Dead to Me (4 page)

‘That’s right, as always, only thinking of yourself,’ he retorted. ‘Don’t spare a thought for where I’ll be.’

‘And what did Verity mean when she said something happened at Christmas?’

‘That girl is as stupid and hysterical as you,’ he said. ‘It was nothing. She was trying to distract you and that policeman. I must go and deal with her now, I’ll speak to you later.’

Verity moved swiftly up the stairs then; he would beat her even harder if he caught her eavesdropping.

Her father came barging into her room seconds later. His face was flushed and his eyes blazing. Verity shook with terror, she’d never seen him as angry as this before.

‘You touch me and I’ll go to the police,’ she warned him, hoping attack was the best form of defence.

‘Do you think they give a damn about a stupid girl like you?’ he snarled. ‘You more than deserve a good hiding, trying to make trouble for me.’

He pulled at the leather belt slotted into loops on his trousers. When he’d got it all out, he wound it tightly around his fist, leaving the end with the buckle free to beat her with.

‘Bend over the bed,’ he ordered her.

Verity was frozen with fear and so he grabbed her by the neck and forced her down on to the bed. Still holding her there, he hit her with the belt once. That hardly hurt at all, as he hadn’t been able to swing his arm, but he soon rectified that by standing up straight and raining blows down on her back and buttocks.

Normally when he beat her it was four or five strokes at the most, and not that hard – but even so, it stung like mad – but this was frenzied, almost as if she was responsible for all his misfortunes. The pain was red hot and searing. Despite wearing a dress, petticoat, knickers and a liberty bodice, it felt like the belt was biting into her bare flesh.

She could hear him ranting at her as he hit her, but over her screaming she couldn’t hear what he was saying. She thought fleetingly that no one could be beaten this hard and survive, and then she stopped screaming and prayed that she would pass out with the next blow.

Maybe her prayers were answered because, through what felt like a thick fog, she heard her mother’s voice, ordering him to stop. Then Miss Parsons’ voice joined in, and suddenly the blows stopped.

But not the pain.

That was like a fiery blanket on her back, bottom and legs.

‘Oh,
Verity, what has he done to you?’

Verity heard her mother’s horrified question through what seemed to be a thick red mist. But she was in too much pain to open her eyes or reply.

‘I’ll get clean linen, she’s had an accident.’ Miss Parsons’ voice came from close by her.

Verity realized then that it was the housekeeper’s hands that were gently examining her – not her mother’s – and unusually for Miss Parsons, her voice was soft and concerned. ‘I can’t believe a father would inflict such injuries on his child!’ she said. ‘I’ll get water, a cloth and some soothing cream to try and make her more comfortable.’

‘If he wasn’t about to be arrested for embezzlement, I’d call the police to him now,’ her mother said, her voice tight with anger. ‘Has he got up and slunk away yet?’

Verity heard the sound of the door opening. ‘No. He’s still out there on the landing, where I dragged him to.’ Miss Parsons sounded angry now. ‘He’s trying to get up, though, so I didn’t kill him. More’s the pity!’

Much later that evening, Verity learned that her beating had ended abruptly because Miss Parsons ran upstairs armed with a golf club and hit her employer over the head with it, knocking him unconscious. Then she took his feet and dragged him out of Verity’s bedroom on to the landing. That in itself was astounding; she had never imagined
Miss Parsons could attack or defend anyone. But clearly this woman, who had always seemed so chilly and uncaring, did have tender feelings for Verity. From the first examination of her back till several hours later, when she gave Verity a herbal sedative to help her sleep, she was unbelievably kind and concerned.

Those hours were filled with searing agony. It was hardly surprising Verity had lost control of her bladder; her clothes were torn to ribbons with the force of the beating and her whole body, from her shoulders down to her knees, was lacerated and bloody. She could only lie on her stomach – there was no question of being able to turn over, or sit up.

Miss Parsons did all of the nursing, bathing the wounds and applying some healing cream. As she worked, Verity’s mother merely sat on a chair and went on and on incessantly about her husband’s crime.

‘I wish I was dead,’ she exclaimed at one point. ‘The shame of it! I can’t even begin to imagine what our neighbours and friends will say about it. It seems he not only robbed the company but many small investors too. I wouldn’t blame them if they came here to lynch him. I’ll have to move away,’ she said repeatedly. ‘They’ll take this house and all our fine furniture anyway. I’ll have nothing.’

Verity did try to rally herself to reach out a hand towards her mother.

‘You’ll have me,’ she croaked out. ‘We can make a new life together.’

But her mother didn’t take her hand or even acknowledge what she’d said.

It transpired that her father left the house that night, running away from what he’d done. Verity wasn’t aware of it until the next morning when she heard a commotion downstairs. It was the police looking for him. Not the local officers she’d seen in Hampstead police station but special detectives who dealt with serious crime. She heard her mother insisting to them that she had no idea where her husband had gone, or even what time he’d left the house the previous night, because she’d shut herself away in her bedroom.

‘They are going to search the house, and they may come in here,’ Miss Parsons said to Verity as she put more cream on her wounds and covered them with dressings.

She had helped her out of bed to walk gingerly to the lavatory that morning, brushed her hair and washed her face, and Verity had drunk tea and eaten a bowl of porridge, standing up. But the act of walking hurt, and sitting down was impossible, so Verity had got back into bed to lie on her stomach.

‘They are working their way through the downstairs rooms now, but don’t be afraid if they come in here, they are just doing their job, looking for evidence.’

‘What will happen to us?’ Verity asked her.

For the first time Verity ever remembered, Miss Parsons showed some emotion. Her eyes filled with tears as she took Verity’s hand between hers.

‘I think you two will go to stay with your Aunt Hazel,’ she said. ‘I shall have to find another job.’

By late afternoon Verity was feeling very sorry for herself. She hurt all over, her mother hadn’t seen fit to come and
reassure her about anything, and until an hour ago the police had been rampaging around the house like a herd of elephants. When two constables came into her room, she told them her father had beaten her the night before, but they made no comment, merely shook their heads and left her room after a brief search. Clearly embezzlement was a far greater crime than hurting a young girl.

She didn’t care where her father had gone, she hoped the police would lock him up for the rest of his life, but the prospect of living at Aunt Hazel’s was just terrible.

Aunt Hazel was six years older than her mother. She had never married and had stayed in the family home in Lewisham to look after their widowed mother. Grandmother had been a fierce, spiteful woman who was famous for not having a good word to say about anyone. She had died a year ago and Aunt Hazel had inherited the house. She also appeared to have inherited her mother’s nature, as she too was mean-spirited and cold.

Verity recalled at the funeral there being angry words between the sisters about the legacy. Mother thought the property should have been left to both of them. But Aunt Hazel got angry and said Cynthia had a husband to take care of her and lived in some style, whereas she had never had the opportunity to marry because she’d been forced to deal with their cantankerous and incontinent mother for years. She said she deserved the house – and anyway, it was hardly palatial.

Verity hadn’t been to her grandmother’s house very often – only twice in the last three years – and it had always given her the creeps. The dark, cold and smelly Victorian terraced house was small with only a tiny back garden. It
was also in a very working-class part of London. She’d noticed on previous visits that boys played football in the street and old people sat on their doorsteps. It didn’t bear thinking about what a huge step down it would be to live there. And she doubted Aunt Hazel would welcome them, as the sisters had never been close. In fact it was difficult to believe they were related. Aunt Hazel was quite common, and made curtains for a living. Cynthia looked, dressed and sounded like she’d been brought up in Hampstead.

What would happen about school now? At present she went to a private girls’ school in Belsize Park; obviously, she wouldn’t be able to continue there. Even if the money could be found, the journey from Lewisham would be impossible.

She wished she could talk to Ruby about all this, but in all likelihood she was on her way to wherever judges sent fourteen-year-olds caught in the act of burglary. Did they go to prison like grown-ups? Or was there some other place for girls like her?

Father’s crime was in all the newspapers on the second day. Verity wasn’t told but Miss Parsons had a copy under her arm and she’d caught a glimpse of a photograph of her father and part of the headline. It said: ‘Twenty Thousand Pounds Embezzled’. She overheard Miss Parsons say to her mother that he couldn’t run for ever and the police wouldn’t give up until they’d found him.

Lying in her bed, still terribly sore and unable to sit up, Verity pondered over that huge sum of money. Had it all gone? What had her father spent it on? To a girl who had
never held more than a pound note in her hand it seemed inconceivable that so much money could ever be spent.

She wondered too what the difference was between theft and embezzlement, and why her father hadn’t run away the moment he knew he was found out? Why did he come back to the house, if he knew his wife had been told what he’d done? He couldn’t have expected her to be sympathetic, surely? Or did he have some of the money tucked away here and needed to get it? Stranger still that he delayed his departure to beat his daughter! Was that pure spite, because she’d hinted that he’d done something bad to her at Christmas? Or just that he was so angry at being caught that he had to take it out on someone?

Whatever was in his mind, whatever he’d come back here for, Verity felt very glad that Miss Parsons had hit him. She hoped the police would catch him quickly, she wouldn’t even care if they shot him. Though she didn’t think English policemen ever had guns.

She worried too about Ruby. Where would she have been sent by the police? Would she think Verity didn’t care about her, as she hadn’t come looking for her? Or might she have seen the newspaper and realized her father was a swindler?

In the seemingly endless days that followed, Verity’s injuries slowly healed. The first time she ventured hesitantly down the stairs and out into the garden, she was unable to imagine herself ever getting back to normal. But the sight of spring flowers opening up in the garden, the sun a little warmer, was always a hint that better times were coming, and it cheered her. The following day, she
sat in a chair to read for a couple of hours. And on the day after, she dressed herself, even if it was only in a loose smock dress that wouldn’t rub anywhere. Each day from then on, she hurt a little less and when she finally was healed enough to have a bath, she knew she really was on the mend.

During this time the police called again and again; it seemed they didn’t believe Archie Wood wouldn’t try to see his wife and daughter.

‘Do you really believe I would give him the time of day after what he’s done?’ Verity’s mother exclaimed indignantly to a policeman one day. ‘I’m waiting now to hear when I’ve got to give up my home and furniture. Our daughter is still recovering from a beating he gave her, and I’ve got nothing to live on. My neighbours give me pitying looks and all my friends have deserted me.’

Verity didn’t actually think her mother had any real friends, just ladies she played bridge with. Not one of them had telephoned or called round to offer sympathy or help.

But perhaps they knew they wouldn’t be welcomed or appreciated, because each time Verity had tried to comfort her mother she was so prickly and nasty she wished she hadn’t tried. But hearing her mother say she had nothing to live on – and aware that Miss Parsons was feeding them out of the contents of the store cupboard, rather than going shopping for fresh food – Verity felt she had to try again.

Catching her mother in the drawing room listlessly picking out a tune on the piano, she decided this was the moment.

‘If you think someone is going to come and take your
things away, why don’t you pawn some of the smaller valuable bits, like your jewellery and the silver, before they get here?’

‘Pawn!’ her mother exclaimed, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Verity hadn’t known the word until Ruby told her, but she was astounded her mother didn’t know. She had thought adults knew everything.

‘Pawnshops are places you take valuables and they give you money for them,’ she said. ‘They have three brass balls above the shop sign to let you know that’s what they do. Mostly people just use them to borrow a bit until they can pay it back, but I think they buy stuff too.’

‘I can’t imagine how you’d know such a thing,’ her mother sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Where are these places, for goodness’ sake?’

‘Mostly where poorer people live, I don’t think there’s one in Hampstead. But I have seen one in the Finchley Road. That’s far enough away from here that we wouldn’t be spotted going in there by anyone we know.’

‘I couldn’t go into such a place,’ her mother replied, clutching nervously at her throat. ‘But maybe you and Miss Parsons could go.’

Verity felt very adult in finding a solution to their immediate problems. ‘Maybe we should just take a few small trinkets first,’ she suggested. ‘But we ought to find a hiding place for all the other precious things, so they don’t get taken away with the house. Then we could sell them as and when you need money.’

For the first time Verity ever remembered, her mother looked at her in real admiration. ‘I hadn’t realized you’d
grown up so much,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Verity, for the suggestion, I think I’ll start making a list and try to think of somewhere to store things.’

‘It would have to be away from here,’ Verity reminded her. ‘Maybe at Aunt Hazel’s?’

Verity went with Miss Parsons to the pawnshop the next day. They took a diamond brooch, a pearl necklace and her father’s gold cufflinks and tie pin. Mother had said she hoped for at least thirty pounds. But they must accept whatever they were offered, as there was no money to pay the milkman, baker or butcher.

‘Don’t be surprised at anything I say to the man,’ Miss Parsons said as they hurried up the Finchley Road. ‘At times like this you have to use all the wiles you possess, and you must look stricken with grief so he feels sorry for us.’

Verity saw a completely different side of the housekeeper once they were in the dusty pawnbroker’s. She wasn’t starchy at all; in fact she was so sweet and charming to the owner, a man called Cohen, that Verity barely recognized her. She held a lace-trimmed handkerchief in her hand and kept dabbing her eyes as she told the man her widower brother had just died leaving her with all the bills to pay and his child to take care of.

‘I knew he had become a little disorganized since he lost his wife,’ she said with a catch in her voice that sounded like she was going to break down. ‘But I didn’t realize that he’d squandered so much money and that he didn’t have any savings or insurance. I feel so humiliated, having to sell jewellery he gave me, but this child has to be taken care of.’

Mr Cohen was bearded, thin and small with a slight
hunch to his back. Verity guessed him to be about sixty and she thought he looked poor, as his jacket was shiny with age and his shirt collar was none too clean. But he was kind to Miss Parsons.

‘That is very sad for you, my dear,’ he said. ‘But don’t judge your brother too harshly. Losing a loved one can make even the most steady of people behave out of character. I see it all the time in here. Grown men breaking down like small children, and women beside themselves with grief and unable to make any decisions. But these are good pearls and the brooch is a fine piece, so he was clearly a man of good taste. I expect he intended to sort out his affairs and would be distressed to think of you and his daughter struggling after his death. Perhaps it would be better for you to pawn these items so you can reclaim them when your circumstances improve?’