She leapt out of bed and began to pace the room, her eyes wild. She had put the absence of her monthly cycle down to exhaustion and strain; why hadn’t she realised before? She must be . . . what? She calculated quickly from the date of her last period. Six weeks pregnant. Six weeks, that wasn’t much. You couldn’t really call it a baby at six weeks; it would just be like she was taking a laxative like liquorice root or syrup of figs.
She sat down heavily on the bed. Where had Emily’s mother got whatever she had used? Somewhere in the town perhaps, or maybe when she’d visited her sister. Would Betsy know?
Betsy didn’t know. Furthermore, the housekeeper made it very plain how she viewed such things when Polly took her aside later that morning. ‘It’s murder, lass, pure an’ simple, although there’s nothin’ pure about it. It nearly did May in when she took that medicine last year, an’ I still reckon that’s why she took the fever so bad: judgement on her.’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Betsy.’ It was a snap and a tight one, and as the housekeeper stared at her in hurt surprise, Polly said, ‘I can’t have this baby and that’s the end of it. If you can’t help me I’ll have to make my own enquiries, won’t I, because I am not having it.’
‘Granted it’s not ideal, but I thought you’d made it up a bit with the master afore he went?’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘Why not?’
Polly turned round, walking out into the washhouse without answering, and began to pummel the clothes in the poss tub that Enoch’s daughters-in-law had left soaking, the washing being their job on the farm. The knowledge that Arnold’s seed had taken root inside her had brought back images she’d thought she was gaining victory over, and she moaned softly, working the clothes so violently the water washed over the side of the big wooden tub and on to her boots.
‘Here, missus, I’ll do that. I just left it soakin’ while I went to change him.’
Polly turned round to see Lotty, the younger daughter-in-law, standing in the doorway of the washhouse with her twelve-month-old son dangling on her hip. She stared at the child and he stared back at her, his brown eyes enormous and his curly hair drooping over his rounded forehead. He had been clingy since the family had recovered from the typhoid and refused to leave his mother now even for a minute.
‘You all right, missus?’
She must look dreadful, given the note in Lotty’s voice. Polly forced a smile, dragging her eyes from the child with an effort, as she said, ‘So-so, Lotty. So-so.’
‘Aye, well, aren’t we all.’ It was sober. ‘Doreen’s still half mad at losin’ her David like that an’ him still just a bairn. It’s not so bad when you’re older, is it, missus, but it don’t seem fair when they’re young. All bairns ought to have their fair chance at life. An’ there was poor Martha’s little un an’ all. Just three months, he was.’
The words were hitting Polly with the force of a sledgehammer and it took all her will power to nod and walk out of the washhouse without breaking down. ‘All bairns ought to have their fair chance at life.’ Oh God, God, how could You do this? How could You let it happen so I have to make this choice?
Polly wrestled with herself for the next few days. Owing to the circumstances, there was to be no grand funeral for Frederick as would have been expected in the normal way of things; just a brief visit to the churchyard, where the parson would say a few words at the open grave before the family and farm workers returned to the farm. Right up until the morning of the funeral, Polly was in a pit of black despair, reliving the horror of the rape over and over and telling herself she couldn’t – she just couldn’t – bear this child for nine months without losing her reason. But every time she decided that a visit to Sunderland’s East End was the only option, the vision of a pair of enormous liquid brown eyes would swim into her mind, along with a pair of tiny fat dimpled hands as they had clung to Lotty’s buxom hips.
Owing to the fact that Christmas Day fell on a Monday, it was decided to bury Frederick on the Saturday before, the twenty-third, rather than wait until after the festive period.
The clock said twenty minutes past seven when Polly roused herself on the morning of the funeral after another restless night of tossing and turning, and after climbing wearily out of bed she walked across to the window, opening it wide and letting the freezing air into the room. The fields lay before her, clothed in white and beautiful in their starkness, the cattle being in the cow byres for the most part, or in the enclosed field at the back of the farmhouse, owing to the deep snow. Everything looked fresh this morning, and there had been a severe frost the night before which made the snow sparkle like diamond dust. The sun was up, and although it was weak and without warmth, its golden rays touched the silver below and created a brightness that was dazzling. The world was clean, clean and newly washed, and as Polly drank in the pure air in great gulps she felt, for the first time in weeks, that she was clean too.
And it was in that moment she knew she couldn’t end the life inside her, because if she did – if she succumbed to what she really wanted to do – she would never feel clean again. Arnold hadn’t made her dirty, he hadn’t, only if she let him. And she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let him touch the inner core of herself, the place where her thoughts and her soul were. She was going to fight him and fight the weakness inside herself that tried to make her believe she would never know joy or happiness again. This bright morning was a promise that she would get through this.
She pushed back her mass of hair from her shoulders and took more of the biting air deep into her lungs. Arnold was dead and she was alive; in spite of the typhoid she was alive, and she had never even caught the disease. That said something, didn’t it? That was a promise in itself. She had won. I’ve won, Arnold. Do you hear me? I have won.
The funeral was dismal and the only attendees were family, those from the farm Croft could spare, the solicitor – and Luke. Polly’s heart leapt out of her breast when she saw him standing to one side of the churchyard entrance. She had asked Dr Braithwaite to get a message to the house in Southwick Road to let them know the present circumstances at the farm, but she hadn’t expected Luke would make the journey from Monkwearmouth, not for Frederick.
But it wasn’t for Frederick Luke had come.
The ground was so frozen, the gravedigger had had his work cut out, and as the small group of people stood round, Luke found he couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful white face opposite him. She looked ill, fragile. His guts were twisting and turning and it was taking all his control not to leap over the grave and take her in his arms. What had she gone through in the last weeks? He’d nearly gone mad when he’d found access to the farm barred to him. But at least she was free of Frederick now. He had always felt in the heart of him that something was badly wrong with Polly’s marriage, and the way Frederick had left her that night, the— He caught at the profanities hovering at the back of his mind, and then in the same breath told himself not to be so damn stupid. What was with this notion that you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead? Death didn’t change a sinner into a saint or an evil swine into a good man.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .’
It was over. Luke made his way immediately to Polly’s side – something Hilda’s eagle eyes noted – and said without any preamble, ‘How are you?’
‘I’m . . . I’m all right.’ The colour was coming and going in her face, but seeing him here, so big and solid and handsome, was reminding her of so much. His gentleness that night, his protectiveness, the way it had felt to be in his arms . . . But other things too. Her helplessness in the face of Arnold’s intent, his brother’s body on hers, in hers. It was too much. She couldn’t cope with this, not now. ‘Thank you for coming, but you shouldn’t have, not with the snow and all.’
‘I wanted to.’ She wanted to get away from him, it was coming off her in waves. ‘I let Michael know about Frederick but he couldn’t get away, not so soon after his mother’s death and with Frederick
being no relation.’
‘Michael?’ And then she forced her mind into gear. ‘Oh, yes, thank you. Thank you.’
‘Arnold didn’t see fit to join you then?’ Hilda had approached them and her tone was stringent. Since her stepbrother’s death everyone at the farm had noticed a startling difference in Polly’s mother. It was as though she were the mistress now, not her daughter, Betsy had remarked the previous day to Emily when Hilda had marched into the kitchen and caused mayhem until Polly had arrived on the scene and forced her to retreat. Funny how all of a sudden she’d found the use of her legs, wasn’t it? By, they were going to have some do’s all right, because Polly wouldn’t stand for her mam throwing her weight about. And Ruth now, what had happened to her? All sweetness and light! Betsy had brought her chin down into her neck as she’d nodded conspiratorially at Emily. She didn’t have any quarrel with that, mind, of course she didn’t, but that wasn’t Ruth, was it? That was the thing. All topsy-turvy everything was – backside about tit and never mind the herrings, as her mam used to say.
‘Arnold?’ Luke’s voice was cool. ‘No one has seen hide nor hair of him for weeks, so if you see him before I do you can tell him he can forget any more shifts at the colliery. They don’t appreciate being let down without a word.’
‘What?’ Hilda’s eyes narrowed like bullets. ‘What are you saying? Arnold’s missing?’
‘I don’t know about missing, but like I said, he hasn’t turned up for work, and according to his landlady he hasn’t been back there for weeks. I’ve had to bring his things home because she’s renting out his room again now.’
‘Have you notified the police?’
‘Aye.’
‘Ruth!’ Hilda called to Ruth, who was standing talking to Lotty and Emily. ‘Have you heard this?’ And as Ruth joined them, ‘Tell her, go on. There’s something fishy here.’
Ruth listened to Luke but made no comment, and when her mother said irritably, ‘Well?’ Ruth gave her a long look before she said, ‘What do you want me to say? I’m sure he has a good reason for leaving, and no doubt he’ll be back soon.’
‘You don’t think it odd he went without a word to you, girl?’
That ‘girl’ had stuck in Ruth’s craw for years but she’d never realised it till now. She stared into the tight, discontented face of the woman who had borne her – because that was all she had done; she’d certainly never been a mother – and said quietly, ‘No, I don’t. There was nothing between us; he hadn’t asked for me, as you well know.’
‘It was just a matter of time.’
‘And perhaps he decided the time was right to move on.’
‘You can’t believe that!’ Hilda stared at her younger daughter in exasperation. Arnold had known his place, and he had been so respectful of Frederick and of herself too; she had foreseen herself lording it over him and Ruth for the rest of her life. He had often brought her little gifts: chocolates sometimes, or maybe the People’s Friend or The Lady. He had understood she was a gentlewoman.
‘I do.’ Ruth’s gaze was very level. ‘And it suits me just fine.’
‘Hmph!’ Hilda drew her thin, scraggy body up until she resembled nothing so much as a vicious black crow. ‘I can see who you’ve been listening to,’ she hissed quietly with one nasty glance at Polly’s white face. ‘You’re a fool, girl. Always were and always will be.’
‘Ruth has been listening to her own mind for once,’ Polly said evenly, forcing the words out of her tight throat with some effort. ‘And she has never been a fool.’
‘Oh, so that’s how it is.’ Hilda was speaking as though Luke wasn’t there. ‘How nice and cosy.’
Polly ignored her mother’s rudeness, inclining her head towards Luke as she said quietly, ‘The doctor has advised it would be unwise for anyone to come to the farm for the next two weeks, until we are sure the disease has burned itself out, but you will be more than welcome then if you would care to call.’
It was a dismissal and Luke recognised it as such, but what he didn’t understand was that Polly had reached breaking point. One more word about Arnold – and with the sound in the background of the clods of frozen earth thumping on to Frederick’s coffin – and she’d scream, she thought wildly.
Luke nodded, his eyes narrowing and his mouth straight, but he said nothing more as he watched the three women make their way over to Betsy and the others. What had he expected? he asked himself bitterly. It was a wonder she had talked to him at all when you considered his connection with Arnold. Every time she laid eyes on him it would remind her about that night for the rest of her life; he even looked like his brother. Damn it. Damn it. But for the fact that it would look bad if he cleared off now, there being no knowing when Arnold’s body would be discovered, he’d say to hell with Sunderland right now.
Frederick’s solicitor – by nature a nervous, fastidious individual with a pernickety, almost dainty manner that gave him the appearance of a timorous little elf – was sitting on the very edge of the sofa in the sitting room. He had removed neither his overcoat nor his gloves, and as Polly watched him fumble in his briefcase and bring out the large bundle of papers tied with tape, she wanted to say to him, ‘It’s all right, Mr Johnson, really. You won’t catch it if you take off your gloves,’ but she remained silent.
By her request both Betsy and Emily were present at the reading of the will. They were sitting with Ruth on the sofa facing Mr Johnson’s, and Polly and her mother were seated on two upholstered chairs either side of the roaring fire. Polly fully expected that Frederick would have remembered Betsy in his will; the housekeeper had been part of his life since Frederick was a child and had looked after him very well since his parents had died. And having remembered Betsy, he surely would have put a small bequest in for Emily, just a few pounds possibly.
‘Well, now.’ Mr Johnson raised his head with one of the quick, bird-like movements that characterised him. ‘Mr Weatherburn’s will is very straightforward, oh yes, indeed. Very straightforward.’ His mild blue eyes flashed round them all and then he lowered his head to his papers again. ‘In essence . . .’ He hesitated a moment before continuing,
‘In essence, Mr Weatherburn has left the farm, this house and the furniture within, and all the land the estate boasts, to . . . his stepsister, Mrs Henry Farrow.’ And on the sharp intake of breath from those on the sofa facing him, ‘On condition that he has no child from his union with his wife, Mrs Polly Weatherburn. In the case of there being a child, then such individual would inherit everything in Mrs Farrow’s place.’
‘You old witch!’ It was difficult to tell who was the more surprised – the solicitor or Hilda – when Betsy jumped up from the sofa and pointed at Polly’s mother with a shaking hand, her face scarlet with outrage. ‘You’ve schemed and connived for this all along, you wicked old biddy! Always artful and calculating from a little lass, you were.’
‘How dare you!’ It was clear Hilda couldn’t believe her ears. ‘How dare you speak to me like that. You’re dismissed! Now, this instant! Get your things and be out of this house before nightfall.’
‘Just a moment.’ Polly’s voice was clear and low, but although she tried very hard she couldn’t keep it from shaking. That Frederick had done this, left her penniless and utterly reliant on her mother, was an act of pure spitefulness that was difficult to take in. Had his conscience troubled him at the last? Had it been the will that had been on his mind those last few hours when he had tried to tell her something? Whatever, if it wasn’t for this life inside her, this child conceived in lust and fear, she would have been free to walk out of this house with no responsibilities and no ties. ‘I am the mistress of this house and I say who stays or goes.’
‘I think not.’ Hilda was triumphant, her face glowing with satisfaction. She had worked hard for this moment, oh, she had, she had. Always bolstering Frederick’s outsize ego, flattering him, listening to his endless discourses on this, that and the other and telling him how wonderful he was. Men were fools – th
e lot of them were fools. But the years of biting her tongue and taking a back seat had been worth it. It was all hers. ‘You heard what Mr Johnson said and they were Frederick’s wishes, it’s all down in black and white, signed and sealed. Isn’t that right, Mr Johnson?’
‘Well—’
‘And you were never a wife to him, not really. Doesn’t this will reflect that, Mr Johnson?’
‘I don’t think—’
‘So it is mine, and no court in the land will say different!’
‘I’m expecting a child, Mother.’
It was said quietly but it had all the power of an explosion in their midst. For a moment Hilda was absolutely still, and then she seemed to swell with fury before she ground out, ‘Never! Never in a hundred years. I know my brother, I know what he’s told me. He hasn’t touched you in years, so don’t you dare say different, girl.’
The Stony Path Page 38