn’t sure. Besides, the vague, terrible thoughts in my mind horrified me.
‘Goodbye,’ Doctor Barton said. ‘Come and see me soon, Emma. I want to make sure you’re looking after yourself properly.’
I thanked him, then walked slowly back upstairs. Richard was waiting for me in the hall. Mother had obviously told him the news and he looked stunned, almost disbelieving.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I didn’t realize he was that ill … not dying.’
‘Didn’t you?’ I looked through him. ‘You smell disgusting, Richard. If I were you, I would go and clean yourself up before anyone else sees you. I’m closing the shop for the day – and as soon as I’m ready I shall arrange for Father to be laid out. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to do.’ I left him staring as I walked away.
Chapter Eleven
Father was buried. It had been bitterly cold in the church, but at last it was over. We had asked close friends and relatives back to the house – my mother’s relatives, not Father’s.
‘I don’t think he had any family,’ Mother told me when I asked if we should get in touch with them. ‘At least, he never mentioned anyone to me. Not once the whole time we were married.’
I looked through the rolltop desk downstairs in the stockroom, but there were only piles of old bills and accumulated rubbish, amongst which I saw several cuttings from the newspapers advertising various cures for indigestion.
So there was no way of tracing Father’s family, if he had any. And now most of our friends had shown their sympathy and gone. Only Gran, Mother, Richard, Father’s lawyer, Mr Smythe, and I remained in the parlour.
I was about to disappear into the kitchen to start the washing-up when the lawyer called me back.
‘You should be here, Mrs Gillows. Your father’s will concerns you.’
I sat down, glancing at Mother. She was still pale, but no longer nervous.
‘Mr Robinson revised his will a few months ago,’ Mr Smythe informed us, then cleared his throat. ‘As you know, Mrs Robinson, your husband owned this shop and house outright.’
She nodded expectantly as he paused.
‘You are to have life tenancy and—’
‘What does that mean?’ She looked shocked, as though she had expected something very different.
‘It means this house will be your home for as long as you wish.’
Her face was chalky white. ‘You mean I don’t own it – he didn’t leave it to me?’
Mr Smythe looked uncomfortable. ‘No, Mrs Robinson. Your husband’s wish was that you should live here and receive the same allowance as before from the income derived from the business.’
‘And that’s all?’ I could see the shock and anger in her eyes. ‘After all these years … all I’ve had to suffer?’
‘Mum—’ I looked at her in appeal. ‘Don’t – not now.’
‘Who gets the shop then?’ I could hear the anger and bitterness in her voice.
He cleared his throat. ‘Until recently it was left to his daughter, Emma, but … Mr Robinson changed it.’
‘He left it to me,’ Richard said suddenly. His eyes gleamed with triumph as he looked at me, and I knew that he wanted to humiliate me, to punish me. ‘It was his part of the bargain we made.’
‘Is that true?’ Mother asked, staring oddly at the lawyer. ‘Can he do that? Leave everything away from his wife and daughter?’
‘It is quite legal,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘Providing he leaves you sufficient to live on. You could contest it, of course, but that would be costly.’
Mother sat back, hands twisting in her lap, obviously distressed and barely controlling her anger.
‘There are, however, certain conditions attached to the legacy,’ the lawyer went on. ‘Mr Gillows cannot sell the property without the consent of his wife. And if there should be a divorce, the property would revert to you, Emma.’
‘No! That’s not what we agreed!’ Richard said, looking furious. ‘Harold promised it would be mine.’
‘It is, sir.’ Mr Smythe frowned. ‘But Mr Robinson wanted his daughter to be secure. It is his wish that she be given a free hand to ru
n the business. And everything else is left to her.’
‘Everything else?’ Mother sat forward, suddenly alert. ‘What else is there?’
‘I believe there is some money in the bank …’ Mr Smythe glanced at his papers. ‘Three hundred and seventy pounds to be precise.’
‘There must be more,’ Mother cried. ‘He must have left more.’
‘Mr Robinson was a very careful man,’ the lawyer said. ‘He liked to keep his business to himself. If there is anything more, he did not mention it to me.’
‘But there must be more,’ Mother repeated, eyes filled with tears. ‘What did he do with all his money? It’s not right. I was his wife. I should get something.’
The lawyer shook his head. ‘I was not in agreement with this will. I asked your husband to reconsider, but he was adamant.’
She nodded, took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
‘The money from the shop.’ Richard was glaring at Mr Smythe. ‘That’s mine?’
‘Yes, sir. Mrs Gillows is to run the business, because of her previous experience – but you own it. You own the property in theory, but you cannot turn Mrs Robinson out while she wishes to live here, nor can you sell without your wife’s written consent.’
‘And if I contest that part of it?’
Mr Smythe shrugged. ‘It might be that a court would decide the will was invalid, made when Mr Robinson was suffering from ill health. It might be revised in favour of his family. It’s difficult to say. Again, I would only point out that it could be very costly.’
‘The crafty old devil,’ Richard said, but he was smiling now, sure of himself. ‘We shall just have to live with it, shan’t we? I’ll see you out, shall I?’
‘No,’ I said, standing up. ‘I’ll do that, Richard.’
He glared at me, but made no move to stop me. I led Mr Smythe from the parlour and down to the shop. He smiled and asked me if there was anything else I wanted to know.
‘Yes,’ I said, looking at him hesitantly. ‘When you said everything else is mine – does that include anything I might find amongst Father’s things? Money, property deeds?’
