THE TEN-PIN BOWLING IDEA had really taken off in Capford. One of The King’s Head regulars, Tim, was the undergardener for Lord Wilson and had access to a lawn roller. After meticulously cutting a strip of grass on the village green, he rolled it to the standard of the Wilsons’ croquet lawn. Now no one could blame uneven ground for a poor shot, and the arguments were reduced. Every school boy was eager to get his hands on the vicarage skittle set, but Violet guarded them with an eagle eye. “As a paid member of the vicarage household, I am entrusted with safeguarding their property,” she explained haughtily to a bunch of boys who dared to ask.
“But ’e made ’em for the Sunday school tea, and so they’re for us Sunday school children.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then, before leaving, he would have instructed me to give them to you, and I can assure you, he did not.”
“Maybe ’e forgot to say.”
“Maybe he did, but to play with them without his permission would be terribly wrong of you, wouldn’t it, and I don’t want to see you getting into trouble. Now run along and carry on playing skittles with upturned logs.”
“But they don’t fall down as easy.”
“Then you’ll have to throw a bit harder, won’t ya?”
Thus Violet remained centre stage in the ten-pin bowling craze, and every evening The King’s Head regulars looked out for her and the big canvas skittle bag. But Violet was running out of time on two fronts: the Hayworths were to return from London in two days, and Reuben was leaving Capford at the end of the week to go hop-picking in Flimwell, a village ten miles away. She was certain she had won his heart, but she needed also to win his hand in marriage, or at least a promise of his hand. The whole village knew of their attachment, and she would be a laughingstock if he slipped away without an acknowledgement of their position. Not that she doubted his intentions, but he did need to verbalise them. That is common a weakness in men, she had noticed. They couldn’t express their intentions and often needed women to help them.
Tonight the lads were in a celebratory mood. The back-breaking job of harvesting the turnips was completed, so now at Biggenden only the apples were left to be picked.
The moment Reuben approached her, Violet could see he had drunk too much. She had never heard him talk and laugh so much. He was too demonstrative in public, and she felt uncomfortable. Whatever her plans had been for helping him articulate his intentions, they would have to be shelved until he was sober. A drunken proposal was no proposal at all. How was she supposed to treat him? She had had no experience of dealing with an intoxicated man. Should she ignore his loud, befuddled declarations of love or try to humour him? She felt embarrassed in front of her fellow villagers. She glanced at Joe and saw his look of disgust. She wanted to go home but was responsible for the wretched skittles.
She tried to mingle with the crowd and lose Reuben, but he followed her relentlessly. Now she was scared. If and when he went to refill his tankard, she would slip off into the shadows, and the skittles would have to look after themselves.
It was twilight before she could carry out her plan. She crept past the public house and disappeared down the path by the woodshed. She walked fast, her heart beating louder than the exercise required. Then she heard her name being called. It was Reuben, and his voice sounded harsh. When she heard footsteps behind her, she gathered up her skirts and started to run. She could not tell if Reuben was catching up with her, for the leaves under her feet and her own heartbeat drowned any other noise. She realised she was running away from help as well as toward harm. Down this lonely path, no one would find her. She was about to lose her life or her virtue or both. She ran and prayed as she had never run and prayed before.
Now she could hear his footsteps, fast and close. She screamed and was about to scream again when his hand suddenly muzzled her mouth. Now he had her.
“You’ve been dallying with me for long enough,” he hissed, “and now you can give me my dues!”
His other arm crossed her chest, and his hand grasped her shoulder, forcing her backward. She kicked as hard as she could, but with one movement of his leg he had her down on the ground. He crashed to the ground on top of her. Her whole body was jarred with pain, but she fought on. Her kicks, bites, and scratches only provoked from him expletives and punches. His weight pinned her to the ground, and a firm slap around the head made her so faint she wondered if she would ever rise again. She could taste blood in her mouth. She was too weak, faint, and bruised to put up any more resistance. She was no match for him. The inevitable must happen, and she must submit and die.
Just at that moment they were surrounded by lamp lights, and someone kicked Reuben so hard he weakened his grip of her. The kicking continued until he was right off.
“Get out of ’ere, you brute!”
“Leave our Vi alone!”
Now Violet recognised her saviours—they were Tim and Joe. They were pulling Reuben to his feet and with a few more swipes, sent him on his way.
“And don’t ya dare show ya evil face in these parts again!”
Violet felt dazed, relieved, and embarrassed. When she tried to sit up, her head reeled.
Out from the shadows a shaken Molly came to assist. “We’ll get ya safely home, Vi.”
The three hauled her to her feet. She staggered along between them. Her dress was torn and covered in mud, and her hair roll was half undone. She felt so disheveled and foolish, and they were all so kind and decent. She really needed their assistance, but all she wanted was for them to be gone.
I must look awful, ’cos even Ma is sympathetic, thought Violet as she collapsed into a chair by the stove. Her rescuers explained the situation, received hearty thanks, and then bade them all goodnight. Even when they had gone, her mother fussed around her lovingly. Pa looked ready to grab a shot gun and go after Reuben, but instead he laced Violet’s warm milk with brandy and drew her chair closer to the stove. Such tender love after such hateful violence broke Violet’s brave composure, and she wept like a baby. She desperately wanted her parents to understand, but her sobs and swollen top lip made stringing a sentence together nearly impossible.
“Ith all right,” she lisped. “He didn’t acthually do anything.”
Her parents looked at her battered face, swollen lip, and bruised body, but they knew exactly what she meant.
“That’s all right then,” they said with relief.
“Yeth, ith all right.”