Delia looked straight at Simon. “I hate you, you bastard!” she screamed, her eyes wild and her face contorted with pain and anguish. “I wish you were dead!”
CHAPTER 9 YORKSHIRE – JUNE 1964
Gripping the paperknife in her hand, Delia sprinted down the hill away from the house, flashing past the stable block on her left and then along the path around the lake, finally collapsing with exhaustion on the grass bank. Although the tears streamed unhindered down her flushed cheeks, she bubbled with laughter, feeling an incredible sense of exhilaration. Her actions had released feelings deep within her that she hadn’t experienced before. Wielding a knife had given her real power. Turning it over in her hand she remembered how it felt, plunging it through the tyres. Would it feel the same through human flesh? Simon Parfitt's in particular. She imagined the blood as she twisted the knife into his stomach, the look of fear in his eyes as he died painfully. She smiled.
A young female Mallard, quacking furiously, waddled hopefully across the grass towards her, poking Delia’s foot with its beak.
“I’m sorry,” murmured Delia, “but you are hardly starving at this time of the year,” she said, feeling a little guilty. Never did she venture down to the lake without food for the ducks and swans, a habit started when she was a toddler on walks with Granny.
Five more ducks emerged from the bushes, all noisily demanding food as they too made their way towards her. A swan, busily fishing in the middle of the lake, raised its head gracefully and looked to see what was causing such a disturbance in such a normally tranquil place. The first duck moved closer, determined to see what Delia had in her hand.
“Nothing to eat I’m afraid,” Delia said, sorry for the creature who looked at the knife in confusion. Delia looked at it too and her sense of exhilaration was replaced by revulsion at the weapon in her hand. She raised her arm high above her head and tossed it into the water as far as she was able, the splash creating a sea of tiny ripples and major panic amongst the birdlife, the ducks making a hasty retreat back to the safety of the shrubbery and the swan moving further up the lake.
Exhilaration was swiftly replaced by deep sadness. Holding her head in her hands, she let out an anguished cry of deep, dark pain, and let the tears flow. She cried and cried, as she had never cried in her life before and by the time the flood had trickled to a steady flow a nagging headache had developed, holding promise of becoming excruciatingly painful and leaving her feeling drained of emotion and desperately tired. She had also eaten nothing since her minuscule breakfast many hours ago and her stomach was rumbling ominously.
Her surroundings were calm and peaceful but did nothing to dispel her inner turmoil. She looked dispassionately at the beauty around her. The vast gardens of Canleigh created a wonderful spectacle at any time of the year but now, in the beautiful month of June, it was at the height of its splendour. The magnificent rhododendrons and azaleas were out in full bloom creating a fairytale setting in deep shades of red, virgin white, flaming orange, pretty pinks and the wild blue-purple. Pine trees towered above, releasing their heady perfume. Tulip trees, scarlet Oaks, silver Limes, Japanese Maples … Delia loved them all but especially the grand Weeping willow near the lake. It was so pretty with its long, trailing branches sweeping down into the water.
Scenes from the past darted through Delia’s mind. Walks around the lake with Father, along with Richard and Vicky, when they were little. Father would be laughing and teasing and Richard, striding manfully between them, would ask question after question, his thirst for knowledge always intense, driving them all to distraction in his quest to know the answers to everything. Delia and Vicky collected the pretty rhododendron petals to scatter over their heads, pretending it was wedding confetti. Granny sometimes joined them, pointing out the species of the birds, trees and plants. She knew the names of everything and was a huge and valuable source of information. Darling Granny. She was going to be so disappointed in Delia now. So gracious and dignified in everything she did, even in disapproval or emotion and she expected the same in her family. How often had she lectured Delia and her siblings on the need for keeping up appearances and never showing emotion in public? “Pretend you are the Queen or the Queen Mother,” she would say. “They are the epitome of how to behave. Gracious and dignified at all times. Remember that and you will never let down the Canleigh name.”
Delia shifted her position on the grass. Having rested all her weight on her left leg, it had gone to sleep and was completely numb. She rubbed it hard and grimaced as the feeling began to return, along with the discomfort of pins and needles. She wondered if she should return to the house and apologise for her behaviour, if only to placate Granny, whose face had been a picture of dismay when Delia had glanced up from punishing Parfitt’s tyres. It was Granny’s expression, more than anything, which had made Delia run and triumph was slowly replaced by shame. Tears ran down her cheeks again and she sniffed loudly, wishing she was carrying a handkerchief and delving into the pockets of her jeans, was relieved to find an old, crumpled one, which would have to do.
She blew her nose as her tears subsided and a feeling of utter tiredness engulfed
