Page 41 of The Show Woman

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Flurries

It is slow going on the road out of Glasgow. The snow has stopped but it is thick and soft, and the horses’ hooves kick up flurries at every step, ploughing through relentless banks and drifts. They have taken Harry’s wagon and two of the smaller Weaver horses. On a good day they might have made it to Falkirk by nightfall, but in this weather it will be tomorrow at the earliest.

Lena sits up front on the box beside Harry, her body taut, back straight. Her heart pounds with the strangeness of being so close to him, his gloved hands holding the reins, his bunnet pulled down close over his eyes. She would rather have done this alone. Confronted Serena Linden unannounced, with no fuss, and no man to protect her. But Harry is right: it could be dangerous. And she’d rather have him to keep an eye on her than anyone else.

Serena has become, in her eyes, a monster. A vicious, careworn battleaxe with nothing but vengeance in her cold black heart. Nobody knew better than Lena how difficult Violet could be. But she will never understand the woman’s desire for revenge. She had plenty of acts to pick from. Why was Violet so special?

Except that Violet was special, always had been. Lena had known it as a child, when Violet darted round Vinegarhill, her hair an orange cloud, always the loudest, the fastest, the most infuriating. An image occurs to her now of Violet on the bridge, the way she had fallen, the serene smile that played on her lips as she leant into the black night and vanished. She had lived life on her terms. She had ended it on her terms, too. No stale hospital ward for her. Beneath the deadening weight of her grief, Lena almost admires her for it.

‘Whoa,’ says Harry, and pulls the horses to a stop. On the road ahead a cart has fallen on its side, two lads on the box hanging on for dear life, the horse on the ground half-submerged in snow, eyes bulging with slackening fear, chest heaving.

‘Stay here,’ he says, and hands Lena the reins. He jumps down, runs on to the cart, helps pull the boys down one by one. They are shaken, animated, shouting to him about how the horse skidded, must be a patch of black ice, their father was going to give them so much trouble if the horse was dead.

Harry helps them detach the cart from the harness and set it upright, crouches down and strokes the mare’s head and scratches behind her ears. ‘It’s alright, girl,’ he says, tender, attentive. ‘You’re going to be alright.’ He feels down the horse’s flanks and over her legs. ‘Nothing broken,’ he says. ‘I think she’s just winded.’

They wait and watch until, slowly, the horse’s breathing slows and she clambers on to her knees and finally back on to the road.

‘Thank bloody God,’ says the older boy. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s your horse that did the hard work. Now drive safe out here.’

Harry climbs back on the wagon as the cart disappears into the grey. Lena can feel the chill off him. It has started snowing again, tiny flurries. He would have made a good father, even if Carmen and he had not made a go of it. She is unsettled, carrying this secret with her. But it would do no one any good to tell him now.

It is not long before they stop again.

‘I think we’ll call it a night,’ says Harry. ‘No point pushing on just to come a cropper like those lads.’

They pull off the road, park the wagon by a small field, and Harry turns the horses into a nearby paddock and fills their feed bags. Inside the wagon Lena feels awkward and uncertain of herself. She lights candles, bustles around with cheese, bread and ham, all they managed to gather together before their early morning departure. Finally they sit huddled in the wagon, the snowy wind whistling round the tiny cracks in the woodwork.

‘We probably shouldn’t have rushed off like this,’ says Lena. ‘We should have waited for the weather to clear. It was stupid.’

Harry smiles. ‘Aye, but you’re impulsive, just like my sister was. I quite admire it.’

Lena feels her colour rise.

‘Carmen was a mistake,’ he says now. He has stopped eating, is looking straight at her. ‘I met her when she was with the Spanish circus and I was trying my luck in a music hall. She was friendly. And I was awful lonely. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s the truth. It didn’t really mean much. Just two lonely souls. But I need you to know that I didn’t meet her on the streets, in case that’s what Violet told you.’

Lena looks down at her plate. It is old, made of tin, and flecks of rust coat the rim.

‘I know. I went to see Carmen. She told me. She’s back in the rat pit now. It was just awful. But I couldn’t persuade her to come back. Violet was just messing with me. Honestly I think she was a wee bit jealous. She’d be jealous of anyone stealing her big brother away.’

‘Stealing him away?’ Harry cocks an eyebrow. ‘Is that what you were doing that night in Ayr?’

Lena laughs. It might be the first time she has done so since Violet’s death. There is a relief in it.

‘I still can’t believe she’s gone, you know,’ she says. ‘She was just so present somehow. So full of life.’

‘She was full of something,’ says Harry and this time they both laugh, knowing that if Violet were here she’d be laughing too, coming out with a cutting retort to put Harry in his place.

‘What do you want from this Linden woman?’ he says. ‘Are you expecting her to confess? Because I’m not sure she will. She’s cunning and sly, from what I’ve heard. And she’s not going to allow us to have her dragged off to the jail, not without proof.’

‘I want to look her in the eye,’ says Lena. The humour has drained from her, and she feels suddenly exhausted. ‘I’ll know. No matter what she tells me, I’ll know if she’s telling the truth, trust me.’

‘I do,’ says Harry. ‘I always have.’

Outside the wagon the snow has stopped. Lena bundles herself up in a bunk, wrapped in blankets. She hears Harry pottering about the caravan, tidying up, blowing out candles and, finally, getting into the opposite bunk. Before long he has started a light snore. But Lena lies awake until long into the night, thinking of Violet, and Serena, and the desire for the truth that fizzes through her.

She wakes to a glimmering white so bright, it is as though torches are being shone into the wagon. It is Harry, opening the door, bringing with him a small pail of milk, a loaf of bread and the crisp scent of a winter’s day.

‘Got these from the farm down the road,’ he says. ‘There’s been no more snow overnight so if we look lively we might get there before nightfall.’

Lena pulls herself out of bed. She is still wearing last night’s clothes. Her mouth feels sour, her bladder full. She goes outside, finds a tree and squats behind it, watching the hot liquid melt the blanket of white beneath. She wanders further into the thicket, fishes a small cloth out of her pocket, dips it in the snow, then washes herself.

She tries to imagine what she will say to Serena. Will she scream? Cry? Beg her for the truth? No. She must be calm. Measured. She will keep her hands still, her eyes fixed on the woman before her. But she will not leave until she has found out just how evil and depraved Serena Linden is. She must do. For Violet.