The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(98)

“And what money would that be?” he said gruffly. Mrs. Gibbs slipped in behind him, remaining half hidden by the till as Ralph stalked lazily around the counter into the main shop in front of me.

“You know exactly what money I’m talking about,” I spat, my hand itching to get out the scissors. “The money you stole from the hop picker boy. It’s my money, Ralph Gibbs. You have to give it back to me.” I was shouting at him, shouting and crying, spelling each word out as if it was the end of the world. “I’ve lost my house, I’ve lost everything. I need my money.”

He stood watching me for a moment, half bored, half amused. Then he said, “Or what?”

“What do you mean?” I cried.

“What, exactly, do you plan to do?” His tone was flippant, jokey. “If I can’t—or don’t—give it back?”

“I’ll tell the police about your dealings with the black market.” I planted a firm look on my face, as if that would be that. “What with that, and your very casual use of rationing in the shop, you’ll be behind bars in no time.”

“Oh really, Miss Paltry?” He seemed undaunted, leaning his hand on the counter, glancing around the shelves. “I don’t think they’ll do any such thing without proof.”

“I’m sure they’ll find it soon enough,” I sputtered, feeling the situation rushing out of my hands.

“Is that the best you can do, Miss Paltry?” He smirked, a pitying look on his face. “Is that really the best you can do?”

That did it. I rummaged into my paper bag as fast as I could and closed my fingers around the scissors. “I’m going to make you,” I said with relish as I brought them out, swooshing them in the air in front of his face.

He laughed, yes, laughed, and took a step back away from me. “You don’t want to do that, Miss Paltry,” he said lightly.

“I want my money,” I screamed, making a sweeping plunge toward his shoulder.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said sharply, and, quick as a flash, he grabbed the end of the scissors with one hand and my arm with the other, and within the space of a few seconds he had my arm twisted around my back, the scissors dropping to the floor with a smattering metallic clatter. I felt something sharp, pointed, jabbing under my chin, the wincing pain of blood seeping out. It appeared that he had a knife of his own. I uttered a squeal, terrified that he would kill me, slit my throat like a pig’s. I squirmed to get out of his grip, but it only threw my neck further into his blade.

“I warned you, Paltry,” he growled into my ear all sinister. “When I get angry I lose control of what I’m doing.”

A tiny clang of a bell at the door made him lurch around, spinning me around in front of him.

Who do you think it was? None other than Mrs. Tilling, who was clearly listening in, trying not to let the bells sound as she eased the door open.

For a split second we all froze—Ralph uncertain whether to let me go, Mrs. Tilling sizing up the scene, Mrs. Gibbs still peeking out from behind the till, and me unable to move for the ruddy blade beneath my chin.

“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Tilling demanded in a razor-sharp voice, striding forward to Ralph, who had decided to relax his grip, calmly slipping the knife into his pocket.

“Nothing,” he said, rubbing his hands against each other to blend the spots of blood. “Just teaching Miss Paltry here one or two lessons I learned in the army.” He cocked his tongue into the side of his mouth flippantly.

“You appear to have gone too far,” she said crossly, coming over and looking at my cut. “Do you realize that you’ve drawn blood?”

“Have I?” he said, feigning surprise. “I might have got a little carried away.” He folded his arms in a rebellious manner, half of him the man who went to war, half still the schoolboy afraid of his friend’s mum.

“Well, that’s quite enough.” She looked him over in a disapproving way. “I’ll be back later to deal with you. I’m sure that Constable Richards would be interested to hear about this.”

Ralph slouched into his heels. Was she going to turn him in? I half hoped she would, as it would serve him right, but that would also mean that the origin of my money would no doubt become known, and I would end up in jail with him. I let out a long breath.

Mrs. Tilling turned to me, and I cringed back into the shadows. “Why don’t you come home with me, Miss Paltry?” Her tone was lighter, gentler, filling me with a searing trepidation of the horrors awaiting me. “I’ll help clean that nasty cut.” With that she picked up the scissors and put them in the brown bag, took a firm grasp of my elbow, and marched me out of the door.

We’d turned the corner out of the square and were heading down the road toward her house before I could shake her off.

I stopped dead, dug my heels in. “Mrs. Tilling, let me go!” I snarled. “You can’t make me go with you.”

“No, of course I can’t, but under the circumstances I imagine you might realize that it’s the preferable choice.” She didn’t say she was going to call the coppers, but I knew she could. The little charade she just witnessed was evidence enough to get me put away for something, if not everything.

I stood away from her, grimly realizing that my only hope of escape was to hobble frantically down to the train station, and with my hip the way it is she could easily stop me. I was well and truly cornered.