by Gloria Cook
‘You’re not expected to! And don’t you take that surly tone with me or I’ll get up and slap your face,’ Biddy bristled.
‘Like you do Delia’s?’ he fumed. ‘You and Sidney love to lay into her. She’s pregnant, for God’s sake! Do you want a dead woman and baby on your hands?’
‘What’s got into you? Why do you care? Jealous ’cause you can’t get a woman of your own? I know you listen in on your brother when he’s doing the dirty business with that little tart. Some people would call you a pervert for that.’
Tony clenched his fists, for one ugly moment he thought he would smash his mother across her hideous smirking face. He felt an urgent tugging at his shirt. Delia had come downstairs. ‘Here’s your crib bag, Tony. Go back to work. Leave us in peace,’ she cried, desperate for him not to cause any more trouble. He had let her down on his promise to start a new life in Penzance. He was shallow and weak, and she loathed him as much as she did the other Viants, although she was careful not to show it. She didn’t want Tony treating her badly too. Her life was barely worth living. She had gone to her parents and told them of her predicament and begged them to let her come back. They had refused. ‘You wouldn’t be told Sidney Viant was no good. You didn’t care about bringing disgrace to our door, so now you can get on with it. Don’t come here again.’
Now the old woman would tell Sidney about this latest set-to and he would be furious with her, as if it was all her fault. He was already suspicious there was ‘something going on’ between her and Tony. The other day he had grabbed her outside and pushed her against the privy wall. ‘What are you and my brother always whispering about?’
‘We’re not! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She had tried to wrench away the fingers he had tight around her throat.
‘Is he trying to bed you?’
‘Of course not. Please, Sidney, I can hardly breathe.’
‘You won’t be breathing at all, you bitch, if I find out you’re screwing him behind my back. I’ll kill you both, understand?’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’ He’d squeezed and she had choked, then screamed, ‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Make sure you keep clear of him. You’re my wife, don’t you ever forget it.’
Forget it? If she ever managed to get free of this terrible place she’d never forget for a moment how cruel everyone here was, and she’d never forgive them. She would make a run for it if she weren’t carrying a baby. No one would give her a job with a baby as part of the bargain. Her only option would be to become a prostitute and she’d rather be dead than sink down that far. She didn’t want this baby, certainly not Sidney’s baby. She hoped it would be born dead, for its own sake as much as her own. A child had no future in this family. It would be ill treated or grow up to inherit its father’s and grandmother’s cruel and heartless traits.
Tony took the canvas bag, his old Army bag, from her. ‘Peace? You won’t ever find any peace in this rotten place.’
‘If you don’t like it you know what you can do!’ Biddy shrieked, throwing her full ashtray at him. ‘You can pack your bags and leave. Not that you will, you’re too bleddy scared to strike out on your own.’
The tin ashtray struck Tony on the chest and ash and butts spilled down over his twill shirt. It didn’t hurt much but he was humiliated. ‘You bitch!’
‘Tony, stop it and go!’ Delia pulled on him.
‘You dare call me names?’ Biddy heaved her flabby hulk out of her chair. Then, picking up the poker from the fender, she lunged at Tony.
To protect himself he swung the crib bag at her as hard as he could. The blow sent Biddy hurtling back against the little black range. It was lit for bread making and a tin kettle was simmering on the top. Biddy screamed in agony as her spine hit the cast iron and scalding water from the kettle tipped all over her. Before she came to rest on the fender the side of her head struck the protruding door lift of the oven. She was still and silent, blood gushing from her temple.
Delia had screamed at the impact, but like Tony was now staring numb with disbelief. On wobbly feet she picked up the crib bag where it had landed across the room and put it on the table. She and Tony exchanged frightened glances. ‘Is she dead?’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know.’ He was white with terror. If his mother was dead he could be charged with murder and hang. There was only one thing he could do, make a run for it, and he wouldn’t be taking Delia to slow him down.
Two people burst into the house, a neighbouring housewife and the fishmonger not long pulled up in his van. ‘What’s happened?’ He thrust Tony out of the way. ‘We were outside and heard shouting and a crash. Then all went quiet. Did she hurt anyone? We were feared for the maid, she being pregnant. Oh, I see…’
Tony felt his insides turn to acid and water. He was in for it now.
The housewife, in pinny, curlers in the front of her hair, edged closer to the fireplace. She spied the fallen poker. ‘Coming at you with that, was she? That don’t surprise me. I’ve been saying to my husband for weeks that Biddy Viant is getting more ferocious with every passing day and she’ll end up trying to hurt someone. Take a fall, did she?’
As the fishmonger went to see if his mother had a pulse, Tony saw his chance. ‘That’s it, Mrs Peam. I came back for my crib bag and she was furious with me for forgetting it. She was bawling at both me and Delia for no good reason, threatening us with all sorts. I quarrelled with Mother and she was going to hit me with the poker. She was so mad she didn’t get her balance and down she went. She pulled the kettle over. Is she going to be all right, Mr Glasson?’
From his knees, the fishmonger said, ‘She’s breathing but I don’t think she’s too good. I’ll drive on to the doctor and get him to ring for an ambulance. Tony, get a wet towel and spread it over her scalds, and put another round her head to stop the bleeding, and grab that blanket over that chair to keep her warm. Mrs Peam, you’d better take young Mrs Viant into your house and give her some hot sweet tea. This is no place for a woman in her condition.’
‘I was thinking the same thing myself, Mr Glasson.’ Mrs Peam came towards Delia with sweeping hands. ‘You come along with me, my handsome. ’Tis a crying shame what you’ve had to put up with here. I’ve heard one or another shouting at you every day. I nearly got my eldest boy to go for the constable last night. I wish I had now.’
‘Wh-what about Sidney and Father-in-law? Shouldn’t they be told what’s happened?’ Delia whimpered, trembling, giving way to a flood of tears.
‘Never mind they,’ Mrs Peam said firmly. ‘Someone will send for them. You just worry about yourself and the baby.’
Delia took one more look at her crumpled mother-in-law. Her exposed flesh was red from the scalds. Blood was trickling from her temple. Die, you old witch. Die!
When the others had gone, Tony shut the door. His mind was deadly clear. He knew what he had to do and he must act swiftly. Once word got round onlookers would take the liberty of entering to help or gawp. If she made a full recovery she would make life even more hell. If she had suffered brain damage she would be an unbearable strain on resources. He wasn’t thinking of Delia, who would have to nurse her.
He did as Mr Glasson instructed, placing a wet towel over his mother’s body and then the scrap of crocheted blanket she had used to cover her knees. ‘You never loved me, Mother. You never loved any of us. I bet you didn’t even remember it’s Kate’s birthday today. You’re cruel and evil. Here’s your comeuppance.’
Carefully taking a light grip round her neck and chin, noting where the gash was on her temple, he let out a cry and drove her head against the exact same place on the oven door lift. He heard her skull splintering. There was a fresh outpouring of blood but he was careful none would be splashed on him. He wrapped the second towel round her head then held her against his chest as if supporting her.
A few seconds passed and he was aware his mother was no longer breathing. ‘Bye, bye,’ he whispered. ‘Good riddance.’ He had never d
ared to stand up to anyone in his life but he had dared to kill his mother. He felt victorious and brave. Now if only he could get his bullying brother out of his life things would be perfect.
Chapter Sixteen
Kate refused Jonny’s offer to help her mount for riding and used the hipping stock, climbing up to the top step. It was no easy feat with her odd-length legs and no hand rail, but now she was a year older she was determined to become more independent. She had adopted Cully, a dapple-grey young pony, as her own and went out on her most days.
She waited for Jonny to sit astride Tom’s brown mare, Star. ‘Shall we ride to Idless Woods?’
‘If you like, but how about wandering over Tremore land? You haven’t seen any of my father’s property.’ Jonny was admiring her in a crisp white blouse, trousers, and her hair in a snood. He hadn’t forgotten his camera.
‘OK, that would be nice.’
She felt light-hearted and rather important to be sat up high, trotting through the village with a member of the former local gentry. Jill had said to stay out as long as she liked, that it was her birthday and a day for doing things her own way – yet another wonderful new luxury to her. She was sure she would remember this day for the rest of her life.
Jonny led the way along the first narrow ribbon of Back Lane, then went off the road straight ahead on to a wide short track surrounded by fields. Kate saw the hedges were flooded with brambles and green berries, a blackberry feast here in a few weeks’ time. There was a stile beside the gate of the field directly in front of them. Leaning from the saddle, Jonny opened the gate and ushered Kate through into a field where his father’s pedigree shorthorn herd was grazing. They trotted through the field and several after that, weaving in and out of the lanes to reach the next fields where necessary. They cantered where there were no crops or beasts, riding up and down hills, taking in the views of lonely dwellings, the occasional deserted tumbledown cottage, and the village and other farms in the distance.
After an hour, Jonny said, ‘Thirsty? There’s a stream just ahead.’
‘I could do with a drink,’ she replied. Her cheeks were rosy-pink from the exhilarating exertion and she was pleasantly out of breath.
They were at the bottom of a fallow field where there was a predominance of hazel, an old neglected coppice in the shade of the woods. The hazel was a mass of straggling limbs from old stools that couldn’t be classed as trees. Kate was reminded of another of her old hurried pastimes, when she had collected hazelnuts in autumn and her mother had demanded she hand them all over, after she had cracked the shells first. A vivid scene from the nightmare she’d had last night was of her grandmother choking on hazelnuts. Why must she haunt her even on her birthday? Forget about it, she told herself, let nothing ruin today.
‘We’ll dismount here and walk,’ Jonny said. ‘It’s just a short way. I’d like to take some snaps to commemorate your birthday, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course it is. I’m the one who should be grateful to you.’
Before jumping down, he took a photograph from the mare of her on Cully, then another from the ground. He offered his hand to help her dismount. Such a tiny hand she had, warm and a little rough. She had grown in confidence and strength at an amazing rate since he’d known her. He towered over her. It was a meeting of a man and a maiden, of someone returning to his boyish spirit and a girl blossoming into a woman. He couldn’t help smiling at her and he loved it when he provoked a smile out of her in return. It was an enchanting reward. Her natural smiles were the essence of simplicity, of one who although kept cruelly a prisoner from the world was wonderfully unspoiled by its degradation.
‘You lead the way,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘To the stream. That’s where you said we were going.’ When he became strangely vague and seemed to be less sure of himself, she wondered why she had ever found him intimidating. She didn’t put him on a pedestal of glowing masculinity, or desire him or wish him for a husband, but saw him only as caring and ordinary. She thought now that there was no need to exalt people for any reason. They were either good or bad, some shining in integrity, others at the far end of the scale horribly dark with corruption.
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ To his dismay he actually found himself blushing. Kate affected him in ways no other woman could. She was so lovely, exquisite and enchanting. Sunlight shimmered on her hair, turning it to shades of copper and chestnut, and her eyes were like green oceans. Her gentle looks celebrated early womanhood at its best. She should have poetry written about her. Another new thing Jonny found, something a little unsettling, was how in her naiveté Kate might see aspects in him other women didn’t. The hero-god other women seemed to find totally bypassed her. On occasion she might see him as shallow and trite – she certainly had not liked it when he’d reprimanded Denny James during the haymaking. He would have to be careful never to betray her trust.
Taking the mare’s reins he started off and she brought Cully along at his side, until a natural opening in the woods was reached, where a billowing of crimson rosebay willowherb danced in the light breeze like flames. Butterflies were skimming from flower to flower. Jonny was caught up in excitement. ‘Perfect! I just have to take some photos of you here. Could you take off your snood and let your hair run free, Kate?’
Leaving Cully, Kate stood in front of the blaze of flowers, which tapered up to four feet high, with spirals of leaves all the way up the sturdy stems. ‘Do you want me sitting down?’
Jonny was thrilled at how ready she was to pose for him. ‘In a minute, my love.’ He snapped her facing him and in profile, and gazing in all directions. Then he started on some studies of her sitting in various positions. ‘Great. Thanks for your patience. Now let’s get that drink of water.’
They entered the ancient woods, on what was not exactly a bridle path but a track just wide enough for two riders. After a few yards, Jonny pointed to the side where the woodland floor began to drop in a gradual slope. ‘Down there. It’s not far.’
Passing under an awning of high beech and oak boughs through which the sun shone, casting a dappled shade over them, they went down to a small clearing, to the low bank of a tiny trickling stream. The sun shone hotly on the exposed thick carpet of grass in this almost magical place, the bank curving inward in one spot and forming a little pool before the crystal water chinkled on its way. ‘Oh, I love it here!’ Kate said.
‘I thought you would.’ Jonny hitched Cully and Star’s reins to a low branch.
He watched while Kate eased herself down on her knees and, leaning over the bank, cupped her hands to scoop up water. ‘Mmm, it’s cold and sweet.’ She gazed up at him.
Jonny was transfixed, with no thought of taking more pictures of her. He just wanted to feast his eyes on her and imprint these moments in his mind. He knelt beside her, and they both eased their thirst. He dried his hands on his shirt, then pulled it free from his waistband. ‘Here, use this. Don’t make yourself wet.’
She laughed. ‘Always the chivalrous one.’ She had heard Tilda refer to Mr Perry in this way and thought the description suited Jonny. He had so many nice ways.
‘That’s right.’ He let a deep smile linger on her. ‘I’m the knight in shining armour and you’re my lady.’
‘A maiden in distress, you mean.’
‘Not at all. You don’t look at all distressed now.’
‘I’m not. This is one of the best days of my life. It would be even better if there was good news about Miss Rothwell.’
‘I agree, but don’t think about anyone else for a while, Kate. Remember this time as perfect in a perfect place.’
‘It is.’ His eyes hadn’t left hers and, capturing his tranquil mood, she was mesmerized by him.
‘You’re perfect company, Kate.’
She smiled shyly and looked down. Compliments usually made her feel reticent but she had no idea there was a deeper meaning behind the one Jonny had just given her. She sat on the grass and gazed at th
e water.
Jonny did the same, very close to her. ‘Lean against me if you like.’
‘OK.’ Turning slightly side-on she rested her back against his arm. They stayed quiet, letting their minds float but conscious of the wildlife that teemed in the woodland. Rustles indicated mice or other small creeping creatures foraging for nuts, buds and insects. A wood pigeon cooed somewhere high in the trees, and chaffinches and a woodcock issued their own distinctive calls. There might be weasels, stoats, foxes, hedgehogs or shrews anywhere in the vicinity. Together they looked in the direction of the snap of a twig or followed an insect in flight. All the while the gentle song of the stream lulled them into a dreamy state. Jonny eased his arm away and wrapped it around Kate and she leaned against the side of his body, movements at that moment natural to both of them.
A plop near a weedy spot on the edge of the bank alerted them to a water vole, startled by something unknown, plunging into the water. The long, chestnut-coloured furry creature swam towards the bank on the opposite side.
‘Aren’t you going to take a picture of it?’ Kate whispered, unwilling to break the soothing tranquillity.
‘No,’ Jonny whispered into her ear. Then, holding her a little more snugly, ‘I’m happy to stay like this for the rest of the day.’
* * *
Slipping in and out of consciousness as the day wore on, Abbie knew she had to make a big effort to rouse someone to her plight before darkness fell. She was certain now that the Mitchells had absconded with her belongings and while she was in no danger from them, she could starve to death if she didn’t escape from the house. No doubt they had rented this badly neglected house and owed a lot of rent. The side of her face hurt. Putting a hand there she felt a lump and broken skin. She must have struck her face on one of the occasions she had passed out. Then she remembered looking about for a missile to throw at the window in the hope of breaking it and alerting the neighbours, praying they would call the police. There had been only one thing in the room she could use. She had stood by the bed – if she wasn’t so dizzy she would have climbed on to it – and thrown a bakelite ashtray at the window. Her arm weak, her aim had been poor. The ashtray had hit the window frame and bounced back and glanced off her face.
