by Gareth Wiles
She went to bed first, and I did wonder whether or not this was an invitation for me to join her. However, as I approached her bedroom door and peeped through the crack in it, I could see she had fallen asleep. I did not rush off, instead wishing to look upon her for a while longer whilst she did not know that I was. She looked so serene, so short of worries and sorrows. Not even the pillowcase looked worthy of holding the weight of her head.
* * *
That night, a dream seized me in slumber. It was my own birth, laid down in plain sight for me to witness as a bystander. It was as though I was peering through my father’s eyes, as if I was my own father watching myself being born. Mother looked so young and so fragile, no sound coming from her as those around her called out for her to push. She was unresponsive, hardly there at all, as I emerged from within her. When I was fully out, my mother was gone and I was whisked away from her. Then, something altogether otherworldly appeared in place of me – a huge, black box stood upright as all of those persons present dropped to their knees around it.
I wakened with a start, sitting up in bed and pondering my situation. If only my mother had lived, things may have been different. Fate had, nonetheless, conspired to make me the wealthy owner of a factory and set with waiting bride before I had even left my teenage years. Still, you always want what you cannot have.
* * *
I was sitting in Uncle Joe’s chair at the table eating my breakfast when Agatha walked in. She looked tired and withdrawn, her usual fresh colour drained somewhat.
‘You’re late getting up,’ I said scornfully. ‘Miss Coombs has finished preparing food and moved on to cleaning.’
‘I can make my own breakfast.’
‘Here,’ I shot back, ‘let me.’ I stood up and presented the chair for her to sit down in.
‘I’m not sitting in that chair,’ she replied, shaking momentarily as though a shiver had shot down her spine. She pulled her usual chair out next to it and she sat down.
‘I will make your breakfast,’ I said, heading for the bread.
‘I’m perfectly capable of making it myself. In fact, I don’t know why we hire Miss Coombs. I am sitting about this place all day, twiddling my thumbs.’
‘Your father left us well in pocket, we can afford such simple luxuries as a housemaid.’ I sliced some bread and placed it on the table before her.
‘I’m not hungry,’ she said defiantly, pushing it away and flopping back in her chair.
‘Troy,’ I called out to the dog, and faithfully he came running over. He was but two years old, a scruffy big wire-haired bearded thing with devilish floppy ears. We had not found him – he had found us. As I fed him the bread and patted his thick black coat, I perhaps knew what friendship was after all. He, practically swallowing the makeshift meal whole, licked my fingers and wagged his tail. I turned back to Agatha and puzzled over what to say next. She was still here, not having stormed off to some other quarter of the house, so I assumed she wished to continue this discussion. So, I came to sit back down next to her. ‘We could really make this work.’ I placed my hand on hers, and she did not pull away. ‘I love you.’ Now she pulled away.
‘I am not some object to be passed down from my father to you.’ She stood up and turned her back to me, but still did not leave the room. I too stood up, placing my hand on her shoulder. Her silk blouse was as soft as her skin.
‘You are not some object to me, you are Agatha.’
‘Women are like second class beings in this world, no better than a dog to some.’
‘For so long I myself lived like a dog,’ I went, tears forming in my eyes. ‘I was kept outside by your family, your father beating me when he liked and your brothers ensuring I lived off the most horrid of foods.’ I let go of her shoulder, turning away. I heard her move to face me. ‘But you, Agatha, you were the only one who gave me your bread. Admittedly it was just the crust, but it was enough to make me fall madly in love with you.’ I turned back to face her, she now standing so close. ‘You see, we are just the same. We both suffer hardships in one way or another; we just have to pull through.’
She stayed close to me, looking up into my eyes. I took my chance, leaning in to kiss her. Quickly she fled, bolting from the room. I did not go after her, but I felt good about the situation. She was coming around to the idea of she and me, and there wasn’t much more work to do to convince her. I sat back down, stroking Troy as he placed his head in my lap.
* * *
I was late to arrive at the factory that morning, and so it appeared were most of the workers. I threw my weight around on the factory floor, demanding to know what was going on from the few who were actually there. It appeared Ffoulkes had drummed up a bit of support against me, though they had not showed themselves to protest. I went to my office, quite happy to replace the missing workers with new ones. Work was scarce, workers were ten a penny; I would soon find more. And, if not, I could easily get some of the new machines in to do it instead. In fact, that would be more ideal profit-wise. Ffoulkes had done me a favour. Moments later, he himself walked into my office and closed the door behind himself.
‘Ah, Ffoulkes. I wondered when you would show yourself,’ I said to him, remaining seated behind my desk. In a way I felt I had already known that he would show himself at that moment – that I had foreseen it. ‘Lost a few pals their jobs, I see.’
‘You made a mistake having Agatha think I hit you,’ were his quiet, grunted words.
‘On the contrary.’ I grinned at him, knowing I had succeeded and he had failed.
He came charging at me, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck and tossing me onto the floor. I was taken by surprise, unable to fight back as he kicked me about the stomach and head. I fell into unconsciousness, awakened only by the searing heat of a blazing inferno around me. I coughed, keeping my body to the floor as my lungs filled with smoke. I felt strangely cold as the sweltering flames billowed around my office, crawling to the door and struggling to open it. I stumbled out into yet more smoke and flames. The fire was everywhere – the entire factory ablaze and I far from escape. How I managed it I do not know, but I just kept on going until I had reached safety outside. A lesser man may have succumbed to the flames, but it was able to emerge with my life intact. Panic was all around, workers and passers-by alike gawping at the carnage. I turned to face the factory, my factory, dropping to my knees as I looked on helplessly. I put my hands to my face and it felt all wet and sticky.
* * *
The fire had scarred my face. As I lay in bed, Agatha tended the healing wound across my left cheek. She peeled back the dressing and dabbed the scars with a damp rag.
‘I must look hideous to you now,’ I said, lying there beneath her in my stupor.
‘I was never attracted to you,’ she said coldly, continuing her nursing duties. I took her hand and held it tightly, looking her deep in the eyes.
‘You really can do anything, I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ I cooed.
‘You’d find another woman to do your bidding, is what you would do. We’re just tools to you men.’
‘No, not at all.’
Silence came back, she finishing her duties before leaving me alone. I lay there and thought about things. The factory could be rebuilt, yes, but my relationship with my fellow workers could not. Still, they were no longer my fellow workers; I had climbed up, above them, and they were not pleased. Ffoulkes had obviously made an impression on them, and it made clear that he was not the only one displeased by my moving away from their ilk. Perhaps there was the sense that I had not earned my place as their superior, or that they did not think me fit. I had certainly shown my fitness for work alongside them for the last near ten years. Could they not be happy for me? Could they not be happy that one of their own had succeeded in life? The answer was no, they were not happy for me. I had not even been given a chance.
It was not as though I had strolled into my position as boss over them. My life had not been an easy stroll
, in fact it had been quite the opposite. I lay here now feeling somewhat of a self-made man. It was me, and only me, who had sneaked into the house as a young boy and taken books out to the barn from Uncle Joe’s collection. There, I had taught myself how to read; and I read well. I devoured all of his, albeit limited, library and felt at a distance from my fellow workers at the factory. That I was related to the boss already set me apart, giving me an unwanted air of distrust in their eyes. In a sense I did feel part of them, but also apart. I wanted to belong; I had never belonged anywhere or to anyone before. None of the other boys could read, and I did try to teach one or two of them, but it was not to be. They were not for moving forward, learning that which lay just beyond their current position. If they wanted to wallow in the gutter, let them; but I was not about to lie down and go willingly with them. No, I was going to fight them all and bring them to their knees. I was above them, greater than them. Ffoulkes was already a fallen man, now on the run from justice like the rat he was.
I tried to get up from the bed, but I was still too sore. Agatha’s words had hurt me somewhat. To know outright that she had never been physically drawn to me, however, was not as bad as it sounded. That I would likely be left scarred by Ffoulkes’ antics, then, didn’t matter as much as it might have done. Sometimes I thought Agatha never found any man appealing, not even Ffoulkes. Oh, he was handsome, yes; well he was, but his murderous actions had shown him in his true ugly light. I, in my goodness, could grow on Agatha. But, as I said, I didn’t think the physical was that much of a concern to her. What she truly wanted was real love and passion – love and passion that went beyond mere flesh and bone. I had read about such women in Uncle Joe’s books. Oh yes, he thought those books had been written by men but I knew differently. It was clear women had been the true authors, with such strong self-assured women as central. Agatha was such as they: headstrong, defiant, uncompromising. It would be the ultimate challenge – the ultimate performance – for me to get beneath that and let her see in me what she wanted from a lover. And, I had ample time in which to do it; I had arranged with Miss Coombs to fetch what we needed from market. Agatha was to stay here and attend to me throughout my recovery.
The door pushed open at this moment and I eagerly looked up for Agatha. It was not she, but Troy the dog. He was looking for some food and I had but a morsel of bread left to give him. He sat obediently by my bed waiting for me to hand it to him. When I did he was overcome with thanks, licking me and pawing as payment. I stroked his beard and his long hairy black tail swished at the mat on the floor. There was such unconditional acceptance of who I was from Troy, that he reminded me of how I had seen both my father and Uncle Joe. They had beaten me, yes, but I had taken it and accepted it for what it was. I was not mentally scarred by it, I felt only a disappointment in their lack of verbal skills over violence. They had known no difference, clearly, and that was that. I knew a difference, and would not take the same course of action myself when Agatha and I were to bring children into this world. As I moved sideways and let Troy jump up to lay beside me on the bed, I felt rather sleepy. He put his head on my chest and I rested my hand on his paw, and we fell asleep together.
* * *
I was wakened by piercing shrieks and screams and didn’t know where I was. Was it morning or night? I could not tell, but struggled to my feet and lunged towards the door to investigate. Troy had already gone and was now barking. I got into the hallway outside my room and Miss Coombs came crashing into me in hysterics.
‘Oh Lord,’ she wept, clasping her hands together, ‘be with us now if thou truly exist!’
‘What is it, woman?’ I yelled back, pondering upon slapping her about the face to get some order.
‘Agatha, oh Agatha!’ she sobbed, collapsing onto the floor. I pushed her aside with my leg and struggled to Agatha’s room, throwing the door open. There she was, naked and hanging from one of the beams. Oh what horror! With renewed strength from perhaps The Lord himself, I galloped over and grabbed hold of her, pushing her upwards to ease the weight of her body on the rope around her neck. She felt so cold, yet soft, and I thought even in this position how sublime she looked. This was my first proper sight of her naked, and I was not at all displeased.
‘Miss Coombs,’ I yelled, ‘Miss Coombs!’
She appeared at the door, unable to look upon Agatha and me. ‘Master, she be dead, taken by her own hand.’
‘She’s still breathing,’ I called back, seeing each struggling gasp escaping from between her lips. They had lost all of their pink – a horrid bluish tinge coming to them. ‘Go fetch a knife to cut her down, for God’s sake!’
Miss Coombs did so, and before long we had her down on the bed. She would not respond, lost in some other world. I looked down at her body once more, before covering it over with two thick blankets.
‘I must go to the village for the doctor,’ Miss Coombs cried, about to leave the room.
‘No,’ I said firmly, grabbing her arm and pulling her back.
‘Master, she be very sick and you are far from recovered yourself.’
‘I said no,’ I insisted, ‘they’ll take her away. She will be prosecuted.’
‘She may die if a doctor does not come.’
‘I will treat her,’ I said confidently.
‘You?’ she came back at me, almost laughing through her tears. ‘You couldn’t even save your uncle’s factory, let alone fair Agatha here.’
‘What did you say? Am I supposed to be able to fight flames with my bare hands?’ I growled at her.
‘I’m sorry Master, but you are still just a boy, and it is not for you to say what is best for Agatha.’
‘I am old enough to know what I want and how to get it,’ I shouted at her, turning back to check Agatha’s breathing. It was weak, but still there. ‘Besides, it is certainly not your place.’ She darted out of the room. ‘Miss Coombs!’ I yelled. I struggled after her, catching her at the top of the stairs and pulling her back. Struggling to get away, she turned and slapped me across the face. In my desperate rage to save Agatha I lashed out in defence, sending poor Miss Coombs tumbling down the stairs. It was over in a second when she came crashing to the bottom with a big slam on her head. But, I didn’t have time to attend to her, I had to get back to my Agatha.
* * *
It wasn’t a good idea to push Miss Coombs down the stairs. It wasn’t an idea at all. It had just happened, and there was no undoing it. I checked and she wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t far from it. I had a problem though, and this was that she wanted to go and fetch somebody to attend to Agatha. If she did that, Agatha would be prosecuted for the suicide attempt. I might in some way be incriminated also. I was certainly incriminated in the half-death of Miss Coombs at the bottom of the stairs here, so her still being alive right now was cause for mild alarm. She was lying on her back, facing up at me with her eyes closed. Unlike Agatha, who was young and full of potential ahead, Miss Coombs had had her day. She was into her fifth decade of existence now, and had never married. Her life was just what she led here with us, which was rather sad, and nobody would miss her.
Troy watched as I filled a bucket with water and brought it into the hall beside Miss Coombs. I rolled her over onto her stomach and lifted her body over the bucket, dropping her head in it. There I left her to drown, going back up the stairs to check on dear Agatha. Damn Miss Coombs and her antics, I thought! Upstairs, Agatha lay rather still, the bruising on her neck looking very sore. I too felt very sore, wishing my sleep had not been disturbed by Miss Coombs’ irritating howls. But, in a way I was glad she did waken me as Agatha may well have been up there too long and died. She looked rather serene on the bed, the pink returning to her lips. I leant over the bed and kissed her on them, and she did not flinch. In fact, I could almost see them creasing into a smile. It could not be, surely? Perhaps she was glad I had just kissed her and wanted me to do it again. I did so, staying upon them for longer this time. She did not move, but I could feel her breath ent
ering my lungs. It felt like a new lease of life for me, as though it was she saving me from the brink of death and not the other way around. And also, I wanted to again look at her naked body. It was just under the blankets, just waiting there to be looked at. I held back, though, stepping away from her and thinking quite rightly that it would not be the correct thing to do. Clearly she was not well and had been driven to take such drastic action. Why indeed had she wished to commit suicide, and why naked? I didn’t dwell on this for too long, instead being reminded of my main problem at this very moment as I stepped back into the hallway up the stairs. I looked down them, spotting Miss Coombs at the bottom – her head still in the bucket of water. A part of me wanted her to have vanished from my life and not be causing me this added problem, but it was not going to happen. A concerted effort was now required to dispose of the woman, and it would not be easy – she was not a tiny thing.
At this moment I thought that, were I to have to leave the house to deal with Miss Coombs, I would be leaving Agatha alone. She may well come about during my absence and again attempt to inflict harm upon herself. I didn’t want this – I didn’t want this at all. I went back into her bedroom and, using the same rope she’d used to hang herself, tied her hands together and to the headboard of the bed. That way, she would be safe. She could not do harm to herself and, in doing so, do harm to me. She, above all others, was the person I least wished to lose in my life.
* * *
Miss Coombs’ fat corpse was in the wheelbarrow. How I had managed to get her in it I do not know, but I had and in a way I was proud of my achievement. I remembered, one Christmas as a small boy when my father was still amongst us, sitting on her knee during a family visit to Uncle Joe’s. That each Christmas was marred by my father’s constant reminders of it being this time of year I killed my mother during birth, was but a small price to pay for being able to secure some small female contact. In fact, Miss Coombs was the first woman who touched me and let me touch her. Father always told me to stay in the outhouse when his lady callers came around, and so I was never to experience any physicality with them. Miss Coombs was, then, perhaps the closest I ever got to having a mother. She was no mother to me, of course, but in her own small way she had indirectly acted in that role in some minute way. There I sat, as a young boy upon her knee, for all the world thinking I had struck gold for but a fleeting moment. Little did I know that, a few years later, I would be puzzling over whether or not to cut those same legs off in an attempt to dispose of her body. These things do happen, however, and certainly to me.
