Living in the Shadows (39 page)

She listened, struggling to control the scream that wanted to burst out of her. She was so frightened her body wouldn’t respond, even though she pushed with the flat of her hands against the ground in an effort to stand. Unable to move she tilted her head to one side, holding her breath until it burned in her chest, and listened.

At first there was nothing. And then a gritty scraping of footsteps. She counted. Six heavy slow deliberate footsteps. Her stomach jerked. And the scream burst out, ricocheting around her head.

Then there was no more breath left and the scream died away. She licked her lips, the tears salty on her tongue.

‘Well, well.’ Suddenly George Shuttleworth was kneeling down next to her. ‘Here’s a bonus I didn’t expect.’

Linda hit out at him, felt the crunch as her hand connected with his nose.

She didn’t see his fist coming out of the darkness. The first blow knocked her head sideways. The second back the other way. Her teeth jarred in her mouth. She tasted the blood as she floated into oblivion.

At that moment she remembered the baby. The beginnings of life she had to protect.

With a great heave she pushed at him, rolled away from the stink of him and scuttled backwards. All at once she had a memory of a frightened little girl doing exactly the same thing. The rage in her was welcome and when her shoulder-blades touched the wall she used the momentum to stand. Her outstretched arms knocked something cold and it rocked, making a hollow echo. Fumbling around, her fingers touched what seemed to be a handle, then another.

Straining her eyes into the darkness she thought he was standing now, moving towards her. His breathing was low. He gave a stifled cough.

Linda felt around with both hands. In between the two handles there was a cold ribbed surface. It was Nelly’s old rubbing-board in her washtub, the one she’d used years ago when she’d started taking in people’s washing.

Now he was so close she could smell the beer and cigarettes on him.

She gripped each handle, swiftly lifted the board from the tub and held it above her head as his hand touched her neck, slid lower to cup her breast.

‘So,’ he muttered, ‘here we are.’

She brought the board down as hard as she could.

He gave a loud grunt and slumped, holding on to her blouse in his effort to stay upright. It ripped, the buttons flying off in all directions, and she fell forwards with his weight until she was kneeling on him. Sobbing, she threw the board to one side and scrambled away into the darkness, crouching down and swinging her arms in front of her, feeling for a wall, anything that was solid. She stumbled over the tub and it rolled away, metal echoing in the emptiness, gasping as her legs touched the coarse bristly material she’d felt before, registering vaguely that, of course, it was the pile of old army blankets that Nelly had squirrelled away years ago.

George Shuttleworth groaned. Linda screamed, dropped to her hands and knees, feverishly feeling for the steps. She heard the rustle of his clothes as he moved, felt his touch on her foot and she screamed again.

Light poured down from the cellar door as it opened.

Afterwards, Nelly couldn’t remember what she’d done. She knew she’d seen Linda, battered and bloodied. She knew there was someone holding her granddaughter on the ground. She didn’t have any memory of going down the cellar steps; she hadn’t been able to go down there for years. Neither did she realise she had the bread-knife in her hand.

For one fleeting moment, she recognised her son.

Chapter 86: Mary Schormann

Ashford: Monday, November 3rd

‘Nelly? It’s Mary.’

There was no answering shout. Mary peered through the pitted brass letterbox one last time, then straightened up, letting go of the flap. She tried one more time, banging on the knocker before going to the old bay window and cupping her hands around her face to look in.

A group of Asian children had gathered in curiosity around the Hillman Minx. One, an older boy of about thirteen, bounced a ball on the ground, skilfully balancing it on his foot every now and then.

‘You okay, missus?’ he called. ‘Missus Nelly okay?’

Mary barely glanced at him. She didn’t answer. ‘I’m going round the back,’ she said to Ted, who stood by the driver’s door. ‘Linda’s probably just lost track of the time.’

‘Want me to come with you?’

‘No.’ Mary looked at the children, who were surrounding the car, touching the mirrors, rubbing their sleeves along the bonnet. She didn’t want one of them damaging Peter’s car. ‘You stay here, I won’t be a minute.’ She hid her uneasiness about the silence from inside the house. ‘They’re probably chatting in the back.’

She needn’t have worried about the car, because the children followed her along the back lane at the back of the houses. At the gate of number four she felt over the top for the bolt. It was already slid back.

She crossed the yard. ‘Nelly? Linda? It’s me, Mary. Linda, we’ll have to get a move on if we want to get to Llamroth before dark.’ Oh, how she needed to be home. How she equally dreaded being there without Peter.

For a moment the vision of Peter’s body being loaded onto a hearse to be driven to Llamroth flashed through her mind. She blocked it out. Don’t think. Don’t think.

At the back door, Mary hesitated, her skin prickled; there was something wrong, it was too quiet. ‘Nelly? Are you there?’ She glanced back at the open gate. The children were crowded around, the tallest lad was peering over their heads. For a moment Mary and he had eye-contact and then he looked back along the lane.

‘I’ll get someone,’ he said.

Mary gave a brief nod then stepped inside the kitchen.

‘Nelly?’

She listened. Nothing. She crossed to go to the stairs but something was wrong in the room. She looked around. That was it: the cellar door was open. The prickle on her skin increased. She walked slowly towards it.

It was too dark. At first she couldn’t see anything beyond the first three steps. Then her vision cleared and she saw them. The scream stuck in her throat. She grabbed the door-frame. ‘Linda? Nelly?’ Her voice came out as a croak. There was someone else there, lying half under Nelly, but couldn’t make the figure out.

‘What’s happened?’

The voice behind her made Mary jump. She fell against the wall, turning away from the cellar. Two Asian men stood in the middle of the kitchen. By the back door were three women in saris. One of them was holding back the crowd of children.

‘I’m Arun.’ The man nearest to Mary spoke. ‘I’m a neighbour. Is it Nelly?’

‘Yes.’ This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not after … Peter’s still form imprinted itself on her mind. Mary squeezed her eyes tight, forcing it away.

‘She’s hurt?’ Arun’s face was anxious.

‘I think she’s dead.’ Mary heard her voice from far away, her mouth dry, sour.

One of the women screamed, held her hands over her face. Some of the smaller children began to cry.

‘My niece … Linda … is there as well. And someone else. They’re all so still. I don’t know what’s happened.’

‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ the other man said. ‘But we need to go down there. See if we can help.’

‘No, I can’t.’ Mary stumbled backwards but she couldn’t let go of the door-frame.

Gentle hands prised her fingers from the wood. ‘Not you,’ Arun said. ‘We’ll go. You need to sit down.’

She was led to Nelly’s armchair in front of the old range, a woman at each elbow.

A glass was pushed into her hands. The water spilled over, cold in her lap. She stared blindly at the spreading stain. On her red coat it looked like blood.

Sounds hurt her ears: the grit under the feet of the men going down the cellar steps, the sobs of the woman, the muttering of the children, the soft shifting of coal and ashes in the fireplace.

‘Mary?’ Ted pushed his way through the increasing crowd in the back yard, followed by the boy with the football. He wasn’t carrying the ball any-more. Mary vaguely wondered where he’d dropped it.

‘Ted.’ She half stood. But he gently pushed her back and knelt at the side of her.

‘What’s happened?’ He looked bewildered, stared around at all the neighbours. ‘The boy says Nelly’s hurt? In the cellar?’

Linda. She had to tell him about Linda. But even as the thought came to her, Arun and the other man were struggling up the steps supporting Linda between them. They shouldn’t have moved her, Mary thought, even as she gasped at the sight of her niece. The vomit rose up in her throat and she clamped her fingers over her mouth. Ted launched himself from the floor to catch hold of his daughter.

Linda’s face was so battered it was almost impossible to recognise her. One eye was closed. A long cut on her forehead sliced across her eyebrow. Blood congealed around her nose and cheeks. Blood and saliva bubbled from her swollen lips. She groaned as Ted laid her carefully on the carpet, grabbing the cushion Mary handed to him and putting it under Linda’s head.

‘Who did this?’ He didn’t attempt to brush away the tears as he looked around.

‘There is a man down there as well. I think he’s dead.’ Arun had taken off his coat and was carrying it towards the cellar. ‘Nelly’s still alive though. But she’s in a bad way. I’ll cover her with this.’

‘A man?’ Mary stared at Ted. As soon as the confusion cleared on his face she knew he was thinking the same as her.

‘George Shuttleworth.’

Chapter 87: Nelly Shuttleworth

Bradlow: Thursday, November 6th

Nelly heard the hushed sounds of movement in the room but was too tired to open her eyes.

‘Hello, Gran.’ A touch of soft lips on her cheek, the light familiar floral scent.

Ah, the beloved sound of Linda’s voice. Nelly smiled to herself.

‘What did the doctor say?’ Another voice, another kiss, a brush of sweet-smelling hair across her face.

Mary. Best friend a body could have. Like a daughter. The woman both her rotten sons had hurt so badly. Nelly felt the habitual anger rumble around inside her.

They were whispering now.

‘She’ll not last the night.’ A stifled sob.

Linda again.
Don’t cry, pet.
Nelly fought to speak but it was too much of an effort. She strained to listen.

‘Do you think she can hear us?’

Nelly felt one of them put their cool hand on her forehead. Mary, she guessed.

‘No, the doctor said it was a massive stroke.’

A warm tear fell on Nelly’s arm. She tried to lift her hand but it wouldn’t move.

‘I hope she’s at peace.’

Oh, I am, my pets, I am.

‘She will be. And at least where’s she’s going she won’t meet those two blasted sons of hers.’

Not if I’ve got owt to bleedin’ do about it, I won’t,
Nelly thought, smiling inside.

Chapter 88: Richard Schormann & Linda Booth

Llamroth: Monday, November 10th

‘Do you remember him?’ Richard faced Linda and pointed to the grave where Mary had placed a spray of bronze chrysanthemums. The small stitches across the cut on Linda’s forehead hadn’t yet been taken out; one eye was still swollen and the bruises on her face were now a blend of purple, yellow and green.

‘Uncle Tom?’ She sighed. ‘Not really. I remember kind eyes, a gentle smile, gentle hands. I think I remember him picking me up and swinging me around once. Vague memories.’

‘Mum idolised him, I know that,’ Richard said. ‘There’s the family story about him getting Mum and Dad together after the war.’

‘Yes, I heard that from my mum too. She helped as well, she says.’ Linda traced the words on the headstone. ‘What’s that mean?’

‘Hedd perffaith hedd?’
Richard read it out. ‘Peace perfect peace.’ He pointed to the next grave which had single white chrysanthemums threaded into a metal vase. ‘Same as there.
“Hedd perffaith hedd”.
That’s Iori’s grave, Tom’s friend. Nain Gwyneth’s son. Actually they were more than friends, Mum says. They loved one another. He was killed in prison. Both he and Tom were conscientious objectors.’

It was as though all the sad memories had been resurrected over the last few weeks, Linda thought. ‘They must have been really brave,’ she said. ‘It would have been so hard to stand up for what they believed, when the whole country was at war.’

‘Yeah. Nain Gwyneth was proud of both of them. She used to say she wouldn’t have had the courage. She’d tell us that Dad was brave too: that coming here so soon after the war to find Mum was one of the most courageous things she’d ever known.’ He looked around. ‘That’s Gwyneth’s grave,’ he pointed to a headstone just behind them. ‘And over there, that stone covered in the green lichen, is Grandma Howarth’s.’ He smiled. ‘Mum would never let us clean it off; she said Grandma would like it because she really liked gardening.’

A scuffle of noise made Linda look up. ‘Your mum’s leaving,’ she said.

They watched Mary being led out through the lych-gate by Jean and Ellen. Ted was talking to a large group of villagers just outside the church wall.

‘A good turnout,’ Richard said. ‘I wish Dad had known how popular he was.’

‘How could it not be? He was a lovely man.’ Linda looked up at the scudding grey clouds that covered the pale yellow smear of winter sun. She blinked back the tears. After a moment she said, ‘Should we go too?’

‘In a bit.’ Richard looked around. Over by the yew-trees Karen was talking to two men. One of them was constantly blowing his nose, the other talking and waving his arms around in an enthusiastic way. ‘Karen’s talking to Alun and Alwyn. We should go and say hi.’

‘Okay.’

‘The landlord at the pub’s putting food on. Mum won’t go, but she says she’s grateful to him.’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘No.’

‘Nor me. William and Jack have gone. William said they have some stuff to sort out without Patrick being there. I think he’s always been the one to stop them being friends.’

‘Hasn’t Uncle Patrick gone to the pub, then?’

Linda allowed herself a small chuckle. ‘No. Auntie Jean wouldn’t let him. She told him to walk Jackie and Nicki back to the cottage while she stayed with your mum.’