Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  It was not until three weeks after Thomas Paul’s birth, with Martha at last on the slow road to recovery, that Kitty realized with something of a pang that her own eighteenth birthday had passed, unmarked and unnoticed, the week before. It being no one’s fault but her own – she having neglected to mention her birthday to anyone in the house – she could hardly complain, and anyway any self-pity she might have been tempted to indulge in was completely dispelled by the arrival on the following Sunday afternoon of her unchangingly unpredictable brother with a gift of a shining jet necklace with matching earrings and brooch and a bunch of flowers large enough to have decked the whole of Mersea church.

  ‘Matt! They’re lovely! Thank you so much!’ She held the necklace to her throat, turned this way and that, admiring her reflection in the glass front of the kitchen dresser. Judiciously she had refrained from enquiring as to the source of the gift.

  He grinned, pleased. ‘Come on – put them on – let’s show these bumpkin islanders what a pretty girl looks like—’

  They strolled together down the lane towards the village. It was a perfect day; for once there was a mild land-breeze that, soft with the fragrances of early summer, lacked the chill knife-edge of the easterlies. It sighed, softly, through the tall, waving grasses that rippled in the sunshine as if mimicking in play the movement of the distant waters on the calm estuary. A lapwing lifted almost from their feet as they passed, and wheeled, calling eerily, above their heads, whilst high above it a lark spilled her golden torrent of song through the sunlit air to the earth below. They stopped for a moment and leaned upon a ramshackle gate, looking in companionable silence across the glimmering waters to the mainland with its picturesque lifts of tree-mantled land and its tall church spires. ‘Well—’ Matt turned from the view, restless as always, and leaned on his elbows, his back to the gate, one heel hooked into the bars, his dark head tilted to the sun. ‘When are you going to change your silly mind and come to London with me, moi owd Kitty?’

  She glanced at him in surprise. It had been some time since he had mentioned any thought of leaving. She had over the past months assumed that he had become as settled in Colchester as she was on the island. He moved his head, avoiding her eyes. She frowned a little, feeling a small stirring of unease, noting for the first time a certain tension about him, a strained tautness about his face that was at odds with his usual easy laughter. She shook her head. ‘I—’

  ‘Oh, all right, all right, I was only joking.’ He turned again, drummed his fists lightly against the wood of the gate, his voice, his stance, everything about him, suddenly too careless, too studiedly casual.

  She watched him for a moment longer. She knew him too well. ‘Matt? Is something wrong? I mean—’ All the old anxieties that had been lying in ambush, camouflaged by distance and by a certain amount of deliberate self-deception, sprang to life, full blown. ‘You aren’t in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘Oh, for Gawd’s sake!’ The edgy exasperation that underlay his grin was ill-concealed and did little to reassure her. ‘’Course not! Hey – by the way’ – the words came in the same breath, blatantly changing the course of the conversation – ‘tell me something – you been having any trouble with that Amos? Heard a few things about him the other day – he bothers you, you let me know, eh?’

  She blinked at him abstractedly, half her attention still taken by her concern for him. ‘What? What do you mean? What have you heard?’

  ‘Oh, come on – you must know?’

  ‘Know what? Who have you been talking to?’ He had her attention now.

  ‘On the way back from here last time I stopped off at The Rose – you know, the big place at Peldon, t’other side of the Strood?’

  ‘I know it.’ Strangely she found her throat to be dry. She cleared it, nervously.

  ‘There’s a girl there – Maisie Biggs – nice little thing. Well, we got talking and I told her where you worked.’ He lifted his eyebrows, whistled a little, shook the fingers of his right hand as if they had been burned. ‘By, did she have some things to say about Amos Isherwood!’

  ‘Things? What sort of things?’ Somewhere in the pit of her stomach a small twinge of acid discomfort had flared, unpleasantly bringing saliva to her mouth.

  He turned and looked at her, dawning surprise in his eyes. ‘You mean you really don’t know? The lad’s a regular tomcat by all accounts. Why do you think there’s not a village girl’ll work for the Isherwoods? If there was one who wanted to, her family wouldn’t let her, so says Maisie. The last girl – the one before you – he got her in the family way and they threw her out. And it isn’t the first time, neither, why – that snooty old wife of his—’

  Kitty’s hands, that had been lightly clasped on top of the gate, were clamped now to the splintered wood as if to life itself. She heard her brother’s voice, struggled to follow the words, as if from a great distance: ‘—laughing stock of the island, Amos Isherwood and his rutting ways – got his comeuppance when Maria’s father escorted him to church with a shotgun—’

  It was as if she had known. Had he laughed, she found herself wondering somewhere in a small, agonizingly cool corner of her mind, to find her so easy?

  ‘—and according to Maisie there’s dark alleys in Mersea that the lad wouldn’t venture down alone. Half the fathers and brothers on the island are after him—’

  His voice went on, but she heard no more. Cold waves of humiliation washed through her, making the blood rush in her ears so that her brother’s voice rose and fell eerily, blinding her eyes so that the sunlight that had been so golden and welcome a short while before seemed harsh and hurtful.

  ‘Gawd, Kit,’ Matt said, heedlessly relishing the joke of his knowing more about her employers than she did, ‘did you really not know? I know you said the islanders were close-mouthed, but this really takes the biscuit – Here—!’ He stopped suddenly, frowning. ‘He hasn’t tried anything on, has he? I mean to say—’

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to cover her ears and her eyes and never to hear or see anything ever again. She stood, calm and still, even, faintly, smiled. ‘Not a thing. I suppose I can’t be his type.’

  Easily reassured, he shrugged. ‘’Course he’s a good-looking cove, I’ll grant him that. Not surprising they fall for him like skittles, eh?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ With an effort of will that all but drained her she pushed herself away from the support of the gate. ‘Matt – do you mind if we go back? I don’t like to leave Martha for too long.’ To her own utter astonishment her voice was perfectly cool and normal.

  He shrugged. ‘We can go back now if you like.’ He hesitated, and though Kitty was now too distracted to notice it, the too-confident over-brightness was back in his voice: ‘’S’a matter of fact I wouldn’t mind getting back a bit earlyish myself.’ He winked, swaggering. ‘Got to see a man about a dog.’

  They turned back towards the house. Kitty walked in silence. Now that her shocked brain had started to work again she realized that she did not for a moment doubt Matt’s gossip. Nor was she stupid enough for one moment to doubt the relevance of the story to herself. It was as if some small part of her had known, had always known, that her flawed lover with his sapphire eyes and hard, knowing hands would in the end prove himself the punishment for her sin. As she walked collectedly beside her brother, in the small, stubborn corner of her soul that had remained untouched by Amos Isherwood’s charm, she cringed, flinching from her own folly and self-delusion. A handsome face, an ounce of attention, and she had come running like a bitch to snapped fingers. The warm tide of humiliation rose higher. Then, somewhere in the recesses of her aching heart a very small voice asked – perhaps not? Perhaps, with me, it was different?

  Then why, asked the plangent voice of common sense, tart with the relief of release after so long in thrall, has he never once told you he loved you? For you well know he never has—

  Her brother seemed entirely unaware of her abstracted silence. He c
hattered on – only vaguely did she register what he was talking about – a mysterious deal, the big one – enough to set them up – take them at last to London—

  ‘Yes,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Why not London? A new start entirely—’

  ‘Dead right.’ He was pleased. ‘Just give me another couple of days. Then I’ll let you know – well, here we are—’ They paused at the gate, in the shadow of the cottage in which lived Amos and Maria. In the tiny garden little Joseph played, hunkered to the ground, his attention entirely taken by the heap of stones around which his solemn private game was centred. Kitty averted her eyes sharply from his fair, sun-gilt head.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Her brother had spoken, but she had not caught the words.

  Grinning he jerked his head towards the cottage. ‘I said keep a weather eye out for matey there.’ He raised the dark, wing-like eyebrows that were so much like her own. ‘I’d hate to have to sort him out. He’s bigger than me.’

  Stiff-lipped, she laughed with him. ‘I will,’ she said.

  * * *

  She faced Amos in the barn, their barn – and who else’s? she had wondered bitterly as she had walked across the fields – quiet-voiced, all her pain in her eyes and in the bleak line of her mouth. ‘Amos – why didn’t you tell me about – about the others? About the girl you got pregnant?’

  He moved towards her, easy penitence in the summer-bright face, confidence in his reaching hands. ‘Kitty—’

  She stepped away from him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked again, flatly.

  He half turned from her, his shoulders lifting in a shrug of quick exasperation. ‘What would have been the point?’ The soft mouth was petulant.

  At least, to her relief, he had not bothered to deny or try to excuse. She looked at him for a long, bitter moment, words teeming in her head, refusing utterly to order themselves and come to her tongue. Blindly and without speaking she turned from him.

  The hand that seized her arm was not gentle. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’

  With a violence born of self-disgust at the effect that his touch still had upon her she wrenched herself free. ‘Leave me alone.’ But, strong as she was she was no match for muscles toughened by fishing and farming. He held her with ease. Incensed, she fought him as he pulled her to him; and felt how her struggles inflamed him. ‘Amos, let me go! Let – me – go!’

  He turned her to him, his hands brutal on her shoulders, shaking her, then holding her, arms pinned to her side, helpless. ‘Tell me, Kitty – pretty Kitty—’ he said, his voice low and trembling with that familiar excitement that communicated itself to her through his touch like the running line of flame that devours a fuse, ‘tell me why you are so angry? What has changed? What has truly changed?’

  She trembled in his hands, speechless.

  ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? You’ve discovered that you were not the first. Is that so terrible? Did I ever pretend otherwise?’ He shook her again, like a boneless doll. ‘Did I?’

  Bleakly she shook her head.

  ‘Then why the commotion? For God’s sake – I have a wife and children – you knew that – yet it did not stop you—’

  This time in fury she did manage to pull away from him. Her smoothly sun-browned face was poppy bright. She turned from him. ‘You never loved me.’

  ‘I never said I did.’ It was wholly reasonable, wholly hurtful.

  She flung around to face him. ‘How many others have there been? How many others like me, who were weak enough, stupid enough to be gulled into playing your games with you—?’

  His shrug was totally dismissive.

  Her spoiled love was like a sickness, tainting body and mind; she was powerless against its malice. ‘I hate you!’ she spat.

  Had he not laughed she might never have touched him again. But he did and, goaded beyond control, the tinder of her temper flaring balefully, she hit him with every ounce of strength she possessed powering the blow. Her knuckles, more by luck than intent, caught his mouth and she felt sharp pain as his teeth caught her skin, saw the bright blood blossom upon his lips. With a grunt of anger he reached for her, pinning her arms to her sides, trapping her struggling body with his own. Locked so together they tumbled, thrashing, to the dusty floor, Kitty taking the brunt of the fall with Amos’ not inconsiderable weight on top of her. He took no notice of her cry of genuine pain. With savage, excited strength he pinned her beneath him, stopping her cries with his mouth. She tasted his blood, salt and warm. Felt the treachery of her own body, knew herself even now to be incapable of denying him this final act of aggression and submission. She stilled, panting. He lifted his head, looking at her with triumph in his eyes. ‘I thought I loved you,’ she said, softly and scornfully, ‘I really believed I loved you.’

  He took her then, with self-absorbed force, and she neither resisted his violence nor denied him his pleasure. Instead she rode herself upon the thrusting waves of his strength in an abandonment to lust that was all that was left of her blighted love. When he had done she very composedly stood, wiping his blood from her mouth with her handkerchief, re-coiling her disordered hair, re-ordering her clothing. Then she stood looking down at him. He lay upon his back, utterly relaxed, watching her through half-closed eyes, obviously confident still of his hold upon her. Neither of them had spoken.

  Her voice was soft and clear, hard as diamond. ‘I shall leave as soon as I can,’ she said. ‘But I shan’t run away from you. I’ll wait until my brother and I are ready to go. In the meantime’ – she paused, her face expressionless – ‘if you so much as touch me again, Amos, I’ll kill you. I promise it.’

  And, seeing the sudden flicker of the girlish lashes, the astonished and wary expression in the blue eyes, she had at least the empty satisfaction of knowing that he believed her.

  (iii)

  Her bravado lasted less than an hour before crumbling into miserable self-pity and a total inability to think clearly. At first she waited for Matt, watching for him, rehearsing how she would tell him that she had decided at last to go to London. But a week passed, and then two, and he did not come. She was not particularly worried – he had left it longer than this between visits on other occasions – but found herself in the grip of torpor, will-less and dispirited, from which she could not break free. She lived as she had lived before, ate and drank and spoke as she had done before – even occasionally smiled, though rarely laughed; but it was as if something within her had died and in its passing had taken something of herself with it. She tended to Martha and the children, looked after the house, tried to ignore the sly question in Hannah’s eyes that followed her too closely and too often.

  Hannah it was who turned the knife in the wound – deliberately? maliciously? Kitty neither knew nor cared – by breaking the news that Maria was pregnant again. The news, just a week after the scene with Amos in the barn, woke many emotions; jealousy, self-disgust, and above all, fear. Foolishly it had never occurred to Kitty that she too could easily suffer the fate and public humiliation of the girl who had been her predecessor. Supposing she should be pregnant? The belated thought terrified her. She lay awake for long, anguished nights, begging God to spare her that, anything else – any punishment – she would accept; but please, oh please, not that. For two weeks her life became an intolerable, drawn-out agony of waiting. By the end of that time, with her period a scant day late, she was convinced that the worst had happened and was ready to die of it. When the proof came, late that night, that she was not after all carrying Amos’ child she cried impassioned tears of relief and gratitude and then slept the sleep of the dead for the first time in weeks.

  It was as well that she did – for it was in the seeping, pearly, pre-dawn light of the following day that her brother came, hunted and desperate. She woke to the rattling sound of pebbles against her window. She lay for a moment, groggily confused, eyes still throbbing and swollen from the tears of the night before. The sound came again. She slipped from her b
ed and opened the window. Matt’s marked face, white as alabaster, stark in the pale light, stared up at her. Even in the half-darkness she could see the blood, the purpling bruises.

  ‘My God! Matt! What—?’

  ‘Ssh!’ Every line of his body was desperation. ‘Kitty – I have to talk to you—’

  ‘Wait. I’ll come down. Go to the front door. Hannah sleeps in the kitchen.’

  Her fingers like thumbs, she pulled on her woollen robe and, still fighting the loosened plaits of her long hair, fled down the stairs to the door. He was waiting outside, shivering, running blood.

  ‘Good God!’ she said, horrified, and reached to pull him in.

  With surprising strength he resisted her. ‘No.’ He was far gone in exhaustion and pain, yet the intransigent obstinacy she knew all too well and that had got him this far, battered as he was, showed in the line of his bloodied mouth. ‘Can’t stay. Have to get away. Came to—’

  ‘Matt!’

  ‘Came to say goodbye an’’ – he grinned twistedly, staggered a little, righted himself – ‘an’ to borrow – some money—’