A Step Too Far

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Wait.’ She eased her head back from alcohol drenched breath. ‘I realised later I had been hasty, I made a mistake.’

  ‘Too bloody true you made a mistake refusin’ of me, same as you made a mistake in gettin’ Jack Butler to give me a pastin’.’

  ‘That was none of my doing, it must have been Alice.’ She had hoped he would step away, but the grip on her shoulders remained firm, another cloud of alcohol fumes blowing into her face.

  ‘Don’t make no odds who done the tellin’ ’cos all three goin’ to do the payin’, that loud-mouthed Butler wench and the other one that’s always with her, they’ll get theirs. Oh, not both at the same time – that might give rise to question, no . . . no,’ he smirked, ‘a bus . . . a dark night . . . a tragic accident . . . that poor Butler girl; then some weeks on the other one will be found floatin’ in the cut or mebbe her won’t be found at all, there be many a coal pit ain’t yet been sealed, her won’t be the only wench ever to go missin’ and the reason of it bein’ put down to a dissatisfied client not gettin’ all he paid for. And Jack! Money’ll take care of that problem; he’ll never use his fists nor his legs again. But first there be you . . .’

  She must not antagonise him further. She must try to appease him, make him believe her truly sorry for her behaviour the evening he had invited her out.

  ‘Please.’ She forced herself to relax beneath his hands. ‘I’m sorry I was so abrupt, constant air raids and a heavy day at work had me on edge.’

  His grip lightened, his fingers no longer bit into her shoulder, but she must not move yet.

  Trying to close her nostrils against the assault of foul breath, she leaned her body into him, purring softly. ‘I was so tired, but I’m not tired tonight, maybe we could go now for that drink and then . . .’

  She left it deliberately, a provocative worm to catch her fish.

  He snapped at the bait. ‘Then you can prove how sorry you be.’ Releasing her, he delved a hand into a pocket of his overcoat, bringing out an object wrapped in paper. Swaying uncertainly, he waved it in triumph. ‘Ain’t no need to go to no public house,’ he slurred. ‘We ’ave a drink right ’ere; it were meant for a customer but I reckons we’ll enjoy it more. Good old Johnnie Walker, he can warm the cockles of your ’eart and Jim Slater’ll warm the rest.’

  A lewd laugh mixed with the distant sound of traffic. No one had passed along this street from her entering it and it was highly probable no one would. Glancing at the Chapel rising dark at her back, Katrin cursed the luck which meant there was no service being conducted there. Deliverance had to be found!

  The gentle fall of snow had ceased and a high full moon spread its silver cloak. In its light she watched him tear the paper away and drop it heedlessly to the ground.

  ‘There, you get y’self a swig of old Johnnie.’

  He thrust the whisky bottle forward, his half stumble betraying an already over indulgence of whisky.

  ‘Go on, take a shwig,’ he slurred ‘then y’ can ’ave a good old shwallow of the other delight I’ve got for you.’

  Revulsion swept Katrin. His use of language was as odious as his person; yet pointing that out would serve only to revive his anger.

  ‘You first.’ Placing a hand on the one holding the bottle, she guided it to his lips, saying laughingly, ‘Call that a drink? I would have thought Jim Slater could do better than that.’

  ‘Better!’ He threw off her hand. ‘O’ coursh ’e can do better, Jim Shlater be better’n any man at anythin’.’

  Katrin watched the bottle lift, watched it press to his mouth, heard the noise of liquid gulping past his throat. He had taken the lure, but how to make certain he choked on it.

  ‘Thash,’ he grinned, ‘thash be takin’ a drink, now . . . hic . . . now it’sh your turn.’

  His speech was becoming more distorted, the sway of his body more pronounced, but he was not yet incapable of harming her.

  ‘One more for you, just a little one,’ she wheedled.

  ‘You . . . hic . . . you ’ave shome.’

  The bottle almost hitting her face, Katrin knocked his hand away. The sudden movement made him stumble forward and strike his forehead against the mounting block, moaning as he dropped to his knees.

  This was her chance, she could be safe at home by the time he recovered. But that would not prevent him claiming she had given herself willingly to him. How damning would that be in the eyes of Arthur Whitman? What chance would she have then of becoming his wife?

  Her mind ice cold, her brain perfectly in control, she bent to retrieve the broken bottle.

  She must not lose that chance.

  Weighing the moment, waiting until he was nearly to his feet, she called his name. Then, as he lifted his head, she stabbed the jagged bottle into his throat.

  ‘Mother took a faintin’ turn, the kids were cryin’ and dad, well we had to pull him off that copper afore he throttled the poor bloke.’

  Alice Butler was talking of the arrest of her brother.

  ‘The police knowed of that shemozzle ’tween Slater and our Jack.’

  Slater! Katrin’s heart leapt. This was to do with Jim Slater; was he alive? Had that broken bottle in his throat failed to kill him?

  ‘They knowed Jack had peeled Slater’s onions a while back.’

  Katrin’s fingers clenched white beneath a table in the refurbished works canteen. Did they also know who had tried to kill him? Would the police come here to the factory, arrest her with everyone looking on? Lord, why had she not stayed long enough to ensure he was dead? She had felt the bite of glass against flesh, felt it rip as she drove it deep, heard the choking gurgle of blood bubbling into the throat, had seen his eyes glitter in the moonlight as he had reached a hand to his neck; then she had run.

  ‘So they thinks it be our Jack has done this’n an’ all.’

  ‘The police, ’ave they arrested him?’

  ‘Carted him off this mornin’.’ Alice answered Becky’s concern. ‘Asked would he mind goin’ along to the station to answer some questions. Mind!’ Alice’s voice rose angrily. ‘O’ course he’d bloody mind, but objectin’ would make no difference, he’d still ’ave gone to the station, only he would ’ave gone in ’andcuffs.’

  The police had taken Jack Butler in for questioning. Katrin’s pulse beat like drums in her wrists. How long before they did the same with her?

  Notepad on her knee, Katrin wrestled to keep from her mind thoughts of what she had heard in the canteen.

  ‘Katrin, are you all right?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, sorry, I was miles away.’ Katrin glanced at her employer, his fingers fiddling nervously with a dark blue patterned fountain pen.

  ‘Katrin, I . . .’ Arthur Whitman cleared an imaginary frog from his throat, ‘I’ve been meaning to speak . . .’ the pen rolled across the desk, his fingers scrabbling after it. He began again, though his glance remained on the pen. ‘Katrin, about what happened between us, I’m sorry and very deeply ashamed, I . . .’

  ‘Please.’ Katrin rose quickly to her feet. ‘It’s me should apologise, I was to blame for being so silly when those air raid sirens sounded.’

  ‘You were not being silly.’

  ‘I was,’ Katrin blurted. ‘There have been so many air raids, I should be used to them by now, but with my mother—’

  ‘I ought to have realised, but I allowed my own feelings to get in the way.’

  Soft curls swinging with the shake of her head, Katrin flashed a brief smile. ‘We were both under a lot of stress and I suppose we each looked to the other as a means of relieving it; what happened, happened and there is no way of changing that, so couldn’t we just forget about it?’

  The look of relief on his face was quickly dismissed, but not so quickly it was not caught by Katrin. Enjoy it Mr Whitman. Enjoy your reprieve while you may, for it won’t last very long!

  ‘I thought it might be less of an embarrassment if we spoke in your own home rather than the station.’

  It w
ould be less embarrassing were she not ‘spoken’ with at all! Keeping the thought submerged beneath the briefest of smiles, Katrin led the way into the neat living room before saying, ‘That is very considerate but why do you need to speak to me at all?’

  The Police Inspector ran a finger around the grey trilby hat he had removed on entering the house before asking. ‘Is your father at home, Miss Hawley?’

  Katrin frowned. ‘I thought from what you said in the hall it was me you wished to speak with.’

  ‘That is correct.’ The man nodded. ‘But you are not yet of age, Miss Hawley, and therefore you need to be accompanied by your parents. The law, you understand.’

  Here was the opportunity to rally the composure this man had sent haywire. But she must not appear too confident. The tremble of a sob in her voice, she said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, my father is not at home and my mother was killed in a bombing raid.’

  She had achieved the desired result. Katrin acknowledged the murmured sympathy then went on. ‘My father may go straight from work to complete his duty as a Fire Warden, in which case it will be quite late before he gets home.’

  The hat rotated several times while its owner pursed his lips as though seeking the answer to some virtually impossible problem. The Inspector nodded. ‘Then maybe he will call at the station, and you with him, of course, Miss Hawley.’

  That was not what she wanted. Too many people saw the comings and goings at that police station and Katrin Hawley preferred not to be among those observed. Thinking quickly she said, ‘Inspector, I know the law says a parent should be present at any discussion but might I ask the reason of your coming to this house? If I can tell my father then he will not have a possibly sleepless night worrying what this is connected with.’

  The Inspector shook his head. ‘Best not, Miss, the law be the law and needs be abided by.’

  ‘Of course.’ Katrin assented with a smile she felt no affinity with. ‘The law states a child can work for its living from fourteen years old, that boys can and must fight for their country on being eighteen and as for girls and women they can become auxiliary members of the Armed Forces from that same age while others up to the age of forty must work in engineering, agriculture or allied trades. Yet the rule of law ordaining that is the same rule of law which deems a person must reach the age of twenty one before they are seen to be responsible for themselves; a little ironic, don’t you think, Inspector?’

  ‘We might not all agree with the law, Miss Hawley, but we must all adhere to it.’

  His eyes held a slightly amused look. Like an argumentative child, Katrin felt she had been treated to a timely slap on the wrist.

  She had been showing him to the door when her father had arrived home unexpectedly, explaining he had wanted to ensure his daughter was prepared for any air raid. The Inspector nodded understandingly and agreed to stay and conduct the interview there rather than have them call next day at the station.

  ‘On the evening of the . . .’

  The Inspector consulted a notebook taken hurriedly from his breast pocket then continued, ‘were you approached by Mr James Slater?’

  Alice would have said as much during his visit to Cross Street; so she replied yes, then gave an account of what had passed between them, an account which made no reference to illegal ration books.

  ‘You should have told, told me about Slater, Katrin, I would have dealt with him.’

  Taking her silence as evidence of distress, Jacob had passed a comforting arm around his daughter’s shoulders.

  ‘Did you at any time after that evening . . .’

  ‘I did not meet with him.’

  The Inspector said he had a witness who claimed otherwise, that Slater had been seen outside the Prodor works.

  ‘That is not entirely correct,’ she glanced at her father as though seeking assurance, then with his brief nod continued. ‘The term “meet with” implies a face to face encounter or perhaps a mutually agreed assignation. This did not occur between myself and Mr Slater, though for several mornings I saw him on my way to work.’

  ‘You saw him? But you did not speak with him?’

  ‘That is what she said!’ Jacob intervened angrily. ‘And that swine Slater better not try bothering her again or he’ll find out what dealing with a man can be like.’

  Sharp black eyes switched to Jacob. ‘Have you met with him? Warned him against approaching Miss Hawley?’

  ‘No!’ Jacob snapped. ‘But that doesn’t go to say I wouldn’t have had I heard of this before tonight.’

  ‘Miss Hawley, why did you not tell your father of Slater’s accosting you?’

  ‘Inspector,’ she answered quietly, ‘my father has had a great deal to worry over for some time now, his employer will corroborate that; I had no wish to add to that worry.’

  The Inspector returned the conversation to the matter of his visit.

  ‘Was that the only time you saw him?’

  A shake of the head added emphasis to the unhesitating reply

  ‘No. I also saw Mr Slater one evening. He was standing across the way from the entrance to the Prodor factory. I was with two friends, Alice Butler and Becky Turner. I did not speak to Mr Slater, though Alice did. She went to talk with him and I believe he got angry and struck her across the face.’

  ‘And after that, the three of you walked home together?’

  That was to be his tour de force, or as local idiom would put it, ‘a crab to catch an apple’.

  ‘Only as far as the White Horse. . .’ She named the Hotel which had long stood as a local landmark. ‘Alice and Becky went on along Holyhead Road leaving me to follow Lower High Street, to the Market Square.’

  She deliberately left off her explanation at that point, waited for the question she knew would come.

  ‘From the Market Square you then proceeded along Spring Head?’

  Her simple ‘no’ had been met with a quizzical frown. ‘But doesn’t going the way of Spring Head cut the journey to Hollies Drive quite considerably?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she replied coolly. ‘And I would normally take that way during daytime but at night it is not so frequented by people and so I prefer to come home by way of the High Bullen.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And understand this,’ Jacob added. ‘I will be speaking to Slater.’

  Rising to his feet to intimate the interview was at an end, the Inspector levelled his gaze at Jacob.

  ‘That be your right and privilege, Mr Hawley, but don’t go expecting any answer; you see, James Slater is dead.’

  27

  The office which had been assigned to Isaac Eldon as works manager, yet been all too rarely put to that use was to be redesigned. For a new manager? Had Arthur Whitman finally got round to appointing someone to that position when he had been in London? Certainly he had held no interview here at Prodor.

  ‘I thought it would serve the purpose very well, what do you think, Katrin?’

  She had thought that office, that job, as good as hers! Hadn’t she proved herself as good as any man at handling the business of the factory, hadn’t she been every bit as efficient in the running of the office as Harriet Simpson had been?

  ‘Not so big as to be daunting yet large enough to accommodate a fair-sized table and chairs; yes, I think that office should fit the bill all right, don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe I could answer if I knew what the “bill” is you are talking about.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Whitman gave a brief shake of his head. ‘I thought I’d told you. Christ, there are so many things to think of a man can lose his reason trying to keep track of them.’

  Hence the newly appointed manager! Maintaining a smile which inside held all the warmth of an arctic winter, Katrin replied, ‘Well, if you tell me now then it will be at least one thing hasn’t got itself lost.’

  All she needed was the name of the man who had landed himself the position she had thought would be hers. A man! What if it were not a man, but a woman? What if he h
ad appointed a woman as works manager? It was not inconceivable. And was Arthur Whitman bringing her here to Wednesbury to fill a vacancy other than that at Prodor? Was she coming here to fill the position of Arthur Whitman’s wife?

  ‘It’s the staff dining room, I’d thought it could wait but given the circumstances . . . having the works canteen re-vamped seems more important, help to keep up the workers’ morale.’ He shuffled the papers lying under his hand. ‘But with government representatives coming her more and more often I realise the need not only for a quieter area for them to eat, but one where sensitive issues could be discussed more privately, in other words a board room. Seems a bit grand for a small engineering works, but Prodor will not always be small, nor will it only be here in the Black Country; it will grow and grow and with it the integrity of its name and the reliability of its products; Prodor will be recognised the world over.’ He laughed. ‘I’m rambling on, but then you listen so well, Katrin.’

  Listen and learn. The tension of those earlier minutes drained from Katrin. There was to be no newly appointed manager.

  A private dining room for visitors and staff. Katrin smiled down at the keys, her fingers pressing with rapid confident movements. And Katrin Hawley was still virtually in charge.

  ‘Look ’ere Mr Whitman, I knows these folk from the Defence Ministry be important, but so does the work bein’ done ’ere an’ I prefers to get on wi’ that ’stead of standin’ around talkin’, more so when the folk I be talkin’ to don’t ’ave no more understandin’ of what it is bein’ told ’em than they ’ave o’ flyin’ in the air wi’out wings.’

  ‘I understand how you feel Isaac, but needs must when the Devil calls.’

  ‘If you says so!’ Isaac Eldon snorted exasperatedly; ‘But don’t you go a’bein’ surprised if you hears me tellin’ o’ the Devil where he can go.’

  Nothing would surprise him less. A smile hovering about his mouth, Arthur Whitman glanced at his watch. These last few days had not been easy; lying was not something he agreed with, nor was it his particular forte; it would be a hell of a relief when this particular ‘Devil’ was lifted from his shoulders.