Hope - Lesley Pearse [48]
‘There you are,’ she said, adding a little cold water to it. ‘The tea will be made by the time your hands are clean.’
She glanced round as he was washing and saw he was looking at a bad cut on the palm of his hand. ‘That looks nasty,’ she said in sympathy.
‘This is what I get in my line of work,’ he hissed at her, as if it was her fault. ‘Hands so stiff with cold I sometimes don’t know I’ve cut them. By then the dirt’s got in, and one day a cut like this will become poisoned, and then where will I be?’
Hope couldn’t understand why he was so angry. It appeared to be more than just the cold cottage and having to wait for his supper. ‘Let me put something on it,’ she said. ‘Nell’s got some ointment that’s good for cuts.’
‘I want my supper,’ he roared at her. ‘Not fucking ointment.’
She was shocked that he’d use that terrible oath in her hearing. There had been a casual worker last year at the haymaking who had used it in front of her and her mother, and Father had punched him on the jaw for it.
Turning away in disgust, she made the tea and poured him a cup without speaking. She hoped his hand would become infected, then his arm and finally his whole body. He was hateful.
Hope got up when she heard the mantel clock chime five. It was pitch dark outside and very cold. She lit a candle, wrapped her shawl around her nightgown and tiptoed past Albert’s room.
He had gone to bed the minute he’d finished his supper, much to her relief as she had fully expected that he would start finding more fault with her. She took herself off to bed as soon as she’d cleared up, but she hadn’t been able to sleep for thinking about Cook, and who would replace her if she died.
The stove hadn’t quite gone out, thanks to the coal dust she’d put on it before turning in. She managed to stir it into life, and used the warm water in the kettle to wash herself. She thought she would get herself ready, then call Albert just before she left. That way she wouldn’t have to face him again until the evening.
‘Albert, it’s time to get up,’ she said gingerly. ‘The fire’s lit and the kettle’s almost boiling. I have to go now.’
She couldn’t see him in the darkness, but he grunted at her call and turned over, making the bedsprings squeak.
‘Don’t go back to sleep again, it’s nearly half past five,’ she said, louder this time.
He muttered something, enough to know she’d woken him, so she turned and went back downstairs to put her boots on.
She’d got one boot laced when he appeared on the stairs in his long woolly underclothes. ‘You haven’t laid the table for me,’ he said indignantly as he got down to the kitchen.
‘I haven’t got time for that nonsense,’ she said without thinking. ‘I’ve got fires—’
Before she even finished the sentence he slapped her round the face so hard she felt as if her head had come off her shoulders.
‘That nonsense!’ he roared indignantly. ‘I’ve been trying to teach you Renton pigs some polite behaviour.’
Hurt as she was, Hope wasn’t going to snivel to him. ‘Is it polite behaviour to hit women?’ she yelled back at him.
He pounced on her, both hands going round her neck as if to strangle her. He lifted her right off her feet and then smashed her head back against the wall. He let her drop, and as she fell to the floor he kicked her in the stomach.
‘You will never answer me back again,’ he snarled at her. ‘I could have sent you to the workhouse, but out of the goodness of my heart I let you come here to live. For that I expect gratitude and humility.’
With his lips curled back, bloodshot eyes, matted black hair and a sour smell wafting from him, he was terrifying as he glowered down at her.
She was too hurt even to cry, but when he turned away for a moment she knew she must seize the opportunity. She got up gingerly, then bolted for the door, threw it open and ran out.
After just a few yards the pain in her stomach made her double up. The wind was bitterly cold, cutting through her like a knife, and she’d left her