A Dorset Girl Page 5

  The man’s eyes sharpened. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t need the girl’s permission. I’m her father, see.’

  Mrs Leeman’s hands went to her hips. ‘Everybody knows you’re no such thing, Bill Skinner.’

  ‘Stepfather then. Same thing, ain’t it?’ Skinner turned to him, indignation in his eyes. ‘I’ve brought that girl up since she was a newborn babby. Married her mother too, and from the goodness of my heart, ’cause I didn’t have to, what with her being a bit free with her favours, and all.’ His voice took on a self-pitying whine that set Richard’s teeth on edge. ‘Gave them both a home all these years with every shilling I’ve earned going to keep a roof over the girl’s head and food in her belly. Now it’s her turn to help the family. She wouldn’t want her mother to suffer, now, would she?’

  ‘Indeed, she would not. In fact, I believe she’s been giving half of her wage every week towards keeping the family.’

  ‘Has she now,’ Bill said quietly, ‘that’s right good of her.’

  Realizing his mistake, Richard hastily opened the book, exposing the column of neat figures. ‘Now, how much did you say she had?’

  The man’s eyes darted to the figures on the page and his forehead furrowed. ‘Now, let me see. She’s been working here for . . . ?’ Skinner gazed at him, his eyes sly. ‘How many weeks be it, I forget?’

  When Richard didn’t offer him an answer he noisily cleared his throat. ‘I forget ’zactly how much she said she had put aside. I reckon four shillings might cover it.’

  Richard looked dubious. ‘Mmmm . . .’

  ‘Three, then, I think I remember her saying it was,’ said Skinner hastily.

  Getting him to take less would mean lying, so Richard took some coins from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘I’ll need a receipt for that, so it’s all above board. Mrs Leeman, I’d be obliged if you’d be good enough to fetch me my writing implements, then perhaps you would witness the transaction.’

  A few moments later, Bill Skinner laboriously made his mark at the bottom of the page and slipped the money in his pocket. He glanced up, his eyes hardening. ‘I reckon I’ll be picking up Siana’s wages myself from now on, sir. We’ll be needing them with the new babby coming, and all. And if she’s to work for you, we’ll have to agree on a set amount. That way both of us will know ’zactly where we stand.’

  Richard’s heart sank. He might have saved Siana a few shillings this time without lying, but from now on she’d be lucky if she saw a penny for her efforts.

  Much later that evening, Bill Skinner left the inn with another man. They shook hands, then parted company, the second man mounting his horse and heading in the opposite direction.

  Bill looked up at the sky, grinning drunkenly. The storm was almost upon them. The roiling black clouds were outlined with flashes of brilliant light – light which stripped darkness from the land to reveal a stark, bleached landscape. It wasn’t raining yet, but the trees were a frenzy of flaying twigs stripped of leaves. The grass bent low, cowed by the relentless fury of the wind. The air roared with its might and power.

  None of this bothered Bill. His belly contained enough rum to warm him against the toughest storm. Far from being sleepy, his brain was sharpened by the drink – it had magnified the grievance he’d nurtured all evening, and the blast of fresh air had cleared his head, which had now come up with the solution.

  ‘Deceivers,’ he mumbled, ‘I’ll show the ungrateful cows,’ and he headed for home. His smock flattened against his stocky body at the front and billowed out behind him, so he resembled an avenging angel flying on the wind as he left the village and headed onto the lane, which wound up the hill. It was wilder up there, the air smelled of salt and it started to rain. Soon, the drizzle turned to fat drops, then became icy, slanting needles that penetrated his clothes. He began to curse as depression threatened to overtake the warm glow the rum had given him.

  Stopping in the shelter of a tree he tipped the remaining liquid down his gullet. His innards absorbed the fiery alcohol and sent it pulsing through every vein in his body.

  As he flung the bottle from him, he felt his power surging back. He scratched himself between the legs, then grinned and shifted himself to one side for comfort. By heck he was ready for it tonight. He’d give it to her good, that would teach her to deceive him. He might even give it to Siana – it were about time she had a man, and it was about time he profited from keeping her all these years.

  Then he remembered. ‘No, not her,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve made arrangements for that maiden. If all goes well, there’ll be a nice fat fee for me. Sod scrubbing the reverend’s floors. She can make more money lying on her back for the gentry.’

  Lightning flashed, revealing eyes red and rum-maddened. In the distance he saw a light flickering. A candle, by God! The extravagance of it. Did the silly cow think he was made of money? Ignoring the roaring storm he began to run, his feet squelching through the mud.

  The Skinner cottage was bigger than the thatched cottages of the village. A roughly erected two-storey dwelling of red brick topped by grey slates, the crumbling mortar was kept intact by the stranglehold the ivy had on the walls.

  The top storey consisted of two windowless rooms. In one slept Siana, Josh and Daisy. A straw mattress served as a bed for the three of them, their bodies huddling together under a ragged blanket for warmth in the winter months.

  The second room usually served for Megan and her husband, through of late Megan had found it too difficult to climb the ladder and squeeze though the small square loft opening. She slept as best she could downstairs, usually on the kitchen table. It kept her off the packed dirt floor which absorbed the rain trickling under the door and over the step on wet days.

  Siana had shared a dish of weak tea with her mother, who seemed dispirited and listless. Bill Skinner’s dinner was in the cast-iron pot hanging over the glowing ashes. Shreds of bacon floated in the thin potato broth. The broth would serve as Bill’s breakfast as well, and had been more than Megan and her daughter had eaten.

  Siana kissed her mother goodnight and climbed the ladder. Josh was snoring. Keeping her clothes on for the warmth they offered, she drew Daisy into her arms and was soon fast asleep.

  Downstairs, Megan waited for her husband to come home. The wind sent smoke puffing down the chimney, making her cough. A feeling of unease was strong in her. Weather like this brought out her Welshness. She wondered what her family was doing now and an image of Grandmother Lewis flashed into her mind. If she was still alive, she’d be nearing eighty.

  Megan’s hands went to her stomach, to the dead infant inside. There was nothing for the babby in this world but misery, so it was best off out of it. A wave of depression flooded over her. Throwing her apron over her face she began to rock backwards and forwards, weeping bitter tears of despair.

  A sudden gust of wind sent the door crashing back against the wall and the flame flying from the candle. A shower of sparks was coughed out from the grate, turning the plunge into darkness into a swirling, fiery hell.

  Before Megan could gather her wits together, something crashed against the side of her head sending her sideways to the floor. Then Bill was into her, fists pummelling at her face, his boots thumping into her body. Blood spurted from her nose as the bone broke. It filled her mouth and lodged in her throat, making her gag. She managed to turn on her side and draw her knees up.

  ‘You lying Welsh whore,’ he yelled and his stick came whistling down across her back. She managed to draw in some air and scream. He’d never been quite so vicious before.

  ‘Been keeping money from me, have you? That bastard of your’n been working for the reverend, has she? Well, from now on her wages come straight to me, but she won’t be there much longer, I’ll warrant. In fact, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she ends up as some old man’s darling.’

  His foot thudded into her side and there was the snap of a rib. She moaned, gasping out, ‘Stop, Bill. You’ve hurt me real bad.
’

  The fire had flared up. In the red brightness she saw him drop his trousers. Not that, not now! She hurt inside something awful. ‘Please, Bill, no. I need a doctor.’

  He took no notice, pushing her onto her back and shoving himself into her. Something inside her gave and she screamed with the agony of it. At the same time a pain lanced through her pelvis. Over his shoulder she saw flames licking at the ragged curtain that divided the kitchen from the main living area. Oh God, the sparks had set it alight. The cottage would go up like a bonfire! They were all going to burn. Bill Skinner was going to burn.

  An unholy glee filled her and she began to laugh, until she remembered her children. ‘Wake up, everyone, for God’s sake!’ she screamed out over her pain. ‘Get out, the cottage is alight.’

  Bill clamped a hand over her mouth and nose, cutting off her air. He was breathing loudly and grunting now. She could feel liquid spurting between her thighs, her waters had broken, but this was thicker. Blood?

  Her senses began to swim. She was done for, but she had to save her children, and she wasn’t going to leave Siana to the mercy of this swine. Groping around, within reach of her fingers she found the flat iron she’d been using earlier.

  Curling her hand around the handle and using the last remains of her strength, she brought it up over her head and let it fall. Bill Skinner’s skull made a sound like an egg being cracked.

  For a moment he stared at her, whispering before the light left his eyes, ‘Aw, what the hell did you do that for, Megan, after I took you in, and all?’

  ‘Oh God!’ She shuddered and pushed him aside. Turning onto her hands and knees, she crawled painfully towards the loft ladder, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

  Smoke woke Siana, searing her throat, her nostrils, her eyes and setting off a hacking cough. Through the cracks in the floorboards, smoke trickled and a devilish red light danced and flickered below.

  She shook a reluctant Josh awake and, grabbing up her baby sister, crawled over to the ladder, the only way down. Beneath her, the walls were a conflagration of leaping red shadows, but thank God, the way out was still clear.

  Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw her mother huddled beneath the ladder like a bundle of discarded rags. She was still – too still.

  ‘Don’t waste any time,’ she shouted at Josh and, wrapping Daisy in the blanket, shoved her into his arms. ‘Take your sister down and get out as fast as you can. Head for the oak tree and wait there. I’ll try to get our ma outside.’

  Her mother was heavier than she looked. Flames licked around them as Siana pulled at her. Suddenly there was a whooshing noise and the floor above them exploded into flame. Sparks showered around them. The air was so hot it seared her lungs as she dragged her mother across the floor. Megan was coming out of her stupor now, making small whimpering noises.

  About to pull her backwards over the step and out through the door, Siana noticed Bill Skinner. He was lying on his back, one arm outflung. His eyes seemed to be staring through her. Steam rose from his head. Her brain registered the sight of the flat iron embedded in his skull, the congealing blood glistening around it. His legs were on fire.

  Oh God! He was dead. Her mother had killed him! What if they hanged her for murder? She had to get rid of the evidence. Although she knew she couldn’t afford the time, she dashed across to where he lay, picked up the flat iron and threw it as far away from him as it would go. His hair suddenly burst into flames, singeing her hands. His eyes shrivelled in their sockets and his mouth twisted with the heat. Air hissed demonically from it, catching fire as it did so.

  She screamed and jumped backwards, unnerved by the sight. Using all her strength, Siana shoved her hands under her mother’s armpits and began to pull. Josh joined her, taking their mother’s legs under his arms as they lifted her and stumbled away from the cottage towards the oak tree, where Daisy, discovering herself abandoned and alone in a world of uncomfortable wetness, cold and noise, had set up a sobbing cry.

  They’d just cleared the cottage grounds when the whole place exploded into a ball of flame behind them.

  Neither looked back as they staggered over the rough, tussocky ground with their burden. They laid their mother gently under the tree, where a frightened Daisy was still screaming for somebody to comfort her. There, they huddled together, stunned, staring at the burning cottage where Bill Skinner’s body was now roasting like a pig on a spit at the spring fair.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Josh whispered, his voice high with panic and shock. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘Nothing until morning, then we’ll see what can be rescued.’

  Beside them, her mother gave a low, animal groan. Siana bent over her. ‘It’s all right, our ma. We’re safe.’

  ‘The babby’s coming,’ Megan whispered. ‘I’m bleeding real bad and I need help.’

  Siana handed the pacified Daisy over to her brother to nurse, and bent over her mother. ‘I’ll help you, Ma. It won’t be the first time.’ But somehow, she knew without being told, it would be the last time.

  Two men spilled out of the inn, laughing at the storm which now raged around them.

  Rudd Ponsonby gazed at the faint red glow beyond the hill. ‘Sky’s a bit red over yonder.’

  ‘Another haystack, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Can’t remember any stacks over that way, only Bill Skinner’s place.’

  ‘He went off with a right skin full. I pity his poor missus. He’s a mean bastard when he’s had a few and he was cussing her fit to bust,’ the other said gloomily. ‘Once, he killed his dog. Kicked the bleedin’ guts out of it when it pissed on his foot.’

  There was silence for a moment, then came the suggestion, ‘It could be a lightning strike, I suppose. I remember Bert’s tree getting hit once. Sliced it clean down the middle. Missed his roof by a whisker when it come down.’

  ‘That there blaze is too big for a tree.’ The acrid smell of smoke was borne faintly to them on the wind. ‘Fetch their Tom out, see what he makes of it.’

  ‘He left a while back. Reckoned the widow woman he married needed his company. He was grinning when he sez it, so I reckon it be the other way round. I wouldn’t go nowhere if my missus looked like her. She’s a dainty little piece, that one.’

  ‘And no respectable widow woman, either, so they say. Her boy is the spitting image of the squire. Rumour says she was his fancy woman.’

  ‘Widow, wife or whore, they’m all the same in the dark,’ and the pair burst into raucous laughter.

  ‘Well, I’m going home, Rudd. Coming?’

  ‘Nah,’ Rudd said thoughtfully. ‘That fire looks too big for a haystack. I might go over to have a look-see.’

  ‘Might as well come with yer, then. I’ll fetch some of the others.’

  By the time the men organized themselves into a group and set out, the fire had died down considerably, the flames having consumed the rotten timbers of the Skinners’ cottage swiftly. Sparks and smoke were being blown about by the wind, the smell of wet ash stung their nostrils.

  ‘Jesus,’ one of the men whispered as lightning illuminated the scene, ‘I wonder if anyone survived?’

  ‘I thought I seen something move under the oak tree,’ someone shouted out.

  The something was a young woman, her eyes glazed over with grief and shock, rocking the body of her mother back and forth. Megan Skinner was dead. Under her shawl, pressed against her heart, lay the baby boy she’d just given birth to. He was dead too, his face shrivelled up like a little old man. Fast asleep and huddled under a ragged blanket the men found the two younger children. ‘Where’s your father?’ Rudd shouted above the banshee howl of the wind.

  Her voice had a dead sound to it. ‘He’s in the house.’

  ‘Someone had better run over and tell their Tom, then.’

  A couple of them shuffled their feet. None of them had liked Bill Skinner, but the son was worse. They didn’t trust him, not with the way he toadied up to the squire. Lo
ok what had happened to poor Will Hastings, a man who didn’t have the heart to pull the wings off a fly, let alone put a torch to a haystack.

  ‘Morning will do, I reckon. Reverend White will know what to do. What’ll we do with the young uns? Can’t leave them here, can we?’

  ‘I’ll take them home to Abbie for the night,’ Rudd said. ‘She’ll squeeze them in somewhere. Tom or Hannah will have to take them in tomorrow, the poor little buggers.’

  The girl looked up then. ‘I’m not leaving my mother.’

  ‘She’s gone, dearie. The weather won’t worry her none.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ she said fiercely. ‘Take my brother and sister to shelter, but I’m staying here with my ma until morning.’

  ‘You can’t, love, not by yourself. It ain’t right.’

  ‘I’m staying,’ she said fiercely. ‘She’s my mother, not some piece of rubbish to be left under a tree and forgotten.’

  A man stepped from out of the darkness and looked around at the concerned faces of the others. ‘My name is Daniel Ayres. It’s only a few hours until dawn and the rain seems to have stopped. Siana is a friend of mine. You don’t have to worry, I’ll stay and look after her. Perhaps you’d call on my godfather, Reverend White, and inform him of my whereabouts.’

  Rudd knew a moment of relief. ‘Thank you, sir. I will that.’ Problem solved, he tucked Daisy under his coat and headed back towards the village with Josh in tow.

  When the villagers were gone, Daniel removed the shawl from Megan and placed it around Siana’s head and shoulders. He then shrouded the woman and her infant tightly in the ragged blanket and placed them on the other side of the thick tree trunk.

  He took off his topcoat and, wrapping it around the shivering Siana, pulled her close. ‘There, there, I’ll look after you,’ he whispered.

  She began to cry, giving great, gut-wrenching sobs which tore at his heart. Finally, when the sobs died down, she slept, her sooty, tear-streaked face pressed against his chest.

  The pile of red ashes illuminated her face as Daniel kept his vigil over her. An occasional gust of wind sent sparks flying.