Innocent Victims

by Minette Walters

  “Who’s going to see you? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Someone will. Bored old ladies peep through their curtains to spy on their neighbours. Everyone talks in a place like this.”

  He wondered if she knew about Elsie. “What do they say?”

  “That you had a girl visit a few times. Is that true?”

  He’d always known it would come out in the end. He took a deep breath. “Yes, but there was nothing wrong about it, Bessie. She never stayed in the shack. It was all above board and proper.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Someone I know from London. I was keen on her once but not any more. The trouble is—” He broke off. “She’s a bit of a loony. Acts weird all the time . . . shouting and yelling one minute, crying the next. She keeps being given the sack because of it.”

  Bessie pulled a face. “There’s a woman like that in our street. She bursts into tears if anyone speaks to her. Dad says it’s because she lost two sons in the war, but Mum says she was born weird. She used to do it before they died.”

  “Elsie’s always been strange.”

  “Is that her name?”

  Norman nodded. “Elsie Cameron. It was mostly her parents’ idea that she came to visit. I reckon they hoped I’d marry her and take her off their hands. She’s a lot older than me and they’re fed up with looking after her.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  Yes, thought Norman. It was horrible. Why should he be expected to make Mr. and Mrs. Cameron’s life easier by marrying their mad daughter? He hadn’t given birth to her. He hadn’t spoilt her.

  He reached for Bessie’s hand. “Don’t worry, pet. It’s not going to happen. I’ve loads of plans for the future . . . and none of them includes Elsie.”

  “What about me? Am I in your plans?”

  “Maybe.”

  She gave his fingers a sharp pinch. “Then don’t call me ‘pet,’ Norman. I’m not a fluffy chick to be kissed and stroked when you’re in the mood. I’m me—and I don’t belong to anyone.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wesley Poultry Farm,

  Blackness Road—autumn 1924

  Bessie came to tea at the beginning of September. She gave Norman twenty-four hours’ notice and he spent the night and morning cleaning the shack. He couldn’t believe how filthy it was. The floor was covered in chicken shit from his boots, and dust lay everywhere.

  Appalled at the state of his sheets, he went into town and bought new ones. It left him short of money but he didn’t think Bessie would sit on a bed that stank of sweat and grime. He folded the dirty sheets and hid them in an empty nesting box. He planned to swap them back before Elsie’s next visit in case she guessed that another woman had visited.

  His hard work paid off. Bessie was impressed by the hut. “It’s quite cosy. How long have you been living here?”

  “Two years.”

  “Don’t you get cold?”

  “I do in the winter.”

  She looked at the beam above her head where he stored his hats. “That’s neat. Where do you keep your clothes?”

  “Behind here.” He lifted a curtain that was nailed to one wall. “They’re hung on pegs and this keeps the dust off them.”

  “Neat,” she said again. “What’s in here?” She pointed to a small chest of drawers.

  Norman’s heart skipped a beat. Elsie’s love letters. He should have hidden them along with the sheets. “Razors . . . nail scissors . . . stuff that men use.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s better than I thought it would be. I was expecting something tatty.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you call it a shack. I thought it’d be built out of tin . . . or bits of old iron.” She patted the mattress. “If you’d told me it was like this, I might have come sooner.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was giving him a come-on. Because of Elsie’s moods he found women’s signals confusing. Was Bessie inviting him to sit on the bed with her? Was she inviting him to go further? Or was it a test to see how much of a gentleman he was?

  He bent to light the oil stove beneath the kettle. “Where would you like your tea?” he asked.

  “Outside,” she said with a smile. “It’s warm in the sunshine.” She pushed herself upright and walked to the door. “We’ll have it inside when the days turn colder.”

  After that, Norman’s life moved out of his control. Bessie started visiting the shack every night after work. And with none of Elsie’s rigid views about rubbers and wedding bells, it wasn’t long before they were having sex. The contrast between her softly welcoming arms and Elsie’s cold, stiff fear could not have been greater.

  How could he ever have fallen for Elsie?

  He tried to gear himself up to tell her the truth. He wrote letters that he never sent. He even went to London at the start of October to say the words to her face. “It’s over, Elsie. I don’t love you any more. There’s someone else.”

  He couldn’t do it. She clung to him like a limpet, smiling for no reason. When he accused her of being drunk, she laughed.

  “No, silly,” she said fondly. “The doctor’s put me on tablets for my nerves.”

  “What kind of tablets?”

  She pulled a bottle from her bag. “I don’t know but they’re making me better. I’ve stopped fretting about things so much.”

  Norman read the label. “What the heck are ‘sedatives,’ Else?”

  “I don’t know,” she said again. “But I’m quite well now. We can get married whenever you like.”

  “That’s not—”

  “We’ll talk about it when I come down at the end of the month,” she said happily. “It’s all planned. I’ve already written to Mr. and Mrs. Cosham to book a room. We’ll have such fun, pet.”

  “But—” He stopped.

  “But what, pet?”

  “It’ll be cold,” he said lamely.

  Norman told Bessie it was his father who was coming to stay. “He wants to see for himself how the farm’s going,” he lied. “I owe it to him, Bess. He gave me the money to get started.”

  “So why don’t you want me to meet him?”

  “I do . . . just not yet. I’ve told him I’m working every hour God gave to get the business off the ground.”

  “Are you ashamed of me, Norman?”

  “Course not. But what’s he going to think if he sees you here? He’ll know I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  Bessie rolled on to her side to look at him. “That’s true. You’re worse than Satan.”

  Norman grinned. “Except Satan does it with all the hens . . . and I only do it with one.”

  She touched a finger to his lips. “You’d better not be lying, Norman. I’ll leave you if I ever find you with someone else.”

  “You won’t,” he said. “You’re the only girl for me, Bessie.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. But over her shoulder he stared unhappily at the curtain hiding his clothes.

  Elsie had stitched it for him the first time she came to the farm.

  He cleaned the hut to remove all trace of Bessie. Strands of blond hair. The smell of her perfume. One of her combs. He rescued the dirty sheets from the nesting box, then had to wash them to remove the smell of chickens. They ended up a uniform grey but gave no other clues that they’d been off the bed for seven weeks.

  The tidiness of the shack was the first thing Elsie noticed. “Did you do this for me?” she asked. She looked pleased.

  “I wanted it to look nice for you, Else. It was a bit mucky the last time you came.”

  “It didn’t matter. I know how hard you have to work, lovey. I’ll keep it spick and span when I’m living here all the time.”

  He changed the subject abruptly. “How are your par
ents?”

  “The same.” She frowned. “Mrs. Cosham said she was surprised to see me. That’s a bit strange, don’t you think? I booked the room ages ago.”

  Norman turned away to put the kettle on the stove.

  “She asked me if we were still engaged. Why would she say that, pet?”

  He gave an attempt at a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s wondering why you haven’t been down so much this year.”

  “Did you tell her about my nerves? Does she know I’m on tablets?”

  “No.”

  She sank on to the bed. “That’s good. I’m not going to take them any more. I hate feeling drowsy all the time.”

  “But if they’re making you better—”

  “It’s you that makes me better, Norman. Do you remember last summer? It was all so perfect. Just you and me in our own little house.”

  “That was the year before,” he told her. “Last year was when you got the sack . . . and your brother and sister were married.”

  “We made love all the time, pet. You can’t have forgotten.”

  “It was only kissing and cuddling. It’s not as if we had sex.”

  She stared at him. “We did have sex, Norman. You nearly got me pregnant.”

  Norman frowned at her. “A bloke can’t nearly get a girl pregnant, Else. Either he does or he doesn’t. In any case, we never came close to making babies. You refused to do it until after the wedding.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He shrugged. “You thought if I wanted sex that badly I’d marry you just to get it.”

  She looked confused suddenly. “You’re lying.”

  “You know I’m not,” he told her. “I don’t say I wouldn’t have liked it, but—” Another shrug as he moved towards the door. “The best summer was before we were engaged. You were pretty happy then. Do you want to make the tea? I’ve things to do outside.”

  Elsie took all the wrong messages from Norman’s efforts to keep her out of sight. She thought it was eagerness that made him collect her from the Coshams before the sun came up. And passion that kept her in the shack until well after dark. Even his sudden use of “pet,” “lovey” and “sweetheart” didn’t rouse her suspicions.

  “We can’t go into town today, pet . . .” “Stay inside, lovey. I can’t bear to think of you getting your hands dirty . . .” “It’s a real holiday having you cook for me, sweetheart . . .”

  Norman knew he was being cruel but he blamed Elsie for it. If she’d been halfway normal, he wouldn’t have fallen out of love with her. She should have taken his hints and left long ago. How was a chap supposed to behave when he’d made a promise that he didn’t want to keep?

  With any other girl he could have said: “It hasn’t worked . . . No hard feelings . . . Let’s go our separate ways . . .”

  With Elsie it would turn into the world’s greatest drama. “You’ve broken my heart . . . I’m going to kill myself . . . I want to die . . .”

  The idea had formed in his mind that the easiest way to be shot of Elsie was to marry Bessie. Once he was wed, Elsie would have to leave him alone. His plan was to write her a letter the day after the wedding.

  Dear Elsie,

  Yesterday I married a girl called Bessie Coldicott. She is now Mrs. Thorne. I’m sorry to break it to you like this but I knew you’d create a scene if I told you before.

  Yours, Norman

  It was the coward’s way out, but it was also the safest. If the letter made her unhappy, then her parents could jolly her out of it. And if they failed, then Norman would rather she killed herself in London than in Blackness Road.

  “You do love me, don’t you, pet?” Elsie pleaded on her last day at the farm.

  “Of course.”

  “Then show me.”

  Norman watched with loathing as she undid her dress and let it slip from her shoulders. She was so thin that every rib stood out beneath her skin. In a pathetic attempt to make herself more appealing she took off her glasses and peered at him from eyes that couldn’t see.

  “Touch my breasts, pet.” She used her hands to push her flat chest into a cleavage. “Are they pretty? Do you like them?” She dropped her right hand to her crotch. “Do you like this, Norman? Is this nice?”

  Oh, God!

  Tears wet Elsie’s lashes. “Love me, pet. Please. I can’t live without you. I’m so . . . lonely.”

  With a sense of shame, Norman pulled her to him. But all he could think of was Bessie . . .

  86 Clifford Gardens

  Kensal Rise

  London

  November 16th, 1924

  My dearest beloved,

  The most wonderful thing! Your little Elsie is pregnant. I missed a bleed this month and the doctor says I’m expecting. It must have been when you made love to me on my last day in the shack.

  I know you didn’t want a baby, pet, but I promise we can manage. It means we’ll have to get married as soon as possible. Dad wants it to be before Christmas. He’d rather not walk me up the aisle if I’m showing.

  Oh, my darling, I am so happy. Please say you’re happy too and let me know how quickly you can arrange our wedding.

  Your own loving wife,

  Elsie xxx xxx

  Blackness Road

  Crowborough

  Sussex

  November 18th, 1924

  Dear Elsie,

  Your letter shocked me. How can you be pregnant when we’ve never had sex? There was no love-making at the shack. I hugged you when you said you were lonely, but I never took my clothes off. You can’t be expecting a baby. The doctor’s wrong.

  Tell your dad you’ve invented this story to make me marry you. If you really are pregnant then it must be some other man’s baby.

  Yours,

  Norman

  86 Clifford Gardens

  Kensal Rise

  London

  November 20th, 1924

  My own darling Norman,

  I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry to bring this trouble on you. But it’s no good putting your head in the sand. The doctor says a girl can get pregnant from heavy petting, and you know we’ve done that many times. We must make the best of this, lovey, and not get cross with each other.

  Dad wants us to meet so that I can prove I’m not fibbing. He says it should be in a public place so that you won’t be able to shout at me. Do you remember the tea shop at Groombridge? I shall wait for you there at 3 o’clock next Monday (24th). If you don’t come, Dad says he will talk to your father in the evening. The baby is making me feel sick every morning, pet, and my condition will soon be obvious to everybody. I hope you love your little Elsie enough to do the right thing by her.

  Your sweetheart,

  Elsie xxx xxx

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Groombridge—Monday, November 24th, 1924

  The tea shop was a gloomy place. Thick lace curtains hung at the windows and dark panels lined the walls. Norman had taken Elsie there during the first summer at the farm. He’d perched her on his bicycle crosspiece and ridden the five miles to Groombridge. They’d snatched kisses as they rode through the Sussex countryside. Elsie had loved it even though her bottom had hurt for days afterwards.

  Norman arrived early for the meeting but Elsie was already there. He spotted her immediately. She sat at a table in the corner, biting her nails and looking nervous. He wondered how long she’d been waiting. Hours probably. He guessed she’d been practising what to say since she wrote her letter.

  She gave a little wave when she saw him. Then dropped her hand when he scowled at her. What was the point of talking to her? Did she really think he was stupid enough to accept a baby that didn’t—couldn’t—exist?

  “I knew you’d come,” she said as he pul
led out the chair opposite her.

  “You didn’t give me much choice. I don’t want my father dragged into your lies.”

  “I’m not lying.” She put a protective hand on her belly. “I’m carrying your son, Norman.”

  Despite himself, his eyes were drawn to what she was guarding. “You’re making it up, Elsie.”

  “That’s not what the doctor says.”

  “How can he know? You were barely two weeks gone when you saw him. Assuming you ever went near a doctor. I don’t believe that any more than this story you’ve made up about a baby.”

  Elsie smiled brightly as a waitress approached the table. “We’d like a pot of tea and some scones. My husband says I must eat for two now.”

  The woman laughed. “I’m pleased for you,” she told Norman. “When’s it due?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, staring at Elsie. “When’s it due, Else?”

  “Next summer of course. You can’t have forgotten already.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling as if to say “Men!”

  “Enjoy yourselves while you can is my advice,” the waitress said, writing their order on her pad. “Life’s never the same afterwards.” She moved away to another table.

  “You’re off your rocker if you think I’m going to marry you without proof,” said Norman in a low voice. “What do you think I’m going to do when this baby never arrives? Laugh? I’ll be flaming mad.”

  Elsie kept the false, bright smile on her face. “Of course the baby’s going to arrive. Mum says it’s a boy because he’s giving me awful morning sickness. She had the same trouble with my brother.”

  She tried to take one of Norman’s hands but he pulled away from her.

  “You might comfort me,” she said. “It’s frightening to find yourself pregnant when you don’t have a husband.”

  “You’re not pregnant, Elsie.”

  A glint of temper showed in her eyes. “Don’t keep saying that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “No, it’s not,” she hissed. “The truth is you did something you wish you hadn’t . . . but it’s too late, Norman. Now you have to marry me whether you like it or not.” She rubbed her belly. “Unless you want your son to be born a bastard.”