The Black Mountains (28 page)

“There was all this shouting and screaming—I could hear it as clearly as if I'd been in there with them. Then the door opened and out came Gait—all of a heap, if you know what I mean. It was just as if Wilf had got hold of him and thrown him. He landed on his hands and knees, and before he could get up there was Wilf kicking him and Molly hanging on to his arm and crying and trying to stop him. And her dress was all undone, Jim. It was disgusting, really, especially when I think of that nasty, dirty-looking little man …”

“Money talks,” Jim said darkly, and when she looked at him questioningly: “Go on, then, finish telling me what happened.”

“I thought there was going to be murder done,” Sarah said. “Mr Gait's face was all bleeding, and he couldn't get his breath—he was winded, I suppose. Wilf stood over him, shouting, “You leave my missus alone, you filthy swine, or you'll get what's coming to you.” Gait started to pick himself up, holding his face. “You've broke my nose,” he said to Wilf, all pained-like, though how he had the nerve with Wilf standing over him, I don't know. Then Wilf got hold of him round the collar. “ If I catch you anywhere near my wife again, I'll break your neck, never mind your bloody nose!” he said. “And it won't be only me you'll have to reckon with. There'll be two or three of me mates as well!” Then he pushed Mr Gait over again, and went back into the house. I thought I'd seen the last of him, but a minute later, out he came again, with Mr Gait's hat—the one he's always wearing—and just threw it at him. “And take your bloody hat with you!” he shouted. Well, Jim, it couldn't have been funnier, really. The wind swept up the hat, and blew it all down the garden. And there was Mr Gait chasing after it, with blood pouring down his face!”

Jim shook his head, laughing. “I wish I'd been here. That's a sight a lot of us would have liked to see. Gaity getting his come-uppance, and not before time!”

Sarah sobered. “ Oh, I know he's not liked, Jim, but surely nobody would wish that on him.”

“You're wrong there,” Jim told her. “All the blokes at South Hill would for a start. They aren't going to forget this in a hurry.”

Jim's prediction soon proved correct, for O'Halloran got to hear of it and sent for Mr Gait to explain; What exactly went on behind the walls of his office, no one ever knew for certain, but it was widely supposed this was just the excuse O'Halloran had been waiting for. For some time he had been uneasy about Gait's way of dealing with the men, which was so different from his own, and now he had proof of Gait misusing his position, he felt the limits had been reached.

Gait did not leave immediately. O'Halloran was too shrewd for that. But the men suspected things were being made gradually more and more uncomfortable for him, until one day he announced he was leaving to work in the Yorkshire coal-field.

All the men were delighted to hear of Gait's departure, for he was a man who had long since lost the respect of the workers. A new under-manager was installed at South Hill, and soon Gaity was completely forgotten. Occasionally his name would come up over a pint, and the incident with Molly Hamblin would still raise a malicious chuckle.

That was Gait's memorial in Hillsbridge. It was not one he would have cared for.

July sunshine, streaming through a gap in the curtains, woke Rebecca Church.

Although it was still early, the air was already heavy with the promise of a scorching summer day.

It was going to be fine, she thought, relief and happiness coursing through her. It was going to be fine, and she'd be able to meet Ted at the church garden party this afternoon as they had planned.

It was more than a week now since she'd seen him, a week when she had been haunted by the constant fear that it might rain and the garden party would have to be moved indoors or cancelled altogether. That would have been a disappointment that didn't bear thinking about, for she had no idea how or when they would be able to meet for the next few weeks. The Esperanto classes had stopped for the summer holiday, and excuses to go into Hillsbridge alone or with Marjorie were hard to come by.

Each time she met Ted the difficulties and danger seemed to increase. Sometimes her nerves were stretched almost to breaking point, so that she wondered if perhaps it would be better to have a break from the scheming and the skulking and the fear of being caught.

It had been bad enough in the spring, when wet day had followed wet day and half the valley had been under water. Then there had been times when her mother had refused to let her get herself soaked through walking down the hill on a Tuesday evening and she had had to hide her disappointment and the horrid feeling that came from knowing that Ted would be waiting in vain for her. But now, with the evenings long and light, it was more difficult than ever. They could go across the fields when it was dry enough underfoot, but there was always the chance of being seen, and even the Picture House afforded less cover than it had done, for more often than not they had to queue in broad daylight while Henry Pinker, the onetime sergeant major turned commissionaire, stood at the door and shouted his almost unintelligible, “ Early doors this way—three, six, nine, a shilling!” in a fair imitation of his former parade-ground bellow.

Rebecca felt the risks were greater now than they had ever been, and with each successfully conducted rendezvous it seemed to her the odds of being found out became greater too. But when she said as much to Ted, he brushed her fears aside.

“If he hasn't found out in six months, why should he find out now?” he asked with his usual confidence, and she had said no more, for although she was far from convinced, there was really nothing she could do about it. She couldn't suggest not seeing him for a few weeks. Her hunger for him was too great. And besides, there was always the nagging fear that, if she was away from him for too long, he might find someone else. So she suppressed the mounting sense of foreboding and tried to forget her doubts and the fear of what would happen if her father learned that she had been deceiving him.

Six months had done nothing to dull the magic that came from being together. There were still so many things to talk about, so many things to discover about one another.

They had watched the bare winter trees turn green for spring. They had picked the first bluebells in the woods that flanked the river. They had laughed in wonder at the spindly legged calf in Farmer Brent's yard as it took its first staggering steps, And as the earth swelled with promise and burst into new life, so their love grew from their first uncertain tender kiss until it seemed to fill the whole world.

I never knew it could be like this, Rebecca thought, drawing her knees up so that the sheets formed a cool tent around her legs. I never for one single moment imagined that this was what they meant by love—this breathless anticipation, this feeling of living in a fairy-tale world where wonderful things really happen.

A tiny breeze stirred the curtain, wafting the scent of a fresh summer morning into the room, and Rebecca let the sheets collapse around her legs, turned them back and slipped out of bed.

There was water in the jug on the wash-stand, and she poured some into the bowl, splashing it on to her face. Then she stood back, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

Her hair, falling thickly to the high collar of her cambric nightgown, framed her small heart-shaped face, and the cold water had brought a glow to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Slowly she unfastened the nightgown, slipping her arms out of the sleeves, and letting it slide down into a heap at her feet. Then she reached out and tilted the mirror so that it threw back a reflection of her body: small firm breasts, rounded hips and plump white thighs separated by a small pointed tuft of soft brown hair. For a long moment she looked, safe in the knowledge that the rest of the house was sleeping, studying every detail as she had never studied it before, and pride began to warm her. She ran her hands lightly over her belly, appraising the flare of her hips and thighs, then moving up to cup her breasts. In her hands, they felt firm and full, and as she rubbed them gently she felt the soft little nipples swell and harden against her palms.

Something stirred inside her then, a shiver of excitement deep inside the most secret part of her, and a smile curved her lips so that her whole face looked somehow fuller and more mature.

Fleetingly she thought of the decorum with which she had been raised, the terrifying modesty that had led her mother to explain menstruation as a way of getting rid of blood if you make too much, the shame she had felt when first one breast and then the other had begun to grow, small, unevenly shaped swellings beneath her all-concealing camisole. They had led her to believe there was some dark secret about maturity, so that she had tried to dress and undress herself without a single moment of nudity. But now there was something in the way she felt—in the way Ted made her feel—that made her bold, and it seemed to her that she stood on the brink of something enormous and wonderful and unknown.

She moved her hands again, sliding them over her skin and feeling the small, delicious shivers that spread like ripples on a pond.

Why should she be ashamed? she asked herself. Why should she be ashamed to touch her own body, or even look at it? God had made her this way, after all, just as he'd made the trees and the flowers and that sweet, rubber-legged, little calf. He'd given her breasts and a belly and secret places between her thighs, and the Bible taught that God was pleased with his work …

“Rebecca!”

So lost in wonder was she that, until the thunderous voice shattered her dream world, she had no idea she was being watched, and she jumped violently, instinctively trying to hide her body.

“Rebecca, for the love of God what are you doing? Cover yourself at once!”

He stood in the doorway like an avenging angel, a robe pulled on over his nightgown, his face distorted with rage and disbelief. Beneath his furious gaze, her shock became acute embarrassment. She fumbled for her own gown with hands that shook. Why couldn't he go back to his own room while she dressed herself? Why did he have to stand there, looking?

Her legs were trembling so that she had to struggle to get the nightgown past her knees; she tried to turn away from him, and almost fell as she stepped on a fold of material. After long, agonizing moments she managed to get it up over her hips. Another wriggle, and she was able to pull it high enough to cover her breasts.

Terrified, she turned to look at him, clutching the cambric folds about her. But to her surprise he said nothing. His eyes, dark and furious, held hers for a moment, then with a tightening of his mouth, Alfred Church swung around and left her and went back along the landing to his own room.

Still shaking and still clutching her nightgown around her, Rebecca stood in the middle of the room and waited. But the sounds she dreaded to hear did not come. Soon afterwards her mother began moving about, and she knew the day had begun.

But when she reached for her camisole, which was hanging over the back of the wicker-work chair, and slipped it on, she managed to do so without baring her body for a single moment, and suddenly it seemed as if the morning sun had dimmed and everything was tinged with shadow.

THE SIGHT of Rebecca had shocked Alfred more than he would have believed possible. For the life of him he did not know what had made him cross the landing and look through her bedroom door that morning when he got out of bed to use the chamberpot, and he could only think he must have been guided by Providence. For although he had been aware for a long while now that she was growing up, what he had seen this morning made him realize that Rebecca was not only a mature young woman, but also a sensual one.

He had stood in the doorway, looking at her with fascinated disgust, and the indecent beauty of her body seemed to impress itself upon his memory, so that all day as he went about his tasks he kept seeing her. How could such a transformation have taken place under his very nose and he not have realized it? he asked himself. Not only that, how could he reconcile his shy, modest daughter with a hussy who could fondle her breasts and stand to admire her naked body in a mirror? It was what he had imagined in his worst nightmares, and it was becoming a reality. Heaven only be praised that Rupert had agreed to his proposals for a settlement on Rebecca, although he would have to wait until he had finished his articles before marrying her.

If he could have managed it without Rupert losing face, Alfred would have liked to suggest that he should finance the couple so that they could be married without delay, but it couldn't be done. He, like Rupert, would have to be patient. But the intervening years would be difficult ones, when her every move would have to be watched, for there must be no question of her letting her sexuality betray her now.

The thought reminded him that Rebecca had been going out a great deal more lately than she used to, and he wondered at the wisdom of this. She was with Marjorie, it was true, but if he was honest with himself, he was not sure that Marjorie was the best company for her, and although the things they did seemed harmless enough, there were times when he had asked himself just what it was they learned at Esperanto that had brought such a sparkle to Rebecca's eyes and made her so happy and eager to please.

All day he thought about it, aware of some sixth sense telling him all was not as it should be, and that afternoon, when Rebecca and Marjorie left for the parish garden party that was being held on the Rectory lawns, the feeling intensified. How could he know if Rebecca was behaving as she should? There was only one way to find out.

“I think I'll walk down to the garden party myself,” he said to Winnie, who was hulling strawberries for jam on the lawn behind the house.

She looked up at him anxiously. “ In this heat, Alfred? Why don't you wait until it's a bit cooler.”