by Iris Gower
‘How can you go home when we don’t know where you live?’ She placed the bowl of thin stew on the rickety table.
‘Can’t I talk to whoever brought me here?’ Catherine asked tightly, her hands gripped in her lap until her knuckles gleamed white. She longed to strike out at someone. ‘Speak to me, damn it!’
The woman straightened and stared down at her with unwavering eyes. ‘Duw, cursing now, is it? Grateful to be waited on hand and foot like this, you should be, madam. Why, you even had a doctor in to look at you which is more than I’ve ever had.’
‘But why am I being kept prisoner?’
‘I told you, don’t grumble, just think if you hadn’t been found you might have died all alone in the wet and cold. A word of advice: just don’t go asking questions. I can’t answer nothing so you are wasting your time.’
‘You can tell me your name, can’t you?’ Catherine said more quietly. ‘You are the only person I see, it can’t do any harm if I know what to call you, can it?’
‘Winnie, that’s my name, now are you satisfied?’ The woman went to the door and looked back over her shoulder. She stared at Catherine, a long hard look and then her face softened.
‘Look, love, your foot is getting better and your bruises are all but gone. Now just think, how would you have managed on your own? No doctor, no-one to bring you food and keep you warm, how long do you think you’d have lived if you hadn’t been cared for by me? She nodded as though to reinforce what she was saying. ‘Now just be grateful and show a bit of patience. You are a pretty girl, no real harm has been done to you and look, I’m sure you’ll be able to go home soon, so be good and don’t give me any trouble, right?’
When she was alone, Catherine looked around her helplessly. If only she could get out of this room she might find out where she was, she imagined she must be quite a few miles from Swansea, Winnie spoke with a different accent to that of the townsfolk.
She closed her eyes, the woman was right, of course, she would have died out there in the mud of the farm if someone had not taken her in. But unanswered questions still raced through her head.
With a sigh she fell back against the pillows. There was a gleam of hope now, Winnie had said that Catherine might be sent home soon; she hoped so, she could not stand this room for much longer.
And when she got home, what then? The farm would be in a dreadful state and the animals, what had happened to the milk cows? Had they all died of milk fever by now?
She was a failure, she had to face it, she had no money, no ability to run a farm properly and her love life was a mess. She was what her mother would call a loose woman.
Outside the window, darkness was closing in on the unremarkable landscape. Catherine was tired, so very tired. She climbed painfully onto the bed. It was cold in the room, she pulled the worn blankets over her and closing her eyes, she drifted into an exhausted sleep.
It was still dark when she woke to find Winnie beside the bed holding a lighted candle. Outside the birds were beginning to sing, it must be early morning.
‘Get up, love, I thought you might like a bath.’ Winnie’s attitude seemed to have softened and Catherine felt a lift of hope, perhaps this was it, perhaps, at last, she was going home.
‘I would love a bath, Winnie.’ And she would welcome the chance to be out of the room where she’d been kept for what seemed an eternity.
Winnie helped her to her feet, ‘There, see, you are nearly able to walk on your own now.’ She helped Catherine through the open door into a spotless but spartan kitchen. There were bare flags on the floor and in the centre of the room stood a huge scrubbed table. To the side was a battered dresser full of oddments of crockery, but a cheerful fire burned in the grate and before it stood a tin bath filled with steaming water.
‘If I can get you into the bath do you think you could stick your bad leg out of the water?’ Winnie asked and Catherine resisted the desire to burst into hysterical laughter.
‘I think I can manage,’ she said shakily. It took a great deal of manoeuvring but at last. Catherine sank into the hot water with such a sigh of pleasure that Winnie’s stern features relaxed into something of a smile. She leant over Catherine like a mother and began to wash her hands and arms.
‘What’s going to happen to me now, Winnie, am I to go home?’ Catherine asked, taking advantage of the change in the woman’s attitude.
‘I don’t know, love, all I have been told is that you are to be washed and dressed.’
‘Am I to meet whoever brought me here, then?’ Catherine asked eagerly and Winnie shook back a curl of grey hair that had fallen across her forehead.
‘What a girl for asking questions; questions I don’t know the answers to. Now shut up and let me wash your hair.’
Afterwards, Winnie brought her clothes, washed and pressed and mended, and helped Catherine to dress in them. A pair of boots, much mended, stood ready for her. Catherine’s feet slipped into them easily, they were several sizes too big. She wondered what had happened to her own boots but that was not really of any importance now, she was going home.
As Winnie dragged the bath easily through the door, Catherine felt the rush of cold air and shivered. She huddled near the fire and then, lifting her head, became aware that someone was talking to Winnie outside.
Winnie returned and fetched one of her own shawls from the back of the door. ‘Wear this, you’re off out of here. Take care, love, just take care.’
Catherine stood quite still for a moment, unable to believe the suddenness with which she was being released.
‘Go on then you daft girl, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’
Galvanized into movement, Catherine hurried out of the kitchen into the dark of the early dawn. A man was standing in the shadows, holding the reins of a horse which was harnessed to a small cart.
‘Get in, miss.’ The voice was gruff, that of a working man. Catherine shivered in the misty dampness that hung over the land, obscuring the view.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked meekly. The man was silent for a moment.
‘Swansea, miss. Get in the cart.’ Catherine climbed awkwardly onto the cold, damp boards and as she sank back into the wooden seat, she felt relief pour through her; she was going home.
But home to what? On the heels of relief, she felt frightened for her future. The farm would be neglected, the house unused and damp, the fields would be overgrown with weeds. There would be a lot of work needed to get the land under control again and no money with which to accomplish it. And worse, out there, in the darkness, was someone who had attacked her and might attack her again.
As the cart jerked into motion, Catherine looked back at the building she was leaving. It was difficult to distinguish anything through the mist but she could see that the house was small, little more than a hut, and it was set against the folds of an unfamiliar hill. Where was this place where she had been kept? Still, it did not matter now, nothing mattered so long as she was free.
She was jolted against the hardness of the seat and she winced at the pain in her bruised bones, closing her eyes, telling herself that everything was going to be all right. She would soon be home.
She still could not quite believe it, after fearing the worst she had been released. Sometimes, in the dark of the night, she had believed that she would eventually be killed off in this remote place, Winnie had grumbled enough about what a trial she was.
The journey seemed endless, though she had no way of knowing exactly how many miles she had covered. Suddenly, the cart rocked as the driver climbed down from his seat. He took her arm and drew her unceremoniously onto the rough track. She grew tense, imagining that he would take an axe and put an end to her out here miles away from anywhere.
‘Sorry, love, wheel is broken, can’t take you any further.’
Catherine looked at him in alarm. ‘But there’s nothing wrong with the wheels, even I can see that.’ As soon as she spoke, she regretted her words, why antagonize the man? She bac
ked away from him, looking round her, trying to find some place she could run to.
The driver ignored her and swung himself into the driving seat, pulling at the reins so that the horse jerked forward in the shafts. Dust spurted up from the ground as the wheels turned and the cart began to move away from her at speed. She watched, long after horse and cart were out of sight, sighing with relief. She looked round at the hazy greyness of the land and it dawned on her that she had been abandoned miles from anywhere. But at least she was alive.
She stared around her at the empty hillside and the seriousness of her situation swept over her. Here she was, standing in the wet grass, in boots that were too big for her and a shawl that hung around her like a shroud, not knowing where she was.
‘You are still alive.’ She said the words aloud but instead of giving her courage, her voice echoed away from her emphasizing her loneliness. She began to hobble forward, making her way with painful slowness over the uneven land. The drizzle had turned to heavy rain and the path leading uphill had become slippery with mud. If only she had some way of knowing which direction she should go in but the mist, if anything, was becoming more dense.
She struggled up the rise in the land. Once, slipping to her knees, her hands in the mud, she nearly cried out at the pain in her ribs but she bit her lip and got to her feet again.
At the brow of the hill, she looked around her, here the mist was even thicker. Nearby, Catherine could hear the sound of a brook. Was she near home? Was it the Burlais brook she could hear?
Some of the mist cleared for a moment and Catherine saw only unfamiliar land, spreading away as far as the eye could see. Her heart sank but she forced herself to go on towards the next hill. Would she see yet another unfamiliar hill and another and another? she wondered desperately.
At one point, she felt as if she would have to give up the attempt to reach home, her foot was aching so badly now that every step was painful. The too-large boots did not make things any easier. She took deep breaths considering her position, she could remain here, try to find a hollow tree or an outcrop of rocks where she could shelter. She looked round, peering through the rain that was falling now in heavy darts against her face. There was no friendly tree, no outcrop of rocks, there was nothing but the unrelenting countryside rolling away out of her sight.
She tried to buoy herself up with hope, Honey’s Farm was her home, her refuge, once there she would be all right. She listed the homely chores she could do; light the fire, put on the kettle, make herself some tea. Most wonderful of all, she could climb into her own bed, in the room she had known since childhood, and sleep away her aches and pains. Then, when she was rested, she could try to work out how to bring the farm back to the thriving business it had once been.
She seemed to walk for hours, once she thought of changing direction but some instinct drove her on the same pathway. Exhausted now, barely able to stand, Catherine struggled on. She paused, tears running down her cheeks and she could not find the strength to brush them away.
She closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to picture her home, the farm, the hills sloping to the sea. The sea. She lifted her head, she smelt salt, she was close to the sea. Excitement filled her, she could not be far from Honey’s Farm. With renewed hope, she walked on, numb now, ignoring the pain that every step brought her. She would be home, soon, she would be home and then everything would be all right. As she topped the rise, she saw the sea. It was there, spread out before her as she had known it would be but it was not the gentle tide that ran into Swansea harbour. The craggy rocks echoed to the buffeting of the waves and Catherine sank down on the ground, knowing that she was as far away from home as ever.
‘Why have you done it?’ Boyo said angrily. ‘You told me you had no interest in the farm, you lied.’ He strode to and fro in the gloomy sitting-room at Ty Craig, his hands thrust into his pockets. ‘You have taken Catherine’s home from her, deprived her of her livelihood; is your blood-lust satisfied now or do you have other schemes in mind?
‘Don’t be absurd, I didn’t lie. It was you who put the idea of buying the farm into my mind. The place was up for sale and for a very good price. I might develop the land, save it from becoming nothing more than a wilderness.’
Bethan stared at Boyo coldly. ‘Be reasonable. If this woman could not pay her debts that was her own fault, no-one could expect the bank to support her failures forever more.’
‘So you moved in like a bird of prey and took away the only home she has ever had. I wondered why you were taking an interest in the place but I never suspected you of such a low, vicious desire for revenge.’
‘Calm down, you are being melodramatic,’ Bethan said. ‘I saw a good prospect and I bought it, I am a businesswoman or have you forgotten?’
Boyo did not answer her question, he stared at her for a long time and shook his head. ‘Did I ever know you? To think I even liked you – once.’
Bethan rose to her feet, the colour flaring into her face. ‘Liked me? How kind of you, how very kind.’ Her eyes glittered with tears.
‘I loved you, Boyo, loved you, do you understand? I would have done anything for you but you had to sleep with a whore, shatter the marriage vows we made together. Can you blame me if I take back a little of what is owed to me?’
Boyo was silent. He stared at the woman who was his wife, would always be his wife if she had her way and anger swept over him in a powerful wave.
‘I have never hit a woman but I feel I could make an exception in your case.’ He turned on his heel and moved towards the door; there, he paused. ‘So where is she now? Tell me that. No-one can find her, not even that cousin of hers. Cullen has searched Swansea from one end to the other, by all accounts, and drawn a blank. What have you done, how did you get her to leave the farm, for she would never leave willingly?’
‘How do I know where the slut is?’ Bethan turned away from him. Then, slyly, she looked up at him from under her lashes, ‘Though I did hear a rumour …’ She broke off apparently considering her words and Boyo waited in a fever of impatience. ‘I did hear she had gone off with some ruffian, a common man of her own sort and is living with him somewhere far away from here. You see, she did not want you, after all, she’s just a little whore who will go to any man’s bed.’
‘Liar!’
‘Go and look for her then, if you are so sure.’ Bethan shook him away. ‘But I tell you this, you do not know the half of that woman. She sleeps with whomsoever she likes, she’s been intimate with that Irishman as well as with you and why should she stop there? She’s nothing but a slut, Boyo, will you never learn sense?’
Boyo left the coldness of the house but he did not feel the chill of the air. He was feverish with anger and with the need to find Catherine. He did not believe a word Bethan had said to him, she was out of her mind, a cruel vindictive woman and he was afraid she might have harmed Catherine in some way.
He mounted his horse and rode away down the track between the folding hills. He looked around him at the dripping trees and the boulder-strewn lane and shuddered, feeling as though he had just left a graveyard.
He rode his horse mercilessly over farmlands towards Rhosilli Downs. Even though Bethan no longer owned the inn, she knew the present owner well enough to beg a favour. Boyo felt sure she would have taken Catherine there, it would be the best place to keep her hidden until the sale of the farm was complete.
His horse was quivering with sweat by the time Boyo reined the animal in at the yard of the hotel. Here, the mists had cleared and the sea ran in to the long shoreline, white-capped and swift.
Inside the hallway, he paused as a discreet footman appeared at his side. ‘I’m Todd, can I help you, sir?’ The man wrinkled his nose and Boyo smiled at him disarmingly.
‘I have been riding hard,’ he explained, ‘I could do with a hot drink and my animal needs attention.’ He slipped some money into the man’s willing hand. ‘Is the owner here? It is important that I see him.’
‘
I am expecting him back at any time, sir, perhaps you would like to pay me in advance, sir?’
Boyo followed the man upstairs to the first floor and was shown into a room with a cheerful fire burning in the ornate fireplace.
‘If sir would care to go into the dressing-room and change into the robe that is provided then I could have your clothes laundered by morning, sir.’
Boyo shook his head. ‘I will attend to that later. When the owner of the inn returns let me know at once.’
The man nodded and moved backwards through the door. ‘How many rooms are there in the hotel?’ Boyo asked suddenly. The man looked surprised.
‘I don’t rightly know, sir, about thirty, in all, I’d say.’ He looked curiously at Boyo and there was a trace of disapproval in the way his mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Is there any particular reason for the question, sir?’ Todd’s eyes were guarded.
‘No, just idle curiosity.’ Boyo palmed some coins into the man’s hand which quickly disappeared into his pocket.
‘The hotel has just changed hands, as it happens, the new owner is a man by the name of Mr Cousins, a gentleman from Devon, a good Quaker gentleman. Changing the place, he is, making it respectable, if you get my meaning. Now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you?’
Todd withdrew and closed the door and Boyo waited a moment before crossing the room and pouring himself a drink from the decanter.
A quietness descended over the corridor outside and Boyo moved to the door, it might be as well to begin searching the place. If Catherine was here, which he was beginning to doubt in the light of what Todd had told him, she would be in an attic room away from prying eyes.
He opened the door carefully and looked out into the corridor, it stretched long and silent towards the curving staircase leading to the hall below. To his left and facing him was a door marked ‘Private’ and he made towards it as quietly as he could. As he thought, behind the door was a staircase, plain and carpeted in cheap jute; here, he felt sure, he would find the servants’ quarters.
