The Twisted Way (35 page)

‘I’m tired and must get my beauty sleep,’ she said. ‘It’s getting late.’

She yawned, lifted her glasses, and rubbed the corners of her eyes.

John’s face drooped and Patsy’s heart lurched. She turned towards him and reached out for his one of his hands and stroked his long sensitive fingers. What was she doing? She turned and took an abrupt step towards the door. No, she could not ... but, why not? The touch of the brief kiss on her lips lingered and tingled, she longed to get closer to him, and the smell of his enticing aftershave, mmm ... so masculine ... what was it?

John turned his back on her. His narrow shoulders drooped and his thin gangly arms hung disconsolately by his sides as he crept along the thick fawn carpet that graced the centre of the corridor stretching towards the stairs. The prospect of being alone in his single room on the next floor was not a welcome one.

‘John, oh John,’ a voice, soft and urgent, sounded behind him. He looked round and Patsy, a bewildered and forlorn expression on her face, held out her thin arms to him. Her pale blue evening shawl had slipped off one shoulder exposing a round and tantalising stretch of pink skin he longed to kiss.

‘Are you sure, quite sure?’ he asked, his breath coming in rapid rasps. He could not believe his luck. He turned on his heel and moved towards her.

‘Quite sure!’

The past was no longer relevant. She loved John, really loved and wanted him. She wanted him close to her. Stunning realisation swept over her and the shackles that had held her in check for so long dropped away like autumn leaves being swept along by the wind. She led him into her room and locked the door. The passion that they shared together in her narrow hotel bed made up for all the miserable years endured in limbo; it had been worth waiting for.

The first words John spoke in the morning were to ask her to marry him, and soon.

‘Darling Patsy,’ he said. ‘I can’t live without you.’ It sounds corny, she thought, but I agree with every word. ‘I can’t live without you either,’ she replied with sincerity and fervour.

She reached out her arms to hold him closer. Love for a man was marvellous. What a fool she had been to waste so many years as a miserable old spinster.

They drove into Exeter in the morning and purchased an engagement ring, sapphires and diamonds, ‘like your eyes,’ John said. In his sight she was lovely and he was happier than he had ever been in his life. She was his soulmate, someone he had thought he would never find.

They anticipated that the Enderly and Little Brinton bridge club members would be surprised, but the majority of them, like Felicity, had been looking forward to Patsy and John’s wedding for some time. Old Mr Croft thought it was the best news he had ever heard. He had thought at one time that his daughter was too shrew-like to ever attract a member of the opposite sex. He longed to see her marry and enjoy life and perhaps have a family of her own, like so many of her school friends in the village had earlier. He could even suffer that lady vicar in Little Brinton church if she married them. He had found her even worse than some of the previous lady vicars who had been relegated to judging the local produce sale each autumn. They did not know the difference between a carrot and a turnip, his vegetables were the best but they never seemed to realize it. They were an ignorant lot. The next year they were to have a male vicar. There is hope yet, he thought with chauvinistic abandon that would have infuriated his daughter.

Patsy had at last become reconciled to the horror of the rape as a schoolgirl that had haunted her for so long and could now move on with confidence with John. Mr Croft had known that something dreadful had happened to his daughter when she went on a school holiday in her teens but would never discover what had taken place. Patsy had not told anyone about her ordeal except John Elk who had provided her with the friendship, love, patience and understanding that she needed.

A date was soon set for the wedding. It was to be held in Little Brinton Church in April. Invitations had been sent to all the bridge club members, family and other friends of the bride and groom. Felicity urged Robbie to drive her into Brinton where she purchased an expensive fine pale blue wool suit and small head band to match, soft Italian shoes and a lavish leather and fabric bag. She had regained her spirits after Ronald’s attempts to shorten her life and plenty of cash and new clothes were, as always, essential to her well-being.

She showed her purchases to an embarrassed Robbie and pressed him into an opinion regarding the suitability of her goods, about which he had no idea.

‘Does the colour flatter me?’ she asked, her small eyes opened as wide as possible with feigned innocence and undoubted affection.

Robbie coloured. ‘I am no expert Felicity. Ask Joyce Skillet or your aunt.’

‘I am not interested in what they think, only your opinion,’ she retorted.

Robbie cringed. What was the woman playing at now? She fluttered her newly acquired false eyelashes and leaned closer to him. He backed away. God, was she flirting with him? He hoped not. The phrase ‘disaster threatens’ passed through his mind and he heard alarm bells clanging. An unpleasant and persistent ache had invaded his forehead.

Felicity’s hair was now tinted a pale auburn and she was convinced it made her look at least ten years younger. She was pleased with her new look and surprised that Robbie was not more responsive. He must have noticed. What was the matter with the man!

The wedding day in early April turned out to be slightly cool, but dry. Little Brinton Church was crammed with close family, villagers and bridge club members, some having to stand in discomfort close to the cold grey stone walls because all the pews were full. Patsy, despite her once sharp tongue, had many loyal friends and work colleagues anxious to see her tie the knot. John Elk was liked too and his parents, sister Joan and her husband and three young children were excited and pleased that their once lonely son and brother, who had appeared to be a confirmed bachelor, was at last getting married.

Old Mr Croft was dressed in a smart suit which was a change from his usual scruffy old tweed trousers and jacket. He was hardly recognisable.

‘This is a great day,’ he repeated to all and sundry, beaming. ‘I never thought this would happen, marvellous. I have a lovely daughter who deserves to be happy.’ He thought back guiltily to the many times he had told himself how glad he would be to get rid of his miserable child, a child he wished to be happy and had no idea how to help, but that bad patch was now behind them.

Patsy wore a cream satin dress scattered with seed pearls. A band of orange blossom on her head held in place a short cream lace veil that had belonged to her mother. Her friend Jenny Saunders was matron of honour and small cousin Jack, a gangly difficult child, proved himself to be a reluctant pageboy. The congregation gasped with admiration when they saw Patsy. She had abandoned her glasses for contact lenses and her hair had been curled and cut to flatter her face. The loose-styled dress suited her slim angular body ensuring that a feminine and attractive woman floated down the aisle.

The ladies of the Village Hall Committee in Little Brinton had also made an effort to attend and the chairman Ned Windsor looked proud of his club secretary. He liked Patsy, a feisty girl after his own heart. He had no time for weak women. He sat next to Mrs Blunt whom he had considered to be an old battleaxe when he first moved into the village shortly after Jack Headley left for Scotland, but they were now becoming close friends. They were an odd couple. She was an upright pillar in the local community, strait-laced, honest and determined, and quite different from Ned who had a criminal record, although the villagers, with the exception of Mrs Blunt, did not realise that. He had told her about his past, how he was imprisoned for killing his wife in a drunken stupor and had shared a cell with the bridge club’s first chairman Jack Headley. She appreciated his honesty she told him, and promptly set about helping him to become a respected Little Brinton villager. He went along with that; it suited him. Jack had no idea that Ned was now living in Little Brinton and would have been very surprised if he had. Mrs Blunt held Ned’s arm possessively and he smiled with obvious warmth. Many of the villagers noticed that he had mellowed since they had become close friends, indeed they hoped that there might be another wedding in the near future. He could be a difficult man when he wanted to be as some of the Village Hall Committee ladies knew. Used to getting their own way, even they were wary when dealing with Ned.

Felicity leaned close to Robbie in their pew near the front. He felt the unwelcome warmth of her plump thighs against his. He edged away but she placed her hand on his arm with an almost possessive and restraining gesture.

‘This is a happy day Robbie,’ she whispered, shifting herself so that she almost touched his body with her right hip. ‘It is lovely to have such good friends. We are lucky.’

Robbie was not too sure he liked the word ‘we’ and an icy feeling claimed him like a clamp. He smelt her latest expensive floral perfume and shuddered. It crept into his nostrils and he blew his nose fiercely in an attempt to get rid of it.

Felicity held his arm for support as they left the church and made their way to the Red Rooster for a meal. Robbie, like a pitiful canary trapped in a small cage who could not stretch its wings and fly away, submitted to her attentions. She made sure that they sat next to each other at the wedding feast. When they toasted the bride and groom with champagne she turned her face to him and whispered, ‘I wonder who will be next?’ Robbie vowed vehemently that it would not be him. He had no doubt now that she fancied him. He was old and ill and she was the last woman in the world he wanted around him. He had felt happier when he thought she wanted to get rid of him. If Janet died, well, Felicity may be mistress of Primrose House. His job would be done, the wretched woman would have what she wanted, she would lose interest in him and his first priority in any case would be to escape from her clutches. He relaxed. If necessary he would move from Enderly, though he did not want to. He only had a few more years to live which he wanted to share with Janet.

The small child scurried down the lane to the pale grey stone cottage. She was looking forward with eager antici
pation to seeing her mother. She liked the village school 
and had made a lot of friends but her mother was the most important figure in her young life. It was 1943 and her father had been drafted into the navy. He was serving as an officer somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, they did not know exactly where, and his visits home were few and far between. They were proud of him. He was engaged in protecting food convoys, food essential for the country to survive. Her mother had told her many times that her daddy was doing a wonderful job for them all.

The Yorkshire hills rolled green and brown behind her home and the large uneven field at the back of the cottage, which was separated from their small garden by a wire fence and a thick hawthorn hedge, contained sheep whose frolicking lambs in the spring never ceased to amuse her with their antics. She was a clever child, happy, vivacious and full of energy, who showed academic promise.

She threw open the small garden gate and skipped like a small elf along the gravel path to the old wooden front door that was framed with bright red roses. As she approached, her mother threw open the door and lifted her into her arms.

‘I thought I heard you coming, darling.’ There were tears on her cheeks, her eyes edged with what appeared to the child to be a strange red tinge from crying.

‘Mummy, what is it?’ Rosalie whispered, as her small frame tensed.

‘It is Daddy, dearest, he is ...’ She did not know how to continue.

A voice from behind her she recognised as Granny Barbara’s called out, ‘Now Mary, the child will not find it easy to understand, come here dear, let me explain.’

‘No, Mother, that is up to me.’

Her mother lifted her up and sat on a kitchen chair, balancing her on her knees.

‘We, I ... have a telegram ... Daddy will not be coming home. He was brave and has given his life for his country. We too must be brave and carry on as he would want us to.’

‘The child cannot understand,’ Granny Barbara interrupted. ‘I do,’ Rosalie said, her face pale and strained. The vision of her beloved father sinking below cold turbulent water drifted in front of her eyes and would stay with her to haunt her dreams for a long time.

‘What? Why Mummy?’ she stuttered. Mary tried to explain what had happened. ‘Daddy’s ship was hit by a torpedo.’

Rosalie tried to make sense of her explanation. Life changed for Rosalie and Mary. They continued to live in the cottage but Mary who had been working part-time in a library in a nearby town had to find a full-time job to earn enough money to keep them in reasonable comfort. Granny Barbara, a widow, rather elderly and crotchety at times, or so it seemed to the young child, moved into the cottage to help look after Rosalie.

Rosalie resented Barbara’s old-fashioned rules. She was a large woman who exuded Victorian values, strict and forceful. She was kind but nagged incessantly. ‘Eat up those greens,’ Don’t lean on the table,’ Hurry up or you will be late for school,’ and so on. Rosalie loved her mother but was determined to leave home as soon as she could. She wanted to be a teacher and worked hard to get good grades at school.

Rosalie grew into a slim and energetic young woman. She would brush her fine brown hair to make it shine. ‘At least one hundred strokes each time,’ Granny Barbara told her, and it repaid her by exuding glints of red that lit up the brown. She often looked at her hair in her old bedroom mirror and wondered about her colouring. Her eyes were grey-blue flecked with brown, more flecks in the left eye than the right and emphasized by fine arched eyebrows. She did not look like anyone else in her immediate family. Perhaps some ancient ancestors had passed their genes to her. Her skin was fair and clear and she had an intriguing dimple in her left cheek. She was pretty but her mouth was slightly big for her face which her small straight nose tended to emphasise.