She stared up at them unable to speak, her mind battling against the implication of what she had heard. Then she turned away and holding up her long white skirt hurried past the house and down the rough path in the direction of the stockade where the two men had been imprisoned. Her plump erect little figure in its unyielding blouse and wide starched belt with the square silver buckle stood out against the background of palm trees whose leaves hung limply under the threatening sky which had drained all color from the sea. As she stumbled through the brief tropical twilight strands of hair escaped from their confining net and caressed her skin.
She would have to discover for herself what it was that had taken place before she sought out Herbert. She remembered his fears that he spoke above the heads of his congregation. Whatever the misunderstanding that might have arisen it was not his fault. He had felt it incumbent upon him that he should explain about the Holy Ghost, for was not that the corner-stone of their faith? He had had to try to share with them that glory of the Spirit which was God’s most important gift to His followers. What could they do to Herbert, should something ghastly have happened? Could that saintly man be pilloried? Would he be dishonored and disgraced? Pray God that it would not be so.
At the entrance to the stockade which surrounded the hut three men lounged on guard. They were not regular attendants at the services and she saw that she scarcely knew them. They stiffened at her approach and drew closer together, for it was their obvious intention to bar her way.
“Let me pass,” she called out. May did not slacken her pace until she had drawn level with them. She held out her hand for the key.
The oldest of the men gave it to her, but reluctantly. “No go in there, Missah,” he said. “No go in there.”
“Rubbish!” she said. She motioned authoritatively for them to stand aside and they looked at one another in some confusion.
One of the guards put a hand on her arm as if he would restrain her. “Sick,” he said, nodding towards the opening of the hut. “Bad men’s very sick. No go in there, Missah.”
She brushed away his hand and unlocked the gate. A sound of moaning came from the interior of the hut. She took the few steps to the entrance and peered into the gloom inside. Ke-Kulah and Manè were hunched on the beaten earth of the floor, their backs resting against the wall of packed mud. Their expressions were vacant as they turned their heads to look at her with the frightening and blank vacuity of idiots.
Blood still trickled from their mouths, ebbing over that which had congealed in ridges on their chins and prior flow ebbed down upon their naked chests. Their lips sagged slackly, torn and bruised when their tongues had been hacked out. Already the flies were clustering greedily upon their bodies.
Sickened by what she saw May Wessel swayed, and steadied herself by an effort. From behind her, outside the stench of the hut, came the rumble of thunder, and lightning forked down, violating the mass of darkening clouds.
“With other tongues . . . will I speak unto this people.”
THE GODMOTHERS
“Run along now, Elsie, it’s your bedtime.” Mrs. Donaldson glanced over at her husband, Kenneth. “Say good-night to your Uncle Ken. Quick-quack!”
“Quock!” said Elsie, completing the time honored formula. She began to tidy up the elaborate cardboard wardrobe of the cut-out doll which she had been engaged in dressing, the comprehensive changes of garments brilliant with the strident colors of the German dyes. She was sitting crosslegged on the tufted hearthrug that was spread in front of the coal fire, her black strap shoes projecting stiffly from under her petticoats. Without hurrying she deftly packed away the pieces of the toy and, with the box tucked under her arm, pecked her uncle on the cheek.
“I’ll be up when you’re settled,” said Amy Donaldson. “No reading, mind, or you’ll wear your eyes out!” She gave a smile as she listened to the child’s footsteps running up the steep staircase. “There’s an improvement in her already, Ken,” she said to her husband, “and she’s got far more roses in her cheeks, don’t you think so, dear?” Ken grunted his agreement.
Elsie had been with them for nearly two weeks. Amy had gone over to Billingham Street to collect her as soon as she had been notified that her father—who was Elsie’s grandfather—had been told that he must go into hospital. The neighbor who had told her so had said that it was appendicitis. So naturally she had hurried back with her. Her informant’s name was Mrs. Bentley, and they had seen the old man off in an ambulance, and Amy had brought the child home. She’d visited St. Luke’s as soon as he had been allowed visitors and had taken him grapes, and he’d been quite cheerful and glad that it was over, and all being well was due to return home on Saturday.
It was a bit of a squash having Elsie with them, for it meant that Edith had been forced to share her room with her, and her bedroom was small enough in all conscience, but the child had nowhere else to go, and she was a dear little thing. Three years had passed since she had been orphaned, since Alec, Amy’s brother, and Maisie, his wife, had been killed in that awful rail smash. She had never been able to understand why Alec had chosen Maisie, who had been both featherbrained and flighty, not to say fast. Thank goodness that Alec’s daughter had taken after his side of the family. At any rate in appearance.
At first she had had qualms about letting Elsie live at Billingham Street, but the old fellow had been so set on it and had the space, after all, and they were company for each other, and Elsie knew that she could pop round to them whenever she felt like it. Not that she did so very often, only at Christmas and birthdays really, or when Jack went over to fetch her on his bike, but she seemed well cared for and in good enough health and spirits, a trifle pale, but lots of children were on the pallid side, and she would soon be starting school and getting out and about more.
Dad’s flat wasn’t exactly ideal, being a semi-basement, but it had water and gas laid on, which was more than a lot of places could boast, and there were three decent-sized rooms besides the kitchen; and where he had put ferns and potted plants by the area steps he had made quite a gay little garden. He was a perfectly adequate cook, and adored the companionship of children, played with them for hours on end whenever he got the chance—and the tales he made up—he was a regular Grimm or Hans Andersen, if you were to ask her opinion!
Of course he was getting on, seventy-five next March, and sooner or later other arrangements would have to be made. Maybe after Edith married Jack Stock then Elsie could move into her room permanently, and her own sister, Aggie, in Leicester would have to give their father a home. It was time she took on her share of the family responsibilities. Admittedly Aggie’s accommodation was limited, but now, she would just have to face up to it, there were only herself and the two boys left there. She’d have to write to her about it one day.
“Quite a card, isn’t she?” remarked Ken indulgently from the depths of his armchair. “It’s as good as a play to listen to her!”
Amy began stacking the tea things on to a tray preparatory to carrying them out into the scullery. “She’s quaint,” she allowed, “and full of fancies. Enough to make a cat laugh sometimes!” She was pleased that Elsie had won Ken’s heart. Men were inclined to get set in their ways. “I’m glad you two get along so well,” she went on. “Dad’s not growing any younger.” After so many years of contented marriage further elaboration was unnecessary, but just to make sure she added: “Edith won’t be with us for ever.”
Ken took out his watch. “Where is she?” he asked. “Isn’t she late in coming back, ’specially as it’s early closing and all?”
“She was meeting Jack at six.” Amy Donaldson smiled. “I thought I’d told you. He’s taking her to the moving pictures and then she’s bringing him here for supper.”
“Moving pictures!” exclaimed Ken. “Whatever will they think up next!” His look was almost boyish, reminding her of the young man of her cou
rting days. “We might go along one night, Amy,” he suggested. “The two of us. Got to keep up to date!” It was the first occasion when this novel form of entertainment had been shown in their town. Ken broke off to fill his pipe. “Do you think Jack’s popped the question yet?” he inquired.
“I think he will have done so by the time they get back,” she said knowingly. “He’s a good lad, and it will be nice having a policeman in the family.” She carried the tray out of the room and Ken had to raise his voice to continue the conversation through the open door. He liked Jack Stock. He was the local light-heavyweight champion, a lively clean living youngster and, what was more, he had some money of his own in addition to his pay. Edith could do a lot worse for herself.
“What are you giving them for supper?” he called.
“Pork pie and biscuits and cheese. You got in some beer, didn’t you, dear?” She knew that he was in fact in as close touch with the situation as she was herself.
“You’ll find it in a paper bag under the sink.”
There was a clatter of crockery. “I don’t want to spoil the girl, Ken,” Amy said, “but as she’s that fond of Jack I’ve a mind to let her stay down with him for a while.”
Her husband laughed, pulling at his moustache. “Which girl?” he said teasingly.
“Don’t be silly,” said Amy. “You know quite well which one I mean. Elsie.”
There came the splash of running water and Ken Donaldson picked up his evening paper, but he found it hard to concentrate on the news for he also had given consideration to Albert Piers, who had never been any trouble to them, never intruded. In spite of his ease with, and fondness for, young society, he was, in some ways, a withdrawn individual, who might be leading the Lord knows what sort of a private life. Ken realized that harboring such thoughts about a man in his seventies was ridiculous. In all probability his father-in-law was a model of rectitude. Surely? Or was he, as Ken had suspected in the past, a man of strong sexual appetites driven underground by the Pharisaic code of the reign of the late Queen Victoria? He gave a mental shrug. It was all too idiotic. Old Albert Piers was as respectable and above reproach as was Queen Alexandra herself.
But could one ever judge, or know the temptations, concealed and not admitted, of one’s fellow men? Ken Donaldson had, with a sad twinge of self scorn, forced himself to review in retrospect his own blameless past. He might have had his moments if he’d wished to take advantage. But then, he’d got Amy, and one can’t have everything. All of a sudden Ken recollected an occasion when he had called on his father-in-law unexpectedly. It had been a good many years ago, and he had found him alone. He must have been reading by the gas fire when he had been disturbed, and after the two of them had returned to the sitting-room he had tried to conceal the book in which he had been engrossed by covering it with a cushion; but before Ken had left, and while Albert Piers had been out of the way getting glasses from the kitchen, he had lifted up the cushion and taken a quick look at the volume.
It was not at all the sort of thing that he’d have dreamed of having in his own house, pure pornography, that is what it had been. He remembered wondering if there was a cupboard filled with similar literature. If so, with a child around, he hoped sincerely that it was always kept locked. Bachelors and widowers had funny weaknesses sometimes. Naturally he had not mentioned the matter to Amy. She would have been extremely upset. He pushed aside these somewhat disturbing thoughts.
After a while his wife returned and settled herself opposite to him with her knitting. “It is rather nice, dear, isn’t it,” she said. “About Edith and Jack?” Her husband growled his agreement. The heaped coal fire gave out such a heat that she was forced to move back her chair farther to one side. Save for the clicking of the needles and the occasional rustle of a turning page there was a contented silence in the small room.
An hour later they heard the opening of the front door and the murmur of voices from the passage where Jack must be hanging up his coat and hat. Amy put her knitting down on the arm of her chair and stood up. She glanced quickly into the glass of the overmantel above the ornament crowded chimney-piece and patted her neatly braided graying hair. “Get your coat on, Ken,” she said urgently. “They’re here.”
Her husband grinned. “Get myself all dressed up for young Jack Stock?” he said indignantly. “He won’t mind. Sits around of an evening in his shirtsleeves in his own home, I’ll bet. And will continue to do so when he marries our Edith, or I’m much mistaken.”
“That’s as may be,” said Amy briskly, “but tonight he’s ‘company’, so do as I ask, dear.” Ken gave an ostentatious sigh of martyrdom as he obeyed.
The door to the living room was pushed open and Edith came in, Jack hard on her heels. She was bright-eyed and excited. “’Evening, Mrs. Donaldson. Good evening, sir,” the young man greeted them.
“Good evening, Jack. Hello, dear,” said Amy to her daughter. “Had a good time? How were the Pictures? A bit jumpy, I’m told.”
“It was ever so thrilling,” Edith said. “All about a train robbery. It was so real you might actually have been there. And before that there was a comedy with Charlie Chaplin. Such a funny man with baggy trousers that are always about to fall off. A perfect scream!”
“Seems dangerous to me,” Ken said. “All that there celluloid,” he explained in case of misunderstanding. “Very inflammable stuff, celluloid.”
“Crossed my mind, too,” Jack said. “So we got seats right in the back row by the door.” He smiled at Edith as he spoke. “And very cosy they were, weren’t they?”
“Dad,” said Edith, and she sounded rather breathless. “Mum! We’ve got something to tell you.”
“Really, dear?” Amy asked, trying hard not to show her amusement.
“Yes,” said Jack. He turned to the other man. “I’ve asked Edith to marry me, Mr. Donaldson, that is . . . with your permission.”
“And what did she have to say to that?” Ken inquired.
Edith laughed and ran over to him, putting her arms round her father’s neck. “I said ‘Yes’ of course, stupid. What else did you think my answer would be?”
Ken Donaldson frowned at her. “You did, did you, young lady? If you want to know what I think,” he paused before he grinned, “I think that you did quite right!”
Amy smiled happily and went over to Jack. Standing on tiptoe she rested a hand on his wide shoulder. “She’s a very sensible girl,” she said. “We’re both of us delighted, Jack.” She half pushed him away from her. “I believe that it’s usual to kiss the bride’s mother!” She giggled as he obliged. “Ken,” she continued, “what’s needed here is a celebration toast, and beer’s not good enough!”
“You’re right, at that, Amy, it’s not,” Ken said, “which is why I brought in a bottle of wine. Port wine.” He was pleased by his foresight. “Just to be on the safe side as the saying goes.”
“Oh, Dad!” said Elsie, and she blushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “Whatever will Jacko think of you!”
“Sit down, Jack, and make yourself at home,” Amy said. “I’ll give Elsie a call. She’ll be so excited. A mite jealous, too!” She went to the foot of the stairs. “Elsie! Jack’s here. You can come down and see him if you like.”
There was an immediate scamper of feet from above, and a small figure in a long white nightdress hurtled through the doorway and flung itself in the direction of the seated Jack. Although, apart from the last two weeks, their acquaintanceship had been rather tenuous and spasmodic he had become the target for her affections. “Jack’s going to be your new cousin, Elsie,” Edith said a little smugly. “We’re going to be married.”
“And you must come and see us often,” said Jack, as she perched herself on his knee. “How would you like to be a bridesmaid?”
“In white?” inquired Elsie. “And carrying flowers?”
“White with blue ribbons,” the young man promised, “and a posy of primroses and lily of the valley. That suit you?”
“When?” Elsie demanded. “Tomorrow?”
Jack Stock cleared his throat. “Not quite so soon, I’m afraid.” He looked up at Amy inquiringly. “What am I to tell her, Mrs. Donaldson?”
“Primroses are plentiful in April,” Amy said, “and I don’t think Edith could possibly be ready before then.”
“But that’s over four months away!” protested Elsie. Edith bent down and gave her round bottom a none too gentle smack.
“If I can wait until April,” she said, “so can you.” Edith could not help but feel rather vexed. Elsie was a little madam, running after all the men, already trading on her studiedly winning ways. Not as guileless as she pretended. She’d grow up into the kind of woman who caused mischief, the sort that egged men on, and then got insulted when they responded. Edith told herself that if she had the rearing of her she would turn out very differently.
Elsie sat up. “In the morning,” she announced, “I must go home so that I can tell the Godmothers.”
Ken and Amy exchanged puzzled looks. “Not tomorrow, dear,” the woman said. “Grandfather won’t be coming back until Saturday, and I’m not taking you over to him until Monday. He’ll have to take things easy at first.” She spoke firmly. “I’ll be getting supper,” she said. “No, stay where you are, Edith dear. I can manage quite well by myself.” She hurried out.
“What Godmothers?” asked Jack, raising a black eyebrow.
The Smell of Evil Page 5