To The Grave (15 page)

“That’s enough!” Danny said.

Montalvo stepped up then and Winkelman stood between them.  Montalvo pulled a knife.  He began to wave it from side to side, tracing infinity through the air.

“Not such a hero now, are ya big guy?”

“Put it away, Vic,” Spiller said.  “She’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, c’mon Vic,” another of his pals agreed.  “Let’s get outta here.  It’s a lousy joint anyways.”

Mel Winkelman didn’t seem to think about it.  He just paced up to Montalvo.  The knife lunged and he stopped it barely an inch from his stomach.  He twisted Montalvo’s wrist until the knife fell and Montalvo began to whimper.  Then Winkelman hit him once in the face and he went down.

Mena turned away and stared into Danny’s questioning eyes until the weight of those questions forced her to step back.  He came closer and she began to shake her head as a lone tear broke and fell onto her cheek.

“Not now, Danny,” she said.  “Later, I promise.”

She watched his chest rise and slowly fall.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

Chapter Seventeen

I
t was the last day of August and it had been five days since Mena last saw Danny.  He’d called at the house every day since the dance and she knew what an effort it must have been for him to get out of camp so frequently.  She knew he must have skipped out on at least half the occasions - gone AWOL for her.  She’d asked her mother to send him away again every time simply because she couldn’t face him.  Not yet.  She’d given Danny a promise, but with all her heart she would not have him know anything of her acquaintance with Victor Montalvo or the truth of what happened that night in May.  Yet not seeing him, even to hold his hand over the camp fence at Shady Lane, broke her heart.

Her mother had been all too happy to play her part.  No doubt she thought some miracle of divine intervention had come between them, and although Mena had given her no clue as to why she wouldn’t see him, it was apparent that her mother cared little for the reason.  Danny, it seemed, was not for Mena after all.  Her prayer had been answered and subsequently, on the evening of Danny’s second visit, Mena found the winder to her phonograph again.

She avoided all the usual haunts where she thought Danny might find her and she cycled alternative routes to the hospitals she worked at.  She even had her mother looking out for Danny before she left the house in case he was waiting for her.  She needed time.  The thought of losing him if he knew what had happened kept her distant for now, which is why she’d planned to stay in town after finishing work at the Royal Infirmary that Thursday night.

She met Joan at the clock tower: a nineteenth century Ketton limestone memorial with a clock face set into each of its four sides.  She was outside Hilton’s shoe shop, adjacent to the monument, looking up at an enormous
Bovril
sign that arched high up on the building next to Jay’s.  The memorial was set on an island at the junction of five roads and it was always a busy spot with people hurrying about on foot or bicycle, eager to get their shopping or to get home again afterwards.  The trams were nearly always full at this time of day and there were always a few cars on the streets here despite the petrol rationing, although US military vehicles now considerably outnumbered them.

They were going to the pictures to see the 1933 adaptation of Gustave Flaubert’s,
Madame Bovary,
which was showing that month at the Odeon on Rutland Street.  The tickets were two shillings and threepence for the good seats and the decor was glamorous Art Deco, which Mena loved because to her it was the essence of Hollywood style.  The film itself captivated her to such an extent that she wanted to stay in her seat at the end and watch it over again, but Joan was hungry, so they went for chips.

“What’s wrong with the chips in town?” Joan protested as they collected their bicycles and made off towards Gallowtree Gate.

“I like the chips from Wigston best,” Mena said.  “Besides, it’s nearer home and they’re not mean with the scratchings.”

They joined Granby Street and turned right onto Belvoir Street, heading for the Welford Road, which would take them all the way south to Wigston.  As she pedalled after Joan, all Mena could think about was the film they had just seen and how much she identified with Emma Bovary.

“Of course, I’ll have to read the book,” she said to Joan when she caught up.  “If I can find a copy.”

“There’s bound to be one at the library,” Joan said.

Mena hadn’t been to the general library in a while; there were plenty of books at home and at the hospitals to keep her going.  “I’ll take a look tomorrow,” she said.

 After joining the Welford Road they were soon cycling back past the hospital on their right, then past the cemetery a little further down and to their left.  They kept a leisurely pace, nothing too strenuous.  It was still warm enough out for light blouses, although they both had pullovers tied around their waists in case it turned chilly later.

“You know,” Mena said.  “I can understand why Emma Bovary wanted more out of life.”

Joan scoffed.  “And look where it got her,” she said.

“I know, but she wasn’t happy anyway, was she?  What did she have to lose?”

 “She would never have been happy, Mena,” Joan said.  If the wealthy Boulanger had married her, she would have tired of him soon enough, too.  Then what?”

Mena shrugged.  “I suppose so.”

“The grass isn’t always greener, you know,” Joan said.  “That’s the message.”

“I know,” Mena said.  “I just felt that we had a lot in common, that’s all.  I mean I can empathise with her even if I can’t condone her behaviour - the lies and the cheating, and her poor husband, Charles.  I could never be like that.”  She paused and then thoughtfully added, “My ideals are far simpler.”

“Like getting away from your mother?” Joan said.

Mena didn’t answer.  She knew Joan was perceptive enough to need no confirmation but there was more to it now.  Her own aspirations had deepened since meeting Danny and her thoughts had wandered to that river in West Virginia he’d spoken of; to the town he’d said he was from.  Where was it?  Grantsville.  She supposed she couldn’t get much further away from her mother than that.

“So how come you’re not out with Danny tonight?” Joan said.  “Not that I’m complaining.  We just don’t seem to see much of each other these days, do we?  Not like we used to.”

“I’ve not seen him since the dance,” Mena said and she knew it was a mistake.

“Oh?”

Mena kept pedalling.  She pretended not to have noticed Joan’s inquisitive tone.  She wasn’t ready to explain why she hadn’t seen Danny since the dance.  Just thinking about it made her skin prickle.

“Where did you get to anyway?” Joan asked.  “I couldn’t find either of you when I got back to St Peter’s.”

Mena knew she had to change the subject.  “I didn’t think you were coming back,” she said.  “We left.”

Joan gave her a wink.  “Followed my lead, did you?  Well, come on.  Don’t hold out on me.  What did you get up to?”

She had that devilish gleam in her eye and Mena knew exactly what she was thinking.  “It wasn’t like that,” she said.  “I didn’t feel well so Danny took me home.”  She hated lying to Joan and she hated Victor Montalvo all the more for giving her cause to.

She looked around for something, anything, just to turn the subject around, but her mind was back at the dance now and Montalvo was inside her head, blocking her thoughts.  His words played over through her mind. 
I saw her first
, he’d told Danny, like she was something you pick up in a January sale.  And there was that sense that what had happened at St Peter’s in May was somehow perfectly acceptable to him.  Now he wanted more and he’d even been out looking for her.  She felt ill just thinking about it, but she couldn’t stop herself.

“So how come you haven’t seen him?” Joan asked, adding further confusion to her thoughts.  “You didn’t fall out, did you?”

Mena was beginning to think that Joan’s efforts in the Civil Service were a waste of her natural talents; that her friend could have provided a far greater service to her country interrogating spies.  The thing she hadn’t expected was that a part of her felt ready to break.  Perhaps deep down she wanted to talk about it.  Get it out in the open where it might catch in a breeze and blow away, all the sooner to be forgotten.

“Come on,” Joan persisted.  “Something must have upset the apple-cart.  You’ve been in each other’s pockets all summer.”

Mena felt her breath quicken.  Why couldn’t she just leave it alone?  She found herself nodding as she considered that something had indeed upset things.  Now it was coming between her and the people she cared for - the people she loved.  Her hands tightened around the handlebars and she kicked hard at the pedals, propelling herself ahead of Joan so Joan couldn’t see the red-faced anger rising inside her.  Her emotions were suddenly in turmoil.  She felt like she was gasping for air and all she could see was Victor Montalvo, grinning down at her with those impossibly white teeth, letting her know that it didn’t matter how fast or how far she went, she would never be able to get away from him.  Never.

Joan caught up.  “We said we wouldn’t keep secrets from each other,” she said.  “Did you have a row?  Is that it?  I’m sure we can fix it.”

She just wouldn’t let up.

“It’s not the first time either, is it?” she went on.  “I bet something must have happened after your first date in May.  That’s why you couldn’t talk about it when my dad dropped you home after De Montfort.”  She laughed like it was nothing.  “It happens all the time,” she added.  “Tell me what it is.  It’s probably not as bad as you think.”

Mena had switched off - tuned her friend out.  All she could hear now was the whir of her spokes and the road beneath her tyres as it raced hypnotically beneath her.  She was back at St Peter’s church again.  It was dark and Danny was there, only it wasn’t Danny, it was Montalvo and he was pressing himself against her, feeling her and kissing her.  Kissing, kissing, kissing until she broke free and she was running wild between the headstones - running and grazing her legs and tripping.  And then feeling his hand, tight around her ankle, pulling her back through the grass.

“Mena?  Are you okay?”

She could feel her whole body shaking.  Tears soaked her face now as they had then.  She was lying on her back in that black graveyard and all she could see was his grinning face as he forced himself onto her - Victor Montalvo.  She recalled the fear and the pain and she knew that, to the contrary, it was every bit as bad as she thought.

Mena screamed.  “He raped me, okay!  Are you happy now?”

She felt dirty.

She could hear herself sobbing through the words as she spoke them and at the same time she stood on her pedals, channelling all that hatred fuelled adrenaline through them as she raced ahead, turning off the Welford Road onto any road she came to just to lose herself.  She was scared.  Telling Joan had brought her no solace.  She felt more afraid now than ever; afraid because she knew she had to tell her mother and she would have to tell Danny too, of course she had to tell Danny.  She would have to tell them all that she had been raped, and worse still, she would have to tell her mother that she was pregnant.

Chapter Eighteen

T
ayte spoke very little while Joan talked about Mena, having learnt over the years when it was best just to listen.  They had taken a stroll in the grounds as Joan had said she liked to do most days in the early afternoon, weather permitting.  She only ever went to the stream and back nowadays - half a kilometre at most and at no great pace.  “Use it or lose it,” she’d said as she put on her coat and changed her slippers for daisy print wellington boots.

They were on their way back now, walking a bark-covered path that wound its way through formal displays of floppy winter pansies and bright cyclamen standing to attention.  Joan had told him that she hadn’t seen Mena again that year; that when the summer of 1944 ended it took their friendship with it because of what happened.  Learning that Mena had been raped both shocked and angered Tayte.

“But I thought you were of the opinion that Mena was in love with Danny,” he said.  “Jonathan told me the same thing based on what his father had said.”

“I think I’ve gone on too long about Mena,” Joan replied, a slight tremor in her voice at thinking of those days again, despite the time that had passed since.

Tayte thought her pace quickened slightly.  “But these are things I need to know about,” he said.  “For my client.”  He was beginning to feel so caught up in Mena’s story himself that for a brief moment his client’s needs seemed to come as an afterthought to his own.

“I’m telling you exactly what Mena told me,” Joan said.  “Do you think I could forget something like that?”

Tayte didn’t, but he couldn’t understand why she sounded so edgy all of a sudden.  “And she was definitely talking about Danny?” he asked, needing further confirmation.

Joan stopped walking but she didn’t look at Tayte. Not directly.  “I’ve already told you that Mena met Danny at St Peter’s church earlier in the year,” she said.  “I knew Mena was going there to meet him and she never gave me any reason to think otherwise.  Then after we’d been to see
Madame Bovary
we were talking about Danny and she got upset and said, “He raped me.”  It just came out.  And by the end of the year I heard that she was telling everyone she was carrying his baby.  Danny’s baby.”

Tayte thought Joan sounded a little as if she was explaining things to herself rather than to him - like she was going over the details to confirm what she knew, or thought she knew.  “So if Danny raped her, why did you tell me she loved him?  It kind of contradicts, doesn’t it?”

Joan turned away and started walking again.  “Yes it does, but there it is.  I don’t know what else to make of it.”

They continued in silence for a few long minutes and Tayte spent that time considering the uncertainty he felt had crept into Joan’s voice.  Could there be another explanation?  Right now it seemed that Danny Danielson had raped Mena and was every bit his client’s father.  He figured Joan had no reason to lie about what she’d heard, but he sensed some doubt there.  As they came back to the house and the conservatory they had previously left by, he thought that Joan’s sudden, contemplative silence was telling enough and he wondered what else she knew that she wasn’t saying.  His instinct told him to drop it for now, but he thought he was close to something so against his better judgement, he persisted.