by Mary Nichols
Their special place was an old tumbledown cottage in the wood which he had been told was where the gamekeeper once lived. Bernard didn’t know what a gamekeeper was and had to have it explained to him. They had brought food and built a fire and cooked potatoes on it. Now the leaves on the trees were changing colour and the ground beneath his feet was littered with the prickly chestnuts. He kicked at them savagely. And then he stopped.
There was someone sitting on a log he and Edmund had dragged to the front of the cottage to use as a seat. It was the girl he had seen at the station when they first arrived. He had seen her in church too. What was she doing there? He hid behind a bush and watched her, just sitting there, staring into space. And then someone else arrived, a man in a railway uniform. Bernard waited developments.
‘What are you doing here, Frank Lambert?’ she demanded, jumping to her feet.
‘Looking out for you, my lovely,’ he said, advancing towards her.
She backed away. ‘I do not need you to look out for me.’
‘I’m thinkin’ you do. You might get lost. It’s dark in the trees and there are paths everywhere, some plainer than others, but you know it’s not always the easiest which is best, the right one …’
‘I won’t get lost and you are talking in riddles.’
‘He’ll not come, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr High and Mighty de Lacey, that’s who. I told him you and me was to be wed. You know, he didn’t seem that interested.’
‘I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth, Frank Lambert.’
‘No? I reckon I c’n change yar mind. Yar pa seems to think I’ve bin too soft with you. Tek off them there clothes.’
‘Certainly not!’
‘You tek ’em off fast enough for de Lacey.’
‘He’s painting my picture.’
Frank laughed. ‘Tha’s a good one, that is. Painting yar picture and what else I wonder?’
‘Nothin’ else. Go away, Frank, he’ll be here soon.’
‘Good, then I’ll hev it out with him.’ He stepped forward and took her shoulder in a grip that made her cry out.
‘You’re hurting me.’
His answer was to rip her blouse from her, exposing her bra and a wide expanse of creamy flesh. Watched by the astonished Bernard, he took a step closer. She tried to step sideways and in doing so stumbled over a log and then they were both sprawling on the floor. ‘I’ll hev you yet,’ he grunted, while she squirmed beneath him. ‘I hev yar pa’s permission.’
His hands seemed to be everywhere, all over her breasts, up her skirt between her thighs, holding her down. He loosened his hold slightly to undo his trousers and she tried to roll away from him, but he was at her again, slamming his big hand over her mouth when she opened her mouth to scream. ‘Won’t do you no good. A right good doin’ you’ve been asking for and a right good doin’ you’re a-goin’ to get.’
She struggled, trying to free her arms, but he pinned them to her sides. She thrashed her head from side to side until at last her mouth was free and she gulped in mouthfuls of clean air and then she started to scream.
Bernard, eyes agog, wondered what was going to happen next and whether he ought to make a noise and let them know they weren’t alone, but before he could make up his mind, Jack de Lacey came running up, dropping an easel and a large flat case on the way, and pulled the railwayman off her, then punched him so hard he fell flat on his back.
‘Jack, you’ve knocked him out,’ she said, sitting up.
‘Serve him right.’ He touched the fallen man with his toe. ‘Get up, you miserable brute. Get up.’
Frank scrambled to his feet, rubbing his chin. ‘You leave my girl alone,’ he said.
‘Your girl?’ Jack queried. ‘I think not. Lucy, are you this man’s girl?’
‘Never in a million years.’
Frank turned to her. ‘You’ll change your mind about that. I could ruin you and your pa if I’d a mind to. He’s beholden to me in a big way, he is.’
‘Clear off!’ Jack said, raising his fist again.
Frank disappeared in the direction of the railway line and Jack bent to help Lucy to her feet. She was shaking. He held her in his arms. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, he can’t hurt you, I’ll see to that.’
‘What did he mean about Pa?’
‘Goodness knows. It doesn’t matter. Do you feel up to sitting for me today?’
‘I ought to go home and change.’
‘You look perfect as you are.’ He stroked the exposed flesh and cupped her breast in his hand. ‘I’ll paint you like that, all wild and unkempt.’
‘No, Jack, please don’t. Someone might see it.’ She pulled her bra strap up again and straightened her blouse.
‘You’re upset, I can understand that.’ He pushed her hair back from her face and kissed her gently. ‘Not all men are like that fellow, you know. I would never hurt you or do anything you didn’t want me to, I promise.’
‘Oh, Jack, I wish …’
‘What do you wish?’
‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll go home, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’ll see you safely back to the station. He might be hanging around still.’ He picked up his scattered belongings and took her arm.
Bernard watched them go and then emerged from his hiding place. What a turn-up for the books! My, wouldn’t he have a tale to tell Edmund when he came home for the Christmas holidays.
Lucy went indoors and up to her room where she stripped off her torn blouse and sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at herself in the mirror. There was a row of finger-shaped bruises coming up on her shoulder which were tender to touch. She considered telling her father what Frank had done, but dismissed the idea. He would almost certainly want to know what she was doing in Nayton woods and how could she tell him?
She had been so happy, snatching a half-hour here and a half-hour there to sit for Jack. She had even consented to take off her blouse and bra and drape a colourful shawl over her shoulder to cover her breasts. It was all very tasteful, so he told her, nothing to be ashamed of, and if his fingers stroked her bare flesh while he was getting the pose right, that hadn’t mattered. It had given her a lovely tingling feeling and she would sit there, dreaming that he would finish the picture and then he would become famous and he would say it was all down to her and tell her he loved her. Frank had spoilt it all; she dare not go there again. The picture would never be finished. She had not felt so miserable since her mother left. She curled up on the bed and let the tears flow. She cried for broken dreams, for a mother she had loved but who had not cared enough for her, for a life of drudgery with a father she could not please.
She sat up when she heard the back door bang and knew her father was back from the Nayton Arms and early too. She scrubbed at her eyes, scrambled into a clean bra and blouse and made her way downstairs. ‘You’re home early, Pa.’ She hoped her voice didn’t sound too watery.
‘Yes, well I’ve got something to say to you.’
Had Frank told him about Jack? She held her breath, waiting. He took off his jacket and cap, hung them on the hook behind the door, then sat in the chair by the hearth in his shirtsleeves. ‘When are you going to wed Frank?’
That wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. ‘I’m not. I don’t like him.’
‘You’ll not do any better.’
‘How do you know I won’t? I’m only nineteen, too young to marry.’
‘There’s plenty wed at your age. I’ve looked after you all your life when many a man would have thrown you out alonga your ma, but I took pity on you, but that’s it. I want you off my hands.’
‘Pa!’
‘And you can stop callin’ me Pa. I i’n’t your pa.’
‘Wh … what do you mean?’
‘Don’t you understand plain English, gel? I said I i’n’t your pa. You’re not my child. I can’t have children, not since I was wounded in the last war. I thought I might tek to
you but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t throw you out while you was growin’ up, but enough is enough. I want to wed again m’self …’
Lucy’s legs refused to support her and she sank into a chair by the kitchen table. ‘It isn’t true, it can’t be true. Mum wouldn’t. She wasn’t like that. And you can’t marry again, you’ve got a wife.’
‘The law says if she’s been gone more’n seven year and no one’s seen hide nor hair of her in that time, I can have her declared dead.’
‘But what if she comes back?’
‘It’ll be too late.’
‘I wish I knew where she was. I’d go and find her. Haven’t you any idea where she might have gone?’
‘No, and d’you think she’d want you? She could have took you with her but she didn’t, did she?’
This was a truth that hurt. ‘Are you turning me out?’
‘I’m tellin’ you to marry Frank Lambert. He’s right keen to have you. You’ll be all right with him. His mother’s cottage will come to him and he’s got a safe job. They won’t call him up.’
‘I don’t care if they do. I am not marrying him and you can’t make me.’
‘No, but he can make it so you dussn’t say no.’
Frank had already tried that, but she decided not to tell him so because he would want to know how she had escaped and she wouldn’t tell him about Jack.
She stood up wearily. ‘I’d better dish up your dinner.’
He ate it and left again, no doubt to tell his new lady-love that he had broken the news. He had not returned by the time she went to bed. She had been miserable enough before he came home, but now she was in the depths of despair. She crossed to the window. From where she stood she could see the crossing gate and the signal box and, across the line, the dark outline of Nayton wood. Beyond it, though she could not see through the trees, was Nayton Manor. Jack would be there, perhaps with his family, perhaps alone in his room touching up the painting that would not now be finished. She must let him know she couldn’t meet him again and, more importantly, she must decide what she was going to do.
Jack sat at the table in his room, studying the portrait. It was coming along better now. Lucy’s soft, dreamy expression was there in the mouth and eyes and her lovely figure, with the shawl carelessly thrown over her shoulder, hiding very little, hinted at pleasures to come. He had been looking forward to today’s session, hoping that he might persuade her to allow more than a few chaste kisses, but that miserable cur, Frank Lambert, had spoilt it. For two pins he’d have beaten the living daylights out of him when all the man had been doing was something Jack himself had in mind, though not so brutally. But it was funny how rescuing her had changed how he felt about her. He found himself being touchingly protective, wanting to cherish her, to make her feel safe. He was becoming too soft for his own good.
He was unsettled, fidgety, and it was all to do with the war. Many of the young men in the village had already enlisted in one or other of the armed forces. Amy had overcome their father’s objections and was training to be a nurse and Elizabeth appeared to be running the farm in Dransville single-handedly. He ought to be doing his bit. Working in the drawing office of the de Lacey engineering factory, even though it was working flat out making engine parts, was boring and not enough. He’d be called up sooner or later anyway, so he might as well volunteer. If he did that, he could put Lucy from his mind. He looked at the picture and sighed. Pity, but there it was.
He was walking to the station early the following morning, intending to put in a token appearance at the office and then go to the recruiting office. He expected to see Lucy on the platform or manning the gates when he would tell her of his intention to join up and not finish the portrait. He was forming the words in his head, something about winter setting in and it being too cold now, when he met her hurrying towards him. She was wrapped up in a plain wool coat with a headscarf covering her hair. Her head was hunched in her shoulders, her eyes were looking at the ground.
‘Lucy, where are you off to at this time of the morning?’ he asked. ‘The eight o’clock train is due any minute. I thought I’d see you at the station.’
She looked up startled. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Her eyes were swollen and red from weeping.
‘What’s the matter?’ He stopped in front of her, making her stop too. ‘Has Lambert been bothering you again?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘Don’t ask me, Jack, please. I was going to the cottage to leave a note to tell you I wouldn’t be able to see you again.’ Tears were very near the surface and she choked them back.
The fact that he had come to the same conclusion went out of his head in the face of her distress. He took her arm and guided her off the road into the shelter of the trees. ‘Why? Has your father found out and forbidden it?’
‘No, it’s not that. I’ve got to go away.’
‘Go away? Why? Where to? When?’
She sniffed and tried to smile. ‘Questions, questions …’
‘I want answers. Something is very wrong, that’s obvious. Come on, Lucy, out with it. You can tell me. I won’t breathe a word to a soul, but I might be able to help.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I’m not letting you go until you tell me.’ He took her shoulders in his hands and noticed her wince. ‘Are you hurt?’ He undid the top button of her coat and pushed her blouse off her shoulder. ‘You’re black and blue. Is that why you’ve been crying?’
‘No, course not. What’s a bruise now and again? I’ve had plenty of those.’
Did she mean her father? He pulled her clothes back in place and buttoned the coat again. ‘But it is something to do with Frank Lambert?’
‘Pa says I’ve got to marry him.’
‘Of course you haven’t got to marry him, that’s nonsense. You don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to.’
‘Pa wants to marry again and he says there’s no room for two women in the house.’
‘God! I can’t believe any man would do that to his own daughter. Whatever is he thinking of?’
‘He says …’ She stopped and gulped. ‘No, I can’t tell you …’
‘Go on. You’ve got this far.’
‘He says I’m not his daughter.’
He whistled. ‘Do you believe that?’
‘I don’t know what to believe. He told me he couldn’t have children on account of his war wound and Mum had been unfaithful to him, but he decided to bring me up anyway. Now he’s turned on me.’ The tears, so near the surface, spilt over and ran down her cheeks. ‘If only I could find my mother …’
‘You mean she’s alive? I always assumed …’
‘She left when I was nine. He says he doesn’t know where she went and he’s going to have her declared dead so he can marry again.’
‘Oh, my poor, poor darling.’ He took her into his arms and held her close. ‘We’ll think of something. You’re not marrying that lout just to please your father.’
‘But it’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Did you think I would abandon you, just because—’ He stopped. He knew exactly what it was like to be a bastard; it coloured a lot of what he did, how he felt, and his heart went out to her, making him feel more protective than ever. ‘Where were you planning on going?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to find a job.’
‘On the railways?’
‘I thought of that but it would be easy for Pa or Frank to find me if I did that. I could work in a factory, but then I’d have to find somewhere to live as well and I haven’t got any money. Oh, Jack, it’s all such a muddle. Perhaps I’d be better marrying Frank …’
‘Over my dead body!’
‘What can you do?’
‘Quite a lot. I can find you a job and somewhere to live. Leave it to me.’
‘Could you?’ Her eyes brightened through her tears. ‘Would you?’
‘Yes. Can you bear to stay at home until I’ve arranged it?’
&nbs
p; ‘Yes. Pa thinks I’ll give in.’
‘Then let him think it. I was going into Norwich today. I’ll scout around while I’m there and let you know. Come, let’s go back to the station. I don’t want to miss my train.’
‘You go. I’ll follow when the train’s gone and shut the gates again.’
‘Cheer up, all is not lost.’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead and left her.
It wasn’t until he was sitting on the train and it was drawing away from Nayton, that he asked himself why he was bothering with her and the answer was that he didn’t know, except he felt sorry for her. He was a bastard himself but he had been fortunate that his mother had married Lord de Lacey and he had enjoyed a privileged upbringing. How much worse it must be for Lucy Storey living with that sour old man, knowing her mother had abandoned her. He’d get her a job and find her some clean lodgings. He brightened suddenly. He’d be able to finish the portrait after all, indoors where it was warm.
On the surface, Dransville was as peaceful as ever. Everyone was trying to carry on with their usual occupations, looking after their livestock, making butter and cheese as they always had and, notwithstanding they were at war, the people at the local hotels were getting ready for the winter season and the visitors they hoped would still come to take advantage of the skiing.
Elizabeth had fully recovered and was learning a lot about the work on the farm. She found herself milking cows and goats, making butter and cheese, collecting eggs, getting in hay for the winter feed, mending hinges, replacing windows, clearing out gutters, digging up potatoes and cutting cabbages. She had even overcome her squeamishness enough to wring the neck of a chicken now and again for Grandmère to cook for dinner. And she had shot a rabbit with Grandpère’s shotgun which had made a tasty meal. She had learnt to shoot on her father’s estate and realised if food became scarce it was a skill which might come in useful.
Grandpère was recovering slowly but he couldn’t walk properly and his speech, though still slurred, was improving. She would wheel him out to the yard in a bath chair so that he could see what was going on and make sure she did things the way he liked, but when the weather became very cold, he preferred to stay in the warmth of the kitchen. If it wasn’t for the ever-present shadow of the war and everybody making their own guesses about when and where something would start to happen, Elizabeth would have been as happy as a sandboy.
