THE FELON
An old bus, sputtering and exhaling fumes of petrol, rattled away, leaving a woman alone by the verge. She scanned the landscape; nothing seemed to have changed. The winding lane, streaked all over with sticky black mud, still shimmered in the twilight drizzle. The same unruly bramble hedges stood in their usual places, flecked with specks of mist. In the distance was a village, stretching like a stripe alongside a dark strip of forest. Windows glowed gold in the coming dusk, barks of dogs rang through the air, and surly geese honked their complaints.
Yes, nothing has changed here in six years, mused Helen. Well, almost nothing. Only on the right, atop the gentle hill, where once had stood a shining row of farm machinery bathed in dim lamp light, now lurked an empty gloom. She didnt know what became of Barlows farmperhaps his children had sold it.
Helen made her way onto the village high street and half-expected someone to fling a stone at her from behind a gate. It felt as though every window concealed a swath of judgmental eyes. Hunching her shoulders, she pulled her scarf low to hide her features, hoping to melt into the evening unnoticed. What would she find? Was there even anything left of her cottage? But there was nowhere else for her to go, nowhere but the old village. No matter the resentment that bristled towards her after what had happened all those years ago. After all, it was because of her that half the villagers lost their livelihoods six years back.
Helen was not the same as she had been, transformed both within and without. The once-carefree beautyher blue eyes wide, her hair with a nutmeg hueshe had disappeared. Helen had always lived alone at the edge of the dell, her little ramshackle house shaded by two great birches. All the village once revered George Barlow; most of them had worked for him. When Helen finally moved in with him, it felt like she’d won the lottery of life.
But things were never so straightforward. George fancied himself a local lord, a petty tyrant; Helen was, in his eyes, just a playthinga housemaid, a pet, charmed only by the attention of such a man. At first, she was too dazzled to notice his nature. Then, slowly, he cut her off from all her friends, insisted she wear only the plainest clothing, outlawed makeup, and imposed endless rules. All of life became a list of nos. She was confined to home: waiting for him, making a beef stew, scrubbing the floors. There was no question of working elsewhere. He was obsessed with the notion that she might strayhis suspicions drove him mad. Helen tried to prove her faithfulness, but soon saw it was pointless. It was never about herit was about him. She could twist herself inside out and still never satisfy him.
Things escalated and, finally one day, when he turned violent, Helen fled back to her little cottage at the dells edge, hoping to bury the memories as one might cover a grave. But fate had one more cruel trick.
George returned the day after shed left. Helen was mopping the kitchen floor, the doors wide open, the house cool and clean with the breeze. Lost in the rhythm, she was soothed by the regular swish of mop on tile. With a thunderous kick, George sent the bucket flying, water spreading into a lake across the floor. She knew, after the bucket, it would be her turn.
Memory blurs here, as if kindly refusing to let her recall. She only came to when the yard was alive with police, shaking a plastic evidence bag containing a kitchen knife in front of her face, asking urgent questions. Neighbours gathered beyond the fence, whispering. In the kitchen, the furniture was overturned, curtains torn, and George Barlow lay sprawled in the centre.
Shes driven him to his death! hissed one voice through the hedge.
She shouldve watched herself, and hed still be here.
What more did she want? Lived in the lap of luxury!
Ruined a good man, that one!
And what nowhow will we live? He gave us all jobs!
A commotion swelled: Whatll we do now? Wheres a wage for us?
Helen was given six years in prison. She served her time in a low-security womens facility. It wasnt easy, though not as hellish as shed dreaded. Thanks to her gentle ways and her good ear for sorrow, she found companionsfriendships that softened the years. Outwardly, the old Helen had vanishedthe bright blue eyes dulled, the brown locks streaked with iron, the urge to dress up evaporated entirely. Shed never imagined herself behind bars; shed always thought only hopeless, broken people belonged there. But as the old saying goesno one is safe from poverty or prison. Life can shatter in a moment. She was a felon now.
She walked, hiding her face behind her scarf, her heart hammering with uncertainty. Was her home still there, or had it been chopped to pieces for firewood? But at the dells edge, between the willows, the battered walls of her cottage held firm. Down in the hollow, she smelled the familiar tang of cool earth, heard the stream bubbling and frogs croaking. She had pictured this return so many times in dreams; here were the groves where mushrooms grewparasol, puffball, penny bun… She longed, absurdly, to wander off with a basket.
In a shadow she slipped through the gate, searching along the lintel for her secret key. When she opened the door, she braced for a musty wave of damp, but the place was clean. She flicked the switch, and gentle yellow light filled the kitchen. All was tidy, a great geranium blushing pink on the windowsill. Helen stared, puzzled. Each room frozen in place, nothing disturbed. Clearly, someone had watched over the home in her absence.
Helen! Helen! A voice called from the hall as a neighbour, Dorothy, bustled in. Blimey, she whistled instead of a greeting, youve not half changed… I saw your light and ran right over! Brought you somethinga bit of supper, after your journey. She placed a jar of milk and a carefully wrapped crusty loaf on the table.
Thank you, Helen smiled, was it you who looked after the house?
It was, of course, Dorothy nodded, can’t leave a house untended
Helen was moved to tears. Thank you! Thank you truly! She dabbed away a tear as Dorothy excused herself, I’d best be off. Not everyones forgiven you, you know. If my Jim catches me here, hell scold me something rotten!
A little lighter in spirit, Helen poured a glass of still-warm milk. There was a knock at the door. A gangly boy of about thirteen hovered shyly, holding out a bundle. Mmmum said to give you this, he muttered, thrusting the parcel at her before darting away. She couldnt place himchildren grow so quickly. Instantly, the room filled with the savoury aroma of smoked gammon.
Beth burst in, unannounced, and flung her arms about her. In days gone by, before George, theyd been like sisters. Helen wept. I thought no one would ever speak to me again.
Dont be daft, said Beth. Women ought to stick together. It was self-defence, whatever people think. The men never get what we women go through; they never do. Dorothy said you were backso I popped in with some garden bits. Rest up tonight. Tomorrow well have a proper natter.
Helens throat was tight with gratitude. She realized shed judged the villagers too harshly. The women, at least, understood. As she slipped between freshly-laundered sheets, she was nearly asleep when a persistent tap summoned her to the window. Even in darkness, she recognised the broad-shouldered silhouette of Hugh. In his quiet way, Hugh was the leader of the village and commanded everyones trust.
Dont come out, he called in a low voice. Well talk through the gap. Me and the lads have been talking. No sense holding old grudges. The women might misunderstand, but youre not to blame for what happened. Things are worse without work, sure, but George brought it on himself. Besides, he was, well… never mind. Anyway, weve scraped up a bit of cash for youjust for now. Take it!
Helen felt awkward accepting the handful of notes, but Hugh simply tossed them through the window and vanished into the starless night.
