Secrets

by Lesley Pearse

  She pulled on her clothes, and stood for a moment looking out of the window, frightened to leave in the dark, yet even more frightened to stay. She had no money, nowhere to go, she wasn’t even sure she could find her way to Tunbridge Wells. But being alone out in the countryside had to be safer than here.

  Chapter Six

  Adele shivered and buttoned up her cardigan as she hurried away up the drive towards the gate. It was twenty past two by the kitchen clock while she was helping herself to the remains of a loaf, a chunk of cheese and two apples which she put in a paper bag. The back door had squeaked as she opened it to leave, and she’d been frightened it might have woken someone, but as she glanced back at The Firs it was still in darkness except for the dim glow of the night light on the landing.

  It wasn’t cold, in fact the night air felt as balmy as a summer’s day, but she guessed it was shock and fear that were making her shiver, and as she hurried up the dark lane she began crying again.

  How could a man who said he loved her do such a thing? She didn’t think she’d ever feel clean again, or trust anyone either. But even worse was that she felt it was her fault. Surely she should have heard warning bells that first time he tried to kiss her?

  Another wave of nausea overcame her, and she had to stop for a moment and take deep breaths. In the light of what had just happened she could see now that all that flattery, cuddles and kisses were leading up to this. If she hadn’t been so desperate for someone to care about her, she might have questioned why a man like him would single a plain girl like her out for attention and private lessons.

  Scary as it was walking along narrow lanes overhung with trees, she found she could see well enough once her eyes had adjusted to the dark. Big tree trunks appeared to have ghoulish faces and she kept hearing strange rustling sounds in the hedgerows. On hearing a low bellowing sound she ran like the wind, only to realize later it was just a cow. Yet her disgust and anger with Mr Makepeace, and her fright at being all alone in dark country lanes, did serve to focus her mind. Going to London wasn’t an option; if she ran to Mrs Patterson she would only end up in another children’s home, perhaps even worse than The Firs. The only place she could go was to Rye to find her grandparents.

  Their address, Curlew Cottage, Winchelsea Beach, near Rye had remained locked in her head ever since she read that old letter to her mother. Shortly after arriving at The Firs she had looked at a map in the schoolroom to see where it was, and she’d discovered that if she drew a line between London and Rye, Tunbridge Wells was right in the middle. She even remembered the names of two towns on the way there, Lamberhurst and Hawkhurst. If she could just find her way to the first of these towns, she’d be on the right road.

  She knew of course there was no certainty her grandparents still lived there, or were even still alive. If they were there they might not want to help her, of course. But it was worth a try. If that failed she would have to take her chances with the police.

  Soon after the first rays of morning light came into the sky Adele came to a signpost that told her she had only six more miles to go to Lamberhurst, and she almost began crying again with relief.

  Much earlier she’d come to a crossroads and the signpost had confused her completely, because it said Lamberhurst lay to her right, and Tunbridge Wells to her left. She had believed she had to go through Tunbridge Wells first, and she had stood at that sign for some time wondering which way was the right one. In the end she plumped for the right fork, and hoped for the best. It was such a lonely winding road with barely any houses that she’d become convinced she was going round in circles.

  So far not one car had passed her, but she supposed that was because it was Sunday. She had planned to hide if she heard a car coming because she was afraid any adult seeing her walking in the dark would stop and ask where she was going. She couldn’t trust any adult now. They might be as bad as Mr Makepeace, and even if they weren’t, they might insist on taking her back to The Firs.

  The daylight and the conviction she really was on the right road cheered Adele considerably although she was getting very tired. As she continued to walk she made up her mind she would keep on going until noon, then find a nice spot in a field to have a little rest. She felt sure she could reach Rye by the evening.

  Church bells ringing later in the morning told Adele it was eleven o’clock, but she was so tired and footsore she could barely put one foot in front of the other. It was also very hot, without a cloud in the sky, and she was finding the countryside too big, wild and lonely for her taste.

  She had expected it to be like Hampstead Heath, where she’d been twice on Sunday school picnics – peaceful, sweet-smelling, yet with enough people around to feel safe. But the trees out here were more like forests, with thick undergrowth that gave her the idea bad men could be lying in wait there to jump out and attack her. Fields might look lovely from a distance, but in reality they were full of cow pats, mud, flies and stinging nettles.

  Earlier she’d seen a footpath across the fields to Lamberhurst, and it was obvious from the well-worn ground that it was a short cut. But she cut her leg on some barbed wire by a stile, and the next field she had to cross was full of cows. As soon as they saw her they began walking menacingly towards her; as she ran for her life she accidentally slipped in a sloppy cow pat, and now she stank of it.

  She doubted she’d seen more than six people since daybreak, and then only from a distance. There were hardly any houses either, and although the idea of having a rest in a lush green field had seemed so attractive earlier on, she didn’t believe she would ever find one that looked safe and clean.

  Her paper bag of food had split in her sweaty hands a couple of hours earlier, so she’d had to eat the bread and cheese, and one of the apples, even though she didn’t feel hungry. But she’d no sooner eaten it than she was sick again, and she still felt bad now: her tummy hurt and she had a headache.

  It was only sheer determination that stopped her sitting down by the road and sobbing her heart out. She knew she had to keep going a little longer. She began counting her steps, telling herself that when she’d taken five thousand she could stop.

  When she’d counted three thousand she knew she couldn’t go any further, and seeing a gate into a field where the grass looked soft, with no cow pats, she climbed over it. She sat down and took her shoes off, only to find a darn in the heel of her sock had given her a blister, and that was enough to make her cry again. She folded her cardigan up for a pillow and lay down.

  Cold made her wake later, and to her dismay the sun was right down, so she must have been asleep for hours. When she tried to get up she saw her legs and feet were burnt by the sun, as were her face and forearms, and she was so stiff she could barely move. She couldn’t stay where she was for it was too cold and she needed a drink, so she put her socks and shoes back on, and hobbled painfully to the gate and the road beyond.

  She tried to pluck up courage to knock on the door of each cottage she passed and ask for a glass of water, but she was afraid of the questions the people would ask. She finally saw a horse trough with a tap at one end and got a drink just before the sun slipped down over a hill, and when she saw a barn with its door wide open, she slipped in, knowing she could go no further in the dark.

  The night seemed endless. There was straw to lie on, but it prickled her burnt skin, and the rustling noises of mice, and perhaps rats too, frightened her. With only her cardigan to wrap around her she was shivering, yet her burnt face, arms and legs were red-hot. It was a relief finally to see the first light of dawn, so she put her shoes back on and hobbled back to the road.

  There were more cars and trucks on the road now it was Monday, but though she looked hopefully at every one that drove past, no one stopped to offer her a lift. At times she wondered if she was on the right road, but at last she saw a signpost which said ‘Hawkhurst 4 miles.’ Soon she wasn’t alone on the road. She saw men in working clothes on bicycles, and several women with baskets hurrying alon
g. Later there were children too, shouting and laughing as they made their way to school, and as she got closer to Hawkhurst a bus passed her with every seat taken.

  The shops were just opening in the little town, and the sight and smell of freshly baked bread in a baker’s shop brought on hunger pains. She stood for a few minutes by the open door, tempted to rush in, snatch up something to eat and run off again. But she knew she couldn’t run anywhere, not with such sore feet, and the man in the shop was watching her as if he knew what she had in mind. So she limped on, past a couple of tramps sitting on a low wall, and she thought they looked as hungry and despondent as she was.

  It struck her that if she wasn’t tired, hungry and homeless she might have found Hawkhurst a good place to explore. It was very old and pretty, the cottage gardens full of flowers, and many of the shops had bow windows like she’d seen on calendars and chocolate boxes.

  Since arriving at The Firs she hadn’t been out once, and she had missed the hustle and bustle of Euston and King’s Cross, the shops, cinemas and hundreds of people. Hawkhurst wasn’t bustling, but there were enough people around to make her feel less frightened and alone. She stopped for a moment to look in a toy-shop window, marvelling at the china dolls, miniature tea sets, toy trains and lead soldiers. She remembered sadly how Pamela never got tired of looking at such things, and how she liked to pretend they had a big bag of money and could buy anything they liked. If Adele had a bag of money now she’d go into the café across the street and order bacon and eggs, a pile of hot buttered toast and a cup of tea. Then she’d ask someone if there was a bus to Rye so she didn’t have to walk another step.

  Just outside Hawkhurst a signpost told her it was eighteen miles to Rye, and with that she couldn’t contain her tears any longer as she’d thought she was nearly there. It was impossible to walk so far.

  There was a small stream by the side of the road, so she sat down on the bank, took off her socks and shoes and soaked her feet in the cool water, wondering what she should do. Her feet looked as bad as they felt, so swollen that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get her shoes back on, and there were blisters on each toe, both heels and on the ball of each foot. Her face was very sore from the sunburn too, and now the sun was getting hot again she knew it would be real agony before long.

  ‘You’ve come this far, you’ve got to go on,’ she said to herself. ‘If you go to the police now they’ll just take you back.’

  The mere thought of Mr Makepeace’s face was enough to bring back a vestige of the determination she’d felt the previous day. When her feet became numb with the cold water, she dampened her socks and put them back on, then her shoes. When she stood up they didn’t feel quite so bad.

  She had managed to walk another three miles when she began to feel really ill. Her head was throbbing, her vision seemed distorted, and every bit of her ached. A signpost said it was another fifteen miles, and she leaned against it because she was sure that if she didn’t prop herself up on something she’d fall over.

  Ahead of her was a steep hill, the road shimmering in a heat haze, and she knew she hadn’t got the strength to walk up it in the hot sun. It was so tempting just to slump down under the nearest tree, but she had a feeling that if she did, she’d never be able to get up again.

  Hearing the sound of an engine, she looked round. An old truck was coming towards her, and realizing she really had no choice any more, she waved weakly at it.

  It came to a rattling halt beside her and she saw that the driver was an old man in a greasy-looking cap. ‘You want a lift?’ he called out.

  ‘Yes please,’ she said, and forced herself to let go of the signpost and stagger towards him. ‘Are you going to Rye?’

  ‘That I am,’ he said. ‘Get in.’

  Adele felt too ill even to consider that here was a piece of good fortune at last. She braced herself for questions from the old man, but he didn’t ask any, although perhaps that was just because he knew he couldn’t be heard over the noise of the truck.

  She supposed she must have dozed off because one moment they were miles from anywhere, and the next they were coming into a little town that looked older than any place she’d ever seen before. She guessed by the sun that it was around five or six o’clock.

  ‘Where you goin’?’ the old man shouted to her.

  ‘Winchelsea Beach,’ she managed to get out, surprised that she even remembered the address any longer.

  ‘Well, you’d better get out here then,’ he said, and stopped the truck at a junction. He pointed a grubby finger straight ahead. ‘It’s a couple of miles that way.’

  Adele thanked him and got out, waiting until he’d gone on round the corner before wearily crossing the road.

  Everything looked so small, tiny little terraced houses jammed up against one another, their front doors opening on to the street. Leading off the main street were very narrow lanes, with even older houses, winding up to a church on the top of the hill.

  It didn’t look very inviting, The terrace Adele passed by looked every bit as dilapidated as the worst areas around King’s Cross. There were a couple of very old ladies in black sitting on stools by their front doors, and they looked curiously at her as she limped on by.

  The road, which seemed to have almost as many pubs as houses, wound round to a quay. Adele paused there, for ill and exhausted as she was, she felt cheered by the view. Many boats were moored up. In the main they were small fishing boats with furled sails, but a few larger vessels were being loaded or unloaded too. She couldn’t actually see the sea, but she knew it couldn’t be far away for she could smell it and taste the salt on her lips. A dozen or so fishermen were sitting on wooden crates mending nets, other men in cloth caps were standing around smoking. She guessed they were out of work as they had the same dejected stance she’d grown used to seeing during the last year in London.

  The road continued over a bridge across the river and there was a windmill to her right. Shortly after crossing the bridge she saw a signpost marked with Winchelsea straight on and Rye harbour to her left. From there on there were no further houses, only flat marshland, with another river running close by the road.

  Turning round to look back at Rye, Adele thought how pretty it looked. It was built on the only hill in miles of flat marshland. The houses were all crammed up together, so many different shapes, colours and sizes, and the church at the top towered over it like an ancient castle.

  As she turned to go on, in the far distance was another smaller twin of Rye, also perched on a hill. Yet in between, apart from a ruined castle to her left, there was nothing else for as far as she could see but grass with grazing sheep and a few trees distorted by the wind.

  With each step Adele felt worse. Her head ached, she was alternately hot and cold, and her feet hurt so much she felt that she might collapse at any moment. She tried very hard not to think of what would become of her if her grandparents weren’t there, and instead just concentrated on dragging herself forward.

  After what seemed like miles, the road swept round to her right and up into the small town on the hill which had been ahead for so long. But there was also an unmade-up road going off to her left towards the sea, and she thought that might very well be the way to Winchelsea Beach.

  She hesitated for some few minutes, afraid to choose either road in case it was the wrong one, then in the distance she spotted a man on a bicycle coming down from the houses up on the hill.

  He was old, wearing strange checked knickerbockers and a battered hat which was tied under his chin. As he came closer Adele waved to him to slow down.

  ‘You want something, miss?’ he said, stopping by putting his feet down rather than using his brakes.

  ‘Do you know Curlew Cottage at Winchelsea Beach?’ she asked.

  ‘Why are you looking for it?’ he asked, his bright blue eyes boring into her.

  Adele was puzzled by that question. ‘Because I want to see Mr and Mrs Harris who live there,’ she replied.


  ‘You won’t see Mr Harris, he’s been dead ten years or more,’ the man said with a smirk. He had a very peculiar way of speaking, nothing like the way people spoke in London.

  ‘What about Mrs Harris?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s there still. But she don’t like visitors.’

  Adele’s heart sank. ‘But I’ve come all the way from London,’ she said.

  He made an odd kind of cackle, Adele didn’t know if it was a laugh or not. ‘Then you’d better go right back there,’ he said. ‘Children round here think she’s a witch.’

  Adele’s heart sank even further and she swayed on her feet with exhaustion and disappointment. ‘Just tell me which way to go,’ she said in little more than a whisper. ‘I can’t go back until I see her.’

  ‘It’s up that track,’ he said, and with that he swung his leg over the crossbar of his bike and took off.

  Quite suddenly Adele felt utterly terrified. This place was barren, nothing but scrubby grass and sheep for miles. Rye was away on the horizon, even the other village up on the hill had to be at least half a mile away. A keen wind was blowing, and it whipped through her dress, tangled her hair and made her eyes and sunburn smart. She knew the sea was in front of her, yet she couldn’t actually see it, any more than she could see the birds which were making eerie shrieking noises.

  It had none of the soft beauty of the countryside she’d seen earlier in the day. Even the sheep who grazed here didn’t look like other sheep she’d seen, they were thin and small with black faces. It was a hard landscape, as flat as a pancake, and she thought it was as arid as a desert. Anyone who chose to live here would have to be much the same, and with a sinking heart she knew she wasn’t going to find a storybook grandmother who would welcome her with open arms.