Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  The twin patches of colour darkened to carmine and tiny beads of perspiration spotted her mother’s forehead even though she shivered.

  ‘We will talk about it tomorrow.’

  Anne remembered the icy fingers that had touched her heart with terror as she had helped her mother to her feet, a terror so strong it had her teeth clenched hard together, a terror which had proved well founded.

  With her heart pounding in her chest she turned her face to the window. No more! She did not want to remember any more! Outside, the night was turning silver as a high moon rose, and though she shut her eyes tight the pictures played on across inner eyes, each movement clear and defined, every silent word loud in the ears of her mind.

  The tiny room below the eaves of the inn was freezing cold. Taking a cover from the bed she wrapped it about her mother’s shoulders then set her gently on a wooden stool, the only other article of furniture the room possessed. They needed a fire. Telling her mother as much she walked back down the stairs.

  Even now, her waking mind telling her it was all in the past, that the nightmare was ended, Anne’s body trembled.

  The men had still been seated about the stove, their clothing sending silent misty tributes towards the low ceiling, and in every eye she could see derision.

  ‘Madame Roskoyeva?’

  At the outer edge of the circle, a man with a flat topped Astrakhan hat low over bushy eyebrows swilled beer from a pot before rising from his seat.

  ‘What do you want her for? Tell Peter Ilyovitch what you need… as if he didn’t know.’

  She had felt the threat of him but stood her ground… her mother had to be kept warm through the night.

  At the foot of her bed the shadow formed face laughed at hearing the request for a fire.

  ‘It’s not fire you want.’ He moved more quickly than she could have thought, grabbing her and pulling her down onto his knee while one hand ripped open her blouse.

  ‘Hey, Ilyovitch,’ one of his companions called, ‘it will be your arse gets warmed should your wife get to know what you’re doing!’

  His beer soaked beard pressed against her throat, a thick fingered hand squeezed her breast as the man who held her laughed thickly. ‘She won’t know unless you tell her and I doubt you’ll be doing that once you’ve had a turn.’

  The other man shook his head. ‘I shan’t be wanting a turn, Ilyovitch. I’m particular about who I stick mine into and it certainly won’t be no foreigner!’

  With her eyes still pressed shut Anne winced, seeming to feel again the sharp slap to her face as she tried to struggle free.

  ‘Oh,’ her attacker had roared the answer, ‘then the bit you shagged senseless on the Finn border was no foreigner, nor the daughter of that German family you spent the night with when we passed through Riga, huh! You passed through that one alright and her no more than twelve years old and I’m going to do the same to this one!’ Laughing he had clamped his greasy mouth to hers, his hand releasing her breast to push her skirts up over her thighs, then, releasing her mouth roared again. ‘If they don’t want Russian prick they shouldn’t come here and this one needs a dose so let’s see her don’t leave disappointed.’

  From the rear of the stove a man heavy with sheepskins called above the laughter. ‘Leave the wench. Just today the priest laid her father in his grave.’

  ‘Then he won’t be giving me any trouble, will he?’ It was growled, lust thickening his words. ‘And neither will you, little foreigner. Once Ilyovitch has parted your legs you’ll be no trouble to any man. Foreigners are no different, they have nothing a Russian woman don’t have.’

  ‘Then why bother, Peter Ilyovitch?’

  The shadowed forms became suddenly still, her own terrified breathing the only sound.

  ‘Why have you come back down here?’

  A sob trembling on her lips Anne watched the ghostly scene come again to life.

  ‘It’s bad enough having you in my house without you flaunting yourself.’

  The presence of the tavern owner’s wife had restored a little of the sanity to Anne’s brain, the same sanity which told her now that what she watched was illusion, a figment, but it was a figment she could not dismiss. Lying against her pillows she watched the scene play about the bed.

  ‘I came to ask for a fire to be lit in our room, this man attacked me.’

  Disbelief blatant in her small eyes the woman almost spat accusingly, ‘Had you stayed in that room he couldn’t have touched you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet a wooden rouble on that, Ilyovitch would get his hands on a woman no matter where she was.’

  Hands on broad hips, the woman glanced to where the voice had come from, her voice riding the laughter of the men. ‘Not in this inn!’ She raked a withering glance over each face. ‘And if Ilyovitch or any other of you can’t control what’s in your trousers then you can leave right now… and you—’ she turned the angry stare on Anne ‘get yourself back to that room before I pitch you and the other one out.’

  She had not even listened, she wanted only to condemn. It was a trembling breath she drew as the woman stomped from the room. The man who had grabbed her, his hot stare had not left her. He was a danger, yet she could not give up now. The nights here were long and very cold, her mother must be protected.

  Praying he would not seize her again she had run, following the woman into the rear of the house. But it was not the woman who waited for her there.

  *

  ‘She must have been near asleep for when I walked to the bedside her cried out.’

  ‘The girl were probably startled.’ Laban smiled, lighting a long stemmed clay pipe.

  ‘That wench were more than startled, you asks me I’d say it seemed her were fair terrified.’

  ‘Nightmares do that to folk.’ Laban puffed steadily, returning a waxed spill to a pot stood in the hearth.

  That was right enough. Unity Hurley carried the tray into the scullery, emptying the untouched tea into a pail set beneath a shallow brownstone sink. But a body were not plagued by the same dream day and night, yet each time of her going into Anne Corby’s room the girl had jumped fit to burst her skin. It weren’t natural. Pouring hot water over the crockery, Unity refilled the kettle from the pump in the yard. Indoors again she washed cups mechanically, her mind wandering.

  The girl Laban had brought to the house showed a gratitude for each thing done for her, politely thanking for the bringing of water for washing, for food or a drink, but behind the civility lurked a fear. It showed in the girl’s quick cry whenever she was taken unaware and blazed in the depths of sad eyes. Was that not to be expected? The wench had been raped, that was enough to put fear into any woman.

  Rape, yes, that was terrible. Unity answered herself as she flipped the huckaback drying cloth over the rope line stretched just below the scullery ceiling. But even that horror could not account for what she saw in that girl’s eyes, a repugnance nothing short of loathing, an abomination which gleamed dark and odious, yet it was more than that; beneath the repulsion was an agony, unhappiness so deep and wounding that eternity itself may never heal the scars.

  And the child which had been born to her? Picking up the kettle, Unity stood for a moment. What was to become of him? So far the girl had not attempted to hold him, had turned her face away whenever he was brought to her. Was another life to be ruined by a man’s lust, would the child pay as well as the girl, pay for a sin he had no part in committing?

  4

  Anne watched the woman laying the warmly wrapped child in a large drawer set on top of a chest stood on one side of the bedroom.

  ‘You’ve no need to get up should he wake for I’ll hear ’im. I sleeps light.’ Unity tucked the covers around the baby then turned to smile at Anne. ‘I would take the drawer into our room but Laban is always up with the birds and I wouldn’t want this little ’un disturbed; but like I says I’ll know when he wakes and I’ll see to the feeding of him so you just close your eyes and sleep.’

/>   A fresh candle set beside her, Anne murmured her thanks. Sleep… the chance to forget, to be free of the memories that tormented her hours, the phantoms which plagued her every moment; but as the door closed behind Unity they rushed from every shadowed corner, grey ghosts relentlessly playing out her past.

  The kitchen of the inn formed behind her closed eyes. Heavy, smoke blackened pans clinging like dark scabbed sores hung on walls unrelieved by dim light emanating from a fireplace.

  Trembling as much in reality as in that unreality Anne saw herself searching for something in which to carry wood to build a fire. She would have to go back through that room, past those leering men whose tongues were as vicious as their faces and that would be torment enough without going empty handed.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  Behind her the voice was low and Anne’s flesh, already creeping from the touch of Ilyovitch, crawled afresh. Turning, she faced its owner. Standing six feet tall in heavy fur boots, thick, grease stained clothing adding to his bulk and increasing the threatening power of him, a man she had not seen before ran small ferret eyes the length of her.

  Her heart beginning to thud, she watched him position himself between her and the door leading to the room with the stove.

  Trying to sound calm though a pulse in her throat threatened to choke her, Anne replied, ‘I was looking for Mrs – for Madame Roskoyeva.’

  Barricaded behind fleshy mounds, ferret eyes narrowed. ‘But she is not here.’

  With an impatience almost as strong as her fear Anne clicked her tongue.

  ‘I can see that Mr…’

  ‘Roskoyev.’ The eyes flicked to her breasts then back to her face. ‘I am Madame’s husband.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can tell me where I may find her.’

  ‘My wife is tired, she has gone to bed.’ The eyes once more flicked to her breasts, lingering longer this time.

  Anne felt the roof of her mouth dry with a new fear. He was standing in front of the door that led to the stove room. Glancing to her left she saw the only other door, one that was also closed. Heaven alone knew where that might lead and instinct warned her not to stray further from the public room of this awful place.

  Swallowing hard she forced herself to look at him. ‘Then maybe you will tell me where I can find wood for a fire and something to carry it in’

  ‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.’ He passed his tongue over his lips, taking with it grease laden hairs from his beard. ‘Wood for fires have to be paid for.’

  ‘Of course.’ The fear she had swallowed regurgitated in her throat as Anne answered, ‘Put it on our bill and it will be settled when we leave.’

  He took a step towards her, his thick, fur lined boots making no sound on the packed earth floor.

  ‘The payment I require doesn’t get put on a bill.’ He smiled showing yellow teeth pock marked with decay.

  Anne glanced again at the door, trying to judge in her mind whether it would be better to go through the one that could lead to anywhere or whether to try to push past the man barring her way to the room serving as the bar of the inn.

  ‘My wife is not here,’ Roskoyev smirked, misinterpreting her glance, ‘but I am here. Whatever she could do for you I can do… perhaps even more,’ he took another step towards her, his jowled face spreading with a leer, ‘and certainly more interestingly.’

  Warning pricking along her veins, Anne clasped her hands tightly at her sides in an effort to control the trembling threatening to overwhelm her. If she could sound matter of fact despite the solid fear blocking her throat, and if she could ignore the innuendo of his words and the flare that had leapt to his ferret eyes, he might step out of her way.

  ‘I wanted to ask Madame if we might have a fire in my mother’s room, I fear she is not well. Probably she has taken a chill, it was so terribly cold in the churchyard.’

  ‘A fire in your mother’s room.’ The guttural tone thickened noticeably as he stepped near, his massive frame closing her against the cold wooden wall. His little eyes reflected the anaemic yellow light filtering beneath the door, lending his face an even more animalistic appearance. ‘Now that, my pretty miss, is a thing we do not allow, the risk of fire is too great.’

  ‘But my mother must be kept warm.’ Anne turned her head from the stink of the man’s breath, she wanted to scream at him to move away but didn’t dare, it would do no good to cause yet another scene.

  Eyes closing even further the keeper of Radiyeska’s only inn stroked his greasy beard and Anne winced against his beer soaked whisper. ‘A service that is not often performed must be paid for, little foreigner.’

  Her stomach churning at the sourness of his breath she tried to answer without breathing in the air he fouled. ‘Of course, I expect it to be put on our bill—’

  ‘Oh no, Ninotchka,’ he interrupted quickly, ‘a service of such a special kind must be paid for by a service equally special.’

  Rancid odour rose from the body he pressed hard against her, a hand grabbing at her breast and kneading the soft flesh beneath her dress. ‘You want a fire for your mother then you pay, you pay the price I ask.’

  ‘No!’ The cry wrenched from her as she fought to push her way free. Not again, oh God, not again. Twisting to avoid the wet fleshy mouth she heard the grunt of pleasure as he pulled her to him, forcing her closer against the throbbing flesh at the base of his stomach.

  ‘No… please, no!’ She was crying openly now, disgust and fear too strong for her to hold. How could men so vile be allowed to live, why for once could not the God to whom her father had sacrificed each of their lives protect her, why could He not strike this loathsome creature dead?

  The hand left her breast to fumble with the buckle of the belt that held up the grease marked trousers. ‘Sshh, Ninotchka,’ he breathed against her face, ‘you will like what Boris has for you, see how strong it is? He grabbed her hand, pushing it hard into his crotch. ‘See, see how it dances for you—’

  ‘Roskoyev!’

  It was not the voice of the Almighty but Anne thanked Him for it and for the effect it had on the man forcing himself upon her. Twisting away as his hands dropped from her she leaned heavily upon a pot strewn table, tremors of relief competing with the dry, racking sobs shaking her body.

  ‘Roskoyev, you child of a pig!’

  Her hand already fastening on a heavy iron pot the man’s wife glared as a broad leather belt fell about his feet.

  ‘What is this foreign filth doing in my kitchen, and what the hell do you think you are doing mauling her all over?’

  The fire doused in his loins, the man looked warily at his wife. ‘I was trying to help this little foreigner.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt.’ The tight mouth parted grudgingly but the words were shot out. ‘Helping her to your prick. And you—’ she directed a lethal glance at the girl holding on to the table ‘—I interrupted the same game you were playing with Ilyovitch, you are so much the bitch in heat you turn from one man to another, any man, every man, it doesn’t matter to you who it is so long as the itch between your legs is scratched.’

  ‘Please, I came only to ask a fire be lit, my mother is not well, she – she has suffered so much already today and she is so cold.’

  Watching tears glint on that face of shadow, Anne did not feel the real ones now coursing down her cheeks.

  Turning a withering glance on her husband the woman’s eyes gleamed their anger. ‘Get out!’ she screeched at him. ‘Get out, you whoremonger, and get a fire bucket burning. I will take it upstairs.’ The furious glare swivelled to Anne. ‘And you… tomorrow you go!’

  *

  In the shrouded darkness of her room in the Hurleys’ house the slight snuffling sounds of the sleeping infant brushed against the silence, while in a room only she could see, Anne heard nothing but her mother’s choked cough. It had been less than twenty hours since the black robed priest had lifted the crucifix commending a dead man’s soul to its maker, hours in which she had not mis
sed her father at all. Dropping the last of their pathetically few belongings into the valise she snapped the catch. Jacob Corby had given her nothing but life, a life which must be lived to his pattern; but his death gave her and her mother freedom, freedom to abandon their eternal wandering.

  From the downstairs room of the inn voices of departing men floated up to her. Brushing a stray curl beneath her bonnet she gave a final straightening to her skirts; dull and brown they seemed to symbolise the life she had been allowed to lead, but soon that life would be over and they would be in England, the land which glistened in her mind like some beautiful green jewel.

  Picking up the valise she made her way downstairs, her stomach churning at the memory of last night. She knew her mother needed rest and warmth but fear of what could happen if they stayed here had stilled the protests in her mind. Had her mother guessed what had happened? Anne closed tight fingers about the handle of the valise. It had been dark in their room and she had grabbed her cloak, fastening it against the cold as soon as she had entered; she had hidden the torn bodice of her dress and yet her mother’s eyes told her she had hidden nothing.

  At the foot of the stairs Viola Corby was settling her account and Anne felt her skin prickle as small intense eyes swept her.

  ‘Let me take that.’ Boris Roskoyev reached for the valise.

  ‘It’s not heavy.’ Anne moved quickly to her mother’s side. She hated the man, hated the way his look devoured her, his hands so ready to paw at her. ‘I can manage. Are you ready, Mother?’

  ‘Quite ready, Anne.’ Viola pulled on her gloves. ‘Mr Roskoyev has been kind enough to supply a horse and troika, we can leave them at the railway station at Plivna where he will collect them later.’

  So he had organised transport to the station – Anne gave the man the faintest of nods – but at what cost? The man wouldn’t do God a service unless payment were of the highest.

  ‘We can leave at once then.’ She looked at the twin spots of colour in her mother’s pale cheeks, at eyes too bright, and felt guilt sting inside. Her mother ought not to be travelling especially with winter settling in, but they could not stay in this village.