The Stony Path

by Rita Bradshaw

  She smiled to herself, smoothing down her coat and adjusting her neat felt hat with gloved hands. Thought you’d cheat me, did you, Polly my girl? Well, think again, Aye, think again. This isn’t over yet by a long chalk.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was another full week before Hilda went into town again with Croft on market day. Polly, under protest, had spent the intervening days in bed, due to the doctor diagnosing a nasty kidney infection after Betsy, worried about her mistress’s condition, called him out. The icebag on her back and the chloroform ointment, along with the gallons of boiled water Betsy made her drink with the medicine the doctor had prescribed, did the trick, but Polly was still pale and tired when Hilda arrived back at the farmhouse after her second outing.

  Polly was sitting on one of the sofas in the sitting room with her feet up, and as she glanced at Hilda, who was standing in the doorway looking at her with an odd expression on her face, she said politely, ‘Did you have an enjoyable time, Mother?’ keeping any apprehension out of her voice. Like Betsy, she didn’t trust the reason for these sudden excursions after years of self-imposed incarceration.

  ‘Wonderful.’ It was high and animated. ‘Just wonderful.’

  ‘Good.’

  They stared at each other, but Hilda didn’t break the silence for some seconds, and then she said, ‘You shouldn’t have prevented me inheriting what was rightfully mine, girl. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Mother, we’ve had this conversation before. As Frederick’s wife, most folk would agree I should have been the main beneficiary of his will anyway, but certainly in view of his wishes concerning the child you have no cause for complaint. And I’ve told you I will be more than happy to give you an allowance.’

  ‘An allowance! Huh!’ Hilda now stretched her neck and, her tone changing into one of thin bitterness, said tightly, ‘I am going to my room but I would like you to remember this conversation, Polly.’

  ‘I’ll remember it, Mother.’ And it was Hilda who looked away first, turning and flouncing from the room as she muttered something indiscernible under her breath.

  Once she was alone Polly leaned back against the cushions of the sofa with a deep sigh. How was it, with her father having been such an easy-going, sensitive soul, that he had been ensnared by two of the most unnatural women in the world? Unnatural in different ways admittedly, but unnatural all the same. But then she knew the answer to that, she told herself silently. It was her father’s inherent weakness that both of them, in their own ways, had fastened on to.

  And then she shook her head irritably, annoyed with herself. Why was she wasting time thinking of her father now? She ought to be trying to determine what her mother was about, because she was up to something, for sure. Polly eased her position on the sofa, resting her hand on the raised dome of her stomach for a moment. The doctor had said that either she had an excess of water or the baby was a large one, and that in either case the confinement could well be early. She hoped that would be the case, oh, she did. Since they had found Arnold’s body, this pregnancy had suddenly become intolerable.

  And then, as the evening drew on, her mind returned to the problem of her mother, worrying at it like a dog with a bone, and she could find no peace of mind.

  Very early on the morning of the twelfth of June, two days after Hilda’s second trip into Bishopwearmouth, Luke was awakened from a deep sleep by the sound of banging on the front door. An hour later he was sitting in a police cell, his head spinning with the speed at which his world had fallen apart. They knew. Somehow they knew. He glanced round the small, dank cell, his hands clasped in front of him and hanging loosely between his knees.

  Had he been right to play it as he had? He rubbed his hand across his sweaty face. He had told the police he remembered little of that night beyond the fact that his mother – and he’d stressed the fact Eva was the only mother he had known — had died. Grief did strange things to the memory. How could he recall what time he’d got home or what had happened that evening when faced with the devastating loss of the woman he had chosen to care for and love? It had all turned into a terrible blur. Yes, there had been someone else present. Her natural son, Michael. Where could they contact him? He wasn’t sure. He’d never been given notice of his whereabouts. He omitted to mention Dr Henderson. But Michael was a priest. A Roman Catholic priest.

  They would trace Michael, of course, and he would tell them what he knew: that Luke Blackett had entered the house after a union meeting in the afternoon and then left fairly rapidly some time later, to return home after more than three hours. Where had Luke been? He would tell them what Luke had said later that evening – that there had been a crisis of some kind with the family of one of the men with whom Luke worked. And what was the name of this man? Michael would not have an answer to that question.

  And then they would come back to Luke and he would say . . . what? Luke swallowed deeply, shutting his eyes for a second. Nothing. He would say nothing. There was no way Polly was being dragged into this. He hadn’t been able to protect her that night but he would protect her now. He straightened for a moment, stretching his back, and then resumed his bent position as he stared at the dirty stone-flagged floor.

  At ten o’clock that same morning, two grim-faced policemen had just left the farmhouse and Polly was facing her mother in the sitting room, Ruth sitting in shocked silence beside her.

  ‘This “acting on information received” regarding Luke’s arrest is something to do with you, isn’t it?’ Polly accused harshly. ‘Along with the questions about Luke and me. Don’t bother to deny it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of denying it.’ Hilda was exuding self-satisfaction. ‘It’s as clear as the nose on your face that Luke is responsible for his brother’s death, and there’s a witness to prove it! What do you think about that?’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ This was from Ruth, and now Hilda turned on her younger daughter as she mimicked nastily, ‘I don’t believe it! Well, don’t believe was made to believe, girl. Luke was observed coming home late the night Arnold disappeared, the night his stepmother died, incidentally.’ This last was accompanied by a pointed glance at Polly. ‘His clothes were torn, his cap was gone, and it was clear as far as Katy and her young man could ascertain that he’d been in a fight. The police aren’t fools, girl, and they are more than capable of putting two and two together.’

  ‘And making ten by the sound of it.’ Polly’s voice was icy, but inside she felt as though she was melting with fear for Luke. ‘I gather you’re referring to Katy Chapman? Do the police know she vowed to get even with Luke when he finished his association with her?’

  ‘And of course you’d know all about that!’ Hilda had thrown all caution to the wind and her cards were very clearly on the table. ‘You’re the reason Luke did away with his brother; it’s your conscience Arnold’s blood’s on.’ Hilda turned to the open-mouthed Ruth as she said, ‘Been carrying on with Luke for years she has, the harlot! Ask her, ask her who’s the father of the brat she’s carrying. It’s not my stepbrother, that’s for sure, and it’ll be proved so. It’ll be proved, all right.’

  ‘You evil woman.’ It was clear Hilda thought Polly was going to strike her as she backed away from her daughter, but Polly merely came to a halt in front of her mother, her lips drawn back from her teeth and her blue eyes narrowed. Her heart was thumping against her ribs but it was anger — not fear – which was driving her as she said again, ‘You evil, evil woman. You’ve lain in that bed up there for years pretending to be ill, and then the last few weeks you’ve been plotting and scheming like an obscene great spider trying to enmesh victims in your web. Well, you’re wrong, do you hear? Wrong! And I’m going to go to the police station and reiterate all I’ve just said to those two policemen. Luke’s innocent.’

  ‘And you think they would take any notice of you?’ Hilda had recovered her poise and now her neck was craning forward like a crow preparing to peck. ‘Think again! Not after what I told the
m.’

  Polly made no response for a moment, and then her voice was flat, the anger gone, as she said, ‘All my life I’ve waited for a word of love from you. I used to cry myself to sleep at nights when I was a bairn and wonder why the one person in all the world who should love me didn’t. But no more. I’m free of you at last. I don’t need or want anything from you any more.’

  And as Hilda looked into her daughter’s great blue eyes she saw something was missing from the depths of them: a need, a want, that she had never fully acknowledged or understood but which had always been there, and such is the potential for oscillation in the human spirit that for a moment she felt bereft at the passing of it. And then she drew herself up, her eyes narrowing as she said, ‘And you are no daughter of mine, not after the way you have so lowered yourself as to become involved with that . . . that creature that Frederick disliked so much.’

  ‘That’s the best thing you have said to me in years.’ Polly turned and left the room, but once in the hall she put her fist to her mouth and bit down hard on it, her concern for Luke overwhelming. She flew along the hall to the kitchen as swiftly as her increased bulk would allow, explaining the reason for the policemen’s visit to the two in the kitchen and instructing Emily to go and tell Croft to get the horse and trap ready.

  She could hear raised voices from the sitting room, where her mother and Ruth were, and she had only been a moment or two in her room, pulling on her thin summer coat and straw bonnet, when Ruth followed her into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. ‘Polly?’ Ruth’s face was straight, her eyes enormous. ‘Mam is right in as much as something happened that night Aunt Eva died, isn’t she? Do you know anything about Arnold’s death?’

  Polly looked at her sister. The truth could smash this new relationship – which she had thought right up to a second ago was firm and solid but which suddenly felt horribly fragile – into a million pieces and put a rope round Luke’s neck, but if she didn’t tell her now, if she prevaricated or lied, Ruth would sense it and this thing would always be a great wedge between them. She loved her sister, she had always loved her – even when Ruth had been at her worst – but trusting her with this was something else. And then she looked into the worried little face in front of her which had grown so much more pretty over the last months since the expression of discontent had been erased, and the baby sister who had always looked to her for security and love was there. Ruth needed to be trusted, and more than that know she was trusted, Polly realised with a jolt of guilty surprise. Ruth’s need was evident in her face. ‘Yes.’ It was simple, but Ruth would never know how hard that one word had been. ‘Do you want to hear about it? It . . . it isn’t pleasant.’

  Ruth made no answer beyond a nervous nod, and Polly swallowed deeply before she could begin. She told her sister all of it, starting from the moment she left the house in Southwick Road to the time she entered the farmhouse, and at the end of it Ruth’s eyes fell to the mound of her stomach and she said very flatly, ‘It’s his, isn’t it? Arnold’s.’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘How can you bear to have it?’

  ‘I couldn’t not,’ Polly said quietly. ‘It’s not responsible for what its father did, but . . . I shan’t stay after it’s born, Ruth. I couldn’t love it and it wouldn’t be fair. As far as the world is concerned it’s Frederick’s child, whatever Mother might think, she can’t prove it is not Frederick’s. It can live here with you all and be provided for, but I intend to make my life somewhere else. It’s the only way I can cope.’

  ‘Oh, Poll.’ Ruth’s head had dropped but now she raised it, her eyes wet as she said fiercely, ‘I’m glad he’s dead, he didn’t deserve to live,’ and as Polly’s arms went round her the two women held each other tightly for long moments and the ache in Polly’s heart was eased a little.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ As they drew apart, Ruth’s voice was soft, her tone sympathetic.

  Polly had been thinking while they had embraced. If she went to the police station it actually might do more harm than good. Her mother had woven her web well and compromised Polly’s relationship with Luke very adeptly in the law’s eyes. They wouldn’t believe anything she said in Luke’s defence; moreover, it might confirm the suspicions her mother had induced if she went flying to see him as soon as she heard he had been arrested. But he needed someone to speak for him, someone the police would trust. ‘I’m going to see Dr Henderson,’ she said quietly. ‘He knows where Michael is and I need to see him before the police talk to him.’

  ‘Dr Henderson?’

  ‘And when he has given me Michael’s whereabouts I’m going to see Michael and tell him everything and ask him to give Luke an alibi for that night. If it comes down to a priest’s word against Katy Chapman’s, there’ll be no contest.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Polly regarded her sister’s perplexed face very steadily.

  ‘If you tell Michael everything he’ll know Luke did do it. I know it was self-defence and he was protecting you,’ Ruth added hastily, ‘but it would still be lying, wouldn’t it, if he said Luke was with him all the time?’

  Polly’s gaze didn’t falter as she said, ‘Aye, it would.’

  ‘Oh, Polly.’

  Ruth insisted on accompanying Polly into town – an action firmly backed by a deeply concerned Betsy, who couldn’t understand why her very pregnant mistress suddenly had to take off like a bat out of hell – as Betsy put it. ‘I know it’s awful, lass, but there’s nowt you can say to change them coppers’ minds,’ she said worriedly, ‘an’ it’ll help no one if you end up havin’ the bairn on the road somewhere.’

  ‘I have no intention of having the bairn for another couple of months, Betsy,’ Polly said firmly. ‘And I have to go, all right?’

  ‘Well, I’ll be wastin’ me breath if I say any more, I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose right.’

  ‘By, I hope if I’m ever locked away you’ll do the same for me,’ Betsy said with a resigned note in her voice.

  ‘You can count on it.’

  They arrived in Barclay Street in Monkwearmouth, where the good doctor had his premises, just in time to find him eating his dinner, and when Polly explained that she had to let her cousin know about his half-brother’s arrest quickly because Michael had some information which would help to prove Luke’s innocence, she had no trouble in persuading Dr Henderson to give her the address of Michael’s whereabouts.

  ‘Consett?’ She stared at him in surprise. ‘But that’s only twenty-five miles or so from here, isn’t it?’ Somehow she had expected Michael to have gone much further, but this meant she could actually go and see him today.

  Dr Henderson nodded. ‘Large thriving community in Consett these days,’ he said as he showed the women to the door. ‘As the ironworks have grown so has the town, and they’ve excellent local amenities and a steelworks that’s the envy of Newcastle and Sunderland. Nice town hall, and the infirmary in Parliament Street is run by a friend of mine. Room for twenty in-patients.’ His tone suggested the two women should be suitably overawed. ‘There’s a good few churches, so I understand, but of course you’ll be wanting the Roman Catholic one near the school in Thomas Street. Michael has done all right for himself being appointed to a church in Consett as part of his training.’

  Once outside in the hot June air, which carried the smell of the hops and yeast from Monkwearmouth Brewery down on the waterfront, Polly and Ruth stared at each other for a moment. ‘We’re going to Consett now, aren’t we.’

  It was a statement, not a question, but Polly answered it anyway as she said, ‘It won’t take long in the horse and trap.’

  It didn’t, and the ride was not unpleasant once they got out of Bishopwearmouth and on to the country lanes. When they arrived in Consett the first thing the women noticed was the red dust from the ironworks, which gave a pink tinge to seemingly everything, and the enormous slag heaps far in the distance to the west of the town.

  Ruth was holdin
g the reins as they drove into Consett, Polly sitting quietly at the side of her with her hands folded on her rounded belly and her straw hat pulled down well on to her forehead, but in spite of her air of propriety, inside she was in turmoil. What if Michael refused to help her? As Ruth had pointed out, she was in effect asking him to lie for her – him, a priest. But he was still Michael under his priest’s garb, her inner voice told her stoutly. And when she explained the circumstances . . . The baby moved suddenly, as though in protest at what she was about to do, and she felt her heart begin to beat wildly. This had to work, he had to help her. He had to.