Gracie's Sin (21 page)

‘I’m not saying you won’t be. Only thought that p’raps you should go - while you can.’ Then he vanished into the darkness but his strange remarks, and the urgency with which he’d said them, remained with her like a chilling warning.

Every morning when she woke, cold and aching in her uncomfortable bed, Rose would tell herself that she should leave, this very day. She’d wash her face in the bucket of cold water she kept in the loft, sometimes breaking the ice in order to reach it. She would constantly count the small amount of cash that she’d brought with her and kept secreted in the tin trunk. That was all she had in the world apart from the fifty pounds her mother had left her. Perhaps Maurice was right and she should leave, find a better place. Anywhere would be better than this. But Rose didn’t even know where the nearest town was, so couldn’t lay her hands on the money quickly. She didn’t even know where the railway station was.

What a fool she’d been. She should have kept looking for a recruitment office, not taken this job in the middle of nowhere with absolute strangers, and all because she was alone and scared.

Rose decided that she daren’t risk spending her precious hoard of coins, not even on a train ticket, not until she’d received some of her wages. She’d done a great deal of work on the farm for which she’d received no hard cash as yet, only her keep. Each and every morning she made a vow to stay only until she’d been paid, and not a day longer.

With fresh resolve she set about all the myriad tasks set by the farmer’s wife, while Agnes herself did less and less, shutting herself in her room to read or knit a seemingly endless scarf. Rose’s first task each morning was to feed the fifteen calves. It was her favourite part of the day and she loved to sit with them, enjoying the warmth of their presence, finding comfort in their satisfied grunts of pleasure as they ate, even the soft sound of their breathing made her feel less alone. It was the only place she allowed herself to shed a few tears. Sometimes she felt as if they were crying with her.

After that she would scrub out the dairy, then there were the beds to make, the sweeping, dusting, washing, ironing; the scrubbing and scouring of stone floors. Rose would like to have protested that she’d been employed to work on the farm, not in the house, but she dare not.

When she’d finished in the house, she’d make up a sandwich, wrap it in a cloth and set off for the fields, weary before she even began, and spend the day cutting nettles, picking stones, spreading manure on a frozen field, or feeding and tending the few sheep and cows Maurice kept. After that it was back to the house for supper, more often than not something like cold pork and mashed potatoes, though once a week Agnes would make a huge stew which was intended to last them for days. Unfortunately, she always made it in the very same enamel bowl in which she washed her feet, which rather took the edge off Rose’s appetite.

However much she consoled herself that the strange warning from the old farmer had been no more than well-meant advice, probably because Rose was so very young and alone, it left her more wary of him than ever. But for all her reluctance not to spend any time alone with him in the house, she couldn’t avoid him during the day. Rose dealt with these somewhat irrational fears by keeping up a line of enforced, cheerful chatter. ‘Is this how you like the logs chopped, split into two?’

‘That’ll do nicely.’ Sometimes, he sounded almost genial, which made her even more fearful. Was he trying to ingratiate himself with her, gain her trust before he pounced!

‘I learned to use an axe by watching my friends. They were in the Timber Corps. Part of the Women’s Land Army, you know?’

‘Women are doing all sorts these days,’ he grunted, implying this was not, in his opinion, a good idea.

Rose refused to rise to the bait. ‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful? Do you know anything about them? About the Timber Corps I mean. I’ve thought about joining myself. Do you think I should?’

By way of reply, Maurice gave her a hard, interrogative, stare from under bushy brows which made her shiver. Then stroking the bristles on his chin, continued, ‘You’d have to ask Agnes ‘bout that. She’s the one who understands women’s business.’

Agnes brusquely told Rose to put any daft notions of that sort out of her head at once. ‘You owe me at least another month’s work for the food I’ve put into your belly already, not forgetting taking you in off the road and putting a roof over your head.’

Rose acknowledged this undeniable fact without commenting that the roof in question was only that of a stable, and leaked. Or that the food was diabolical, and there was still no sign of the agreed wages.

Quite unexpectedly the thin lips curled upwards into the ghost of a smile. ‘I will admit that you’ve worked hard since you came. I’m reasonably satisfied. I get rid of troublemakers and time wasters pretty quickly but you’ve been a good girl. Yes, a good girl. No trouble at all.’ She reached out and patted Rosie’s cheek. ‘You deserve some reward for your efforts.’

Rose was surprised and pleased by the unexpected kindly gesture. Did this mean Agnes was about to pay her at last? ‘Thank you. I’m glad to have been of service.’ She would like to have said that she’d enjoyed the work, that the time she’d spent with the old couple at the farm had been most enjoyable, but that would have been stretching the truth a little too far.

‘You’re quite a pretty girl too, aren’t you? Beautiful I’d say, with that cloud of dark hair and those magnificent blue eyes. Not to mention those perfect cheek bones.’ Again she stroked Rosie’s cheek, this time with the tips of her fingers, very lightly caressing the silky skin.

Blushing slightly, Rose mumbled her thanks. No one had ever paid her such compliments before and she clung to these few kind words, as if to a lifeline. It seemed some consolation that even if Maurice Sullivan gave her the shivers, at least his wife was friendly enough, despite her old fashioned ways. It felt good to be appreciated.

Agnes Sullivan’s improved mood lasted for some weeks and made that first bitter winter away from Cornwall at least bearable for Rose. She would sometimes make her something special for tea, perhaps liver and onions, considered quite a treat, or a corned beef pasty. She would smooth Vaseline into her work roughened hands, or wash Rose’s hair for her. These small attentions, pleasant though they were, did not disguise the fact that she still had received no pay for her labours. Nor was she ever included in the trips out for supplies that the husband and wife took each month.

Rose felt it would soon be time to reconsider her future and make some changes. A fear was growing in her that the war might be over before she’d joined up, or found her friends,
 
and she would have missed all the excitement. One morning she took a firm grasp of her courage and asked the question that had been bothering her of late. ‘Is the nearest town very far? Would there be some sort of recruitment office there, do you think?’

‘Recruitment office? For what?’ Agnes’s eyes glazed over as she looked at Rose, as if she wasn’t properly listening to a word she said.

‘For the Timber Corps.’

Agnes named some market town which Rose had never heard of, concluding with a shrug, ‘It’s nine miles away. That’s where we go each month, to buy in supplies.’

‘Nine miles!’ Rose was bitterly disappointed, all too keenly aware that she didn’t have the energy to walk so far to an unknown town and nine miles back, just on the off-chance someone might be able to help solve her problem.

‘It’s just that I thought I’d like to find these friends of mine. Besides, although it was very kind of you to give me shelter and a job, and I do appreciate your kindness, Agnes, I feel I should be moving on. It’s not too late for me to join up, is it? I might only be young but surely I could be of some value. What d’you think?’

‘I think you should peel those potatoes and stop prattling. I don’t pay you to stand about dreaming. Have you scrubbed those pantry shelves, like I asked you?’

‘Sorry. I forgot. I’ll do them the minute I’ve finished the vegetables.’ Rose cleared her throat. This was the part she’d been dreading. ‘Actually, I’ve been here half the winter already and you haven’t paid me a penny. I was wondering when I might expect to receive my wages.’

‘End of the quarter, assuming you haven’t run off in the meantime,’ came the curt reply.

There seemed little else to say. Rose decided that she would just have to be patient. Hands raw from the washing soda, and with the chilblains on her toes sore and bleeding from the freezing temperatures in the stable, she swallowed her disappointment and went back to work. But then why should it hurt that neither Agnes nor Maurice showed the least interest in what she might wish to do with her life. She was nothing to them. Not even her own brother had cared about her, so why should they? Oh, she was forgetting, he hadn’t been her brother at all, had he? She didn’t have anyone in the world to call her own.

A lump came into her throat, and her chest went all tight with the pain of it. Perhaps she was fated to spend the rest of her life without a single friend or companion. She put down her head to hide the spurt of tears that ran down her cheeks, and got on with the scrubbing. Such menial tasks seemed to be her destiny. Rose longed to find Lou and Gracie, but was truly fearful that she never would.

Rose even began to worry that Agnes might never let her go, that she and Maurice would try to keep her here, working like a slave for them, exactly as Eddie had done. That wouldn’t do at all. Eddie had used her, kept secrets he should have told. As had her own parents. Rose didn’t like that. She would decide what she did in future. Nobody else. She would do exactly as she pleased.

The very next time her employers went into town to collect their monthly supplies, she would ask to go with them. Except that she wouldn’t be coming back. Rose meant to collect the money they owed her, then stay and make proper enquiries about joining up. She resolved to ask at the Post Office or the Town Hall, if she couldn’t find any recruitment office. All she had to do was to be patient for a little while longer and see out the quarter to pay day.

Later that night Rose was hastening through her ablutions, as usual wondering if she would ever again experience the luxury of a hot bath, or be truly clean. She’d taken off her cardigan, blouse, skirt and woollen stockings, even her petticoat and brassiere, and was standing in her French knickers, soaping herself down when she heard the creak of a door opening. Dear God, had she forgotten to bolt it? Had Maurice returned unexpectedly early? Snatching up the towel, she swung about, ready to give him the sharp edge of her tongue for intruding when she saw that it was in fact the bedroom door which had opened, and only Agnes who entered. Candlestick in hand, in her long white nightdress with a single plait draped over one shoulder she looked like a figure from a Victorian melodrama, or a child’s nursery rhyme.

Rose almost giggled with relief. ‘Oh Agnes, you gave me the fright of my life. I thought it was Mr Sullivan.’

Agnes smiled as she approached. ‘Aren’t you cold standing about half naked? You should hurry up or you’ll risk catching a chill.’

‘I’ve almost finished.’ A wave of embarrassment suddenly washed over her. Rose much preferred to attend to these personal hygiene matters in private. She reached for her discarded undergarments but found her way blocked by the farmer’s wife. ‘Oh, excuse me.’

Agnes didn’t move and Rose felt suddenly trapped, with her employer in front and the sink pressing against her back. There was something in the mesmeric quality of the woman’s gaze which brought a sudden chill of unease.

Then in one fluid movement, Agnes’s hand snaked out and captured one damp nipple, squeezing it between finger and thumb. Rose gasped with shock. But in the seconds it took for her to draw breath to protest she became aware that Agnes’s other hand had slid up her thigh, beneath her knickers and was now pinned between her legs, the fingers probing with pernicious purpose.

‘Dear God. What the hell are you doing?’ Rose pushed at her, desperately trying to jerk away, for all she was jammed in a corner and there was nowhere to go. She slapped at one hand and then the other in her panic to be free but succeeded only in tightening the woman’s tenacious grip. The long bony fingers seemed to be glued to her, like great red greedy spiders kneading and clawing at her flesh.

‘Let go of me. Stop it.
Stop it, I tell you
!’ Rose was gasping and crying, pleading and begging which finally erupted into screams as the woman’s hold was too strong to break. There was no hope of escape.

For the second time in her short life, Rose ran. The moment the assault was over and Agnes had returned to her bed, as calmly as if nothing untoward had taken place, Rose dragged herself to her feet and fled the house, not even pausing to wash away the blood that trickled down the inside of her leg.

She flew up to the loft to collect her precious bank book and few belongings and then rushed out into the night. Uncaring of the dark, the cold drizzle of rain, the pain in her groin or the tears washing down her cheeks, she ran as fast as she could, not even pausing to say goodbye to the ever-vigilant figure of Maurice as he stood in the yard, watching her go. Rose realised now that he’d tried to warn her; that in his odd way he’d been guarding, not stalking her, as she’d imagined. Unfortunately, he’d been quite unable to protect her from those intimate female moments before bed. How she’d misjudged him! She’d erroneously believed that in some strange, unspecified way he’d been warning her to beware of himself. How wrong she had been.