Pit Bank Wench Page 7

  ‘That is an evil thing to say, girl.’ Caleb drew himself up, eyes piercing, brows downdrawn, his good hand still holding his lapel in his most formidable sermonising attitude. ‘Remember the teaching of your Sunday school. “The man who curses his father or his mother must suffer death!”’

  In the lamplight Carrie’s face was sickly pale, only her eyes as they stared at Caleb held any life.

  ‘So be it, Father,’ she whispered. ‘I curse you. May you be given no peace in this life nor find rest in the next. May the God you preach reject you, may you suffer the torture of the hell you damned me to!’

  Bringing the knife streaking downward, Carrie plunged it into her own breast.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Carrie . . . Carrie, my baby, my little girl.’

  Mary’s stunned whisper was drowned by Emma’s scream as she ran to her sister lying slumped on the floor.

  The pain in her mouth not even a memory, she took Carrie in her arms. Her heart racing with fear she looked at the small pale face, the closed lids showing a delicate tracery of carmine veins, the lips very slightly parted; then at the knife, its heavy bone handle rising grotesquely from the ruffles of a white cotton blouse turning rapidly scarlet as blood seeped into it. The knife! Emma stared at it. It should be removed, pulled out, but would doing so harm Carrie even more? It might . . . it might kill her!

  Her face white, showing all the fear of her whirling thoughts Emma looked to her father. One hand dripping slow drops on to the rug, the other still clinging to his lapel, Caleb stood transfixed, eyes glued to the slight form in Emma’s arms.

  ‘Father!’ Emma called. ‘Father, we must get help.’

  But Caleb did not stir, only his lips moved, jerking spasmodically.

  ‘Carrie . . .’ Emma’s hand hovered about the knife, the thought of touching it bringing waves of sickness to her throat. ‘Carrie, can you hear me, can you speak?’

  ‘Don’t bother her now, Emma.’ Walking as if in a dream, Mary crossed the room and dropped to her knees beside her daughters. ‘Don’t wake her, let her sleep . . . it be better for her to sleep.’

  Gently, as if holding a newly born child, Mary took the still form, gathering it close, the blood oozing from the base of the knife seeping into her own blouse.

  ‘Mother, Carrie needs help, we have to get a doctor.’

  Cradling her daughter, lifting a hand to stroke the light brown hair then touch the bloodless cheek, Mary answered quietly, ‘There be no doctor in Doe Bank.’

  ‘But she has to have help . . . we must . . . Father, please!’

  The half-crazed scream breaking in on him, Caleb lowered his hand, at the same time taking a step towards them. But as he moved Mary flung up her head. Eyes blazing with a loathing kept hidden for so long, lips drawn back in a snarl over clenched teeth, she glared up at him like a wild animal.

  ‘Don’t touch her, preacher man. Don’t come near my baby! You won’t touch her, you won’t touch her ever again with your dirty, sickening hands . . .’

  ‘Mother, please, we have to think of Carrie. She must have help quickly.’

  ‘She be all right.’ Mary rested her lips against the pale forehead. ‘She be safe now, she’s with her mother. She will always be safe, he won’t touch her again.’

  ‘Mother, I have to get someone before . . .’ Emma hesitated, fear of what the words held in her mouth meant. ‘I . . . I’ll go and get Mrs Butler.’

  ‘No,’ Mary answered, lips brushing her daughter’s brow. ‘Polly Butler will be no help, nor any other in Doe Bank. Go and fetch Jerusha, she be the one will know what to do.’

  ‘But she lives a mile off, maybe more!’

  ‘And the parish doctor lives more like three miles off. It will take that much longer to bring him, even supposing he would come. Go for her, child.’ Mary lifted her head and the look she gave Emma was almost serene. The bitterness and hatred of moments ago were gone and in their place a gentle smile curved her mouth, tenderness lending a soft glow to her eyes. ‘Go and fetch Jerusha Paget, she will know what to do. Go, Emma. Now, child.’

  Grabbing her shawl from behind the door, Emma glanced once more at her mother still cradling Carrie in her arms; her sister’s small face looking even smaller, colourless lids closed over soft brown eyes. A sob breaking from her lips, Emma flung the shawl about her shoulders and ran out under the darkening sky.

  ‘She be dead, Caleb.’ Mary’s face lifted to her husband’s as the door closed behind Emma. ‘My girl is dead!’

  It seemed that in that fraction of a moment Caleb’s fears dropped away, the hunted look leaving his narrow eyes. One hand finding its favourite position about the lapel of his jacket, the other lifted a little higher in the air, he let his head move several times in a slow condemning swing.

  ‘It was her hand plunged in the knife.’ He stretched his head back on his neck, eyes lifting to the ceiling. ‘But it was the Lord God who guided it there! He will not be mocked nor have His word gainsaid. Whosoever follows not the way of the Lord . . .’

  ‘Is this the way of the Lord?’ Mary hissed, hatred filling her eyes. ‘Was it His will you use your own child like a whore?’

  His head lowering quickly, Caleb stared at the kneeling woman and when he spoke his voice was icy with warning. ‘Think carefully how you speak. “Judge not so you be not judged”.’

  ‘You hypocrite!’ Mary’s laughter, a low tormented sound, followed her half-crazed denunciation. ‘You bloody hypocrite! Do you think your Bible punching will relieve you of the blame for this? It was your fault, Caleb, your fault my child is dead.’

  ‘Carrie was sick in her mind.’ His hand was lowered to his side but his eyes remained narrowed. ‘Just as her mother is ill of the same sickness. One that could lead to the madhouse.’

  ‘I hear your threat, Caleb.’ Mary stared up at him. ‘But it does not frighten me for all of Doe Bank will hear of your treatment of Carrie before I am taken. They will look to their own children, ask themselves how often they were told to stay behind after the service was over. They will talk, Caleb, and word will spread . . .’

  ‘They will not believe . . .’

  ‘Oh, they will believe, Caleb. They will believe!’ Pushed out on a long slow breath the words undulated into the quiet lamp-lit room.

  His back turned to his wife, Caleb stared into the fire then closed his eyes as the crimson of its flames became the crimson streaks of spreading blood. ‘You are sick, Mary, you have been so for some long while.’

  ‘Yes, I have been sick,’ she whispered, ‘but the sickness I had was not of the mind, it was of the eyes. I made myself blind, Caleb, refused to see what I knew was happening. You and the women you bedded. You see, I know them, I know them all by name. The ones from Doe Bank who think I do not hear their sniggering behind my back. The ones from Lea Brook who came to buy their coal from me in order to stare at the wife of the preacher man. I didn’t see your carryings on because I didn’t want to see, I was only too glad of your leaving me be, of the rest I got from your pushing and heaving, the relief it gave me from having to suffer the touch of your body on mine. But I did not think . . . I did not dream you would practise your vile lust on a child!’

  Turning slowly, Caleb faced his wife still cradling the girl’s body, his cynical smile matching the tone of his voice. ‘A child with a sickness of the mind stabs herself and naturally her mother is overwrought. It is understandable she should grab at any excuse for a cause, blame anyone, even the most innocent.’

  ‘Like the preacher man!’ Mary spat. ‘But there are those who know he is far from innocent, those who know the preacher man for what he truly is. Will they see what I say as an excuse or will they place the blame where it lies?’

  ‘You will say nothing!’ The smile fading from his mouth, Caleb took a step forward. ‘You will say nothing . . . do you hear me?’

  Gently, as if lowering a sleeping babe, Mary laid her daughter’s body on the ground then rose to her feet. ‘I hear you, C
aleb, but . . .’

  ‘There will be no buts!’ His eyes blazed. ‘“The husband shall be the head of the wife”.’

  ‘No more, Caleb.’ Mary swung her head slowly, gaze fixed on his. ‘No more of your quoting the Book to me, no more of your preaching. You killed my daughter as surely as if you had driven the knife with your own hand and I will make sure every soul you meet from this day on knows of it. No more will you stand and preach the Gospels from the horseblock at Springhead for you will be given no peace in Wednesbury. You will find no rest in Tipton nor in Darlaston nor any place you go. For I will follow you, Caleb, follow all the days of your life, and wherever you pause to speak to any human being my voice will rise above yours. “Judgement is mine, I will repay . . .” This time I quote the Lord’s word, but only to deny it. I take your judgement unto myself, Caleb, and I will be the one to repay.’

  ‘Mary.’ Allowing his voice to soften, Caleb reached out towards his wife. ‘Mary, my dear, you do not mean what you are saying. To speak such words would ruin our lives . . .’

  ‘Ruin our lives?’ Mary’s laugh was hoarse and empty. ‘You mean your life, Caleb. Mine is already ruined. You want me to keep silent, let you go on with your filthy ways as if nothing had happened. But it has happened, Caleb. My child is dead and the only way you can keep your sordid life is to take mine as you took hers, to kill me as you have her. Only by ending my life can you hold on to yours.’

  His hands hanging loosely at his sides Caleb stared at the woman threatening to take from him all that he valued. How could he face the people of Doe Bank if she were heard? How could he attend Chapel or speak the Lord’s word in the streets? Turning away, he walked slowly into the tiny scullery, returning just as slowly, a coil of heavy rope held in his fingers.

  ‘I cannot listen to your words, Mary.’ He lifted the rope waist-high. ‘I cannot listen to you defile my name.’

  She did not even glance at the rope but kept her eyes on his face, cold condemning eyes that held no trace of forgiveness. ‘You could defile our daughter, but I must not defile your name in the telling of it. Well, I will tell of it, Caleb, in every place you go.’

  ‘No, Mary, I cannot allow that.’ He uncurled a length of the rope, holding it stretched between his hands.

  Her eyes steady on his, Mary showed no fear. Her voice soft, she answered, ‘Then you know what you must do.’

  ‘It will be on your head.’ Caleb uncoiled the rest of the rope. ‘You will answer at the Day of Judgement.’

  ‘Be that day brought by God or man, I will be ready.’

  His movements silenced by the clipped rug beneath his feet, Caleb took a chair from beside the table. Throwing one end of the rope over a large meat hook set in a beam above the chair he tied both ends into a loop.

  ‘This will be your own doing, Mary,’ he said as he lifted the noose toward her.

  Unflinching, she mouthed softly, ‘My own doing, Caleb.’

  The quiet ticking of the clock the only sound, he glanced at the chair. ‘I ask you one more time, Mary. Do not speak of what the child said.’

  ‘The Devil take you, Caleb,’ she murmured. ‘The Devil take you into Hell!’

  A cold smile re-curving his thin lips Caleb stepped on to the chair, his eyes as he looked down at her demanding she apologise, beg him to stand down. Slowly he slipped the noose over his head.

  ‘Welcome to judgement, Caleb!’ Stepping forward, Mary kicked the chair away.

  The pain in her side making her gasp, Emma stumbled on toward Plovers Croft. Jerusha might not be at her cottage, it could be she was somewhere tending a sick child, people often came to ask the old woman for her help, but would her herbs and remedies aid Carrie? And supposing she were not at home? Emma’s glance lifted in the direction of the town beyond Plovers Croft, the stacks of its foundries and the winding wheels of its coal mines rising black beneath the fiery light that flooded the bowl of the sky as furnace doors were opened. If Jerusha were not home then she must go on to Wednesbury. She must find the parish doctor and bring him to her sister.

  ‘Don’t let Carrie die. Please, God, don’t let Carrie die.’ The words repeating themselves over and over, Emma ran on in the darkness.

  The throbbing in her side increasing with every step, her chest tight from dragging in every breath, Emma sobbed as she came within sight of the Croft and saw the pale gleam of a lamp at Jerusha’s window.

  Inside the house Jerusha Paget listened for the girl she knew this night would bring. She had been told what would take place, the words whispered silently into her mind. Told of the death of Mary Price’s younger child and of the evil that had caused it. Jerusha drew her shawl closer about her shoulders as she stared at pictures in the fire. Pictures of a preacher man, his hand raised, mouth opening in endless screams as the flames of everlasting torment licked his flesh. Yes, she had been told Emma would come and she would return with her to Doe Bank, but in the silence that had closed off the world, the silence in which only its own words were heard she had been told. There would be no such relief for Emma Price. Only sorrow awaited her at Doe Bank, and yet more beyond it. But the face Jerusha turned to Emma as she stumbled in through the door showed none of what she knew.

  ‘Jerusha!’ Emma clutched at the throbbing pain in her side. ‘Jerusha, come . . . come quickly, Carrie is . . .’

  ‘Be still, child, catch your breath.’

  ‘No, there is no time,’ Emma gasped. ‘Mother said to . . . to fetch you. It’s . . . it’s Carrie.’

  ‘Jerusha Paget knows what it is brings you here. I know what it is has happened to your sister and that your mother sent you to bring me.’

  She reached for the basket she kept ever packed with a mixture of the herbs she picked from the heath. She could have added that she knew also that Carrie was beyond human help as Caleb now was, but she kept her silence, saying only that Emma must rest for a few minutes.

  ‘Bide you still, child,’ she said when Emma protested again. ‘Where be the good if you go collapsing from fatigue when we be halfway to Doe Bank? What’s to be done will be done. You running yourself into the ground will serve no purpose.’

  Pouring milk into a cup, she handed it to Emma then placed the small linen cover back over the jug, her fingers pausing a moment to touch the green glass beads. It was a long walk to the house of Mary Price, and the journey would be fruitless, but she would make it just the same. And when it was done? Jerusha looked about the room, the fire barely warming it, the lamp only a focus for the shadows. She had spent the greater part of her life in this house, it was from this room they had carried her husband Jacob. She whispered the name in her heart. They had loved each other for so long and now he was gone, laid to rest in the churchyard of St John’s at the lower end of Wednesbury. His journey of life was finished and she would have stepped across that threshold into eternity with him; but not yet, the silence had told her, there was work yet for her to do before the reward of joining Jacob again.

  Laying the basket across her arm as Emma finished her drink, Jerusha turned towards the door. She would not return to this house, that too the silent voice had told her, but it held no sorrow for her. Glancing around at the cheap figurines beside the clock on the mantel, at the neatly made bed, the lamp burning at the window, she smiled softly. She would take nothing of those, all she wanted of Plovers Croft she carried in her heart. She stepped out into the blackness of the night but her soul was filled with light, the light of Jacob’s smile.

  *

  ‘Welcome to Judgement, Caleb!’ Mary watched the figure swing slowly at the end of the rope. He had kicked and jerked for fully a minute before the gurgling in his throat had finally stopped, fully a minute in which her heart had laughed. ‘What of your sermons now, preacher man? Spout your quotations before the Judgement Seat and may you receive all you deserve!’

  Going into the scullery she returned with an enamel basin and a candle stood in a chipped saucer. Setting them beside the body of her daughter, she fet
ched the kettle from the hob and filled the bowl with hot water. Lighting the candle with a spill from the jar inside the brass fender, she reached upward pulling a cloth from the line strung above the fireplace, her body brushing against that hanging from the beam, setting it swinging a little faster.

  ‘Dance, Caleb,’ she laughed, reaching up again for a nightgown set to air on the line. ‘Dance now with Him you have walked with all these years. Dance, Caleb, dance with the Devil!’

  The creak of the rope her only answer, Mary knelt beside the body of her daughter. All emotion gone from her she grasped the knife, feeling no horror as she drew it from Carrie’s chest. Then, struggling with the stiffening limbs she stripped the clothing from her.

  ‘You shall go clean into your reckoning, my darling,’ she murmured as she washed the cooling body. ‘There will be no mark upon you as you stand before the face of the Lord, no stain of the filth of Caleb Price.’

  Drawing the white cotton nightgown over the still head, adjusting the sleeves over each arm, the length of it over the feet, Mary fastened each linen-covered button, closing away the hole where the knife had entered the smooth flesh.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, my baby . . . my little girl.’ She stroked the soft hair, smiling as she saw the light from the candle flame flicker over its curls.

  The smile still about her mouth she carried the basin back to the scullery, emptying the contents and rinsing the bowl with fresh water from a lidded bucket set beneath a window. Once more in the tiny living room she folded the cloth and set it back on the line, then taking the paraffin lamp she tipped the oil over the clipped rug, splashing some over the swinging body and spreading the last of it over herself.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Carrie . . .’

  Squatting beside her daughter, she gathered the body into her arms.

  ‘. . . You won’t be alone, my darling. Mother will be with you. Mother will hold you . . .’

  Taking up the lighted candle Mary threw it on to the oil-soaked rug.

  ‘. . . yes, Mother will be with you.’