The Black Mountains (31 page)

“Alfred—what is going on? What are you doing?”

Winnie Church, who had seen them coming up the lane, appeared suddenly in the doorway, her pinched face ugly with fear.

“Your daughter is a sinner. She has been lying with a boy. She has been …”

“I haven't,” Rebecca cried. “Oh, Mother, I haven't. We only went for a walk!”

“And now she has to pay for her lust.”

Violently he tore at her dress, ripping it open, and she backed away, terrified, holding the bodice round her.

“Take it off!” he ordered.

“No, Father, please don't make me …”

The heat of his body beneath his heavy clothing somehow heightened his rage and his desire for retribution.

“The Lord is with me,” he intoned taking a step towards her. She cowered away, mute with terror, and he raised his hand.

“The Lord will punish …”

But at that moment the exertions of the afternoon told on Alfred. He was a heavy man and not a very fit one, and the struggle up the hill had been more of a strain than he had realized.

As he raised his arm, a pain so sharp that it took his breath knifed through his chest, and he stopped in his tracks, his hand going to his heart, a surprised expression on his face.

“Alfred!” Winnie Church cried.

The strap fell from his hand, and he leaned heavily against the table to steady himself. His breathing had become laboured, and his eyes glazed.

“Alfred, you've done too much!” Winnie rushed forward, pulling out the hard-backed chair and placing it behind him. For the moment, her fear of illness and death had taken all thought of her daughters punishment from her mind. But Alfred did not forget. Sitting down heavily on the chair he raised a trembling finger to point at Rebecca.

“Take that whore upstairs and lock her in her room until I can decide what to do with her.” The words were stumbled and rasping as he fought for breath, but his anger was as terrible as ever.

Winnie leaned over him, loosening his collar and mopping his brow. “Never mind about Rebecca, Alfred. Don't worry about anything …”

But still his trembling finger pointed, and his face was suffused with colour. “Take that whore …” he attempted to rise, then sank back weakly. “Take that whore …”

“All right, Alfred, whatever you say. Don't upset yourself any more.” Winnie crossed to Rebecca, but stopped short at the expression on the girl's face. Fear had gone now—her hazel eyes were clear and cool as spring pools.

“The Lord guided your hand, didn't he, Father?” she said, and the confidence in her voice brought a new frenzy of fury to his distorted features. Once more he attempted to raise himself, once more he failed, falling back into the chair with a harsh gasp, and Winnie flew at her daughter.

“How could you, Rebecca? What has got into you, making your father ill like this? We've tried to bring you up decently, and this is all the thanks we get …”

Rebecca said nothing. She simply turned and went up the stairs to her room. Winnie followed, wailing new accusations all the way, but Rebecca did not even look at her. Her head held high, she marched into her room, crossed the floor and sat herself down on the bed. For the moment Winnie stood in the doorway, more unsure of herself than ever in the face of her daughter's new-found dignity.

“You'll stay here until your father's well enough to decide what's to be done with you, my girl,” she said almost defiantly.

Then she went out, closing the door behind her, and Rebecca heard the click as the key was turned in the lock.

Amy left school in the summer of 1915, in spite of all William Davies' efforts to stop her.

“You're a bright girl, Amy. You could get a scholarship like your brother,” he told her. “Let me have a talk with your mother and father. I'm sure they'd take notice if I explained to them.”

But Amy was adamant. “ I don't want you to, Mr Davies. They can't afford to keep me on at school. It's as much as they can do to keep Jack at Wells, and there's Harry, too.”

“Well, it's a great pity, but I must commend you on your attitude, Amy—admirably unselfish,” William Davies said.

Amy had the grace to blush. She knew that money was short, and if she allowed William Davies to talk her mother and father into letting her try for a scholarship, things would become more difficult. But that was not the whole story—far from it. Amy was bright, but she was not the dedicated scholar Jack was, and never would be. As long as learning came easily to her, she didn't mind learning. But the very thought of spending long hours shut away with a lot of dusty old books was enough to put her off any idea of further schooling. She wanted fun, freedom to go out sometimes, and a little money to spend. Nothing else was included in her scheme of things.

But of course if she was not going to stay on at school, she had to find a job. Charlotte, who still loved shops, tried to get her an apprenticeship at Fords, the drapers, but there were no vacancies, and when Dolly came home and suggested Amy might be able to work with her up at Captain Fish's, there was great relief all round.

“You'd be able to keep an eye on her, Dolly,” Charlotte said.

Amy, too, liked the idea. She knew she could get around her older sister any time she liked, and there could be a lot of advantages to working under her, instead of a stranger who might work her much harder.

“I can't promise, of course,” Dolly said. “ But with Cook's legs getting worse, I'm having to do more of her work, and I know Captain Fish was talking of getting a new housemaid.”

“If you were to put in a word for her, I should think our Amy would stand a very good chance,” Charlotte said, and she was right.

Captain Fish agreed to take on Amy, starting as soon as she finished school. Amy was delighted, quite fancying the fact that she, too, was going to have to ‘live in,' and she spent a lot of time neatly mending her underwear and unfolding and folding the new cambric nightgown Charlotte had bought her.

Only one thing marred her happiness—Dr Scott had become engaged to Grace O'Halloran, and although she was now old enough to realize her passion for him was quite hopeless, it didn't stop her aching inside every time she thought of it.

The news had come as quite a surprise to Hillsbridge. Dr Scott had always seemed too busy to have much social life, and a story that he had a girl at home in his native Gloucestershire had been tacitly accepted. Then, quite suddenly, Grace O'Halloran had been seen in his pony and trap, and now, almost indecently soon, his engagement had been announced.

“I heard that it's because he's going off to the war,” Charlotte said.

“To the war?” Amy repeated, horrified. It was bad enough to think of. Dr Scott married to someone else, but she was acutely depressed to think she would no longer see him about the town.

“He's going as a doctor, I suppose,” Charlotte went on. “And goodness knows, those poor things over there need all the help they can get.”

“But why Dr Scott?” Amy wailed.

“Why any of them?” Charlotte asked shortly. “Why our Fred, and Colwyn Yelling, and poor Bert Cottle? They want their heads examined, if you ask me. It's just plain daft.”

“No, it's not daft, Mam,” Jack said, and they all looked at him in surprise. Jack was usually so quiet, even if he wasn't upstairs studying, opinions had to be dragged out of him.

“What's that, Jack?” Charlotte asked.

“I said it's not daft,” he repeated, uncurling his slender frame. “There are times when you've got to stand up and fight for what you believe in, just like our Fred said.”

“Don't tell us you're going off to join the army next!” Charlotte exploded.

“No, but if I was old enough I'd join the Flying Corps,” Jack said.

Charlotte raised her eyes to heaven. He'd always been too interested in flying machines for his own good. She still blamed William Davies for that—all his talk of butterflies and soaring above the ground.

“Well, all I can say is, I hope you've got more sense than that,” she said. “And let's pray it's all over before you're old enough. What do you say, Dad?”

James nodded, reaching for his cigarettes and coughing as he lit one. “I bloody well hope so.”

“And so say all of us!” Amy chimed in.

Only Ted said nothing. He stood by the window, hands in pockets, staring out in a dream.

“Ted, what do you think about it?” Charlotte said, trying to draw him into the conversation. It worried her to see him this way. It wasn't like him to be so wrapped up in himself. But he'd been the same ever since last Saturday when he'd come home from the parish garden party in a terrible mood, and told her how Alfred Church had marched Rebecca away.

“Well, I can't say I blame him!” she'd returned sharply. “ It's asking for trouble to go across the fields on your own like that. If she was a girl of mine, I dare say I'd feel the same.”

“But he's not normal, Mam, he's mad! And Becky's frightened to bloody death of him.”

“There's no need to swear,” she admonished him.

“No need to swear! I feel like beating the bugger's brains in, never mind swearing about him.”

“That'll do, Ted!” she told him briskly. “ I know you're upset, but carrying on like this won't help anybody. If Becky behaves herself and you both go about things the right way, he'll come around.”

Ted had said no more, and she had hoped he would see sense. Wild as he was, he must know that if he helped a girl deceive her father, only trouble could come of it. But as the days went by his mood deepened. The only one he had any time for was Nipper, taking him off for long walks, but Charlotte was fairly sure he was not meeting Rebecca.

“Well, Ted and what do yon think about this war?” she said now.

“I think it's a pity they don't take Alfred Church and set him up in front of a firing squad,” Ted said bitterly. Then, whistling to Nipper, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

WHEN he left the house, Ted walked quickly and purposefully down the hill towards the town.

Although it was evening, there was no sign of the market packing up—the strains of the Salvation Army Band floated up the hill—and he hoped Fords, the drapers, would still be open.

For a week he'd waited, letting things settle down for Rebecca, but now his mind was made up. He was going to do something about it.

Through the market place he went, past the Rectory, and up a short, steep hill. Half-way up, in a curve in the road, Fords the drapers stood. The stone pillars outside were chipped and marked by all the carts that had collided with them, and the big double windows had been smashed more times than anyone could remember. But Fords was still the most successful shop in Hillsbridge—apart from the Co-operative—and certainly the grandest.

Ted had never been inside the shop before. Drapery was a mystery to him, he hardly knew what was sold there, and had no idea what he would ask for if Marjorie was not about. But luck was with him. Through the glass panel in the door he could see her standing on a pair of steps, reaching up to the fixtures, and he lifted the shiny brass latch and went in.

When she turned and saw him, she almost fell off the steps with surprise. Then, recovering herself, she climbed down and came over to him.

“Good evening, and what can I do for you, sir?”

He stared at her, nonplussed. “ Well … I …”

“A ha'p'orth of pins? Yes, of course, sir,” she said with cheerful ingenuity, then, under her breath, she added, “ You're Ted Hall, aren't you? Becky's Ted?”

He nodded. “Yes. But why all the secrecy?”

“Mrs Ford's in the millinery room,” she whispered, taking down the pins and weighing them up. “What did you really want?”

“Well, to know if Becky's all right, of course.”

“I don't know,” Marjorie said seriously. “I haven't seen her.”

“What do you mean, you haven't seen her?” Ted repeated, too loudly. “You live next door to her, don't you?”

Quickly she pulled a face to quieten him. “Yes, but I haven't seen her all week,” she whispered.

Ted felt the first stirrings of real anxiety as he remembered things Rebecca had said about her father.

“Where is she then?” he asked roughly. “She's not ill is she?”

“I don't know. I haven't been near the place.” Marjorie shivered, but before he could ask her what she meant, the door to the millinery room opened and Mrs Ford, briskly business-like, swept into the shop. She glared at Ted and Marjorie, her sharp, little eyes full of suspicion, and Ted had no option but to pay for his pins and leave.

His thoughts were churning, and outside he hesitated, wondering if he could make some excuse to go back into the shop, but common sense told him it would be pointless. Marjorie had said she hadn't seen Rebecca, and he believed her. But
why
hadn't she seen her?

The weather had been good—surely she should have been in the garden if nothing else.

For a few moments he stood undecided, then he started back down the hill with the same purpose with which he had come. There was nothing for it but to go to Eastlands and see Rebecca for himself. Perhaps if he went to her house and knocked on the door, Alfred would realize his intentions were serious, and that he wanted more than just a quick roll in the grass. The thought almost made him smile—him, Ted Hall, admitting to honourable intentions! But he had never been more serious in his life.

At the bottom of the hill he turned left, along the half-horseshoe of shops that were Town Street, past the Victoria Hall and the church, scene of last week's encounter with Alfred, and into the long curving hill to Eastlands.

When he was half-way, he heard the gentle clip-clop of a horse coming towards him, and stopped for a minute, leaning on the bank to watch it pass. It was Stanley Bristow's wagonette, pulled by his last remaining horse, running his weekly service to market for the people of Eastlands. He was going home empty now, and he called out to Ted as he drew level, “ Lost yer way, lad?”