Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘What am I going to bloody do?’ he demanded of himself that morning on his return, hunched over the fire with a cup of tea. ‘I’ll be buggered if I’m going.’ But what was the alternative – prison? He had had enough of that and he knew that conscientious objectors had it particularly rough in gaol. Anyway, how could someone who’d only ever been into a church with intent to rob now claim that he was a conchie? His nose had begun to stream from the change in temperature. He blew into his handkerchief, then stared into the red coals, racking his brains and muttering to himself. Talbot hopped up to shove his dry nose under his master’s elbow, demanding to be stroked.

  ‘Oh, bugger off outside!’ Nat scowled at the interference and chased the dog along the hall and out into the street. ‘I can’t think with you hanging around like a bad smell.’ Yet, in the precise moment that he ejected the dog he was provided with a solution and became instantly excited – old Talbot had inspired him once again! He couldn’t amputate his leg, but he could chop a finger off – they couldn’t make him shoot a rifle then, could they?

  Revived by this last-ditch ray of hope, Nat rushed to the kitchen and took a carving knife from the drawer. Left or right? Which hand did one use to pull a trigger? Being left handed, he took a gamble and positioned his left hand on a chopping board. The long blade trembled, partly because he was holding it in his weaker hand, but mainly because to disfigure himself was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. He stared down upon his manicured finger, the nail pink and clean, urging himself to act, mouth and eye determined – but hand still trembling. He lowered the blade against the skin.

  ‘Ooh shit!’ He had nicked himself and shook his hand to relieve the sting. It was the wrong kind of blade; a cleaver would have been more efficient, but if he put the knife away now he knew that he would never do it. He would just have to employ the knife like a cleaver. Positioning his hand for a second attempt, he prepared his mind, set his jaw, raised the knife, come on, come on…

  ‘Don’t!’ Oriel, hearing the dog whining outside, had come to investigate and almost screamed when she witnessed Nat’s attempt at self-mutilation.

  He dropped the knife and span round on her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ The horrified words emerged through the gaps between her fingers.

  ‘I…’ Nat clutched his nicked digit.

  ‘No, don’t bother!’ Oriel’s hand fell to her side as she stalked up to accuse him. ‘It doesn’t need the mind of a genius to guess. You were trying to get out of conscription weren’t you? Don’t gawk at me like that! I saw the letter asking you to go for re-examination. They said you were fit, didn’t they?’

  Nat was plunged back into childhood, felt as though he were being chastised by his mother, but managed to reply, ‘I’m not fit! Neither were all the other blokes I saw. They’re sending us to block up the gaps and I’m damned if I’m going to be used as target practice for a country that never gave me anything.’

  ‘You coward!’ screeched Oriel. ‘Given you nothing? What’s all this?’ Her hand whisked the air, pointing out the luxuries. ‘I’ve a good mind to inform the authorities what you tried to do, and if you persist in trying to dodge your duty then I will!’

  Outside in the frosty morning, his whines unanswered, Talbot hopped away from the door and looked for company: two eleven-year-old truants seemed likely fun, giggling and happy as they attempted to tie each other up with scarves. Enjoying the fuss they made of him, the three-legged dog went along with all that was asked of him, even sitting still whilst one of the boys rubbed a bar of soap around his mouth – until he licked his chops and tasted it. Then he backed away, slavering and clacking his tongue in acute distaste, his drooling jowls becoming a mass of bubbles, which the boys had intended and thought a huge joke, for they fell about laughing whilst poor Talbot shook his head and sprayed foam everywhere.

  The mother of one of the boys came out to shake her doormat, saw the frothing jaws and immediately set up a warning screech. ‘Rodney, get away from that dog – now!’ In a panic, she turned this way and that, looking for assistance. ‘Somebody get the police! There’s a rabid dog! Rodney, get in this house now!’

  The young perpetrator, feeling quite safe, laughed and giggled to the point of hysteria, his eyes streaming. His cheeky companion yelled, ‘I’ll go and fetch a policeman, Mrs Wheeton!’ And he raced off.

  Inside Nat’s house, an argument raged. ‘Oriel, you don’t understand!’ How mistaken he had been to think that she had known his identity; she could not know at all. ‘I’m… your father.’

  In return there was only disdain. ‘I know that!’

  Nat was shocked. ‘And you’d still inform on me?’

  ‘With pleasure! Why should you be allowed to dodge when others are dying to keep their country free?’

  Nat’s face showed that he could not fathom her. ‘But…’

  The pretty little face inside the black bob was spiteful. ‘Let me save you the bother of asking! I’ve known all along who you were. The only reason I came here was to ruin you like you ruined my mother!’

  The noise that came from Nat was one of a small animal. ‘All the time… I thought you were working for me just so’s you could be close to your father.’

  ‘Huh!’ The arrogance of the man, raged Oriel.

  ‘I thought the reason you never said anything was because you were too shy.’ His pained blue eyes accused her now. ‘You little monster.’

  ‘Me?’ Oriel endorsed his image of her by baring her teeth. ‘You hypocrite! You, who ran off and left my poor mother to her fate. She almost died because of you! No one would help her, not even her family! She was thrown out into the street…’

  In the street outside, the boy had returned with uniformed assistance – the mention of a hydrophobic dog required immediate action. The police sergeant came armed with a revolver. Unfortunately he was also wearing a hat. Talbot, slavering and foaming, took one bloodshot look at the policeman’s helmet and sprang to attack.

  ‘Stand back!’ the officer warned those who had come to watch, including the giggling perpetrators. ‘If you get one drop o’ that foam on you you’re done for! Get back!’ Talbot advanced, barking and drooling; the sergeant levelled his revolver…

  Nat was trying to ward off his daughter’s attack. ‘Oriel, I was only a child myself!’

  ‘I know all about it! Mother gave me the whole story. You might have been young but you weren’t innocent – you were in a school for ruffians at the time – yes, she told me everything! Not to mention the things I’ve discovered for myself!’ Her eyes were slits of malice. ‘Ever since I was a little child I wanted to be a nurse, but I couldn’t, and do you know why? Because of you! You ruined everything for me, because you didn’t marry my mother! You can’t imagine how long I’ve waited to tell you that I hate you. I hate you! You…’

  ‘At least you’ve got somebody to hate!’ Nat flung back at her, showing fury now. ‘At least you know who your father is. I’ll never know who mine was, never know where to direct the hatred.’

  Oriel was suddenly afraid. The tables were turned. In his rage he looked demonic, his black hair falling over his brow, eyes suffused with emotions that had been restrained for twenty-five years, since his mother had abandoned him.

  ‘Get out! Go on, you little bitch, get out!’ He advanced on her.

  Oriel, fearing that he might be going to kill her, ran out into the hall, tugging frantically at the brass doorhandle in order to escape into the street. He was charging down the hall after her. She tugged and twisted, then the handle came free, the door opened and Oriel leaped out onto the pavement with Nat close behind her. They both saw the levelled revolver.

  ‘No!’ Her father’s cry was a horrible sound, the howl of a tortured spirit. Oriel covered her eyes as the gun went off, killing Talbot instantly.

  For a matter of moments time was suspended. Nat, his face a mask of disbelief, could not take his eyes from the hole in Talbot’s skull, the lolling tongue, the ey
e that dulled even as he watched. Oriel half emerged from behind her hands, fingers dragging at her cheeks. The police officer lowered his smoking revolver. There was the smell of gunpowder on the air. More people had come out of their houses to watch. Nat stumbled into the road and bent over his dog.

  ‘Careful!’ warned the sergeant. ‘He’s got hydrophobia.’ For a second Nat withdrew on impulse, but then he frowned and bent to sniff at the foam. ‘It’s soap,’ he murmured, and lifted confused eyes to the police officer, who in turn glared at the two boys whose faces, though white, still bore the ghost of former mischief.

  They backed away. ‘It were only a joke, mister.’

  Before the sergeant could apprehend them there came a roar and a flash of movement. With maniacal strength, Nat seized both culprits, a hand round each throat, lifted them clean off their feet and charged with them to the other side of the road where he thudded each head against the wall. Rodney’s mother screamed. There were horrified complaints from the onlookers. The sergeant plunged his revolver into its holster and rushed over, calling as he went, ‘Stop or you’ll be arrested!’ But Nat was too deafened by fury, his fingers kneading deep into the adolescent throats, squeezing, cutting off life as they had cut off the life of his only friend, bashing their skulls against the wall, adding their blood to the red of the brick…

  Oriel, the only one to understand how much her father had loved that dog, buried her fingernails into her cheeks as she watched in horror.

  A final warning from the sergeant brought no end to the attack. With a grimace of resignation, he drew his truncheon and with one deft movement sent Nat toppling to the footpath, his young victims sliding down beside him.

  ‘Anybody got a telephone?’ demanded the policeman.

  Oriel allowed her hands to drop away from her cheeks, leaving a series of red crescents where her nails had dug into the skin. She wanted to answer, yes, I’ll get an ambulance, but her lips refused to move. It didn’t matter, someone else had taken charge, leaving the sergeant and other onlookers to administer first aid.

  ‘Who is he?’ demanded the police officer when the boys had been made as comfortable as possible. ‘Anyone know his name?’

  He’s my father. Oriel was still rooted to the spot, trembling. A woman turned to point at her, and she saw the policeman approach. ‘Excuse me, miss, that lady over there says you work for Mr Prince, is that right?’

  She could not turn her white face away from Nat’s handcuffed body. He was just beginning to come round, his groggy head raising itself from the pavement for another look at his dog. She nodded and finally spoke, ‘I’m his secretary.’

  The sergeant showed understanding. ‘Nasty business, isn’t it – and it could all have been avoided. These young lads with their pranks…’

  ‘Will he go to prison?’ Oriel’s voice was that of a frightened little girl. Hands behind his back, Nat had managed to shuffle into a sitting position.

  ‘Well, they won’t be handing out any medals to him.’ The sergeant heaved. ‘Question is, whether it’ll be for assault or attempted murder – I’ve never seen a man so crazed.’

  ‘He loved that dog.’ Oriel could barely speak. Her father was now leaned against the wall, his face a picture of misery.

  ‘Aye, I suppose someone loves those two little imps as well.’ Rather stern now, the sergeant indicated Nat’s victims. ‘I know they did a rotten thing but he can’t just go trying to throttle people willy nilly. Anyway, here’s the cavalry.’ A black maria had turned into the road. He left her standing there alone and went to drag Nat to his feet, bundling him into the back of the van. Never once did Oriel’s father look at her. Shortly after the police vehicle had gone an ambulance came to pick up the victims and most of the onlookers dispersed, though some remained to gossip even though there was nothing to see but a three-legged carcass.

  Oriel was still in a daze. The sergeant approached her again, accompanied by a woman. ‘This lady says she’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  Oriel allowed the neighbour to take her arm and together they went into Nat’s house. At the last minute she looked back over her shoulder to ask the policeman, ‘What should I do about…?’ She gestured at Talbot.

  ‘Council’ll probably come and take him to the tip.’

  Faint as Oriel was, she couldn’t allow this to happen and extricated her arm from the woman’s grip. ‘Mr Prince wouldn’t want that, I’ll have to bury him.’ She tried to pick up the dog but its dead weight was too much. The sergeant took pity on her and with the help of another man carried it through the house to the back garden. Oriel followed the droplets of blood.

  Talbot’s carcass was dumped without ceremony onto the lawn and the men made to leave. ‘By the way,’ the sergeant told her, ‘your evidence will probably be required in court.’

  Oriel was not too stupefied to realize what effect this would have on her mother. ‘Aren’t there enough witnesses?’

  ‘To the assault, yes, but I was just thinking you might be called in mitigation by the defence, what with you knowing how he felt about the dog.’

  Fighting down the bile that rose to her throat, she thanked him for his help, then allowed herself to be taken in hand by the neighbour and drank the offered tea. If there was one iota of fortune it was that the terrible scene had been enacted in the morning, giving Oriel the rest of the day in which to recover, a day that saw her bury the dog then go back to her work as if nothing had happened. When she reached home, she was sufficiently composed as to avoid exciting suspicion from her mother.

  There was one dreadful moment when Bright saw the report in the newspaper, read Nat’s name and gasped. Oriel knew what the other had seen and was forced to ask tentatively, ‘What’s the matter?’ But her mother recovered and shook her head. ‘Tis nothing more than we normally read, these casualty lists are dreadful.’

  Oriel had her own excuses. When, in the middle of the night, unexpected tears flowed, she managed to forestall her concerned mother without resorting to lies. ‘Oh God, I wish this war would end!’ And Bright shushed and cuddled and comforted as she had done since Oriel was a child, and was none the wiser about her involvement in the cataclysmic event that had occurred that day.

  * * *

  During the weeks after her father’s arrest, Oriel was in a state of apprehension that his legal adviser would require her presence in the witness box. This was exactly what the defence had in mind, but when the proposal was put to Nat it received negative response. ‘I won’t have her in court. If you force her I’ll find another lawyer.’ Yet his sentiment was not because he hoped to spare Oriel’s feelings – though in part he did – but more that he feared her testimony. ‘It would be useless to put her on the stand. She wouldn’t say a good word about me.’

  Thus, Bright knew nothing of her daughter’s part in the tragic affair, and when the case appeared in print after a few months of Nat being in custody, neither mother nor daughter commented on his twelve-month sentence, though each was well aware that the other must have seen it.

  With her quest for revenge well and truly fulfilled, Oriel should have felt triumphant; but she felt quite the opposite. The image of her father grieving for his dog had had a dramatic effect on her. He was not hard and callous after all, and to add to the pain of his loss she had mortally wounded him by her condemnation. He might have deserted her, but he was truly paying for it now.

  She fantasized about going to see him in gaol, knowing that in reality it would not be possible. In a token of amendment she continued her secretarial duties, adding many more to her list; banking the money which a big, stupid-looking man brought round every Friday, dealing with any bills so that her father would not be in any more trouble than he already was, and keeping a general eye on the scrapyard dealings, though she left the practical side of that to the men who worked there.

  Locked in his cell day after day, Nat fell into depression, for added to this incarceration was the awful knowledge that his daughter had wanted to ruin h
im. The little bitch! After all he had done to try and make things up to her. How could Bright have poisoned her mind so? To heap misfortune upon this tragedy he had learned that when his prison sentence was served he would be conscripted. Well, there were not many certainties at the moment but there was one thing of which he was sure; if, at the end of the war he was still alive, he was going to move away from York. What was there left for him now in that hateful and unforgiving place? Where his journey would take him he was not sure – maybe towards death, for at that moment he did not care if he lived or died. The only criterion of his new abode was that it must be as far away from England as he could make it.

  24

  ‘Noel!’ Oriel blinked, then started up an excited dance. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I can go back if I’m not welcome.’ The greatcoated doctor effected to turn on his heel.

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Oriel seized his arm and pulled him out of the cold damp evening. ‘Mother, it’s Noel!’ She danced ahead of him as he came down the hall and into the kitchen. It was Christmas Eve, and the room was suitably adorned with boughs of holly as it always had been at this time of year, though the poorly stocked fruitbowl was a sign of the times.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Bright!’

  She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him, then gave an embarrassed laugh, for she had never been so impulsive before. It was just the relief of seeing him alive. ‘Oh, you look…’

  ‘I know, half dead,’ joked Noel, and laid his hat plus a couple of parcels on the kitchen table. ‘I feel it.’

  ‘I was going to say wonderful!’ But she had to agree privately that Noel looked haggard. She took his greatcoat and hung it up. ‘Sit down by the fire. Oriel, get the kett – oh, you’ve got it on. Well, what a lovely Christmas present!’ She folded her arms across her fitted navy blue jacket and sat down on the edge of a chair to appraise him.