Gracie's Sin

by Freda Lightfoot

  Finally wrenching off the cork he took a slurp of wine direct from the bottle, rocked back on his heels, then tottered forward a step or two towards her to snort his contempt directly in her face. ‘Dad didn’t die of a broken heart. People don’t, for God’s sake, except in trashy novels. He took a handful of pills because he couldn’t bear to live without Mum for another day. So of course it was all your fault. If you hadn’t caught that dratted disease in the first place, neither would she. But then if you hadn’t ever been born, she’d never have wanted you in the first place.’

  Rose took a step back on a nervous little laugh, not liking the direction the conversation was taking, and he still hadn’t explained about her name. ‘I think you’ve got that the wrong way round, haven’t you? She must have wanted me, else how could I ever have been born in the first place?’

  Eddie put back his head and laughed, a harsh, sadistic sound that echoed around the vaulted recesses of the cellar. ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong.’ He waved the bottle at her, savouring the moment. ‘My mother was not your mother at all. You were not my parents’ child.’

  Rose began to tremble. ‘I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that you were adopted. She picked you out from a children’s orphanage. You’re nothing but a bastard. So, like I say, even your name isn’t your own. Who the hell knows who you are, or cares for that matter. I certainly don’t.’

  Rose felt as if she were standing outside of herself, watching and listening to a conversation between two complete strangers. As if she’d suddenly moved on to a different plane and was no longer a part of the real world. Even the questions were coming from some part of herself over which she had no control. ‘Why? Why did she do that?’

  ‘Because she felt like being charitable, I expect.’ He burped loudly and then the words just poured out, as if he’d taken the stopper off a bottle of poison. ‘Or maybe she thought a new baby might make her feel young again. She’d been a bit below par for a long while. I was seventeen and certainly didn’t want a baby around. I did my best to put her off the whole idea but Dad would have given her the moon, if he could. The moment my mother held you in her arms, that was that. You were brought home, the papers signed and from then on she showed no further interest in me. The pair of them doted on you in a quite nauseous manner. I became like an outcast just because I wouldn’t join their adoration society. Of course, it was only because you were such a novelty. If she’d lived, I’m sure she’d have grown bored with you too in the end, as she did of everything else, including me, her only son. So, I really don’t care if you are lonely, whether you stay or leave, live or die. You’re not my sister. You’re no relation to me at all!’

  Rose was staring at him, stupefied, as all her known world crumbled to dust before he eyes. Yet what he said must be true. It explained everything. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why keep it a secret?’

  He chuckled, though not with any sign of amusement in the red, puffy eyes that glittered with rage. His moment of lucidity over he staggered towards her, losing his grip on the bottle in his hand, which fell to the ground and smashed, as he lunged to grab her arm. ‘Fact is, I put off telling you because I didn’t want you to go off in a huff. I liked keeping you here. Beholden! Forcing you to wait on me, hand, foot and finger. I enjoyed anticipating this moment, when I would eventually tell you the truth.’ He pushed his face to within an inch of hers. ‘You’re not my sister, so I can treat you how I wish, whether you like it or not. D’you hear me? D’you understand what I’m saying?’

  Rose was too shocked to even think of a reply. She just gazed back at him, dumbstruck.

  ‘So, if you wouldn’t do it for Mulligan, you can bloody well do it for me. Why not?’ And grasping the neck of her blouse he ripped it from her body, then he hit her. The blow sent her reeling and Rose fell to her knees some distance from him, jarring and bruising them so badly that for a moment she feared her legs might be broken. But the jolt served to bring her out of her stupor. She knew instinctively what would happen next. He needed to humiliate her, to re-establish his power over her. That was why he’d shot Tizz, out of revenge and a need for power. Yet still she defied him, and there was really only one effective way left to him. Even as these thoughts whirled through her head he was regaining his balance, lurching to his feet and staggering towards her. The one advantage she had over him was that he was drunk and she was stone cold sober. Rose glanced quickly about her, saw that she was within reach of the door and, gritting her teeth against the pain, pulled herself to her feet and flung herself towards it. His shout rang out just as she reached it. Too late. She was through. Summoning every ounce of her energy, she slammed the heavy door shut, cutting off his roar of anger for the cellar was, as he had so often told her, entirely sound proof.

  Rose ran to her room, packed a few essentials, her Post Office account book in which was about fifty pounds given to her by her beloved mother, carefully locked up their part of the house and left before dawn.

  Rose walked for miles, through Cardinham, passed Dozmary Pool where some said Arthur had retrieved the magic sword, and on over Bodmin Moor. The night was pitch black and freezing cold but then so was her heart. It seemed to be barely beating, shrivelled and near dead, lying like a stone somewhere inside her, but not for a moment did she hesitate, not even to glance back over her shoulder at the life she’d once led. That was behind her, which was where it must stay. If she dwelled upon things too much, or attempted to analyse too closely the dreadful events of this night, Rose knew she might never have the strength to go on.

  It was two miles beyond Jamaica Inn that she hitched a lift in a cattle truck and left Cornwall altogether. The only trouble was, that because she’d been unable to wait for a reply to her query about joining the Timber Corps, she hadn’t the first idea where she was going.

  The only towns of any size that she knew of were Plymouth, which was too close to home to be safe. Then there was Exeter, which her driver refused to go anywhere near because of the risk of bombing, and London, which was too far away.

  He dropped her off sometime after noon in a quiet country area he called the Cotswolds, where he assured her there’d be plenty of work to be found. If, in her distraught state Rose thought beyond the overriding desire to get as far away as possible, the nearest she came to a plan was to work on the land. Labour was in short supply because of the war. She had gardening skills, knew how to grow tomatoes, keep chickens and could also cook, make jam and preserve pretty well anything you’d care to mention. Listing these accomplishments gave her courage.

  So this seemed as good a place as any.

  The truck driver was concerned for her. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? I could take you all the way to Birmingham if you like. That’s where I’m going with this load.’

  Rose knew nothing about Birmingham and after hours of jolting in the rattling old truck, longed for fresh air and to stretch her legs. Anything, she decided, would surely be better than the life she’d left. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said and, hoisting her bag up on her shoulder, gave him a brief nod of thanks and set off valiantly along a narrow road which led into a small village with the homely name of Lower Trencham.

  The first farm she tried almost laughed at her request for work. The second shut the door in her face. The third was more kindly and at least gave her a glass of fresh milk, still warm from the cow but, sadly, although they’d be glad of her help, they couldn’t afford to pay her anything beyond her keep. Rose was sorely tempted to accept as the farmer’s wife had a merry face and a kind smile but common sense prevailed. She should be paid a proper rate for a day’s labour, otherwise how would she make any progress? She needed not only to survive but also to save for the future. Her savings wouldn’t last forever, and she’d no one to rely on now but herself.

  Rose plodded on, knocking on every likely door in the scattered village, watching sadly as heads were shaken, listening carefully to any suggestions or
advice offered as to who might be in need of a bit of cheap labour. But as dusk fell, hope and optimism faded and finally, driven by exhaustion and limbs that protested in every aching muscle Rose prised open a loose board and slipped into a barn, desperate for an hour or two of sleep.

  To her great disappointment it was not filled with hay but rusty old machinery. A bitter wind whistled around the door and through the many cracks in the walls, and she was forced to put on every item of clothing she possessed in order to keep warm. Rose curled herself up tight, shut her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.

  She strove not to think of Tizz, yet it was so hard. The shock and numbed disbelief which had kept these images at bay during the day was now wearing off and several times during that long, freezing night, she would wake sobbing, and know that in her dreams at least, she’d witnessed her dear friend’s death. She didn’t give a passing thought to Eddie.

  A sound seemed to be echoing in her head, coming from some far distant place. Rose found herself gripped and shaken hard by a hand upon her shoulder, bringing her instantly awake.

  ‘Wot the ‘ell are you doing ‘ere? ‘Oo let you in?’

  She struggled to gather her wits, to bring some sense into her sleep-fuddled brain. ‘Nobody. Sorry, I - I came upon your barn quite by chance and didn’t think you’d mind if I spent the night here. I had to have somewhere to sleep. I’m sorry.’

  The man’s glare was unnerving. The ensuing silence as he considered this statement, even more so. Rose sat quite still as his eyes roamed over her, though they didn’t do so necessarily in the same direction at the same time, there seeming to be a slight cast in one of them, yet evidently taking in every detail of her unkempt appearance, her tousled hair and her few pathetic possessions.

  He was old, fifty, sixty or seventy, Rose couldn’t be sure, with red-brown hair and in dire need of a shave. Perhaps he’d decided to grow a beard or, more likely, the household was short of hot water and he couldn’t be bothered to boil any. His clothes comprised an ancient tweed jacket with holes in the elbows and grain spilling out of the pockets, a muffler wrapped about his scrawny neck and tucked into a stained waistcoat, and trousers that were a sort of mud colour strapped tight to his calves with canvas gaiters. Rose thought they looked decidedly uncomfortable. On his feet were enormous steel-tipped boots which rang on the stone flags as he shifted his feet. She realised this had been the sound which had woken her some seconds before the hand had touched her, almost as if he’d been hard put to know what to do for the best when first he’d spotted her.

  Rose wished she looked more presentable, that she’d had time to clean herself up, comb the tangles from her hair and remove some of the odd collection of clothing she’d piled on to keep warm.

  The man gave a short, ill-tempered grunt and jerked his head in the direction of the door, the aggression in his expression having changed to one of bored disinterest as if it wasn’t in the least unusual for him to find someone sleeping in his dirty old barn, but it was time for her to leave. Rose sighed and began to pack up her few belongings, heart sinking. At the door, she made one last desperate bid for salvation.

  ‘I’m a hard worker. I can cook, clean, hoe, weed, whatever you need. All I ask is bed and board and a few shillings a week to put by. Could you manage twenty? Eighteen perhaps?’ She believed she was offering him a bargain as the timber girls got twenty-six.

  Twin bushy eyebrows lifted in surprised unison. ‘Is that all? I wouldn’t mind that meself.’

  ‘Please. I’d take less. Whatever you think fair, only you won’t be sorry you engaged me. Perhaps your wife needs help in the house?’ Rose glanced towards the farm kitchen window where she’d caught a glimpse of a figure hunched over, supposedly washing dishes while trying to see what was going on, as she had used to do.

  ‘You’d have to ask her.’

  ‘Would I?’ Hope soared. ‘I mean, may I? May I ask her?’

  The farmer had already turned away on a half shrug. ‘Do as you please. You could have bed and board in the loft over the stables in return for some hard graft but the wife is the one who’d have to pay you to work in the house. She hires and fires girls, not me. Ask Agnes.’

  Agnes was, it seemed, perfectly agreeable to some extra help about the place, and offered ten shillings a week. Rose knew it was a pittance but felt desperate enough to take it, a great surge of relief that she wouldn’t have to go back on the road washed away any reservations.

  Chapter Ten

  Summer was a distant memory, autumn days were growing shorter, the leaves losing their colour and turning russet and gold, rustling and crunching beneath their feet as they walked through woodlands. There was a crispness in the air as the warm moistness of a damp autumn dried out in the cooler breezes of coming winter. There remained also a certain crispness in their relationship.

  Lou and Gracie had been sent out on census work. Even though they were sharing a room at their billet, conversation was confined to remarks such as ‘Do you want the window open?’ or ‘It’s your turn to be first in the bath tonight.’ Their bemused landlady watched her new tenants each morning at breakfast, silently eating their porridge with nothing exchanged between the two of them save for the marmalade. The pair of them everylastingly polite, functional and utterly miserable.

  Their task, along with many other teams across the country, was to take a count of all standing timber. This entailed travelling throughout Devon, Somerset, Wiltshire and Dorset, investigating every green patch on the Ordnance Survey map, then taking sample surveys so that reasonably accurate estimates could be made. Heavy inroads had been made into established woodlands and with no end to the war in sight, it was necessary for the authorities to know just how much standing timber there was still available.

  Many tears had been shed as the squad had gone their different ways.

  Jeannie and Lena made up a second team, working further north in Gloucestershire, Hereford and Worcester. Tess had moved on to driving duties elsewhere. At the last minute, Enid had decided to marry her airman and got a job cleaning nettles and ragwort from a farmer’s field close to the airfield. It was dull, back breaking work but at least she could count the planes going out and coming in again each evening, and see her husband at every available opportunity.

  Lou envied her. She had seen Gordon only once since the Saturday before Posting-Out Day. He’d sent her a frantic telegram, saying that he’d got his sailing orders at last. She’d dropped everything, caught the train to Plymouth, agonising over its slowness. They’d had only a few precious hours together before she was standing on the quayside, weeping and waving him off along with the other wives and sweethearts. The war didn’t seem such a lark now.

  Lou had gone back to the farm house where they were billeted with her heart in her boots. Gordon’s departure did nothing to ease the restraint which rankled between them. Their friendship had been sorely tested by the kidnap attempt. Lou couldn’t quite bring herself to forgive Gracie for having been so easily taken in by her parents. Gracie remained adamant she’d been utterly helpless, until her mother’s need to visit the lavatory.

  ‘Even then, I had to run, Father shouting and waving his fist like fury at me. He chased after me for a while, until he got out of breath. You can’t imagine how awful that was.’

  ‘Nowhere near as terrible as never seeing my Gordon again,’ Lou replied, in clipped tones.

  Gracie, riddled with guilt, was dismayed by the unfairness of her friend’s attitude. ‘Do you think I ever imagined, for one moment, that they might do such a crazy thing? It must have been all Father’s idea, and Mother went along with it out of weakness. He’d set his heart on my joining him in the shop, and he does so hate to be bested. Goodness knows what they meant to do with me. Chain me up in the cellar and feed me on dry bread and water till I promised to obey their every whim, perhaps?’ she said, chuckling at the very idea. ‘More likely they hadn’t worked that part out, or at least Mum hadn’t.’ Gracie made a mental note never to
be as weak as her mother. She would choose a man with greater care and once having found him, they would be equal in every way.

  Lou refused to be either mollified or teased out of her glums. She was far too worried about Gordon who was even now steaming overseas, right into the line of enemy gunfire. She almost felt as if this were Grace’s fault too. ‘You could have left earlier. You could have stood up to them. Did you never think of the effect your lateness would have on the rest of us? Just like that time when you fought Matron over the “biscuits” and the lorries for goodness sake, as if that had anything to do with her. You put her back up from the start. No wonder she pounced on you when she got the chance. Why can’t you consider other people for a change!’

  ‘Are you accusing me of being selfish?’ Gracie looked at her friend, bemused and hurt. ‘Hold on a minute. In one breath you’re telling me to stand up for myself more, and in the next, not to make a fuss so that I don’t offend anyone.’

  ‘So that you don’t offend Matron! Didn’t you realise how much power that woman has? Now she’s used it on us. Now Gordon has been sent overseas and I’ll never see him again.’ And because she was so very near to tears and hated to be seen in such distress, Lou had stalked off to sob in private.

  Relations had continued cool ever since. It was going to be a long winter.

  Yet they enjoyed the job and found it interesting. Both girls loved the challenge, and the freedom. They had their bicycles sent from home so they could get about easily, and their first task was always to check whether the green bit on the map was indeed woodland and not useless scrub, or had perhaps already been cut. After that they would map its boundaries, dividing it into workable portions before they set about discovering the average volume per tree and the average number of trees per acre. In order to do this as accurately as possible, they would select a plot which typified the whole wood. The larger the acreage, the more samples needed to be taken, so they might take several days to complete one piece of woodland.