Mrs Morningwood laughed.
‘Then I heard about what your mother did, on the side. And there was something that Lord Stourport said to Lol. About country girls.’
‘Country girls.’ Mrs Morningwood sniffed. ‘She was livid about that. Do you know how much they were paid? Well, I suppose it wouldn’t sound very much in today’s money, but then … absolute fortune. Rural wages were a complete joke, even then. Farm labour one up from slave labour, and ordinary people would need two or three jobs to get by – many still do, of course, as you know. Ironically, it’s largely the farmers themselves now. Tragic.’
‘These were your mother’s girls.’
‘Were. It all rather fell apart after that. I had to laugh. She’d been ripping those girls off for years. And my grandmother before her.’
‘The Morningwood heritage. How far does it go back?’
‘That’s it, really. Two generations. Before that, I imagine they were witches. Lived in a tiny little place over towards the White Rocks, I think it’s a sheep shed now. But, you see, Watkins, it was part of the rural culture … a necessary part of the culture.’
‘We’re talking about abortions?’
‘And the rest. My grandmother, who never married, raised three daughters on the profits of what, basically, was prostitution.’
‘She was doing it herself?’
Merrily trying for surprise, but once you knew, you knew.
‘And then, as she got older, began pimping for youngsters trying to earn enough money to make something of their lives. It was like …’ Mrs Morningwood’s mouth twisted at the thought, and her lip began to bleed again ‘… almost a gap year for some of them before they left the area, went to college, got themselves good jobs. Strong independent young women who’d learned how to … handle men.’
‘Can I get you something for that lip?’
‘Won’t die, Watkins. And when I say handle men, that was all it amounted to in most cases.’
‘You make it sound like an essential social service. Which I suppose …’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘Still?’
Mrs Morningwood sighed. A shift in terminology for the new millennium. Sex therapist specializing in rural needs. As a teenager, she’d grown – despicably, she said – to despise her mother. She’d gone to London, to work as a secretary for a theatrical agent – loose term, very loose. Had ended up working on what she described as adult magazines. Very adult. All very enlightening and destined to alter her opinion of her mother and her grandmother. Got married, not for long. Had been single again when the letter from Mary Roberts had finally reached her.
‘So was Mary …?’
‘Not up to the time I left. Eric Davies – that was a respectable job. But afterwards, perhaps inevitably, she made friends with the other girls.’
‘How many girls were there at the time?’
‘Three, I think. A very informal arrangement by then. My mother really was more of a herbalist, and the demand for herbs was increasing – from middle-class people by then, able to pay more, alternative health becoming quite an industry. She was still furious, though, when two of the girls took the Stourport shilling.’
‘And Mary?’
‘My mother always claimed she didn’t know about that until it was too late.’
‘I would have thought maybe she would’ve offered to get rid of Mary’s baby?’
‘Oh no.’
‘She’d stopped doing that?’
‘No, she was still doing it. She simply wouldn’t tamper with a foetus conceived at the Master House. Call it superstition.’
‘I’m not getting this.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘But the tradition … that didn’t end.’
‘It altered. My mother became ill. I nursed her over the final weeks – all over very quickly, as it always used to be before the medical profession became part of the drug culture. During that time I fielded seven phone calls from hesitant men. Two of whom I felt so sorry for that I … Well, what was I supposed to do?’
‘A warm heart under that bluff exterior?’
‘You can’t embarrass me, Watkins. Rural needs are essentially different to urban needs. No verge-crawling in the Land Rover. Extreme discretion is crucial, and there’s a certain mutual respect. Wasn’t going to dress up, mind. Take me as you find me.’
‘Literally?’
‘God, you’re prurient. It was nothing where I couldn’t pretend I was milking a cow.’
‘So Mr Hinton, the other day …?’
‘All sorted. Safely delivered. Delia, I think he’s called her. It’s not a major enterprise or anything, I think I’ve supplied seven in two years. A comfort, for mild-mannered chaps lacking in social skills. In one case, because of the cost, one was shared between two brothers.’
‘I see … do I?’
‘Delia – she and her sisters, the point about them is that they’re not impossibly beautiful. They don’t pout. They’re not Hollywood. The fantasy in these parts, it’s the girl in the T-shirt behind the counter at Hay and Brecon Farmers. You know what I mean? Sometimes, the outlet I deal with, I’ve actually provided them with photographs to work from – from the local papers.’
Jumbo’s Michelle, he really loves her, see, Gomer had said. Wouldn’t swap her for a top o’ the range quad bike. Had her reconditioned twice. Jumbo weighs seventeen stone, mind …
‘Mum?’ Jane’s head came round the door. ‘You going to have them by the fire or what?’
‘No, I think we’ll come into the kitchen, flower, if you want to get some plates down.’
‘OK.’
‘Rubber dolls?’ Merrily said. ‘Inflatable girlfriends? That’s why you won’t go to the police?’
‘How could I?’ Mrs Morningwood easing Roscoe’s head from her lap. ‘Seriously, how could I? All right, it’s mainly the inflatables now, nothing illegal there, but they’d start excavating.’
‘I think you could handle it. The identity of rape victims—’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, this is Garway Hill. Besides, even if they believed me after they discovered what they would very quickly discover … it isn’t just me, is it?’
‘You’re worried about the clients.’
‘It would be like a bomb under the hill. Don’t get me wrong, Watkins, I don’t fear personal exposure, but the handful of shy, vulnerable men throughout South Herefordshire, Monmouthshire, the Black Mountains, whose private lives would be taken apart, who’d would be subjected to the most degrading—’
‘OK, I understand.’
And as they went through to the kitchen, she finally did understand.
She was asking for it, of course. Been asking for it for years, the old slag.
Generations, even.
‘Besides,’ Mrs Morningwood murmured in the hall, ‘what he intended was to kill me. Don’t you think?’
45
Past Rising
OBVIOUSLY, JANE KNEW there was something she wasn’t party to. At one stage, washing the dishes, she looked at Mrs Morningwood and then tentatively grinned at Merrily.
‘I hope Siân was still here when you got back.’
‘Erm, no. She’d gone.’
‘Pity. I was only explaining to her why it was so essential we should have a big vicarage. Like because of the, you know, damaged people you had to bring back sometimes?’ Sheepish smile for Mrs Morningwood. ‘Sorry.’