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  He didn’t. He wanted a son he could be proud of. With Bessie. But he hesitated in the face of Elsie’s anger. “I don’t see how you can be in the family way,” he said lamely. “It doesn’t make sense. How did it happen?”

  This was the question she’d been waiting for. She launched into a hushed torrent of words, urging him to believe her. The doctor had told her that petting was far more dangerous than anyone realized. More babies were made by accident than were ever planned. A girl just had to touch a man and his sperm could find its way into her.

  Norman shook his head in disbelief. “How?”

  “If she puts her hand on herself afterwards. Here—” She pointed towards her crotch.

  Was that true?

  “I undid your buttons,” she said. “That’s when it must have happened.” She lowered her voice to a sly whisper. “I was naked, remember.”

  Norman clenched his fists between his knees and stared at the table. Despite the sex he’d had with Bessie, his only real knowledge of the birth process was egg-hatching. “It can’t be that easy, Else. Satan has to do the full thing.”

  “He’s a chicken, pet. Humans are different.”

  Were they?

  He wished he could ask Bessie. Even his father. As the waitress brought their tea and scones, he listened to Elsie prattle on about how they’d be a proper family by next summer. But her tone had a fake jollity, as if she was more intent on convincing strangers than convincing Norman.

  Later, when he walked her to the station, she ordered him to arrange the wedding as soon as possible. “I’ll tell Mum and Dad it’ll happen before Christmas.”

  He refused her offer of a kiss. “You’re taking a lot for granted, Elsie.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she said with a tremor of fear in her voice. “It’s your baby, Norman. You have to marry me.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll kill myself,” she sobbed tearfully. “And you’ll be to blame.”

  When Bessie came to the shack that evening Norman asked her if a girl could get pregnant by touching a man’s “thing” when he had his clothes on. She giggled. “You mean like this?” she asked, feeling his penis through his trousers.

  “No. Putting her hand through his fly . . . then touching her fanny afterwards.”

  “Like this?” She undid his buttons and fluttered her fingers around his foreskin before reaching under her skirt.

  He grabbed her round the waist and nuzzled her neck. “I met a bloke this morning who said that’s how his sister got pregnant.”

  “He’s lying,” said Bessie with another giggle. “The silly cow’s been at it hammer and tongs and doesn’t want her parents to know.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “So who is this bloke?”

  “No one you know,” he said, lowering her on to the bed. “And I wouldn’t tell you anyway. If the girl wants to lie that’s her business.”

  “Except you’d have to be daft as a brush to believe rubbish like that. If touching was all it took . . . every girl in the world would be pregnant.”

  Blackness Road

  Crowborough

  Sussex

  November 25th, 1924

  Dear Elsie,

  I have thought long and hard about what you said yesterday and I’m afraid I do not believe you’re pregnant. For this reason, I shall not be arranging our wedding this week. There are one or two things I haven’t told you. Life has been difficult this last year. The farm is in debt, and someone else has been helping me through my problems. I am between two fires at the moment and need time to decide what is best to do.

  Yours,

  Norman

  86 Clifford Gardens

  Kensal Rise

  London

  November 26th, 1924

  My own darling Norman,

  I don’t understand. Of course I’m pregnant. Why won’t you believe me? And who is this someone else? I really do think you owe me an explanation.

  Your loving,

  Elsie xxx

  Blackness Road

  Crowborough

  Sussex

  November 27th, 1924

  Dear Elsie,

  What I haven’t told you is that a girl comes here late at night. It started when you gave in to your nerves again and felt that life wasn’t worth living. I lost hope that we could ever be happy together. This other girl is different. She makes me laugh and keeps me going through the bad patches. I have strong feelings for her or I wouldn’t have done what I’ve done.

  I’m sorry to upset you.

  Yours,

  Norman

  Blackness Road

  Crowborough

  Sussex

  November 27th, 1924

  Dear Dad,

  I could do with some advice. I’ve run into some problems with the farm and with Elsie. Is there any chance you could visit in the next few days?

  I’m sorry to be a nuisance.

  Your loving son,

  Norman

  86 Clifford Gardens

  Kensal Rise

  London

  November 28th, 1924

  Dear Norman,

  You’ve broken my heart. I never thought you could lie to me like this. I gave you myself and all my love and you have betrayed me. It’s a poor thing for a man to give up on his wife just because her nerves are bad. You don’t seem to care how I feel. You don’t write a single word of love, yet I stood by you when you were out of work.

  I expect you to finish with this other girl and marry me. Let me know what date you’ve fixed by return. I shall love you forever and always in spite of what you’ve done.

  Your devoted,

  Elsie xxx

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Blackness Road—Sunday, November 30th, 1924

  Norman jumped out of his skin when Elsie smacked him on the arm. He was busy cleaning out the chicken sheds and had his back to the road. He was humming to himself and his mind was full of Bessie.

  “What the hell—” he cried, ducking away from her and raising his arms to protect himself. He certainly hadn’t expected to see Elsie.

  She pounded at him with her fists. “I hate you,” she spat. “Who’s this other girl? What’s her name? Why didn’t you answer my letter?”

  Norman warded off the blows. He’d never seen her so mad looking. Her hair was unkempt and her face red with anger. “I only got your letter this morning,” he fibbed.

  “Liar! You’d have got it yesterday. I want my wedding, Norman. When’s it going to be?” She kicked his leg. “Tell me!” she screamed.

  Chickens scattered in alarm. “Take it easy,” he begged. “You’re scaring the hens.”

  But she wouldn’t be side-tracked. “Now, Norman . . . tell me now.”

  “Soon,” he said desperately, dodging another punch. “It’ll be soon.”

  She dropped her fists. “When?”

  “Before Christmas.”

  She examined his face to see if he was lying. “That had better be the truth. If I find out you’re ­lying again—” She broke off on a sob. “How could you, pet? I thought I could trust you.”

  “You can,” he said lamely. “I was planning to write today. Do your parents know you’re here?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then they’ll be worried. You should go home. I’ll walk you to the station.”

  “I’m not leaving,” she said stubbornly. “I won’t go back to London till I’m a married woman. Everyone’s saying it’s never going to happen. But it is. You’re promised to me . . . you’ve always been promised to me.”

  What could Norman say other than yes? There was no reasoning with Elsie when she was like this. He
wanted to tell her to take a tablet but feared another onslaught from her fists. In this mood, anything could fuel her anger. And he had a bigger problem. He needed to be rid of her before Bessie came to the shack that evening.

  So he lied. He told Elsie he loved her. That he wanted her baby. That of course the wedding was on. The other girl was history. Just a silly mistake that had happened when he was lonely.

  “But you must go home now, Else. You can’t stay here till we’re married. People will talk.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “But I do,” he said firmly, steering her towards the gate. “I want a wife I can be proud of . . . not one that’s called a tart.”

  And of course Elsie gave in. As Norman knew she would. It was her worst fear. That people would sneer at her behind her back.

  But did anyone—apart from Norman and her family —even remember that Elsie Cameron existed?

  That night Norman told Bessie the truth. He did it badly. Kept starting with: “Do you remember when I said . . .”

  Bessie took it in her stride. “I’m not an idiot, Norman. I found Elsie’s love letters weeks ago. That’s what women do . . . search their men’s things.”

  He was more relieved than offended. “And?”

  “I asked Mrs. Cosham about her. She said Elsie’s got mental problems . . . and you’re the poor lad who drew the short straw. Elsie couldn’t care less who she marries, as long as she marries someone.”

  “I liked her at the beginning, Bess.”

  She propped her hip against his arm. “You were a baby . . . chickenfeed to the first grasping woman you met. You have to be straight with her. Tell her you don’t love her any more.”

  “It’s not that easy. She gets”—he sought for a word —“hysterical.” He sighed. “I wish she’d just go away and leave me alone.”

  “But types like that don’t, Norm. She’ll keep at you till you do what she wants. I knew a bloke like it once. Walked out with him a couple of times and he acted as if he owned me. Even smacked me in the face once because he reckoned I was smiling at another man.”

  Norman was shocked. It was one thing for Elsie to hit him, another for a man to do it to Bessie. “What happened?”

  “My dad sorted him out. Told him he’d take his head off his shoulders if he came near me again. It worked a treat. He left town and I never saw him again. Maybe you should ask your father to do the same for you.”

  “Dad’s never hit a woman in his life.”

  “He doesn’t need to. All he has to do is make Elsie understand that you’re never going to marry her. She might believe it if it comes from him.”

  But Mr. Thorne refused to do his son’s dirty work. It was three days later when he came to the farm in response to Norman’s letter. They were inside the shack, sheltering from the wind. Norman stuttered through another explan- ation, then asked his father to speak to Elsie on his behalf.

  Mr. Thorne cast a critical eye over his son’s living arrangements. “You can’t bring a wife into this,” he said.

  “I know . . . but Elsie won’t listen to me, Dad. She might to you, though.”

  “Maybe she will, but it’s a shabby way to tell her you’re not going to marry her. I thought I brought you up to be more honest than that, son.”

  “You did, but—”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Norman. You’re a Methodist with Christian values. You should never have invited her here on her own.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I thought you had more sense.”

  “But I never did anything, Dad.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. It might have happened the way she says the first summer we were here. We got pretty close at times.” He squeezed one fist inside the other. “She’s lying. I’ll eat my hat if she’s even been to a doctor.”

  Mr. Thorne sighed. “Then don’t commit yourself to a wedding until well after Christmas. If she’s telling the truth, it should be obvious by the spring. If she isn’t, you can be shot of her with a good conscience.”

  “But you don’t know what she’s like,” Norman said wretchedly. “When she came here on Sunday, she was planning to stay until I married her. What if she tries that again?”

  “Show her who’s boss,” Mr. Thorne said reasonably. “Give her her marching orders. Put her on the train.”

  Norman massaged his knuckles. “You’ve never seen her when she’s angry. She’s like a mad woman . . . screaming and yelling.”

  “I thought she was taking pills for her nerves.”

  “Not on Sunday, she wasn’t. She kept hitting me.”

  Mr. Thorne frowned. “It’s a bad business, son. But I did warn you.”

  Tears of despair rose in Norman’s throat. “So what do I do?” he asked gruffly. “I don’t even like her any more . . . and I sure as hell don’t want to marry her.”

  “Then keep delaying. There’s nothing else to be done. Except pray that you’re right about her not being pregnant.”

  “I am right, Dad. I don’t need to pray about it.”

  “Then I will,” said Mr. Thorne, standing up. “I’m not as arrogant as you, Norman. It’s God who decides when and how a child is born.”

  “Supposing Elsie is in the family way?” Norman asked ­Bessie that evening. “No one’s going to believe it isn’t mine. I’ll have to marry her whether I like it or not.”

  “She’s not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She can’t even persuade you to sleep with her.”

  He rested his forehead in his hands. “She’s not that ugly, Bess.”

  “All right. Let’s say another man has shown an interest. Why would she want to marry you and not him?”

  “Maybe he’s married already.”

  Bessie gave a grunt of amusement. “Oh, come on! Where would they have done it? In her parents’ bed? In his wife’s bed?”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Well, her only other choice would have been a stand-up quickie in a back alley. Is she a prostitute?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “It’s you who’s being stupid, Norman. There’s no way Elsie can be pregnant. Your dad’s right. You have to stick it out and call her bluff . . . even if she does make your life hell in the meantime . . .”

  Blackness Road

  Crowborough

  Sussex

  December 3rd, 1924

  Dear Elsie,

  Dad came to visit today. He’s not happy about a rushed wedding and says we must wait till after Christmas. Hope you understand.

  Yours,

  Norman

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kensal Rise, north London—

  Friday, December 5th, 1924

  The hairdresser had pinned Elsie’s hair into a neat coil at the back. Now she teased the fringe into a cloud of soft curls around the girl’s face. “Going somewhere nice?” she asked, nodding towards the overnight case at Elsie’s feet.

  Elsie stared at herself in the mirror. She’d asked for a new style that took attention away from her glasses. Had it worked? Did it make her look pretty? “Sussex,” she said.

  “I went to Brighton once.”

  “I’m having my wedding there.”

  “That’s nice,” the woman said. “I suppose it’s cheaper out of season. When’s the big day?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Goodness! Who’s the lucky chap?”

  “Norman Thorne,” Elsie told her. “He’s a farmer . . . has his own house and everything.”

  The woman smiled. “And all I got was two rooms and a dustman. Where did I go wrong, eh?” She framed Elsie’s face with her hands. “How’s that, dear? Will it suit?”

  “Oh, yes. Norman
won’t recognise me.” Elsie lifted the little case on to her lap and moved aside a wash bag to find her purse. “How much?”

  “Sixpence should cover it.”

  The hairdresser couldn’t help noticing how little was in the case. A baby’s frock, two pairs of shoes and the wash bag. She wondered what kind of girl would go to her new home with no knickers.

  There was even less in the purse. When Elsie had paid for her new hairdo, there were only a couple of pennies and a train ticket left. Still . . . It wasn’t a hairdresser’s place to question a client’s word.

  But, oh, my goodness! How she longed to tell the skinny little thing that her green knitted dress didn’t suit her. And that chewed fingernails and the desperation behind her horn-rimmed glasses put lovers off quicker than anything.

  Blackness Road

  Crowborough

  Sussex

  Sunday, December 7th, 1924

  My own darling Elsie,

  Well, where did you get to yesterday? You said you were coming on Saturday so I went to the station to meet you. Did something go wrong? Let me know as soon as possible.

  Your ever loving,

  Norman

  Telegram, 10.00 a.m. Wednesday,

  December 10th, 1924

  From: Donald Cameron, 86 Clifford Road, Kensal Rise, London

  To: Norman Thorne, Wesley Poultry Farm, Crowborough

  Elsie left Friday. Have heard no news. Has she arrived? Reply.

  Telegram, dated 3.00 p.m. Wednesday,

  December 10th, 1924

  From: Norman Thorne, Wesley Poultry Farm, Crowborough

  To: Donald Cameron, 86 Clifford Road,

  Kensal Rise, London

  Not here. Cannot understand. Sent letter on Sunday.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Blackness Road, Crowborough—

  Friday, December 12th, 1924

  It was at times like this that PC Beck wished he was thinner. It was hard work pedalling his heavy cycle along Blackness Road. When he reached the Wesley Poultry Farm and saw the muddy state of the field, he gave up on the bike and went looking for Mr. Thorne on foot.