The Mark of Cain

by Lindsey Barraclough

“Er — terrible sore throat, Mr. Gurney. Is — is Dad there today?”

  “Funnily enough, he’s just on the other side of the counter ’aving a pint of brown ale. I’ll get ’im to come round.”

  A few seconds later: “Cora? Are you all right?”

  I can’t speak for a moment, have to swallow.

  “Dad — please come home.”

  “What’s the matter? Why are you whispering?”

  I turn and glance at the sitting-room door, then breathe into the receiver. “Ange is asleep. I — I don’t want her to hear me.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong?”

  I bite my lip. “There — there’s something not right about her.”

  “Come on, love, she’s only been there a week. You’ve got to give her a chance to settle in, get used to things. We’ve all got to learn to give and take a bit. I shouldn’t have had a go at her on Sunday. She was only doing her best.”

  “No, no, it’s not that, Dad. Please, please could you send her away, find somebody else — please, and quickly. I’ll tell you when you come home. Please come back.”

  I can hear the irritation in the few seconds of silence, then he laughs.

  “Has she been chasing you around the kitchen with the bread knife?”

  “Please, Dad. Don’t leave us alone with her.”

  A few more seconds. I don’t know whether he is concerned or cross.

  “All right, love.” He sighs. “I’ll get there as soon as I can. Cheerio.”

  “Cheerio.”

  As I replace the receiver gently in its cradle, I hear the creak of the settee from the sitting room. A wisp of icy air moves across the back of my neck.

  We clutch close the scarred man’s shirt, stroke one of the sleeves all along its length, lift the cuff, and let it fall gracefully down. We feel deep in the pocket of our apron and draw out the bloodstone, rest it on the palm of our thin hand. It glints along one edge as it catches the glow from the red embers of the dying fire.

  Mum and Dad are going to the Cricket Dinner and Dance at the Grand Palace Hotel in Wrayness and Dad will bring home the big silver cup for the best bowler, like he does every year.

  I sit at the kitchen table with Sorrel and Brassock’s County Records, trying to read Appendix C: Letters of Katherine Myldmaye to her sister, Mary …

  Auntie Barbara comes round.

  “You’re in the way there, Roger,” says Mum. “Can’t you go somewhere else with that great big book?”

  She makes a pot of tea, then they give each other a shampoo over the kitchen sink, followed by a giggly set at the table, before disappearing into the bedroom, their heads bristling with curlers. I spread the book out again, but when it gets to quarter past six, Dad comes in, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, to polish his already gleaming shoes. Every thirty seconds or so he either looks up at the clock or checks his watch.

  “How long can it take to stick a bit of powder on?” he mutters. “Don’t even know if the car will get to Wrayness in this weather. We can’t rush on icy roads.”

  Mum and Auntie Barbara emerge, fur stoles draped around their shoulders, all rustling skirts and clicking heels.

  “About ruddy time,” cries Dad, rushing into the bedroom and coming out three minutes later in his dinner jacket, doing up his bow tie and trying to smooth back his fringe.

  “Who’s had my flamin’ hair tonic?” he yells. “The ruddy bottle’s empty.”

  Uncle Jim parps the horn of his smart Consul Cortina out in the road.

  “Don’t forget to keep the fire banked up, Roger.” Mum smiles, kissing my cheek. “And remember I’m relying on you to stop Dennis having a go at Terry.”

  They bustle out of the front door. Dad, a stray lock dangling over his forehead, holds out his elbows for Mum and Auntie Barbara. Their new curls lift in the chilly wind as they edge their way across the veranda boards and down the slippery steps in their strappy silver shoes. The cold draught from the briefly opened door pervades every corner, as does the sickly reek of setting lotion, nail varnish, hair lacquer, and Old Spice.

  I try and go back to the book, but the telephone rings.

  For one silly moment I think it might be Cora — hope, really, if I’m honest — but it’s Phil Chisholm.

  “Hello, Jotters,” he shouts down the line. “Webley, Parker, and me are going to the James Bond. Eight o’clock in Daneflete. You coming?”

  “Hang on a minute,” I say, putting my hand over the mouthpiece. Dennis and Terry are jostling each other through the kitchen door. “Where’s Pete?” I ask them.

  “Doing his hair,” says Dennis. “You know, for that Gillian Swinburne. Woo-woo!”

  “Gillian Swinburne? What are you going on about — Gillian Swinburne?”

  “He was waiting for Mum and Dad to go out. He’s meeting her up at the bus stop. They’re going to see Dr. No at the pictures.”

  “What? He can’t be!”

  “He is.”

  I take my hand off the mouthpiece. “You wouldn’t flippin’ well believe it, Phil. Pete’s going to the same showing, so it’s muggins here doing the flaming babysitting again.”

  “Isn’t Dennis old enough to do the honours?”

  “Oh, yes, if he was normal, but Mum doesn’t trust him an inch with Terry. She’s worried one thump and Terry’s new glasses will go west.”

  “Really sorry, mate.”

  “Not half as sorry as me. Look, if you see Pete at the film, stick your leg out and trip him up the aisle for me — preferably when he’s carrying an ice cream so it goes all over Gillian Swinburne and he’ll look a right bonce.”

  I hear a low whistle.

  “Gillian Swinburne? Lucky ruddy sod,” says Phil. “We’ve got Webley’s skinny sister, Sheila, trolling along. Turn your back for a minute and she’ll have disappeared down a drain.”

  “See you, mate,” I say quickly, hanging up.

  Gillian Swinburne — one of the Young Farmers and Young Conservatives set — lives in a huge house in North Fairing, set back with an in-and-out drive, a paddock, and a sun lounge. When did Pete ever get within a ten-foot range of her? And does she know he’s only fourteen?

  “How’s he got the money to take her to the pictures?” I ask Dennis, still stunned.

  “Cleaned the car two weeks running, and Uncle Jim’s,” says Dennis. “He’s got nearly ten bob. Her dad’s something in the county rugby.”

  “Flippin’ heck, how the hell do you know all this?”

  “I saw them round the back of Ferguson’s farm in the snow, all smoochy-coochy. Pete said he’ll give me sixpence every week if I don’t tell Mum and Dad. I’ll take it for two weeks, then make him put it up to a shilling. Here he comes. Woo-woo!”

  Pete struts in wearing a button-down collar, his birthday tie from Grandma, Dad’s sports jacket, and his hair slicked back with the missing tonic. Even though the jacket’s more than a tad gappy around the chest, and the tie’s a bit snazzy for my taste, Pete could put on a potato sack and still look like one of those French film stars who have lazy picnics all day in blazing-hot cornfields with Brigitte Bardot.

  “What a nerve,” I say, irritated. “Fancy having the cheek to ask Gillian Swinburne to the pictures.”

  “You’re only jealous, mate,” he says, buffing his fingernails on Dad’s lapel. “Anyway, we might not go to the pictures; I might take her to the Thin Man.”

  “What? They won’t let you in.”

  “Been in before.”

  “Crikey, the landlord must be half blind. You’re way under age.”

  “Tell you, I’ve been in. He didn’t bat an eyelid. Had a shandy.”

  He saunters off into the hall for his mac.

  “Close your mouth, Roger,” says Dennis.

  “Make sure you get back before Mum and Dad,” I call after Pete, “or you’ll be in big trouble, specially wearing his jacket. Don’t go spilling lemonade on it!”

  “Ha ha with brass knobs on.”

  Irritated, I go into
the sitting room, spread myself out on the settee with the Sorrel and Brassock’s.

  Pam comes in with Noddy Gets into Trouble and pushes it under my nose. “Read this, Roger?”

  “I’m trying to read this one.”

  She glances over and is unimpressed. “It’s got no pictures. Read this, please.”

  As Pete swaggers off down Fieldpath Road for his assignation with Gillian Swinburne, trailing clouds of pointless aftershave, I am on the settee with Pam tucked under my arm, reading Noddy and sharing her dolly mixtures. I can’t believe I’m actually shuffling through the bag for the jellies. Terry and Dennis lie on the rug in front of the fire, chins resting on hands, gazing up at Dixon of Dock Green.

  For some reason Pete going off starts me thinking about Cora — again; about us walking back tipsy from Mr. Thorston’s. I begin to feel the heat of a blush again. What on earth used to fill up all that empty space in my head before Cora did?

  “Roger, you did Mr. Plod wrong,” Pam mumbles, her mouth stuffed with sweets. “You just did Big Ears talking, but it’s Mr. Plod.”

  “Sorry.”

  The lights go out. PC Dixon disappears into a small white dot, then a blank screen.

  “Awwwwwww!”

  “Is it a fuse?”

  I get up and pull the curtain aside. The windows of the new bungalows are black.

  “Looks like a power cut.”

  “Let’s put the radio on, then,” says Terry.

  “Stupid bonce, there’s no flippin’ electricity, is there,” says Dennis, thumping him. “I know — let’s play Murder in the Dark.”

  “Not a chance,” I say. “When you were the murderer last time, it very nearly happened. Terry, go and get the candles and matches. They’re under the sink.”

  “I want to go in the kitchen in the dark,” Pam says, excited.

  “Go together, then.”

  When Terry and Pam have gone, Dennis says something I would never have expected.

  “Why don’t you take that Cora to the pictures, Roger?”

  “What?”

  “She’s got nice hair, when it’s brushed.”

  I shift uncomfortably, glad Dennis can’t see much of my face in the firelight.

  “It would spoil everything, mate,” I say. “We — we wouldn’t be friends anymore.” I sink down into the settee.

  “Don’t know what you mean,” Dennis says. “You’re not supposed to be friends with girls. I’m taking that Maureen in the new bungalows to the bazaar next Saturday.”

  “What? The bazaar?”

  “In the Scout Hut.”

  “I know where the flippin’ bazaar is.”

  “I’ll buy her a cake, or something nice from the bric-a-brac. I’m all set. I’ve already asked Pete about the kissing thing.”

  “What!?”

  “You know, making sure you don’t miss or your nose doesn’t get in the way, and I’ve given up spring onions so I don’t taste horrible —”

  Thank God, before Dennis can say any more, Terry brings in the candles, and Pam comes through the door holding the lighted torch under her chin so it sends spooky shadows up her face.

  “Woooo! We’re in Miss Monkey’s house in the night,” she says, climbing back up beside me. She shines the fat beam over the book and jabs a page with her finger. “We were here, Roger,” she says.

  It all seems so easy to Dennis, and the truth is, it was a lot easier four years ago. Cora and I are not at the best age to be meeting up again.

  “You done it again, Roger,” says Pam. “That’s supposed to be Tessie Bear talking and you just did Mr. Wobbly Man.”

  Dad’s gone over to Grandma’s. Her pipes are up the spout.

  There’s a funny atmosphere. I’m at the side table in the sitting room doing my homework, and Mum’s hardly talking to me. Maybe she’s just tired after her night out at the Cricket Dinner and Dance.

  Or perhaps it’s me.

  It was so unsettling, reading Cora’s book in bed by torchlight, and being thrown back into the horrors of the past. I finished Katherine Myldmaye’s letters, but they conjured up too many remembered nightmares, and a host of new ones that insisted on breaking into my uneasy sleep.

  Pete came back after midnight, clattered noisily around the bedroom in the dark, describing Ursula Andress from every possible angle, then shutting up and leaping into bed when Mum and Dad came back. They were creeping around so as not to wake us, but really, they might just as well have done the hokey-cokey up and down the hall.

  The telephone rings. I don’t even bother to look up from my chemistry. It’s bound to be Gillian Swinburne, inviting Pete for evening cocktails or croquet on the lawn. He swaggers off into the hall, smoothing his hair. I hear him pick up the receiver, then say, unable to hide his surprise, “Oh — yes, he’s here. Just a minute and I’ll get him.”

  Not Gillian Swinburne, then; probably Maureen in the new bungalows ringing for Dennis — the unkindest cut of all.

  “Roger, it’s Cora!”

  I’m so amazed, the nib of my pen catches in the paper and makes a blot. I try not to get up too quickly, turn a page over, turn it back, saunter through the doorway, all for Pete’s benefit. Don’t want him thinking I’m too keen or anything.

  He holds out the phone and hovers.

  “Hello, er, Cora?” I say.

  “Roger, is that you?” she hisses.

  “Push off, mate,” I say to Pete.

  “What?” says Cora.

  “Sorry, not you.”

  Terry appears and asks me if I’ve got a pencil he can lend.

  “Borrow, not lend,” I say, “and ask Pete, for heaven’s sake — you know, the one standing there with his ears flapping. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Pardon?” says Cora.

  “I’m sorry. It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here.”

  “Sorry …”

  There’s a click and the burr of an empty line.

  “Cora? Are you there?”

  Irritated, I shove the phone back down, grab my coat off the peg, and get Cora’s big book from the foot of my bed. I take it into the kitchen, where Mum and Pam are making jam tarts — at least, Mum’s rolling out the pastry and Pam’s mouth is ringed with jam — and balance it on the corner of the table while I start to put on my boots by the back door.

  “Where are you going, Roger?” says Mum. “What about your homework?”

  “Just out, won’t be long.” I do up my coat buttons. “Have you seen my gloves?”

  “Are — are you going down to Guerdon Hall?”

  “Does it matter where I’m going?”

  “Pam, go and play,” says Mum.

  “I am playing,” she says.

  “In your bedroom.” Mum pushes her through the door.

  “What on earth’s wrong?” I say, spotting my gloves on the airer and pulling them down.

  “You — you can’t neglect your studies, Roger. You’ve got exams in January.”

  “Oh, come on, Mum — you know I’ll do it when I get back. What’s all this about?”

  She pushes a drooping wave behind her ear, streaking it with flour, then looks right at me. “You were with Cora when you got drunk last week, weren’t you?”

  “What? I was hardly drunk — just a bit tipsy, that’s all.”

  “Mrs. Mount in the new bungalows said at the Cricket Dinner last night, in a voice so loud it stopped everyone talking, that she was shocked to see you and a girl staggering up Fieldpath Road, drunk — in broad daylight. I didn’t know where to look. Your dad tried to make a joke of it, but I — I was so embarrassed… .”

  “I was hardly staggering, and Cora definitely wasn’t — I don’t think so, anyway. It was only a bit of mead we’d had by mistake —”

  “Mistake!”

  I put on a whiny old woman’s voice. “Ooh — drunk, in broad daylight! Would the nosy old bat have minded so much if we’d been tottering up the road in the dark?”

  “Roger! I’ve never heard you ta
lk like that!”

  I pull down my hat, trying to swallow the bubbling anger.

  “And …” Mum goes on.

  “And what?”

  “I didn’t want to say this” — her voice rises — “but you know Cora’s father has … has women living there, women he’s not married to, one after the other — brings them down from London —”

  “Mum, you don’t know anything about it.”

  “I do. They were all talking about it last night, at the Cricket Dinner.”

  “That’s so flippin’ unfair. You’ve always liked Cora — you were so kind letting her and Mimi stay here the other night. I can’t believe you’re saying all this. Sounds like nobody ate a blimmin’ thing at the Cricket Dinner, just sat around gossiping the whole time.”

  “Don’t be so rude, Roger. And — and I do like Cora, but I don’t want you to go down there. God knows what’s going on — drink and — and God knows what!”

  “We didn’t drink down there!” I grab Cora’s book off the table and pull open the door.

  “What?”

  I realize how bad that must have sounded but storm out regardless, slam the door behind me, angrily brush some flour off the book, and tramp across the veranda and down the steps, still frosty from the morning.

  As I stride down Fieldpath Road, my heart’s going like the clappers. I can’t believe I just shouted at Mum.

  I’ll be in dreadful trouble when I get home; she’ll tell Dad all about it when he comes back from fixing Grandma’s plumbing. And it’s not fair I’m getting all this stick, when it’s Pete who should be the one in trouble for sneaking off with Gillian Swinburne in Dad’s best sports jacket. Then I think, even if they did find out, they wouldn’t give two hoots anyway. After all, Gillian Swinburne’s in the Young Farmers and speaks as if she’s swallowed a whole bag of plums.

  I bet when the Swinburnes get drunk, it’s inside where nobody can see.

  And to cap it all, it’s so blinking chilly. I pull up my collar around my scarf, tug down my hat so I can just see out from under it, and plod on.

  Still brooding, Mimi is holed up in our bedroom, and along the landing Ange is fast asleep in hers, so I grab the moment to get some wood to heat the freezing house. Outside, the cold chills the breath in my throat as I crunch across the frozen puddles in the old farmyard and go into the barn.