The Sisters: Part 9

            In the darkening kitchen at the vicarage, Betty was roused from her memories by the clattering of the heavy front door and the scrabbling of feet and paws on slate. She suddenly became aware of a rhythmic drumming on the windows and a room cast into premature darkness. 

            ‘Just in time, Aunt Betty. It’s pouring down. It’s like the end of the world out there,’ Esther stood in front of Betty holding the greyhound’s lead.

            ‘Oh, Esther, I was hoping you’d be home soon. Where’s Dilys?’

            ‘Rushed upstairs to see Aunt Dina, I think. She dragged me all the way home. Not a fan of rain, obviously.’ Esther sat down at the table opposite Betty, her face a picture of gentle concern, ‘Are you all right? You looked like you were miles away when I came in. You were staring into that mug like it was a crystal ball.’

            Betty nodded ‘I was miles away. I truly was. I was remembering things I hadn’t thought of in years.’ She got up and walked towards the window and peered out. The luscious quivering heat of the summer’s day had evaporated. All was dark. All was turbulent. 

            ‘Those memories, they are my fault, I believe,’ Dina drifted barefoot into the kitchen with Dilys at her heels. ‘I’ve been lying on my bed thinking about it. I honestly don’t know what made me say what I did.’ She stood with her sister looking out into the raging storm. ‘There are stories, memories hidden so deeply in this family we’d need a team of archaeologists to unearth them. Listen to that!’ The rain was falling in vertical sheets of silver, rattling the casement of the old window like an angry ghost.

            ‘How’s Rose?’ Betty asked.

            ‘Oh, I think she must have taken one of her tablets. She’s out like a light. I did think we could go to the pub for our supper tonight but I am not sure I want to venture out in this.’ Dina crossed to the larder and opened the door. ‘How about some tomato soup and some of those cheese scones warmed up for supper? We can eat at the kitchen table and light some candles in honour of midsummer. It’s certainly dark enough. It feels more like midwinter anyway.’

            ‘Rose?’ Betty asked.

            ‘We can wait a while. She may come down later,’ Dina knelt down next to Dilys’ bed and scratched the greyhound’s ears. ‘I’ve always thought midsummer thoroughly depressing. Summer hasn’t even truly begun and yet it is already starting to die.’

Like the flash of a camera, a zig zag of searing blue light illuminated the kitchen.

    Esther began to count, ‘One elephant, two elephant, three. . .’

A deep, pulsating rumble of thunder shook the house. Dilys covered her eyes with a paw and curled herself into the shape of a bean.

            ‘Three miles away. I think you taught me to do that, Aunt Dina.’

The women sat at the table. Dilys began to snore and snuffle. Esther wondered if Dina was right. The afternoon was heavy with the melancholy of a dying summer. She wondered how she could snap her aunts out of their introspection and gloom. 

            ‘The best place to watch this storm would be the greenhouse,’ she said casually. ‘Imagine the sound of the rain on the glass and the view of the sky and the garden.’

            Dina smiled, ‘I think you’re right, Esther. A storm like this only comes around once in a blue moon. What do you think, Betty, shall we brave it?’

            Betty harrumphed and puffed out her chest like an indignant pigeon, ‘Go out in that. You’ve both run mad! I’m staying put.’

            ‘Oh, Aunt Betty, the greenhouse in the rain is the most magical place to be. Do you remember how I loved it when I was little, Aunt Dina? Have you still got the old wicker chairs in there?’

            ‘Of course. Nothing changes here. Well, not the bricks and mortar anyway. The cast changes, I suppose, not the setting or the stage.’ Dina looked like she was going to cry. Her bright blue eyes shone like pebbles at the bottom of a shimmering pool. She was remembering Peregrine. He suddenly seemed present in the cold grey kitchen. His big, bearlike body and jovial foghorn voice seemed momentarily to flood the darkness with light and warmth. He was suddenly attendant: corporeal and comforting. He was a golden man. A good man. A huge man. 

As if reading her visitors’ thoughts Dina said, ‘You can never fill the space a man like Peregrine leaves behind. It’s endless. Like the night sky.’ 

‘That is very true,’ Betty said gently, ‘And, Peregrine would not be too scared to go out in a bit of drizzle. I still think it’s a batty idea, but let’s go to the greenhouse and watch the storm from there. Esther, I think Dina and I have a story to tell you. I think it is about time it was told.’

Soon the women found themselves slipping and squelching their way across the sodden lawn towards the greenhouse, whopping and giggling like children as they went. Not bothering with raincoats or umbrellas, they were drenched within seconds of leaving the old house. The rain was silky and cool on their skin and the air crackled with electricity. 

The greenhouse though was just as Esther had remembered: it had greedily held on to the heat of the day. Inside the thick air was steamy and sweet and smelt of green shoots and black loamy earth. The rain bounced on the roof like thrown pebbles. The frame of the old greenhouse stood strong and proud, but here and there were broken panes from which a soporific dripping could be heard. Outside the trees were churning waves of green. Esther felt as if she were adrift on a furious sea in a glass slipper. She rubbed the leaves of a tomato plant between her fingers to enjoy the peppery, sweet smell. The old wicker Lloyd Loom chairs were still there, with their grand view of the lawns. The myriad of shades of peeling paint told the story of their age like rings in a tree trunk. Two black and white cats snoozed on a stripped wooden potting table, amongst a jumble of terracotta pots and bags of spilled compost.

‘Ah, Herbert and Hester are in residence this afternoon,’ Dina said with a flourish. The cats lazily twitched their tails at the sound of their names but did not open their eyes. 

            ‘Oh this place is magical. Never-changing,’ Esther said, looking around with wonder.

The thunder was coming more quickly now; desolate, angry roars that seem to make the trees tremble and bow down to its dreadful omnipotence. The women looked up through the glass roof of the greenhouse, anticipating the lightening. When it came, it tinted the dark trees silver and arced across the churning sky. They laughed like children with fear and delight. 

            ‘What a good idea to come here. I feel like I’ve entered another world,’ Dina said.

            ‘Dina, Esther asked me about Rose, about what you said and I think I want to tell her the story. I think I want to talk about it.’

            Dina hugged her arms around her body and nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think to talk about it would be a good thing. Peregrine could not understand our family. He always used to say, sunlight is the best medicine. Open the doors. Open the windows. Let light in. Let air in. We shut secrets and miseries away in the darkness to convince ourselves they didn’t exist in the first place. It eats away at you. . . I think it’s time. Let’s sit.’

             The women pulled the wicker chairs in an informal circle, facing each other. The bustle of activity woke Herbert, a skeletal, threadbare cat who looked about one hundred years old. He wandered over to the women and leapt on Betty’s knee. He blinked meditatively like a wise old swami granting his approval to the circle of remembrance. He stretched a paw out across Betty’s knee and looked at the sodden humans who had invaded his kingdom. He was waiting for the ritual to begin. 

            ‘Moral support, Betty. He’s perfectly friendly. I know you’re a bit wary of cats. Stroke him. He’ll help you tell your story. Cats can do that. They always know where they are needed.’ Betty nervously ran her hand down Herbert’s bumpy spine. He purred loudly and closed his eyes. Betty took a deep breath. She was glad the tatty cat was there. Somehow the simple, repetitive action of stroking him calmed her, anchored her. It was comforting to have something to hold on to. 

‘We are going back forty years or so Esther. To a night in October when Arthur and I were woken by a terrible banging on the door . . .’

Once she started speaking she found her words flowed freely like water. She wondered why she had never found the words before. They had been in her all this time, trapped and lonely and desperate to be heard. Dina and Esther listened, never once interrupting. They listened to the words as the storm passed above their heads. When Betty finally stopped speaking, the women sat silently for the longest time. They didn’t notice the rain had eased to a gentle mist or that jagged, dazzling shards of sunlight were now breaking through the dark sky and illuminating patches of the garden like spotlights. They were lost in their thoughts. The world was turning still, moving forward still, the storm had moved to vent its fury on another village, but the women were frozen in their own twisting maze of memories.

Esther’s emotions were waves relentlessly rushing towards a shore. So many feelings and thoughts washed over her, she felt as if she might drown. First, she felt an agonising guilt. She had spent years loathing her Aunt Rose. In the narrative of her childhood, Rose played the part of the witch with the poison apple. She had been a two-dimensional figure, an obscene caricature of superiority and cruelty. That Rose herself might have suffered, might have been a victim of cruelty had never once crossed Esther’s mind. 

Also, her heart ached for Aunt Rose as a woman. All women have experienced moments of terror, the terror of being followed, raped, killed even. Miss Finch had talked about that. Esther herself remembered a night during her first year of college when a smart, middle-aged businessman made a point of sitting next to her on an empty night bus. How he had leant into her. Questioning her. Mocking her when she would not, could not answer. He was so close she could smell his sour coffee and cigarette breath. He had trapped her with his body and enjoyed watching her terror. When the bus approached her stop she had stood up and said, ‘Excuse me,’ and tried to get past the man. 

‘Well, what a co-incidence,’ he had said, smiling. ‘This is my stop too. After you. . .’ Esther remembered the man had let her past and followed her down the aisle of the bus. She recalled how her hands shook as she tried to find her house keys in her coat pocket. How her legs almost gave way with fear. The paralysis. The dread. The air was thick with it. 

But then, a miracle. When they alighted, the bus driver did not pull away. He left the doors of the bus open and stared intently at the man, ‘I saw you, mate. I saw you,’ he said meaningfully. Esther had hurried away, sure the man would follow. But he didn’t. He began to amble in the opposite direction. She had glanced over her shoulder once just as a car passed, its headlights momentarily illuminated the man from the bus. He was looking over his shoulder, straight at her. His face was a sneering mask of hatred. But then he turned and went on his way, picked up his speed. The bus finally pulled away, the driver giving Esther a friendly, nonchalant wave as he went. Esther had been spared. Maybe it was the bus driver, maybe it was sheer happenstance. Maybe the man had no intention of following her. Maybe for him, savouring her discomfort and fear was pleasure enough. She would never know. She told her flatmates what had happened when she got home, and had spoken of it since. But she had never been able to fully articulate the terror she felt that night: the shoddy mechanism of words was inadequate.

Sitting in the greenhouse, Esther also felt a tiny fury that burned white hot within her. Aunt Rose had been raped, and yet seemingly nothing had been done about it. The family had gone about its ordinary business of doing ordinary things: buttering toast and washing windows. It was inconceivable. 

            ‘Aunt Rose was raped?’

            Dina and Betty looked at each other, ‘You know. None of us ever used that word. Not once. Not then. Not since. Oh, we said taken advantage of, attacked, things went too far. But yes, she was raped.’ Dina said. 

            ‘And nothing was done?’

            ‘No,’

            ‘And it was never mentioned again.’

            ‘No.’

            ‘But he might have done it again. She probably wasn’t the only one!’ 

            The aunts looked at each other knowingly and Esther thought that time seemed to stand still, the way sometimes the second hand on a clock can seem stuck, stubbornly reluctant to move. 

‘He did do it again. That is the tragedy. At least one time anyway, that we know of. Betty, tell Esther about Clark Davenport.’

            Betty closed her eyes, as if summoning Clark Davenport’s image from the depths of her memory. ‘Clark Davenport was the owner and manager of the Rialto Cinema. Oh, it wasn’t his real name, of course. He was born Albert Potter. Son of a hewer down the pit. Reinvented himself when he went into the entertainment business. Dapper little man. Too shiny. Too neat. Too prissy. Gave me the creeps.’

            ‘Spiv is what Peregrine called him. Oh, he had an eye for the girls, did Clark. Eyes everywhere.’

            ‘Eyes everywhere? Hands everywhere! Thought he was the J Edgar Hoover of the colliery,’

            ‘J Arthur Rank, Betty.’

            ‘Him too!’ Betty harrumphed. Free choc ices for the prettiest young ladies, he would smarm, oily as a can of sardines. My mum made me swear never to accept one of his blessed choc ices. She said she wouldn’t trust him with a bonny dog let alone a teenage girl.’

            ‘Rose worked for him. She said he wasn’t too bad. I think she quite liked the attention at first. He was always praising her, calling her his leading lady,’ Dina shook her head and continued. ‘There was something innocent about Rose. I don’t think I saw it at the time. Now I think what a child she was, head full of romance novels, nail polish and angora sweaters. Peregrine and I had been to the Rialto many times when we were courting. They met once or twice, Peregrine and Davenport. There was Peregrine a big tousled mountain of a man in his worn cords and patched tweed jacket; this preening little dandy was smarming and showing off in front of him. What a little twerp.That’s what Peregrine said as we walked away. What a little twerp. Dangerous twerp though. We missed that, didn’t we, Betty. We all missed that until it was too late.’

            ‘Why is Clark Davenport important. Did he rape Rose? It wasn’t a soldier? A stranger on the street?’ Esther asked. 

            ‘No, it wasn’t a stranger. Iris always knew who it was. I think when Arthur was out searching the streets for this mysterious soldier, Iris must have got it out of Rose, what really happened. The next morning, Iris took Arthur with her to go to the Rialto, to see Davenport. He told you about this didn’t he Dina?’ 

            ‘He did. It shook him, what happened there. What he learnt. Arthur never said much, brooded on things, but we spoke of that morning. He felt the burden of carrying it all on his own. He felt guilt that he didn’t act. You know, I remember him saying that walking into the Rialto at quarter to nine on a Thursday morning was like getting a glimpse of the rot behind the glamour. Without the lights and music and sparkle, it was a seedy, grubby little dive. All peeling paint and stained, sticky carpets. Daylight, reveals everything, I suppose. Peregrine was right.’ 

            ‘He said that to me.’ Betty nodded, ‘In so many words. He said it was like that scene in The Wizard of Oz when they pull back the curtain to reveal the sad little man who was supposed to be the all-powerful Oz.’

            ‘What happened when they got there?’ Esther asked. ‘Did Arthur know it was Davenport?’ 

            Betty was still holding on to the scrawny black and white cat as if it were the only thing tethering her to the present. ‘Not at first. He believed Rose’s story about the soldier. Arthur said Iris never explained why they were going to the Rialto. He didn’t ask. Imagine that! He didn’t ask. Typical Arthur! He’d assumed it was to let Davenport know that Rose wouldn’t be going in that day, maybe that week even. He said, when she got there, Iris banged on the doors as if the world was ending. She was let in by one of the cleaners, Little Joanie Robson. Oh, she was a pretty little thing. Corkscrew curls the colour of mahogany. Do you remember, Dina?’ 

Dina smiled and nodded. ‘Lovely girl. But a bit simple. Not all there.’

Betty continued, ‘That’s right. Anyway, Davenport came out of his office to see what the commotion was. Arthur said, when Davenport saw them standing there, he became jumpy, jittery, sweaty. Iris stood in the middle of the foyer and loudly announced she was there to talk about Rose. Well, at that point Davenport almost fainted. He ushered them straight into his office to discuss the personnel matter privately. Joanie and Maureen O’Farrell were there with their mops and buckets.’

‘And Maureen O’Farrell would be all ears, I am sure. Relayed more news to the Colliery than the BBC, that one.’ Dina interjected bitterly.

 ‘All ears. So, Arthur and Iris went into Davenport’s office. He asked them to sit down. Iris refused. She wasn’t four foot eleven in heels, but she always knew how to make her presence felt, did Iris. Arthur said Davenport wouldn’t look them in the eye. He just rolled a pencil backwards and forwards on the desk. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Iris told him that Rose would not be coming back, not that day, not ever and said she would take any wages due. Arthur said when Davenport didn’t even ask the reason, he understood why they were really there. Davenport unlocked a metal money box full of notes and handed a pile to Iris. Didn’t even count them. I’m not sure that is everything that is due, Mr Davenport, she said. Oh, I can imagine how steely she was, how resolute. Davenport opened the box again and handed the entire contents to her. She put them in her handbag and left without saying another word.’ 

            ‘When they got back to Twelfth Street, Rose was by the fire, I was wiping down the skirting boards in the parlour. Iris called her down. You won’t be going back there. It’s done. It’s over. Finished. That was what Iris said. Rose seemed to dissolve, crumble. Then she rallied. Her eyes flashed, that dark way they always did when she was angry. How dare you, she spat at her mother. How dare you. And then she ran out of the room, slamming to door. I thought a lot about that, afterwards. That, how dare you. At first, I thought, how could she possibly want to go back to the Rialto? Did she really think she could keep working there? Now I think she wasn’t angry about the job at all. She knew that Iris had drawn a line under the whole thing. When she said, It’s done. Finished. Rose knew he had got away with it. The whole thing would be buried. Never to be spoke of again.’

            ‘I can’t believe he got away with it.’

            ‘Different times, Esther. Although, sometimes, when I read the papers, I wonder if things really are that much for the better for women even now.’ Dina sighed. ‘And anyway, he didn’t get away with it. Not for long.’

            Esther felt a fleeting darkness pass, as if a cloud had momentarily crossed the sun. She thought of the body in Twelfth Street. She had the sense her smooth, mundane world was exploding into sharp, random pieces, that would never fit together the same way again.

            Dina continued the story, ‘About a year later little Joanie, remember, the cleaner with the corkscrew curls? Well, Joanie was taken advantage of.’ Dina stopped herself and took a deep breath, ‘No, I am not going to do that any longer. Let’s call it by its name. Joanie was raped. Raped by Davenport. Only she did tell. She did talk. She went straight home and told her mother, told her mother everything. Joanie had three older brothers who had always been very protective of her because of her innocence, her. . . difficulties. It was a close family. Good people. Straightforward people. Joanie’s father, uncles and brothers all paid a visit to Mr Clark Davenport. I don’t know exactly what happened but the next day The Rialto was closed. Stood there empty, rotting and rusting for twenty years or so, until it became a carpet showroom. Our own bit of Hollywood, gone forever.’ 

            ‘And good riddance,’ Betty added. 

            ‘Davenport was killed?’ Esther exclaimed.

            ‘No. Not killed. Warned definitely. Hurt probably. He moved to Sunderland where he set up a café I think. Never set foot in the colliery again.’

            ‘What happened to Rose after all of this?’

            Betty spoke, ‘Immediately after, she took to her bed for weeks, months even. She had one illness after another according to Iris. Shingles, scarlet fever, flu. I saw her just a few times. It broke my heart to see her, she was so pale and sad. Sometimes I got the feeling she had been shut away like a guilty, shameful thing. That Iris didn’t want me to see her, to comfort her. Oh, and I so wanted to do that. That girl needed some tenderness, some love. But, I only caught glimpses through open doors and then Iris asked me to stop cleaning at Twelfth Street altogether. Said I had my husband to look after. I thought that was odd. She’d never given my duties to my own house and husband much thought before. In a way though, I was glad not to have to go. The atmosphere, well it was like a house of death.’ 

            Dina reached out and touched Betty’s arm. ‘You did all you could. All you were allowed. It was the same with me and Peregrine. We usually went to the Colliery every other Sunday for lunch. Rose rarely joined us. Sometimes I’d go up to her room and we’d play cards. She was always in bed. Peregrine would ask mam about her illnesses, her symptoms, treatments and mam was always vague, would always change the subject. Peregrine suspected Rose had had some sort of mental breakdown. He doubted she had had any medical help at all. I think that sounds about right. Mam could not stand the shame of people finding out what had happened. She wouldn’t have told anyone, not even the doctor.’

            ‘Shame? Why shame? Surely the only shame was Davenport’s?’ Esther cried.

            ‘I am not sure that is how Iris saw the world,’ Betty said matter-of-factly. ‘But, Rose did get through it. After the Joanie thing, about a year after it happened, she started to go out again. But she was changed. Oh, she was still beautiful, chic. But for all her lovely clothes and beautiful make-up, she wasn’t quite like before. Before her powder and paint were innocent trifles, baubles to be enjoyed and played with - like a child’s dressing up doll. After this thing with Davenport happened, it was as if they became her armour. Every time she went out, every time she met someone, she was prepared for war.’

            Dina nodded emphatically, ‘Yes, she was detached, detached from everything and everyone. You are right, Betty, it was like she was wearing armour. She’d always been difficult to love, like even, so superior and aloof. She became almost impossible to love. I did love her. I do love her. But, lord, I doubt anyone, even Poor Duncan has ever truly been close to her. And that, my dear Esther, that is the skeleton in our closet. It might go some way to explaining, well, explaining why your Aunt Rose is the way she is.’

            Betty shook her head. Her story was told, yet she still felt on edge. She had the feeling that they had ridden rushing tributaries of memories, but somehow, had not yet reached their safe harbour. In her mind, she saw images of deep, murky waters disturbed and of something lurking within the clouded currents. She could not quite make out its dark form. Herbert leapt down from her lap and found himself a liquid puddle of sunlight on the potting table to bask in. Betty trembled. She missed the consoling warmth of his body on her lap. 

            ‘What is it, Aunt Betty?’ Esther had noticed her aunt’s furrowed expression.

            ‘I don’t know. A memory. Something, but my mind just won’t settle on it. It’s like remembering a dream. Or a nightmare maybe. It’s a dark thing. I can feel that. It wants to be seen though. It will be seen. We’ve let the sunlight in now, haven’t we, Dina?’

            ‘We certainly have,’ smiled Dina. ‘We certainly have. Oh, Betty. I am glad we talked about this. Speaking of sunshine, look at the sky now.’

The women had been so focused upon their circle of memories and upon each other, they had not noticed that the sky had turned from smudged charcoal grey to a cloudless cornflower blue. Steam was rising from the garden, giving it a heady, tropical look. Leaves and flowers slick with rain appeared lacquered, gilded in the sparkling sunlight. Everything was refreshed and renewed, and yet Betty still felt troubled. Another storm was coming, she just knew it. She stirred herself and stood up with an affected briskness. ‘Well, shall we go back and start on tea?’ she said. For the time being, at least, she would try to stave off the sense of forthcoming dread.