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    A Handful of Courage
    A Handful of Courage
    A Handful of Courage
    Ebook438 pages6 hours

    A Handful of Courage

    By TONY NASH

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    About this ebook

    Frederick is a happy, untroubled boy with a secure future on his father's successful farm and without the slightest cloud on his horizon until his contented little world is thrown into turmoil, when he is cleverly seduced by Imelda, and then destroyed utterly by her murder of his baby son. Consumed with blind grief and guilt, he rushes to volunteer to serve in an army about to become enmeshed in the most horrendous war the world has ever known. His bad dream becomes a far worse reality, as he is wounded during the disastrous action at Gallipoli, and then has to endure the degradation and despair of battle after bloody battle through France and Belgium, wounded yet again, and far more devastatingly, as the war drags to an end. What distorted life he still has appears utterly bleak, and yet, despite everything, an unlikely love survives.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTONY NASH
    Release dateJun 1, 2023
    ISBN9798223734833
    A Handful of Courage
    Author

    TONY NASH

    Tony Nash is the author of over thirty detective, historical and war novels. He began his career as a navigator in the Royal Air Force, later re-training at Bletchley Park to become an electronic spy, intercepting Russian and East German agent transmissions, during which time he studied many languages and achieved a BA Honours Degree from London University. Diverse occupations followed: Head of Modern Languages in a large comprehensive school, ocean yacht skipper, deep sea fisher, fly tyer, antique dealer, bespoke furniture maker, restorer and French polisher, professional deer stalker and creative writer.

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      Book preview

      A Handful of Courage - TONY NASH

      Tony Nash

      Copyright © Tony Nash 2014

      This is a work of pure fiction, and any similarity between any character in it and any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. Where actual places, buildings, characters and locations are named, they are used fictionally. Dialogue attributed to historical figures is of my imagination only.

      Try these other books by the same author:

      THE TONY DYCE/NORFOLK THRILLERS:

      Murder by Proxy

      Murder on the Back Burner

      Murder on the Chess Board

      Murder on the High ‘C’

      Murder on Tiptoes

      Bled and Breakfast

      THE JOHN HUNTER/MET. COP THRILLERS:

      Carve Up

      Single to Infinity

      The Most Unkindest Cut

      The Iago Factor

      Blockbuster

      Bloodlines

      Beyond Another Curtain

      HISTORICAL NOVELS – THE NORFOLK TRILOGY:

      A Handful of Destiny

      A Handful of Salt

      A Handful of Courage (WWI EPIC)

      No Tears For Tomorrow  WWII EPIC)

      THE HARRY PAGE THRILLERS:

      Tripled Exposure

      Unseemly Exposure

      So Dark, The Spiral

      THE NORWEGIAN SERIES:

      LOOT

      CNUT – Past Present

      CNUT – The Isiaih Prophesies

      CNUT – Paid in Spades

      CNUT – The Sin Debt

      CNUT – They Tumble Headlong

      CNUT – Night Prowler

      CNUT -  Cry Wolf

      CNUT -  When The Pie Was Opened

      CNUT – The Bottom of the Pot

      CNUT -  Mind Games

      CNUT -  Nemesis

      CNUT -  Cut and Come Again

      CNUT -  The Man Who Did It Doggy Fashion

      CNUT -  The Man From Next Week

      CNUT -  Cabal of Silence

      CNUT -  Deadly Premise

      CNUT -  Deadly Relations

      CNUT -  Hide the Lady

      CNUT -  Hidden Agenda

      CNUT -  The Bone Age

      CNUT -  Tontine Trauma

      CNUT –  The Man from Tomorrow

      OTHER NOVELS:

      The Devil Deals Death  

      The Makepeace Manifesto

      Panic

      The Last Laugh

      The Sinister Side of the Moon

      Hell and High Water

      Hardrada’s Hoard (with Richard Downing)

      ‘Y’ OH ‘Y’

      The Thursday Syndrome

      "Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point." C.S.Lewis

      BOOK THREE – FREDERICK 1897-1960

      Norwich, June 1913

      The slowing clatter of Clarence’s hooves on the steep climb, coupled with his own increasing lethargy, confirmed that they were at last coming to the end of the Thorpe round, the longest of the seven the farm covered daily; five hours of monotonous, repetitive labour, off and on the cart at every house, to walk back and forth up each driveway twice; once to take the order and fetch the milk can or cans, and then again to carry the filled vessel back to the householder, and some of those drives were long. Since leaving school after taking his final exams, it had been his regular Friday task, as day-relief for Harry Page, the usual deliveryman. His father, ever the distant disciplinarian, had told him plainly, ‘You can have no privileges, Frederick; every aspect of the business must be learned from the bottom up. That is the only way that the farm workers will come to respect you.’

      Delivering milk and learning the rounds was just one of the occupations the boy had to master in order to prepare him to take over the farm when his father died or retired; the latter a most unlikely event, since his often stated intent was to die with his boots on.

      For his part, Frederick much preferred ploughing or even milking, though he was at his happiest wandering the fields at dawn or dusk with a gun in his hands, ready to take advantage of any unwary rabbit, rook, pigeon or magpie. He loved every aspect of nature.

      A handsome, contented boy, with a pleasant, settled existence and not a worry in the world, he was humming one of his favourite tunes, as he did throughout all the hours of the day, his mind on nothing more important than his next meal, swatting occasionally at the persistent huge bluebottle that had buzzed annoyingly around his head for the last half hour and refused to leave him alone, blissfully unaware that two events that day, one taking place thirteen hundred and fifty-nine miles away, in a small town near Sarajevo, where four shabbily dressed, shifty-looking men, members of a group that called itself the Black Hand cell, were meeting in a small backstreet café, and the other much closer and more immediate, would have such a devastating effect on him, changing his life forever.

      He checked his list again to be sure; there were just three more deliveries to make. Two of the houses were on Thunder Lane, both of them owned by his father, with sitting tenants, and the other was at the end of the long, winding loke that ran behind them, also his father’s, and rented to the Dunsford family since the previous Autumn.

      He debated with himself which of them he should call at first. With the early morning sun beating down fiercely out of a cloudless sky and not the slightest breeze to take the edge off the heat, the small amount of milk left in the last churn would soon be getting too warm and in danger of going off. Mrs Blake, at ‘Horseshoes’, a widow who was housebound with severe arthritis, would want him to stay and chat and have a glass of lemonade, as she always did. He usually accepted; the poor old soul was lonely and saw few people, and he was a thoughtful boy in the normal way of things, but today he wanted to get on and finish. Those rabbits down at the bottom of the thirty acres would be feeding in daylight on a day like today, and he might be able to stalk down quietly and get a couple with his .22 rifle. He was pleased he had the excuse of the warm milk to get away quickly, not that he wouldn’t like to have that home-made lemonade; his rushed five o’clock breakfast was a distant memory, and he had a terrible thirst, his bottle of cold tea long finished. He decided to deliver to her first, then to her next-door neighbour, Mrs Dimantle, the quiet, retired schoolmistress, who was never any trouble, and to finish up at ‘Westways’, the one at the bottom of the loke. He might just get another glimpse of Imelda, the daughter, a pretty girl of his own age, who had smiled at him once as she leant out of an upstairs window, the tops of her breasts showing in the drooping V of her dress neck as she leant forward, before her mother scolded her and made her go back inside. In his vivid teenage imagination he had wondered if the display had been deliberate. There had been no need for her to lean out so far.

      Girls were something he had little first-hand knowledge of, and of what they hid under their clothing almost nothing at all, except for snippets of dirty talk during morning breaks at school, when he and his close friends gathered behind the gym to masturbate and chat, the toilets always being patrolled by teachers. Those other boys were lucky: they had sisters to spy on through keyholes and half-open doors. He had the animals, and though he felt slightly guilty, he experienced a vicarious thrill watching them mate: the pigs, cattle, sheep and dogs, but from what he had been told a girl’s sexual bits were completely different to those of the animals, although the mating process was similar. Like all his friends, their youthful testosterone boiling over, he was desperate to find out for himself, and even the glimpse of a dress containing a young bosom would make his day.

      The house as he approached looked empty. The cart was not in its usual place beside the shed, and the pony was absent from the paddock. The family must be out.

      ‘Fuck!’ He used the word so beloved of the boys at school, though it would have meant a severe beating with the strap if ever uttered at home.

      Should he leave the milk out in the sun or not? And where was the can?

      There was no "No milk today" note visible; not that everyone left one; they seemed to expect the milkman to be clairvoyant. Harry Page might be, knowing his customers’ usual requirements and idiosyncrasies, but he certainly was not.

      He banged hard on the heavy brass knocker, formed in the shape of a spaniel’s head, expecting no reply, but then heard footsteps approaching the door.

      It opened, and he gulped, finding himself facing his heart’s desire.

      Imelda Dunsford was just sixteen, and, he thought, gorgeous. She had a mop of unruly ginger hair, cut short in the current page-boy style, green eyes flecked with hazel, a pert little snub nose and masses of freckles. She was three inches shorter than his five feet ten, but well built and with fully developed breasts that seemed to strain at the material of her knee-length, bright yellow linen dress. He had to fight hard to keep his eyes from locking onto them.

      She looked at him disdainfully, ‘Oh, it’s you, milk-boy.’

      He had difficulty speaking and gulped twice more before he managed to ask, ‘How much do you want, miss?’

      ‘Just a quart. I am on my own. Granny is ill, and they have gone to bring her here to look after her.’

      On her own! What luck, but he had no valid reason to stay and talk, and she seemed not to like him. He poured the milk into the can she held out and turned to climb back into the cart, sweat running from his neck into the collar of his shirt from the stress of his mixed emotions.

      She asked imperiously, ‘Where do you think you are going?’

      He was puzzled, ‘Back to the farm, miss.’

      ‘No, you are not! Not until you have helped me rescue my cat from the tree. I need someone to stand and hold the ladder steady while I fetch her. Come with me.’

      He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, until she ordered, ‘You, boy, come!’

      He moved forward as if in a dream and followed her through the house and out through the open French doors into the back garden.

      A ladder was leaning against an ancient walnut tree, and he could see the cat, a black and white adult, lying on a branch about twelve feet up, looking perfectly happy on its perch. Though he was not to know it, the cat spent most of each day there, and could climb up and down effortlessly.

      He managed to stammer, ‘Shhall I fffetch her down for you, miss?’

      She looked down her nose at him, ‘She would scratch you to pieces. She hates men.’ It sounded to him as if she did too. ‘Stand and hold the ladder firm while I climb. It is old and wobbly.’

      She climbed the first three rungs and stopped, waiting until he grabbed both sides of the ladder to steady it, aware of her calves and pretty ankles only inches in front of his face.  Suddenly he could smell her, a far different smell from any he had ever known before: a raw, exciting, heavily musky, animal-like, girl smell. As she went slowly higher it became stronger, and he could not help himself, he had to look up, hoping he might glimpse her knickers and the tops of her legs.

      The skirt of her dress was a loose one, and the breeze was blowing it out from her body.

      The first sight he caught was a momentary one as the dress flapped out when a gust of wind caught it, then part of it wrapped itself round the back of the ladder. That quick glimpse surprised him: her knickers were the same colour as her hair.

      He was even more surprised to hear her swear, ‘Damn! Bloody dress!’ and she pulled the hem angrily upwards as far as her waist, as if she was trying to free it, leaving the tops of her legs and her bare buttocks exposed to his gaze.

      He saw then that what he had thought were knickers were not knickers at all, but a bunch of curly hairs between her legs and on the front of her lower belly, and as she pushed her bottom outwards, he could see not only a bum hole, but also a slit between two folds of flesh, just as the other boys had described. If they were right there had to be a hole there somewhere, as there was on the animals, but he could not see one.

      He felt his penis burst into life, straining against the cloth of his pants, his eyes glued to the heavenly vision above.

      Her angry voice broke into his reverie, ‘Are you looking at my knickers, milk-boy?’

      He dragged his eyes away and began to apologise but stopped when he heard her laughing.

      He looked up again and saw her amused face, ‘Oh, dear. It was not my knickers you were looking at, was it, you naughty boy? I forgot to put them on this morning. Do you like what you see? Have you seen one before? Would you like to touch it; stroke it; do naughty things to it? Would you?’

      She began to descend the ladder, pulling the dress up as far as it would go, revealing herself fully.

      He moved two steps away from the ladder, his eyes glued to her lower belly as she reached the ground and turned to face him, his heart pounding loud enough to hear, his breath coming in short gasps, feeling completely light-headed.

      She reached out with her hand and squeezed the bulge in his trousers, then began to undo the buttons.

      He was rooted to the spot, unable to move.

      As the last button was undone she moved her hand inside, pulled out his penis and drew back the foreskin in one practised movement.

      ‘Oh, what a lovely purple knob.’

      He looked at her face at last and saw that her eyes were almost closed. She seemed in ecstasy as she stroked and squeezed.

      He felt the explosion coming and knew that any second he would ejaculate. He pulled her hand away roughly.

      Her eyes opened wide and she swore again, his word this time, unbelievably, then grabbed his hand and began to pull him towards the house.

      In a dream he followed her, inside and up the stairs to her bedroom, where she began to tear off his clothes. He became caught up in the madness, pulling her dress over her head. She wore no brassiere and the sight of her breasts and naked body inflamed him even more.

      In seconds they were on the bed and he was poised above her, ready but still holding back, suddenly afraid.

      She grabbed his buttocks with both hands, sticking long fingernails into the flesh painfully, and pulled him into her, hard.

      There was a hole, and he had found it.

      It was impossible to hold back; his excitement was too intense. As her damp, sweaty belly met his, with his penis inserted to its full length, his seed burst out of him; long, heavy spurts that seemed to go on forever, making him feel that they must fill her belly.

      She took her hands from his backside and began to hit his face with her fists, ‘You bastard! Couldn’t you wait? What about me? Fucking bastard!’

      He was heaving deep breaths, but managed to gasp, ‘Wait, just a minute. I can do it again.’

      She seemed a little mollified, ‘You’d better!’

      Even as she spoke they both felt him stiffen again, and he began to move gently back and forth in the wetness of his own juices. She responded, matching his movements, and over several minutes they increased in intensity, until they were both heaving with all their strengths, the loud, wet, slapping sounds as their bellies met increasing his excitement. He felt a sudden change in the pressure inside her, a convulsive tightening. Her breath was coming in short gasps and she was grunting like a pig under the boar with each thrust, eyes jammed tight with concentration, sweat pouring down her forehead.

      Suddenly she screamed, a scream so loud he was afraid they would hear it in all the surrounding houses, and her insides seemed to him to turn to fire, making his penis feel red hot, and he came with her.

      She collapsed, exhausted, and lay back with him still inside her for many long minutes.

      He felt as if he were in a dream, not believing what had happened.

      Suddenly she galvanised into life and pushed him off her urgently, ‘You must go! They’ll be back soon!’

      Fear quickly replaced desire. The thought of being caught like this by her parents had him off the bed and scrabbling frantically for his clothes, which were strewn haphazardly across the floor. Why, oh why, had she told him she was on her own?

      She slid off the bed, picked up a doll from the bedside table and began stroking its hair.

      ‘Did Becky see what the bad, dirty boy did to Mummy? Shame on him.’

      In his insane urgency, he had not noticed before, but on the windowsills, on the dressing table and on the chest of drawers there were at least thirty dolls - dolls on every surface. It struck him as odd, a girl of sixteen with dolls, but not having sisters, he imagined it must be normal.

      Still naked, she hustled him down the stairs and out of the front door, shooing him like a dog.

      He turned as she was closing the front door, realising that they had not once kissed, and he asked, ‘Can I kiss you?’

      She laughed haughtily, ‘No you cannot, milk-boy. Kissing is disgusting. Germs! Yuck!’ She pulled a face, closed her eyes and shook her head to show her feelings.

      She slammed the door.

      He clambered onto the cart and automatically cracked the reins.

      All the way back to the farm he was in a daze, still not believing what had happened, but gradually fear came back into his mind: when the animals mated they had young. Surely she would not...oh, fuck!

      II

      During the four months that followed, the fear gradually lessened, only raising its ugly head on Fridays, when he had to do the Thorpe deliveries, but though part of him wanted to see her again, and maybe do it again, he had not set eyes on her during his visits.

      The dream began to fade, until a morning in early November, when one of the housemaids was sent to fetch him from the milking parlour. His father, she told him, wanted him in the house, urgently. Goldie, his golden retriever, began to follow him, tail wagging at the thought of some other interesting activity, but was told to ‘Stay!’

      There was a gig standing in the drive, and he recognised the pony instantly. It belonged to the Dunsfords, and his heart began to pound.

      His father, Ernest, a tall, gaunt, prematurely grey, embittered man who had never shown him the slightest sign of affection since his mother died, as she brought him into this life, looked even more bitter than usual. The Dunsfords stood in a little group by the Welsh dresser on the right hand wall, the faces of the two adults looking grim. Imelda was looking down, her face hidden, and he saw immediately that her belly looked larger than he remembered.

      Mr Dunsford, a man who had always spoken kindly to him before, spoke less than kindly that day as he asked his daughter, ‘Is this the boy?’

      Imelda nodded without speaking.

      His own father pronounced sentence, ‘You will marry her next month, Frederick, as soon as the banns are read. I am ashamed of you.’

      Marry? The word hit him like a runaway train. No way did he want to marry, and particularly not her. He had made no plans for his life, except to learn the farming business as well as he could. He’d had the vague idea that one day he might find a girl he would want to marry and have an heir by, but that was years in the future, and it would have been someone from a farming family, who would be a real working partner for the business.

      This girl, this Imelda, he liked only for her body. Otherwise she was a stuck up little bitch, and someone he did not imagine he could come to like well, never mind love. She had made him do it; he would never have fucked her if she hadn’t shown herself off to him, and it was a fuck, not the lovemaking he had heard and read about.

      He knew that, and she knew that, but no one else was going to believe him, and she would not back him up.

      He was stuck. Life, which up to then had seemed carefree and wonderful, now loomed before him like an endless black thundercloud, with not a hint of brightness anywhere on the horizon.

      His father was shaking hands grimly with Mr and Mrs Dunsford and they were taking their leave.

      He tried to catch Imelda’s eye, but she kept her head determinedly down. Strangely, what he could see of her face was the way her lips were forming what looked like a smile, and he suddenly knew: she had set him up deliberately, had made him go to bed with her and make her pregnant, but he could do nothing about it; his father was a stern disciplinarian and would not change his mind.

      Ernest Nash showed the family out of the door and came back in, his face grim.

      Frederick expected to be told to lower his trousers and lean over the table, to receive a good belting, but that was not in his father’s programme.

      ‘You are a bloody idiot, Frederick! That girl! Some farmer’s wife she will make, and you are stuck with her, for the sake of what? Ten minutes in a haystack?’

      It was the first time in his life that he had heard a swearword, even such a mild one, pass his father’s lips, and it spoke volumes.

      It was no use saying it was not his fault, because it was. Faced with her bare body he should have kept his prick in his trousers and run for his life.

      He realised his father was asking a question, ‘....ever talk?’

      ‘The girl?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Oh, she talks all right, father; too much, and right haughty too.’

      Ernest nodded, ‘I took her for a stuck up little hussy. Though she kept her head down, she couldn’t hide the smirk on her face, as if she’d won a battle. She seduced you, didn’t she? Gave you no chance? Shoved it in your face?’

      Frederick nodded miserably. That was exactly what she had done.

      ‘Well, you know you were a fool, but faced with a woman’s willing naked body any man becomes a fool. You are not alone. I take it she was your first? You haven’t been having it away with any of my maids, have you?’

      His son shook his head. He had lusted after them, right enough, but although two of the younger ones had given him a great deal of encouragement, flirting with him with their eyes, deliberately brushing their breasts on his arms while passing, bending over or kneeling to do some task with their backsides towards him, wobbling lasciviously and making comments full of innuendo, and occasionally with skirts hitched up, showing a flash of knickers or thigh, he had not dared take any action under his father’s roof, and would run to his room, blushing, and masturbate instead, his eyes closed as he remembered the incident and the sight of the forbidden flesh. He was unaware that the girls knew well what results they were achieving, and giggled as they watched him dash off, imagining him at his business and getting from it their own sexual buzz.

      Ernest sighed deeply, ‘If it’s any consolation I feel sorry for you, son. I did consider buying her off. I imagine it would not be difficult, although no doubt it would be very expensive if I read her parents aright, but I have always believed that we should live with our mistakes. I have certainly lived with mine, and regretted each one bitterly.’ That surprised Frederick; he had never known his father make a mistake. ‘It makes us stronger men. I do not imagine that your marriage will be a happy one, but you could prove me wrong. I hope sincerely that you do. You have made your bed and you will have to lie on it. You can have that empty cottage at the end of the row, rent-free. I’ll have it patched up ready for you, and you’ll have a man’s wages instead of a boy’s - eighteen shillings a week, and the usual eggs, meat and vegetables. I’ll have your Aunt Muriel organise the wedding. I do not want to meet that family again if I can help it.’ He could see how unutterably miserable the boy was and made a move that was totally alien to him, ‘Come here, son.’

      Frederick was puzzled; was he going to be punished after all? He crossed the three paces that separated them and was astonished to see his usually grim faced father smiling affectionately at him, with his arms open.

      He was taken into a loving embrace and held there for long seconds before being released.

      His father turned away and said over his shoulder, ‘Go back to your milking, son, and try not to worry.’

      He was not quite quick enough. Frederick saw his father’s eyes were misted with tears.

      For the first time in his life the boy realised that his father loved him; a man whom he had never seen smile until that day; a stern, unbending man who never seemed to relax and with strict rules that everyone in the house followed religiously, not least himself.

      Frederick went back to the milking parlour, where Goldie still sat on the same spot she had occupied when he left her, and Gertrude waited patiently in the stall for the pressure in her udder to be relieved. Some things were permanent and could be relied on.

      III

      The days blurred into one another. He saw his aunt almost every day as she came to arrange things in her little jaunting cart. Muriel was his only aunt, a young forty-two, an attractive brunette with a young girl’s figure who had married a lawyer the year before, her first husband having died of cancer after she had nursed him for five years. Frederick would have died had she been aware of the wicked thoughts he had had about her body, as he had of all the maids on the farm. She had always doted on her only nephew; the only female apart from Imelda who had ever taken him into her arms. Whenever she had done that, he had held his lower body away for fear that she would feel his erection.

      Three days before the wedding she came looking for him in the orchard, where he was up a tree picking Bramley apples for cider making.

      There was nowhere to run to and he climbed down the ladder to speak to her.

      She took his hands, looked deep into his eyes, and then nodded, ‘I can see how you feel, Frederick, and I know why. I have spent quite a number of hours with the young lady during the last month, and I want to give you some womanly advice. Come and sit down.’

      They chose a patch of short grass under another tree and once they’d made themselves comfortable she began, ‘Imelda is different from other girls, Frederick, and she will need a lot of attention and help from you. I almost feel....no, I will not burden you with that.’ She thought for a moment before continuing, ‘She is, how shall I put it, somewhat immature, almost childlike somehow, and you will have to make allowances.’

      ‘You mean her dolls?’

      ‘Yes, those, and other things.’ Like him, she was concerned about the dolls, but there had been other signs of strange behaviour while she had been with the girl, whose moods seemed to vary greatly from totally immature to very adult.

      He was suddenly angry, ‘She was not childlike when she dragged ...’ He stopped, unable to go on.

      ‘When she seduced you, you mean?’

      ‘Mmm.’

      ‘No, I imagine not. That part of her is far more mature than her age. I do not believe you will have any difficulty there.’ She hesitated, it was not something a lady spoke about with a young boy, but it needed to be asked, ‘When you were...with her, did she...was there blood on the sheet?’

      He looked puzzled, ‘Blood? No, Aunt Muriel, no blood. Why do you ask?’

      She sighed, ‘It would be normal, but maybe not in her case. It is not always so.’ Poor lad, she thought, he has been had in the worst possible way. Could she have already been pregnant and looking for a father for the baby? It was certainly possible, though from her questioning of the mother the girl never saw any boys and spent most days at home in her bedroom. She had certainly not been a virgin when she seduced Frederick, that much was obvious, but it probably was his baby.

      ‘Can you tell me exactly when and how it happened?’

      Stammering and stuttering, his face flushed with the deep embarrassment he felt, he managed somehow to find words that described what Imelda had done. Muriel listened with growing anger as he told her of the girl showing herself deliberately to him from above on the ladder and then dragging him to her bedroom, where she undressed him. He had been a pushover.

      She pulled him to her and gave him a hug, then pushed him to arms’ length and looked into his eyes, squeezing his arms for comfort.

      ‘She certainly gave you no chance to say No, Frederick, but nevertheless you are as guilty as she is for what happened.’

      ‘I know.’ He sounded so desperately miserable, and her heart went out to him. She still had to warn him of what was to come. 

      ‘I think it is more in the day-to-day things that she will need help: food preparation, washing up, washing and ironing clothes, cleaning the house; things like that. She has never done any of those things in her life; her parents have mollycoddled her, spoiled her, and I cannot see her doing them in the future.’

      ‘But she must! I can’t! I have my work to do.’

      ‘You may have to if you don’t want to starve, and if you want clean clothes on your back.’

      Frederick put his head in his hands, ‘What am I going to do, Aunt Muriel?’

      She lifted his head, tears in her own eyes as there were in his.

      ‘I promise I will come by at least once a week when you are married, Frederick, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.’

      He gripped her hand tightly, ‘Oh, would you? Thank you. Thank you.’

      ‘There is one other thing I must warn you about, and it is terribly important that you remember it: that is, never to get angry with her; never, Frederick. Can you promise me that?’

      ‘But why?’

      She hesitated before replying, ‘She could become dangerous and hurt you.’

      He leapt up and began striding back and forth, ‘What am I marrying, a fire-breathing dragon? A homicidal maniac?’

      Muriel heard the last word and tried not to show that she had also thought of that expression when Imelda’s mother had insisted she should tell him about how the girl reacted to anger. She had, seemingly without thinking, held her hand up to her face when she said it, and Muriel noticed for the first time a long white scar on the woman’s cheek, running from just below her left eye down to her chin, almost invisible under a thick coating of powder. She nearly gasped with horror, but held it in, hoping for more disclosure, but Mrs Dunsford clammed up as her husband came into the room. Muriel was sure the woman had wanted to tell her more, but was afraid to. Muriel was frightened for her nephew, but did not see what else she could do other than warn him. She decided on the spot, however, to go back to see the woman the next day and try to get him off the hook, now she knew more about the circumstances. He had been a fool, a typical young male fool, driven by his testosterone, but did not deserve a life of misery for one foolish mistake. She’d see Ernest first and ask if he would be willing to make a settlement.

      ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as that, Frederick, but try not to lose your temper with her, no matter what.’

      He sighed heavily, ‘All right, Aunt Muriel, I’ll do my best not to.’ He knew as he said it that it would be more than just difficult: he had always had a quick temper himself, a short fuse that was only too easily ignited.

      As he watched his aunt leave the orchard his depression deepened: all he had ever wanted was to learn everything he could about farming, slaughtering and butchering, so that he could make an even bigger success of the business than his father had, and his shoes would be hard to fill. Maybe, in ten years or so, he would have made a marriage of convenience with a neighbouring farmer’s daughter, to bear a son to continue the Nash line, Now he was to be lumbered with a useless girl, useless apart from the one thing she was so good at, a girl he did not know and certainly did not love, for

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