The Wrong Side of Happiness

by Tania Crosse

  ‘Well, I’m afeared I don’t have time to stand about considering some monstrosity that’s putting people out of their homes,’ she announced acidly. ‘I’m going to church with a friend.’

  ‘Aren’t I going that way meself.’ To her annoyance, Connor fell into step beside her. ‘Wish there were a Catholic church here, but the nearest one I know of is in Plymouth. So I have to confess me sins straight to God and hope He’s listening, and give meself me own penances.’

  ‘That must keep you very busy, then,’ she retorted. Oh, why wouldn’t he leave her alone?

  ‘Well, I’ve had time enough on me hands with no work over the past month,’ he went on, replying blithely to her scathing remark. ‘But hopefully the ground will start drying out and we’ll be back to work in a week or so. Need to if some of these poor families are to survive.’

  Tresca waited for him to boast about helping them, but he didn’t. So at least he possessed a shred of humility, she thought grudgingly. ‘Yes, it’s been hard for some of them. And I know what that’s like.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Connor’s voice was grave now. ‘And I really am sorry for what happened to you. But you know it really wasn’t my fault.’ He had caught her arm and his eyes, a dark sapphire in their intensity, bore into hers. ‘All the same, I beg your forgiveness. You know I’d have done something to stop you going in the workhouse if I’d known.’

  Tresca knotted her lips. He was offering her an olive branch, but it was one she couldn’t possibly accept. ‘So where are you going now?’ she asked in an attempt at civility, although heaven knew she didn’t care where he was going – unless it was back to Ireland, in which case she would have rejoiced.

  ‘Thought I’d take meself up on the moor. There are no trains up there on a Sunday, of course, so I’ll have to walk. Which is why you might have noticed I’m not in me Sunday best,’ he told her, emphasizing the words to remind her, she considered heatedly, of their conversation the day Mrs Ellacott had rescued her from the workhouse. ‘Pity I won’t see the railway running. Wouldn’t it be nice to see it when I spent a couple of years of me life building the thing. Loved working on the moor, so I did. But I’ve a notion I told you that before. Haven’t you worked up on the moor yourself, being a farm girl?’

  ‘Dairymaid,’ she corrected him, but felt obliged to answer his question. ‘So I’ve never worked up on the high moorland. You don’t get dairy cows on the moor, unless it’s a house cow just for a farmer’s own use. And hilltop farmers don’t need casual labourers. But my father and I have worked on farms on the edge of Dartmoor often enough. Farms that grow fodder crops and the like on the lower slopes.’ They had reached the bottom of Market Street and Tresca wondered quite how she had become engaged in conversation with this man she loathed. ‘Now, if you’d excuse me, Mr O’Mahoney, I can see my friend waiting for me.’

  ‘But of course. And remember, it’s Connor, not O’Mahoney.’

  He raised his hat from his mop of bright hair and then strode off across the town’s main square. Tresca breathed a sigh of relief and scampered over to where Vera was waiting, the interlude with Connor discarded to the depths of her memory.

  ‘Good morning, Tresca!’ Vera greeted her. ‘And a fine one it is, too.’

  ‘It certainly is. Makes you feel better, doesn’t it? Shall we go in?’

  The old church was hushed and reverent, the sun shining through the beautiful stained-glass windows, as the congregation assembled in the pews. Tresca’s experience of religion was scanty and intermittent, but the service gave her a sense of peace. When they came back out into the sunlight, she felt happy and refreshed.

  ‘Miss Ladycott, isn’t it?’

  The man’s voice behind her made Tresca turn round. She recognized the young fellow at once and returned his open smile. ‘Mr Trembath, how are you this lovely morning?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. I haven’t seen you for some while, since you . . . well, when you came into the shop,’ he concluded diplomatically. ‘That was before Christmas. Have you been unwell?’

  Tresca tipped her head. ‘You could say that, but I’m much recovered now and feel so much better now that spring has finally arrived.’

  ‘April,’ Morgan Trembath sighed pleasurably. ‘Such a wonderful month. Daffodils in bloom, and the air so full of expectation. I was about to take a little wander along the canal. Would you and your friend care to join me?’

  ‘I’m sure we’d both be delighted. Mr Trembath, this is my good friend, Miss Vera Miles.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Miles.’

  ‘Likewise. I have seen you so often in church with an older lady.’

  ‘My mother,’ Morgan informed her as they made their way towards the area known as the Meadows. ‘She is in bed with a head cold, otherwise she wouldn’t have missed the church service.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m rather glad to have a little time to myself,’ Morgan confessed, ‘and I’m sure my mother will recover quite soon. She relies on me a great deal since my father died and it’s sometimes a little tiring.’

  ‘I’m sure you are always the dutiful son, but it is nice to enjoy a little freedom on one’s own at times,’ Vera nodded knowingly.

  ‘Indeed it is. We live in the same house and we run the shop together. Trembath’s ironmonger’s in West Street, if you know it. So it does get a little claustrophobic at times.’

  Claustrophobic, Tresca scoffed to herself. Poor Morgan Trembath seemed to her totally dominated by his mother. She was glad the woman was ill so that the poor fellow could enjoy himself a little.

  ‘Miss Ladycott,’ he said, suddenly addressing her, ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any crusts as Mr O’Mahoney usually does. I remember watching you feeding the ducks with him some while ago, and you really seemed to enjoy it.’

  Tresca felt a twinge of resentment. She really didn’t want to be reminded of Connor O’Mahoney again! She hoped he would get lost on the moor and never come back.

  ‘Never mind. I’m in such good company, and on such a wonderful morning as this, it’s just so marvellous to be out of doors.’

  She noticed a pink hue blush into Morgan’s cheeks. He really was such a pleasant young man and didn’t deserve his haranguing mother. She didn’t know how he put up with her. He must have the patience of a saint.

  They ambled along the path as far as the road-bridge over the canal. The sun warmed their backs, the trees were coming into leaf, and Tresca felt that all was well with the world. If it hadn’t been for her father . . .

  ‘I’m afraid I must return now,’ Morgan announced, ‘if you ladies will excuse me. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly safe here together.’

  Tresca had to suppress a chuckle. If only he knew the situations she had faced in her life! But it was all part of the young man’s kind-heartedness – so different from Connor O’Mahoney’s attitude towards her.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I’m sure we will,’ Vera assured him. ‘Unless you wish to return now, Tresca?’

  ‘Oh, no. I feel quite exhilarated and I’d like to walk a little further.’

  ‘Good day to you, then, ladies, and I’m sure I’ll see you both again.’ And so saying, he gave a short bow and walked briskly back the way they had come.

  ‘What a pleasant young man,’ Vera commented as they crossed over the road and began to follow the tow path on the opposite side of the bridge.

  ‘Yes, but I’ve met his mother. Proper old harridan, she is.’ Tresca pulled an ugly face, twisting her mouth so that she looked like a gargoyle. Vera at once broke into a fit of laughter, and Tresca giggled back. Oh, she was so lucky to have found such a good friend!

  ‘How you’m feeling, Father?’ she asked that afternoon when she was allowed in to see Emmanuel. An icy, nervous sweat had slicked her skin as she approached the workhouse gates, the horrible memories beating down on her. Mr Solloway, whom she had scarcely glimpsed when she had been an inmate, had hurried her along to a sma
ll, dark and heartless room, more like a cupboard, where her father was waiting for her.

  ‘Aw, fair to middlin’,’ Emmanuel answered. ‘Made my fust pair o’ boots all by mysel’ this week.’

  ‘Really? Oh, well done!’ Tresca’s lively mind sprang into action. ‘Maybe when I get you out of here, you can set up a little business. There’s three bootmakers in Bannawell Street, so you could do the same. Or you could supply them to German’s, you know, that huge footwear shop on the corner—’

  ‘Aw, cheel, it took us the ’ole week to make one pair. And they’m not very good. Takes years it does to larn proper like. They’m only fit fer the work’ouse inmates. But mortal ’appy I am to see you’m making plans, as usual,’ he chuckled. ‘Now tell me, ’as my princess got ’er eye on a young man yet?’

  Tresca tossed a light laugh in the air. ‘No, I haven’t. Mrs Ellacott’s treating me so well, and just now that’s all I care about,’ she declared adamantly. And it was quite true!

  Seventeen

  ‘Tresca, dear,’ Mrs Ellacott said to her one day at the beginning of May when she was vigorously turning the handle of the butter-churn. ‘We’m goin’ to need the services of Farmer Hiscock’s bull afore too long. I wants you to save my poor old legs an’ walk out to his farm this afternoon an’ arrange summat with him. I’ll give you directions. You can’t get lost.’

  And so after lunch, Tresca set out on her mission. She enjoyed her work immensely, but it was always pleasant to be out and about as well. As she walked briskly down the hill, she passed the point where nothing remained of the little houses that had been demolished to make way for the railway viaduct. Now it was a hive of activity with navvies digging deep to create the foundations for the giant pillars, and three men in bowler hats, the engineers presumably, consulting pages of plans. Tresca fleetingly recalled her conversation with Connor about the demolition of the houses. Did he really have some sense of regret? She had heard that the tenants had been given assistance to find new homes, so she had to admit that was something.

  ‘Good day to you, Miss Ladycott.’

  ‘Mr Trembath. How nice to see you.’

  Tresca was supremely relieved to see that Morgan’s hard-faced mother wasn’t with him. She and Vera had kept their distance on subsequent Sundays when he had been accompanied by Mrs Trembath, but he was a friendly, amiable fellow and Tresca was always happy to speak to him provided he was on his own.

  ‘On your way back to the shop?’ she asked affably.

  ‘I am indeed. And where are you off to, may I ask?’ When she told him, he nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘Well, I’d hurry if I were you. Looks like rain later.’

  ‘You might be right,’ she agreed. ‘Have a good afternoon, then,’ she said as Morgan went to turn up West Street.

  ‘You, too. Take care now.’

  Tresca bade him farewell and set out across the little passage in front of St Eustachius’s Church. She turned right and followed along Plymouth Road, crossed over West Bridge, and shortly afterwards struck out along Crowndale Road. The long, lonely lane led out to Shillamill. The navvies who laboured on that part of the line and who were lodging in the town used it to get to and from work, but now, in the early afternoon, it was deserted.

  Farmer Hiscock and Crowndale Farm were to be found a mile or so down the lane, and Tresca couldn’t miss it, so Mrs Ellacott had said. The air was turning cooler and Tresca shivered as her eyes moved skywards. Oyster-grey clouds were piling up ominously, and yet it was uncannily still. Tresca hoped there wasn’t a storm brewing, but she had a horrible feeling there was.

  She had spoken with Farmer Hiscock and was making her way back along the lonely lane when the first raindrops began to fall in fat, heavy spheres. The wind suddenly whipped up in a squall, whistling through the hedgerows. The trees, their leaves unfurling in bright, verdant green, started to sway and bend, and in a matter of moments everywhere was plunged back into winter. The sky darkened to a swirling, ashy pewter, and all at once a torrent of hailstones the size of peas were battering down from above.

  Tresca hunched her shoulders and scurried along, searching for somewhere to shelter as the hail drove into her face. She had never been along the lane before so had no idea where she might take refuge. The pearls of ice were turning into sharp, stinging sleet, the angry wind howling with rage. It tore at the towering trees, ripping off a dead branch that crashed to the ground, just missing Tresca’s head. A frightened scream escaped her lips but was lost in a reverberating roar as a thunderclap broke overhead. She wasn’t one to be perturbed by the average storm, but this was something evil and dangerous and she knew she must take shelter.

  The sleet had turned to torrential rain, blinding, an impenetrable wall, and Tresca could hardly see where she was going as she battled against the gusting wind. There was no sign of it abating, rather it was worsening, with flashes of dazzling light ripping into the now charcoal dome of the sky and followed instantaneously by a crack of thunder. The storm must be overhead, and Tresca rejoiced when a small stone barn loomed out of the murk just beyond an open field gate at the side of the road. The door was rotten and hung from its hinges, swinging perilously back and forth with each blast of the wind.

  Tresca dodged thankfully inside. The rain had soaked down inside her neck and she was cold and shivering, but at least she was safe from the fury of the storm. She wondered how long it would last, but she would just have to wait it out. She peered into the darkness, searching for somewhere to sit down and her wildly beating heart began to slow.

  ‘What ’ave we yere, then?’

  A terrified squeal lodged in Tresca’s throat. The featureless form of a man was silhouetted against the dank gloom inside the barn. And, dear God, a second faceless figure appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘Summat fer while away the time, I reckons.’

  Tresca’s heart bucked painfully in her chest. For a split second, she was paralysed with panic, but she flung it out of her head and catapulted towards the door as it banged dangerously in the gale. But it was too late. A pair of hands grabbed her arm. She tried to wrench them off, but her other arm, too, was locked in a strong hold and she was dragged deeper into the barn. She wriggled like a thing possessed, heaving her shoulders, kicking. She managed to crack her boot against the first man’s shin and he released his hold with a yelp. Tresca lashed out with her free arm, aiming her clenched fist at the other man’s head. She missed. An instant later, the first brute had hold of her again, cursing and swearing.

  ‘Pay fer that, you will, you little minx!’ he hissed, and between them they hauled her, screaming and struggling, to the back of the barn and flung her on to the ground.

  She landed with a thud on the damp, compacted earth, the wind knocked out of her so that she could hardly breathe, let alone move. Terror clenched about her heart, every nerve of her body on fire and ready to strike out if only she could catch her breath. And just when she felt she might be able to retaliate, she felt a heavy weight on her chest as one of the attackers straddled her, his teeth gleaming out of the darkness. He grinned down at her, laughing, as he yanked off the buttons of her coat and then ripped open her blouse and the camisole beneath. The cold air on her naked flesh stung her body alive again, and she found the breath to release an ear-splitting shriek.

  ‘Scream away, my lovely. No one’s goin’ fer hear you out yere!’

  ‘You can ’ave that end. It’s this end I wants!’

  She felt the other demon at her flailing legs. She tried desperately to kick out, but with the weight pinning her down, her crazed, valiant efforts were futile. She knew he had lifted her skirt, was trying to force her knees apart. Oh, no, please, God, NO! And as her lungs heaved with air, she let out another deafening screech . . .

  ‘Holy Mother—’

  She was hardly aware of what happened next, her mind shutting down in its abject horror. The outline of a third massive form towered over the other two. Oh, Lord, let me die first . . .

  S
he heard the roar of anger, then a muted cry cut short. She dared to open her eyes and saw the dark bulk of a man sweep another off his feet and hurl him aside. A second later, the weight miraculously lifted from her chest and the other savage received the same fate. Tresca somehow managed to crawl backwards into a corner, curling up into a defensive ball and scarcely daring to peer out at the fierce fight that had broken out between the three men. Shouts and grunts, thuds as fists found flesh, crashes as bodies were flung against walls or on to the floor. Dear God, they were fighting over her. Over which one should have her. She should make her escape, but she couldn’t, simply couldn’t move.

  The third intruder was being beaten down by the other two, but he fought back, kicking, punching, his superior strength and size slowly gaining the upper hand. What chance would she have . . . Then she saw clearly his big fist strike the face of the first man, who let out an almighty scream and collapsed on to his knees with his hands over his mouth. His companion whipped round, and Tresca saw the whites of his eyes, wide and fearful, in his lurid face. He had obviously had enough and slunk off, followed a few moments later by his evil companion, who was still moaning in pain and clutching at his face. The tall shadow of the third man stood for a moment or two, staggering slightly, breathing hard, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he turned to Tresca, and she tried to dig her way into the wall.

  ‘Tresca? Oh, acushla.’

  She was nearly sick as he came towards her. Oh, sweet Jesus. But then he flopped down on the floor next to her, his back against the wall as his heavy panting gradually lessened.

  ‘Oh, acushla, my little love,’ he breathed, gulping, and scooped her into his arms. ‘Thank Holy Mary I were passing just then and thought to take shelter in here. What in the name of the Father were you doing in here with those monsters? Sure weren’t they the devil incarnate. Oh, and just look at you.’