‘It’s getting dark,’ came the reply. Of a sudden, Rita Hughes had swung round to face Emma and it was plain to see that she had been crying. Now though, she displayed a half-smile and told Emma in a brisk voice, ‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving you to finish up on your own. There’s still the stock to be brought through from the back, and the displays to be set up ready for Monday morning.’ She donned a serious expression on her face as she swept past Emma, saying, ‘Better get on with it then . . . the two of us will make light work of it and be done in no time at all.’ She fetched two lamps from beneath the counter, lighting them both, then placing one on top of the counter and hanging one from the hook in the beam situated over the bureau. It was only then that Emma realised how rapidly the daylight was fading. No wonder she had a throbbing headache, when she had been poring over the ledgers in half-fight.
An hour and a half later, at a quarter to ten, everything was done, and the two women prepared to leave. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt so tired in my whole life!’ Emma declared with a warm smile to Rita Hughes, who was fussing about the way her cape just would not sit right on her shoulders. ‘My head aches . . . my feet are on fire, and I could fall asleep on the spot!’ She put out the lamp in the office, before coming through to the store. ‘I expect you feel exactly the same, Rita.’ She looked at the other woman, who seemed painfully preoccupied, and Emma felt a rush of compassion for her. ‘Thank you for the hard work you’ve put in,’ she told her warmly, ‘I’ll see you’re suitably rewarded, you know that.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Mrs Thomas. An extra guinea or two is always very welcome. It’s a shame that we’ve found no one to take Nelly’s place . . . I know you have more than enough to do, without having to take up responsibility here.’
‘Well, I can’t deny that there are never enough hours in a day, Rita. Still . . . I am seeing that young man from Perth next week. He seems to be very keen on coming here to work, and he has sent exceptionally good references. Let’s just hope he’s a distinct improvement on the other three, eh?’ She smiled, and was surprised when Rita Hughes actually laughed out loud, saying, ‘Make sure he doesn’t have a weakness for chasing women with a pickaxe!’
The two women were still softly chuckling as they made their way towards the door, with Rita Hughes carrying the lamp and Emma beginning to sort out the right key from the bunch in her hand.
When the door suddenly burst open, both women were taken completely by surprise. In the few seconds of confusion which followed, Rita Hughes screamed out and dropped the lamp to the floor and Emma’s first thoughts were that the intruders were robbers, who obviously knew that she had the day’s takings on her person. When the dark shadowy figure lunged at her, and Rita Hughes continued screaming, Emma began fighting it off, aware all the while of the flames which had erupted from the broken lamp; fortunately the oil had not been spilt. But then Emma heard a familiar voice calling her name, ‘Emma . . . oh Emma!’ At once she knew the voice. It was Nelly, Nelly, who had burst in through the door and who had fallen against her, Nelly, now slumped in her arms and sobbing her name as if it were her salvation.
Quickly, and without panic, Emma took stock of the situation. The flames must be put out before anything else, or the whole place would go up. Easing the figure from her, she yelled to Rita Hughes to ‘put the flames out! Use your cape . . . anything!’ She had already whipped off her own cape and was frantically smothering the fire, which thankfully had not got a proper hold, but was a fearsome thing all the same. When she saw Rita being quick to follow her example, Emma ran to the back wall where the water buckets hung, and in quick succession she used all six of them, dousing the flames and afterwards satisfying herself that enough water had been poured through the cracks between the floorboards. She had seen other disasters from fires that were thought to be put out, but which smouldered under the building until finally flaring up again when least expected.
‘Rita, do you think you could find your way to the office, and fetch the lamp from there? There are matches in the top drawer of the bureau.’ While she spoke, Emma could see the outline of Nelly in the faint light from the street lamp outside, and when the figure didn’t move from the floor where it had fallen, Emma’s fearful heart turned somersaults. Stooping down to look more closely, Emma slid her two arms beneath her dear friend’s arms and, with all the strength she had left, she raised Nelly to a sitting position. By that time Rita Hughes had come back with the halo of light from the lamp going before her. ‘It’s Nelly, isn’t it?’ she asked in a trembling voice. ‘What’s wrong with her, Mrs Thomas?’ She raised the lamp and as she did so, the light fell on Nelly’s face. ‘Oh, my God!’ she cried out, the lamp trembling in her hand. ‘Look at her face!’
Emma had seen, and was both shocked and sickened by the sight of Nelly’s bruised and battered body. One of her eyes was so swollen as to be virtually unrecognisable; there was a deep, vicious indentation on her forehead that might have been imprinted there by the shape of a ring, so sharp were the edges; and the gash along her cheekbone was all the more misshapen by the blood which had dried on it. From her right temple to a cut on her lip there was a long, meandering red trail, which was not so much a deep cut as a mark made by a blunt instrument being drawn along it.
Emma saw that Nelly was not unconscious, but sapped of all strength, in pain, and obviously filled with terror. Emma now tried to help her to her feet, saying in a gentle, soothing voice, ‘It’s all right, Nelly . . . it’s all right. Don’t be afraid, I’ll take care of you.’ Nelly began shaking violently and the tears rolled down her sorry face as, lifting her brown eyes that were normally so merry and were now terribly scarred by her ordeal, she kept saying over and over again in a small trembling voice, ‘It ain’t the first time, Emma darling . . . it ain’t the first time he’s got drunk and thrashed me.’
‘Ssh!’ Emma clung to her friend, yet she could hardly see for the scalding tears which blurred her eyes. ‘Ssh now, Nelly. He won’t “thrash” you again. You have my word on that!’ In that moment, if she could have placed her bare hands on the worthless creature who had done this, she wouldn’t have been responsible for her own actions.
‘Oh, Mrs Thomas,’ Rita Hughes had gone a deathly shade of white, and for one awful moment, Emma thought the poor thing was about to faint. ‘She won’t die, will she? Oh, she can’t mean that Foster did this to her . . . she can’t!’ She peered closely at Nelly, who was leaning all her body weight on Emma’s slim form. With her tiny eyes stretched open in horror and her voice filled with awe, she said again more softly, ‘She won’t die, will she?’
‘She might,’ Emma told her in a firm voice designed to jolt her senses, ‘if you don’t give me a hand to get her up to the house!’ At once, Rita Hughes came forward to take some of Nelly’s weight from Emma; then, with Nelly’s bedraggled and sorry figure supported between them, they went at a careful if hurried pace towards the High Street and the Thomases’ residence. Emma hoped they would not disturb her husband, who had suffered a great deal of pain and discomfort these past few days, and was at the end of his patience.
‘If you have any idea who did this, then it’s your duty to inform the authorities!’ The doctor’s expression was severe as he spoke to both Emma and Rita Hughes; the latter found it difficult to tear her eyes from Nelly’s scarred face even though she had helped to wash and clean the wounds which so offended her.
‘I ain’t sure who did it, doctor!’ Nelly called out from her bed. ‘And it ain’t no use you asking them two neither . . . ’cause they don’t know who it was no more than I do!’ Nelly sensed from the look on Emma’s face that she had every intention of telling the doctor that it was Foster Thomas who had battered her friend, and so great was Nelly’s fear of that man, so deeply had he instilled in her a riveting terror of him, that she would have crawled from the bed on her bended knees to prevent sending the authorities after him. Nelly believed that if she allowed that to happen, she would be signing her own death wa
rrant. ‘That’s right, ain’t it, Emma . . . ain’t it Rita? . . . You ain’t got no idea who attacked me, have you, eh? No idea at all. You make sure the good doctor knows that!’ She didn’t recognise her own voice as it sailed through the room from her bruised and swollen lips. In her anxiety to keep secret the name of Foster Thomas, she pulled herself up from the bolster, crying in pain as she did so.
‘You lie still!’ instructed the doctor. ‘I’m afraid you have a broken rib or two. Lie still, or suffer the consequences.’ He watched while Nelly fell back on to the pillow, her face contorted with pain and misshapen by the beating it had taken. Yet she kept her frightened brown eyes on Emma, willing her not to betray her.
‘Now then, Mrs Thomas . . . do you have any idea who did this? She knows, I’m sure,’ he cast a concerned glance at Nelly, ‘but, for some reason, she won’t confide in me.’
Emma was suffering a bitter conflict. She should tell. With every bone in her body she wanted to see that fiend pay for what he had done to Nelly. But now, as she looked towards her friend and saw the desperate pleading in her tearful eyes, she was torn a thousand ways. ‘She has told me very little,’ she replied, convincing herself that Foster Thomas would be made to pay, if not tonight, then tomorrow, when she would persuade Nelly that the authorities must be told. Nelly was back, and she was safe, thank God. Tomorrow, she might be ready to see things in a different light. She saw the great rush of relief and gratitude in Nelly’s face as she buried it in the pillow and began quietly sobbing. ‘Thank you so much, doctor,’ Emma said now, showing him to the door, ‘I’ll talk to Nelly when she’s rested.’
Emma waited while the doctor attended to her husband. He had unfortunately been woken by all the comings and goings, and demanded to know what had happened. Emma told him the truth, that Nelly had taken a terrible beating, but she deliberately kept his son’s name out of it. ‘You can’t hide the facts from me, girlie!’ he had told her scathingly. ‘It’s him that’s beaten her, that’s right isn’t it? That no-good son of mine who’s never done anything worthwhile in his life. But he can take up his bloody fists to a helpless woman! By God! There’ll come a day when he’ll drive me too far!’ At this point he had thumped his clenched-up fists time and time again into his lifeless legs. ‘Curse these useless things! If it weren’t for these, I’d show him a beating all right. Man to man . . . not man over his helpless wife.’ He had worked himself up into such a pitch that Emma had to ask that the doctor see him as well as Nelly.
‘He’s sleeping now, Mrs Thomas.’ The doctor’s face was grave however. ‘I’m afraid his pain will soon be beyond medication.’ He watched the light go from Emma’s wise eyes, and he was filled with admiration for her courageous spirit. She was a fine woman, a woman who never stinted in her friendship or loyalty, and she was rightfully well respected hereabouts. ‘I’ve done all I can. Your friend won’t scar . . . although she’ll be some long time mending, I’m afraid. But as for your husband, Emma’ – he had never addressed her by her Christian name before and the point was not lost on Emma – ‘he won’t mend at all.’
When the doctor’s carriage had gone from sight, Emma glanced down at herself and was strangely surprised by the fact that her dress was blackened by the smoke from when she had beaten out the flames from the lamp. Strands of her hair hung loosely about her neck, and the hem of her skirt was still damp from the water which she had flung on to the flames. Strange, she thought, how none of it seemed to matter now. And oh, she felt so very, very tired, her whole body was stretched with a weariness she had never experienced before. She supposed it was because of the child she carried inside her. Of a sudden, she remembered Rita Hughes, and it struck her how late in the evening it was.
Going to her husband’s room, Emma made certain that he was sleeping. She was satisfied also to see that the nurse had made herself comfortable in the wicker chair and was keeping watch. ‘Call me if you need anything,’ Emma whispered to her; when the chubbyfaced nurse gratefully nodded, Emma went softly up the stairs to where Nelly was in a deep, healing sleep.
‘I’ll get Taylor to walk you home,’ Emma informed Rita Hughes. ‘Your family will be frantic, wondering why you’re so late.’ She collected a long fringed shawl from the chair back and wrapped it loosely about her shoulders.
‘Thank you, yes, I would like to go home and clean up. My parents won’t be worrying though because they’re away visiting an aged uncle in Perth. They’re not due home until tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I see. Well . . . if you’ll just watch Nelly a while, I’ll go and rouse Taylor to accompany you along the streets. There’s no safe place in the dark for a woman on her own.’ She left the room and began her way down the wide dogleg staircase, her path lit by the four oil-lamps, strategically placed atop of each of the four thick oak posts which supported the stairs. In the flickering light, Emma wondered what a dishevelled sight she must look. There hadn’t been even a moment since Nelly had arrived to wash and spruce herself up. No matter, she told herself, lifting one hand in an effort to tuck her straying auburn hair into a more disciplined appearance, there’ll be time enough when Rita is safely on her way. The thought of a hot tub followed by a good night’s sleep sent her feet hurrying down the thickly carpeted stairway, as she began to wonder whether Taylor, the handyman, might still be awake and pottering about his room above the outbuildings. She would collect a lamp from the kitchen on the way out, because the area directly behind the house was exceptionally dark.
Two steps from the bottom of the stairway, Emma halted, inclining her head to one side and listening hard. What was that slight sound that had disturbed her? Emma stood still a moment longer, not daring to move, her fearful heart pounding. She turned her anxious eyes towards the gloomy hallway below, as she held her breath and waited to hear the sound again. But the air was silent and brooding. I must have imagined it, Emma told herself, yet she was not fully convinced and, if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was anxious to see Rita Hughes safely on her way, so that she herself might be bathed and asleep that much quicker, Emma might have been tempted to go back up the stairs and ask that good woman to accompany her on her errand. But no, Rita had done quite enough for one day, and did not deserve to be put on any further, Emma decided. Besides which, there would be no one to keep an eye on Nelly in the next few moments. Emma had already made up her mind that she would spend the night in the chair in Nelly’s room, in case she needed her.
Emma resumed her descent into the hallway, chiding herself for letting her imagination run riot. Now she convinced herself that there had been no noise, except perhaps for the rustling of her own silk skirt as it swept against the stair-treads. She even smiled to herself, saying in a small whisper, ‘You should be ashamed, Emma. Fancy! A woman of your thirty-two years being afraid of the dark.’ Emma would not have been so ‘ashamed’ had she known that someone was hiding below, listening to her words, and smiling.
What happened next was done so swiftly that Emma was not even able to cry out. As she stepped into the hallway, the figure sprang from the shadows, clamping one hand over her mouth and gripping her two arms behind her back with the other. As the intruder forced her along by the wall which skirted the drawing-room, Emma kicked and struggled, but she was held so fast that her attempts were futile. She was being dragged round the corner and into the narrow passage, where the door to the left led to the room that was Roland Thomas’s and the door to the right went into the drawing-room. Whoever it was who had her in a grip of iron was both immensely strong and obsessively determined that she be given no opportunity to raise the alarm. The hand which smelled of stale tobacco and which had her silenced was stretched from her nostrils to her chin, holding her lips tightly together and preventing her from getting even a pinch of skin between her teeth to bite through and shock her attacker into releasing her.
Emma realised that, if she were to summon any help at all, she must use her feet, even though her legs were swept from the floor. There was no other way.
When her assailant pushed her beyond Roland Thomas’s door, Emma’s frightened eyes saw that the door was half-open. She knew also that, situated on a small table outside the drawing-room, was a large pot plant. If only she could kick out and upset the table so that the plant fell to the floor, surely to God someone would come running.
When Emma’s chance came, she was ready. But it was unfortunate that the drawing-room door was also partly open, because if the intruder had been made to relax his hold on Emma’s arms in order to open the door, nothing on this earth could have held her. As it was, she was pinned fast. But in that split second when he used Emma’s body to push open the drawing-room door Emma took her bearings. Praying that she would not miss, she lashed out with her foot in the direction of the pot plant. Her heart soared when she felt that she had made contact and she waited for the crash which must surely follow. But, except for a scraping noise where the pot plant moved along the table only a few inches, there was no loud crashing sound that could summon help to her side. She knew at once that her captor was enraged by her attempt, when he cruelly pushed his hand tighter into her face and gave her arms a spiteful twist. She felt herself being dragged into the room, and her terrified heart sank within her when she realised that the door was softly closed behind them, and that she was alone with her assailant in a room that was pitch black. All Emma could do was to offer up a silent prayer and believe that somehow her ordeal would be over quickly. Her heart bled for the tiny life which beat inside her, and she had to trust in the Lord that he would not be so cruel as to let her lose this child.
Alley Urchin Page 25