Blind Beauty

by K. M. Peyton

Myra looked shocked. “Do I? Leave him? Don’t be so silly! What a thing to say!”

  Maurice had made her stupid too. He was always doing her down, sapping her confidence. Once she had overflowed with confidence. One thing Tessa knew, Maurice wasn’t going to change her.

  She felt sick, heading for Goldlands. It was May and the hedges were bright with flowers, the white hawthorn blossom just beginning to break. After a shower of rain, its pungent scent filled the lanes. Over the downs a blue-black cloud lay as if to part the shining grass from the blue sky above. White cumulus sailed along before the wind, high and ever-changing. Weather delighted Tessa, even rain and snow. There were times, if you were really down, you could get put right by enjoying the weather: the wind and the wildness – know that there was life beyond your own bad spot. She seemed to have had a lot of bad spots in her life.

  “Is he home?”

  “No. Not till tonight. He’s gone racing.”

  Myra had always loved racing.

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “He didn’t ask me, darling. Besides, you were coming.”

  But Tessa knew he never took her. And if he had asked her, Myra would have gone, whether Tessa was coming or not. Tessa was used to knowing things that were never actually said.

  “I don’t know why he goes; it never seems to make him happy,” Tessa said. She could still remember whooping times with Declan at the races, when he had tossed her in the air with joy when the right horse won. Maurice always seemed to have a face like thunder when he went racing.

  “He has to win,” Myra said. “He races not because he loves the horses, but to win. To make money.”

  “How boring,” Tessa said in her put-down way.

  Myra tossed her coiffed head in annoyance but said nothing. Perhaps she too remembered what fun it had been with Declan.

  Maurice made a lot of money and liked it to be noticed. His cars had swanky number-plates and were white with red leather interiors, and had tinted windows as if he were a pop star. And Goldlands… Tessa looked with loathing as the car left the lane and turned in at the electronic entrance gates. Such grandeur! A golden stone wall replaced the cheerful hedge, as expensive a wall as ever was built – for what? Tessa wondered. To impress the neighbours? The driveway went over a slight rise, with mown grass on either side, and over the rise one came upon the front of a large, brash modern house. Behind the house the land fell away into a wide valley, and the view from the back was magnificent – of rolling downs and woods. Tessa knew that Maurice had bought the land from a bankrupt farmer, and owned the whole valley. Much of the farmland was tenanted out and Maurice had no power to evict his tenants, but how much they welcomed their new owner Tessa did not know. From Betty’s gossip, she knew that they thought him ignorant of farming and they feared for their good relations. Maurice Morrison-Pleydell was a developer and thought of land in terms of golf-courses, supermarket sites and holiday complexes – not a happy omen for the men whose lives were in his land. The former landowner had been an old farmer whose family had owned the place since Tudor times. He had rashly speculated and lost all he owned in the Lloyds disaster. His home, known as the Home Farm, lay abandoned behind a screen of trees some half a mile from Goldlands, the barns and milking parlours now deserted and the house empty. Maurice left it empty – “I don’t want neighbours as close as that” – and didn’t care about the lovely old house rotting away. He didn’t like old buildings.

  Tessa’s only consolation at Goldlands was playing in the old buildings, because they had the homely run-down feel of her old Irish home. She had asked for a pony to keep there, but Maurice had refused. Who was going to look after it when she was at school? Myra offered gladly but Maurice said he didn’t want his wife mucking out and smelling of manure.

  “George could do it,” Tessa said. “He wouldn’t mind.”

  “I pay George to do the garden and drive the car, not to play about with pets.”

  “It would be something for her to do, dear. It’s lonely up here for a child.”

  “She can use her bike if she wants to get around. What’s wrong with a bike?”

  “It’s not like a pony. It’s got no heart. Like you,” Tessa muttered under her breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said a bike’s got no heart,” Tessa said loudly in the stupid-didn’t-you-hear-me-first-time? voice that got her into trouble at school.

  “Don’t you use that tone of voice to me.” Low and menacing.

  “What tone of voice?” Careless and insolent.

  “You know very well what I mean. Get out of my sight. Go.”

  “But she’s eating her dinner!” Myra wailed.

  “Go,” said Maurice, and she went. She slammed the door hard. If Maurice called her back she didn’t hear.

  Once she said, “If you hit me I’ll go to the police.”

  He said, “You go to the police and they will call in the social services. I’d think again if I were you.”

  But he didn’t hit her. She knew he would like to sometimes. She would like to hit him, beat him with tight fists, smash his face until he cried out. He was so cool. He never lost his temper. Just looked at her.

  Who was he anyway? she wondered. He didn’t have a pigeon-hole she could slot him into. Very rich, but not well-educated, as far as she could tell. His friends gave no clue – all sorts – racing men, lawyers, land agents, grocers, golfers… they came for dinner parties sometimes with their hard-faced wives. Caterers would come in to do the cooking. Myra would do herself up to the nines and drink a lot so that she was happy and vivacious, but Tessa knew that she wasn’t happy underneath. It was all a sham. She was nervous of them and had to put on a front. She had never had to put on a front with old Paddy and Liam and Declan’s mate Harry and his crazy wife Sheila, who had all shrieked with laughter in the kitchen. If it wasn’t a party, Maurice didn’t seem to have any friends. Nobody ever dropped in for a chat. He never brought just a couple home, for fun, or a man friend for a drink like Declan used to. All the people who came to dinner parties were to do with his making money.

  “Try not to annoy him, Tessa,” Myra said despairingly as the car swept up the drive. “It won’t do you any good.”

  But she enjoyed annoying him. It was one of her few pleasures in life.

  “He’ll be back for supper. It’s all right now.”

  Tessa noted that Myra used “all right” for Maurice not being there. It came to her lips quite naturally. They both felt the same. Tessa was tempted to cry out, “Oh Mum, it’s awful – you too!”, put her head on her mother’s smart bosom and cry her eyes out, but she had learned long ago not to give way to such weak feelings.

  They got out of the car and George unloaded all her boarding school paraphernalia in two trunks.

  “You can throw all that away, George,” Tessa said with a grin. “I won’t want it any more.”

  Tessa travelled light and had nothing she treasured amongst the clothes and rubbish.

  Myra said, “Don’t be ridiculous! Bring the stuff in, George. Really, Tessa!”

  Tessa ran up to her room. It was enormous and had a wonderful view over the valley. Apart from that it was like a hotel room, tastefully furnished (by an interior designer from London), with pictures on the walls chosen by the designer. Tessa had printed nothing of herself on it at all. She had a den in one of the stables at the home farm, and her few dear possessions lived there – one of Moonshine Fields’ shoes, her photos of Shiner, a jersey of Declan’s she liked to wear – it was unravelling and came down to her knees, and an old book about the Grand National.

  In her bedroom she flung herself on the bed and picked up the remote control for her television. She switched on a stupid programme. She felt dead inside. She supposed she was frightened, but even that feeling was dull. She had learnt to block being frightened, having been lectured so many
times at school. What could they do, after all? She had no idea what was going to happen next. At the moment she didn’t care.

  They didn’t eat until Maurice came home, and she was starving. After a bit she went downstairs – a grand, stupid staircase that took up half the house, but was very impressive when you came in at the front door. She went into the kitchen where Mrs Tims was preparing the dinner. Mrs Tims was a sour old stick – nobody nice ever stayed.

  She said, “You’ve done it again, then? Got yourself expelled.” She hissed the word.

  “Excluded,” Tessa corrected her. She went to the biscuit tin and helped herself. “What’s for supper?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  The kitchen was like a clinic, shining white and horribly clean. The floor was of white marble. Mrs Tims, an elderly and rather untidy person herself, looked out of place in the grandeur. She let it down quite badly. Tessa thought of remarking on this, but decided otherwise. She opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of cooking sherry, and fetched a glass.

  “Don’t you touch that, my girl!”

  Tessa poured it out and drank it. It tasted horrible but felt nice. She wished she had a cigarette. She knew Mrs Tims couldn’t stop her. Mrs Tims just set her face and pretended not to know.

  “It’s all right. I’m not going to get drunk.”

  “I don’t know where you’re heading for, my girl, but I can tell you one thing – it’s trouble.”

  “I’m not your girl, thank God. And I don’t mind trouble.”

  “You’ve got the devil in you, that’s for sure.”

  “Better than boring old Jesus.”

  “That’s a dreadful thing to say! That’s shocking, that is.”

  Tess sighed heavily (rudely) and departed. She went into the living room – a vast, characterless place with balloon-like armchairs upholstered in cream dralon. Her mother was painting her nails, having spread out The Sun in case she dropped a spot. The furniture would be much improved with red spots, Tessa thought.

  “I’m starving. How long have we got to wait?”

  “Not long, probably; he’s only got to come from Newbury.”

  “I hope he won, that’s all.”

  But even when he won he only set his lips, no doubt wishing he had put on a bigger bet. Betting was a mug’s game, Declan always said. If you won you wished you’d put on more, and if you lost you wished you hadn’t put on any at all. It hadn’t stopped him wasting his money, all the same.

  “Don’t play him up, Tessa. Just keep your head down. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Just like you.”

  Myra bit her lip and did not reply. Tessa did not feel sorry for her, but despised her for what she had got herself into.

  They heard the sound of a car on the gravel, the door slamming, the key turning in the front door. Myra jumped up and the nail varnish bottle shot up in the air. Tessa lunged forward and caught it just in time. Myra went white.

  “Oh Tessa, oh my God!” she moaned.

  “Mum! Don’t!” For a moment Tessa was anguished. As if it mattered! Her mother had turned into a stupid dummy.

  “Don’t bait him, Tessa, just don’t.”

  Tessa was tempted again to give her mother a hug and say, “Of course I won’t,” to put her at ease, but it was no longer in her nature. It would have been a lie in any case.

  The door opened and the two of them stood hastily to attention like children at school. Tessa felt the comparison and scowled. Sometimes her courage failed her.

  “I see our delinquent daughter is back,” Maurice greeted them.

  The obvious reply – “I’m not your daughter” – sprang to Tessa’s lips but she swallowed it back for her mother’s sake.

  “Did you have a good day, dear?” Myra gibbered.

  “Not particularly. Sometimes I wonder about Raleigh’s competence.”

  Raleigh was her stepfather’s racehorse trainer. His stable was quite near, just over the downs opposite, and the horses could be seen at exercise in the valley early in the morning. It was a very smart stable, the most expensive in the land. (Of course.)

  “Oh dear.”

  Myra knew everything about racing, but dared not venture the obvious opinion – that racing was a capricious sport and it didn’t do to lay blame. She guessed that Maurice must be an extremely unpopular owner. Trainers liked owners who took the rough with the smooth, who praised and encouraged, and lost sportingly.

  “No one has a better reputation,” she said. “What more can you do?”

  “What indeed?” said Maurice sarcastically.

  “I’ll tell Mrs Tims to serve the dinner.”

  Myra departed.

  Maurice turned his gaze to Tessa and raked her up and down as if she were the disappointing horse. Straight to the knacker’s! she thought. But it wasn’t a joke. It was like being flayed alive.

  “So? The bad penny’s back again? You’re getting to the end of the line, Tessa, aren’t you? Pushing your luck?”

  “What luck?” she said, trembling. “With you for a stepfather?”

  “Believe me, you’ll know it when the luck fails.”

  He turned his back and marched out of the room.

  Tessa felt rage shake her. She wanted to spit at him. The pig! Luck! What luck had ever come her way? Losing her real father, getting him in exchange? Being given a home in his foul mansion? She’d be happier living on the street!

  Well, perhaps she would. Run away. She tossed her head defiantly. But even to her, this time, it did seem like the end of the line.

  Over dinner she said nothing. She watched him overtly: his grubby lips taking in the food, the grooves running down from his squidgy nose like drains, widening and closing to the grinding of his yellow teeth. Reptilian eyes, flicking up and down, missing nothing. Thinning black (dyed?) hair trained over the scalp and held with something sticky that smelled of… ugh! Tessa shivered. Jasmine – or was it drains again? Everything about him repelled her. Drains, that was a good name for him. Full of foul matter.

  “Greevy will be home at the weekend,” he said to Myra. “I was talking to Raleigh this afternoon about the possibility of Greevy working there. As assistant trainer,” he added, before Myra could think of mucking out.

  Myra’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but all she said was, “How nice.”

  “He doesn’t know anything,” Tessa said.

  “Assistant trainers learn,” Maurice said heavily.

  Tessa guessed that Raleigh was not in a position to turn down Maurice’s suggestion. Maurice had six horses in training with him and two of them were very good ones. No trainer could bear to lose good horses – and Maurice, for sure, would take his horses away and send them to another trainer if Raleigh offended him. Putting up with Greevy would be the lesser of two evils. Poor Mr Raleigh! He was quite a nice man and clever with difficult owners like Maurice.

  “We’ve also got to decide what to do with you, madam. You needn’t think you’re going to lie on your bed and listen to pop music all day.”

  “Like Greevy,” Tessa said.

  Greevy was thick and had no interests in life beyond music and fast cars. But at eighteen he had already lost his driving licence.

  “You’re twelve. You’ve got to have an education, I suppose, but God knows who’ll take you on now. There must be a sin-bin somewhere where kids like you can be dumped. I’ll have to ask around.”

  A sin-bin… Tessa thought that sounded interesting. Her spirits rose a fraction.

  But at the thought of Greevy coming home in two days’ time they sank again. Running away was the only option left if no sin-bin was forthcoming, and where on earth was there to run to?

  Maurice had no luck with his sin-bin. The nearest was forty miles away, with no vacancies. Because Maurice was so annoyed at this failure Tessa was pl
eased, although she had been quite optimistic about her future in a sin-bin.

  Perhaps getting the disgusting Greevy installed at Down Valley racing stables gave him ideas, for he said, “Good hard work might do you no harm. Burn off some of that temper. You won’t have to go to school again until next September and between now and then you might as well get your butt off a chair and do something for your keep. On a farm perhaps.”

  Tessa curled her lip. Who was going to employ a twelve-year-old tractor driver? There were no children’s jobs on farms any more, only high-tech stuff. He didn’t know anything about farming, in spite of owning half a dozen.

  Greevy was used to getting on under the wing of his rich father. He seemed to consider it his right. Maurice had bought his school a new playing field when Greevy once got into the sort of trouble that Tessa was kicked out for, and nothing more was said. Tessa had fantasized at times about Greevy being nice and their having good times together, and every time he came home she hopefully looked for signs of improvement in him, but each time her hopes were cruelly dashed.

  “Jeez, you going to be underfoot all the time?” he remarked when he arrived home and heard of her “exclusion”.

  Tessa did not deign to reply.

  She supposed there was very little chance of Greevy improving with age. He was spoilt rotten by his father but – unlike his father – he was quite good-looking. Tall and dark and gangly, he might one day be elegant in an actorish sort of way. He could turn on charm if he wanted something, but it wasn’t the real thing. For now, he was really boring.

  Myra said, “His mother, Maurice’s first wife, died of cancer.”

  “A happy release,” Tessa said.

  “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that! She was a dancer. Really pretty. I’ve seen photos of her.”

  “Maybe he treated her better than he treats you. You shouldn’t stand for it, Ma. The way he talks to you.”

  “I don’t want for anything, do I?”

  Myra was hopeless, Tessa thought. Want for anything? Only affection, respect, kindness, a laugh or two… you name it. But Tessa didn’t follow it up.