'I'm not,' she insisted, pressing herself closer. 'I want you.'
Harry waved his dirty hands helplessly out to the sides. That young, sweet body against his was enough to make any man forget her age. Her hair smelled of lily of the valley and he wanted to hold her and kiss her more than he'd ever wanted any other girl.
'Stop it, Tara. It's not right.' If Stan or Mabel caught him like this he'd be picking shot out of his backside for weeks!
'You think I'm just a child, don't you?' she said scornfully. 'Well I'm not, I'm a woman, and I love you.'
He couldn't win. If he held her in his arms and kissed her he had no doubt as to what that would lead to. If he rejected her, the loss of face would hurt her, too.
'I've got a girl back home, sweetheart,' he lied. It was all he could think of. 'You and your mum are part of my family, I love you both, but not in that way.'
'You never said you had a girl.' Her look cut him to the quick.
There were lots of girls who would be pleased to have him at home, but not one he really cared about.
'I didn't think you were interested in things like that,' he said easily, stepping back from her.
Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away and ran out of the cowshed.
'Oh shit!,' Harry flung down his old rag. 'Women!'
'Autumn's sad, isn't it,' Amy said as she looked out of Mabel's bedroom window at the rain beating down. 'All the leaves have come down during the night.'
It was a Saturday in late October and Mabel was still in bed because she had a chesty cold which wouldn't go.
Amy had regained not only her health but her looks, too. Her hair had grown long enough to have it cut in a sleek bob on her shoulders and a feathery fringe drew attention to her big blue eyes. Jeans and a pink sweater showed off her slender yet curvaceous shape – she could easily pass for twenty-five.
She felt as if she was breaking out of a cocoon. Everything seemed sharper – sights, smells, sounds and feelings. Each day when she collected eggs, fed the chickens or cooked a meal there was a kind of joy, as if she'd been reborn.
Right now she could smell oranges and cloves from the homemade pomanders her mother hung in the wardrobe. When she looked around and saw Mabel sitting up in bed in her pink flannel nightdress she felt a surge of affection. The heavy old dressing table, the ancient carved bed that both James Brady and Mabel had been born in, were indescribably dear to her.
'The seasons all have their purpose,' Mabel said hoarsely, slicing the top off her boiled egg. 'Papa always relished autumn because it meant a lull in the farm work. We should see it like that, too, a chance to go shopping in Bristol. Go to the cinema with Tara, or to Bath to explore.'
Mabel was thrilled to see roses back in her daughter's cheeks. Slowly as the weeks passed Amy had grown stronger. She began to sew again for neighbours, she gossiped with other customers at the shops, laughed at the stories Greg Masterton told her about his practice. As summer finally drew to a close she had thrown herself into harvesting with joyous enthusiasm.
The growing friendship between the doctor and Amy pleased Mabel too. Greg Masterton was a gentleman, kind and understanding, and, although she felt a little nervous that it might lead to a romance and perhaps even marriage, for now it was a good thing.
'Tara seems happier now, doesn't she?' Mabel nibbled a slice of toast. 'She was a bit down after Harry left, but I suppose that's understandable.'
'I think she had a little crush on him.' Amy smiled. She had seen the torn-up sketches of Harry in the wastepaper bin and guessed her daughter had been rebuffed. 'I'm not surprised, of course, so had most of her friends from what I can make out. But I looked in on her just now and she was scribbling away on her sketch pad, that's a good sign.'
Mabel's eyes lit up. 'She really has talent. I mean, it's one thing to be able to draw an imaginary dress, quite another to actually make a pattern and turn it into a real dress.'
Amy smiled to herself. In many ways her mother was just as obstinate, prickly and awkward as she always had been, but where Tara was concerned she'd softened. Not outwardly – she still shouted at her for cutting out on the dining-room table and leaving a mess; she would snort and turn up her nose at some of Tara's wilder ideas. But privately she thought Tara was another Coco Chanel in the making.
It was true, Tara was clever. Her sewing skills left a great deal to be desired, she still rushed things, forgetting that patience was as important as flair. But she had an instinctive eye for colour and the use of textures, Amy could tell.
Amy stood up, taking her mother's breakfast tray from her.
'I'll light the fire in the sitting room,' she suggested. 'Then if you want to come down you can sit in there. I must go now, I've got some work to do in the dairy.'
She glanced out of the window as she crossed the end of the bed. The road was covered in fallen leaves and the red door of the fire station stood out clearly through the rain. Bare branches gave a clear view right across to the mill and she could see a bag of grain being hauled up on a hoist.
'Do you know anyone with a white Vauxhall?' She turned back to her mother. 'There are a couple of men in one out there looking at the house.'
'What sort of men?' Mabel asked.
'Just ordinary. Perhaps they've lost their way?' Amy replied. 'I'll go and see.'
She was just going down the stairs when she heard a knock on the front door. Balancing the tray against her hip she pulled back the curtain covering it and drew back the bolts.
'Sorry to take so long opening it.' She smiled as she opened the door. 'No-one ever comes in this way.'
'Mrs Manning?'
They were both tall, stocky men, one around fifty, dressed in a beige raincoat; the other younger, in a short navy car coat.
'Yes.'
'I'm Inspector Hawkins from the Metropolitan Police,' the older one said, pulling an identification card out of his pocket. 'This is Sergeant Harrison. Could we come in to speak to you?'
She led them into the kitchen and put the tray down on the draining board. She had an uneasy feeling in her stomach.
'Do sit down, I'll make a fresh pot of tea.' She whisked away a loaf and bread board and brushed the crumbs into her hand. The kitchen smelled of burned toast and she was embarrassed by the pile of breakfast dishes in the sink. 'What can I do for you?'
'Is your real name Amy MacDonald, wife of William Henry MacDonald?'
She could only nod. Blood rushed to her head and and she had to clutch the back of a chair for support.
'We're sorry to give you a shock,' she dimly heard one of them say as he guided her to a chair. 'We understand the reasons for your change of name and we don't want to upset you. I'm afraid MacDonald is dead.'
For a moment she was incapable of speech. She noted Inspector Hawkins had a beaky nose and his skin was so badly pitted he might have had smallpox. She noticed a button had come off his shirt and each time he moved she saw a flash of dark hair. She even wondered why men with so much hair on their bodies almost always lost it from their head, as he had. But she still couldn't put a sensible sentence together.
Harrison was a good ten years younger than Hawkins, fresh faced with blond hair cut so short he looked like a convict. He made the tea while Hawkins sat beside her and explained everything.
'Your husband's body was found in a burned-out car that crashed off the coast road near Berwick. The car was stolen, he had been drinking. A witness reported seeing him earlier trying to fill up the tank from a can of petrol outside some shops; he'd stumbled and spilled petrol on his clothes. It seemed he must have forgotten this and just a few miles further up the coast road, lit up a cigarette. He must have gone up like a torch. The car went right over the cliff, landing on rocks beneath, and the whole thing caught fire. They found his bag in the boot untouched by the flames. In it the police who were called to the scene found his passport, driving licence and a few other things, and were able to identify him.'
Amy listened with growing hor
ror as they described how money traced to a post-office robbery had also been found in the boot of the car.
'What's going on, who are these men?' Mabel appeared suddenly in the kitchen in her dressing gown, face alight with indignation.
Amy could only sit with her head in her hands as the police went through the grisly story again.
'Your friend Mr George Collins spoke to us late last night,' Inspector Hawkins explained. 'He was very concerned about not being able to break the news to you himself first but, as we pointed out, a phone call out of the blue is every bit as bad as us coming round.'
There were things Amy still didn't understand when they'd finished their tale, yet she realised her mother knew exactly what they were talking about when a murdered priest was mentioned.
'That's why Harry came down here,' Mabel explained. 'We didn't know for certain if Bill had killed Father Glynn, but he came to keep an eye on us.'
Amy heard them explaining how Ernest MacDon-ald, an older brother who lived in Portsmouth, had identified the body. Ernest couldn't be sure at first, but the small tattoo of a bluebird on the right shoulder had proved it to be him.
Amy covered her eyes with her hands.
The mention of the bluebird took her right back to Grafton Buildings. She could remember the first time she had ever seen Bill without a shirt, shaving at the sink, and how she had run her finger over it.
'I got it done in Singapore.' He grinned round at her, his face white with shaving soap. 'Pretty, ain't it?'
That day she'd been more impressed with the rippling muscles under his smooth olive skin, the width of his shoulders tapering down to slim hips.
'Did it hurt?' she asked.
'Not so much as my septic foot, or the dose of dysentery.' His brown eyes twinkled with laughter. 'I was so glad to be alive, I wanted a permanent reminder.'
'But you can't see it yourself!'
'I wanted it behind me,' he had said, suddenly serious. 'Now I've got you and a future, I won't always be looking over my shoulder.'
Inspector Hawkins knew almost everything there was to know about Bill MacDonald, yet he was surprised that this gentle, beautiful blonde was his wife.
Even though Hawkins had been transferred to Bow Street years ago, he'd heard the gossip about MacDonald knocking his wife and kids around, and their disappearance. He heard about the fire at Collins' warehouse and guessed old George had stuck his neck out to protect them.
Seeing Amy's tears shocked him. How did a man go wrong with a woman like her behind him?
'I'm so sorry.' He touched Amy's hand gently, wishing he could find something good to say about MacDonald.
'Is someone going to tell me what's happened?' A girl's voice made them all look up.
Inspector Hawkins stood up; the sergeant's mouth fell open. They knew there was a teenage daughter, but neither of them was prepared for her beauty. Her gold-red hair flowed over the shoulders of a green sweater; her amber eyes sparked with indignation.
'This is my daughter, Tara,' Amy said, a little nervously.
'It's your father,' Mabel said curtly. 'I'll explain later.'
'Is he dead, or has he been nicked?'
For a moment no-one replied or even moved. Her words sounded so blunt, cold and devoid of emotion.
'He's dead, Tara.' There was more than a trace of delight in Mabel Randall's voice and the inspector noticed that Amy winced. 'Go to your room, we'll explain everything later.'
'I want to hear everything now,' she said firmly and, sitting herself down at the table, folded her arms.
'I said go upstairs,' Mabel repeated.
'I won't.' Tara's voice was openly defiant now. 'I want to hear all the details. I'll enjoy it!'
Inspector Hawkins told her. He had a feeling this girl would like to know just how badly burned her father had been, that they couldn't even finger-print him because there was no flesh left on his hands. But he didn't tell her any of that, just the incidents that led to his death.
'What happens now?' Tara asked calmly. 'Does he get a funeral?'
'That's happened already,' Hawkins said. 'His brother took care of it. It took us some time to discover where you and your mother were.'
'So it's all over?'
Inspector Hawkins nodded.
'Is everyone here going to find out about us now?' The girl's amber eyes looked directly into his.
'No. Not even the local police know about it, and that's the way it will stay.'
"That's good.' She stood up and left the room abruptly, not even looking at her mother.
'I'm sorry.' Amy's voice quavered. 'Tara can be very headstrong.'
*
It was later that afternoon when Tara heard her mother crying in the stable.
'What is it, Mum?' she asked softly as she crept in to find her mother with her face nestled against Betsy's neck. She could see perfectly well that Amy had been crying for some time. It was dusk now, and gloomy in the stable, but she could still make out her swollen eyes.
'You're crying for Dad, aren't you?' she said in astonishment. 'What on earth for?'
'Because of what he used to be. Because no-one else cares enough.' Amy patted the white flash down Betsy's nose.
'Well, I'm glad he's dead,' Tara spat out. 'It's the best thing that's happened in my life so far.'
'You can't be, not really?'
'I can. He gave us such a horrible life.'
'Well, today I'm just remembering the man I fell in love with.'
'You're so weak,' Tara exploded. 'You'd find something good in a maggot. I can't stand it.'
She turned and ran back into the house, up the stairs into her bedroom. Only then, in the privacy of her room, could she let go. She didn't want her mother teasing those little memories out of her – of Sundays down Petticoat Lane riding on his shoulders; of riding the Wild Mouse at Southend or walking through the tunnel to Greenwich from the Isle of Dogs when he used to howl like a dog to make her laugh.
She wanted to keep her hate alive, she wanted to remember her mother with a black eye and Paul shaking with fear. Her father had been a bully and a thief, and today she'd discovered he was a murderer too.
'I'm glad he's dead!' she sobbed over and over again.
Tara stayed in her room all evening. Mabel called out that tea was ready, but she didn't go down. She sat at her desk with her reading light on, drawing.
Her room was always warm because it was over the kitchen and pipes from the Aga ran through it. Gran had told her many stories about this room, that had been hers as a girl. How she and her sister Emily used to take the big drawers out of the chest and pretend they were boats. How they would hold on to the footboard of the bed to tie each other's stays. It was here that Gran had got the beating from her father.
The feather mattress was gone now, replaced by a new spring one, but aside from the drawing board Gran bought her last Christmas, and a green carpet, everything else was as it had been then. Her friends had modern bedrooms with Formica-topped dressing tables and sliding doors on their wardrobes, but Tara loved the big pine chest of drawers, the carving on the bedstead, the tile-topped washstand. The pictures on the walls of Adam Faith, Gene Vincent and Elvis Presley were a reminder that she was a modern teenager, but she loved Victoriana.
She and Paul had once dug out a lot of old dresses tucked away in a trunk, and spent a whole day up here trying them on. It made her smile even now to think of Paul in a girl's navy and white striped dress, he had looked so pretty in it once she'd found a sun-bonnet to hide his short hair. Gran had laughed, too, when she saw him, she said it had been her Sunday dress and described the lacy bloomers she used to wear underneath it.
It occurred to Tara that the memories of her brother were becoming less painful. She could think of him without crying, smile at the funny things he had done and said. She wished she could be that way about Harry, too; forget how she'd thrown herself at him out in the cowshed. Now she could never go and stay in London.
The wind got
up and was chasing round the house lifting the loose sheets of corrugated iron on the hen house, sending a milk pail rattling across the cobbles and banging the branches of the plum tree against the cowshed.
She was drawing her fantasy shop, its big windows displayed with her designs. First the shop front, dark green paint with Tara Manning' written in gold leaf; then the interior, with ladies posing before long mirrors, their husbands sitting waiting on a couch.
A knock on the door surprised her. She had expected to be ignored.
'I thought you might like a sandwich.' Amy peered round hesitantly. 'Can I come in?'
'Yes, of course.' Tara felt a little awkward now, wondering if she should apologise.
Amy came right in, pushing the door to behind her with one foot. She had milk, too, and a slice of walnut cake. She put the tray down on the bed and came to look over Tara's shoulder.
'Your shop?'
She could tell her mother had been stuffing the chicken for Sunday lunch, she smelled of sage and onions. Tara wondered if she was still sad.
'You're lucky you can draw, Tara. I see dresses in my head and I could make them the way I think them, but I couldn't put them on paper.'
Tara felt ashamed. Not for what she'd said, but because she'd hurt her mother. Amy never bore grudges, perhaps that's why she had forgiven Dad so many times?
'Are you still sad about Dad?' she asked in a small voice.
Amy gave a soft sigh and Tara turned in her seat and buried her face in her mother's chest.
'I didn't mean to hurt you,' she whispered. 'It's just that I can't see him the way you can.' She knew without looking up that Amy was crying again and all she could do was hold her mother tightly and hope that it would help.
'No-one in this world is entirely wicked, not even your father,' Amy finally said.
'If I fall in love with a man and he puts one foot wrong, I'll leave him immediately,' Tara said firmly.
Time and again she had tried to work out why women liked men who were cruel to them but, however she looked at it, there was no answer except weakness.
'I think you'll find it's not quite as simple as that.' Amy laughed through her tears. 'I hope the man you fall in love with will be worthy of you. But don't go through life expecting perfection, darling.'