Flora stepped around sun-glazed hollows in the path where hens made dust baths. She approached the house warily, mindful of the dog. It occurred to her that if a young woman should emerge and be presented to her as not being Enid, she would have no way of knowing whether or not this was the truth.
Fourteen years old, she thought. Fourteen.
The door of the house swung open. Mr. Mallory stood in the doorframe, unbuttoning his flies. She froze as he began to fumble with his underdrawers. He sighed, closed his eyes. A golden stream, steaming. She heard a hollow knocking sound, as if something within the house had fallen over.
He called back over his shoulder. “I ain’t done with you.”
He opened his eyes as he tucked himself back into his trousers, and his gaze felt on Flora. He reeled backwards, threw up an arm.
“What the bejesus you doing here?”
His words were slurred. His eyes widened, squinted.
“Fuckin’ women.”
Wee-min, Flora heard. Fuckin’ weemin.
He came towards her, one long step caught up by a sideways lurch. He stopped, clasped his face in one hand as if the light were an anguish. He pointed back up the hill.
“By Jesus, you get off my place.”
“Who is it? Who you talking to?” A woman’s voice.
“Shut up.”
Mrs. Mallory’s face appeared in the window, distorted by the glass, cheeks smashed to purple, open bleeding wounds around her eyes. She gripped her mouth with bloody fingers.
Mr. Mallory took another reeling step. “Get off out of here.”
Flora backed away.
“Mr. Mallory, I was told that Enid Salford was here. I need to see her.”
Whiskey, sour breath. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Black hairs on his chest. A streak of blood on his cheek.
“Perley Hayes bring you? Cunt bastard. I’ll see to…”
The dog came up from the barn, a silent energy, like wind. Flora screamed, flailed her arms, felt teeth on her forearm. She tore from the dog’s grip, ran towards the house. The woman pulled the door wide. Flora tripped, fell over the threshold. The woman snatched a cloth from the stove bar, thrust it at Flora. Mr. Mallory followed Flora into the house, slammed the door behind him, rammed a bolt over the bar latch. Flora huddled on the floor, pressing the dishcloth to her wound. The dog hurled itself against the door.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Silence. The click of the dog’s nails.
Mr. Mallory sat at the table. He picked up a stoneware jug and tipped it to his mouth.
“All night,” the woman hissed at Flora. Accusing. “This been goin’ on all night.”
She huddled against the wall, hands to bleeding mouth. Smashed crockery. A broken chair, its rush seat ripped loose. A bowl of stew on the floor, its contents congealing on the rug.
Flora’s mind became a ray of light, searching. The door, locked. Could she pull the bolt back? The dog, waiting. Another door, leading into a hall.
Drinking all night.
“What to do with her,” he muttered to himself. “What in the hell am I going to do with her. Fuckin’ women.” He roared at his wife. “You let the girl out of your sight. She’s gone and told. They sent this…this…”
Pointing at Flora.
“No one sent me,” she said.
“No one sent me.” He tipped the jug back until she could see the matted underside of his beard.
“Alright, then,” he whispered. “Two women I got to dispose of. How to…though…uhh. Dispose…”
He sat forward, abruptly, elbows on knees, head in hands. He shook his head, muttering.
“…deal with Hayes…horse…whore bitch…”
The woman and Flora looked at one another. The woman’s eyes went to the poker, hanging on the back of the stove. Flora’s eyes. She signalled to the woman with the slightest lift of a forefinger. Wait.
“Mr. Mallory?”
“How the fuck you know my name? Where you from, anyway. Never seen you around…”
“I’m not from here. I don’t know anything about you, except that…”
She took a deep breath.
“…that you have my sister.”
Stillness, suddenly. Mr. and Mrs. Mallory, shocked into complicity.
“What sister?” he said.
“Enid Salford is my sister.”
“You ain’t one of them people who’s in charge of them English kids?”
“No. I’m Enid Salford’s sister, and I’ve been looking for her for a very long time. I was told she was here at your farm.”
“Well, then, you got her to blame.” He tipped forward until his feet were beneath his torso; rocked himself up and staggered over to his wife. Bracing himself with one hand against the wall, he kicked her with each word. “She-let-that-damn-girl…” Harder. “Out-of-her-sight. Her-ignorant-slut-fault.”
Flora scrambled to her feet. She seized the back of his shirt.
“Stop that. You’ll kill her.”
He turned and gripped Flora by the shoulders. She tore from his grasp, knocked the jug from the table. It broke into three large pieces. She picked up a piece, backed away, holding it towards his face. He punched her in the stomach. Her skirt tripped her as she doubled over, turning to run, the bolt beneath her fingers, trying to shove it back, screamed as she felt a stab in her shoulder, the point raking down through the fabric of her sleeve. Bloody shard in his hand.
Men’s voices, horses.
She screamed. Mrs. Mallory screamed.
“Help! Help us!”
Mr. Mallory thrust her aside. She knelt, clutching her shoulder. The door wrenched open, his boots on the dirt, a stagger, shouting, running, the shard in his hand like a spear.
“Off my property! You got no—”
Air on her face, the smell of summer.
Mrs. Mallory on her side, furled, like a caterpillar. Mr. Mallory, stumbling across the clearing, waving his arms as if the men were crows and could be frightened away. Two men flinging themselves willy-nilly from their horses, running towards him.
Perley Hayes, then.
Horse and wagon coming around the bend.
SEVENTEEN Fresh Bread and Freedom
AS SOON AS THE doctor finished cleaning the dog bite and stitching the stab wound, Perley Hayes drove Flora to the parsonage.
Mrs. Wallace hurried out, tightening her apron.
“Thank heavens,” she said. She stepped forward, cupped Flora’s face, examining the bandage. “You are white as a ghost.”
“I need to see
