The Stony Path

by Rita Bradshaw

  The light was failing swiftly, but owing to the white blanket settling on the fields and trees it wasn’t dark, and Luke’s eyes were straining ahead, frantic to catch sight of a blue-coated figure in front of him.

  Maybe Arnold had gone to see one of his cronies in Bishopwearmouth? No, no, he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure how he came about his knowledge, but Luke would have bet his life on the fact that Arnold had somehow suspected that Polly had missed Frederick. If indeed she had. No, she had. She had. But pray God she hadn’t. By, he wasn’t making sense here, not even to himself. The lads at the colliery were forever pulling his leg about how he was so clear and concise about everything; they should hear him now.

  If she’d caught a tram part way she could be home by now. Or maybe she would take a horse cab? He might get to the farm and she’d be sitting with the rest of them at her tea or whatever. Still, he could make some excuse about Eva. Eva. He groaned inwardly at the realisation that he had never even popped up to see his stepmother, but then dismissed the guilt in the next moment as his anxiety regarding Polly’s safety swamped everything. But she could be safely home and Arnold could be knocking the door in Southwick Road at this very minute. He could be wrong about all of this. So why didn’t he feel that deep inside the core of him?

  Stop thinking and concentrate on running. His brain gave the command and he obeyed it, the impetus putting wings on his feet as he ran on through the raw November night.

  When Arnold had left Polly he’d walked briskly down Matloor Street for a few yards, but after surreptitiously checking over his shoulder he dived down the street running parallel to Bridge Street and emerged at the junction with High Street West just in time to see Polly cross the road some fifty yards away and continue on along Fawcett Street.

  She might be meeting Frederick. He frowned briefly as he crossed the road himself and then hurried on into Fawcett Street, keeping to the opposite side of the road to Polly. But somehow he didn’t think so. Adrenalin born of excitement was making his heart pound. Well, he’d soon find out one way or the other, and if she’d got a fancy man somewhere . . . He wetted his lips, his eyes narrowing. He’d have something over her then right enough. By, he’d give his right arm to have her squirming, he would that. Never thought he was good enough, did she? An ordinary working man wasn’t good enough for the likes of Polly Weatherburn.

  He followed her cautiously, and when Polly walked on down Burdon Road Arnold’s brow wrinkled again. Whoever it was she couldn’t wait to see him, the brazen hussy. All decked out in her fine togs, but under the fur and linen she was scum, just like her da.

  It wasn’t until Polly had passed Tunstall Hills Farm that it actually dawned on Arnold what had happened. He’d gone without her! Frederick had gone back without waiting for her. Well, well, well. His bottom lip moved over his top as he narrowed his eyes reflectively. So that was how it was. Mind, he wasn’t surprised. All wind and water, Frederick was. It would take a real man to satisfy a tart little piece like Polly, and Frederick didn’t have it in him, the soft nowt.

  There was only the odd house dotted every few hundred yards along the road now, although the lane was heavily fringed with trees, which Arnold used to his advantage. Polly was still striding out, obviously intent on getting home before dark, and when she came to the fork in the road a third of a mile past Tunstall Hills Farm she took the path which led past the Silksworth Colliery and on to Farrington Hall, beyond which was the village and then the winding path to Stone Farm.

  Arnold was sweating heavily now, although it was nothing to do with the pace at which he was walking; rather the realisation that an opportunity had presented itself to him tonight the like of which he might never have again. He was going to have her. For years he had wanted her and tonight he was going to have her. And the way things obviously were with Frederick, she’d probably like it too. Oh, she might squawk a bit, they all squawked when you gave it to them rough, but they liked it too. He knew. Oh, aye, he knew all right. There wasn’t much about women he didn’t know.

  The snowflakes were thicker now, and dodging behind trees as he was, he lost sight of her in front of him for a moment or two. He moved quicker and then had to stop sharply and duck down on his haunches when he saw she had stopped and was talking to two women who looked to be miners’ wives from the village. They had a couple of bairns with them and a babe in arms, and after a while he saw Polly open her bag and take something out, pressing it towards the baby before the mother reached out her hand and bobbed her head in thanks.

  Obviously crossing a new arrival’s palm with silver, Arnold thought to himself. Lady Bountiful to the last. His lips drew back from his teeth in a sneer. Well, she could give him something the night, and he wasn’t talking about a silver thrupenny bit neither.

  Come on, come on. Twice he thought the women were going to part company, and twice the mother with the baby reached out and took Polly’s arm to detain her. What was she yammering on about? And then Polly finally broke away with a wave of her hand and was moving again.

  He waited until the two women were out of sight and then he straightened. Anticipation had made him as hard as a rock, and for a second he breathed in the icy cold air, savouring it as his body surged with what was to come, and then he was running after her like a greyhound.

  Polly wasn’t hurrying the last half a mile or so, she was thinking about the baby. It was such a bonny little thing. She had got to know quite a few of the miners’ wives from the village during the summer when the strike was on, when she and Betsy had delivered food parcels and essential supplies, along with fresh milk for the children. Her actions had widened the rift between herself and Frederick, and she had endured many blazing rows when he had accused her of robbing the farm of its profits for the year, but she had stuck to her guns, maintaining starving women and children shouldn’t be used in political games to force men back to work. And now Mrs O’Leary had just told her she’d named her new baby daughter Polly.

  ‘She wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for you, lass. Aye, an’ that’s the truth. ‘Twas only your milk an’ food kept us goin’, an’ I’m not soft-soapin’, am I, Bridget?’

  Bridget had shaken her head.

  ‘An’ when our Patrick fell an’ sliced his leg open an’ it went nasty he’d have bin a goner for sure if you hadn’t got the doctor to him, ‘cos we hadn’t got a brass farthin’. Isn’t that right, Bridget?’

  More enthusiastic affirmation from the compliant Bridget.

  ‘An’ it’s grateful we are, lass. I’ve praised God for you times; aye, I have, an’ I make no apology for it.’

  There had been more of the same and Polly had had to fight not to smile once or twice because the little Irishwoman was a natural comedian, but there was no doubting she had meant every word. Unfortunately she was the sort of woman who could talk the hind leg off a donkey, but owing to the weather and the child buried deep in the folds of her shawl, Mrs O’Leary hadn’t tarried too long.

  Oh, but the night was beautiful. Polly looked up into the tall trees either side of the lane, their bare branches now feathered with white, and then raised her eyes still further, to the millions of fat snowflakes falling out of a laden sky. Frederick always said snow was one of a farmer’s most relentless enemies, and she could understand that, but it was amazingly lovely too. The world seemed magical, like a fairyland. She was glad Frederick had gone without her or else she would have missed all this.

  She began to hum a hit of a couple of years ago, ‘Moonstruck’, her thoughts still with the O’Leary baby, who had been fast asleep curled against her mother’s warmth, and the tune was still on her lips when something made her turn and see the man almost upon her.

  Her high, piercing scream was instinctive and made before she recognised Arnold, but in the moment he reached her she read what was in his face.

  Oh God, oh God, help me. It was a whimper deep within but not voiced. Something told her that to display any weakness now would be her downfall. Instea
d she brought her body up straight, forcing a half-laughing, half-annoyed note into her voice as she said, ‘Arnold! For goodness’ sake! You scared the life out of me. What is it? Has Eva gone?’

  ‘Eva?’ His eyes were hooded in the semi-darkness but the dark light in them was already stripping the clothes from her body. She could feel his lust although he wasn’t yet touching her; it was like a live thing, holding its own stench, and it was terrifying. It froze her blood and dried her mouth even as part of her couldn’t believe it was happening. ‘I don’t know nothing about Eva.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ Immediately she said it she realised it was the wrong tack to take, and added quickly, ‘Of course, you said you were coming to see Frederick about Ruth. Come up to the farm and have a hot drink.’

  ‘You know I’ve always wanted you, don’t you? I’ve read it in your eyes when you look at me.’ His voice was low and it could have been conversational but for the expression on his face. ‘You should have been kind to me years ago, then it wouldn’t have been like this.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’ She kept her back straight and her head high. ‘You are courting my sister, Arnold.’

  ‘Ruth?’ He laughed harshly, his eyes greedy on her body as he looked her up and down with deliberate intent. ‘We both know I don’t want Ruth.’

  Oh, dear God, God, tell me what to do, what to say. If she screamed again it was too far from the farm for anyone to hear; she was alone out here.

  In the summer the lane was a green bower with the trees’ branches on either side of the road meeting in a leafy arch, and now, like a mockery of the evil below, they were standing under an arc of pure white.

  ‘You’ve made this happen, you know that, don’t you.’ It was a statement not requiring an answer. ‘I wanted to court you proper years ago, but you’d have none of it. You rubbed me nose in it with Michael, and then to go and marry an old man like Frederick—’

  ‘He’s not an old man.’ Her voice was stiff, her body was stiff; she dared not relax for a second. ‘Forty-six isn’t old.’

  ‘It is for a little vixen like you, but then Frederick’s got plenty of other attributes, eh? Big farm, money . . . Does all that keep you warm in bed at night, Polly? Does he satisfy you? Eh?’ He made a crude gesture at his bulging trousers.

  ‘How dare you talk to me like this.’ She had never been so petrified in her life, and her voice wasn’t as forceful as she would have liked.

  ‘How dare I?’ He was a few inches away from her, so close she could smell the faint odour of the coal dust from his clothes. Melted snow had made thin rivulets of white through the black of his face, giving the strange effect of a painted mask, but there was nothing amusing or clownlike about the face staring at her. It was a devil’s face. ‘And why shouldn’t I? What are you, after all? Ruth told me she’d let on about the gossip in town about your goings-on and that you’d blamed me. Right put out about it an’ all she was, but you know something, Polly?’ The dark eyes watched her, enjoying the moment. ‘You were dead right, lass. Oh, aye, you were. Your name’s muck in some quarters, I’ve seen to that. There’s folk who wouldn’t be surprised at anything you get up to, so don’t you go thinking you can open that pretty little mouth and cry rape, ‘cos it won’t work. Not for you, not for Polly Weatherburn.’

  Rape. Oh, oh God, God. Rape. Don’t let him. Don’t let him touch me.

  ‘You going to fight me, Polly?’

  To her horror she saw his hands go to the old frayed belt holding up his trousers.

  ‘I’d like that,’ he continued softly as a gust of snow made him blink. ‘You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment, or maybe you do at that. Me flesh has always wanted you. You’ve been like an ache I couldn’t get rid of.’

  ‘Stop this, Arnold.’

  ‘Stop this, Arnold.’ The mockery was cruel, nasty, like a predator that had got hold of its victim and was enjoying playing with it before the kill. ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Polly. I’m not one of your husband’s lackeys. Croft was telling me the last time I was at the farm how things have improved since you married the master. Always paid well, the master did, but since the missus came the perks have got better. As much milk and as many eggs as they want, along with a stone of potatoes a week for each family and a good joint come Sunday. Oh, aye, he was singing your praises right enough. Made me wonder if you’ve been giving him more than milk and eggs.’

  ‘You’re disgusting.’

  ‘Careful, lass. You’re in no position to fling insults.’

  ‘You touch me and I’ll have the law on you, I swear it.’

  ‘You could try, lass. Aye, you could try. But there’s plenty who would be ready to speak out about what they’ve heard, and the funny thing with rumours is they have a way of becoming fact in people’s minds. You ever noticed that, Polly? Led him on, they’d say, and what can you expect after that business with her brother and then marrying her uncle? She’s a wrong un, sure as eggs are eggs. And what with her husband and her at odds . . .’ At Polly’s start of surprise, Arnold smiled slowly. ‘Thought I hadn’t noticed, eh? I sowed a seed of doubt in Frederick’s mind years ago, on your wedding night, and I’ve dropped the odd hint now and again ever since. You’d get no support from Frederick if you spoke out, so think on.’

  ‘I don’t need Frederick’s support or anyone else’s,’ Polly said sharply, her face stony to disguise the fear that was curdling her insides. The snow had settled on Arnold’s thick brown hair as they had been talking, and she watched him as he flicked it off but without his eyes leaving her for a second.

  ‘How much do you weigh, Polly?’ His tone was contemplative now as he let his eyes wander up and down her again. ‘Eight stone, nine, maybe? Now me, I weigh thirteen and I can give you six inches in height. You can’t fight me but I don’t mind you trying; like I’ve said I like them with a bit of go in their bellies. We can have it up against a tree so you don’t get your nice blue coat mucky, or I’ll take you down on the ground, it’s all the same to me.’

  He moved with a suddenness that took her completely by surprise, as it was meant to, but almost in the same instant her forearm came up and she hit him a hard swipe across his face as she made to run. He caught at her and swung her round so violently her hat went flying off, striking her hard across one cheek with his open hand as he growled, ‘Easy or hard, it’s all the same to me, Polly, like I said.’

  She was kicking and screaming and punching now, but Arnold wasn’t just bigger and heavier than her slight frame. His days underground in the pit had made him muscular and formidably strong, and Polly was aware, with a desperation that made her head whirl, that she was hardly making an impact on him.

  When his leg came out on the back of her knees and tripped her to the ground she continued to thrash and fight, but then all the breath left her body in a strangled gasp as Arnold’s weight descended on her in a great thump, one hand clamping over her mouth and nose so she couldn’t breathe and the other raking at her clothes and hoisting her coat and dress and petticoat up over her thighs.

  No! No! No! It came from the essence of her.

  He was muttering obscenities now, and as she fought to remain conscious, her head vainly trying to move to dislodge the hand cutting off her air and bringing insensibility, and her hands clawing at him frantically, his knee jabbed viciously between her legs, prising her thighs apart.

  She could feel a large stone beneath her and it felt as though it was breaking her back, but the sense of asphyxiation was over-riding everything else, and she felt herself dropping into blackness even as she continued to flail and writhe feebly.

  She was never sure if she lost consciousness completely, but in the same moment the hand left her face and she gulped painfully for air, Arnold entered her with a thrusting savagery that drove her back so hard against the rock she cried out.

  ‘Aye, that’s it, you scream and moan a bit,’ he mumbled above her, punctuating his words with driving
thrusts as he rammed into her flesh like a steel rod.

  The agonising pain in her back and the excruciating force threatening to rip her belly apart was so bad as to be unbearable, but with his hand gone from her nose and mouth Polly found the power to claw at the face above her. She felt her nails rip through skin and heard him shout before he gave her a blow across the side of her head that sent her spinning into oblivion again.

  When she came to, the pounding pain was gone and she was aware of cold air and the snow on her lower belly and legs, but she didn’t have the strength to move or pull her clothes down. Her whole body was shaking, her legs trembling so violently that it was as if they belonged to someone else.

  She could hear the sound of men’s voices cursing, and thuds and blows somewhere near her, but it was some moments before she could persuade her dead limbs to move, and then all she could manage was to brush shakily at her clothing until she felt it cover the lower part of her. The effort that had taken threatened to cause her to faint again, but she fought the blackness with all her might, along with the acute sensation of nausea it had produced.