He took a deep breath and placed his hands together.
‘Given the Commonwealth evidence in this case is largely circumstantial, and heavily dependent on this one book, and given the witness’s clear and unwavering testimony as to its prior whereabouts, I am moved to strike this trial and instead record a verdict of accidental death. Miss McCullough, I thank you for your efforts in doing your … civic duty, and I wish to convey my public and heartfelt condolences, once again, for your loss. Miss O’Hare, you are hereby free to leave the court. Clerks, if you could release the prisoner.’
This time the court did erupt. Alice found herself suddenly enveloped by the other women, who were jumping up and down, yelling, tears streaming from their eyes, arms and elbows and chests pressed together in a giant hug. Sven vaulted over the barrier of the public gallery and was there as the jailer undid Margery’s handcuffs, his arms closing around Margery just as she began to sink to the floor in shock. He half walked, half carried her swiftly out of the back exit, Deputy Dulles shielding them before anyone could really work out what was happening. Through it all, Van Cleve could be heard yelling that this was a travesty! An absolute travesty of justice! And those with particularly good hearing could just make out Mrs Brady retorting, ‘Shut your fat mouth for once in your life, you old goat.’
In all the hubbub nobody noticed Sophia quietly leave the coloured section of the public gallery, her bag tucked neatly under her arm, disappearing through the door and briskly making the short walk to the library, picking up speed as she went.
And only those with the very keenest hearing would have heard Verna McCullough, as she was steered out past the librarians, her hand still on the small of her back and her face grimly determined as she muttered under her breath: ‘Good riddance.’
Nobody felt Margery should be left alone, so they brought her to the library and locked both doors, mindful that Kentucky’s most widely circulated newspapers, as well as half of the town, suddenly wanted to talk to her. She said barely a word during the short walk there, her movements slow and oddly frail, as if she had been ill, though she did eat half a bowl of bean soup that Fred brought down from the house, her eyes fixed on it as she ate, as if it were the only thing of any certainty around her. The women exclaimed among themselves about the shock of the verdict, Van Cleve’s impotent fury, the fact that young Verna had indeed done as she had promised.
She had spent the previous night at Kathleen’s cabin, having been walked down on Patch, and even then she had been so nervous at the prospect of facing all those townspeople that Kathleen had been afraid she would find her gone when she awoke. It was only when Fred arrived in the morning with his truck to bring them to court that Kathleen believed they might be in with a chance, and even then the girl was so odd and unpredictable that they had no idea what she was going to say.
Margery listened to all this as if from a distance, her expression oddly blank, and distracted, as if she found the noise and commotion too much after the months of near silence.
Alice wanted to hug her and yet something about Margery’s demeanour forbade it. None of them knew what to say to her and found themselves talking as if to a near stranger – did she want some more water? Was there anything they could get for her? Really, Margery should only say.
And then, almost an hour after they arrived, there was a short rap at the door and Fred, hearing a familiar low voice, moved to unlock it. He opened it a fraction, then his eyes fixed on something unseen and his smile widened. He stepped back, and up the two short steps walked Sven, holding the baby, who was wearing a pale yellow dress and bloomers, her eyes button bright and her hands gripping his sleeve tightly in her tiny fist.
Margery’s head lifted and her hands moved slowly to her mouth as she saw her. Her eyes filled with tears and she rose slowly to her feet. ‘Virginia?’ she said, her voice cracking as if she could barely trust what she was seeing. Sven moved to her, and handed the baby to her mother, and Margery and the child gazed into each other’s eyes, the child scanning her mother’s as if to reassure herself of something. And then, as they watched, the tiny girl took a moment, then let her head come to rest in the space under her mother’s chin, her thumb plugged into her mouth, and as she did Margery closed her eyes and began to sob, silently, her chest heaving violently as if some terrible pain was exorcizing itself, her face contorted. Sven stepped forward and placed his arms around the two of them, holding them close to him, his head lowered, and mindful that they were now privy to something that felt beyond the realms of what was decent, Fred and the librarians tiptoed out of the library and made their way silently up the path to Fred’s house.
The Baileyville WPA packhorse librarians were a team, yes, and a team stuck together. But there were some times when it was only right to be alone.
It would be several days before the other librarians noticed the ledger the sheriff had believed missing, disappeared in the Great Floods, stacked neatly with the others in the shelf to the left of the door. Under the date of 15 December 1937, it showed a loan to Mr C. McCullough, Arnott’s Ridge, of one hardback edition of Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott (one page ripped, back cover slightly damaged). Only someone who looked terribly hard might have noticed how the entry sat between two lines, its ink a very faintly different shade from those around it. And only if you were very cynical indeed might you wonder why there was a one-word entry beside it, written in that same ink: unreturned.
27
Up in this air you breathed easily, drawing in a vital assurance and lightness of heart. In the highlands you woke up in the morning and thought: Here I am, where I ought to be.
Karen Blixen, Out of Africa
Much to the disappointment of the traders and bartenders, it took less than a day for Baileyville to empty. After the ‘NOT GUILTY – SHOCK VERDICT’ headlines had been reduced to firelighters and draught-proofing, and the last of the mobile homes had rattled their way back across county lines, and the prosecution lawyer with the three inexplicably slashed tyres had managed to get a spare set sent over from Lexington, Baileyville swiftly returned to normal, leaving nothing but muddy tracks and empty food wrappers dotted along the verges to show that a trial had ever taken place.
Kathleen, Beth and Izzy escorted Verna back to her cabin, taking turns to walk while Verna rode the sturdy Patch. The journey took the best part of a day, and they parted with promises that Neeta, Verna’s sister, would come and find them if she needed help with her labouring. Nobody ever spoke of the paternity of the child, and Verna had once again grown silent by the time they reached the door, as if exhausted by all the unfamiliar contact.
They did not expect to hear from her again.
That first night Margery O’Hare lay in her own bed facing Sven Gustavsson in the near dark. Her hair was soft and clean from her bath and her belly was full, and out of the open window she could hear the owls and the crickets calling into the darkness of the mountainside, a sound that made the blood slow in her veins, and her heart beat with an easy rhythm. They watched the tiny girl who lay between them, her arms thrown back in sleep, her mouth making soft shapes as she dreamed. Sven’s hand rested on the swell of Margery’s hip and Margery relished the weight of it, the prospect of the nights to come.