There were no tears by that point, no knickers dabbing damp cheeks. After that, Maggie only saw Lois with dead eyes, snarling lips, hands balled into fists by her side and a baby growing inside her.
The rest had all happened so quickly, or so Lois’s mother told Maggie: her sixteenth birthday present was a cheap white dress, not the abortion Lois begged her throat dry for. The wedding to Jim was held the next day, the man salivating and eyeing up his young bride throughout the short church service. Lois’s mother pretended to be overjoyed with the pairing but the fake smile was too difficult to maintain. She didn’t even wait until the birth of the child before upping and leaving with her husband to live in a town near her sister, the shame of it driving her away. Maggie hadn’t seen her since. She doubted Lois had either, even though they lived less than fifty miles away.
Coming back to the present, Maggie breathed in, filled her lungs, smelled the vodka. She looked at Lois and remembered the young girl, her knickers in her hands.
‘I’m sorry, for what happened with Jim.’ Maggie said. ‘I should have—’
‘Don’t!’ Lois snarled. ‘Don’t you dare pity me.’
‘I’m not—’
But Lois pushed back from the table, stood up to go home, grabbed the butterfly stitches and told Maggie she’d do it herself.
‘You can’t do it yourself,’ Maggie had called after her, getting up a second too late, ‘you’ll need help!’
But Lois had gone, the door swinging shut. Maggie let her go, tried to take her mind off it, off Emma, James, Lois, the past.
She wiped the bar clean, threw away the blood-stained cottonwool, the tissues, the shallow dish of blood-pinked vodka. She heated a pie, chips and gravy to have for her dinner, made a cup of tea and added a splash of the liquor to help cool it down.
And when, an hour later, the door sounded again, Maggie thought Lois had changed her mind. Thought the woman needed her help after all.
But it wasn’t Lois she found on the threshold.
Seven years ago
Maggie
Tuesday, 10th August, 2010
Elaine stood at the door, a suitcase at her feet. On the right side of her face was a shining bruise.
‘Jesus!’ Maggie pulled the woman inside, pushed the case over the threshold with her foot. She closed the door, bolted it shut and guided Elaine, feather-light and easy to move, into the chair by the card table, then lifted the fringe from her face.
The skin beneath was red, swollen and raw, the bruising spanning her eye, nose and cheek. The second beaten face at the hands of that man, as though his anger could not be sated by attacking one woman alone.
‘I can’t do this any more, Maggie.’
‘My God, Elaine. He’s a monster! ’
She left Elaine for a moment, filled two tumblers with brandy, for the shock. The hair on her head was standing on end, the curls at the nape of her neck frizzy from the heat and the sweat she’d built up through that day.
How long had this been going on? How often had Maggie sat in their kitchen with Tom, when he was still alive, and chatted about the farm, the land, oblivious to this streak in Arthur’s nature? She thought of him throwing the fifteen-year-old Lois on her father’s doorstep, Maggie and Tom keeping away because it was none of their business, now, was it? She remembered Arthur after Tom had died, plying her with gin and pressuring her to sign over her dead husband’s land. ‘Sign the fucking papers.’
Publicly, Arthur’s mask had never slipped, always pretending to be the fine village businessman, the salt of the earth, relying on Edward Burrows to lash out most of his threats or Jim Lunglow to take the fall for his mistakes. Elaine had never said anything. How had she managed to keep her own mask in place, living up to her role of wife, mother, hostess, all the while hiding the bruises her husband had given her?
Did Emma know? Did Arthur hurt his daughter, too? Is that why she was so fearful of her father’s reaction to her pregnancy?
Maggie put a brandy glass in front of Elaine and took a sip from her own.
Remembering the marks she’d seen earlier, Maggie lifted Elaine’s arm, with no resistance or question from Elaine, and peeled back her sleeve. There were four bruises along her wrist, a fifth larger bruise on the underside. The shape of butterbeans – or of fingers.
‘That was an accident,’ Elaine said and, in the dim half-light of the bar, Maggie could see her eyes were glossy, glassed over. ‘I don’t think he meant it that time.’ Elaine lifted the glass of brandy to her lips, took a sip, her trembling hand making the glass rattle against her front teeth. ‘Sometimes he means it, but sometimes he says he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that it’s not his fault, that I make him do these things.’ She couldn’t keep her hands still; Maggie had never seen her actions this frantic, her body language so at odds with the empty, dead look in her eyes.
Maggie put her glass down, the action as strong and commanding as her voice. ‘You can stay here as long as you need to. You and Emma.’
‘I can’t stay here. He’ll find me.’ The pitch of Elaine’s voice heightened with each word, desperate. ‘He’ll make me go home.’
And Maggie knew that it was true, he would. And unless someone was brave enough to call the police, he’d succeed. And who would call the police in a small place like this, over ten miles away from the nearest station? Where everyone had something to protect, where everyone was employed by Arthur or rented one of his cottages or had a child, sibling, friend who did.
‘Do you need my help, to get away? Do you want me to drive you into town?’ Maggie took Elaine’s hand in her own. ‘You could stay in a hotel, maybe one near the hospital, plan your next move?’
‘I know what my next move will be,’ Elaine said, and she squeezed Maggie’s hand with her trembling one, ‘but I do need your help with something else.’
‘Of course, anything, anything at all.’
Shame filled Elaine’s eyes as she tried to speak, fear evident in the tight lines of her mouth. The mask had truly fallen, the façade of the happy wife long gone. Left behind was Elaine’s pain, her uncertainty, her terror. A woman who couldn’t take any more.
‘I need you to look after Emma,’ Elaine said, the effort of those words showing plainly on her bruised face.
Emma. The girl couldn’t go home to her father, couldn’t live in a house with such a man.
‘Don’t you want to take her with you, once she’s been discharged?’ Maggie asked, taking another sip of her brandy, letting it mix with the earlier vodka inside her stomach. Looking at Elaine she knew the woman was in no position to look after the girl, or at least not whilst she was in such a state. A couple of weeks, Maggie could look after her goddaughter for a couple of weeks whilst Elaine recovered, found somewhere safe for them both to stay. Maggie could do that.
‘I want to stay with her, of course I do. But I have to stop being so selfish. I have to put her first for once.’
‘You always put her first.’ Maggie knelt down in front of Elaine, tried to make eye contact, but Elaine’s eyes darted, wouldn’t settle on any one thing, least of all Maggie’s earnest face. ‘You’re a great mother,’ Maggie tried again and Elaine crumbled, her shoulders caving in. There were no tears, her eyes still gaping and dry, but the sound that came from her throat was a sob.
‘I’ve let her down. I have. It’s my fault, that’s what he said, that it’s my fault. I should have been there for her, should have known what she was doing, should have put a stop to it and kept her safe, but I failed.’ Elaine gripped Maggie’s forearms, her fingers digging into Maggie’s sleeve. ‘I failed her.’
‘No.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘You have not failed her. This is not your doing.’
‘Don’t you see? If I hadn’t been so worried about myself, if I hadn’t been so scared of making a mistake, upsetting Arthur, then maybe I would have known what Emma was doing. I could have put a stop to it and we wouldn’t be in this position now.’
‘Please, stop blaming yo
urself,’ Maggie said, softly. ‘They hid it from everyone, there’s no way you could have known. Emma knew that James would get in trouble, being so much older than her, she kept it a secret from everyone to protect him, and herself.’
Elaine forced a smile and held Maggie’s hand again, patted it as though she were a child, her fingers so, so cold. ‘You’re very kind, Maggie. You’ve always been so kind.’
Maggie lifted herself from the floor, holding onto the back of a chair for support.
She took Elaine’s glass and refilled it along with her own at the bar.
When she turned, Elaine was standing, her movements silent. An envelope was on the card table next to her, bearing Emma’s name.
‘There’s a house, on one of the little terraces.’ Elaine’s voice was trembling but her face was expressionless, the mannequin returning. ‘I always had my eye on it for Emma. I liked the thought of being in the garden and looking up to see Emma in her own kitchen, pottering away.’
‘Emma can still do those things. She got carried away, made a mistake or two. She’s not dead for Christ’s sake.’ Maggie’s eyes rested on the suitcase Elaine had brought with her.
‘The bag is Emma’s,’ Elaine said. ‘I was hoping you’d agree to collect her from hospital. That’s what I need you to do, that’s how you can help me.’
Maggie eyed the bag, unsure of what exactly Elaine was really asking, but nodded consent all the same.
‘Arthur won’t have her in the house. I can’t change his mind. I’ve never been able to do that.’ Elaine swayed slightly. ‘It’s not safe for her there, not whilst he’s so angry. I’ve packed some things for her. I’ve packed everything, actually. I didn’t realise how little she has. It’s rather sad, isn’t it?’
Maggie didn’t know if it was Emma’s lack of possessions or the fact that they had been packed away that was meant to be sad. Elaine touched the envelope, her face crumpling as she brushed her fingers over Emma’s name. Maggie tried to usher her back into the chair but she wouldn’t move.
‘Are you asking me if Emma can stay here, Elaine?’
Elaine nodded, then let out an abrupt sob and put her hands over her face. ‘For God’s sake!’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘I worked so hard to make sure she didn’t make these mistakes.’
‘She’ll be OK, I’ll look after her.’ Maggie moved forward, pulled Elaine towards her and wrapped her arms around her body. Thought of all the times she didn’t stop by, call in, check to make sure she was all right, just presumed that she was because Elaine had her husband to support her, she was lucky, when Maggie had been left all alone.
How could she have been so thoughtless, so blind?
But at least she could help now.
‘I’ll look after Emma,’ she said again. ‘I’m her godmother, after all.’
Elaine kissed Maggie on her left cheek, whispered a thank you into her ear.
‘I just need to know Emma will be looked after,’ she said.
Maggie rubbed Elaine’s shoulders, wanted to say yes, of course, she’ll be well looked after, but her mind wandered to her son Lee.
How could she look after a fourteen-year-old girl, even if it was only for a couple of weeks? Just a year younger than Lee was the last time Maggie had seen him. Maggie had been deemed an unfit, unstable mother. Was she really capable of caring for Emma? What would she do if Arthur came after her?
‘Emma’s always loved you, Maggie,’ Elaine said, reading the landlady’s mind.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Maggie said, choking out the words, hoping it would be sooner rather than later that Elaine came back and took Emma away with her, somewhere else, somewhere safe. At the same time, she thought of the infant Emma, the balled-up fists, red face, puckered rosebud mouth, her heart swelling at the memory of the baby.
Elaine stepped back, smiled and her frown lines disappeared, leaving her face looking eerily calm. ‘That’s how I know Emma will be safe with you, Maggie. Because you’re kind. You’ve always been so kind.’
‘You’re leaving now?’ Maggie said, ‘Right now? Are you sure you’ll be all right? Won’t you let me take you to wherever you’re going?’
Elaine shook her head. ‘There’s no need,’ she said, and swayed slightly on her feet.
‘God, Elaine, I’m so sorry,’ Maggie said, slumping into the chair by the table, thinking of how she should have guessed what Arthur had been doing to Elaine. She hung her head in shame. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault, Maggie. None of this is.’ Elaine’s voice sounded high and strained, a manic look replacing the calm on her face. ‘I need to go now.’
‘It’s not your fault either, Elaine.’ Maggie’s voice was heavy with sympathy, and with guilt. ‘Please don’t blame yourself.’
‘Don’t you worry about me,’ Elaine said, tears in her eyes. ‘I’ll be fine. I know what I have to do to make things right.’
Elaine unbolted the door, walked out into an August night only just beginning to darken.
‘I’ll tell Emma you’ll see her soon. I won’t let Arthur come near her,’ Maggie said before the door closed on her friend. ‘I’ll tell her that you’ll come back and take her with you. I’ll keep her safe until then.’
Elaine gave Maggie a nod, only the good side of her face on display. Then she turned and walked away.
And if Maggie had known what was going to happen she would have followed, chased Elaine and held her back, kept her safe in the pub forever.
But she didn’t know.
She let the woman walk away.
And Maggie returned to the bar, to the bottle of brandy. She didn’t think of Elaine, of where she would go, what plans might be running through her head, what might happen to her. No. She drank the brandy in greedy, self-pitying gulps and thought of Emma, dreading having to tell the girl what her father had done, how Elaine had gone away. How Emma would be looked after by Maggie from now on, when both knew she was in no fit state to parent.
Maggie
Saturday, 18th November, 2017
The rest of the story played on in Maggie’s head as she walked across the dark fields back towards the pub, the words she didn’t get a chance to say to Nuala. Nuala had wanted to know what happened seven years ago to make James flee the village and never come back, Hopefully Maggie had told Nuala enough to make sure she never came back either, enough so that she had closure and would leave the past, and Emma, well alone.
What was the woman doing now? She’d be nearly on the M5 with any luck, nearly out of the West Country, out of their lives for good.
Maggie shone her torch straight ahead, but the bulb was weak, battery running low, and the beam of light was barely stronger than that from the moon.
Maggie could hear the blast of the shotgun further up the hill, echoed by that bloody crow scarer in the fields below.
Why had she insisted on walking back home at night in the cold, clouds threatening rain, men with loaded guns stalking rabbits nearby? She thought of Emma, of James, Nuala, what happened to Lois, what happened to Elaine and knew she had made the right call, that it was best to keep Nuala away from Emma. There had been something about Nuala that hadn’t sat well with Maggie, something off balance.
Maggie pulled her coat around her, felt the bulge of the flask in her pocket and pulled it out, took a sip to stave off the cold, just a sip.
At least she had her boots on, their thick-soled grip keeping her upright, but her knees were killing her. And she could barely see a thing with that pathetic torch. She heard another gunshot, envious of the lampers and their search lights.
Twice her face was scratched by a bramble, their thorns tough and dry now the berries were gone. They stuck out like thin arms from the hedges, grappling to get hold of anything in their way, including the pockmarked, scarred face of a woman in her mid-sixties.
She was out of breath by the time she reached the second field, the pull of her lungs the loudest noise in the field by far, save for the gunshot on the hills
. She almost took a detour then, through the land that used to be hers. Before she sold it to Arthur. Before she invested the money into the fast-sinking pub. She knew the lay of the land even better than the scar on her face, the instinctive knowledge from having grown up here.
But the detour would take her through the land beside Arthur’s house. She would have to walk past the barn, and she didn’t want to do that, not with the memory of what had happened inside it seven years ago.
She slipped out the flask again and took a nip. Just to warm her up.
The colours were muted by the moonlight, different shades of shadow. The ground began to rise and she knew, on the other side of the hillock, was the stile that led to the final field.
Not long to go now, thank God.
How far left had Nuala Greene to go, until she reached London, the house by the park she’d told Maggie about? Would she stay away, for good?
Another gun blasted, followed by cheers and the bark of a dog. Maggie hoped the poor rabbit had been shot cleanly, died quickly, rather than waiting for the dog to shake it dead.
She walked on, used to the cold now, used to the dark, her mind on Nuala.
Maybe she would walk a bit further. Take another detour. There was no rush to go home if the pub was closed for the night. No rush to see Emma.
To explain.
What was she going to say?
She thought of the bar, of the money, the land, the phone call from Emma’s father yesterday lunchtime. ‘What choice do you have?’ ringing fresh in her ears.
Did she have to tell Emma anything? Why worry her? Why talk of money, failure, loss?
Why tell her, at all, about James?
Never Go There Page 17