by Laura Powell
Betty almost feels sorry for Mr Forbes; he couldn’t have hurt those five girls. If he was a killer, surely he would have bashed up Mother when she beat at his door every night, shouting that she loved him and why didn’t he love her too? Betty could see that Mr Forbes still loved his dead wife, even though the newspapermen had started to print cruel stories about him.
Just this week Reggie wrote an article that said a year before his wife died, Mr Forbes had come home drunk from the Lamb and Flagg and beat her black and blue for no reason at all. Her face was covered with so many bruises they joined up, so a source in the article said. Betty had asked Reggie the name of the source but he had only tapped the side of his nose.
‘B-Betty,’ calls a man’s voice and she jumps, almost dropping her shopping.
She looks back and sees Mr Forbes himself peering out of his shop doorway. He wears striped pyjama bottoms and a grubby white vest. She walks faster and grips her bag tighter, mentally counting the number of new bedsheets inside it. Four, yes she bought the correct number. She will drop them off at the hotel, then leave straight away to meet Gallagher.
‘P-p-please,’ he cries after her. ‘Just a quick word.’
‘I need to get home,’ she calls over her shoulder.
She looks back fleetingly at him and sees that his face is pale, almost yellow, with blue sacks beneath his eyes. She can’t tell whether he has been punched or if he is exhausted. Perhaps both.
‘Ask Dolores to help me. It wasn’t me. She knows me. If she c-c-c-could just tell the p-police what I’m really like. P-please!’
Betty is stunned; she has never heard him speak so much, let alone shout. He usually looks stiff and awkward, his posture straight as a pencil and his words sparing, the way he must have been taught in the army. Betty walks faster, almost trotting.
‘I’ve no one left,’ he yelps. ‘No one b-b-b-believes me. I’ve men and boys knocking at my door all night threatening me. But it w-wasn’t me. Tell Dolores. Tell someone!’
What do you want me to do about it? Betty wants to shout, full of anger suddenly. You didn’t see Mother lying on your abattoir floor, sobbing that she loved you. You didn’t help carry her home barefoot.
‘They set me up,’ he shouts after her, his voice thinner.
You tucked down your head when you saw us in the street afterwards and, in church, you acted as though we were strangers, then stopped going altogether. You’re the reason she’s in a bad way again.
‘Someone stole three knives from my shop. And now those stories in the p-p-papers… I didn’t lay a finger on my wife, God bless her soul. Nor those girls.’
She tightens her knuckles around the bag handle. Three men turn onto the street at that moment and he stops shouting. She is relieved, though she doesn’t recognise the men. They aren’t staying at Hotel Eden but they wear city suits like the other reporters.
She glances back at Mr Forbes one last time. He is on his knees, half on the pavement, half inside his shop. His head is tucked in his hands and she can see his crown beneath his thinning hair, though he is barely thirty-five years old. She nods an acknowledgement at the men and, when they have passed, she runs back to Hotel Eden.
In the kitchen, Betty runs cold water over her wrists to calm herself; she can’t let Gallagher see her in this state.
‘What’s wrong?’ says Mother, creeping up behind her. ‘You were gone forever.’
Betty tries to smile. Mother’s hair is set in perfect curls, her lipstick is bright and her eyes are flicked with black liner. She looks stronger than Betty has seen her for a long time.
‘I saw Mr Forbes,’ she says tentatively. ‘He asked after you.’
Mother turns away and takes down her apron from the peg.
‘He said he didn’t do it. He said he’d been framed,’ she continues. ‘He didn’t seem well… He wants you to tell Inspector Napier what he’s really like. That he wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
‘Off for another of your secret afternoon jaunts today?’
‘Mother, didn’t you hear me? He’s in trouble. You loved him once.’
‘Loved him? That murdering wife-beater?’ she splutters.
She ties her apron string in a brisk bow. ‘He’s a rotten one. He deserves it all.’
‘Did he hurt you?’ whispers Betty, but Mother raises a palm and the conversation is over.
Betty dries her hands and unpacks the bedsheets from the shopping bag.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ she says without meeting Mother’s eye.
‘Give my love to George,’ says Mother in a gooey voice.
‘George? I’m not seeing George.’
‘Things are working out finally, aren’t they? For all of us.’
‘I’m just going for a walk in the clearing.’
‘Whatever you say,’ giggles Mother, inspecting the new sheets.
Betty gathers her sandals and book with a frown, but it is her best time of day so she mustn’t let anything spoil it.
Afternoon sun pierces the canopy of oaks and elms, and the grass is mottled with patches of light. The clearing is empty; Gallagher is even later than her. Betty finds a warm spot beneath the lone willow that droops into the pond and she sits there, squinting between the trees for a glimpse of him. As she waits, she counts their afternoons together; this will be their nineteenth.
‘Best view in all of England,’ booms a voice.
Betty turns around. Gallagher’s fedora is perched on his head, his crisp white shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and he is grinning as he strides towards her.
‘You’re here,’ she breathes, exhilarated, the way she always is when she sees him.
‘Of course, I’m here.’
He reaches down and kisses the top of her head, then sits apart from her, careful not to touch her. He takes off his hat, dusts it lightly and rests it on the grass. They say nothing more but the silence isn’t awkward. Her forehead is still moist from his kiss.
There is a breath of wind and dozens of tiny leaves dance through the air, landing on the surface of the lake. The air smells of stagnant water. Betty idly plucks a fuzzy grey dandelion. She closes her eyes and blows it. He watches.
‘One o’clock.’ Another blow. ‘Two o’clock.’ Half of the spores fly off. ‘You try,’ she says, holding out the last of it.
He shakes his head, smiling all the same, and from his jacket pocket he pulls out a cigarette tin. He strikes a match and lights the cigarette tip. She watches as he sucks and breathes out circles of smoke, angling his head away from her, though she likes the smell of it now.
‘I’d like to try one,’ she says.
‘One day.’
‘Why not today?’
‘Ask me a different question.’
‘Fine.’ She thinks for a second. ‘Why do you let Reggie speak to you the way he does?’
Gallagher drags on the cigarette. ‘You’re very inquisitive today.’
She can’t think of a reply. His voice is already prickly and she doesn’t want to spoil their thin slice of time together, so she picks around for a different topic.
‘What do you think of the Mr Forbes situation?’ she asks eventually.
He smudges the tip of his cigarette on the grass and turns to her.
‘Honestly? I’m foxed.’
Betty nods in agreement.
‘He’s a loner, a touch odd perhaps. But a killer? I’m not convinced.’
They look in opposite directions. Gallagher takes a long slurp of a new cigarette. She wants to tell him everything, it is bursting out of her, but she begins in a mousy voice.
‘I saw him today on my walk back from Spoole.’
Gallagher sits upright and turns to her.
‘If he touched a hair on your head.’
‘Of course he didn’t,’ she says and he relaxes. ‘He just seemed so desperate. I almost wanted to help him.’
‘You can’t help everyone all the time. Anyway, you barely know him.’
She bites
her lip. Yes, she trusts him.
‘I know him better than I let on,’ she says slowly. ‘If I tell you, please don’t put this in the newspaper. Swear it?’
He nods, looking concerned.
‘He gave us free mutton and eggs and things last winter,’ she begins carefully. ‘And Mother started to love him. She loves any man who’s kind to her but… they had a romance thing,’ she stammers. ‘It was just after Mrs Forbes died. He must have liked Mother too. At first, anyway.’
She waits for Gallagher to say something but he only puffs on his cigarette and nods.
‘But then he said he’d made a mistake and that they shouldn’t meet up any more. I was furious with him – I’d never seen Mother so low. She kept saying that he was just having a bad day and he would change his mind. I didn’t have a clue how to help her.’
‘You never stop helping her.’
Betty ignores him.
‘I never really understood him. He was so cold and stiff and he had this terrible stutter when he was upset, but he seemed sad too. Not angry, just deep-down sad. Mother said it was from the awful things he’d seen when he was serving in France.’
‘But you never really know a person. Look at what he did to his poor wife.’
‘That’s the thing. I read Reggie’s article but I can’t picture him beating Mrs Forbes. Do you know the name of his source?’
Gallagher shakes his head.
‘Do you think I should go to the police?’ she continues. ‘Maybe I should say that he wasn’t violent to Mother and, if he was a killer, then he would have been. Wouldn’t he?’
Gallagher turns over his hat in his hand and scans the pond, frowning.
‘But then Mother would be dragged into it all,’ she says. ‘If she was questioned by the police and it was all dredged up again, her nerves wouldn’t stand it.’
‘Look, if Forbes is innocent he’ll be exonerated,’ says Gallagher. ‘I honestly believe that. They haven’t even charged him, it’s just rumour. And as for worrying about your mother… put yourself first for once. She’s certainly moved on.’
‘What do you mean, moved on? Why are you always so hard on her?’
His voice softens.
‘Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.’
‘Yes you did. Tell me.’
‘Forget I said it.’
‘I can’t now.’
‘I only meant that she’s not short of male company and that she’s probably put that business with Forbes behind her. Just the other night, I saw her on a drive with a man. Now it’s not my place to say who but the point is, you can’t keep looking after her like this.’
‘She’s all I have.’
‘Yes, but what do you want? Let someone do something for you for once. Let me do something for you. Especially after my performance the other night…’
She frowns. They haven’t spoken about the evening he found the dead girl. After their first two afternoons at the pond, the conversation had oiled itself along and she was glad not to mention it. Now she doesn’t know what to say.
‘You don’t need to do anything for me, you were in shock.’
‘Yes, it was a shock – I think it was something to do with my mother. You know she died when I was born, so when I saw that young girl—’
‘There’s no need to explain,’ she says, though she hopes he will continue. It makes her feel special knowing about his secret thoughts and past.
‘All the same. Let me or someone else do something for you for once.’
‘Just being here is enough,’ she murmurs and blushes.
Gallagher reaches for another cigarette. He holds out the tin and, surprised, she takes one. He puts it between his lips, lights it and hands it to her. She slots it between her lips uncertainly but she doesn’t breathe in, in case it makes her sick, the way Miss Hollinghurst said cigarettes would. It hangs there limply and tastes fuggy, like a mouthful of hot dustbin rubbish, but she is certain that she looks sophisticated and at least five years older. He half smiles.
‘That’s enough for one day,’ he says, taking it out of her mouth.
He wraps her in a tight hug, his chin resting on the top of her head. They stay locked together for a long time.
‘I’m going to protect you from now on, my Betty,’ he whispers into her hair.
‘But what if I don’t need looking after? What if I’m a tough old nut all by myself?’
He hugs her tighter. In the murky light of his neck where her head is pressed, she can make out a curl of his black chest hair and the pulse in his neck. It makes her insides ticklish.
‘Lie down with me,’ she whispers.
His hug slackens. He draws back, holding her shoulders away from him and searching her face, his eyes narrowed. She looks down at the grass, hot and fidgety and shocked that the words left her lips.
‘You know I can’t do that,’ he says eventually.
He releases her shoulders and she lies on her front so he can’t see her face. She digs her knees into the turf. If only it would crack open and let her disappear, now he has refused her.
They are silent again. Her blush doesn’t lift and his wristwatch ticks louder. But then the smell of cigarette smoke overpowers the grass and something firm presses into the dip of her lower back. It is an arm. Her body goes jellyish. A nose nuzzles her ear and the woody smell of his aftershave mixes with the smoke and grass.
‘Don’t be upset. I hate seeing you upset,’ he whispers.
She can sense his body: he lies on his side, an arm propping up his head as he looks at her. His other arm drapes over her waist and lower back. She reaches forward and kisses his lips. His head tips sideways and their faces slot together again.
Betty is the first to run out of breath and she comes out of the kiss for air. He rolls her over gently so she is flat on her back and he is above her, nose to nose, his shadow covering her. She watches the daggers of cloud slice up the sky, until his head moves directly over hers and she can’t see them any more. He kisses her again, harder than he ever has before, pushing his tongue into her mouth. His hands work down her hips. The tickly feeling in her stomach expands. It is almost itchy, and it makes her want to cry or laugh; she isn’t sure which first.
‘You meant that?’ he whispers, his mouth pressed to her ear.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Stop asking.’
He goes back to kissing her, at the same time resting his body lightly on top of hers. It gets hot, too hot then. She tries to relax, to show that she is happy, but a sharp bit of bark or maybe a twig needles into her back, while something jams into her lower front. The top half of her body seems to divide off. It is floaty and separate from the sickly pain everywhere below.
He kisses her cheeks, her neck, her chin, then returns to her lips, but even that doesn’t plug the pain. His hand finds hers. It is hot and smooth. She clutches his fingers as he moves over her. A drop of his sweat lands on her lip.
She can’t speak or tell him that it hurts because it will spoil it: this, which is all she has wanted for weeks. She breathes in his neck and would like to bottle his smell but, at that moment, the pain gouges even deeper and Betty has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying out.
She isn’t certain what happens next. Perhaps she has fainted or fallen into a strange trippy sleep for a fraction of a minute but, when she opens her eyes, the weight of him is off her, their hands are apart and he is offering her a blue cotton handkerchief with white diagonal stripes. A wobbly smile covers her face as she takes the handkerchief. The pain has almost disappeared and something serene has replaced it, as though she could step onto the pond and walk across its surface.
Gallagher turns away his head. She wipes the top of her leg under her skirt and rearranges her hem over her shins. When she holds out the handkerchief to return it to him, it is stained red. Embarrassed, she balls it up in her hand and checks he hasn’t noticed. He hasn’t; his back still faces her. She wa
tches the square slope of his shoulders and the circles of grey smoke float up from his cigarette. A dull ache tugs down between her legs now that she is standing but she doesn’t mind. Not now they are sweethearts.
But when Gallagher turns around, his eyes are hard slits. Something is wrong. She reaches forward to hold his hand but he jerks back. He is about to speak when he spots something over her shoulder. She looks around but no one is there. When she turns back to Gallagher, he is running in the opposite direction.
‘John!’ she cries.
He doesn’t turn around; he only runs faster.
Betty slumps onto the grass confused. She thought she had fathomed him. He hadn’t reset himself once since finding the girl, not until now. She tries to recall what she might have said wrong but she hardly spoke at all. What upsets her most is that he hasn’t walked her to the edge of the wood, the way he has done every other afternoon. ‘To make sure you get home safely,’ he always said.
Minutes pass and there are footsteps. She looks up, just as Gallagher reappears. He is panting and his hands are shaking. She stands and smiles for him but his face is twisted in a frown; he looks furious.
‘You’re back,’ she says beaming.
He picks up his hat from the grass, pulls it low over his eyebrows and looks around to make sure that they are still alone, though there is never usually anyone else in the clearing but them and the birds and the fish.
‘Promise me you’ll never tell a soul,’ he says in a hard, hushed voice, his eyes boring into hers.
‘Of course I won’t.’
He grips the tops of her arms, his fingers digging into her.
‘I mean it. You don’t understand the trouble I’d be in. I should never have let myself.’
‘Don’t let’s go through all that again.’
‘Betty, you don’t realise how serious this is. You’re fifteen. My father’s reputation… I’d be locked up.’
‘I won’t tell,’ she says quietly.
‘I’d be in prison for ten, fifteen years. Do you know what they do to men like me in prison – men with my background?’
