‘Maybe one day I will get to live in a little cottage by the sea,’ she said, ‘with an—’ but it was the story I had heard from her before, the story that did not include me, and I felt the anger rising in me once more.
‘You know what?’ I said, jumping to my feet. ‘I think that it is best you leave for Brighton after all. Sam may be a little delayed this morning but I will make sure that he follows after you and you can catch the early omnibus on your own and, when Sam is recovered, he will be able to follow. You can go to the mother and baby home and wait for him there. I will make sure that he comes after you.’
I held out my hand to her and she took it, pulling herself up shakily and, as we started to walk back down the track, she leant her head against me once more.
‘Thank you, Nell,’ she said quietly. ‘Sam always said you were reckless. It is why I asked my father to meet you. I knew you would help me somehow.’
So Iris had known of me before we met. She had known of my drunkenness and my disgrace. Maybe she had even known about my attachment to Sam. She had needed me, but not in the way I had ever imagined, or hoped for. She had needed someone to take risks for her, to tell lies for her and to deal with the consequences once she was gone.
But then she said: ‘Sam will come after me, won’t he?’
I realised whatever plans she had made would come to nothing, but by now I did not care. I prised her fingers from my arm and shook my shoulder free. ‘Of course he will!’ I shouted angrily.
I marched ahead of her, without any thought to where I was heading. Maybe Iris would make it to her little cottage by the sea somehow, but I felt that no matter what she did, she would always be perfect and innocent, because it was me, Nell Ryland, who must have led her astray – it would be me who would take the blame, and I feared what her father would do to me when he found out.
‘Sam is always saying how good and kind you are, how straight your hair is, how you act like the true lady of a grand house, and how you had such courage to be May Queen,’ I continued, my voice cracking as I realised that I was not repeating Sam’s words but those of my mother. I had not realised that I had memorised so much of my mother’s praise, but now I realised that the words hurt so much because they were things that she would never say of me. I felt betrayal everywhere.
‘I thought you were perfect too!’ I shouted into the shadows. ‘I thought you were exciting and romantic, like one of those stupid oil paintings in your father’s study come to life. I expect Sam thought so too, but you do not really love him – how could you? He is scruffy and stupid and penniless. You know that he tried it on with me too?’ I yelled, my voice cracking at the truth that was so painful. ‘All the time that you thought he loved you, he was trying to have his way with me. The only difference is that I wouldn’t let him. I might well be reckless or a drunk or delinquent, but compared to you, at least I am not such a slut!’
I spun round, shouting the last word into the shadows but saw only a place where she was not, and I realised that the footsteps I had heard behind me were no more than the echoes of my own boots, and the word faded on my lips. I ran a little way back down the path, my eyes searching the dark clumps of gorse and shadowy hollows.
Then I saw her white nightgown shining out of a bank of bracken – she lay still, as delicate as a butterfly crumpled by the touch of a finger. I hurried over to her but she did not lift her head until I put my hand on her shoulder, her whole body shuddering with the little gasps of her breath.
‘Iris?’ I said. ‘Are you—’
She grabbed my arm and swallowed hard but when she tried to speak I heard only the grate of her breaths.
‘Stand up!’ I commanded, shaking her by the shoulders, but the anger I had felt only moments before was now fading and my grip loosened when I felt the hardness of the corset under my fingertips.
‘Stand,’ I said but more softly this time, and when she could not, I lay down on the bracken next to her and slid my arm behind her shoulders, pushing her forwards so she sat up next to me. I slid my hand under her nightgown, fumbling for the laces of the corset, but when I could not find any, I sat behind her and circled her with my arms, pressing my hands into her ribs so that the front hooks popped apart and I felt the hard shell crack away from her body and come loose in my hands. I pulled the nightgown from her shoulders and yanked the corset free of her, throwing it on to the bracken, the laces frayed where they had strained against the eyelets.
I remembered what I had seen that morning, what her own father had done to her and the suffering that it must have caused.
‘My father would not harm me,’ she said quietly, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Not in that way.’
But I had only seen cruelty in Sir Howard. I had seen the pills that he had forced upon her, his hand raised against both a dumb creature and a defenceless woman, and the way he had laced her corset – the force he had used to squeeze the life from inside of her. Sir Howard may not have intended to harm Iris but it was not the same for the child that she carried.
‘We should go,’ I said, ‘if you are ready to walk again. For once the fire is out, your father will realise that you are not at home and come looking for you.’
I stood up and wiped my hands on Sam’s britches, but the dampness was too warm to be the morning dew and left dark handprints on the linen. I drew my hand up to my face. The white lace of my glove was darkened and the fingertips were coated with something warm and slippery, the scour of something like rust at the back of my throat.
‘The corset has cut into you again,’ I said. ‘It must have opened up an old wound because it seems deep this time. Can you feel where it hurts?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It is so cold that I can’t feel anything.’
‘You are shivering!’ I said. ‘You must have caught a chill from…’ But then I saw a dark patch swelling into the fabric over her girdle and I realised where the blood was coming from.
‘Oh, Iris,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
I held up my hand in front of her, the lace fingers now covered in blood.
‘The pills,’ she said. ‘They are working at last.’ She held her hands to her middle, as if trying to ease some pain, and her body seemed to buckle, each breath now slow and shuddering.
‘No!’ I gasped. ‘We can stop it. Maybe if we can somehow bandage it, we can stop it!’ I knelt beside her and reached into her skirts, fumbling with the ties of her frilled petticoat and drawing it down over her legs and feet. Then I bunched up the petticoat and moved her legs apart, forcing the fabric between them and jamming it close to her body.
‘It will stop soon,’ I whispered. ‘I am sure it will.’
But it did not, and I held the petticoat in place until my elbow seized up and I could no longer feel the scratch of the bracken on my arms, the press of my hip bone on the hard ground nor my shivers from the morning’s chill.
Then she raised her head a little.
‘I am here for you,’ I said, and I realised that I was repeating my mother’s words again –this time the ones that she had spoken as she prised the sewing scissors from my hands and stared deep into my eyes. Now I realised how her words had helped me, so I said them again, just as my mother had: ‘I am here for you.’
She laid her head back down but she did not close her eyes and I thought she was looking at the sky and at the darkness that was starting to dissolve away into little wisps of black cloud streaked with dull green. There was still an orange glow over the wych elms, yet now I feared what would happen when it stopped – the plume of smoke that would follow, and the men that would be sent out over the common with their dogs.
I thought of Sir Howard’s anger and my mother’s shame, the disgrace that I had caused all over again – but found that I did not fear any of those things anymore. It was Iris that I was fearful for because to me she had always been the girl who had everything, and now she had so much to lose. I had long known that s
he risked her wealth, her dignity and her position in society, but I did not fear for these things now, because at that moment Iris still had her health and her life, although I did not know for how much longer.
‘I am here for you,’ I said again, but this time my voice was weaker.
* * *
She lay in the bracken, her knees bent to her chest and her arms clutching her middle, her white dress glowing in the low light. Her breaths were slow and her skin felt cold. Sometimes her whole body would clench and she would close her eyes and bite her lip, but the pain seemed to dull as quickly as it had come and she would slump back into the bracken again. She looked only to the sky – all that was left of the night were a few clouds, purplish and swollen like bruises – although I wondered if she really saw any of it. I wondered if she could smell the mustiness of the foxes or hear their barks nearby or feel the cold dew soaking into her nightgown and, in a way, I hoped that she could not.
Then her body seemed to slacken and her breathing slowed. Through it all, she held my hand.
* * *
I thought her dead for a while. I thought even the foxes sensed it because I could see their bodies mingling in the low branches of the thicket, or the silhouette of a brave dog-fox standing close by in the shadows. I did not know how she could have survived such a loss because, despite my age, I had never seen a birth nor death and knew little of the human body.
Her face was pale and I could not remember when I had last seen a breath, but she lifted her head quite calmly and spoke to me as if she did not know that she had slept.
‘I think it is stopping,’ she said. ‘It does not hurt so much now.’
I did not know what to say. I leant over her and looked at the blood on her dress – a dark stain that swelled from the embroidered chest to the bottom hem and I thought that it seemed a little darker at the edges and the fabric seemed to be stiffening – maybe she was right but it was little consolation. My throat felt hard and swollen as if a single word would choke me.
Then she propped herself up on her elbow. ‘Have I missed the omnibus?’ she said.
‘What?’ I whispered, and I wondered if I had heard her correctly. ‘The omnibus?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
But I still had to pause for a moment because I could not think what she spoke of.
‘Have I missed it?’ she repeated.
‘You can’t think of that now,’ I said and for a moment I feared her confused – that she had no idea what had just happened to her. ‘You need to go home and rest and—’
‘I can’t go back,’ she said.
‘Iris—’
‘My father has done this,’ she said firmly. ‘How could I go back to him now?’
‘You have no choice,’ I said quietly.
She looked at me questioningly and I saw a little more life in her face despite the paleness of her skin, and I feared that I would need to explain.
‘Sam…’ I began but I could not find the right words. I took off my dark and sodden glove and I fumbled in my little lace bag and took out the rabbit’s foot, thrusting it into her hand. ‘Sam wants you to have this but he—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Nell,’ she said wearily. ‘I know that Sam will not leave with me. Deep down I suppose I always knew that he never would.’ She placed the rabbit’s foot back in my hand.
‘Oh,’ I said quietly. ‘Then what—’
‘I can’t go back to my father now,’ she repeated. ‘I still have the name of the place in Brighton. I could recover there at least. It is far away, like you said.’
‘You can’t, Iris,’ I cried. ‘Look at the state of you! You need to go back home.’
‘No,’ she said calmly, and then I knew that she meant it.
I looked at what we had between us – the little lace bag that contained only a shilling and a biscuit with a piece of cheese wrapped in brown paper. Iris did not even have any boots and her clothes were soaked with blood.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘You can wear my dress as I will do fine in these britches if I do the jacket up over my slip. Can you stand now?’
I stood up and held my hand out to her and she took it, standing up shakily, but she stood at least.
I took off Sam’s jacket and untucked my nightgown from Sam’s britches, pulling it over my head and throwing it on to a bank of bracken. Then I undid the last few ties on her nightgown, letting it fall to the ground, and I took up my own gown again and wrestled it over her head, fumbling to put her arms in the sleeves and smoothing it down her body so that the hem fell to her ankles.
‘My mother will be out preparing the church,’ I said as I fumbled with the buttons on Sam’s jacket. ‘She will not even have checked that I am risen. You can rest in my room if you do not feel like going home. It is near to where the omnibus stops so you might yet be able to catch one.’
She nodded eagerly.
‘I can find you some proper clothes and shoes when we get there.’ Then I added, ‘It might not be the May Queen’s white slippers but I can lend you some muddy old boots.’
She laughed – it was only a little but it was enough. ‘Alright,’ she said.
I picked up the corset and the bloodied nightgown and put them over my arm. I held out my other one to her.
But she did not take it. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What’s that?’
What she pointed at seemed dark in the shadows and I was glad that it was not yet the full light of day.
‘It’s nothing,’ I said quickly, taking her arm and trying to turn her. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
‘But…’
I pulled her forward quickly. ‘Those muddy old boots will be waiting for you,’ I said, and at last she took my arm, and leant her head on my shoulder once more.
As we walked I turned my head to glance back to where she had pointed, to the thing that lay in the shadows – the petticoat that I had used to stem the bleeding. It lay on the bracken, the frills that were once white now limp and darkened. I realised that I saw a little of what had come from her – of what was lost.
* * *
We took the cart track back to the village. She held my arm and leant against me, her head lolling against my shoulder, but somehow I no longer felt her weight and we did not stumble.
As we passed by the ford, she did not look up to Haughten Hall and I did not ask her again about returning. The lights were on in the big house, the curtains open in every window but one, and I realised that I could no longer smell the tang of burning hay. The distant orange glow no longer filled the sky and I thought the fire had been extinguished, a long trail of black smoke mingling into the morning clouds. I moved into the shadows and quickened my pace – now they would be searching for her.
The streetlights around the green had been extinguished, the last dot of light fading into darkness as the silhouette of the lamplighter mounted his bicycle and rode off into the shadows. I sensed a change in the air, as if the dome of night sky that smothered the earth had now been lifted and the morning seemed fresh, the silence pierced by the song of the first robin.
Then the first sunlight seeped over the far hills of Evesbridge, casting the maypole and oak tree in hazy shadow. I stepped on to the village green, pulling Iris alongside me, and headed in the direction of Oak Cottage.
I had no idea what would become of us. I thought that I could take Iris home with me and that I could find her some clothes and shoes, and that she could leave behind anything that she did not need. I thought that I could find her some food, maybe give her some more money for the omnibus, but there the plan ended.
Neither Iris nor I could have foreseen what was about to happen to us, because as we walked across the village green in the first rays of the morning sun, we did not see a man hidden in the undergrowth, a man who would take us from that place. We did not see Francis Elliot-Palmer with his cine camera capturing a truth that would not be seen for twenty-five years. We did not hear the rustle of the bushes, nor the slow click of the crank handle. We
did not see Francis take his hands from the camera and raise his head to look over the village green to where two girls walked by the maypole. We did not see him as he followed us slowly across the grass and then through the door of Oak Cottage.
Agnes
1937
31
It had been twenty-five years since I had last seen the face of Iris Caldwell. I had never expected to see Iris again, yet one day back in April I had sat on a hard wooden seat in St Cuthbert’s Church Hall and watched grey images of Missensham’s past flicker across the whitewashed wall. Among the images of ribbons streaming from maypoles, woven willow arches and lacy tea dresses, I had seen Iris.
It was an image that had led to so much – to accusations, revelations and arrests, and to the courtroom of Shire Hall in Oxworth where I now sat in the gallery, watching Iris once more as she crossed the village green, her head lolling on the arm of the one who guided her.
Iris wore the long white gown of the May Queen but the lustre of her hair and her fair complexion were dulled by the grey flickers of light. Her steps were reduced to jerky movements as if she were no more than an automaton captured in light and shadow. Yet my memory of Iris had not faded and just the sight of her face brought the girl with the long fair hair and alabaster skin back to me. I could almost feel the cold air of that morning and sense the spirit of an era that had long passed.
Then her face froze.
There was a cough and a whisper in the courtroom, a shuffling of papers from the barristers on the desks and an exhalation of long-held breath from the public gallery.
The image was crisp and clear and, as the projectionist removed his hand from the crank handle and retook his seat, it did not fade. For this was no longer the dilapidated projector as it had been discovered back in April – it was an instrument that had been restored and adapted to run from mains electricity. It no longer sat in St Cuthbert’s Church Hall but in the courtroom of the Shire Hall and the film now played not to a local historical society but judge, jury and onlookers. The old reel that was shot as part of a theological study had become evidence that could see a man hang.
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