The Butcher's Daughter

by Jane E James

  In the space of a week, we have hardly said a dozen words to each other. He goes to work early every day and comes home late; drinking in The Black Bull or working late in his workshop. If we do eat together, we do so in silence. Occasionally, we pass each other on the stairs and every time this happens, it is as awkward as the first. Making eye contact is avoided, accidental touching even more so. Since that first day I arrived home, when I openly challenged him about my mother’s whereabouts, I have been good; repeatedly biting my tongue so as not to antagonise him. So far, this seems to be working. How long I can keep it up is another matter, as by nature I am not a submissive person.

  I see the gypsy long before he sees me. As before, he is shirtless and has on the same pair of tight jeans but today he is barefoot and wears his hair loose around his shoulders. He is browner than I remember and busy flexing his muscles, testing out an axe on a wooden chopping block, which I do not recall seeing before. I am horrified to discover there are three hens and a cockerel in a cage close by; clearly awaiting the most brutal of fates. Their clucking excites the two dogs who paw at the cage and whine softly.

  My stomach is in knots as my eyes dart from the chickens to the gypsy. Now that he has noticed me, I find I cannot look away. I do not know which eye bothers me most, the blue or the brown one. The answer is both. There is something lustful about the way he is looking at me, which I have never experienced before, and it terrifies and excites me at the same time. The most worrying thing is he seems to know it.

  He has already spotted my unease and I can tell, by the mischievous sparkle in his mismatched eyes, that he is amused by it. Holding my gaze, he walks over to the cage and pulls out the cockerel. He does this in a surprisingly gentle way, the bird hardly making any fuss at all, but as soon as he heads for the block, I break my self-imposed silence.

  ‘Don’t, please.’

  The dogs, closely following on his heels, stop to gaze at me, as if worried I might jeopardise the chance of a kill, but when their master pays me no heed, they lick their lips and jostle for position. The gypsy places the bird on the block. It struggles and he stops its wings from flapping by placing a hand over its feathered body. Feeling myself shudder, my gaze is drawn to the cutting edge of the axe in his other hand. I tell myself that it is just a chicken, but I believe that all life is precious and I even consider pleading with him again. But when I see the smirk on his sun-bronzed face, I realise there is no point. This man will do exactly as he likes and to hell with anyone else.

  I might be powerless to save the chicken but I will not watch him kill it. Doing what I did not think was possible, I mount the bike and set off ungainly over the pebbles. It is hard going but I manage to stay in the saddle, legs pedalling furiously to put as much distance between us as possible. When I hear the axe hitting the block, the bike swerves beneath me but I keep on cycling. Don’t look back, Natalie, whatever you do. The sound of the gypsy’s laughter stalks me all the way home and I try, but fail, to shut it out.

  The House By The Sea

  I sweep this porch at least once every day but the dust and sand return like an unwanted dog as soon as my back is turned. It creeps into the house too, leaving ghostly footprints over the floor. The dust is in my hair and up my nostrils and when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the windowpane, I look pale and exhausted. I feel much older than when I first arrived home. Has it only been a week since I returned to Little Downey? Sometimes, it feels as if I have never been away at all and at other times, I am sharply reminded of the fact I am considered an outsider, at least by the villagers.

  My jaunt into Little Downey was not a huge success. One or two people nodded and said a polite but formal “Good morning” but most, especially the likes of Mrs Abbot in the post office-cum-grocery store, glared at me as if they wanted me dead. At one stage, I thought she was going to ask me to leave, that she was going to refuse to serve me. If that had happened, I would have died of embarrassment. My heart was in my mouth when I paid for my purchases and when our fingers collided over the money, my hands shook uncontrollably. She did not even acknowledge my timid “Goodbye and thank you” when I left, just tutted. I half expected her husband to come through from the back of the shop, where he could be seen counting his takings, with a rope meant for my neck.

  In hindsight, which everyone says is a wonderful thing but truly isn’t, I wonder if I am making too much of their hostility towards me. Isn’t Dr Moses always telling me I have too vivid an imagination, inventing slights that were never intended or hearing unspoken insults? I miss him dreadfully, of course. The thought of my old protector is enough to make me feel tearful and I am not one for tears as a rule, never have been. Frank’s Law, remember. Funny how for years I yearned to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of Thornhaugh and now find myself longing for human company. Back then, being alone, properly alone that is, was a luxury I could only dream of.

  I sigh and run a hand through my dirty hair. There is no escaping the fact I am lonely here, that I need a friend. I have my housework of course, which is the only thing keeping me sane at the moment. I must stop using that word to describe myself. Keeping house seems to agree with me. I find it both therapeutic and satisfying, and if it ends up becoming another addiction, it will be less harmful than some of my other disorders. Going back to the villagers, I suppose I will have to be more patient. Isn’t time meant to be the greatest of healers? It is only natural that they should be wary of me.

  Hearing a vehicle approach, a sound so rare I barely recognise it for what it is to begin with, I shield my eyes with my hand to avoid the harsh sunlight, and peer out. An unfamiliar pickup truck is making its way along the winding sand trail up to the house, a cloud of dust gathering behind it. We have a visitor and without knowing who it is, my heart is already pounding. What will I say to them? What do they want? Just a few minutes ago, I was complaining of loneliness and longing to meet new people but now there is a real chance of that happening, I find myself panicking.

  When the pickup truck comes to an unhurried halt in front of me, I can tell that beneath its dusty surface it is shiny black and new. My eyes are drawn to the fierce use of the word ANIMAL printed on the side of the truck but when the door is pushed open and the driver steps out from the glare of the sun, I am relieved to find he is not at all animal-like.

  My father’s good-looking assistant strides over confidently but does not step foot onto the porch. I get the impression he refrains from doing so out of politeness and will wait for an invite before presuming anything. I like him even more for it.

  ‘Hi.’

  After such a build-up, his greeting is a bit of a disappointment. However, with a face like that, I could forgive him a lot worse; maybe even the cold blue eyes that state his allegiance to Little Downey.

  ‘Hi,’ I mumble begrudgingly, hating to be caught out looking so unkempt. Looking as I do, dirty and dishevelled, means I cannot be my true self with him and I wish him miles away.

  ‘You work for my dad, right?’ Just like my father, I am sparse with words.

  ‘Daniel. Dan. Frank and I are partners.’

  Daniel, Dan holds out a hand, but it is a few seconds before I take it. I am not used to this sort of contact; not used to men full stop, unless they are doctors or orderlies. My hand is hot and moist, his dry and cool, having stepped out of an air-conditioned vehicle. The comparison makes me feel even more at a disadvantage. We look at each other for a second too long and our eyes dart away at the same time. There is an awkward pause between us that does not have any right to be there, seeing as we do not know each other. Then I remember that we are all socially awkward in Little Downey. It is what we are known for.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ he asks candidly.

  ‘No, sorry. Should I?’ I hate it when people talk in riddles. This is another failing of Little Downey’s. Again, like my father, I prefer plain speaking.

  ‘Dan Harper. I was only three years above you at school.’

/>   ‘Harper? Didn’t you have a younger sister? Debbie.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  He seems inordinately pleased that I remember this. I cannot imagine why, but all is revealed when he speaks again.

  ‘Remembering my sister is the next best thing to remembering me,’ he states.

  ‘Is she still around?’ I change the subject because I do not remember him but do not want to hurt his feelings.

  ‘Uh uh. She married a dentist, lives in Devon.’

  ‘That’s unusual.’

  ‘What? Marrying a dentist or living in Devon?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean…’ I shake my head, annoyed with him for deliberately misunderstanding me.

  ‘You mean it’s unusual for anyone in Little Downey to move away.’ He finishes my sentence for me, then winks. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that we do things differently around here.’

  There’s that smile again. It changes everything. The way I feel about him. The way I feel about Little Downey even. There is goodness in him, I know it. A joker with a heart. Nothing like the gypsy. I don’t even know why I am thinking about him.

  Realising I still have the sweeping brush in my hand, I casually put it to one side, hoping he won’t forever associate me with the mundane task of cleaning. It startles me that I should find myself wishing I’d put on a dress, something I rarely do, and a touch of make-up, nothing too heavy. Out here, I could sit around for days without seeing a soul, so there is hardly any need to look glamorous, yet this is exactly what my mother had done. Ironically, I don’t think my father paid any attention to what she wore or once complimented her on her looks. She was a beautiful woman with an inattentive husband. This alone must have been enough to drive somebody as flirtatious and playful as her, quite mad.

  ‘I hardly remember you. Yet you must know everything about me,’ I admit, feeling suddenly flat and distrustful.

  ‘Don’t let that worry you.’ He appears unphased.

  ‘It worries most people,’ I exclaim, trying not to stare at his wonky smile and icy blue eyes.

  ‘Not me.’ He shakes his head and buries his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Why?’ I am relentless, but I know exactly where I get this trait.

  ‘Stick around long enough, Natalie, and you’ll find out I’m not like most people.’

  He throws me his best grin and I smile back. There is something irresistible about Daniel Harper and because it feels as if we have known each other for years, I believe him.

  Chapter 12

  Hours later, I am still sitting there, staring into the distance with a stupid grin on my face, when my father arrives home. Because today feels different. Correction, I feel different, I do not get to my feet when he steps on to the porch, nor do I immediately apologise for my existence when his eyes narrow at the two empty beer bottles on the table.

  ‘Somebody been?’

  ‘I thought he might have mentioned it.’

  ‘Who?’

  There is something about my expression that my father objects to. I can tell this by the way he is frowning but I have done nothing wrong, so I stretch lazily and yawn.

  ‘Daniel.’

  Father looks at me as if I am stupid and I am keen to avoid pointing out that he is the one acting dumb. He must know who I am talking about.

  ‘Daniel Harper.’ I am more abrupt than I intended.

  ‘What did he want?’

  I do not hear the veiled threat in my father’s voice, so I get to my feet, surprised by how tipsy I feel. I may only have had one beer but it has me beaten.

  ‘Just to say hello.’

  I resume my sweeping, anything is better than having my father scowling at me, but when I do sneak a glance in his direction, I see that his focus is back on the beer bottles. They appear to unsettle him more than my dreamy expression.

  ‘Don’t go getting friendly with the likes of him,’ he growls.

  ‘Why not?’ I straighten up and give my father my full attention. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. He is your business partner.’

  ‘Business partner be damned. You’ll do as you’re told and keep away from him. You hear?’

  He spits angrily, the phlegm landing inches away from my foot. I put down the broom and cross my arms, every bit as angry as he is.

  ‘You can’t stop me seeing him. You can’t stop me doing anything. If Mother was here…’

  ‘Well, she ain’t.’

  As far as he is concerned that is the end of the conversation and to prove this, he stomps off towards the outdoor workshop. But I am not done yet.

  ‘That’s it. Walk away!’ I shout after him. ‘Like you always do when I try to talk about her.’

  The Whitewashed Building

  A silence has descended on this hot and humid afternoon that feels unnatural. The house by the sea might be remote, situated one mile from the nearest other property and three from the village, but it is never usually as quiet as this. The stillness is eerie. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I search the sky for signs of life but there is not a single bird in sight. I listen out for the reassuring sound of waves crashing against the shore in the distance but the sea is likewise silent. The only thing I can hear is the crackle of the sun-scorched grass beneath my flip-flops as I tiptoe towards my father’s workshop.

  Because I have always been afraid of the whitewashed building, I would never normally venture out here alone. Since coming home, I have not been anywhere near it. I won’t even glance its way when I walk past it, which I am forced to do every time I go down to the beach or cycle into Little Downey. It may have started out life as a seventeenth-century Welsh longhouse; a long low single-story building that would once have accommodated people at one end and cattle at the other, with a passageway between the two parts— but to me it represents the stuff nightmares are made of.

  The building has been neglected to the point of appearing dilapidated. The once-white walls have yellowed over time and the roof sags lazily in the middle. At either end of the building there is a solid wooden door with heavy iron hinges. My father only ever uses the door on the right, but each entrance retains its own set of crumbling concrete steps. The frames on the small black windows have rotted away, exposing the rusted bars on the inside. Nobody has ever explained what the bars are for. To this day, I do not know if their purpose is to keep people in or out. The thought of being locked inside, of not being able to get out, fills me with the same dread I felt as a child, whenever I went near it.

  Judging by the way my heart is hammering, I do not think I will ever outgrow my fear of this place. My father is nowhere to be seen. No sound comes from within, so I push open the door, jumping at the sound of its unfamiliar squeak. Peering inside, I see nothing but blackness. The smell of decay takes my breath away.

  ‘Father.’

  My hair is sticking to the back of my neck and I want, more than anything, to run back to the house, but if I do not apologise to my father there is a very real chance he will report my behaviour to Dr Moses. I cannot and will not promise never to see Daniel again but I can’t risk news of our quarrel reaching Thornhaugh either. Dr Moses would make too much of a drama out of our father-daughter row and I am ever mindful of his parting words: “If you screw up, Natalie. You could end up being sectioned indefinitely.”

  Hovering in the open doorway, I look around, conscious that I have been holding my breath for too long. My nerves are frayed beyond endurance. It is an unnatural trait of mine, I know, but I would choose pain over emotional torment any day of the week. Where are you, Father? His van is parked under the shade of the Dutch barn, so I know he hasn’t gone anywhere. He is not in the house either, so he must be inside the building. Making up my mind that he is ignoring me on purpose, I decide I cannot blame him. I might not have been the one in the wrong before but I should never have spoken so disrespectfully or raised my voice. If my mother was still alive today, she would be ashamed of me.

  Bracing myself for I know not what, I give a dete
rmined shake of my head before stepping inside. Get a grip, Natalie. It is just a smelly old building. It cannot hurt you. The first thing I feel is a cobweb breaking against my face, making me flinch. The first thing I see is a row of jangling rusty metal meat hooks suspended from the ceiling. They are stained black from old blood. At once, I am a child again; afraid and in need of adult protection.

  ‘Father.’

  It is dark inside and there are flies everywhere. I swat them away, promising myself that if my father were to show himself right now, I would forgive him anything. I would even welcome a soft cuff of the head, the nearest thing to affection I ever received from him.

  My eyes are drawn to the tools on the butcher’s block. I know exactly what each saw, knife or cleaver is used for. Mesmerised by the jagged edges and shiny curves of the knives that gleam in the shadows, I run a finger along one of the blades and stare at it for a long time. It means something to me, I realise, but I do not remember what. Then I hear the sinister sound of a butcher’s saw at work; flesh and bone being cut—and blood dripping.

  Drip. Splat. Drip.

  Taking a giant breath, I close my eyes and try to think back to my first memory of this building. I know the sounds echoing around me cannot be real, yet in this moment, they are more tangible than anything else. They take precedence over everything—my mother, my father, Daniel, Little Downey, the gypsy. They are also disturbingly familiar. I would give anything to be my younger self again, to see what she saw, and hear what she heard. So much is missing from my memory. If only I could remember—

  I can smell the rain. Taste it on my tongue. My hair is wet and bedraggled, and I shiver from the cold. Above me, the sky is grey and patchy with black clouds that are heading towards the village, having already paid us a visit. I wipe the snot from my nose and peer inside the whitewashed building. I have been sent on a fool’s errand by my mother as I am meant to tell my father that he is needed back at the house, because we have a spider. He is going to be furious, of course, and is bound to take his temper out on me.