Читать книгу Hunter’s Moon - Alexandra Connor - Страница 25

The family had returned to the house at Werneth Heights, Oldham two months earlier, but before long Mrs Arnold and her daughter, Dorothy, would be off again to winter in the sun. Somewhere in France, although no one outside the family knew exactly where. Old man Arnold liked to keep his life, and that of his family, private. He also liked to have time to himself, so he encouraged Alwyn and Dorothy to go away each year. After all, he wasn’t left alone.

There was Dorothy’s husband, for a start. Poor stammering Leonard, left with the old man of whom he was terrified. Ten years earlier Leonard Tripps had been introduced to Dorothy Arnold by mutual acquaintances. He had been smitten at once. She was handsome, easy to fall in love with. Her father had been another matter …

Leonard watched the old man unfasten his jacket and sit down at his desk in the den. He liked to think that he had won Judge Arnold over by his personality, but he knew he was fooling himself. His family’s fortune was what had cemented the alliance between the Trippses and the Arnolds, an impressive rubber business being far more appealing that any of his personal virtues.

Their marriage was a great – though private – event in Oldham, and Leonard never once complained about taking on the upbringing of his wife’s nephew, Charlie. He never complained because it would have done him no good; Dorothy had taken over the care of her nephew since her sister’s death and thought of him as her child. What could Leonard say in the face of such commitment?

The tragedy which had left Charlie homeless was seldom referred to, but Leonard was well aware of the background. He knew that Catherine and David Lewes had had a daughter too – a baby, very much her father’s pet. So much so, that when he killed the child’s mother Dorothy could no longer stand the sight of her niece and had her sent away.

Years earlier, whilst the event was still fresh in some people’s mind, Leonard wondered if anyone realised how great a part Dorothy had played in the banishing of her dead sister’s child. He supposed that they did not, instead jumping to the conclusion that it had been Judge Arnold’s decision. After all, people would never believe that the gentle Dorothy would do anything so callous. But Judge Arnold didn’t give a damn what people thought – ‘If they want to make me out to be even more of a monster, let them. I should worry.’

‘Leonard.’

Startled out of his reverie, he looked over to his father-in-law. ‘Y-y-yes, sir?’

‘I’m wondering where Charlie is.’

Leonard smiled weakly. Charlie would be up in his room, writing. Charlie was convinced that he was borderline genius, and his grandparents and Dorothy had encouraged the delusion. Yet Charlie’s historical plays – so interminably long and so frequent – were, to Leonard, a subtle, innovative form of torture. He believed with all his heart that if the Army had had the use of Charlie’s literary ramblings in the war, the Germans would have surrendered at the second paragraph.

‘I t-t-think he’s upstairs, writing.’

‘Good boy,’ Judge Arnold said approvingly. ‘I always wonder where he got his talent.’

Leonard thought it came naturally, like belching, but simply smiled. What could you say about the favourite which wouldn’t sound like sour grapes? In fact, despite himself, Leonard had grown quite fond of Charlie over the years. He was spoiled, at times idiotic, but harmless. Fun, if you caught him in the right mood. Short, swarthy and even-featured, at twenty Charlie was good-looking without any sensuality – not like his father or his mother, more like a collage of all the Arnolds.

Leonard stretched out his legs before him, relaxing. Then he saw Judge Arnold look over and sat upright again. He wondered, for the thousandth time what his father-in-law’s Christian name really was. Then he smiled to himself. Maybe the old tyrant was called Cecil, or Hector.

‘What’s so funny?’

Leonard shook his head. ‘I w-w-was just r-r-remembering a joke,’ he said deftly.

‘So let’s hear it then.’

Leonard hadn’t been in the Arnold family, under the same roof, without having learned to be quick on his feet. His speech might judder like semaphore, but his brain was nimble enough.

‘The joke g-g-goes like this,’ he began. ‘What is the difference b-b-between a duck and a solicitor?’

Judge Arnold thought for a moment, then waved his hand impatiently. ‘I don’t know – what is the difference between a duck and a solicitor?’

‘You can’t tell a s-s-solicitor to stick his b-b-bill up his arse,’ Leonard said triumphantly.

He had the satisfaction of seeing the old man’s face slacken and then burst into laughter.

‘Bloody funny, Leonard! Bloody funny!’ Judge Arnold said approvingly. ‘I’ll tell them that at the club tonight.’

Turning back to his desk, Judge Arnold was soon immersed in work. Watching him, Leonard thought about Charlie, and then his own son, Robin. He missed him, always did when he was with Dorothy, but she would insist on taking him away with her for the summer.

‘The heat is good for him,’ she’d say. ‘Honestly, darling, I know what’s best for our baby.’

Leonard didn’t like to tell her that what was best for their baby was spending equal amounts of time with both parents. To another woman he could have said, ‘No, you stay at home with me and we’ll go away together when I have free time,’ but how could he say that to Dorothy?

The old man had made it clear from the first. Dorothy had suffered profoundly. She had found her murdered sister’s body – what greater shock could any woman ever have? To find Catherine hacked to death was enough to turn a person’s mind. It was to her credit, Judge Arnold had said, that Dorothy was strong enough to recover. From now onwards, they would have to see that her life was lived on an even keel. God knows, the old man had gone on, things had been terrible for a while. Straight after the murder the whole family had gone abroad, and only gradually could they face the house again – and the memory of Catherine’s death.

So Dorothy was treated gingerly, her life kept as sweet as possible. If she ever thought of the murder – and Leonard had suspected many times over the years that she had – it was not to him that she turned. It was to the old man.

Three generations were under one roof, all ruled by him. And yet, Leonard thought, each of them, even the four-year-old Robin, lived separate lives. They might share some of the same rooms, and occupy the same address, but there was a distance between them which was eerie. Perhaps, Leonard mused, there was so much horror in the past, everyone had suppressed his or her feelings so much, that there was no elasticity of spirit any longer. Too many dark comers and hidden memories had culminated in a family living together, but emotionally apart.

Leonard could endure it, but he didn’t want the same for his son. Dorothy would spoil the child too much, Robin would end up like the friendly and foolish Charlie, and Leonard didn’t want that. He knew he was a weak man himself, but he didn’t want his son to be the same. Money and power were Robin’s birthright, but he needed something else – judgement and compassion.

Dorothy had suffered, yes, but she had acted ruthlessly with regard to her niece. Leonard would never forget that, nor condone it. Besides, her parents should have forbidden the action. The child was not to blame for its birth, nor for not being the favourite.

Leonard had always suspected that there was more to it, and knew from something Alwyn had once said – in a rare unguarded moment – that the baby had rejected Dorothy and cried incessantly for her father. Charlie had taken to Dorothy at once, but not the infant girl. How like his wife, Leonard thought, to punish the child for disliking her.

As he sat there musing, a sudden and strange sensation came over Leonard. He realised with astonishment that if he never saw his wife again he would hardly miss her. But he would miss his son. He would definitely miss his son …

Sighing, he rose to his feet and walked out. And his father-in-law watched him go – just as he watched everyone.

Mr Dedlington was uneasy, hanging around Victor as he finished off planing a bookcase. Aware of his scrutiny, Victor was unexpectedly clumsy, scratching the mahogany surface and hearing a sharp intake of breath behind him.

‘Sorry, Mr Dedlington. I can fix it.’

‘Lad, I wanted a word with you.’

As Victor turned round, his employer glanced away. Victor knew the look – bad news was coming.

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve had a visit, lad, from Miss Lees.’ A pause, long enough to let the name do its damage. ‘Look, I have a business to run, and I rely on Netherlands to supply me with apprentices. I always have done. My father did before me. It’s an arrangement I’ve had with the home for years now.’

‘Isn’t my work good enough?’ Victor asked, knowing that it had nothing to do with his skill. No, he thought to himself, don’t you turn against me. Please.

‘It’s not that, Victor. It’s just that the arrangement with your young lady is not respectable –’

‘We’re getting married, and you know there’s nothing wrong in it. I sleep here, on your couch every night.’

Mr Dedlington waved aside the objection. He didn’t like the situation he had been forced into, but he had no choice. He had a business to run, a wife and family to support. Victor Coates wasn’t his responsibility. He had given the lad a chance, what more could he be expected to do?

‘It’s like this, Victor. You have to leave my employ – unless you part company with your young lady, and then you’re welcome to stay and finish your apprenticeship.’

Victor blinked, stung. ‘What?’

‘It might be for the best.’

Laying down the plane, Victor stared at the older man.

‘How could it be for the best?’

‘I’m not sacking you, lad; my argument’s not with you.’

‘But with Alice?’ Victor countered shortly. ‘What’s she ever done to hurt you?’

‘Nothing,’ Mr Dedlington snapped, rubbing his forehead with his stubby hands. ‘The world’s not fair, lad. Things don’t work out the way we want.’ His voice dropped. ‘They’ve got me over a barrel, Victor. If you don’t break it off with Alice, you can look for work elsewhere.’

Victor stared at Mr Dedlington and saw him colour. He had thought it was such a kindness for his employer to help him, to find them the house to rent on Trafalgar Street. Mr Dedlington had loaned him money – a debt which had yet to be repaid – but having supported the couple so willingly it was a bitter blow that he was now turning on them.

‘I can’t give her up.’ Sickened, Victor heard his voice harden.

‘Then you lose your job,’ Mr Dedlington replied, ‘and you owe me money, Victor. Don’t forget that. A debt’s a debt.’

‘I’ll pay it back!’

‘If you leave, I want the money on the day you leave.’

Victor stared at him, stupefied. ‘You know I can’t do that! I don’t have any money.’

‘So keep your job.’

It was blackmail, Victor realised. Neither he nor Alice had really escaped Netherlands. Clare Lees was still pulling the strings, still determined to get even with the protégée who had betrayed her.

‘I can’t give Alice up,’ Victor repeated. ‘What would happen to her without me? I love her, I can’t abandon her.’

‘She could get a job, she’d cope. Other woman do it all the time,’ Mr Dedlington said sharply. He was in the wrong, and knew it. His guilt made him defensive. ‘There are enough jobs going in this town. She’ll not starve.’

‘What possible good would it do you for me to break up with her?’

The older man stared Victor in the face. ‘I’ve told you. I’ve a business to run. I’m not your father; I don’t have to mollycoddle you, or your girl. Life’s hard, Victor –’

Furiously, Victor threw down his plane and snatched up his coat. At the door he turned and looked back to his employer.

‘I know life’s hard! It always has been for me – and for Alice. Nothing came easy to either of us, but I would never have let down someone in trouble.’

Mr Dedlington was stung by the remark and turned away from the accusing look in Victor’s eyes.

‘You either report for work tomorrow and tell me that it’s over, or you don’t come back at all. And you’ve a debt outstanding, don’t forget that. The choice is yours. But remember, Victor, there are many lads who would like your job. That girl’s trouble. She came from trouble and she’s already caused you plenty. Think on that you’re not taking on too much to handle.’

Twenty minutes later Victor let himself into the house in Trafalgar Street. The cool damp air hit him as he entered and, looking round, he saw for the first time how really gloomy the place was. He hadn’t noticed when they first came; had been too caught up in the excitement. But now he saw it as others did – as Alice must.

He missed her with sudden, hard longing. Life without Alice, without coming to see her, without dreaming of their future together – that wouldn’t be a life. He would starve, die for her, die with her. But leave her? Never.

Calling out for Alice, Victor walked into the kitchen. The room was tidy. Lately she had spruced up the tired little house, bringing in flowers and lighting a small fire in the grate. She had even propped up some cheap postcards on the mantel, trying to make it look as though it was their home, as though they had had a history together.

His heart shifting, Victor then noticed a plate, covered by a cloth, laid out for him. Beside it was a note.

Dearest Victor,

I have gone out for a while, but will be back soon. Your supper’s ready for you.

Loving you, always, always, always,

Your Alice

Touched, he lifted the cloth. She had made him sandwiches, cut into delicate shapes, a bar of cheap toffee lying next to them. His favourite. The sight moved him so much that he sat down, staring at her note. He couldn’t live without her, he wouldn’t live without her. They would survive. He would find another job, it would work out.

The sound of the door opening brought him back to his senses. Walking in, Alice smiled at him.

‘Hello, love. Have you just got in?’

How could he live without hearing that voice, seeing those eyes? It was absurd. Let her out of his life? She was his life.

‘Just now.’

She touched his cheek. ‘You look worried, what is it?’

‘Nothing.’

But she knew him too well to be fooled. Two orphan children, they had bonded to each other so completely that their thoughts and emotions were read as easily by each other as someone else would read a newspaper.

‘Come on, Victor, tell me.’

He settled her on his lap. ‘There’s a problem at work …’

‘No!’ she said anxiously. ‘You love it there.’

‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’

She wasn’t fooled; felt the lie. ‘Victor, what is it?’

‘Nothing. Honestly nothing.’

‘What is it?’ she repeated.

‘Mr Dedlington’s been … He’s seen Clare Lees.’ Alice’s eyes fixed on Victor anxiously. ‘She came to see him – and said that it would be better for his business if we broke up.’

Alice said nothing. She had hoped to come home and be able to talk about what she had discovered. About the fact that she had a sibling. She had wanted to tell Victor that it was all true. She had come from a fortune, from a great family – just as she had always imagined. She had wanted to tell him that Judge Arnold had seen his granddaughter put away. In fact, she had wanted to cry about it and let Victor tell her that it was all right, because they had each other. She wanted to know that she wasn’t alone.

But now she looked at Victor and realised that his life and career were about to penalised because of her. He would lose his job if he stayed with her, and all the future prosperity he looked forward to. His talent would be wasted. And why? Because he loved her. Victor Coates, honest, hard-working Victor loved Alice Rimmer, the offspring of a murderer. The carrier of bad blood.

It was not going to end, or be forgotten, Alice realised. She had suspected as much when she first heard the truth from Evan Thomas’s lips. Indeed, her first instinct had been to run out of Victor’s life, but he had stopped her. And now what had happened? His job was at stake because of her. And how many other jobs, other opportunities, would be lost because of her? Would Victor spend his life forever held back by the woman he loved?

And would any love last under such pressure? Alice felt her eyes fill but bit her lip hard to stop herself crying.

‘I’m not going to leave you,’ Victor said firmly. ‘I would never do that.’

‘You need your job. You’ve been Mr Dedlington’s apprentice for years. You’re going to finish your apprenticeship before long, Victor – be able to make some real money. If you lose that, what else is there for you? A job in the mill? Gasworks?’ She shook her head. ‘No, you deserve that job. It was the first good thing that happened to you.’

‘And you were the second,’ he replied, lifting her hand and kissing the tip of each finger. ‘How could I give you up, Alice? How could I work and sleep and think without you?’ His grip tightened on her hand. ‘You and I are a pair. We only have each other.’

‘It’s because of who I am,’ Alice said quietly, her voice dull. ‘Mr Dedlington’s old enough to remember what happened nearly twenty years ago – how many others are?’

‘It’s old news. People forget. No one else knows –’

‘Clare Lees and Evan Thomas know,’ she replied evenly, then dropped her head. ‘I’m not lucky for you, Victor. Nothing’s gone right since you met me.’

Helplessly he buried his face in her neck. ‘Don’t say that! You’re everything to me, Alice. We only have each other. I don’t care about the job, it’s not important. I just want you.’

Tenderly she kissed the top of his head, her eyes wandering to the corner of the room and resting on an old table. It was rickety, badly made, crude. Victor would never make anything like that, she thought. He created beautiful things, objects which rich people would buy. His hands could earn him money, raise him in the world. She could only hold him back.

Her gaze stayed on the chair, her heart closing down. She could see the images in the old newspaper clippings – her mother, her father, Judge Arnold. She could have been someone – not an orphan, patronised into submission. But it was worse than that: she wasn’t just a foundling, she was damned, marked out by her father’s actions. And how much of him was in her? She knew how excitable, how fired up she could get; knew how anger burned inside her, how she raged inwardly. It had even frightened her sometimes. When she was growing up she had thought that others must feel the same, but they didn’t. Ethel and Gilbert didn’t. Victor didn’t. Only she.

And why was that? Because she was like her father? She didn’t know, but she was afraid that she might be. Did she really want Victor to suffer for her? To lose out? Worse, did she ever want to look at him and see that he had become wary of her? Or, God forbid, frightened? And even if that never happened, would he grow to resent her for hindering him? No, Alice thought desperately, no, Victor. I love you too much to risk that.

Infinitely gentle, she nuzzled his hair and drank in the scent of him. She committed it to memory, so that she would never forget it. Love was not going to save her; it was not going to be that simple. Her life was not going to follow a calm route. At Netherlands, they had been separated by iron railings. Outside, in the real world, it was the iron will of one woman who was separating them again.

Clare Lees. Alice shuddered, her chest hollow, empty. Silent, Victor held on to her, their bodies fitting together so perfectly, so tenderly, as they had always done. Clare Lees. And Judge Arnold. Clare Lees, Judge Arnold … Alice repeated the names in her head and stared blankly at the chair in the corner whilst deciding on the course of action which would change her life for ever.