by Annie Murray
After staring at her for a moment he said, ‘I’ve come to apologize.’
She waited, hardly breathing, deeply suspicious. What was this now? A trick? It would be easier if she knew what he really wanted. But he sounded sincere and abject with self-pity.
‘I was never a good enough father to you girls. Never had a father of my own, see. He took off when I was a babe in arms. He was a soldier. And Mother… ’ he stalled. ‘No one ever understood Mother, understood about her, should I say. No one knew, you see.’
Maryann thought of the portrait, the sole decoration on the drab walls of his room. Mother’s eyes looking out at him from that sternly beautiful face.
Norman was staring down at her hand, stroking it again. Maryann struggled to remember what age he must be. Getting on for seventy by now and sitting here bleating about his mother. It seemed peculiar and deeply pathetic. She was startled by a tiny sound from the back bed, one of the children shifting in their sleep and she held her breath, managing to stop her eyes from moving in the direction of the sound. Norman didn’t seem to notice.
‘You’re a kind mother to your kiddies, aren’t you, Maryann? My mother wasn’t kind. She was . . unnatural.’ He seemed to lose his thread again, then said, ‘I’ve done some terrible things. I tried to tell that young man – that Pastor Owen. Not that other fool, of course – Joyce. Owen’s an innocent. He’s a real believer. Terrible for someone like me to come face to face with it – with someone who thinks there’s goodness. I tried to tell him – never got far. I wouldn’t’ve got him to believe all I’ve done. D’you know, I abandoned my own son? Never saw him again from when he was seven years old. I don’t know where he is to this day.’ To her horror she heard his rasping voice begin to crack.
‘You’re the only one left, Maryann! You know me, don’t you?’ He was wrestling with his emotions, beginning to sob and she watched, horrified. ‘ I can talk to you. You know who I am. But even you don’t know. You thought your mother was a cruel woman, but Flo was a saint compared with my beloved mother. She was the beloved, you see. My beloved. And I was hers.’
His shoulders heaved and in the second that he loosed her to reach for his handkerchief, Maryann pulled her hand free, nursing it to her as if she’d been stung. The sight of Norman Griffin weeping was horrifying. She shrank back, fascinated yet repelled, her loathing unmixed with any shred of pity. Her body tingled all over with the instinct to run away, but she was trapped.
‘She was so beautiful,’ he was sobbing. ‘The smell of her. She was so soft. Her bed always smelt of her – her soap, her body.’
Maryann sat very still, caught by what he was saying, by the tone of it. His voice had turned into a high, infant whine, and she saw a tear fall from his good eye and drop, glistening, onto the lapel of his coat.
Norman Griffin squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head violently as if to dislodge a picture from his mind. ‘Her body – she was always there, with that body.’ Looking round at her, he said, ‘You’re a mother, Maryann: you wouldn’t have your own son in your bed, would you? Standing in for your husband?’
Maryann looked back at him, almost unable to believe what she was hearing.
‘She was such a cruel woman – so cruel in the daytime when she didn’t want me, you know, like that.’ He halted again abruptly. ‘I’ve never said this to a living soul before…’ He tried to swallow, struggling as if there was something stuck in his throat.
‘Night-times, most nights – it never ended, the feel of her, making me touch her, and I wanted to in the end, couldn’t stop … All soft, damp…’ He closed his eyes, face contorting even further. She wanting me to touch her, kiss her. It was all different in the daytime. When she wasn’t pleased with me her mouth went straight and hard, eyes drilling into me. She looked as if – as if she couldn’t stand the sight of me. And she kept her cat-o’-nine-tails tied to her belt.’ There was a silence, then words flooded out.
‘She always beat me on my backside. Made me take my trousers down – short trousers when I was younger, of course. Always in the parlour, behind the nets. The things she used to say while she was doing it. She’d reach her arm right up as far as it would go and bring it down, nothing held back in the sting of it. I was red raw when she’d finished. The school chairs were so hard, I could barely sit. She made me bend over the sideboard. There was a china dish on there with a blue glaze on it and I’d always stand by it. I could see my face in it. I’d look at it while she was beating me. If I made a noise she did it even harder, told me I was weak, no good. So I thought, I’ll keep my face straight so that boy in the dish will look back at me and he doesn’t look bad and he’s not having a thrashing off his mom and he can’t hear the things she’s saying about me being dirty and wicked … I’ll be like him. It got so’s I was always that other boy, hiding with him till she’d finished.’ He let out a shuddering sigh.
‘I never knew what was coming then. Sometimes she‘d just go out and leave me with my backside all welts, and she’d close the door very quietly as if there was someone poorly asleep in there and she didn’t want to disturb them. As if I was sick. Then sometimes – ’ he shuddered – she’d pull on my shoulders while I was still bent over and make me stand up. I was half naked and she’d make me put my arms round her and kiss her and she’d press herself against me.
‘“It’s for your own good, Normie – it’ll make you a proper man, like your father was.”’
He had his eyes closed, as if trapped in the memories. Maryann eyed the door desperately, sickened by what she was hearing, by him expecting her pity, playing on her sympathy, perhaps even inventing all this for some warped reason of his own. But, worst of all, she knew in her heart by the way he talked that he hadn’t invented it.
‘Course he was always a proper man, a soldier. She made me feel like … nothing. A weak, spineless reed.’
She could hold her silence no longer.
‘So why did you do it to us? To my sister – and to Amy and Margaret?’ Unbidden, tears came, the surge of grief stronger even than fear in that moment, like a deep crack opening in her onto the pain of it all, the awfulness of being here with this man who had caused it and his monstrous, pathetic story.
When he answered her, his tone had changed as if her speaking had brought him to a different plane in himself. There was a hard coldness which brought her up abruptly and stemmed her tears.
‘I have to. It’s the only thing that makes me feel better. Feel nothing. For a while. I had to tell someone. It got so’s I had to. I tried to tell that Pastor Owen, but he’s a man and he’s too … clean. I had to tell a woman. Only I couldn’t have her spreading it. I started with Amy. She grew up into a right pretty thing. I thought she’d be kind. But she wouldn’t listen. I tried to make her hold still, but she kept struggling and she wouldn’t let me finish. I had to do it. Couldn’t have her telling anyone else.’
Maryann froze again. He’d told all of it to her now, his sad, dirty secrets, the perverted bullying of his mother. She’d been the one to hear it whether she chose to or not, and now … She had to keep him talking, to keep him calm. She saw him staring at her and his expression was cold and terrible.
‘Good at asking questions, aren’t you? Wheedling things out of me? You always were a devious little thing – always the one I could never quite get to grips with.’ He caught hold of her wrist abruptly, so hard that she gave a yelp of pain.
‘Don’t,’ she panted. Don’t hurt me. Why hurt someone else? Where does it get you? I’ve got a family. Just leave us, leave us alone instead of making everything worse. It doesn’t make anything better for you – it just goes on and on.’
‘But it does make me better – for a little while. It makes me happy and light, better than a tumbler of Scotch. As if there’s nothing in the world to feel, to worry about.’ He was pulling her gradually closer to him and she could smell stale drink on his breath now, see his scarred face looming before her eyes, blocking out everything else. She heard
herself whimpering.
‘Make me feel better now. You can do it – you know you always could…’ Gripping her hard with one hand, he started to fondle painfully at her breasts.
‘Like old times, eh, Maryann?’ He breathed into her face. ‘You were always the fighter, the little wildcat, weren’t you? That’s what made you the best one, the exciting one – and you haven’t changed, have you? I knew you’d come back to me in the end – that I’d have you in the end.’
‘No-o–!’ Maryann moaned. He was hurting her, squeezing, pinching, tearing at the front of her blouse.
‘Confound it – there’s no room to move in this damn place!’ He struggled, trying to sit round, but finding his legs caught under the table. He shoved at it. ‘Can’t you get shot of it? Hold still,’ he roared, as she struggled. ‘You little bitch, I’m going to have you!’
A sound grated in the air, the broken mewl of a child. Norman Griffin sat up straight.
‘What’s that? You got one of your kiddies in there?’
No! she wanted to say. No, no! It was one of the twins, she could tell.
‘She’ll sleep again,’ she said hurriedly. ߢShe’s only a babby.’
‘Aha – let’s have a look then, shall we?’ He flung the table back and lumbered, stooping, to the back bed.
‘Well, well. All bagged up together, just like little rabbits. Oh – there’s our Sally again. What a lovely child she is!’
As he stood with his back to her, Maryann saw one desperate chance. Eyes fixed on the lamp burning on the little shelf across the cabin, she began to slide herself along the bench. If only she could get there without him noticing! It seemed to take an endless time to inch herself along, holding her breath as she watched Norman Griffin’s back. In a moment she launched herself to her feet and swooped towards the lamp. He caught her movement and lurched in front of her, pushing her backwards as he got between her and the lamp. She fell against the stove, banging her head on the wall behind. Ada was still crying.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ He snatched the lamp and held it up. As she stumbled groggily to her feet, Maryann saw his face lit up by the glow of the lamp.
‘Thinking of coming that one again, were you? Oh, I don’t think that one would work a second time. I saw Margaret the other week, by the way. Fine girl – not that she’ll ever breathe the air outside the asylum again. Now – what shall we do with this?’ He eyed the lamp, half turned, dangling it over the sleeping children.
‘Very fitting, wouldn’t you say? Do as you would be done by?’
‘No!’ She pulled at him with all her strength, trying to get at the lamp. ‘‘For God’s sake, have some pity. They’re babbies, all of them – my babbies! I never burned you – it was Margaret, not me!’
‘But you’d have liked to, wouldn’t you? You find me every bit as disgusting as she did.’ With his left arm he caught her round the neck and wrenched her in close to him, looking down into her frantic face.
‘I could always tell with you. You had too much spirit, too much defiance, my girl. No doubt these little lovelies have your spirit – so let’s snuff that out, shall we? Stop it spreading any further. Women with spirit – with their pretty faces and their cruel mouths.’
Maryann threw herself on him, trying to pull his arm back, to get the lamp from him.
‘Sally, Rose – wake up!’ she screamed. ‘ Get out – get the twins out of bed!’
‘Sally and Rose had begun to stir.
‘Quickly – get out!’ She was screaming at them hysterically, but he shoved her off and once more she crashed into the stove. As she fought to get back towards the children she could see what he was about to do, jerking the lamp outwards, swinging it by its handle. She saw it arc to the furthest point, then begin the path back towards the ceiling over the bed.
‘Sally!’ In that second all she could seize hold of was her daughter’s hand to pull on as the lamp hit the ceiling. The glass shattered and burning oil burst from it and scattered flaming over the bedspace where Rose lay with the twins.
Forty-Five
The cabin was full of smoke. No sound but that of screaming. The darkness was broken by the glow of flames licking round the bedding of the terrified children.
Immediately Maryann felt the normal passing of time alter. In those first elongated seconds she was shrieking at Sally, ‘Get the doors open – get yourself out! Rose! Get up out of bed! Quick!’ Sally tumbled from the bed onto her feet in the small space.
They were hampered by the obstructing bulk of Norman Griffin. Whichever way Maryann tried to move, he was in the way, though she could tell he too was trying to get out, away from the fire. Iron-limbed with fear and determination she turned her body and shoved at him, and in the darkness he seemed to give way, to disappear with a crash towards the door. She heard a yelp of pain, a muffled curse. She didn’t care what happened to him as long as he was out of the way. The smoke was thickening, the small space filling with it fast. Coughing, she seized Rose’s shoulders and steered her towards the cabin door. Norman Griffin seemed to have gone.
‘Get on the bank with Sally – I’m getting the twins…’
Her eyes were streaming. The smoke was fast filling the tiny space and she was racked by coughing. All she could hear was the terrified screaming of the two little ones in the burning bed. The edge of the curtains had caught light, but Maryann shoved them aside and climbed onto the edge of the bed, seeing both of the babies’ faces, each end of the bed, mouths open in the murky orange light. Most of the oil had fallen in the middle of the bed and flames were shooting up to the low ceiling. The heat was intense, but she leaned inside, regardless.
‘Come here!’ she shouted, reaching for Esther, trying to hold her head to one side while the flames leapt hungrily at her. She could feel the bite of them on her cheek and neck. She snatched Esther out, plonked her on the floor and immediately went back for Ada. As she reached for her, she heard her crying, in between choking coughs, with a distressed shrillness that she’d never heard before. She picked her up, and Ada racked up her screaming even higher.
Maryann balanced her on one hip and reached down for Esther, dragging her to the door by one arm. Within a second she was aware of a strange glow accompanying her, then a burning pain in her right ear and realized her hair was on fire. Loosing Esther she swiped at it, panicking, coughing, her hand smarting, until the flames seemed to have died out. All she could do now was get the three of them up the step into the night air. The twins were gagging on the smoke.
She managed to lift the girls off the boat and onto the bank, setting them down to bend over and cough and cough, her lungs straining for air. She gradually became aware of people moving round her, of voices amid the children’s crying. The fire had brought others out from their boats who were shouting to each other to fetch buckets and dippers. But as she straightened up she heard Joel’s voice, and Charlie’s and Sally and Rose shrieking to them, that there was fire, fire on the Theodore.
‘Our boat – and our lassies!’ Joel was distraught, couldn’t seem to see the girls in front of him.
‘I’ll get them off!’ Charlie shouted. He was fully primed to help, to do something. They’d let Norman Griffin slip through their fingers, and now this! ‘Where’re the lads?’
‘On the motor,’ Maryann said, and realized with amazement that Joley and Ezra inside the Esther Jane must be sleeping through, oblivious to all this. ‘The girls are all out – look, here,’ Maryann managed to say. Sally and Rose came to her and clung round her, beginning to cry now the immediate danger to them was over and she stood stroking them, beginning to tremble all over herself. Joel had run to the boat, seized the dipper from inside and joined the others who were trying to douse the fire.
‘It was him! He did it – set the fire – he’s gone …’
‘Griffin?’ Charlie Dean demanded. ‘ What – he came here? Where is he? Where did he go?’
‘That way – he ran off along the path,’ Sally said, pointing.
>
Charlie was off. ‘ I’ll get him this time,’ floated back as he disappeared. I’ll get that bugger and I won’t let him go.’
Charlie tore along the dark towpath. He was a strong, fit man and fuelled by an almost insane, rage-filled energy, which stemmed from his soft feelings for Maryann and from the memory of that child on the bed in the room above the butcher’s shop. He knew they’d been made proper fools of, letting Norman Griffin get away the first time. He ran tirelessly, almost as if he was flying, were it not for his feet crunching on the stones and cinders. There was a half moon tonight, which he could see reflected in the cut, and it seemed to bob about as he ran.
I’ll get you this time. He’d given them the slip once, the slimy bastard, and he wasn’t getting away again. That lumbering hulk of a bloke couldn’t’ve got far in this time, surely? Charlie stumbled on something in the darkness and only just managed to stay upright. The jerking this gave his body only increased his anger. His lungs were pumping hard.
It can’t be far, he thought. There must be a place where he gets off the path – I’ve got to get to him before he gets there or he’ll be gone and I’ll’ve had it then.
And a moment later he thought he heard something along the path ahead. Charlie stopped immediately. Now his feet were not pounding the ground, his own breathing sounded terribly loud. Yes, a cough from up ahead, and the sound of hurrying feet. He ran on, trying to be quiet, almost tiptoeing, gaining quickly until he could see a form moving, a deeper smudge of black in the darkness around them.
They hadn’t got the fire on the Theodore under control yet. Smoke was pouring out of the door. Maryann watched hopelessly as she began to see flames burning their way through the roof, despite the efforts of Joel and the other boatmen. Maryann and the women tried to comfort the children, but while Sally, Rose and Esther were calmer now, Ada continued to give off agonized wails. Maryann was holding her and she’d screamed even more loudly on being picked up.