Before Tom got out of bed he placed a tender kiss on Jill’s lips. ‘I love you, darling.’
Tuned into him, she woke at once and murmured, ‘I love you too.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘I always know when you’ve left my side.’ She stretched out her arms. ‘Stay and give me a cuddle.’
It was important to make a dawn start on the farm but he never missed a chance to shower her with affection. He got back in bed, drew her in close to his body and caressed her neck and face. ‘Last night was wonderful, darling, but are you really sure we should be trying for another baby yet?’
She snuggled in against his chest, listening to his heartbeat for reassurance. Losing her baby had made her see how fragile life was, how quickly a loved one could be snatched away, and she needed to know he was strong and well. Each time they had made love since her recovery he had asked the same question. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, darling. The doctor says my body is healthy to carry again and I’m more than ready. The problem will be actually getting pregnant.’
‘I was so afraid you’d find making love difficult but thank God you don’t. How are you going to feel if nothing happens for ages? What if we can never have our own baby?’
‘It will be heartbreaking, but as long as I’ve got you, darling Tom… We could think about adoption. Uncle Stanley mentioned it the other day. We’ll just have to wait and see what fate has in store for us. Anyway, I’ve got something to look forward to today, preparing for Kate’s little surprise party.’
‘That’s the ticket, darling.’ He drew away reluctantly and got dressed.
Jill rose from the bed. Tom and the family still encouraged her to take things easily but there was no need. ‘Now Kate’s no longer overawed by Jonny I’ve arranged for him to take her riding after lunch. I couldn’t think of another way to keep her out of the kitchen. She loves to go riding since she gained her confidence in the saddle.’ Jill let out a long sorrowful sigh.
‘What is it, Jill?’
‘It was Abbie who brought up Kate’s birthday on that awful day. I was jealous at the time that she knew something I didn’t. Now I’d give anything to have her here. Dear God, Tom, it’s so terrible about her. Do you think she’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid it’s looking more like it every day. Douglas Goodyear and the police made inquiries at every door in the area of the railway station, and a housewife cleaning her windows was sure she saw a woman of Abbie’s description walking down Richmond Hill with a man. It seems she may have gone off with this character, willingly or unwillingly.’ He suppressed a shudder, not wanting to linger over the terrible possibility that Abbie had been abducted and murdered. He gave Jill a secure hug. ‘You’re not going to brood over that, are you?’
Safe in his embrace, she said sadly, ‘No matter what you go through there’s always someone who suffers more. If Abbie has disappeared because she wants to be on her own, what on earth can be on her mind? The poor, poor thing.’
Tilda cooked breakfast for everyone so they could watch Kate open her birthday cards and presents. Kate was amazed by the generosity she was shown. She was bubbling with joy and hadn’t been able to eat a bite of food. Jill had sent her out in the lane to collect the post. ‘I’ve got a card from Tremore, and the Killigrews, and Mrs Carlyon, and even one from Miss Grigg from the shop. I can hardly believe it!’ She didn’t get a card from her family and was glad. She wanted no reminders of her old life. Her presents included clothes, perfume and a hairbrush, comb and trinket jar set. Jill and Tom had given her a silver oval-shaped locket.
Jonny, who had smiled at her throughout, gave her his present last, kissing her cheek and gazing at her for a long moment. ‘You look radiant, Kate. Gorgeous.’ She did, even though she was in work clothes for the morning.
The photograph frame she had chosen was of electric blue frosted glass with a sculpted design in the corners. She would treasure it for ever. Jonny had asked her to wear ‘something long and floaty’ when he took her photo and she had been glad to be able to cover her feet without having to ask to do so. Jill had lent her an evening dress and she had felt feminine and grown up in the satin material. Jonny had taken several poses of her in the garden and had refused to show her the photos, saying he would put the best one in the frame and she could only see it on her birthday.
She was looking forward to this moment. ‘Thank you, Jonny.’ The others gathered round as she carefully lifted away the wrapping paper. There were gasps of astonishment. Hers was the loudest. ‘Is that really me?’ Jonny had portrayed her within a misty oval, sitting on the lawn with her legs to the side, the dress draped as if it was flowing away from her endlessly. Her face was in full view and she was looking slightly down at a rose he had given her to hold.
‘It’s stunning,’ Tom said. ‘You couldn’t have pictured Kate better.’
‘She looks like a medieval princess,’ Jill murmured in wonder.
‘Utterly beautiful,’ was Perry’s verdict, and Emilia agreed.
Tilda had to dab a hanky to her eyes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. You’re a marvel, Mr Jonny. Kate, you’re like an angel.’
‘Do you like it, Kate?’ Jonny asked, leaning over the table. He hadn’t stopped gazing at her for a second.
‘I love it. Thank you so much.’ She felt she had a special affinity with Jonny.
Abbie could barely move a muscle. She was cold and parched and her head ached unbearably. She searched with a feeble arm for the glass but there was no water in it. ‘M-Mrs Mitchell.’ It was just a croak, not loud enough to summon the landlady or another guest who might be outside her room on the landing. She would have to wait for the chambermaid. Ask her why breakfast hadn’t arrived and to contact the doctor. She was ill, she had never felt so dreadful.
Time passed. All was quiet. She needed to go to the toilet. Mrs Mitchell had kindly brought a commode into the room so she wouldn’t have to slip across to the bathroom. With an arm over her burning forehead, she listened. Her ears buzzed, but as far as she could tell there was silence. Surely someone was around? She would lie here a few more seconds then summon up the strength to reach the commode. Hopefully, the chambermaid wouldn’t come in at the same time and embarrass her. Chambermaid? Mrs Mitchell had mentioned one but she had no recollection of seeing one. Had Mrs Mitchell lied? She probably had. The room was shabby – a low class bed and breakfast rather than a guesthouse. It hit Abbie that she hadn’t seen Mrs Mitchell for some time. Had she seen her yesterday? She couldn’t remember.
Something wasn’t right. Grunting and puffing with effort she sat up, groaning as her arms and back ached. She moved her legs. They were like lead weights. Then she noticed the smell, pungent and fetid and disgusting. It could only be the commode. Mrs Mitchell had stressed it was no trouble to see to it but she was neglectful of her duties. Once, she had said, ‘Don’t worry, you’re paying me enough for the privilege.’
Oh God, this was misery. When first here she had thought to ask Mrs Mitchell to phone Ford Farm and tell Emilia Bosweld of her predicament, but she had decided she couldn’t really take measles there. Today she would ask that someone from Ford Farm be sent to collect her. They wouldn’t expect her to remain in these conditions. For the first time she studied her room, she had always been too feverish or tired before. The tiny single bed was beside the wall under the window. The curtains were never pulled back but she saw they were moth-eaten, dipping in places and held up by string. The wall had large patches of paint and plaster missing. Not what one expected to find in a guesthouse or a place offering bed and breakfast.
Alarm enabled her to struggle to reach up and pull on the nearest curtain in the hope of drawing it back. It came crashing down, making her scream as she was showered by bits of plaster and blinded temporarily by the sunlight. What on earth was this place? Battling to control her fright, she remembered asking a man at the railway station if he knew where the nearest guesthouse was. ‘You’re in luck, lady. I happen to be the proprietor of such an establishment. Allow me to carry your things and I’ll escort you there.’ He had tried to speak well but his voice had been rough and common. Where had she been taken? And exactly what situation had she been taken into?
Horror after horror slammed into her mind. The bedcovers were old and filthy. There was mould in the corners of the room and trailing across the ceiling. The floor was dirty bare boards and the furniture worm-holed scraps. Her things were missing. And some of the stinking smell was coming off her. In all the time she had been here – she had no idea how long that was – she had never been helped to have a wash or been given a clean nightdress. Her hair was sweaty and matted. She must have been drugged not to have noticed all this before. The aspirin bottle! She seized it. It was small, of brown fluted glass, with no label on it. It could not have been aspirin Mrs Mitchell had kept encouraging her to take. There was no sign of her luggage, her things.
‘Oh, my God!’ She huddled against the corner of the cold wall. She had been dragged and half-starved and robbed. ‘D-don’t panic. I’ve got to get out of here.’ She had to be quiet. Someone might hear her and come to the room. She would be drugged again. Or hurt. But no one had come when the curtains had crashed down and made a loud noise. The Mitchells must be out. She had to get away before they returned.
Making her feeble hands work she pushed away the bedcovers and fallen curtains and somehow managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Her head swam and she had to wait for the dizziness to clear. Please let my legs take my weight. They did, just. One gruelling step at a time she went to the door, feeling grit and dirt under her bare feet. Again dizziness robbed her of her balance and she reached out and pressed her hands against the door to stay upright. Her head throbbed and a loud ringing filled her ears. Nausea rose in her stomach and she thought she would be sick. She had to cling to her senses. With her eyes closed she felt for the doorknob. Found it and frantically turned it. The door was locked. In ever-increasing dread and frustration she tugged on it and pushed on it. ‘Come on, come on. Open, stupid thing!’ It was no good – she was locked in. She was a prisoner.
Desperation replaced common sense and she hammered on the door, bloodying her fists. ‘Let me out! Let me out, damn you!’
There was a tremendous rushing in her ears. Her heart felt it was about to burst. Her sight blurred. Her legs refused to hold her up. She sank to the floor fighting to stay conscious, but it was no use. She was too frail and undernourished. Blackness took her into its monumental grip.
Tony Viant skulked home in the middle of the morning. He had to see how Delia was. Last night he had heard her begging Sidney to get off her as the bedsprings had jerked wildly in their room, with Sidney shouting insults at her throughout the assault. The sounds of Delia crying for some time afterwards had troubled Tony, and worse still had been his mother’s laughter from across the landing. His grim father never did anything to stop the disharmony in the house, he said nothing to anyone as long as he was left alone. But his mother took pleasure in Delia’s abuse and it sickened Tony.
He felt guilty over Delia’s suffering. He had not kept his promise to take her away, not having the courage to break into Miss Chiltern’s cottage and steal from her. He would never get away with it anyway, his work there would make him an obvious suspect and he would end up in jail, and if Delia ran away with him she would probably be jailed too. Her life was a torment now, but a prison sentence and her baby being taken away would destroy her.
‘When are we going away, Tony?’ she had implored him yesterday. ‘I can’t take much more of this. I’ll never cope when the baby’s born. Can’t see your rotten mother looking after me for the ten-day lying-in period. I’ll be expected to get straight out of bed and work like a slave. If I don’t get away soon I’ll go mad. I’d rather kill myself than go on like this for the rest of my life.’ He was really worried she would do something silly.
Warily he went inside, hoping to see Delia alone, but creaking sounds above the low ceiling beams meant she was upstairs. Biddy was in her chair, reading a newspaper and smoking. ‘What are you doing here?’ she hurled at him. ‘You better not be out of work.’
‘I’ve got plenty of work, Mother,’ he snapped. ‘I told you already that I’m re-hanging the coal house door for the doctor, and then I’ll be off to Tresillian. I’ve been asked to do some painting at the pub. Betterfit you encouraged me when I get work. You always have to grumble and pick faults. I’m back because I forgot my crib bag. Can’t work all bleddy day without food and drink, can I?’
‘You’re not expected to! And don’t you take that surly tone with me or I’ll get up and slap your face,’ Biddy bristled.
‘Like you do Delia’s?’ he fumed. ‘You and Sidney love to lay into her. She’s pregnant, for God’s sake! Do you want a dead woman and baby on your hands?’
‘What’s got into you? Why do you care? Jealous ’cause you can’t get a woman of your own? I know you listen in on your brother when he’s doing the dirty business with that little tart. Some people would call you a pervert for that.’
Tony clenched his fists, for one ugly moment he thought he would smash his mother across her hideous smirking face. He felt an urgent tugging at his shirt. Delia had come downstairs. ‘Here’s your crib bag, Tony. Go back to work. Leave us in peace,’ she cried, desperate for him not to cause any more trouble. He had let her down on his promise to start a new life in Penzance. He was shallow and weak, and she loathed him as much as she did the other Viants, although she was careful not to show it. She didn’t want Tony treating her badly too. Her life was barely worth living. She had gone to her parents and told them of her predicament and begged them to let her come back. They had refused. ‘You wouldn’t be told Sidney Viant was no good. You didn’t care about bringing disgrace to our door, so now you can get on with it. Don’t come here again.’
Now the old woman would tell Sidney about this latest set-to and he would be furious with her, as if it was all her fault. He was already suspicious there was ‘something going on’ between her and Tony. The other day he had grabbed her outside and pushed her against the privy wall. ‘What are you and my brother always whispering about?’
‘We’re not! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She had tried to wrench away the fingers he had tight around her throat.
‘Is he trying to bed you?’
‘Of course not. Please, Sidney, I can hardly breathe.’
‘You won’t be breathing at all, you bitch, if I find out you’re screwing him behind my back. I’ll kill you both, understand?’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’ He’d squeezed and she had choked, then screamed, ‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Make sure you keep clear of him. You’re my wife, don’t you ever forget it.’
Forget it? If she ever managed to get free of this terrible place she’d never forget for a moment how cruel everyone here was, and she’d never forgive them. She would make a run for it if she weren’t carrying a baby. No one would give her a job with a baby as part of the bargain. Her only option would be to become a prostitute and she’d rather be dead than sink down that far. She didn’t want this baby, certainly not Sidney’s baby. She hoped it would be born dead, for its own sake as much as her own. A child had no future in this family. It would be ill treated or grow up to inherit its father’s and grandmother’s cruel and heartless traits.
Tony took the canvas bag, his old Army bag, from her. ‘Peace? You won’t ever find any peace in this rotten place.’
‘If you don’t like it you know what you can do!’ Biddy shrieked, throwing her full ashtray at him. ‘You can pack your bags and leave. Not that you will, you’re too bleddy scared to strike out on your own.’
The tin ashtray struck Tony on the chest and ash and butts spilled down over his twill shirt. It didn’t hurt much but he was humiliated. ‘You bitch!’
‘Tony, stop it and go!’ Delia pulled on him.
‘You dare call me names?’ Biddy heaved her flabby hulk out of her chair. Then, picking up the poker from the fender, she lunged at Tony.
To protect himself he swung the crib bag at her as hard as he could. The blow sent Biddy hurtling back against the little black range. It was lit for bread making and a tin kettle was simmering on the top. Biddy screamed in agony as her spine hit the cast iron and scalding water from the kettle tipped all over her. Before she came to rest on the fender the side of her head struck the protruding door lift of the oven. She was still and silent, blood gushing from her temple.
Delia had screamed at the impact, but like Tony was now staring numb with disbelief. On wobbly feet she picked up the crib bag where it had landed across the room and put it on the table. She and Tony exchanged frightened glances. ‘Is she dead?’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know.’ He was white with terror. If his mother was dead he could be charged with murder and hang. There was only one thing he could do, make a run for it, and he wouldn’t be taking Delia to slow him down.
Two people burst into the house, a neighbouring housewife and the fishmonger not long pulled up in his van. ‘What’s happened?’ He thrust Tony out of the way. ‘We were outside and heard shouting and a crash. Then all went quiet. Did she hurt anyone? We were feared for the maid, she being pregnant. Oh, I see…’
Tony felt his insides turn to acid and water. He was in for it now.
The housewife, in pinny, curlers in the front of her hair, edged closer to the fireplace. She spied the fallen poker. ‘Coming at you with that, was she? That don’t surprise me. I’ve been saying to my husband for weeks that Biddy Viant is getting more ferocious with every passing day and she’ll end up trying to hurt someone. Take a fall, did she?’
As the fishmonger went to see if his mother had a pulse, Tony saw his chance. ‘That’s it, Mrs Peam. I came back for my crib bag and she was furious with me for forgetting it. She was bawling at both me and Delia for no good reason, threatening us with all sorts. I quarrelled with Mother and she was going to hit me with the poker. She was so mad she didn’t get her balance and down she went. She pulled the kettle over. Is she going to be all right, Mr Glasson?’
From his knees, the fishmonger said, ‘She’s breathing but I don’t think she’s too good. I’ll drive on to the doctor and get him to ring for an ambulance. Tony, get a wet towel and spread it over her scalds, and put another round her head to stop the bleeding, and grab that blanket over that chair to keep her warm. Mrs Peam, you’d better take young Mrs Viant into your house and give her some hot sweet tea. This is no place for a woman in her condition.’
‘I was thinking the same thing myself, Mr Glasson.’ Mrs Peam came towards Delia with sweeping hands. ‘You come along with me, my handsome. ’Tis a crying shame what you’ve had to put up with here. I’ve heard one or another shouting at you every day. I nearly got my eldest boy to go for the constable last night. I wish I had now.’
‘Wh-what about Sidney and Father-in-law? Shouldn’t they be told what’s happened?’ Delia whimpered, trembling, giving way to a flood of tears.
‘Never mind they,’ Mrs Peam said firmly. ‘Someone will send for them. You just worry about yourself and the baby.’
Delia took one more look at her crumpled mother-in-law. Her exposed flesh was red from the scalds. Blood was trickling from her temple. Die, you old witch. Die!
When the others had gone, Tony shut the door. His mind was deadly clear. He knew what he had to do and he must act swiftly. Once word got round onlookers would take the liberty of entering to help or gawp. If she made a full recovery she would make life even more hell. If she had suffered brain damage she would be an unbearable strain on resources. He wasn’t thinking of Delia, who would have to nurse her.
He did as Mr Glasson instructed, placing a wet towel over his mother’s body and then the scrap of crocheted blanket she had used to cover her knees. ‘You never loved me, Mother. You never loved any of us. I bet you didn’t even remember it’s Kate’s birthday today. You’re cruel and evil. Here’s your comeuppance.’
Carefully taking a light grip round her neck and chin, noting where the gash was on her temple, he let out a cry and drove her head against the exact same place on the oven door lift. He heard her skull splintering. There was a fresh outpouring of blood but he was careful none would be splashed on him. He wrapped the second towel round her head then held her against his chest as if supporting her.
A few seconds passed and he was aware his mother was no longer breathing. ‘Bye, bye,’ he whispered. ‘Good riddance.’ He had never dared to stand up to anyone in his life but he had dared to kill his mother. He felt victorious and brave. Now if only he could get his bullying brother out of his life things would be perfect.