He glared up at him now. This was the man who had dared to handle his daughter. Her loud screams and protests had only convinced him more firmly that it was nobody else but this obnoxious individual who had brought her low.
He was preparing himself to speak, to say one word, ‘WELL?’ but before he could utter it Angus threw the envelope onto the blotting pad, remarking caustically, ‘You wanted that. Or did you?’
It was with something akin to a feeling of triumph that he saw Ratcliffe’s jaws tighten until the cheekbones shone white through his skin. He could get this man on the raw; he had always known it. He, too, had his memories from a boy. Perhaps his determination not to knuckle under to him right from the start was the reaction to hearing his mother saying, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘Yes, sir.’ His mother wasn’t made for knuckling under either, but she’d had to do it. They’d had to eat.
Ratcliffe picked up the envelope and slapped it on the table as if it were a cane, saying as he did so, ‘You know the real reason why I sent for you.’
‘Aye!’ The words sounded casual. ‘I understand I’m giving your daughter a baby.’
‘You dirty…!’
‘Hold it. Hold it.’ The careless attitude was gone. Angus was leaning over the desk, his hands flat on it. ‘I’m warning you. Don’t use any of those terms on me.’
Jonathan Ratcliffe had to swing his chair round before he could rise. Then when he was on his feet he said, ‘You’ve taken advantage of a young girl of good family; you’ve taken advantage of the fact that your mother…’
‘I’ll take advantage of the fact that we’re alone here without witnesses and bust your mouth open for you, MR RATCLIFFE, and then I’ll bloody well take you to Court. How would you like that? Justice is impartial. That’s what they say. Well, I would see that it was impartial in this case.’
For a second Jonathan Ratcliffe knew a moment’s fear. It was two-pronged. It was a fear of being physically handled, also the fear that he had made a mistake. But this reasoning was quick to reassure him on the latter point. Last night they had gone over everybody she knew; there was not one boy they could name that she had seen more than once in the last six months. They had gone over her movements for weeks past. She had been in the house most evenings doing her homework. When she went to the pictures it was with Kathy, or Rona, and, he himself had picked them up in the car, having insisted on this because the High Street was usually full of hooligans at night. The only person she had been seen with was this man here. He had made it his business this morning to go next door and have a word with Irene Brett. She said she had seen them together at least four times during the past few weeks. She told him of the night she had seen them standing in the shop doorway together, and Arthur had insisted on bringing her home. She also remembered to tell him of the time Colin had seen them coming off the train together.
Added to this was the tale his son had gone over for him yet again, of how he had seen his sister being helped over the stepping stones in the river by Angus. They had come from over the fells and they had come up the road and stood talking near the railings. He had shouted to them and then Angus had gone away.
He said grimly, ‘Threatening won’t help you any, Cotton. We may be in Court together yet, but I’ll give you a guess as to who will be on trial, and what is more I haven’t to guess why you have done this.’ He leaned forward again. ‘You wanted to inveigle yourself in, didn’t you? You were determined to get up into the drawing office by whatever means in your power. You couldn’t get there owing to your lack of education and limited brains so you used…’
Angus’s arm flashed upwards, his fist doubled and looking like a huge hammer head, but whether it was the width of the table between them and the fact that Jonathan Ratcliffe stumbled back against the wall, or that in the nick of time he realised what he was about to do, his fist dropped with a crash onto the oak desk, the force lifting up a cut-glass inkwell from its brass stand, and as it shuddered back into place again he bent his head deeply over his chest and drew the air into his lungs. After a moment he lifted his eyes to where Jonathan Ratcliffe was still standing against the wall, his face looking like a piece of new lint, and he muttered thickly, ‘You and your bloody job! You can stick it. Right from this minute, you can stick it. Do you hear? I’m finished. As for brains I’ve got more in me little finger than you’ve got in your whole body. The whole works, the whole town knows how you got into the top office, by leapfrogging poor Mr Brett…Sucking up. Do you know what your nickname is in the yard, and around? Do you know it?’ He was yelling now. ‘It’s Tit Ratcliffe. That doesn’t need much working out, does it? Tit Ratcliffe, the biggest sucker-up in the game an’ the biggest upstart into the bargain, because your father was no better than any of ours. A little huckster grocer’s shop, that’s what he had. But he scraped and saved and sent you to college, and what did you learn there? To suck up, Mr Ratcliffe!’ He gave an imitation of spitting. Then straightening himself, he ended, ‘There’s one thing I want afore I go, an’ you’ll not get me out of this house unless you do it. You’ll bring her in here, and she’ll face me, and she’ll tell you if it was me or not.’ There was a long pause before he said, ‘Well, get going an’ ring your bell.’
And Jonathan Ratcliffe did just that. He rang the bell. He was shivering with rage and humiliation; the only thing he wanted now was to get this man out of his sight. There was part of him wishing that the position was reversed, at least physically, that he was broad and tough and had fists like hammers because with them he would batter Angus Cotton to a pulp. Tit Ratcliffe! How dare he!…How dare THEY!
When the door opened he did not look at his wife but muttered in a voice that she did not recognise, ‘Bring her down.’
During the time they waited Ratcliffe sat down before his desk again and Angus stood facing the door, and when she came in he hardly recognised her. Not only were her eyes swollen but her whole face was swollen, and there was a dark pitch on her cheekbone as if she’d had a blow. She looked even younger than when he had last seen her walking on the fells in the rain, and…she looked frightened.
After a moment’s hesitation she came straight to him and, standing in front of him, she looked up into his face and said, ‘I…I’m sorry, Angus. I told them. I’ve told them but they still won’t believe me. I’m sorry. Oh, I am sorry.’
Her words, instead of convincing her father and mother, only proved to them still further that this was the man and that because of her fear she was frightened to name him; fear of what might happen to him at the works, and through that how Emily would be affected, because they knew she had always been very fond of Emily too.
Angus, now looking down at her, asked quietly but stiffly, ‘Have I ever touched you?’
For answer she lowered her head and shook it slowly.
‘Have I ever made any improper suggestion to you, or said anything out of place?’
Again there was a shake of her head.
‘They say you’re goin’ to have a baby and I’m the father.’
Her head went further down and still kept shaking.
‘If they’re right then I should marry you, shouldn’t I?’
He had never intended to say any such thing and his words came as a shock to her and brought her head up with a jerk. ‘But…but you won’t. I mean, you’re not…’ The look on her face made him sick; the prospect had terrified her.
She turned frantically now and looked from her mother to her father, and she said again, ‘He’s not! He’s not!’ She cupped her face with her hands and began to rock herself and Jonathan Ratcliffe cried sternly, ‘That’s enough!’ then nodded to his wife, and she came forward and took hold of Vanessa’s arm and led her from the room.
But before she passed through the door Vanessa turned and looked over her shoulder at Angus and whimpered again, ‘I’m sorry, Angus. I’m sorry.’
Now Angus moved towards the door, but he, too, turned before he reached it and he asked tersely but rather flatly now, �
��Well, does that convince you?’
Jonathan Ratcliffe wanted to bawl a loud ‘No!’ but what he wanted above all things at the moment was to be rid of this man, and so he remained silent.
A few minutes after the front door banged Jane Ratcliffe came into the study and, moving slowly towards her husband, she said, ‘He wouldn’t admit it?’
‘No; but it’s him all right. I’m more convinced than ever now. Did you see how she went? “I’m sorry Angus. I’m sorry Angus. I’m sorry.” She’ll be sorrier before she finishes.’ He gulped in his throat. Then nervously moving papers about on his desk, he said, ‘I’m going into Newcastle to see Muxlington again. I’m sure he could do it, but he won’t. But he’ll arrange about London. You can say she’s going to visit relatives, anything. When she comes back and there’s no sign of it, it’ll give the lie to Irene’s tongue.’
‘People will still think…’
‘Yes, they’ll think,’ he said bitterly. ‘And they’ll always think. And they’ll know, but she won’t have any baby.’ He turned on her. ‘Understand Jane. She’s not going to have any baby.’
‘Doctor Carr?’
‘I’ll settle with Doctor Carr. He can’t do anything. She’ll have a miscarriage. Anybody can have a miscarriage. And if he knows what’s good for him he’ll keep his tongue quiet, else he’ll find himself and his bottle out of practice. He’s not fit to be on the books anyway. Now go up and tell her what’s arranged. And stand no nonsense. Tell her from me, if she knows what’s good for her she’ll comply…and quietly.’
But Vanessa didn’t comply, and quietly. She wasn’t going to London, she said; she wasn’t going to have the baby taken away.
Then what, asked her mother, did she intend to do?
Vanessa could give no answer to this question until tomorrow. Brett would be here tomorrow, and when he knew what had happened everything would be smoothed out. There would be trouble. Oh yes, there would be more trouble. But they would be away from it all. Tomorrow night she would go down to the summer house as soon as it was dark, and he would be there because Irene would certainly put him in the picture the minute he got indoors. She would have her cases packed ready and then they would go off. They would go through the wood, out into the main road that way. She could see it all plainly.
‘You’re not to think of seeing him again. Do you hear me, Vanessa?’
‘What…You mean Angus?’
Jane Ratcliffe bit on her lip. Her daughter wasn’t stupid, far from it, she was much brighter than Susan, yet her responses were those of some dim child. ‘Who do you think I mean, girl? And don’t take that attitude with me. There’s only one person responsible for your condition…at least I hope so.’ The implication startled even herself, together with the fact that she had voiced it. ‘Now I’ve told you. Your father is arranging for you to go to London. You’ll go into a nursing home, and when it’s all over you’ll go to Great-Aunt Jean’s and stay there until your father considers it fit for you to come home again.’
‘Oh no, I won’t. I won’t go to Great-Aunt Jean’s.’ Vanessa was startled into protest. ‘You’re not going to shut me away with Great-Aunt Jean, out in the wilds in Scotland, so don’t think you are.’
She was about to protest further when she reminded herself there was no need. Great-Aunt Jean who lived in a cottage on a hill six miles from a town, surrounded by her hens, dogs and goats, with her Bible-reading and hymn-singing—the only form of entertainment she allowed—Great-Aunt Jean wouldn’t see her, whatever happened, she would die first. But there would be no need for that. She must be quiet and just let them think she was going to go along with them. She turned from her mother and sat down and looked out of the window, and Jane Ratcliffe, taking her change of attitude for acceptance of the situation, said firmly, ‘There now, let’s hear no more protests. The time is past for that attitude. It’s all settled.’ Then she went downstairs to tell her husband.
Vanessa spent the following day cleaning her room, and Susan’s. Since, her mother said, she had been the means of depriving them of Emily’s services she would have to learn to do things for herself in future. She also delegated to her the cleaning of the two bathrooms, and she ordered her to have her meals in the kitchen because her father couldn’t bear to sit at table with her…
By six o’clock she knew that Brett was home. Ray brought the information into the house. She heard him call, ‘Did you know Uncle Brett was home, Mammy? He’s brought Michael a cowboy outfit with a gun. Not a real one but pretty like it. It shoots pellets. It’s in a holster.’
That evening was the longest she had spent in her life. She sat looking out of the window in the direction of the larches. She could see part of the side of the house through the trees, but she wouldn’t be able to see him until he came right to the fence that divided the grounds. And he didn’t come. He wouldn’t come out until it was dark and they were all in bed.
She herself was in bed pretending to be asleep when her mother looked in before going to her room. She felt her standing staring towards the bed, then the door clicked shut. She waited a full half hour before she went down the fire escape. She didn’t take her cases with her; he mightn’t be able to get away immediately, he would have to go to the bank for money tomorrow. She had thought about all this. But she’d take them and hide them in the wood when the arrangements were made.
There was a moon due but it wasn’t up yet, but she had a torch with her. She was trembling from head to foot as she neared the river. She wondered what he would look like. Remembering him over the past weeks he had seemed to get younger and younger until she imagined he was almost her own age.
She knew he was in the summer house before she reached it. She stood below the steps and played the light through the open doorway, and there he stood. His face was brown, for he had been in the sun for the last three weeks, yet it was an odd kind of brown, and he didn’t look young, not even youngish; he looked old, very old…and different.
She whispered softly, ‘Brett!’ but he didn’t answer her; he just stared into the light.
She couldn’t bear the look on his face; it looked all twisted and misshapen. She switched off the light and said, ‘Say something. Say something to me, Brett.’
For answer he reached out and pulled her to him and pressed his lips to her forehead, and she clung to him for a moment before bursting into tears. He still held her as he led her the few steps to the wooden seat and they sat down together. He did not say, ‘There, there, don’t cry,’ he uttered no word of comfort, and after a while his silence told on her and she pulled herself from his arms and peered at him in the darkness. ‘It’s been awful, Brett,’ she said. She heard him gulping in his throat before he spoke. Then his words sounded ordinary and not suited to the occasion. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it must have been.’
‘I haven’t told them, or anyone. No-one knows, Brett.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He could have been giving thanks for someone offering him bread and butter, and his peculiar attitude eventually got through to her and she exclaimed on a high note, ‘Brett, I’m going to have a baby!’
She thought he said, ‘Oh, Christ!’ Then he was holding her hand and talking. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry Vanessa. You’ll never live long enough to know how sorry I am. I didn’t stay away because of this. You understand? I stayed away because I couldn’t bear to see you. I didn’t know this had happened. I thought it might, but again I dismissed the idea. Most…most women don’t at their…’ She felt the movement of his body as he swung his head widely on his shoulders. ‘It was just that I wanted to pull myself together. When…when I finished the firm’s business I got in touch with your father and asked him if I could stay on for my holiday. I wanted time, time, and…’ he almost added, ‘enough satisfaction for my body’s needs to keep me away from you.’ And he had certainly done his best in that direction during the past three weeks. No man could have done more.
She put in breathlessly now, ‘What are we going to do, Br
ett?’ She felt she must give him a lead because she wanted to be reassured quickly that he was going to take her away, but when after a moment he asked flatly, ‘What can we do, child?’ she was stunned into silence. And now he was asking her, ‘What did they say? What do they intend to do?’
‘They…they want to send me to London to have it taken away.’
‘Well…well, that’s the best thing, dear.’
‘But Brett! Brett!’ Her voice sounded full of terror. ‘I can’t. I won’t. I won’t have one of those operations. It showed about them on television. People die.’
‘Hush, dear. Hush. It won’t be that kind of operation. They’ll send you to a clinic, to a good man. Those girls who die, they go to old women in back streets, ignorant people. You’ll be all right. And when you come back…’
She withdrew her hands slowly from his. She was no longer peering at him. Her eyes were wide, staring out of her head into the blackness, and her voice sounded like that of a child’s who had been told that they weren’t going on holiday after all. ‘But…but I thought you would take me away, Brett. I thought we would go away. You don’t love Irene. You said you didn’t. You said that night you had never loved her for years; she was cold and hard. You said she was. You said if only you could take me away’—‘Fly away with you, my princess,’ were the words he had used—‘you could get a divorce and…and we could be married. I…I want to have the baby, I really do, Brett, I do. I feel I would like a baby, but…but not unless I’m married. I want to be married, Brett.’ Her voice, filled with pleading and fear, was like a thin whistle coming up from her bowels.
The Round Tower Page 12
