Evil Angels Among Them (15 page)

She'd scarcely had time to get used to her new role, however, before an unrelated development unfolded that was to have lasting repercussions on a number of lives. As so often happens, the event that set everything in motion was of itself unremarkable.

It happened like this: one day Gillian, usually so deft with her hands, was preparing lunch for herself and Lou when her knife slipped, cutting deeply into a finger. She gave an involuntary cry which brought Lou out of her office.

‘What's the matter?' she asked at the door of the kitchen.

‘I've cut myself.' She held up the finger, spurting blood, for Lou's inspection.

‘Oh, God!' Lou threw her hands into the air and covered the distance between them rapidly. ‘How can you be so calm? You could bleed to death! Oh, God!'

Gill gave a shaky laugh. ‘It's not that bad.'

‘The hell it's not! Look how deep it is!' She grabbed a piece of kitchen roll and tried to stop the bleeding. ‘You've got to see a doctor right away.'

‘All right, then. I'll go down to the surgery.'

‘I'll ring to make sure he's there,' Lou decided. A quick phone call to the surgery elicited the information that Dr McNair wasn't immediately available; the receptionist suggested that they should, if possible, make their way as quickly as they could to casualty at the hospital in Norwich to have the wound stitched.

‘Come on, then,' Lou ordered, picking up her handbag and reaching for her car keys. ‘Let's go, for God's sake.'

Gill hesitated. ‘But what about Bryony? You know how long these things can take – I might not be back in time to collect her from school.' She thought quickly. ‘Could you ring Becca and ask her to collect Bryony and keep her at the Rectory until we get back?'

Impatiently Lou followed orders, recognising the probable truth behind Gill's concern, but instead of Becca she got Stephen.

‘I'm sorry, but Becca's not here right now,' he said in response to Lou's query. ‘She's at Roger's. You can ring her there, or I can give her a message.'

‘I don't have time to make another call, and I don't have time to explain.' Her words tumbled over each other and her voice was high-pitched with urgency. ‘But could you ask Becca to collect Bryony from school this afternoon and to keep her until we come to fetch her?'

Reading the panic in her voice, Stephen was concerned. ‘Is something wrong? Can I do anything to help?'

Lou looked at Gill; the blood was beginning to seep through the kitchen roll. ‘I don't have time to explain,' she repeated frantically. ‘See you later.'

Unfortunately, the message didn't reach Becca; Stephen went out and left her a note on the kitchen table, but when she came in she dropped a bag of shopping on top of it without seeing it. As a consequence, no one met Bryony at the school gate that afternoon. She waited for a few minutes, unalarmed, then decided that perhaps her mother had forgotten her and concluded that she was quite capable of finding her own way home: after all, it was a short and now familiar walk through Walston from the school to Foxglove Cottage.

Her journey was accomplished without incident, but when she reached Foxglove Cottage and knocked at the door, there was no reply. She went round to the drive and checked the cars: her mother's Metro was there, but Lou's BMW was missing.

Bryony wasn't really worried in spite of the unfamiliar situation. They would be back any minute, she was sure, and she could wait in the garden. A few minutes later, though, it began to rain, a persistent chill rain which soaked her uniform. Shivering, she huddled against the front door, taking advantage of the slight protection offered by the overhang of the roof.

Across the road at The Pines, Enid carried a cup of tea into the lounge, selected a new magazine from the table and settled down by the window. What she saw when she looked out sent her scurrying for an umbrella, tea and magazine forgotten. She made her way across the road and let herself in through the gate. ‘Bryony, my darling!' she exclaimed in her heartiest voice. ‘Whatever are you doing out here in the rain?'

Bryony smiled, then remembered her solemn promise to her mother that she would never speak to Mrs Bletsoe again. But she couldn't very well not answer her – that would be rude, and Mummy wouldn't want her to be rude. ‘There's no one at home,' she explained. ‘Mummy didn't come to collect me at school, so I came home by myself, but there's no one here.'

‘Oh, you poor darling girl! Come on over to my house – I'll make you some hot chocolate and you can dry off by the fire.'

This was a little more difficult. Not being rude was one thing, but Bryony knew that Mummy would be terribly cross if she went to Mrs Bletsoe's house, even to get out of the rain. She squared her thin shoulders and spoke with formal politeness. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Bletsoe. I'll just wait here. Mummy is sure to be home soon.'

‘Don't be silly, darling!' Enid gushed. ‘You're getting soaked, and there's no telling how long Mummy will be away.'

‘No, thank you,' Bryony repeated. Feeling some explanation was necessary, she added, ‘It's very kind of you to offer, but Mummy wouldn't want me to. She's told me never to talk to you, and she'd be very cross if I went to your house.'

‘Oh!' Enid drew back and stared at the girl.

‘Thank you anyway,' Bryony said, wrapping her arms round her chest in an effort to control her shivering. ‘You'd better go home now, Mrs Bletsoe. I wouldn't want Mummy to come home and find you here.'

Enid's tea was cold, but she made a fresh pot and stationed herself by the window to see what would happen. It was nearly a quarter of an hour later that the dark blue BMW pulled into the drive; the two women got out, rushed up to the soaking wet child by the door, and in a moment they were all inside and out of Enid's view.

She poured herself another cup of tea and thought carefully about the best way to handle the next step. Should she put it all in writing and lodge a formal complaint, or would a word in the ear of Flora Newall be sufficient? As a compromise, she decided to make sure she was prepared by making a list, getting all of her facts straight in her own mind, and then she would talk to Flora. She found some lined writing paper and a blue biro in the bureau and settled down to make a list headed ‘Abuse of Bryony English'.

The list having been drafted, amended and copied out in her best hand, she gave Flora enough time to get back from work before ringing her at home.

‘I was just having my supper,' Flora said. ‘I've got to go out this evening to an important meeting of the almshouses trust. Being churchwarden really does cut into my evenings,' she added, half-humorously.

‘But this is important – I need to see you straightaway,' Enid insisted. ‘Something has come up that just can't wait.'

Flora hesitated. ‘I can't miss this meeting. Can't you tell me what it's about?'

‘Child abuse,' Enid stated baldly.

Flora was startled; it wasn't what she'd been expecting. ‘Oh! You must give me the name right now, Enid. I'll file a report tomorrow.'

Enid wasn't to be put off. ‘I want to talk to you tonight – I need to explain.'

‘After the meeting, then,' Flora promised. ‘Shall I come to you when we've finished? It will probably be nearly ten.'

‘I'll be waiting,' affirmed Enid with satisfaction.

Flora didn't arrive at The Pines until after ten, by which time Enid was in a fever of impatience. She ushered her into the lounge and offered her refreshment. ‘Tea? Coffee?'

‘I don't suppose,' said Flora with a sigh, ‘that you've got any gin?' She gave a shaky laugh. ‘No, forget I said that. Tea would be lovely.'

By the time the tea appeared, Flora had composed herself and focused her attention on the reason for this visit. ‘You said,' she began without preliminary, ‘that it was about child abuse. Please do tell me.'

Enid was equally to the point. ‘Bryony English,' she stated. ‘The child is being abused and should be taken into care immediately.'

Flora knew that appearances could never be relied on when it came to child abuse, but this surprised her. She stared at Enid. ‘Bryony? But Gillian English seems to be an exemplary mother.'

‘Hmph.' Enid crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. ‘I don't know how you can say that, when you know that she's living with that other woman. Lesbians,' she enunciated self-consciously. ‘Depraved, it is. They ought to be locked up.'

Relieved that the accusations weren't any more serious than that, Flora shook her head. ‘It's not a crime, you know. Never has been, not even when male homosexuality was illegal. And Social Services don't regard it as sufficient reason to take a child into care. Not any longer, anyway – lesbian couples are even being allowed to foster and adopt children these days.' She glanced at the clock and put her teacup down. ‘I do appreciate your conscientiousness in drawing my attention to this, but I've had a difficult day, and it's quite late . . .'

‘Oh, no, you mustn't go!' Enid reached across and put her hand on Flora's arm. ‘That is by no means the end of it! I tell you, that dear little girl has been abused in many different ways.' The list had been put in the bureau for safekeeping; she got up and retrieved it.

‘Well . . .'

‘Today,' she began, ‘the poor child was abandoned. Left out in the rain, and I shouldn't wonder if she caught her death of cold. Shivering, she was, the poor little mite, locked out of the house, and that mother of hers out in the car somewhere with her – lover.'

Flora frowned thoughtfully. ‘I agree that's worrying, but there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.'

‘A reasonable explanation for leaving a child of six to walk home from school by herself, and to spend half-an-hour standing in the rain?' Enid said scathingly. ‘That's not the way we brought up children in
my
day. And it's not the first time she's been abandoned. I found her outside in the garden, all on her own, another time. She said that her mother had sent her out so she could be alone with that other woman. Shocking to think someone could endanger her own child like that, just to satisfy her unnatural lusts – I mean, these days it just isn't safe to leave a child unattended. The things I read would curl your hair!'

Inclining her head in acknowledgement, Flora encouraged her to continue. ‘You said there were other things?'

Enid scanned her list, looking for a damning indictment to follow on with. ‘They take drugs,' she announced. ‘Bryony told me so herself. And she knows where they're kept, and even participates in their drug-taking rituals.'

‘Oh!'

‘Not to mention,' Enid added, ‘all those poisonous herbs that Mrs English grows. I believe many of them have hallucinogenic properties. She's probably even got a bed of cannabis tucked somewhere in that garden.'

‘I hardly think . . .'

Enid went back to the list. ‘I've heard that Lou say terrible things about Bryony – she called her a little horror, and said she'd be glad to be rid of her.'

Flora frowned. ‘Oh, dear.'

‘And one of the worst things of all – Bryony's father has been denied access to her. It's just like one of those things that you read in magazines, or see on the telly – they moved away and didn't even tell her father where they were. So it was quite deliberate. Obviously he disapproves of his ex-wife's deviant lifestyle, and they've punished him by taking his daughter away – away from her home and her school and her friends, not to mention her father. And if depriving a little girl of her father's love and companionship isn't abuse, I don't know what is,' she finished on a note of self-righteous triumph.

‘That's not good,' Flora acknowledged, troubled. ‘Is there more?'

‘There certainly is.' Enid had saved what she considered to be the best for last, and she delivered it with relish masked with disgust. ‘Sexual abuse. They take the child to bed with them. She told me so herself – they all kiss each other.' She got up and went to the window, looking across the road at the darkened cottage. ‘I shouldn't wonder that they're all at it at this very moment – in bed kissing and fondling each other.' This was the extent of her knowledge of what women did in bed together, so she had to be content with a rather vague epithet. ‘Unnatural practices!' she spat, waving her list at Flora. ‘Surely you can't stand by and allow an innocent child to be abused so shamefully! It's just a good thing for her that she has a neighbour who cares about her and who isn't afraid to get involved.'

CHAPTER 12

    
For they shall soon be cut down like the grass: and be withered even as the green herb.

Psalm 37.2

Flora didn't sleep very well that night; she felt slightly nauseous, as though she were coming down with some kind of tummy bug or flu, and she was not easy in her mind. Her visit to Enid's, troubling as it was, had been the latest in a series of difficult encounters of a sort that didn't sit comfortably upon a woman who was as essentially amiable as Flora Newall. Her problem, she'd analysed long ago, was that she wanted to be liked and hated making enemies, but she was also highly principled and unwilling to compromise her strong sense of right and wrong. When she undertook something, whether it be the office of churchwarden or her job as a social worker, she was determined to carry it out to the best of her ability; that meant, though, that she would inevitably end up on the wrong side of someone whose good opinion she craved.

The situation with Bryony English was a case in point: no matter what she did about it, she would alienate either Enid or Gillian English, or both. Enid's allegations of abuse would have to be followed up and investigated, for they were serious charges and could scarcely be ignored, especially if there were any question of the child being at risk. But Flora knew from experience that once the machinery of Social Services ground into action it was likely to get out of control and the consequences for everyone could be disastrous. She wished with all her heart that Enid had not dragged her into this. Since she had, though, Flora's duty was clear: she would have to inform her supervisor and let things take their course. She could declare a personal interest in the case and avoid being directly involved in it, but she couldn't stop it.