Act of Will (13 page)

His name was Vincent Crowther and he was something of a rebel.

He was born in the year 1903, at five minutes to midnight on the twelfth day of June, in the middle of the worst thunderstorm the new century had witnessed.

A lusty, robust, nine-pound baby, he came screaming into the world, fists flailing, face red and contorted, and giving vent to such a fierce and angry display of temperament the doctor told the midwife that the baby’s tantrums were only out-matched by the violence of the weather outside.

His mother secretly called him her Stormy Petrel thereafter, and she was the least surprised of anyone when her rebellious child grew up to be an equally rebellious man, one who was a maverick, who always stood out in a crowd.

He was a natural star, one who drew others to him by sheer force of personality, dashing looks and more than his fair share of a most beguiling charm. Further, it did him no harm that he had what his father called ‘the gift of the gab’.

The first born of Eliza and Alfred Crowther’s eight children, Vincent boasted an almost feminine beauty as a child, but this turned into a masculine type of handsomeness as he matured to manhood. And there never was any question about his virility. It was like a
gloss on him. In consequence, women fell at his feet swooning and they had done so since he was sixteen. He was well versed in their ways and in love and sex; he was master of these games at a very tender age, had broken many a heart. He was twenty-four.

His looks dazzled.

It was his colouring that was so sensational. The gleaming black hair and the black brows were in marked contrast to a light, creamy complexion and cheeks that held a tinge of pink like the bloom on a peach; he had cool green eyes, the colour of light, clear tourmalines, fringed with thick black lashes. His eyes and his skin were the envy of his sisters—and most other women.

Matched to the striking colouring and handsome profile was a superb athletic body. He was exactly five feet nine and a half inches tall, well muscled, firm and taut and without one ounce of fat or flab on him.

Immaculate at all times, Vincent considered himself to be a bit of a dandy, loved clothes, wore them with flair and elegance. He cut quite a swathe wherever he went, especially on the dance floor, where his easy grace and good looks showed to such advantage.

He was his mother’s favourite.

His siblings were aware of this. They did not care. Neither were they jealous. In fact, they shared their mother’s feelings about him. His brothers admired or hero-worshipped him; his sisters adored him.

Only his father treated him like a normal, ordinary person.

Alfred Crowther loved his first-born child, but he had no illusions about him. A former sergeant-major in the Seaforth Highlanders, Alfred was a veteran of two great wars, having fought the Boers on the African veldt and the Germans on the fields of Flanders. Subsequently, he
knew men and their motivations, could read them well, and his own son was no exception. He had a great deal of insight into Vincent.

Alfred recognized there was a lot of devilishness in the boy, not to mention temperament, stubbornness and a good measure of vanity. He thought Vincent was too handsome by far for his own good. But, being a realist, Alfred knew there was not much point in worrying about this eldest child of his who had been born with the looks of a matinée idol. Fretting would not alter these facts nor accomplish anything. The elder Crowther believed that what was meant to happen eventually happened. His fatalistic attitude could be ascribed to his Irish mother, Martha, who, when he was growing up, had constantly told him, ‘What will be, will be, Alf, sure an’ it will. ’Tis
preordained
, I am thinkin’, this life each one of us poor souls be livin’ in this hard and cruel world.’

Father and son were good friends. They enjoyed sharing a pint of beer, usually stopped off at the pub together at weekends, and often they went to race meetings in Doncaster and York, especially in the summer weather. However, despite a certain masculine camaraderie, there was not as much intimacy between them as might have been expected. It was his mother who was Vincent’s confidante and friend. She always had been. She always would be—until the day she died.

His manifest physical attributes and pleasant demeanour aside, Vincent Crowther was no dunce. He was quick, bright, and intelligent; he had powerful analytical ability, and a retentive memory.

But coming from the working class as he did, he had left Armley Council School when he was fourteen and had found himself a job in one of the tailoring shops in Armley. He had quickly grown bored, mainly because
his interests lay elsewhere. He was particularly drawn to building and construction and frequently wished he could have studied architecture.

After leaving the tailoring shop, he had a short spell labouring in the local brickyard, before finally finding an opening with a building firm. He was currently learning his trade; he liked working in the open air, drew pleasure and satisfaction from seeing each building take shape and grow and so fulfil the architect’s original vision.

Sometimes Vincent told himself he was going to enrol in night school in Leeds, to learn draughtsmanship, but he put this off, was always sidetracked and distracted by other more pleasurable activities. He was partial to dancing and he had been a voracious reader when a boy, but otherwise he had no real hobbies to speak of. For the most part, he spent his free time drinking with his cronies and could usually be found propping up the bar in the tap room of one of the local pubs, quaffing down pints or studying a
tissue
, the pink racing sheet that was published every weekday and was his bible.

He was engrossed in his
tissue
on this cold Saturday morning in late December, wondering which horses to back at today’s Doncaster races. In particular he was concentrating on the runners in the one o’clock race, turning the salient facts over in his clever mind, considering the virtues and the weaknesses of the trainers and the jockeys as well as those of the different horses, and carefully weighing the odds.

Vincent was seated at the table in the centre of the basement kitchen in the Crowther home in Armley, a tall, Victorian terrace house with two upper floors and huge attics under the eaves. The kitchen, with a big window fronting onto a patch of garden and yard, was a large yet cosy room; eminently inviting, it was comfortably
furnished in the manner of a parlour, which was the custom in these parts.

The focal point in the room was the fireplace. This was actually a Yorkshire range, so called because it combined an open fire with an adjoining oven. The range also boasted an arm for supporting a kettle or a stew pot over the fire, and a boiler for heating water. All of these elements were built into the one unit which was about four and a half feet in height and the same in width.

The black iron range was surmounted by a heavy polished wood mantelpiece. On this stood a fancy chiming clock, two brass candlesticks, a tobacco jar, a rack holding Alfred’s pipes and a container of spills. The hearth was encircled by a heavy brass fender that was cleaned with Brasso by one of the girls every Friday, and it glittered like gold in the dancing flames of the fire, banked high up the chimney back. Two green-moquette wing chairs flanked the fireplace, faced each other across a large broadloom rug patterned with blood red roses on a deep green background.

In point of fact, roses abounded in this kitchen. They were Eliza’s favourite flowers. Pink and white cabbage roses entwined into garlands flowed down the wallpaper to meet scarlet rambler roses scattered all over the green linoleum; rose-patterned white china filled the shelves of a Welsh dresser positioned in a corner; pillows embroidered with yellow rosebuds marched across the dark green leather sofa set against the far wall.

It was a cheerful room with a gay and welcoming ambience, and it was generally the centre of activity, the heart of the family’s home life. But this morning it was strangely silent and deserted.

Vincent was alone.

He was glad to have peace and quiet for once, to be
able to pursue the serious work of picking out his potential winners in absolute tranquillity, without the distracting racket often created by some of his brothers and sisters.

Taking a sip of tea, he continued to peer at the racing newspaper, frowning to himself in his concentration. He had been at this task for almost an hour, and at last he made several selections, wrote down the names of his horses on a scrap of paper, sat staring at the list for a moment. Slowly he nodded his head, satisfied he had made the best choices, then he reached for the packet of Woodbines.

He leaned back in his chair, sat smoking reflectively.

For no reason at all he suddenly thought of the girl.
Again
. She had a way of popping into his head when he least expected. He had met her only once in his life, but when he closed his eyes he could see her face so clearly, and in such detail, he might have known her forever.

When he had first noticed her standing near the bonfire in the grounds of the Parish Hall, he had instantly and instinctively understood, and without the benefit of knowing her, that she was not the type of young woman whom a man played around with.
She was serious business
.

And since he was not interested in being serious with any girl, or of starting a relationship that would lead to the terrible bondage of marriage, he had fled, rushed to the White Horse for a game of darts and a drink with the lads. But just before ten o’clock he had run all the way back to the hall, hoping to have the last waltz with her.

How shy she had been, so stiff and unbending. Her manner and her attitude had put him off, and he had wandered out of the hall, discouraged, and also baffled by her, asking himself why she had bothered to dance with him in the first place. She could have so easily declined his invitation.

But he had been unable to forget her
.

Vincent sighed, took a long drag on his cigarette, blew smoke rings up into the air, watched them float away and evaporate as they did. And he decided that thinking about the diminutive Venus de Milo of the bright blue eyes and gorgeous legs was a hopeless waste of time. For one thing, she had apparently evaporated—just like the smoke rings. Ever since bonfire night, he had made a point of popping down to the church dances for a few minutes, looking for her, and he had kept his eyes peeled when he had gone about his business in Armley. He had never once run into her. Furthermore, none of the regulars who attended the church dances every Wednesday and Saturday seemed to know who she was. He had made innumerable inquiries about her for the past two months. The only bit of information he had been able to garner was that her busty blonde girlfriend, also nameless it seemed, was a nurse at the Infirmary. Some good that did him. He knew he had about as much chance of ever meeting Blue Eyes again as a snowball in hell.

Perhaps that’s just as well, he muttered under his breath. All I need is a
steady
… not bloody likely I don’t.

At this moment the front door flew open so unexpectedly and with such force Vincent sat up with a jerk, looking startled. An icy blast of air blew right through the kitchen, chilling him. It brought with it Laurette and Maggie, two of his three sisters.

They had been to the Co-op to do the weekend shopping and each carried two bags filled to overflowing. They were bundled up in navy-blue winter topcoats, green-and-black tartan tam-o’-shanters and matching long woollen scarves. The cold wind had given them polished apple cheeks, turned their noses into bright red cherries.
Their eyes sparkled and there was such a gaiety and liveliness about them they brought a delighted smile to his face.

‘Hello, Vincent,’ they chorused, grinning at him.

‘Hello, you two beauties,’ he responded, then exclaimed, ‘For God’s sake close that door, Maggie.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ the twelve-year-old girl said, and pushed it with her foot. It banged so hard the frosted-glass panel rattled.

‘Watch that glass!’ Vincent cautioned and shook his head, mildly exasperated with her.

Maggie mumbled, ‘Sorry,’ and followed her elder sister to the counter near the sink, where she deposited her bags of groceries.

Turning to face her brother, starting to unbutton her coat, Laurette said, ‘It’s very quiet in here, Vincent. Where is everybody then?’

‘Upstairs. Or out.’

‘Who’s upstairs?’ Maggie asked, always inquisitive. Shedding her coat she flung it down on the sofa.

‘Hang that up, young lady,’ Laurette instructed, giving her a sharp look.

Maggie pulled a face but she did as she was told. She pressed, ‘Who’s upstairs then?’

‘Our Mam. She’s dusting the front rooms. And Jack, who’s reading to Danny. Mam says he’s got to stay in bed today—because of his bad cold,’ Vincent explained.

‘I knew it! I just knew he wouldn’t be any better!’ Maggie cried shrilly, rolling her eyes dramatically, showing exaggerated alarm. ‘I
told
Mam that. He coughed and coughed all night. Poor little Danny, he’s always badly. But what can you expect, he’s the runt of the litter.’ She continued to cluck sympathetically like a middle-aged matron of vast experience, then finished in a superior,
knowing tone, ‘Change-of-life babies are often weak in health.’

Vincent averted his head, biting down on his laughter. Maggie was a card. None of them ever knew what she would come out with next. His father said she was as old as the hills.

Laurette, however, was not in the least amused and the look she gave her young sister was stern, disapproving. She thought Maggie was impertinent at times, that the girl saw and heard far too much for her age. But Laurette said nothing. She walked over to the cupboard and put her own things away. Then she took a cup and saucer out of the cupboard above the sink, joined Vincent at the table. She lifted the cosy, felt the pot, poured herself a cup of tea, added milk and sugar.

Vincent watched her all the while, his expression loving, caring. He was concerned about Laurette’s well-being at the moment. Just over a year ago she had married their first cousin Jimmy, but it had not worked out. She had come back home to live three months ago, much to his relief. He had believed that particular union to be doomed right from the outset, had never had much time for his cousin, whom he considered to be a bit of a wet rag.