Innocent Victims

by Minette Walters

  “You have so far,” she would say huffily, stepping into her dress and pulling it up. “If you fixed a date, it might be different, but I’m not giving myself to you for a cheap ring.”

  “That’s not what you said last summer. Last summer you said you’d think about it if I promised to make you Mrs. Thorne.”

  “Then make me Mrs. Thorne.”

  “What’s the point? You’ll just come up with another excuse. How do I know you’ll ever do it, Else?”

  “I want a baby, don’t I?”

  “And what happens when you have it? I sometimes think all you want is a new pet to moon over.”

  These were sterile arguments that went nowhere and only served to make them angry with each other. Both were sexually frustrated. Norman tried to deal with it by working harder. Elsie swung between moods of dark depression and moods of starry-eyed romance which she put into her love letters from London.

  Oh, my dearest Darling . . . our romance is like a fairy tale and it will end with “They lived happily ever after” . . . How I adore you, my treasure . . . you mean everything to me. I know we can manage in your little hut . . . and Elsie promises to love you always . . . Oh, my Darling, you cannot realise what you mean to me . . . I dream of the day we are together. For ever and ever, your own true sweetheart, Elsie.

  Norman didn’t know what to make of such letters. It seemed to him that, safely back in London, she reinvented herself as a princess in a fairy story. She forgot the hardship of the farm and saw it instead as a place of beauty. But how would he ever make her happy when the reality—mud, smell and debt—was so different?

  The ups and downs of the relationship were taking their toll on Norman. More so, his never-ending money worries. Try as he might, he could not balance his books.

  He was up against farmers on long-established contracts, and there was no demand for Wesley chickens and eggs. Had he planned the project better, he would have toured the area and counted the number of poultry farms. Or the number of houses that kept hens in their gardens. As it was, he’d bought the field on Blackness Road blindly.

  He ran up debts with the chickenfeed producers. Then borrowed to pay them off. He told himself it was money well spent if it produced a profit in the end. All he needed was one good deal with a butcher for a regular supply of birds every week.

  But his father’s words haunted him. “There’s no time for love when the bailiffs come knocking on your door.”

  As 1923 moved on towards Christmas, Elsie became more and more desperate. She’d been out of work for months, and her brother and sister had married and left her alone with her parents. Now Mr. and Mrs. Cameron were on Norman’s back as well. They were as single-minded as their daughter. When was he going to make an honest woman of Elsie?

  They might just as well have said: “When are you ­going to take Elsie off our hands?” For that’s how Norman saw it. The more he avoided fixing a date, the harder Elsie’s parents pressed him.

  “You’re breaking our girl’s heart,” said Mr. Cameron coldly on Christmas Day. “May I remind you that it’s now twelve months since you put a ring on her finger.”

  “I know that, sir.” Norman took a deep breath to calm himself. “But as I’ve explained several times I’m not in a position to marry at the moment. I need—”

  Mr. Cameron broke in. “Why did you make a promise if you weren’t prepared to keep it?”

  I wasn’t given a choice . . . Elsie forced me into it . . . I should have listened to my father . . .“I thought the farm would come good this year.”

  “And it hasn’t?”

  “It’s only a matter of months, sir. If you could persuade Elsie to wait a little bit longer—”

  “It’s not my duty to persuade Elsie of anything,” Mr. Cameron snapped. “As I see it, my only duty is to remind you that you are legally bound to marry her . . . or be taken to court for breach of promise.”

  A sullen expression settled on Norman’s face. “It was Elsie who wanted the ring. I was happy as we were. In any case, I haven’t said I’m not willing to go through with it. I’m just asking for a little more time.”

  “Which Elsie doesn’t have, Norman. She’ll be twenty-six in April.”

  “She doesn’t look it.”

  “That’s not the point though, is it? She feels life is passing her by. Her brother and sister are wed now.” Mr. Cameron sighed. “She says people laugh at her because she’s on the shelf.”

  Norman felt a twinge of pity for the man. He knew how difficult Elsie could be when she thought she was being mocked. But his pity was short lived because he blamed both Mr. and Mrs. Cameron for the way Elsie was. If they hadn’t spoilt her by giving way to her every mood, she wouldn’t have thrown so many tantrums.

  Yet the truth was he did the same himself. What else could a bloke do when his girl sulked and wept and said she was going to kill herself?

  His own father was quick to notice his waning interest. “You’re home early,” he said, glancing at his watch on Christmas afternoon when Norman joined him in the front parlour. “Not spending the evening with Elsie?”

  “No.” Norman took a chair beside the fire. “I need an early night. I have to cycle back tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were staying longer.”

  “Changed my mind.”

  Mr. Thorne eyed him for a moment. “Have you and Elsie fallen out?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The usual. I can’t afford to get married yet.”

  A short silence fell between them.

  “Is that the real reason you’re putting the wedding off?” Mr. Thorne asked then.

  “What other reason would there be?”

  “You’re not in love with her any more.” He leaned forward to look at his son. “If so, it would be kinder to be honest with her now . . . give her a chance to find some­one else.”

  “She doesn’t want anyone else, Dad. She’s mad about me. Says she’ll kill herself if I ever let her down. She has these black moods when she thinks the whole world’s against her.” He dropped his hands between his knees and picked at some fluff on the carpet. “Mr. Cameron says he’ll sue me for breach of promise if I don’t marry her.”

  Mr. Thorne smiled slightly. “I wouldn’t let that scare you. It’s an idle threat. No one takes a man to court unless there’s money to be made out of him. And you don’t have any.”

  “I don’t want to treat her badly, Dad. I’m still fond of her.”

  “I’m sure you are, son. But it would be cruel to marry her . . . then spend the rest of your life wishing you hadn’t.”

  The idea that it would be kinder to let Elsie down gently took root in Norman’s mind. He told her not to visit because of the winter cold and wrote fewer letters to her. Those he sent were cool and formal, and contained no expressions of love. He hoped she’d take the hint and give up of her own accord.

  She didn’t.

  As his ardour cooled, Elsie’s grew. Her replies were full of passion—“I adore you . . . I worship you . . . I can’t wait for the spring . . .” It was as if she thought the power of her feelings could scorch through the page into Norman’s heart. How could any man fail to respond to a woman who loved him so deeply?

  As often as not, Norman left the letters unopened. Just the sight of her handwriting on the envelope set his teeth on edge. He was unable to deal with so much emotion. He felt swamped and oppressed by the false picture Elsie painted of him.

  He was a failed chicken farmer with mounting debts who found his fiancée tiresome. So why did she keep calling him her “clever darling husband” and herself “his true little wife”?

  As soon as the weather improved, she came down to the farm for a weekend. He tried to tell her that he wanted the relationship to e
nd. But she became hysterical, stamping her feet and hissing abuse.

  “I don’t want to talk. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know what’s going on?”

  Norman shook his head guiltily. “What do you mean?”

  “Look at the sheets,” she spat. “You’ve had other women in them.” She pulled the bedclothes off and kicked them against the wall. “They’re dirty. You’re dirty.” Her thin body quivered with anger. “You’ve been doing things on our special place. It’s hateful . . . disgusting.”

  He stared at her open-mouthed. “You’re crazy! I don’t know any other women . . . not to kiss and cuddle, anyway.”

  “What about prostitutes?” she screamed. “You’re wasting your money on sluts, Norman. I know you are! That’s why you never have any money.”

  “You need your head seeing to, Elsie,” he said in disgust.

  She burst into a storm of tears and flung herself against his chest. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry, pet. You don’t know what it’s like being away from you. I get so depressed. I get so jealous.”

  He gave her an awkward hug. “There’s nothing to be jealous about.”

  “But I don’t know that,” she said, wrapping her thin arms round his waist. “I keep thinking of you doing to other girls what you do to me. It’s nice, darling. I like it.” She pulled him against her. “You like it, too. See.”

  She tried to guide his hand towards her breast, but he pulled away sharply as if she’d given him an electric shock. “Don’t,” he said harshly.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not right.”

  Her eyes glittered angrily behind her glasses. “You were happy to do it last year. You can’t mess with me then pretend it didn’t happen, Norman. I’m not some cheap tart you can throw over when you get bored. I’m the woman you’re going to marry.”

  He headed for the door. “I have to clean the chicken sheds,” he muttered. “We’ll talk later.”

  Norman threw himself into work as a way to avoid contact. Elsie watched listlessly from the shack doorway. He couldn’t decide what to do. Tell her outright that it was over? Or keep hoping that she would take the hint herself? Surely even Elsie—despite her strangeness—must see there was nothing to be gained by marrying a man who didn’t love her?

  But when the evening came, she behaved as if nothing had happened. The bed was remade, and Norman was her “own dear darling” again. It was as if she had spent the whole day working out how to win back his favour. No angry looks. No stamping. No touching. Just healthy cooking and lots of light laugher . . . plus an endless stream of fond words.

  In an odd sort of way it made Norman feel more abused than if she had forced herself on him. For it suggested that he was shallow and uncaring. Did she really believe that all he thought about was his stomach? And that food should be served with smiles and silly endearments?

  By the time he walked her to the station on Sunday afternoon, he was close to strangling her. Why couldn’t she see how much she repulsed him? More than anything he hated the feel of her coarse, chewed fingertips against his skin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Crowborough—summer 1924

  Norman met Bessie Coldicott at a local dance that Whitsun. It was shortly after the weekend with Elsie. Bessie was everything Elsie wasn’t. She was young. She was pretty. She was warm and understanding. And she enjoyed flirting. Best of all, she accepted Norman for what he was. A young man who was struggling to make a living in difficult times.

  He loved the way she made no demands on him. With no fear of being left on the shelf, she was content to chatter about anything that didn’t include wedding bells. Suddenly Norman could be the person he wanted to be. A bit of a lad. A bit of a joker.

  It was a rebirth. Instead of the morose silences that had begun to mark his relationship with Elsie, he could be witty and funny with Bessie. They started walking out together within a week of the dance.

  “Am I your first girl?” she asked him one day.

  “No.”

  “What were the others like?”

  “Not a patch on you. The first one looked like a horse.” He grinned. “The second one looked like a horse’s arse.”

  Bessie danced away from him. “I don’t believe you. I bet they were pretty and I bet you’ve had more than two. A bloke can have his pick these days.”

  “I was a slow starter . . . but I’m catching up now.” He ran after her and caught her round the waist. “Like this.” He planted a kiss on her full, soft lips.

  Her eyes flashed with mischief. “Don’t go getting ideas, Norman Thorne. I’ve plenty of other admirers and there’s some I like just as well as you.”

  He knew it. All men found Bessie attractive. It was part of her appeal for him. The chase. The thrill of trying to win her. If other men had looked at Elsie in the way they looked at Bessie, he might have prized her more. But Elsie had never turned a head in her life.

  Each time one of Elsie’s letters arrived, Norman felt twinges of guilt about keeping her dangling. But like all cheats he put his own happiness first. On the two or three weekends that Elsie came to the farm during the summer, he managed to jolly her through them without too many rows. Her moods had less impact when he knew he could laugh with Bessie after she was gone.

  His hardest task was keeping Elsie at bay in the shack. She was at him all the time, rubbing against him and urging him to undress her the way he used to. She told him she’d changed.

  “I’m not afraid to have sex any more, pet,” she coaxed. “It’s natural when two people love each other.”

  “What if you get pregnant?”

  “You can use a rubber if you want.”

  “I don’t have them any more,” he lied. “I threw them away. In any case, it’s too dangerous, Else. Your dad’ll give you hell if you end up with a baby out of wedlock.”

  “I don’t care, lovey. I want to show you how much you mean to me. And how can I do that unless I give myself to you?” Tears welled in her eyes. “Please let’s do it, Norman. You need to know what a good wife I’ll be.”

  He was canny enough to recognize that this wasn’t her real reason for wanting sex. He began to see their relationship like a game of chess. Each of them was trying to force the other into a corner. Norman wanted Elsie to realize she had no future with him. While Elsie wanted to bind Norman to her by getting pregnant.

  * * *

  In the dark hours of the night, Norman often tried to convince himself that he should marry Elsie. “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t,” he’d say out loud.

  He’d shared his life with her for four years. She knew more about him than any other person on earth. There were even times when the thought of her not being there scared him. Perhaps he’d grow tired of Bessie, too.

  Sometimes he wondered if he cared for women at all. His chickens gave him more affection than people did. It still upset him to break their necks and remove their pretty plumage.

  He loved the way they ran when he called to them. Necks stretched out and legs pumping. The young ones scampered so fast they fell over his feet as he walked towards them. He had to tread carefully. Some were tame enough to be stroked, others skittered away with nervous cheeps.

  He had one cockerel who was a fighter. A Welsummer with blue-black tail feathers and a magnificent red comb. Norman called him Satan because of the evil that lurked in his beady eyes. If a cockerel in the next-door run strayed too close, Satan leapt at the wire and tried to attack him. He guarded his own hens jealously. Norman admired him for it.

  He also admired Satan’s appetite for sex, which meant few of his hens produced unfertilized eggs. This was in contrast to his Buff Orpington and Leghorn cockerels, whose milder natures made them lazy.

  Which wasn’t to say that Norman liked Satan. He treated him
as warily as a snake after the bird attacked him from behind one time. Satan drove his sharp spurs into the back of Norman’s leg and the wound hurt for days.

  “I don’t know why you don’t kill him,” said Elsie.

  “What for?”

  “Teach him a lesson.”

  “What’s he going to learn when he’s dead? And what good would it do me? Only a madman would kill his best cockerel.”

  “Then teach the others a lesson.”

  Norman looked at her with irritation. “They’re chickens, Elsie. Their brains are about this big.” He made a tiny gap between his thumb and forefinger. “They learn where their food is and they learn to lay their eggs in the nesting boxes. But that’s it.”

  “There’s no need to get snappy with me. I was only trying to help.”

  “Yes, well . . . it’s a stupid idea. It was my mistake anyway. I got him riled. It makes him jealous when his hens eat out of my hand.”

  “His brain can’t be that small then,” she said acidly. “Isn’t jealousy what humans feel?”

  Norman’s irritation grew. “How would I know?” he asked unkindly. “I’ve never had anything to feel jealous about.”

  He was lying, of course. He was jealous of any man who could bring a smile to Bessie Coldicott’s face. She was a dressmaker in Crowborough and he took to hanging around outside the shop where she worked.

  She teased him about it. “How come you go down my street so often? The nearest butcher’s two roads away.”

  “It’s a short cut.”

  “Fibber!” She tapped him lightly on the wrist. “You’ll get me in trouble if you do it too often. Mrs. Smith’s a nice lady but she doesn’t like men peering through the window. It upsets the clients.”

  “I just want to say hello sometimes.”

  She laughed. “But not when I’m working, Norman. I like my job and I don’t want to lose it. You can meet me at the back when I finish of an evening. Then walk me home afterwards.”

  As the summer passed, he spent more and more time with her. He asked her repeatedly to visit the farm but she always refused. “You live on your own, Norman. What would people say?”