by Laura Powell
‘Prison?’ she says, horrified. ‘But you’ve done nothing wrong. I—’
She wants to say I love you but she can’t; not here, and not in this way.
‘I love being with you,’ she finishes.
‘This isn’t a game. It would end me. I’d be dead, one way or another. Men have hanged for less.’
‘Hanged?’
‘You’re not to tell your mother, nor that girl Mary – you must tell no one that you were with me, or even that you were here. Do you understand?’
‘I’ve said I won’t. I promise. But I don’t understand why anyone could… hang for something so—’
‘Stop! I need to think. I need to work out what to do.’
‘OK, I’ll stop. Just please don’t be upset.’
He lets go of her and squeezes the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes and shaking his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘This is exactly what I didn’t want.’
‘Can’t we just make the most of what’s left of our afternoon?’
‘I’ve been trying so hard not to let this happen. And now…’
‘We’ll be all right.’
‘I’m so, so sorry my Betty.’
He gives her a long, sad look. Her insides run cold.
‘If you’ll just sit down with me again,’ she tries. ‘We can pretend that nothing happened, if that’s what you want. We could talk about your work or films or…’
But he shakes his head. He reaches forward and kisses her forehead, so lightly she can barely feel his lips at all, then he turns on his heel and stalks off between the trees.
Betty lolls under the willow and turns over the afternoon in her mind. Gallagher will return to his old self tomorrow, she is certain of it. He called her his Betty, after all.
She pulls bunches of grass from the earth and her insides burn up with embarrassment as she recalls how she moved her lips at a foolish angle and dribbled saliva on him. They burn up in a different way as she relives the heavy press of his body on her own, but the loveliness of it all is punctuated by that word: hanged.
She wishes that she had asked him exactly what he meant, or that she could dissect it all with Mary, but she won’t. She will keep her promise to him forever. She will tell no one, no matter what.
When Betty pulls herself from her trance, there is a new throbbing pain just below her waist and something is rustling in the trees, louder than the wind on the leaves. She looks around for Gallagher but the daylight has faded, the clearing is bathed in pale orange light and her eyes can’t quite adjust. Her skin prickles with nerves.
‘John?’ she calls into the emptiness.
But she pictures Mr Forbes prowling for victims, his cleaver raised above his head. She sits very still, holding her breath and reminding herself that he is harmless.
Something mews. It sounds like a cat only more rasping. The noise gets louder. There is a whisk of brown feathers and an almighty crack of branches. Then it is in front of her; a buzzard swooping low over the pond. It grazes the surface of the water with its wings and sweeps up again, disappearing between the trees.
Betty feels silly. She laughs aloud to prove to herself that she isn’t scared, but her legs wobble as she stands. She is dusting herself down and picking a sticky burr off her skirt when there is another noise in the bushes. It sounds different, louder; like a person. Gallagher must have come back for her after all.
She squints and spots a shape between the trees. She squints harder and the shape untangles itself and becomes two people, so far away they look like doll’s house miniatures. The girl is clearest. She has long hair to her waist and she wears a floaty dress. Her hair falls over her face and she is weeping with laughter. A man stands beside her. He wraps her up in his arms and pushes his lips to her neck. The girl says something – Betty can’t make out what – but the sing-song voice is familiar. It is the voice that reads Bible stories to the children every Sunday morning; Miss Hollinghurst.
Betty is about to call out her name but something stops her because the man is still kissing her neck and the laughs are getting louder. Their arms knot around each other and the man strokes her hair. There is something sneaky about watching them. If someone happened upon her with Gallagher, wouldn’t she want them to slink away quietly? Better that than making all three of them embarrassed. She takes one last look at the man and tries to make him out but it is difficult because his back is facing her. His suit is brown and he wears a hat. A familiar fedora. The tall, proud way he stands is familiar too. Betty gives a little cry.
She turns and hurries out of the clearing, her cheeks flaming. Branches snap under her feet and she runs faster, praying they won’t spot her. The shadow of another figure, or perhaps an animal, prowls between the trees. Betty doesn’t register it. She runs back to Newl Grove without stopping, uncertain how she will look either of them in the eye again.
Betty slips into the hotel through the back door, careful to tiptoe, but when she turns around she almost screams with fright. Joan and Jennifer are staring at her. They know what you’ve done. She holds her breath but Jennifer goes back to chopping up a grapefruit and Joan plops down onto a chair next to the foldaway kitchen table, an empty wine bottle and two glasses in front of her. One is scarred with Mother’s lipstick.
‘Where’s Mother?’ she says, not able to meet Joan’s eye.
‘Out looking for you,’ says Joan, tartly. ‘So’s my Richard. And Paxon’s boy came knocking so I sent him after you as well.’
‘George? Why did he—’
‘What do you think you’re doing, staying out all hours? You know how dangerous it is. Really, Betty.’
‘It’s not even eight o’clock yet.’ Joan purses her lips.
‘Mother didn’t mind me going out,’ adds Betty.
‘Yes, I’ve had words with her about that. Do you know the lengths everyone’s going to, to keep this village safe? There’s my Richard volunteering to patrol the streets, there’s the new Neighbourhood Watch rota, not to mention all of those policemen on lookout. And there you are, gallivanting off and putting yourself in harm’s way.’
‘I’ll go after her.’
‘No, you stay here, madam.’
‘But Mother’s on her own.’
What if she saw me with Gallagher, she wants to add. Her eyes fill with hot, stingy tears at the thought. But she tells herself that if Mother saw anything, she wouldn’t have stayed quiet.
‘And get your bottom upstairs and clean yourself up before your mother sees you like that,’ calls Joan over her shoulder, rummaging in the biscuit barrel. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, upside down and goodness knows how else.’
‘I’m sorry,’ murmurs Betty, glad that Joan isn’t looking at her. She is certain her face is so transparent, Joan would see straight through it and know.
‘Save your apologies for your mother when she’s home.’
Betty is relieved to be upstairs, away from Joan’s beady eye. She tiptoes across the landing and stops at Gallagher’s bedroom door. A rush of confidence fills her: she will tell him that she loves him. He will kiss her and say the same back. They will agree to meet by the pond again tomorrow afternoon; and the next afternoon; and the next; and he will never again talk about awful things like being hanged.
She gives two brisk knocks and steps back. A hot burning fills her chest. She thinks she hears a creak of floorboards inside the bedroom but she can’t be certain. There is no answer so she knocks again. Still nothing. The creaking noise stops.
‘It’s me,’ she whispers into the crack of the door.
But the hotel is silent except for Jennifer and Joan clattering and chopping downstairs.
The hot burning rises to her throat. She wants to pound on his door until he answers, then shake him until he slots back to his old self again. She should chase after Mother too, instead of letting her wander the dangerous streets alone when it is nearly dark but instead she ambles into the bedroom.
>
On the bedside table, she spots Mother’s pot of sleeping tablets. She swallows two with a swig of last night’s stagnant water and forces herself to lie down, but she still can’t rest: how will she explain to Mother where she has been? How long until the tugging pain between her legs eases? What will she say to Miss Hollinghurst in church on Sunday? And to Gallagher tomorrow? Why did he run off? Could he really be sent to prison for that; for an act of love? Or was it an act of love? She swallows a third sleeping tablet and squeezes closed her eyes.
When Betty wakes, the bedroom is bright with morning sun and her wristwatch reads twenty past eight. She curses herself for sleeping so late and leaps out of bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Only when she is halfway downstairs, Gallagher’s face already sitting in her mind, does she register that Mother’s side of the bed was untouched. The sheet, she recalls, was still tucked taut into the mattress, but there is no time to worry because at that moment she sees that the hotel is in chaos.
Men stampede between the rooms. The front door opens and slams, opens and slams. Betty stands at the foot of the stairs, cups her hands around her lips and shouts into the din:
‘If you’ll all sit down, I’ll serve the breakfasts in five minutes.’
There is a chorus of tuts and groans. More men leave. She looks around for Gallagher but she can’t see him and there isn’t time to ask after him. She hurries into the kitchen and almost cries out. Strings of beef fat are slung over the worktops and grapefruit peelings litter the oilcloth. A pan of dingy grey water sits on the stove with bits of carrot and parsnip skin inside it. Something is rustling in the larder.
‘Mother?’
The larder door opens and Tony shuffles out with bulging hamster cheeks and fists full of stale bread.
‘I was hungry,’ he says guiltily.
‘Guests aren’t allowed in here,’ she snaps. ‘Have you seen my mother?’
He shakes his head, still chewing.
‘Who served the dinners last night?’
‘That mousy girl,’ he says between chews. ‘And some old blonde with a smoker’s cough.’
Betty sighs. She rolls up her cuffs, sets the kettle on the hob and pours milk into a clean-looking jug.
‘Make yourself useful and take this in with you,’ she says, pushing the jug into Tony’s hand. A rush of confidence fills her. ‘And please could you tell Mr Gallagher I’d like to speak to him… about his bill. If you see Mother, send her through to me too.’
When the bread and butter and jams and teas are all on the table, and Betty has taken orders for boiled eggs, and Reggie has given her a wink that she pretends not to notice, she scans the room for Gallagher again. He must have left early. Perhaps Mother did too.
She tries to forget about them. A reporter whom she only vaguely recognises is pressing his finger into Mr Eden’s best sugar caddy and licking it. She swats away his hand and he pretends to look frightened of her. The others see. They all laugh and Betty joins in.
The pan of eggs boils away and Betty clears up the kitchen mess, listening lazily to the chatter in the big room.
‘You know he’s gone?’ says Reggie. ‘Packed up his prissy little suitcase and left before morning.’
Her ears prick up. She stops fishing the grapefruit skins from the sink but, before anyone else can speak, there is a crash at the front door and feet thunder into the big room. Betty hurries in, the same moment Richard appears. His face is red and spluttery. He removes his hat.
‘There’s been another,’ he cries. ‘They’ve found a body.’
The table falls silent.
‘Christ alive,’ breathes Tony. ‘I thought they were holding Forbes at the station.’
Richard shakes his head.
‘They let him go yesterday morning.’
‘Imbeciles,’ cries Reggie.
‘It’s a local this time. Lovely girl. Just turned twenty-one. Wouldn’t have harmed a flea.’
‘Why weren’t they watching Forbes?’ says Sam, getting to his feet.
‘They were. We all were,’ says Richard. ‘He must have snuck out somehow.’
The reporters scribble in their notebooks and Reggie writes on a scrap of paper napkin.
‘Girl’s name?’ he barks at Richard.
‘Patricia Hollinghurst. She was a Sunday school teacher, poor lamb.’
‘Miss Hollinghurst?’ mutters Betty. ‘But I saw her—’
‘Let’s go boys,’ booms Reggie at the same time.
‘And where’s Mother?’ says Betty, but no one hears.
Chairs are scraped back and they all dash for the door, leaving behind half-drunk cups of tea and bits of bread. No one notices that Betty’s legs have dissolved under her. She catches the edge of the dresser to keep herself upright.
‘I saw her with—’ she breathes. ‘Not him. It can’t be him.’
The front door slams and the hotel rings with silence.
Betty is still clinging to the corner of the dresser when the door opens again ten minutes later. Mother staggers in, tripping over her own feet. Her hair hangs in wet ropes, tangled with seaweed and she is naked but for an unfamiliar white dressing gown, belted loosely around her waist.
‘Make your mother a hot sweet sherry,’ she slurs.
Betty feels sick.
‘Where are your clothes? Where’ve you been?’
Mother staggers towards her, tripping over the hem of the dressing gown.
‘That’s no way to greet your dear old mother,’ she cries, clinging to the edge of a dining chair. ‘Especially when I’ve been out all night, working for us, securing our future.’
Betty bubbles with rage.
‘Our future? Miss Hollinghurst’s dead,’ she cries, tears streaming down her face. ‘I thought you’d been hurt too.’
Mother looks blankly at her, as though she doesn’t know who Miss Hollinghurst is.
‘He could have killed you! Why are you like this? Why can’t you just be normal and happy, or pretend to be happy the way everyone else does?’
Betty wipes her face with her fist and stares at the dressing gown.
‘And who does that belong to?’
‘I found it on a washing line,’ says Mother simply, her head tilted to one side. It makes her look very young. ‘He said he doesn’t love me.’
‘She’s dead, Mother. She was killed. By the pond. Miss Hollinghurst. It was lovely Miss Hollinghurst.’
I saw her there, she wants to add. I saw her there and I know who killed her. But she can’t say any of it; not when Mother will ask why she was by the pond and with whom. She would never be able to look Mother in the eye again and, worse, she would be forced to break her promise to Gallagher. He would end up in prison or hanged or killed by some other horrible means, just as he said. She must speak to him before she says anything more to anyone; even Mother. She buries her head in her hands and sobs.
When she looks up again, she is alone. She searches for Mother in the kitchen but it is empty and reeks of stale fat. Upstairs, she finds Mother collapsed on the bathroom floor, the stolen dressing gown hanging off her and vomit puddling the floor. Betty glares at her. She should pick her up; she should sponge her mouth and carry her to bed. She should give her a glass of cool water, and soothe her until she falls asleep, the way she usually does.
‘Water,’ gasps Mother.
Betty shakes her head. She walks back downstairs and tries to block out the bangs and scrapes upstairs as Mother crawls her way into the bedroom. She hums so she can’t hear or think about anything at all, and she scrubs every inch of the kitchen.
When it is dazzling and sharp with the smell of bleach, she takes a key from the peg next to the back door and walks upstairs slowly. She can hear Mother snoring through the closed bedroom door. She stops on the landing outside Gallagher’s bedroom. Her breaths come fast and her chest is tight. She will tell him what she saw; Gallagher will know what to do.
She knocks gently but there is no answer, just as she somehow k
new there wouldn’t be. She turns the key but the door is already unlocked. She pushes down the handle.
Please be in there.
It creaks open.
Please smile up at me and say you love me, then tell me what to do about all of this.
She walks inside.
I don’t mind if you’re angry with me for sneaking into your room. Just be inside.
But the room is empty. The air hangs with old smoke. Betty touches the tapestry blanket spread neatly over the bed and she knows he hasn’t slept in it. The brown suitcase has vanished from the alcove beside the window and there are no shoes on the floor.
She opens the wardrobe but that is empty too. Betty falls to her knees and searches under the bed for a sign of him but there is only a stray cushion and a ball of grey hair, not even his hair. She cries out, clamping a hand over her mouth as she does in case Mother hears.
There is nothing left of him in the whole room but a handful of cigarette stubs in the glass ashtray. She notices the envelope then. It is tucked beneath the ashtray and the flap is unsealed. She grasps it with trembling hands. Inside is a wad of banknotes, nothing more. She turns over the envelope and sees his writing, looped and orderly:
For Mrs Broadbent. To settle my bill.
Betty picks up the longest cigarette, a nub covered with grey ash. She dusts it off, her hands still shaking. It is cool – it has long been stubbed out – but the tip is still damp with his saliva. She droops it between her lips.
Chapter 11
September 1956
The bedroom is hot and the curtains are still drawn, though it is past three. The day smells of sour breath and perspiration. Betty sits on the edge of her unmade bed, counting on her fingers. She loses count and starts again. Yes, almost three whole weeks have passed since Miss Hollinghurst died and Gallagher left. She counts again: six days since Mother’s sad spell ended and she rose from bed to take back the reins of Hotel Eden.
Betty goes back to listening. There is little else to occupy her now that her workload has thinned so she passes long hours in her bedroom; tracking the noises inside the hotel and on the street below, and counting the days until Gallagher will return to help her fathom what to do. Today, though, the world seems to have stopped. It is silent with nothing to examine but the symphony of floorboards and clanking water pipes. The hours crawl along until, finally, there is a new noise. A pair of feet pad up the stairs and a second pair shuffle onto the landing. Mother’s voice calls out:
