The Black Mountains (47 page)

“Where did you get it, this stuff?”

“That's my little secret. But I can tell you, it cost me, Becky. I hope you'll be grateful afterwards.”

Her look withered him, and he turned away awkwardly. “ Well, you know what I mean. Now, you've got to do it tomorrow. I've found out that your father will be in Bristol for some ‘do'. If I can find where he parks his motor I'll fix the engine so that it won't start, then he'll most likely spend the night at our place. That'll be one less in the house for you to worry about. You'll only have your mother to contend with then, and her hearing isn't too good, is it?”

Rebecca nodded absently, and Rupert looked at her sharply. “Now you are going to do it, aren't you, Becky? You won't change your mind?”

She shook her head, but she still wasn't sure. For a week she had wondered about it, turned it over in her mind in between her grieving for Ted, but she still didn't know whether she could go through with it.

The baby was completely repugnant to her, because it was a constant reminder of Rupert, and yet she almost felt it was the only reason left for living. That her father would take his strap to her, if he found out, she had no doubt. And there would be more, horrors as yet undreamed of, humiliations too great to contemplate. She would have borne them all if the baby had been Ted's. But it was
not
Ted's.

Rupert handed her the bottle. “Put this away where nobody can see it. And remember, Becky, however much it hurts, you mustn't make a sound. You mustn't wake them up, or the whole thing will come out. I wish I could get you away, but I can't. But you can handle it. I know you can. They say there's nothing to it. And with your father out of the way, it should be a piece of cake.”

Again she nodded, but said nothing. Tomorrow. Tomorrow was the night. It was all arranged. Rupert had arranged everything. The solution to everything was here in a bottle.

That night, she lay sleepless, unable to think of anything but the mysterious bottle lying hidden in her underwear drawer. The enormity of what she planned to do hung over her like a cloud, dark yet nebulous, frightening enough to make her heart pound yet unreal.

Instinctively she recoiled from the act; yet it seemed the only solution, Even if she bore her child, facing all the horrors that would come with discovery, what sort of a future would he have, branded as bastard, cut off, no doubt, from the rest of the family? She had no money, nowhere to go, except to Rupert, and she was determined she would rather die than face a life with him.

Hatred for him welled up in her, and she pressed her hands to her belly, imagining his seed growing like a cancer inside her. What would it be like, this child of his? Would it turn out to be like him? Or would it have a likeness to her father, passed down unwittingly in her own blood? Suppose—just suppose—that it might be a mixture of both of them?

The thought was so nightmarish it almost made her cry out.

I can't bear it! she thought. I can't bring a monster like that into the world! Tomorrow, I'll get rid of it. Tomorrow …

But why wait until tomorrow? She sat bolt upright, her body tingling with sudden anticipation as the idea suggested itself to her. If it was as easy as Rupert had said, she might as well do it now! She had no brown paper, but every drawer in her room was lined with old newspaper, and there was plenty of old linen in a chest on the landing.

Feverish now with excitement, she got out of bed and gathered the things together. When they were heaped on the bed in neat piles, she picked up the grimy bottle, holding it between her hands as if it were a precious ornament. She had no spoon, but what did that matter? If she wiped off the crusted rim, she could drink it straight from the bottle. And if she had a little more than she was supposed to, what did that matter? It would only ensure that the potion did its work.

Now that her mind was made up, she left all her doubts and agonizings behind, thinking only of the monstrous child she might bear if she did nothing to prevent it. She felt excited, yet strangely calm, as if she had already crossed the Rubicon. Carefully, as if she had all the time in the world, she unscrewed the top, wiping the neck of the bottle with her handkerchief and tipping it to her lips.

The liquid tasted foul, as foul as it smelled. It scorched her tongue and throat, but she drank deeply, afraid that if she paused she would never find the courage to begin again. She took the bottle from her stinging lips and observed that it was half empty.

Panic flooded through her then, panic at what she had done. She set down the bottle as if it were a hot coal, scrubbing at her lips with the back of her hand, and all her doubts, and a hundred more besides, rushed in to threaten her.

“Thou shalt not kill!” she thought, and the commandment repeated and repeated itself in her head.

Thou shalt not kill. Honour thy father and thy mother. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not commit adultery. I didn't! I didn't! Thou shalt have no other God but me, for the Lord Thy God is a jealous God … Ted was my God, I made Ted my God, and now I must be punished …

It was unbearably hot. Although the weather had broken, it was still sultry, and Rebecca felt sick in the airless room. She stumbled across to the window, throwing it open, and the perfume of the honeysuckle and the night-scented stocks wafted up, making her retch.

What have I done? she asked herself in terror. Oh dear Lord, what have I done?

As the sickness rose in her throat, she ran to the wash-stand, leaning over the bowl. But she found she was heaving at nothing. Her mouth and throat felt parched, and her face burned hotly. She tried to pour some water into the bowl from the jug, but her hands were trembling too much to lift it and she had to content herself with dipping her handkerchief into the cool water in the jug and dabbing it on to her face.

And then the pain began, a flicker of fire in her gut that quickly fanned itself into screaming tongues of flame that licked and seared every corner, every passage.

She straightened up, eyes widening, then doubled again as another bout of sickness caught her. She clutched at her nightdress, twisting it between her hands as she fought the desperate need to cry out.

Without knowing how she got there, she felt the bed hard behind her knees, and then it came up to meet her with a rush. She lay there, writhing in fear and agony; then she began to vomit again. She was too weak to get back to the basin, but lay sobbing and retching into the counterpane.

As if from a long way off, she heard someone knocking at her door, and then a voice calling her name, but she did not answer.

The door burst open, and there Alfred stood, an enormous figure threatening even in his nightshirt and carrying a candle. Behind him, Winnie hovered, whimpering and gabbling. But Rebecca did not see them. Her world had closed in around her to a small, dark pinprick.

But somewhere, far away, like the light at the end of a tunnel, was a brightness that seemed to be coming closer, eating up the terror, taking away the pain. Without moving, she seemed to turn towards it, and suddenly the guilt had gone, too, and Rebecca felt herself overwhelmed with love. She was floating now, floating on the back of a swan towards the light, and she was happy, more happy than she could ever remember.

Briefly, she opened her eyes, and a smile curved her mouth.

“Ted,” she whispered.

It was the last word she would ever speak.

Dr Froster was asleep when Alfred came for him, banging on the door with the engine of his silver-grey motor car still running in the road outside.

“For God's sake come quickly, Tom!” he shouted when the doctor pushed up his sash window and looked out. “It's Rebecca. I think she's dying.”

Dr Froster's head disappeared, and a few minutes later he came out of the house, still fastening the jacket and trousers he had pulled on over his nightshirt.

“What's the trouble then, Alfred?” he asked with professional calm.

“It's a mess, Tom, a mess!” Alfred was beside himself. “ I think she's taken poison. There's a bottle… oh hurry, man, do! Get into the car—I'll drive you. From the look of her when I left, we're too late already.”

“Dear God, Alfred, what are you saying?” the doctor asked, shocked. “You don't mean that Rebecca has attempted suicide?”

Alfred threw the car into gear, and it leaped forward. “ It must be that, Tom. She's in agony—and there's this bottle.”

“What does
she
say?”

“She couldn't say anything. She was too far gone. Except…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. It was nothing,” Alfred said, reluctant suddenly to tell the doctor that he had thought she had whispered the name of the pit lad with whom she had been involved.

“But this is a serious matter, Alfred,” Tom Froster said, his mind racing. “ If Rebecca
has
committed suicide …”

“I know, I know,” Alfred interrupted him, not wanting to dwell on the consequences. “ Pray God, we're in time. But if not… Tom, you will help us, won't you? If this came to light…”

The doctor said nothing. It was not the first time he had been asked to help in a matter of this sort; suicide was an offense against God and the law of the land, a degrading scandal.

“I can rely on you, Tom, can't I?” Alfred blustered.

The doctor nodded, drumming his fingers on his medical bag. “Of course, of course. But let us hope it doesn't come to that. We may be in time to save her.”

The lights were all burning in Alfred's house, so that it stood out on the dark road like a beacon.

Alfred drew up outside, and both he and the doctor rushed in. Winnie came down the stairs to meet them, still wearing her nightgown, her hair in curling rags. Her eyes were red, and she was sobbing soundlessly.

“Winnie…” Alfred began.

“She's gone, Alfred,” Winnie whispered. Then, her voice rising to a wail, she repeated it again and again. “She's gone!”

“Oh my God!” Alfred took the stairs two at a time, and the doctor followed. Winnie waited downstairs, twisting a sodden handkerchief between her trembling hands. After a moment, Alfred emerged once more. His head was bowed now, the shock written all over his majestic face.

“Alfred?” Winnie cried, and when Alfred shook his head slowly from side to side, she began to wail again, a thin, high sound that penetrated every corner of the silent house.

“Why?” Alfred asked in a stunned voice. “She had everything to live for. Why should she do such a thing?”

He was still repeating himself when the bedroom door opened and the doctor came out, the grimy medicine bottle in his hand, and Winnie echoed him. “ Whatever made her do it, Doctor? My lovely girl…”

Dr Froster looked from one to the other of them, his face very serious indeed. Then he drew Alfred to one side. “ I don't know how to say this, Alfred, but I'm not absolutely certain Rebecca meant to kill herself.”

Alfred's eyes narrowed. “But the bottle—I've never seen it before!”

“No, but…”

“What are you trying to say, Tom? Out with it!”

Dr Froster glanced at Winnie, who had collapsed, sobbing, on to the linen chest.

“Did you know she was going to have a baby?”

“What?”
Alfred's eyes bulged. “ No, no, you're wrong, Tom.”

“No, Alfred. She was going to have a baby all right. And I think she was trying to get rid of it. I suspected it as soon as I smelled what was in this bottle. It's a concoction quacks make up to cause abortion. At least, that's the idea behind it. In practice, it rarely works. Too little, and all you get is an upset stomach. Too much, and …” He broke off, glancing towards Rebecca's room.

“Oh my God!” Alfred covered his face with his hands. “But what makes you think…”

“Did you look around in there?” Dr Froster asked. “ There's paper, mounds of it, and linen. She was expecting to lose her baby tonight, I'm certain of it.”

“But she couldn't … she wouldn't know …”

Unnoticed by them, Winnie had raised her head and was listening, round-eyed with honor. “You're wrong,” she burst out suddenly. “She couldn't be having a baby, not my Becky!”

“I'm sorry, Mrs Church, there's no mistake. I've examined her,” the doctor said, then turned back to Alfred, holding up the bottle. “I'm sorry to press the point, Alfred, but I must find out how she got hold of this. It's lethal stuff, and whoever gave it to her must be found.”

“Oh, Doctor, it's not going to come out, is it?” Winnie cried, “I couldn't bear it! For people to know my Becky was… oh, Alfred, tell me it won't come out!”

Alfred and Tom Froster exchanged glances. “Tom's already promised to issue a death certificate, haven't you, Tom?” Alfred said heavily.

The doctor hesitated. “Yes, but this is a much more serious matter. There's someone responsible for Rebecca's death …”

“You can leave that to me, Tom,” Alfred said “I don't know where, the stuff came from, but there's only one person who could have got it for her. And he'll give me some answers, or I'll flay the hide off him.”

“Oh please, Dr Froster, please!” Winnie begged. “Nothing can bring her back now.”

“That's true, but we must do our best to stop others going the same way,” the doctor said gravely. “Very well, Alfred, in the circumstances, I'll issue a death certificate giving a stomach disorder as the cause of death. That's near enough to the truth to salve my conscience, and it'll protect Rebecca's good name. But that is on condition that you find out the source of this evil stuff, so that I can have it dealt with.”

“Discreetly,” Alfred said.

“Well, of course, discreetly. Once I've signed that certificate, I'm hardly likely to admit the origin of my complaint, am I?” the doctor asked tetchily.