by Jane Jackson
‘For God’s sake! You nearly knocked my camera over.’
‘Bloody amateurs!’
‘Who asked you?’
As the men roared their fury the boy hurled himself forward. Bryce automatically opened his arms, his only desire to protect.
The boy’s small face was scarlet. He attacked Bryce, kicking and punching with clenched fists.
‘What did you do that for?’ he shrilled, his snub nose wrinkled, mouth contorted in a snarl.
Startled, wincing as the blows landed, Bryce grabbed the boy’s hands then crouched to address him face to face. ‘Stop that. I want to help you.’
‘Piss off, then,’ the boy shouted, wriggling like an eel as he struggled to free himself. ‘If I don’t do what they want I won’t get paid and me da will kill me.’
‘Of course your father won’t kill you.’ Bryce’s reply was automatic. Even as the words left his lips doubt tightened his stomach, for what kind of a man would allow his child to be used like this?
‘Ha! Don’t know nothing, you don’t.’
Bryce held him fast. ‘Look, you don’t have to do this.’
‘Are you bleddy daft?’ The boy glared at Bryce. ‘It’s me job innit? I do what they say and I get paid. Now you gone and made trouble. But it’s me what’ll get the blame.’ Though his tone was angry, fear had drained the boy’s colour so his freckles stood out like tiny flecks of gold. Tears welled up and spilled over once more. ‘Me da’ll be mad as hell. He’ll take his belt to me.’
‘Don’t cry,’ Bryce begged. He had acted on impulse thinking he was preventing the defilement of an innocent child. Only this child was no innocent. Unsure what to do next he glanced up and saw anger and condemnation on every face except one. But Marcus’s cynical amusement offered little comfort.
Bryce turned back to the boy. Fumbling in his pocket he extracted a gold sovereign. ‘Now your father won’t beat you.’
The boy’s eyes widened as he reached for the coin. Bryce heard Marcus sigh wearily, ‘No, you fool.’
He looked up startled, saw the cameras focused on him, uncapped lenses recording the moment. Snatched the coin the boy pulled free and scampered over to Spencer waving it, his tear-stained face grinning in delight.
‘Look what I got!’
‘Aren’t you lucky?’ Turning to Bryce, Spencer winked and blew a silent kiss. ‘Got one of those for me?’ His voice simpered but his eyes held only cold contempt.
Bryce felt himself flush. Then Marcus grabbed his arm.
‘Pick up your stuff and get out of here.’
‘Just a minute!’ One of the men growled.
‘Don’t worry.’ Marcus placated the muttering group as Bryce swiftly dismantled camera and tripod and grabbed his case. ‘He knows the rules.’
‘He’d better not forget them,’ another warned. ‘Not unless he wants everyone in his family seeing a copy of that photograph.’
Bryce’s head swam. What had he done?
‘You understand?’ A third demanded.
Bryce gave a brief nod. He couldn’t look at them.
‘Speak up!’
Bryce cleared his throat. He wondered if he was going to vomit. Cold sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip. His underwear clung to clammy skin. ‘I won’t say anything.’ What a fool. But he’d never expected. How could he have known?
Out in the passage Marcus turned on him, low-voiced but livid with anger. ‘What in the name of hellfire do you think you were doing? Didn’t I warn you to keep quiet?’
‘I know, but –’ Bryce rubbed the pounding ache in his forehead. ‘The boy was crying, for God’s sake. I couldn’t–’
‘Of course he was crying.’ Marcus hissed in exasperation. ‘He’s been coached. Clients are always willing to pay extra for real tears. He can turn them on like a tap. With some of the others we have to use onions or glycerine. But it’s never as good. Albie can be a sulky little so-and-so but he’s very popular with the clients.’ Marcus’s thin mouth twisted. ‘His father’s a damn nuisance, always demanding more money. Though considering the number of boys he and his brother are running they must be raking in a fortune.’
Bryce’s stomach heaved. He swallowed convulsively.
Marcus studied him. ‘You really didn’t know?’
Beyond speech Bryce shook his head.
One corner of Marcus’s mouth lifted in a cynical smile. ‘You’d be amazed how many pillars of local society are willing to pay substantial amounts of money for photographs like the one you so clumsily interrupted. Some of their collections must be worth a fortune.’ He gave a satisfied sigh. ‘I do like working for connoisseurs.’
Bryce ran his tongue over paper-dry lips. But as he opened his mouth Marcus spoke first, cool and mocking.
‘You’re going to ask why, aren’t you? Why do I do it? When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, believe me, this isn’t so bad.’ Suddenly his mood changed and his mouth curled in bitter resentment.
‘If my work had received the recognition it deserved –’ He snorted in disgust. ‘I risked my life. I came back a cripple. I lost – I lost – everything.’ His expression revealed despair and self-loathing. ‘All for this?’
Bryce shivered. Now, far too late, he saw that this man was more complex and more damaged than he had realised. Sensing it would take very little to push Marcus over the edge Bryce stayed silent.
Marcus shrugged. ‘I need money like everyone else. I need it for rent and food. I need it to buy film, chemicals and printing papers for my camera. And I particularly need it,’ his mouth twitched in a bitter smile, ‘for some of life’s little luxuries.’ He gestured towards the closed door. ‘That is my bank. I’m good. I’m one of the best. I have a list of private clients who pay me well to supply their particular preferences. It’s business. Everybody gains. Nobody dies. What are you waiting for?’ The sudden barked question made Bryce jump. ‘Go home. If you’ve got any sense you’ll forget everything you’ve seen this afternoon.’
As he hurried toward the livery stable to collect the trap Bryce’s thoughts stung like angry bees. What had he done? What if his family found out? What if that photograph was seen? If he tried to explain who would believe him? He had sought escape from loneliness but had slid into corruption and depravity. Forget what he had seen? If only he could.
Chapter Sixteen
At last the number of fever cases was beginning to fall. The source of the contamination had been traced to a decomposing badger in the stream that fed the well. As soon as the corpse had been removed the well was drained and disinfected.
‘Yes?’ He glanced up from signing the report as his housekeeper knocked then put her head round the door.
‘Miss Prideaux to see you, Doctor.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Tallack. Show her in, will you?’
He rose from his chair, straightening his jacket as the door opened wider.
‘Mary, this is a surprise.’
‘Good afternoon, John.’ She hesitated. ‘You were expecting me?’
‘Yes, yes. Forgive me. Of course I knew you were coming. What I meant was that I rarely see you as a patient.’
Her expression cleared. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’
‘It is indeed.’ He gestured towards the faded rose velvet. ‘Take a seat.’ He returned to his own chair and swivelled it to face her. He smiled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand?’ Removing fine kid gloves that perfectly matched her gown of lilac gauze over silk she laid them on her lap. Fluted lawn rose to a high collar from a deep frill of lace over her bosom. A hat of fine straw was trimmed with pink flowers and lilac ribbon was set at a slightly rakish angle on her upswept hair.
‘Why you have made an appointment for a consultation when it is perfectly obvious you are in extraordinarily good health and spirits. You really are looking remarkably well.’
Laughing, Mary inclined her head. ‘Thank you, John. Indeed I’m feeling remarkably well. Happiness, I am discovering, has the d
elightful effect of fine wine.’
‘Am I permitted to know the source of such well being?’
‘You are. In fact, it’s the reason I’m here.’ Colour bloomed in her cheeks. John had always liked Mary Prideaux. He enjoyed her dry wit. Asked to describe her he would willingly have called her pleasant, even mildly attractive in a quiet, understated way. But this afternoon she looked positively pretty.
‘Indeed?’
‘I’m to be married.’
Expert at hiding his feelings he masked the leap of surprise with a broader smile and leaned forward to grasp her hands. ‘My dear Mary, what wonderful news. I wish you every happiness.’ Settling back he crossed one pinstriped trouser leg over the other. ‘How have you managed to keep it so quiet? More importantly, who is the lucky fellow? Might I know him?’
Her lashes flickered briefly as she moistened her lips. ‘You know him well. It’s Henry. Henry Damerel.’
Totally unprepared John felt his mouth drop as he stared at her. He recovered quickly and was about to make light of his reaction but Mary spoke first.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’
You know about Dorcas?
Mary’s next words showed her thoughts were running on a totally different track. ‘You’re shocked that he – that we – should even be thinking of such things so soon after Louise – In all honesty I would have preferred …’ Mary gazed at her hands for a moment then raised her head again. Her cheeks were flushed but she met his gaze squarely. ‘It is not as yet a love match. Though we are very good friends and have been so for several years.’
‘Then why –’ the words were out before he could stop them. He raised one hand. ‘Forgive me. It’s none of my business and I have absolutely no right to ask.’
‘It’s all right, John.’ A wry smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. ‘You would have to be superhuman not to. Why such urgency? The truth is – there are important financial reasons why the wedding should not be delayed.’
In her gaze John saw defiance and a plea for understanding. She sat straight-backed, her hands gripping each other.
‘You are Henry’s brother-in-law, John, part of the family. So you must be aware of the situation at the mine. Henry needs money urgently. I am in a position to supply that. However, in case you should think the arrangement entirely one-sided, I want to reassure you. I have as much to gain as Henry. I shall no longer be an old maid, pitied because no one ever thought me desirable enough to marry. In fact, Henry …’ Her blush deepened and she shook her head, darting him a swift shy smile. ‘Well, never mind that. I’m here because although I enjoy excellent health I am not a young woman. I want your reassurance that I can – that a child, should we be blessed …’
‘Of course,’ John came smoothly to her rescue. ‘I commend your good sense.’
‘Am I being sensible? I wonder.’ She drew a deep shaky breath. ‘But I do care for him. And I know he’s fond of me. That’s not a bad basis for marriage would you say?’
‘I’ve seen some very happy unions grow from far less hopeful beginnings.’ John’s reply seemed to comfort her.
An hour later, having asked a number of questions and made a brief examination, he left Mary behind the screen while he returned to his desk to write notes on her card.
She emerged a few moments later, immaculate. Her colour was still high but a little of the tension surrounding her had evaporated, as if she had survived an ordeal. He realised with sudden sympathy that was exactly what it had been.
‘So everything is – as it should be?’
Meeting her anxious gaze he smiled. ‘Everything is absolutely fine. I see no reason why you should not bear strong healthy children.’
The last of her tension dropped away like a discarded coat. ‘Thank you.’ Her smile was radiant.
He accompanied her to the front door and watched her walk away to make her promised call on Hester Chenoweth. He did not envy her the visit. Yet there was new determination in the tilt of her chin.
Returning to his office he went into the tiny dispensary. As he selected items to take with him on his afternoon calls his thoughts returned once more to Dorcas. How had she reacted to this bombshell?
He had always assumed that when Louise died Henry would make an honest woman of Dorcas. Taking into account her approaching blindness… But maybe he’d got it wrong. Dorcas had been independent for a very long time. Too long perhaps? Had Henry proposed only to be turned down? In which case having refused him she could hardly object to his marrying someone else.
But as John rode down towards the village, unease rode with him. Something didn’t feel right.
‘Ah, Mrs Renowden, do come in,’ the bank manager closed his office door and ushered her to a comfortable chair. ‘How nice to see you again. Is it really a whole month your last visit?’
‘Time seems to pass more quickly as we get older, Mr Williams.’
He returned to his seat behind the desk and selected a document from among the neat piles. ‘You will recall Mr Hal’s instructions to me were that I should invest in property the money he sends back to Cornwall. I have some excellent news. When a small parcel of land attached to the Damerel estate was recently offered for sale by private treaty I was able to purchase it. The parcel comprised your cottage and the surrounding land.’
Mr Williams beamed, convinced his news was giving her unalloyed pleasure. Dorcas stared at him.
‘As you have lived in the cottage for almost thirty years it is most unlikely that Mr Damerel would ever have ended your tenancy. But the fact that your son now owns the property must surely give you a far greater sense of security.’
Henry had owned her cottage? She pulled herself together. ‘Oh. Yes. Indeed. Thank you, Mr Williams.’ What if the bank manager had not learned of the sale? What if he had not acted swiftly enough? What if someone other than Hal had bought it? What if the new owner had wanted her to leave? She shivered, suddenly cold. How could Henry have done that without even mentioning it to her?
* * *
After spending the morning at the village school helping the younger children with their reading and writing, Grace returned home for lunch. But she was too nervous to do more than pick at her food. That afternoon it was her turn to clean the chapel.
Dismounting from her bicycle she rested it against the wall. Her heart beat painfully hard against her ribs as she opened one of the big double doors and walked round the frosted glass screen. Mrs Nancholas paused on her way down the aisle. Under her arm she carried an ancient scuffed leather music case crammed with sheet music, some pages dog-eared and yellow with age.
‘I thought I heard the door. All right, my bird?’ Her thick brows puckered into a single line. ‘Dear life, girl, what you been doing? Red as a beetroot you are.’
‘I rode down on my bicycle.’ Setting down her basket on the back pew Grace removed her straw boater and self-consciously tucked stray wisps of hair behind her ears. Her face radiated heat as she took an apron from the basket.
‘You’d never get me on one of they contraptions. ‘Tis all right going downhill. But then you got to go back up again. Too much like hard work that is. Anyhow, the seat’s too small. ‘Tis all right for you. Built like a whippet, you are.’ Patting her broad bottom she gave a theatrical shudder. ‘You won’t catch me sitting on no knife-blade. I like me comfort.’ Grace felt a smile curve her mouth and realised it was the first for days. ‘Well,’ Mrs Nancholas announced. ‘We’d best get on.’
Grace picked up her duster. Please, please let him come.
Up on the balcony Mrs Nancholas lifted the lid of the organ keyboard. A few moments later she filled the chapel with the joyous sound of harvest hymns, her body swaying as her fingers moved from keys to stops and her feet danced over the pedals.
An hour later she closed the organ and thumped heavily down the stairs. ‘I’ll be off then. I got to go uplong to visit my sister. In bed with her leg again she is. She got ointment from the doctor but it don’t se
em to be doing much good. See you dreckly, my bird. Mind you look after yourself now.’
Grace worked on. Completing the right-hand block of pews she started on the centre, dusting the seats, the arms, and the narrow shelf on which to rest hymnbooks. The door opened. Her heart leapt and heat rushed to her face.
‘Ah, Grace. I hoped I’d find you here.’
The disappointment was so acute she could have wept. Her face felt stiff as she forced herself to smile. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Williams.’
‘All on your own?’
Grace folded and re-folded the duster. ‘Mrs Nancholas was here for an hour. But her sister’s not well again.’
Mrs Williams snorted. ‘Between you and me, that leg would be a lot better if she put it to the ground more often instead of lying in the bed expecting people to wait on her.’ Mrs Williams snorted again. ‘Bone-idle she is. Maggie Nancholas got a heart of gold and that sister of hers do lead her some awful dance.
‘Anyhow,’ her tone changed and she smiled. ‘Never mind that, I want to ask you a favour. You know ‘tis the Regatta next week. Well, we thought along with the stalls it would be nice to have Mrs Renowden doing her drawings again.’ She touched her hat. ‘I’m some pleased with that one she done of me. Jimmy had it framed with glass and all. Hanging in the parlour it is. So I was thinking, seeing how you got her to come down for the May Fair, you’d be the best one to ask if she’d be willing to do it again. ‘Tis all in a good cause.’ She beamed and checked the angle of her hat. ‘If you could see her in the next day or two, I’d be some grateful. You can tell me Sunday. If she say yes I’ll get the boys to put up a little tent. Let’s hope it stay dry. Right, I’ll leave you to get on.’ She bustled away.
The mention of portraits sent a sharp pang through Grace. Did Edwin still have the sketch Dorcas had made of her? Did he ever look at it? Perhaps it was lying forgotten at the bottom of a drawer. Perhaps he had thrown it away. Surely he wouldn’t have? He had pressed her to have it drawn, paying far more than the agreed charge. Then he had insisted on keeping it. He wouldn’t have done that unless it meant something to him, would he? Maybe he had done it simply to encourage those watching. Maybe everything else existed only in her imagination.
