Wait For the Dawn (45 page)

Worse, he had told her that he would wait for her again in a fortnight when she went to Pershall Dean – but she must never, never see him again. She must tell him that no further meeting could ever take place. She had built a life for herself with Alfred and Davie, and she could take no chance of jeopardising any part of it.

‘Are you sure you’re all right . . .?’ Alfred was speaking again. ‘You didn’t sleep that well last night, did you?’

‘Not too well.’

‘Maybe you should go home a bit earlier today. Get a bit of rest. As Davie’s not so well, he’ll be glad to have you home.’

‘Oh, no doubt he will.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I’d like to go back a bit sooner . . .’ She frowned. ‘But we’re so busy.’

‘We’ll manage.’

As she turned from him he added, ‘I’ll pop back home meself a bit later, to have a quick cup o’ tea and a break. The others’ll hold the fort.’

It was like fate stepping in, Lydia thought as she walked back along beside the river: Alfred’s telling her to go back home well before the shop closed. It was only three o’clock, and she would have some time to herself. Davie would be having his afternoon nap now – unless his cold had interfered with his routine. She hoped he was sleeping, for she had already made up her mind how she would use this time that she had been granted.

On entering the house she took off her cape and hat and went quietly up to the nursery where she found Davie asleep in his bed. Ellen put down her sewing and rose from
her seat by the window as Lydia entered. Lydia at once put a finger to her lips. ‘How is he?’ she asked in a whisper, and the nurse replied, also keeping her voice low, that he was still fractious, and that he had only been asleep for a short while. Lydia nodded and went from the room.

It was twenty minutes to four. Tinny was nowhere around. He usually came to greet her on her appearing at the house, but today there was no sign of him. She went into the drawing room, to the little writing table near one of the French windows, drew out the chair and sat down. Then, she pulled pen and paper towards her, and after two or three aborted attempts, she eventually wrote:

9th May 1895

Dear Guy,

I am having to steal these moments to write this letter to you, and I must be brief as the time I have is short. I have to tell you – and there is no way of being kind – that we can never meet again, must never meet again. I beg you, therefore, do not come to Pershall Dean as you stated your intentions of doing. In any case there would be no point in your doing so, for from now on Alfred or one of his assistants will be visiting the seamstresses in the village; I shall no longer be making the journey. Also, do not think of ever coming to the shop again. My situation is such that I cannot risk any further meeting, and if you have the slightest feeling for me you will do as I ask. As you yourself mentioned, we only knew one another for a handful of days – and whatever feeling there was between us during that time is long past and cannot have any bearing upon the present.

Feelings change over the years, but even if mine had not, you and I would have no future together. For – simply put – I am not free. I have other claims upon my heart and my devotion, and I would do nothing that
would put at risk these treasures and all else that I now have in my life. I have so much – and because of this, I
owe
so much. I have the love of a good man, and it is through him that I have my darling son and am able to give my son the life that he has.

Guy, my life is mapped out, but yours on the other hand is still there to be trod. I beg you, make the most of it, as I hope to make the most of mine.

You will not hear from me again, and therefore it would be better if you put me quite out of your mind. If, however, you should ever think on the past, then just remember that you always have the warm wishes of

Your friend

Lydia

She set down her pen, blotted the ink, then picked up the page and read it through. It was crude and brusque, she thought, and inelegant in its phrasing, but it would have to do. She put it in an envelope from the drawer and wrote upon it Guy’s name. She had no struggle to think of his address, for she had never forgotten it. A postage stamp in the corner and it was ready.

Her cape and hat were where she had left them in the hall and she put them on. Then, taking up the letter, she left the house and walked to the nearby church where she posted it in the box that was set into the cemetery wall. Having done so she stood there for a few moments without moving, looking down at the slot in the red-painted iron post box into which it had just disappeared. It was done. There was no retrieving it. Tomorrow the letter would be in Guy’s hands, and he would read the words that she had written. True or not, they would be there in his hands, before his eyes.

She turned away, and set off back the way she had come.

Ten or twelve minutes later, as she walked around the side of the house into the stable yard, Tinny came trotting towards her, his tail wagging. He would have jumped up at her in his welcome but she bade him stay. Alarmed, she saw that he had blood around his muzzle, and she said at once, ‘Oh, Tinny, you’ve been in a fight! You poor thing. Are you hurt?’ She bent to him, avoiding his licking tongue, and looked at the bloody area around his nose and behind his right ear. ‘Be still, be still, and sit down,’ she commanded him gently, and he sat obediently. Gently moving his ear she examined the area around it. She could see no cuts or tears. ‘Well, you seem to be all right,’ she said as she straightened, ‘but you’re a mess nevertheless, and I’m not letting you into the house looking like that. Mrs Starling’ll have a fit.’ She bent again and softly patted the top of his head. ‘Stay there, like a good boy. Stay there.’

Inside, she quickly took off her cape and hat, then put on an old apron and went into the kitchen where Mrs Starling was at work. ‘Tinny’s been in a fight,’ Lydia said as she took a bucket and an old rag from underneath the sink.

Mrs Starling replied, ‘Yes, so I saw. I wouldn’t let him in the house.’

Taking the bucket and rag, Lydia went back outside and drew water from the well. Tinny came to her as she busied herself, and then stood quietly as she dipped the rag into the water and sluiced him down. ‘There – you’ll look as good as new,’ she said as he moved away and shook himself, ‘but I wonder,’ she added, ‘what the other dog looks like.’

She had carried the rest of the water over to a border and was about to empty it on to the flowers when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the cobbles. Looking across the yard, she saw Farmer Whittier riding up from the road. Tinny looked around curiously at the same moment, and stood alert, waiting as the horse and rider came on.

When Whittier drew near the back door he dismounted,
led his horse over to a side post and hitched up the reins. Then, turning to Lydia, he touched at his hat and said, ‘You’re just the one I come to see. You and another.’

Lydia was mystified. ‘I and another?’ she said. ‘Who else would that be, Mr Whittier?’

The man turned and looked at the dog. ‘That fellow there, that’s who.’

‘Tinny? But – but what could you want with Tinny?’ Then in another moment she clapped her hands to her face. ‘Oh, don’t tell me he’s been fighting with one of your dogs! Oh, dear! Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Whittier. He’s just this minute got back with blood on him, and it was obvious to me that he’d been fighting. I’ve just been giving him a wash. He’s not usually the kind to –’

She got no further, for Whittier stepped forward and said impatiently, cutting her off, ‘Blazes, missis,’ e ain’t been fightin’. No sir. He’s been at my damned sheep.’

Lydia clenched her hands before her. ‘Oh, God, no.’

The man nodded. ‘He damn well’ as. My sheep’ ave been lambin’ and I went into my field and saw the carnage there.’ The flesh around his mouth was white with his passion. ‘I got two dead lambs and a sheep as I’ll’ ave to put down for mutton, and it’s your blasted dog that’s done it. I’m sorry for my language, ma’am, but that’s the truth on it.’

Lydia could scarcely take in the awful news. ‘But – but how can you be certain that it was our dog?’ she asked. ‘There are so many dogs in the area.’

‘How? I seen the devil with me own eyes just last week, didn’t I? And that wasn’t the first time either. I knew who’ e belonged to as I’ve seen’ im out walkin’ with you, so I knew where to come.’

‘But Mr Whittier,’ Lydia said, tears welling in her eyes, ‘he wouldn’t do such a thing. He never would.’

‘You just said yourself that he come in with blood over’ im.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Well, there’s a certain way to find out, missis, and it won’t take long.’ Ave you got some butter?’

‘Butter?’

‘Yeh. Be so kind as to get some butter, will you?’

She did not move, but remained there on the cobbles. How she wished that Alfred would return. She said quickly, ‘Look, Mr Whittier, my husband will be back home soon. Couldn’t this wait until he gets back?’

‘I’d be grateful if you’d get me some butter, ma’am,’ he said shortly.

Lydia could do nothing but obey. Her skirt swirled as she turned and headed for the door. She went inside and while Mrs Starling looked at her, frowning slightly, she went to the larder and took the butter in its earthenware dish and went back out.

As she stepped forward she lifted the lid and went to hold out the dish to the man. He did not wait, however, but reached out and took it from her. She watched as he dipped in his other hand and scooped out a large piece of the yellow butter. He thrust the dish back into Lydia’s hand then turned and called to the dog: ‘Here, boy – come here, boy,’ bending slightly and patting his knee with his free hand. Tinny remained where he was, and the man turned to Lydia and said, ‘What’s’ is name? What d’you call’ im?’

‘Tinny.’

‘Tinny?’

‘Yes.’

He bent and patted his knee again. ‘Tinny? Come on, boy. There’s a good boy.’

Tinny wagged his tail and trotted across the yard.

‘Here ye go, boy.’ Whittier stooped and held out his hand with the large piece of butter sitting on his forefingers. ‘Here ye go, boy. Good boy.’

Tinny did not need a second bidding. At once he
stretched out his head and took the butter from the man’s hand in one swallow. Then, tail wagging, he licked the remaining traces from the man’s fingers.

Whittier straightened and took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand dry. ‘Now we’ll see,’ he said.

Tinny stayed there for a moment then moved away across the yard. ‘Don’t let’ im wander off,’ Whittier said to Lydia, and she called out to the dog, ‘Don’t go off, Tinny. Come here, there’s a good boy.’

Tinny stopped, turned and padded over to her. As he did so, Lydia became vaguely aware of Mrs Starling’s curious face at the scullery window.

‘Tell’ im to stop there,’ Whittier said.

Lydia nodded and stretched out her hand to the dog. ‘Stay, Tinny. Sit. Sit down.’

Obediently the dog sat.

Lydia looked from Tinny to the man, but Whittier kept his eyes only on the dog. The seconds ticked by, and Tinny remained sitting on the cobbles near the back step, looking up at Lydia, as if waiting for another word from her.

Then all at once the dog gave a sort of cough, got to his feet, stretched out his head and retched. Lydia took a step forward, but Whittier put out a hand and said sharply, ‘Leave’ im be.’

Tinny retched again, his sides heaving, his head jerking, and then suddenly, after one great spasm, he vomited violently onto the cobbles.

Lydia looked down at the disgusting mess and, gasping, put a hand to her mouth. Whittier ignored her and stepped forward. Bending, he put out a hand and pushed the dog to the side. Then, with the same hand, he dug into the vomit, fingers stirring, and held up a dripping gout of flesh and sheep’s wool.

‘There you are, missis. If you wants proof, there it is.’

Lydia said, ‘What? What?’ and the man held out his hand with the mess on the ends of his fingers.

‘Sheep wool, for God’s sake! Can’t you see?’

She had no time to debate the matter, however, or even to comment upon it, for Whittier turned on the spot and moved back across the yard to his horse. Another five seconds and he had taken a shotgun from a strap on the horse’s side and was striding back. Lydia’s mouth opened and she gasped in horror as the man stooped and hooked two fingers under Tinny’s collar, dragging the dog away.

‘No!’ Lydia cried. ‘No! What are you doing?’ She went to reach out to the man but he was too quick for her and in moments he had taken Tinny out of her sight around the end of the house. Quickly she followed.

Seeing what he was intent on doing she cried out, ‘Oh, Mr Whittier, please! Whatever he’s done I’ll make sure it never happens again.’ She was weeping, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I’ll make sure he’s never let out of the house on his own.
Please
.’

Whittier took no notice of her, but released the dog and gave it a sharp command to sit. Obediently the dog did so. They were out of sight of the scullery door now, and hidden from the windows of the house and the yard by a little screen of privet hedge. Whittier said to Lydia, ‘If you don’t want to watch this, missis, I suggest you go into the’ ouse.’

As he cocked the shotgun, Lydia said, ‘Oh, no, wait – wait. You can’t do this. Please, God, you can’t.’

‘I’m within my rights,’ he said, and raised the weapon to his shoulder and pointed it at the back of Tinny’s trusting skull.

Lydia had no further time to speak for the next second the trigger was pulled and the gun fired. The sound of the shot, deafening and exploding into the soft spring air, rang out, echoing and re-echoing, and then swiftly diminished into a stillness in which all sound was hushed. Just as the
birds stopped their singing, so Lydia’s own breath was stilled.

The shot had shattered the dog’s head, blasting it apart and splattering blood and brains and bone over the earth and the cobbles. Tinny dropped on the spot. His legs twitched and trembled for a second and then he was still.

Lydia heard screams erupting into the quiet and realised that the sound was coming from her own lips. She stood with her mouth wide open, hands clutching at her face, and tears streaming. Whittier said to her with a little nod of his head, ‘I’m sorry about this, missis, but there’s nothin’ else for it. It’ as to be.’