After stirring two tablespoons of vinegar with a tablespoon of salt in a saucer, Sylvia dabbed a piece of flannel into the mixture and proceeded to scour a copper pot until it gleamed like new. She winced, listening to Libby bashing the plates together as she dried them. Her good dinner set had scarcely a plate unchipped because of the girl’s clumsiness. She gave her a nudge. ‘Off you go now, Libby.’
Surprised, Libby looked at the rest of the dishes waiting to be dried.
‘I’ll finish them. It’s your birthday, after all. Take Nipper with you, but mind you don’t let any wandering dogs near, with her in heat.’
Even as she spoke, Sylvia knew she might as well have saved her breath. No matter how carefully they’d watched the bitch in the past, she’d managed to produce a litter of pups every year without fail.
Sylvia looked out the kitchen window, only vaguely seeing Will and Arnold busy knocking down the rotten old shanty that had once been their home.
Libby’s birthday. Twelve years of age today. They had bought her a silver locket, which they would give her at tea this evening. The size of a florin, though oval not round, and engraved with lilies, it was a beautiful piece of jewellery. Sylvia had protested when Will had first suggested it, feeling it would be wasted on the girl. She thought of the hopes and dreams she’d once harboured for her daughter. God forgive her, but so many times she’d wondered if it might have been a blessing if Libby had died that day she’d hit her head. She’d never been right since. Most folk thought of her as quite mad. That same notion had passed through Sylvia’s mind, but she’d quickly pushed it aside. Yet the child was far from right. The guttural sounds she uttered when angry — and that was far too often — which only Will seemed to understand, her dreadful stammer when she did manage the odd word, and her fits. Then there were the visions, as Will called them.
Strangely, it was usually only when she was having one of those that she managed a clear sentence or two. The day after Libby’s accident, when she swore she saw Donald MacKinnon, she’d spoken so plainly, Sylvia hadn’t realised how damaged her poor mind was. That was the last time she had thought of her daughter as normal.
A commotion outside jolted her from her thoughts. She glanced out the window and froze at the sight of Libby running towards Will, distracting him from a timber frame that was about to fall on him. Arnold gave a warning shout, enabling Will to dart out of the way a second before the frame came crashing down.
Minutes later, Sylvia called the men in for tea. Will, Jack and Libby came straight away, but there was no sign of Arnold.
‘Might as well get on with carving the joint while we’re waiting. No sense in letting it go cold,’ Will said, standing.
Libby, full of excitement and meaning to help, reached out for the bone-handled carving fork and knife to hand to her father, brushing her wrist against the cruet set and sending it skittering across the table.
Sylvia let out a startled gasp and grabbed it — her best silver-plated and cut-glass cruet set, nearly another casualty of Libby’s clumsiness. She eyed the Staffordshire gravy boat’s chipped saucer with resignation. That, and the matching porcelain serving dishes, every one either cracked or chipped, she had failed to save.
‘Where can he be?’ Sylvia fretted after they’d waited a good ten minutes for Arnold to appear.
Will shrugged. ‘He came in the same time as I did.’
Sylvia was about to send Jack to look for their boarder when he stalked into the kitchen, red-faced and quivering with anger.
‘Who’s been at my teeth?’ he demanded.
‘I beg your pardon? Whatever do you mean?’ asked Sylvia.
‘This is what I mean!’ Opening his mouth wide, he pointed to his teeth. Far from their usual pristine white, they were splotched with dark patches.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Will, his jaw dropping.
For once Sylvia didn’t chide Will for his language as she, too, gawped at Arnold.
‘Whatever have you done to them?’ she asked.
‘I’ve not done a thing, and I’d stake my life it’s boot blacking on them — I can smell it.’ He pointed to his teeth again. ‘I’ve got an ulcer and took them out to rest it, and this is what I found when I went to put them in again. I’ve been trying to scrub it off this past ten minutes.’
Jack erupted into laughter.
Arnold rounded on him. ‘I suppose it was you who did it, you young bugger!’
Sylvia’s face froze in disapproval. ‘Arnold … if Jack has seen fit to do this to your dentures, we’ll see he’s punished. But I’ll not have profanities uttered in my house, if you please.’
She turned to her son. ‘Leave the table at once. Your father will deal to you later.’
Jack’s laughter had stopped abruptly.
‘What were you thinking of, boy?’ Will demanded in a low, ominous growl.
‘It wasn’t me who did it,’ Jack protested, shaking his head. ‘Honest it wasn’t. I didn’t even know they weren’t his own teeth.’
‘Then if you are not responsible, who is, may I ask? Arnold’s teeth did not blacken themselves.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Sylvia saw Libby move her hands from on top of the table to under her behind.
Arnold also caught the movement. ‘Here!’ He waved a finger at Libby. ‘Show us your hands.’
Libby ignored him.
Sylvia recognised the blank look her daughter effected when caught out in one of her never-ending stupidities. ‘Elizabeth, do as Arnold says.’
‘Come now, Libby.’ Will’s tone, though firm, was not threatening as it had been with Jack, Sylvia noted, annoyed at yet another instance of favouritism.
Libby kept her hands tucked under her behind.
‘Let’s be having them, there’s a good girl,’ Will persisted.
Libby balled her hands into fists and held them up.
‘Open them,’ Will said quietly.
One by one, Libby flicked her fingers open.
Sylvia eyed her daughter’s black-stained fingertips. She thought of Arnold’s kindnesses to Libby: the times he’d offered her peppermints — always rebuffed — had smiled at her, uttered a pleasant word, only to receive a blank-faced stare in return. Now this! ‘Elizabeth, how could you do this to poor Arnold?’
‘D-d-didn’t.’ Libby cast her eyes downward.
‘Elizabeth Budd …’ Leaving the sentence unfinished, Sylvia looked over at the bench where the soap and dish-rag were kept on a saucer.
Libby shook her head.
‘Enough of your lies. It’s a mouthwash you’ll be having for your tea tonight, my girl!’
‘Should be soap and water for Arnold’s tea,’ Jack muttered. ‘It’d clean his teeth.’
Sylvia locked a shocked gaze with her husband’s. ‘Will, what have we raised here?’
Will placed his knife and fork beside his plate, his actions unhurried, yet an unspoken threat lay in the measured way he did so. ‘Jack, apologise to Arnold at once.’
‘I’m sorry for cheeking you,’ Jack said, the words tumbling out in a rush.
Arnold’s indignant expression softened a little at Jack’s words, but he turned a scowl on Libby.
Rising, Sylvia beckoned to her. ‘Come along now, over to the bench with you. I’ll teach you not to tell lies.’
Will raised a hand, indicating that Sylvia should sit. ‘Surely there’s no need for these measures tonight. It’s her birthday, after all. I think perhaps missing out on pudding will make our Libby see the error of her ways. Do you agree?’
Sylvia did not agree. Had it been Jack who’d blackened Arnold’s teeth, Will would have taken the strop to him. But Will’s word was law and she kept her thoughts to herself, even as she saw Arnold’s eyes suffuse with anger at the leniency of Libby’s punishment.
Will picked up his knife and fork, signalling the incident to be at an end. Then, in an effort to placate both Sylvia and Arnold, he said, ‘If it hadn’t been for Arnold here this afternoon, Sylvia, you may well have been a widow at this very moment.’ He inclined his head toward Arnold. ‘If not for his warning, a very large piece of timber would have toppled on me and I should have been well sconed.’
‘I saw that for myself,’ Sylvia said, not daring to add that it wouldn’t have happened in the first place if Libby hadn’t distracted him.
‘Ah … I only called out and warned you, Will,’ Arnold said modestly, his narked expression fading. ‘It’s not as if I rushed into a flooded river and saved you from drowning, now is it?’
‘I’d have been just as dead either way,’ Will said. ‘And I thank you for your vigilance, Arnold.’
‘Yes, you’re a boon to us, Arnold,’ Sylvia said, her ruffled feathers settling.
A series of grunts came from Libby, who shook her head vigorously.
‘What’s wrong with you now —’ Sylvia began.
‘Leave it be,’ Will said quickly. ‘She’ll be eager for her present. We’ve kept you waiting long enough, haven’t we, Libby, my love?’ He took a small violet-coloured box from his pocket.
At times like these, it was easy to think Libby was as normal as the next person, Sylvia mused, watching their daughter tumble off her chair and hurry to Will’s side, her face wreathed in a smile.
‘B-b-b-ootiful,’ she managed, standing perfectly still, allowing Will to slip the locket over her head.
After the dishes were cleared from the table, Libby lit a candle-lamp and took a plate of scraps out to the fowls.
Arnold excused himself from the table. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to take this to Libby,’ he said to Will. He held out his bowl of uneaten pudding. ‘It was just a childish prank, I see that now. She meant no harm.’
‘What do you say to that, Sylvia?’ asked Will, smiling.
‘Go on then,’ Sylvia relented, glad to see Arnold in good humour again.
‘He has a good heart, has Arnold,’ she said, once their employee had left the room. ‘We’re lucky to have found him.’
‘Aye, we are, Sylvia. We most certainly are.’
Arnold released his end of the saw, allowing Will to haul it up, and climbed out of the sawpit. Tugging a kerchief from around his neck, he mopped the sweat and sawdust from his face.
For once, Will appeared more beggared than Arnold, as he leaned over, hands pressed against his thighs, chest heaving for breath.
‘We might as well stop for now. Libby’ll be here any minute with lunch. Give Jack a shout, will you?’ Will said, after recovering his breath.
Arnold yelled out to Jack, then sat down outside the mill, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sunshine while they waited for Libby. Life was a funny old thing, he reckoned. When he and Grub had done for that poor bugger in ’76, he’d never have imagined himself coming back here. And now here he was, working and living in almost the very spot it had happened. It had shocked the life out of him when Libby answered the door the first day he’d called. He’d recognised her instantly. Those eyes of hers had stuck in his mind, the brilliant blue irises contrasting so starkly against the whites as they’d filled with fear. The brat who’d been down at the swamp that day. Apart from being taller, she’d hardly changed. His heart had thudded so hard when he saw her again, his breath had caught in his throat, but there had been no sign of recognition in her eyes.
He recalled his shock at knowing there had been a witness to the killing. Charging after the girl, he’d found her lying on the ground jerking and shaking like she had a sackful of maggots trapped inside. It had frightened the life out of him and he’d backed away smartly. Grub had grabbed Hartley’s horse and they’d taken off.
Just thinking about it now caused cold sweat to ooze from his armpits. He and Grub had robbed banks, stolen anything they fancied that hadn’t been nailed down, and kicked plenty of heads along the way. And they’d not let a woman’s reluctance for a good seeing-to stand in the way of their needs. But they’d never killed anybody before. Swinging on the end of a rope hadn’t held much appeal. He placed his palm against his neck and grimaced.
They’d headed for Greymouth after that. Drunk themselves blind with Hartley’s whisky on the way. Grub, poor fool, had drowned in the Taramakau. The river hadn’t been running all that high at the time, but his horse had lost its footing on the stony riverbed. Drunk as a lord, Grub had toppled off. Next thing he’d been floating out to sea, screaming for help, his bald head bobbing until it disappeared under the grey tide of water and fast-running current. Nothing Arnold could have done about it. He kind of missed the fat bastard, even though he’d been mighty quick to put all the blame for Hartley’s death onto him.
When Grub’s body had washed up on the beach, the police assumed they had both drowned. He’d reckoned staying dead was a good thing. He’d shaved his beard and moustache, then cleared off down Otago way, where he’d had his aching stubs of teeth pulled and treated himself to a fine set of dentures. Which, he thought, scowling as he pulled them out of his mouth and examined them, no matter how often they were scrubbed, had never been as white as they were before that dummy got at them with boot black. She needed locking up, she did. She wasn’t right in the head.
He’d lived a good life for a while, until the money ran out. Then he’d played Robin Hood, robbing the rich to help the poor … namely himself. Though he’d done a fair amount of robbing the poor as well. Most of them didn’t deserve to have money — they only wasted it on necessities. He chuckled.
Will came over and sat down beside him. He gave Arnold a questioning look. ‘Something funny?’
‘Just thought of something that tickled me,’ Arnold replied truthfully.
Things had got too hot for him in Otago. That’s when he’d made his way back to the Coast. He’d been in a pub in Stafford when he’d heard that Will was looking for a man to work at the mill. It had seemed as good a place as any to hide out for a while. Cheap lodging and plenty of food. And he took good care to work only as hard as he needed to to keep Will off his back. But the place had sort of grown on him. He’d come to like the feel of clean sheets at night. Clean clothes — ironed, if you please — and Mrs Budd fussing over him like a mother hen. Will was a decent man, treated him fair — first time anyone ever had that he could recollect.
He couldn’t remember his father, and he’d bet his last pound his mother wouldn’t have known who it was anyway. A mean-faced and even meaner-natured nymph of the pave, she’d taught him to pick a customer’s pockets while she kept the bugger at it. And how to mingle in a crowd, slide a guinea case or whatever he could lay his hands on out of a man’s pockets. He’d learned fast, and he’d learned even faster to nip out of the way, quick as a bush rat, to avoid a belting if he didn’t get it right.
He could take to this life now. It beat the snot out of being on the run, always one step ahead of the law.