They was cold now. They smelt as if they’d been locked away for too long – that musky kind of smell, a bit damp. There weren’t much. A pair of old shoes, but they was no use because Ma’s feet was much smaller than mine and Grandma’s, so I gave them to the attendant and said she could do what she liked with them. There were a bonnet and some hair pins, and the bonnet were better than the one I were wearing, so I decided to keep that. There were the dress what she’d been brought in wearing, and as I sniffed it, I were sure it smelt of her, of her skin and sweat as well as carbolic – that were from the washing she’d done at Grandma’s. It were an old dress, one from her youth what had been her favourite, the one she’d met my pa in, so the story went. The attendant looked at me all hopeful, but I folded it up small and neat and put it in my bag.
Only two things remained in the box: a locket on a chain what was rusted and a handkerchief. I prised open the locket and saw my pa’s likeness smiling at me, and I shut it quick. The handkerchief were Pa’s too, and Ma had always kept it hidden in her bodice next to her heart after he died, so I couldn’t get rid of that neither.
I thanked the attendant, and I didn’t ask any other questions about what would happen to Ma’s body. I didn’t want any letters about it neither. I could imagine her in a nice spot in a peaceful churchyard that way, not in the middle of twelve other paupers, their juices running all over her or, worse, on a doctor’s slab with her flesh flayed off the bones surrounded by toffs and scalpels.
I left the asylum and shuddered when that great big door shut me out. Better that though than shut me inside. How stupid I’d been to think I’d like to live in there rather than be free, whatever free meant.
I walked through the avenue of trees as the sun slanted low in the sky. I felt the distance grow between me and Ma but didn’t feel sad. That weren’t Ma in there, in that dead room; it were just her body. I had her with me here, in her hair and her clothes and that locket. I were carrying her away with me to freedom.
I had to hurry to get a coach because I weren’t going to spend a night in Bristol. And so it were, when I were squashed beside a fat woman whose crinoline cut into my legs, that I opened my bag and took a real good look at Ma’s things.
I put Ma’s knot of hair in the locket so that it covered Pa’s face and fastened it about my neck. And then my gaze fell on the handkerchief. The last time I’d seen it had been eight years ago after Grandma had cleaned it. I remembered how Ma had cursed her for it because it no longer smelt of Pa. I’d forgotten it, tell the truth.
I held it now between my fingers and felt the softness of it, the quality of it, remembering the boot marks on it after Pa’s arrest. And something caught on my fingers – a ripple of silk thread. In the corner, a small, neat embroidery: Samuel Blyth. Beautifully done, a real work of art.
I had to put my hand to my mouth because I were scared I’d be sick.
A rage came over me. I think I yelled. I know the woman next to me got off at the next stop very quick, and there was some whisperings about whether I should be allowed to stay on board. The driver let me, though, and it were falling to dusk when I realised that I could not go back to Bridgefield, not yet. If I saw Grandma, I think I might’ve killed her.
So I stopped some miles before home in a place I’d never heard of before. A place not far from the channel what had an inn where I could buy some food and perhaps a bed for the night if my money stretched that far. A place where I could rage about my ma’s death and everything before that. A place where I could plan out what I would do next as I drank too much beer. A place where I decided the only thing I needed now were revenge. A place where revenge came to me as easy as sleep to a drunkard.
Ulstone.
Chapter 8
And so I found myself sat in the corner of the public house, a pint of beer between my hands, a pain growing behind my eyes, and thinking of all them years ago. It kept coming to me, all the little bits, all in flashes. I couldn’t put it straight, the timeline, I mean. When did that happen? Were that before or after?
Eight years. Almost half my life. And it did seem like a lifetime ago, like one of them times you ain’t sure if it’d been real or if it’d been a dream. I couldn’t feel Pa no more. I could barely remember the look of him. I remembered his woollen trousers and his boots what he always polished himself and took great pride in. I remembered him by his books, by his pointy pencil what he’d used to sharpen with his flick knife. I remembered the time he’d taught me to read – he must have tutored me lots of times, but they all merged into one – and his arm against mine and his fingers what was long and white as he’d showed me how to hold a pen. And how he’d give me sums, and said things like, if you had three shillings and bought an apple for one shilling, how much would you have left and how would you write that in this book of mine? I remembered that teaching because it alarmed me – only one apple for a whole shilling!
The more I tried to remember – the more I tried to work things out – the worse the pain in my head got. I felt the locket around me like a ball and chain, and I opened it and looked again at Ma’s hair and sniffed it and thought, you was right! But there were more to it than she’d ever known. I’d pushed my knowledge away; over the years, I’d been convinced through one way or another that I’d got it all wrong. I’d been weak. I’d hidden in that old cottage doing Grandma’s bidding, believing everyone else but myself.
‘I’ll prove us right,’ I said to the locket in a whisper, and then I heard laughter around me.
The men in the pub was looking at me. Very odd for a girl to be in a pub all on her own. I hadn’t known if they’d serve me, but my money had proved just as good as anyone’s. It hadn’t bought privacy though.
A group of them was sat by the bar, turned so they was half facing me. Lord knows how long they’d been staring; I hadn’t been taking no notice of them. And now I wished I hadn’t caught their eye because they started talking at me – sort of talking at me and sort of talking between themselves about what they’d like to do with me.
One of them came over, a young man, not maybe ten years older than me. He sat on a stool beside me and belched and smirked. He smelt of sweat and cow shit.
‘What you doing all on your own?’
I didn’t answer him, just looked at my beer.
‘Mourning someone?’
‘Husband,’ I said, and I don’t know why I said that, but it just seemed easier than saying my ma and having to explain everything.
‘Young to be a widow,’ the man said and came closer.
‘I’d like to be on my own, thank you.’ He laughed at that, and I have to admit it did sound a bit toity, even to my own ears.
‘Wants to be on her own, lads,’ he said over his shoulder, and they all laughed. ‘I’d say she’s come to the wrong place.’
‘Let her alone, Stanley,’ one of the men said, and I couldn’t see him because he’d got his back to me. He’d been the only one what hadn’t been staring.
Stanley laughed meanly. He stood up away from his stool and staggered over to the man.
‘Ain’t you the gent, Frank.’
Maybe it were because I’d been thinking of the memories. Maybe if Ma hadn’t just died and if I hadn’t seen what I’d seen on the handkerchief, I might never have thought of it. But the name Frank struck me like a punch in the face. I remembered the man at Mrs Campbell’s, the big man, the outside man, what’d had dark hair like Pa but were much grubbier. I looked now at this man at the bar. He’d turned towards Stanley, and I could see half his face. It were creased like old leather and fair on brown, and his hair were dark and curly. There must have been lots of country men what looked sun-beaten and dirty, and plenty what was called Frank too, but there were just something about him …
‘Let the lass be. You’re making a fool of yourself.’
It were the voice, the accent. The man at Mrs Campbell’s had been quiet, and I’d only ever really heard him talk to the animals. I’d gone over to visit Mrs Ca
mpbell in late spring because she’d got herself a new donkey, because the donkeys was my favourite. I’d gone to say hello to it, and that Frank had been there and he’d told me the donkey’s name and that he were a cheeky one because he’d already had a bite out of him that morning. I couldn’t understand some of the things he’d said because of his accent. Later, Mrs Campbell had told me, when she’d poured me some lemonade she’d made herself that afternoon, that Frank were from the north, a place called Cumbria, where they speaks different from us down here.
Now, there wasn’t many folks what I’d heard in all them eight years since Pa’s death what spoke like that, except this one here before me, and his name too being Frank … well, for a moment I felt as if I couldn’t move.
I watched with my mouth open as Frank and Stanley squared up to each other, calling each other names, and the men around them rubbed their hands on their thighs as if they was about to see a cockfight. Frank turned towards me, and I saw then that it really were him after all these years, aged a bit but still recognisable, here in Ulstone, not thirty miles from Bridgefield! He saw me gawping at him and no doubt took it that I thought him some kind of shining knight, and he winked at me and then thumped Stanley clear in the mouth. Stanley tumbled back, and the landlord behind the bar raised his voice and said that were enough of that sort of thing. Stanley grunted and growled for a bit but limped off to his pint of beer, holding his bleeding lip. Frank threw back whatever were left of his beer, keeping his eyes on me as he lifted up his glass, then made his way to the door.
‘Wait!’
All of the men turned to me. Frank’s hand were on the knob, but he stopped and grinned as if he’d known all along that I could never resist him.
‘Want to take some air, miss?’ he said, and opened the door and waited for me.
My plate and cutlery was still on my table from the eggs I’d ate earlier. Frank smirked at the men what was whispering amongst themselves, and I took that time to slip the fork – what was certainly sharper than any asylum fork – up my sleeve. Not looking at the men what was no doubt calling me a whore, I followed Frank outside.
‘Where’ve you come from?’ he said. We was walking down the little road with the houses around us. The sun had gone to bed for the night, and the stars was out and the moon were bright. It were a beautiful night; not the kind of night for a killing.
‘Bristol.’ It weren’t really a lie.
‘When did your man die?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘Sorry.’ But he didn’t sound it; he sounded eager, and he started to walk faster.
I started to worry then because I’d seen him smack that Stanley and it’d looked like he’d only swatted a fly. And here I were with a little bent fork up my arm. Maybe I could have poked him in the eye with it.
‘Where we going?’ I said, because I didn’t think any proper widow would have just gone walking off with a strange man what she’d never met before and not ask any questions, but I couldn’t be sure; I’d never known a ‘proper’ widow.
‘Back to mine for a drink. I’ve whiskey, if you like it.’
‘Ain’t never had whiskey before.’
‘Then I think you’ll like it.’
I followed him, and all the while the rage in me were building. Here he were, cocksure and without a care in the world as my ma were most likely being thrown into a pauper grave without a prayer said over her.
I’d seen him that night, you see. Eight years ago. I’d seen him as I’d been hiding in the gardens. I’d seen him run, his arms filled with all his things, and his face white and scared and full of guilt. He’d run, and under the light of the moon, he’d looked just like a spirit whisping away into the darkness.
He’d never come back. No one even asked for him, which I’d never understood. He vanished just as quickly as he’d come, as if he’d never been there. I suppose it were because he were just a labourer. He slept outside in the barn. He worked well and quietly and never caused a fuss. For such a big man, he’d known how to make himself invisible, while Bonnie did her best to make sure everyone saw her.
Frank led me towards the end of the village and stopped at a run-down little place. I don’t know why I thought it run-down; Grandma’s cottage had a dirt floor and two rooms and that were it, but I always compared things to my real home what we’d lived in before. This place smelt of metal and coal and heat and dirt; it smelt of Frank. He took me in through the back door, and the fire were low but burning in the kitchen, but he didn’t stop in there. He went straight through to the front room and put a cushion on one of the hard chairs for me and told me to sit and he’d just go and fetch that whiskey.
I heard him pouring it in the kitchen, and I slipped the fork out my sleeve a little and had it ready in my hand but so that he couldn’t see it. When he came back, I took the glass of whiskey in my other hand. He watched to see what I’d make of the drink and seemed disappointed when I didn’t pull a face at the strength of it; I’d had a fair share of gin in my time so that whiskey didn’t burn.
‘Why’ve you come here, miss? You don’t know me; I don’t know you.’
‘Wanted some company.’
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. ‘I’d believe that if you didn’t look so angry. You should know that it doesn’t suit you to scowl.’
‘You think I care if you like my face or not?’
He rested back and downed his drink. ‘Oh, I like the look of you very much.’
I’d never had a man say such a thing to me. I’d thought myself ugly all my life; I used to believe Pa when he’d called me pretty, but ever since what happened, I’d come to think everything he’d ever said had been nothing but lies. And all the boys in town would tease and taunt me, if ever they caught me on my own, and try to pull my hair to see if I’d come after them with a knife. I’d recognised fear in folk’s faces, pity sometimes, curiosity, but never lust. Grandma had warned me about men, tried to scare me so that I’d never leave her and her cottage. It were her warnings what I heard in my head as Frank continued to look me all over, and I felt myself flushing.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Why do you want it?’
He smiled and shrugged. ‘Are you planning on staying the night here, Miss Someone? Or shall you be going in a minute?’
He twisted his empty glass in his great big hands. I’d seen him down a fair few pints and that whiskey, but he weren’t much altered by any of it yet. I were though, so I stopped myself from drinking any more because I’d need to be sharp if I were going to do anything tonight.
‘I’m staying.’
His lips spread over all his teeth in a grin, and he got up from his chair and moved towards me.
‘More whiskey,’ I said, to stop him in his tracks.
And sure enough, he went to the kitchen and came back to top up my glass and poured himself a measure what reached all the way to the rim of his glass. I toasted the night with him. He gulped it all and then poured himself another. Somehow I made sure my face stopped scowling and started to smile instead. He really did think himself in for a nice treat.
It took a few more glasses before he went drowsy. He squinted at me, as if I were too far away, then tugged me closer. He sat me down on his knee, and his hands was all over my legs. I went very still. I’d had no one touch me in years, let alone ever touch me like that. He didn’t seem to notice though, and he pulled on my hair to bring my lips to his.
It were awful. His breath were ripe with whiskey, his lips all dry and rough, and then his tongue! Too hot and slimy; I thought of it like an eel popping out, all alive and wriggling, and I had to break away from him quick.
He must’ve thought that were a good thing because he were up on his feet in a flash and were guiding me towards another door what I hadn’t been through before. Once it opened, I saw the bed in the corner, and then I really started to panic.
He got me against the wall. I had the fork up my sleeve but couldn’t
get it out without him noticing, and truth be told, I didn’t seem to know where I ended and he started. It were all limbs and hair and mouths and heavy breathing and his hands pressing into me in places what made me squirm.
I were in this tangle when another memory came back to me. I’d been playing in the barn with the new kittens. I were at the top of a mound of hay when there were a shuffling sound below. I peeked over and there were Frank and a lady, but I couldn’t see her properly for the angle of it. They was kissing and she were laughing, and I thought the laugh seemed familiar because it sounded fake like she didn’t really mean it, and there were only one other woman what I knew what sounded like that: Mrs Campbell’s new companion. They was muffling words to each other, and there were the sound of something like metal catching on a fingernail, then more laughter, and then it went quiet. That’s when they was kissing. That’s when I saw her face turn my way a little, and it definitely were Mrs Campbell’s companion, Bonnie. It were such a strange sight because Bonnie were always so neat and smart, and she spoke all proper and posh as if she might’ve come from London. Frank were the last person I’d ever have thought she’d have been with like that.
And then it all got a bit more serious. There was no more giggles. Their breath came quick, and he must have shoved her against one of them beams because I heard her thump into it, and it must have hurt but she didn’t say nothing. His head went down onto her chest as she tilted hers back and closed her eyes. But then she started shaking her head a little. He were trying to bring up her skirts, but then she really started saying no, no, that he mustn’t, that he should stop. Stop! She pushed him off her, and I’d never seen a face so full of anger as Frank’s then. He turned away from her and did something with himself in his trousers, and Bonnie just stood there real still.
I must have been holding on to a little kitten during all that, and them kittens was as feral as their mother, and it didn’t want me to be touching it no more so it bit me. I didn’t scream but I must have gasped because Bonnie’s head snapped up in my direction. I think I’d hid myself quite well though. She didn’t call me down or say nothing to Frank; I just heard her heels clipping outside and heading back for the house, and then I heard Frank call her a bitch.
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