The Narrowboat Girl (44 page)

She leaned over and tenderly kissed his face, pressing little kisses on his eyelids, cheeks, forehead until he stirred and woke to look at her. A smile spread across his face. ‘Well
– that’s a nice way to wake up.’

‘I brought you some tea. Nance and Mick’ve gone to Mass. I should’ve let you sleep but I wanted to see you before they get back.’

Joel pushed himself up. ‘You should’ve woke me earlier.’

‘No – I want you better.’ She handed him the tea and he downed it in several big gulps, then put the cup down. He shuffled over in the bed, patting the space beside him.

‘Come on in and sit with me. You’ll ’ave to get used to a narrow bed on the
Esther Jane
.’

Maryann hesitated, blushing.

‘It’s all right, little bird – I just mean sit with me.’ He held his arm out to embrace her. ‘Come on – I won’t bite. Promise.’

She slipped her shoes off and climbed in beside him, resting back against his warm arm. Blushing even more, without looking round at him, she said, ‘I do . . . I mean . . . Oh dear, I
don’t know how to say this.’ How could she tell him she wanted him, that she wanted to be held and touched, that when they were married she wanted to be his the way married people were
supposed to – only she was afraid of herself, of finding she couldn’t bear to do it when her only experiences of it had meant pain and fear?

‘I do want – you know – to be properly married, Joel.’

He squeezed her gently. ‘I know, love. And I’m not him, you know. I’m not your stepfather. I wouldn’t want to hurt you, ever – you know that now, don’t
you?’

She rested her head against him. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Course I do.’ She leaned round and her lips reached for his, wanting to show him, to give all her love to him and
he kissed her back, his arms pulling her close.

They stayed there snuggled close together, looking round at the bare room with its whitewashed walls and the little window behind them.

‘I’ve scarcely ever been in a house before,’ Joel said. ‘I mean it’s all right – a lot more space, of course. But I couldn’t live like this. Not in one
place all the time. Don’t think I could breathe proper. D’you think you can live on the move all the time?’

‘Think so. That feels the right way to live to me. So long as you’re there.’

‘It’s a tough life, Maryann.’

She nodded. ‘It’s what I want though. That life – with you. I wish Darius’d get here, don’t you?’

‘Well – we’ve waited this long – a few more days don’t make a lot of difference.’

‘Poor Darius.’ Maryann sighed. She’d told Joel about Nance and his brother. ‘There’s so much unhappiness we’re leaving behind and nothing I can do. I just
wish we could go now.’

‘I know—’ Longingly, he pulled her closer into his arms. ‘I don’t ’alf feel like the lucky one.’

‘Joel! He’s coming! There’s a message from Darius – he should be up ’ere some time on Thursday!’ Maryann came panting into the house two
days later to find Joel sitting talking to Nancy as she worked.

Even in her excitement she noticed Nancy taking special care to control her expression. Maryann bit her lip. It seemed awful even to mention Darius’s name if it upset her, but he was
Joel’s brother – what else could she do?

‘’E’s got the moty in then,’ Joel said. ‘I wonder how ’e’s managing?’

‘’E said it’d be easier,’ Nancy said, attempting to join in the conversation brightly.

‘Should be in the long run,’ Joel said. ‘But it’ll all take getting used to.’

From then on, while they were waiting for Darius, everything changed. Joel and Maryann were full of expectation. Nancy, though, however hard she tried, became more and more glum as the time
passed. By Wednesday afternoon, she was finding it impossible to remain cheerful at all. Maryann felt terribly awkward. It had been a peaceful week with Joel and Mick hitting it off well enough and
Nance having company, and Maryann knew the parting was going to be hard.

On the Wednesday night Joel and Mick went out for a farewell drink while Maryann and Nance stayed in. Maryann tried to keep her talking, but Nance stared desolately into the fire. For a time
they sat in silence. The clock struck ten with its mellow chime and roused Maryann from her thoughts.

‘It’ll be better when we’ve gone.’ She sat forward in her chair, leaning closer to her friend. ‘It’s only making everything worse, us being here and talking
about Darius – it’s rubbing salt in the wound.’

Nance’s face in the firelight looked hard in her unhappiness. Maryann thought about her prettiness when she was with Darius on the cut.

‘You and Mick,’ Maryann persisted gently. ‘I mean – things seem a bit better . . .’

Nance’s lips began to tremble as she spoke. ‘I s’pose they are. I think it’s ’aving Joel ’ere – just knowing ’e can come ’ome and . .
.’ She lost control of her voice and the tears broke through. ‘. . . and not just find me ’ere . . . Oh God, Maryann, I know I married ’im in the sight of God and I know
what the right thing to do is, but it’s breaking my heart, it’s so hard! I want to see Darius again more than anything else in the world, but I don’t know as I can manage to see
him. I don’t think I could bear it.’ She kept wiping her eyes furiously as if it was disloyal even to weep.

Maryann was just about to suggest that she try and keep Darius away from the house when she met him the next day, when they heard a knocking sound.

Nance frowned. ‘Was that ours?’ She looked round at the door.

The noise came again, and another sound of someone crying outside. Both of them got up and went cautiously to the door.

‘Anyone in there?’

Nance opened the door, and in the dim light they saw a young, rather startled-looking policeman, and beside him a mane of red hair and a terrified, tear-stained face looking up at them. At the
sight of Maryann she began sobbing uncontrollably.

‘Amy?’ Maryann went to her immediately and put her arm round her. She took in that the child was wearing a coat over her nightdress, her bare legs pushed into her boots. ‘Are
you awright? What’s happened?’

The policeman was parking his bike up against the wall. ‘I found ’er, wandering about – over Winson Green way. In a right state she was – all she’d say was she
’ad to get over ’ere. You know ’er then?’

‘Yes—’ Maryann guided Amy into the room as she gulped and trembled. ‘This is one of them,’ she said to Nance over her shoulder. ‘I wonder what in God’s
name’s happened?’

‘Oh my word,’ Nance said, full of pity.

‘Wouldn’t say nowt to me,’ the constable complained from the doorway. ‘Thought the best thing to do was bring ’er here on my bike.’

Maryann put her hands firmly on the young girl’s shoulders, trying to calm her. ‘Amy – it’s awright. You’re safe here, love. You can talk to us – no one can
hurt you here . . .’ Seeing the distraught state of the girl brought Maryann close to tears herself. What had he done? What terrible harm had that cruel, self-obsessed man inflicted now?

Amy could scarcely get the words out. ‘Sh-sh-sh . . .’

‘It’s awright—’ Maryann caressed her shoulders. ‘Slowly now.’

Amy took a great gulp of air and burst out, ‘It’s Margaret – I think sh-she’s killed him.’

That evening had, outwardly, begun like any other. Amy and Margaret came home from school, spent their few blissful hours alone at home with their mother before their
stepfather arrived home. Janet had cooked mince for tea with potatoes and gravy and they had all sat to eat together. Margaret said nothing, as usual. Their stepfather asked polite, jovial
questions about how school had been and about their mother’s day. The conversation was strained. Afterwards, as it grew dark, they had put on the gas lamps in the front room, and Norman lit
the wick in his brass oil lamp and placed it with its glowing light on the little table in the corner. He’d sat down to read the
Mail
, for the duration of that dreadful pause between
tea and his stretching in the chair and saying, ‘It’s time you wenches were up in bed.’

To anyone watching it would have seemed a normal evening.

Yet the girls were living in constant fear and dread. Since Maryann’s visit, nothing had been the same. Before, he had used them, abused them, convinced them of their subservience. But now
it had become something much worse.

The night after Maryann had been, he had come up for the usual ‘bedtime story’. Amy and Margaret got ready for bed, as ever, with feverish haste because if he was upstairs when they
were still changing his hands were everywhere, pinching, poking. He stood in the doorway for a moment, smoking a cigarette, leaning on the frame with a nonchalant air, taking his time.

‘So,’ he said softly. ‘You thought you could get away with squealing on me, did yer?’ He gave a low laugh, then took a drag on the cigarette. Its tip flared orange for a
second. ‘Did you really?’ Smoke curled from his nostrils. ‘Poor little things – that was silly. Wasn’t it? Very silly. I don’t like that. I think I need to show
you how much I don’t like it.’

He yanked the thin pillow out from under Margaret’s head and with both hands pushed it down over her face. Amy heard herself whimper and saw Margaret’s hand clawing at him, her young
body fighting against suffocation. He forced it down over her for what seemed an age, his expression a cruel grimace. Amy felt she was going to burst. She could bear it no longer.

‘Get off her!’

She sprang off her bed and flung herself at him. He was perched at an angle on the edge and her weight threw him aside. Amy dragged the pillow away from Margaret’s face and Margaret sat
up, panting, frantic.

‘You could’ve killed her!’

He was half sprawled across Margaret’s bed and the look he gave her chilled her to her very core. Inside him, where most people had a heart and soul, was a place of hard, emotionless
cruelty. She backed away from him.

‘So – you’re getting uppity now an’ all, are yer?’

He advanced on her slowly.

‘No!’ Amy moaned. She curled herself at the top of her bed, her knees brought up to her chest. ‘No – don’t touch me . . . don’t, please . . . I’ll do
anything, but don’t . . .’

But it was no use. It made no difference. Whatever she said or did would never make any difference, she could see that now.

This evening he had come up, his plume of loathsome blue smoke trailing after him. Once again he stood, as he liked to do, in the doorway, like a man looking down a menu,
choosing, relishing. He strolled over to Margaret and sat down. With the cigarette jutting at the corner of his mouth he whipped back her bedclothes. Amy jumped violently. She saw him yank Margaret
over on to her back and pull up her nightdress. Then, clamping his left hand over her mouth, he took the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it hard into her stomach. Amy’s hands went over
her own mouth. Margaret’s body lifted off the bed, writhing. A thin, terrible noise was coming from her. He held his hand there until Margaret quietened, then removed it.

‘Now—’ He wagged his finger at her. ‘Don’t do it again.’

Do what? Amy thought wildly, biting on her fist to stop herself shouting out. What had she done?

‘I’ve put my mark on you, wench. You show anyone and there’ll be worse. I can do much worse than that.’

Margaret was gasping, crying in agony. Amy slid down the bed and blocked her ears. She knew he wouldn’t have finished, that cruelty always led to something else, it excited him. She closed
her eyes, pressed her hands over her ears while he raped her sister. Then he buttoned himself up tidily and went downstairs. Margaret lay, absolutely silent.

Amy went over to her. ‘D’you want me to put summat on it for you?’

She stroked her sister’s shoulder but Margaret was quite still, eyes closed, like a dead person. She must’ve have been in great pain but she made not a sound. Not knowing what else
to do, Amy waited for a long time until she thought Margaret must really be asleep. At last, she crept back to bed.

It was almost an hour later when she heard Margaret moving about. She got up and just stood for a moment as if she was in a trance.

Amy turned over. ‘Margaret?’

She waited a moment longer, like a little ghost in her bare feet, then went out of the room. Amy sat up, wondering if Margaret was sleepwalking. She heard her going down the stairs and through
the open door, the faint sound of her mother clinking cups in the kitchen. Uneasily, Amy got out of bed and stood shivering at the top of the stairs, waiting to hear her mother’s voice
ordering Margaret back to bed. Was she going to show her the burn? It must hurt so badly. Amy trembled at the thought. He’d said she mustn’t! What if she did – what would he do
then?

She heard nothing and crept further downstairs. Her mother was still in the kitchen. Where had Margaret gone? Amy stood on the bottom step. And it was then she heard the crash, the sound of
glass breaking from the front room, a shout from her stepfather, ‘What’ve yer done, yer little vixen?’ then high, agonized screaming which grew louder and more panic-stricken. Amy
knew it was not Margaret who was screaming.

‘Arthur?’ Janet hobbled from the kitchen. ‘Amy, whatever’s going on?’

Amy reached the front room first. For a split second she thought the room was on fire but saw an instant later that the blaze was confined to her stepfather. Flames were leaping all over the top
half of him, shooting out from his hair, his clothing, and he was leaping a wild jig around the room, shrieking in agony as the fire took hold of his hair and clothes. As she came to the room he
flung himself down on the floor, rolling back and forth trying to douse the flames but they refused to be put out and leaped back into life in the places where his body left the floor and met the
air again. Not far away, Margaret stood with her arms folded, her expression blank. Near him on the floor lay his brass lamp, its glass shattered. His head must have been doused with paraffin.

‘Oh—’ Janet Lambert gasped. ‘Margaret – oh Margaret, what’ve you done? Help him, one of you – get the rug round him!’ She pulled herself
frantically across the room on her sticks. ‘Help him I said!’ she cried. ‘Don’t just stand there.’