Killing The Girl

by Elizabeth Hill

  Now I shop on the internet, and I get the feeling he misses our trips, although he never says so. We still go to the garden centre for plants, and to the doctors. When I told him how Lily helps me with the internet, he frowned and changed the subject. He likes to be my guardian and my jailor; he likes to monitor my mental state to ensure that I keep our wickedness locked away.

  Focusing back on the packing to be done tomorrow, I draw on all my resolve to deal with the next task. Frankie’s clothes, clothes that comforted me in my darkest hours, will be packed next. Denim with his smell of musk. His record player and records will still take pride of place in my new house. Rubbing the red skin on a finger, I wring my hands with the stress of it. Then it hits me: Perry wasn’t surprised to see Schmidt. ‘You knew he was out of prison, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He fidgets and looks away.

  ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘There was no point in worrying you.’ He pours coffee. ‘Anyway, you have secrets. What happened between you and Schmidt?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? I doubt that. He’s a paedophile. You went to his school. He used to come here to see Thora for some reason. Did you find out what was going on between them?’

  ‘No.’ I’m not used to all this in-depth talking. We’ve never talked about anything too personal before. Lately, though, we have had long conversations about too many things I don’t like. I hate it. I want him to go.

  ‘You should tell me. I need ammunition to get rid of him. But I doubt he’ll come back anyway.’

  Schmidt mustn’t come back. ‘I’ll keep a gun by the front door.’

  ‘Not a good idea, Carol. You’re so jittery, you may use it.’ He cuts a chunk of cake and puts it in his mouth. His hands are dirty. He should wash them or he’ll get a stomach upset. I’ve washed my hands several times since he got here. A crumb is on the edge of his lip, and I want to brush it off.

  ‘Tell me about Schmidt.’

  ‘Nothing to tell. He enticed me into his house by offering me Art and English lessons. I went a few times, got suspicious and stopped.’ My hands shake so I put my fork down to press them together, trying to blank the images of what happened. ‘He didn’t touch me. He was just creepy.’

  ‘He didn’t touch you?’

  ‘No. He moved on to another girl.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrug, ‘She had an older brother. Maybe he dealt with Schmidt.’ Frankie was all-consuming back then. I didn’t tell the Headteacher about Schmidt, and Perry mustn’t know about my apathy. ‘Do you want more cake?’ Standing dissipates my irritation with this long conversation.

  ‘Sit down, Carol. Please.’ Perry places his elbows on his knees and presses his fingers together. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t think he’d come here. If I’d thought that he’d …’

  ‘Well, you weren’t to know. Anyway, thank you for your help with him.’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘There you go again – treating me like a stranger.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ... It’s just … I’m not used to … this.’ I wave my hands at us.

  ‘We’ve had plenty of coffee and cake over the years.’ A piece of cake drops onto my lap and I jump to reach for a napkin. Perry sighs; irritation jiggles his breath. ‘I enjoy seeing more of you. You know that, don’t you? And you moving in while the new house is built is good. We should’ve got to know each other better before …’ He stands then kneels in front of me, ‘Have you thought about my proposal?’

  The action startles me. His body is too close. Heat and the smell of open fields rise from him. Perry never smells of anything other than fresh air, not the sweat of a working man, not aftershave. His eye twitches.

  ‘I’m flattered that you’ve asked me …’

  ‘Please, Carol. Don’t turn me down for any reason other than you do not –’

  ‘I’m not turning you down.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No. I’m accepting your offer.’

  ‘Oh … Can I kiss you?’ He moves closer.

  ‘Well … you’d better. If we’re getting married, we should …’

  He leans into me, his hips against my knees. A memory of the time he pinned me down and grabbed my breast surfaces, but I bat it away, replacing it with a picture of a rose. We were just kids. He saved my life.

  Our kiss is different from the ones in my youth, those with Frankie and Matthew. Strangeness mingles with warmth and the pressure of unknown flesh. The kiss is what it is, and it fits who we are now.

  As we part, Perry smiles and pulls me to my feet and kisses me again, crushing me to him. Just as I cannot bear it anymore, he breaks away. He looks like the cat with the cream, all smiles. Not knowing whether to worry whether he wants more from me at this very moment, I take a small step back. Flattery has long since passed me by, and maturity does not incite the passion that used to flow through my veins. Comfort and acceptance are poor cousins of lust and craving.

  ‘Small steps,’ he says, sensing my discomfort, and squeezes my hand before sitting down. Breathing a sigh of relief that he is sensitive, I say, ‘This will work, Perry. Getting married will be good.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve always loved you, Carol. You’ve not felt the same about me, but I hope you will love me.’ The vulnerability on his face is refreshing, something he’s not shown in years. Not since I was in Maytree. He continues, ‘You know how I loved Laura. These last five years since she went ... You don’t replace her, and I don’t replace Frankie. I’m happy you’ve found, um, something for me.’

  ‘Oh, Perry, you’re so …’ I take his hands. ‘I hope I can be strong. I’m a good housekeeper … and gardener … and I can write you poetry.’ If I wish for it, it will come true.

  ‘I don’t want a housekeeper or a gardener, but please write me poetry.’ As I kiss his lips, the stirring of passion moves in my belly. I’m dizzy at my sudden change in demeanour, and the forwardness of it makes me panic. But then adrenaline mixes with an emerging lust that I’d thought had long since disappeared.

  After a while, we part and return to our chairs, to relax in the glow of our new intimacy. My heart pounds with the excitement of this change. That my long-forgotten passion would stir and release itself amazes me. This could work. Like Ruby Silver says: if you want something enough, it will happen. Perry and I will be very happy, I decide as I stroke Frankie’s necklace.

  ‘Let’s have some more coffee.’

  I jump up. ‘Of course – where are my manners!’

  ‘No need to jump, precious, at least not yet. Wait until we’re married.’ Perry grins, but something in his eyes tells me he’s not joking. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this energised. Are these reawakened feelings meant for him? Does passion fit any available man?

  My thoughts shift and reality bangs in. I killed a man, and we buried him. Our union will not be one of lovers, but of criminals covering their backs. Praying to Ruby Silver won’t change a thing.

  Perry asks me to fetch his mother’s ring and places it on my finger. He wants us to go to the registry office tomorrow and fix the date – life strides onward regardless of my hesitancy. He will ensure that work starts on my new Oaktree House immediately. I will not live at Cleave Farm when we are married, so if he wants to marry me he must ensure the house is built without delay.

  Chapter 49

  Saturday, 20 February 2016

  Perry talks about his dead wife Laura lately. She slips into our conversations unbidden, like a saint to be admired and loathed simultaneously for her sainthood. Laura this, Laura that – and a sense that he is nervous about marrying me. The effect, though annoying, is endearing, too, as he recognises her supportive qualities and other wifely benefits. She never told him she was ill; just soldiered on, afraid to make a tough time worse when the farm was struggling. Then he discovered that she had an insurance policy he didn’t know about, providing the extra cash he needed. Ev
en in death, she took care of him yet he fails to visit her grave.

  It was Francine’s birthday a few weeks ago, on the third. On that day I was ill with panic. Perry comforted me, but by the end of the day, he had complete command of my fragile state. He persuaded me to book our registry office marriage, my judgment having deserted me. His triumphant grin haunts me. He dismissed my assertion that I would not marry before I could move into the new Oaktree House. We are to be married on Tuesday, the nineteenth of April, at two. The date races towards me like an appointment for an unpleasant medical procedure.

  There’s an article online from the local newspaper: the human cost of compulsory purchase. The feature includes a description of me, by ‘villagers’ who ‘know her as a recluse, sheltered by her money’. I’m ‘not seen about much and never join in with local events’. A journalist has discovered my link with ‘the socialite’ Izzy Dewberry-Newberry.

  The invasion of my privacy is as astounding as it is distressing and brought on a panic attack. People who know nothing of me allude to suppositions they deem to be true. It says Izzy’s father was the philandering young playboy Frankie Dewberry. He lived for a short time in the soon-to-be-demolished Oaktree House during the seventies. He ‘disappeared’ and was later discovered drowned in the River Loire. An inquest decided it was an accident, although there was a suggestion of suicide.

  The rest of the article concentrates on Izzy and her drunken antics. Now in her early forties, it seems she never grew up. She’s had three husbands but no children, and plenty of close relationships with women. The wording suggests she’s a lesbian when you could just as reasonably conclude that she doesn’t trust men as fathers.

  If I were fifteen again and met Frankie with a mind of this enlightened age, would I still make him the centre of my universe? Passion and lust are hard to ignore. Those feelings are the central force in the survival of the human race, why humans set about seducing, trapping and manipulating a mate. Young women today make sexual desire fit in with their other hopes and dreams. ‘Life is for living to the full, not restricting yourself’, is the mantra.

  Emailing the link to Hamilton for him to check for any libel, I say a prayer to Lily, who has taught me about the internet. Learning these things is easy using online guides aimed at the elderly, LOL. It’s easy for me to sort things with Hamilton through my email account. Lily has suggested I get an e-reader, and one is in the post to me.

  Google maps are a revelation. The Google van has not entered the lane to my house, but I can travel along the main road. I click along towards Cleave Farm and back again. Back to the Cleave Inn on the main road, and then through the village to the Oaktree Inn. Spying on houses and driveways is a revelation. We have internet shopping, saviour of the housebound and anxiety-ridden recluses. The world is ours at the touch of a button. Before I click out, an email slips into my account. Lily reminds me that they will start to strip the house for all re-useable items, from floorboards to roof tiles. The foundations and new road are already laid for the new Oaktree and they will need the materials soon. I reply, ‘Not yet. I need more time.’ She replies, ‘They are demolishing it on 9 May and it’s best that all is stripped at least a week before.’ I don’t bother to reply. Nothing I say can change anything.

  Perry has an idea to soften my move to the farm. Move into my new rooms now, while I still have access to my home, and then I can always move back here for a few days if I’m anxious. That way I can return should I need to. It’s about feeling in control. He has Googled it. It’s a way of avoiding the finality of a last-minute move, which could be too shocking. The idea makes sense, so I agree. Now the move is this weekend. There’s little time to enjoy my home, or many nights left to sleep in the room where I conceived Francine. Perry says my sentimentality hinders my ability to move on and adjust. It’s true, but he doesn’t understand that sentimentality underpins my life and that without it I’m nothing.

  Today he will move some furniture and books from my study, along with Frankie’s record player and records. The piano Frankie plays at night to lull me to sleep is going.

  Two scruffy men arrive in the flat-bed truck with scruffy, old-fashioned blankets. The strong wind promises rain, but they assure me they have tarpaulins. Retreating to the kitchen, I nurse a cup of coffee until they leave. Watching my precious things being manhandled is a step too far.

  The phone rings and Perry apologises, saying that they have dropped Frankie’s record player. He muses that he is sure to find someone who restores these old things. He thinks it’s a bad idea to bring my things back even though I cry. He won’t budge. There will not be an ‘in the meantime’ escape. Perry has taken over, and I’ve allowed him to. My study is empty. There’s no computer. How silly of me not to realise it would go.

  Perry wraps his persuasiveness about my move in concern for my depression. When I protest, he suggests that he call my doctor. Although he sounds concerned, a threat that I must obey him hangs in the air. I have no choice. Where else can I go? He never intended for me to have a staggered move. This is my last day, but at least for a few months, I can visit and pack before the demolition starts, although there will be workmen here to strip out the fixtures and fittings.

  He makes an appointment with my doctor and drives me there. Anti-depressants will help me cope. If he is to be my husband, I must allow him to take care of me. He wants me to remove Frankie’s necklace and earrings, but I won’t. Those adornments are part of who I am.

  Back in my bed, under the covers, I hold my breath until dizziness makes me gasp. I can regulate my breath. It’s one of a few things left that I can control.

  Chapter 50

  Friday, 4 March 2016

  That Christmas in 1970, when Frankie was unwell and wanted to be on his own, Perry’s house was my refuge. It had warmth, with friendly fires and Elsie's homemade cushions and rugs. Now the house has been completely modernised, with oak doors and oak flooring heated underneath. It’s doubled in size. Solar panels sit on the roof and the barn, as well as rows of them in one of the fields with the poly-tunnels. The furnishing is cold, in flat greens and browns, all glass, chrome, straight lines. The cushions on the sofa are so perfect I daren’t touch them.

  My new rooms are on the first floor at the back of the old part of the house. They afford me some privacy and quiet. Frankie’s piano has to stay in the small downstairs reception room. When Perry is out, I take comfort in stroking the keys that Frankie once stroked.

  On the other side of the farmyard, the converted barn houses offices and facilities for the staff. Although it’s a fair step away, I hate that it’s there. Perry’s dogs are in kennels at the back of the barn, and the cats live in another barn over the ridge. Pets are not allowed in the farmhouse, nor is comfort from tokens of sentimentality. The noise of the working farm and the busyness of the many people disturb me, so I avoid the rooms at the front of the house. But Perry insists that I meet key personnel. Louise, his secretary, and Emily, who runs the lavender side of the business. Trying to be polite is stressful. My social skills have been lost over the years and this foreign place seems to require a different language.

  The view from the large windows in my study and bedroom is over farmland and not of the working areas of the farm. A heavy shower washes away the bright sunshine as if reflecting my mood. Raindrops like spiky rods pierce the grass, leaving shards scattered on the land.

  The bedroom opposite mine belonged to Simon when he was alive. Behind the locked door, the room is probably exactly as it was. When I was seven, I lay in his bed with that nasty bump on my head. My search for the angels to take me to heaven, where my dad was, had failed.

  Adjusting to this new space is daunting. Curling up on the floor and wrapping my arms around myself doesn’t protect me from these weird surroundings. The girl inside wriggles like a worm on a hook. Diazepam will sort me out, but I’d better not, on top of my new anti-depressant prescription.

  ***

  Walking back home each da
y gives me breathing space and time for calm although the house is a mess. No carpets or doors. At my request the floorboards downstairs have been left. A team of men work with logistical efficiency to reclaim anything of value. They are upstairs today and every hammer blow and creaking of wood panelling reminds me that I’m on borrowed time. My labelling, packing and arranging collection for onward transfer to the storage unit must be hurried. How strange that in my lists I had not synchronised a diary to tell me that this house would become inhabitable so quickly. Maybe Perry was being kind to get me out of here so quickly. But I doubt it.

  Finishing the books is the task for today. Then Thora’s study. Unused, but cleaned quarterly on a rota with the rest of the house, it holds an air of reverence. Or it did until the stripping out started. Perry asked why I had not emptied the room before. I said it would be sacrilege to do such a thing, which was beyond his comprehension. There was comfort in the room as she left it. He forgets that she was Frankie's mother and Francine's grandmother. The room represents a dynasty. Hamilton has written to psychiatrists to see if the medical tomes belonging to Thora’s father could be of use.

  The books finished, Perry sends men to collect them. Hamilton has arranged for a valuer to come tomorrow for a final check. We must ensure that valuable items are kept safe. That so much of my house will be in my new home is reassuring. They will take the roof tiles soon.

  Dust flies everywhere and the air carries germs and bugs that will damage my lungs. Old housekeeping ledgers and anything else unimportant goes into black rubbish sacks. A sense that I am rummaging through confidential items assails me. Photos drop into a box. The deep drawer at the bottom of the desk is full of letters and diaries. The letters are in three batches tied with ribbons. The first is a correspondence between Thora and her mother, Cynthia. Most are from when her mother was in Paris, and tell of the delights there. A few are from holidays and some from her mother’s friends.