‘But how can you be? How, Alistair?’
‘Because I get to see you every day. And every time I see you, I feel better.’
‘Better about what?’
‘Better about everything.’
‘Oh, Alistair … I just feel so …’ Irene hung her head and felt her eyes fill with tears, stinging and hot. ‘I just feel so … stupid. And so pointless.’
‘Well, you’re neither. Irene … I know that just now you don’t believe you’ll ever feel right again, but you will. I promise you. One day, you will have forgotten him – it might take time, and it won’t happen all at once, but gradually your thoughts of him will lessen, and the pain will fade along with them. I can promise you this, because I have also been forced by … circumstances … to separate from somebody. It was a long time ago now, but I also felt, for a while, as though the world had come to an end. But it hadn’t, Irene. It hadn’t. And now I have you, and I’m so, so glad.’ He held her for a long time while she cried like a child; she couldn’t seem to stop, and she wondered how long the tears had been building up. Thinking back, she realised she hadn’t cried once since the storm had broken over her. She’d been numb, she’d been angry; desperate and in terrible pain. But she hadn’t cried once. Alistair simply stood, and rested his face against the top of her head, and waited it out with perfect patience.
* * *
On a day so sweltering hot that the cows could hardly be bothered to graze, and the horseflies were legion, and biting, and Rose Matlock had turned puce halfway through mangling the sheets and gone for a lie down, Clemmie and her sisters swam. Just in front of the farm was a lazy curve in the By Brook; the water slowed as it swung round it, and had carved out a pool about five feet deep in places. It was bone-achingly cold, but, once the shock of it had passed, blissful. They filled the air with their voices as they plunged in – squeals and laughter and, from Mary, some salty curses. Clemmie took a deep breath and dived straight in, shivering at the cold touch of it on her scalp, which the sun had scorched through her pale hair. They swam in their underwear, which clung to their chests and hips; their hair smoothed to their necks, their skin gleamed. The vicar, walking past with his laced-up gaiters, alpine boots and thumb stick, and sweating profusely, gave them a peculiar, strained sort of smile, and muttered something awkward about naiads in a crystal stream before hurrying on his way. Liz stared after him a moment too long.
‘You’re not serious?’ said Mary.
‘What?’ said Liz, colouring.
‘Liz has a passion for the vicar!’
‘I do not! You shut your mouth!’ said Liz, lunging at Mary, who waded away, laughing.
‘It’d be no fun at all, Lizzie!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘He’d have to say so many prayers before and after he laid you down, you’d nod off!’
‘I wish Clarence would lay me down,’ said Josie, wistfully. ‘When he holds my hand, I swear, it sends me into shivers all over.’
‘Don’t let Father hear you talking like that or he’ll tan the hide off you,’ said Liz, obviously grateful for the change of focus.
‘I’m not daft,’ said Josie.
‘Are you sure?’ Mary grinned at her, and Josie put out her tongue. ‘You wouldn’t catch me letting on who’s caught my eye. After what happened with Tom, I’m dead set on being quieter than Clemmie about it.’
The three girls turned idle gazes to their mute sister, and found her smiling. She couldn’t help it. Eli Tanner was never far from her mind, and their talk had brought him right to the fore – all the shuddering delight of him moving inside her, and the taste of him, and the way he looked at her and melted into her touch. She was saturated with him, but only ever wanted more. There was no way she could not smile, even when she sensed a single thought coalesce in her three sisters, and felt a tingle of danger. Liz, Josie and Mary paddled closer to her, dripping water from their chins, watching her with their expressions changing from teasing to consideration, to incredulity.
‘Clemmie Matlock!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘Have you got a sweetheart?’
‘She can’t have … she’s touched,’ said Liz, outraged, always jealous.
‘Boys don’t care what comes out of your mouth, only what goes in,’ said Mary.
‘Have you, Clem?’ said Josie. ‘Tell us!’ They came closer, circling her; a moving wall of sunlit ripples on skin. ‘Tell us who.’
‘How’s she going to do that, you dunce?’ said Mary. ‘For all those lessons the squire has given her, she’s still not once uttered a proper word.’
‘Well then, nod us yes, Clemmie – is there someone?’
She could have shaken her head. She thought about doing it, but for some reason she wanted to tell them, she wanted to share it – she wanted to shout it out. It felt too big to keep inside, and for once she wanted to be on equal footing with her sisters, not different to them, not behind in some way. Happiness made her giddy, and gave the illusion of safety when she wasn’t safe, and neither was Eli. But there was no way her sisters could know or guess who it was, and no way they could make her tell them. The sun burned down on their skin, and the water soothed, and the world was as benign a place as she could imagine, just then. She nodded. Josie gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth, her eyes lighting up with excitement; Mary’s face was incredulous, Liz’s too.
‘Oh, that’s so wonderful, Clemmie! Is he handsome?’ said Josie.
‘Wonderful? Are you mad?’ said Mary. ‘Someone must have taken advantage of her! Who is it, Clem?’
‘Leave her alone – why shouldn’t she love someone?’ said Josie.
‘We’ll have to tell Father,’ said Liz. Her fingers were splayed in the water, near the surface, as though to keep her balanced. As though to catch Clemmie if she tried to escape. Panic flooded through Clemmie; she shook her head, her mouth dropping open in fear.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Josie flared. ‘Don’t you dare tell, or I’ll tell him you tried to coax the vicar out into the woods – I swear I will!’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Liz gasped. Clemmie whined in her throat and grasped at Mary’s hands, silently pleading: Don’t tell, don’t tell!
‘Is he married, Clem?’ Mary asked. Clemmie shook her head vehemently. ‘And he’s your own age, thereabouts, not some dirty old man?’ She nodded just as hard. Mary thought for a moment longer. ‘We won’t tell on you, Clem. And if you say a word,’ Mary rounded on Liz, ‘we’ll make you wish you’d never.’
However many times she told herself that it was fine, and that her sisters would keep their word, Clemmie felt uneasy. She wished she’d shaken her head, but it was too late. It was out there now, and couldn’t be got back. That moment of wanting to share – to boast, really – and now her precious secret was only half a secret. She made her way through the woods opposite the mill, towards Thatch Cottage, stopping now and then to listen, to look behind her. She wasn’t being followed, by her sisters or by anybody else, but the nagging feeling remained. A shadow of unease. The sun was sinking as the afternoon aged, but the heat was still stifling; the air between the trees was sluggish and overripe. There was sweat in her hair and between her thighs; she could smell the river water on her skin – dank now, vegetal. Clemmie climbed up onto the ridge, panting, sliding on loose soil; she waited a while then slithered back down again, watching for him, waiting for him. A bluish shade gathered beneath the trees. She sat down on a gravestone at the Friends’ chapel, with a view of Thatch Cottage’s roof, to empty the stones from her shoes. She was restless, impatient for him to appear. Then there was a loud crash from the cottage, and the sound of Tanner shouting, his voice so huge and full of rage. Clemmie’s heart flung itself against her ribs.
She knew who was responsible for Eli’s nose being so crooked, and for the split lip he’d had recently, when he’d stayed out too late with her and returned home after dark – they’d fallen asleep beneath the wizened roots of a fallen tree, tangled up together. She was suddenly afraid that he was in trouble because she�
��d revealed their love, before remembering that there was no way her sisters could have guessed who, or told anyone. Frightened for him, outraged for him, her blood raced in her veins. She dodged nearer, keeping close to the trunks of trees, the cover of bushes, then a pile of broken stones, and then the Tanners’ privy, which stank and buzzed with flies. The cottage’s windows were open, so the voices inside were clear.
‘I’ll have his bloody guts!’ This was Tanner – bitter, hard, furred with drink.
‘Christ, but he gave you enough chances, Dad!’ A boy’s uneven voice, newly broken; not Eli’s. There was the sound of a blow and a woman’s cry, and the scrape of shoved furniture.
‘Don’t hit the boy! It’s none of his fault!’ A woman – Eli’s mother, Clemmie guessed. There was more shouting, more thumping. ‘Stop it! Lay off!’ the woman said again.
‘You’re all of you naught but wasted space! I should have drowned you each as she whelped you!’
‘And what does that make you, Dad? Passed out drunk on the job again, where any bugger could see you?’
‘You come here, you little shit! You’re no son of mine.’ The front door banged wide and a thin boy ran out, arms pumping, head down, dodging the detritus in the yard. Tanner followed but lost his footing and sprawled to the ground. He stayed down a while, ribs heaving like bellows, until his wife came to his side, looking too weary to be frightened. Tanner let her help him up then pushed her away, staggering back inside.
Clemmie still hadn’t heard Eli speak, but if he wasn’t inside and he hadn’t come to find her then she didn’t know where he could be. There was no more shouting for a while, no more crashing. Clemmie sidled closer, watching every footstep, so careful not to make a sound that her head began to thump. She crouched down below the back window. The smell of stewed carrots and bone stock drifted out to her; a baby cried for a moment and was quickly hushed; there was the sound of a plate being put down on a table.
‘Here. Eat something,’ said Mrs Tanner. For a long time after that, nobody said anything. There were at least ten or twelve Tanners living there; many of them little. Clemmie found their silence unnatural, ominous. She wished she had the courage to peer in at the window, just to see if Eli were there, but she didn’t dare. ‘What’ll you do, then?’ said Mrs Tanner, at last. Tanner grunted.
‘I’ll have his bloody guts.’
‘Alistair Hadleigh’s always been good to us,’ she said, cautiously.
‘He was itching for an excuse to get shot of me this time. Rich folk are all the same. They’re all slippery bastards; holier than the likes of us, they think.’
‘Perhaps he’d have you back again, given a bit of time …’
‘I’ll not work for that grinning idiot again.’
‘But … the money, Isaac. We can’t do without it.’
‘I’ll get money.’ Another long silence followed his words.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s got more than he needs, especially now, with all the wages due to be paid. Reckon it’s time I paid him a visit.’
‘You can’t mean to rob him …’ Her voice was hushed, frightened now. ‘It’d be madness, right here in the village! We’ll be hounded out, Isaac—’
‘Shut your mouth, woman. I weren’t planning on leaving a calling card. Me and Eli and John’ll do it, just like always. Haven’t been caught yet, have we? We’ll take care of him, and your bloody money. Nobody calls me what he did today and gets away with it. Ain’t that right, boy?’
‘When do you want to do it, Dad?’ Clemmie went cold. He sounded frightened, he didn’t sound himself. But it was Eli who had spoken.
5
The Change
Pudding tried not to notice the way Irene Hadleigh’s hands shook as she gripped the leather strap around Robin’s neck. Her face was pale, her jaw clamped shut. Pudding wondered whether to say something specific about there being no need to worry, or whether that’d only make Irene feel worse. Like when people pointed out that she was blushing – as if she might be unaware of the hot blood thumping in her cheeks – which always made her blush harder.
‘That’s right. Now, he’s not going to move until we’re ready for him to, I promise; I’ve got hold of him.’
‘You’re sure?’ said Irene.
‘Perfectly sure. Now, left foot into the stirrup, right leg over the back and you’re on. That’s the way.’ Pudding had never taught anyone to ride before. She felt proud, knowledgeable, and under a terrible weight of responsibility. Now that Irene had finally decided to try, Pudding supposed it would be her fault if she didn’t take to it. ‘Comfortable?’ she asked, having adjusted the length of the stirrups.
‘Not remotely,’ said Irene. Pudding glanced up with a smile, thinking she was joking, but Irene’s fixed expression made her change her mind.
‘Oh. Well, er …’ she said. ‘It does take a little bit of getting used to.’ Except that Pudding remembered first sitting on a horse – a pony, in fact – and her reaction had been instantaneous joy and excitement. She busied herself for a while, showing Irene how to hold the reins and where to have her legs and feet. ‘But for now, just hold onto the neck strap if you feel wobbly, and we’ll go for a bit of a walk. All right? Ready?’ Irene took a short breath, re-clamped her lips, and nodded.
She sat stiffly, swaying awkwardly with every step Robin took, as Pudding led them across to the flattish paddock where she normally schooled the horses. She wasn’t sure how to continue the lesson. It didn’t seem fair to start drilling Irene about keeping her heels down or her thumbs to the top – you’re holding teacups, not pushing a pram – as her own instructor had done – not when Irene seemed to be concentrating so hard on simply staying sat, and not giving in to panic. They made a few sedate loops of the paddock, until Pudding couldn’t stand the silence any longer. ‘What made you decide to give riding a go, Mrs Hadleigh?’ she said, smiling up at her. Irene flicked her eyes at Pudding for the briefest second, as though keeping them fixed on the horizon were essential to success.
‘Oh. It was high time, I suppose,’ she said, tonelessly. ‘Or rather, Nancy and my husband thought it was high time.’
‘Well, you do have a super horse to learn on. I learnt on a pony so fat I could barely straddle him. We should count ourselves lucky we’re allowed to ride astride at all, though. A lot of ladies Miss H’s age still think it’s obscene. And a lot of chaps.’
‘In London, most ladies still take the side saddle.’ Irene’s tone left Pudding none the wiser as to whether she approved of that or not.
‘Really? Well, astride is infinitely better, and easier.’ Pudding wondered, once she’d said this, about her own authoritative tone. ‘That is, I think it is,’ she amended, but Irene didn’t seem to have a strong opinion about it.
They went on in silence for a while. Irene was so quiet that Pudding glanced back now and then, half expecting her to have toppled off some way back and be sitting among the daisies. The saddle creaked; Robin chewed his bit thoughtfully; from further down the hill came a loud curse and the delighted squealing of a pig. Irene cleared her throat carefully.
‘Have your family always lived in Slaughterford?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes. It’s the best place, really.’ Pudding thought about that for a moment. ‘Well, I like it anyway. But I should like to see London, one day. I truly would.’
‘You’ve never been? Why not?’ Irene sounded surprised.
‘Oh. Well. We just … live here.’ Pudding’s mother had always said they would take a trip up to London when Pudding was old enough to appreciate it. Pudding felt that that time had definitely come, but now, of course, her mother might not enjoy it as once she might. And Donny certainly wouldn’t like all the noise and people.
‘But … you must have been away before? Away from Slaughterford, I mean?’ Irene sounded vaguely appalled.
‘Oh, yes! Of course.’ In fact she hadn’t gone anywhere in ages – not since Donny had come home from the war, in fact. ‘We
used to go to the seaside all the time, when we were little. Three or four times, every summer. And I’ve an aunt in Porlock – we go to visit her quite often.’
‘Oh,’ said Irene, and Pudding guessed that it sounded very parochial indeed to her. She felt caught between defending her small corner of England and naming all the many places she would love to visit. ‘Well, I’ve been planning to pay a call to your mother. I … ought to have done so sooner,’ Irene added. ‘So perhaps I could mention it to her – that a visit to London is a very good thing for a young person. If you’d like me to, that is? I’d be very subtle.’
‘Well …’ said Pudding, her heart sinking. Clearly, nobody had explained the nature of Louise Cartwright’s illness to Irene. She hunted around for the right words to do it, but soon gave up. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Hadleigh,’ she mumbled instead, and to change the subject completely, pointed at one of the rounded hills on the horizon. ‘That’s Cold Tump. It’s probably an old barrow – did you know that when a place is called “cold”-something around here, it means it’s haunted? Or rather, that whoever named it thought it was haunted. Which usually means it was named by some Celt or Saxon settler who was superstitious about the prehistorical bits and bobs left behind – burial mounds and things. Old bones in old tombs. There’s a Cold Harbour Farm on the way to Chippenham, and people still say it’s haunted.’ She went on to describe the spectral procession of dead warriors, all with spears, helmets and ghastly empty eye sockets, who’d been seen marching past the farm on frigid, moonlit nights. She kept on with the story, even though she wasn’t sure if Irene Hadleigh were even listening, or wanted to know about it all, because when she stopped talking the silence seemed to rebuke her. It was something like guilt that made her rattle on – guilt to have said nothing about her mother’s illness; nothing about how Donny’s injury had made trips away even rarer; and guilt to have implied, even to herself, that she might wish for things to be otherwise.
The Hiding Places Page 12
