Our Lizzie (52 page)

He was halfway up the stairs when he got the idea, gasping aloud as he realised its implications. He hesitated just for a moment then nodded, squared his shoulders and marched into her room.

“Emma?”

She was lying in a huddle of bedclothes, her face pale and her expression vacant. She looked a mere shadow of the vivacious and energetic woman he knew. His heart twisted with pity.

“Emma, I've brought you a cup of tea.”

She didn't even turn her head.

He set the cup down beside the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, taking her hand in his. “Emma, you have to pull yourself together, for the baby's sake.”

Very slowly, her eyes turned towards him. “You know?”

“Your sister told me. She's very upset. Says you're not eating.”

“Not feeling hungry. Not feeling anything.” She closed her eyes.

He stared at her. Gentleness wouldn't work, so he shook her hard and her eyes flew open again in shock. “Pull yourself together, woman!”

She tried to push him away. “Leave me be, Percy Kershaw! What do you know about love?”

“As much as you.” He glared at her. “I've loved you for years and known you didn't even see me because of him. Don't tell me about love!” He jerked her into a sitting position, stuffing the pillows behind her anyhow. “And don't lie there full of self-pity when you're carrying his child. If you knew what I'd give to have a child … You're blessed, Emma Harper, and lucky, too, because you've got something good left out of all this mess.”

She started to sob then, but he'd seen the light come back into her eyes, so he just reached out and held her, patting her shoulder and letting the storm of weeping bring her back to life. It was short but violent and when it had died down, he sat her up again and offered the cup of tea. “It's still warm. Get some down you.”

Obediently she sipped, then gulped down the whole cup, as if she had suddenly rediscovered thirst. She was shivering a little.

Percy looked round the room and found a shawl. He brought it across and draped it round her shoulders, then picked up the empty cup. “I'll be back with another and something to eat.”

As he went downstairs, he heard her cross the landing to the bathroom. When he went back, he carried another brimming cup and a plate of roughly hacked bread and jam—for Miss Harper was of no use to man or beast at the moment, just lying back in an armchair by the fire looking drained of all ability to move.

“Sorry the bread's such a mess. I've never been good at cutting it thinly. Besides, you need something to stick to your ribs.”

Emma toyed with the plate for a moment, then looked at him and managed a watery smile. “Thank you, Percy. I couldn't seem to—to climb out of the hole—everything seemed so dark and so—” Her voice faded away.

He patted her hand. “I know.”

“You're a good friend.”

He hesitated, then decided to risk all. “I'd like to be more than a friend. And you
need
more than a friend.”

She frowned at him, not understanding.

“You're carrying a child. You're not the first, especially since this war started, but the old biddies will soon be tattling about you. What you need is a husband.” He picked up her hand. “Emma, I know you don't love me, but I love you, and I can't think of anything I'd like better than to marry you. For the sake of the child, could you consider it?”

“But—it's someone else's child.”

“I know.” He started fiddling with the counterpane. “But I'd be the best father I know how. I love children. I've always regretted—well, you know how things were at our house. I could never have asked any woman to marry me and put up with that.”

She stared at him, feeling as if she'd never seen him clearly. Percy was so different from James, so colourless compared to him. And yet he had his own integrity. He'd stuck with his mother through thick and thin, done his best for his brother and sisters, not complained. She'd always felt comfortable with him.

He didn't meet her eyes as he added in a gruff voice, “And if you don't want me to touch you—afterwards—well, I won't.”

Silence filled the room.

He waited as she stared down at her steaming cup.

Emma raised eyes brimming with tears and said, “You're the nicest man I've ever known, Percy Kershaw.”

“And?”

“And I'll give your suggestion consideration.” She lay back against the pillow. “I need a little time to—to think it over, to come to terms…” Her voice faded away.

He nodded. “I'll leave you in peace, then.”

She reached out to clasp his hand for a moment. “Thank you, Percy.”

When he left the house, he forgot about going to visit his sister, forgot about everything, for he was consumed by hope, the first hope of real happiness for himself he had seen in a long time. He could ask nothing better than to look after Emma, be with her, raise a child—never mind if that child wasn't his. Children weren't hard to love.

*   *   *

Keeping one eye on Lizzie, Sam unwrapped the parcel carefully. She knew what it was. He'd seen the sudden jerk of recognition then the look of fear in her eyes, though she'd only shot one glance at him before concentrating on her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.

He unfolded the paper and smoothed it back. “Letters.” He glanced at his wife and waited for a reaction, but got none. She was so still, she might have been as frozen as the icy streets outside. So still he could hardly even see her breasts rising and falling.

“Addressed to you,” he said, picking up an envelope. Then the breath caught in his throat, for the letter was from the Front and the name on the back was one he loathed with an intensity that sat waiting in his belly to unleash itself every time he heard the name Dearden.

But still he managed to control himself. He had promised Ronnie not to touch her. Promised. Moving with extreme care, he pulled the first letter out of its envelope and opened it. “Nice handwriting.”

Lizzie had closed her eyes and her whole body spoke of waiting for disaster to strike.

He read it slowly. One of many, this, all carefully preserved. That bugger spoke of missing her, of visits to the cinema together.

Sam heard a rustling sound, heard the air wheezing in and out of his lungs, heard a faint rumble of anger. It was the sounds he clung to, because what he wanted to do was murder her, choke the life out of her. But he had murdered his unborn child and that had hurt him as much as her. If he murdered Lizzie, he realised suddenly, he would have no reason for living himself.

“How long has this been going on?” he demanded sarcastically.

“Nothing's been going on but a few letters.”

“You kept them! You tied them up with ribbons.” He screwed up the first letter and tossed it aside, tearing open the next one, reading part of it, then tossing that aside too.

When he read the third one, however, the words seemed to burn themselves into his brain. This time Peter bloody Dearden didn't only speak of missing her; he spoke of the future, of his hopes that somehow they would solve her problems and find a way to be together.

With a great roar of rage, Sam lost control of himself and knocked her off her chair. Then he picked her up, slapped her face and threw her across the room. The world seemed full of his rage, burning, consuming him, tearing its way out. From far away he heard some animal sounds of pain and that brought him momentarily to his senses. He looked down, still shuddering with great waves of rage, and saw her face, saw his own hands squeezing her throat, saw the bruise on her cheek.

He also saw Ronnie's face.

“Any man would have hit her,” he told it.

“
You promised
,” said the phantom. “
Promised, promised, promised
.”

Sam's hands slackened round her throat and she rasped in some breath. He shoved her aside, then crawled across the room, picked up the letters and hurled them into the fire. After that, knowing he'd kill her if he stayed a minute longer, he rushed out of the house, coatless, hatless, totally unaware of the snow which was falling again, or the ice which made it hard to stay upright.

When he fell, he picked himself up again. When he saw the lights of the pub, he rushed inside. And Ronnie floated beside him all the way, pale face full of accusation.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was a while before Lizzie regained full consciousness. She moaned as she tried to swallow, for her throat hurt. Her head hurt, too, and she couldn't move one arm. When she tried to get up, she nearly fainted with the pain. The arm must be broken.

That didn't seem to matter. What mattered was where Sam was. She listened carefully and heard nothing moving inside the house. Then she felt the icy draught from the open front door.

He'd gone out, then!

But he'd be back.

She had to get away while she could. Whimpering, she tried to stand up and had to crawl across to a chair and use that to lever herself upright. She sat on the edge of it for a minute, remembering what had happened. Not just the rage, but the pain in his face. It was then she noticed the pieces of burnt letter in the hearth and that reminded her.

Why was she just sitting here? She had to get away. Only—he'd stolen her money. She couldn't go far without money. He didn't keep it on him, so where had he put it? She had to think.

Her eyes lit on the table and she saw the teapot standing there amid a broken mess of crockery. Suddenly she felt desperately thirsty and heaved herself to her feet, staggering across to fumble with a cup, sobbing with relief to find the pot half full of cold tea. She gulped some down and let out a mew of pain at how much that hurt her throat.

Did Sam think he'd killed her? She hoped so. But if he came back and saw her alive, he would surely finish the job.

“I wasn't unfaithful!” she sobbed. “I only saw Peter for that one week. It was all letters, Sam. Just letters.”

But even if he'd been here, he'd not have listened to her. And anyway, it was more than letters. It was feelings, hers and Peter's. But she'd always known it'd come to nothing. And she hadn't been unfaithful.

Where had Sam put her money?

She looked round the room, feeling very strange and distant. Not in here, she decided. I'd have noticed it. Then she remembered seeing him coming out of the front room the previous day as she stood on the landing, watching for an opportunity to run away. He'd been putting something in his pocket. And he'd gone into the front room that first day, too. Excitement gave her strength. The money must be in there. It must.

It took a huge effort to stand up and stagger to the door. She clung to the frame for a moment, then launched herself across the hall, holding her broken arm with her good hand, leaning against the wall of the front room just inside the door and staring round. Where could he have hidden the money? She looked from one piece of furniture to another. She'd polished every inch of them when they were first married. She knew there was nowhere to hide money in them. Well, she'd have found it if there was, wouldn't she? Besides, furniture could be moved, taken away. Sam wouldn't have gone overseas and left his savings in a piece of furniture. She was sure of that.

She looked down at her feet, which seemed to be coming and going, wavering. The floor! Excitement filled her, giving her extra strength. It'd be under the floorboards. But she couldn't pull them all up and she'd never heard him moving the furniture, so it mustn't be under anything. She had to think, had to. And act quickly. If she got to Percy, surely he'd help her to get away when he saw how badly Sam had hurt her again?

*   *   *

In town, Sam staggered into the Carter's Rest, looking so wild and strange that men edged away from him. He didn't even notice them. He clumped across to the bar, snowflakes melting on his face, unaware that the cold and wind had chapped his face a mottled red and turned his fingers blue-white.

“Is something wrong, lad?” one of his old friends dared to ask.

“Sod off!” Sam thumped on the bar. “Pint an' a double rum. An' quick.” He slapped a couple of pound notes on the surface. “Put this in a pot an' let me know when y'need some more.” He leaned across the bar, breathing loudly and unevenly. “An' when y'see my glass empty, bring me another.”

He spied a free table in one corner and made his way across to it, weaving to and fro. No one got in his way.

“He's drunk already,” the barmaid whispered to her employer. “Shall I serve him more?”

“Aye. As long as he's paying.” But he went away to alert a couple of the lads to a possible need for their help in turfing out an unruly customer, and he kept an eye on that corner. Only for once, Sam Thoxby didn't seem violent, just sat there, sipping his drink, looking hunched and miserable.

After a while, the buzz of conversation started up again, but people kept glancing towards the corner, as if expecting trouble. Within half an hour the nearby tables had emptied and Sam was alone.

As he drank, he muttered to himself. A little later, he began to argue with the shade of Ronnie, which seemed to be hovering nearby. “I couldn't help it!” he protested. “Any man would've thumped her for that. Anyone!”

“You promised,”
whispered the shade.
“Promised, promised, promised.”
It had been dogging him ever since he left Maidham Street, going on and on and on.

Contrary to the landlord's expectations, Sam did not grow argumentative, except with himself. He muttered and gesticulated and from time to time turned his shoulder away from an invisible companion, but he caused no trouble. And he paid for one drink after another, pouring them down his throat in great gulps.

When it came time to close the pub, the landlord took a deep breath and went over to the corner. His two helpers hovered nearby. “Time for me to close up now, lad,” he said with forced geniality to Sam. When he got no answer, he repeated his statement.