Deathwatch - Final (15 page)

"You can sit by the fire and mend harness, black the family's boots," Noreen said. "And the windows need washing-it's the very thing to take the stiffness out of an aching joint." These days, it seemed all her high good humor had been sucked up by the endless work of the farm. Her black moods had worsened, too, he thought, since Rose moved in.

"The pot goddess made humans out of clay." The old woman shoveled a handful of soggy brown bread in her mouth and held it there a while.

His father lit a pipe. It began to rain.

At least he hadn't already washed the windows, Tom thought.

"Wash windows," Rose sang.

Was she repeating what his mother told him, or saying his own thought out loud? She stared at him with bright bird-y eyes.

"I'm going to the kitchen," Tom said.

"Right, lad." Half the day was gone, and Cedric was just fitting the nib to his pen.

Tom took the bootblack kit with him, moving toward the low door that always swung shut unless it was propped with a brick.

"Ellen's there. In the kitchen."

He turned. He was sure the old woman had said it, but she appeared to be watching the fire. His father was absorbed, absently stroking his silk vest with the flat of his hand.

"Did you say something?"

"Hmm? What?" Cecil said.

"Never mind." Tom said.

"Get on with the chores. You know better than to disturb my concentration." The pen scratched across his paper.

"Ellen," Rose whispered softly at him. Her lips were twisted in a grin; she twined the two gnarled fingers on her right hand and rocked her bony wrist back and forth, back and forth, signaling Tom.

Tom found himself watching the slow rhythmic motion as if he were hypnotized.

"You and Ellen," she breathed. "You can light fires with the mind." She tapped her temple, laughing at him soundlessly.

"Loony," he hissed back. Then he felt a faint ripple of fear and fled toward the kitchen.

***

He smelled potatoes, carrots and salt pork simmering in the stew pot. The big brown bowls were filled with rising bread dough. Ellen's sleeves were turned back, and she had a smudge of flour across her forehead where she'd pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her hand. Just now, Tom saw, she was spooning jam into small triangles of dough. It was one of his favorite sweets, but she didn't always have time to make it for him.

"Quince?" He put the tip of his finger into the crock.

"Currant," she said, rapping his hand lightly with the back of the spoon. "Go on with you, your mother will have my eyes if I don't get it all done," Ellen smiled.

"Let me help, then."

"Are you going to cook now," she raised one blonde brow humorously at him, but went on scraping jelly onto the dough shapes.

"I can stir--" He pointed at the cookpot.

"It doesn't want much turning."

"I'll sweep out for you--"

"And send the dust into the food," she laughed. "You sweep at the end of the day."

"Well you haven't got that much to do, or you wouldn't be making the crescent tarts. Let's go for a walk or play a game of cards."  Tom pulled a chair over to the long unvarnished table where she was working and sat.

"Haven't I? Your mother left a list as long as your arm." She began pinching the edges of the pastries. "I only did these for you because I felt sorry for you. I know you wanted to go market."

"It wasn't so much," he shrugged.

"Not so much you didn't cry? Guess it was the wind I heard northering."

"Ellen--"

"I'm not meaning to make you feel bad. Honest. Don't I know we both have it hard?" Her blue eyes were very bright.

"Why don't we run away," he said dully.

"Sure we'd do fine. You twelve and me going on fifteen."

"I'd take care of you." Tom looked up to gauge her reaction. She was transferring tarts to a big oak paddle, then carrying them toward the oven, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking. "Don't you believe me?"

"Oh damn," her hands tipped sideways suddenly, and the tarts cascaded onto the hearth bricks. "Ruined. Every one."

Tom stooped to help her pick them up. "Bake them, anyway."

"They're covered with ashes--"

"Please?"

"What for?" She sounded bitter and sad. She banged the paddle back onto the table.

"Because you made them for me, and I want you to." Tom stood facing her, his fingers seemed to float up from his side, and he touched a strand of her dark blonde hair.

Ellen put her hand on his wrist, but he didn't want to let go of her, he moved his hand to her shoulder.

They were the same height, but he was thin and angular where she was already softly rounded.

Suddenly she was crying. She leaned forward, and he felt her wet face against his throat, her shoulders trembling.

"Hold me, hold me," she whispered through her tears.

His arms went around her waist.

"Kiss me," she said.

Tom looked in her eyes, hesitating.

"I want you to."

"El--" Tom stared at her lips, swallowing hard.

"Please."

Then her head darted forward, and he felt her mouth cover his. Her tongue parted his lips, and she tasted sweet. Ellen kissed his chin, his cheeks, his neck--

"We have to, we have to," she said, “so when he comes in the night I can pretend it's you."

Her mouth opened hotly onto his and he kissed her again, even as he felt the hot dagger of hatred for his father.

***

The rain drummed louder and louder against the windows. He'd kissed her until his mouth felt rubbed raw. Ellen wanted him to do more--she even unbuttoned the top of her sprigged dress and her naked breasts lay against the white flannel of his shirt. He was intensely aware of them, the warm fragrant smell rising off the flesh, the skin itself--a tawny golden pink. Her small palm lay over the back of his hand, moving with his as he circled and caressed. Her nipples were softer than anything Tom had ever imagined.

"You can kiss them, if you want," Ellen whispered, but he couldn't.

Tom was suddenly aware of the acrid odor of charred meat, the stew pot sputtered, bubbling wildly with a throaty sound. His hands fell away from her. "The dinner, Ellen! Quick, it's burning!"

"What of it?" Wearily, she turned her back and began to button the cotton dress.

Tom snatched the rod and swung the pothook away from the fire. "She'll hit you," he said.

"I've been hit before."

He studied her. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

"I have something to tell you," she began.

Anxiety flashed through him, a static charge.

"I made the tarts as a farewell present..." she paused.  "In a couple of months your mother'd have the priest after me, and they'd send me away anyhow. Do you know what I'm saying?"

He shook his head.

"I'm going to have a baby--"

He cut her off. "You said when he came you could pretend it was me. You just now decided to leave! I asked you to run away before, and that's what gave you the idea--the rest about the tarts is a lie!"

"Well what of it?" Ellen said. "Don't you see it's just sooner than later, when...when I'm disgraced. I can't face my mother, I have to leave."

Her voice was hard; Tom wondered if she was convincing herself. "I'll come with you," he said.

"No, stay and get what you can." She wrapped up some cheese and bread in oiled paper. She put the food in a garden basket. Ellen pawed through the cupboards, but he couldn't see what she took down from the back shelf. It was wrapped in a towel, and she slid it under the hinged lid of the basket.

He watched her lift an old brown wool cape from the peg, then slip into it.

"You mean this minute? You're leaving this minute?" Panic flooded through him. It was happening too fast.

She put one hand on his shoulder, then she ruffled his hair. "I'm glad we kissed," Ellen said. "We can remember one another by it. Always."

"Don't go." He clung to the drab cape. "Don't."

"You're sweet. I love you." She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Ellen stepped away from him.

"No, you can't, you can't--"

He watched her open the back door. He saw the four lichen spotted stone steps that led up from the kitchen. The rain blew in sheets. His mother must be in the barn now, Tom thought. "You can't go. It's raining," he said.

"Be careful of Rose," she said. "Those stories about her? They're all true."

Then she was gone, hurrying up the stairs, ducking slightly as she emerged under the porch above, then bending her head against the wind and wet.

Oh Ellen, he thought, why couldn't you wait until I was older? He sat miserably in the chair by the hearth a long time after she was out of sight.

If his mother caught him in the kitchen, he'd have to admit he'd known Ellen left. When the rest of them found out she'd run away there was going to be a family uproar. His mother would rave and shout. And his cousin, the one person who could make him feel better, was gone.

He opened the rolled edge of one uncooked tart and licked the currant jelly. Wet. Soft. Sweet. Yielding. He closed his eyes and poked around the pasty with his tongue, pretending it was Ellen's mouth. He should have kissed her more. He should have done more.

Overhead, he heard the heavy thump of the front door shutting. Tom dropped the sweet and raced for the back stairs. He was almost to the parlor when he remembered the very last words she said. His chest burned with sorrow: His pig of a father had used up his pretty cousin, Rose was a hag, Ellen was gone.

- 2 -

N
oreen frowned. "Well I don't know as it should be me as tells her." They didn't expect May to be back for at least a week. She ladled the stew into a plate and passed it to Cedric. Tom watched the bowl circling the long table in the dining room. It stopped in front of his grandmother.

"She's your sister, my dear," Cedric said, handing another steamy plate round.

"Not that you'd open your gob. You wouldn't say shit if you had a mouthful."

Tom's brother Bob snickered.

"Quiet and eat now. Be grateful to God you've meat on your plate," Noreen glared. "Say the blessing, Delia." His mother bowed her head, and his poor slow younger sister recited as much of the grace as she remembered.

"You're not eating Tom."

"It's burnt," he said.

"What?"

"It's burnt." He felt the eyes of the others on him. No one, not even Cedric had said a word when his mother had brought in the reeking tureen.

"Thank your slut of a cousin."

His face blanched. He pushed the plate away. "I'm not hungry."

"What about the rest of you, then, eh?" She looked at his brothers toying with bites of bread, ignoring the stew. "There won't be any waste while I'm alive, do you hear?"

Tom put his hands in his lap. No one answered her.

"You hear? Think I'm going to give it to the pigs? I won't. If you don't eat it now, it'll be on your plate for breakfast. And you'll find it at every meal until you finish it."

Cedric opened his lips very wide, as if, Tom thought, it would somehow make the taste go away, and pushed a potato in his mouth. He grimaced.

"Delicious," Rose said, laughing. Then she upended the bowl, dumping the thick stew into her lap. She tweezed a limp carrot from her dress and gobbled it.

"Rose." His mother banged her fork down.

"From the lap of the gods," Rose said. She tilted her head back and finger-fed herself a chunk of meat.

"All right, get out of here, all of you." Noreen began cleaning up the old woman with one of the frayed muslin napkins. "Delia, scrape these plates!"

His sister hesitated, fear widening her eyes.

"Just give it to the goddamned hogs," Noreen shouted.

Delia began to cry. She crumpled into a corner and flung her arms over her head.

"Oink, oink." His grandmother went on trying to eat the mess in her skirts, her hand finding its way around Noreen's fluttering napkin.

Tom felt his stomach roil. In his haste to get away, he pushed his wooden chair back so hard it fell over. He slammed the door on his mother's shouting.

***

It had been four days since Ellen had left. Auntie May wasn't back from the market. At supper every night his mother debated what they should tell Margaret about the disappearance. Every time Noreen brought the subject up Tom felt like he could never eat again, and Noreen got angry. "It's not burnt, it's not," she shouted.

She was making Delia do the kitchen work. His sister made cabbage soup three days running. Noreen decided May could cook when she came back. Tom could take over what chores his aunt had done. He had no illusions that it might include going to town. She made that clear.

"I'll explain it to you, how to make sure they're not cheating us, and you can go Cedric."

"Bob, perhaps--"

"Bob's needed here." His mother dipped bread into the boiled cabbage.

"It isn't that I wouldn't like to, my dear, but my manuscript is at a state--a state where I shouldn't like to leave it just now." Cedric smiled, then took a deep drink from his glass. He was the only one who had wine with dinner. The others got ale on special occasions and cider the rest of the year.

Tom saw the look in his mother's eye as she glanced at the brocade vest, the ruby color of the wine in the only goblet in the house. He realized suddenly his mother had gotten to the end of her patience. Whatever reasons she indulged Cedric all these years were coming to an end.

Noreen wiped her mouth and flung the crumpled napkin next to her plate.

"What manuscript, Cedric?"

Tom shivered at the contempt in his mother's voice, but his father didn't seem to hear it.

"Why my book, of course, darling," Cedric said. He beamed at Tom's sister. "The soup is lovely, Delia."

"There is no book, Cedric. Just a lot of used up pieces of paper and a Regency desk I scrimped and saved up for that's going to be sold to pay for the new roof on the barn."