Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Brandy!’ Slumped in a winged armchair Zadok bellowed the order.

  ‘Would you care for a bite of supper?’

  ‘Tcha!’ Zadok swallowed the golden amber liquid in one gulp, thrusting the glass forward for more.

  It was rare for Zadok to come here, usually the boot was on a very different foot, with an invitation coming via his wife so meetings took place in his own house, with no trace of suspicion adhering to them; why then was tonight different? Handing over the brandy the rouged mouth smiled but asked no question.

  ‘Bloody woman!’ Zadok snatched at the glass. ‘Why the hell do I put up with her? Never let nobody but yourself do it . . .’

  Do what? Lowered eyelids hid the interest flaring in violet depths.

  ‘. . . but did her take notice?’ Brandy tipped into his mouth choked the words. ‘Like bloody hell her did!’

  He was speaking of his wife, that drab mousy woman he treated like a slave. Emerald following diamond, each ring was slipped from long fingers and laid carelessly on a side table, but beneath a seeming indifference Zadok’s companion listened intently.

  ‘Was baking, her said . . .’ the empty glass shot forward, ‘hands covered wi’ pastry, her said, so her sends the other one.’

  The lovely mouth smiled sympathetically as the heavily chased glass was filled, a little more added to it than before. ‘Was that really so bad, she was cooking something especially delicious for you, I’m sure.’

  Half the drink swallowed, Zadok’s eyes shrank into folds of fat.

  ‘Cooking! I don’t bloody keep her to cook, I keeps her to do as I say, but seems that be too much for her pathetic brain to comprehend! But things’ll be altered from now on . . .’

  Words dredging up from the bottom of the glass sent a shiver through the slender body.

  ‘. . . things’ll be altered now her’s seen what be done when Zadok Minch be crossed!’

  ‘I’m sure they will. Now relax while I pour us both a drink.’

  Helped to feet already unsteady from the effects of brandy, Zadok weaved his way across the tastefully furnished room, dropping heavily on a cream-silk-covered bed.

  ‘Twenty-five poundsh,’ he slurred, accepting his refilled glass, ‘twenty-five poundsh gone . . . gone . . . all the fault of that shtupid bloody woman!’

  Sliding free several pins, shaking the luxurious folds of thick brown hair to tumble over shapely shoulders, the elegant figure smiled while keeping a distance from the grabbing hands. Zadok Minch would soon be in a deep alcoholic sleep but before he was . . .

  ‘Twenty-five pounds is a lot of money . . . did your wife lose it?’

  ‘Shent the other one . . . let her bring it.’

  That was no answer and soon the man would be incapable of any answer, and tomorrow . . . Zadok Minch would be sober tomorrow.

  Fingers toying with each lilac ribbon, sliding them seductively one by long slow one, dusky violet eyes giving their specific invitation, the housecoat whispered to the floor, settling like a pool on the cream carpet.

  ‘She should not have done that.’ The silk gown rustled downward, Zadok’s eyes devouring the slender figure remaining just beyond his reach.

  Smoky with pretended desire, violet eyes stroked the whiskered face, long fingers sliding enticingly over prettily rounded hips.

  ‘Poor Zadok,’ the mouth pouted, full and luscious as ripe fruit, ‘what can I do to make you forget how much you have lost?’

  It would take only moments. Hair shimmering in the light of candles, hips swaying seductively, the smiling figure glided one step nearer, a slow voluptuous movement that had Zadok groaning for its promised rapture. But he would not get it yet, first he must fume a little more over his lost money.

  ‘Losht . . . twenty-five poundsh . . .’ Podgy fingers clutched as the reached-for temptation was denied him and Zadok allowed himself to be pressed back on the pillows.

  Bent over the alcohol-dazed man, thick folds of intoxicatingly perfumed hair brushing his face, long-fingered hands worked quickly, stripping the heavy figure of its clothing, while all the time the bewitching music of whispered words added to Zadok’s self-pity.

  ‘So much money, could your wife have taken . . .’

  ‘Not her!’ Zadok’s hands reached out, the desire robbing him of his senses. ‘That bloody fogger took my poundsh . . . brought me a lad . . . a sweet young . . .’

  The rest was lost as Zadok buried his mouth in the glistening mound, but his words were not needed.

  ‘a lad . . . sweet . . . young’

  They burned in the mind. There were to be no more . . . he had vowed he wanted only one lover, only one to share his games . . . So much for promises. Thoughts like acid flowed hot in every beautiful inch. Zadok Minch could lie to a fogger, he could cheat the nailers and beat his mousy downtrodden wife . . . he could also miscalculate! He thought himself believed when saying there were no others . . .

  ‘sweet . . . young’

  The words scorched like a brand. But that was a lie. All pretence gone from the violet eyes they stared cold and deadly as a cobra at the nuzzling head. But Zadok Minch had reckoned himself short. As fingers reached for the hardened flesh throbbing against the nail master’s paunch, Zadok’s lover smiled viciously. He had played his old game again, that was a mistake!

  Hands to each side of the rotund face lifted it, the lovely eyes gleaming hard as Zadok’s passion. Then, a smile still playing on the full lips, the slender body rolled beneath the one stretched on the bed. Zadok liked his games but he could find himself playing with more than soft flesh and a willing body!

  His whole body tense with rage and disgust Gideon looked at the boy’s back. Long red weals curved across it, open and bloody . . . the marks of a whip. The lad had been horsewhipped!

  ‘Lord, Gideon . . . who could ’ave done such a thing . . . an’ to nobbut a lad?’

  ‘Heaven knows,’ Gideon breathed his answer. ‘But not all of its angels will prevent my killing the swine should I find out.’

  Helping the boy back into his shirt the gatekeeper’s hands were gentle but his voice was firm. ‘That can wait, first them wounds need tending afore they turns bad ways.’

  Gideon acknowledged the advice. Rust from the iron tubes and dirt from the ground the lad had fallen on would soon have those cuts infected, blood poisoning was too dangerous to take chances with.

  ‘I’ll get the doctor . . .’

  In the uncertain light of the lantern the old man’s head shook. ‘No, lad, there be no better salve for any lad’s wounds than a mother’s love; he needs to be wi’ Livvy. Take ’im to where her be, her’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Don’t let ’im take me back . . . please, Gran’father Bates, don’t let ’im take me back to that ’ouse!’

  ‘’Ave no fear, young ’un,’ the old man smiled at the small cringing figure, ‘Gideon Newell won’t give you to none saving your own mother, an’ if I be any judge her’ll fight the devil ’isself afore ever her lets you go again.’

  Draping his own jacket carefully over the lacerated shoulders, Gideon echoed the older man. ‘You have my word, Joseph, I will hand you to your parents and no one else.’

  The frightened eyes had looked again to the gatekeeper before finally accepting the words as truth. Careful not to cause the lad more pain than he had to, Gideon carried him, his footsteps slow. Who was it the lad dreaded being given to . . . and the other one, Livvy’s daughter, was she in the same hands?

  ‘This don’t be the way to my ’ouse!’

  Pausing, the small body shivering in his arms, Gideon looked directly into the frightened face lit now only by moonlight. ‘Joseph,’ he said quietly, ‘what was said back there at the tube works was the truth, you need be in no fear of me, but if you wish I will return you to Mr Bates and fetch your mother and father to you there.’

  For a moment the silence of the heath was Gideon’s only answer, then the boy shook his head. ‘I trusts you, mister. Gran’father Bates says
you be all right so that’s enough for me.’

  Away in the darkness a pinprick of light marked Brook Cottage.

  Watching it as they drew steadily nearer Gideon’s mouth tightened. The lad trusted him, took his word as truth, but not so Saran Chandler!

  Sat beside the bed Luke had willingly given for her son to sleep in, Livvy’s tears ran fast down her gaunt cheeks. ‘Who could ’ave done this to my lad, who could ’ave beaten ’im so hard that a mother’s arms be too much forrim to bear?’

  ‘He’ll heal.’ Edward’s own tears glistened. ‘We must thank the Lord we ’ave ’im safe.’

  ‘I does thank the Lord but still I asks Him why . . . why did He let my lad suffer so, and what of my little wench, why is her not sent back . . . what good can it do heaven to ’ave children treated so, to see them whipped like animals!’

  ‘Shhh, wench.’ Edward tried to comfort the distraught woman. ‘It ain’t for we to question the ways o’ the Lord.’

  Livvy’s head turned to face her husband and behind the tears shimmered an anger so strong it caught at his throat.

  ‘That be what has been shoved at me since I were no age, drilled into me by priest and parent! “Place no question afore the Lord, seek not the manner of His doings.” Well, this I do question and condemn; if God can allow the innocent to be done by as my lad has been done by, then He no longer be God to me!’

  Downstairs Saran caught the sound of Livvy’s distress. ‘It is understandable,’ she murmured, ‘what woman would not decry heaven, seeing her son beaten half to death.’

  ‘Whoever did that to a boy deserves the hangman’s noose.’ Jairus Ensell caught her hands. ‘Should he say who it was took him from the workhouse or remember where it was he went, you will let me know? Scum like that have no right to walk the earth, and if I find who it is they will not walk free another day.’

  ‘Of course I will tell you.’

  ‘And you, my love,’ he lifted her hands to his mouth, kissing each in turn, ‘try not to worry about the other child, I’m sure she is safe somewhere, and given time she will be found. I know I will never give up the search until she also is reunited with her parents.’

  ‘Thank you, Jairus, I know Livvy and Edward are grateful for what you do. It helps them bear their pain having you search for Martha.’

  ‘Anything, my dearest,’ he kissed her hands again, ‘anything at all I might help with, then please ask.’

  The scullery door opening, Saran drew her hands free, her cheeks reddening as Luke walked into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve brought enough coals in for the night.’ He addressed Saran while the very briefest of nods acknowledged Jairus Ensell’s presence.

  ‘I will be going, my dear. Please give my regards to the Elwells.’

  ‘Would you care to see Joseph? He may be awake.’

  ‘No,’ Jairus answered quickly. ‘Better not to disturb the boy . . . though some other time . . .’

  Conscious of Luke’s presence, Saran took a step towards the door, embarrassed by the likelihood of Jairus taking her hands again.

  ‘Of course,’ she smiled, ‘Livvy and her family will be happy for you to visit.’

  Smiling down at her Jairus Ensell’s eyes gleamed. ‘And you, my love, will you be happy for me to visit?’

  Smarmy bastard! Luke stood staring into the fire. He had helped Edward Elwell size up the barn intended for a warehouse and they had walked together through the rooms of the adjacent house. It all fitted so well . . . except for Luke Hipton! There would be no place for him where Jairus Ensell was; he must look for another home!

  Her prayers said, Saran lay with her eyes wide to the darkness. Beyond the house the cry of a barn owl punctured the silence. She had answered the knock that had sounded on the door earlier in the evening, she was the one who had opened it. It had seemed an age that Gideon Newell had stared into her eyes, his own burning deep into her, but in reality it could only have been seconds, then he had asked if Livvy and Edward were still at Brook Cottage. Nodding her answer she had stood aside for him to enter, feeling every fibre of her tingle as his arm touched against hers. Then her own wild churning had been brushed aside as Livvy had cried out.

  He had been so gentle. Turning her face to the moon-silvered window, she allowed the image of those strong features to float in her mind, her heart tripping at what she saw in the deeply blue eyes. He had held the boy in his arms while the near-fainting Livvy was supported by an equally emotional husband.

  The boy had come to the Coronet Tube Works probably to ask Grandfather Bates where he could find his parents. That was all the explanation Gideon had given. Staring into the shadows veiling her room she remembered the quick leap of her own senses, the innate feeling that he was not saying all he knew, that he would leave it for the boy himself to tell; but the tattered bloodstained shirt revealed when Edward gently removed Gideon Newell’s jacket from his son’s shoulders spoke eloquently enough.

  The memory of Livvy’s scream as she saw the open weals criss-crossing the boy’s back seemed to spring live from the shadowed walls and Saran relived that moment of horror.

  She had moved to take the coat from Edward meaning to hand it, together with her thanks, to the man stood beside her in the kitchen but as her glance fell on the raw, still-bleeding flesh she had heard herself gasp while the world had become a whirling vortex threatening to suck her into its wild black heart. Then she had been in Gideon Newell’s arms, held so close against his chest the beat of his heart thumped above the noise in her head; but through it had run a whisper – like a thread holding everything together it had woven into her consciousness – ‘My love, my love . . .’

  Then Luke had come from the scullery. Sensible, levelheaded Luke, whose command of the situation marked him for the man he would become. It was he had reached a bowl from the dresser, he had filled it with water from the kettle, while she . . . ? Beneath the covering darkness a flush rose to her cheeks; she had not wanted to move, not wanted to leave the comfort of those arms, to break from the hold which seemed to say it would protect her from anything life could throw at her. And Luke? He had smiled.

  A smile for Gideon Newell holding her, a frown for Jairus Ensell kissing her hands! What was it caused so wide a difference in his feelings for those men? There had been no harsh words on Jairus’s part yet Luke’s animosity towards him was almost tangible.

  Jairus was to be her husband. How would Luke react once her wedding was performed? He loved her too, loved her as much as Jairus, but did he love her enough to stay on at Brook Cottage?

  Her eyelids lowering, Saran knew in her heart the answer was no. Where would he go? As sleep claimed her she saw in the mirror of her mind the boy smile at a tall clean-shaven man whose vivid eyes stared directly at her; the eyes of Gideon Newell.

  She had cleaned the room. The wife of Zadok Minch plaited her grey hair, securing the ends with a thin ribbon. She had gathered the broken pieces of her beloved Staffordshire figurines, the only things of her mother’s that Zadok had allowed her to keep, her tears adding a sheen to the beautiful colours. They were beyond repair, smashed almost beyond recognition by his stamping foot. They had been the only things left which she loved; the only things in this entire house which held any meaning for her, and now they were gone.

  Lowering slowly to her knees beside a bed Zadok had not come to since the first week of their marriage she clasped her hands, palms together.

  ‘Forgive me, Lord,’ she murmured softly, ‘I know what sits in my heart is wrong, that I must come to stand before Your throne and account for it, but I cannot . . .’ Choking on a sob she tightened her hands as from a room along the corridor the deep rumbling laugh of her husband, followed by a higher-pitched giggle of the prostitute she had been forced to invite to her home, came uncaringly to her ears. ‘It is too much,’ she whispered into her fingers, ‘I cannot go on . . . it is too much . . . Vengeance belongs to You but I shall take it . . . I shall repay what he has done. I want no forgive
ness, Lord . . .’

  As laughter floated again on the stillness she rose from her knees.

  ‘One day,’ she murmured as the laughter rippled again into the room, ‘one day you will pay the price, Zadok!’

  26

  ‘That there be a drop o’ good wheat wine, good as any I’ve ever tasted and I’ve supped a few tankards in me time.’ Ezekiel Millward smiled at the young woman handing him a loaf of bread. ‘Should you be serving that at them there celebrations there’ll be one or two sore heads the next day.’

  The crowning of the new queen! She had given no thought to that.

  Hearing her say as much the old maltster smiled. ‘I knows it seems a mighty way off as yet but time be in the habit o’ passin’ an’ afore you knows it be gone. I tell you, wench, there’ll be folk dancin’ in the streets on that day an’ every one of ’em will be wantin’ to drink the ’ealth of her set to reign over the land. If an old man can give advice then mine be this, them butts we’ve filled . . . set ’em aside ’til the time be near then tek one an’ give a taste to the landlords of the George and the White Horse; be my reckoning they’ll buy the rest an’ pay the price you asks.’

  ‘Sell the wheat wine?’

  ‘Don’t be surprised, wench, old Ezekiel would tell you nowt but truth. That there wine be good enough for any rich man’s cellar, though it be over-strong for womenfolk.’

  ‘You really think it would sell?’

  Breathing in the appetising smell of the warm loaf the old man nodded. ‘Them folk o’ your’n learned you well, you ’ave the touch with the wine as you ’ave with the bread . . . use it, wench, for it’ll bring you a good livin’.’

  ‘If the wine is good then it is your doing, you taught me as much as my grandfather . . . but why have you never sold any?’

  The old man’s smile died and it was several moments before his answer came. ‘When the good Lord took my wife He took my ’eart. I did my work for I had to, but I knew no pleasure in it so would do no more than I must, then you come along; you, wench, ’ave lightened the sorrow I thought would never leave, you ’ave put a smile back in my life an’ for that I blesses you and says take what me and your grandfather ’ave given in the way o’ skill and build yourself a life that will take you from the smoke and grime o’ this town.’