‘Well, it’s not true,’ I said brusquely. He stroked the dog, refusing to meet my eye. ‘Gregory, for Pete’s sake, you don’t believe them, do you?’
‘They s-say you ravaged her. T-that she came home w-with her blouse all r-r-ripped.’
‘Yeah, that’s true. But it wasn’t me who did it to her.’
‘S-someone saw you.’
‘Who?’
‘The b-blacksmith, Mr Pearce. H-he was driving by. He s-saw you, Robert, you and her.’
‘So that makes me guilty then, does it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I was about to have some breakfast. Do you want some?’
‘No. What h-happened then?’
I sat down. Angie put her paws on my knee. I beckoned her onto my lap. ‘Good dog. Are you a good girl? Yes? Look, Gregory, she came to see me yesterday. Begged me not to tell her mother that that boyfriend of hers tried to...’
‘R-ravage her?’
‘Yes. I suppose her mother tried to force it out of her, so she panicked and told her it was me.’
‘W-why would s-she do that?’
‘She’s trying to protect Dan. She’s terrified that her father finds out.’
‘I d-don’t blame her. The s-sod. It wasn’t you then?’
‘Gregory, look at me. No, I would never do something like that. She’s sixteen, for God’s sake.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘OK, I b-believe you. I t-think I’ll have some of that breakfast now.’
I laughed. ‘Good man. One huge greasy breakfast without meat coming up. Then you can tell me all about Rebecca.’
*
Later in the morning, Gregory and I ventured out. With Angie on a lead, we wandered over to the shop. Unusually, it was full. Both Mr and Mrs Hamilton were busy serving customers. Old Bill Fraser was there, as was Mrs James, a kindly woman in her forties, a widow since the Great War, and a couple of others.
‘That’ll be nine pence, please, Mrs Courtauld,’ I heard Mr Hamilton say from behind the counter. ‘Oh, Lord, look what the cat’s dragged in.’
I almost stepped back as a bank of eyes turned to look at me. Mrs James, holding a can of tinned milk, sniffed; Fraser scowled at me.
‘We don’t need your custom, thank you very much, Mr Searight. Good day.’
I felt myself standing there, absorbing his words. Wasn’t I still the same man, the man who, just days earlier, had been feted and welcomed back into the bosom of the community? And now, here I was, not only accused but judged guilty. Their eyes bore into me and I knew they were seeing me as if for the first time, gone was the man deserving of sympathy, replaced by a monster that had defiled not only the girl but each and all of them. I became aware that Gregory, just behind me, was trying to speak but his stutter was getting the better of him.
‘You need to say something, Gregory?’ asked Mr Hamilton.
‘R-R-Robert didn’t d-do… do it.’
‘What didn’t he do, Gregory?’
‘He’s sticking up for him. They as bad as each other,’ said Mrs Hamilton.
‘That poor girl,’ added Mrs James.
‘Come on,’ I said to Gregory. ‘Let’s go.’
But then, just as I turned to leave, the shop door opened, the shop bell tinkled, and standing there like a cat caught in the headlights was Abigail. No one spoke.
Eventually, Mr Hamilton made his way to her. ‘Come in, Abigail. These gentlemen, so-called, are just leaving.’
With the shopkeeper guiding her in, she sidled in, her eyes wide with fright, as if fearful I might pounce on her.
‘T-t-tell them the t-truth. It’s n-not fair. It’s… it’s…’ Poor Gregory, his face turned red, unable to finish his sentence.
‘Get out,’ growled Hamilton. ‘Both of you.’
But it was Abigail who fled first.
*
‘I d-don’t understand,’ said Gregory, once we were safely away from the shop. ‘Why – why didn’t you s-say s-something?’
‘Because they won’t believe me. It has to come from Abigail.’
‘She won’t say anything now. It’s t-too late.’ I knew he wanted to say more but it was just too much effort for him. He’d been shaken by being labelled with me.
‘No, she’ll say it eventually. She won’t be able to maintain the lie forever.’
‘Well, I just h-hope she – she says it b-before P-Parker returns. For your sake, R-Robert.’
I tried to smile. ‘Yes, I know. So do I.’
*
My ordeals for the day were not over. Near bedtime, I’d settled down in my living room, listening to the radio, with Angie dozing on my lap, a standard lamp behind my armchair. An almighty crash of breaking glass made us jump. I sprang out of my seat, my heart thumping. Angie tumbled to the floor. Righting herself, she yelped manically. The window was smashed. What on earth caused that? And then I saw it – a brick on the floor, lying amongst the shards of shattered glass, a sheet of paper wrapped around it, secured by an elastic band. ‘It’s alright, Angie, it’s alright. Good girl.’ The fur on her back stood on end, a run of white spikes. I untied the elastic band, my heart still beating too fast. There was but the one word written in large looping letters on the sheet of paper – ‘Pervert’. I simply stood there, peering at the word. I felt shocked. Who would do such a thing? The irony began to take hold – that I had survived so much, survived the impossible, and yet, here I was, in my own home, feeling distinctly unsafe.
Chapter 21
I woke up with a heavy heart. I checked the pads of Angie’s paws for any shards of glass while I considered my position – labelled as a rapist, branded a pervert. The whole village knew and I’d been condemned in the eyes of each and every one of them. Only Gregory knew of my innocence – he and Abigail and, of course, Dan. I wondered who in the village could fix my window, or whether I’d have to go further afield.
Locking Angie up in the kitchen, I swept up the broken glass in the living room. The night before, I’d stuck up on an old sack I found in the shed. It wasn’t big enough but desperate to go to bed, I didn’t care. The light of the day filtered in, either side of the sack. Having ensured I hadn’t missed any bits of glass, I allowed Angie back in, who sniffed round, darting from one side of the room to the other, her tail wagging. I smiled. What a tonic that little dog was. I needed breakfast but I had no appetite. I told myself the piece of paper was nothing to worry about, yet I was worried. That someone out there should think so poorly of me worried me a lot.
Today, being Friday, I returned to my parents for lunch with my Uncle Guy and my mother’s sister, Aunt Josephine. I was happy to leave the village behind for a few hours.
Letting myself in, I found my mother in the kitchen. The place smelt of cooking – a joint of beef was in the oven. My mother, always a resourceful woman, had, she said, called in a few favours with the village butcher. Having kissed her hello, I asked whether Guy and Jo had arrived
‘Not yet, but they’ll be here soon. Your father’s in the dining room laying the table. Lunch is all but ready. Just waiting for the potatoes.’
Various pans simmered on the stove. I lifted the lid of one and breathed in the nauseous aroma of beef gravy.
‘Mum, I hate to tell you this but I’ve turned vegetarian.’
‘Veggie-what? What on earth is that?’
‘Someone who doesn’t eat meat.’
‘Doesn’t eat meat? That’s… I don’t know. How utterly strange. Why on earth wouldn’t you eat meat?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to have the vegetables then. Luckily the soup is vegetable.
We heard a car draw up and park outside the front gate. ‘They’re here,’ announced my mother.
We met them at the front door – my Uncle Guy and Aunt Josephine. ‘Hello,’ they waved, smiles upon their faces. How dapper they looked – my aunt in a knee-length floral skirt and a light green cardigan; my uncle in a tweed jacket and trilby, a pin in hi
s tie, his shoes polished. No one would know by looking at him that he had lost a leg.
Josephine kissed me on the cheek. Guy tipped his hat and offered his hand, then, with abandon, threw his arms round me. ‘Robert, good to see you. So sorry about your brother.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How are you?’ asked Josephine. ‘We were so worried about you, weren’t we, Guy?’
My mother led us all into the kitchen. ‘A round of tea is in order, don’t you think?’
‘Hang the tea,’ said Uncle Guy. ‘Jo – let’s get that bottle open!’
‘Champagne?’ exclaimed my mother as her sister fished a large green bottle from her handbag. ‘Oh, Guy, it’s far too early.’
‘Too early my invisible foot. Robert is back safe and well. If that’s not cause for celebration, I don’t know what is. Where’s Lawrence?’
‘I’m here,’ said my father, entering the kitchen. He looked tense, his jaw twitching beneath his beard. ‘Welcome,’ he said in a hollow voice.
Josephine kissed him on his cheek; Guy shook his hand. ‘Thank you, cousin,’ he said.
‘Guy, save the champagne for dinner.’
Later, we sat down to eat in the dining room, a room we rarely used, save for occasions such as Christmas and days like today. Father, probably on Mum’s instructions, had laid a white tablecloth over the oval table and produced their best cutlery and crockery. With so many framed prints on the wall, the room felt like a small art gallery – rural landscapes featuring windswept moors with threatening clouds, plus another of a Nelson-era galleon upon the high seas, its sails buffeted by the winds, a flash of lightning. The image of the dark, menacing waves caused me to shudder. But I noticed something was missing – Father’s framed display of his war medals. Indeed, on looking more closely, I spied the shadow on the wallpaper where, until recently, they’d been. Why had he removed them, I wondered? Or perhaps Mum had. I was about to ask but something, I don’t know what, held me back.
‘Come, you sit here, Robert, next to your uncle,’ said my mother, patting the back of a chair. ‘That’s it.’
‘Well, what a fine spread, Mary,’ said my aunt. ‘You’re doing us proud.’
‘You wouldn’t think there was a war on,’ said Guy.
‘I batted my pretty Irish eyelashes at the butcher.’
Josephine laughed. ‘I do that all the time. It never fails to work, does it?’
The dining room had a chandelier, the French windows framed by heavy velvety drapes, a potted plant and candles on the dresser. Everything minutely arranged over the years by my mother.
My father started, as always, with a prayer. We sat with our heads bowed as he thanked God for my safe return, and remembered Clarence, that he may rest forever in peace, that we should all meet again one day under His presence.
‘Amen.’ He tucked his napkin into his collar, a lifelong habit I always found slightly irritating.
‘Right,’ said Guy, a little hastily perhaps, ‘let’s crack open the champagne.’
My father stiffened. ‘I really don’t–’
‘Lawrence,’ snapped my mother.
His left eye twitched. ‘Yes, fine. Good idea.’
Uncle Guy’s toast was muted – to sons and nephews present and departed. A half-hearted clink of glasses.
The soup was, if truth be told, a little bland and I noticed Uncle Guy pep it with doses of salt.
‘Robert’s a vegetable person now,’ declared my mother.
I explained.
My uncle was as perplexed as my mother. ‘They say Hitler’s a vegetable man.’
‘Vegetarian.’
‘Whatever you call it. So,’ he said, leaning towards me, ‘what do you think of this attempt on Hitler’s life?’
My parents and my aunt were discussing, loudly, the cost of living.
‘He was exceedingly lucky,’ I said.
‘Yes, wasn’t he just? Doesn’t change anything though. He must know the war’s as good as lost.’
‘He’s not going to give in until Germany lies in ruins.’
‘The man’s a lunatic and the quicker we put him back down the hole he came from, the better. So how are you, Robert? You look remarkably well – considering.’
‘The merchant navy’s been good to me. Given me lots of time to recuperate.’
‘Yes, well, I know the feeling now. I’ve had my whole life to recuperate,’ he said, patting his knee.
‘You were out on the Western Front, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. Another man-made Hell. But we never learn. Pass the salt, would you? Lovely soup, Mary,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Thank you.’
‘You don’t think it’s a little watery?’
‘No, not at all. Delicious.’
‘We used to have this sort of soup back home, didn’t we, Mary?’ said Josephine.
My father laughed. ‘Back in the mother country, eh? I thought you only ate potatoes,’ he said, mimicking the Irish accent.
‘I think we’ve heard that joke often enough over the years, thank you, Lawrence.’
The lunch, at least the vegetable and potato part, was very nice. I realised it’d been some time since I ate so well and years since I had had any champagne. My father was telling Mary and Josephine about his desire to keep chickens or buy a dog – he couldn’t decide which. Feeling slightly lightheaded, I leant towards Guy and asked him about his wound. I felt, somehow, that through my own ordeal, I had earned the right to ask such a direct question.
‘Maybe I’ll tell you about it one day,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll tell you also about the ship I was on that went down. You and I, we have much in common. Do you remember, as a kid you used to call me Uncle Hobbly?’
I laughed. ‘I used to think what fun it must be to have a false leg. My mother mentioned you had a brother – Jack. I never knew until a couple years ago I had another uncle.’
He stabbed at half a boiled potato with his fork. ‘A lot went on during the war, involving all of us,’ he said, waving his knife at his wife and my parents. ‘Jack wasn’t as lucky. He was killed in action. Eleventh November 1917.’
‘Is there a gravestone?’
‘Sadly not.’
‘An inscription somewhere?’
He hesitated. ‘No.’
I knew I couldn’t ask any more.
‘We were like you and Clarence – brothers off to war. He was a good lad.’ He paused, concentrating on his food. ‘There’s not a day when I don’t…’
‘Not a day when you don’t what, Guy?’ asked my mother, chirpily.
Guy laid his knife and fork neatly on his plate. ‘I was saying to Robert there’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about Jack.’
My mother’s smile froze on her lips. Josephine bowed her head. My father, helping himself to extra gravy, broke the silence. ‘Yes,’ he said, in a booming voice. ‘Well, I know the feeling now. Of course, Mary, you had a thing for Jack, didn’t you?’ With a snarl, he added, ‘And, while we’re on the subject–’
‘Enough, Lawrence. Please.’
‘It all turned out for the best in the end,’ said Josephine breezily.
‘Not for Jack, it didn’t,’ said Guy.
‘No, of course… I didn’t mean…’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’m not sure my wife would agree with you, Jo.’
‘Lawrence, please,’ said my mother quietly, her eyes downwards. ‘Stop this.’
‘Yes, well.’ He took a mouthful of food while, I noticed, everyone else seemed to have lost their appetites. Josephine sipped her champagne. ‘I didn’t mind,’ said Lawrence, swallowing, ‘being third choice. It didn’t matter to me. There was Clarence. Not any more.’
My mother’s jaw clenched. ‘You still have Robert, Lawrence dear.’
My father looked at me and I knew what I had said earlier was utterly true – the wrong son had died. ‘Quite, we still have Robert.’
‘Yes,’ said Guy, squeezing my wrist. ‘And f
or that we have to be thankful.’
‘Thank you, Uncle Guy.’
‘Uncle Hobbly to you.’
‘Well,’ said Josephine, her face flushed. ‘Anyone for more champagne?’
*
I was part of a close-knit family – two sisters had married two cousins. But obviously, my other uncle, Jack, had had an influence. And tensions I never knew about until now simmered under the surface. My father had said he was the third choice, that my mother had had a ‘thing’ about Jack.
After lunch, we walked off our food, as my father put it, by embarking on a gentle stroll down the lanes, enjoying the afternoon sun. Uncle Guy and Aunt Josephine, holding hands, walked ahead, talking to Father who seemed to be waving his arms about. A couple of swallows whizzed past, butterflies danced and the hedges hummed with the sound of bumble bees. My mother slid her arm round mine and apologized for my father. ‘Don’t be angry with him, Robert,’ she said. ‘Your father has never been one to express his feelings so that when he finally does, as he did today, he gets it all mixed up and says… well, as you heard, he says all the wrong things. He’s still in shock – we all are, but your father… I cried and cried over Clarence, I still do, but I also know how thankful I am that we still have you. But it was as if it took me time to realise it at first. I was too consumed by grief to appreciate that we almost lost both of you. Your father hasn’t got to that second stage yet. He’ll get there.’
‘Will he?’
‘Yes. I promise you, he will.’
‘It’s obvious Clarence was the favourite. Not just now but when I think back over the years, he always was.’
‘No, that’s not true, Robert.’
‘Oh, Mum, come now, of course it is. I don’t mind, I really don’t, but did he have to make it so obvious?’
I felt her tighten her grip on my arm. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe… Maybe it was because he saw in Clarence a reflection of himself. Whereas you, you’re more like me. You’re like an Irishman with an English accent.’
‘Should I be taking that as a compliment?’
The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2) Page 13