Through Glass Eyes

by Margaret Muir

James was also going to miss them. He and Freddie Farnley had shared a common interest in motor cars and birds. They often chatted together on deck or in the cigar room, taking the opportunity to escape from the ladies. It was during one of their conversations that James discovered that the family now lived in a modest mansion on the cliff-top near Bexhill-on-Sea, a distance of only twenty miles or so from Tunbridge Wells. As he told his mother later, he felt confident Lord Farnley would be paying Captain Wainwright a visit when he returned to England.

  Before the ship sailed from Port Said, Lucy handed the purser three letters for posting, the first addressed to Captain S. Wainwright, the second to Mrs Alice Bottomley at Honeysuckle Cottages, and the third, a letter from James to Miss Grace Fothergill.

  Only one week after Lucy and James left for India, Stanley Crowther started making a nuisance of himself again. The first time Alice saw him, she was pushing the pram to the village. Not immediately realizing who he was, she smiled when he tipped his cap and wished her good morning. That was a mistake. She noticed him twice more that day: outside the green-grocer’s shop, and at the post office. She wondered if it was just coincidence but when she saw him trailing behind her as she walked home up the hill, she knew that wasn’t the case.

  After unlocking the door and pushing the pram safely inside, she confronted him. Standing in the lane, arms folded across her chest, she waited until he was within in a few yards of her before she spoke. ‘Are you following me?’ she demanded.

  His mouth dropped open. ‘Who me?’

  ‘Yes, you! I know what you’re like, but you’ll not bother me the way you did my mother. You can sling your hook, Stanley Crowther!’

  ‘Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say, is it?’

  ‘Well if you don’t go I’ll get the police on you.’

  ‘Whatever for? I am just taking a stroll up a country lane.’

  ‘You’re a liar and a con-man and I’m not joking.’

  ‘And what do you think the police are going to do?’ He laughed. ‘I’ll tell them I was out walking when all of sudden you come out from the house, large as life and started shouting abuse at me. Not very lady-like, do you think?’

  Alice knew if she argued till doomsday she could not win. Exasperated, she shook her head, turned her back on him and walked into the house. Once inside she slammed the door as hard as she could. The sudden bang startled the baby. Lifting Rachel from the pram, she heard Crowther calling.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. You might be in a better mood then!’

  The following morning Alice tried to ignore his plaintive cries but they went on and on. When at last she thought he had gone and it was safe to go outside, she wandered into the garden. Intending to scare her, he popped up from behind the wall.

  ‘You’re mad!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t you ever give up?’

  ‘Free country! No law says I can’t sit out here and watch the birds.’

  At first, though his constant visits were annoying, Alice tried to be philosophical. She told herself he was quite harmless. His actions were those of a child – immature and attention-seeking. She thought it a shame he had nothing better to do with his life, and a shame the spell he spent in the army had taught him nothing.

  But it was not long before his nocturnal visits started affecting her. Apart from being cold and lonely, the nights were long, and darkness fell early – too early for Alice to go to bed and impossible to sleep with all his taunts and noises. But darkness brought with it increased abuse. Drunken abuse. Foul language. And threats which would grow to a crescendo culminating in a shower of rocks thrown against the front door, or the clatter of the milk churn kicked around the garden.

  Unfortunately, when he had disappeared and the taunts finally subsided, the slightest sound unsettled Alice. Her imagination began to play unkind tricks. The branches moving outside the window became hands, night clouds – faces, the chicken’s squawk – a scream, shadows from the fire – ghostly figures creeping around the walls.

  Alice knew from what she had been told that Crowther’s actions were a repeat performance of the treatment he had given her mother, and every morning she told herself she was being stupid for allowing herself to be affected. But she also knew her defences were being worn down – and Crowther probably sensed it too. How much longer could she hang on? Not much, she thought. Certainly not until Lucy and James got back.

  ‘Take your foot out of the damn door!’ Alice screamed.

  ‘Don’t be like that. Let me in. I only want a cuppa and a chat.’

  ‘I said get out! Go away! I don’t want you here!’

  ‘Strikes me you must be lonely, left all alone!’

  Alice wasn’t going to let go of the door until it was shut and the bolt shot. She was angry with herself for opening it. Crowther had been cunning and had fooled her. This time he had approached the cottage silently, knocked quietly, like a child, making her think it was someone else. ‘Damn you!’ she cried.

  He laughed and pushed his knee between the door and jamb breaking her grip on the handle. The door banged against the wall.

  ‘It does open after all!’ he sneered.

  ‘Get out of my house! You bastard.’

  ‘Such words in front of the baby. Tut-tut!’ He put his forefinger to his lips. ‘Shhh!’

  Alice had had enough. After swinging at him with both fists, her knee came up hard and hit him hard in the crotch.

  He dropped towards her, his weight pressing on her shoulders. ‘You bitch,’ he breathed.

  ‘Get out!’ she screamed, fighting to free herself and lift her knee again. But this time she couldn’t reach.

  ‘Bitch!’ he yelled grabbing her neck with one hand and throwing a punch with the other. She could feel the moisture running down her cheek. It was not tears.

  ‘Get out!’ she cried, her voice weak and trembling.

  As Crowther let her go, she slid down the wall to the floor. She had no energy left.

  ‘Bloody bitch!’ he said. ‘I’ll get you!’

  Bombay was a bustling city, far busier than Lucy could ever have imagined. The dusty thoroughfares were crammed with all manner of people and vehicles, all competing in a cacophony of curses, cries and car horns.

  The hotel, which the firm of solicitors had booked for Lucy and her son, was just the opposite. It was spotlessly clean, spacious and the atmosphere was relaxing. The only sounds in the reception area were the echo of footsteps across the marble floor and the gentle murmur of quiet conversations.

  The letter, handed to Lucy on a silver tray, bore an English stamp. She was thrilled to receive it. In the envelope were two sheets of lightly perfumed writing paper. After reading both pages slowly, she turned back to the first page and started again.

  ‘Did Alice tell you she was planning to go back to nursing while we were away?’ she asked.

  James shook his head, as he scooped the skin from the top of his coffee.

  ‘She says she is staying with her mother in Ilkley and intends to go back to full-time work at the hospital and to live-in at the nurses’ quarters.’ Lucy raised her eyebrows. ‘It appears Rachel will be living with Pansy and Miss Pugh on a permanent basis.’ Lucy looked at James. ‘How strange!’

  ‘Did she give a reason?’

  ‘No. Apart from the fact she says she enjoys working.’ Lucy finished the letter and handed it to James.

  After reading it he frowned. ‘She says she’s asked Mr Fothergill and Grace to keep an eye on the cottages and feed the animals while we are away. That’s odd too, and it means Grace will be kept busy because Mr Fothergill won’t be going far on that bad leg of his.’ Folding the letter, he handed it back to his mother. Gazing up at the fan rotating slowly above his head, he watched it for while as it wobbled in its housing. ‘What would you say if I went back to England? Would you be all right on your own?’

  ‘Do you think it necessary?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘I do.’

  The following morning they to
ok a taxi to the Bombay shipping offices where James secured a berth on a cargo vessel sailing for London the following week. At the post office, Lucy sent a telegram to Wainwright’s friends in Nashik accepting their offer of hospitality.

  Three days later, a chauffeur-driven car collected her from the hotel for the drive to Nashik. The journey was long, exhausting and intolerably bumpy and it took most of the day. But, as Wainwright had promised, the cool mountain air was a welcome change from the city. It was also sweetly perfumed with masses of flowers which bloomed in profusion on every hillside. Lucy thought the area delightful and accepted an invitation to stay with the elderly couple for two or three weeks. She hoped when she returned to Bombay, there would be news about the properties which she had offered for sale.

  Beneath a yellowed canopy of mosquito netting and with the smell of Indian spices wafting in his nose, James lay naked on the hotel bed, counting the hours until his sailing day. He thought mostly about Grace and about seeing her again. He wondered about Mr Fothergill and the farm and hoped the weather in Yorkshire had improved. He thought about Alice and wondered why she had suddenly decided to leave the cottage and return to work. He wondered if it had anything to do with his growing attraction for Grace Fothergill. No doubt he would find out when he got home.

  Six weeks later, James stood in the front room of his cottage staring at the empty shelves in his glass cabinet. All Edward’s fine ornaments had gone. The marks in the dust were the only clue as to what had been there. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said quietly.

  Grace sniffed and wiped her face. ‘When I came down to feed the chickens one morning, I noticed the door to Alice’s cottage was wide open. I thought maybe she’d come back to get some things, but when I went in, I found the place in a mess. Pots and pans were scattered on the floor, the cupboard doors were hanging off, every one of the dresser drawers was smashed and the curtains ripped from the rails. I drove straight to the police station and got the constable. We went through the two other cottages together and they were in the same state. I couldn’t tell the policeman what was missing but I knew you had lots of lovely things and they were all gone. I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Dad and I stayed here a couple of nights but after that we had to go back to the farm. Dad said whoever did it got what he wanted and probably wouldn’t come back.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, James.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘I wish Alice had been here, then this might never have happened.’

  James looked at the list he had made of the items missing from the three cottages. But it was not comprehensive. There were probably many more things than he could remember. He was angry with himself. He should have shown more interest in Edward’s things, but trinkets and ornaments had never been important to him.

  Constable Merrifield was sympathetic but could offer little hope the items would be recovered. ‘Quite a haul!’ he said. ‘What surprised me,’ he added, ‘there was no sign of a forced entry. Looks like the burglar had a key. You don’t think it could be anyone you know do you?’

  James shook his head.

  ‘Hopefully some of the items will turn up. From what you say, whoever took them knew they were worth a few quid otherwise they’d have been smashed.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to get them back?’ James asked.

  ‘I suggest you scout round the markets. And take a look in the antique shops. You never know, you might strike it lucky.’

  Chapter 22

  Decisions

  ‘Pull up a chair, lad,’ Mr. Fothergill said. ‘Try some soup. It’s not bad.’

  James smiled at Grace. It smelled good.

  ‘You said once you were looking at getting a few acres,’ the farmer said. ‘Putting a few cows on it. Were you serious?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘But your mother said you were going to go to college, become a doctor, or teacher, or some such sort.’

  James sighed. ‘I thought so too a few years ago and I think Mum still has her hopes. She says I’ve been wasting my time since I got left the money. Maybe she’s right.’

  ‘Well I don’t want to know your business, but if you’re interested in doing a bit of farming, I’ve been thinking of putting part of the farm up for sale.’

  Grace pushed the stool towards her father and lifted his foot onto it.

  ‘I ain’t getting any younger and this damn leg don’t work so good since I took that tumble in the snow. Me and the missus hoped the boys would take over when we was too old, but the war put paid to that. So now it’s just me and Grace.’

  Looking straight at his daughter, the farmer spoke as though she was not in the room. ‘She’s a good lass but she’s been wearing herself out lately minding me and the dairy. I can sit all right and do the milking but she’s got to fetch the beasts in and fill the racks with hay. Then there’s the horses, the cart, delivering the milk, and the churns to clean. When I asked her about ploughing the paddocks for this year’s crop, she was ready to take off. Get a job in the city.’

  ‘I was tired, Dad. That was all. You know I wouldn’t leave you.’

  ‘Aye, I know you wouldn’t, lass,’ he said, turning to James. ‘But I got to be honest with myself. It can’t go on like this forever. Different if she was a farmer’s wife, but she ain’t and it’s no life for a girl on her own.’ He noticed the look exchanged between Grace and James. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting you two get married, but I do have a proposition.’

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ James said.

  ‘The farm’s getting run down because the pair of us is trying to do everything by hand. Now you’re pretty good with mechanical stuff, you’ve even got Grace driving the car like she’s some racing driver.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘You buy some land off me, lad, and with the money, I’ll rebuild the dairy, install some mechanical machines for milking and I’ll buy a truck for delivering the cream. Aye, and a tractor, if funds will run to it. What do you think?’

  ‘I like the sound of it but I’ll have to give it a bit of thought.’

  The farmer beckoned his daughter. ‘Come here, lass.’

  Grace walked over to her father and rested her hand on his shoulder. Sliding his arm around her waist he looked into her face. ‘Me and Grace can make the place run, but we’re fighting an uphill battle and losing. But,’ he said, ‘with a bit of careful planning, we can make this farm into a good paying concern. I’ve done me sums. We can run more livestock. Buy a new bull to improve the line. Increase the volume of milk. And our Grace is pretty good at making cheeses, if she’s given the time. Think about it serious, lad. But,’ he said, as he leaned across the table to James, ‘if you decide, you’ve got to remember this, farming’s not for a week or two, or even a season or two, it’s for life. But if you give it a go and we work it right, we can both make a decent living. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Colonel Winters?’

  ‘Welcome, Mrs Oldfield. I am very pleased to meet you.’ The colonel’s accent was English southern counties, the sincerity of his greeting, Yorkshire West Riding. He was smartly dressed in a dark pin-striped suit which would have been more appropriate in Bradford than Bombay. He was at least seventy-five years of age, wore gold-rimmed spectacles and carried a walking cane with an ivory handle. Taking Lucy’s arm, the retired colonel escorted her up the stone steps into a rather austere sitting-room. Though the entrance to the building had been light and airy, this room was heavy with mahogany and the worn leather bindings of innumerable books. Having invited her to sit down, he settled himself on the settee opposite. A marble-topped coffee table separated them. After barely raising his hand more than a few inches, a waiter appeared and bowed.

  ‘Lemonade for the lady and the usual for myself.’

  As they waited for the drinks to arrive, Lucy looked around. The fronds of a tall palm tree growing from an earthenware pot curled over at the ceiling. Beside the ornamental fireplace were two stools made from the fee
t of an elephant, the steel-grey skin was coarse and wrinkled, the enormous toenails – highly polished. Above the mantelpiece, a huge pair of tusks hung like crossed swords. Lucy wondered if they were from the same animal.

  ‘I did not know ladies were allowed into gentlemen’s clubs,’ she said.

  The colonel smiled. ‘We maintain our inner sanctum but we like to provide an area for members’ guests, most particularly the ladies.’ He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. ‘If truth be told, most of the members would give their right arm to be accompanied by a lovely lady like yourself, though if you asked them outright they would probably argue they are quite content without the company of the fairer sex.’

  Lucy sipped her lemonade. It was freshly squeezed and cool.

  ‘But tell me. How is Captain Wainwright? Haven't seen the blackguard in fifteen or twenty years. And that lovely wife of his, Lydia. I heard she was not well.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that Lydia passed away after a long illness. But Captain Wainwright is very well and sends his regards.’

  ‘Must look him up when I am in England. Must go back to the old Dart sometime. It has no doubt changed since 1910.’

  Lucy smiled politely.

  Colonel Winters clicked his fingers again. This time the servant appeared with a box of cigars. Before selecting one, Colonel Winters turned to Lucy. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Please go ahead.’

  A swarthy hand held the flame steady, while the colonel sucked on his cigar. The blue smoke had the distinctive smell of first-class railway compartments, P&O smoking-rooms and gentlemen’s clubs.

  ‘Now,’ he said, shuffling in his seat. ‘You said when you phoned you had a problem.’

  Feeling a little embarrassed, Lucy returned her glass to the table, sat upright and broached the subject. ‘I don’t know if you can help me, Colonel, but you are the only person I can turn to.’

  The gentleman relaxed into the leather chair and listened as Lucy explained her problem which related to the sale of a large Victorian house left to her by Edward Carrington.