The subsequent silence was protracted, and Hannah was about to ask if she might be allowed to leave the room, when he spoke again.
‘You are a viper in the midst of this home. You are a liar. You had hidden this wicked and sinful book beneath your mattress, where you thought it would be undetected. You are a deceitful Jezebel.’
Who had found the book and given her away? Hannah couldn’t believe her mother would have had either the energy or the volition to lift the mattress. And surely it wasn’t Judith? Her sister would never betray her trust, and she didn’t even know the book was there. Did she?
It was not long before that question was answered. Her father reached in his breast pocket and brandished the photograph of her aunt. The blood drained from Hannah’s face.
‘You told your sister about this… this… woman. I overheard Judith asking your mother whether she had a sister. She said you had a picture. I found it concealed with that dirty book underneath your mattress.’ He was speaking so fast the spittle flew as he waved the offending image above his head. ‘Deceitful creature! You’re just like her. Just as bad as that filthy, dirty harlot. A temptress. An adulteress.’ He looked at her in that way that always made her feel uncomfortable. Now she knew why. It was a look partly of hatred and contempt, and partly a kind of longing. If she hadn’t known it was impossible for a father to have such feelings for his own child she would have thought it was desire. Hannah was suddenly afraid. This was her own father. It wasn’t right that he looked at her as if he wanted to tear her clothes off, hurt her and then kill her.
Before she could do anything, he had torn the picture of Elizabeth in half and thrown it onto the flames where Hannah watched it catch, blacken and burn away. She gave a little sob.
The blow landed on her face before she saw it coming. She reeled backwards, her hip knocking painfully into the side table, the only other furniture in the room. The Bible, which was on top, fell onto the floor. This enraged Dawson further. He grabbed Hannah by the arm, hauled her towards him and struck her a second time across the face.
The pain lashed her, cutting, burning, stinging. Taste of blood in her mouth. Metallic, warm. She fought back her tears. Don’t show him any weakness. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Don’t let him win.
He bent down and picked up the heavy leather-bound Bible. Pushing her onto her knees, his hand twisting in her hair, he began to read aloud.
‘The lips of an immoral woman are as sweet as honey,
and her mouth is smoother than oil.
But in the end she is as bitter as poison,
as dangerous as a double-edged sword.
Her feet go down to death;
her steps lead straight to the grave.’
Tears and blood mingled on Hannah’s face, but she couldn’t reach her skirt pocket to extract her handkerchief. She gave in to the sobbing. This enraged her father further and he pulled her hair, jerking her head back so she couldn’t avoid his face.
‘The Book of Revelations says, “But I have this against you, that you tolerate that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess and is teaching and seducing my servants to practice sexual immorality and to eat food sacrificed to idols.”’
He struck her again and Hannah lost consciousness.
* * *
When she came to, she was lying on the rug in front of the fire, her cheek hot from the heat of the blaze. Judith was speaking and Hannah made out her sister’s features through her hazy vision. ‘It’s all right, Hannah. He’s gone. He’s left the house. You’re safe now. We’ll take care of you.’
Hannah felt a hand on her forehead and realised it was her mother’s.
‘He should never have done that.’ Sarah looked at her, tenderness replacing her usual glassy stare. ‘Did he do anything else to you? I mean – apart from hitting you?’
Hannah pushed herself up into a sitting position. ‘What do you mean? Apart from hitting me? Isn’t that enough for you? He struck me twice. He knocked me out.’
‘I mean… Never mind. Judith, go and make some tea for your sister. Plenty of sugar.’
Judith left the room, throwing Hannah a rueful smile as she left.
‘I mean did he touch you? Interfere with you.’ Sarah’s face was pale, her eyes narrowed.
Hannah was aghast. ‘What are you saying? That’s too horrible. He’s my father! How can you even ask that?’
Her mother’s voice was calm and controlled but her resignation was underlaid with sadness. ‘Because I’ve seen how he looks at you. Because I know what he’s capable of.’ She brushed away a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. ‘He forced himself on one of the maids when we lived in the other house. Denied it of course. I had to pay her not go to the police.’ She turned her head away. ‘I am afraid I married a monster and it took me years of closing my eyes to his misdeeds before I could admit it to myself, much less to you.’
‘But, but… he’s a God-fearing, church-going man. He is full of religious beliefs. He’s always condemning the sins of the flesh. How can what you’re saying be true? I can’t believe it.’
‘You need to believe me. Your father is the worst kind of hypocrite. He has ruined this family. He has ruined my father’s company. He has ruined my life.’
‘What are you talking about, Mother? I don’t understand.’
‘I warned you years ago not to provoke him by ever mentioning Elizabeth’s name. And now it turns out you’ve been keeping a photograph of her.’ Sarah Dawson dipped a cloth into a bowl and wiped it over Hannah’s brow. ‘Foolish girl. You should know by now what he’s like.’ She paused. ‘Where is the photograph?’
‘He threw it on the fire.’
Sarah turned her head to look at the dying embers, her face contorted.
Hannah, suddenly defiant, said, ‘Why? Why can’t we speak of my aunt? She’s your sister. Why should she be unmentionable?’
‘He drove her away. I chose to believe him rather than her. As long as I live I’ll never forgive myself.’ She put her fingers to her lips. ‘I’ll tell you everything some time, but not now. Judith will be back in a moment.’
‘Hasn’t she a right to know too?’
‘Judith’s headstrong and lacks caution. She’s also fragile. It’s bad enough he’s beating you. If he were to start on her too—’
Judith backed into the room, carrying a small tea tray. ‘Here you are, Han. This will make you feel better.’
Sarah got up from where she was kneeling beside Hannah on the rug. ‘Stay out of his way. Both of you. Now, I’m going to bed. I don’t want any supper. If you’ve any sense you’ll go to bed as soon as you’ve had yours.’ She moved to the door then looked back at them. ‘And lock your bedroom door.’
* * *
Charles Dawson didn’t come home for several days. Hannah had no idea whether he was absent from the office too, as she didn’t go into work. Her face was bloated and bruised from the blows he had dealt her but there was no serious damage. Worst of all was the realisation that she was afraid. Terrified of seeing her own father. For two days she remained indoors, ashamed to show her face in public.
If Hannah expected that the display of concern from her mother marked a new beginning, she was soon disappointed. Sarah returned to her usual state of torpor, spending hours in bed. There was no sign she was ready to share any further revelations about her past or her sister Elizabeth.
On the third day, desperate for fresh air, Hannah decided to go for a walk on the sands. She pulled an old tam’o’shanter low on her brow and covered as much of her face as possible with a knitted scarf and set off, avoiding the main thoroughfares. It was a cold and blustery afternoon and she knew it was unlikely there would be many people around on the seashore.
She went by way of the library, needing to confess that The Weather in the Streets could not be returned. Waiting until the young librarian she knew best was alone at the counter, Hannah approached and told her what had happened. She’d originally intended to make up a st
ory about a pet dog destroying the book, but she was a poor liar. No, the truth was always better. She explained that her father belonged to a religious sect that believed any books, apart from the Bible, should be destroyed.
The woman looked at her open-mouthed. ‘He threw it on the fire?’
Hannah nodded. Conscious of the librarian staring at her, she hoped her scarf and hat still covered the bruising.
The woman looked up at the clock behind the desk. ‘It’s time for my break. Come with me.’ She moved from behind the counter and ushered Hannah by the elbow to the back of the room and through a doorway into a small anteroom. As well as half a dozen upright chairs there was a wooden trolley holding an electric kettle and a collection of cups and saucers.
They sat down side-by-side.
‘Your father hit you, didn’t he?’
Hannah’s hand went involuntarily to her face.
‘Let me see.’ The librarian eased the scarf down and winced as she saw the extent of the bruising. ‘He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that. No one should, and certainly not your own father. Maybe you could try telling a priest – or even the police?’
‘No. Please. It would make matters worse.’ She stood up. ‘I just wanted to tell you I was sorry about the book and to warn you that he might come here and make a fuss.’ She pulled her scarf up again and, waving her hand towards the kind-hearted librarian, pushed open the door. ‘I have no money. But I will try and find a way to repay the library.’
‘Don’t worry. Lots of books go missing. And if he does turn up here, he’ll get a piece of my mind. Burning books! Is his name Adolf Hitler?’
Hannah was starting to walk away.
The librarian softened her tone. ‘Please wait.’
Hannah shook her head and left the library, wishing she hadn’t come.
Walking towards the shore, she was filled with regret about telling the woman the truth. Her kindness had almost made things worse. Hannah hated feeling sorry for herself, much less to invite the pity of others, and now she had the added worry that the woman might tell someone else. It would have been better to have said she’d left the book on a tram. Her nerves tingled in anxiety and her stomach churned. What had she done? Why had she been so stupid?
As she’d hoped, the beach was devoid of people. The tide was on the turn. Hannah walked briskly along the hard, wet sand, still thinking about what the woman had said. What if she did go to the police? Might they be able to help her? Something told her that her father would brush any enquiries away – even supposing the police would be interested in a matter between family members – he would find a way to convince them it had been an accident. Then she would be left unprotected to face his even greater rage.
She had been unable to forget the night a few years ago when she and Judith had lain in bed weeping as they listened to their father beating their mother in the adjoining room, and repeatedly shouting, ‘WIVES, SUBMIT YOURSELVES UNTO YOUR OWN HUSBANDS, AS UNTO THE LORD.’ It had gone on for nearly ten minutes and their mother’s screams had chilled them to the bone. The next morning, when they tried to comfort her after he had left the house, Sarah had pushed them away.
Hannah kept on walking, further than usual, beyond Waterloo and Crosby, almost to Hightown. Looking up at the sky she saw there were banks of dark clouds. Deciding to turn around and head back as she had no umbrella, she saw, in the far distance, the outline of a man walking towards her. Inside her pocket, Hannah crossed her fingers hoping that he would turn off the beach before their paths crossed. She looked around her, now anxious, but the shore was otherwise deserted. Fixing her eyes on the distant city she increased her pace and tried to walk purposefully and confidently, pulling her scarf higher to cover her face.
He was about fifty yards away from her now, and the dunes were encroaching closer to the sea at what would be their point of crossing. There was no room for her to move further away from him, other than by scrambling up the dunes or stepping into the sea. Something about him seemed familiar. She lowered her eyes and kept walking.
She was almost level with him and he raised his cap in greeting. Recognising the man from the docks the other evening, she heard him gasp in recognition too. ‘It’s you again. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Please, wait! I mean you no harm. It’s just that you look exactly like someone I once knew.’
Hannah carried on walking, mindful of her father’s strictures, but the man swung round and was now walking beside her. ‘I think you might be related to her. Her name is Elizabeth Morton. Please, Miss Dawson.’ That funny accent again.
Hannah turned to face him. ‘How do you know my name? What do you want with me?’ She was uncertain what to do; fear mingled with curiosity. The man was older than she was, probably around thirty. His expression was sincere, his face open and friendly. And she did have so many questions. But the last thing she wanted right now was for this man, who had known her aunt, to see her with a face that looked as though she’d done a few rounds in a boxing ring against the champ.
‘I made enquiries in the building you came out from. They said you were Miss Dawson. The man in the office told me. The building had a sign saying Morton’s Coffee. I realised you must be related to her, to Elizabeth.’ He held out his hand. ‘Sorry, I have the advantage over you – my name is William Kidd. Elizabeth Morton was my father’s second wife. In Australia. That’s where I come from.’ He brushed his hair away from his brow and put his cap on again.
Australia. That was the accent then. She accepted his hand with her gloved one. ‘You knew her? My aunt?’
‘Yes.’ His face broke into a wide grin and he clenched his fists in front of him in a gesture of triumph. ‘I knew you had to be related. You’re the living image of her.’
Hannah felt a little surge of pleasure at that. He had a nice face and laughing eyes. She decided she liked him. Liked him a lot.
‘Your mother? Is she Elizabeth’s sister?’
Hannah looked around her, fearful of someone seeing her speaking to this man. But the beach was empty. ‘Yes. My aunt left when I was a small child. I had no idea where she went, until now. I did have a photograph but not anymore.’ She felt a rush of emotion and struggled to conceal it. ‘Is she still alive? Is she all right?’ She searched his face, her excitement growing.
Will closed his eyes for a moment. ‘As far as I know, but I haven’t seen her in more than ten years.’
‘Oh.’ Disappointment sapped her. She had to know more. ‘You said she was married to your father?’ Hannah frowned, puzzled.
‘My father’s been dead for many years. I’m afraid that’s why I lost touch with Elizabeth.’ A frown darkened his features and he looked towards the sea, avoiding her eyes.
After a moment he turned to face her again and this time looked at her intently. Hannah felt the blood rushing to her face. What was it about him that should have that effect on her? It must be the way he looked at her. Hannah couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at her that way before. As if she were the only other person in the world. As if the world didn’t exist beyond this empty beach and the two of them. Her stomach gave a little jump. Then she remembered her bruising and pulled at her scarf, tugging it tighter around the lower half of her face. She could feel his eyes still on her. She wanted to get away before he could see what her father had done to her – and yet she didn’t want to stop talking to him, didn’t want to move away from him.
‘Would you like to get a cup of tea somewhere, Miss Dawson? We have a lot to talk about.’
She wanted nothing more. But that would mean he would see her whole face. See the ugly blue bruising around her jaw and the cut to her lower lip. ‘I can’t’ she said quickly. ‘I have to get back. I’m expected at work. I’m sorry. I can’t talk to you, Mr Kidd. I’m really glad you knew my aunt. Goodbye.’ Heedless now of getting sand in her shoes, she stumbled up the dunes towards the nearby road and didn’t look back. Her last words must have sounded incoherent. As she scrambled up through the sl
ippery sand, she could feel his eyes on her.
* * *
Later, she cursed her stupidity. Why had she run away? Why hadn’t she arranged to meet him again another day. The damage to her face would soon be healed. Why did it matter so much what her face looked like when all she wanted to do was talk to him about her aunt? But she knew that wasn’t the truth. Talking about Aunt Lizzie was a means to an end. She was afraid if he saw the cuts and bruises on her face, he wouldn’t feel the kind of attraction for her that she was already beginning to feel for him.
Why was she even thinking this? Pull yourself together, she urged herself. Mr Kidd was a stranger with whom she merely shared a common acquaintance. No more than that.
* * *
Will stood on the shore, watching the young woman hurrying away. Something wasn’t right. Why was she hiding her face behind that scarf? It was cold but not that cold. What was she concealing? All he’d been able to see were her eyes. Big beautiful eyes. Lizbeth’s eyes. She’d seemed frightened and he didn’t think it was because of him.
He remembered what the clerk at Morton’s had said: that her father would be angry if he knew Will was asking about her. Even though they had only spoken for a few minutes, he felt drawn to her. He decided to go after her but by the time he reached the other side of the dunes she had disappeared into the network of residential streets.
The impact of seeing this young woman was greater than, by all rights, it should have been. Will was convinced he was meant to know her. Why else would he have run into her again in the few hours of free time he had in port, before the Arklow returned to Dublin? For someone who had believed himself to be immune to women, this one was already exercising a strong pull on him. Instinct told him that she was in some kind of trouble.
Storms Gather Between Us Page 11
