Alley Urchin (6 page)

Nelly’s brown eyes followed Roland Thomas as he strode further into the room. When he came to rest just an arm’s reach from Emma, he stood with one hand across the back of Nelly’s chair, his large coarse fingers tightly clasping the top. He gave no answer to Nelly, nor did he betray the slightest inclination of his thoughts as, for what seemed an age, he stared down on Emma’s prostrate figure. His serious gaze roved over the finely structured lines of her lovely face and, every now and then, a small shuddering sigh formed deep within his chest, before softly escaping through partly opened lips. Then, with his head bowed and a dark, grim expression on his face such as Nelly had not seen before, he turned away. At the door he stopped, and in soft, halting tones, he told the watching Nelly, ‘I’ll never forget how Emma put her own life at risk to help me and mine.
Never
! Nor
your
part in it, child.’ His heartfelt words caused Nelly to look away. Not for the first time, she was plagued with a sense of guilt. Should she tell him that, on the night his wife died and the culprits were making good their getaway, there were
three
figures fleeing across the yard? She had kept quiet about it until now because, when she went to the window to shout for help, the moon had gone behind the clouds and there were dark moving shadows. But, in that fleeting moment before the three scoundrels scurried away, Nelly thought she recognised the third man. She wasn’t sure and she would never swear to it. That was why she had kept it to herself when the officers questioned her. Besides which, how could she say in Mr Thomas’s hearing, and with the body of his poor wife not yet cold, that the man she saw running away was to her mind Foster Thomas, his own son! It was a terrible thing, and one which Nelly wanted no part in. It had been a shock and she hoped with all her heart that she was wrong. Not least of all because, in spite of Emma’s warning, or maybe because of it, she had fallen hopelessly in love with Mr Thomas’s handsome, wayward son, and somehow, Nelly knew that Emma was right in all she said . . . Foster Thomas was a bad lot. He was capable of all manner of grief. But then hearts are unpredictable things, and love even more so.

At five o’clock, Rita Hughes helped Mr Thomas to close up the store, then, after preparing a tray for Nelly and some broth for Emma, she bade him good day and made her way down the road to the blacksmith’s house. Hers was a figure which was easily recognised, being stiffly upright, reed-thin and always dressed in a long dark skirt and cloak, with a small-brimmed bonnet of black, tied beneath the chin with an unusually extravagant bow. Should even one wisp of black hair stray from beneath, it was quickly wedged back into place by small square fingers encased in fine white gloves. She was an odd, almost eccentric figure as she trod the well-worn path from Thomas’s store to the blacksmith’s house, occasionally deigning to smile woodenly at anyone she passed. More often than not, they would see her coming and find some reason to look the other way, for no one was quite sure how to treat the blacksmith’s daughter who, those less Christian of folk claimed, was ‘a little bit strange’. There was nothing to substantiate such an observation because Rita Hughes was of a responsible age . . . twenty-nine years. She was most polite to one and all, she was hard-working and helpful and she went to church regularly. She was adored by her parents, being an only child, and there was no more good or dutiful daughter than she. However, though her tight and plain features were easy to look upon, there was one physical characteristic in particular which might account for people’s discomfort whenever she paid them close attention. Her eyes, while being of a most fetching hazel colour, were somewhat unnerving to the onlooker, because the right one had within its rich brown colouring a deep marbling of vivid blue, which appeared like a splash across it. This, in turn, created the impression that she was half-blind, which of course she was not.

But there was one who was glad to see Rita Hughes approaching. Quickly, as she swung her way into the front yard through the small gate, Foster Thomas briefly stepped from the shadows of the forge, before she might turn away towards the house without seeing him. When his movement caught her eye, the whole of her face was transformed by a smile which, although it could never be described as beautiful, was close to being pretty. ‘Foster!’ Seeing the anxious look on his face, she quickly glanced about to ensure that there was no one watching, then, in a hurry, she was inside the darkened forge and being pressed against the wall. ‘What are you doing . . . hiding in here like a criminal?’ she wanted to know.

‘Never mind that, girlie,’ he said gruffly. ‘Tell me . . . is it right that my mother’s been killed . . . shot? And that Emma might die?’ He appeared frantic as he waited for her answer. His hair was dishevelled, his face unshaven and his dark jacket and trousers besmirched with dust, as if he had been living rough, or ridden horseback for some considerable distance. Or both.

Quickly, Rita Hughes explained all that had happened. She told how his father had sent people out to look for him and yes, his mother was to be buried the next day, and Emma was only just pulling back from the brink of death. But she was past the worst . . . the doctor had said so.

‘Thank God,’ he muttered. But then, on seeing her puzzled expression, he quickly added, ‘Oh, but my mother! Who could do such a terrible thing? And what of my father . . . how is he taking it . . . badly, I expect?’ When she confirmed that it was so, and that his own absence had made it all the more painful for his father, Foster Thomas’s reaction was immediate and seemingly sincere. ‘I must go to him. But first I’ll need to clean up.’ He explained how he had been on a business trip of sorts and he hadn’t expected to be away so long.

Rita Hughes knew better. She suspected that he had been on a drinking binge, and that he didn’t want to evoke his father’s anger by turning up in such a disgusting state. What he really wanted though was a good woman to bring him to heel and to show him the Christian way. She saw
herself
as that woman, and one day quite soon, she would convince him of it also.

‘Stay here,’ she told him. ‘Give me a while and I’ll bring what you need.’ Then she smiled warmly at him, gently moving away a blond lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. ‘You can always rely on me, Foster.’ For a moment it seemed as though he might kiss her. But then he pushed her from him. ‘Be as quick as you can,’ he said, trying not to show how unpleasant it was to be looked at in such a way by those odd and penetrating eyes.

It was half-past ten, some three hours and more since Nelly had heard the raised voices from the back storeroom below, and she was relieved that Foster had returned. Even now, she refused to let herself dwell on, or believe, what played on her mind. It hadn’t been Foster. He might visit the grog-shops with such men, but he would never be a party to robbing his own parents, she was sure of it. But no, she wasn’t sure of it! Yet she would put it out of her mind, for nothing good would come of dwelling on such a thing.

‘You go and stretch your legs, child. I’ll sit with Emma awhile.’ Mr Thomas had come into the room, and Nelly hadn’t even heard him, she was that tired. But she declined his suggestion, for she had no intention of moving one step away from Emma’s bed until there was some sign of what the doctor had promised. ‘No, Mr Thomas, sir,’ she said, wedging her narrow frame deeper into the chair as though afraid he might pluck her from it, ‘I ain’t going nowhere . . . not till I know Emma’s all right.’

As he turned away, a weary little smile appeared across Roland Thomas’s features. ‘All right . . . all right. Nobody’s going to make you leave her if you don’t want to,’ he assured Nelly. ‘Foster’s taken my make-shift bed in the stores . . . there’s no sleep in me at all this night. I’ve too much on my mind for sleep.’ Here he paused and it was obvious that he was dwelling on the sorry fact that the following day his wife would be laid to rest. ‘We’ve a hard day tomorrow, I’m thinking, child,’ he murmured, adding as he left the room, ‘should you need me, I’ll be in the sitting-room next door.’

Nelly thanked him and nodded her appreciation, then she dropped her thoughtful gaze to the floor as he closed the door behind him. Neither Roland Thomas nor Nelly saw how Emma gently stirred, how her grey eyes flickered open for the briefest moment before closing again to seem as they were before. Yet behind Emma’s quiet and still expression, a host of gyrating shadows was beginning to emerge and a confusion of hazy images which were too distant for her to recognise. For the moment all was dark and silent, save for the twisting spirals that moved this way, then that, gradually floating closer and closer until the shadows became people, and the people became faces . . . faces she thought she knew, plus those of strangers whose touch she feared. Now, they merged to become one, and again they split asunder to become a multitude. She was afraid yet she was desperate to know who they were. But no! Don’t come nearer: she cried out . . . ‘Don’t touch me!’

Emma had to fight them, or they would kill her, she knew! But listen. There was a voice, a familiar Cockney voice, kind and loving, which made her feel warm and unafraid. ‘Ssh, darling,’ it said, ‘there ain’t nobody gonna touch yer while
I’m
aside o’ yer.’ For a while her heart stopped its fearful trembling. But then she saw him. Her husband, Gregory Denton, with his body in a grotesque and twisted heap at the foot of the stairs. He was dead! And there above them was his aged mother. ‘Murderer!’ she screamed, her face alive with hatred. ‘Emma Grady . . . you’re a murderer!’ Hands reached out to take Emma, to punish her. Oh, but where was Marlow? Would he not come to help her in her hour of need? Dear God above, would
no one
come to help her, and oh . . . her baby, her baby! ‘Don’t take my baby!’ She was on her knees, pleading with them, but they wouldn’t listen. ‘Marlow, where are you? They mean to take our baby. No, No . . . please. DON’T TAKE MY BABY! Dear God, DON’T LET THEM TAKE MY BABY!’ Frantically, she shook her head from side to side and, thrashing the air with her arms, she fought them off. Yet still they advanced, on their faces were looks of revenge as their outstretched hands threatened to grasp the tiny girl-child from her breast. ‘Marlow, help me!’ she cried as the child was torn from her and flung into the gutter. Her desperate cries echoed in the blackness, but there was no one to hear them.

In her terrible anguish, Emma was forced to relive the horrors which had plagued her since the loss of her adored father, Thadius Grady; the awful events which led to her being accused of murder now rose into her subconscious with such stark realism that they struck terror into her very soul. As she fought and struggled against those who would separate her forever from the man she loved and from their newborn, Emma was unaware that her cries were just as painful to another who loved her dearly.

As Nelly fled to the sitting-room to fetch Mr Thomas, she could hardly talk for the sobs which racked her. ‘Oh, Mr Thomas . . . come quick! It’s Emma.’ Then, unable to stand still even one moment longer, she ran back to the bedroom, with Mr Thomas hard on her heels.

‘She’s delirious.’ Roland Thomas took one look at Emma’s face, and when he saw the horror stamped upon it, his heart turned over. ‘Quick, child,’ he told the frantic Nelly, ‘get the doctor!’ The minute Nelly had gone to do his bidding, he set about preparing a bowl of water and collecting together a flannel, towel, and then placing them on the bedside cupboard. Next, he rolled up his sleeves and pulled the chair as close to Emma as possible. Quickly, he plunged the flannel into the water and squeezed it gently, before applying it to Emma’s forehead. ‘Easy does it, girlie,’ he murmured, ‘the doctor’s on his way.’ Until the doctor arrived, he tenderly wiped away the rivers of perspiration from Emma’s face and upper body, all the while murmuring encouragement and soft assurances. ‘You’ll be all right, Emma . . . I reckon you’ll pull through, just like the doc said.’ He hoped so, yes indeed, he certainly hoped so, for they had things to discuss, he and Emma. Important things which would affect
both
their futures.

When Dr Shaw arrived, he sent them all from Emma’s bedside but they went no further than the doorway. Here Nelly and Roland Thomas stood, silently watching the doctor’s every move as he carefully soothed and eventually sedated Emma. When, on stealthy footsteps, Foster Thomas came up behind them, it was to say in a strangely subdued voice, ‘She’ll be fine, I reckon. Emma’s made of strong stuff . . . she won’t buckle under so easily. She’ll be fine, I’m telling you.’

His words were echoed by the doctor, who assured them, ‘She’s out of the crisis now . . . you’ll see her grow stronger by the day.’ His report to the authorities would read the same, he said, for there was no doubt that Emma would be up and about within the week, ‘But, of course, I shall recommend that she be given leave from her duties for at least as long again.’ A decision which was heartily endorsed by Roland Thomas, who was in no hurry to see Emma back at her work.

But there was something else bothering him, something that he should have seen long ago perhaps. It was the look in his son’s eyes when he had come to see how ill Emma was, within the very first few minutes of his return. Even before he had asked after his own mother, he had gone to the bedroom where Rita Hughes had told him Emma lay. He had not made his presence known to Nelly. Instead, he had remained by the door, and from there had gazed towards the bed, his mouth set taut and his knuckles white as he clenched and unclenched his fist against the doorpost. He had not spoken a word, but remained there for a few moments before descending the stairs to discuss with his father all that had happened. Not once had he made any mention of Emma. But Roland Thomas had become curious about his son’s obvious affection for her, and he wondered whether he might have misjudged him after all, for any man who could feel genuine affection towards a woman like Emma could surely not be all bad?

Yet he was not convinced, because in his own heart, he suspected that the son he and Violet had produced had more badness than goodness in him. It was a terrible thing for him to contemplate, but his every instinct warned him that it was, sadly, the truth. It was because of his instincts, therefore, that he decided to press on with the proposition he intended putting to Emma when she was well enough. Indeed, he believed there might now be more urgency to finalise his plan than he had at first realised, because, although there had been many times when he had wished his son would wed and settle down, it horrified him to think he could have designs on Emma. Women of Emma’s admirable calibre were few and far between. She would be sorely wasted on the likes of his son, for it seemed that everything that one touched, he managed to drag down to his own level. So, if he had his way, Roland Thomas would persuade Emma towards greater things. She had it in her to make her mark on this land, he knew, and the thought excited him. All the same though, he did feel a small pang of guilt and there was just the slightest doubt in his mind as to whether he was judging his son too harshly. Time would tell, he thought, time will always tell.