‘It’s not night. It’s broad daylight. If anyone asks where we’re going, we’ll say we’re just tootling round the lanes to get a bit of fresh air. If anyone did try to follow us, we’d know.’
But his companion wasn’t convinced and continued to hang back. William was unused to being the decisive one and it made him impatient. ‘If you don’t want to come with me, just say. I’ll go alone.’
‘You can’t do that. You’re not well enough. It’s a long way to ride and what if you came over faint or became ill on the way?’
‘It’s only just over two miles and I promise I won’t faint or be sick. Come on, Olly. Be a pal. The bicycle’s okay now – Eddie mended it for me.’
He couldn’t stop his voice from wavering, and that seemed to decide Oliver. He allowed himself to be shepherded down the stairs and out into the courtyard that housed Eddie’s apartment. Both boys looked up at the building.
William’s eyes were pricking with tears. ‘Let’s go,’ he said roughly.
The first mile was hard on him. He’d hardly been out of the house in recent days and he found himself labouring whenever the lane took an upward slope or became so rutted and uneven that he was forced to hang tightly to the handlebars. But gradually he relaxed into a rhythm and his body responded to the demands he was making. The weather certainly helped. It was sunny and warm but not as hot as it had been, and a pleasant breeze blew through the hedgerows and across grass verges, filled now with cornflowers and meadow rue. It was a day to be out in the open, to enjoy the countryside, a day to be far from the house. He could feel a new strength flowing through him. Once again, it was escaping from Summerhayes that made him happy.
*
His joyful mood endured for the ride to Kingston and back, but no further. As they brought their bicycles to a halt, the world turned black. Joshua Summer strode out into the courtyard. He must have been listening for us, William thought.
His father stood, legs astride and arms rigidly folded, as though to let them go would allow his anger to escape and blow the entire courtyard and everything in it sky-high.
‘Where have you been, William?’ His voice was passionless but in its very impassivity, there dwelt deep threat.
‘Just out riding, Mr Summer,’ Olly said swiftly. He had recovered some of his spirits, but the sight of William’s father, large and imposing, blocking their path, had made him yearn to see their bedroom very quickly.
‘Just riding, eh? An idiot could see you’ve been riding.’ Joshua’s voice had lost some of its restraint. ‘I’m asking you where you’ve been.’
‘To the village, Papa.’ It was William’s turn to swallow hard. Mentally, he was crossing his fingers that this would be enough.
But it wasn’t. ‘What village?’
He could have said any village in the neighbourhood, but incurably truthful, he blurted out, ‘Kingston.’
His father’s face seemed to harden before his eyes. It was as though, at a single stroke, every contour had calcified into stone. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered. ‘And you,’ he said over his shoulder to Oliver, ‘go to your room. You will be leaving tomorrow.’
Olly looked scared but lingered still, seeming compelled not to leave his friend, until Joshua turned round to look him full in the face and roared, ‘Go!’ Then he turned once more and strode into the house, with William following him, a small, obedient lamb.
His father led the way to the library. It would have to be this room, he thought, a dull, dreary space, oppressive in its soullessness. He stopped just inside the door, hoping he could take early flight. Joshua stood with his back to the window glaring across the room at him.
‘So you’ve been to Kingston. And what were you doing there, my fine lad?’
The cold, emotionless voice was back and his courage began to wane. He had to dig deep to answer.
‘We wanted a trip out on our bicycles and thought it would be a pretty ride.’ His voice came out squeaky and high.
‘There are no other villages then that are just as pretty?’
His father was sneering, but he answered as though the question had been put in good faith. ‘There are, Papa, but we liked the sound of Kingston.’
‘I imagine you did. And did you also like the sound of the George?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, I think you do. Answer me, boy.’
He gulped down a breath and imperceptibly moved nearer the door. His father hardly noticed. He was continuing with his accusations. ‘You went to the George to see a certain young man, did you not?’
William hung his head.
‘Didn’t you?’ Joshua walked up to him, towering over him, and blocking what light there was from the mullioned window.
‘Yes.’ His voice was barely audible.
‘And you had a message, didn’t you?’ his father continued, inexorably.
‘Yes.’ His voice now was little more than a whisper.
‘And the message was from your sister?’ He simply nodded.
‘What was the message?’ Joshua barked, the sudden noise echoing around the barely furnished room.
It woke him from the almost catatonic state he’d fallen into and spurred his brain into action, scrabbling to think as quickly as he could.
‘It was only to ask the man how he was,’ he stumbled.
‘How he was! Don’t dare to play with me!’
He gathered his courage again. ‘I’m not, sir, really I’m not. Elizabeth was worried – after what happened to Eddie. She wanted to make sure her friend was well.’
‘And what does Eddie Miller’s death have to do with it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said miserably. ‘But she was upset. We all were. We still are.’
His father paced up and down, looking much like a baited bear. He appeared to be getting nowhere and the frustration showed.
‘Where is this message?’
Once again, he resorted to stupidity. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand,’ Joshua mocked. ‘Have I spawned a complete fool? Where is the piece of paper you took to this man? Or the message he wrote in return?’
‘There is no paper, Papa.’ That at least was true.
‘Turn out your pockets.’
He dutifully turned his pockets inside out and laid the contents on the library table: a motley collection of pieces of string, a handful of oak leaves, the broken shell of a bird’s egg and a solitary boiled sweet, but no piece of paper.
‘Where is it?’ his father demanded, his anger palpable.
‘There isn’t any message. I was just to check that he was well and tell Elizabeth, so she wouldn’t worry.’
‘You expect me to believe that balderdash?’
‘It’s true, Papa.’
Joshua looked uncertain and William began to hope that he might escape with no more than a thunderous scold. Then a crafty look came into his father’s eyes. ‘Was this the first message you have delivered for Elizabeth?’
Oh, Lord, he was going to have to confess everything. He couldn’t. But when he said nothing, his father made the correct deduction. ‘Your silence is confession enough. I won’t ask you how many messages you have delivered or how long you have been deceiving your parents in this unpardonable fashion. You are guilty of the worst kind of behaviour.’
He hung his head even lower and muttered, ‘I know.’ He was in agreement with his father. He had always thought it very bad form to deceive them.
‘You have aided and abetted your sister in a friendship that can only harm her,’ Joshua intoned. ‘You have deliberately gone against your parents’ wishes and sought to undermine our judgment. You must be punished.’
Some time in the last few minutes, William had known he wasn’t going to escape. He lifted his head slightly and saw Joshua begin to walk to the locked cupboard that hung between two very large bookcases. Then he closed his eyes. He dared not look, but every sound registered with him – the footsteps to t
he cupboard, the key jangling on his father’s key ring, the sound of metal against metal, the slight creak of the cupboard hinge unoiled for some time and unopened for even longer. Every sound brought him closer to his fate.
‘Pull your trousers down and bend over.’ His father had returned and he opened his eyes sufficiently to see the tip of a leather strap advancing towards him.
With trembling hands, he did as he was commanded. Joshua had raised the belt in preparation for the first strike, when the door of the library flew open.
‘Stop! You cannot do that!’
His father turned in annoyance and William dared to straighten up. His mother was clutching at her husband’s hand, trying to wrest the strap from him. ‘You cannot do that,’ she repeated. ‘You cannot beat a boy who is unwell. You cannot hit a sick child.’
‘He is neither a child nor sick,’ her husband retorted. ‘He has just ridden to Kingston to take a message from your daughter to a man she is forbidden to see. What do you think of that?’
‘Is that true, William?’ His mother’s face matched the whitewash on the walls.
‘Yes, Mama,’ he said unhappily, ‘but it was only a small message.’ The truth again. ‘And it didn’t mean anything.’ But that, he thought, was most definitely a lie.
‘You must apologise to your father for such disobedience,’ she urged.
‘He will do more than apologise.’ Joshua had regained control of the situation and his voice was loud. ‘He will be punished.’
‘No, Joshua, he is not fit to bear such punishment.’
‘If he is fit enough to ride five miles on a bicycle, he is fit enough to be punished. Now go.’ He strode to the door and held it wide, waiting for Alice to leave. She had no option but to obey.
Then he strode back. ‘Bend over,’ he said again, and raised the strap.
*
William’s howls of pain were heard up and down the house. The servants stopped whatever they were doing and looked towards the library, then bent their heads once more to the task in hand, their hearts a little sadder. Elizabeth in her studio heard it and clutched the paintbrush she was holding so hard that she broke it in two. She guessed what must have happened and knew it her fault; she could blame nobody else. Alice in the morning room buried her face in an already wet handkerchief. And Oliver, in their shared bedroom, clutched his hands tight and drove his nails into his hand with every stroke of the strap. Three strokes. Three howls of pain echoing across every room. Then silence. A horrid, creeping angry silence.
When William returned to the room, he was sobbing uncontrollably. Olly was at the open door, waiting for him. He guided his friend across the room and then helped him crawl onto the bed, face down.
‘Wait there,’ he said, though William was going nowhere. ‘I won’t be long.’
In ten minutes, he was back with a bowl of warm water, a cloud of cotton wool and a small bottle of iodine begged from Mrs Lacey. He very gently eased William’s trousers from his legs, then with equal gentleness, rolled down the top of his drawers. Three ugly red stripes had violated the soft flesh and, at the sight of them, Olly had to knuckle away the tears that had sprung to his eyes. One wound was already bleeding and the second just beginning. He bathed the wheals thoroughly, staunching the bleeding and patting them dry. Then, one by one, he kissed each scarlet stripe in turn.
When Olly was through, William rolled on to his side and looked at his friend. Both their faces were streaked with tears. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.
Oliver’s response was to gather him in his arms. He stroked his hair and kissed the tears from his face. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he whispered, though inside he was blazing. Then, seconds later, he said, ‘He won’t get away with this.’
But William was too spent to hear. The boy had closed his eyes and fallen into a troubled sleep.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Oliver lay awake for hours, listening to the whimpers of pain coming from the adjoining bed. At first, he was too angry to think clearly and too upset to formulate any plan. But then, as his friend settled into a deeper sleep, the whimpers gradually faded and his anger began to cool and mould itself to a cold determination. He would avenge William for the hurt he had suffered. It was scarcely believable to him that a father could punish his son in such savage fashion, and a son who was already in fragile health. And punish him for what? His friend had taken a one word message and taken it for his sister. William had been reluctant, he knew, but he loved Elizabeth and had done what he thought was right. And for that he had been cruelly beaten. His own father would not have stooped to such brutality – he might have been gated for a week and his allowance stopped, but a beating, never. Joshua Summer was an out-and-out bully, and the only way to deal with bullies was to hit them back where it hurt most.
He lay for long hours, thinking how best to punish the man. He hadn’t got much time in which to do it. Mrs Summer had written home some time ago, asking when his father would collect him and, just before they’d set off for Kingston, she’d told him that she’d had a reply and that his pa was coming very soon. Then William’s father had insisted that he leave tomorrow. The telegram would already have been sent. There was no reprieve from that. And what could a fourteen-year-old do in a mere twenty-four hours that would lay waste the life of a powerful adult?
It took him hours of thinking and rethinking. One plan after another was rejected, until it came to him, and suddenly he felt very good. Good enough to fall into a gentle doze until the first glimmer of light showed between the curtains. Then he was up and silently dressing and just as silently, stealing down the oak staircase. It would not do to wake the household. Within minutes, he had found the key to the side door and turned it noiselessly in the lock. Summerhayes ran like clockwork: every key was hung in its rightful place, every lock oiled regularly. He blessed Ripley for his efficiency.
He was in the tool shed a few minutes later but took time to choose the right implements. In the night, he’d worried that the shed might be locked; Mr Harris, though, evidently didn’t fear thieves. Still, he must be as quiet as possible. The young duty gardener, asleep in the bothy just yards away, would be waking soon and by then he must have finished the job and restored his booty. He edged past the spades and forks and wheelbarrows and, from the racks of hanging tools, selected a medium-sized scythe, a steel mattock and a heavy duty axe. That should do it, he thought gleefully. He’d show that brute of a man that he couldn’t maim a defenceless boy without suffering just punishment.
The tools weighed heavily on him and by the time he reached the Italian Garden, he was out of breath and needed to rest. But he couldn’t linger for long. The gardening staff would begin work shortly and he must be gone before they arrived. The scything was easy, the plants soft and susceptible to the implement’s biting edge. He beheaded them with gusto and then was sorry when he saw their stems stunted and withering before his eyes. It wasn’t their fault that he was so angry, and he didn’t like destroying nature. He knew, too, that William would hate what he was doing. But the plants were a casualty of war, he decided, and he must go on. He might love these gardens, but he loved William more.
The lakeside path didn’t make him feel so bad. It was not a living thing. Skilled craftsmen had spent hours building it, but the beauty they’d created was simply a job done. He was comforted by that thought as he set to work with the mattock, systematically breaking the ornamental paving into the smallest of pieces. It proved unexpectedly hard work and he had reached only halfway around the lake when the sun’s rays began to infiltrate the surrounding trees. The minutes were whirring past and he should be gone. That thought, as much as the growing warmth, sent dribbles of perspiration down his face. There would not be the time to effect a complete destruction, but when he looked back at what he’d achieved, he felt a glow of satisfaction. The path was all but a ruin. He glanced across the lake at the dolphin and its endless spout of water, and thought how much he’d like a stab at that.
But there was no time and instead he dived into the summerhouse, clambering onto the wooden bench that ran around its interior, and hoisting the axe up after him. It took him five minutes of aiming hefty blows at the roof before the first chink of daylight was visible. He shuffled a few yards along the bench and began wielding the axe at a different part of the roof. The more he destroyed, the easier it seemed to become. It was almost as though the shingles had decided it wasn’t worth the fight and were happy for him to do as he wished. What he wished was to do a lot more, but he had to go. With sweaty hands, he gathered up the tools and, using the small strength he had left, trotted as fast as he could through the Wilderness, through the vegetable garden and almost to the bothy door. There were sounds coming from within and, for a moment, he was scared. He held his breath, then glided past the entrance and into the single-roomed tool shed. All the hand tools were kept above a workbench on which to repair them. Very carefully and trying hard not to fumble, he replaced the scythe, the mattock and the axe, one by one, in the exact same position that he’d found them. Then he was out of the door just as the boy emerged from the bothy, yawning and harrowing his hands through a tumbled head of hair.
Oliver melted into the shadows and waited. He knew the gardener would have to check on the greenhouses – Sundays were no exception to the rule – and once the boy disappeared from view, he turned tail and ran towards the house, reaching the side door just as the indoor servants were beginning work. He was within a whisker of being caught. One of the housemaids had come from below stairs with an armful of dusters and brushes, and he was forced once more to melt into the wall. She passed within inches but went on into the drawing room without seeing him. In a matter of seconds, he’d regained the bedroom. William was still sleeping and hardly stirred even when the door clicked shut. He flung himself onto the bed and lay there, breathing heavily. He’d done it. Now he could wait for the fun to begin.
The Buttonmaker’s daughter Page 26