Listening to the Quiet

by Listening to the Quiet (retail) (epub)

  ‘Price of tin’s still dropping.’ He sighed grimly. ‘The way it’s going, ’tis reckoned it’ll be down to less than a hundred and twenty pounds a ton by the end of the year. I’m drilling in Victory Shaft. Only hope the work lasts, or I’ll be off, abroad maybe like so many others. So, apart from teaching the local brats, what else have you been up to since you got here?’

  ‘I’ve settled into the farm. I’ve been walking the moors. I’ve been to many of the places where we used to play – where I tried to play alongside you and Lew,’ she ended accusingly.

  Russell gave a snorting laugh. ‘You were a tough little bugger. We liked to amuse ourselves with you, but when we wanted to get rid of you it was always a hard job. You should’ve been a boy. Have you been to Cardhu?’

  ‘Yes. It was sad seeing the house, where I’d spent so many happy hours, locked up and deserted. It may soon belong to someone else.’ It hurt to express those last few words and she was suddenly consumed with jealousy at the idea of strangers living in the house which should rightfully now belong to her. Jo widened her eyes at her mercenary thought, but it was exactly how she felt. She had become the most important person in Celia’s life. Celia had influenced her life more than any other. They had loved each other. Cardhu was special to her. She longed to learn the fate of the house.

  ‘Aye, it’s locked up tighter than a barrel. Just as well, or its contents would’ve walked straight out on to Luke Vigus’s wagon.’

  Jo said nothing, wondering if Luke Vigus really did steal the stone eagles.

  ‘Wish I had a house like that.’ Russell sounded gloomy. Jo lifted aside the umbrella to look up at him. ‘When are you going to call on Mother and Father?’ he said moodily. ‘She’s all excited about it. Keeps baking fresh cake for you. It wouldn’t hurt you, you know.’

  ‘I do know, Russell.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I’m beginning to feel guilty about leaving it for so long. Tell Mrs Trevail I’ll pop in at the weekend.’

  ‘She had a fright last night.’ Russell chuckled. ‘Jessie Vigus knocked on the door, demanding money for her baby.’

  ‘Do you think it’s Lew’s baby?’

  ‘She’s the dead spit of him.’

  ‘How did your mother respond?’

  ‘Sent her away with a flea in her ear. Jessie Vigus is a dirty bitch.’

  Jo could understand Mrs Trevail’s disinterest in her grandchild, there were too many rumours of others scattered abroad, but Jo felt a stir of concern for this particular baby. ‘If Rex and Molly are still absent from school at the end of the week, I think I’ll arrive on their doorstep. They obviously need encouragement.’

  ‘You can’t do nothing for ’em, Jo. Jessie’ll only try to get money out of you. I gave her a shilling once to buy milk for the baby and she spent it on booze. She don’t care about the kids going to school.’

  ‘Well, I can try.’

  Russell pulled the umbrella out of her hand and held it over them both. ‘How did your dinner go the other night,’ he said into her face, ‘with the schoolmaster?’

  ‘It was quite enjoyable.’ Jo was intrigued by Russell’s interest.

  ‘I’m fond of Sally,’ Russell admitted, turning crimson with embarrassment. ‘Do you think the ’master’s interested in her?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve noticed nothing of the kind,’ Jo lied diplomatically. She had seen the intimate way Sally Allett treated her employer, while jealously watching for signs of anything more than a professional attachment between her and Marcus Lidgey.

  ‘Look, Jo, I’ve asked Sally to walk out with me and she said she’ll think about it. Will you put in a word for me? Point out I’m in work. That I’ll do the right thing by her.’

  Jo wasn’t on the kind of terms with Sally to say such a thing to her, and she was sure it would prove fruitless anyway, but it was unwise to refuse Russell’s request. He was capable of causing trouble at the schoolhouse. ‘All right, Russell, I’ll see what I can do.’ She smiled placatingly.

  ‘Thanks, maid. I gotta go. See you soon.’

  Shaking her head, she watched him walk away, turning up his coat collar against the drenching rain.

  * * *

  Jo was in the kitchen laying the table for tea. The two dogs, sprawled in front the hearth, suddenly sprang to their feet, whining and prowling at the back door. They could be finicky animals when Mercy wasn’t there and Jo let them outside. Before she closed the door against the rain, the dogs shot off into the gloom, barking loudly. Mercy, who was in the cows’ shippen, bawled at them to shut up.

  The dogs kept fussing, and Jo peered across the yard to see what might have alerted them. A sudden gust of wind made her blink and recoil. Perhaps the weather was making the dogs skittish.

  Then through the darkness and downpour, amid a guard of leaping, sniffing collies, a pair of small children appeared, holding hands.

  ‘My goodness!’ Jo ran to them in her slippers. ‘Whatever are you doing out in this weather, without coats too? Come inside and get warm and dry.’ She was alarmed to see the boy and girl were wearing inadequate shoes and the girl had a ragged cardigan without a single button on it. Kip and Hunter were bounding round them and she ordered them off.

  The children backed away. ‘We’ve come t’see M-mercy,’ the boy said through chattering teeth. ‘We w-want milk.’

  ‘There’s no need to stay out here,’ Jo said kindly. ‘I’ll fetch Mercy for you. Go inside to the kitchen.’ She moved towards the children, but the boy drew the girl back.

  Mercy was there. ‘’Tis all right, kids. She’s my friend. Inside with you, like she said.’ She didn’t wait for them to obey but picked up a child in each arm and carried them into the farmhouse.

  ‘Who are they?’ Jo exclaimed, shivering on her heels. ‘Gipsies?’

  ‘You know you’ve never seen gipsy children in their state,’ Mercy said sternly, as she put the children to sit in the huge chimney. ‘This is Rex and Molly Vigus.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Calm down, Jo. You’re scaring ’em. They trust few people and no wonder. Leave this to me. You fetch some towels and blankets.’ Mercy threw the rough towel at the sink over Molly’s dripping head.

  Stepping out of her saturated slippers, Jo raced to the airing cupboard, which overhung the staircase. She pulled out as many towels and blankets as she could carry. When she returned, the children were drinking chicken broth directly out of bowls in trembling dirty hands. Mercy held up a warning finger. Silently, Jo put the bundle on the table.

  ‘I’ll get you some milk, Rex,’ Mercy said. ‘Bring the can back tomorrow.’

  Rex nodded. His face was marked with suspicion, but he and Molly would get fed again when they returned the can. Luke had left Parmarth that morning, saying he was meeting a contact at Gwithian and he would be back in the evening. Not trusting Luke to keep his word, and knowing their mother would thrash him and Molly until he handed over the money Luke had given him to buy milk for Marylyn, Rex had taken Molly to shelter among the tombs in the churchyard until he was sure Jessie had drunk herself into a stupor. Now he had come for the milk, with which he would feed Marylyn, hoping his baby sister had come to no harm during the day. He unknotted his frozen fingers and the precious pennies rolled out and clinked on to the floor.

  ‘Keep your money. I’ve plenty of milk. ’Tisn’t my way to sell the surplus if a neighbour needs some.’

  Rex snatched up the pennies and stuffed them inside his soaked shirt.

  While keeping her eyes on the children, Jo cut bread. Mercy buttered the slices thickly and swapped them for the empty soup bowls. The bread was wolfed down.

  ‘Mercy,’ Jo whispered, incensed, her heart aching with pity and concern for the children. ‘They’re starved. They’re half naked. They’re crawling with fleas. The girl has weeping sores on her face.’

  Mercy clamped a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘Now don’t go getting ideas, Jo. You can’t do much to help ’em. Every time someone’s intervened on their beh
alf their mother gets nasty and beats them more than ever. She sells any good clothes they’re given.’

  Jo knew it was wise to keep her counsel but her mind was ticking over. When the children had eaten a large slice of seed cake, gulped down a mug of hot, spiced milk, she said to Mercy, ‘Is there any way of getting them home without them becoming half-drowned again?’

  ‘I’ll hitch up the wagon. They can hold a tarpaulin over their heads.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I’ll explain who I am and perhaps it might persuade them to come to school tomorrow.’

  Minutes later, Mercy, in oilskins and a waterproof hat, was urging her two workhorses along the murky road. Jo, clad in her raincoat and boots, a wool cloche hat pulled down over her head, sat on the straw in the back of the wagon helping Rex and Molly prop up the tarpaulin. She had a horn lantern wedged between her feet so they weren’t in total darkness. She felt guilty to be so well wrapped up while the children could only huddle in borrowed blankets. As the wagon lurched and rolled, she changed her voice to less modulated tones and talked about being their new teacher. Of how she used to visit the village and play on the moors.

  ‘Are you coming to school tomorrow? Rex. Molly. I’d like to get to know you properly.’ Neither answered, or looked at her. She told them about some of her childhood pranks, but still there was no response. Jo had known the children for less than half an hour but she was worried that, indeed, little could be done to help them grow up into normal, well-adjusted adults. From the notes of Marcus Lidgey’s report she knew they were both illiterate and innumerate, had a small level of concentration; in other words were retarded, probably the result of wilful neglect. Rex had only just come up from the infants’ class this term, and because Molly, although a year younger, relied on him so heavily she too had been elevated. Thinking about their amusing, swarthily attractive, older brother, Jo was angry over the way he was letting the children down.

  The rain pounded on the tarpaulin, but Jo’s concentration was drawn to the sound of Molly’s harsh breathing. Jo rocked with indignation. If they existed in this dreadful condition, what was the fate of the baby, Lew’s child?

  Mercy was heard calling to the horses. The wagon was pulled up. Rex and Molly tossed aside the blankets, grabbed the milk can and scampered away, leaving Jo tangled up in the tarpaulin.

  When she was able to jump down on to Parmarth’s oozing street, she saw Luke Vigus beckoning to the children in the poorly lit doorway of the cottage. He shouted, ‘Thanks, Mercy, thanks, teacher,’ then shut the door.

  Jo made to follow the children, but Mercy grabbed her arm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jo protested. She hardly heard her own voice above the howl of the wind and beating of the rain.

  ‘I’ve told you, you can’t do anything, Jo,’ Mercy shouted, wiping rain water away from her eyes.

  ‘But Luke Vigus must be made to see that he shouldn’t send the children out into the rain as he did tonight. I can’t go home and say nothing about it.’

  ‘It’ll be seen as interfering and’ll only make things worse.’

  ‘Then I’ll see Mr Lidgey.’ Jo scrambled forward again.

  Mercy pushed her towards the wagon. ‘You can’t disturb him on a night like this. Wait till morning. We’re going home.’

  ‘No, I won’t wait! Something has to be done now.’

  * * *

  Sitting at the desk in his study, Marcus was clenching a pencil in his fingers, his knuckles white and bursting. How could he have been so stupid, so off-guard, as to allow his mother to burrow her clutches into him again? In London, he’d shut the abuse, starting soon after his father’s death, out of his mind. When shame-filled memories caught him unawares, somehow he’d convinced himself it had all been a terrible nightmare.

  He snapped the pencil in half and rubbed the splinters between his thumb and fingertips. Wishing he could do a similar thing to his mother.

  He had just managed to coax her to retire early, then got away from her by pleading a mountain of paperwork. He could not bear her touching him, of having to kiss her lips. He had weakened her mastery of him tonight by holding her fast until he’d crushed the strength out of her. Then he had tossed her invasive hands aside to lie limply, in mock innocence, at her sides.

  If only she had died in the fall down the stairs. Had it been an accident? She was quite capable of engineering an accident to make him take full responsibility for her, to punish him from escaping her for twelve unfettered years. How she gloated at his downfall from a senior tutor in the music college. Even his behaviour there had been a consequence of his upbringing. Eleanor had tainted every composition of his life. He could never be honourable, attain self-respect. Never experience love with purity and true self-giving.

  ‘Were you nice to her? Did you use your charm on her? Are you sure you smiled at her enough, to make up for making her look a fool at the luncheon table?’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ had been his repeated answer to her interrogation on his conduct that afternoon towards Joanna Venner.

  His mother had laboured her point and he had reiterated his cooperation with her selfish plan until he thought he’d lose his mind and scream and swear at the defiled virago. Sometimes he hated her so much he plotted ways of shutting her up for ever. He imagined himself calling Sally away from the bathroom then drowning her in the bath. Smothering her with a pillow. Collecting fungi from the moor and poisoning her. Feeding her extra pain-killing pills. He had formed an endless list of murders since returning to Cornwall, resulting in him hating himself as much as he hated his mother, because he knew he lacked the courage to carry out any of his escape plans.

  Suddenly he wanted to thrust the broken ends of the pencil into the palm of his hand to eradicate his mental torture with physical pain, to purge his filthiness, to imbue his impure thoughts with something right and clean for once. Just once. With all his being he hated his mother for corrupting him, making him perverted, and in a moment of temporary madness, he hated the girl he was to lure into his mother’s latest self-seeking scheme. He needed cruelty. Wanted to inflict cruelty. Then he was afraid. Afraid that one day he would lose his mind and turn one of his fantasies into a terrible reality.

  There was an urgent knocking on the front door and he swiped the tears from his eyes.

  Moments later he rose from his desk, to view the incredible spectacle of Joanna Venner in the room on this storm-tossed night, dripping on his rug. Was he seeing things? He clenched his guts to get a grip on himself. She was in obvious distress, but in the effort to appear normal he could neither offer the comfort she required nor exploit the situation providence had unexpectedly thrown him. And he felt ridiculously amused at the rather pathetic sight of this dainty, drenched person.

  ‘Miss Venner, you simply amaze me. I did not expect to see you again today, particularly in the guise of a refugee.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lidgey, but I have to see you on a matter of some urgency,’ Jo panted.

  ‘Has Nance Farm burned down? Are you without shelter for the night?’

  ‘No, I…’ It took some moments before Jo realised he was being sardonic. ‘This is not a situation for cynical humour. Miss Merrick and I have just—’

  ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  ‘You’re shivering, Miss Venner. If you are cold, please do take the benefit of my fire.’ He gestured towards the hearth.

  Jo shifted her shoulders and raised her head. ‘Mr Lidgey, are you going to listen to me or am I wasting my time?’ There was a knock on the door and she thought she would swear.

  Sally came in with a tea tray. ‘I took the liberty of making Miss Venner a hot drink, sir. It’s what Mrs Lidgey would’ve ordered, if she was still up.’

  ‘Thank you, Sally,’ Marcus said tonelessly, and although he did not look at the housemaid, Jo was not insensitive to the intimate rapport travelling between them.

  ‘I can’t stay,’ Jo stressed, almost at the point of frustrati
on. Damn the man’s pussyfooting display of genteel manners. If she had gone to an ordinary house, the occupants would have wanted to know straightaway why she was there and been eager to do something about her exigency.

  ‘Have you had a misfortune, Jo— Miss Venner?’ Sally asked, holding out a cup of tea towards her. ‘I was some worried to see you standing on the doorstep like that, leaking wet, splashed all over with mud.’

  Jo took the cup and saucer and rattled them down on to the desk. ‘My friend and her horses are outside in this terrible weather,’ she seethed, furious that the headmaster and his lover should make fun of her. ‘Could I get to the point, please?’

  ‘I’ve just peeped out the front-room window and saw Mercy heading for the forge. She’ll shelter her horses in the stable,’ Sally said pertly. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  Jo was about to snap, ‘It’s none of your business,’ when Marcus said sternly, ‘Sally, take Miss Venner’s outdoor things to the kitchen and dry them.’

  Sally’s jaw dropped. Jo could see she had not expected to be dismissed. She pulled off her hat, slipped out of her raincoat and thrust them into Sally’s hands.

  Glaring at her, Sally flounced out of the room, slamming the door.

  Marcus motioned again at his well-tended coal fire. She moved towards it and held out her hands to the flames, which were twisting convulsively from the draught coming down the chimney. She relaxed. If Mercy was comfortably occupied, she would exploit Marcus Lidgey’s time in explaining why she was here.

  He followed her with her tea in his hand, smiling kindly. Marcus had managed to get himself under control. ‘I owe you an apology, Miss Venner. You took me by surprise arriving suddenly on my doorstep, looking as though you’d been through a whirlwind, bursting with ardour. It diverted me from my boring paperwork and I couldn’t resist indulging in a little repartee.’

  So he thought her an object of jest, did he? Dampening her anger, for it would not help her reason for being here, Jo sipped the tea then set the cup and saucer down on a bookshelf. He was looking at her hair. She put up a hand and met a confusion of damp kinks. She must look a mess. No matter. Her appearance was not important at this moment.