Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1)

by Madalyn Morgan

  Dave was being awkward, spoiling for an argument. One minute he was a boy, a child, needing to be loved and understood. The next he was a nasty, manipulating bully, exerting power in the only way he knew, by brute force. Bess realised there was nothing she could do or say to talk him round, because he wasn’t being rational. She had two choices. Give in to him, which she wasn’t going to do without a fight, or try and get away. She chose the latter.

  ‘Of course you’re good enough for me. You’re good enough for any girl – that wasn’t what I meant. And I’m not a tease.’ Bess kept talking. ‘I didn’t mean to lead you on and if you think I did, I’m sorry.’

  Dave let go of her and Bess took off his jacket. ‘Here, put it on and we’ll go back to the party. We’ll have another drink and a nice talk; get to know each other properly.’

  Smiling, Bess held Dave’s jacket up, keeping eye contact with him until he turned round. He lifted his left arm and slid it into the left sleeve. Before he had time to put his arm all the way down, Bess lifted the right side of the jacket. Encouraged by this, Dave put his right arm into the right sleeve. With both arms halfway down their respective sleeves, and disabled behind Dave’s back, Bess pushed him as hard as she could. As his drunken bulk hit the wall, she ran for the street.

  As she neared the kitchen door she heard voices. At first they were distant, no more than a mumble. Soon they grew louder, sounded nearer. A few more steps. She was almost there. She opened her mouth to shout for help, slipped and fell. She scrambled frantically to her feet. But it was too late. Dave grabbed her from behind. With one hand over her mouth, the other round her throat, he dragged her into the shadows beneath the fire escape.

  The voices Bess had heard belonged to two men dressed in kitchen whites. The younger of the two took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He gave one to the older man, and then took one for himself. After lighting both, he flicked the match into the air in the same way that Dave had done earlier. Rotating his shoulders as if they were stiff, the younger man walked across the alley to check the match was out. On his return he lifted his head and exhaled a smoke ring, and the older man shouted, ‘Bravo!’

  Dave’s hand was clamped hard over Bess’s mouth. She could hardly breathe. She watched helplessly as the two men prepared to return to the kitchen. The older man drew on his cigarette. He inhaled deeply before crushing the stub beneath his boot. He coughed, cleared his throat, and spat. The younger man took a couple of extra pulls on his cigarette, extinguished it in the same way, and then followed him inside and shut the door.

  When he was sure the two men were not going to re-appear, Dave took his hand from Bess’s mouth.

  ‘You’re hurting me, Dave. Please take your hand from my throat … Please Dave…’ Bess rasped. Her voice was hoarse and barely audible. Her head throbbed from the pressure on her neck. She tried to concentrate on the bricks in the wall. She struggled to focus, as consciousness began to slip away.

  ‘Do you promise to behave yourself?’

  Hardly able to stand, or speak, she managed to whisper, ‘Yes, I promise. Please-- I can’t breathe.’

  Dave took his hand from her throat and turned her round. Thick saliva had collected in the corners of his mouth. As he tried to kiss her, dry spittle snapped like rotten string. Bess gagged. She made fists and lashed out, but Dave was too quick. He caught hold of her arms and forced them behind her back. Now it was her turn to be disabled.

  With a sickening grin he bent down and kissed her again. He straddled her and, holding her wrists tightly with one hand, he forced the other between her legs. Incensed by his actions Bess lifted her knee and drove it hard into his groin. But it wasn’t hard enough. He doubled over in pain and took his hand from between her legs. But instead of falling to the ground, as Bess had hoped he would, he straightened and slapped her across the face.

  ‘Now look what you made me do. Why did you make me do that? Why do you want me to hurt you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry! I don’t want you to hurt me.’ Her cheek was smarting, and her jaw ached from the impact of Dave’s plate-like hand. ‘Look, I’ve stopped struggling.’ Bess knew the only way to survive what was fast becoming inevitable was to stop fighting. ‘If you promise not to hurt me, I promise not to struggle,’ she said.

  ‘Why would I hurt you?’ He was the boy again. ‘You’re my girl; I don’t want to hurt you, I want to make you happy.’

  ‘Of course you do. I know that now,’ Bess lied. ‘I’m sorry.’ Bess shuddered as she forced herself to smile at her vile abuser. Then she closed her eyes. She had to endure him, but she did not have to look at him.

  She could smell his sour breath on her neck as he slurred drunkenly into her ear. He said words that Bess had hoped one day to hear from the man she loved. The man she would marry. Struggling to undo the buttons on his trousers, he cursed and mumbled one inarticulate profanity after another. Then he began to talk dirty. He said things that were degrading and humiliating, but Bess showed no emotion. She knew she mustn’t react to anything he did or said if she was going to survive.

  Holding her wrists behind her back with his left hand, he pulled her pants down with his right. ‘Lift your feet,’ he ordered. Bess did as she was told and he pulled her knickers off. ‘Now lift this leg up. Higher.’

  Bess thought she would die of shame. She lifted her left leg as high as she could and he put his right hand under her buttocks and pulled her closer. Her right foot was barely on the ground. As he forced himself into her, she began to plan the lessons for the coming week at school.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked, in a frantic stilted whisper.

  Bess wanted to scream, No, you vile and disgusting creature, you’re hurting me! But she was paralysed with fear.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he shouted. He was angry, agitated and breathless. He began to pant like a rabid dog.

  ‘Yes!’ Bess shouted back at him. ‘Yes, I’m all right.’

  Whatever it was that this monster needed from Bess’s submissive agreement he got, because a second later he gave one final thrust, let out a sickening moan, and stopped.

  What would happen now? Bess wondered. Would he let her go? Or would he take her again? He dropped her leg and relaxed his grip on her wrists, but he didn’t take his eyes off her. He was waiting for a reaction. Bess didn’t react. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Her legs hurt. Her left leg hurt at the top, where he’d held it for so long in an unnatural position, and the muscles in her right leg ached from having taken his weight, as well as her own. But it was over and she had survived.

  While he was bending down, groping round his ankles for his trousers, Bess thought about trying to escape again. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to run fast enough, because she hurt too much. Besides, if he caught her he might kill her this time. After what seemed like an age of fumbling he stood up and buttoned his trousers. Then, as if to reward himself, he took a box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, lit up and inhaled deeply. ‘Turn around.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turn round and face the wall.’

  ‘Why, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing if you do as you’re told. I don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t turn round you’ll make me angry. And you know what happens when I get angry,’ the boy in him pleaded. ‘So do as I say. Turn round and face the wall!’

  As she turned, Bess heard what sounded like dry leaves rustling beneath a pile of newspapers under the fire escape.

  ‘What was that?’

  Bess shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Dave took a drag of his cigarette, threw it on top of the newspapers and laughed. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘I’d better make sure my fag’s out or it might set fire to that pile of old rubbish.’ Still laughing, he went over to the mound of newspapers and kicked into it as hard as he could.

  Bess turned her face to the wall and held her breath. She heard him walking up the alley, whistling a tune she didn’t recognise and hoped
she would never hear again. As the sound of his footsteps grew fainter so did the whistling – until there was silence.

  After two or three minutes, Bess slowly turned round. She wondered how long she’d been in the alley and, hoping there would be enough light to see what the time was, she lifted her arm to look at her wristwatch. It had gone. The loss of her watch was the last straw. Exhausted and in pain, she slid down the wall to the ground, hugged her knees, and cried.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she heard someone say. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Bess looked at the mound of rubbish under the fire escape as an elderly man crawled out of a makeshift bed of cardboard and newspapers. He had a broken nose and red veined cheeks from years of living rough. He held Bess’s wristwatch in trembling hands and looked at her with sad rheumy eyes. ‘It came off when he…’

  ‘Thank you. It was my twenty-first birthday present from my parents. I thought it had gone forever.’ As she took the watch from the old man she touched his hand and he winced. That monster hadn’t stamped on the cigarette. He had stamped on the old man’s hand.

  ‘You should go to the hospital,’ Bess said.

  ‘So should you,’ the old man replied.

  Bess nodded in agreement but she knew, as he did, that neither of them would. ‘I don’t know how I can ever thank you. If you hadn’t been there ... if you hadn’t made a noise, I think he would have hurt me again.’

  ‘I wish I could have stopped him from hurting you the first time,’ the old man said. ‘I would have done, a few years ago--’

  ‘Shush…’ Bess raised her right hand and put her forefinger to her lips. ‘There’s someone in the alley.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Unable to look at her naked reflection in the bathroom mirror, Bess switched off the light. She knew another bath wouldn’t make her feel any cleaner but she ran one anyway. She dipped her toes into the water, but it was too hot, so she turned on the cold tap. When the water was cool enough, she stepped into it and lay back until she was completely submerged. She couldn’t bear to touch herself with her hands, so she took a flannel, lathered it with soap, and scrubbed at her body until she was raw. But she still didn’t feel clean.

  It was five o’clock in the morning. The water was stone cold, and so was Bess. She hauled herself out of the bath. Wrapping a large towel round her body, and a smaller one about her head, she went into the kitchen and made a cup of cocoa. The last cup hadn’t helped her to sleep, so this time she added a cap of brandy. If nothing else, it might take the edge off. It didn’t.

  *

  Sunday morning, Bess forced herself to go out. Putting on a brave face, she walked to the station to buy a newspaper. The newspaper vendor, who was German by birth and Jewish by religion – but had lived in South London for many years – was having his fate decided by a group of ill-informed vigilantes.

  ‘He’s a spy,’ the first man in the queue said.

  ‘A Nazi,’ the second one shouted.

  ‘They ought to lock him up and throw away the key.’

  ‘No, we’d have to keep him then. Send him back to his Nazi mates in Germany.’

  ‘No!’ the newspaper vendor protested. ‘I am not a Nazi, I am a Jew. I came here to escape the Nazis. You know that is true,’ he said to the man standing in front of Bess. The man ignored him. ‘I am your neighbour. Please, my friend, you have known me for ten years. Your children play with my children. Our wives are friends. We are friends.’

  ‘Not any more, we’re not!’ The man swiped a paper from the top of the pile, threw a handful of change on the ground, and kicked over the advertising board before walking away.

  Tears rolled down the newspaper vendor’s cheeks. ‘Please, my friend,’ he called after him, but the man kept walking. ‘Please believe me,’ he said to the others as, one by one, they turned their backs on him and left. ‘Please …’

  Bess had known the newspaper seller for as long as she’d lived in South London and felt ashamed that she hadn’t gone to his defence. But she was too frightened. The humiliation she’d suffered the night before had destroyed her confidence. She no longer felt strong enough to speak out, let alone confront a crowd of angry men. She lifted the advertising board to an upright position and paid for her newspaper. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and left.

  Shaking, Bess filled the kettle and put it on the stove before going into the living room. She began to read the newspaper. The headlines running across the top of the front page read, “September 1st Germany Invades Poland.” And below, in letters a little bolder, “September 3rd Prime Minister To Talk To The Nation.” She turned on the wireless in readiness and turned the dial to the Home Service. While she waited she took writing paper and a pen from the desk drawer and wrote a letter to Natalie Goldman. She thanked her first for her discretion in putting her in a taxi the night before, telling her – without being too explicit – what had happened in the alley. She ended with “P.S. I will telephone soon”. She then replied to Mrs McAllister who, in her last letter, had expressed concern about the health of her young friend Molly. Accepting an invitation to tea, she asked her old landlady to let her know which Sunday would be most convenient.

  When Big Ben struck the first chime of eleven, Bess had just started a letter to her mother. She stopped writing and put down her pen. ‘This is London,’ the newscaster said ‘You will now hear a statement from the Prime Minister.’ She sat transfixed, listening to the strained voice of Neville Chamberlain as he told the nation about the invasion of Poland and that Britain had asked for an undertaking from Hitler to withdraw his troops. ‘I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’

  Bess felt sick. She wondered how her father had taken the news. Her brother Tom believed going to war with Germany was the only way to stop Hitler and his Nazis from dominating Europe – and by all accounts he was right. Her father, having fought on the front line in the Great War from 1914 until three months before it ended in 1918, said there ought never to be another war.

  Bess turned off the wireless, flung open the window, and caught her breath in panic. There was not a soul in sight. There were no cars, no buses, no cyclists and no people. The newspaper vendor had abandoned his pitch. The tennis courts on the Common, always busy on a Sunday morning, were empty. Beneath the horse chestnut tree a lone dog barked at the flapping kite. But there were no little boys tugging on the guide rope. The area was deserted.

  She wanted to walk across the Common, feel earth beneath her feet. Instead the air raid siren wailed through the apartment, so she closed the window, grabbed her gas mask and handbag and ran outside. As she turned to lock the door, she heard the kettle whistling. She rushed back into the flat. The kitchen was filled with steam. Not daring to think what would have happened if she hadn’t gone back, she turned off the gas. Then, after checking the other knobs on the stove were in the ‘off’ position, she left again.

  The Anderson shelter was in the garden of the main house. There were three in a row, dug into the lawn. As she approached them, Bess thought how small they were. If a bomb landed nearby, exactly how much protection would half a dozen sheets of corrugated iron give, she wondered.

  ‘Quick as you can, Miss,’ the Home Guard man shouted, pointing to the door of the middle shelter. ‘And mind the steps.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, by which time he was chasing two little boys who were running around with outstretched arms like aeroplanes, screaming, ‘Errrrrr…Boom!’ and, ‘Bang! Gotcha!’

  Bess stepped down the first of three steps leading into the shelter, and froze. It was dark inside, and the damp, musty smell reminded her of the alley the night before. Fear pulsed through her. She couldn’t get her breath and began to shake uncontrollably. She wanted to run, but she was unable to move. She grabbed the doorframe and clung to it until the feeling of panic subsided. Eventually, her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. She cautiously entered the shelter, crossed the earth floor,
and settled on a small bench. Above it was a shelf with an oil lamp and a box of Swan Vesta matches. In case we’re still here tonight, Bess thought. She didn’t relish the idea. Opening the box, she found the red phosphorus match-heads were damp and stuck together. She made a mental note to buy a box of matches. Sitting on the hard wooden bench, Bess opened her handbag. She had forgotten her book. As soon as she got home she would put a cushion, a book and a box of matches by the front door in readiness for the next air raid. Suddenly the siren stopped wailing. A second or so later it started up again.

  She ran up the steps and poked her head out of the door. The two children from the neighbouring shelter were running behind the man from the Home Guard. ‘What’s going on?’ she shouted, above the rise-and-fall of the siren.

  ‘That’s the all clear. Appears there wasn’t an air raid after all. It was a false alarm. Never mind, it’s good practice for when the bombs do start falling,’ he shouted.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Bess said, wondering how the Home Guard knew the difference between the two sirens. They sounded the same to her. Gathering her belongings, she made another mental note to add a blanket to the things she was putting by the door. It wasn’t only damp inside the shelter, it was cold.

  Bess stretched, inhaled the cool air, and looked up at the late afternoon sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. She felt exhausted from not having slept the night before and shaken after the air raid, even though it didn’t actually happen. Sitting in the small shelter was not only frightening, it was claustrophobic. So while it was still light, she did what she had wanted to do earlier. She went for a walk.

  On Sunday evenings during the summer a jazz band played on Clapham Common. It attracted people of all ages and from all walks of life. Some sang along with the songs, others danced, and many brought picnics. But most people just sat on the grass and listened to the music. Tonight, because of the blackout, there was no band and no people.