The Arrival of Missives (14 page)

She pulls me into her arms with a strength that I had almost forgotten she possessed; it is the strength born of hard work and worry, and holding a child safe even when they struggle.

'I do not doubt it,' she says, again, and I wish she had not. She sounds so much less certain with repetition.

*

Three men stand before me and ask their questions.

I sit in the front pew of the church, my hands folded demurely in my lap, my eyes downcast. I know better than to show my true face, or give my answers.

My father, Mr Redmore, Reverend Mountcastle: they have all read the letters that Mr Tiller sent to me. I handed them over as soon as we were gathered in the church. Reverend Mountcastle holds them now; the once-white pages, folded, look grubby, the edges curling. 'Why did you not inform your father of these improper advances? You must have known it was your duty.'

'I am sorry,' I whisper, which goes nowhere towards answering his question but at least seems to mollify him. He stands in the centre of the aisle; behind him are the carved wooden steps to his pulpit and the long stained-glass window of Mary in blue, with the baby Jesus in her arms.

My father is on Reverend Mountcastle's left. His arms are crossed and his mouth straight. His cheeks appear to be permanently flushed since my revelation, as if they will never overcome the embarrassment of it.

On the right of the Reverend stands Mr Redmore. This must be his first time in church since that Sunday he attended upon his return from the war. His eyes do not look so kindly upon me any more. I feel my body trembling, and I cannot control it.

'It is very troubling that you kept it secret, Shirley,' says the Reverend. 'You were always a sensible girl. Where has that sensible girl gone?'

'I was – charmed,' I say.

I have spent hours preparing this as my line of defence. Let them think I was weak-minded, and Mr Tiller took advantage of me with stories that a real man would not possibly entertain.

'But now you see clearly?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I don't understand it, I just don't understand it,' he mutters. 'It is very strange indeed, this talk of rocks and future plans, and the letters are – well, they are deeply disturbing, do you not think so?' He appeals to my father, who obliges, through clenched teeth.

'I do.' The sight of him standing there, saying those particular words in such clipped severity when this should be my own wedding rehearsal, touches a deep nerve of quixotic humour within me that cannot be repressed.

'She smiles,' says Mr Redmore. 'She's smiling. She finds this laughable, while my son fancies himself broken-hearted.'

'Perhaps it is a sign of the befuddlement,' says my father, who has leapt at the possible explanation as I knew he would. 'She has long been thick with the man, and I knew it was not normal in nature, but her mother told me she could settle it with delicacy.'

'Well, it seems not.' Mountcastle sighs.

'It's all some fantasy caused by the war,' adds the blacksmith. 'Men come back with the strangest tales, and think they face enemies, seeing them in every place. Once you have lived through such times you cannot dismiss them. The man is ill.'

'Does that mean we should forgive him?' says my father, outraged.

'We should forgive everyone as best we can in the name of Christian duty,' states the Reverend. 'But forgiveness does not mean forgetfulness. Tiller must not be put in charge of young minds, or even allowed near to them, that much is obvious.'

They do not ask me why I chose to believe Mr Tiller, or what I have seen with my own eyes. They do not include me in this conversation at all.

It does not matter; it does not matter! I have outwitted Mr Tiller. He will be forced out of the village in shame and penury, and if he applies for work in this county news of it will reach Westerbridge. He will not be able to harm Daniel, and his ability to affect the future of others will be seriously diminished.

'Do we agree that the man is touched?' asks Mountcastle.

'I do not care much one way or the other, but he must pay for what he has done.' My father's arms remain crossed. I am glad I asked my mother to leave us at the church door; she would set about the business of placating him, as if it were her duty, and I need him to be angry enough to ensure the downfall of Mr Tiller.

'But what exactly has he done?' says the Reverend. I keep my eyes cast down, and pretend I am too ashamed to even look at them.

There is a silence, and then I hear footsteps. The Reverend sits beside me in the pew, and places a hand on mine. I have never been so close to him. He smells strange, musty. Underneath his vestments he is just another old man. I hold my breath.

'Shirley,' he says, gently. 'You were alone with Mr Tiller on numerous occasions, were you not? You helped him with tasks, such as the organisation of the May Day celebrations, is that not right?'

'That is right, sir.'

'Yes, that's right. You see, I already know this because he told me what a great help you were to him, and suggested you should be May Queen because of it. He has always thought highly of you, hasn't he?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Good.' Mountcastle pats my head. Why does he feel so free to do so? I have not encouraged him. 'Did Mr Tiller ever kiss you?' he says, loudly, so the other men can hear, I assume. 'With his mouth?'

One wonders how else a person could kiss another. 'No, sir,' I say.

'Did he ever put his hands upon you?'

'No, sir.'

'Very well. Thank you.'

Here is my moment. My mother called me brave, and I must prove her right. 'I put my hands upon him.'

The Reverend's hand becomes a dead weight on mine. I would throw it off if I could.

'Indeed?' he says, finally. Mr Redmore and my father do not move. 'How so?'

'He took off his shirt, and I touched his skin. We were alone, in his cottage. I cannot say more. Do not make me say more.' I close my eyes and hunch my shoulders, as if emotion has overwhelmed me. I have learned that words are worth less than tears.

'And so now we understand why you have called off your wedding. Oh Shirley.'

My father is murmuring under his breath and I raise my head to see him deep in his fury, Mr Redmore already moving to his side.

'Calm yourself,' says the blacksmith. 'Calm yourself.'

'I will kill him,' states my father, icy with anger.

'This is a church, Frederick Fearn,' barks the Reverend. Oh, the three of them are fast becoming their own stage act; they only need me to be the cause and the audience.

'He should answer for this!' shouts my father, and his eyes pass over me as if I am not there at all.

'And he will. We will track him down, and he will see justice.'

'He will be miles away already,' says Mr Redmore. 'If the girl had not seen fit to delay telling us, we could have—'

'If you had not told all that the engagement was broken, he would not have had the chance to run!'

I hold up my hand. None of this makes sense to me, and now my stomach has a strange sensation within it, as if wheels are turning fast within. 'Could you explain, sir?' I ask the Reverend. 'I don't understand.'

All three of them grimace. I am an annoyance to have interrupted. 'He has left the village,' says my father. 'Your precious schoolmaster made off this morning.'

'How… how do you know this?'

'We have been asking door to door about one of the girls in the village who has seen fit to run away,' says Reverend Mountcastle. 'I called in on Mr Tiller myself this morning, and found the cottage empty. Now I understand why. He would have heard in the village last night that you had broken your engagement, as Mr Redmore saw fit to tell all while in his cups at The Three Crowns.'

'My boy is broken-hearted,' repeats Mr Redmore.

'You all knew,' I breathe. 'You knew, and you waited for me to speak of it first. And now…'

Reverend Mountcastle looks at me with pity. 'This is Westerbridge, girl. Did you forget how news spreads here? Even the news you would rather not have known?'

I do not believe Mr Tiller has simply run away. He is fervent, unswayable. What has he done with the extra time given to him through other people's gossip? What have I made him desperate enough to do?

The Reverend leaves me, and walks back to make the group of three once more. They talk amongst themselves, and I am excluded from their conversation. I am so very unimportant. There is no power left in me.

I gaze up at the stained-glass window. The blue of Mary's robe is soft and light. She holds the infant Jesus so gently, and around her head is a halo, the white light blending with her beautiful golden hair. Jesus is the centre of the picture, of course. His sweet expression dominates all. The blue of the robe simply frames him, in his promise of perfection. The mother does not matter, and yet he could not exist without her. As no man can exist without a woman to bear him.

I stand up.

'The girl who has run away,' I say. 'Who was it?'

My father waves me into silence.

'No!' I shout, and they all turn to me. I will make them hear, just this once. I will have a clear answer. 'Who was it?'

'Phyllis Clemens, the baker's girl. Now sit down, and— Shirley!'

But I am off, and running. Mr Tiller has left the village because his job is done, and he has won this war.

*

I must hope that he has taken her with him. And yet my heart tells me that he would not burden himself with her, not when he has a future to save. What would one more girl matter to him? But she is so pretty; how could he look at her golden hair and see only a problem to be solved? Surely he would be moved at the sight of her, and take her along as he fled.

I am now more rock than flesh
, he wrote to me.

Out of the churchyard, past the houses of the poor, down the lane where the branches grow thick overhead, and here I am at Mr Tiller's cottage. Perhaps Phyllis is inside, locked up in a back room, or perhaps there is a letter. Yes, a letter, one last missive from Mr Tiller in which he reprimands me for not keeping my promises, and gives me one final chance to keep to my end of the bargain.
I have abducted Phyllis Clemens
, the letter will say.
I will return her once you are married
.

At first the cottage door does not admit me, but when I put my shoulder to it, the wood squeals and it swings back. There can be no doubt that he has gone. Already the hall feels damp and unwelcoming. In the kitchen, the furniture remains while all personal touches are gone. The tea chest no longer stands beside the dresser; how could he have taken it? He must have hired a horse and cart from somewhere. No doubt the village will be full of the details.

The lamp, unlit, still sits by the window. There is no letter on the table. I had envisioned it so very clearly. But it is not there.

I search all the rooms for some sign, some portent, of his plans. The living room is as bare and cold as a prison. The mattress upon his bed is stripped and discoloured, and the room bears the smell of mildew. I open the window and look down upon his wild garden, the roses now done with, the vegetable plots thick with tangling weeds. Beyond that, I catch a glimpse of the bridge and the river.

I walk down the narrow stairs, and leave the cottage behind me. I make my way to the bridge. If Mr Tiller wanted to leave me a message, is that where he would put it? That is where we stood and saw each other clearly for the first time.

Upon the bridge, leaning against the stone wall, I look down at the water. I feel his desire to let me know he is disgusted with me. It is early afternoon and the frogs are not singing. The crickets do not call. A peculiar silence has stretched over the animals and insects.

There she is.

There is her golden hair, flowing with the water, spooling out from under the bridge. I climb down to the hidden shelter where the children thought the adults would not go, and I see her in the mud, her hair carried over her face, her skin blue-white and her neck a mess of purple marks where he squeezed her dry.

He has left his message.

*

My mother's plan involves taking only that which I can carry, and the letter she has written to her parents in which she asks them to feed me and clothe me for a while. In exchange, she writes, I am a good worker. Although she does not say at what.

My plan deviates somewhat, but it starts out in the same manner; it is dawn, and I am walking down the lower field towards the stile, and the road, moving apace so that I will make good distance before my father notes my absence.

I will go to Taunton, and then beyond. I will look for word of either Mr Tiller (although the police are hard at work to find him too, of course) or of a rock that gives visions of a future that many would say does not concern me. But I say that it does.

I reach the stile, and find Daniel Redmore waiting for me. I stare at him, and he stares back.

'How did you—'

'Your mother,' he says.

'It was not her business to tell you.'