Outcast

by Josephine Cox

  Lying in the dark, Emma heard every sound Gregory made, his movements so exaggerated and clumsy that they drove all tiredness from her, replacing it with such nervous panic that her heart seemed to be turning somersaults of its own accord. As he lumbered into the room, it became apparent to Emma that since that glorious night spent in Marlow’s arms, when the child now moving inside her was created, no other being but herself had cast eyes on her nakedness. Somehow, despite the fact that she had a husband, it seemed right to Emma that this was so. The thought of Gregory ogling her and exploring her body with his own caused such turmoil within her. Yet, she was his wife and, as such, must be prepared to yield to his demands.

  ‘Awake are you, my beauty?’ came the slurred voice into the half-darkness. ‘Waiting for me, are you, you little vixen?’ Emma gave no indication that she was still awake. She made no move, nor uttered even the slightest sound. Instead, she lay quite still, her eyes tightly shut and a little prayer in her heart that Gregory would be so exhausted from his evening of revelry that he would fall fast asleep the minute he tumbled into bed beside her. For what seemed a lifetime, Emma could hear him falling about and chuckling, as time and time again he made the effort to undress. ‘Buggered if I ain’t too drunk to stand up!’ he kept saying, as he crashed first on to the bed, then on to the floor. Emma could hear him hopping about on one leg and when, curious in spite of herself, she opened one eye, it was to catch a glimpse of him in the long wardrobe mirror with one leg bent in the air, his hand making desperate grabs to yank the trousers from it, and all the while performing a comical tap dance, which looked all the more fascinating in the eerie flickering candlelight. ‘Told me off, she did!’ he now complained to Emma’s back. ‘My old mater! Said I was drunk and should be ashamed!’ Suddenly his trousers were jubilantly snatched into the air, followed by his belt and braces, shirt and undergarments. ‘I told her straight, Emma! I told the old bugger I’d give her cause to be proud of me. Oh aye! You wait till I present you with a grandson, I told her! Me an’ my little woman – we’ll do it this very night. I’ve got work, and I feel it in my blood that, between us, we’ll make a grandson for her tonight!’

  When he slid into bed beside her, his hands coveting her neck, her shoulders, her hair, Emma felt herself shrink from him. When the warm nakedness of his body pressed itself into her back and his face leaned forward to touch her own, Emma thought she would die. God help her, but she couldn’t let him invade her body! Not now, with Marlow’s seed warm within her; not ever, her heart growing cold as his fingers began pulling up her nightgown. ‘Come on, Emma,’ he coaxed in a whisper which seemed to have suddenly sobered by his desperate need of her. ‘It’s been so very long . . . I’m sorry. Oh, but I want you now. I need you so badly that I can hardly breathe!’ Feeling her resistance, his demands grew more urgent and when he roughly gripped her thigh in order to swing her round towards him, he quickly sensed the stiffening of her body. ‘Stop that!’ he growled, his tone marbled with both astonishment and anger. ‘Your husband has need of you and by God, he’ll have you!’ He spat the words in her ear, at the same time beginning to straddle her crouched body. In that split second, Emma looked up and, seeing his naked body towering above her, she made a desperate scramble to get out from beneath him.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ Gregory lashed out with his right arm, intending to pin Emma to the bed. But she would not be held! In the ensuing frantic struggle, she managed to escape his clutches, but not before he had ripped the nightgown from her back. From the far side of the room where she had run to escape his searching eyes, Emma stood transfixed, ashamed that both Manny and old Mrs Denton must by now be listening to every word which passed from this room. As Gregory came towards her in slow, deliberate steps, holding the candle flame out at arm’s length and a look of terrible confusion on his face, Emma averted her eyes. He stopped within only two or three paces of her. She felt his colourless eyes scrutinizing every inch of her nakedness. She heard the gasp of incredulity which, to Emma’s trembling heart, seemed to infuse the very air with terror.

  When the cry came, it was like a roar of thunder, yet it was transfused with the threat of tears. ‘Christ Almighty! You’re with child, Emma !’ Now, he was on her, so close that the heat from the candle flame seared into her skin as he held it near her face. When he asked her, in a suspicious voice, ‘Is it mine? . . . can it be?’ and she lowered her gaze to the floor, he had his answer. ‘Whose bastard is it, then, eh?’ He was shaking her to and fro, not caring that each time her head was banged hard against the wall. ‘Whose bastard, I asked?’ The shock of his discovery showed on his twisted face as, flinging her away from him with contempt, he went on drunken, unsteady legs to the dresser, put down the candle and began frenziedly pulling on his clothes as though his very life depended on it. ‘You think you’ll not tell me who it was, do you?’ he scorned. ‘Well, you’ll do better than that, because you’ll bloody well take me to the swine! He’ll not touch another man’s wife again, I’ll be bound. And, as for you, you are a trollop! A harlot . . . just as my mother warned me!’ In Gregory Denton’s eyes there was no worse sin to be committed than that which Emma had committed against him! Having put on his shirt and trousers, he grabbed Emma’s pile of clothes and, flinging them at her, yelled, ‘Get dressed!’

  Never having seen any man in such a fury – not even Caleb Crowther – and feeling all the more intimidated because it was Gregory, her own husband, Emma was mortified. But, even so, she did not wish to leave this room on a fool’s errand. She frantically scrambled for her best course of action. Should she put on her clothes and make some futile trek into the streets with him, where the cold night air might temper his fury and give her the opportunity to reason with him? Or would her best move be to dress, but to go no further than the downstairs parlour, where she might have the chance to explain and talk more calmly. Or might she fare better by refusing to budge from this room until he had listened to what she had to say. Oh, but dear God, what could she say, other than to confirm what his instincts told him already – that the child was not his, but another man’s and that that man was the bargee, Marlow Tanner. No! That was the one thing she would never reveal. Whatever else she might confess to, Emma would not betray or defile the exquisite memories of that night, of Marlow’s fathomless, undying love for her and of her own for him. She would hold close those wonderful memories and treasure them in her heart for always – whatever the consequences!

  ‘There’s no point in discussing anything, until you can listen calmly to what I must tell you.’ Emma’s voice was quiet and controlled, belying the tightening knot in her stomach and the uncomfortable fluttering of her heart.

  The sound of her voice cutting the air with such dignity seemed only to infuriate Gregory Denton further. ‘I will not tell you again,’ he said through clenched teeth as he bent to lace up his boots. ‘What! . . . I’ve half a mind to flay you alive here and now. Get dressed and cover up your sins! Or, so help me, I’ll do it for you!’

  When, in defiance, Emma made no move other than to take the shawl from a nearby chair and wrap it about her shivering body, he seemed like a man demented. ‘So you’re proud of your sins, are you? Proud that you’re nothing but a cheap trollop, eh?’ He rushed towards her, his work boots making a peculiar sound across the floor and his face pinched with rage and filled with loathing as it thrust itself into Emma’s. ‘Proud is it?’ he demanded, gripping hold of Emma and propelling her violently towards the door. ‘Well, then . . . why not show the whole world, eh?’

  Unable to fight his manic strength, Emma felt herself being pulled across the room and through the door. Out on the landing she was dragged from one bedroom door to the other as he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘We’ve a harlot here, who’s proud of it! Come and see, why don’t you?’ Whereupon the back bedroom door was opened wide and through it emerged the homely figure of Mrs Manfred. Attired only in the long white nightgown taken earlier from her portmanteau and with
her hair, which was usually rolled neatly up, hanging just as tidily about her shoulders, she had a look of both consternation and disgust on her round, honest face.

  ‘Take hold of yourself, Mr Denton!’ she told him, coming forward to place the lighted candle on the landing windowsill, her eyes as hard and condemning as her voice. ‘If Mrs Denton has little to be proud of, then you have even less! Take your hands off her this instant!’

  ‘No, Manny . . . go back to your bed, please!’ pleaded Emma, for she had seen the rising anger in her old friend’s face and she knew of old that Manny’s sharp tongue would get her into deep trouble. ‘I’m all right, believe me.’ She was not afraid of Gregory now. Ashamed, yes, and also regretful that she had not found the courage to face the whole issue many weeks before when she’d first suspected her condition. But she now felt indignant that Gregory should humiliate her so in front of others, for if he had been half a man, he would have found the courage to discuss the situation more rationally. Instead, he had chosen to use it as a means to belittle her even further and to subsequently demonstrate his total lack of compassion and tolerance. In this illuminating moment, Emma saw Gregory for what he really was and she did not like what she saw. She herself had a great deal to answer for, that was true enough; she had no reason to be ‘proud’, as he had claimed – but then, neither had he! No! Emma wasn’t ashamed, nor was she afraid. She was angry! Angry enough to turn on him now, first with her fists, then, with her teeth, sinking them into his arm, and finally with her feet, when he attempted to knock her off balance against the balustrade.

  ‘You little cow!’ he screamed as the blood trickled down his arm.

  ‘Leave her be, I tell you . . . leave her be!’ Now Mrs Manfred dashed to help and all hell was let loose.

  Of a sudden, old Mrs Denton’s door flung open, revealing a face as dark as thunder and eyes alive with hatred. Standing there, silhouetted in the glow from the candle on her dresser, she made a fearsome sight. Over her cream cotton nightgown a fringed brown shawl was flung, crocheted by her own hands when they had been more nimble. Enormous in size, it reached down to touch her bare, gnarled feet and to tangle itself in the crooked walking-stick upon which she now leaned so heavily. Her nightcap was at a peculiar angle, covering one ear, and her surprisingly long grey hair protruded from beneath in wild tangled clusters before falling about her stiff bony shoulders in such disarray that it gave her a witch-like appearance. Her eyes were slitted and venomous as they took in the scene before her. ‘I knew it!’ she hissed, letting her weight slump on to the door-jamb as she viciously thrashed the air with her stick. ‘I know what you’ve been up to, Emma Grady! My son might only just have found out, but I’ve known all along what you are! Who gave you the right to fetch your cheap, loud-mouthed friends into this house? Who, eh . . . tell me that!’ But her voice fell on deaf ears, only adding to the noise and confusion as the struggle between the two figures – one intending to harm Emma while the other tried to save her – grew even more frantic.

  Meanwhile, outside, Tilly Watson was terrified that there was a murder being committed. ‘For God’s sake, open this door!’ she yelled through the letter-box. ‘Else I swear I’ll fetch a constable!’ When there was no acknowledgment and the shouting grew even more fierce, her husband pushed her aside and, peering through the letter-box, he was so alarmed to see Gregory frantically struggling with the two women, that, giving no further warning, he ran like the wind to seek out an officer of the law, telling his wife as he went, ‘There’s madness goin’ on in there, Tilly. Stay well away till the constable comes!’ As he ran, it crossed his mind that, unless he acted swiftly, some poor unfortunate would go hurtling down those stairs and end up with a broken back. He thought again on what he’d seen and judging by the way that aggressive older woman was grappling with Mr Denton, his instincts told him it would likely be his neighbour who came off worst! As for young Mrs Denton, well, she seemed more against her husband than with him! By God, it was a right do!

  Tugged and torn between the two equally determined forces, Emma was also terrified that someone would be badly hurt. On the one hand Mrs Manfred was like a tigress protecting her cub, while on the other, Gregory was beside himself with inconsolable fury, made all the more terrible by drink. It was when Gregory lashed out with the intent of stripping the shawl from Emma’s otherwise-naked body that the inevitable happened. At the very moment when the enraged Mrs Manfred struck out to prevent his arm from grasping the shawl, Emma twisted from the vice-like grip of his other fist, which had seized her and pinned her fast to him. Without Emma’s body to hold him balanced against the older woman’s feverish attack, he stumbled backwards and, with a cry which struck a chill deep in Emma’s exhausted heart, he hurtled down the steep, narrow stairs, to land crumpled and misshapen at the bottom.

  For what seemed a lifetime, not a sound could be heard: not the slightest movement disturbed the eerie silence. Until a few moments later, the odd shuffling of old Mrs Denton’s bare feet penetrated the unnatural quietness as she slowly took herself from her bedroom door to the balustrade. From there, she stared down at the tragic figure which was barely visible in the shadowy passage below. At once the silence was broken with her low pitiful sobbing, which, to Emma’s shocked spirit, was terrible to hear. Amidst it all, Emma ran swiftly down the stairs to where Gregory lay unmoving. Bending close to him, she began murmuring his name and looking into his face. When his wide, shocked eyes stared back at her unseeing, Emma’s hand flew up to stifle the cry in her throat and, her heart torn with anguish, she turned to look at Mrs Manfred who seemed frozen to the spot. In a broken voice she said in a loud whisper, ‘Oh, Manny! . . . he’s dead. Gregory’s dead!’ Whereupon Mrs Manfred visibly sagged and seemed close to collapse.

  ‘Murderers! It were you . . . the both of you! You killed him . . . pushed him down the stairs! Murderers!’ Old Mrs Denton fell forward across the balustrade, her eyes going from Mrs Manfred to Emma and her voice at such a pitch that, within minutes, there wasn’t a soul along Montague Street who hadn’t been roused from their beds. On and on she went, growing more and more hysterical. When the sound of the constable’s whistle outside rose above her shrieking, she went into a spasm, her every limb shaking so violently that the stick in her hand played a sinister tune against the balustrade and her grief-stricken wails became like the sound of muted laughter.

  Suddenly, the door was burst open. The constable stretched out his arms in order to keep the crowd back. What he heard behind him was Tilly Watson’s husband telling one and all, ‘The buggers ’ave done for him! We saw it! . . . me an’ Tilly, we saw the poor sod struggling for his life!’ What the constable saw by the flickering light of the candle which brightly burned on the landing windowsill, was Emma kneeling ashen-faced and terror-struck beside the still figure of her husband. Above her, on the landing, was the figure of Mrs Manfred, flattened back against the wall, on the verge of collapse, her eyes closed and, clutched tightly in her hand, a torn remnant of Gregory Denton’s shirt sleeve. Some further way along the landing, old Mrs Denton was slumped over the balustrade like a rag-doll, her eyes fixed on the still and twisted figure of her precious son. Over and over in a small shocked voice she accused Emma, ‘You killed my lad! The both of you . . . you murdered him.’ And, going by what he had been told by those who had seen the fracas through the letter-box, together with what his own eyes told him now, the constable’s first instincts were to totally agree with what that frail old woman was saying. However, when he moved down the passageway and saw Emma’s tragic eyes looking up at him, he could find nothing there to convince him that she had a wicked heart. Still, he had a duty to perform, where instincts and feelings did very little to influence the outcome.

  When the constable took hold of Emma’s arm, saying in a kindly but firm voice, ‘Come along now. Let’s get you decently dressed,’ Emma felt numb, but not from the biting cold which took her breath away and made the pores on her skin stand out; she was numbed by all that
had taken place and by the tragedy which she had witnessed with her own eyes. Emma prayed that it was all some terrible nightmare from which she would soon wake up; but deep in her heart she knew it was not.

  Some time later, when the house on Montague Street had seen more visitors and officialdom in a few hours than it had seen in many years, an uneasy quietness descended upon it. The constable had secured all the details of what was construed to have taken place. Tilly Watson and her husband gave their excited and colourful account; old Mrs Denton gave her version in the greatest detail, laying the blame with renewed vigour on Mrs Manfred and Emma. Now, after she had helped Emma to dress in her best clothes and boots before delivering her, along with Mrs Manfred, to the waiting officers, Tilly Watson had only old Mrs Denton to contend with.

  ‘My lad . . . they murdered my poor lad!’ was all the old woman could murmur from the depths of her bed – her voice, like her shocked heart, growing weaker with every breath.

  ‘That’ll be for the Judge to decide,’ Tilly Watson reminded her. Although, if the truth were to be told, she thought, there was little hope that the Judge’s verdict would be any different to that of old Mrs Denton’s because, much as she liked Emma and Mrs Manfred, there was a powerful case against them – including what she herself had seen with her very own eyes. However, if the question was put to her, she would have to say that, in her opinion, it was not Emma’s hand that actually pushed Mr Denton, but that of Mrs Manfred.

  Of a sudden, Tilly was struck by the unearthly quiet in the room and, looking down on old Mrs Denton’s grey, silent features and wide-open eyes, she was riveted to the spot. ‘Lord, love us!’ she said in a thick whisper, making the sign of the cross several times on herself. ‘Looks like the old bugger’s followed her lad!’ Quickly, she examined the old woman more closely and seeing that she had indeed left this world, a crafty look came over Tilly’s face. Turning her head stealthily from side to side to ensure there was no one else present in the room, she gingerly picked up the old woman’s wrist between her finger and thumb and lifted the arm which had been hanging from the bed towards the floor. Laying it over the eiderdown in reverent fashion, she looked about the room once more. Then, stooping so that she might easily stretch her hand under the bed, she began feverishly rummaging about.