Friendship's Bond Page 5

  Ugly, noisy, a cancer on the beautiful face of nature; those buildings were all of that but . . . Leah sighed with acceptance. Objectionable as was their presence, the twenty-four-hour ceaseless clang and clamour, the perpetual pall of acrid smoke, those workplaces produced many of the materials with which this country was fighting for its life.

  So much had already been given to that fight. How many scars had been left on the hearts of families robbed of their menfolk, and how many yet would be called to face that terrible sorrow?

  ‘How many more? Lord, how many more before the world comes to its senses?’

  Maybe she should have stayed in Darlaston, tried to find a home for herself and Alec there, but how would she have found a place without money to pay for it?

  That had been the final straw, the blow which at that moment had drained her will, swept away the determination that had kept her going despite all the trials and tribulation of getting back to England.

  ‘Eh wench, your gran be gone these many months, ’ er died but a few weeks after y’self ’ad left to be wi’ y’ parents along o’ that foreign country. Weren’t aught could be done, there be no cure for tumour o’ the stomach. With you gone an’ no other kin a’bidin’ wi’ ’er the house were given over to another family.’

  She had longed for her grandmother, the one person in the world she thought remained to her, who would take her in her arms, welcome her home. But there had been no grandmother, no home.

  With no more deliveries to make, with nothing to hold her concentration, memories crept like wraiths into Ann’s mind.

  ‘’Er be laid along o’ St Lawrence churchyard.’ The voice of the neighbour went on relentlessly. ‘There were naught but what the penny a week insurance policy paid an’ that barely saw ’er decent into the ground so there be no ’eadstone to mark where ’er lies but there do be a wooden cross wi’ ’er name, my ’usband seen to the mekin’ o’ that.’

  She had thanked the woman for having overseen the burying of her grandmother, asked that those same thanks be passed to all of the houses in the street because the folk would have contributed halfpennies and pennies in order to purchase a wreath; then she had walked to the churchyard.

  There, kneeling beside a patch of earth bereft of any enclosing stone border, of any gift of flowers beneath the rough wooden cross with its name traced in white paint, the last of her resistance had crumbled leaving her crushed beneath the weight of guilt for not having been there when she was needed.

  ‘I should have known.’

  The words had sobbed from her.

  ‘I should have stayed here with you . . . Oh Gran, I should have known.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself.’

  Alec had knelt alongside her, his arm about her shoulders, his whisper gentle against her ear.

  ‘If your grandmother had told you she was ill you would not have left her. That much I know of you, Ann, and hearing you speak of her it is my belief it was her love for you made her insist upon your going, a love so strong it wanted to protect you from her pain.’

  ‘Was it that, Gran? Was that the true reason? Is Alec right in what he said?’

  ‘I don’t know about Alec being right in whatever it was he said, but I was certainly right in thinking to find you here; really, you should vary your route if not the days of making your deliveries.’

  Dragged from the darkness of sorrow to the deeper dark of the fear to which she still woke in the blackness of night, Ann felt the blood chill in her veins.

  ‘I see from your expression you welcome my company as much as on previous occasions but I shall not let that deter me, in fact it increases my determination we become . . . how to put it nicely . . . we become intimate friends . . . very intimate friends.’

  The unwelcome encounter was enough to snap the invisible bond holding Ann in darkness. Blood which seconds before had been stilled by fear now raced hot with revulsion as she stared at the figure blocking her path.

  ‘Mr Thorpe.’ She paused, swallowing the distaste for that name on her tongue, then went on icily, ‘I have no desire for friendship with you.’

  ‘Friendship.’ He laughed. ‘That does not appeal to you therefore I forgo that aspect of our association, but as for that other word you used – desire – that I cannot forgo; you see, Miss Spencer, I desire you and what Thomas Thorpe desires he makes very sure he gets!’

  He pulled her hard against him, the force of it pushing the breath from her body. For a moment he held her there, the fingers of his free hand twined in her hair to prevent her from turning her head away from the mouth brushing her own.

  ‘Here!’ He spoke thickly, his breath hot and rapid. ‘Shall I take it here, take my payment for what I did for you, the reward you thought to deny me?’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Please.’ He laughed again, an exultant laugh. ‘Oh I shall be pleased, Miss Spencer, be assured of that, I shall be pleased many times over.’

  He meant to rape her! In panic Ann twisted her head away from the hot breath, the sickening touch of a tongue flicking against her mouth, pleading to be let go even as she was brutally forced once more to face him.

  ‘Let you go!’ The reply snarled against her lips. ‘Oh I intend to let you go, in fact I shall make it my business to see you gone from Wednesbury, you and the brat you brought with you; but of course I cannot allow that until I deem your debt fully repaid.’

  ‘I am not in debt to you, I paid the required rent, I—’

  ‘Not in debt!’ Thomas Thorpe snapped away the reply. ‘Not in debt to the man who secured you a place to live, the man who argued against his friends, against the very congregation he tries so hard to serve, that it would be no more than Christian charity to let you have the tenancy of Chapel House.’

  Disgust overcame her fear, making Ann’s response lash like wind-driven hail. ‘Christian charity!’ She held the pale eyes with a look of pure contempt. ‘Is it in the name of that same charity you would force a woman to lie with you, does Christian charity include rape? And once you have taken what you see as your due will you inform those friends, that very congregation you try so hard to serve, will you tell them about the extra payment? Payment demanded by their so-caring layman!’

  Layman! She had taken pleasure in using that word, highlighting the fact of his non-clerical status. A mistake, Miss Spencer. A very grave mistake . . . and one which the grave alone would rectify. He had thought to drive her from the town by use of slander but now that must change. There would of course be no enquiry; Ann Spencer and the boy had chosen to leave Wednesbury to go who knows where. Nobody would care enough to ask and certainly not to suspect murder.

  Thomas Thorpe glanced to where in the distance a solitary building stood opposite the Monway Sidings, a pair of rail tracks conveying the products of Monway Steel to the main London and North Western Railway for transport across country. One house and nothing more than open heath until Hobbins Street marked the edge of the town’s miserable housing. He could take her here. He released Ann from his arms yet fastened a grip on her wrist while he contemplated the idea. There was little chance of being observed, but any chance of being watched detracted from the enjoyment of the act, from the pleasure of stripping away each garment, the delight of laying that naked body beneath his own, the ultimate satisfaction of thrusting deep between parted legs. No. He turned along the track worn between bracken and yellow-crowned gorse. That entertainment would be the more gratifying taken in the privacy and comfort of Chapel House.

  Chapter 6

  There had been no reply.

  Leah glanced at the window of a house set amid a long row of dark-stained tight-packed terraced houses each joined to the other like so many peas in a pod. A shake of her head emphasised an inward snort of disapproval. Tight-packed they might be but peas were pleasant to look at. She glanced again at the line of buildings, faceless in their unanimous drabness. She knew well the interior of those houses; hadn’t she once lived in similar? Two bedrooms
upstairs, a living room and scullery downstairs and three children. How much less space for families she knew were housed here, families with six and seven children who along with three other households shared the use of one privy and one brewhouse set in a tiny cramped communal rear yard.

  Cross Street! She drew her shawl tightly around herself. Like so many dwellings in this town these had not been built for the comfort of tenants but the expediency of industrialists concerned more with the business of profit than with other people’s comfort. Jam houses cheek by jowl and you got more of them, more families with men and boys to labour in your mines and factories.

  Except war, as with so much else, had changed a deal of that. Sparing one more glance at a lace-curtained window she turned away. War demanded not only men and boys, some barely two years out of school, but women and girls also to operate its factories, to fill so many of the jobs once done by their menfolk while those not called to fight continued the heavier labour required in the iron and steel rolling mills or underground in the coal mines.

  Yet not every man. Leah felt the savage touch of anger. There was one who avoided both factory and fighting. Thomas Thorpe had been skilful at this, as he had been in refusing to answer the knock at his door. But if he truly was not in that house, then where?

  The chapel. The answer loud in her mind Leah walked in the direction of Queen Place. The sly little toerag was probably swanning around indulging in his fantasy: minister, indeed! Thomas Thorpe could pretend all he liked, spout the Scriptures ’til he was blue in the face, but the Lord God knew the truth of the man. He recognised Thorpe had no faith other than in himself, his only creed being a belief in his own infallibility. But that was folly and though heaven might sometimes be tardy in its dealings it never failed in its justice.

  Coming in sight of the chapel Leah made the sign of the cross on her breast, whispering a plea for forgiveness should her thoughts be displeasing to the Almighty.

  She halted at the front of the building darkened as much with time as with soot. What justice had been done for a young girl pulled dead from that river? Accidental death had been the verdict of the official inquiry but she had known with every fibre of a mother’s being that Deborah’s drowning had been no accident.

  Leah seemed to see again the pale reed-covered face, to feel the inert body cradled in her arms. The death of her daughter had been no accident, nor were it suicide neither!

  She forced the scene from her mind as she walked on, nodding the time of day to the few women who like herself were not called to work in one of the factories or workshops. She wondered why their replies were clipped, why they turned so abruptly from her, ushering the children they minded quickly away.

  Those women all shared one blessing which would never be visited upon Leah Marshall; the little ones they had care of. Some were infants still suckling, while others, not yet three years of age and so not attending school, had been left with grandparents thus releasing younger women to war work.

  War had snatched that blessing from her, war had taken her sons and with them her hopes of grandchildren, and Deborah? While her death had not occurred on the battlefields of Ypres yet this war and nothing else had been its cause.

  The content of many prayers whispered in the long lonely hours of night rose again.

  You knows I be right. Silent on her tongue, the words rang in her heart. You knows what I says be truth, Lord; my wench be dead of this war surely as if her’d bin shot by them same bullets which took ’er brothers. It were war an’ naught else had Edward Langley leave this town, it were that an’ that only would ’ave him leave my girl an’ that leavin’ be cause for her dyin’, won’t none in ’eaven turn my mind from that an’ none’ll keep me from repayin’ be I given chance even though the doin’ sees my soul damned.

  Immersed in thought, she had not registered the turn to the left which had taken her into School Street. Now, halfway along its length, she paused at the opening which gave on to Queen’s Place. The one she had come to see might well be inside that chapel or yet in the house at its rear; but neither building would see her enter. Leah stood resolutely on the narrow footpath. Sooner or later someone would come or go from chapel or house, someone who could tell her if either held Thomas Thorpe.

  So many of them had said the same thing, spoken so nearly the same words it might have been rehearsed.

  Butter she had first carefully weighed then fashioned into four-ounce blocks was placed neatly on a well-scrubbed wooden board. Ann carried the whole across to the cold cupboard set on one wall of the dairy.

  ‘I don’t be a wantin’ of you comin’ no more . . .’

  Hard as stones the words had seemed to strike at her.

  ‘. . . y’ can be a tellin’ Leah Marshall should ’er be wantin’ to sell ’er butter an’ cheese then ’er’ll ’ave to be a deliverin’ of it ’erself.’

  She had attempted to ask the reason, to ask had she in some way annoyed the woman and if so to offer apologies, but the door had slammed shut before the chance was given.

  Bewildered, she had moved to the next house only to meet with the same sharp ultimatum. ‘I don’t be a wantin’ of you comin’ no more.’

  What had she done wrong? Many times she had asked herself that question while walking back to Leah’s house, going over again in her mind the previous deliveries to those women, yet try as she might, she could not recall any incident which might have given rise to the animosity which had greeted her today.

  Ann stared blindly at the interior of the cupboard where butter set along its shelves gleamed like golden drops of summer sun.

  ‘I won’t be a tekin’ of no more lessen it be fetched ’ere by Leah ’erself.’

  ‘Don’t you go a comin’ ’ere no more . . .’

  ‘If’n Leah don’t fetch it ’erself then ’er can find another to send it wi’ cos I don’t want you a comin’ of this ’ouse no more!’

  ‘But why? Please tell me what I have done,’ Ann answered out loud. ‘If I have displeased you . . .’

  ‘You’ll certainly displease Leah should you hold that cupboard open much longer.’

  ‘Alec, the women they—’ The words died as Ann saw who it was at the entrance to the dairy.

  ‘Not Alec I’m afraid, but then neither am I the bogeyman, at least I hope that isn’t how you see me.’

  ‘No, no. I . . .’ Ann stared at the figure outlined by the glow of setting sun.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Edward Langley smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was thinking of . . .’

  Of what? Even from that distance he had seen the dread sweep across the face of the girl who had instinctively backed against the wall and whose fingers clutched white against the board laden with butter portions. Something definitely had Ann Spencer feared. Or should that be someone?

  ‘Here,’ he smiled again, covering the awkward pause left by Ann’s unfinished sentence, ‘let me help with getting that lot into the cold cupboard. I’m not afraid of hobgoblins or things that go bump in the night but when it comes to Leah Marshall and her butter, then I admit to being a real coward. I’d sooner face the Kaiser and the whole of his army than stand in Leah’s path should her dairy be threatened so let’s tuck this batch away before she comes to check everything is as it should be.’

  As it should be! Ann turned the phrase over again and again, each time wondering how Leah would react to being told of what had transpired on today’s delivery round, when so many customers had said they would only buy if Leah herself brought the butter and cheese. Would Leah place the blame with her? It had to be something she had done, but what?

  ‘Phew!’ Closing the cupboard door on the last of the butter Edward laid aside the board then made a play of mopping his brow. ‘Safe from the wrath of the tyrant!’

  ‘Oh, an’ just who be the tyrant you be safe from!’

  ‘You!’ Edward’s reply rang along the lime brick walls. He caught Leah up and whirled her around, laughing. ‘You, my dear Mrs Marshall, y
ou be the tyrant has my heart sing its fear.’

  ‘Your ’eart be it?’ Leah gasped against the mad whirl. ‘It’ll be your ears a singin’ o’ their sting wi’ my boxin’ ’em the moment you sets me to me feet.’

  ‘Then in the interest of my personal safety as well as my personal pleasure I must hold on to you.’

  Hard put to keep tenderness from her voice, Leah pushed against strong shoulders. ‘Put me down!’ she snorted. ‘Put me down you niggen-yedded nawnypump.’

  Coming to an abrupt halt Edward’s face assumed an injured look. ‘You heard that, Miss Spencer, you heard that defamation: I ask you, is it a reasonable assessment of a man’s character?’

  ‘It be reasonable on account you be a stupid nincompoop an’ one as don’t be so growed I can’t leather y’ backside wi’ one o’ them there butter pats.’

  Holding a red-faced Leah firmly in his grasp Edward shook his head slowly. ‘Now a threat to give a hiding to a poor simple-minded man; does that not show you Miss Spencer, does it not prove to you the tyrant Leah Marshall is?’

  Twinkling eyes belied the asperity of her tone as Leah retorted, ‘Ar, ’er ’eard what it be were said an’ you y’ great lummock will see what this ’ere tyrant can do wi’ a butter board lessen y’ sets me to me feet right now.’

  ‘The butter board!’ Edward pursed his lips musingly. ‘That, Mrs Marshall, is a far more serious threat; to set you to your feet is, for me, risk to life and limb and that truly would be stupid so,’ he hitched her higher in his arms, ‘I see no other solution than to keep you where you are. Do you not agree, Miss Spencer?’

  Leah pushed harder against his relentless shoulders. ‘No ’er don’t, not unless it be agreein’ you be a barmy ’apporth; now you let go o’ me this instant!’