Through Glass Eyes (28 page)

By the time they all sat down, Lucy’s front room was crowded. Cyril and Lucy shared the sofa, John Fothergill’s bath chair was squeezed in beside the fireplace, Alice perched on the piano stool with Rachel beside her, while Grace sat opposite her father, bouncing Andrew on her knee. James was content to rest on the chair arm, while Pansy sat by the window.

Once everyone was settled, the presents were opened. Amidst the litter of string and wrapping paper, Rachel and Andrew took pride of place on the rug.

‘This is the best Christmas I can remember,’ whispered Lucy, as she leaned against her husband and placed a kiss on his cheek.

That evening Alice and James took turns at the piano. They played almost every carol in the book and a few of Cyril’s favourite hymns. Even John Fothergill joined in, until he was suddenly overcome by tiredness. When he started snoring, Grace said she would go home with him. She too was very tired and with the baby due anytime, she had been feeling very weary of late.

Amelia Rose was born at three in the afternoon on New Year’s Day – exactly a week later.

That winter was fairly mild. Apart from the water troughs freezing over, and an occasional flurry of snow which didn’t settle, James had no problems getting to the farm. The dairyman who worked for them lived nearby and besides being reliable, was an early riser.  Every morning he had the cows in the shed before James arrived.

After the birth, Grace was happy for them to remain at the cottage until the baby was a few months old. They decided that they would put off moving back to the farmhouse until spring arrived.

 Over the winter, Mr Fothergill also lost the hankering to move back to the farm. The rambling house took a long time to heat and was bitterly cold without a fire. But the front room of James’s cottage, where the farmer had his bed, was always warm. This was the first winter in a long time, he didn’t suffer from the cold. He even enjoyed being taken for a drive with the car’s heater warming his legs. He enjoyed watching the season as it slowly changed and the criss-cross pattern of winter branches preparing to burst into a canopy of fresh green. John Fothergill always looked forward to spring.

The Sunday after the May Day celebrations, Alice paid her weekly visit to her mother, and because Lucy and Cyril had gone to the seaside for the day and taken Rachel with them, she went alone.

When Alice arrived at the Ilkley house, she was pleased to hear Miss Pugh was well. That meant that she and Pansy could go out for a few hours without worrying about the elderly lady. It was a nice day so they decided to catch a bus to Burley-in-Wharfedale. From there they would amble back to Ilkley along the riverbank. It was a long walk, but one they always enjoyed.

Through the valley, the river meandered silently. At its widest point, the crystal water magnified each speckled pebble, log and darting fish as clearly as if it were in a goldfish bowl. For much of the way, the footpath was soft and flat. But as the river narrowed through the wooded glades, the banks grew steep, the path slippery, occasionally obstructed by a fallen tree or trickling stream. The women didn’t mind. They scrambled over and wandered on. They loved the scenery, enjoyed each other’s company and chatted avidly. Without Rachel with them, they were able to stride out at their own pace.

When they reached a clearing, they stopped. Ahead, grey boulders, felted with green lichen, almost barricaded the river’s course, squeezing the gently flowing stream through a narrow neck and turning it instantly into a gushing torrent. Gurgling loudly, the water rushed through relentlessly, dropping six feet over the edge and disgorging itself into a white, cold bubbling cauldron of swirling foam. Constantly filled, the pool beneath overflowed, splashing its content across the rocks and, once again, feeding water to the broad riverbed and allowing the River Wharfe to resume its leisurely journey downstream.

On the left bank, Alice and Pansy found their special seats; two weathered rocks, soft with moss and shaded by the overhanging trees. Overhead, the sun was warm. It was a place the women often chose to stop, to sit and talk, and watch the swallows swooping in endless circles across the sparkling water.

Behind them leaves rustled.

The bushes parted.

A man laughed.

‘Stanley!’ breathed Pansy, as memories flashed back – the face, the expression, the evil grin, masked by the whiskers covering his upper lip.

‘So ladies, we meet again! It’s been too long!’

‘Ignore him!’ Alice cried.

‘Two birds with one stone!’ he laughed, sliding his hand on Pansy’s knee.

As she tried to pull her leg away, Alice stood and swung her handbag at his head but his left arm shot out and sent her toppling back across the rocks.

‘Leave us alone,’ Pansy screamed.

‘There’s no one going to help you here,’ he leered, forcing her back against the bank and reaching his hand beneath her skirt.

‘Leave her alone!’ screamed Alice, trying in vain to pull him off her mother.

He swung at her again and hit her full in the face, then he muffled Pansy’s screaming with his hand across her mouth.

As if from nowhere, a small dog appeared and snapped at Crowther’s feet. He kicked at it but missed. 

In the distance, Alice heard the sound of someone whistling for the dog.

‘Help!’ she shouted, when she glimpsed three figures heading down the path towards them. She yelled again. This time they heard her and started running.

By the time Crowther saw the men, they were not more than thirty yards away – three fit young men each brandishing a walking cane. Crowther glanced to the bushes and along the track. He could see he’d never escape through the undergrowth or outrun them on the path as they were much younger and fitter than he. If it had been one man alone, he would have taken a chance and stood his ground.

Cursing, he ran across the bed of rocks, leaping from one boulder to another, heading for the point where the river gurgled through the gap. It was a gap of five or six feet. He’d jumped it once before when he was younger. He only needed speed to clear the distance.

‘Come back!’ the man cried, as his dog bounded after Crowther snapping at his heels.

‘Don’t jump!’ another yelled.

When the dog jerked on his trouser leg, Crowther hesitated, but he was too close to the gap to change his mind. He leapt, his toes landing on the other side. But the rock was damp with moss and for a second he stood there as if hanging by an invisible thread. Suddenly his arms began to flay the air, turning round and round, faster and faster, as he fought to regain his balance. Letting out a choking cry, he knew there was nothing could stop him from falling backwards.

The women watched helplessly when his feet slipped from the rock and he sank into the rushing water.

Standing close to the edge, the terrier wagged its tail. The man he’d chased had disappeared. It barked and sniffed the air, then turned and trotted back to its master.

‘Damn fool,’ one of the young men cried.

Stepping cautiously, Alice moved towards the water and gazed down. There was no trace of Stanley Crowther. Not even his cap.

‘Be careful, lady,’ the man said.

‘Is it dangerous?’

‘The Strid?’ he said. ‘Don’t look dangerous. But no one who’s ever fallen in has surfaced at the other end.’

Alice looked at the crystal water flowing downstream from the pool. ‘But it’s shallow there. Couldn’t he swim out?’

‘You don’t swim out of the Strid, missus. The rocks we’re standing on are riddled with caverns. The river swirls into them and carries everything with it. It never gives back what it drags down.’

When Alice stepped back, her legs were shaking.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ the young man said. ‘That man will never trouble you again. I can guarantee that!’

Chapter 28

The Storm

It was late, when Alice got back to the cottage and she was relieved when she remembered that Lucy and Cyril had gone out for the day and taken Rachel with them. All she wanted was to go inside and close her door on the outside world. Though Crowther was dead, she felt no desire to celebrate.

The following morning, Alice said nothing to Lucy about the incident, and the story she told about her bruises – saying that she had fallen on the rocks beside the river – was not entirely untrue. That day, she didn’t go to work, instead she travelled by train to Ilkley and met her mother. At the local police station, the two women gave formal statements about the events which had occurred at the Strid.

‘It’s unlikely we’ll ever find a body,’ the constable said, confirming the comments of the young men who had helped them.

‘Did you see him fall? Did you see him go under? Did the water pull him down?’

Alice answered as best she could – her mind still visualizing his face – his eyes wide open, his mouth gaping, gulping for air as the force of water dragged him under.

By the time she travelled home, her mind was blank. She was conscious of nothing but the clatter of the train on the railway lines, the carriage swaying and the flash of fields and factories as they flew by. The only thought nagging at her was the fear the police would visit her in Horsforth. She wanted to forget Crowther, get far away from his memory, and forget the face now etched in her mind – the face which would return in the darkness to haunt her!

For Lucy and Cyril, their time in Horsforth was like an extension of the long holiday they had enjoyed together. They went out several evenings each week. Sometimes to a picture house to watch a film, or into Leeds to one of the city’s theatres, to a musical recital at the town hall or, on a fine afternoon, to take a stroll across the park at Roundhay, or hire a boat and row across the lake.

Lucy enjoyed the evenings when the children would play together on the floor. She would listen when Rachel tapped notes on the piano, and was sorry Alice had never had time to give her lessons. During the day she missed seeing James who was always busy on the farm and away from home from early morning till late afternoon.

Grace was a good mother, and the new baby, Amelia Rose was growing quickly. As the days got longer, Lucy knew Grace was becoming anxious to move back to the farmhouse.

Grace rolled over in bed. The noise of the storm was making sleep impossible. It had rumbled around the district for over an hour but now it was directly overhead. The crash of thunder came at the same time as the flash of light, rattling the ornaments on the dressing table.

James got up. It was pointless lying in bed. He couldn’t sleep either and decided to make a cup of tea and bring it back to bed. But before he reached the door, a flash of white light startled him. A crack, like the sound of a leather horse-whip, accompanied it, then a loud hissing noise and a rumble like the sound of a rock face crumbling.

Grace sat bolt upright. ‘What on earth was that?’

In the flashes of light through the window, James could see nothing for the rain beating against the pane. Outside, the wind was howling, then for a moment the rain stopped, and in the darkness a light flickered. It was coming from the other end of the cottages.

‘Something’s wrong!’ he shouted, pulling his trousers over his
pyjamas.

Grace slid from the bed, grabbed her clothes and ran after him.

As soon as he stepped into the front garden, James was shocked. The chestnut tree beside Alice’s cottage had been struck by lightning and the huge branches, that draped over the roof, were alight. At the upstairs window, he could just see Rachel’s face. Her mouth was open – screaming – but the wind and storm were swallowing her cries.

‘Get the fire brigade,’ James shouted, as Lucy and Cyril appeared at their door.

‘I’ll go,’ said Grace, running to the car.

Cyril followed James to the back of the cottages.

The sight that greeted them was horrific.

The old tree had been rent in two and split wide open. Flames were shooting from the centre like the incandescent flame of a huge pressure lamp. The enormous bough, which usually draped its shade over the house, had sheered from the trunk, slicing through the shingled roof and completely demolishing the back bedroom. The burning branches, rubble from the bedroom wall, the rafters and the slate were all piled on the heavy beams which formed the kitchen ceiling. 

‘My God!’
Cyril cried.

‘The ladder!’
James yelled. ‘We’ve got to get them out!’

Clad only in pyjamas and slippers, Cyril ran to get it.

At the front of the cottage, Rachel had opened her bedroom window. Smoke was billowing around her. She was frightened. Coughing.

‘We’ll get you down!’ James shouted.

‘Mummy!’ she yelled. ‘Mummy!’

As James grabbed her, he could just see through the smoke that the wall between the two bedrooms was still standing but the doorway to the staircase was filled with smoke.

‘Where’s your mummy?’ he yelled, passing her down to Cyril.

‘In bed,’ Rachel sobbed. ‘In the other room.’

James shook his head. She couldn’t be in bed. There was no bed. There was no bedroom. No roof. The back of the cottage had completely gone. All that remained was the pile of burning rubble.

‘Don’t go in there!’ Cyril shouted, as James climbed back up the ladder and in through the bedroom window. A moment later he reappeared, spluttering, and clambered down.

‘I’ve got to get up there!’ he cried. ‘Alice is in there. I’ve got to get her out!’

Cyril didn’t argue. Hurrying to the back of the cottage, they leaned the ladder against the wall as far from the burning tree as possible. James didn’t notice that he was soaking wet, only that the flames were consuming the rotted roof timbers like slivers of dry Christmas paper.

Climbing onto the rubble, he scratched through it with his bare hands, tearing off broken bricks, slivers of slate and lumps of mortar. He knew where the bed had stood, where Alice would have been sleeping. He dug frantically, throwing the stones aside, unaware of the blood oozing from his fingers.