tell the police. What explanation could she give for her lover having been punched so hard by a local farmhand that it had killed him? Not the truth. It was too shameful and was bound to be pounced on by the press. She’d be a laughing stock.
Then Emily had an idea she desperately wished she’d had before. She gritted her teeth and dragged the still warm Bill by his heels to the bottom of the stairs. He’d been drinking, she’d say, and had fallen the whole way down. It would still cause a bit of a scandal, but would be more bearable than the truth. She put a cushion under his head so it would look as if she’d tried to care for him and checked there was no blood on the carpet where he’d lain. The carpet was clean. The injury that had killed him must have been internal.
She picked up the telephone, dialled the operator, asked for the police, and was waiting to be connected when she heard a noise, a groan, that sent shivers of ice down her spine. From the corner of her eye she saw a movement at the bottom of the stairs. Emily could scarcely bear to look, not sure if she could stand any more shocks that night. When she did, she saw Bill was trying to sit up, groaning, and holding the back of his head. He looked at her fearfully. ‘Where’s that bloody maniac who hit me?’
‘Gone.’ Emily replaced the receiver, weak with relief, and regretting she hadn’t the sense to feel for a pulse herself. ‘And I’d like you to be gone by the time I get back if you don’t mind. If you’re still here, I’ll call the police and have you thrown out.’
He was struggling to his feet, holding on to the banisters. She felt no inclination to help. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked in an old man’s voice.
‘Never you mind.’
She was going to look for Ruby, fetch her back. There was no need, now, for her and Jacob to have gone. In the dark, lonely days that lay ahead she would need Ruby as she had never done before.
Outside, the rain had stopped. A brilliant moon, almost whole, shone out of a dense, black, cloudless sky, making long, glistening ribbons of the still wet roads. The tyres of the Jaguar sizzled in the wet as Emily drove for miles and miles in every direction, until she felt giddy, and realised she was passing places she’d already passed before.
Still Emily drove, hopeless now, looking for Ruby, until the moon disappeared and a glimmer of yellow light on the horizon signalled the night was over and a new day was about to dawn.
Jacob
Chapter 4
1935–1938
She made an impressive sight, the pawnshop runner. Tall for a woman, taper thin, she proudly walked the streets of the Dingle in her polka-dot frock and shabby red shoes, her sleeping baby tucked in a black shawl. Her long hair was thick and wavy and as black as night and it billowed like a cloud behind her, reminding her many admirers of a ship in full sail. The baby was a girl and her name was Greta – no one was surprised that the remarkable pawnshop runner hadn’t given her child a conventional name like Mary or Anne.
It was said she was only seventeen, though she looked older. Her long face with its sharp nose and wide mouth could appear pinched when she wasn’t smiling, but as she seemed to be smiling all the time, not many people noticed, just as they didn’t notice when her dark eyes grew sombre as they sometimes did when she looked at her child who wasn’t thriving as well as she should. She lived in Foster Court, an appalling slum, where twenty or thirty people dwelt in a single house, whole families in just one room. And, yes, she had a husband – she wasn’t
that
sort of girl. It was rumoured that he, the husband, drank his wages. The pawnshop runner supported him, just as she did her baby and herself.
Those who had spoken to her said she was clever. She used long words and knew all sorts of funny things, though she didn’t talk posh. Her accent was more Irish thanScouse and she’d obviously fallen on hard times. Oh, and her name
Then Emily had an idea she desperately wished she’d had before. She gritted her teeth and dragged the still warm Bill by his heels to the bottom of the stairs. He’d been drinking, she’d say, and had fallen the whole way down. It would still cause a bit of a scandal, but would be more bearable than the truth. She put a cushion under his head so it would look as if she’d tried to care for him and checked there was no blood on the carpet where he’d lain. The carpet was clean. The injury that had killed him must have been internal.
She picked up the telephone, dialled the operator, asked for the police, and was waiting to be connected when she heard a noise, a groan, that sent shivers of ice down her spine. From the corner of her eye she saw a movement at the bottom of the stairs. Emily could scarcely bear to look, not sure if she could stand any more shocks that night. When she did, she saw Bill was trying to sit up, groaning, and holding the back of his head. He looked at her fearfully. ‘Where’s that bloody maniac who hit me?’
‘Gone.’ Emily replaced the receiver, weak with relief, and regretting she hadn’t the sense to feel for a pulse herself. ‘And I’d like you to be gone by the time I get back if you don’t mind. If you’re still here, I’ll call the police and have you thrown out.’
He was struggling to his feet, holding on to the banisters. She felt no inclination to help. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked in an old man’s voice.
‘Never you mind.’
She was going to look for Ruby, fetch her back. There was no need, now, for her and Jacob to have gone. In the dark, lonely days that lay ahead she would need Ruby as she had never done before.
Outside, the rain had stopped. A brilliant moon, almost whole, shone out of a dense, black, cloudless sky, making long, glistening ribbons of the still wet roads. The tyres of the Jaguar sizzled in the wet as Emily drove for miles and miles in every direction, until she felt giddy, and realised she was passing places she’d already passed before.
Still Emily drove, hopeless now, looking for Ruby, until the moon disappeared and a glimmer of yellow light on the horizon signalled the night was over and a new day was about to dawn.
Jacob
Chapter 4
1935–1938
She made an impressive sight, the pawnshop runner. Tall for a woman, taper thin, she proudly walked the streets of the Dingle in her polka-dot frock and shabby red shoes, her sleeping baby tucked in a black shawl. Her long hair was thick and wavy and as black as night and it billowed like a cloud behind her, reminding her many admirers of a ship in full sail. The baby was a girl and her name was Greta – no one was surprised that the remarkable pawnshop runner hadn’t given her child a conventional name like Mary or Anne.
It was said she was only seventeen, though she looked older. Her long face with its sharp nose and wide mouth could appear pinched when she wasn’t smiling, but as she seemed to be smiling all the time, not many people noticed, just as they didn’t notice when her dark eyes grew sombre as they sometimes did when she looked at her child who wasn’t thriving as well as she should. She lived in Foster Court, an appalling slum, where twenty or thirty people dwelt in a single house, whole families in just one room. And, yes, she had a husband – she wasn’t
that
sort of girl. It was rumoured that he, the husband, drank his wages. The pawnshop runner supported him, just as she did her baby and herself.
Those who had spoken to her said she was clever. She used long words and knew all sorts of funny things, though she didn’t talk posh. Her accent was more Irish thanScouse and she’d obviously fallen on hard times. Oh, and her name
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