“Why, do I know you?” he asked him, barely hiding his contempt.
“No, you don’t know me. My name is John Stein, from London. I don’t come to these parts very often, but every now and again, I go around looking for talent at the poker table. You have talent, Joseph. That is your name, isn’t it?”
Joseph nodded and then shook John Stein’s hand. He liked the way the conversation was going.
“Yes, Joseph Dobbs, from Goudhurst. And yes, a whisky please; double.”
John gave the nod to the bartender. “Well, Joseph, I have to tell you that I don’t see talent like yours very often. You’re quite a find. I admired the way you played tonight and the way you held those cards. It’s as though they’re part of you, part of your body, in your blood. Yes, it was a rare privilege to see you in action, Mr Dobbs. Have you never thought about looking for a bigger arena? Talent like yours shouldn’t be hidden away in a small, insignificant place like this, not when you could do so well in London. For instance, there’s a game coming up in Bermondsey soon, with an intimate group of bankers and lawyers. My job is to set up these types of games. I pick the players by reputation without knowing anything else about them; I don’t need to know details. You’d be surprised at how much money I make, Joseph. Good players are crying out for competition, and they are good, believe me – every last one of them – and the winnings are very rewarding. You could probably win more money in one night than you would in a whole year in a dump like this. And not just money: I’ve seen jewellery worth hundreds, thousands of pounds, just sitting there on the table, waiting to be had. I’ve seen houses, horses, bonds, and whole estates up for grabs. That’s how big the stakes are. Of course, you have to have the money to put up in the first place, and not everyone can do that.”
John Stein sipped his drink and then pointed to Joseph’s chest. “I want you on my books, but do you have the kind of money I’m talking about? Do you think you’re up to it?”
Joseph nodded his head without hesitation. He’d get the money somehow. “Do you really think I’m that good?” he asked.
“You are, Joseph, but you know that yourself. You could beat the best of them. I know it, and you know it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask you for money that you probably don’t have and you wouldn’t be saying yes … so shall we talk numbers? I’ll need a deposit of fifty pounds now. That will reserve your seat at the table. I’ll then give you the address, date, and the minimum amount that you’ll need to bring with you. Joseph, you won’t see an invitation like this come along very often. We’re a small, select group, and we don’t usually invite outsiders. So what do you think? Are you in?”
Joseph didn’t answer straight away. He was shocked at the amount of money it would take just to get his name on the board, but he’d had a good night and had that amount, and more, on his person. This was his ticket to glory, riches, champagne, and a way out of Merrill Farm. He couldn’t last another year and a half there, not even for Celia’s inheritance. He knew that now.
“I’m in. Tell me where and when,” he said, shaking John Stein’s hand.
Chapter 15
Celia sat on a hard-backed chair in the corner of the kitchen, hugging her belly and willing the pain to stop. The nagging ache in the small of her back had started just after breakfast, and she had tried to ignore it for as long as she could. She looked at the clock and saw that it wasn’t even midday yet. This couldn’t be happening to her, not yet, she kept thinking. The baby wasn’t due for another week or more. How could she have it now? She was without Mrs Baxter. She’d made her take two days off, a long weekend, so that she could visit family in London. “You might need me,” Mrs Baxter had insisted, but she’d told her to go anyway. It just couldn’t happen this way, not after everything she’d been through.
It wouldn’t be long before it left her belly. She could feel its determination to get out, and the pain was unbearable. Would she even survive to see it born? Joseph was sitting in the next room. He would laugh at her. It would be the victorious laughter of a man who’d won it all, for she would die soon and he would have everything. Joseph. There was a time when the sound of his name made her heart quicken. Joseph. She now wished she’d killed him. She would have to go to him, beg him for help. She would crawl on her hands and knees like a dog if she had to. She would sign away the farm and her inheritance in return for his help. She had to survive. She was going to Spain, and the nightmare would soon be over.
She moved painfully towards the door. She would not allow herself the luxury of self-pity. Sitting in the chair would not bring her child into the world or make her pain go away; only Dr Sutton could do that. She would make Joseph go for him.
She knocked on the parlour door. There was no sound from within, but she knew he was there. She opened the door and whispered his name. Her legs were shaking, and she held on to the doorknob to steady herself.
“What do you want? Go away,” she heard him say through the closed door.
“Joseph, it’s time. I think the baby’s coming. Please … could you go for Dr Sutton?”
Joseph lay on the couch, drunk and clearly frustrated with life. He snorted with bitterness.
“Wait till old woman Baxter gets here in the morning … Tell the brat to stay inside you till then,” he slurred. “Now get lost.”
“Joseph, I don’t think I can wait till morning. Please – I need the doctor! Can’t you help me?”
“I said to fuck off!”
Celia’s head was spinning. He was saying no! He was behaving just as she’d thought he would, but this time she couldn’t afford to back away. Today she would have to make a stand.
She opened the door and walked painfully towards the couch where he lay. His puffed-up drunken face had never looked so repulsive to her, but she kept walking until she stood right in front of him, facing him square on. “Joseph, do the right thing for once in your life!” she spat at him.
“Get lost!” he screamed without moving.
“You are a coward without a conscience, without a heart, without a soul. You’ll never be a good man or a good father, not in a hundred years!”
Celia stood straight as a poker, short of breath but unafraid. Her fear had drained away as though it had never existed. She couldn’t believe what she’d just done or what she’d just said, but she was glad. She was possessed. Joseph’s demons had transferred to her, and they were so much stronger than she was. She couldn’t stop the anger or the hatred. It washed over her like a torrent of floodwater. She was drowning in it, and it felt good. She suddenly realised that she was not afraid of him anymore, for to speak or not to speak would result in the same culmination of events: he was going to hit her anyway.
“I’ll kill you for that, you fucking whore,” Joseph said as he rose drunkenly to his feet.
“I’m not some whore you bedded! I’m your wife, and let me remind you that you raped me. I didn’t come willingly!”
The alcohol in his system caused Joseph to move slowly. His breathing was laboured, and his eyes were out of focus. He zigzagged across the short distance that separated them, saying nothing, unable to speak or think about anything other than the effort that it was taking him to get to her.
Celia stood her ground, watching him stagger comically towards her. The sickly stench of whisky on his breath forced her to take a step back, but only one. Beads of perspiration running down the side of his cheek, a slither of saliva escaping from his slack lips, and eyes red and swollen was what Joseph had become. She almost pitied him.
“Look at yourself! How can you live like this? What happened to you?”
“Shut up! Open your mouth again and I’ll make sure it stays closed forever.”
“Yes, I know only too well that you’re capable of murder, but I will speak my mind, Joseph Dobbs; you can’t control that. It’s mine. I will think what I like and say what I think. I hope you die! I hope you don’t live to see this baby grow. You go to hell! You’ll feel quite at home there with the rest of the evi
l, twisted people like you.”
Joseph’s first punch missed its target, and he cursed her. He attempted to straighten himself, but he was seeing double, his head was spinning, and it hurt when he moved. He wanted to kill her now, but she kept moving around. He laughed, giggling like a child … This was funny, fucking funny! he thought. He should be able to snap her in two, yet he was finding it hard to stay on his own two feet.
He was going to kill the bitch, right here, right now. He had to shut her up for the last time.
Celia was filled with a strength she never knew existed. She looked at him with new eyes. Joseph had lost his power over her, and he would never get it back.
“What’s wrong, Joseph?” she shouted, drowning out his laughter. “Do you know just how stupid you look? What, you’re not going to hit me? Why not? Apart from drinking and gambling, it’s the only thing you’re good at. Come on, Joseph, you can do better than this. Hit me. I said, hit me!”
Joseph stared into space as if trying to collect his thoughts. He swung his arm out again with a slack fist, and Celia dodged it with ease. He came to rest against the sideboard, held his head in his hands, and moaned. Celia lifted a heavy china vase with two hands, swung round, and smashed it into the side of his head. It disintegrated into tiny pieces, and some stuck to Joseph’s bloodstained hair. He fell to the ground without a sound and lay there with eyes closed and mouth open. Celia checked for signs of life. The rage that had reddened her pale face left her and turned her skin whiter than ever. She had killed him; she’d be the one to hang now, not him.
Joseph let out a soft moan, and Celia’s eyes flew open in renewed terror. She had to get out of the house. His head might ache, but he just might have sobered up. She backed towards the door and opened it, going through the kitchen and out through the door leading to the backyard. Pain racked her body, but she ran, cradling her belly in her hands. The puddles were ankle-deep and her dress saturated in dirt, which made it heavy and cumbersome, but she kept running through the blinding rain that felt like needles against her skin. If she could just make it to the barn, she thought. If she could just get inside it and bar him out, she’d be safe. Joseph was drunk and injured. This was her only chance; she had nowhere else to go.
She was breathing heavily but she had made it. The barn door was ajar and she slid inside and then used all her remaining strength to bar it shut. A few moments later, she was lying on top of the straw inside an empty stall in the barn, wondering what had brought her to this moment. She hated her weak spirit and her pitiful compliance. She despised herself for the lies she’d told the police, for thinking that she could outwit Joseph, and for being unable or unwilling to fight back. Pride was such a stupid, self-destructive emotion, she decided now. It had not served her well; it had been her undoing. She wanted to cry. Tears would bring some relief, still her racing heart, but they wouldn’t come.
The baby had grown still inside her, and the pain she’d felt earlier had receded. Oh God, no.... Was it dead? she wondered. She lay her hands on her belly and eventually felt movement from within. “Thank you, thank you God,” she muttered. She pulled straw over herself until it covered her entire body. Its colour reminded her of the little cream blanket that her mother had knitted her when she was young. She loved that blanket and still remembered its warmth on the coldest nights, when the old rafters creaked and every sound was a ghostly voice. She could barely keep her eyes open, but sleep was unthinkable. She stared up at the rafters and concentrated on images from the past, to a time long before Joseph, when life was kind and every summer brought fun and laughter.
She saw herself running across the open fields at dinnertime, calling her father’s name, and jumping into his welcoming arms. She was playing with the hop pickers’ children, stealing apples from the trees in the orchard and riding with the convoy of carts laden with hops bound for the oast houses. She was dancing under the stars on a hot summer’s night to the gypsy fiddles. She was having tea with her aunt at Claridge’s hotel, dressed in her finest. She saw her father’s face; it was so clear that she felt she could reach out her hand and touch his cheek. Then she saw her wedding day, dancing with Joseph to a waltz played on the violin, eating cake, and being promised love forever. She had seen love in his eyes on that day. She had felt his love, and she had believed …
“Come out, bitch! If you don’t come out right now, it’ll be the worse for you. Do you hear me, Celia?”
Celia woke with a start. She had fallen asleep after all. Fear flooded her mind, and the consequences of her actions became terrifyingly clear to her. She had hit him. She’d actually hit him. She’d called him a pig, a coward, and God knows what else, and she couldn’t hide forever.
Joseph’s voice grew louder as he continued to shout out to her. Then he was at the doors. She cursed herself for losing her temper. She would now have to accept his punishment, and she was certain that it meant death. She rose from the straw and brushed herself down. The pain had returned. She thought that death would be a welcome relief. She was calm, accepting her fate, and as she stumbled towards the entrance of the barn, she prepared herself mentally for the pain that would be inflicted. She opened the door to meet it.
He stood passively, watching her close the barn door behind her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He did nothing, said nothing. He stared into her frightened eyes as though he still couldn’t quite believe what had happened, and she thought she might be saved.
“Joseph, forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” he slurred back, mocking her. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, you fucking bitch! But I’m not going to hit you … not this time.”
She allowed herself to be dragged by the hair in silence. Her demons had left her, and she was now alone with her fear. She was in so much pain that she thought she was going to fall down with her hair still attached to his hand, but she wouldn’t beg him to stop. Not this time.
They reached the house and stepped into the hallway. He pushed her onto her knees and closed the door behind him. She looked around in a daze, then at him. His lip was curled in satisfaction. His hairline was caked in blood, but he didn’t seem to know that. He was still very drunk but was more sure-footed than before. She wouldn’t be able to dodge his punches now, she realised.
He dragged her up the stairs, hair still wrapped in his fist, as though her limp body were no heavier than a sack of coal. She hit each step with a sickening thump, and when she screamed his name, he laughed again. He deposited her on the bedroom floor. Painful spasms racked her body, and she vomited.
“Help me, Joseph,” she heard herself say.
He grinned, knelt down beside her, and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Celia, Celia … I won’t help you, but I will promise you that if you survive the night, I’ll make sure the rest of your life is a living hell. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
She tried to focus, but the pain was getting worse. She screamed again, forgetting everything, forgetting that Joseph was even there.
Celia crawled to the top of the stairs at the first glimmer of dawn. She had made it through the night, curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed, but her waters had broken some time ago, and her dress was soaking wet, making it cling to her legs so it was even harder to move. She slid down each stair at intervals, each movement more painful than the last, and finally, with no strength left, she reached the kitchen and lay on her back between the table and the door.
Joseph had left long ago; she’d heard him ride away. She prayed for a quick death, but some part of her still hoped for a miracle. Mrs Baxter wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, by which time she was sure it would be too late, but still she prayed to God for mercy. Her contractions were close together now, almost continuous, and time passed in a blur of pain and then unconscious bliss and then more pain. It was strange, she thought, that her own life would end trying to give life. She cursed the baby, Joseph, and even her father. He
had given her to Joseph and had left her to die at his hands. She cursed the world for allowing women to be treated in this way, unable to make public the wrongdoings of their menfolk for fear of humiliation, and then she cursed herself.
Mrs Baxter and Dr Sutton opened the kitchen door, saw Celia on the floor, and gasped in unison. They shifted their gaze down the length of her body, and Mrs Baxter screamed. A pool of watery blood had seeped through Celia’s dirty dress and onto the floor.
“Stop crying, Mrs Baxter,” Dr Sutton told her, himself visibly moved. “This girl’s going to die if we don’t get that baby out. This is no time to fall apart.”
“Sweet Jesus, what has happened here?” Mrs Baxter said, stifling the sobs that tore from her throat.
She’d been present at many births in the village over the years. She’d even helped deliver Celia, but she’d never seen so much blood, except when a mother had haemorrhaged and had ultimately died as a result. Celia was going to die. No woman could survive this.
“Mrs Baxter, will you pull yourself together? Now is not the time for hysterics,” Dr Sutton reminded her.
She nodded her head. She couldn’t think about death now. If only she’d come back sooner, she thought instead. She’d arrived home late the previous afternoon after a long overdue visit to her sister in south London. She did think about coming straight back to the farm, but she’d had such little time off in the past few months and had decided instead to clean her house and have an early night.
“Joseph should never have left her in this state,” she said to Dr Sutton.
“What do you mean? Where’s he gone?”
“Dartmouth. He came by my house this morning on his way to the station and told me that he had urgent business to attend to … said that Celia was poorly and that I should get up here because he was worried. Worried, indeed!”