A Whisper to the Living (32 page)

She remained very still, eyes fixed on him, mouth still slightly agape.

‘There are witnesses, Nancy – people who will testify . . .’

‘No! No, I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it!’

He could make her believe it, he knew he could. But how would she take the rest of it? Would she even choose to disbelieve the awful truth which he must, he felt sure, tell her now on this night before it was too late, before she started to become defensive of Eddie Higson, before she could consider ever allowing him back into her life? And into Anne’s life too.

‘He’s a very sick man, Nancy. Some experts in tuberculosis believe that many sufferers display certain symptoms and that one of these can be a heightened libido. That means they want – they need – a lot of sex.’

‘But that’s not normal. Rape, I mean. It’s not normal.’

‘No.’

‘Then why did he do it?’

‘I honestly don’t know. He must be very ill indeed – and not just physically ill.’

With trembling fingers she picked up the cup and helped herself to some more brandy. ‘Doctor – you mean he’s mental, don’t you?’

‘Possibly.’

She gulped the drink in two swallows, catching her breath as it seared past her throat.

‘You’re going to have to be very strong now, Nancy. What you said before – about rape not being normal – you were right, of course. Your husband’s behaviour has been . . . odd for some time.’

The brandy was beginning to take effect and Nancy stared at the wall behind the doctor’s head, speaking, it seemed, to herself.

‘She never liked him. My little Annie – she used to say “He’s a bad man, he’s a bad man.”’

‘Children are quick to spot oddities. You know the saying – out of the mouths of babes – well, Nancy, Anne was right. And she should know better than anybody else.’

‘She was so funny.’ Nancy sighed. ‘Begged me not to marry him, she did, but you do what you think’s best, don’t you? I’ll never forget the day we . . .’

‘Nancy! Listen to me now, my dear.’ He moved his chair closer to the table and took her hands in his. ‘You know I care a great deal for your daughter. Well, I may hurt her very deeply by what I am about to do, but it must be done, I’m afraid. You see, it’s up to you now – you must protect her.’

‘Protect her? What from?’

‘From him, Nancy. I promised that I would never mention this to you. I’m even violating a patient’s confidence – breaking an oath, I suppose. But I care more for you and for that girl out there than I do for my job. A lot more.’

Nancy stared at him for a long time before speaking. What was he saying? What did he know about Eddie and why did Annie need protection? Somewhere at the back of her mind, a warning bell sounded, dull, far away, yet menacing. No, it couldn’t be! None of this was true, none of it real. He’d had a reputation at one time, had Eddie. It was likely something from his army days, kept on file, passed down from one doctor to another. He couldn’t be a rapist. Annie was safe – she’d always been safe . . .

David read her confusion and tightened his grip on her hands. ‘He didn’t manage it the last time, Nancy. She coped extremely well. He has the scars on his arm to prove that.’

He watched her face closely, waiting for the impact. At first, she simply looked puzzled, then a dim light invaded her eyes and her cheeks showed twin spots of colour as she suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘You mean . . . oh no . . . it can’t be, it mustn’t be . . .’ She nodded her head towards the door.

‘Yes. Yes, Nancy.’

The noise that came from her then was unearthly, something between a howl and a scream, a sound that David had certainly never heard before. She began to rock back and forth, her face nearly hitting the table, the chair almost tumbling backwards each time as she pulled at his hands. ‘No! Aw no, Doctor. Not that – tell me it’s not true!’ It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be. ‘Not my Annie! No, no, please – not my little girl . . .’

He gritted his teeth and hung grimly onto her hands. She continued to rock violently, putting him in mind of certified cases he’d witnessed long ago during his training. Dear God, had he gone too far? Oh he didn’t care about himself and some outdated bloody oath – they could shove the practice, but what had he done to this little woman? He should have waited. If only she would cry, she had to cry.

The tears came at last in floods, torrents pouring from her eyes and nose, while from her wide open mouth she howled her primeval misery.

When Annie ran into the room she found them both standing by the sideboard clinging to one another. Seeing Dr Pritchard crying was a terrible thing. He didn’t make a sound, his face was still as a stone; the only movement on it was made by tears as they ran down, dripping unheeded into Nancy’s hair. Annie didn’t need telling – she knew what had brought this on. Her eyes met David’s and found confirmation there.

Nancy turned and opened her arms to her daughter. The three of them wept together, clung together for comfort, each feeling glad that the others were there, that something was over and finished with forever. Annie, her face buried in David’s rough tweed jacket, breathed in the medicine and peppermint smell of her saviour, her heart almost bursting with gratitude. Her mother would not, could not grieve forever. As if chains were being tossed aside, she felt her first sense of imminent freedom. Soon, very soon, when Nancy could come to terms with this new shock, mother and daughter could begin, at last, to live.

They were alone now. Nancy had managed to stir herself sufficiently to make a pot of tea and they sat, one each side of the grate, cups balanced on the full-width fireguard. Inch by inch, she had dragged most of the story out of her daughter, her lips tightening into a hard straight line as she listened to the horror of Ensign Street, the nightmare of her present home, the indignities Annie had suffered in this very house, in the bathroom so treasured till now, till all this . . .

She looked at her beautiful child, this precious girl who had endured so much. ‘So you never told me because he said he’d kill us?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did you never tell anybody, love?’

‘A priest. He came up and thumped him.’

‘And I’ll finish him off, by Christ, I will! I’ll go up to that bloody hospital and I’ll wring his neck! Holy Mother of God . . .’

‘Don’t, Mam. Nothing’s changed, has it? We’re still the same. This went on for eight or nine years – I don’t see why you want to do something now, when it’s all over.’

‘I want him to pay, Annie.’

‘It’s too late, Mother. Anyway, he has paid.’

‘Paid? Has he bloody hell paid!’

‘I clouted him with the poker and put him in the infirmary, didn’t I? I half-drowned him, I knifed him – there’s been enough violence.’

‘He’s not dead yet. I want him dead so’s I can dance on his grave.’

‘Mother . . . !’

‘Anyway, why didn’t you tell me when you got older, eh? I can understand about when you were little and he threatened to kill you . . .’

‘He said he’d swear I’d encouraged him. I was afraid he might just be believed.’

‘I’d never have believed him, Annie.’

‘The court might have! Don’t you see – it was the only way. I was so confused – I knew you’d kill him if you ever found out. And where would that get you? Prison – or worse. Dr Pritchard wanted to get the police, but I told him I didn’t want to end up in a children’s home and I didn’t want you to lose the breadwinner.’

‘Breadwinner? He’s not given me enough for a scrape of marg during the last two years . . .’

‘That’s not the point! I just did what I thought best and Dr Pritchard backed me up. We got a lawyer to draw up a paper about what Eddie Higson had done to me over the years. We used that to blackmail him and he’s never touched me since. Only now, he’s done it to somebody else instead.’

Nancy walked across the room, placing her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. ‘My good brave lass,’ she whispered before pulling Annie into her arms. ‘We shall never set eyes on him again, I promise you that. The law’ll see to him now.’

‘Thanks, Mother.’

‘What for?’

‘Just for being my mother.’

‘Nay, lass. If I’d been a good mother . . .’

‘You didn’t know . . .’

‘I knew you hated him. I should have found out why.’

‘Never mind, Mam. You know what you always say about spilt milk.’

‘Aye, but you’re not milk, Annie. You, my girl, are the cream. And never forget that.’

Dolly was puzzled. Frightened too, if she could but admit it. It had cost her one and six and all to get up there, then they wouldn’t let her see him, said he was in isolation or summat.

She eased herself onto the bus seat which, though intended for two, managed to accommodate just Dolly and her bag, leaving little room for anyone else. So. It looked as if it were going to be a long job. If he were that bad as he had to be put on his own, then this one in her belly would likely be at school before its dad got out. Still, right was only right at the end of the day. He’d had his fun and she wasn’t going to pay his whack as well as her own. Bad enough going through birthing a child, without having him as fathered it out of the road and not tipping up a few bob. Aye, there were nowt else for it, she’d have to call and see his missus, get the cards on the table and demand her rights. Mind, that Nancy were a dark horse. Quiet like, but Dolly reckoned she might turn nasty if pressed. And what about the flaming neighbours? Oh, she’d have to say as how Eric had been back for just the one night, sneaked out in the early hours and left her up the spout.

But she’d best get through to Eddie some road and if it had to happen through his missus, well it was just too bad. She could stick up for herself, could Dolly.

She took a bunch of grapes intended for Eddie and pushed them one by one into her mouth, heedless of the juice dripping down her chin. She’d been partial to a bit of fruit lately, probably summat to do with the kid on the way.

The bus stopped right outside the Higsons’ house, so she got off, might as well get it over and done with and she could always catch another for the last two stops. The girl opened the door.

‘Is yer Mam in?’

She looked as if she’d been crying. ‘She’s not well, Mrs Nelson.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m right sorry to ’ear that. Nothin’ serious, I ’ope?’

‘Just a bad cold.’

Dolly felt as if the wind had been taken from her sails. ‘Tell ’er as ’ow I want to see ’er – when she’s better, like. Ask ’er will she call round one afternoon – I’m off matinees, so I’ll be in all week.’ Yes, that might be better. Better on her own patch than in Nancy Higson’s kitchen.

‘I’ll tell her,’ the girl said.

‘Right then, luv. Ta-ra now.’

It was a fine night. She’d walk home, it wasn’t that far and she’d a couple of nice green apples to keep her company.

‘Who was it, Annie?’ Nancy stirred the fire, then set the old blackened kettle on the grid to boil yet again.

‘It was Mrs Nelson.’

‘Dolly Nelson? What did she want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t she say?’

‘No.’

They were both bone-weary; this evening had gone on forever. Nancy, after hearing all that from Annie, was almost too tired to care about what Dolly Nelson might want. The initial shock was over, but now the guilt had started to move in, creeping over her like icy fingers as she asked herself why she’d left Annie with him all these years, why she’d never listened, never noticed. She beat her closed fists against the wall. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, if she had him here now, right now . . .

‘Don’t, Mam.’

Nancy straightened. ‘Did she leave a message?’

‘She wants you to go and visit her.’

‘Visit her? I don’t know her. Last time I saw her she was buying tripe in the Jubilee Stores – months ago. We say hello, but we never pass the time. Whatever can she want?’

Annie, whose senses in spite of tiredness were still alert to the point of pain, said, as casually as she could, ‘Don’t go, Mother.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not sure. I just know you shouldn’t go, that’s all.’

It was a long upstairs room at the back of the house with two mock-Georgian windows, each covered by the lace curtains Mother seemed so taken with. Dad had made it really comfortable, with a carpet square that could be rolled back for dancing, a couple of tables with folding canvas chairs, a dartboard on the wall and a larger table for records and the Dansette.

Simon opened a bottle of lemonade and took a swig, aware of how horrified his mother would be if she realized he had sunk to such depths. She was furious about all this, he could tell, though little had been said. There was an atmosphere in the house, not the usual coldness, but a crackling silence, as if a thunderstorm would shortly break.

He stacked the records, looked at his watch, then went on to the landing. It would be better if he met them out on the road. Mother would consider the felony thoroughly compounded if they were to ring the bell like normal visitors. Her bedroom door was open and he could see right into the flowery girlish room with its frills and rose-pink lighting. She sat by the window in a chintz-covered nursing chair, peering out, waiting for them to arrive. He felt pity for her, so much that he almost ran in and said, ‘It will be alright.’ But he couldn’t. Something in the way she sat, motionless and ramrod-stiff, precluded any such approach – as indeed did reason – he knew she would never approve of Anne and Martin, let alone Lofty and the rest.

He ran down the stairs at speed, opened the front door and waited under a white light illuminating the brass plate that announced his father’s profession. They advanced, a tangle of stick-thin legs in drainpipe trousers, bopping and jiving along the road while the girls, in rustling skirts with layers of net just showing at the hem, followed in a manner only slightly more sedate. Dad was out on call, so his main line of defence was temporarily down. And he wanted it to go well this first time, especially after Dad had said to take care of Anne as there’d been a bit of trouble which must not be mentioned.

They burst in, bringing life and colour into the tastefully drab hall, some of the boys running partway up the stairs to slide down the highly polished banister several times. Anne and Martin were the last to arrive, separate from the rest, hand in hand as always. And yet although they were outwardly a pair, Simon felt they were incomplete without him. A strange trio, this, he thought. Himself, cherished son of a self-appointed lady of the manor, then Martin Cullen, product of a poverty-stricken home containing no less than seven children . . . and lastly, but never least, Anne Byrne. How to describe her? Daughter of a dead soldier, child of Nancy Higson, doffer and ring-spinner of this parish?