A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  As Edna ran the thick lace curtains through the rubber rollers of the automatic mangle, Simon opened the back door and stepped inside.

  ‘Where on earth have you been, Simon? Fortunately, it’s a cold lunch – I’ve left it on the table in the dining room.’

  ‘I’ve been to the library, Mum. Just trying to catch up on a bit of studying.’

  ‘Good boy.’ She leaned across to kiss him and Simon tried not to notice the face-powder setting in deep grim lines around her painted mouth.

  He placed his books on the table. ‘Is Dad in?’

  ‘Of course your father is not in, Simon. He’s gone to see one of Mrs Cullen’s horde – measles again, I expect.’ She shuddered. That family seemed to come down with just about everything, each member in turn going through every conceivable disease and taking up a lot of David’s time into the bargain. Still, what could one expect of such people when they lived in filth and squalor – the place was probably overrun by mice and cockroaches. Oh dear, she hoped that David wouldn’t smell when he came in.

  ‘I saw . . . Anne Byrne in the library,’ said Simon, having decided that it would be best to inform his mother rather than have her discover the truth ‘accidentally’ when peering through the windows. ‘We’ve decided to study together during the holidays – help one another out.’

  Edna worked hard to suppress her instinctive anger. Help one another out, indeed! She knew full well who would be teacher and who would be pupil in such a situation and she didn’t want Simon learning anything from that girl, anything at all.

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea, Simon?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘Why not? Why shouldn’t we study together? We’re the same age, we’re doing the same subjects.’

  Edna groped for words, trying to think of a feasible excuse. ‘It’s not a good idea, Simon, to associate too closely with patients.’ She spoke slowly, attempting to keep control of her voice which had a tendency to rise in pitch when she became angry or excited. ‘Her family will begin to assume a prior claim on your father, they’ll take up more of his time if the girl starts helping . . . I mean, if you and she start studying together.’

  ‘They’re not like that, Mum – and you know it. I don’t think Mr Higson has ever been to see Dad, and Mrs Higson doesn’t come very often.’

  Edna took up the curtains and started towards the door. They’d probably get sooty again if she hung them out, but what could she do? ‘I just don’t think it’s right, Simon. The girl is not . . . well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not one of us?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Then who is one of us?’

  She turned at the door. ‘Your school friends – why don’t you telephone one of them? You could meet in the town centre, work in the big library – I’m sure you’d find more reference books there.’

  Simon shook his head slowly. As if he could tell any of that crowd that he needed help. Not that they weren’t already aware that Simon Pritchard was the class dunce, lagging behind all the way. It was because Anne was different that she did understand. She was succeeding in spite of her background while he was failing in spite of his. Briefly, he found himself worrying whether or not he was as great a snob as his mother. Was he using a member of the working class in the same way as Edna used Mrs Clancy? Was Anne easy to talk to, easy to beg help from because she came from a lower order and therefore didn’t matter? He suddenly felt angry. If he was a snob, then who had made him so despicable? He looked at his mother and decided that he would not be like her, he would be strong, defiant if necessary. From somewhere he found the courage to announce, ‘No. That would not be convenient. Half of the boys are away on holiday anyway. I shall be working with Anne.’ Without waiting for a reply, he left the room.

  Edna stood in the doorway, aware that her mouth was hanging open. Simon had never answered back before. Her blood ran cold as she thought of her son consorting with Anne Byrne, learning from her, begging for help, feeling grateful too if her own judgement of Simon’s predicament was correct.

  In spite of the heat, Edna Pritchard shivered. There was something about that girl, something that had given Edna a strong sense of foreboding ever since she had first met her years ago, on the night when Mrs Higson lost her baby. Hadn’t Anne Byrne run away after that, run off to live in an air-raid shelter? She was wild and yet too self-possessed for Edna’s liking. No good would come of this, she told herself as she hung the curtains on the line. No good at all.

  3

  With Premeditation

  Eddie Higson had taken the day off. Bugger the windows, a man needed a bit of relaxation now and then. He staggered past the cooling tower and on to the playing field, making his way as steadily as he could manage along the cinder path towards the allotments. There he had left his bucket and ladder with an old gardener who often did him the favour of hanging on to these tools of trade while Eddie took the odd holiday. By, he should never have had that whisky though, not on top of the ale. He reached the small sports pavilion and decided to go in for a rest while the caretaker wasn’t about. The green leather-padded form looked welcoming and he sank on to it gratefully, stretching out for a brief snooze to help him sober up. But he didn’t get the chance to sleep for long, because it seemed that no sooner had he nodded off than somebody arrived on the open verandah and voices, one of them very familiar, began to drift through the window.

  Martin and Annie sat outside on the bench, unaware that every word of their conversation was being overheard.

  ‘What would you have done if you’d never passed for St Mary’s?’

  Annie looked into the unusually serious face. He’d made such an effort for this, their first walk together. His hair was free of grease and apart from the thick-soled shoes, he was not dressed in his Teddy Boy uniform. She hadn’t meant to go out with him so soon, but he’d begged her to come, said he needed somebody to talk to and that if she could help Simon Pritchard with his flaming homework . . .

  ‘I’d probably do something similar to what you’re planning. My mother wouldn’t let me go in the mill anyway, so I’d have to find some sort of office job.’

  ‘What about your Dad?’

  There was a brief pause while she studied her hands. ‘My own father’s dead, Martin. I take no notice of Eddie Higson if that’s who you mean. No doubt he’d push me in the mill alongside my mother if he could. So I do know what you’re up against. Haven’t you told your mother yet?’

  He shook his head slowly.

  ‘I wouldn’t tell her if I were you, not till you’ve got a job. When you’ve actually been taken on . . .’

  ‘But I have been taken on, Annie – in the weaving sheds.’

  ‘I know that. But if you can get some prospects, surely she’ll see sense?’

  ‘Naw. She’ll blow her bloody top.’

  ‘Let her.’

  ‘What?’ He stared hard at her. ‘By, I never thought I’d hear you telling me to defy my mother, Annie. These last few years, you’ve seemed to be such a . . .’

  ‘A goody-goody?’ She smiled. ‘Far from it, Martin. I look at it this way – for a long time we’ve done what we were told, right? I’ve had to put up with a rotten stepfather and you haven’t had it easy, have you? Well, just glance around you, Martin. Everything’s changing. I’ve never been much of a one for history, but I’ve picked up enough to realize that for the first time ever, we can do as we like. I’ve probably known it for a while, because I refused to let them confirm me, if you remember. We’re all rebels in our own way, you see. Now listen. My mother, although she’s very intelligent, was thrown into the cotton trade when she was younger than I am now. She’d have given her eye-teeth for a chance to do otherwise, but there were no chances then. So. Move with the times and go for it, Martin.’

  ‘And bugger the consequences?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s your future, nobody else’s.’

  He reached out and took her hand. ‘You’ve got guts, haven’t you? That�
�s what I always liked about you, Annie, when we were kids.’

  ‘We had some fun then, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did that!’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Hey, do you remember that time when you fell in Mrs Stirling’s midden trying to get the ball?’

  ‘Would I ever forget? And you pushed me right inside and shut the doors because my mother was coming up the back and you knew she’d kill me for playing in the middens . . .’

  ‘And I’m leaning on the door all casual like – “nice weather, Mrs Higson. No I haven’t seen your Annie just lately, Mrs Higson” . . .’

  ‘Then when you finally let me out . . .’

  ‘What a sight! Tea leaves in your hair and a sardine tin stuck to your frock. My, you fair clobbered me that day. I’ve still got the bruises.’

  ‘You deserved them. You threw the ball in there.’

  ‘You mean you missed it, butterfingers.’

  She eyed him with as much coolness as she could muster. ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘Aye. That’s what I said when you came out covered in it.’

  He caught her to him and kissed her gently, first on the forehead and then on her slightly parted lips. ‘You’re good for me, Annie,’ he whispered. ‘Still as daft as a brush, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I suppose I am.’ That a first real kiss could be so sweet and undemanding was both a shock and a relief to her. She found herself liking this nuisance of a boy, liking him a lot. Fervently she prayed that he would find what he wanted, that he wouldn’t end up following in the footsteps of his forebears.

  They wandered home hand in hand, a comfortable silence between them. As he left her at the gate, she laid a hand on his arm. ‘Do it, Martin.’

  ‘Oh I will. Now, I definitely bloody will.’

  So that was the way the land lay, was it? Eddie Higson swore under his breath as he struggled to his feet. She’d the doctor’s lad and Martin Cullen after her now. He stumbled out of the pavilion and into the bright sunlight, his eyes screwed up against its brilliance. His blood was boiling to fever pitch by the time he grabbed the ladder cart from a bemused allotment keeper. He steered it shakily under the railway bridge and past the school, his mind filled by the sight of her kissing that boy. And the things she’d told him too, about her rotten stepfather – he’d show her what rotten meant, by the hell he would.

  Nancy had left by the time he got home, but he made no move to get his meal from the range oven. Instead, he ran up both flights of stairs and into the attic bedroom. She wasn’t there, of course. He flopped onto the bed and lay there for a while, pondering the situation as best he could through the alcoholic haze which was slowly beginning to lift. Aye, she’d likely be out for the night now, messing about with lads until her mother got home. Then an idea filtered into his befuddled brain and he got up, grabbed a pencil and paper from the table and printed carefully, ‘Nancy I’ve gone up to our Albert’s will be back late. Eddie.’ He walked down the stairs and pinned the paper to the front door. If the bitch was in the neighbourhood, she’d see it, read it and come inside thinking she was safe. Smiling at his cleverness, he went back up to her room to wait.

  When the library closed at seven-thirty, Annie and Simon packed away their books and went their separate ways. Knowing that her mother would not be back for at least two hours, Annie decided to go to the Cullens’ for a while – it was too late to start out for Auntie Jessie’s now and she didn’t want to be carting her satchel all over Bolton. Would Martin be in? Would he think she was chasing him if she visited their house after already seeing him this afternoon? Oh never mind, she told herself. She could not go home yet and there was nothing unusual about her visiting the Cullens once a week.

  As she reached Martin’s gateway, she looked across and caught sight of the note pinned to her own front door. Quickly, she crossed the road to read it, then, having gathered that Higson intended to be out until late, she went in, glad of the luxury of being able to spend an evening at home. Swiftly she ran up the two flights to her own room, tossing her school bag through the door as she entered.

  ‘Hadn’t you best get back down for the poker then?’

  She stiffened as a hand came from behind the door and grabbed her hair.

  ‘Scream and I’ll bloody strangle you,’ he said quietly. He twisted her round then hurled her onto the bed.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ he growled.

  She lay frozen and still as he approached her. He pulled her to the edge of the bed and began to fumble with her clothes, his hands tearing at the waistband of her skirt. ‘Thought you’d got away with it, didn’t you? But I’ve seen you with the lads, oh aye, I have that. And you didn’t finish me with that bloody poker, not by a long chalk. If anybody’s having you, it’s going to be me, right?’ He began to chuckle and she knew then that she dared not fight or scream; if she provoked him, he would surely kill her.

  ‘And you’ll tell nobody about this,’ he went on. ‘Because guess what? I’m going to say you’ve been after me for years, flaunting yourself, showing me your titties and giving me feels. I’m going to say as how I resisted you for a long time, but you finally got the better of me. Oh, it does happen, you know. Now get your things off before I rip them off.’

  Like somebody in a dream, Annie removed her clothes then lay flat and terrified as he threw away his own garments. He eased himself onto the bed. ‘You’ll like it,’ he whispered lewdly, the stench of stale beer and whisky pouring from between his grinning lips. ‘I’ll get you ready – see . . .’ And he began to stroke her body, crooning almost as he lingered over her full, supple breasts.

  Annie moved over towards the wall, her hand groping for the edge of her mattress. For how long had she been prepared for this? And wasn’t this premeditation? Her fingers closed around the handle of a knife, the weapon that had been concealed beneath her mattress for two years now. He mounted her, his bony knees forcing her thighs to part. Just as she felt his ugly hardness against her body, just before he could pierce her flesh, she managed to pull out the knife.

  He grunted his pleasure into her ear. He was there. After all these years, he was there. He found the virgin entrance and began to push gently against her. She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t given him a bad time, so if she was going to cooperate, then he may as well go at a proper pace, no use ripping her open when he could have her again and again if he treated her right and gave her a bit of fun. A split second before he could ease himself into her, a pain shot through his shoulder and down his left arm. This was quickly followed by another and another and his mouth gaped wide as he watched blood pouring from somewhere, all over the bed and all over her. He drew back as the red river continued to spurt, then he realized that she was stabbing him with a large carving knife, tearing at him wildly and repeatedly.

  He rolled onto the floor taking a sheet with him and he used this to try to staunch the flow as he stumbled away from her. She was crouching now like a wild thing on the bed, her teeth bared, the dripping knife pointed towards him as she crept slowly forwards.

  ‘You bastard!’ she breathed between gritted teeth. ‘You dirty, filthy, smelly bastard. Get out! Get out now or I’ll stick this thing in your belly! You die slowly – very slowly – with a knife in your belly. Did you know that?’ She walked round him in a slow wide circle. ‘No, you wouldn’t know that, would you? You don’t know anything, because you’re so bloody stupid. Did you really think I’d just lie there and let you? Did you?’

  He writhed on the floor in agony. The sheet was soaked through and a large pool of crimson was spreading over the lino. But he would have to move – she was coming for him! He crawled out of the room on to the small landing, then fell headlong down the attic stairs, coming to rest on the larger landing below where he blacked out completely, mercifully released.

  Annie opened her hand and let the knife slide to the floor. What now? What had she done and what must she do? The haunted face of Ruth Ellis entered her mind and she fled from this image, t
earing around the room, stopping only when walls or pieces of furniture impeded her quick, aimless movements. Clothes. She would need clothes. After grabbing the nearest items, she left the room, climbing over his inert body at the foot of the stairs as she entered the bathroom. He looked dead. She was a murderess because she had planned this for years, hadn’t she?

  As quickly as she could, she rinsed the blood from her face and hands, then stepped into her clothes. She must think. Who would help her now? Where must she go? The doctor, she must get the doctor.

  She flew from the house and ran blindly across the road, not caring about the traffic, not hearing when horns sounded. Dr Pritchard, slippers on his feet, newspaper rolled under his arm, answered the door.

  ‘You’ve got to come,’ she shouted. ‘He’s dead – I know he’s dead!’

  David Pritchard grabbed his bag from the hallstand and raced after Annie. When he reached the house, she was already waiting for him at the front door.

  ‘He’s at the top of the stairs,’ she said, her voice filled with fear and panic.

  David took the stairs two at a time and found Eddie Higson stretched out on the landing, stark naked and with a sheet wrapped around a badly gashed arm. He wasn’t dead, of course. The bleeding had slowed, David thought, judging from the amount on the sheet and the rate at which the cuts were now bleeding.

  Higson groaned and opened his eyes, then let out a faint cry as a needle entered his arm. The bugger was sewing him up and not giving him anything for the pain! He blacked out again as another stitch was inserted.