‘We’ll have some good times, you and me, and I can be generous, you’ll see.’ He stood up, buttoning his trousers before extracting some notes from his pocket which he threw on the bed beside her. ‘You wouldn’t get many who’d pay as much as that for a breaking-in – you ask your mam.’
Curling herself into a little ball and with the tears raining down her face, Pearl didn’t answer, terrified he would come at her again. It was only when he had left the room that she found the strength to pull the sheet round her, cocoon-fashion, the red stain between her legs vivid on the bleached linen.
Kitty raised her head as the kitchen door opened. She had been dozing in the armchair, the gin bottle at her elbow. ‘Well?’
Leonard Fallow looked at the woman he had forced himself to service for the last year, ever since he had caught sight of the daughter on his first visit to the house. He had been drunk that night or he would never have come back with Kitty in the first place. He liked them young, very young and fresh. All the things Kitty wasn’t. But his body had needed release and when he was in his cups, anything would do. And there had been the child. Like a rose on a dung heap. And he had known he had to have her.
But this old biddy had made him pay, and not just in the amount she had demanded for the breaking-in. She was wily enough to know that once he’d had the daughter, her own usefulness was over, and so she had made the most of delaying that time, using one excuse after another.
Straightening his jacket, he said, ‘It’s done.’
‘Put up much resistance, did she?’
‘A little.’ He didn’t intend to discuss the details and his tone reflected this.
‘Where’s me money?’
His voice cool, he said, ‘I left it with her.’
‘With her? You give it to me, all right? I take it you do want to come again?’
He let a small silence grow before he said, ‘Possibly,’ whilst knowing as well as she did that he’d be back within days.
‘Then in the future you give it to me.’
He nodded. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the mother, not now. He had one or two friends who would be very grateful for an introduction to the child, but he had intended to have his way with her first. It was better than any drug or drink, being the first.
‘You want to stay for a while?’ Kitty stood up, swaying slightly, as she gave him what she thought was a beguiling smile. ‘You can have it for free after what you’ve stumped up the night for the lass.’
Leonard looked at her lank hair, the creases in her neck lined with dirt and her pendulous breasts. Only the thought of having the child had enabled him to achieve the act in the past, and once or twice it had been beyond him. Using this, he said, ‘You know me, Kitty. Once is all I can manage, and sometimes not that.’
She stared at him. He didn’t fool her. She’d seen the way he looked at Pearl – fair licked his lips, he did. For a moment resentment burned, deep and bitter, and then she told herself it didn’t matter. Mr F had paid a small fortune for the lass tonight, and although she might not get that much again, her being broken in now, there would still be men who liked them young who would pay plenty.
‘I’ll be off then.’ Leonard picked up his hat and gloves from where he had left them on a kitchen chair on entering the house earlier. Even on the hottest day he wore gloves as his position in life demanded.
Kitty had sat down again, reaching for the gin bottle. ‘Aye, so long.’
Leonard had been gone some time before Kitty rose, draining the glass and smacking her lips. She hadn’t known how long Leonard would expect to stay and so she hadn’t arranged to meet Cissy or see another customer. Her thoughts on the money Leonard had left with Pearl, she opened the door to the front room. Her daughter was curled in the middle of the bed with the sheet round her, and in spite of the humid night Pearl was shivering convulsively.
Kitty looked at her with dispassionate eyes. ‘Get off there, you’ll stain the mattress,’ was all she said.
Pearl opened her eyes. ‘I hurt.’
‘Aye, we all hurt the first time, but you’ll live.’ She came closer to the bed and it was then she registered the amount of blood Pearl had lost. Damn that Leonard, she thought irritably. He’d clearly been brutal. She’d been hoping Pearl would be able to accommodate another punter she’d got in mind for her tomorrow, but if she was too badly torn he’d have to wait for a few more days. ‘Where’s my money?’ she said testily, before catching sight of a number of notes scattered on the floor where they had fluttered when Pearl had pulled the sheet round her.
She went down on her hands and knees and retrieved the notes, stuffing them in the pocket of her serge skirt as she stood up. ‘Did you hear me?’ she said to the small mound on the bed. ‘I said get up.’
Pearl sat up, blinking through swollen eyelids. ‘Did you know?’
‘Know?’
‘What he was going to do to me?’
Kitty put her hands on her hips. ‘’Course I knew. It had to happen some time or other, didn’t it? And far better we got a good price for it than you giving it away to some lad or other who took your eye in a few years. There’s some men who like bairns, that’s just the way of it, and once you’ve turned fifteen or sixteen they’ll lose interest.’ She turned away ‘There’s some warm water in the kettle. Clean yourself up and get to bed, and we’ll see if you’re fit to look after another gentleman I know tomorrow.’
Pearl was all eyes as she stared at her mother, her hair a cloud about her white face. The shock and anguish Kitty’s words had caused overrode everything, even the pain between her legs. ‘I – I can’t, Mam. I can’t. Please . . .’
Kitty turned at the door. ‘You can and you will, girl. Make no mistake about that.’
‘Please, Mam—’
Kitty inclined her head impatiently. ‘And none of your dramatics, they won’t wash with me.’ So saying, she opened the door and Pearl heard her footsteps going upstairs, and then the sound of the bedroom door opening and closing.
How long she sat there before she could find the strength to move Pearl didn’t know, but when she hitched herself off the bed still wrapped in the sheet and saw the red stain on the flock mattress, she gave a little whimper of distress. Her mam would go mad if she came down and saw that.
Stumbling about the room, she picked up her scattered clothes. She had to sit down for a while before she could dress herself; when the faintness receded she pulled her cotton dress over her head only to find every button had been ripped off the bodice. Her shift was torn beyond repair, as were her drawers.
Once in the kitchen, she filled a bowl with water and found the soap, returning to the front room and scrubbing at the mattress until the blood had dulled to a faint pink colour. The smell was in her nostrils but the odour of Mr F was worse, clinging to her so that every movement she made brought him wafting closer.
By the time she had emptied the bowl and filled it afresh with water to wash in, twilight had fallen. Taking off her dress, she stood in the shadowed kitchen and washed herself all over, scrubbing at her skin until it was red and sore. She could hardly bear to touch between her legs; when she dabbed at the area, her flesh stung so badly it brought tears streaming from her eyes and made her shake again. Tipping away the soapy water, she filled the bowl again and then sat down in it, hoping to ease the soreness.
Eventually she felt a little relief and after a while she steeled herself to stand up and get dry, pulling on her dress again and then going to the back door and opening it. It was quiet outside, since most children had been called in and put to bed, but high in the mauve- and charcoal-streaked sky, the swallows were calling to each other as they skimmed and dived in the thermals, skilfully swooping on airborne insects the hot weather had brought out and gorging themselves in a feeding frenzy.
She stood listening to their cries and watching their graceful dipping and rising until it was dark and they were gone, and slowly the numbness born of shock and trauma which
had paralysed her mind began to dissolve. And she knew she had to get away.
Her mother had been paid for letting Mr F do what he’d done to her. Not only that, but her mother was going to let it happen again and again. She shut her eyes for a moment. She’d rather throw herself in the river than suffer that.
She felt sticky between her legs and knew she was still bleeding, but now panic at the thought that her mother might somehow constrain her was high. She couldn’t wait until morning – she had to go now, tonight. It didn’t matter where, she told herself frantically. But she had to change this dress for her other one, and put on her spare shift and drawers – and that meant going upstairs.
Once she was standing on the landing she could hear her mother snoring. The sound was reassuring inasmuch as it meant she could leave the house undetected, but now, as she put it to herself, she was feeling bad right through. Just climbing the stairs had made her sick and giddy, and as she entered the room she shared with James and Patrick, she had to hold onto the door handle when the floor shifted and everything spun. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she looked at the sleeping faces of her brothers in the dim light. They were lying facing each other, James’s arms about Patrick. They often slept like this.
She had promised Seth she would take care of them both, so she couldn’t leave them. But she couldn’t take them with her either. How was she going to feed them and look after them? Where would they sleep? No, she couldn’t take them. Silent tears ran down her face. Her mother would have to look after them when she had gone, and it wasn’t as if they were any trouble, they were good little boys. And at least here they would be clothed and fed and have somewhere to sleep. The neighbours would keep an eye on them once they knew she’d gone; they were all aware what her mother was like.
She sat with her hands clenched in her lap in an agony of indecision, but really she knew she had no choice. She had to go, and she had to go alone. She didn’t care what happened to her – in fact, right at this moment she wanted nothing more than to hide somewhere and go to sleep and never to wake up again – but the boys needed a roof over their heads.
She was hurting so much she wanted to creep under the covers and lie down, but she mustn’t. Taking her spare set of clothes from the orange box under the bed, she slowly got dressed, pulling on her boots and replaiting her hair which had come loose in the struggle with Mr E Then she bent over the sleeping children, laying her face against one little tousled head and then the other before straightening, the ache in her heart a physical pain.
Silently she left the room and once downstairs took her hat and coat from their peg in the hall. It was summer and she didn’t need them, but she took them anyway.
In the kitchen she paused. The bunches of flowers were where James and Patrick had left them on the kitchen table. They belonged to another lifetime, another world. She stood, a small figure in the dark room, whispering, ‘Seth, Seth, I want you, Seth. Please help me,’ but the only sound was the uncaring tick of the mantelpiece clock and a rustling in the corner which meant the mice were hunting for crumbs of food. Her mother had never told her which prison Seth and the others were in, and her requests to visit them had been met with cuffs round the ear until she had learned to stop asking, but never had she longed for her brothers so desperately.
She had to leave the house. She couldn’t stay and let that happen again. She would walk into the country and hide somewhere and go to sleep. That was as far as her bruised mind could plan and it was enough.
The night was dark but not as black as she had expected; when she looked up into the sky she saw the moon was high and the stars were bright. She had always been frightened of the dark – Seth had used to tease her about it – but she knew she would never be frightened of the dark again. There were much worse things than ghosts and ghouls.
When she started to walk she didn’t know how she was going to get to the end of the back lane, let alone to the country. Any movement was excruciatingly painful, and the feeling of nausea had her swallowing hard.
There were still a few people about once she came into High Street East, but no one paid her any attention and she kept to the shadows, using the alleys and back ways as she forced herself to walk on. After a while the pain seemed dulled, the fear of what was behind her if she didn’t escape the town driving her limbs. When she came to Ashburne House and then Hendon Burn she was surprised she had got this far; it was as though she had been in a dream, unthinking. She was on the outskirts of the town now, not far from where she had brought the boys earlier. The odd farm and big house were interspersed with old quarries and disused clay pits, the countryside stretching before her. She breathed in the warm night air, her senses heightened even as her mind remained in the vacuum where it had taken refuge.
She walked until she couldn’t walk any more. If she had but known it, the birds were a few breaths away from beginning the dawn chorus when she crawled into the shelter of an ancient tree, the bottom of its trunk almost hollowed away and providing a small cave-like structure. Spreading out her coat, she fell asleep the moment she lay down.
When Pearl awoke, late-afternoon sunlight was slanting through a tiny crack in her hidey-hole. The day was very warm, but lying as she was inside the tree, the sun had not burned her. She lay looking out of the hole she’d crawled through. Tall grasses were swaying gently in the mild breeze and she could hear birdsong. On raising her head she felt so sick and dizzy that she was glad to shut her eyes again. This time though, her sleep was punctuated by strange dreams and disturbing images, and although she was uncomfortable and in pain she didn’t have the will or strength to do more than toss and turn. She knew she was unwell, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to wake up properly and leave her sanctuary, she just wanted to sleep.
Night fell. A vixen with her cubs passed the tree and paused, sniffing the air before hurrying her offspring away. An owl hooted, the creatures of the night went about their business as they always did, and eventually the pale pink light of dawn began another day. And in the hollow of the tree Pearl got sicker and sicker, the fever that was ravaging her body sending her temperature soaring.
Chapter 6
The sun was at its height. It shone on the raven-black hair of several brightly dressed young girls with Gitano complexions and big gold hoops in their ears, sitting in a giggling circle plaiting rush baskets with deft brown fingers. In the field behind them were horse-drawn caravans and tents of all shapes and sizes, the smoke from numerous woodfires and the shouts of squabbling children and barking dogs filling the air.
The gypsy encampment had arrived early that morning, but to an onlooker it would have appeared they’d been settled in place for some time, such was the order prevailing. Horses had been put to grass, washing hung on lines constructed between trees, fowls were pecking about for scraps, and children were being bathed in the big wooden tubs the clothes had been washed in. Clothed all in black, gnarled old women with saffron skin and forbidding eyes sat on the steps of gaily painted, round-roofed caravans with babies on their knees, while younger women with harassed faces were bent over great black pots suspended above woodfires, stirring something or other in the cavernous depths. A group of men were sorting through a number of salvaged pans, metal buckets and kettles for those worth mending and selling; others were preparing rabbits and hedgehogs for cooking, still others chopping wood for the fires or inspecting the horses they intended to trade later. All was bustle and life, noise and chatter.
Some fifty yards or so from the encampment, three young boys were returning home with two pheasants caught by their lurcher dog. They were brothers, the eldest sixteen years old, and all had the swarthy fresh complexions, sturdy limbs and bright eyes which came from living and working in nature’s own atmosphere. The two younger boys having gone slightly ahead, the eldest’s attention was caught by the dog which was behaving strangely, whining and pawing at the foot of an old tree higher on the bank.
‘We’ve got all the food we want
for today, Rex. Leave it.’ Byron Lock whistled to the dog and then frowned when he continued to scratch at the tree roots, grumbling deep in his throat. This wasn’t like Rex. Byron had trained the dog himself from a puppy, and he responded immediately to his every command. Calling to his brothers to take the birds they’d poached back to the camp where his mother would soon have them plucked and in the pot, the youth climbed up the bank and made his way to the dog. At his approach, the animal became still and sat down, but did not budge from the spot.
Byron crouched down and looked into the base of the tree, which he saw was one big cavity. A good storm and it would be down, he thought, in the moment before he saw the small figure of a child curled up inside. He started, making the dog jump and bark, but the child – a girl – didn’t move.
His heart thumping hard, he put out his hand and felt the little body. It was warm, and when he slid his fingers under the chin, he could feel a rapid pulse. She was alive then. Breathing out his relief, he sat back on his heels. As he did so, the child stirred, muttering something unintelligible. ‘Wake up, little ’un.’ Byron reached into the hole again and shook her gently. ‘Come on, wake up. Time to go home, wherever home is.’
She stirred again, giving a low moan, and as his hand moved to her forehead he felt it was burning hot. Again he sat back sharply. They’d moved camp from their usual summer place near Newcastle because the hot weather had caused the fever to become rampant in the town.
Byron stood to his feet, glancing at the dog who stared back at his master trustingly. ‘Guard.’ Turning, he slid down the grassy bank and began to walk towards the camp. He didn’t need to check if the dog had obeyed him.
The laughing circle of girls called to him in the gypsy tongue as Byron passed by, but although he raised his hand in acknowledgement, he didn’t pause. He made his way to the far corner of the field where his mother and one of his sisters were already busy plucking the pheasants. Theirs was not a large family compared to some within the tribe. It consisted of his parents, two older sisters – Leandra and Ellen, who were both married with children of their own – Madora, his twin, who at sixteen was due to be married within the year, and his two younger brothers, Algar and Silvester, who were fourteen and thirteen respectively. Freda was the baby of the family, and she was eleven years old. Many of their relations had families of double numbers, and his mother had been one of twenty-two children, twenty of whom had survived to adulthood.
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