Through Glass Eyes (17 page)

‘No!’ the woman breathed emphatically. She tried to repeat it but her voice was no more than a whisper. ‘No! No doctor!’

Alice turned back to Grace.

‘How long has she been like this?’

‘A few months now,’ said Grace, tucking in the sheet at the side of the bed. She whispered to Alice. ‘She’s got this horrible boil on her chest and it’s getting worse. I’ve tried poultices but they don’t help. Trouble is she doesn’t like me touching it. Doesn’t even like me seeing it.’ Leaning forward she said softly, ‘Mam, let Alice have a look at your chest’

The invalid murmured something to her daughter, but, as she was speaking, Alice put her hand on the towel covering her torso. Instinctively the woman held it to her chin, but Alice pulled it gently from her fingers and peeled the cloth back.

Lucy had never seen anything like it. A purple ulcer had puckered the skin of her right breast. At the top edge a pale cauliflower-like growth was protruding from it. The matter weeping from it, smelled foul.

‘That’s a bit of a mess, Mrs Fothergill,’ Alice said in a kind but pragmatic tone.

‘No, doctors, luv,’ the woman begged, allowing a tear to slip sideways across her temple.

 Alice squeezed her hand, talking quietly as she replaced the piece of towelling. ‘Perhaps I can get something from the hospital to help you sleep,’ she said.

Mrs Fothergill nodded. Her eyes closed and within seconds her breathing indicated she was asleep. The visitors left quietly without saying goodbye. Grace closed the door behind them.

The expression on Lucy’s face answered the question Mr Fothergill was about to ask.

‘Isn’t there anything you can do for Mam?’ Grace asked.

Alice shook her head. ‘You should call the doctor.’

‘No point. She’ll not let the doctor near her. I’m surprised she let you look.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Fothergill,’ said Alice. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Sleep is probably the best thing for her. A little brandy might help, if she’ll take it.’

‘Teetotal, all her life.
Even before the pledge. Won’t allow a drop past her lips. Always been a stubborn woman.’

Lucy needed to get outside into the fresh air. She excused herself by asking Grace if she could look around the garden while she and her father spoke with Alice. Outside it was cold and damp. A black dog sniffed at her boots before flopping down in a makeshift kennel it was sharing with the family of kittens.

At the side of the farmhouse was an untended vegetable patch overgrown by weeds. The only evidence of recent digging had been done by the hens. She could hear cows and geese but was unable to see them from the side of the house and was relieved when Alice emerged from the kitchen.

As they walked home, Alice was quiet.

‘She’s not long for this world, is she?’

‘No, not long.’

Lucy visited the farm twice a week for the next three weeks but Alice only managed one more visit before Mrs Fothergill passed away. The funeral was a quiet affair. Lucy, Pansy and Alice went. Timothy wasn’t feeling well and was allowed to stay home alone. James gave his apologies saying he would wait in the car outside the chapel.

‘You must go in for the service!’ Lucy said. ‘People will think you are rude!’

‘I don’t care what they think,’ he said. ‘I’m not going.’

When it was over, Lucy and Pansy chose to walk home, while Alice decided to catch the bus back to the hospital. Having an empty vehicle, James offered the farmer and his daughter a lift back to the farm. Mr Fothergill was grateful. He had found the service exhausting and was grateful to sit in the car and relax.

‘Can I get your advice sometime, sir?’ James said, as they drove up the hill.

Mr Fothergill was surprised. ‘Anytime lad. You know where we live. You’re welcome to call in.’

In the back seat, Grace sat bolt upright, her fingers gripping the seat in front. At first, James thought she was nervous, then he realized her expression was one of sheer excitement. She took no notice of the men’s conversation, and as the car sped up, she soaked up the new experiences – the wind on her face, the sound of the engine, the vibrations thrumming through her body and the movement of the car twisting around the country lanes. For the farmer’s daughter, the ride home was the most thrilling experience she had ever had.

‘Would you let me take you out again sometime?’ James said, opening the car door and offering her his hand. ‘If that’s all right with you, Mr Fothergill,’ he added.

Grace looked at her father, her eyes wide and smiling. ‘Can I, Dad?’

‘About time you had a bit of fun, lass,’ he said. ‘And that goes for you too, young man! Go out and enjoy yourself, the pair of you.’ 

Alice stopped playing, closed the piano lid and turned to James. ‘I have something to tell you.’

James glanced up from his book. Through the window he could see it was still raining. He really must finish building the garage for the car.

‘I’m going to have a baby.’

James turned around. ‘What did you say?’

‘Don’t worry it’s not yours.’

He shook his head. ‘Whose then?’

‘Someone from work.’

‘Bertie Bottomley?’

‘How do you know that?’

James shook his head. ‘Have you told your mother?’

‘No. And I don’t want to tell her. Not yet anyway.’

‘But what about the hospital?
They will know soon enough.’

‘I’ll have to leave,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘I’m stupid, aren’t I?’

James looked at her. She was verging on tears. He knew if he put his arms around her she would cry. He wanted to say he was sorry, say he wished it had not happened. He wanted to ask her why on earth she had allowed herself to get into such a situation. Ask her about Bottomley. He wondered how long she had been going out with him and why she hadn’t mentioned him. Wondered what it was that made her love Bottomley and not love him. But James kept the questions to himself.
Yes, you are stupid
, he thought.

‘Is Bottomley going to marry you?’

‘Yes. We are getting married at the Register Office in three weeks.’

‘And where will you live?’

‘I don’t know, James,’ she sobbed. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘Have you time to come in and rest your legs?’ Lucy enquired.

The constable took off his helmet. ‘Don’t mind if I do, Mrs Oldfield. They won’t miss me at the station.’

Lucy cleared a chair and invited the policeman to sit down. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I don’t like to worry you but I thought I better bring it to your attention. There’s been a bit of funny business going on over the other side of the valley.’

Lucy listened as she offered him a cup of tea.

‘Man by the name of Wilkinson, Stanley Wilkinson, been bothering one of the spinster ladies.
I haven’t seen him myself but from the description he sounds awfully like that Stan Crowther who was bothering your neighbour, Mrs Pugh.’

‘I hope you are wrong, Constable.’

‘I hope so too, because this man has a nasty streak. Poor woman had taken quite a beating and was found wandering the streets. She didn’t know who she was or where she was. When they brought her into the station, I called the doctor and he took her to the hospital himself. I didn’t get the man’s description till yesterday.’ The policeman sipped his tea. ‘I hope I’m wrong but I think Crowther’s back. I wanted to warn you and Mrs Pugh to watch out. Will you pass the message on when she comes home?’

‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’

Lucy wondered what Pansy would say when she told her. And wondered what would happen if Crowther started coming around again.

That night, though the front door was locked and bolted, Lucy checked it several times before going to bed. Unable to sleep, she was vigilant to the sounds of darkness; mice skittering in the ceiling, tree branches scraping along the eaves and the gate creaking on its rusty hinges. But even by closing her eyes, she could not shut out the image of the man which haunted her. She knew if he returned to seek revenge, it might be more than a rock that would come through the window next time.

Timmy’s eyes were itchy, his throat sore. He was hot and felt miserable. Pansy told him not to complain. Said it was only a cold and that it would soon pass. When the red rash appeared on his face and neck she took him to the surgery. She had never seen measles before. The doctor said she must keep him inside and away from school. Though frail-looking, Timmy was a fit lad and the doctor was confident the infection would pass in a week.

But by the end of the week Timothy was confined to bed. The rash had spread all over his body, and the cough, which had developed suddenly, was exhausting him. For three nights neither he nor Pansy slept, then finally, when he was too exhausted to clear his lungs, he drifted into sleep – a deep, deep sleep. Though Pansy begged with him to wake, at times shaking his limp body, he never stirred. He never ate or drank and only twice did his eyes open, but they were glazed and he saw nothing. He never spoke and the few sounds he made were incoherent. Hour after hour, Pansy sat beside him mopping his brow while the fever boiled inside him. She wished Alice were home and prayed for Sunday to arrive as she had promised to come home on her day off. Because she was a nurse, Pansy was convinced Alice would know what to do.

But Timothy Pugh couldn’t wait for his sister’s visit. He died in his mother’s arms on the Saturday morning. He was nine years of age.

Chapter 17

The attic

‘Come on, luv, I thought you’d be pleased I made it through the war without a scratch,’ Crowther crowed. ‘And the war changed me. You’ll see!’

Pansy felt exasperated. She didn’t want Stanley’s attention. Or any other man’s for that matter. What she wanted was to be left alone. But Crowther was not prepared to listen.

Whenever she went out, he followed her. She would catch glimpses of his reflection in shop windows trailing a few yards behind her. She would see him waiting on corners or standing outside shop doorways, or loitering by the post box. Sometimes he would launch himself at her, questioning her angrily, demanding to know what was in her basket, how much she had spent, how much money she had left. Other times he appealed to her good nature, begging for a few shillings to tide him over.

Even in the evenings, he gave her no respite, constantly tap-tapping on the kitchen window until she succumbed and looked out to see his face pressed against the pane – tongue distorted, lips squashed, eyes staring. Afraid and desperate, Pansy would try to escape his taunts by running upstairs to hide, but he would lob tiny pebbles at the bedroom window, not hard enough to crack the glass but loud enough to remind her he was still there.

‘I can’t take any more,’ she cried, as she stood shaking in Lucy’s arms. ‘He won’t stop.’

‘Goodness, Pansy, look at the state of you! Why didn’t you tell what was happening before now?’

‘Because last time you said I was encouraging him. Now I’m not. I keep telling him to go away but he takes no notice.’ There was real anguish on her face. ‘You must do something,’ she begged. ‘Help me. I’m worn out. I’ve lost my energy. I feel tired but I can’t sleep. I used to like working but now I hate going outside. I avoid people. I don’t want to talk. I don’t even look forward to Alice’s visits. Please help me.’ 

Lucy waited until the sobbing stopped. ‘You remember Miss Pugh, your Aunt who lives in Ilkley?’

Pansy nodded.

‘Could you stay with her for a week or two?’

‘Probably.
But what about my job?’

‘Say you are sick or taking a holiday. If they stop you, there are plenty of other houses to clean.

‘What will Alice think if I’m not here?’

‘I’ll talk to Alice. She’ll understand. And I’ll get James to take you in the car.’ Lucy paused. ‘As for Stanley Crowther, I’ll speak with the constable again.’

Pansy tried to smile.

‘I just wish you’d told me sooner, before getting yourself into this terrible state.’ 

Miss Pugh opened the door apprehensively. She didn’t recognize her niece, Pansy, the small slim woman with the suitcase in her hand, or remember James Oldfield who was standing behind her. Jogging the memory took a little time and explanation, but once the jumbled pieces were reassembled she was happy to invite Pansy to stay with her. 

Stepping inside the big house, Pansy was both surprised and appalled by the state of the living-room and wondered about the condition of the rest of the three-storey house. Miss Pugh had always been an extremely particular person. Everything was always in its rightful position. Always spick and span. Neat and tidy. Nothing was ever out of place.

But today the living-room was a shambles. A blackened saucepan sat in the armchair by the fire. A pile of dirty clothes was sitting on the coal scuttle. A slice of bread left on top of the writing bureau was curled and dry, and a quarter-inch of dust coated the furniture.

Seeing the worry on Pansy’s face, James felt concerned. His instinct was to leave immediately and take Pansy with him. He was afraid that living with the elderly spinster and taking on the responsibility of minding her would drain her even further, and she was not strong enough for that.

‘I want to stay,’ Pansy said. ‘Aunty needs me. Besides, it will give me something worthwhile to do and I want to repay a little of the kindness she showed me when I was ill, when Timmy was born.’

Reluctantly James conceded and by the time he was ready to leave, the two relatives were reminiscing happily. Noticing the soft smile which had returned to Pansy’s face, he felt satisfied. That expression had been absent for some time.

As he drove back to Horsforth, James decided Pansy would be fine living with Miss Pugh, just so long as Crowther didn’t know where she was. He would never find her there, James thought.

Lucy held the chair steady, while James swung himself up through the hole in the bedroom ceiling and into the attic. The candle, she handed him, flickered from the lack of air in the roof cavity.

‘Is there anything up there?’ she called.