No Mercy Page 8

  ‘Take the boy with you.’ Jack Armstrong did not intend to let Ellie have all her own way. After all, she was not yet twenty, and it was his bounden responsibility to look out for both his children. If he had expected Ellie to argue, he was disappointed.

  Holding out her hand to the boy, she told him, ‘Hurry then… there are one or two things to be brought from the motor car. We’ll do that before we go.’ She looked at the dark-eyed young man. ‘If we have time, that is?’ His answer was to offer help. Suddenly, for some reason known only to himself, he was less hostile than before.

  ‘Here, Ellie… you’ll need this.’ Jack Armstrong slid his hand into his back trouser pocket; drawing out a wallet, he extracted four pound notes. ‘Don’t stint,’ he told her. ‘If you need more, you’ve only to ask.’ He folded them into her hand. He still did not like the idea of her going to the estate with Harman. He recalled the warning which Ellie’s mother had issued with regard to their first-born – ‘Our daughter is not a child, Jack… nor is she a prisoner. Don’t make her one, or you will lose her.’ It had been a threat. And one which he had tried to observe.

  As Ellie went out of the door, she was tempted to look back. It took all of her will-power to resist; even though she knew she was being watched. All the while they had been talking, Ellie had felt the one called George staring at her beneath those long, tangled eyebrows. The awful sensation he created in her was deeply disturbing, but then she reminded herself that soon only she, Johnny and their father would remain under this roof. The others would be safely installed in the cottage. The prospect brought a measure of comfort. And an inexplicable surge of apprehension. This was a strange, lonely place, she thought. And yet, Ellie felt as though she did belong.

  ‘Oh… so, it was Mr Harman who showed you the way, was it?’ The shopkeeper had a bright, friendly smile atop a round, homely body. ‘Well now, you must consider yourself highly honoured, young lady.’ She tip-toed and stretched up to the shelf where the flour was kept. ‘There!’ The soft, squashy bag tumbled into her groping fingers. Popping the bag of flour to the counter, she lowered her fluffy grey head and momentarily regarded Ellie and the boy through the narrow space above her spectacles. ‘He must have taken pity on you… what with the three of you having come all that way to find yourselves locked out. As a rule, young Mr Harman keeps himself to himself… known for it!’ She dipped a chubby hand in the sweet jar. ‘There y’are, fella-me-lad,’ she chuckled, pushing two barley twists along the counter towards the boy. Ellie forcefully reminded him of his manners when he quickly snatched them into his pocket.

  ‘To be honest, Mrs Gregory… I don’t know what we would have done without Mr Harman’s help. We thought the place was empty… it certainly seemed that way. We had no idea that the old man had locked Rosie in the cellar.’ It still surprised her that she should be addressing the woman as ‘Rosie’. It seemed too quick, too familiar. She was not in the habit of being so bold. But then, she asked herself, how else would she address the woman? The only name she had been given was ‘Rosie’. And, funnily enough, it did seem very natural to Ellie. What did not seem natural was the habit of referring to George as ‘the old man’. Like Rosie said, he was not old. And yet, he was. Age was not measured in years. It was an attitude, a particular look and manner, a state of mentality. In each respect, George was old. Very old. In her heart, Ellie silently prayed that such an affliction as that poor creature suffered would never take hold of her. The image lingered in her mind now, of the one called George; of those pale, frightened eyes beneath wild, shaggy brows; of the manner in which he scuttled about, cringing into himself as though haunted on all sides. She inwardly shivered. He was a strange one, wasn’t he?… a soul to be pitied. But wasn’t he also insane? Yes. Yes, he was! No. He was not. He was just a frightened, disquieted soul, who dreaded leaving the place he had come to know. All of these things Ellie told herself. Yet they persisted; the other things, the doubts and the questions, nagging in her mind, nagging. Nagging.

  ‘Did Alec Harman tell you anything… about the couple at Thornton Place?’ The little woman weighed out two pounds of best apples and slid them from the weighscale into the brown paper bag. She then paused, waiting for Ellie’s reply.

  ‘Only that Rosie had taken care of the old man… George… for a number of years.’

  ‘About three years, I’d say… if my memory serves me right. Probably about the time when Alec Harman himself came to these parts.’ Mrs Gregory nodded her head thoughtfully, remembering. ‘None of us here knows much about that one. Like I say… he does tend to keep himself to himself. Lives on the other side of the lake… in one of the tenanted cottages belonging to Wentworth Estates.’ She stared into Ellie’s face, thinking how lovely Ellie was, and wondering why such a beauty should choose to bury herself in an isolated place such as this. What a waste. What a shameful, wanton waste! ‘What else did he tell you?’ she asked quietly, glancing dubiously at the boy.

  ‘Nothing really,’ Ellie admitted, recalling how she had given the dark-eyed stranger every opportunity to outline the history of Thornton Place and the part which the odd couple had played in it. He had not been forthcoming. Instead, he had spoken to her of other things, things that mattered greatly to him – the job he loved, the animals that could not be tamed, yet had become his friends. He spoke of Nature, and beauty, sunsets and moonlight over the lake. When he murmured of these things, there was magic in his voice. Pride and awe. And all the while he had talked, he had woven a spell over her. When, at the edge of the spinney, he had pointed out the remaining short distance to the shop, before disappearing into the heart of the woods, Ellie had suffered loneliness such as she had never known. He had made no mention of when he might see her again, and she dared not ask.

  ‘You don’t love him, do you?’ the boy had taunted, goading her with amused eyes and seeming to take pleasure in her confusion. In answer, she had actually laughed, while her deepest heart writhed in the exquisite agonies of a first real passion. Love him? She suspected so. At least, he was vibrant in every comer of her being. She was both afraid and exhilarated all at once. It was a strange sensation. One she had never experienced before. Was it love? Ellie had been made to ask herself. She had no way of knowing. Whatever it was, she wanted it to live for ever. What of Barny, though? Hadn’t she been so certain that she loved him? That was true, yes. And, strangely enough, thoughts of him still made her feel warm, and safe. But, it was different, somehow.

  ‘Thornton Place used to belong to Wentworth Estates… up ’til four years ago. Did you know that?’ Mrs Gregory did not wait for an answer. ‘Oh, yes! That were when Rosie and her husband were caretakers… looked after the big house for thirty years and more, they did.’ She saw the surprise on Ellie’s face. It pleased her. ‘Didn’t know that, did you, eh? When George and his wife were brought in as caretakers some four years back, Rosie and her husband moved into the cottage as tenants.’

  ‘George was married, then?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, yes! But she was killed in a tragic accident.’ Her eyes glazed over as she lapsed deep into her own private thoughts. ‘Nice little woman, too, from what I recall. Still!’ She forced a bright, cheery smile. ‘It don’t do to dwell on such things. And you’d do well not to mention it to the poor man… he took it very badly. Never got over it. Well… you know, don’t you? You’ve seen the way he is. Demented. Old before his time.’

  Ellie had been intrigued by the revelations, but, because of them, some of the nagging questions were stilled. ‘And Rosie’s husband… what happened to him?’

  ‘Old age I expect. Same as what will happen to all of us in time… if the grim reaper don’t get us first, eh? Rosie’s old fella died in the cottage… just fell asleep one night and never woke up again. He were a great deal older than Rosie, d’you see? Mind you… when your time comes, there ain’t no better way to go than just falling asleep, is there, eh?’

  ‘Why did Rosie move back into the house?’

  ‘ ’C
ause she adored her old fellow and was lonely beyond belief after he’d gone. Because she’s got a heart of gold. Because she’s always been a worker, and hates to be bored. Because she saw both Thornton Place and George falling apart at the seams. Because… well, because she’s Rosie, that’s why! I don’t believe it were just for a share of the wages, because Rosie’s been thrifty over the years… got a bit tucked away, I reckon.’

  ‘How did she lose her leg?’

  ‘Don’t know. Folks round these parts have never known Rosie any other way. She were crippled when she first came to Thornton Place, and she’ll not discuss the manner of it. You won’t get much change out of Rosie, I can tell you, young lady! She’s never been known to discuss her private affairs with anybody… not even with Alec Harman. And he’s been a godsend to that pair at Thornton Place, I can tell you. A godsend!’ She shook her head. ‘He’s a strange one, though… a real loner. Been here some three years and never made a single friend… oh, with the exception of them two, but, they’ve been more like a cross on his back than “friends”.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Mrs Gregory looked up as though she was considering a reply. Instead, she squashed the two loaves into the cardboard box, saying quietly, ‘There… I’ve only to weigh out the potatoes and vegetables… oh, and get my Fred to bag you some coal up… then your order’s done.’ She totted up the bill and took the notes from Ellie. ‘He’ll have the order on your doorstep within the hour. How does that suit you, eh?’ She bestowed a warm smile on her two customers, handing Ellie the change and thinking how the Armstrong family had probably bitten off more than they could chew when they had taken on Thornton Place. The young lady had told her how awful and dilapidated the big house was. Of course it was! Didn’t they know why? Hadn’t they been told that getting money out of the owners for repairs was like squeezing blood from a stone? Most of the time there was no contact whatsoever with the owners; faceless beings who probably bought and sold things, and people, for the money and excitement it brought! Oh, the representative would turn up now and again, no doubt to check on the ‘investment’. Like she said to her old fella only the other day, the owners of Thornton Place must be ‘city folk’ – the kind who play the stock market and speculate to accumulate. But how they could ever ‘accumulate’ by letting a once-grand old house like Thornton Place fall to rack and ruin was beyond her. She said as much to Ellie now, adding, ‘Happen your father can do better than old George and Rosie… he’s a new face, with new ideas, and the strength behind him to carry them out. All the same, though, if you ask me… he’s got his work cut out and no mistake!’

  ‘I never wanted to come to this place!’ the thin voice piped out.

  Mrs Gregory looked at the boy and was irritated when he deliberately avoided her eyes. Suit yourself! she thought, having decided that he was a surly little brat who needed fetching down a peg or two. Oh, but wait a minute. Hadn’t the young lady said something about making a new start… their mother was not long dead? Well, then. Shame on you, Elsie Gregory! The boy was too young to be left without a mother. It was no wonder he was hard to fathom; no doubt losing his mother had been a terrible thing to bear. A shock to his system that would take time and patience to mend. No mother, eh? She was momentarily reminded of her own mother’s death many years before. The old lady had enjoyed a long life and her passing was quick and merciful. Even then, it was a dreadful wrench, because losing your mother was different to losing anybody else. She was special. Always there, from the day you were born. No, she should not be too swift making judgement on the boy. As her old fella would say, ‘Keep your tongue still until you’ve thought things through!’

  ‘It is a shame, Mrs Gregory. I can’t understand how anybody could let such a proud old house fall into such disrepair.’ Ellie prepared to leave. ‘Still… we haven’t had time to assess what needs doing yet… Rosie is showing my father the house right now, and no doubt Dad will be drawing up a plan of action. You can be sure my father won’t let the house beat him!’ She dropped the change into her purse before taking the boy’s hand in hers and walking him towards the door.

  ‘Oh! Wait a minute, dearie!’ Mrs Gregory called. When Ellie turned round, the homely figure was scuttling to the other end of the counter, where the postal duties were executed. ‘I completely forgot!’ She dug beneath the counter and came out brandishing a small package. ‘This arrived the other day… addressed to your father.’ She peered at the name through puckered eyes. ‘Mr J. Armstrong,’ she read, ‘there you are… came by special delivery.’ She placed the package into Ellie’s outstretched hands. ‘Instructions, I dare say,’ she declared, with a knowing look. ‘If them city folk is good at doing anything at all… it’s giving “instructions”.’ Her bright, curious gaze lingered a while on Ellie – at the surprise in her lovely amber eyes, and at the way she held herself, so proud and straight. It seemed to Mrs Gregory, at that point, that this young lady had a whole heap of responsibility on her shoulders. It was only to be hoped that they were strong enough to bear up.

  As Ellie closed the shop door behind her, the man stepped out of the dark hall where he had been listening to the conversation between his wife and the girl. It had been an interesting and revealing exchange; not one he had wanted to interrupt.

  ‘Oh… I wondered where you’d got to,’ exclaimed Mrs Gregory, glancing up as the large, slightly stooping figure came into her sight. ‘The Armstrong girl’s just been here… placed a good order, too.’ She sighed, roving her eyes over the bald head and the boozy, bloodshot eyes that stared back at her. ‘Pretty little thing she is… I can’t help thinking what a dreadful waste it is… her ending up in such an isolated place. I know I should be glad of new, younger blood in the hamlet, but… well.’ She shook her head, a look of sadness colouring her features. ‘It seems such a waste… such a wicked waste.’ When the man gave no answer – other than to put his two big hands on the table, leaning his large frame forward so as to see better through the window at the two figures making their way into the spinney – she became deeply thoughtful and regarded him closer, afterwards following the direction of his gaze. Together the man and his wife watched as Ellie and the boy went from their sight.

  Soon, the woman was bustling about her duties – weighing out the beans and bagging them up, or refilling the shelves as far as she could reach with her short, dumpy arms. The man, though, made no move. His bloodshot eyes were intent on the spot where the two newcomers had been swallowed into the spinney. He thought on Ellie’s parting words: ‘You can be sure my father won’t let the house beat him!’ He chuckled inside himself. So! The new caretaker of Thornton Place had come here with good intentions, had he? Had it in mind to make a clean sweep right through the old house? To put right the wrongs it had suffered? Was that so, eh? Such fine ideas! What was it the girl had said?… ‘My father won’t let the house beat him!’ Yes. That was it… ‘won’t let the house beat him’. He chuckled again, aloud this time. ‘Won’t let the house beat him.’ Well, now, this new caretaker would need to be a special kind of man, because the house had ‘beaten’ far better men than he! And, if the house had not broken their spirits, there were always the other things. The bad things. The things that struck without warning and frightened the gentler souls away. Or, drove them mad!

  4

  August had been a wonderful month. In the dark hours the rain had quenched the dry earth, and during the day the sun had beaten down from a brilliant blue sky. Today, the last day of August, the weather was perfect, with a soft, refreshing breeze skimming the lake and bringing cooler air to the grounds fronting the big house.

  Ellie found her labours both pleasant and fulfilling. Beneath the freshly applied coat of green, the doors to the outhouse lent a cared-for appearance to what had been a haven for rubbish, vermin and homeless vagabonds. At last there was emerging a kind of order about the old place.

  ‘By! You’re a cracking little worker, my girl… I’ll give you that.’ The cheery voice sai
led through the air.

  ‘Rosie!’ Ellie’s face broke into a smile at the sight of the ungainly and now familiar figure carefully picking its way over the uneven ground. Balancing the paint brush on the rim of the paint pot, Ellie stretched her aching back and reached her arms above her head. It felt good; good to be alive. ‘Oh, Rosie… I do love it here,’ she said, ‘and do you know… I can’t imagine any other life than this. It’s like I’ve always known this place.’ She waved her arm in a generous half-circle to encompass the house and grounds, the spinney and the satin lake, and the patchwork of fields beyond.

  ‘Hmph!’ Rosie’s handsome eyes surveyed the panoramic view, until her vision was curtailed by the close proximity of the spinney. ‘It does look impressive… magnificent. Yes, I’ll grant you that,’ she conceded, sinking to the upturned bucket and stretching out her one good leg. ‘You’ve had it easy so far, my girl!’ she warned. ‘Don’t forget you’ve only been here four months yet… Sunshine, long day-light hours, and you’ve been blessed by the night showers, without which the earth would be parched for sure.’ She had put her two crutches to the ground and now, with a deal of grunting and cursing, she made herself more comfortable. ‘Now then,’ she started; at the same time retrieving the hessian bag from around her neck. ‘Come and sit yourself down.’ She put the bag to her knee and vigorously patted a grassy rise beside her. ‘I’ve fetched us a flask of cold tea and a bite to eat.’ Rummaging about in the bag she produced a small thermos flask, two earthenware mugs, a brown paper bag containing plump cheese sandwiches, two rosy apples and a plain dark tablecloth. Shaking the tablecloth out, she let it fall to the ground in a tangle and promptly set everything into the uneven folds, all the while clucking and moaning when the imperfections in her body made the movements awkward. ‘There ain’t nothing worse than old age, my girl!’ she told Ellie in quick, breathless gasps, the stump of her crippled leg moving rapidly back and forth with the reflex action of the knee just above. ‘Come on! Come on!’ she ordered, sending a cursory glance towards Ellie, who had lingered a while, watching a nearby blackbird as it tugged the worms from the newly dug soil. Afterwards, she vigorously wiped her hands and face with the grubby handkerchief taken from the pocket of her dungarees. She felt hot and sweaty. In a moment, she had come to where Rosie was waiting. The blackbird followed, and two mallards appeared from the direction of the lake, all searching for easy titbits.