A Greater World: A woman's journey Read online

  When Sarah had announced her engagement her parents were dismayed, but in the face of her evident happiness, consented. While accepting the marriage, William Morton continued to keep the clerk at arm's length, making no attempt to include him in business decisions.

  The day William Morton announced to the assembled family that he had sold Morton's Coffee, Dawson's hopes of being accepted by his father in law were dashed. His job was safe – he was to be transferred to the new owners along with the other company assets, as if he were a bushel of beans or a gross of sacks – but any possibility that he would inherit the family firm vanished with the sale.

  Elizabeth avoided her brother-in-law. She often contrived to be elsewhere, maintaining a social life that included dining at the homes of close friends, concerts in Liverpool or Manchester and trips with friends to Northport's popular new picture house, where she could indulge her fascination with the films of Rudolph Valentino. Dawson shut himself away in the small back parlour, where he was usually to be found studying religious tracts. He spent little time with Sarah and his daughters, preferring to make regular visits to his elderly mother on the other side of Northport.

  'So you mean to throw me out of my own home?' Elizabeth said to Sarah.

  'Stop the drama, Lizzie.'

  'That's what it amounts to – no matter how you phrase it. Father has handed the family home to your husband and you're saying he won't let me stay here.'

  'Why should he be expected to share his home with his wife's spinster sister? You've had plenty of chance to marry. Mother used to despair of you.'

  'Don't bring Mother into this.'

  'She wanted you to be settled and happy.'

  'I'm settled and happy here and Mother would be horrified to know that you're trying to throw me out of my home.'

  'There's no more money! Charles's salary is pitifully inadequate. Handing over the house is the least Father could do after selling the firm out from under Charles and never giving him the status and salary he deserves. You'll be fine. You'll be close to Father. You'll have a rich husband and will want for nothing. I can't believe you're not the least bit excited about all this?'

  Elizabeth curled her lip. 'Excited? Excited at being treated like a piece of baggage to be shipped across the world and handed, sight unseen, to an old man? What's wrong with you, Sarah?'

  'There's nothing wrong with me. I have two children and another on the way and a house to run with no income other than the paltry sum my husband brings home. The servants will have to go too. Susan's been here since Mother and Father married and Betty since you were born. It's not just about you, you know.'

  Elizabeth tried to be conciliatory. She knelt on the floor and took Sarah's hands in hers. 'We'll get through this together. We'll find a way. I'll look for a post in a school. The salary will be better than I'm getting now. I can work full time. I'm not afraid of that. I'll apply for a position at Harbour House. It's very exclusive. High fees. I can earn enough to make up what Father used to send us.'

  'Charles would not be happy.'

  'Why? If I pay my way? You can make him understand? He'll listen to you.'

  Sarah picked up a glass paperweight and turned it over in her hands, then polished the glass on her velvet dress. She frowned then took a breath, replaced the paperweight and answered her sister. 'We need your bedroom.'

  'But the girls are still tiny and ...'

  'Charles has decided to move his mother in here. She's very frail and he wants her close by. He's going to tell her this evening and there isn't room for you both. It's Charles's house now and it's understandable that he should put his mother first.'

  'You mean Charles already knows about Father's letters? The pair of you have got it all worked out!'

  'Of course he knows. As soon as I read the letter I went over to the office to discuss it with him. It's a great relief to him to be able to care for his mother and to know that he has at last been accepted into this family.'

  'Not by me he hasn't! Not when he's throwing me out of my home! Wait till father hears about this... I'll send him a telegram. He'll put a stop to this nonsense.'

  'He won't… He can't... The title deeds were transferred today. We can talk about this again tomorrow morning.' Her tone was less strident. 'Maybe when you've slept on it you'll see the merit in Father's plan. I've not been comfortable sharing a home with you, now that it's just me and Charles and the children. It was different when Mother and Father were still here. I don't feel it's appropriate having you here under the circumstances.'

  'Under what circumstances? What do you mean? Why are you being so cryptic?'

  Sarah rose from the chair and smoothed her dress down again. With her hand on the door she said, 'We'll talk about it tomorrow. I've a headache and I'm going to lie down. Ask Susan to bring me a tray. You'll be eating alone tonight as Charles is dining with Mrs Dawson. Goodnight.'

  It had turned dark while they had been talking and Elizabeth drew the curtains and switched on the lights. The maid cleared away the tea tray and set a fire in the grate. Elizabeth asked to have her supper set up on a side table in the small parlour, rather than sit alone at the end of the long mahogany table in the dining room. After picking at the cold cuts and taking a couple of spoonfuls of rice pudding, she pushed the tray aside. She was too distressed to pick up a book and read, playing the gramophone was out of the question with the children and Sarah in bed, and her hands were shaking too much to sew. She paced up and down in front of the fireplace, angry. She opened the breakfront cabinet where her father kept the decanters and glasses, and poured a glass of sherry. The warmth of the liquor coursed through her body, helping to calm her frayed nerves.

  She fell asleep and woke to find the fire had gone out and the room was chilly. She pulled on the cardigan she had cast off earlier in the warmth from the fire, and dragged the sleeves down over her hands, tucking her feet under her as she curled up in the big leather armchair that had once been her father's favourite. It was just after eleven. She was wide awake, but knew the maid would have gone to bed. Building another fire herself would only give Sarah the excuse to chide her for her profligate waste of coal. The sherry had left a cloying, over-sweet taste in her mouth, so she went downstairs and poured herself a glass of water. There was no point in going to bed yet. The earlier sherry-induced sleep had left her restless.

  She was incredulous at the behaviour of her father. The relative modesty of her own requirements and the regularity of her father's cheques meant she had never seen any need to put money aside for a rainy day. She had a few war savings certificates, but that was the sum of it. When she had been engaged to Stephen, the eldest son of a cotton manufacturer, she had been assured of a future free of financial worries and more recently had presumed that her father would continue to provide for her. She had failed to anticipate just how quickly he could exhaust what had been a sizeable fortune.

  She chided herself for her lack of foresight, and was filled with anger at her sister and her brother-in-law. Surely they must realise that what her father proposed was cruel and impractical? He had always loved her - rather more than her sister, she suspected - and yet he wanted to hand her over to an old man he had met in some sleazy, Australian gambling den. It was barbaric. This Mr Kidd had not even had the courtesy to write a letter to accompany that of her father's, to make himself known, to ask for her hand, to reveal something of himself. A sane and decent man would have had the grace to suggest that they meet first and a courtship proceed if appropriate, not to order her to be delivered to him like a delivery of groceries.

  She looked at the ticket again, and then put it back in the envelope with the crumpled letter and stuffed them into her cardigan pocket. She would speak to Charles and Sarah in the morning and find a way to make them see sense. There was plenty of room in the house: the box room would be fine for Mrs Dawson, or if Charles insisted, she could move in there herself. If he would not allow her pupils to come here, then she could go to their homes. She would
also investigate whether she might find more lucrative employment at Harbour House School.

  She smiled at her reflection in the over-mantel mirror, tucked a stray curl behind her ears and straightened her shoulders. All would be well in the morning. She had a plan. She had choices. Her mother had always said nothing was so bad if you still had choices.

  When the clock struck midnight, she went up to bed. As she stepped onto the dark landing, she sensed movement behind her. She fumbled for the electric light switch. A hand covered her mouth and pushed her into her bedroom. She lost her footing and banged her shoulder against the doorframe. The hand across her mouth was clamped so hard that she could not move her jaw. Blood and adrenaline surged through her. She couldn't breathe. Her heart was hammering in terror as she was thrust into the room and the door closed behind them. She struggled to escape her assailant, who had a vice-like grip on her jaw with one hand, while pinioning her arms behind her with the other. She tried to twist around and break free but he pulled her arms back, jerking them upward behind her, making her cry out with pain. She could smell the whisky on his breath as she struggled to breathe.

  'Keep still.'

  Despite the slurring brought on by the whisky, the voice was unmistakeable. She stopped struggling and he lowered his hand from her mouth and pulled her back against his body, still keeping a tight grip on her arms.

  'Let me go, Charles. You've been drinking! Go to bed. You'll wake the children.'

  She was shocked. Charles had never been known to take a drop of alcohol and had often pontificated on the benefits of temperance at dinner while her father enjoyed a glass or two of fine wine, unmindful of his critical gaze.

  'Don't tell me how to behave with my own children. They're two floors up so there's no chance of them stirring.'

  The relief she felt on discovering it was Charles, rather than a burglar, was replaced by a sense of alarm. He rarely spoke to her. He had never so much as touched her hand, apart from a brief and obligatory handshake on the occasion of his wedding. Now here he was manhandling her, his hot whisky breath on her neck.

  'Let me go! You've had too much to drink. Go to bed. We'll forget this happened.'

  He shoved her onto the bed, throwing himself on top of her, crushing the breath out of her. 'You won't ever forget this happened. I'll make sure of that. I'm tired of you acting as if I don't exist or I'm filth under your feet. You're never going to forget me now.'

  Winded, she was unable to fight. He dragged her arms back above her head.

  'I know what you want,' he said. You're a whore like your sister. You tormented me for years, flaunting yourself at me. Now you're going to get what you've been asking for. Something to remember when you're in Australia.'

  Elizabeth was trapped under his weight. Panic, fear and nausea filled her as she realised what he intended to do. The darkness of the room heightened her fear, but spared her from seeing his face or what he was doing. The rough fabric of his woollen dressing gown rubbed against her face as he used one hand to pin her arms back, while the other reached down to pull up her skirt. Summoning every ounce of strength left in her body, she tried to lift herself to push him off. It served to inflame him further and as she pushed up against him she realised he was naked under his open dressing gown and felt the hardness of his erection. Her panic mounted as his penis pressed against her stomach and his hand dragged at her underwear. The silk tore and he forced her legs apart. She tried to twist sideways but he was too heavy and her pinioned arms meant she could gain no purchase. With a grunt of triumph he entered her. She tried to make her mind a blank, while her body fought to be free of him. His sour breath made her gag. Realising her attempts to shake him off were futile and served to excite him more, she stopped struggling and lay as impassive as a corpse, while he pounded into her, arching his back and bearing down on her in triumph.

  'Just like her upstairs. Filled with sin and lust. But the Lord knows you're a bad woman. He will punish you for your wantonness, just as he smote the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah.'

  His words came out in panting breaths, in rhythm with the ramming motions of his body. 'You take pleasure in tempting a man, in trying to lead him to damnation. You are a filthy whore and you will be punished by God for this.'

  Elizabeth prayed that he would stop, or that she might pass out or die, but he continued with a relentless momentum, excited by his own words. He reached up to the neck of her blouse and forced his fingers between the buttons, tearing them open. She made herself play a piece of music in her head, working through a difficult violin exercise, trying to visualise the notes on the stave, desperate to transport herself away from what was happening. His mouth closed over her left breast and his teeth bit into her nipple. The semi-quavers vanished from her head and pain coursed through her. Tears overflowed from her eyes and ran across her cheeks into her ears. Then he was done and with a cry, slumped forward onto her chest. She felt his shrivelled penis still inside her and freed herself of it, wriggling her way out from underneath his now inert body.

  Unwilling to turn the light on and see her attacker, she stumbled to the door and reached the safe haven of the bathroom, where she bolted the door, filled the basin and began to scrub her body clean. As well as semen, there was blood between her legs and across her breast where he had bitten her. She dabbed herself with a towel and tried to staunch the bleeding. She found a sanitary napkin in the medicine cabinet and cut it in half, pushing one piece inside her blouse and the other inside her panties. It was the best she could do with what was available in the bathroom. She filled up the basin again and splashed the cold water over her face then looked at her reflection in the mirror. Fighting back the tears she felt a cold rage. This was her home, her sanctuary, the place she had lived in all her life. Her bedroom had been hers since childhood. It was somewhere she had been safe, cared for, loved. Her father had stroked her hair as he bade her goodnight as a small child. Her mother had sat on the edge of the bed reading her a story, stroking her forehead and whispering her back to sleep after a nightmare. Now violated.

  She had to wake her sister: Sarah had to know. It changed everything. She buttoned up what was left of her torn blouse and stepped back onto the landing. The landing light came on. Sarah was standing in the doorway of Elizabeth's bedroom. Behind her Dawson's snoring reached a stentorian crescendo.

  Sarah moved quickly and before Elizabeth could speak she felt her sister's hands clutching at what was left of her torn blouse.

  'You can't get a man for yourself so you decided to steal my husband! That's why you wanted to stay in this house.'

  She launched herself at Elizabeth and shook her by the shoulders. 'How long has this been going on? Don't tell me - I know. It explains why he's not been near me for months. You've been enjoying my husband under my nose. Get out and don't come back.'

  She reached behind her into Elizabeth's room and dragged a large carpetbag through the doorway. She had evidently been busy while Elizabeth was in the bathroom. 'Take your things and get out of my house. I never want to see you again.'

  'Sarah! He forced himself on me.'

  'Get out!'

  She was screaming now and from the floor above them Elizabeth heard one of the children start to cry.

  'I'm trying to tell you he raped me!'

  Sarah, white with rage, lunged and Elizabeth was forced to step aside or risk being hurled down the stairway. As Sarah grew more hysterical, Elizabeth decided to retreat, before the servants and children all woke up. She grabbed the carpetbag and went down the stairs, pausing in the hallway, then stepping into the drawing room.

  'I'll wait in here until morning. I can change and pack properly once that man has left the house.'

  'You'll leave now.' Sarah stood on the bottom step of the stairway.

  'Sarah it's the middle of the night. I can't leave. I won't leave.'

  'You should have thought of that before enticing my husband into your bedroom.'

  'You're not being rational.
You know I've never so much as looked at Charles. This is horrible. He's hurt me. He's blind drunk. He's been drinking whisky.'

  'And who put him up to that? He never touched a drop before tonight. Before you got him to join you.' Sarah moved into the room.

  'What are you talking about?'

  'I'm talking about this.' Sarah pointed to the abandoned sherry glass, sitting on the mantelpiece where Elizabeth had left it.

  'I had a small sherry before I went to bed. I thought it would help me sleep. I didn't even hear him come in. I'd no idea he was in the house until he jumped on me.'

  'You disgust me. If you don't leave now I'll throw your bag onto the street and you after it.'

  Knowing it was hopeless, Elizabeth made one last plea to her sister. 'I'd like to say goodbye to the girls - or at least look at them one last time.'

  'Get out! Get out! Get out now! I don't want you near my babies.' Sarah's voice was just short of a scream.

  Pausing only to gather up her coat, a hat and her handbag containing the steamer ticket, money order and the letter from her father, from where she had left them on the hall-stand, Elizabeth stumbled outside. The door was slammed behind her and she stood for a few moments at the top of the wide flight of stone steps. She gulped lungfuls of the night air, then walked away from what had been her only home. She moved blindly, her eyes stinging with tears, her coat buttoned tight against the cold and to cover the torn blouse underneath.

  After walking aimlessly for half an hour, Elizabeth found herself outside the home of her friend, Sylvia Gregory. She stood in front of the large Georgian house, but decided against knocking on the door. The prospect of a warm bed and some comfort from Sylvia and her mother, who had been a close friend of Elizabeth's own mother, was tempting, but she could not face telling them what had happened. She felt deeply ashamed. She knew she had done no wrong, but could not bring herself to tell anyone what Dawson had done to her and risk the look in her friends' eyes that might signal that they thought she had been complicit in the act. Rape was something that happened to other people, not to people she knew. Her friends would be horrified. They would be caring of her. But they would also pity her and quite possibly, while never vocalising it, blame her for somehow helping to make it happen.