Forever Yours (16 page)

Vincent could read the old man’s mind as Art turned his head and glanced back towards the door of the inn. He didn’t want to be seen talking to the weighman. If he was suspected of trying to curry favour, the other men would make his life hell. But neither could he refuse the man who held his livelihood in his hands and had the power to make it so he earned less than nothing if he chose.

Vincent watched him squirm for a moment or two before saying, ‘I was taking a walk. Walk with me.’ It was an order, not a request, and he walked on knowing the man had no choice but to obey.

They had passed Church Street and St Bede’s Catholic Church and were approaching the graveyard and Blackburn Bridge, the village some distance behind them, when Vincent spoke again.

‘Where’s Constance?’ he said softly. ‘Where did you pack her off to?’

The other man’s footsteps stopped. Then Art was hurrying to catch him up, actually grasping hold of his arm as they reached the bridge. ‘What did you say?’

They faced each other. It was very dark now they were away from the built-up area of the village, but the sky was clear and the moonlight showed Art’s bewilderment.Vincent stared at him, sure he was playing a part. ‘I asked you where Constance is, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell me. I can make your life not worth living, don’t forget that, and I’m done playing games.’

‘Playing games? I don’t know what you’re talking about – and why would you want to know where the bairn is?’

‘You know full well.’ Vincent’s voice was a growl.

‘The devil I do.’ Art was bristling like a terrier dog.

‘So why have you and your wife kept her whereabouts to yourselves, eh?’

Art moved one lip tightly over the other. McKenzie had hit on the one thing that had bothered him about the bairn taking this job at Ivy’s lass’s place. That and the fact it all seemed to have come about in the blink of an eye. One minute the bairn had been as happy as Larry working at the school with Miss Newton, and the next she’d been adamant she wanted to spread her wings and fly off down south. And when he’d questioned why it all had to be done so quickly, Ivy had added her two penn’orth and said opportunities like the one her Florence was offering didn’t come up that often. There were jobs in service all right, she’d said, but working for the Ashtons was a step above. And then Constance had said she didn’t want anyone knowing where she was, and Mabel had backed her, and when he’d asked why, there’d been some garbled story about the lass wanting to find her feet, and if folk like the Heaths and others knew, they’d want to write and keep in touch. Well, he’d said, what was wrong with that? But the pair of them had made up their minds, and when Constance had got tearful and insisted she didn’t want the worry of having to tell folk how she was getting on, he’d succumbed. He only wanted his granddaughter to be happy, after all. But he hadn’t understood it.

As Art stared into the glowering face of the man he’d watched grow up, the lad who had always been hanging on their Hannah’s coat-tails at one time but who had grown up into a morose, spiteful individual who’d taken on the contemptible job of weighman, a thought – an impossible thought – was hovering at the back of his mind. Slowly, he said, ‘Why do
you
think we’ve kept quiet about where the lass is?’

‘I told you, I’m done with playing games. She told you I wanted her and you couldn’t dispatch her quick enough, could you?’

‘You want her?’Art was glaring now, his rage equal to Vincent’s. ‘She’s nowt but a bairn and you say you want her, and you old enough to be her father!’

‘I should’ve been her father.’ Vincent thrust his face close to Art’s. ‘But you and that wife of yours didn’t think I was good enough for Hannah, did you? I know, I know. And so you threw her Shelton’s way and she played the whore with him. But I won’t be crossed again. Constance is mine and I’m going to have her, with or without your consent, old man. Now are you going to tell me where she is, or do I have to beat it out of you?’

‘You could try.’ Art was a small man, and slight. He looked like David squaring up to Goliath but he had no sling or stones up his sleeve. ‘But I’d rather see my lass dead than with midden scum like you. I felt sorry for you as a lad, do you know that? With a da like you had and a battleaxe of a mam, you didn’t have much on your side, but my Mabel was right. She always said you were bad. Something inside wasn’t normal, she said, and she warned Hannah time and time again to keep away from you, but my bairn was too warm and sweet, too kind to see the evil in folk.’

What followed happened so quickly Art had no time to avoid the blow.Vincent had reached in his pocket while the other man was talking and now he brought his cosh full force across Art’s head, the crack as wood hit bone sickening. For a moment Vincent stood poised over the crumpled figure but Art was quite still. Then he bent down and inserted a hand in his jacket. He was still breathing.

Vincent straightened, his eyes peering in every direction. The night was quiet and peaceful; in the far distance an owl hooted and somewhere in the village a dog barked.

He had to finish the job. Having come this far, he couldn’t run the risk of Art talking; besides which, if her grandfather died Constance would come home for the funeral. A bolt of excitement made his heart pound faster. It was clear that alive, Gray wasn’t going to help him, but dead he might well serve a purpose.

The burn was higher than it had been for a while after the recent storms, he noted as he lugged the inert body down the bank, positioning it face down in the icy water. He stood for a few moments in case the shock revived Art, but when this didn’t happen he rearranged his legs so it looked as though he’d stumbled and fallen into the water from the bridge. Lastly he checked Art’s heartbeat once more. There was none. The burn had done its job.

Satisfied, he climbed the bank and continued walking away from the village along Edmondsley Lane. He would skirt round the back of the colliery and make his way home across the fields and woodland. He doubted he would run into anyone the night but there was always the chance if he went back through the village. He nodded to the thought, breathing in the frosty air and beginning to whistle to himself as he strode on. Soon he would see Constance again – and this time she would not escape him.

 

Constance did not come home for her grandfather’s funeral. She did not know of it until a full month after he was buried, because Mabel had decreed it so. Ivy travelled to Grange Hall to break the news, and although she did it as gently as possible, the shock to Constance was great.

Florence had allowed her mother to take Constance up to her private quarters on the floor below the attics, and this in itself had alerted the girl to the fact that something was badly wrong.

‘But . . . but how? When?’ Constance stared at her great-aunt. They were sitting in Florence’s two armchairs which were either side of the fireplace. ‘Was it an accident in the mine?’

‘No, lass, it weren’t the mine, not this time. Your granda had had a drink or two and it would seem he didn’t go straight home; whether he wanted to clear his head or not it’s not known, although by all accounts he’d not had more than he usually did, but . . .’ Ivy stopped; the grief in Constance’s face was paining her. ‘But anyway, he went for a walk in the dark and slipped off Blackburn Bridge into the water. They said he banged his head and was knocked unconscious, and being face down . . .’

‘He drowned?’ Constance’s fingers were pressing her mouth.

‘Aye, hinny, he drowned.’

‘But why didn’t me grandma write? I would have come home.’

‘She knew you would, which is why she didn’t tell you. That man, that McKenzie fella, was on her mind. She said you couldn’t do owt so what was the point in stirring all that up again? And she was right, lass. When you’ve had a chance to think about it you’ll see that. You couldn’t have done nowt, now could you?’

Constance wiped her eyes, her voice shaking as she said, ‘But the house? Has she been turned out?’

‘Oh don’t you worry your head none about your grandma, hinny. Your aunties were fighting each other to have her live with them, but beens as Beryl moved to Kimblesworth when your Uncle Jacob died and she met Percy, your grandma’s opted to live with Molly so she can stay in the village. There’s only your Aunt Molly and Uncle Edwin at home now the bairns have grown up, and the three of ’em get on just fine. Molly an’ your grandma’ll be company for each other when Edwin’s at work. I said for her to come to us, but she wouldn’t; like I said, she wanted to stay where she knows everyone and everyone knows her. It’s only natural, I suppose.’

‘My granda never has one too many, not like some.’

‘Aye, I know that, hinny.’ Ivy didn’t add here that Mabel had said the very same thing and that her sister wasn’t convinced about the circumstances of her husband’s demise. There was something funny about all this, Mabel had said. She knew it in her water. But a woman’s water wasn’t sufficient reason for further investigation regarding a man’s death, not when the individual concerned was merely a miner and a miner who had been drinking at that.

Constance stared down at her fingers twisted together in her lap. She could hardly take in that her granda had gone and she hadn’t been able to say goodbye. The accident, the funeral, her grandma leaving the house – it had all happened and she hadn’t known a thing about it. Before this moment she had always held on to the fact that if things got too bad here, if she really couldn’t stand it a minute more, she could go home to her grandparents. But she had nowhere to go back to now; her home had gone.

She took a deep breath. Cook had been kind in letting them use her room but she knew better than to take advantage and linger. Ivy had inadvertently chosen a day when the family were giving a large dinner party. Already the atmosphere in the kitchen was so tense the air crackled. She would have to do her grieving when she was alone in bed tonight; for now, she must get on with what was required of her.

She stood up, her face chalk-white and her eyes red-rimmed. ‘I’d best get back downstairs, Aunt Ivy. Do you want to stay here and I’ll bring you a tea-tray shortly? It’s busy in the kitchen.’

‘Aye, Florence let me know I hadn’t picked a good day to turn up,’ Ivy said wryly. ‘That’s a good idea, hinny. I’ll be out of the way up here. I can talk to Florence later once I come down for a spot of supper when the dinner party’s done.’

After Constance had closed the door to Florence’s room behind her, she stood on the landing without moving for a moment or two. Her granda, her lovely granda. And her grandma having to move in with Aunt Molly. Her grandma would have hated getting rid of the furniture she and Granda had collected so painstakingly over the years. They hadn’t had much and what they did have wasn’t of the best, but her grandma had been proud of it nonetheless. But there wouldn’t have been room at Aunt Molly’s for more than a few keepsakes.

Hot tears were stinging the backs of her eyes but she blinked them away furiously. Squaring her slender shoulders, she lifted her chin. Her grandma would be making the best of things and that’s what she had to do. She would give her Aunt Ivy her wages to date to take to her grandma; her grandma would be happier if she was paying her way at Aunt Molly’s and the sale of the household furniture wouldn’t have brought much. And she’d ask her aunt to tell her grandma that she’d send her more every month from now on. She couldn’t do much for her grandma stuck here, but she could do that at least.

This was the start of a new life. It had probably been so when she’d first come to Grange Hall in the spring, but it hadn’t felt like it at the time. But now, now it did. And she would give ten years of her life or more if she could just slip back in time to a year ago when she was happy. To see her granda puffing his pipe in front of the fire, her grandma humming to herself as she bustled about the kitchen, and Matt— Oh Matt, Matt . . .

It was the dawn of a new century and Britain was celebrating.

According to the newspapers, the extent of Britain’s imperial powers had never been greater. ‘The Empire, stretching round the globe, has one heart, one head, one language and one policy,’ stated one positively euphoric reporter, conveniently ignoring the matter of the Boer War which had begun a few months before. But then no one was in any doubt that the fight with the ‘stubborn breed of Dutch peasants who had revolted against the just and noble sovereignty of our glorious Queen’ would soon be over, and that Britain would be victorious.

Everyone knew that the previous century’s unparalleled success and expansion would continue, bringing more wealth and prosperity to Britain’s citizens. Or to its upper classes at least, which was all that mattered. Was not the Master and Servant Act, which entitled only the employer to give evidence in a court of law and not the employee, a clear guideline by those who knew best of the great divide between the upper classes and the working class? And, it had to be said, muttered politicians and magistrates alike, the working class often had none of the sensibilities which differentiated noble man from lowly beast.

As for the trade unions – troublemakers and agitators the lot of them.What good did it do to incite ignorant men and women to refuse to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay? Keir Hardie with his Socialist prattling and the whines of the Independent Labour Party were damaging the well-being of ordinary men and women, not helping them.

For Constance, whose life revolved around the goings-on in the kitchen of Grange Hall, such views and statements held little interest. She didn’t have time to reflect on her lot, she was too busy, and in the little free time she had she would rather read Mr Thackeray’s
Vanity Fair
or something by Jane Austen than a newspaper. They at least gave her hope that one day, maybe, her life might consist of more than kitchen duties, even though she was now third kitchenmaid.