by Jess Foley
Lydia looked down at the disgusting mess and, gasping, put a hand to her mouth. Whittier ignored her and stepped forward. Bending, he put out a hand and pushed the dog to the side. Then, with the same hand, he dug into the vomit, fingers stirring, and held up a dripping gout of flesh and sheep’s wool.
‘There you are, missis. If you wants proof, there it is.’
Lydia said, ‘What? What?’ and the man held out his hand with the mess on the ends of his fingers.
‘Sheep wool, for God’s sake! Can’t you see?’
She had no time to debate the matter, however, or even to comment upon it, for Whittier turned on the spot and moved back across the yard to his horse. Another five seconds and he had taken a shotgun from a strap on the horse’s side and was striding back. Lydia’s mouth opened and she gasped in horror as the man stooped and hooked two fingers under Tinny’s collar, dragging the dog away.
‘No!’ Lydia cried. ‘No! What are you doing?’ She went to reach out to the man but he was too quick for her and in moments he had taken Tinny out of her sight around the end of the house. Quickly she followed.
Seeing what he was intent on doing she cried out, ‘Oh, Mr Whittier, please! Whatever he’s done I’ll make sure it never happens again.’ She was weeping, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I’ll make sure he’s never let out of the house on his own. Please.’
Whittier took no notice of her, but released the dog and gave it a sharp command to sit. Obediently the dog did so. They were out of sight of the scullery door now, and hidden from the windows of the house and the yard by a little screen of privet hedge. Whittier said to Lydia, ‘If you don’t want to watch this, missis, I suggest you go into the’ ouse.’
As he cocked the shotgun, Lydia said, ‘Oh, no, wait – wait. You can’t do this. Please, God, you can’t.’
‘I’m within my rights,’ he said, and raised the weapon to his shoulder and pointed it at the back of Tinny’s trusting skull.
Lydia had no further time to speak for the next second the trigger was pulled and the gun fired. The sound of the shot, deafening and exploding into the soft spring air, rang out, echoing and re-echoing, and then swiftly diminished into a stillness in which all sound was hushed. Just as the birds stopped their singing, so Lydia’s own breath was stilled.
The shot had shattered the dog’s head, blasting it apart and splattering blood and brains and bone over the earth and the cobbles. Tinny dropped on the spot. His legs twitched and trembled for a second and then he was still.
Lydia heard screams erupting into the quiet and realised that the sound was coming from her own lips. She stood with her mouth wide open, hands clutching at her face, and tears streaming. Whittier said to her with a little nod of his head, ‘I’m sorry about this, missis, but there’s nothin’ else for it. It’ as to be.’
Lydia barely heard his words, and as she stood gazing down through her splayed fingers at the corpse of Tinny, the man moved back across the yard to where his horse stood waiting. In moments he had replaced his shotgun in its holster, had swung up into the saddle and was riding away.
As she stood there while the sound of the horse’s hooves faded on the air, she was aware of Mrs Starling coming hurrying to her side.
‘Good heavens, ma’am, what’s happened?’ Mrs Starling cried, and looking past Lydia’s shoulder saw the body of the dog. She gave a little cry, and then there too were Alice and Ellen, their anxious faces peering around the scullery door. ‘What’s happened, ma’am?’ Ellen said. ‘There was such a loud bang, and Davie woke up.’
‘Where is he?’ Lydia said. ‘He mustn’t come down here.’
‘He’s still upstairs, ma’am.’
‘Let him stay there,’ Lydia said breathlessly. ‘Make sure he stays.’ She paused. ‘Please, Ellen – Alice – go on now.’
As the two young women turned back into the scullery, there came the sound of hooves and carriage wheels, and the next moment the trap came up the drive and into the yard, Alfred at the reins. Lydia turned to Mrs Starling and said quickly, ‘Please – will you go into the house –’ and the woman at once went inside.
Lydia turned to the trap as it came to a halt, and ran to Alfred as he climbed down. ‘Alfred, Alfred . . .’
‘Good God,’ he said, frowning at her. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘It’s Tinny. It’s Tinny.’ She snatched at his hand and pulled at him, drawing him across the cobbles, until he came to a halt and saw the dreadful thing that lay there.
‘What – what happened?’ His voice was hoarse, he could barely get the words out.
‘It was – Mr Whittier. He –’
‘Whittier?’ he broke in. ‘He did this?’
‘Yes. He came here. Just a few minutes ago. He said – he said Tinny had been worrying his sheep. He – he brought his gun with him.’
Heedless of his clothes, Alfred fell on his knees beside the dead animal, murmuring, ‘Tinny . . . Tinny . . .’ and through her own wet lashes Lydia saw the tears starting down his cheeks.
‘He killed my dog!’ Alfred moaned. ‘He killed my dog. Tinny! Oh, Tinny!’ With both hands supporting him on the ground, he struggled to his feet and turned on the spot. ‘Whittier – he killed my dog.’
He turned again, full circle, as if lost, and then lurched towards the horse and trap. Lydia watched him stagger across the yard and then ran after him.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To see Whittier,’ he said, almost choking on the words. ‘He killed my dog. He killed my dog.’
Lydia had never seen such passion in him before. His tear-filled eyes were blazing in his pale face, his mouth stretched back over his teeth. He looked wild. She could not allow him to go to see Mr Whittier in such a state. ‘Alfred, no,’ she said. ‘Please don’t. Please don’t go.’
‘What are you talking about! Of course I’m going. He killed my dog.’ He reached out to the cob’s reins. ‘You expect me to stay here when this has happened?’
Lydia opened her mouth to speak again, but no words came, for he suddenly gasped and clutched at his chest.
‘Alfred,’ she cried. ‘Alfred, what is it?’
He could not speak. His mouth opened wider in a grimace of pain and he gave out a strangulated cry. At the same time his hands continued to scrabble at his chest, as if he would tear out his heart.
‘Alfred!’
He gave no sign of hearing her, and as she reached out to him his legs gave way beneath him and he crumpled. As he fell, the horse gave a whinny and anxiously stabbed at the ground. Lydia fell to her knees and put out her arms. ‘Alfred – oh, my dear!’
His face was grey, and she watched in horror as his eyes rolled up in his head. ‘Help me,’ he murmured through his drawn-back lips. ‘Help me indoors.’
Mrs Starling joined Lydia in helping Alfred into the house and onto the sofa in the drawing room, where he lay propped up on two pillows, a tartan rug laid over him. Mr Clifford, the handyman-gardener, was then sent straightaway to Dr Norman to ask him to come as quickly as he could. He returned saying that the doctor was out on a call, but was expected back very soon; the doctor’s wife would give him the message, and he would be along as soon as possible. The errand complete, Mr Clifford was asked to take care of the burial of Tinny’s body.
Dr Norman arrived just twenty minutes later, and found Alfred a little improved and in far less pain, though he still seemed to find it difficult to get his breath.
Alfred’s sudden illness was, as Lydia and Alfred had been sure, due to a heart condition, and the doctor confirmed it and said he was lucky to be alive. Whether the seizure had been brought on by the shock and stress connected with the dog’s death, the doctor could not say. It was probable, he said, but obviously the attack could have come at any time. He stood beside the sofa, looking down at Alfred as he lay grey-faced beneath the rug, and said he must have no excitement, and no strain, physical or otherwise, and that rest was the only treatment. Further, from now on, he said, Mr Canbrook must thin
k about making changes to his lifestyle, for another attack could be brought on with the least exertion.
When the doctor had left, saying that he would call again the following day, Alfred said to Lydia that he would like to see Davie for a minute.
‘He’s been wanting to see you,’ she said. ‘He’s very subdued with all the comings and goings.’
‘What about Tinny?’ Alfred said. ‘Is Mr Clifford taking care of him? We don’t want Davie to see him lying there. He’d never get over it.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Lydia said. ‘Mrs Starling’s had a word with Mr Clifford. I believe he’s doing it now.’
‘Where’s he putting him?’
‘Somewhere at the bottom of the orchard, I believe. Well out of the way.’
Alfred nodded sadly. ‘You’ll have to make up some story about Tinny. For Davie, I mean. You can’t possibly tell him the truth.’
‘No, of course not.’
A moment of silence, then Alfred said, ‘I’d like to see Davie now, please.’
‘I’ll go and fetch him.’
Davie had been kept up in the nursery out of the way, and as soon as Lydia went into the room he ran towards her.
‘Has the doctor gone, Mammy?’
Lydia could hear the sound of his cold in his voice. ‘Yes, dear,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Is Pappy better now?’
‘Well, he’s a little better than he was.’
‘Can I see him? Please?’
‘I came to fetch you. He wants you to go to him in the drawing room.’
Together they went downstairs. In the hall Lydia whispered to the boy, ‘You mustn’t tire him, dear. He’s still very ill. Don’t stay with him too long, will you?’
‘All right.’
‘And walk into the room, don’t run.’
‘All right.’
Lydia followed him and stood off to the side as the boy moved to the couch. Alfred patted the edge of the seat, and Davie, ignoring the small chair that had been placed for him, sat on the cushion close to Alfred. Alfred laid his hand on the boy’s as it rested on the tartan rug that covered him. ‘I’m sorry you’ve got to see me like this,’ he said.
‘Mammy said you’re feeling a bit better than you were.’
‘I am, dear, a little better, and let’s hope I get better still.’
‘Yes.’ There was a restraint, a shyness about Davie. He had never seen Alfred really sick before, and he did not know how to cope with such a thing.
‘But one thing,’ Alfred said, ‘I don’t think I shall ever be as well as I was.’
Sudden alarm showed in Davie’s face. ‘Oh, Pappy . . .’
‘I know, dear, but sadly that’s the way it is, and if – if I can’t always do what I want to do, I hope you’ll help me, will you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And help your mammy if she needs it, will you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And help look after her?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a good boy.’ He pressed Davie’s warm hand. ‘You are a good boy.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, you are. You’re a credit to me. You have been since the moment you were born.’
‘Have I?’ Davie smiled at this.
‘You have indeed, and I’m sure you’ll go on being so.’ A pause. ‘How is your cold?’
Davie gave a tentative sniff, as if trying it out. ‘It’s feeling better.’
‘Good. You’ll soon be over it.’ A little moment of silence passed, then Alfred touched the boy on the cheek and said, ‘I love you, son.’
Davie looked a little taken aback. Then he said, ‘I love you too, Pappy.’
Alfred grinned. ‘Well, that’s all we need to know, then, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Davie?’ Then he added, making light of it, going into Mr Williams’s swooping Welsh accent, ‘Oh, Davie-wavie, indeed to goodness, look you, bach.’ He laughed and the boy laughed along with him, and Lydia too.
‘I think now,’ Alfred said, ‘that you’d better go on back to Miss Ellen for a while. I want to have a little word with Mammy.’
‘All right.’
As Davie turned away, Alfred said quickly, ‘Kiss me first.’
Davie turned back and stretched out his neck and kissed Alfred on the cheek. Alfred raised his arms and wrapped them around him, drawing the boy to him. He held him tight like that for two or three moments and then released him. ‘All right. Off you go.’
Davie went out of the room and into the hall, and Alfred and Lydia watched him go. When the sound of the boy’s footfalls had faded on the stairs Alfred gave a nod towards the door. ‘Close it, will you, please?’
Lydia moved across the room and closed the door, then stepped back to the sofa. Alfred gestured towards the chair. ‘Pull that a little closer, will you?’ She did as she was asked and sat down, near enough for him to reach out and take her hands in his. Outside the open window in the cherry tree a blackbird was singing fit to burst its breast.
Alfred frowned, his mouth briefly moving as if he searched for words. Then he said, ‘I want to say something. Something important . . .’
A little afraid, Lydia could feel a tightening in her chest and the pounding of her heart. She knew why he was speaking like this, why he had spoken as he had to the boy. Mistakenly she tried to make light of the moment and said smiling, ‘Oh, Alfred, we’ve never been so serious before.’
‘Well, it’s a serious business,’ he said, his own smile grave. The blackbird’s song went on. ‘Listen to me.’ Alfred’s words were clipped, almost brusque, as if he was controlling his voice. ‘I want to tell you, Lydia,’ he said, ‘you’ve been the best wife to me.’
‘Oh, Alfred –’
‘You have.’ He smiled again. ‘I always wanted you, you know. I’ve told you that. Right from the time you came into the shop with your mother and there was the business with the bee. I never dreamed of course that one day I would have you, that you would be mine, but you were – and I thank heaven it happened. Thank you. For everything.’
‘Alfred, please, I don’t –’
‘No, don’t stop me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to say these things. We know what the situation is, and if I put it off now there might not be another time. I don’t need to explain things to you; you know the situation as well as I do. You do, don’t you?’
She said nothing.
‘Lydia . . .’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Now, listen,’ he went on, and flicked a glance over towards the door, as if checking that they would not be overheard. ‘I know about Davie.’
‘You – ? What do you mean?’
‘I know whose son he is.’
She did not know what to say and she said nothing. The blackbird sang on, but sang unheard by them in the room.
‘As soon as I saw them together, I knew,’ Alfred said. ‘Mr Anderson, in the shop. There he was, standing with Davie – and I could see the child in the man’s face. Indeed in so much in him. No casual observer would have seen it – but they wouldn’t have been on the lookout. I saw it at once.’
Lydia’s silence gave him the confirmation of his words, and he gave a little nod. ‘I knew I was right. I never doubted it.’
‘I – I never asked him to come,’ Lydia said. ‘When he came into the shop that day I was not expecting him.’
‘I never thought you were,’ he said. ‘No, never. Seeing you together, you and the man – I knew that, too, and I could see how awkward it was for you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have had it happen for anything.’
‘I know that.’
‘But let me say, Alfred,’ she said quickly, ‘he’ll never come back.’
He frowned and gave a little shake of his head. ‘You don’t have to give me such reassurances. I’m not asking you anything about it – about the two of you, I mean – but I want you to promise me one thing . . .’
‘Yes . . . ? Wha
tever I can.’
‘If anything should happen to me I –’
She broke in, saying, ‘Alfred –’ but he lifted his hand from hers, palm out, and she fell silent again.
‘If anything should happen to me,’ he said again, laying his hand once more on her own, ‘I would want you to build a new life for yourself and our son.’
She nodded.
‘You’re an intelligent woman, and you’ve been a good wife, and you’re a good mother. You would have to marry again, in time.’
‘Alfred, this is no time to talk of such things –’
‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘you’re wrong; this is exactly the time to speak of such things, and I mean it. I’m very serious in this, and I don’t want to say it again. I want you to be happy – with whoever would make you happy. I wouldn’t want to think of you shutting yourself away, languishing in some everlasting period of mourning out of some mistaken sense of loyalty and propriety. You’re young, and you have a long life ahead of you. You must make the most of it – and with my blessing – and I would like my boy to have a good father. A child needs a father. A good father. Do you understand?’
‘Alfred –’
‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’ll say no more on the matter.’
Silence fell between them, and in the quiet Alfred caught the singing of the blackbird. ‘Listen to that,’ he said, shaking his head in wonder. ‘What a sound.’
‘Yes.’
Alfred lay still, for some moments just listening to the bird, then he said, ‘I didn’t know what was happening, you know.’
‘What do you mean? When?’
‘When I had that attack. It was as if I went into a – a place. Some strange place. A dark place. A tunnel, or a room, or something, but dark, very dark. Then suddenly there was – some light. Just a little light, but it opened out, and out, and then I was in the daylight again, and you were there.’
She felt his hands press hers.
‘I don’t mind saying,’ he said, ‘that I was relieved, so relieved – to find you there.’ He smiled. ‘Just as I always have been.’
A little before ten o’clock that night Alfred had another seizure. He was in his bed, and Lydia was beside him as he writhed in pain and clutched at his chest, but this time, when he went into the dark place, he did not re-emerge into the light.
