Our Lizzie (36 page)

She walked home slowly in the drowsy warmth of late afternoon, answering greetings from acquaintances automatically, staring unseeingly at the fine display of flowers in the council gardens near the Town Hall. Her thoughts were a whirl of emotions and desires, mingled with cold reason and shame. How could she feel this way for a married man? And yet—how could she not when that man was James Cardwell? She had worked for him for—what?—four years now, and had grown to respect him, as well as love him. He was a fine upright man, a good employer, a builder of integrity and imagination. He was—just James. And that was enough.

And as for her—well, she was clearly doomed to be a spinster for the rest of her life. She just had to face up to that and stop wasting her time on foolish dreams.

*   *   *

On 28 June, the Archduke Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, and his consort, Sophia, Duchess of Hohenberg, were assassinated at Sarajevo and suddenly the word “war” was on everyone's lips. But though the possibility was much discussed, the general consensus was still that it wouldn't come to actual fighting. It was a load of fuss and botheration, but it was all happening a long way away from England, where folk had a bit more sense in their heads than to assassinate royalty.

The Government would sort it all out. Reason would prevail. In England, at least.

“It just goes to show,” Sam said scornfully one evening, tapping his newspaper, “that you can't trust foreigners. Can you imagine anyone assassinating
our
King?” He was always surprisingly patriotic. “No!” He thumped the table and answered his own question. “No, you bloody can't. Because if anyone tried it, every Englishman nearby would step forward and prevent it. That's what.”

Lizzie realised he was staring at her, expecting an answer. “You're right,” she said placatingly, hating herself for being so cowardly. She had stopped defying him now and lived in absolute terror of him thumping her, doing something to hurt the child. And she worried, sitting here alone in the house, about after it was born—about trying to bring up a child with such a father. What sort of a life would that child have? A life of bullying and thumping like she did, that's what.

Unfortunately, this was one of Sam's more argumentative evenings. He'd had words with the foreman at Pilby's and for once had not been able to cow Ben Symes into backing off. In fact, Ben had warned him that they were getting tired of this sort of aggressive behaviour at work and he'd better pull his socks up. For reasons Sam couldn't understand, things were slipping and he didn't seem to be able to regain his old position of ascendancy and freedom from the rules at Pilby's.

“What do you know about it?” he asked Lizzie scathingly, slamming his cup down on the table. “Make yourself useful for once and fill that!”

She got up and went over to the kettle, slipping it on to the burner and praying that it'd boil fast. But the gas was low that night, for some reason, and it took ages. She glanced sideways at him once or twice and her heart thumped in her chest when she saw he had left the table and was sitting scowling into the fire. He hadn't hit her lately, well, not much more than a quick tap, but tonight he had all the signs of a man itching to vent his anger on somebody.

While the tea was brewing, she went automatically to get his biscuits and found to her dismay that the tin was empty. She knew he was watching her and stood there, feeling quite stupid, not knowing how to appease him.

“Have you bloody run out?”

“I'm sorry, Sam! I meant to go down to Dearden's this afternoon, but I was feeling poorly and I—I fell asleep.”

He heaved himself to his feet. “You've got no
right
to fall asleep when your work isn't finished. Your duty is to look after me! You're just making excuses for your own laziness.”

“It's the baby, Sam. It makes me feel so tired.”

“That's a lame bloody excuse. Other women have babies without all this fuss.” He took a step towards her.

Lizzie could see his hands clenching into fists and edged round the table away from him. When he laughed and followed her, his purpose obvious, she shrieked, “Sam, think of the baby!
Sam!
” In sheer terror, she started throwing things at him, trying to keep him away.

But they just bounced off him and when he caught her, he slapped her so hard she was thrown violently sideways, hitting the wall and falling to the ground.

She lost her own temper, then. “You rotten pig, you'll hurt the baby! Stop it, Sam!
Sam! Have you gone mad?
” For it was murder she saw in his eyes.

“Get down on your knees, then, and beg my forgiveness!”

And, heaven help her, that was the final straw. She couldn't do that, not even to save her baby. She tried to crawl away, but he caught her by the hair and dragged her back.

For a moment they stared at one another, she defiantly now, letting her own anger show, he with rage throbbing in his face.

“Beg!” he roared.

“No. I've done nothing wrong,” shouted Lizzie, past caring, past anything but her own shame at how he had been treating her. “I'm leavin' you,” she added, suddenly knowing it was the only thing she could do. “I'm not staying around to be hit for nothing, treated like dirt.”

Shock made him pause for a moment. She could see it on his face.

“You'll never leave me!” he roared. “You're mine, and if you ever even say that again, I'll swing for you!”

Anger overtook her again. Why should she put up with this? And all for a biscuit. “I'm definitely leaving.”

He took her by surprise, swinging back his leg and deliberately kicking her, punctuating the blows from his booted foot with, “You'll—never—bloody—leave—me! Never!”

She screamed, rolling into a ball and trying to protect her belly.

“You soddin' ungrateful bitch!” He took her by the hair and dragged her half across the floor, then yelled as she managed to get free and tried to run for it. She didn't even get to her feet and knew almost as soon as his foot made contact with her belly that she was in trouble, for it hurt so badly she couldn't help screaming, a hoarse animal sound of agony.

He stopped then and staggered across to lean against the wall, panting and muttering.

Pain followed pain, and suddenly everything went black.

*   *   *

When Lizzie regained consciousness, she was lying alone in a corner of the kitchen. It was an effort to raise her head and even as she did so, pain stabbed through her belly. She moaned and as one spasm followed another, felt a wetness between her legs and sobbed aloud.

“Sam! Help me!”

But there was no answer and the house had an empty feeling to it.

She knew then that he had left, for he often slammed out of the house after they'd had arguments. She also knew she had to get help, so began to crawl towards the front door, pulling herself upright by holding on to the handle and nearly blacking out again for a moment.

How she got out of the house and along the street, she never knew, but somehow she did, making her way through the last of the sun's mocking rays towards the Harpers' house. Only when Emma opened the door did Lizzie surrender to her pain and collapse at her feet.

*   *   *

When she awoke, it was night and she was in hospital. A nurse in a big starched hat was sitting by the bed.

“Ah, you're awake, are you, Mrs. Thoxby?” She took hold of her patient's wrist and felt her pulse, saying “Shh!” when Lizzie tried to speak. “You need to lie still, my dear.” She saw Lizzie clutch her stomach and said gently, “You've lost your baby, I'm afraid, but the doctors think no permanent damage has been done, at least. Though your face is a bit—bruised.” It was one of the worse cases of wife beating she'd ever seen and in her opinion, the man should be taken out and hung. But of course, no one wanted to know her opinion.

Tears flowed down Lizzie's face and she put up one hand to cover her eyes. Her weeping was no less painful for being silent.

There was a stir at the foot of her bed and she looked up to see Sam standing there. Terror filled her and she grabbed the nurse's hand and screamed, “Don't let him near me! Keep him away! He killed my baby!”

Someone came and ushered him away. Lizzie couldn't stop sobbing and shaking. When the nurse raised her a little and told her to drink, she obeyed without question, tears dripping into the cup. Soon the world began to fade.

If she had died there and then, Lizzie wouldn't have protested. She had had enough. She had lost her baby. Just then, she couldn't face anything else, not even thinking.

Chapter Twenty

Emma Harper came to the hospital the next morning, bringing a clean nightdress of her own, some sweet-smelling soap and a bunch of flowers. Lizzie looked at her through lack-lustre eyes. What did she care about flowers? Or fancy soap?
Her baby was dead
. But Emma was trying to be kind, so she roused herself a little to thank her and was surprised at how weak her voice sounded.

It was a relief when her visitor left.

A little later, the nurse came to tidy Lizzie up for the doctor's rounds. “Now, is there anything you need, Mrs. Thoxby?”

“Can you keep my husband away from me?” Lizzie asked. “I'm terrified of him.”

Sympathy softened the nurse's professional cheerfulness for a moment. “I'm afraid that's not my decision.”

“But look what he's done to me!” They'd refused to bring her a mirror, but her face hurt and she could feel how swollen it was. “And he's killed my b-baby. I never want to see him again. I'm leaving him.”

The nurse came to hold her hand for a minute. “The almoner will be coming to talk to you this afternoon. You can tell her about it. She's here to help people.”

“No one can help me.” Lizzie clamped her mouth shut. This time she had to help herself by running away. Only she had that power. And she would do it, too. She couldn't think now why she'd stayed with him for so long.

The doctor was in a hurry. After a perfunctory examination, he said, “Yes, you're out of danger now, Mrs. Thoxby. Time will soon heal you. But we'll keep you in for a few days.” Then he walked on to the next bed without waiting for an answer.

Lizzie lay back and listened to him going round the ward. She felt tired. So very tired. But although she dozed off, she couldn't stay asleep because every time anyone came into the ward, she jerked upright for fear that it might be
him
.

*   *   *

The almoner was a brisk woman with posh clothes and a fancy accent. Lizzie took an instant dislike to her patronising smile and sugary voice.

“I'm Miss Terrent, dear. The almoner. I try to help our poorer patients who have problems.” She turned to draw the curtains round the bed.

Lizzie felt shame flood through her at being classed as a “poorer patient” and tears threatened for a moment as the almoner sat down in the hard visitor's chair.

Miss Terrent cleared her throat and said in a low voice, “I believe your husband has been beating you, Mrs. Thoxby.”

“Yes.”

“Does he do this often?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to talk to him? The police could have a word, perhaps?”

Lizzie could just imagine what Sam would do to her if the police came round. “What I'd like,” she said in a low voice, “is never to see him again as long as I live. The only way I can be safe is by leaving him.”

“My dear, he's your husband. You took him for better or for worse, I'm afraid. When you've had time to recover, you'll have to go home again. But I do think someone should have a word with him first.”

It was at that moment Lizzie realised her only hope was to run away from the hospital, before anyone expected her to, and she would do it, too—just as soon as she could stand up without feeling dizzy. Perhaps Eva would take her in for a while till she could find herself a job and lodgings? No, Sam would go and look for her there. But she could stay with Eva for one night, perhaps, borrow some money for train fares and be away before he arrived. Yes, that would be the best thing to do. But she needed money to get to Eva's. “Could you send word to my brother, do you think? He may be able to help.”

“That's an excellent idea. I'm glad to see that you're being sensible.” Miss Terrent took down Percy's particulars and went away.

Lizzie scowled as she watched her go. “I'm
not
going back to Sam,” she muttered under her breath. “I'm not.”

*   *   *

When Percy came to visit her that evening, he was unable to hide his shock at the sight of her battered face.

Lizzie clutched his hand and wept, though she had promised herself not to. “Can you lend me some money?” she said at last, when she had control of her voice again. “Please, Percy, I'll pay you back.” She saw that he was looking puzzled and added, “I need to get away.”

He stared at her in utter horror. “You're going to leave him?”

“Wouldn't you? He killed my baby yesterday, Percy. If I go back, he'll kill me one day as well.” Lizzie was utterly certain of that now, for Sam seemed to be getting moodier, whatever she did to keep him happy. And she hated his stealing, absolutely hated it.

“But—where would you go?”

“To Eva's first, then as far away as I could get.”

“Eeh, lass, that's a bit drastic, isn't it?”

“If you don't help me, I'll kill myself. I swear I will. I'm not going back to him.”

Her voice had risen and Percy suddenly found a nurse by his side.

“Best if you go now, Mr. Kershaw. Your sister needs to rest.”

Another nurse appeared. Lizzie fought off the hands that were trying to hold her and force some liquid down her throat, calling, “Promise me you'll bring me some money tomorrow, Percy!
Promise!
”