Authors: Dilly Court
The room was bathed in the rosy glow from the oil lamps and she was warm and comfortable, but she couldn’t help wondering how Pa was faring in his cold prison cell with little or no hope of imminent release, and her heart ached for him in his ordeal. He was a good man really; just a little weak and easily led. Her determination to procure his release
hardened
. She must think of a plan that would enable her to return to London and earn her own living while she sought justice for him. She would see the Sykes brothers caught, tried and condemned to jail, even if it meant throwing her lot in with the police. She sat upright, staring into the glowing coals. She must not give in now. There must be a way to achieve her goal, even though the outlook at present was bleak.
She slithered off the satin coverlet and undressed slowly in front of the fire, slipping on the white lawn nightgown that Martha had thoughtfully laid out for her. She turned down the wicks in the bedside lamps until the flames guttered and died, leaving the room in semidarkness, with only the soft light from the fire to keep her company. She slipped between the starched cotton sheets and lay back against the soft pillows. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift into the pleasant state between waking and sleeping. Tomorrow, she thought dreamily, I will come to a decision.
Weeks passed and Irene still had not formulated a definite plan of action. She had considered asking Miss Maude for a loan in order to set herself up in rented rooms in London while she tried to secure Pa’s release, but she soon came to realise that the Greenwood fortune
had
been eaten away over the years. Maude worked the land from necessity and the farm brought in just enough money to keep the house going, but with little to spare. Arthur worked long hours at the smithy and to Irene’s surprise he proved eager to turn his hand to anything about the farm, from mending a ploughshare to milking the cows if Albert was laid up with a bad chest.
Irene did what she could. She helped in the dairy and fed the chickens and pigs, but she pined for London. She yearned for the noise and excitement of the city, and if she were to tell the truth, she found life in the country deadly dull. She missed Ma and she worried about Emmie, whose time was drawing near. She wrote letters to them every week, struggling with the grammar and spelling, and received the occasional reply written in Emmie’s spidery scrawl, which were almost entirely about the trials of her condition and quite brief. Irene read these blotted missives with a lump in her throat. She might have argued and sometimes quarrelled with her sister but she was fond of her for all that.
It was not only those closest to her who were uppermost in her thoughts. Irene was still struggling to come to terms with the idea that Edward Kent’s father might once have been Miss Maude’s sweetheart. If it were true then
it
seemed like the weirdest of coincidences, and the knowledge that his family possibly lived just a few miles away from Havering made it seem even stranger. She had attempted to write to Alice on several occasions just to let her know that she was safe and well, but somehow she couldn’t find the right words and her efforts had ended up in the fire.
As the days lengthened and a hint of spring warmed the air, Irene grew even more restless. She saw little of Arthur these days. He came home for his supper, but when he had eaten and changed out of his dirty work clothes he took himself off to pay court to Betty. He had brought her to the house on several occasions, and despite her initial misgivings Irene had to admit that Arthur’s fiancée was a sweet girl and an ideal mate for him. Under Betty’s influence he had given up drink, except for the odd pint of beer every now and again, and he had lost his desire to gamble unless it was on a game of shove-halfpenny in the village pub or playing the old men at dominoes, and then the stakes were farthings rather than pounds. Arthur was a happy man, there was no doubt about that, and Irene rejoiced for him, but his love for Betty had stirred longings in herself that she found hard to define.
With the improvement in the weather, Irene began taking long walks when her chores were
done
. She discovered a whole new world in the burgeoning hedgerows, which were now alive with birdsong and the rustling sound of small mammals scurrying through the dead leaves as they hunted for grubs and insects to feed their young. The bare branches of the blackthorn were studded with tiny white flowers and catkins dangled from hazel and willow trees, waving in the breeze like tiny foxtails while clusters of yellow primroses and cowslips made pools of instant sunshine on the grassy banks. Having grown up in the brick and concrete canyons of the city, Irene was constantly amazed by the ability of the natural world to regenerate itself after the apparent slow death of winter.
She might often be bored and lonely, but she was aware that her health had improved with good food and exercise. When she looked into the mirror on her dressing table, she realised that her complexion was as fresh as any milkmaid’s and her eyes were clear and bright. Her hair, which Martha washed for her in soft soap and rinsed with an infusion of camomile, now shone with golden glints and her cheeks were rosy. And yet her old life called to her and she still yearned for the dirt and smoke of London; she could not abandon those whom she loved the most. She would even be civil to Inspector Kent if she ever
found
a way to return home, but only for Alice’s sake, of course.
On a pleasant April morning, Irene was feeling particularly ill at ease. She put her edginess down to the fact that Emmie’s confinement was imminent, but she knew in her heart that this was only a small part of the cause. The enforced inactivity was driving her to a point beyond endurance. She felt as though her life had come to a complete standstill, and she needed to do something constructive. Martha and Miss Maude had gone to market in the gig and would not be home until late afternoon, and Arthur was at work. Irene had finished her tasks early and she found the prospect of spending a whole day alone in the house daunting to say the least. Acting on the spur of the moment, she put on her bonnet and shawl and set off for a walk.
Without planning her route, she found herself heading in the direction of Navestock. In one of her chatty moods, Martha had been only too eager to talk about Farmer Kent, who kept himself to himself and was not a popular man. By dint of tactful questioning, Irene had found out the exact whereabouts of the Kents’ farm. She had not planned to go there, but she was curious to see the man whom the young Maude Greenwood had loved so desperately. Navestock was several miles away, but the sun
was
warm on her face and she had a sudden overwhelming desire to visit the farm that might once have been home to the young Edward Kent and his sister Alice.
The sun was high in the sky by the time she reached the farm and she was both hungry and thirsty. She had a few pennies in her purse and she decided to knock on the door and enquire if she could purchase a glass of milk and some bread and cheese.
The half-timbered farmhouse was surrounded by single-storey red-brick outbuildings. Irene paused by the gate in the picket fence, taking in all the details of the rutted and muddy yard with hens busily pecking at the ground. A desultory-looking sheepdog was chained to its kennel and it wagged its tail, uttering a feeble woof which seemed more like a greeting than a threat. She let herself into the enclosure, taking care to close the gate behind her, and she stopped to pat the dog. It licked her hand and whined when she walked away to knock on the farmhouse door. She waited for a while but there did not seem to be anyone at home. The yard was deserted, although she could hear the sound of voices coming from one of the outhouses. She picked her way between the fowls and avoided deep puddles as she headed towards a brick building, which turned out to be the dairy. Inside with his back
to
her was a tall, thin man who was berating a freckle-faced boy of eleven or twelve.
‘Excuse me, mister,’ Irene said, clearing her throat. ‘I don’t mean to intrude but I was out walking and I wondered if I might buy a glass of milk and something to eat.’
The man turned his head to stare at her. She could see the resemblance immediately and it was so marked that she caught her breath.
‘This is private property, young woman,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s not an inn. I suggest you go down the road where you’ll find a public house. I’m sure they will oblige you.’
Irene was not going to give in so easily. She had come this far and she was convinced that this must be Farmer Kent, but she could not leave until she was certain. ‘Thank you, but I really would appreciate a cup of milk, if you could spare one, Mr – er …’
‘Farmer Kent is the name, young lady,’ he muttered, turning to the shame-faced boy. ‘Fetch the lady a cup of milk, Arnold, and mind what I just told you.’
‘Yes, Father.’ The boy hurried to the back of the dairy and dipped a half-pint measure into a churn. He scuttled back, handing it to Irene before making his escape through the open door.
Irene took a mouthful of the warm, creamy
liquid
. She eyed Farmer Kent warily. ‘Thank you, mister. How much do I owe you?’
He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. ‘Nothing. You’re welcome to it, but I’ll ask you to leave as soon as you’re done.’ He made to follow his son but Irene called him back.
‘Farmer Kent, I believe you have a son and daughter living in London.’
He stopped, shoulders hunched and hands clenched at his sides. ‘You are mistaken.’
Irene stared at his rigid back and she sensed that he was lying. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said boldly.
He spun around to face her, his expression grim. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘No, mister. I just thought—’
‘Why did you come here, young woman? What right have you to snoop on me and my family?’ He took a step towards her, his dark eyebrows meeting in a scowl over the bridge of his aquiline nose.
There was no getting away from the physical resemblance between the farmer and the police inspector. Although, she decided, taking an involuntary step backward, Edward at his worst was no match for his ill-tempered sire. ‘All right,’ she said hastily. ‘I admit that I came here out of curiosity. Alice is a dear friend of mine and I have a slight acquaintance with her brother.’
‘Who sent you here?’
‘No one. I came of my own accord entirely, but I can see that I’ve offended you and I’ll bother you no further.’ With a defiant lift of her chin, Irene walked past him and out into the yard, but she had not gone more than a few paces when she slipped on the mud and tumbled to the ground, twisting her ankle. She lay in a crumpled heap, gasping with pain.
‘You stupid girl, you should take more care.’ Farmer Kent yanked her roughly to her feet. ‘Can you walk?’
She attempted to put weight on her ankle but the pain was too intense and she leaned against him, shaking her head. ‘It hurts.’
‘Of course it does.’ He hitched her arm around his shoulders. ‘I’ll help you to the house and my wife will see to you. Lean on me.’
There was nothing she could do other than allow him to assist her over the rough ground to the farmhouse. In the kitchen the aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the fragrance of herbs hanging in bunches from the blackened oak beams. Hams hung in the smoky inglenook above the fire and a kettle was bubbling and singing on the hob. A pale, tired-looking woman was standing at the large pine table, slicing raw meat ready for the pot. She looked up as they entered the room and
her
eyes widened as Farmer Kent dumped Irene on a chair as if she had been a sack of potatoes.
‘Dora, stop that and help this young person. She took a fall and twisted her ankle. I don’t think it’s anything more than a simple sprain, but you must take a look at it. See to her and then send her on her way.’ Without waiting for his wife’s reply, he turned on his heel and strode out into the yard.
‘I’m sorry to put you to any trouble, missis,’ Irene said apologetically, but despite her pain and embarrassment she couldn’t help staring at Dora Kent. She must have been quite pretty when she was a young woman, but now her small features were etched with wrinkles and dark smudges of fatigue underlined her large brown eyes. She was swaddled in a large calico apron with her hair tucked up beneath a mobcap, but the shabby garments could not disguise an indefinable air of gentility.
She knelt at Irene’s feet and began to unlace her boot. ‘I hope I’m not hurting you, miss.’
Irene winced but she bit her lip and shook her head. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Kent. You’ve got a gentle touch.’
A fleeting smile crossed Dora’s face. ‘I haven’t seen you round these parts before. What’s your name?’
‘Irene Angel. Ouch.’
‘That’s the worst of it over.’ Dora eased Irene’s boot off and examined the ankle closely. ‘It’s only a bit swollen. A cold compress should sort it out, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to walk on it for a day or two.’ She scrambled to her feet and crossed the flagstone floor to take a clean cloth from a drawer in a large oak dresser. She dipped it in the stone sink and wrung it out. ‘Have you come far today, Miss Angel? We don’t see many strangers around these parts.’
‘From Havering,’ Irene said, wincing as Dora wrapped the cold, wet cloth around her ankle. ‘I am staying there with friends.’
Dora raised her head and a shadow passed across her features. ‘From Havering, you say?’
‘Yes. I’m staying at the Round House with Miss Maude Greenwood.’
Dora’s pale face blanched to ashen and she sat down heavily on the nearest chair. ‘How is she? Is Maude well?’
Irene nodded. ‘Your sister is in good health.’
Dora’s eyes widened. ‘H-how did you know we were sisters?’
‘Martha Marchant told me a little of your story.’
‘My sister hasn’t spoken to me since I married Eddie,’ Dora said, sighing. ‘She has never been able to forgive me for marrying her old sweetheart. We haven’t passed so much as the time of day for thirteen years.’
‘Perhaps if you went to see her …’ Irene began, but the expression on Dora’s face stopped her in mid-sentence.