Victorian Maiden (9 page)

“No doubt there are, sir, but you see Mrs Dixon, the Matron of the workhouse, was worried that little Peter might not be able to find his way all the way to your house. So she tied a label with his name and the workhouse address on it around his neck. It was still just about legible when he was fished out of the sea.”

‘Oh, Lord Jesus, please don't let little Peter Lovegood be dead after all!'

Lizzie slid down the wall until she was sitting on the damp, cool earth under the window. Her mind was a maelstrom of confusion. 

But he did go with us that day, he did. He did catch the early-morning train with us to Newcastle.

Uncle Alfie and John were telling lies to the policeman. But should she go in and tell him the truth? A sudden vision of Uncle Alfie's ravenous eyes staring at her as he punished her as hard and as cruelly as he was able swelled into her consciousness. 

No, she dare not. Perhaps it was a different Peter Lovegood the policeman was talking about? Yes, that must be it. Uncle Alfie was right; there had to be lots of little boys called Peter Lovegood between Harrogate and the Holy Island, because no one was allowed to tell lies to a policeman. That would be wicked. Yes, it must have been a different little boy called Peter Lovegood.

But the address! Oh, my dear Lord Jesus, the policeman had said there was an address.

Another image replaced that of Uncle Alfie in her mind. It was of Uncle Alfie's gentleman friend Mr James punishing her cousin John. She had seen him once, as she had staggered, bruised and bleeding, into her bedroom after she had been a very, very wicked little girl indeed. It had taken her uncle and four of his friends from the Friday Club to punish her that week, one after the other. Mr James had screamed for her to get out but it was too late; the image was burned forever into her memory. She had seen what he had been doing to John as he lay, face down on her bed, trembling and softly whimpering. It seemed abominable, but it answered all at once a question that had been niggling at her thoughts ever since she had known she was so wicked: How could boys be punished as she was, and as all the other little girls Mr Otter kept in the big room downstairs were punished? She had assumed, correctly it seemed, that boys were the same as her uncle and the other gentlemen without their trousers on, and now that she knew, she realised just how wicked little boys could be.

But if John could be so wicked, he might be telling lies now after all. There had been an address tied around the boy's neck. So it might just have been the same little Peter Lovegood – the boy who had gone with them that day across the sands but had never returned. And if John was telling lies to the policeman, Uncle Alfie must be telling lies to the policeman too. What if Uncle Alfie was wicked? The vision of Mr James, naked from the waist down rushed back into her mind but this time, instead of a naked, whimpering cousin John lying face down on her bed, there, in his stead, fat and as white as cook's fresh bread dough, was Uncle Alfie.

She shuddered and the image dissolved and was replaced by yet another. But this one was a real memory and so she shuddered again. This was one of those awful, awful memories she tried to keep hidden so far away, hidden in that most foul and secret part of her mind, and it had surely come to torment her.

A little boy of around ten years old was giggling and chattering incessantly in anticipation of the game of Viking Marauders he had been promised. He, along with John, Lizzie, and a pretty little, waif-and-stray girl called Sarah were to enjoy the game as part of a grand adventure at the seaside with her uncle and two of his gentlemen friends. They were even going to be allowed to stay up and play for most of the night before they moved on to Uncle Alfie's hunting lodge the following morning. And yes, she remembered now; the boy was going to be settled as a pauper apprentice to the gamekeeper.

Accordingly, they had travelled up to the county of Northumberland by express train and private coach, and then crossed on foot over to Lindisfarne, the Holy Island, along what her uncle had called the Pilgrim's Causeway.

The Pilgrim's Causeway, Uncle Alfie told them as they trudged out onto the broad, white sands and mud flats, was a path across the very bed of the sea itself. It was marked by a long line of ancient weather-beaten timbers driven deep into the sands, which had guided pilgrims to the Holy Island for centuries. The way, he said, was completely dry twice each day when the tide was low, but when the tide rushed back in, and it rushed back in faster than any child could run, it was quickly submerged under many, many feet of the cold, black waters of the North Sea.

Uncle Alfie had warned them that they must always be good little children; that they must take care to do everything, exactly as he said. Although the sands of the causeway looked pristine, he explained, even benign, and although they carried a saintly name, they concealed deadly channels and moving quicksands that could easily trap the unwary and the disobedient.

Dusk was just rolling in as they finally reached the sanctuary of the island. The great ruined castle of Bamburgh stood sentinel, stark and black against the crimson skies over the mainland just a few miles to the south. Below that, their own island was guarded by its smaller twin, a brutally rugged stone fortress crouched on a rocky mound. It was silhouetted against the lights and chimney smoke of a cluster of tiny fishing cottages. John had told her that his father owned one of the cottages there that he occasionally used during his visits to the island. 

But Uncle Alfie hadn't taken them to the village. Instead he had quickly shepherded them the other way, out towards to the empty, desolate horizon to the north. That was where, he said, the very best adventures of all were to be had.

Peter, the little boy, had come from the workhouse at Starbeck. He had never seen the sea outside of a picture book before, and he was utterly mesmerised by the sight and the sound of the surf gently clawing at the sand and pebbles of the shore. He was enchanted as they followed it round, bustled along by Uncle Alfie, Mr James and Mr Price in a great, wide circle, to the far side of the island where there were no houses, to a tiny secluded inlet, nestled deep among the dark, whinstone rocks.

Uncle Alfie rested a large carpet bag he had brought with him on the top of one of these rocks and lifted out four neatly folded rolls of clothing. 

“Come here, children,” he said, “I've brought some dressing up clothes for our game. Put them on and then you can play awhile on the beach until we come back for you and begin our game in earnest.” 

She remembered the catch in his voice as he spoke – that horrible catch that always meant that she had been a wicked little girl and that she needed to be punished. She remembered the chilling smile he exchanged with Mr James and Mr Price; a hollow smile, that never quite reached his eyes. But no, surely she must have been mistaken. He must be breathless from their walk; that was it. Didn't he tell them, didn't he promise them, that this was going to be a game?

“We are going to re-enact the very first Viking raid on British soil,” Uncle Alfie continued, “Which took place on this very island – the Holy Island of Lindisfarne – in the year of our Lord, Seven Hundred and Ninety Three. You four children are to be the Anglo-Saxon nuns and monks of the monastery here, and Mr James, Mr Price and I are going to be the Viking invaders.”

So, giggling with excitement and anticipation, they ran to the rock to take
their very own bundle of dressing up clothes from Uncle Alfie's trembling hands.

“Lizzie and I are dressing up as nuns,” Sarah called excitedly across to the other side of the inlet to where the boys were changing “What are you?”

“We are monks,” John shouted back. “I think that when the Vikings attacked, they generally raided the monasteries first because they knew that they would find lots of gold and silver and other treasure stored there.”

“We had better keep a sharp lookout for them in that case.”

Lizzie was excited, happy almost, for the first time since her mama had died, and since Baby Albert was born and then had had to go and be an angel for Jesus. Instinctively, she reached for the tiny silver cross hanging from its fine chain around her neck. Her papa had given it to her when she was born, and she pressed the warm metal to her lips. It tasted of salt. 

“Please watch over us, Lord Jesus,” she whispered, “Especially here on your holy island, and please watch over the immortal souls of Mama and Papa and dear little Baby Albert.”

An image of a baby, a perfect, tiny baby seared a burning trail through her mind like the fiery path of a sky dragon.

“They're coming; the Vikings are coming,” came a breathless cry from the darkness, “A furore normannorum libera nos domine.”

“What did you say?” Sarah shouted back. 

“It's a prayer the Anglo-Saxon monks used to say,” John replied earnestly. “It's Latin and it means: ‘From the fury of the Northmen deliver us, O Lord!'”

She wiped her eyes and smiled through the tears of the worst memory of all. Trust John to know all of that. Then she looked out across the sea and saw that John was right. Beyond the blackness of the rocks, beyond the lapping waves, there was a shape, darker than the night around it, and the gentle splash of what might have been oars.

Then she heard her uncle's voice over the whisper of the sea, strident and clear in the still night air: “From the fury of the Northmen, God deliver you!” 

Even though he had said, even though he had promised it was just a game, and in spite of the muggy warmth of the Northumbrian evening, Lizzie shivered.

Then the boat was there, caught on the sand in a slough. The men, great, horned helmets on their heads and black cloaks billowing behind them jumped heavily onto the beach, scattering sand and pebbles as they began to run. 

Sarah squealed, her cry a cry of excitement and delight.

“Nuns, virgins, monks, there on the beach!” bellowed Uncle Alfie. “There's enough for every man. In Freya's holy name, capture them!”

There was the sound of fast-crunching pebbles and as if in slow motion, Uncle Alfie and Mr Price pounded towards them. Their faces under their helmets were lit by the moon and twisted grotesquely into vicious masks of cruelty and lust. Lizzie knew that expression well and her legs turned to lead.

“Run, Sarah,” she hissed, “Run as fast as you can. They want to hurt us; they want to really hurt us. It isn't a game.”

Sarah screamed.

And then in their fury, they were on them. Mr Price ran bodily into her and bore her brutally to the ground. Pebbles pressed viciously into her back as she fought to push his suffocating, crushing weight off her. She felt his sharp teeth biting into her neck like needles, felt his hands pulling at her, pawing her. This was no game. He was too big, too strong. Mr Price was going to punish her. He was going to hurt her, here, now, on this beach, in front of Sarah, in front of her mama looking down from Heaven.

Sarah screamed. But, oh, thank you, Lord Jesus, it was a scream of terror and not of pain. Lizzie opened her eyes. Across the sand, she saw Uncle Alfie pinning the little girl to the beach. Both of her tiny hands were gripped in one of his impossibly large ones and his other hand was clutching her face. His mouth was inches from hers, framing the words, those words, the words she feared above all others: “In my experience, little girls who beg for mercy…”

“Stop there! Come back here, you little bugger.”

It was the disembodied cry of Mr James coming from everywhere in the blackness. 

“Roberts, Price, help me here, the little beggar's getting away!”

And then the great weight was off her and instead there was only a light, warm breeze playing around her naked thighs as she lay, panting in shock. She dared to open her eyes, dared to look up. 

‘Oh, thank you, Lord Jesus, thank you, Mama, thank you, Papa.'

There were her Uncle Alfie and Mr Price running away across the inlet towards the direction of the cry.

Sarah was crying. 

“I don't care for this game,” she sobbed, “I hate the Holy Island and I hate Vikings.”

They huddled together on the lonely beach for what seemed like hours in the blackness of the night, silent except for the comforting murmur of the waves as they stroked and calmed the beach, and the sobbing of little Sarah. John appeared by them and one look into his pained, stricken eyes told her that he too had been wicked, and that Mr James had been intent on cruelly punishing him. 

Then, at last, a faint rhythmic crunching of the pebbles disturbed the hush of the waves. It grew louder and louder and louder and the three huddled close, bracing themselves against whatever horror the new sound might bring.

They heard Uncle Alfie's voice before they could see him, and it was angry. 

“You three there, fetch your clothes and come with us. Quickly now, you need to help us find that infernal little wretch Lovegood. He's run away from Mr James and we have to find him before anyone else on this accursed island does.”

Mr Price saw it first: a miniature monk's cassock lying by the side of the track, roughly turned inside-out as if it had been thrown off in haste. And then Mr James shouted, and they all looked and there, atop one of the grassy dunes, was the silhouette of what might have been a small boy. He was naked and his skin was ghostly white in the bright moonlight. At the sound of the cry, the boy turned and fled away towards the flat sands of the causeway. They could hear him splashing noisily in the shallow waters as he ran.