Read Online Turf or Stone by Margiad Evans - Free Book Online Page A

why Davis thought Easter a brute. He had never seen any signs of it before. Davis grimaced, scratched his nose, and swung his feet, in their dirty, neglected boots, up on the seat. They had a carriage to themselves. He began to trim his dirty nails with a small instrument, which was fastened to his watch chain. Matt repeated the question.
    ‘When a man throws stones at his wife I call him a brute.’
    ‘I don’t understand… you saw Easter throwing stones at his wife?’
    ‘I saw him.’
    ‘Why, good God, she’s…’
    ‘That’s plain. Your groom’s a b— scoundrel, Kilminster.’
    ‘Was she hurt?’
    ‘Don’t know. She didn’t make a sound. I’d no sooner made up my mind to have a go at him than he ran up to her, and they seemed to be all right. I was some distance off, so I couldn’t see much.’
    Matt seemed aghast, and said no more. He was struck by the number of questions he had asked. So was Davis.
    * * *
    At ten o’clock that night Dorothy sent for Easter. Being perfectly aware of what she wanted him to do he deliberately took his time before answering the summons. On these occasions it pleased him to feel the Kilminsters in his hands. Dorothy was lying on the hearthrug in the drawing room, collecting the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which Philip had thrown at Rosamund. Over-tired and peevish they had gone to bed. Phoebe sat on a stool near the fire, a book upside down on her lap, murmuring poetry. At each disconnected audible mutter Dorothy twitched her brows with annoyance. The white light of the unshaded lamp made them look drawn and unhealthy. The room was chilly, the carpet littered with chocolate-box shavings, and children’s crumpled comic papers.
    Phoebe stopped, and Dorothy jerked herself upright. Through the door they heard scolding and broken jeering laughter.
    ‘There he is, mother!’
    Dorothy walked across the room and glanced along the passage, which was almost dark. With the light of the hall lamp behind him, Easter was coming towards her, and there was something dangerous in his aspect, something wild and out of control. His features still gleamed with fitful mirth, and his unholy eyes were shining excitedly. He stopped very near to her, bending so close to her bare shoulders that she took a quick pace backwards. She wore a long amber-coloured satin dress, which attracted him, but he disdained her. She had no character, no strength, nothing to give or to teach.
    ‘You have been a long time,’ she said.
    ‘I came as soon as I could, madam.’
    Dorothy surveyed his slovenly clothes and ill-shaven face impatiently.
    ‘How many times have you been told not to loaf about the kitchen?’
    ‘I was killing a rat.’
    He answered impudently; pulling the dead animal out of his pocket he swung it round jauntily by the tail.
    ‘Its neck’s broken,’ he added, with a secret glance under his arched eyelids, ‘I caught it a clip with the tongs as it run over the fender.’
    He held it out for her to see. She was disgusted, and he returned it to his pocket with a contemptuous grin. A horrible odour indicated that the rat was in reality much staler than he made out; in fact, it was a dead one which he had picked up for a purpose of his own.
    ‘Bring me a cigarette,’ Dorothy suddenly demanded.
    Easter could not see any.
    ‘On the table behind you, in that box.’
    While he turned round she dwelt on him, the fierce, impertinent man whom she could not endure.
    He found the box and passed it to her without opening it, and she shook it so that they could hear the cigarettes rolling about inside.
    ‘Don’t you think you should have opened it for me? Now, a match!’
    ‘I haven’t a match,’ Easter exclaimed loudly. All at once he felt furiously angry as though he must strike her or spit into her face. The mood blazed in every feature, and made itself clear in his voice. Phoebe heard. She sprang to herfeet, and coming to her mother’s side leant forward and lit the cigarette. She cast a