Settling the Account Read online

  Promises to Keep

  Book Three

  Settling the Account

  Shayne Parkinson

  Copyright © S. L. Parkinson 2006

  Smashwords Edition

  License Notes

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  Other titles by Shayne Parkinson at Smashwords:

  http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/shaynep

  Family trees and some extra background to the book’s setting may be found at:

  http://sites.google.com/site/shayneparkinson/

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Author’s Note

  1

  May 1895

  Lizzie’s confident assertion that she would find out what had happened to Ann could not reassure Amy, much as she longed to believe it. She told Lizzie the little she could about Mrs Crossley, but she returned to Charlie’s house low-spirited and dejected.

  There was no use giving into morbid thoughts, and her life had no room for the luxury of self-pity. But her mind kept returning to the fate of that tiny baby. Where was she? What had become of her? The nagging fears troubled her sleep each night, making the days seem long and weary.

  It was difficult enough to do her work and keep Charlie in the best temper he was capable of; protecting Malcolm from the consequences of his own foolishness was an added burden, and one that was becoming heavier. More and more often David came home from school by himself, with Malcolm arriving some time later usually grubby and breathless. ‘With my mates’ was all the reply she could get out of him when she asked where he had been, and with his next school examination many months away any attempt at frightening him into going to school more regularly was useless.

  ‘Your father’s going to find out one of these days,’ was the worst threat Amy could muster, but Malcolm brushed her warnings aside.

  ‘No, he won’t,’ he said, with a confidence Amy was sure was misplaced. ‘He doesn’t know if I’m at school or not.’

  The day she had dreaded came not long after the revelation of the baby farming scandal. David arrived home on his own again.

  ‘Where’s Mal?’ Amy asked, more out of habit than in the hope of a useful answer.

  ‘He’ll be home soon,’ David said, and Amy let it rest at that. She devoted a few minutes to helping David go over the words he had been given for spelling practice, and he soon had them off pat.

  ‘That’s good, Dave,’ she told him. ‘You’re getting on really well at school, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’ David beamed at her praise, then grimaced. ‘I don’t like Miss Metcalf. She just growls all the time. Even when you do good she doesn’t say anything, just doesn’t growl as much.’

  ‘Well, I bet she doesn’t find much to growl a clever boy like you about.’ Out of habit, Amy glanced over her shoulder for any sight of Charlie before drawing David close for a forbidden hug. ‘You make me very proud, the way you’re such a good boy.’

  David put his arms around her neck and gave her a wet kiss. ‘I like being with you, Ma. You never growl. Not like Pa—he’s always grumpy. I’m scared of him sometimes.’

  ‘Your father’s only hard on you when he thinks you need it,’ Amy said. ‘You mustn’t be frightened of him. He loves you, really.’

  ‘Does he?’ David sounded dubious. ‘I wish I could go out with Mal. He says he has fun with his mates.’

  Amy held him more tightly. ‘Please don’t, Davie. Don’t get in trouble with your father.’

  ‘But Mal says it’s fun. School’s not fun.’

  ‘Please, Davie,’ Amy pleaded. ‘Please don’t.’ She felt tears starting from her eyes.

  ‘Don’t cry, Ma,’ David said, distressed. ‘I don’t want you to cry.’

  Amy forced herself to smile. ‘I’m not crying, see? Not with my good boy to keep me company.’ She gave David a last kiss before returning to her baking.

  The time went quickly with David prattling away about his day. As she worked, Amy listened for the sound of hooves that would mean Malcolm had come home, but the hands of the clock turned inexorably with no sign of his return. He had never been this late before. Today he might not get home before Charlie came in for his afternoon tea.

  She heard steps too heavy to be Malcolm’s coming up to the porch, and knew her disquiet had been justified. ‘That’s your father. You’d better go outside or he’ll ask where Mal is. Get Biff off the chain and take him for a walk.’

  Amy hurried David through into the parlour, from where he could get out the front door unnoticed by his father, then made an effort to appear calm as Charlie came into the kitchen. She needed all her wits about her to try and protect Malcolm; instead she felt dull with the heaviness of spirit that had hung over her ever since she had been caught by the fear her daughter might be dead.

  Charlie looked tired. He had been moving the cows to another paddock across ground made soft by the wintry weather, and their hooves had churned the pasture into a boggy mess. His trousers and boots were caked with mud. He slumped into his chair and took hold of the cup of hot tea Amy placed in front of him, grabbing at a scone with his free hand. Weariness made Charlie more taciturn than usual, but did not normally improve his temper.

  She refilled his cup when he finished it, and buttered more scones as the plate grew empty, all the time listening for Malcolm’s return. When she caught the sound of hoof beats she was momentarily relieved; then she heard wheels. It was not Malcolm, but someone driving a single-horse carriage.

  Amy got to the door before a loud rap sounded, and opened it to reveal a grim-faced Miss Metcalf. The teacher all but pushed past her before Amy had the chance to invite her in. She stood in front of Charlie and glared down at him.

  ‘Mr Stewart, it’s not good enough,’ she announced to a dumbfounded Charlie. ‘I’ve turned a blind eye to this for quite long enough. It’s to stop.’

  Charlie turned to Amy. ‘What’s she on about?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Miss Metcalf?’ Amy asked. ‘Is it something to do with the boys?’ Or, more precisely, something to do with Malcolm. It must be Malcolm.

  ‘Now, I know you farmers need your sons’ help from time to time,’ Miss Metcalf said, ignoring Amy. ‘As I say, I’ve turned a blind eye. An odd day here and there when you’re particularly busy, that’s easily overlooked. But not the way you’re carrying on with that son of yours. Mr Stewart, do you know how many days Malcolm has come to school in the last two weeks?’

  She answered her own question without giving him time to reply. ‘Three,’ she announced. ‘Three days in two weeks! I have to warn you, I’m not putting up with it any longe
r. There are laws in this country, Mr Stewart—laws that say you have to send your children to school, farm work or no farm work. If you continue flouting the law, I shall have to report it to the authorities.’

  Charlie gazed at her, open-mouthed, then turned back to Amy. ‘Is she saying the boy hasn’t been going to school? Where the hell’s he been, then?’

  ‘Oh, don’t try pretending ignorance, Mr Stewart,’ Miss Metcalf said. ‘That won’t cut any ice with me. I expect to see that boy at school regularly from now on.’ She swept out of the house, her skirts swishing as she went.

  Charlie sat in stunned silence for a few moments. ‘What’s he been up to?’ he demanded of Amy when he had recovered his voice. ‘Where’s he been going?’

  ‘Charlie, don’t get upset—Miss Metcalf’s probably making it sound worse than it is. I don’t think she likes Mal.’

  ‘I’ll teach that boy to go making a fool of me. I’ll not have that woman coming into my house lecturing me. Sneak off behind my back, will he? I’ll give him a lesson he’ll remember.’

  ‘Don’t, Charlie,’ Amy said, trying desperately to think of excuses for Malcolm. If only Charlie did not make such a fuss over the merest trifles, and if only Malcolm did not give him so many occasions for wrath. She vaguely remembered a few occasions when her own father had found that Harry had played truant; a few strokes of his belt and a stern warning not to do it again, along with ill-concealed amusement at Harry’s cheek in thinking he could get away with it, and the matter was over. It was never like that with Charlie.

  Charlie crossed the room and flung open the back door. ‘Where is he?’ While Amy was still trying to think how to tell him that she had no idea just where Malcolm was, a sudden bark betrayed the whereabouts of David and Biff.

  ‘Dave! Get in here,’ Charlie shouted. Amy stood behind him and peered around his arm to see David dragging his feet towards the house, Biff prancing excitedly at his heels. ‘Hurry up,’ Charlie called. ‘You can leave that mongrel outside, too.’

  David tied Biff up, taking much longer over the task than he needed to, and walked up to the back door.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’ Charlie asked, looking back in the direction David had come from.

  ‘He’ll be back soon,’ David said, his eyes darting around as if looking for an escape route.

  ‘Back? What are you talking about? You mean he’s not here? Where is he, then?’

  ‘He’ll be back soon,’ David repeated like one reciting a well-learned lesson.

  ‘Don’t keep saying the same thing like a bloody parrot,’ Charlie growled. He snatched David by the lower arm and yanked the boy up the steps and into the kitchen, then leaned his face close. ‘Where’s your brother?’

  David looked dangerously close to tears, but Amy resisted the urge to intervene, knowing she would only make Charlie angrier. ‘I-I don’t know. He didn’t tell me where he was going.’

  With his penchant for getting into strife, Malcolm chose that moment to rush in the door, breathless from having run up from the horse paddock and with his clothes far grubbier than a day at school could have made them. His eyes widened in alarm at finding his father in the house. For a moment he seemed undecided whether to make a run for it or to try and brazen it out, but Charlie soon took the choice out of his hands.

  He let go of David, leaving the boy to rub his sore arm where Charlie had held it in a vice-like grip, and took hold of Malcolm by both shoulders. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘At s-school,’ Malcolm said, his eyes darting over to meet David’s, obviously trying to guess how much his brother might have told their father.

  The back of Charlie’s hand lashed against Malcolm’s face. ‘Lie to me, will you?’ Charlie snarled. ‘Think you can make a fool of me and get away with it?’

  ‘He only told a lie because he’s scared, Charlie,’ Amy said. ‘Let him say he’s sorry. You’re sorry, aren’t you, Mal?’

  ‘I’ll make him sorry, all right,’ Charlie said before Malcolm had the chance to say a word. ‘You needn’t think you can go sneaking off behind my back. You little bugger!’

  He gave Malcolm a shove that sent the boy staggering backwards, then grabbed him by the arm and pulled him upright just in time to stop him falling to the floor. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll not be forgetting in a hurry, boy,’ Charlie growled. ‘I’ll have the skin off your backside before I’m finished with you.’

  ‘Don’t, Charlie,’ Amy pleaded. ‘He won’t do it again, will you, Mal? Let him tell you he’s sorry.’

  ‘You keep out of it, woman,’ said Charlie. ‘He’ll be sorry enough in a minute.’ He turned towards the door, about to drag Malcolm outside, when the boy wrenched his arm out of Charlie’s grip.

  ‘I’m not sorry,’ Malcolm said, his face screwed up in a mixture of anger and threatened tears. ‘Why should I have to go that school? Why can’t I do what I want?’

  A tide of scarlet engulfed Charlie’s face. ‘You’ll do as I tell you, boy.’

  Malcolm stamped his foot. ‘I won’t,’ he screamed. ‘I’m sick of doing what you say. I’m sick of the way you hit me all the time.’

  ‘Mal, don’t talk to your father like that,’ Amy said, but Charlie and Malcolm had eyes and ears only for each other. Amy had never seen them looking more alike, both red-faced and panting with fury, despite the twelve inches of height and more than forty years of age between them. David crept over to her, fear written in his face. Amy slipped an arm around him and drew him close.

  ‘You never let me do what I want,’ Malcolm half-shouted, half-sobbed. ‘You never want me to have any fun. You just make me work all the time. You never say I’m any good at anything. And you give me hidings for just nothing.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hiding, all right, boy.’ Charlie made a grab for Malcolm, but the boy stepped backwards out of his reach.

  ‘I’m sick of milking stupid cows and digging stupid potatoes and all that stuff.’ He flung the words at his father. ‘I’m sick of your stupid farm.’

  Charlie took a long stride forward, snaked his arm around Malcolm’s neck and grabbed him by the scruff. He dragged the boy a step towards the door, then stopped in his tracks when Malcolm swung his fist with all his might and planted it in his father’s midriff.

  Malcolm might be only nine years old, but he was big and strong for his age. He put his whole weight behind the punch, and it winded Charlie long enough for Malcolm to twist once again out of his grasp.

  ‘I hate this place!’ he screamed at his father. ‘I hate you! I hate you!’

  It took Charlie only seconds to recover. He let out a snarl and lunged at Malcolm, this time grabbing a fistful of cloth at his throat. He gave the boy a shove, keeping his tight grip, and Malcolm staggered backwards. He shoved again, giving the boy no time to regain his balance; then again, slamming Malcolm’s back against the wall. ‘You’ll not raise a hand to me, boy.’ He yanked Malcolm forward, then pushed him back so that his head hit the wall with a thump, while Charlie’s free hand made a fist and slammed into Malcolm’s face.

  Malcolm screamed in mingled pain and rage. He swung out wildly with his own fists, but his father’s long reach defeated him and his blows fell well short of their target. Again and again Charlie slammed the boy’s head against the wall, punctuating the rhythmic back-and-forward motion with his well-aimed punches, shouting incoherently above Malcolm’s screams.

  David clutched at Amy, howling in terror. She freed herself from his grip to snatch at Charlie’s sleeve. ‘Stop it,’ she cried. ‘He’s only a little boy! You’ll kill him!’ But Charlie was oblivious to her. When she hauled on his arm he stopped hitting Malcolm just long enough to shake her off, hardly seeming to notice the interruption.

  Amy knew she did not have the strength to pull him away from Malcolm. She ran to the bench where she had a saucepan of carrots sitting in cold water ready to be put on the range, snatched up the pan, crossed the room again and flung the contents at Charlie.
r />   He let out a yell as the cold water hit him full in the face. The shock had the desired effect. He loosed his hold long enough for Malcolm to free himself, stagger a few steps away out of his father’s reach, then sink to the floor and lean against the wall, clutching at his head. Charlie coughed and spluttered, spat out water and a slice of carrot, then turned on Amy.

  ‘What the hell did you do that for, you silly bitch? I’m covered in this muck!’

  In other circumstances Amy might have found the sight laughable: Charlie with bits of carrot stuck in his hair and beard and festooned over his sodden jacket, water dripping down his face. But right now, concern for Malcolm filled her thoughts.

  ‘To stop you from killing your son,’ she flung at him over her shoulder as she knelt down to check Malcolm’s injuries.

  ‘That’ll teach him.’ Two steps brought Charlie close enough to stand over Malcolm and glower down at him. ‘You won’t try that again, will you, boy?’ But a glance told Amy that the heat had gone out of his rage, cooled abruptly by the icy shower she had given him.

  Malcolm’s face showed the beginnings of a black eye, one lip was split, and blood was running freely from his nose, but rather than looking chastened he matched his father’s glare with one of his own. Amy put her handkerchief under his nose and made Malcolm hold it in place while she checked the back of his head for wounds.

  ‘The skin’s not broken,’ she said. ‘There’s a big lump coming up, though. You’d better lie down for the rest of the afternoon.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Charlie. ‘He’ll not be getting out of his work that way.’

  ‘But Charlie, he should lie down in the dark after a knock on the head like that,’ Amy protested. ‘He’s going to have an awful headache.’

  ‘Serves him right. That’ll help him remember what’ll happen if he ever tries that again.’ He took his seat at the table. ‘Stop fussing over him, woman, and brew up a fresh pot of tea. This lot’s stone cold now.’ He picked a piece of carrot out of his beard. ‘And you can get me a cloth to wipe this lot off.’