Aware that she was causing David a deal of agony just being in the same room as Luther, Beth turned to him now, saying with some tenderness, ‘And you, David? Would you rather I left the room?’
For a brief moment, she actually thought he would defy the old man, but then her heart sank when he sheepishly replied, ‘Perhaps it would be for the best, dear.’ Having said that, he self-consciously dropped his gaze from her disappointed eyes and turned it to the multi-patterned carpet. Pausing just long enough to sweep the old man’s triumphant face with an antagonistic look, Beth turned from them both and went, head high, out of the room and into the hallway, where the late March sunshine found its way through the tall arched windows, and where the air seemed relatively fresh compared to the musty damp smell of the old man’s den.
As Beth went through the house, from the wide spacious hallway and into the dark-panelled sitting room, it struck her again how lovely the old place could be. Buncer Lane itself was a delightful road, flanked on both sides mostly by detached houses, with fancy lead-light windows and wide impressive doors. The houses were surrounded by gardens, some with a little front wall, and some with high laurel hedges, or holly trees that scratched you as you walked by. Luther Reynolds’ house was the largest of them all, a red-bricked dwelling with pretty decorative fan-lights above the windows and door. Some time ago he had ordered that the front garden be flagged over, and now the weeds were pushing up between the paving slabs and the stones themselves had sunk in the ground at one end. There was little that could be done to improve the overall unkempt appearance, except to dig the whole lot up and start again, but, as Luther Reynolds told David on one occasion, ‘I don’t use the bloody garden, so why should I waste precious money on it?’ And so it remained, an eyesore and a danger, although Beth herself regularly cleared the weeds from the path.
The house consisted of two reception rooms, each furnished with black oak monstrosities that created a dark and depressing atmosphere. Then there was a smaller room at the front of the house where the old man counted his money, and which he called his ‘den’, and, to the rear of the house the kitchen, a large, well-designed place with windows on two sides; one looking out to the side of the house where the undergrowth reached waist height, and the other two situated at each end of the wall that overlooked the rear garden. When Beth first came to the house, the rear garden was derelict. After a little more than a year, she alone had transformed it into a place where the children could play in safety, a stretch of patchy grass with a few well-cared-for roses round its border, and an immensely high wall skirting the garden from one end to the other. Beth had persuaded David to mend the rustic oak bench, and it was here that she would spend her happiest times, sitting beneath the old apple tree, watching the children at play.
Looking out of the window on this pleasant Sunday afternoon, she smiled as she saw the three children engaged in various activities at the far end of the garden. Her son Richard, whom she had named after her own father, was now a sturdy three year old, with a serious nature for one so young, although he had a mischievous and exasperating streak. With his thick black hair and sea-green eyes, he was the living image of Tyler. Every time Beth looked at him, the pain almost cut her in two. The love that had been denied her was always there, together with fond recollections of the father who had never seen him. The torment never really went away, but she had learned to live with it.
Even now, as she smiled at her son’s antics – he was laughing and clapping his little hands together and making mischievous faces at Cissie, who adored him – memories of Tyler besieged her heart. ‘I can’t forget you,’ she murmured softly. ‘After all this time, I still love you.’ She wondered at her own weakness in craving for a man who had professed his love for her and made her with child, only to walk away without even a backward glance. In all fairness, Tyler had not known about the child. But then, would he have cared? Hadn’t he also got his landlady’s daughter with child? And didn’t he desert her in the same heartless way? All of these things Beth constantly reminded herself of; together with the fact that she was now a married woman and should reserve all her thoughts for the man who had put a ring on her finger, even though she had a son, and both of Maisie’s children. In spite of all the weak traits in his character, David Miller had kept his promise to Beth. ‘I’ll take care of you,’ he had said, ‘I’ll help you to raise Maisie’s children.’ He had done all of that, and she would always stand by him because of it. Yet, somehow, in her secret heart, he never seemed to reach the same stature as Tyler Blacklock. Beneath all the doubts, all the hurt, there still lingered something… something she could not put a finger on. Now she had stopped denying her love for Tyler. Hidden away, pushed to the darker recesses of her mind, it was a tangible presence that gave her a degree of comfort in the terrible loneliness of her marriage. Yes, she still loved him. She probably always would.
Not for the first time, Beth asked herself how she could so readily condemn David for being so weak as to love someone who had treated him in such a callous and despicable manner, when she herself was guilty of the very same weakness! She had affection for David, and a deep gratitude towards him. She endured his lovemaking, sometimes she even enjoyed it, but for the greater part she could not love him in the way he truly deserved. Inside, she was like his stepfather’s room… dark and secret, allowing David into only a small part of it. She felt guilty, always guilty, thinking how she should be opening her whole heart to him. But then, how could she, when her heart was already given?
From her vantage point, Beth watched the children a while longer. She gave thanks to God for her precious son, and for the opportunity to raise Maisie’s two children. If she had any misgivings, they were for Matthew. He had never forgiven her for intruding in what he had seen as his family, his responsibility, the only inheritance his father had left him. These past three years he had grown sullen and morose, keeping himself at a distance, always watching her, silently blaming her for Maisie’s tragic death. With his dark brown hair and expressive violet eyes, he was an incredibly handsome boy, not yet fifteen, but tall and with a broad back which was a legacy from his boyhood in the mines.
Only last year, on the instructions of Luther Reynolds, David had brought the boy out of the mines and begun to teach him the way of business; Matthew often accompanied him on his rounds, and though he made little attempt to befriend David, the boy worked, and learned, and spent so many hours closeted in the ‘den’ with the old man, that Beth was obliged to voice her concern. All the same, her protests went unheeded, and each day that passed she could see Matthew becoming more and more influenced by old Luther. Sometimes she would lie awake in the dark hours when David was sound asleep, and talk to her old friend Maisie. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart,’ she would whisper, ‘I feel I’ve failed you where Matthew is concerned. But he’s so bitter, so filled with resentment, and I can’t promise that I will ever be able to change that. But I won’t give up, I promise you that, Maisie… I won’t give up.’ With a lighter heart, she would tell Maisie of her other child, Cissie, who was now going on thirteen, a lovely girl who was the same forthright and delightful character as her mam before her.
Beth’s attention focused on the girl now, slim, her hair more fair than dark, but fine like Maisie’s. She was playing with Richard, teasing him with a fallen branch from the apple tree, and snatching it away when the child made to grab it. Their laughter was a tonic to Beth, and she was glad that Cissie had finally begun to forget that terrible night when Maisie was killed, along with poor Meg, and another neighbour who perished while asleep in his bed. For many months afterwards, Cissie had suffered awful nightmares, when she would scream for her mam. It seemed to Beth as though nothing would ever console her. But she showered the girl with love and affection, sitting with her night after night, to talk and reminisce, recalling Maisie’s antics, and laughing and crying together until after a while Cissie began to emerge from her grief and the bond between her and Beth grew ever stronger.<
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Matthew, though, allowed himself no respite from his black crippling grief; he kept it close, deep inside him. He never talked of Maisie, nor of that night, and whenever Cissie broached the subject of their mam, his reaction was violent. He would lash out at her and afterwards hide himself away in some shady corner where he would sit, his head lowered to his knees, engulfed in a dangerous brooding mood that lingered until the day’s end. After a while, Cissie learned not to speak of Maisie, but she confided her sadness in Beth. ‘Matthew doesn’t love me any more,’ she would whisper. ‘But I love him… even though he makes me afraid sometimes.’ He made Beth afraid too. Yet she suffered his grief with him, wanting to share his sorrow, hoping that she could alleviate some of his pain. She knew he was suffering, because even though he tried to hide it, Beth saw it in his eyes. She tried so hard to help him, to talk with him and show him how much she cared… how much they all cared. But he would not let her near, and her heart was saddened because of it. Only the old man got through to Matthew, and even though David argued his stepfather was showing only kindness, and ‘had the boy’s interests at heart’, Beth was not convinced.
Time had only confirmed her fears. And yet it was not all bad news, she reminded herself, because Matthew was no longer condemned to go underground in order to earn a living, and David had told her how amazed he was at ‘the boy’s remarkably quick mind and business acumen’. All the same, in spite of David’s assurances, Beth was uneasy. Her instincts warned her that no good could come of this unhealthy alliance between Matthew and the old man. She looked at the boy now. Isolated from the other two, he was leaning against the apple tree, his hands deep in his pockets and a surly look on his face. His eyes were watchful, unfriendly. Now and then he would smile, as though enjoying some dark secret thought. Shaking her head forlornly, Beth turned away.
Suddenly, the still afternoon air was rent by a piercing scream, then the sound of the child crying and Cissie’s angry voice: ‘Go away, Matthew! You’re horrible… horrible!’ Swinging back to the window, Beth was horrified to see the girl pressed against the apple tree with her arms wrapped protectively round the little boy, the two of them bent double, cringing together while Matthew flayed them viciously with the branch. Even from where Beth stood, she could see the blood trickling down Cissie’s arm. In a minute she had rushed from the house and was running down the garden. ‘STOP THAT!’ she yelled, but Matthew took no notice. Instead, he laughed aloud and beat them all the fiercer.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ The boy clung to Cissie, his eyes wide with terror as he cried out. His cries became screams of pain when the branch whipped against his face, causing blood to spurt from his nose, staining his shirt with crimson raindrops.
‘Keep down, Richard… Cissie! Keep your faces down.’ Beth feared for the children’s sight as she lurched forward to grab the branch. If she thought Matthew would stop once she had hold of the other end, Beth was badly mistaken. Far from letting go, he wrestled like a mad thing, kicking out with his boots and laughing like a maniac when the branch flicked across her throat and drew blood. But if he was determined, Beth was equally so. Gripping the sharp branch with both hands, she worked her way along it until she was close enough to see the whites of his eyes. His laughter was terrible to hear. In that moment, she thought he had gone completely mad. But then, without warning, he turned his head and spat across the garden, simultaneously snatching his hands from the branch and sending Beth crashing backwards into the tree trunk! The force of the impact knocked the breath out of her.
‘You rotten coward, Matthew!’ Cissie was the first to recover, and there was no doubt she would have chased him to the ends of Kingdom Come if Beth hadn’t thrust out an arm to stop her. ‘He deserves a proper thrashing,’ Cissie protested, fiercely indignant that she had been unable to defend herself while her cowardly brother took delight in whipping her. ‘He’s bad, Beth. Matthew’s turned out real bad.’ And though she would dearly have loved to deny it, Beth remained silent. Cissie was right. Maisie’s son had turned out bad.
* * *
‘Nothing but a prank, I tell you.’ ‘Luther looked deep into the boy’s eyes and smiled wickedly when he saw the truth lurking there. Shifting his attention to David, who was still holding the boy by the scruff of his shirt collar, he told him solemnly, ‘He’s different from you, isn’t he? You were never spirited, even as a boy. So I don’t expect you to understand how harmless the incident was.’
‘It was a wicked and spiteful thing to do.’ David was urged on by Beth’s insistence that he ‘talk some sense into the boy, or watch him go from bad to worse’. David’s answer had been to bring the boy before the old man. He wondered now how he might explain to Beth that his stepfather saw no real harm in what Matthew had done. In fact, David himself believed it would have been far better to have let the whole matter drop. The old man was right as always. In all probability it really had been nothing more than a prank.
Luther Reynolds now addressed the boy. ‘Did you mean to be wicked and spiteful?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you set out to hurt the children in any way?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And…’ Here, he hesitated, his narrowed eyes sending messages to the boy ‘… do you intend to say sorry?’
The boy did not answer immediately. He returned the old man’s stare, his expression at first defiant, but then his hard features relaxed into a knowing smile. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied quietly.
‘Good!’ The old man sank back into the chair, a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Say it then… “I AM SORRY”.’ He felt himself in danger of laughing out loud, so cleared his throat and addressed the boy in a firmer voice. ‘Go on. Say it, damn you!’ He stared as Matthew mutinously bit his lip, lowering his gaze to the floor and fidgeting from one foot to the other. After what seemed a long time, but was in fact only seconds, an almost inaudible whisper issued into the room. ‘What was that you said? I didn’t hear you!’, the old man bellowed, enraged.
‘I said… I’m sorry.’ The boy was visibly shaken.
‘There! He’s sorry,’ Luther told his stepson, smiling freely now and licking his lips like a dog might lick the juice of a bone from his chops. ‘Will that satisfy your good lady?’ When it appeared that David was unsure, he roared, ‘Damn and bugger it, man! The boy has said he’s sorry.’ Each word was accompanied by a clenched fist thumping on the chair arm. ‘What more do you want? Would you rather I thrashed him within an inch of his life? Should I cut off his fingers for daring to draw blood from your precious wife?’
‘Well, no, of course not. You know I couldn’t stand the boy being submitted to physical punishment,’ David was quick to assure him. ‘Two wrongs never made a right.’ He himself was satisfied with Matthew’s apology, and wanted the unpleasant business over and done with; but the thought of Beth waiting outside the door made him unusually bold. Turning to the boy, he said firmly, ‘If you ever again raise your hand to either of the children or your mother, I shall…’His courage wavered as the two of them continued to stare at him, each daring him to go on. ‘I shall…’
The old man intervened, ‘Yes? You’ll what?’ There was disgust in his voice and, much more humiliating, a suggestion of amusement.
It was this that made David Miller bristle. ‘I shall flatly refuse to take him with me on my rounds,’ he declared. There! It was out. And he felt all the better for it.
The old man sniggered. ‘Do you hear that, boy?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The boy kept his glance on the floor.
‘So you had better behave yourself, hadn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Craning his neck, the old man looked up at his stepson. Without speaking a word, he continued to scrutinise the young man and to feel greatly satisfied when he saw how he was unnerving his victim. What he saw in David was not a man, but a boy. A frightened boy, a boy who, in spite of trying with all his might to please the man who had married his mother, had only succeeded in doin
g the exact opposite. When he was small, David Miller had been every bit as spirited and mischievous as any boy, but he had been bullied into believing otherwise. The result was a timid, indecisive creature, a thing to be ridiculed. Just for a second, for one brief surprising second, the old man admitted to himself that it was he who had created this pitiful excuse for a man, and his conscience, that bothersome thing which he had buried long ago, rose to haunt him. The experience was a frightening and unwelcome one. ‘Get out!’ he yelled. As David prepared to usher Matthew before him, there came another instruction. ‘Leave the boy with me.’ He chuckled, ‘Perhaps I can make him see the error of his ways.’
Coming down the stairs, Beth saw her husband emerge from Luther’s den. She saw the disappointment on his face, and realised with a sinking heart that the boy would not be punished.
Soon, the sound of low wicked laughter echoed through the house and, hearing it, Beth’s blood ran cold. ‘Oh, Maisie,’ she murmured, raising her dark eyes heavenward. ‘What have I got us into?’ Turning her footsteps, she hurried towards the kitchen where she had already begun preparing the tea. As she went along the hall, she wondered how she might persuade Maisie’s son to be a better person. She had tried. God alone knew how she had tried. The sad truth was, Matthew enjoyed being cruel. Luther Reynolds had fostered a sadistic streak in him that frightened her. Time and again, she had cast her mind back to before Maisie was lost in that tragic fire. The questions she asked herself were always the same. Had he changed so much since Maisie’s death, or was he always vindictive? If so, why hadn’t she seen it in him? Why hadn’t Maisie seen it in her son?
Don’t Cry Alone Page 26