Chapter 34: Richard Schormann & Karen Worth

Ashford: Saturday, September 27th

‘Tell me what happened, Karen.’ The house was quiet again since everyone had gone upstairs. The only sounds in the room were the soft hiss of the gas fire and the trembling breath of the girl in his arms as they lay together on the settee.

‘He was waiting for me.’ She tipped her head back to rest it against his chest; her cheeks were taut with dried tears. ‘I thought he wasn’t in, but he was in the room where he keeps his canaries. Did I tell you he breeds canaries?’

‘No…’ Richard held back his anxiety, his frustration to know what happened when she got home. ‘No, you didn’t, cariad.’

‘I’ve always thought it strange that a man who can be so horrible is so gentle with the canaries.’ She spoke pensively. ‘Mum always says she thinks he feels more for them than her.’ She paused, tucked her hands up the sleeves of the pink jumper.

She’s in shock, Richard told himself; let her take her time. He waited.

His attention was taken by a light going on in the bedroom window of the house opposite. The tall figure of a man was framed in the glass; he scratched his armpits. Richard looked above him to the chimney-pot on the roof silhouetted against gauzy light streaks of the dawn. Almost morning already. What would today bring?

‘Karen?’ He manoeuvred himself so he could see her face. ‘What happened last night?’

When she spoke it was in a rush as though saying the words in such haste would lessen the harshness of them. ‘He said I couldn’t see you again. That he wouldn’t have me going out with the son of a German.’

She faltered. What he’d actually said was that he wouldn’t have her going around with a Kraut’s son. His spit had sprayed her face.

‘You keep away from him, d’you hear? I won’t bloody have it.’

‘Mum?’ Karen held out her hands to her mother who was pacing the floor with the crying baby clutched to her.

‘Don’t argue, Karen, just do as your father says.’ Her mother’s voice was weary, there were dark hollows under her eyes.

‘He’s not my father, my dad’s dead. He…’ she shot a venomous look at George, ‘he has no right to tell me what I can and can’t do.’

George took three steps towards her and grabbed her arm. His eyes were narrowed and hard. ‘He, madam, has a name. I’ll thank you to remember that. And while you’re under my roof, you’ll do as you’re told.’

‘That’s just it; it’s not your roof, is it?’ Karen jerked away from him and spun round, the settee a barrier between her and her stepfather. ‘Mum?’

‘Shush, you’re frightening Frank.’

Karen opened her eyes wide to stop the threatening tears from spilling over, watching her mother pat the baby’s back in a futile effort to stop the crying. Suddenly she felt so alone. And she was sure her mother felt the same, only she was too scared to admit it. When had this distance come between them? After her father died they’d clung to one another through those awful days. Then he’d come along. She glared at him.

‘Keep looking at me like that, lady, and you’ll be sorry.’

Karen swallowed. When she spoke again she kept her voice low. ‘It’s not your roof,’ she repeated. ‘It’s not your house, not your furniture.’ She thumped herself on the chest. ‘And I’m not your daughter.’ She stopped; the fear swelling in her.

No one moved. Even the baby was hushed. The stillness blanketed the room.

Then George lunged.

‘He hit you?’

‘No, I moved too fast for him.’ He saw her quiet inward collapse to hopelessness. ‘But I can’t go back, Richard. I won’t.’

‘No. You won’t.’ He pulled her closer to him. ‘You can stay here with me, isn’t it.’ He touched her chin with his forefinger, lifting her mouth to his. ‘And when I go back to Wales you can come with me.’