Chickenfeed (7 page)

I’m sorry to upset you.

Yours,

Blackness Road

Crowborough

Sussex

November 27th, 1924

Dear Dad,

I could do with some advice. I’ve run into some problems with the farm and with Elsie. Is there any chance you could visit in the next few days?

I’m sorry to be a nuisance.

Your loving son,

86 Clifford Gardens

Kensal Rise

London

November 28th, 1924

Dear Norman,

You’ve broken my heart. I never thought you could lie to me like this. I gave you myself and all my love and you have betrayed me. It’s a poor thing for a man to give up on his wife just because her nerves are bad. You don’t seem to care how I feel. You don’t write a single word of love, yet I stood by you when you were out of work.

I expect you to finish with this other girl and marry me. Let me know what date you’ve fixed by return. I shall love you for ever and always in spite of what you’ve done.

Your devoted,

Blackness Road – Sunday, November 30th, 1924

N
ORMAN JUMPED OUT OF
his skin when Elsie smacked him on the arm. He was busy cleaning out the chicken sheds and had his back to the road. He was humming to himself and his mind was full of Bessie.

‘What the hell—’ he cried, ducking away from her and raising his arms to protect himself. He certainly hadn’t expected to see Elsie.

She pounded at him with her fists. ‘I
hate
you,’ she spat. ‘Who’s this other girl? What’s her name? Why didn’t you answer my letter?’

Norman warded off the blows. He’d never seen her so mad looking. Her hair was unkempt and her face red with anger. ‘I only got your letter this morning,’ he fibbed.

‘Liar! You’d have got it yesterday. I want my wedding, Norman. When’s it going to be?’ She kicked his leg. ‘
Tell me!
’ she screamed.

Chickens scattered in alarm. ‘Take it easy,’ he begged. ‘You’re scaring the hens.’

But she wouldn’t be side-tracked. ‘
Now
, Norman . . . tell me
now
.’

‘Soon,’ he said desperately, dodging another punch. ‘It’ll be soon.’

She dropped her fists. ‘When?’

‘Before Christmas.’

She examined his face to see if he was lying. ‘That had better be the truth. If I find out you’re lying again—’ She broke off on a sob. ‘How
could
you, pet? I thought I could trust you.’

‘You can,’ he said lamely. ‘I was planning to write today. Do your parents know you’re here?’

She shook her head.

‘Then they’ll be worried. You should go home. I’ll walk you to the station.’

‘I’m not leaving,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I won’t go back to London till I’m a married woman. Everyone’s saying it’s never going to happen. But it
is
. You’re promised to me . . . you’ve
always
been promised to me.’

What could Norman say other than yes? There was no reasoning with Elsie when she was like this. He wanted to tell her to take a tablet but feared another onslaught from her fists. In this mood, anything could fuel her anger. And he had a bigger problem. He needed to be rid of her before Bessie came to the shack that evening.

So he lied. He told Elsie he loved her. That he wanted her baby. That of course the wedding was on. The other girl was history. Just a silly mistake that had happened when he was lonely.

‘But you must go home now, Else. You can’t stay here till we’re married. People will talk.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘But
I
do,’ he said firmly, steering her towards the gate. ‘I want a wife I can be proud of . . . not one that’s called a tart.’

And of course Elsie gave in. As Norman knew she would. It was her worst fear. That people would sneer at her behind her back.

But did anyone – apart from Norman and her family – even remember that Elsie Cameron existed?

That night Norman told Bessie the truth. He did it badly. Kept starting with: ‘Do you remember when I said . . .’

Bessie took it in her stride. ‘I’m not an idiot, Norman. I found Elsie’s love letters weeks ago. That’s what women do . . . search their men’s things.’

He was more relieved than offended. ‘And?’

‘I asked Mrs Cosham about her. She said Elsie’s got mental problems . . . and you’re the poor lad who drew the short straw. Elsie couldn’t care less who she marries, as long as she marries someone.’

‘I liked her at the beginning, Bess.’

She propped her hip against his arm. ‘You were a baby . . . chickenfeed to the first grasping woman you met. You have to be straight with her. Tell her you don’t love her any more.’

‘It’s not that easy. She gets –’ he sought for a word – ‘hysterical.’ He sighed. ‘I wish she’d just go away and leave me alone.’

‘But types like that don’t, Norm. She’ll keep at you till you do what she wants. I knew a bloke like it once. Walked out with him a couple of times and he acted as if he owned me. Even smacked me in the face once because he reckoned I was smiling at another man.’

Norman was shocked. It was one thing for Elsie to hit him, another for a man to do it to Bessie. ‘What happened?’

‘My dad sorted him out. Told him he’d take his head off his shoulders if he came near me again. It worked a treat. He left town and I never saw him again. Maybe you should ask your father to do the same for you.’

‘Dad’s never hit a woman in his life.’

‘He doesn’t need to. All he has to do is make Elsie understand that you’re never going to marry her. She might believe it if it comes from him.’

But Mr Thorne refused to do his son’s dirty work. It was three days later when he came to the farm in response to Norman’s letter. They were inside the shack, sheltering from the wind. Norman stuttered through another explanation, then asked his father to speak to Elsie on his behalf.

Mr Thorne cast a critical eye over his son’s living arrangements. ‘You can’t bring a wife into this,’ he said.

‘I know . . . but Elsie won’t listen to me, Dad. She might to you, though.’

‘Maybe she will, but it’s a shabby way to tell her you’re not going to marry her. I thought I brought you up to be more honest than that, son.’

‘You did, but—’

‘I’m disappointed in you, Norman. You’re a Methodist with Christian values. You should never have invited her here on her own.’

‘I know, but—’

‘I thought you had more sense.’

‘But I never
did
anything, Dad.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. It might have happened the way she says the first summer we were here. We got pretty close at times.’ He squeezed one fist inside the other. ‘She’s lying. I’ll eat my hat if she’s even been to a doctor.’

Mr Thorne sighed. ‘Then don’t commit yourself to a wedding until well after Christmas. If she’s telling the truth, it should be obvious by the spring. If she isn’t, you can be shot of her with a good conscience.’

‘But you don’t know what she’s like,’ Norman said wretchedly. ‘When she came here on Sunday, she was planning to stay until I married her. What if she tries that again?’

‘Show her who’s boss,’ Mr Thorne said reasonably. ‘Give her her marching orders. Put her on the train.’

Norman massaged his knuckles. ‘You’ve never seen her when she’s angry. She’s like a mad woman . . . screaming and yelling.’

‘I thought she was taking pills for her nerves.’

‘Not on Sunday, she wasn’t. She kept hitting me.’

Mr Thorne frowned. ‘It’s a bad business, son. But I did warn you.’

Tears of despair rose in Norman’s throat. ‘So what do I do?’ he asked gruffly. ‘I don’t even like her any more . . . and I sure as hell don’t want to marry her.’

‘Then keep delaying. There’s nothing else to be done. Except pray that you’re right about her not being pregnant.’

‘I am right, Dad. I don’t need to pray about it.’

‘Then
I
will,’ said Mr Thorne, standing up. ‘I’m not as arrogant as you, Norman. It’s God who decides when and how a child is born.’

‘Supposing Elsie
is
in the family way?’ Norman asked Bessie that evening. ‘No one’s going to believe it isn’t mine. I’ll have to marry her whether I like it or not.’

‘She’s not.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She can’t even persuade you to sleep with her.’

He rested his forehead in his hands. ‘She’s not that ugly, Bess.’

‘All right. Let’s say another man
has
shown an interest. Why would she want to marry you and not him?’

‘Maybe he’s married already.’

Bessie gave a grunt of amusement. ‘Oh, come on! Where would they have done it? In her parents’ bed? In his
wife’s
bed?’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘Well, her only other choice would have been a stand-up quickie in a back alley. Is she a prostitute?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘It’s you who’s being stupid, Norman. There’s no
way
Elsie can be pregnant. Your Dad’s right. You have to stick it out and call her bluff . . . even if she does make your life hell in the meantime . . .’

Blackness Road

Crowborough

Sussex

December 3rd, 1924

Dear Elsie,

Dad came to visit today. He’s not happy about a rushed wedding and says we must wait till after Christmas. Hope you understand.

Yours,