Tara (20 page)

'Stop, Paul! The potato digger!'

The ancient rusting implement had two big spiked wheels on the back and it was hidden from his view, on her side of the wall. How many times had Gran warned them not to climb on it? How many times had their mother suggested it should be disposed of?

It seemed to Tara that everything went into slow motion. She saw the man bend over Colin and haul him up by the shoulder. She saw her gran put her hands on the wall and peer over. But in the same instant Paul's body hurtled up and over in a graceful, perfect arc, and she heard her mother scream.

*

She had no recollection of running from her room, down the stairs and out through the kitchen. It was only the screaming she remembered, but whether it was from Paul, her mother, grandmother or even herself she didn't know.

The only vivid picture
was
of Paul impaled on those spikes.

He could have been a guy ready for a bonfire, a doll-like figure tossed carelessly as washing over a thorn bush. But one hand was still twitching, stained bright red with the strawberries he'd been stealing. His dark eyes and mouth were wide open in shock.

It wasn't until her mother tried to lift him that Tara realised the full horror. One spike had entered his neck, the other penetrated his spine at waist level. As Amy tried to free him blood gushed out, splattering her clothes, and trickled down to the ground beneath.

'Don't try to move him.' Gran took command, pulling Amy back, shouting at Stan to phone for an ambulance.

The man from the field came over the wall and in that second Tara knew exactly why Paul had been so terrified. He bore a strong resemblance to Bill Mac-Donald, with the same purple-tinged face, dark hair and big, muscular frame.

'I would never have chased him if I'd known.' The man's face blanched as he saw Paul. 'I was mad because they trampled on my strawberries. God forgive me!'

The sequence of events following that was all mixed up. Was it then that her mother clawed at the man's face, or later? Did Gran really strike Amy to stop her screaming? Or was she silenced when the ambulance men pulled Paul from the spikes?

But Tara did remember Gran standing by Paul with her hand all bloody on his throat and saying he was dead. She recalled Amy showering his face with kisses and she wished she could touch him herself, only she seemed to be frozen to the spot.

It didn't seem real. Tara expected that any minute someone would shake her and point out Paul and Colin cruising down the road on their bikes.

But it was real. People were thronging into the yard. Some immediate neighbours, such as Mrs Hewitt and Mrs Parsons, sobbed openly. Others just stared at the potato digger as Tara did, watching the blood drip down its vicious spikes, forming a puddle on the cobbles beneath.

Colin vomited in a corner, tears making clean stripes on his grubby cheeks.

'We never meant no harm,' he bleated to one of the many policemen who arrived. 'We was only eating a few strawberries.'

'It's times like these when I wish I was anything but a doctor.'

Mabel Randall looked up at the rosy faced man with kind brown eyes and bit back her customary sarcasm.

'Will she be all right?' Her heart was beating too fast, she felt giddy and weak with the events of the evening and she didn't know how to comfort her daughter or Tara.

She was holding back her own anguish; trying hard not to think that she would never feel that little hand in hers again, or pat that firm little bottom. She had loved him so much. She had envisaged him taking over the farm one day. He was her future. Now he was gone.

'I'm certain it's just a temporary state brought on by shock.' Dr Masterton touched Mabel's shoulder reassuringly. 'It's just nature's way of protecting her.'

Among all the drama, noise and questions, no-one but Tara noticed that Amy had withdrawn into a silent world. Mabel had given the police all the information she could and Tara had been able to go up to her bedroom and point out what she'd seen. But even when everyone had gone and silence and darkness descended on the farmhouse again, Amy was still sitting dry-eyed on the old kitchen settle, staring into space, unaware of anything.

'It's not the silence, that's understandable.' Mabel lifted the boiling kettle from the Aga and filled the teapot. 'I feel it's something more dangerous, something that might hold her for ever unless we nip it in the bud quickly.'

The doctor glanced across at the open hall door. Tara had led her mother up the stairs after his examination and he could hear her murmuring something to Amy as she put her to bed.

He had witnessed the strong bond between Amy and her two children almost as soon as they arrived in the village. Their reluctance to speak of their past, a certain distrustful nervousness in all three, suggested to him they'd suffered prolonged hardship and violence.

'It may just be that she's holding on until she feels strong enough to let go,' he said carefully. 'Like you, I'd feel better if she was handling her shock and grief in a more demonstrative way, but all of us have different ways of coping with disaster.'

Gregory Masterton was in his late forties, the third generation of Mastertons to be doctor in the village. Except for his years at university, medical school and his national service he had always lived in Chew Magna. He knew everyone, every child, farm worker and landowner, and in his profession he often uncovered secrets he would rather not have been privy to.

He had been called to Bridge Farm perhaps only four or five times in twenty years, but each time he had left disturbed by its atmosphere.

Bridge Farm always had an air of tragic mystery. He felt in his heart that Paul's death was possibly just the start of more tragedy for the little family. What would happen to them now?

Mabel seemed so controlled, but only a short while ago the children in the village had dared one another to creep into the farmyard to spy on the woman who talked to herself. They had frightened each other by saying she cut children's throats and fed their bodies to her pigs. Would losing the grandson she'd come to love so dearly push her back that way?

What about Tara? She'd said something about Paul believing it was his father chasing him; that made the boy's death even more tragic. How could an adolescent girl come through such an experience and not be permanently scarred?

Then there was Amy. How could she stay here and keep her sanity? She must have brought her children here for some good reason, and now each time she looked across the yard or out of the window she'd see Paul on those spikes. What could anyone do or say to comfort her?

Amy Manning was one of the loveliest women he'd ever met. Now her big blue eyes were vacant, but only two days ago, when he'd passed the time of day with her in the High Street, they had sparkled at his clumsy attempts at flirtation.

She was the kind of woman any man would yearn for, not least a sometimes lonely bachelor like himself. He admired her quiet, gentle manner, her ability to listen and to draw people out. A mother, sister and friend to all, she was held in esteem by everyone in the village. Why should fate be so cruel to her?

'Tea seems inadequate, but it's all I've got.' Mabel shuffled over to the table and put down the teapot and two mugs.

'I'll just see if Amy needs anything first,' Gregory said.

Mabel merely nodded, sitting down heavily at the table.

It was happening again! What had she or her family done to deserve another kick in the stomach? If God had wanted a sacrifice why couldn't he have taken her?

Two years ago she had sat in this very kitchen contemplating killing herself. She could remember looking up at the beams and wondering if there was enough of a drop to hang herself, or whether to slash her wrists with her butcher's knife.

Mabel lifted her eyes up again to the beams. Not one spider's web hung there now, just polished copper pots and bunches of dried flowers. New red gingham curtains hung at the windows, and pots of geraniums stood on the sills.

All Amy's doing! Battered and abandoned as she was, she'd got down on her knees and polished the tiled floor, scrubbed everything clean and made it a real home. But instead of happiness and prosperity, life had slapped her in the face again, and taken her son.

The doctor paused on the landing, looking through the open door, not wishing to intrude.

Tara had her mother sitting on the edge of the double bed, wearing a pink cotton nightdress, and she was brushing her hair. Amy sat just as she had done earlier, eyes vacant, staring straight ahead, her lips slightly apart, her hands resting on her knees.

But it was Tara his eyes were drawn to. In the soft light from the bedside lamp her hair was pure gold. He had a vague memory of something someone had told him about Mabel when she was young – colouring that grabbed the eye and forced a man to turn his head and stare in wonder.

'Go to sleep now.' Tara gently pushed her mother down on to the pillow and tucked the covers around her. 'I'll stay with you.'

She lay down beside her mother now, stroking her forehead. Blonde and gold hair mingled on the pillow, as the doctor watched. He had no medicine as strong as a child's love. He was just an old quack with a bag full of pills and a few worn-out platitudes.

Chapter 9

Rain beat down like stair-rods as Paul's small oak coffin was lowered into the ground. Tara huddled closer to her mother, trying to hold the umbrella over Amy's head.

Tara had been crying incessantly since the first glimpse of the hearse. Just the thought of Paul lying in that flower-covered coffin made her stomach churn, and once again she blamed herself for his death. If only she'd run downstairs that evening and got up on the wall! She had always protected him before. Why hadn't she done something?

She wasn't listening to the vicar any longer. She didn't even feel the rain or see the crowd of mourners. Harry and George's presence didn't help either, all she could think of was that this was a place where Paul loved to play, even though Gran scolded him for being so irreverent.

Time to go now.' Uncle George took her arm and led her away from the grave, towards the gate.

Her mother still stood at the graveside with Gran, their heads sunk on to their chests. Their two black-dressed figures looked shrunken against the flower-covered mound of earth and the huge yew tree. Behind them loomed St Andrew's church, with its square tower, and the strange broken-off monument with steps round it that people said was a market cross from medieval times. Gran was holding the umbrella over both of them, but it was shaking as she sobbed.

Amy had remained dry-eyed throughout the service, but the vacant look in her blue eyes was far more disturbing than tears. She wasn't aware of the vicar's comforting words, in fact she didn't seem to know why she was standing there in the rain.

Tara could smell the soil, not the flowers, and all she could hear were Gran's sobs and the sound of rain drumming on the coffin.

'Come on, into the car.' George's voice shook and when Tara looked at him she saw red-rimmed eyes and tears mingling with the rain on his face. 'I wish I could say summat to make it better, sweetheart, but I can't.'

The funeral car was waiting just outside the church gates by the old school house. Tara sat in it alone, shivering as Harry helped Amy and Mabel from the graveyard. With a protective and supporting arm round each of them, he looked almost indecently strong and healthy.

Amy was walking like a puppet, staring straight ahead through the black veil of her hat, unaware that every shop and cottage had blinds or curtains drawn across its windows as a mark of respect and sympathy.

Harry almost had to lift her into the car, then Gran followed. Tara shrank sideways against the door, frightened now by her mother's silence. Harry closed the door, said something to the driver which she couldn't hear through the glass partition, then ran ahead and jumped into his father's car. They drove off ahead and she guessed they were rushing to get to the farm before them to tell Mrs Hewish to make the tea and uncover the sandwiches.

'I wonder how many will come back?' Gran said. Tara knew this question didn't require an answer, it was the only thing she could think of to break the silence.

"The flowers were lovely,' Tara said, wondering if the gravedigger was already shovelling soil on to the coffin. She and Paul had spied on the funny little man once after a funeral; he had sat on a grave, poured himself tea from a flask and smoked a cigarette before he started.

'You must eat something.' George stood in front of Tara as she leaned against the kitchen wall. He held out a plate with a shrimp vol au vent, a sausage roll and a couple of sandwiches.

He didn't look right in a black suit. It made him seem thinner and older. The light shone down on his bald patch and his big bulbous nose made a strange shadow on his chin, almost like a beard.

'I can't,' she sighed. 'It just won't go down.'

Everyone was congregating in the kitchen, despite the food laid out in the dining room. Mr Atherton, the headmaster from Paul's school in the village, was there, his teacher Miss Candrew, along with Gregory Masterton, Mr Miles from the post office and old Mrs Smart from the sweet shop. There were others Tara didn't know, old people in the main, acquaintances of Gran's from her youth.

Colin and his parents had been at the service, all three of them crying openly. Tara had wanted to speak to Colin, to try to make him see it wasn't his fault. It made her feel even worse to see his little freckled face, usually wreathed in a grin, looking pale and drawn.

Mr Hodges was at the back of the church with his small blonde wife. As they walked out she saw his eyes were red-rimmed and he hung his head. He hadn't looked a bit like her father close to, but Tara still wanted to hate him because he was responsible.

Heavy rain battered the window, creating a murky greyness that wasn't entirely dispersed even with the lights on. The heat from the Aga combined with the damp clothes made an atmosphere like a Turkish bath, with an overpowering smell of damp wool.