A car door slammed below Delia’s window, interrupting her train of thought and she jumped out of bed to look outside, just in time to see the Rolls with her stony-faced father at the wheel. The car pulled away from the front steps and glided along the drive towards the main road. The white sports car was still there and the man was looking very red in the face, whether or not it was from the strong sunshine or embarrassment at seeing her father, Delia wasn’t sure.
She blew her nose loudly, splashed water on her face in the adjoining bathroom, then went straight to her wardrobe and changed out of her school uniform, pulling on a yellow t-shirt and blue jeans. A glance in the mirror revealed, unusually for her, a pale, pasty complexion and red, puffy eyes. Delia was repeatedly told she was going to be as attractive as Margaret but unfortunately, she didn’t look too good at the moment. But that wasn’t important now. She hurried downstairs and without hesitation opened the library door. If Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain … and all that.
Margaret was standing at the French windows talking crossly into the telephone and didn’t notice Delia behind her. Delia saw a newspaper, with what looked like a picture of her mother on the front, protruding from the wastepaper basket. She moved closer and picked it up. She looked. She blinked. She looked again. They must have got it wrong. This couldn’t be her mother with this … this Simon Parfitt. She looked in horror at the man standing with her mother. It was the man outside in the sports car … but it was another woman. It had to be. Her mother would never act in such a disgusting way, outside for all to see, although for decency’s sake her private parts had been covered over by black boxes. It was completely unbelievable. The man was obviously naked too and if that wasn’t enough the pair were obviously in the act of …. Delia’s mouth went dry. Although sickened and revolted she still turned the page and her mouth dropped open. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind what was going on. Picture after picture of the couple passionately kissing and touching each other, first rolling on the ground, bare bodies entwined and then standing by a tree, the man’s hands all over her mother’s body.
It became startlingly clear to Delia why her father had been so angry. It was pornographic, sickening, shocking, sordid. Other people did things like this; other women, with no morals, no children, or husband to embarrass. Not Delia’s mother! Not the Duchess of Canleigh! Delia’s head spun. She looked at her mother who had her back to her and was still talking rapidly into the telephone. Delia was in total shock and Margaret’s next words did nothing to lessen her pain.
“That’s not a problem, Amelia,” Margaret was saying. “My bank account is extremely healthy at the moment but I intend to get a lot more out of the bastard. He owes me and he needn’t think he can kick me out without a penny. If I don’t get what I deserve he’ll regret it. The press will have a field day.”
Delia’s loud sob made Margaret turn. With a look of annoyance, she murmured something into the receiver and put the telephone down before walking across the room to remove the newspaper from Delia’s hands and placing it back in the wastepaper basket.
“That’s where that belongs,” she said firmly. “I was just about to come and talk to you actually.”
Delia stared wildly at her mother. “You’re repulsive,” she hissed. “Daddy was right. You’re a tramp!”
Margaret’s pent-up anger found release. Her hand shot out and slapped Delia smartly across the cheek. “You will never, ever talk to me like that again. Whatever I have done I am still your mother.”
“Margaret! How dare you take out your anger on Delia! Leave the child alone!”
Delia turned quickly to see the Dowager standing in the library doorway. She looked unusually fragile but still commanded respect. Relieved to have support, Delia flung herself at her grandmother, sobbing and holding a hand to her sore cheek. Anne put her arm around Delia in a gesture of protection.
“My son has informed me that you have been told to leave Canleigh, Margaret. I suggest you go without further ado. You have done enough damage to this family and I flatly refuse to allow you to upset Delia any further.”
Feeling particularly light headed with exhaustion, Margaret smiled cheerfully at her mother-in-law. For part of the journey back to Canleigh from London, she had been reluctant to relinquish her status but the more Simon talked about the possibility of her finally leaving Charles, the more attractive it sounded and she could feel a huge weight of depression lifting off her shoulders. Real freedom beckoned, a freedom where she could go where she liked, do what she liked, with no-one to answer to. No more kowtowing to Charles and his snobby old mother and being careful how her actions were interpreted. No more Canleigh, no more ghastly Blairness. Bugger being a Duchess. To hell with it all. What did it really matter as long as she had enough cash to do what she wanted? And she was going to get it. Charles would have to pay up and pay up well, whatever he might say. Although she had spent a great deal of her monthly allowance, she had also been careful to tuck a good portion away so with a seriously healthy amount in her account could certainly afford decent legal assistance. She would fight him all the way and she would be true to her word. If her plans failed and he didn’t fund her future lifestyle … well. Margaret smiled again and her eyes sparkled. In a short while, she was going to walk out of Canleigh forever. Suddenly she couldn’t wait.
“Don’t you worry, Anne. I am leaving as fast as I can pack a bag. I know you will be really pleased to finally be shot of me and believe me, I will be more than happy never to see you again either … and pull yourself together, Delia. You’re making a dreadful mess of your face.”
Margaret walked onto the terrace and ground her cigarette out with her shoe, knowing how much it would annoy Anne. She turned back into the room and looked mockingly at her mother-in-law who was still holding a sobbing Delia.
“If I were you, I would have a serious word with your precious son to make sure he provides me with a somewhat comfortable future if he knows what’s good for him.”
“You are a scheming, poisonous woman, Margaret. He will be well rid of you. We all will,” replied Anne, badly wanting to say more but reining herself in in front of Delia.
“Where … where are you going to go?” asked Delia tremulously.
“Barbados. The flight leaves this evening from Heathrow so we have to get back to London as fast as possible.”
Delia looked at her mother with shock. “We? . . . You’re not going with that dreadful man, are you? The one … the one outside.”
“Oh, for goodness sake grow up Delia. What if I am? For virtually all my adult life I’ve had to endure the restrictions your father has imposed on me in some form or another. Well, not anymore. Life is for living and I’m going to do just that. Simon is good fun and I have no intention of giving him up just yet.”
A car horn could be heard outside, honking loudly, penetrating the hostile stillness in the room.
“That will be Simon now. I have to throw some things together quickly. We don’t want to miss the plane.”
Margaret laughed gaily and left the room, slamming the door shut behind her although her stiletto heels could be heard clicking on the stone floor of the entrance hall as she headed to the front door, no doubt to tell her lover what was happening.
Anne guided Delia outside, desperate to get some fresh air. There was a wooden bench further along the south terrace and they sat down, Anne furious at her daughter-in-law, and Delia in shock. They both sat perfectly still, not saying a word.
Delia couldn’t believe what had happened. The situation was out of control and she didn’t know which way to turn, wanting, on one hand, to hang on to her mother to prevent her leaving and on the other, to rush outside and carry out a murderous attack on the person who was so blithely ruining their lives. She seethed. It was him, that odious man, that creature who had just had the gall to sully her home with his very being. He was the one to blame. He was the culprit, the seducer of women, the perpetrator of the crime.
&nbs
p; Delia’s heart beat faster and faster, her anger mounting dramatically and she sensed it was only moments before there would be an uncontrollable urge to lash out. Thrusting her hands into the pockets of her jeans she stood up abruptly.
“Where are you going, Delia? Please stay here with me until they leave,” urged Granny worriedly.
For once Delia ignored her, so furious she was unable to speak. She walked back into the library and walked around the room quickly, trying to cool her temper. On the second turn, she realised there were voices in the hall. Gingerly opening the library door, she saw her mother disappearing upstairs with that awful man behind her. Her mother was giggling like a silly schoolgirl while his hands wandered suggestively over her hips.
Delia gritted her teeth and wrinkled her nose. The detestable smell of Simon Parfitt's sweet, sickly expensive aftershave mingled strongly with the beeswax polish used earlier by the staff on cleaning duties. Delia walked across the entrance hall, opened the front door and looked outside. Her gaze immediately took in the sports car standing insultingly on the gravel only a few feet away. Delia could contain her anger no longer. She marched straight back into the library and grabbed the paperknife from her father’s desk. It was extremely sharp and Delia had been warned more than once not to touch it.
“Delia! What do you think you are doing,” cried Granny, stepping into the library from the terrace with a horrified look on her face.
Delia ignored her. Stopping only to grab a heavy paperweight, she ran back into the entrance hall and opened the front door, the hot sun almost blinding her as she hurtled down the short flight of stone steps.
“You bastard … you bastard!” she cried as the tears flowed freely down her face. “You shan’t take my mother away! I won’t let you!”
She brandished the paperknife, forcing it with all her might through the thick rubber tyres of the car, the first hissing so loudly it caused her to collapse on the ground, frightening her out of her wits. Regaining her equilibrium Delia furiously stabbed at the remaining three tyres, ceremoniously rounding off her act of vandalism by hurling the paperweight through the windscreen, shattering the glass to smithereens.
In a state of near collapse, Delia turned to look uncaringly at the appalled stares of her mother, Simon and Anne who alerted by the noise had gathered at the front door. Behind them stood the Hardy’s and Susan Armitage, aghast but not unsurprised at Lady Delia’s reaction to the situation.
Delia looked straight at Simon. “I hate you, you bastard!” she screamed, her eyes wild and her face contorted with pain and anguish. “I wish you were dead!”
CHAPTER 9
YORKSHIRE – JUNE 1964
Gripping the paperknife in her hand, Delia sprinted down the hill away from the house, flashing past the stable block on her left and then along the path around the lake, finally collapsing with exhaustion on the grass bank. Although the tears streamed unhindered down her flushed cheeks, she bubbled with laughter, feeling an incredible sense of exhilaration. Her actions had released feelings deep within her that she hadn’t experienced before. Wielding a knife had given her real power. Turning it over in her hand she remembered how it felt, plunging it through the tyres. Would it feel the same through human flesh? Simon Parfitt's in particular. She imagined the blood as she twisted the knife into his stomach, the look of fear in his eyes as he died painfully. She smiled.
A young female Mallard, quacking furiously, waddled hopefully across the grass towards her, poking Delia’s foot with its beak.
“I’m sorry,” murmured Delia, “but you are hardly starving at this time of the year,” she said, feeling a little guilty. Never did she venture down to the lake without food for the ducks and swans, a habit started when she was a toddler on walks with Granny.
Five more ducks emerged from the bushes, all noisily demanding food as they too made their way towards her. A swan, busily fishing in the middle of the lake, raised its head gracefully and looked to see what was causing such a disturbance in such a normally tranquil place. The first duck moved closer, determined to see what Delia had in her hand.
“Nothing to eat I’m afraid,” Delia said, sorry for the creature who looked at the knife in confusion. Delia looked at it too and her sense of exhilaration was replaced by revulsion at the weapon in her hand. She raised her arm high above her head and tossed it into the water as far as she was able, the splash creating a sea of tiny ripples and major panic amongst the birdlife, the ducks making a hasty retreat back to the safety of the shrubbery and the swan moving further up the lake.
Exhilaration was swiftly replaced by deep sadness. Holding her head in her hands, she let out an anguished cry of deep, dark pain, and let the tears flow. She cried and cried, as she had never cried in her life before and by the time the flood had trickled to a steady flow a nagging headache had developed, holding promise of becoming excruciatingly painful and leaving her feeling drained of emotion and desperately tired. She had also eaten nothing since her minuscule breakfast many hours ago and her stomach was rumbling ominously.
Her surroundings were calm and peaceful but did nothing to dispel her inner turmoil. She looked dispassionately at the beauty around her. The vast gardens of Canleigh created a wonderful spectacle at any time of the year but now, in the beautiful month of June, it was at the height of its splendour. The magnificent rhododendrons and azaleas were out in full bloom creating a fairytale setting in deep shades of red, virgin white, flaming orange, pretty pinks and the wild blue-purple. Pine trees towered above, releasing their heady perfume. Tulip trees, scarlet Oaks, silver Limes, Japanese Maples … Delia loved them all but especially the grand Weeping willow near the lake. It was so pretty with its long, trailing branches sweeping down into the water.
Scenes from the past darted through Delia’s mind. Walks around the lake with Father, along with Richard and Vicky, when they were little. Father would be laughing and teasing and Richard, striding manfully between them, would ask question after question, his thirst for knowledge always intense, driving them all to distraction in his quest to know the answers to everything. Delia and Vicky collected the pretty rhododendron petals to scatter over their heads, pretending it was wedding confetti. Granny sometimes joined them, pointing out the species of the birds, trees and plants. She knew the names of everything and was a huge and valuable source of information. Darling Granny. She was going to be so disappointed in Delia now. So gracious and dignified in everything she did, even in disapproval or emotion and she expected the same in her family. How often had she lectured Delia and her siblings on the need for keeping up appearances and never showing emotion in public? “Pretend you are the Queen or the Queen Mother,” she would say. “They are the epitome of how to behave. Gracious and dignified at all times. Remember that and you will never let down the Canleigh name.”
Delia shifted her position on the grass. Having rested all her weight on her left leg, it had gone to sleep and was completely numb. She rubbed it hard and grimaced as the feeling began to return, along with the discomfort of pins and needles. She wondered if she should return to the house and apologise for her behaviour, if only to placate Granny, whose face had been a picture of dismay when Delia had glanced up from punishing Parfitt’s tyres. It was Granny’s expression, more than anything, which had made Delia run and triumph was slowly replaced by shame. Tears ran down her cheeks again and she sniffed loudly, wishing she was carrying a handkerchief and delving into the pockets of her jeans, was relieved to find an old, crumpled one, which would have to do.
She blew her nose as her tears subsided and a feeling of utter tiredness engulfed her. She laid back on the grass in the sunshine and closed her sore, damp eyes. The peace of her surroundings gradually calmed her and she drifted off into a fitful sleep, only waking when a duck, ever hopeful that Delia might just have some food with her, quaked loudly in her ear.
Delia raised her head, the excruciating pain of a headache making her feel sick and giddy. The duck returned to the water, quacking
madly, annoyed not to have been offered any titbits. For a second Delia couldn’t think why she was down at the lake and then, with appalling clarity, she remembered what had occurred and how angry she was with her parents.
She groaned. Nothing would be the same again. Any semblance of family unity had exploded into oblivion now Mother, who was nothing but a common tart, was leaving Canleigh forever, without a kind word for her, only annoyance and a slap on the face. Delia rubbed the place where her mother had hit her. It was still sore.
Her thoughts turned to her father, annoyed because she had committed the unholy sin of running in the house and rushing off to speak to Richard and Vicky without seeking her out first. Surely he could have spent a few moments with her instead of tossing her aside as if she were the least important and insignificant of his children.
All respect for her parents had dissolved in a short space of an hour. Delia would never forgive either of them for the hurt they had caused her, tearing her apart at the seams. She craved for someone to talk to; to lean on, tell her that all would be well in the end … life hadn’t really lost its meaning. If only she could talk to Philip. She looked at her watch with surprise. It was nearly five o’clock. It had been around eleven thirty when she had dashed down to the lake. Where had the time gone and why hadn’t anyone come looking for her? It just went to show no-one cared enough, although it was surprising Granny hadn’t sent out a search party. Although, as Delia thought about it, she had looked quite frail and ill standing in the doorway of the hall watching Delia with such dismay. She had been clutching onto Mrs. Hardy too, Delia remembered and Daddy had said she was going to stay at the Hall for a few days. Delia’s heart lurched sickeningly. She sincerely hoped Granny wasn’t going to be ill.
But why hadn’t the Hardy’s sent someone to look for her? Unless they thought she was at Tangles or the Dower House, both of which she used for refuge whenever she felt the need for succour and support, and she was definitely in need of that now. She was exceedingly hungry, weak, tired and becoming chilly now the sun had disappeared behind a mass of grey clouds.
Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) Page 14