“He . . . ?"
“Yes . . . and now, because of me . . . Natty is dead . . .”
Her weeping sorrow had been inconsolable and as Phoebe rocked her in the only arms Annie would have about her, Charlie had been half-way across the yard to Upfell and would have got there had she not leaped up, throwing Phoebe to one side and gone after him, hanging on to his arm like a limpet, even when he dragged her from her feet. It was only then, when her flesh was scraped raw on the cobblestone and her voice screamed his name, did Charlie's derangement lessen, at least enough to help Phoebe get her to her feet and back in the kitchen. And to go up on the fell to bring Natty home.
The constable looked at them, waiting to see if one of the three had anything further to say on the matter. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman had taken some sort of a beating. There were bruises on her throat and a nasty cut on her lip where she had evidently been struck by a hard fist, but she was so bloody calm, so uncaring, just as though what had happened to her, whatever it was, was something to which she was not unaccustomed. And perhaps that was the case. This chap who lived with her, so it was said, was like a caged beast snarling about the kitchen, smacking one fist into the palm of the other, looking violent enough to flatten anyone so perhaps it was him who had set on her. Women were funny creatures where their men were concerned. And no one knew anything about him. Just came out of the blue, he did, a year or two back, and had stayed. There was talk of her and Mr Reed Macauley up at Long Beck, and of a certain amount of animosity between him and this chap here, and who was to say they had not fought over her? Perhaps she'd stepped between them and got caught in the crossfire, so to speak, though why she should pick on poor Bert Garnett to blame for it, who'd never caused a minute's bother in the district since he'd married the Mounsey girl, was a mystery.
“Ah'll put it before my superiors," he said pompously, opening the door on the cold, blustery wind which was sweeping across the fells and ruffling the water of the lake. The weather had taken a turn for the worse overnight, the hazed autumn sunshine of the day before hidden behind racing clouds of torn grey in every shade from pale grey to pewter.
No one answered him. At the parlour door which stood partly open, for somehow it had seemed to Phoebe that it was callous to leave poor old Natty all alone, Blackie and Bonnie pushed enquiring noses sensing a diminishing of the oppression which had so alarmed them. Natty's dog could be seen, his muzzle on his paws, his old eyes never leaving the still figure of his master on the table.
For a moment the constable wavered. It was all so .. . so quiet . . . so resigned and helpless, so law-abiding, so normal. Apart from the man, who appeared to be helpless in the grip of some awful pain, some tamped down, stamped upon emotion he was forced — for some reason — to control. The room was filled with peace, warmth, comfort even. An ordinary farmhouse kitchen where the only catastrophe to mar the day would be the failure of the farmwife's bread to rise. The woman still gazed sadly into the fire, her beautiful, tragic face — and the constable admitted it was both of these — pale as alabaster, her eyes, which he knew to be of a strange transparent brown, shadowed by her long, drooping lashes. Her hair was brushed back from her brow and braided high at the back of her head, the braid wound into an enormous coil. The other one, the little, plain one, held her hand between her own, her expression one of agonising remorse, and what he thought might be shame at her own inability to protect her mistress, if that was what she was, to speak up for her, to stand up and speak for her in this dreadful affair. Women like her were afraid of such things, afraid to make a fuss. It was believed in male circles that a female should remain in her home where she would be safe from harm and temptation and that any woman foolish enough to be out alone deserved to be molested. That the local constabulary should not be troubled with such sorry episodes. That incidents such as this were best left to settle themselves. Male violence in such cases was well known but it would not become a case if women, decent women, that is, stayed where they belonged. As this woman had not!
“Ah'll be off then," he told them briskly.
“And that's the end of it then, is it?" the man said bitterly, turning to glare at the constable. The dogs, catching his menace, turned and faced him too since he was the intruder, their hackles rising.
“Mr-Lucas, ah've 'eard what Miss Abbott 'ad ter say an' ah've listened ter what Mr Garnett 'ad ter say an' both say different. 'Tis 'er word against 'is and ... "
“And of course you would be bound to take the word of a fine, upstanding chap like that bastard who regularly beats his own wife and . . ."
“That's nothin' ter do wi' me, sir an' wi'out a witness ter this supposed attack there's nowt' ah can do." "SUPPOSED . . . !"
“There's no evidence ter support ... "
“There's the evidence of the scars on Miss Abbott's ... "
“Charlie! For God's sake leave it. What would you have me do? Strip myself naked so that the constable may see for himself what's been done to me?”
Charlie was appalled. "Darling, of course not but. . ."
“Then that's an end to it."
“Is it? Is it really? Do you imagine I'm going to let Bert Garnett put his evil hands on you . . . and other things . . ." His face worked in agony as the frightful, filthy images of what Bert Garnett had done to her crowded into his fertile and imaginative mind and he turned away, his hand covering his eyes as though to block them out. "I can't allow it, Annie. I won't allow it. What sort of a man would I be if I simply went on as though it had not happened?”
Still he kept his back to the room and the constable shifted uncomfortably, not at all used to seeing such painful emotions in a man. But then perhaps he'd be the same if it was his wife or his girl who'd been . . . Dear God, what was he thinking of ? The anguished atmosphere in the room was beginning to influence him into making judgements and convicting Bert Garnett of a crime for which there was absolutely no evidence against him. He'd best be off before his impartial concern in the matter was impaired, though of course what he thought — what did he think? — made no difference one way or the other. But she was so sad, there was no other word to describe Annie Abbott, the one they called the woman from Browhead.
But it seemed Mr Lucas had not yet finished.
“I only held back yesterday because you made me,Annie. Fetch Natty, you said, and I did. Go and thrash Bert Garnett and I won't allow you back in my house, you said, so I stayed. The law is on our side, you said. He will be punished by the due course of the law and though I didn't believe it since I have seen the way the ordinary man is treated by the law on my marches to the . . . well, you will know what I mean. I realise now that all you said was merely a . . . a stratagem to prevent me taking the law into my own hands, but as you can see for yourself the law of this land ... " turning to look contemptuously at the constable, ". . . does not concern itself with ... "
“Now look 'ere ... "
“No, you look here, constable. If you will do nothing to punish Bert Garnett for the horrors . . . for his brutal attacks on these two women . . ."
“TWO . . . !"
“Oh yes, not so long ago he beat Phoebe here senseless . . ."
“It was not reported. "
“No, she . . . denied it was him .If
“Why is that then?"
“She had her reasons." Charlie turned away wearily. "Oh, what's the use? The man must be punished and it seems there is no one but myself willing to do it so if you will excuse me ... "
“Charlie . . . no . . . !"
“Now look 'ere, sir, you can't tek law inter yer own 'ands. There's nowt ter prove that Bert Garnett attacked your . . . your . . . Miss Abbott an' if . . . well, sir, should 'e be found injured in any way it would naturally be assumed that you were t' culprit an' ah would ... “
The screams could be heard only faintly at first and the constable did not appear to have heard them, his calm voice, for surely this chap needed calming, continuing to flow from him in what he
hoped were soothing waves. The dogs pricked their ears and both Annie and Phoebe turned their heads towards the open door where the constable still leaned. Leaves had been tossed in by the wind, scurrying about the flags like small animals and a billow of smoke spluttered from the chimney caused by the draught the open door allowed in.
The screams grew louder and the constable turned in alarm, his face plainly showing his bewilderment. What in tarnation was up now, his expression said, on this bedevilled day? The screams were that of a woman, perhaps attacked by the same chap who had brutalised Miss Abbott, he remembered thinking, and when Mrs Garnett, whom he had seen no more than two hours ago in the rather unsavoury comfort of her own kitchen, lumbered into view, her children in a long, wailing line behind her, his face gaped in consternation.
She could not speak as she clutched at his arm. Her hair was about her like that of a mad woman's and through it her eyes peered in terror. She still had her baby under one arm, its fists flailing, its cries piteous and for several minutes it was bedlam in the kitchen as the constable endeavoured to extract some sense from the heavily pregnant woman. The two other women were calm though, putting Mrs Garnett on the settle, soothing the crying children with biscuits, brewing tea and even Mr Lucas who, it appeared to him, loathed the very sound of the name Garnett, took one child on his knee before the fire.
“What is it, Sally?" Miss Abbott was saying compassionately and the constable began to believe at that moment that . . . well, that there might be some truth in her story. "Is it . . . has he . . . ?" She could not, it appeared, quite bring herself to say his name.
“Bert, aye, it's Bert . . ."
“Has he . . . hit you . . . ?"
“No . . . oh, no ... "
“Then what . . . ?”
The constable shut the door behind him and moved forward since it seemed to him this might be a matter in which the law could be involved. Mrs Garnett kept turning to him as though she thought so too, ignoring Miss Abbott's kindness.
“ 'Tis Bert, constable . . ." Her face was as white as bleached bone and her eyes looked haunted.
“What about Bert, Mrs Garnett? Has he had an accident?"
“Oh, no . . . at least . . ."
“Yes?"
“Three men come ... "
“Yes?"
“They took 'im away. Jesus, 'e were screamin' it weren't 'im. That she'd made it up . . ."
“What? She'd made what up? Who did 'e mean?”
Sally turned her gaze on Annie but in her eyes there was nothing but a kind of sad regret.
*
They found Bert Garnett the next day, high on the highest point of Skiddaw where he had lain all night. A note pushed under his wife's kitchen door told her where he could be found. One of his legs was broken, and his right wrist, and when he was brought down Sally was hard pressed to recognise him. No more than a crumple of bleeding bones, his cheeks gashed, his teeth gone, his ribs broken. The painful scrape of his breath testified to damage in his lungs, the strange look in his eyes to the damage in his head.
They helped her, all the women of the parish, rallying round her as she and her mother had always rallied round them in times of trouble. But not one would stay, they told her, if she allowed the woman from Browhead across her threshwood. This was her fault, they said venomously, flaunting herself all over the fells and in the village causing men to . . . well, of course they were not saying it had been Bert who had assaulted her, that is if she had been assaulted, which they doubted, and if the constable had not been at her farm and that man of hers under the constable's nose when Bert was taken, he would certainly have been arrested for the crime. Dear Lord, there'd been nothing but trouble ever since she'd come back to Bassenthwaite and if they had any say in it, which, being women, they hadn't, she'd have been tarred and feathered and flogged out of town like they used to do in the old days.
He came that night, Reed Macauley, knocking quietly at her door and when Charlie opened it, tipping his hat curtly before pushing past him into her kitchen. His eyes went straight to her as she stood up and in them was the deep and abiding truth of his love for her, his compassion, his fear.
“Are you all right?" he asked. The other two in the room were of no concern nor interest to him.
“Yes."
“He did not . . . ?" His voice faltered for a moment, ". . . rape you?"
“No, only . . ."
“He was telling the truth then. I thought so." "It was . . . you?"
“Yes. Some men I know brought him to me. It was a fair fight. Just myself and Bert Garnett. I won. He couldn't be allowed to get away with it. I wouldn't allow him to.”
He turned to Charlie then and though his voice was flat and quite without expression, it was very evident that the remark was aimed at him.
“You're still here then." It was not a question. His eyes were a flat, cold blue and around one of them was a deep purple bruise where Bert Garnett's fist had found its mark and his bottom lip was split. "Don't you think it's time you moved on? I can supply Annie with all the hired help she needs."
“You bastard." Charlie's voice was no more than a whisper and at once Annie went to stand beside him, putting her hand through his arm.
“Charlie wanted to thrash Bert but I wouldn't let him." "Really." Reed smiled.
“There is no need for you to defend me to this man, my darling. I know what I should have done and wanted to do, and his opinion is of no concern to me . . .”
It seemed Reed Macauley's attention had gone no further than the endearment.
“My darling! My darling . . ." he snarled, his arrogant presence suddenly immensely dangerous in the small room. "She is not your darling, you insolent bastard, norever will be and I'd be obliged if you'd take your filthy hands off her before I give you a taste of what I gave Bert Garnett since you were too much of a coward to do it yourself. Move away from her . . . !"
“I have more right to her than you, you swine. Tell me, is it not true that you already have a wife?"
“Not for long. I am waiting to hear from my lawyer . . " "So you said several months ago."
“My wife has left me and . . ."
“Oh, please . . . stop it . . . stop it . . . Phoebe, can't you make them stop it . . ."
“Annie, come with me to Long Beck. You will be safe there from the kind of abuse you were subjected to yesterday. Let me protect you . . ."
“Reed, please . . ."
“Leave her alone, you bastard . . ."
“Come with me, Annie . . ."
“Reed, please . . . if you don't leave my home I will. . ."
“Yes, Annie, what will you do?"
“Oh, God, I don't know . . ." and before the appalled gaze of the three who loved her most in the world she slid bonelessly to the floor, putting her face in her hands and beginning to weep with the inconsolable intensity of a child. "I cannot stand another moment of this .. . can't you see . . . both of you . . . you are destroying me . . . I want peace . . . peace, not this . . . Oh, God, not this.”
At once they were both bending over her but with a curt word of dismissal Phoebe was there, helping her up, holding her close, moving with her towards the twisting staircase.
“Yer like two dogs fightin' over a bone," she said through clenched teeth, ". . . an' should be ashamed o' thissen. An' what about that poor old man in there, tell me that? 'Appen if tha' was ter see about 'is coffin an' gettin' 'im along corpse way to 'is funeral it'd give 'er more comfort than thy brawlin' over 'er. That's what she needs. Comfort an' a bit o' peace.”
Natty Varty was laid to rest by Charlie Lucas and Reed Macauley two days later, causing consternation in the community, for what was the hussy up to now? they wondered. They carried the coffin between them without a word, standing silently by the open grave, the two women beside them and when it was over, parting the same way.
Chapter33
The winter was hard and cold, long weeks of blizzards which locked them in the farmhouse as though they w
ere prisoners in jail. Long weeks of freezing after that, during which Annie's main concern was for her pregnant ewes. They were quiet months in which the three of them saw no one but each other. Months of calm and peace and the slow fading away of the horrors of the previous year. Not Cat of course, she would never be forgotten, nor would the grieving and sense of loss be totally absent, but an acceptance was painfully gained day by slow day, until it was possible to live in some content and blessing.
The great white bowl of the valley glistened under a sky so deep and intense a blue it was almost the colour of the bluebells which carpeted the woods in May. The sheep had been brought down, a long dark ribbon etched thinly against the whiteness as they came in single file, each following the tail of the one in front directed by Blackie and Bonnie, though not Natty's dog, who kept close to the fire now, and at the bottom Charlie and Annie threw out great flaps of hay for the hungry sheep to feed on. The goodness of summer was in the hay and the sheep consumed it at great speed, keeping a wary eye on the dogs whilst Annie and Charlie watched in smiling silence. When he put his arm about her shoulder she moved away, pretending a concern for a ewe but he knew it was really an excuse to avoid his touch and he sighed, anguished, his hopes of last year when she had seemed to him to be ready for his love, dashed away.
He would never know who had caused it, Bert Garnett or Reed Macauley. Neither had been seen since that day in October when Bert had tried to rape Annie and Natty had died. Of course Reed Macauley was a businessman as well as a farmer, with concerns that took him to Carlisle, to London and even, it was rumoured, abroad to foreign parts, and those who had been his guests before his wife left him and who speculated on his whereabouts were in no doubt that wherever it was and whatever he was doing, he would be doing it in style. A man who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh was Reed Macauley, a fastidious man accustomed to luxury, good living, every comfort his considerable wealth could achieve for him. It was said he had been a time or two to Long Beck checking on his assets there, making sure those he left in charge were doing their duty but he had certainly not gone near the woman from Browhead, whose name had been linked, on several occasions, with his. Speculation abounded, mouths pressed to ears that were pricked for any gossip which was fed by the interest Reed Macauley had always aroused in them. Did he see his lovely young wife? Was he trying to effect a reconciliation? Or was he, as it had been whispered last year, still pursuing that elusive something called 'a divorce' which it was said he had been seeking in London? Not one of them knew anyone who had been divorced or even how one went about obtaining such a thing, and it was certain that if one did, one would instantly become a social outcast. Divorces were granted of course, but only by a special Act of Parliament and then only after the Ecclesiastical Court granted a decree similar to that of judicial separation, which still did not dissolve a marriage, and was granted only on the grounds of adultery or cruelty and how could the lovely Mrs Reed Macauley be accused of either of these? It had been known for a man of the nobility to free himself from an adulterous wife, the law taking the view that a man such as he must be free to re-marry and get himself an heir but Reed Macauley did not fall into that category.
All the dear faces Page 47