by Iris Gower
‘But you weren’t free.’ Catherine looked up at him trying to see his expression in the darkness. ‘And we should have known better than to start something that could only lead to disaster.’
She began to walk away. There was a chill in the air and the scents of the night were all around her, the salt of the breeze blowing in from the sea, hidden from sight by the folding hills. An owl hooted, a small creature scuttled through the grass.
‘I’m taking you home.’ He spoke heavily, he was defeated and Catherine felt her throat constrict. ‘I will take no arguments, it is not safe for a young woman to walk in these deserted hills alone.’
He took the reins of the horse and drew the creature closer. He lifted Catherine into the saddle and swung himself up behind her. They were so close, the warmth of his thighs pressed against her body, his face against her hair. She closed her eyes in pain; she loved him so much.
The moon slid from between the clouds and the roadway shone silver, a ribbon leading through the hills. Catherine wanted the journey to go on for ever and yet she knew that if she stayed this way, in Boyo’s arms, she would not be able to stand the torture of being so close to him without possessing him.
He was breathing heavily close to her ear and she knew that he too felt the heat between them. His arms tightened around her, drawing her back against him. She felt his body hard, aroused, and triumph flared through her. It was moonlight madness and it was so sweet, so tantalizing.
‘You are like a pale moon goddess, Catherine, even your hair is silvered by the moonlight.’
‘Stop talking like that, let me down, I can walk from here and you can run back to your little wife.’
‘It is you I love, Catherine.’
She pushed his arms away and slid down from the saddle. ‘I’m tired of hearing the same refrain: love, love, love. It’s an easy word to say but what you really mean is lust, you lust after me, that is not the same thing as love. Goodbye, Boyo.’
She walked away, her head high, her back stiff, tears running down her cheeks. She wondered if he would come after her but Boyo had already mounted his horse and was galloping away as though the hounds of hell were in pursuit.
Catherine’s whole body ached by the time she reached Watkin Street. Doreen looked up as Catherine entered the kitchen, her shrewd eyes showing her concern as Catherine slumped into one of the kitchen chairs.
‘Want to talk about it?’ She made tea, deftly bringing the cups to the table. ‘I see the big bad witch didn’t turn you into a frog then.’
‘I’ve been such a fool,’ Catherine said. ‘I wanted Boyo so badly. I wanted him to make love to me again, in spite of everything.’
‘Is that all.’ Doreen pushed a cup towards her. ‘I feel like that every night.’
‘The difference is, Jerry Danby would marry you, if he could,’ Catherine said, taking the cup in both hands, the warmth soothing her.
‘And I suppose you think Boyo Hopkins wouldn’t marry you if he had the chance?’
‘He lies through his teeth when he says he loves me, it’s his wife he’s with isn’t it?’ She paused, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s true, she’s pregnant again.’ The words fell into the silence and Doreen sniffed.
‘Maybe, maybe not. That one would say anything if it would hurt someone else. Anyway I didn’t want you to go up there, did I? I warned you no good would come of it.’
‘You were right, she denied everything, lied to my face.’
‘There we are then, I ’spects she was lying about the other thing too; the baby she’s supposed to be carrying.’
‘I don’t think so. She made me feel so cheap, Dor.’
‘You only live once, grab what you can from life, that’s what I say.’ Doreen put some coals on the fire, rubbing her hands together to shake off the dust.
‘I still want him,’ Catherine said softly, ‘damn him!’
‘What did this Mrs Hopkins have to say, then, apart from the far-fetched story that she’s expecting, I mean?’ The sarcasm was evident in Doreen’s voice and Catherine smiled, knowing that Doreen would take her part, even if she was in the wrong.
‘Oh, she said men chase after other women when the wife is pregnant, it’s only a release for their natural tension, sort of thing. In other words, it means nothing to them.’
‘Well, sorry to be cruel, love, but from my experience, she’s right. A married man will go with anything in a skirt, at least that’s what Meadows did when he was younger. Can’t get anybody now, the old sod.’
Catherine rose from the chair, a bitter taste in her mouth. ‘I’m going to wash and get into my nightie, I’m worn out.’
Doreen rose to her feet. ‘If I was you, I’d forget Boyo Hopkins ever crept into your bed. Get some sleep, there’s shadows under your eyes big as saucers. Good night, love, I’ll leave you to wash in peace.’
Later, lying huddled beneath the blankets in her narrow bed, Catherine’s mind was racing, there was no hope of falling asleep. She found herself going over and over the way Bethan had told her she was pregnant. The shine in her eyes, the triumph on her face, convinced Catherine that Boyo’s wife was telling the truth.
‘Oh, Boyo!’ She felt his arms around her again as they rode together through the darkness, felt the heat of his thighs, the warmth of his arms beneath her breasts.
‘You fool!’ she said out loud and turning her face into the pillow, she wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Hari sat in the office staring out of the window. The view from her room, indeed from most of the rooms at Summer Lodge, was breathtaking. The wide curve of the bay was spread out below and cutting a path into the sea was the promontory of Mumbles with the two hills sitting like breasts upon the water. And in the distance was the faint tracery of the fields of Devon. But Hari was, for once, unaware of the view.
She felt dragged down by fatigue, her head ached, her mind was racing, going over and over her problems without coming any nearer to a solution. She had travelled miles in the last few weeks, talking to Mr Clark of Somerset, seeking his advice.
He had been kind, telling her there was nothing he could do about a competitor who was taking Hari’s trade. What he could do was to arrange, as he had done in the past, for Hari to take a stock of his boots and shoes home to Swansea on approval. That meant she did not have to pay him a penny piece until some sales had been made.
Her decision to join the strong Union of Boot and Shoemakers, Mr Clark warmly endorsed. She did not tell him that some of the more militant trade-unionists had voted to take strong action against Bethan Hopkins and her cut-price trading should lawful methods fail. No-one, it seemed, condoned the very rich buying into trade and taking the cream.
Now, back home, Hari felt drained but at least there was a glimmer of hope, a possible way out of her troubles.
‘Morning, Mrs Grenfell, you wanted to see me?’ Doreen stood in the doorway, her face pinched with worry and Hari’s heart contracted with sympathy, she knew that Doreen feared she was about to be dismissed.
‘No problems, Doreen, just a request from Mrs Charles that you go over to her house.’ Hari smiled. ‘Since you made her that wedding hat, she has had great faith in your taste and skill.’
‘Right, Mrs Grenfell, I’ll be glad to go over there, shall I go now?’ Doreen’s relief was evident and Hari swallowed hard, so much responsibility, such a heavy load to carry, her own and other people’s future in her hands.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you could take some samples with you. Mrs Charles lives over on the other side of Mount Pleasant. I’ve written the address down for you, do you think you can find the place?’
‘Duw, course I can. It’s a nice day and a walk won’t do me any harm.’
‘No need to walk, I’ve had the pony and trap made ready for you.’ Hari smiled. ‘Just load up the materials you need and enjoy the sun. And Doreen, after you bring the cart back, take the rest of the day off.’
She heard Doreen hurry along the corri
dor, her footsteps quick and eager and Hari shook her head, wondering how long she could keep her in employment. Doreen was a good worker and a talented milliner and without her there would have been no trade at all these past weeks. Hopefully, that would soon change.
Hari rose from her desk and went downstairs to the front of the building, the large, airy showrooms were practically empty, even though The Swansea Times had advertised Hari’s half-price sale of boots and shoes. One or two desultory buyers from further up the hill on the land above Honey’s Farm prodded the stock on the shelves and Hari wondered where the customers from town were. Usually news of a sale brought the people of Swansea flocking to buy the Grenfell’s quality stock.
Hari felt despair grip her, she was going to fail; after all that had happened, after the success she had made of her business through sheer hard work and enterprise, it was all going to disappear before her eyes. She spent some time rearranging display stands but her heart was heavy; it would take a miracle to pull her out of the mess she was in.
She looked along the length of the shop, the room was silent, growing dusty from neglect and in a frenzy of activity, Hari found herself dusting and polishing as though her life depended upon it.
At last, worn out and breathless, she made her way through the hallway and outside into the fresh air, taking deep gulping breaths, trying to calm herself, trying to face the facts rationally. If matters did not improve over the next three months, she would lose everything, the business, the house, her livelihood.
Hari felt sure she could survive with very little money, she had endured enough poverty in her lifetime to know she could live in the poorest conditions but what about Craig? He was used to riches, to a fine house, good food, servants to wait on him. These were things he had taken for granted from birth.
It must not be allowed to happen, she would not be ruined, she would fight tooth and nail to keep her business going. And yet had her fighting spirit gone? The surge of optimism, all too easy when she was young, seemed to be missing now.
She was about to turn back to the house when she saw the pony and cart in which Doreen had left for Swansea careering towards her, blocks rolling to and fro across the base of the cart and materials flying out onto the roadway. Of Doreen there was no sign.
The animal came towards her, eyes rolling, the cart bumping over the loose stones. Hari had no hope of stopping the creature so she stepped hastily aside. Once on home ground, the pony was quieter. Hari approached the animal, speaking softly. ‘Come on, there’s a good boy, quiet now, what’s frightened you then?’ She rubbed the soft neck of the animal making soothing sounds though her heart was in her mouth. There must have been an accident, Doreen had been thrown out of the cart, she might be injured, lying in the road somewhere. Perhaps she had been set on by thieves, there had been reports of a gang of thugs roaming the roads into town. Hari felt chilled, she must do something, quickly.
She strode back to the house, selected a gun from the case in the armoury and picked up a box of shells. She loaded the gun expertly and took it outside and lifting her skirts climbed up into the cart, settling herself in the driving seat. She clucked softly to the pony urging the creature forward.
She rode out through the wide gates, eyes looking ahead, expecting any moment to see Doreen’s crumpled figure lying on the ground.
She should not have sent her on an errand alone, Doreen was not used to the pony and trap, she held no truck with animals and usually kept well away from them. It was only fear of losing her job that made Doreen agree to the trip, Hari felt sure of it.
As she rode over the crest of the hill, the pony whinnied nervously. Hari drew the animal to a halt beneath the shelter of a group of trees. She peered ahead and saw a band of men standing in a circle jeering loudly.
Hari climbed down from the driving seat, picked up the gun and moved forward quietly. No-one noticed her approach, the men were too busy watching the spectacle on the ground before them.
She peered between the shifting bodies and caught sight of Doreen, her skirts above her knees, a man astride her and she swallowed her fear with difficulty, resisting the urge to run.
Hari lifted the gun and through the moving men, she saw Doreen’s attacker rise and fasten his flies, a sneer on his face as he looked down at the beaten woman at his feet.
Hari felt a surge of fierce anger as she saw Doreen’s pathetic attempts to cover herself. Lifting the gun, she fired a shot over the heads of the men and they froze for a moment in utter silence. The crowd moved apart then, the men turning to stare at her. Hari recognized Sergeant Meadows, he stood arms akimbo, looking at her with contempt in his eyes.
Doreen scrambled to her feet and ran to Hari’s side, she was bruised and trembling, there were tears of pain and humiliation mingled with the dust on her cheeks.
‘I would advise you to lower your gun, madam,’ Meadows said heavily. ‘It might go off again and that could be dangerous.’ He stepped closer but Hari held firm.
‘Come any nearer and I’ll shoot you,’ she said in a hard voice. ‘And you lot, you rabble, get away from here, clear off, do you understand?’
Meadows ignored her remarks, he brushed them aside as he might a fly that was irritating him. ‘You’d better listen to me before you get what she just got,’ he said. The anger building in his face was reflected in his voice.
He made a sudden rush and knocked the gun from Hari’s hand. She staggered backwards and then Meadows was on top of her, his foul breath in her face.
‘You play with fire, you get burnt,’ he said, lifting her skirts with one hand, holding her down with the other.
‘Get off, Peter, for Gawd’s sake, that’s Mrs Grenfell you got there, don’t be a fool.’ Doreen was pulling at his arm. Meadows reached out and pushed her away so violently that she went sprawling in the dust.
‘She’s nothing in this town now, it’s about time she realized that. Can’t take to be told, this one, won’t keep her nose out of other folks’ business.’
Hari scratched at his face, her nails raking channels along his cheeks. He slapped her hard. ‘You are asking for it and you are going to get it.’ He pushed her skirts higher and one of the men whistled at the sight of her silk-clad leg.
Hari panicked, bucking like a startled pony, trying to shake herself free of the intolerable weight of the man upon her. She slapped out at him and then she felt a hand at her throat. She gasped, sucking what small amount of air she could into her lungs, afraid she was going to die.
The men were gathering round now, one of them called out in a coarse voice, ‘Go on, Meadows, give it to her, show her what a real man’s like.’ Meadows laughed, his hand on his buttons. Darkness was crowding in on her, she would be raped and then she would die.
A shot rang out. Above her, Meadows gasped as if reeling from a sudden punch. His eyes were suddenly wide as a dark stain of blood formed on his jacket. The hand at her throat fell away and Hari dragged air into her lungs gratefully.
Slowly, Meadows toppled over, his mouth open, the light of anger dying out of his glazed eyes. Hari sat up, gagging, her head reeling. Dimly, she saw Doreen standing a few paces away, her face was white but the gun was held tightly in her hands. Meadows tried to rise but he was a dead man even before Doreen aimed and fired once more, shattering his jaw, sending blood flying in all directions.
Hari scrambled to her feet as Doreen turned the gun on the now silent band of men. ‘Piss off out of ’ere before you gets the same.’
The men melted away like shadows and Doreen, her eyes huge, sank to the ground, the gun falling from her hands. She looked up at Hari. ‘I had to do it, he would have had you, no bother. He don’t care who he soils, the bastard!’
She was quite calm as she pushed herself to her knees. ‘Go, Mrs Grenfell, send someone to get Constable Danby, he’s an honest policeman, he’ll do what is right.’ Suddenly, Doreen was crying, great gulping sobs shook her thin frame. Her eye was black now, her mouth swollen so that it was difficu
lt for her to talk. Hari took the trembling woman in her arms.
‘Don’t cry, everything will be all right, you were defending me, there was no other way of stopping the man.’
The two women knelt together in the roadway, the body of Doreen’s husband lying a few feet away from them, head twisted at a grotesque angle.
At last, Doreen stopped crying, she leaned wearily against Hari’s shoulder, her energy sapped, reaction was setting in and she began to tremble violently.
Hari helped her to her feet. ‘Come on, you are coming with me.’ She looked round for the horse and trap, she was afraid that the sound of the gun would have made the animal bolt but he was beneath the trees, head down, chewing the grass.
Hari helped Doreen into the cart and climbed into the driving seat. ‘Try to be calm,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘You did what you had to do, there was no other way, just remember that.’
But as she drove towards home, Hari was swallowing hard, her throat still ached from the grip of Meadows’s fingers. Surely the state that they were both in would convince anyone that Doreen’s action was justified, but the law was sometimes the ass that people claimed it to be. Who knew what the opinion of some ancient judge in a dusty wig, with even dustier ideas of womanly duties, might be?
She closed her eyes for a moment and then, with an air of determination, urged the horse to a faster pace; the sooner she got home, within the boundaries of Summer Lodge, the happier she would be.
‘Doreen, how are you feeling now?’ Catherine opened the door to the small room in the hospital where the curtains were drawn against the daylight. Quietly, she moved towards the still figure in the bed.
Doreen stirred and opened her eyes. ‘I hurt, I hurt all over, love, but then I’ve hurt like this many times before when that bastard has had his way with me.’
It had been Jerry Danby who had advised that Doreen went into the hospital. That way, he explained, he would not have to lock her in a cell. He was not entirely sure what he should do with a murderer but it had been clear to him that Doreen needed care and attention, not locking away.