Eppie (36 page)

‘You’re not being tough, just foolish,’ Gillow cried.

Wakelin threw the gun into firing position. Steadying it
against his shoulder, he aimed the barrel at his father’s head.

Eppie screamed. The blast she expected never came. 

Instead, Wakelin spoke low, threatening. ‘You’re right, Ma. Someone
is gonna get hurt. Day after day the du Quesnes have made me suffer. Now it’s
their turn.’

Eppie saw in his eyes the cold resolve to carry out his
threat. She made a grab for the gun, intent on wrestling it from him. Martha
restrained her. 

Wakelin ran from the cottage and disappeared into the
churning shadows.

‘For pity’s sake, Wakelin!’ his mother called after him. ‘You’ll
not rid yourself of pain this way. Hatred only hurts itself.’

Leaving Martha to mop Gillow’s
bleeding nose, Eppie took the oil lantern and went to check on Twiss and
Wicker.      

Twiss sleepily opened an eye at the sound of the door
creaking open. He and the cub were curled together on a heap of straw in the corner.
The cub was chewing the splint on her broken leg.

‘I wonder why Wakelin called ma a blabbermouth,’ Dawkin said,
creeping in after her.

‘He’s fond of calling folk names. His latest one for me is sap
head.’

‘He’s the idiot going off like that. I think you were brave
trying to snatch the gun.’ Thrusting out his chin he imitated Wakelin’s brusque
voice. ‘The only reason you’ve been brung into this world is to wood-ash
bairns’ bottoms an’ serve black pudding to your husband. That’s if anyone’s silly
enough to want to marry you with your nosy ways.’ He kissed her fondly on the
cheek. ‘Though, I’d marry you if you don’t mind having a grubby climbing-boy.’ 

She was suddenly shy of him, knowing that she loved him for
his kind, dependable character, his even-temperedness, and his knack of making
her laugh.

From the direction of Tunnygrave Manor the discharge of a
gun rent the air. Eppie looked around, startled.

‘Most likely the gamekeeper,’ Dawkin said. ‘Or, if it is
Wakelin, he probably took a shot at a pheasant roosting in a tree to get the
anger out of him.’ 

Neither of the children was
convinced.  

Her face etched with worry, Martha knelt beside Eppie to
kiss her a goodnight. ‘I’ll turn in, too. I felt shattered long before Betsy
and Claire dropped by.’

‘Last time Wakelin came home late I was in the middle of a dream
about that scary man-skull Grumps keeps stuffed up his rafters to protect his
cottage. When Wakelin clattered into the fire shovel I thought it was jangling bits
of the dead man coming to get me. Wakelin won’t really hurt Gabriel, will he?’

‘Wakelin has always been
wilful. Gillow would never admit it, but now Wakelin’s grown he doesn’t have any
authority over him. Don’t fret; I’m sure his fury will blow over soon enough.’
Glancing at the space where the gun ought to be, she wondered if what she said
was true.

Groggy, Dawkin wondered what had roused him for his sleep. Rough
and matted, the sheepskin beneath him reminded him of Twiss. Inclining his
head, he listened. Yes, the dog was howling.

It was a chilly night. Shivering, he dragged on his breeches
and drew his shirt over his head. 

Martha had left the lantern beside the door in readiness for
Wakelin’s return so that he would not disturb the sleepers. Strewn upon the
table were the presents, returned to their wrappings. In response to Wakelin’s
valid point about the risk of keeping them, Martha had insisted that the
presents be returned to their wrappers until she could think what was best to
be done with them - though Gillow had refused to hand over his tobacco.

Stealthily, Dawkin crept outdoors. In his over-active
imagination he pictured Wakelin sneaking up behind him and clubbing him to
death with the butt of the gun. By the light of the moon, a shadow swooped on
the wall. He jumped out of his skin, and then sighed with relief, realising it
was only the rolling pin that he held in his upraised hand.  

Not wanting to disturb Eppie, he had not bothered tugging on
his boots, which he now regretted. Tiptoeing across the vegetable plot, his bare
toes felt painfully icy.  Clouds covered the moon, throwing everything into
darkness.

Twiss presented him with a welcoming lick on the nose.

‘A late-night slobber, just what I need!’

Because Wicker was unable to shift around, her limbs had become
numb. That must have been why Twiss was howling, to alert him to her distress.

Settling on the straw, Dawkin gently took the cub onto his
lap. Dipping a finger into a bowl of goat’s milk, he let her suckle. Occasionally,
he tempted her with the worms and woodlice that he fetched out of a tin.     

Around the boy’s body crept the dampness of the autumn
night. Although he was determined to shut out thoughts of Wakelin, his mind
filled with visions of him skulking around. As though reading the boy’s mind,
Twiss sat up and whined.

‘What’s up, guv’nor?’ He blew out the lantern and returned
the cub to the straw. A furtive tread was heard coming along the grit path from
the direction of Shivering Falls. It was unmistakeably that of a man, a man who
breathed deep, sharp, as though labouring under a heavy weight. 

‘Quiet!’ Dawkin whispered. ‘Good dog!’

Eppie’s training, rewarding Twiss with crimps of pastry off
Martha’s pies, paid off. The dog sank his head to his outstretched paws, eyes
glinting in the shrouding gloom.

Taking care not to disturb the animals stabled in the shed -
the cart being left outside - Dawkin mounted the steps to the loft. Thrusting
aside strings of onions and marrows suspended in nets, he peered out the stone
slit that let in air. He saw nothing, heard only the patter of rain. Wait! Someone
was sneaking to the rear of the cottage, a curved bulk, exactly like a human
body, carried in a sack upon his back. The man was Wakelin, for sure. Dawkin
recognised his slouching gait.

‘He’s done it,’ he thought. ‘He’s actually killed Gabriel!’ He
was afraid to draw breath, fearful that Wakelin might catch the sound and cast
a suspicious glance towards the shed.
Fingering the ghost of a button
long since torn from his shirt, he watched in stunned silence.  

Having dragged up the old door that covered the arsenic pit,
Wakelin strode to the stream. He soon returned, stooped over, carrying a heavy
stone. Stowing it in the sack alongside the body, he thrust it into the pit. With
a sickening glug, the grim contents sank.

Dawkin slumped against the cold stone, stunned.

He waited. All was quiet. Anxiety struck. ‘He’ll have gone
to the loft and discovered that I’m not in my sack. He’ll be there, waiting to
get me.’

It was with a sense of relief that he heard the sound of
paper rustling and spotted Wakelin skulking back to the arsenic pit. ‘Now
what’s he up to?’ he wondered. ‘What does it matter?’

Hearing him return to the stream, most likely for another
stone, Dawkin took his chance. He clambered cautiously down and patted Twiss on
the head. ‘Not a woof!’

It seemed to take forever trying to scurry quietly back
through the garden.

Curled like a dormouse beneath the twisted blankets, Eppie
was still fast asleep in the truckle bed beside the hearth, her tussled and
looped flaxen tresses sweeping the pillow.   

Having crept back up to the loft, Dawkin dived beneath the
coverlet.

Almost immediately, cautious steps followed.

The pattle stick, which Gillow used to remove clay from Dusty’s
plough, gripped in his hands beneath the blanket, Dawkin fought to conquer his
jumpy nerves.

Unbearably claustrophobic, he sensed Wakelin standing over
him, watching for the slightest movement that would prove he was awake. It was
with untold solace that he caught a slight sound paces away. Hands shaking, he
tugged down the edge of the blanket and peered out, guardedly.

Wakelin stood staring through the tiny window set into the
thatch. Raindrops slivered silver down the pane like miniature daggers.

Upon spying the gun clutched in Wakelin’s hands, a parched
sensation gripped Dawkin’s throat. He longed to fetch a drink, but was terrified
to move.

He seemed to watch for ages. All the while Wakelin remained
as still as death.

Gradually, lulled by the warmth
of his body, Dawkin began to feel drowsy. He grimaced, knew that he must remain
vigilant. Remain awake. Heartbeat slowing, muscles relaxing, he plunged into a deep
slumber.

Wakelin stared at Dawkin’s face. Listening to the boy’s
steady breathing, he tried to imagine it was upon himself that he looked, on the
night he stole Genevieve. ‘If only I’d never woken,’ he thought, ‘I’d never
have gone to check on Eppie. I’d never have found her dead. I wish I’d never
stolen her. And after what I’ve done tonight du Quesne could hang me twice
over.’ He peeled off his jerkin, recalling his cunning action. ‘Except they
won’t find out I’ve killed him. I’ve covered me tracks.’ He rubbed his shoulder,
which ached from bearing the body through the woods. ‘It’s all pa’s fault. He
shouldn’t have called me an idiot. I hate him.’

Sinking onto Gillow’s sacks, he
stared vacantly at the thatch, breathing in the acrid smell of woven cloth. Weighed
down with torment, he wondered how much longer he could struggle on. He hated
thinking it. Knew Thurstan was right. ‘I’m what that scum once called me, an untouchable,
an outcast, cut off from everything and everyone.’ He rubbed his eyes, damp
from tears. Tugging out his pocket pistol, he drained the sedative-narcotic
blend of opium and gin. Slumping back, mouth agape, he fell into a soporific
slumber, brimming with pellucid visions:

Plummeting through blackness, he burst into an exhilarating
world that span with a riot of gay colours. Animated musicians piped
foot-tapping tunes. Skirts swirled. Ale flowed freely.

Linking hands with Martha, Molly and other villagers, they
formed a circle, skipping around a jigging simpleton ludicrously dressed as a
harpy with bird wings and claws. Recognising the rapacious monster as his father,
he shrieked with laughter. So proud, so self-righteous, everyone was mocking
his father, the fool.

He saw himself, as a boy, dipping into a bird’s nest.
Crushing the speckled blue eggs of a magpie he revelled in the sensation of the
mucous sliming his palms, for the breaking of the eggs foretold a year of luck.

Wiping his hands down his
breeches, he retired to a trestle bench set before The Fat Duck. He licked his
lips and was about to sup a draught from a blackjack when Gabriel’s bloodied
head surged through the frothing ale. In horror, flinging away the tankard, he
caught the muffled cry of a baby.

He staggered to his feet. One moment he stood the right way
up, his boots firmly planted on the timbers. The next instant, a sickening
sensation curdled his stomach and he seemed to spiral upside down like an image
in a lace-maker’s water-filled globe. To steady himself, he took a firm grip on
the rim of the apple rack.

Twisted ideas oscillated in his stupefied brain. ‘Is it the
night I stole Gabriel’s sister? Am I being given another chance?’

Quietly, he crept down the ladder. Even in his dazed stupor,
like a blind dog he knew where each item of furniture stood and unsteadily wove
his way between them and the loom.

Pushing back the doorway sacking, he took a tentative step
into his parents’ room and stooped over the cradle. This slight movement of lowering
his head caused him to reel with dizziness.

Cautiously, he reached out and touched the baby’s cheek. A
dead cheek. He knew he ought to be consumed by an overwhelming sense of tragedy
at his sister’s death. Instead, he felt elated.

It was torture, but slowly, his legs shaking, he backed. With
each step he felt the torment that had crushed the life out of him all these
years lift from his body. Liberated from mental turmoil, he wanted to holler,
to proclaim to the world that he was free. Something inside warned for silence,
for restraint. The same something that had warned all those years ago, but now
there was the added thrill of knowing he was leaving Eppie, for his mother to
find her dead.

Letting the door curtain slump back, he turned, only for his
gaze to fall upon the sleeping form of a girl. The baby in his parents’ room was
Eppie. Yet here she was, a young girl. She couldn’t be. She was dead. The time
between her birth and this moment melted. Fuddled, he shook his head, trying to
rid himself of his state of torpidity.

From an unfathomable depth in his troubled mind memory grew.
The baby was Lottie. With a jolt he realised this could only be Genevieve du
Quesne. Appalled by the recollection he trod giddily towards her, his aching eyes
fixated upon every feature of the child. Scarcely audible, whistling emitted
from her nostrils. Barely perceptible, as she took each breath, her head moved.
A shoulder rose and fell rhythmically.
 

Shaking with bewilderment, he grabbed the fox-hide cushion
and held it slightly away from the girl’s face. Passions oscillated. He hated
Genevieve for throwing his life into turmoil, yet he was vexed with the pain of
love for her. He forced emotional deadness. ‘This way is best,’ he thought. ‘It
won’t hurt. They’ll think she died in her sleep.’

Cocooned in her dreams, Eppie had the briefest perception of
something inexplicable bearing down upon her, followed by an overwhelming,
stifling pressure. Unable to drawn breath, she lashed out.

Wakelin thrust harder, harder. ‘It’s nearly over,’ he
thought determinedly. ‘Then I’m free.’

The child’s abrupt movements died and became no more than
twitches.

Something cold and hard jabbed into Wakelin’s back. In
alarm, he loosened his grip and span around. 

Released from her suffocation, Eppie heaved for breath. Hot
with racing blood, her ears pulsated. ‘Mam, my nose is squashed!’