by Liz Trenow
I had no answer.
‘Where’s your passion gone, Molly, your fire? I thought you were so brilliant: determined to stand up for the underdog against the evil forces of the Blackness. And now we have genuine proof, with his signature on that eviction notice and all, you’ve gone soft.’
‘Not soft, just cautious,’ I muttered, trying to hold back tears.
We parted in ill humour, agreeing that he would come to the vicarage the following morning. I was going to ask Mrs D and other people where Eli might have gone, and Kit reluctantly agreed, although I could see he was disappointed in me. I’d been so flattered that he had agreed to help me – thrilled and perhaps a little blinded by his energy and enthusiasm. And the fact that I adored him. Now I was filled with doubts.
When we got back to the vicarage I discovered my father in our bleak front room, perched on one of the sagging armchairs with his head in his hands, cigarette between his fingers. The ashtray at his feet was already full, the air muggy with stale smoke.
‘What’s going on, Pa?’ I said.
He tipped his head in the direction of the study. ‘Diocesan men are here,’ he whispered. ‘Close the door. They’re going through the accounts with Mr Blackman.’
‘Why aren’t you helping them?’
He shrugged. ‘They asked me to leave.’
As I went over to put my arm round him, their reason became obvious. Tucked down beside Pa in the armchair was an empty bottle, and two further bottles lay on the floor beside him. The stink of alcohol was unmistakeable. At midday on a weekday morning, my father was drunk. My world seemed to crumble around me, but I took a breath and tried to gather myself.
‘What on earth, Pa?’ I said, holding up one of the bottles.
He looked up at me shamefaced, his eyes bloodshot. Like a scolded dog.
‘I’m going to find Mrs D, and make you some coffee.’
‘Gone to the market.’ Of course, it was market day. Perhaps it was just as well she was not here to witness my father’s humiliation. But her absence meant Pa had had free access to the pantry where the beer was kept, without her vigilant eyes to deter him.
There were voices in the hallway outside, and a knock at the door.
‘Mr Goddard? Are you there?’
I went to the door and came face-to-face with a tubby grey-haired man in a dog collar and a smart suit.
‘My father is not feeling well,’ I said, standing in the doorway to block his view. ‘I’m his daughter, Molly.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Goddard,’ he said, holding out a pudgy, sweaty hand. I shook it, reluctantly.
‘Can we talk to him?’ Behind him stood Blackman, his face twisted into a smirk, and a younger man holding a large black briefcase.
‘I’ll ask.’ I closed the door and went back to Pa. ‘They want to talk to you. Do you feel up to it?’
He shook his head, and I returned to the door.
‘I’m so sorry. My father is feeling quite poorly. We’ve all been down with a bit of a stomach bug,’ I lied.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ His expression of compassion, a small frown with eyes briefly downcast, was well practised and clearly false.
‘Perhaps you could come back in a few days’ time?’ I added.
He sighed. ‘I suppose so. It’s very inconvenient, having to travel from Bury St Edmunds. But please tell your father that we will return early next week. Ah, and we’ll be taking the account books with us.’
After the other men had gone, piling into a sleek black motor, polished until it gleamed even in the grey light of the day, Mr Blackman lingered.
‘Is there anything I can do to help, Miss Goddard?’ he asked, peering round me. ‘We are a little, shall we say . . .’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘concerned for your father’s, erm, welfare.’
Yes, he’s drunk, I wanted to shout. And why do you think a man who never normally touches alcohol, beyond the odd sociable beer, is drunk at midday on a Wednesday? Because of you, Mr Blackman, and your meddling – and the way you have no feelings for anyone other than yourself.
Of course I said none of that. What I did say was, ‘Would you like some coffee, Mr Blackman? I’d like to ask you something. Do come through to the kitchen.’ I turned back to Pa, whispering, ‘Stay here, I’ll bring coffee’, and then closed the door behind me.
‘And what is this mysterious matter, Miss Goddard?’ Mr Blackman said, after I’d made coffee. I took a glass of orange juice up to Jimmy and told him to stay in his room until the coast was clear.
Once again, having spent so many hours imagining him as a dark, menacing evil, Blackman’s very ordinariness took me aback. He was really rather average in every way, the sort of man who might pass unnoticed in a crowd. There was not a single pair of horns, curly tail or fearsome trident in sight.
‘It’s good news about your friend Mr Chadwick, isn’t it?’ he said with a false air of brightness. ‘We were fortunate enough to persuade the council to allocate him one of those lovely houses on the High Road, and he’s moved in. They’ve got all mod cons, you know? Hot water and electricity, flushing toilets – the lot. He seemed delighted. As surely anyone would be?’
He smirked, showing all his teeth. How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws. Blackman was lying, and he really didn’t care that I knew it. He was operating on a whole different level of truth and morality. It felt like walking on quicksand.
‘I went up there this morning, and none of the houses were occupied,’ I said. The hint of a frown shadowed his face.
‘A man has the right to leave his home from time to time, Miss Goddard, does he not? No doubt Mr Chadwick has gone a-visiting. As people do.’ His self-satisfied tone made me want to grind my teeth.
‘He didn’t want to leave. He loved his hut, and said he’d only ever leave it if they took him out in his coffin.’
Blackman sighed. ‘Dear Miss Goddard. I realise that you have the best of intentions but, forgive me, I wouldn’t expect someone of your tender years to entirely understand the complexities of society. Mr Chadwick is suffering mental-health issues,’ he went on. ‘When you are older, you will surely see that our actions were very much in his best interests. We are all prone to sentimentality on occasion, are we not?’
Why did he always end his sentences with a question?
‘I am perfectly certain that once Mr Chadwick has had a few days to grow accustomed to his new home, he will realise how convenient it is, how warm and well insulated, how nice it is to have running water and electricity. When we get older, our creature comforts become more important than ever and, of course, he’s no spring chicken, you know?’
The anger was rising hotly up the back of my neck. ‘Eli has lived in the village all his life, Mr Blackman, and although he’s suffered much tragedy and loss, he seems to me to be one of the sanest residents of all. It is wrong, and inhumane, to make him leave his hut.’
‘The bottom line, my dear, is that hut was neither suitable nor safe for a man of his age and frailties. The parish must take responsibility for the welfare of its parishioners. Winter is on its way, and whatever would people say if we let him freeze to death?’
‘Surely it should be his choice where he lives?’ I heard myself shouting.
He still seemed unruffled. ‘We have no reason to believe that this is not his choice. As I said before, he seemed perfectly happy when we moved him to his new house. And why wouldn’t he be?’
It was no good trying to win this argument. He simply wasn’t interested in any other point of view. I stood up sharply, knocking over my chair with a crash. ‘I think it is time for you to leave, Mr Blackman. I know you’ve told Eli and the church committee to keep quiet, but just you wait and see. The newspapers are going to hear about this.’
His smile evaporated, the eyes hardened, his jaw tightened.
‘I would think very carefully about that, Miss Goddard.’ His eyes were as sharp and menacing as any weapon. ‘You can
not have failed to notice that your father has rather more serious issues on his plate at the moment.’ He paused, raising a meaningful eyebrow. ‘As today’s visit from our diocesan friends has made perfectly clear.’
After I’d seen him out of the front door, my legs went to jelly. Using the wall for support, I managed to get back to the kitchen and sat down at the table, with my heart racing and my head whirling. I had confronted the man and tried my best. But right now Blackman held all the cards. I was completely powerless.
After a few moments, when I’d gathered my wits, I went back into the living room to find Pa. He was sound asleep, head back, mouth agape, snoring loudly. Oblivious.
‘What have you done, Pa? They think you’ve stolen the money,’ I whispered. ‘But why would you do it? We don’t want for anything – don’t have any big bills or debts. Have you been negligent somehow? Taken your eye off the ball?’
He didn’t stir.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a state of listless anxiety. Our wonderful father, the man on whom Jimmy and I depended entirely for our livelihood, our support and our happiness, had been reduced to a pitiful husk of himself, all shreds of his growing confidence now drained away. Who could have predicted that such an idyllic-looking village, home to so many genuinely nice people, could have brought a good man so low? And all of Pa’s problems – Eli’s hut, the fate of the woodland, and the missing five thousand pounds – led back to one individual: the Blackness.
Eventually I encouraged Pa to go up to bed. Jimmy and I sat down to eat the cold supper Mrs D had left out for us, but he seemed strangely unsettled, pushing the food around on his plate, when he would normally have wolfed it down in half the time it took me to finish.
‘What’s up, Jim?’
‘Parrot,’ he said.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ I replied, relieved it wasn’t anything more serious. ‘Kit will find it soon enough. And if he doesn’t, we’ll go and look for it ourselves, shall we? I’m sure it will be safe on the island. Birds like being outdoors. Now, eat up and we’ll run you a bath.’
He seemed satisfied enough and ate a few mouthfuls of ham and hard-boiled egg, followed by some leftover bread-and-butter pudding, one of his favourites.
I ran a bath and scrubbed his back, which Jimmy loved; and then, at his insistence, I read the dragon stories all over again. And as I read, I realised what the next chapter should be about.
THE UGLY DRAGON
by Molly Goddard
Chapter 6: About evil
Jimmy and the crocodile were eating currant buns that Mrs D had declared were too stale, but he liked them anyway. So did the crocodile.
‘Goodness, these buns are tasty. Got any more?’ she asked. He passed them over and then realised that if he wasn’t careful, she would eat the lot – paper bag and all. So he took out a couple of buns and put them on the ground beside her. In two great chomps and with much clattering of teeth, they were gone.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Jimmy said.
‘Feel free,’ she said. ‘Any more buns?’
‘Some people say you bring evil to the village if you are disturbed, and they’re blaming us children for playing on the lake and disturbing you.’
‘Ha-ha-ha-ha,’ she laughed. ‘Fancy me having the power to bring evil to the village.’
‘So it’s not true then?’
‘Of course not. I’m only a small ugly drag . . . I mean crocodile. Although there is an old legend about a black serpent who lives at the bottom of the lake and comes out to flick poison from his tongue. But tell me, what evil am I supposed to have caused?’
‘Well, there’s a man in the village who’s been trying to make my friend Eli move out of his hut in the woods. He doesn’t want to leave, but the man doesn’t seem to care. And it’s not the only thing he’s done, but everyone seems to be afraid of him and no one is prepared to speak out.’
Her smile disappeared. ‘Listen, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘Men do evil things for many reasons. None of them have anything to do with dragons, or serpents, for that matter.’
‘But why do they do evil things?’
She snorted. ‘It’s about power. Men who feel weak or inadequate feel they have to prove themselves somehow, trying to get power over others and bullying people who can’t fight back.’
‘Like Eli.’
‘Like your friend Eli.’
‘But how can we help him?’
‘By standing up for him,’ she said. ‘By showing the world that you care about your friend. You won’t always succeed, but at least you will have tried. And that’s what matters most.’
20
After writing that chapter I still couldn’t settle, and found myself wandering through the house and garden, trying to work out what to do. Every way my thoughts turned they seemed to reach a dead-end: Eli ousted from his beloved hut, Pa under suspicion from the diocese.
Outside, great bursts of lightning lit up the sky again and again, behind the clouds. No rain, no thunder, no visible flashes, just a sudden brilliant brightness in the western sky, gone in an instant, followed by another, and another. Then I heard thunder: a long, deep rumbling that seemed to shake the ground beneath my feet. A storm was definitely on its way.
What made everything worse was my disagreement with Kit. He was my only ally, the only person I could really talk to and trust, and I hated the fact that we’d parted on ill-tempered terms. What I most wanted to do was run down the lane to the Hall and fall into his arms. He would make everything right, I felt sure.
I should have waited until the following day, of course. But once the idea had lodged itself in my head, I couldn’t dislodge it. Everything now felt terribly urgent. A storm was coming and somehow that galvanised me; Eli had been locked out of his hut and was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t bear to think of him lying in a ditch somewhere, sodden and cold.
Pa was still snoring, dead to the world. When I went to check on Jimmy, the light was out and he was fast asleep. I would only be half an hour or so. Neither of them would even notice I was gone. I prayed the storm would hold off until I got home. My footsteps seemed to guide themselves, and it felt like only moments before I found myself walking up the gravel driveway to the Hall.
I knocked on the door, hearing it resonate inside the huge hallway, mirroring the sound of my heart hammering inside my chest. The words were ready in my mouth: ‘Hello, Mrs Waddington, I’m sorry to call so late. It’s fine – nothing wrong. But could I have a quick word with Kit?’
There was no answer. My second knock resounded even more loudly. I was about to give up when I heard his voice: ‘Hang on, hang on. Who is it? I’m coming.’
The latches went back, the door opened and there he was, my lovely boy, in stripy pyjamas and a velour dressing gown, his hair tousled, feet bare.
‘Molly? It’s nearly ten o’clock, for goodness’ sake. I was getting ready for an early night. Has something happened?’
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Pa is in London and Ma is at some black-tie charity affair in Sudbury, I think. You know these do-gooders, they like to enjoy themselves. Well, look . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t reckon they’ll be back for an hour or so. Do you want to come in?’
We went through to that beautiful drawing room, the one where we’d first had tea all those months ago, where Jimmy had spilled his drink and we’d witnessed Mr Waddington’s short temper for the first time. Kit sat in an easy chair and I took the sofa.
‘What is it, Molly? You can tell me, you know.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m here. You’re the only person I can trust.’
‘Well then, tell me.’ The yawning stretch of deep carpet between us made everything so formal.
‘I’m so worried about Eli and I really want to help him, but my father’s in so much trouble, I don’t know how we are going to survive it, and I just can’t, I just can’t . . .’ My voice broke and the tears began to run down my cheeks.
�
��I’m so sorry, but I’m sure it’s not the end of the world, you dear old thing.’ Kit reached into his dressing-gown pocket and pulled out a crumpled linen handkerchief embroidered in navy blue at the corner, with the initials CMW. I wiped my face, distractedly wondering what the M stood for.
When he sat down beside me and put a hand on my shoulder, the tenderness of the gesture seemed to open the floodgates and I began to sob. I felt Kit’s arm round my shoulders and he pulled me to him, my head on his chest, stroking my hair. After a few moments I managed to pull myself together. I turned my face and looked up. Our lips were just inches apart, and I thought for a brief, glorious moment that he might actually bend his head to kiss me.
Instead he said, ‘Let me get you a drink of something. Whisky or brandy?’ He took his arm away and stood up.
‘A glass of water – or lemonade, perhaps,’ I said, feeling even more stupid. I tried to tidy my hair, wipe my face. What was I thinking of, coming here so late at night and weeping all over him? I must look a fright.
Kit returned with the drinks, sat down beside me and we sipped in silence for a few moments. At last he said, ‘Look, Molly, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know. If there are problems with your pa, then you must put them first. Yes, we both want to help Eli, but if it’s making you so upset . . .’
He put down his glass. ‘And to be honest, there was something I needed to tell you anyway.’
My heart seemed to hang in my chest. Was he about to make some kind of declaration?
‘The truth is that I’ve got to go away – to London – tomorrow.’
Panic gripped my breath. ‘Tomorrow? What’s happened? Is it something I’ve done?’
‘No, not that. It’s my father. My bloody father. My bloody bastard father.’ The words came out like bullets now. He turned to face me. ‘I’ve been keeping it to myself all summer, hoping that if I don’t think or talk about it, then it won’t be real. But I’m not going back to school. Not now, not never.’
