Chickenfeed Page 5

  I’m sorry to be a nuisance.

  Your loving son,

  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 for ever and always in spite of what you’ve done.

  Your devoted,

  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 explanation, 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 B
essie 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,

  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 recognize 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,

  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.

  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.

  He found him in one of the chicken sheds. ‘Mr Thorne? Norman Thorne?’

  ‘That’s me.’ Norman wiped his palms down his trousers and offered an open hand. ‘Sorry about the mess. The rain’s chewed up the ground. What can I do for you?’

  The policeman returned the handshake. ‘I’m here about Miss Elsie Cameron, sir. I believe you and she are engaged.’

  ‘That’s right. Has she had an accident or something?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Her father reported her missing yesterday. He says she left London a week ago to come down here.’

  Norman shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen her. She told me she was coming on Saturday . . . but she never turned up. I wrote the next day to ask what was going on but I haven’t had a reply. All I’ve had is a telegram from her dad.’

  ‘Do you mind telling me what you were doing last Friday, Mr Thorne?’

  ‘Not in the least.’ Norman gestured towards his shed. ‘How about a cup of tea? It’s warmer inside. I can give you a photograph of Elsie if it helps. I’m pretty damn worried about her, you know.’

  But not worried enough to come to the police station himself, thought PC Beck sourly as he picked his way through the mud. He studied the picture of Elsie while Norman set the kettle to boil.

  ‘Mr Cameron says she left his house on Friday afternoon,’ he said, taking out his notebook. ‘Do you want to give me your movements from lunchtime onwards?’

  Norman’s memory was surprisingly good. He recalled in great detail what he had been doing on Friday, December 5th. Shortly after lunch he had cycled to Tunbridge Wells to buy some shoes. On his return at around four o’clock he had fed his chickens and collected some milk from Mr and Mrs Cosham.

  ‘After that I made some tea and took a nap,’ he said. ‘I was whacked. The round trip to Tunbridge Wells is a killer.’

  ‘But Miss Cameron didn’t come here?’

  ‘No. I went out again a bit later . . . about a quarter to ten I should think. I’d promised to walk a couple of lady friends home from the station. Mrs Coldicott and her daughter. They spent the day in Brighton and came back on the ten o’clock train.’

  ‘Address?’

  Norman gave it to him. ‘I stayed at their house about fifteen minutes and was back here for half-eleven. There was no sign of Elsie . . . but I wasn’t expecting her till Saturday.’

  ‘How do you know the Coldicotts?’

  ‘The way I know most people round here. Mrs Coldicott buys a hen from time to time.’

  ‘What did you do on Saturday, Mr Thorne?’

  ‘Fed and watered the chickens then went to the station to meet Elsie. She told me she’d be coming in on the ten-fifteen. I waited around for an hour then caught the train to Tunbridge Wells.’

  ‘Was that normal?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That she stood you up?’

  Norman stared at him for a moment. ‘I didn’t think of it as standing up. I assumed she’d had to stay home for some reason. Do you mean was I worried?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Why should I have been?’

  PC Beck shrugged. ‘No reason. What did you do in Tunbridge Wells on Saturday?’

  ‘Nothing much. Walked around a bit, then came home again. I checked at the station in case Elsie had come on a later train, but no one had seen her. So I stopped off at the Coshams for some milk and asked if she’d booked in with them. But she hadn’t.’

  ‘Is that where she usually stayed?’

  Norman nodded. ‘They’d planned a party for Saturday night. I was hoping t
o take Elsie to it.’

  ‘Did you go anyway?’

  ‘No. The Coshams cancelled it because not enough people could come.’

  The policeman made a note. ‘What did you do instead?’

  ‘Went to the Coldicott house. There was a film I wanted to see at the cinema. I asked Miss Coldicott if she wanted to come with me.’

  PC Beck took another glance at the photograph of Elsie. ‘How old is Miss Coldicott?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Is she a special friend, Mr Thorne?’

  ‘No. She just likes going to the movies.’

  ‘And you say you wrote to Miss Cameron the next day, asking what had happened to her?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Do you have her letter to you, saying she’d be down on Saturday?’

  ‘We didn’t arrange it by letter. She was here the weekend before. We agreed the day and time then.’

  PC Beck took the mug of tea that Norman handed to him. ‘Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?’

  Norman shook his head again. ‘I did wonder if she nodded off on the train and ended up in Brighton. She takes pills for her nerves. They make her go to sleep in the oddest places.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t have stayed there, would she?’

  Norman pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. She might be trying to scare us into taking notice of her. She can act pretty strange at times.’

  PC Beck gave a report of this conversation to his inspector.

  ‘What did you make of him?’ the man asked.

  ‘He’s a young chap. Looks as if he’s struggling to make ends meet. His place is more like a pigsty than a chicken farm. But he’s pleasant enough and looks you in the eye when he answers questions.’

  ‘So you think he’s telling the truth?’