Murder in Steeple Martin (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-five – 1943

H
ETTY WENT INTO
F
LO
’
S
hut that night. Lillian, pale and drawn, insisted that it was better, Millie and she would be all right. Hetty gave in gratefully and prepared to answer Flo’s mother’s questions. To her surprise, there weren’t any, merely a motherly concern for the huge lump and cut on the back of her head from which blood still trickled sluggishly.

She dreamed, that night. Warburton was coming for her, Warburton was lying on top of her, Father was hitting Greg with a gravestone. She woke up to find Flo bending over her in the half-light from the top of the door.

‘Het. Het. Wake up.’

‘Wha-a?’ Hetty peered up at her friend’s shadowed face.

‘You was dreaming. You’ll wake Mum and Gran.’

‘Sorry.’ Hetty moved her head and winced.

‘Is it your head?’ Flo asked sympathetically. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

Hetty sat up and nodded, cautiously.

‘Come on outside then.’ Flo scrambled over the two older women still snoring on their faggot bed and pushed open the door. Hetty followed, shivering in the dew-soaked greyness that enshrouded the huts. She was still wearing her cotton dress and cardigan, which she drew tightly around her. She watched Flo bustling around lighting the fire, pouring water from the bucket into the kettle and hanging it on the hook.

‘Won’t be long,’ she said, coming to sit beside Hetty on one of the old chairs that lived permanently outside the hut.

‘Flo,’ Hetty began, pleating her dress between her fingers.

‘What?’

‘Is it so bad, me seeing Greg?’

Flo shrugged. ‘I would’ve thought it’d be worse for his family than yourn. Seeing as how they think we’re filthy hoppers.’

‘Greg’s family don’t. We’ve all been coming for years. They know what we’re like. Carpenter doesn’t think that, does he?’

‘No,’ Flo looked away. ‘He’s a good man.’

‘Has he –?’ Hetty hesitated. ‘I mean, have you–?’

Flo looked at her, surprised. ‘If you mean has he had me on me back, no, he hasn’t. He’s a gentleman, is Frank.’

‘Sorry, Flo.’ Hetty shivered. ‘It’s just that you’ve always seemed so much more – well, experienced – with men, you know.’

Flo laughed. ‘Not that experienced, ducks. Oh, I know what they’re like and what I can do to ’em, but I don’t want to get caught up the duff, do I?’

Hetty felt her insides turn to water. ‘What?’ she whispered.

Flo looked into her face closely. ‘Having a kid, Het. That’s what happens, you know. How do you think they get there? Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Something goes in there, and something comes out – nine months later.’

‘Always?’ Hetty’s voice was a thread.

‘Not always, no, but you can’t take the chance, can you?’ Flo got up to stir tea into the boiling kettle. ‘Oh, some of ’em do. There’s ways, see? To make sure it doesn’t happen. But you have to be clever. And I don’t want to do it with anybody ’til I feel it’s right. Sometimes it feels as though I want to, but I get scared, see?’

‘Are you scared with Carpenter?’ Hetty was trying to fit this new information into her jigsaw and seeing with awful clarity how well it fitted the empty spaces.

‘No, I’m not. He wouldn’t try it on, see. Oh, he’s kissed me. Asks first, o’course. And sometimes I wish he’d sort of, let go, like. But it’s better this way. Specially as we’ve got to go home in a coupla weeks and that’ll be the end.’

‘Couldn’t it go on? Couldn’t you stay?’

‘Eh?’ Flo looked shocked. ‘Of course not. Where would I stay?’

Hetty shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I thought perhaps he might marry you.’

She was surprised to see Flo blush, something that Hetty herself did frequently, but she had never seen happen to Flo.

‘Yeah, well. Pigs might fly.’ Flo stood up abruptly and rummaged in the box for enamel mugs.

‘So why is my dad so set against me and Greg?’ Hetty changed the subject.

‘Your dad’s set against everything, ain’t he? I don’t know whether it’s Greg, or just ’cause you’ve been doing it with him – could’ve been anybody. Pride, I’d say.’

‘My dad? Pride?’ Hetty let out a bitter little laugh. ‘That’ll be the day.’

‘You have been doing it with him, haven’t you, Het?’ Flo suddenly turned on her, her face serious.

Hetty’s blush suffused her whole body. She nodded.

Flo sighed. ‘Silly cow. Bad enough with one of the lads back home – but this. And Warburton found out?’

‘I think he saw us. The first time –’

‘Cor, that was bad luck, wasn’t it?’ Flo laughed mirthlessly. ‘What a bloody mess. How many times you done it?’

Horrified, Hetty shook her head, too embarrassed to speak.

‘Come on, Het, once is enough for a kid, but sometimes you get away with it. If you do it a lot – well your odds is against you.’

Hetty felt something inside her shrivel. ‘Every day,’ she whispered, ‘since last week.’

‘Gawd.’ Flo put her head in her hands. ‘Had your monthlies yet?’

Hetty shook her head. ‘Not till next week.’

‘Well, keep your fingers crossed, then. Not much use keeping your legs crossed now, is there?’

There was no picking on a Sunday. Hetty and Flo went to the mission meeting held on the common by a visiting preacher who clearly thought there was about as much potential in his congregation as in a field of rabbits. The text of his sermon demonstrated his belief that their habits were fairly similar, as Flo remarked. Hetty kept out of the way of her father and her own hut until she saw the men making their way to the lane, which led to the village. Lenny loitered behind, she noticed, then doubled back and panted his way across the common to where she sat at the edge of the hop garden.

‘Mum says you can go back, now, Het.’

‘Thanks, Lenny.’ Hetty stood up stiffly and brushed down her skirt. ‘You get off to the pub, then.’

Lenny nodded, and somewhat reluctantly stomped his way back across the common.

‘You’re a fool, girl, you know that.’ Lillian must have heard her coming but didn’t look up.

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘He’s not our sort. He’s using you – like a whore.’

Hetty winced. ‘Mum – he’s not.’

‘You’re seventeen. What do you know about it? More than I thought, I’ll allow, but not much.’

‘Mum, isn’t it natural when you love a person?’ Hetty crouched down by her mother’s feet. Millie trotted up and put her arms round her neck.

‘Love?’ Lillian turned hollow eyes on to her elder daughter. ‘Love’s a joke, Het. It don’t mean nothing. It’s not real.’

Defeated, Hetty sat back on her heels and watched as her mother stirred the big hopping pot.

‘What’s Dad going to do?’

‘Get drunk. What do you think? I’d make yourself scarce when he gets back. I’ll save you some dinner.’

‘When’s he going back?’

‘Later. Soon as Lenny can drag him away. Got to get the train, see?’ Lillian stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Bring a chair.’ She lifted her own and carried it across to Connie’s hut, where Connie, Flo and Flo’s mother and grandmother, were already seated, a couple of bottles of stout on the ground before them. Hetty followed slowly with Millie hanging on to her skirt, consumed with embarrassment at facing the combined curiosity of the little group.

In fact, the faces turned towards her were blandly welcoming. Flo made room for her between them and picked up the threads of the conversation almost without a break.

The sound of singing alerted them to the return of the men. Hetty stood up unsteadily, Millie in her arms. The other women got up unhurriedly and began to move in front of her, bending over Connie’s hopping pot, shielding her from the eyes of anyone who happened to be looking their way.

The men scattered like a handful of gravel thrown on the ground and Hetty, her view obscured, waited with bated breath.

‘They’re not here, Het.’ Flo turned to her as the other women separated and drifted towards other groups. ‘None of them have come back.’

‘Dad?’ Hetty managed, out of a dry throat.

‘Your dad, Lenny and your Uncle Alf. Your mum’s gone to ask if anyone’s seen them.’

Eventually, Lillian and Connie dished up their meals and Millie, Hetty, Connie and Lillian, Flo and her mother and grandmother sat down to eat them together. They had almost finished when a shout pierced the still afternoon air.

‘Mum.’

Everyone turned to see Lenny coming at a staggering run towards them.

‘Mum.’ He was breathing hard and the smell of drink surrounded him almost visibly.

‘Where’s your father?’ Lillian’s face was devoid of expression.

‘Don’t know. He went off. He wouldn’t listen –’

‘Sit down, Lenny.’ Flo pushed him down into her own chair. ‘Get your breath.’

‘Warburton was at the pub.’ Lenny looked up at Hetty and a ripple went through the assembled women.

‘He was getting at Dad. Anyway, he went and Dad started going on about – about –’ he hesitated and looked at Hetty again.

‘Yes, we know. Get on with it.’ Lillian’s eyes were fixed on her son’s face.

‘When we left he said he was going to find Carpenter. We tried to stop him – followed him up to Home Farm.’ He stole a quick look at Flo, who kept her eyes down. ‘Carpenter wasn’t there. So then he just ran off towards the home wood. We lost track of him, so they sent me back here while they carried on looking.’

The women looked at each other. Lillian, whose colour was high, stood up.

‘Sorry about this, Connie. If you’ll give Lenny his dinner, then I’ll go and help them look.’

‘I’ll come with you, Mum.’ Hetty stood up bravely.

‘You stay here and look after Millie.’ Stay out of trouble, her tone said.

It was nearly dark when they came back. Ted Fisher was not with them. Connie and Hetty dished up overdone stew and vegetables and sat down to watch them eat.

‘What you going to do about getting home, then?’ Connie asked.

Alf shrugged. ‘Dunno. First train in the morning.’

‘What’s going to happen to your jobs?’ Hetty grabbed Lenny’s arm. ‘You can’t afford to lose your jobs.’

‘We’ll get back in time. Don’t worry. The veg lorry goes from the village in the early hours. Uncle Alf – you game for going on that?’ Lenny waved his knife at his uncle.

‘You get me up, boy, I’ll go on the veg lorry.’ Alf nodded and returned to his plate of stew.

Hetty wondered how her mother remained so calm during the evening. Lenny and Uncle Alf went back to the pub to see if Ted had returned and the women sat, talking, trying to pretend that things were normal. Millie was put to bed and, at last, Lillian and Hetty were the only two still sitting over the remains of the fire.

‘Mum. Hetty.’ Lenny’s voice came as a stage whisper from somewhere to Hetty’s left. ‘He came back. He’s gone after Warburton.’

‘Where’s he gone?’ Lillian stood up slowly.

‘Along the ditch towards the bridge.’

Afterwards, Hetty remembered little of how they made the journey along the bank of the ditch at the edge of the gardens. All she remembered was coming to the bridge and seeing the solitary figure swaying on the wooden bridge, silhouetted against the sky. And her mother’s gasping cry as she looked down into the ditch and saw her husband’s body face down in the brackish water.

‘He came at me.’ Warburton’s voice was slurred and scared. ‘I had to defend meself.’ He turned and swayed towards Hetty. ‘This is your fault, you bitch.’

Hetty screamed as she smelt the sour breath as he lurched forward and made a grab for her. Somehow, there was a stone in her hand – a big stone – and, somehow, she was hitting him with it. Over and over again. At first his arms went up to shield his head, then he was staggering backwards and then she watched him crumple like a sheet blown off the line, down the bank and into the ditch where he landed half on top of Ted Fisher.

Lenny was screaming at her. She couldn’t understand the words and then she felt her mother pulling her away.

‘Get him out of the ditch, Lenny.’ Lillian sat her down on the bank and shoved her head roughly between her knees. Lenny was gibbering, but Lillian went down into the ditch and helped him drag Ted’s body from underneath Warburton’s and up the bank.

‘What are we going to do?’ Hetty was suddenly cold and frightened. Her mind couldn’t yet grasp what she had done and she took refuge in Lillian’s unfailing common sense.

‘We’ll bury him. Then no one’ll know he was here, so they’ll think Warburton was drunk – fell in the ditch. Or done for by one of the travellers.’

‘We can’t bury him.’ Lenny’s teeth were chattering. ‘Everyone’d see where we’d dug a hole. Anyway, what do we dig it with?’

‘Tools in the barn.’ Lillian looked down dispassionately at the body of her husband. ‘No, we can’t bury him out here. Under the hut.’

‘What?’ Hetty couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She felt as though she was moving in some sort of nightmare where nothing bore any relation to normality.

‘Under the hut. Floor’s earth. Come on, Lenny, take his top end. Hetty and me’ll take a leg each.’

From not remembering much of the outward journey, Hetty remembered every terror-filled second of the return one. She heard Lenny retching behind her, her Mother’s laboured breathing and the squelch of her feet in the mud. They kept alongside the ditch and came up behind the huts.

‘Go and get the tools, Len. Hetty, you go and get Millie up and get her away.’ Lillian stood upright and rubbed her back.

Millie half woke, and Hetty wrapped her in a blanket and carried her outside. Her brain seemed to have closed down now and all she could think of was where she could sit with her heavy burden and how tired she was. The cookhouse was quiet, not many people used it during the day; at night it was the perfect place to sit on the floor and lean her back against the wall.

She awoke with a start to realise that Millie was no longer curled up in the crook of her arm. All the blood in her veins seemed to drain into her feet and she struggled to her feet, her heart hammering.

A glimmer of light showed where Lenny and Lillian were working, which suddenly became brighter. Hetty’s heart filled with dread as she ran towards the hut.