Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘France!’

  ‘The half scream startling her, Anne set the heavy teapot down with a thud. At the further end of the table a young woman, markedly pregnant, was staring at her with eyes ablaze with fear.

  ‘Millie!’ Anne’s feet seemed not to touch the floor as she ran to the girl.

  ‘France,’ the girl sobbed in Anne’s arms, ‘my Bill be gone to France, last week they took him… he be dead… he be dead…’

  ‘No – no he is not dead,’ Anne soothed the sobbing girl. ‘Your husband is safe…’

  ‘Give her to me.’ Calm yet sympathetic, Unity took the distraught figure, talking softly as she helped the girl to her feet, holding her as she led her from the room. ‘Nobody has said your Bill be dead but I be saying this… he won’t be too pleased should all this crying and carrying on harm that babby you have inside you.’

  Watching Unity and her charge pass from the room, another of the women shook her head. ‘I wonder do that there Kaiser see the horrors of this war, do he place a care on the suffering of men or the tears of women… do he not realise the wickedness of his actions?’

  Sat on a stool the oldest among them, a grey haired woman, her shoulders stooped from years of labour, raised her head. Eyes clear despite her years commanded silence as they passed from face to face before she spoke.

  ‘Don’t mek no difference what the Kaiser says nor what he feels nor don’t feel. This war be not his doin’ nor do the horrors of it be in his keeping to end when he sees fit.’ The woman’s look came to rest on Anne, a look filled with deep and ancient knowledge. ‘It be evil stalks the world, evil which sets man against man… the evil of Satan hisself. ’Tis that Dark One had the mekings of this war, one we thinks so vile it won’t never come again, but Satan don’t never be satisfied and evil always will find a way.’

  Evil will find a way.

  The words of her father! The woman’s look had dropped away and the others were once more talking among themselves but Anne was suddenly in a world of her own, a world where Jacob Corby stood with Bible in one hand, his thin wasted frame almost lost among swirling, wind driven flakes of snow as he raised the other towards a gathering of muttering people, their bodies swathed in thick furs. But it seemed his glittering, fever filled eyes looked only at a young, pale faced girl shivering with cold as he uttered the well known words. Evil… evil will find a way.

  Had it found a way… found it through her? Had the pendant once worn by the monk Rasputin truly been endowed with the evil of Satan… was she responsible for…?

  Pressing her fingers into her sides to hide their trembling, Anne forced her legs to carry her from the room.

  *

  ‘That woman has a mouth as big as a parish oven!’ Unity threw the potato she had peeled into the pot. ‘And her mind be like rich folk, wanders all over the place while learning nothin’… all her talks be a load o’ mullock!’

  But it was not rubbish the woman had talked. Anne peeled another sprout, cutting an X in the base before putting it with those ready for cooking. The newspaper stands she had passed coming through the town had all carried headlines, some saying ‘Forward Offensive at Ypres’, others declaring ‘Heavy Losses at Passchendaele’. Was that the special offensive Abel had mentioned in his letter, was he among the injured… among the dead?

  Catching the quiet sob, Unity laid her knife aside. ‘What be it, wench?’ she asked gently. ‘And don’t go telling me it be nothin’ ’cos I knows better. I watched you all through the eating o’ dinner, you spoke hardly a word to anybody; you was as near breaking point as were young Millie… that were why I asked you to take her home.’

  Unable to hold the tears any longer Anne covered her face with her hands. ‘That – that offensive—’

  ‘That bloody Maudie!’ Unity pushed away from the table. ‘Her mouth be open so often I wonders her tongue don’t get sunburnt!’

  ‘It – it isn’t what Maudie said,’ Anne sobbed behind her fingers, ‘it’s – it’s Abel.’

  Stopped in her tracks Unity stared at the bent head. ‘Abel? What be the lad to do with you crying? Do his name be on the list posted on the Town Hall board?’ Lowering her fingers and wiping her eyes on the apron covering her skirts Anne shook her head. ‘No – no his name is not on the list.’

  ‘There you be then, all this blartin’ be for no need.’

  Tears were not always controlled by need. Anne dabbed her eyes again. Taking out the letter she had read on coming home then placed in her pocket, she held it towards Unity. ‘It is what Abel said, what he put in his letter. Read it, please, I – I want you to.’

  From the mantel shelf above the fireplace the tick of the tin clock filled the silent minute it took for the brief letter to be read then, understanding reflecting in her own moist eyes, Unity nodded.

  ‘Could the offensive Abel speaks of be the same as that Maudie spoke of, the one the newspaper says took place in Passchendaele?’

  Handing back the letter, her own voice edged with anxiety she could not completely erase, Unity answered quietly, ‘I don’t know, wench, and that be the truth of it, we can only wait and pray… put our trust in the Lord.’

  ‘Isn’t that what we have done these three years!’ Flung like an accusation, Anne’s words rang with a sharp bitterness. ‘And what good has it done? What good can it do against the evil I brought—’ It ended with the suddenness with which it had poured out. Anne’s glance dropped to the vegetables she had been preparing. She had not intended to speak of the fears still inside her.

  ‘The evil you brought… what evil do that be?’ Unity let the clock tick the seconds away but her gaze did not move from the girl sat at her table.

  ‘It – it was what my father often said.’ In no more than a whisper Anne began the explanation she knew Unity would have before the topic was allowed to rest. ‘The same thing was said today by Mary Haddon.’

  Without interruption Unity listened to all that had been said during her absence from the workshop, listened to the growing quiver in the voice, watching the mounting tremble of fingers which jerked despite being clasped together.

  ‘Mary ’Addon be an old woman,’ she said when Anne finished speaking, ‘one who lived too many years in the shadow of her father. He spent more of his time preaching an’ spouting the Bible along of Darlaston Green than ever he spent a minding of his wife and family. Always a threatening folk with the devil, forever going on about the ways of evil, but folk d’ain’t never take notice, they knowed he was a Roarin’ Ranter.’

  ‘A lay preacher too zealous in his own beliefs.’ Anne smiled thinly. ‘So was my own father.’

  ‘Mebbe yes, mebbe no; what showed in Jacob Corby after his leaving Darlaston I can’t be saying. But you never spent the years along of your father Mary ’Addon spent along of hers, your brain don’t be completely drubbed clear of common sense like that woman’s. Huh… evil will find a way, what will her talk of next?’

  ‘But does the church not teach that Satan at his fall was given charge over the earth? If so, does he not have power—’

  ‘Yes, he has power!’ Unity snatched the pan of sprouts, setting it above the fire. ‘That be the crux of the matter, it be him, an’ not some pendant, for that be what them tears you’ve shed be about and not just fears for Abel Preston, though they be for him an’ all. You still fears that trinket, that which you carried from Russia, the same thing you took to Bentley Grange, held the power to take life, to create war… well, that don’t be so. The devil be jealous of what were allowed him by the Lord, and he guards it well, too well to set the smallest part of it in any pendant or anything else a man might use for his own workings. The tales told you be no more than the chains set to bind that fear, to hold you and others as easy influenced tight in its coils. Oh wench… wench—’ staring at Anne over the top of the salt box now in her hands, Unity’s head swung slowly side to side ‘—you knows yourself it all be foolish superstition, and all the things you puts to it be no more than coincide
nce.’

  Superstition and coincidence! Hours later, lying in her bed, Anne stared into the darkness. Shipwreck, abduction, an accident with a cart… all of those things had happened whilst that pendant had been in her possession; and when it was given to Sir Corbett, a car accident followed by his unexpected death… could they all be coincident?

  Falling into sleep Anne stared into a nut brown face enlivened by brilliant blackberry eyes, a wrinkled mouth repeating softly, it will reach again… reach again.

  29

  There had been many names listed on bulletins since the announcement of the battle at Ypres which Maudie had talked of, but the one she looked for was never among them. Nor had there been any word at the Davies’ house. Worry, which was her constant companion, felt sickeningly heavy in Anne’s stomach. The woman had welcomed her as always, offering tea, asking would she like to ‘pop in next door, see everythin’ be all right?’ But she had refused, saying she had come simply to enquire of a friend. The old eyes had looked keenly at her then and she had turned quickly away, not wanting to admit to what she saw in them and what she realised could not be hidden from her own… the deep look which said it was more than friendship brought her to this house every week.

  If only she knew, if there was someone she could ask, someone who would tell her whether Abel were dead or alive. But, as Laban had pointed out, she had no number or regiment, only a name to go on, and in the chaos of war… He had not needed to say more, that if Abel were among those ‘missing in action’ the authorities would be unable to answer. Unity’s advice had been more precise: ‘You must wait and pray.’ Turning left into Pinfold Alley, Anne admitted Unity was right. All she could do was pray.

  ‘There you be, miss; two packets of Shag, two of Erinmore and four packets of Woodbines. I’m sorry it couldn’t be more but baccy isn’t easy got these days.’

  ‘It is very kind of you, Mr Watts.’ Anne counted coins into the hand of the smiling tobacconist. ‘I’m certain the men in the convalescent unit will bless your name.’

  ‘Well, you tell ’em I be wishing them all a speedy return to ’ealth. Now you tek care going back, the Alley be dark most nights, but when there be no moon… Well, like I says, you tek care.’

  Pushing purse, tobacco and cigarettes into the bag Unity had half filled with provisions from her own pantry in answer to the regular appeals by newspapers that anyone who could spare an item of food donate it to the hospitals, Anne smiled at a man holding the door of the small, dimly lit shop touching his flat cap with a ‘G’night, miss’ as she passed.

  Mr Watts had not exaggerated when saying the Alley was dark. Anne walked quickly from the isolated shop making sure her feet lifted well clear of the uneven setts. Once in the broader Pinfold Street the dull gleam afforded by the carefully shaded windows of a condensed line of shops would alleviate the darkness.

  Hearing the sound of wheels coming from behind, she stepped closer in against the wall of a house. Carriages did not often drive through the Alley. Glancing up to the driving seat as the vehicle halted alongside she saw the hand raised above a head, the whip it held beginning a downward journey, heard a voice grate, harsh and angry.

  ‘You think your threats worry me, that I’ll dance to your tune…’

  With the last word the thick handle struck hard across her neck, sending Anne twisting against the wall.

  ‘… women be here to stay, you says…’

  The whip struck again, knocking her head first against the rough brick, and the darkness of the Alley became a living, suffocating blackness wrapping itself around her.

  ‘… well, Thomas Bradley be telling this… you won’t be one of ’em!’

  Words and blows became a blur following after her into the void.

  *

  ‘I knows what you says and I knows what I think and the two don’t be the same thing.’ Unity sponged the darkening bruise on Anne’s forehead. ‘A trip over the setts could set you stumblin’ into a wall, givin’ you a nasty knock to the head, but it don’t set weals across your neck nor shoulders neither, so how do you explain the ones you ’ave?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Anne answered through a throbbing headache.

  ‘That be my backside of a tale, what you means is you won’t!’ Unity’s tongue was sharp but the hand applying cooling Witch Hazel was gentle.

  ‘I – I tripped and fell.’

  ‘You fell right enough but it were no trip of the foot sent you head first into that wall, it were a blow, in fact I thinks it were several blows and ain’t nothing you say will alter my mind to that.’ Unity set the bottle of Witch Hazel on the small bedside table then, using the corner of a scrap of clean white rag, smoothed a little Germolene ointment over Anne’s broken skin.

  ‘There, that be what the doctor advised afore he was rushed away to see to an accident. Now get you into bed and I’ll fetch you up a cup of tea, but nothing for that headache, doctor says there could be risk of concussion.’ Gathering up her utensils Unity ignored the question. ‘What accident?’

  Had someone else been injured… had Thomas Bradley used that whip handle on another person? every movement painful Anne removed the towel draped about her breasts, following it with skirt and underclothing. Nausea sweeping over her, she let the nightgown drop over her head, ignoring her uncombed hair, grateful to climb into bed.

  She could understand Thomas Bradley striking herself but why another? And who was his other victim?

  ‘There you be.’ Unity bustled back into the room, a mug in her hand. ‘You drink this while it be hot then get you off to sleep.’

  Heaving herself up against the pillows Anne took the tea, sipping first then asking, ‘What was the accident the doctor was called to?’

  ‘It were lucky for you a man come out of that baccy shop when he did, he got Mr Watts—’

  ‘Unity, did Thom— was anyone else hurt beside myself?’

  Sighing heavily, her hands crossing over her middle, Unity Hurley shook her head. ‘I see you’ll get no rest until you knows… and neither will I. The man who brought you ’ome said he’d seen you in the tobacconist shop, he wanted naught but a box of matches so was out almost as quick as yourself. Said he seen a carriage, he thought it stood still but couldn’t be sure, for at that moment one of them train engines blasted its steam whistle and the horse took off as if a torch were held to his rear. Then at the corner with Pinfold Street the wheel of the carriage struck the footpath and it bounced, pitching the driver into the road. The man said the driver were dead, his neck broken when folk picked him up. I suppose it were the constable sent for the doctor, he’d need official certification of death. Anyway, the doctor give instruction as to what was to be done for you. Then Mr Watts, knowing where you lived, set you in a hansom and asked the man with the matches to stay long of you ’til you got here.’

  Dead! Anne stared at the mug in her hands. Tipped from the carriage! His neck broken!

  ‘The driver,’ she whispered, ‘who was he?’

  A louder sigh emphasising impatience with questions when Anne should be sleeping, Unity replied, ‘I thinks you know well who it be but I’ll tell you anyway. It were Thomas Bradley, and afore you says anything more you might as well know I don’t be sorry! I knows it were him and that he tried to kill you tonight so don’t go expectin’ no tears from me.’

  Left alone Anne drank the tea but when sleep finally came it brought a gypsy’s face, its wrinkled mouth repeating… it will reach… reach…

  *

  It had been ten days since the occurrence in Pinfold Alley and most of the marks were faded almost completely. Anne looked at the sheaf of flowers, their stalks stood in a bucket of water beneath the scullery sink, white carnations with a delicate frill of yellow edging each petal.

  There had been a wreath of the same flower, white edged with the mourning colour of purple which, despite Unity’s arguments it should not, had been sent to the funeral of Thomas Bradley. It had been a tussle of wills but Unity had eventually agreed
the widow would not have known of her husband’s intent or of his attack, that the stress and possible heartbreak of losing him was enough for the woman to bear and a little kindness would be appreciated. So the wreath had been delivered.

  Now it was time to forget. Laban had been in agreement with her decision, pointing out to his wife there was no proof of what had happened having been more than the result of a fall. Yes, a carriage had been seen, but whose carriage and had it come to a halt? The alley had been pitch dark, the man was not certain… Unity had not been pleased but in the end she had recognised it would gain nothing to accuse a dead man.

  ‘Couldn’t you wait until tomorrow? It still be a bit soon for you to be out and about.’

  Anne smiled at the woman who had come into the scullery. The hair was a little greyer than it had been when she had first taken a pregnant girl into her home, a few more lines etched the eyes, but the heart was the same; kind, compassionate and loving: the same heart which had cared for and loved a tiny baby and had not once turned away from the mother who had rejected him. Looking now at the face shadowed with concern, Anne felt a rush of warmth. Putting both arms about the slightly stooped shoulders she hugged her. ‘I love you, Unity Hurley,’ she murmured, ‘I love you.’

  *

  The cemetery was deserted. Anne glanced about the quiet grounds. Few people visited in mid week unless it was for a funeral. Kneeling beside a small patch of earth she did not hear the grass muffled tread behind her as she pulled the sprouting weeds.

  ‘There is still no more news of Abel…’

  She spoke quietly and as she leaned to lay the bunch of carnations against the polished headstone the silent tread came closer.

  ‘… there has been no other letter…’

  Anne talked on, unaware of being watched, of being heard.