The Butcher's Daughter Page 6

  At Thornhaugh, the colour red was prohibited, at least as far as I was concerned. “It’s like a red rag to a bull,” they used to say but it was years before I understood what this meant. I look down at my bony knees and bare white legs and realise the dress could not be more blood red if it tried. Immediately, I think about the severed arm and wonder if I was mistaken, as Daniel says I am, or if it is floating in the sea somewhere along the coastline.

  I turn to look at Daniel, who has both hands on the steering wheel but only one eye on the road and I reward him with a trickle of nervous laughter.

  ‘See. I told you I could make you laugh.’ He grins.

  I like the way he is looking at me. It makes me feel warm inside, as if I were submerged in a hot bath, not in the same way my heart races with fear whenever I come face to face with the gypsy but it is a pleasant feeling, nonetheless. So far, Daniel has noticed every bit of effort I have made for him – the strapless dress, lip-gloss and painted fingernails.

  ‘I guess it was pretty stupid of me,’ I finally admit, all thoughts of the severed arm and gypsy disappearing from my mind.

  ‘No more talk of bodies being dug up though. Otherwise you’ll give me nightmares,’ he jests, choosing that moment to casually place a hand over mine.

  We have the same white skin and softness of flesh but I remain uncertain about whether I should allow the touch to go unchecked. I am an old-fashioned girl at heart, at least that is how I imagine myself, never having been on a date before. When I catch Daniel glancing at me, I sense I am being tested. Deciding I am not ready for this, I am about to gently withdraw my hand, when something runs out in front of us—

  I see the dog first, in the pickup truck’s headlights, before he does.

  ‘Look out!’ I shout.

  There is a sickening thud, the sound of flesh and bone hitting hot metal. I clasp a hand over my eyes, not wanting to witness a defenceless animal being crushed to death or worse still, dragged along under the truck.

  ‘Did we kill it?’ I ask fearfully, as Daniel pulls the truck over to the side of the road.

  ‘Not sure,’ he mumbles, killing the engine and swinging his long rugby-playing legs out of the vehicle. I do not attempt to get out of my own seat, choosing instead to keep an eye on Daniel’s shadow in my wing mirror as he searches up and down the unlit roadside. I feel bad for the dog. Really, I do. We should have been paying attention to the road not staring dreamily into each other’s eyes. It has already occurred to me that this must be the same dog that I saw on the beach. The gypsy’s dog.

  When the sound of whimpering reaches my ears, I scramble out of the truck. My legs are wobbly when I hit the ground and I feel sick with fear, imagining the poor thing dying alone in the roadside with no one to help it. By now, Daniel has disappeared into the blackness and I am surrounded by the incessant murmur of night-time insects. In the far distance I can hear waves crashing against the rocks but no matter how hard I listen, there is no more whimpering. Perhaps I only imagined it.

  ‘Daniel?’ I call, fearful of what might be lurking in the shadows but I receive no reply.

  Suddenly, I feel hot and feverish, as if I am coming down with something. The dress, all creased and misshapen, clings uncomfortably to the hot areas of my body. The fear that is upon me has nothing to do with my being afraid of the dark—more to do with the gypsy and what he will do if he finds out we have killed his dog, however accidentally.

  ‘Are you there, Daniel? Can you see anything?’ I call again, feeling quite scared. I mustn’t cry. Daniel’s not like my mother. He won’t abandon me. I’m sure of it.

  Then, remembering that my father always used to keep a torch in the glovebox of his van and suspecting Daniel might do the same, I reach into the truck, flick open the glovebox and grab the torch inside. It is nice to be right for once.

  As soon as the torchlight comes on, it picks out all manner of unexplainable shadows and silhouettes but I ignore these and concentrate on Daniel’s bent-over figure. He is some way from the roadside, amongst the rocks, and when he turns his head in my direction all I can see is a pair of white teeth flashing in the darkness. There is something about the set of his shoulders that reminds me of the stance my father adopts when breaking the bones of beasts in the butcher shop. As soon as I think this, I imagine I hear a distinctive snap—like the accompanying sound that goes with this barbaric practice, but then Daniel is on his way back to me, grabbing at handfuls of grass and wiping his hands against them.

  ‘I couldn’t see anything,’ he admits, slyly glancing over his shoulder. ‘It must have run off.’

  Chapter 17

  During the drive home, I undergo a hundred and one different emotions, ranging from being fully accepting of Daniel’s explanations for everything that has happened to me today to becoming increasingly suspicious. Although the accident with the dog and the fact we were unable to find it played on my mind, we did end up having a nice evening.

  Over a candle and three courses at the secluded beachside restaurant, which was far enough away from Little Downey to make us both believe we were free of the place, I talked about my mother and Daniel appeared genuinely interested. It turns out he is a good listener, hardly telling me anything of himself, except to suggest he has been the apple of his mother’s eye ever since his sister left home.

  He only broached the subject of my father once.

  ‘I have to apologise for not mentioning my visit to your father sooner,’ he’d told me. ‘Knowing Frank as I do, I should have known better. It’s no wonder he went off on one.’

  ‘What did he say?’ I gasped, unable to swallow the food in my mouth.

  ‘Warned me off, that’s all.’ Daniel may have laughed the incident off, but he wasn’t able to disguise the sadness in his eyes. ‘Told me to stay away from his only daughter.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Frank or no Frank, there was no way I was going to stay away after that. I couldn’t even if I wanted to…’ Daniel had almost blushed at this point. ‘I had to check you were okay. And you are, aren’t you? I mean look at you, you’re beautiful, Natalie.’

  His words had made me giddy. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before.

  ‘It’s only natural that Frank should be protective of you,’ Daniel had gone on to admit. ‘If you were mine, I’d feel the same.’

  At this point, it was all I could do to stop myself from laughing. If Daniel knew what my father’s true feelings were for me, or him for that matter, he would not be so forgiving.

  After that, the rest of the evening raced by and before I knew it, we were pulling up outside the house by the sea, neither of us wanting our date to end.

  The house is in darkness. For once, I hope my father is still at the pub. Not that it matters, as there is no avoiding what is to come. Tonight, or tomorrow, I will have to face his fury, knowing I have once again disobeyed him. I expect him to be angry but I also anticipate that he will not stay that way for long. Daniel is a good catch. Who better to take over the butcher’s shop than a son-in-law of his own? On that thought, I feel myself blushing but Daniel seems to like the red in my cheeks. As I step out of the truck, our bodies accidentally collide and there is that familiar smell of meat again. It makes me wonder how we are to go on, because as things stand, I cannot imagine myself sharing the same bed with him.

  We walk in single file onto the porch, the sound of his creaky tread on the decking much heavier than my own. He takes my hand again but this time I do not resist. This is the moment I have been looking forward to almost as much as I have been dreading. I have seen enough black and white romance movies at Thornhaugh to know what happens next.

  He kisses me gently, taking great pains to make sure our bodies do not meet. The butterflies I had hoped for are there in abundance in my stomach but the lingering smell of meat fights for supremacy and wins. It is no good. I cannot help it. I move my head away but smile to take the sting out of my action, hoping he will put my aversi
on down to shyness.

  ‘Thank you for putting up with me.’ I am polite, a little distant in fact and I know he does not deserve this.

  ‘No more conspiracy theories though.’ He jokes his way out of any rejection he might be feeling. ‘I know your old man is a bit on the scary side, but I don’t think even he would invent a dead wife.’

  ‘What if she is still alive though?’ I persevere with the conspiracy he has warned me against. ‘What if she just ran away?’ I should not be putting this on him. It is not fair.

  Naturally, he is a little shocked by my outburst but takes it in his stride. ‘Who could blame her? I’d run away too if I were married to Frank.’

  His laughter is short lived and I can tell he immediately regrets his words. I also get the impression he is moved by my sadness and feels protective towards me. I might not deserve it, but I grab at it all the same. He is everything I want in so many ways except—

  ‘She didn’t run, Natalie. My mother was there at the funeral. She told me all about it.’

  This is news to me. Why didn’t he say anything before? I feel hot tears running down my face. I am grateful to him, but I must ask again—

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Nodding, he reclaims my hand and I am shocked by how sweaty his skin is. His face is red and oily too and there are wet patches under his arms that were not there before. Everything about him suggests he is trying to hide something, that he might even be lying. Something in his cold blue eyes bothers me but I do not give it enough thought because I am too wrapped up in my own selfishness. This is because my heart is breaking all over again. It feels as if I am hearing about my mother’s death for the first time.

  ‘I wish it were a lie. For your sake. You must miss her.’

  Daniel is back to his confident self again and I am quick to dismiss what I thought I saw in him earlier, putting it down to my overactive imagination. Swallowing deeply, I nod through my tears, wanting nothing more than to be alone, so I can sob out my anger and pain. Realising how ungrateful I am being, I work hard to disguise my selfishness because it is important that I retain Daniel’s good opinion of me.

  ‘I had a nice time tonight. Thank you, Daniel.’

  ‘Just nice?’ He is smiling again.

  ‘Very nice.’ I do not know what else to say. I obviously do not feel the same way he does.

  ‘As nice as this?’

  He kisses me again and I allow it, because he is a good guy, one of the best, but I do not reciprocate. Truthfully, it is all I can do not to push him away.

  ‘I never had a boyfriend before,’ I say to prevent him kissing me again.

  ‘Is that what I am?’ he teases.

  ‘I don’t know. Are you?’ Unlike him, I am deadly serious.

  ‘If you want me to be. Do you?’

  I am not sure, and I almost say so, but I hold back. ‘Goodnight, Daniel,’ I say instead, coyly pecking him on the cheek.

  The House By The Sea

  Having closed the porch door behind me, I watch the lights of Daniel’s pickup truck bounce their way along the track that will take him out on the coast road into Little Downey, and long to feel more than I do. My first kiss was not the experience I had hoped for but that is not to say it will not get better. Perhaps I am being too harsh on myself and on Daniel. These are early days and I am not at all experienced in such matters.

  It was foolish of me to suppose one kiss could change everything but I am determined to celebrate the event anyway, so I force myself to smile at the memory, shocked at how easily I am able to deceive myself. I wish Dr Moses were here so I could point out that an overactive imagination can sometimes come in handy. As I cannot, I put a finger to my lip and trace where Daniel has been. Tonight I have been touched by a man, kissed by a man, perhaps even loved by a man. Three firsts, all in one night. So why don’t I feel more? It puzzles me that I do not, because Daniel is perfect for me in every way. Almost. But in a place as old-fashioned as Little Downey, where women are expected to settle down at a young age in order to fit in or run the risk of becoming an outcast—it is important that I have a boyfriend. As my mother found out, it is dangerous to be different here. Those who don’t conform are more prone to throwing themselves off the cliff edge. For that reason alone, I plan on marrying as soon as possible. But if not Daniel, who else?

  Deciding that I will not think about this now, that love is overrated anyway, and that I am more like my mother than I ever suspected, judging by the love-obsessed way I am behaving, I sigh and switch on the kitchen light.

  My eyes go to the knife first, before I even register his presence. It is a razor-sharp Wusthof classic—spanning six inches in length; quite possibly the best boning knife on the market. Sitting at the table with a terrible face on him, my father’s hand is wrapped around the yellow handle which matches the colour of his sleep-deprived eyes. He taps the knife menacingly against the table in time with his own angry heartbeat.

  ‘You scared me! I didn’t know you were there.’ My voice is accusing, but this is for his benefit, so he cannot guess how scared I am.

  ‘I told you I didn’t want him sniffing around. Honour thy father. That’s what the bible says.’ He gestures to the dusty pages of an old bible lying conveniently open on the table.

  ‘Honour thy father and mother,’ I retaliate.

  Angrily, he slams the knife into the table and gets to his feet, the chair scraping on the flagstone floor behind him. My eyes swing away from him and back to the knife. Its blade is embedded in the wood, where it continues to shake and vibrate, as if it has not done terrorising me yet. I am too frightened to move but I cannot take my eyes off the knife either. I would rather look at this than at my father, who is towering over me.

  ‘You’d better start listening to Frank’s Law around here.’

  He is in my face, glaring at me, and I am so small beside him I feel sick with fear. I look for the knife again. It is still there. Without it, he can do nothing. I have been beaten before, but I will not allow him to beat me in the true sense of the word. I am Natalie Powers, I remind myself. I am my mother’s daughter.

  ‘I am not a child anymore,’ I tell him. ‘I can do as I like. See who I like.’ I might sound fearless but I am shaking from head to toe.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ he snarls.

  ‘I won’t be bullied, Father. This is my home. I belong here as much as you do.’

  ‘You do not belong here. Never did. Your home is back there—in the institution.’

  He means every word of it. I can tell. As a result, something inside me dies.

  ‘I’m not sick. Why won’t you believe that?’

  My pleading must have hit a nerve, because although he is still scowling at me, he is also searching for traces of sanity in my face. I sense that he almost believes me—

  ‘I want to.’

  There is a break to his voice that makes me want to reach out to him but I do not. He would see this as weakness. Nevertheless, I feel myself softening.

  ‘What are you afraid of, Father? Losing me like you did Mother?’

  At this, my father’s head shoots up. The wary look is back. ‘I ain’t afraid of nuthin’ or nobody ’cept you and your madness.’

  Chapter 19

  This is the third night in a row I have watched my father let himself out of the wrong door of the whitewashed building, the one he claims never to use, slyly glancing this way and that, before scurrying like a frightened mouse into the house. He seems to feel the weight of the full moon above him because he keeps his head low, while his heavy feet scrape a trail of sand into the house. As on the previous two nights, he closes the porch door quietly behind him, so as not to disturb me, but I could not be more disturbed. This is how I know he is up to something, because during the day, he usually slams the door shut.

  It has been four days since the row and he still hasn’t spoken to me. Daniel hasn’t been anywhere near either, so I suspect he has been told to keep away. I wouldn’t put it p
ast my father to have warned him off with a loaded shotgun, but I am surprised, and hurt, that Daniel has not made more of an effort to see me. I suppose, when all is said and done, he does have to work with my father and is probably just biding his time. I hope so, because the loneliness and isolation of living out here is wearing me down. I used to think that Thornhaugh was my punishment for the things I did but I know the torture of returning home is far worse; that I am as much a prisoner as ever.

  The nightdress I am wearing is my mother’s and it hangs off me as it did her. In a few days of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I have become a bag of bones that a starving dog would not want to pick over. Immediately, I am reminded of the gypsy’s dog and wonder if it made it home safely. There is something bothering me about that night that my secretive self is keeping from me, so I do not stay on this subject too long. Instead, I run my hands over the satin nightgown that almost touches the floor and wonder why I am not like other girls. Most girls my age would not be seen dead in anything so old fashioned but I cannot resist anything that was my mother’s, nor any attempt to bring her to life again. When I wrap my arms around myself, as I am doing now, I imagine it is her arms that are bringing me comfort. When I peer into the only mirror I am allowed to keep in my room, because it is made of Perspex and cannot hurt me, I expect to see her face—so I am shocked to find my own self looking back at me. My eyes are ugly from crying, I notice, and have black shadows under them. My God, I look like a corpse, I decide miserably.

  I am about to move away from the window when I catch sight of something else outside—a shadowy figure flitting across the overgrown garden.

  Holding my breath, I watch it move fast, yet awkwardly; zigzagging from side to side, as if drunk. The shape is too slight to be that of a man and it is certainly not my father, who I can hear mooching around downstairs. What then? A fox or a deer perhaps? As soon as I see a dim light appear in one of the barred windows belonging to the whitewashed building, I know that what I saw was no animal. Glancing firstly at the clock on my bedside table, noting that it is 2am, and back again at my ghostly reflection, I instinctively know that whatever is out there is far more sinister than anything I could imagine.