The Knapthorne Conspiracy

by Malcolm Ballard

  Chapter One (1978)

  The bedroom was dappled with early morning sunlight and a gentle breeze wafted in through the half-open window. It ruffled the curtains with their pattern of cornflowers and brought with it a pot-pourri of fragrances from the garden and the fields beyond. A blackbird perched in the lower branches of the old oak tree by the garden gate paid homage to the golden summer and the warmth of the sun with its vibrant, joyful song, glad to be alive. In contrast, Gina Allsop sat at her old oak dressing table, by the bedroom window, too absorbed by misery and despair to care about her surroundings. Wracked with guilt and shame and dazed by the wrath of her father, she stared into the large, oval mirror at her pale tear-stained face, the picture of abject misery. Never, in her young life, had she felt so totally alone and uncertain of her future. The curtains fluttered, caught by the breeze as if shaken by an unseen hand, and she heard the sound of Muffin, her pony, whinnying from the paddock out the back, beyond the cottage. He had sensed she was leaving, of that Gina was certain, and the thought was churning her stomach, causing her even greater distress. Within hours she would be gone from the cottage, maybe never to return, and all she wanted to do was die. With a loud, agonised cry, like that of a wounded animal, she let her head slump forward onto her crossed arms and the sound of her sobbing drifted out into the sun-drenched garden.

  The solid, stone cottage on the Tanglewood Estate, where Gina lived with her parents, commanded spectacular views across a gently undulating Dorset landscape of fields and woodland that had changed little in two centuries. It was situated not far from the village of Kenton Magna, a community born of the same families for generations and it had been her home for the sixteen years of her young life. Although her parents were not well off, she had never been deprived of any of the basic essentials of living, in fact she had enjoyed the rural existence, defined by the activities on the farm and such social events as might be organised by the community. The only blight on her upbringing, which affected her more as she grew older, was the sad situation with her father, Frank Allsop, who endured on-going acute trauma due to an accident he had had on the farm. While replacing tiles on the roof of the cottage he had missed his footing and slipped, tumbling down the slope and falling over the edge. As he landed in the garden below his head struck the brick path resulting in Frank suffering a serious concussion. Initially it was feared he might have incurred a brain injury but as the weeks passed after the accident he appeared to be coming back to his old self. It wasn't until some months later that depression set in and the once good-natured, outgoing Frank was randomly, and at the time inexplicably, beset by dark moods, flashes of temper and brooding silences

  Doris Lightfoot had liked the look of the tall, broad-shouldered young Frank the moment she had set eyes on him. He had an open, honest face and there always seemed to be a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips. Besides, it made a change to have someone new around to put the local lads on their mettle. They were never keen on competition from newcomers which made Doris all the more determined to set her cap at Frank. She’d heard that he’d been transferred from Lord Easterbrook’s estate in Scotland, where he had been employed in a reserved occupation, to his farm in Dorset, some scandal or other no doubt, she suspected, but that only added spice to his attraction. Anyway, she knew what she wanted and was determined to get it. They had become engaged in 1956 and were married a year later. Their first child, Mary, had been born in the summer of 1959 when they had been living with Doris's parents on their Dorset farm. The arrival of a new family member meant the Lightfoot home was not big enough to accommodate them all but, fortunately, Tanglewood Cottage, one of several properties on Lord Easterbrook’s Dorset estate, had become available almost immediately. They had been living there in domestic bliss for two years, with Frank working as an underkeeper on the estate, when he had the accident which changed his life and the lives of those closest to him for ever.

  Given the nature of depression Frank was not the only one to suffer. Those around him were snared by the same net, victims of a man struggling with an illness that struck at the heart of his being and made him prone to personality changes and mood swings. His Scottish stubborness meant he refused to see a doctor 'Why? What could he do f'me?' was his answer to Doris's pleading. She knew, her intuition told her unequivocally, that his condition was somehow connected to his accident even though it was some time ago but what to do? When they had become engaged and later talked about a family, Frank had expressed a wish to have a boy to give the child the childhood he had never had. Could this be a way to help him, if they tried for another child? All she wanted was to have her old Frank back and she would do whatever it took.

  Gina had been conceived six months later and slipped easily into the world at the end of the summer in 1952, a sister for Mary who was now three years old. It seemed to be a turning point for Frank but for the wrong reason. The failure of Doris to give him the son he had once spoken of had the opposite effect of what she had been hoping for. Far from being excited about his daughter's birth Frank chose to ignore her at every opportunity but, worse still, his attitude extended to Mary as though he had made a decision to have as little as possible to do with the upbringing of his daughters

  As can often be the way, Frank's misfortune brought out the best in Doris. A cheerful, bustling woman by nature she had the stout figure of her mother, with solid limbs and a robust constitution and the physiognomy of a carefree, if somewhat overweight mother who could manage to see a good side to almost any situation. Practical and down-to-earth, she was as Dorset as Chesil Beach, with the county of her birth impregnating her speech and identifying her origins as surely as a watermark on paper. Resigned to the fact that the man she had married was gone for ever she was also realistic enough to admit, with typical self-deprecating humour, that neither was she the slim, young thing he had pledged himself to. It was obvious that Frank was going through a dark time, the like of which she’d never know, which affected him dramatically and he wouldn’t open up about. It never entered her head to walk out on him and leave him by himself to fight his demons. In the mind of Doris Allsop marriage was a permanent arrangement for better or worse and she took comfort in reminding herself that they were fortunate to have had some good times and she was blessed with two lovely girls. So, with stoic practicality she set about making a life for herself and her daughters. Certainly, there were still some good times, when the clouds parted for Frank, the sun shone briefly, and they were a real family. Doris could only ponder on how things might have been if only he hadn't have had the accident. As time passed the girls began to develop their own personalities. Mary happiest when helping with the cooking or housework while Gina grew into something of a tomboy. Both girls were cautious around their father, wary of his darker side and learning when to avoid him. Already he was planting an imprint on their young minds that would affect both of their lives, in separate ways, in years to come.

  As she grew up, Gina could turn her hand to most things in the home or out on the farm. Inquisitive by nature, she was always seeking to find out how things were made, how they worked or looking to try something new but if it involved anything on the farm she was careful not to cross her father. Ned, the old handyman, would often demonstrate his practical skills with the machinery for her but even he was wary of her father discovering them together. As for the young labourers they took any opportunity to be around Gina as she grew older, typical of lads of their age, but God help them if her father ever caught them. Deprived of the social company of males and starved of love or even affection by her father she had never really known what it was like to be treated nicely by a man, except for Ned, but he was as old as Methuselah and always so nervous in h
er company. The two sisters had always got on well but when Mary left home at the first opportunity, at the age of twenty, Gina became quite depressed. It had been her mother’s idea to get her a pony and Frank had taken a fair bit of persuading but, in the end, he’d agreed.

  Having the freedom to get out and away from the farm had changed her life irrevocably and opened up new horizons. It had also provided her with the opportunity to put some distance between herself and her father whenever the need arose. Suddenly she felt more alive than at any time in her young existence and, as she entered her teens, for the first time in her life she experienced real independence. It was a heady feeling to someone whose movements had been dictated and, accordingly, restricted by the demands of life on the farm, going to school and the repressive presence of her father. It was a feeling, too, that had begun to sow the seeds of rebellion in young Gina. By the time she turned sixteen, the year was 1978 and England was experiencing a revolution like no other in its history. Even in the more remote parts of Dorset, no teenager with red blood in her veins could escape the gospel of peace and love promulgated as it was through the exciting mediums of television and the transistor radio by the throbbing, insistent beat of pop music. She was no different to millions of others of her generation. Gina wanted somebody to hold her hand, to kiss her, and she yearned for someone to love.

  Although she had never so much as been out on a date with a boy, thanks to life on the farm she was well aware of what the male and female of the species indulged in to reproduce. Until recently, she had never had occasion to dwell on what that experience might be like but her body had begun to receive messages that stimulated her mind. A powerful hormonal surge from deep within her. She had witnessed the cycle of mating and birth with the animals on the farm, even helping to deliver calves and horses. With her mother’s guidance, it had given her an understanding of her own body and the changes that had occurred and, in some cases, were still continuing to occur. These changes had seen her body begin to fill out, her shape become more feminine. She now had hips and a bust and her mother would eye her enviously remembering the shapely young thing she herself had once been, a far cry from the buxom figure she possessed now. Gina was no great beauty but she was pretty in a sort of fresh-faced, girl-next-door way that was very appealing, not that she was the least aware of the fact. But that didn’t mean to say that others weren’t. In some eyes she was seen as a ripe, juicy fruit, delicious and untouched, ready for plucking. And that’s why, on a beautiful Spring morning, in 1961, Gina Allsop had stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror studying her profile, having just emerged from a very hot bath. Dragging her eyes from her reflection she had looked down at her belly, running her hands across it to see if it felt any different. It was impossible to believe that there was another life forming beneath the taut, pink flesh there, yet she was normally as regular as the passing of the months themselves but she had missed her last two periods. In the season of birth and renewal, with lambs in the fields and buds on the trees the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on the teenager.

  Another month had gone by, another opportunity for everything to come right but, for the third time, she had failed to menstruate. It was the final, incontrovertible confirmation. Desolate, she had taken Muffin out for a long ride over the biggest jumps and the roughest country she could find, talking to him constantly, the tears streaming down her face. Her head was so full of all the terrible implications of her situation she felt like it would burst. Dread consumed her at having to break the news to her mother but there was no way in the world she was brave enough to confront her father, she could imagine his reaction and it terrified her. Muffin was blowing quite hard and she knew she should rest him, there was no excuse for taking out her troubles on the pony. Slowing him down to a trot, she made for one of her favourite spots, where she always went when she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. The open fields gave way to a densely wooded area about half a mile distant and it wasn’t long before she entered the welcome shade provided by the trees. It was approaching noon when she came upon the clearing and slid down off Muffin’s back, leaving him free to roam, at will. The morning sun sparkled on the clear waters of the stream, in minute starbursts of light, as she sat beside the big willow while Muffin grazed contentedly at the water’s edge. The little glade was a haven of peace and tranquillity and she lay back, stretching out, her eyes closed. Her lover had been on her mind, in her thoughts, ever since he had stolen her innocence in this very place and then disappeared from her life as mysteriously as he had entered into it.

  They had met in the glade on three occasions, at first just talking and laughing together but slowly, inexorably drawing closer. An accidental touch, the intertwining of fingers and finally an embrace. Allowing her mind to drift, she gave herself up to the memory of him, the sight, the sound and the smell of him. A musky maleness. She remembered the first time she had ever seen him, right here, astride the big chestnut stallion, watching her from the trees as she had been laying on her back, on the grass, searching the sky for a skylark warbling overhead. After that first meeting, she had ridden out that way purposefully and often, hoping to see him again, hope turning to longing when he didn’t appear. Romantic notions, a young girl’s dreams, flooded her mind and her vivid imagination dared her to look beyond romance. And, suddenly, one day, he was there and she became shy in his presence, lost for words yet eager to please but his smooth talking and gentle caresses had made her feel like a princess, arousing emotions hitherto unstirred. They arranged to meet again and, as she rode from the farm, she was aflame with a burning physical desire and fell into his arms, breathlessly as soon as they met. A willing pupil, she had allowed him to take control, slavishly giving in to the exquisite sensations pulsing through her young body. Unconsciously her hands moved to her thighs and began gently caressing the inside of her legs. A smile came to her lips as she recalled the thrill of his touch, flesh on flesh. He had undressed her slowly and she relived her tremulous excitement, as she had abandoned herself to the rapturous, wanton feeling. Firm, experienced hands worked deftly until she was naked in front of him. And then he was kissing her. Soft, delicate kisses, all over her nakedness like the touch of a butterfly, settling then moving on to settle again, her body awash with the pleasure of it, wanting more. Wanting him. Slowly, he began to remove his clothes and her eyes widened as…

  “No!” she screamed out loud, sitting up abruptly and startling Muffin who whinnied and ran a little way off. Reality trampled roughshod over her daydreams, as shame and guilt combined to crush her few moments of ecstasy underfoot and turn the memories to dust. To think how she had enjoyed it, all of it, and begged for more. Her despair was absolute and she wept uncontrollably. Attracted by the sound, Muffin trotted over and nuzzled at her affectionately.

  Gina’s terrible secret was, not unnaturally, eating away at her. It either lurked at the back of her consciousness, blighting her enjoyment of life, or rampaged through her mind demanding her attention at the expense of all else. At these times she would become totally withdrawn, looking sullen and miserable, and on the verge of tears. Although the second half of the twentieth century had begun to see a softening of attitudes towards the birth of illegitimate children, this particular path of enlightenment had not reached Knapthorne. In her darker moments, lacking the courage to confide in her mother, she had considered running away or even taking her own life but it hadn’t come to that as fate had stepped in to take the matter out of her hands. It would have been very unusual, under the circumstances, for her mother not to have noticed the difference in Gina over the past few weeks. The unusual silences, for one thing, and how she seemed to have lost her sparkle, her enjoyment of life. It was almost as though she were preoccupied with something and Doris Allsop had suppressed a niggling, dark thought, pushing it to the back of her mind and telling herself not to be so daft. Then, one morning, walking past the bathroom, she had heard a noise that stopped her dead. Frozen to the spot, her heart thumping l
ike the old generator in the barn, she had listened to the sound of her daughter being sick and she knew. Knew immediately that what she had convinced herself couldn’t possibly happen to her daughter was now a reality. Every mother’s nightmare had invaded her home, breeching the comfortable security of her domestic life, and she struggled with the avalanche of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her as she hovered outside the bathroom door. Without warning the door opened and mother confronted daughter. No words were necessary, for Gina only had to look at her mother’s face to realise that any explanation was going to be superfluous.

  “How far are you gone?” her mother asked, looking at the girl’s waist. The voice was icy, calm, without a hint of emotion, giving no indication of the tornado whirling in her mother’s mind as reaction set in. Gina was shaking, she couldn’t help herself. Still feeling nauseous after being sick she hadn’t been prepared for coming face-to-face with her mother and the shock affected her badly. Two little blobs of red colour stood out, high on her cheeks, against the porcelain whiteness of her face and she felt as though she was going to pass out.

  “Three months,” she whispered, clutching at the door for support.

  “Whose is it? Who’s done this to you?” Gina wanted to cover her ears, she was making it sound horrible. “Your father’ll do for him, whoever it is, that’s for sure!” The thought was too much for Gina and her eyelids flickered rapidly before she passed out and slid to the floor.

  Tanglewood Cottage was over one hundred and twenty years old and of very solid construction but it didn’t prevent the sound of the argument from downstairs penetrating into her bedroom. After she had passed out, her mother had picked her up and carried her there and throughout the day Gina had drifted in and out of sleep her mother coming in once or twice to check on her and then to bring her some home-made soup. Nothing more had been said about the baby, Gina feeling too weak and Mrs. Allsop too distraught. The noise from downstairs had woken her. The light was fading, indicating that it was well into the evening, so her father must have returned and her mother had chosen to tell him. Even though she was in a warm bed, Gina’s body turned cold. Just thinking about her father’s reaction started her pulse racing and brought her out in a sweat under her thin cotton nightdress, knowing that any moment she might hear the sound of his heavy footsteps on the stairs. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear it any longer. Weak as she was, she had to hear what was going on. Slowly, carefully, she eased herself out of bed and crept onto the landing. The voices were much clearer now.