Wildflower Hill (13 page)

Henry tried not to smile. “Your mother’s a good woman.”

“Sometimes she is sad.”

“Is she?”

“Yesterday she was sad. A letter came and she got so sad, and so sad, and so sad. She didn’t cry, but I could tell. And then she played dress-up for a while, but then she went back and burned the letter in the fireplace. Even though winter is gone.”

Henry felt himself tense. She’d burned a letter? Why? What letter? What was she trying to hide from him? But then he remembered the drunken missive he’d sent off to Molly weeks ago. Had she replied?

“Daddy?” Lucy was looking at him with her clear gray eyes. Did she realize what a claim she had on his heart?

“My dearie,” he said, kissing her cheeks tenderly. “Don’t you worry about Mummy. When you’ve gone to bed tonight, I’ll speak to her and see if I can cheer her up.”

Beattie emerged from Lucy’s bedroom. The child had been so excited by the cake and the doll—Henrietta was firmly tucked in the crook of her arm in bed—that Beattie had to sing a dozen songs until she calmed enough to sleep. While Beattie was relieved that Lucy’s birthday had been such a happy one, the pressure of worry was building up again. How had Henry
afforded the treats? And how long did they have until he had to pay it all back?

She was wary of him. She feared he would hit her again. But she needed to know where the money had come from and how much they now owed. She closed Lucy’s door and crossed to the sitting room. Henry was not in his chair. He was leaning on the mantelpiece, his head resting on his forearms. Staring into the unlit fire.

She waited for him to notice she was there. Long moments.

Then he looked up. “What letter did you burn?”

The question was unexpected, terrifying. Adrenaline spiked her heart. Her eyes went to the fireplace. How did he know?

“Lucy told me,” he said, reading her expression. “At least you’re not denying it. Perhaps you’re not clever enough to lie.” His words were acid. He pushed himself upright and moved close to her. Her feet were rooted to the floor. He was so close that she could smell his slightly sour sweat, the brandy on his breath. His face was florid, his ginger stubble catching the light of the lamp. Had she ever found him desirable? What had happened to those feelings of mad love? She held still, tensed against the blow she felt sure would come.

“Who was the letter from?” he asked, a low whisper, full of menace.

Was she clever enough to lie this time? No. Because if Molly wrote again, asking why he hadn’t replied, she’d be caught out. “Molly,” she said, as clearly as she could.

His eyes narrowed. “Did you read it first?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

Beattie pressed her lips together and shook her head. She was aware that his hands had balled into fists. Her breath quickened, every muscle and nerve in her body braced.

This time he roared. “What did she say?” Spittle flew from his lips, past her ear.

Beattie took a step back, her hands up in front of her face. “Don’t hit me!” she sobbed.

Henry’s eyes rounded. Was it surprise? Beattie couldn’t read his expression. Then she watched as he forcefully got his body under control, relaxed his hands, stepped away from her. He wanted to hit her: that much was clear. But he seemed to have made the decision not to. For some reason, she found this more terrifying than an actual blow.

His voice was icy. “You won’t tell me what was in the letter?”

She shook her head again.

Henry stalked away.

“Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. He seized his hat and coat at the door and slammed out of the house.

Beattie barely slept. Tensed against Henry’s return, she fell into a state of half-dreaming, startling herself to full wakefulness throughout the night, hot panic under her heart. Every time she woke, she checked the bed next to her. Empty. She listened for sounds of him in the house. None. He hadn’t come home. She pulled the thin blankets over her and tried to sleep again. But her mind turned and turned.

He would write to Molly again, of course he would. Perhaps he would telegraph her this time. And as soon as he found out what she offered, he would want to go to Glasgow, and he would want to take Lucy. No matter how she thought about it, this was the conclusion she reached. What reason was there for him to stay here? He clearly didn’t love her anymore. He had no money. He hated his job. His life must be utter misery. If somebody offered for her to return to Glasgow, to look after her financially, she would be desperately eager. Perhaps she was paranoid and not thinking straight, but it seemed too great a risk not to believe he would go. And then what would become of her?

An idea started to form in Beattie’s mind, one that she was reluctant to admit. Henry wasn’t here. He was probably sleeping on Billy’s couch, then he would be at work all day. It would be hours before he returned. There was plenty of time to get away.

Because as much as he said he loved his daughter, he was cruel to her, too. He spent their money before he’d earned it, he let Lucy go without essentials every day, then bought her ridiculous presents. And how long before she irritated him enough that he hit her, just as he had hit Beattie? With the drink in him, he couldn’t control himself. Self-righteous indignation puffed her up. Why, the best thing she could do for the girl was to separate her from her father. Even if she adored him beyond all reason.

Beattie knew this was going to be almost impossible. But only
almost
. She remembered Cora’s advice to her, all those years ago when she was leaving Glasgow:
There are two types of
women in the world, Beattie, those who do things and those who have things done to them.
Had she listened? No. Cora had tried to warn her about Henry, but she had been determined to be the wrong type of woman: she had been determined to have things done to her.

Now she waited for dawn, drifting in and out of confused dreams. Waited for it to be daylight so she could go next door and ask Doris about her cousin the seamstress, about the possibility of a new life, somewhere Henry wouldn’t find her.

Over breakfast, Lucy was cranky and demanding, wanting cake rather than thin porridge. Beattie gave it to her, too tired and distracted to care. Lucy missed her father, almost as though she had intuited that he hadn’t been in the house all night and felt cut adrift by his absence. This was going to be difficult.

Just as Beattie was clearing the table, she heard the rhythmic thump-thump of Doris beating her rugs on her front verandah. Clattering the cutlery in the sink, she wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to the door to throw it open.

“Doris?” There. She had set it in motion.

Doris looked up, curious. They’d had no contact since the day Lucy had tried to steal from Doris. “Yes, dear?”

Beattie cleared her throat, tried to keep her voice even. “Would you . . . please come by for a cup of tea?”

Doris smiled. “I’d love to. I’ve a few chores to—”

“Now, please,” Beattie said. “I’m sorry. It can’t wait.”

The older woman nodded once, draped her rug over the wooden railing, and came up the front path. Beattie’s heart was thudding as she let Doris in, and she willed it to slow
down. This was only the first step. She had to get through much more today.

“Come through to the kitchen,” Beattie said. “I’m afraid it’s still untidy from breakfast.” She lifted Lucy out of her chair and urged her to play with Henrietta in her room. When they were alone, Beattie dropped a penny in the gas meter and put the kettle on the stove.

“Is everything all right, my dear?” Doris said, still standing warily.

“Please, sit down,” Beattie said. “I’m afraid I’m not thinking straight this morning.”

Doris sat at the table, looking around. Beattie tried to see the kitchen from Doris’s perspective. The dingy walls, the upturned fruit crates for spare chairs, the bareness. Doris’s own kitchen had been painted green, and every countertop had held china containers: for sugar, flour, spices, rice, even biscuits. She wondered if Doris had realized how poor they were.

Beattie went through the motions of making tea, as though watching herself from outside. Then she sat with Doris and tried a weak smile. “Could you help me? I’m in trouble.”

“I’ve no money to give you,” Doris said quickly.

Beattie shook her head. “I don’t want money. I want to know about your cousin the seamstress.”

“Margaret?” Doris’s face grew soft. “She’s a long way away.”

“I want to be a long way away.”

“I see. Does your husband know this?”

Beattie swallowed hard, then forced herself to say the words she never thought she’d say to anyone else. “He drinks and he gambles. He has a violent temper. He’s forbidden me to make
friends or even contact my own parents. I’m afraid he’ll hurt me and my child.”

Doris nodded, setting her chin. “Then I’ll help you get away. Margaret will take you in, and she’ll give you work for your board.”

“Will she? And my girl, too?”

“Margaret’s a good Christian woman, and I know she has nobody working for her at the moment. She could use an extra pair of hands but hasn’t much money to spare. She will treat you with kindness.”

For some reason, the word “kindness” set Beattie off into tears. She had long ago become used to unkindness.

“There,” Doris said, patting her hand. “There, child. You are making the right decision. When he sees that you’ve gone and taken the girl with you, he will see the error of his ways and he will come to the Lord’s light. Then you can be reunited.”

Beattie said nothing. She didn’t want Henry back, ever. “You won’t tell him where I am?”

“On my honor. I wouldn’t help a violent drunkard.” She rubbed Beattie’s arm. “Go on, get your things packed. I’ll give you threepence for the coach fare.”

Within an hour, Beattie was ready for the walk into town to the coach stop. She had a pathetically meager collection of things in a cardboard box: the suitcases that had come from Scotland with them had long ago been sold. She threw in a photograph of the three of them—Henry, Lucy, herself—but wondered if it mightn’t be better if Lucy forgot about her father. Beattie had no memories of her own life at four; perhaps
it was kinder not to remind her of Henry. Lucy, with her new doll under her arm, asked repeatedly where they were going, what they were doing. Beattie hushed her, saying it was an adventure, that she would explain everything when they got off the coach at the other end.

Doris waited by the door, her eyes applying steady pressure.
You are doing the right thing.
Beattie tried to make her limbs feel like steel rather than flesh. She took Lucy firmly by the hand and, without a backward glance, closed the door of the cottage behind her.

T
he rattling motor coach rolled along beside the black water and up through small towns and farmland. It was a different green to Scotland: duller, lighter. But the sun was brighter, and Beattie allowed herself to be cheered a little. Doris had written instructions for her on a piece of paper. They had to get off the coach at New Norfolk and get on another that would take them farther northwest. Finally, at a tiny town called Bligh, they had to wait for the antiquated horse-drawn coach to Lewinford.

She made the first coach change without problems, but by lunchtime, the traveling had made Lucy throw up all over her clothes. Beattie cleaned her up roughly with a clean shirt out of the box, but the smell lingered, and Beattie started to feel queasy herself.

They arrived at Bligh, found the location for the coach to pick them up, and sat to wait. Beattie had brought sandwiches with dripping and honey, and she and Lucy shared them on the side of the road.

Beattie was glad to have come to a rest, even for a short
while. Her lack of sleep the night before had imbued all the events of the day with a nightmarish, not-quite-real color. In her mind, over and over, she repeated the phrase “I have left Henry, I have left Henry,” but it still didn’t feel true.

For what uncertainty had she chosen? Despite Doris’s reassurances, she didn’t really know whether Margaret would take her in. Or even if Margaret was home. What if she’d decided to go visiting? Or on holiday?

“Mummy?” Lucy’s voice cut through her worry.

“Yes, darling?”

Lucy leaned in to her side. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s at work.”

“He wasn’t at breakfast today.”

“No. Daddy’s . . . We aren’t going to see Daddy for a little while.”

Lucy looked up at her. The sun made her red hair gleam. “Why not?” Already tears were threatening.

Beattie turned the question over in her head. How to explain the situation to a four-year-old? “Daddy is sick,” she said. “It’s a kind of sickness that is bad for us to be around.”

“But I love Daddy.” She offered up her Henrietta doll as if to prove it.

“And Daddy loves you. But he can’t look after us just now, so we have to go away and look after ourselves.”

Lucy began to cry in earnest. “He will miss us.”

Beattie crouched down to hug the little girl. “He’ll miss you. I know that.”

Eventually, Lucy grew tired of crying and sat down on the grass. Beattie paced, watching the road for the coach.
According to Doris’s instructions, it should have been here an hour ago. She looked at the note again and again. Yes, she was in the right location, under the town sign, heading northwest, a hundred yards from the pub. She thought of going in to ask about the coach but was afraid that the coach would come the moment she stepped away from the designated location. The day grew too warm, sticky. She made sure Lucy was sitting in the shade. In the distance, she could hear a creek running over rocks and longed to find it and have a drink of water. But she didn’t. She waited and waited until she was sure another hour had passed and the coach was surely not coming. Her stomach turned to water. Now what would she do?

“Come on, Lucy,” she said, rousing the girl from where she sat, miserable, in the grass. “I need to go into that pub and ask about the coach.”

Lucy dragged herself to her feet and took Beattie’s hand. They walked together—Beattie casting her glance over her shoulder again and again—into the cool pub. Five or six men sat at the bar, and they all looked around curiously to see a woman and a child. It smelled as though beer had soaked the floorboards.