Primmy's Daughter

by Primmy's Daughter (retail) (epub)

  Skye didn’t heed her words. She smoothed down her clothes and her hair with shaking hands, wincing at the lump on the back of her head. The old crone took charge.

  ‘You’d best come back wi’ old Helza, and I’ll give ’ee summat to make ’ee feel better.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not necessary. I should get home—’

  ‘What, and stir up bad thoughts and memories for old Morwen Tremayne by your appearance? You come along wi’ me, my pretty, and take a warmin’ cup, and I’ll tell ’ee a tale o’ the past that I’ll wager none of your kin have told ’ee,’ she went on slyly.

  Skye was starting to feel that she had no will of her own any more, and she was unable to resist the enticing words. The shambling old crone led her to where a disreputable hovel stood alone on the moors. She went inside, and was enveloped in a choking, cloying mixure of smells that made her heave.

  ‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ Helza cackled, kicking a yelping cat out of the way. ‘Now then, you drink this, and if you cross my palm with silver I’ll tell ’ee the ancient tale my sister witch passed on. Old Zillah were a good teller o’ tales, and this one were a beauty, concerning Morwen Tremayne an’ her flighty young friend Celia Penry.’

  Skye stared, her heart thumping. She had heard the name Celia before, and she knew there was some long-buried secret concerning her and Granny Morwen. And this strange being knew it all…

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ she croaked. ‘I’ll pay.’

  Helza cackled again. ‘I know it all, my pretty. All about how Zillah gave the two young ’uns a potion so they could see the faces of their lovers through the Larnie Stone. And how Ben Killligrew and his cousin Jude got to know of it, and made sure they was the ones on the moors at midnight that night.’

  Skye gasped. She was still in shock after Desmond Lock’s rape attempt, but her eyes were glazing with the effects of the narcotic herbal brew Helza had given her.

  ‘Oh ah, yon Morwen were a comely young piece in them days, by all accounts, but ’twere t’other un who enticed a bad ’un like Jude Pascoe and got more’n she bargained for. Like you nearly got today, if ’ee gets my meaning, girlie.’

  ‘You mean he raped her?’ Skye whispered, her tongue thick and furry now.

  ‘An’ left her wi’ a child in her belly. So the wenches came back to Zillah for another potion to rid Celia o’ the waste, and they buried it on the moors.’

  ‘Dear God, how terrible—’

  ‘An’ then the Penry maid got struck by her conscience and drowned herself in a clay pool. ’Twas one o’ Morwen’s brothers that found ’er.’

  ‘And what of this – this Jude person?’ Skye forced herself to say, willing away the awful images of a young girl drowning in a clay pool.

  No wonder Morwen had got so distraught, hearing about Walter’s drowning.

  ‘Went to America wi’ Matt Tremayne—’

  ‘What? But Matt Tremayne is my grandfather.’

  ‘Oh aye, they’re a tangled bunch o’ folk all right.’

  Skye couldn’t bear to hear any more. She couldn’t breathe, and she had to get out of there. Of course she knew her parents were cousins, and Grandfather Matt and Granny Morwen were brother and sister, but this… all this terrible information Helza had given her, information that she knew instinctively was all true…

  She was so befuddled by now that she hardly remembered thrusting some coins into Helza’s hands, nor how she got back to the linhay to collect her bicycle and rode like the wind back to New World, praying that no one would see the state she was in until she collapsed on her bed and slept off the effects of the drug and the day.

  On the way she passed the Larnie Stone, the gaunt standing stone with the hole in the middle, through which could be seen the sea at St. Austell. The stone that two young girls had once circled at midnight, chanting a witch’s spell to produce the faces of their lovers.

  * * *

  It took Skye days to put the incident with Desmond Lock properly behind her, vowing never to go to the linhay alone again. But then Theo brought the news that there had been a raging fire on the moors one night, and the old linhay had been burnt to the ground, with Desmond Lock in it. All they found of him was some charred clothing and the heavy boot from his clubbed foot.

  It was a mystery how it had happened – except to Skye Tremayne. She couldn’t even be sorry for the man, but she was perfectly sure who had set the linhay on fire, and hadn t Helza said he would go to the fiery furnace for his sins? As if she had all the second sight in the world at her disposal at that moment, Skye knew. But it would remain a dark secret between her and the witchwoman.

  Chapter Eleven

  In September Philip came home on leave, staying at New World for eight days’ respite from the Front. After their first rapturous embrace, he held Skye away from him, shocked.

  ‘Your lovely hair,’ he said. ‘What have you done to it?’

  She gave a shaky laugh. ‘I thought it was time I acted my age and had it cut. Don’t you like it?’

  Her eyes were brimming, and she prayed he would think it was due to the emotion of their reunion. But it was more than that. The memory of Desmond Lock’s attack had affected her more deeply than she imagined. She felt shamed by her own femininity, and one way in which she could alter herself was to hack off her hair – or rather, to let some sympathetic salon person do it for her. It hadn’t helped but to Philip now, she looked gamine and appealing, her eyes huge and anxious that he should approve.

  ‘I love it,’ he said, gathering her close once more.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on in a bright, brittle voice. ‘They collect hair now, for stuffing mattresses or something, so I’m told, so I’m doing my bit for the war effort as well.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said quietly.

  As an engaged couple, they had been left discreetly alone, and Skye had thought she could ride out the horror of Desmo Lock’s attack without ever telling Philip. But he knew her too well. She blurted it all out, finding more relief in the telling than she could ever have imagined.

  ‘The bastard,’ Philip said savagely. ‘He should be hung, drawn and quartered. What did Theo have to say about it? I trust he hounded the bastard out of the place.’

  Skye looked at him mutely. She hadn’t told him everything yet, and nor could she. Not everything. But the sinister thought of history repeating itself didn’t escape her. Morwen and a witchwoman had once shared a dark secret. So did she.

  ‘I told no one,’ she choked out. ‘I couldn’t. But it’s all over, anyway. The linhay burnt down one night, and they discovered that he was in it.’

  ‘Good God! That was poetic justice, if you like. And you’re really all right, darling? He really didn’t hurt you?’

  He sounded so blessedly normal, so concerned for her, that she clung to him wordlessly for a moment. She had been so afraid that the encounter with Desmo Lock would have turned her against any contact with another man, even her beloved Philip… but it hadn’t and she needed him more than ever.

  ‘I’m more than all right now you’re here,’ she said huskily. ‘And when you leave for France, I’m going with you. Granny Morwen’s well enough now, and I’ve already been to the recruiting office and got the necessary papers.’

  He folded her to him, glad to his soul that no harm had come to her, but knowing that if he had any savvy at all, he would tell her to stay in Cornwall where she was safe. He had witnessed too many horrors of war to want her exposed to them, but he knew it would be useless to try to dissuade her.

  They stayed close for a long while after that, needing to talk, needing to touch and hold, and to renew the sweetness of their feelings for one another.

  ‘Philip, there’s something else I want to say,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now, and I know it’s right. I want us to be married before we leave. I don’t know if married women are acceptable at the Front, and I know Granny Morwen would make a fuss, so we must keep it secre
t. But I need to know that we really belong together—’

  He put his finger on her mouth as she babbled on. She was desperate for him to agree to this. To know that they were truly married would be her talisman.

  ‘We’ve always belonged. And you’re a crazy woman,’ he told her. ‘What man in his right senses would marry the woman he loves and then take her into danger?’

  ‘What man in his right senses would desert the woman he loves and go to war without her?’

  ‘I’m not deserting you—’

  ‘Then agree to it. I’m begging you, Philip – and that’s a first!’ she said, reverting to her more peppery self with a shaky grin. ‘Please?’

  ‘You wouldn’t even want your grandmother to know?’ he asked at last, and she knew she had won. She hugged him close.

  ‘When we go, we’ll leave an envelope containing our marriage certificate for safe-keeping for her to open later. I’ll also write to my parents to tell them. I’m not being heartless, truly, but I don’t want anyone to stop me.’

  ‘You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you, my clever little witch?’ Philip said dryly. ‘So I take it you don’t intend asking dear Uncle Luke to perform the ceremony?’

  ‘I do not!’ But she was laughing now, despite his odd endearment that had made her heart stop for a moment. But now that they had established their future she was starting to feel more reckless and carefree than she had done in weeks.

  Philip was nothing if not resourceful, and she wasn’t the only one to put plans into action.

  ‘Then I suggest we drive to some other town for a few days and get a special licence. You look peaky, and a change will do you good. A tactful word to your grandmother should get her to agree to it.’

  Skye put her arms around him. ‘One of the things I love about you is your willingness to change direction when the need arises. You’re a very satisfactory lover, Philip.’

  ‘Oh, really? Just because I change direction when the need arises?’ he said provocatively.

  ‘Not just because of that,’ she said. Her eyes were full of dreams as she looked into his. ‘Oh, and did I mention that Granny Morwen is asleep, and everyone else is out?’

  ‘You didn’t, but I think we should take advantage of the situation,’ he said. They walked towards the stairs, arms entwined. ‘And have I told you lately that I love you?’

  ‘I think so. But you can always tell me again.’

  * * *

  It was simpler than Skye had imagined to carry out her longed-for plan. It didn’t disturb her that she had taken the initiative and proposed. It was going to happen eventually, anyway, and after a couple of respectable days in Bodmin, they became husband and wife, and spent one night of bliss in a country hotel, registered as Mr and Mrs Philip Norwood.

  But they both knew it was an idyll that was soon to end, and they clung to one another almost ferociously in the dawn light of their last morning, knowing they must return to New World and act out their expected roles.

  ‘Promise me we’ll never lose this feeling of oneness, Philip,’ she whispered to him, stroking the strong, muscled back of her husband.

  ‘I promise,’ he said, bending his head to kiss her breasts. ‘Whatever happens to the rest of the world, you and I will always be constant, my darling.’

  His words made her feel cherished and loved, even if they also sent an unwanted little chill running through her veins. For these few brief, blissful hours, they were cocooned and safe. But they knew they were part of a wider world, and that they couldn’t ignore it for much longer.

  * * *

  Their plans were followed with precision-like efficiency. Birdie was instructed to give the envelope to Morwen the morning after they sailed to France, and by then Skye had penned the letter to her parents, telling them that she and Philip were married, and asking for their blessing.

  She had begged and cajoled the recruiting officer to allow her to be sent to the same hospital where Philip was driving ambulances to and from the Front and on to the hospital ships.

  She had stated her credentials, which amounted to very little, until the man snapped that they always needed intelligent people who could spell correctly for clerical duties, and to record the names of the incoming wounded and the outgoing dead.

  ‘He was so callous,’ she raged to Philip. ‘Eyeing me up and down as if I was some do-gooder who was going to fall by the wayside at the mere mention of dead and wounded.’

  But all the same, the reality of what she was doing was only just coming home to her. Philip was sympathetic, but he pointed out the sense of the man’s words.

  ‘If you’d fainted right off, he’d have seen through you in a minute. They have to be sure you’re made of the right stuff to deal with whatever comes.’

  ‘And they obviously think I’m only made of the right stuff to be pushing a pen,’ she said indignantly. ‘How does that make me sound, for pity’s sake?’

  ‘Like a journalist,’ he said.

  Her eyes gleamed at a sudden thought. ‘Can we call at the The Informer office in Truro before we leave?’ she asked.

  And miraculously, maybe because of the bereavements in the Tremayne family, allied to the death of Jordan Askhew, the revered journalist in their northern sister paper, David Kingsley had softened towards her and agreed to her request.

  She didn’t care what the reason behind it was. All that mattered was that she was going to send back reports to The Informer, albeit under a male pen-name. She was going to tell the truth about the conditions and the casualties, and David Kingsley had promised to publish them, however gruesome.

  If she was reduced to filing reports for the hospital in a clerical capacity, at least she could hold her head up high, knowing she was also doing a worthwhile job, even if she didn’t get the credit for it she deserved.

  They knew they couldn’t spend their nights together. They were officially an engaged couple, and that was all. But there were nights when Philip managed to come to her room when her fellow nurses were on duty, or she could sneak into his.

  It was far from ideal, but they were not the only couple to need time to be together. And Skye was never sure how much of a blind eye the authorities took to such clandestine meetings. The progress of the war was always uppermost in everyone’s minds, but they also aknowledged that there had to be time for personal feelings, or they would all go mad.

  * * *

  At the end of September there was a huge autumn offensive on the Western Front. The French attacked the German lines at Champagne, and the British attack was near Loos in Flanders. Casualty numbers were immense, and the influx of them to the field hospital where Philip and Skye were stationed shocked the most hardened medical staff. No one was immune.

  ‘Leave that book work for now, Tremayne,’ Sister Bell snapped at Skye. ‘We’ve been sent reinforcements from another hospital, but everyone’s wanted on the wards. Tie a surgical mask around your mouth and nose if you feel like gagging at the smells, and be prepared to help the surgeons.’

  Skye felt her heart beat sickeningly fast. Help the surgeons? She couldn’t do this. It wasn’t what she had volunteered for…

  ‘Come on, girl. There’s one of your own out here, leastways, she says she is. She’ll show you what to do.’

  Philip… even as she thought it, she knew it couldn’t be him. He was busy transporting the poor devils from one hell to another, and besides, Sister Bell had said she.

  ‘I guessed it was you, Skye!’ she heard a bright voice say a few minutes later. ‘This is a lark, isn’t it? I bet you never thought you’d be doing this sort of work when you came to see dear Grandmama!’

  ‘Vera, it’s you!’ Skye stuttered, seeing the cheeky face of one of Charlotte’s girls.

  ‘Right enough, so let’s get on with it, shall we?’ she said cheerfully. ‘Some bloke’s got to have his leg off, and another one’s lost an eye and is losing blood by the bucketful, and they’re screaming for helpers.’

  And she
had sneered at this girl and her sister, for their keenness to roll bandages! Skye had never felt so ashamed in her life, sensing the grit that was behind Vera’s words now. But all the same…

  ‘I can’t go out there,’ she whispered. ‘There’s so much blood, and the smell of it makes me want to vomit.’

  Vera gave her a withering look. ‘I don’t suppose the poor Tommies care for it much, either, but they’ve got no choice, have they? Some of ’em aren’t going to make it anyway, but we can hold their hands and give them a smile while the surgeon does his best to patch them up. A pretty girl’s smile is worth a lot when you don’t have much else to live for, so stop being a daffodil and come on.’

  Vera pulled her to her feet, and she knew she had no option. At the last minute, her cousin gave her a piece of extra advice.

  ‘If you’ve got some strong perfume or linament with you, stuff it up your nose to deaden the less savoury smells.’

  ‘Sister said I could use a surgical mask.’

  Vera laughed. ‘None left, sweetie. You’ve got a handkerchief, haven’t you? Or do like I do and ignore it, and just let the fellows see you smile. It cheers them up – providing you don’t puke all over them.’

  God, she was so hard, thought Skye. She was so changed from the rather simpering girl she had thought her to be.

  But after an hour, then a day, and then weeks on the wards, in between doing her clerical duties and falling exhausted into bed at night, and snatching an occasional meeting with Philip, Skye knew she was changing too. Everyone did. Everyone had to, if they were going to survive.

  The year dragged on, and in October they received the shocking news that a British nurse named Edith Cavell had been shot by a German firing squad for treason.

  ‘Her only crime was in running a nursing school in Brussels all these years, and then choosing to nurse the wounded of both sides,’ Vera stormed. ‘Where’s the humanity in a system that can condemn such a woman?’