It was not in Rosamund’s power to make any answer, and after an agonising pause the woman went on, ‘It means that I’ve got to deal with you. You’ve complicated things for me. When I first saw you, I thought, “She’s harmless,” and I decided to leave you alone…That was a very difficult thing for me to do, knowing you were after Michael. But I thought, “In the end she won’t matter, she’ll be of no account.” But I misjudged you, didn’t I, dear, dear Rosie? That’s what he calls you, doesn’t he? Dear, dear Rosie. He wants to marry you, doesn’t he? Don’t get up. You’re not going anywhere.’ The hand that gripped Rosie’s arm was like a fine steel band. ‘I’ve had to think very quickly in the last few minutes or so. You see, it was Michael I expected to come for Susie, not you. All this talk of waiting until tomorrow was just talk. I expected you to tell him and this would bring him tearing over here. I was to placate him and offer him a drink…Oh yes, I would have placated him. I was going to plead with him. Michael could never withstand a woman pleading with him. It always made him feel extra big and tough. And once he had taken that drink the rest would have been easy. If he wouldn’t drink, I had another way. In any case the result would have been the same—we would, all three, have been found in the boat suffering from an overdose of phenobarbitone, but in the case of Michael and Susie the dose would have proved fatal. It would have come out later that, rather than have me back in his life he had poisoned us…What does the stigma of a bad wife matter when you are the widow of a rich man, and rid of that…that freak?’ She turned her eyes towards the door leading into the bows. Then, looking back into Rosamund’s horrified face, she went on, ‘She was here, all the time. I met her when she was on her way to the mill and you. The sight of me, close to, was quite sufficient to paralyse even her screaming—for long enough, anyway, to enable me to do what was necessary. I used to be quite adept at gagging her in the old days. She helps a lot; she opens her mouth wide.’
‘Leave go of my arm.’
‘Sit down then.’
‘I won’t sit down. Leave go.’
‘There you are, I’ve let go. Now what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going home and I’m taking the child with me.’ The words sounded simple, even a little silly as she said them. It was as if she were saying to an avalanche, ‘I’m going to push you out of the way,’ for the woman before her was an avalanche of terror, of fear…yes, of evil. Rosamund was only too fully aware now, and too late, that this was no ordinary woman by whom she was confronted—this was a female Jekyll and Hyde. She had set a trap to catch Michael and she herself had walked into it. Terror mounted as she realised that she was utterly at a loss how to deal with this woman. She had no experience of bad people. She felt gauche, naive, as she realised that she had little experience of people at all. She had lived almost like a cloistered nun for six years in the mill on the fens. Who was she to cope with a woman of the world, a fiend of the world? For the face before her now had a most fiendish expression. She felt totally inadequate. The only thing she could do was to scream. At the pitch of her lungs she would scream.
There were no portholes in the main cabin, the windows being modern sliding ones, and one of them, Rosamund saw from the slightly fluttering curtain, was slightly open. There was a chance that her voice might carry, for both Michael and Andrew would be on the alert for any unusual sound. She opened her mouth, but her scream was strangled before it even reached her lips. The woman acted as if she had been prepared for just such an emergency. She sprang at Rosamund, and, with a blow that caught her on the shoulder, knocked her flying against the corner of the cupboard that acted as a head to the bunk.
The impact seemed to split her head in two; blackness whirled around her, and she was aware of nothing but searing pain for a moment or two. When the worst of the pain lifted she knew that she was lying flat on the bunk and that there was something running over her face. When dazedly she put up her hand to wipe it away she saw the woman standing tall and straight by her side.
‘You’re bleeding. But don’t worry, that won’t bother you for long, and it’s saved me a job. Here, drink this.’ She bent over Rosamund now and offered her a cup.
Slowly Rosamund raised herself on her two hands until her back was supported against the cupboard, and she asked weakly, ‘What is it?’
‘Something that’ll do you good. It’ll make you feel good, I promise you. Drink it up.’ She pushed the cup towards Rosamund’s lips.
‘I don’t want it.’ With a slow movement of her hand Rosamund warded the proffered cup away. The woman placed the cup on the cupboard, and the next instant Rosamund found herself pinioned against the head of the bunk, with the woman’s knee across her legs and her two hands imprisoned within bony fingers. She was pulled upwards into a sitting position, before being flung backwards, bringing her head in contact with the bunk head again. The effect was to knock her almost senseless. The next thing she knew the cup was at her lips, and as she took a gasp of breath some of the liquid went down her throat. It was bitter and vile tasting. She spluttered, trying to cough it up, but when she drew in a breath she again swallowed the bitter, foul-tasting stuff. She did her best not to cough again, but became still when the cup was tilted up to her lips for the third time, and she let the liquid run into her mouth. Then, forcing herself to close her lips and breathe evenly through her nose, she relaxed her body and slumped sideways.
When the woman released her hold Rosamund fell over on to the cushions and slowly she let the liquid trickle from the corner of her mouth. When she was pulled roughly round again there was still some left in her mouth, and she spluttered and coughed, and the woman laughed quietly as she said, ‘Cough that lot up if you can.’
She now brought her face down close to Rosamund’s, and, looking into her eyes, she said, ‘You’re going to sleep now. Soon you’ll be like her, beyond care. It won’t matter much to you what happens. Are you feeling nice now? It’s a quiet feeling inside, isn’t it? Nice and quiet inside. I’ve really been very kind to you, you know.’
Rosamund forced herself to close her eyes. Whatever she had taken she could feel no effects of it yet. The woman released her hold and she fell back once more against the head of the bunk, but her head had no sooner touched the wood than she opened her eyes wide, for she was experiencing the most odd sensation. There was a whirling in her stomach, and in her head. There was a weird feeling running down the veins in her legs. The feeling urged her to get to her feet, to get into the open air, but her common sense told her to remain still.
How long she remained still she couldn’t tell. It was almost dark in the cabin now. Things were hazy, but she knew that there was a floorboard up, and the woman was on her knees, her hand groping to the bottom of the boat. Then she was standing up again, a torch in her hand, but before it had flashed over the bunk Rosamund had closed her eyes. When she opened them again the cabin was empty. The boat lurched once, and immediately Rosamund knew that the woman had left.
She waited, almost counting the seconds, and as she waited she became aware that she wasn’t worrying. As the woman had promised, she was quiet inside. She had a desire now to be still and not bother; there was a dizzy feeling in her head, her body was numb.
Get up! Get up! Get up! It was Michael’s voice, but Michael wasn’t here. Get up! Get up! Get up! Somebody was shouting at her. The words were coming only faintly through the thickness in her brain. Get up! Get up! Get up! She was sitting now on the side of the bunk and her feet were covered with water. The boat was sinking. She felt the slightest stir of panic, she had taken out the bung, the woman had taken out the bung. Where was she? Where was the woman? She had gone now, gone to find Michael. Get up! Get up! Get up!
She groped slowly around the door of the bows until she found the handle, then her hands were feeling around in the space before her, but it was her feet that found Susie. Her body, lagging heavy and relaxed against the bulwark, was already half submerged. When she pulled her forward the child fell into the wat
er with a quiet plonk sound, and then she had her by the back of her dress dragging her towards the main cabin door. She turned the handle and the door opened, but slowly against the pressure of the water. The woman had been so sure of her work that she hadn’t bothered to lock the door. The water was over her knees now and round the child’s neck. The bows of the boat were almost covered. She tried to lift the child up by the arms, but she couldn’t. She felt too dizzy, too dazed. She held on to Susie’s collar and supported her against the deck as she peered through the darkening night towards the reeds which were more than three yards away from the boat now.
She never fully remembered how she eased the child over the deck and on to her back in the water. But she did remember the thankful feeling when after only two or three weak strokes her legs and stomach slid against the mud of the bank. She remembered, too, that when she was dragging the child into the reeds she saw that her head was under water, and that she had difficulty in turning her on to her face, and more difficulty still in pulling her along this way, for she couldn’t keep her head up, and she had to put her on her back again.
There was a great slow thudding in her head now as if she were going under gas, thud-thud-thud-thud-thud; and with each thud came the words, Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Quiet inside. And she was quiet inside. She just wanted to lie, lie and sleep, but she still went on crawling, tugging the child after her inch by inch. It was the child’s sudden spluttering that made her stop. Susie was making sounds as if she was choking. Slowly she pushed her on to her face again and as she did so she thought, stupidly, Poor dear, she’s sick.
She lay with her head resting on the crook of her arm. She was so sleepy, so sleepy…Get up! Get up! Get up! Michael’s voice again. Get up! Get up! Get up! Do you hear? Get up! Get up! Get up! At the last command she pulled her knees up under her and groped towards the child, who was lying on her side. The ground was soggy, but there was no depth of water here.
She must get to Michael…Michael…Michael. But she was so tired. She stumbled away from the child through the field, but instinctively in the direction of the wash bank. She was staggering like someone drunk when she reached the top, and as she tried to descend her wavering feet slipped and she slid down the blue clay bank into the field. Again she lay with her head resting on her arm. The thudding was regular now, coming with every beat of her heart. Thud-thud-thud. Get up! Get up! Get up! When she staggered past the pond the geese set up their protest again, and several families of moorhens clucked away in fright from their nests in the reeds.
Michael. Michael. She began to mutter his name. But she must shout it. She must shout…She shouted, ‘Michael! Michael!’ She could hardly hear her own voice, it was so faint and far away. She staggered on, still calling, until quite suddenly she was standing still, and straight. Her head up and her nostrils dilated. She was smelling something. She had never smelt anything like it before. It swept away the quiet feeling inside of her and brought from the dark, dark elemental depths a fear, so tearing, so shattering that she knew that she was no longer herself. It seemed as if her entire being had been shattered, splintered into fragments, all except the core, the elemental core that went back into times dark with forbidden things, times before the soils of the fens ever saw the light of day. In this split second of time she knew why the child had screamed. In this second of time she was the child, and possessed of a sense too keen to be borne. From every pore in her body sound was oozing, screams were shrieking forth, yet there was no sound, no sound at all. Only the presence of the woman, her arms clutching her shoulders, leading her from the path across the fields towards…what? She knew where the woman was leading her; she was leading her towards the dyke, towards the end that had been cleared of reeds, because her feet were now dragging and tripping themselves in the cut reeds. The silt in the dyke here would be soft and deep. If you lay still you would sink right down into it…There was no room in her for further terror—she had reached the point where suffering ends.
When the woman pushed her she clutched at the air and fell forward into space and the scream came with her. She could sleep now.
Quiet inside, quiet inside, quiet inside.
Chapter Ten
Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Quiet inside…Oh, she felt sick. So sick.
‘Drink this, my dear.’
Rosamund shook her head and closed her lips tightly.
‘There you are. Open your mouth. That’s a good girl.’
‘I’m sick.’
‘Yes, you’re sick, but you’ll soon feel better. Go to sleep now.’
Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Quiet inside…
She opened her eyes and saw the woman again and screamed.
‘Rosie! Rosie! It’s me. Jennifer.’
It wasn’t the woman. It was Jennifer; Jennifer who had different eyes, and a different mouth, and whose hair was really blonde; it was her sister Jennifer.
Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Quiet inside …
When next she opened her eyes she saw her father, and behind him the sun was shining through the window. He stroked her hair back from her brow and said, ‘Oh, Rosie, my dear.’
Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Quiet inside …
‘Come along, try to drink this cup of tea. Come on now, open your eyes…Wider now. That’s it.’
Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Quiet inside. The voice was fainter now but still there. She looked at the bright face of the nurse bending over her, and this time asked, ‘Where am I?’
‘You’re in hospital.’
‘Hospital?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry. Come along, drink this. You feel better now?’
‘Yes…yes.’ Her voice sounded dreamy and far away. Slowly she put her hand up towards her head, and, feeling the bandages, she said, ‘My head?’
‘That’ll be all right. You had a nasty cut. It had to be stitched. There now, is that better?’ The nurse put the cup on the locker, then pushed up the pillow under Rosamund’s head.
‘My…my father. He was here?’ Rosamund looked round the small room. ‘And…and Jennifer.’
‘Oh, you remember them being here? But is that all you remember?’
Rosamund tried to think, but it was a painful process trying to think. The voice was still drumming in the back of her head. Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Why was it saying ‘Quiet inside’ like that all the time…? With a sudden movement that sent a stabbing pain streaking through the backs of her eyes, she was sitting upright. ‘Where is Michael? Michael!…Where is he?’
‘Now! Now! Don’t get excited. You must be quiet.’
‘But Michael?’
‘He’ll be back. He’s been here all night and most of the day. He’s a perfect nuisance.’ The nurse’s smile softened her words. ‘He’s just gone along to the children’s ward. Never fear, he’ll be back.’
‘Susie. Where’s Susie? Is she…’
‘Now don’t ask so many questions and excite yourself. You must lie quiet.’
‘But tell me, is she…?’
‘The little girl is all right. I’ve told you, she’s in the children’s ward.’
Slowly Rosamund sank down into the bed. The child was safe, Michael was here…Oh, Michael was here. Quiet inside. Quiet inside. Quiet inside…She was sound asleep when Michael next came into the ward.
It was a week later when Rosamund returned to the fens, and to Thornby House. The sun was shining, the water had drained away from the land, and as Michael drew the car up in front of the house door, there was Jennifer and her father, Andrew, and the child, and Maggie, all waiting to greet her. It was too much, too much happiness all at once, and she cried, and everyone was quiet for a while. But at teatime Maggie brought laughter to them all with her humour and quaint sayings, and Rosamund, sitting in thankful peace, was more than grateful to her; oh, more than grateful, and for so many things. If it had not been for Maggie and that something that went beyond the veil of reasoning, they would not all be sitting here now.
In
her heart too she was grateful to Jennifer, for now and again Jennifer spoke to Michael, and when this happened Rosamund noticed that he met her sister more than halfway; in fact Rosamund would have said that his manner was charming. She looked at her husband. There was nothing of the fen tiger about him today; he had a gentle, even subdued air about him. Another thing that added to the sum of her happiness was that Michael liked Andrew, and this feeling she knew was reciprocated.
The tea over, she was ordered firmly into the lounge chair facing the front door, and it was from there that she later watched Jennifer and Andrew, their figures getting smaller and smaller as they walked arm in arm over the fields towards Willow Wold Farm; and from her seat she watched her father take the child by the hand and go in the direction of the mill. Apparently he had become a second O’Moore to Susie. Lastly, she brought her eyes back to Michael where he sat by her side, her hand lost in his.
‘Hallo, Rosie.’
‘Hallo, Michael.’ They smiled at each other. This was the first time they had been alone together except for the journey in the car.
‘Happy to be home?’
‘Yes, Michael, very happy.’
‘Not afraid any more?’
‘No, not any more.’
He looked away from her now into the shadowless fen, and his voice was very quiet as he said, ‘Before we close the subject for good and all, Rosie, I want you to believe that I spoke the truth when I said that I thought she was dead.’
‘I know that, Michael.’
Gently he withdrew his hand from hers, and, leaning forward, rested his elbows on his knees. ‘I’ve been over it a thousand times’—he shook his head slowly—‘and I still can’t believe that I made a mistake, although the proof, God knows, was only too evident. But the body that was washed up on that shore was as like her body as to be it. I couldn’t go by the face, it was…’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘What’s the use? I made a mistake…perhaps I wanted to make a mistake…But who was that other woman? That’s a question that will haunt me from time to time all my life.’
The Fen Tiger (The House on the Fens) Page 20
