Beastings Page 20

  He knew this. Of course he did. He was the only one. He had always known. That was what all of this was about. She held his secrets inside her. She carried them like butterflies in a jar and one day she would let them out with her mouth. She would start talking and she would never stop and some would claim it a miracle and others would just sit and listen. And then they would come and find him.

  There were things she had been privy to; things he had confided in the darkest early hours. Things she had had done to her that should never be turned into noise into words and sentences and speech. Church business. Bedroom business. His business.

  She held these things over him. He knew it and she knew it. She had that power. That was why she had to be stopped contained confined. Watched over. The child was his excuse; his justification. He didn’t care about some stupid mewling baby – the world was full of them. He cared about his status. He cared about his freedom. He cared about keeping her mute and passive and under his control. He cared about keeping all of them mute and passive and under his control though she was the first to flee.

  He retched again and this time a string of saliva hung from his mouth. A groan followed it. He moved up onto a second elbow and wiped his mouth. He remembered he still had another vial in his trouser pocket.

  He checked it. It was there.

  LOGS CRACKLED IN the fire. Embers danced in the updraught and a soft black fur-like layer of soot coated the inside of the chimney breast where it wavered in the rising air.

  The room was snug; the room was warm. There were old varnished shelves with books on them and framed pictures of animals. Pencil drawings of cows in a field; sheep pigs a fox. Implements were hung on the wall too. A brass bed-warmer and horseshoes and an old hunting horn.

  There had been none of these decorations at St Mary’s. At St Mary’s they would have been considered vain and sinful. Gaudy.

  Treasures of wickedness profit nothing.

  The girl with the red hair led her to the fire then pulled a chair in close for her. She was limping badly and her eye was still weeping.

  It had taken the last of her energy to follow the girl with the bread to the workhouse. Still the child had not stirred.

  Cradling her parcel she sat in front of the fire and within a minute was asleep. Her cheeks flushed from the heat of the flames. The silent parcel still clutched to the chest.

  The girl watched for a moment then she left the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

  Even though it had passed through the villages and hamlets she did not know about the story that had crossed Westmorland and Cumberland like an August heather blaze – that of the young church girl who had stolen a child and gone on the run.

  Some said the baby was needed for a sacrificial ritual that was to take place in the stone circle at Castlerigg; some said the girl had gone devil-possessed and had killed it herself. Some said the bairn wasn’t even the Hinckleys’. Others speculated that it was most likely the baby was being spirited away to the coast where it would be sold abroad – to the dark continent – where white children like this one were more valuable than gold or diamonds and that the dummy girl was being paid to transport it to a boat docked off Whitehaven.

  There was talk of the priest too. They said he would see the safe return of the child; others said there was never smoke without fire – and smoke followed that one like a coffin nail.

  The girl with the red hair had not heard any of this but the woman who ran the workhouse had. Miss Mullen.

  She was in her office when there was a knock on her door. It was one of her girls back from her errands and holding a bag of bread now depleted.

  There’s another one Miss Mullen. Another lass.

  She looked up from her papers.

  What do you mean Dulcie?

  I found another girl. Up on the ginnel steps while fetching the messages. She’s got a bairn with her and a right gammy eye. She’s barely fit to stand. Half dead the both of them.

  Where is she?

  I brought her back and put her in the reading room. In front of the fire to get a warm.

  Good – that was the Christian thing to do. You say she’s got a child with her?

  More like a baby.

  Show me.

  WASP-STUNG BITTER-MOUTHED AND unsteady he trained his feet towards the town and got to walking.

  As he walked he talked. Muttered to himself.

  No said the Priest. No. She cannot be allowed to get away with this. Any of this. Retribution is due.

  He stopped to retch. He doubled over. His head pounded and the pain ran down one side of his head and into his neck.

  No no no no no.

  He straightened up

  No.

  Not her not the girl not the one they think is a dummy. After all this – she cannot be the one that brings you down. No. Not her. Not that useless smelly Godless lump. No. Of all the girls that have passed through St Mary’s – not her.

  He was on a discernible path now. A path made of uneven flagstones with clusters of grass growing from the cracks. The path would take him to the town. The town would take him to the girl. The girl would have a tongue. He would take that tongue and he would rip it out and roast it on a spit and make sure she could never speak of Church business – his business – to anyone.

  And the baby he said out loud. Let the baby burn in hell too.

  THE LORD REIGNS let the earth rejoice; let the islands be glad.

  She was there. She was on that island. The two of them. The island looked like one of the mountains in which she had spent her entire life but this time it was different. This time the mountain was surrounded by water. Water as far as the eye could see. On the mountain there were caves and animals and tarns and woods and waterfalls and one house made from branches and another made up a tree. A fire always burned and the bairn was strong and silent and healthy and as another day ended together they sat looking out to sea as the red sun settled behind it.

  Death shall be no more neither shall there be mourning nor crying, nor pain anymore for the former things have passed away.

  She awoke in a panic and her face burning with the beginnings of a fever. She was in a chair in an unfamiliar room surrounded by animal prints and rural ephemera.

  The bairn was gone.

  She stood but her legs gave as the blood drained from her head. She stooped and leaned against the back of the chair to catch her breath.

  The child.

  The child.

  My child.

  She pushed herself away from the chair and pulled herself along bookshelves. Weak leg joints aching dizzy sickness.

  Fever and confusion.

  The baby.

  They could not take the bairn.

  The door handle felt ice cold in her hot hand.

  It led to a corridor with wooden floors and many many doors. She tried one. It was a storage cupboard with mop bucket dusters polish. The next door was locked. The third opened into a large dormitory with bunk beds and the strong smell of disinfectant. There was no-one in it. She lurched down the corridor.

  The baby. The bairn.

  The next door she tried contained toilets and sinks. Two girls were in there – one brushing her teeth and the other combing her hair. Another mop and bucket leaned against the white tiled wall beside them. They turned to look at her and their faces registered surprise then one of them said something that the girl didn’t catch and they laughed.

  At the next door more voices. Females. Two of them. She wiped pus from her cheek then pressed an ear to the door. Voices.

  Is it her?

  I don’t know.

  She fits the description.

  Lots of girls would.

  But in that state.

  I know.

  Coming down from the fells like that.

  And mut
e with it.

  And mute with it.

  Young Dulcie says she never uttered a word.

  You know she opened her eyes when I went in and even the look of her’s odd. It was like she was seeing right through me. Turned me cold.

  Well there’s something up with one of her eyes.

  I know but it wasn’t that. It was something else. It was like she was in another world. Or sent from another place. Maybe it’s true what they say about the devil being in her.

  Lord only knows what’s been going on but let’s not fall foul of hearsay.

  And that bairn.

  Yes. That poor child. Look at it.

  It must be her. The one they’re after. Has to be.

  This child is in a poor state.

  It barely has a pulse.

  Abducted or not it needs attention. Now. For its own safety.

  Naturally.

  That’s a priority.

  They’re our responsibility. But we’ve not got the facilities for this.

  No.

  The poor thing.

  I know.

  What its been through.

  Miles they must have travelled.

  And not by transport by the look of her shoes.

  On hands and knees more like.

  Sleeping rough.

  Taking someone’s child from under their nose.

  A baby needs regular feeds. Stability. Hygiene.

  Disgraceful.

  She’ll be a long time locked up when the judge gets to her.

  At this the girl flinched but still she kept listening.

  And what of that child said the voice muted by the wood of the door which she pressed herself to.

  It’ll be back with its mother and father where it belongs of course.

  We don’t know it’s her though. Not for certain.

  It has to be.

  It could be.

  It has to be.

  At this the girl pushed the door open and the women stopped talking.

  The baby was there with them in a cot beside the desk. Both of the women were standing by the cot and looking into it.

  The girl’s eye was weeping a stream of sticky yellow fluid and her clothes were hanging off her. They saw a pathetic figure.

  She took a step forward and held out her arms at waist height.

  What does she want said the first woman. Miss Pegg.

  She wants the bairn said the other. Mullen. Miss Mullen.

  They spoke as if she was not there.

  It’s resting the first one said. And you’ll be minded to do the same. Until the doctor gets here.

  Yes we’ve called for the doctor said Miss Mullen. She exaggerated the words in her mouth as if speaking to someone deaf. We’ve. Called. For. The. Doctor. For the both of you. That eye needs looking at.

  The girl held out her arms to receive what was hers.

  Is it yours?

  The baby said the other woman. Is it yours?

  The girl nodded and then moved forward to pick the bairn up from its cot.

  Miss Pegg put a hand on her shoulder.

  I’m not sure you should be doing that. The child needs rest. You’re in God’s house now; you’ll be looked after.

  The girl ignored her and lifted the child from beneath its blanket and held it to her chest. Then she took out a breast and held a nipple to the baby’s mouth. It rested there for a moment. The bairn’s lips quivered ever so slightly and then it took the girl’s teat.

  Look Miss Mullen.

  I can see.

  As the women watched the baby suckled. Milk ran from the side of its mouth.

  She’s milking said Miss Pegg. Look: the baby is taking it like it’s the most natural thing. Maybe it is hers after all.

  Maybe said Miss Mullen.

  The bairn’s taking it. It’s like a miracle.

  Yes.

  But she’s so dirty.

  Filthy.

  They spoke to the girl now.

  If you’re going to do that you need to be bathed and clean said Miss Mullen. There’s ways of doing things and this isn’t one of them.

  The woman continued to speak as if the girl was deaf.

  In the meantime there’s fresh milk in the kitchen. Let us get you back in front of the fire. Miss Pegg – have some milk warmed up and bottled. Proper milk. And get some more blankets. Water soap and rags too.

  That eye needs looking at said Miss Pegg.

  It does. But first the child.

  Miss Pegg left.

  The doctor will be here within the hour.

  Miss Mullen put an arm around the girl and steered the girl and the suckling child towards the door.

  Come with me. I’ll take you back to the reading room. We’ll get you fed and cleaned and the doctor can take a look at you. You’re lucky you found us.

  Or we found you. Or God found us all. For He sees everything.

  THIS TOWN. HE had been here before. The last time was two years ago. It was a different parish but the same diocese. Father Raymond ran things.

  He knew Father Raymond to be a maverick too. Like him he only answered to God. They didn’t let the church dictate all their rules; only God had their attention. And they shared the same taste for the unconventional. Father Raymond understood. Father Raymond was devout. Father Raymond kept a tight ship. Hadn’t he at Raymond’s invitation visited St Joseph’s Shelter for Fallen Women? Yes. Many a winter’s night he had spent there snowed in and holed up. Instructing the women.

  Yes. Raymond tolerated his ways. Because he knew it was all for a greater good.

  The Priest limped onwards. His clothes bedraggled and buttoned up incorrectly.

  Yes. He would pay Father Raymond a visit when this issue was resolved. That was what he would do. He would pay them all a visit. Raymond and his Sisters. Maybe rest up there for a while. Let the dust settle and rumour wither on the vine. He would re-charge re-connect with an extended flock. Father Raymond could be trusted. He was one of the old guard who respected the old ways. He was one of the very few.

  They’d thank him for all this. For finding the girl. The child – well the people wanted its safe return but it would be the finding and punishing of the girl that they would favour. Yes. This he knew. That was all that really mattered to them.

  Because his congregation valued him. They genuflected to his deep understanding of the scriptures; were as servile as a community should be. Not everyone was like that idiot Poacher or that fetid troglodyte. Theological knowledge still meant something to a lot of people around these parts. And weaknesses were accepted. Sometimes they were even indulged. Supplied. Because he was after all God’s representative and such a role carried heavy burdens. Few humans could shoulder it without buckling now and again. They understood that no man is perfect. Because if he was then he would not be a man.

  BUT SHE DIDN’T need to see a doctor. He wouldn’t know what she knew – that something had irrevocably changed and not just her dying useless eye.

  Something was inside of her now. Something else. A burning and a growing. A newness. An other.

  Another.

  It had only been a matter of hours but life was already happening. Cells were gathering. Life was germinating like a seedling.

  She had a fever and she was starving. She was cut and blistered and dehydrated and suffering from severe malnutrition and exposure and the onset of influenza but she felt this new life within her. Something of her own. It over-rode everything else.

  Already it was growing. Something inside of her to love and pet and protect; something that was part her. Part of her. It had been forced upon her in the night but the beginnings didn’t matter – only what came later. She always knew she had the capacity. Hadn’t the beastings shown her so – that her body was ready?
That when food or drink or milk or shelter was needed nature always provided. And when something to nurture and love and escape through was needed then that was provided too.

  In time the who and when and how she was seeded would be forgotten because now she would have something of her own. A family. Not a cuckoo child but one of her very own.

  God had tested her by showing her Hinckley and the child and the open door and the fells beyond it and when she had passed the test he had sent a fresh seed and now no-one would ever be able to take that away.

  Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from Him.

  Yes. Everything would be different from now. Yes. Everything would be better. She would be free. Unmolested. Inviolate.

  Yes.

  And He – he was gone. His heart no longer beat and He would never again put his hands on her. None of them would. Farmers fathers priests and bunkhouse strangers. She instinctively knew that she was with child and everyone knows no-one touches a woman with child. For it is written.

  Her lips silently mouthed the words: and the beast was taken – and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him – with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone.

  There was a future.

  She saw it.

  THE PRIEST WALKED through town. Mud streaked the hem of his coat. He looked fell-weary and feverish. Soiled yet barbarous.

  It was mid morning – a week day – and the market was busy. He stopped at a fruit and vegetable stall and bought two apples then bolted them. He walked on. There was a stall selling dried goods. Fruit chutneys preserves. He bought nuts from the woman running it. She handed him his change and when his coat fell open and she saw his collar she spoke.

  Sorry father. I didn’t realise she said.

  Realise what?

  That you’re of the cloth.

  What difference does it make?

  I always like to gift a small something to God’s people. His harvest is how I make my living.

  She bent down and pulled out a small wrapped parcel.

  The Priest stared at the stall-holder. Said nothing.