Forever Yours (26 page)

She leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the window. But she’d been wrong then. He had married Tilly and they’d had a bairn together. That was reality. All her silly imaginings and fancies were just that. Silly. And even if Matt and Tilly weren’t happy, even if they were the most unhappy couple in the world, it was nothing to do with her.

The glass was smudged with her tears and she took her handkerchief out of the sleeve of her nightdress and rubbed the window. As she did so, she gave a start, leaping backwards into the room, her heart thudding. Someone was out there. Someone had been spying on her, she’d swear to it. Down in the hedgerow dividing the fields nearest the houses, she’d definitely seen the figure of a man.

Biting down on the knuckles of her clenched hand she edged to the side of the window and peered out round the curtain. Bathed in moonlight, the view mocked her with its peacefulness. Her legs trembling, she continued to watch for a full ten minutes but nothing stirred.

She must have been mistaken. A trick of the moonlight combined with her reflection in the glass, that was all it had been. Nevertheless, she continued with her vigil for a little longer before returning to bed, and it was another hour before she fell into a restless, troubled sleep.

 

Vincent didn’t move from his spot in the hedgerow until the subtle fingers of dawn began to spread across the sky. He’d known there was little hope of seeing her again after that one time when she had obviously caught sight of him, but he still hadn’t been able to tear himself away. He drank the last of the half-bottle of brandy he’d brought with him for company and stretched before standing up. It wouldn’t be long before the early-morning shift would be turning out and he needed to get home and have a wash and change before then.

He glanced across the stubble fields where a large loose flock of lapwings were already having breakfast, picking off the plentiful supply of grubs and beetles disturbed by the harrow. They had risen early; their plaintive cries had been echoing for at least an hour before daybreak. The old wives would have you believe the birds were departed human spirits who could find no rest and were doomed to wander the earth seeking absolution, bringing down evil upon all who heard them, but he liked them. He liked all nature, but there was an element to the lapwings’ melancholy cries that touched something deep in him. He admired them too. In the breeding season he’d spend hours watching them perform their spectacular display, flying high and then plunging towards the earth with spinning movements, as if mortally wounded, their wings vibrating and causing a loud, thundering noise.

He’d come across a couple of youths a few summers ago – ne’er-do-wells, by the look of them. They’d netted and captured a good number of lapwings and had been busy cutting out their hearts, brains and eyes to be enclosed in necklaces which they sold, saying it would profit the wearer against forgetfulness, kidney trouble and the slow workings of the body. Another old wives’ tale. To see the remains of the beautiful dark plumage shot with iridescent specks of metallic turquoise and the blood and bones had sent him fair mad. Even their own mothers wouldn’t have recognised them by the time he’d finished with the lads. He’d buried their bodies where no one would find them, along with the remnants of the birds.

Casting his eyes back towards the village he stared at Constance’s window. He hadn’t expected to see her, he had just wanted to be near her once he’d heard she’d returned because the grandmother had died. He had to get her alone, to talk to her and let her know he understood she’d been sent away against her will and that his offer of marriage still stood. The heady excitement that had kept him warm all night sent his blood pulsing through his veins like spiced wine. The old woman and man had gone now. There was nothing stopping them. Once she understood that he’d tried to find her, that he’d left no stone unturned in his attempts to track her down, she wouldn’t blame him. But he didn’t want to say what he had to say in front of the old ’uns’ daughter.

He did not allow himself to acknowledge here his fear that Constance wouldn’t want him. She
had
to want him. For years now he had carried the image of her in a pocket of his mind, and when the weight of her absence had become unbearable, he’d taken out his frustration and blind desire on Polly, but it had never sufficed. Never met the need in him.

He tucked the brandy bottle in the deep pocket of his jacket after tipping it against his tongue to get the last drop or two. He knew he was drinking too much. The ghosts that came and paraded in front of him every time he closed his eyes at night could only be obliterated by brandy, and the amount he had to drink to be able to sleep had increased with the years. But that would change once he had Constance.

Brushing his clothes down with the flat of his hands, he stepped out into the field, giving a mental apology to the birds as they rose screaming into the air. The rising sun had yet to sweep the dew of dawn from the fields and chilliness stabbed the fresh autumn air, but Vincent didn’t feel it. The funeral was tomorrow and then his life could begin afresh. Nothing mattered except Constance. His position as weighman, the cottage – he was willing to leave it all if she wanted to put the village behind her and start again where there were no wagging tongues. He had enough money to take her wherever she wanted to go.

She would understand tomorrow. He would make her understand.

 

Polly stood hidden at the back of the crowd at the graveside. The funeral service had been short but sincere; you could tell Father Duffy had liked Mabel Gray, but then she had too. Mrs Gray had been one of the few women in the village who always spoke to her if she saw her when she was out shopping, and not just a ‘good morning’ or ‘nice day’ but a proper conversation. She suspected Mrs Gray had felt sorry for her, but she hadn’t minded this – why should she? She felt sorry for herself.

A little breeze swept over the graveyard, rustling the leaves in the trees which bordered it. She could see Vincent on the far side of the cemetery but she had been careful to stay out of his sight. She hadn’t asked permission to come to the funeral in case he refused it, but she didn’t want to incur his wrath if she could avoid it.

She could see Mrs Gray’s two daughters and their families; they were weeping, and so were some of the neighbours and friends. Mrs Gray would be really pleased if she could see what a send-off she’d had; there wouldn’t be one person in the whole wide world who would cry if
she
popped her clogs, Polly reflected. And that girl who’d come home for the funeral was beautiful but sad-looking, but then she supposed she would be. It must be awful to lose someone you loved.

As the grave-diggers began their work of filling in the hole, folk began mingling and Polly prepared herself for the moment she could slip away unnoticed. Probably because it was such a lovely warm day, no one seemed in any hurry to leave. A group had gathered round the two daughters, and a row of folk were looking at the posies and wreaths at the head of the grave; a number of bairns were running up and down the cemetery paths.

Polly edged her way towards the gate, taking care to stay hidden as she did so and keeping an eye on Vincent. She saw the bonny lass was standing slightly apart from the rest of the family with two or three bairns hanging on her hands; she was talking to Mr and Mrs Heath and one of their sons, the youngest one. As she got nearer she heard the girl say, ‘. . . today, with Aunt Ivy. We’ll stay overnight at her place and then go on in the morning. I’ve been away long enough.’

She was within a few feet of the group now and again she thought, By, but that girl’s beautiful. Fascinated, she stared at the heart-shaped face, the deep blue eyes and golden hair. Polly’s fingers unconsciously went to her own skin which bore the scars and blemishes of the acne she’d suffered years before as she took in the pure milk and roses complexion in front of her. She wondered what it would be like to wake up every morning and look in the mirror and see that face staring back at her.

It was as the Heaths made their goodbyes and the girl bent down to hear something one of the bairns was saying, that Polly realised with a stab of panic that she didn’t know where Vincent was. Glancing round, her eyes swept the crowd and then she saw him coming straight for her.Without hesitating she darted behind a laurel bush and crouched down, fiddling with her boot as though she was tying the laces. With luck, he wouldn’t notice her.

When she heard him speak she wondered for a moment if it
was
Vincent. His voice was deep and soft, with a quality she couldn’t put a name to because she was unable to associate tenderness with the man she knew. ‘Hello, Constance,’ he said.

‘H-hello.’

‘I’ve been waiting to talk to you.’

Peering through the leaves of the bush, Polly could just make out that the two of them were alone, since the bairns had obviously run off to join the others. She saw the girl glance around before she said, ‘I have to go, there’re people I need to thank. Everyone’s been so kind and I don’t want to miss anyone.’

‘I searched for you.’

‘What?’

‘When they sent you away, I looked for you for months. It was because of me, wasn’t it? They didn’t want you to marry the weighman but I don’t have to do that job any more. I’ve got plenty put by, Constance. More than enough for us to make a new life somewhere and for us to live in clover. I’ll sell the cottage and we can buy a place wherever you like. You can furnish it – you’d like that, wouldn’t you? And—’

‘What are you talking about?’

Polly saw the girl back away and as she did so Vincent caught her arm.

‘Us,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about us. We made plans, don’t you remember? We talked about how it was going to be.’

‘No, we didn’t. Let go of me.’

‘What’s the matter?’There was a note of almost childish temper in his voice, like the moment before a bairn threw a tantrum. ‘Look, you don’t have to worry about the old folk any more, they’re gone. You’re free now, aren’t you? And the rest of them don’t matter. I’ve waited for you for years—’

Again she broke into his pleading, pulling her arm free as she said, ‘I didn’t want you to wait. I never wanted you to wait.’

‘You said you’d marry me. I know it wasn’t your fault they made you go away, but there’s nothing stopping us now.’

‘I didn’t say I’d marry you, I never said that. I don’t want to marry anyone. I’ve only come back for the funeral, that’s all. Now leave me alone and go away.’

‘You don’t mean that, and you don’t have to worry about folk—’

She cut him off. ‘I do mean it.’

‘No. Wait, Hannah.’ Again Polly saw him clutch at her.

‘My name’s Constance, not Hannah, and if you don’t let go of me, I’ll scream.’

The girl’s voice had been shaky but now it was angry, and although Polly was so close she could have put her arm through the bush and touched Vincent, she couldn’t hear what he said next, so low was his voice. But she heard Constance when she said, ‘Well, I’m sorry but I don’t love
you
. I hardly know you and you don’t know me either, so how can you say you love me?’

When Constance walked away Polly still didn’t dare move. Vincent was standing with his back to her staring after the girl and even when Constance left the cemetery in the middle of a big group of family and friends, he still remained where he was. It wasn’t until Father Duffy came up and tried to engage him in conversation that he walked away, his face grim and tight.

Once she was sure it was all clear Polly emerged from her hiding-place and joined the last stragglers leaving the graveyard. Outside the low stone walls she looked about her. No one had spoken to her, not even Father Duffy, but she was still glad she’d come and not only to pay her respects to the woman who had shown some kindness to her. She had been thirteen years old when Vincent McKenzie had brought her to the cottage from the workhouse: she was now thirty-seven, and apart from his physical needs, she knew as little about her employer now as she had done then. He was capable of great cruelty – the way he’d watched his mother die inch by inch was always at the back of her mind – and even though she hadn’t been with a man other than him she knew the depravity he subjected her to wasn’t natural, but Vincent himself was a mystery and one she’d been content to leave well alone. But here he was declaring himself in love with Mrs Gray’s granddaughter, that beautiful young lass with the face of an angel.

Polly began to walk swiftly; she knew a short-cut to the cottage down Staffordshire Street and past the coal depot where the wagonway ended, and then over the fields to Fulforth Wood. She had to get back before Vincent came in and realised she’d been out. The mood he’d be in, it wouldn’t take much for him to go for her. It never did at the best of times.

She was sticky and hot by the time she got home, but to her great relief Vincent wasn’t there. She’d left their dinner – a thick rabbit stew – gently cooking in the oven, and there was stottie cake fresh from her baking that morning to go with it, so once she had changed into her old skirt and blouse she was free to go outside and work in the vegetable plot at the back of the cottage; although she didn’t regard it as work, not on a day like today when the sky was a cloudless blue and the air was sweet with the smell of the ripe juicy blackberries which grew in the hedgerow bordering the garden from the wood.

Once she was sure it looked as though she had been in the garden for a while, she sat back on her heels and thought about what she’d heard at the funeral. Him,Vincent, thinking he could have that beautiful young lass, that she’d look the side he was on. Polly’s thin lips curled back from her teeth at the thought of it. He must have been mad to imagine such a thing, especially the way he was now.

When she had first come to the cottage she had thought him handsome in an austere sort of way, ‘a fine figure of a man’ as one of the girls at the workhouse had said when they’d seen him waiting in the vestibule while she collected her things from the dormitory. Even ten years ago he had still been presentable, but since he’d started the drinking his face had gone red and flabby, and his belly had swelled. He still had a good shock of thick hair, she’d give him that, but it was grey and brittle-looking, and when he took off his hat indoors it stuck up from his head like horns either side, except where it had been flattened. And it might well be horns because if ever there was a devil in human form, it was him.