Becoming Tess Read online

  Becoming Tess

  H K Thompson

  Copyright © 2014 Hilary Thompson

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Any similarities between characters in this novel and people living or dead are coincidental.

  Matador®

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  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1784628 840

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  Contents

  Cover

  About the author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Letter to Evelyn Doyle

  About the author

  H. K. Thompson is retired and lives in the Midlands.

  Acknowledgements

  My sincere thanks go to David Findlay for reading a pre final edit version and giving me encouragement. As always. And to Heather Jones for her generous support in reading the pre final edit version and making invaluable proofreading changes. To Eloise Miller for giving such good advice and criticism and encouraging me on to better things because she was invariably right.

  To Troubador for making it possible to publish electronically.

  To Kate for her enduring love and seeing me through the worst years.

  And last but by no means least, to Barbara for reading the novel at a very embryonic stage and encouraging me to complete it, without reservation; and for her sterling work in dealing with the IT dimension that leaves me sweating and defeated. Without her I may not have got this far.

  Chapter 1

  Tess Dawson had spent the warmest part of the winter’s day in the garden, pulling out the few remaining weeds in her borders, sweeping up leaves sodden with all the recent rain and packing them into a black polythene bag which she stabbed with the garden fork and stowed by the side of the shed. She felt suddenly stiff and chilled as the sun weakened and dipped beneath the hedge line. As she had been working in the garden over the past two days she had thought continually about the decision she had made. She was still tired from her long car journey and from the things that had happened, important, frightening things, whilst she had been away. They had all but overwhelmed her and left her feeling hollowed-out, stripped of the resources that normally allowed her to cope with her life. And now she found that the burdensome secret she had lived with for seven years was no longer bearable. Something inside her had changed. On that journey back as she drove through the brilliant countryside lit by a winter sun, she had found herself dwelling on it and sensing a growing feeling that she must let go. She knew that if she went ahead with her decision everything would change, but that was what she wanted. In her heart she wanted everything to change.

  Her mind made up, she rubbed off the drying soil from her cold hands and locked the shed door. She noticed the green wood preserver was wearing thin in the places where the weather caught the old wood and made a mental note to touch up the worn bits when she could summon up the energy for a mundane task. Entering the cottage by the back door, a warm wave of heat bathed her face. She closed the door on the winter cold and reached for the kettle to fill it from the tap. Tea made and clasped in her defrosting hand she surveyed the disarray of the kitchen surfaces and for once made no effort to tidy and wipe. She stood as if transfixed by the cellar door and stared at it with an intense and sad look. With her still unwashed hand she reached for the latch set high on the door and clicked it open, held it there for a few seconds and pulled the door open gently, its bottom edge brushing vaguely on the tiled floor.

  At the top of the cellar stairs she stopped and paused then swept her hand down the wall in the darkness, feeling for the light switch. It was an action she could do even with her eyes closed. The fluorescent clicked and flickered and threw its light onto the narrow stairs. She could see into the low cellar. There were a few boxes, an old bicycle, some planks of wood leaning against the wall at the bottom of the steps partially blocking her route into the room. She thought yet again that she should move them. She took several deep breaths of the heavy air that hung there and began her descent. At the bottom of the stairs she edged past the leaning planks, dislodging the outer one, which fell with a bump, scrape and clatter onto the concrete floor in front of her. Stepping over it, she moved along the wall adjacent to the steps and stopped by some bricks placed carefully into an old fireplace recess. She had always been puzzled by the presence of a fireplace in a cellar.

  In the minute it took her to walk from the door, down the cellar steps and to the bricked recess she had thought only of the task in hand. As she looked at the tightly wedged bricks she tried to imagine what lay behind them. She had lived in the rooms above this cellar, always aware of the presence of it below her, always haunted by painful memories. Now she felt strangely calm but her hands were shaking and her mouth was dry and she knew that really she was afraid. She began to pull at the bricks, working them loose where they were tightly packed together. There was no mortar, just the close-fitting resistance of wedged, rough, baked clay butted against baked clay. She pulled and pushed and jiggled the first of the bricks with focused effort and concentration, her hands working intently and her eyes trained on the diminishing wall.

  Tess thought to herself, How could I have tried to forget what I’ve done? How could I have tried to pretend that everything was OK and normal? The feeling of amazement that had begun as she first stood by the fireplace reached a crescendo and she worked on, pushing aside rising sensations of grief and loss. Her legs felt like jelly, shaking from the strong adrenaline rush that came from her sense of purpose and from her fear. As she worked the bricks free she piled them in an orderly tower on the floor. What had been a brick panel became a gap and then a hole in the wall. The old fireplace, its identity stripped away by the absence of mantelpiece or hearthstone or grate, was revealed. At the base of the firebox, bundled in a dirty blanket was a small object. She reached in and carefully lifted it out. Tess felt the lightness of the bundle, smelt the soot and dirt from the blanket and the fireplace. There were some feathers, some dried bird droppings, the pervasive odour of the earth. She let out
a deep sob.She stood for a while holding her meagre bundle, amazed at the weightlessness of it and wondering where its substance had gone. She could not bring herself to open the blanket to look at its contents. She made her way up the cellar steps, slowly and carefully. As she came to the top of the steps and stood on the warm threshold of the kitchen she transferred the blanket to her left arm and cradled the bundle against her heart, feeling for the first time the hardness of bones against her own soft body. For a moment she felt overwhelmed by her emotions as tears rolled down her face. Righting herself as if recovering from capsize, she collected her bag from where it dangled on the back of a kitchen chair and hung it from her right shoulder. As if on autopilot, she walked to the back door and turned the key in the lock. She turned, cradling the bundle with the utmost care, and walked up the passage to the front door, coatless, unhooking her car keys where they always hung as she passed the dresser. Outside, the sun was already dropping into the far horizon of trees. She opened her car door and placed the bundle carefully on the front passenger seat. She shivered and started the car, moving off slowly down the lane, trying to avoid the potholes, trying to give Rachel a smooth ride.

  Chapter 2

  “What do we really know about Tess Dawson? I can’t say that I know very much. A few facts. All I really have is a loose impression.”

  The question was concise, and behind the words there was an undertone of perplexity. Graham Wood was perplexed – and frustrated. He had met Inspector Ann McKenzie before at a case conference concerning another offender, one who had also proved to be difficult. Then, he had been pleasantly struck by the Inspector’s grasp of the situation and appreciation of the problems in what had also turned out to be a complex case.

  Ann McKenzie replied with a shrug: “All I know about her is in my report. There’s background about her family – rather unedifying, I’m afraid. But then what would we expect in a case like this?”

  Her question sounded rhetorical, a hint of resignation in her voice, but she proceeded to elaborate. “A woman who buries the body of her small child – baby – in the cellar of her home and leaves her there untouched for seven years has got to be mentally disturbed. I couldn’t do it, could you? Live above a dead body and carry on with life as normal.” She reached for her coffee cup and sipped from the cooling liquid. There was something in Ann McKenzie that was both sympathetic and critical at the same time.

  “Of course,” Graham Wood replied. “I’m very keen that she doesn’t end up in an ordinary prison. I’ve got to know her over the past three months. I have this feeling, Ann.” He had been walking slowly around the table in his office on the second floor of the Social Work Department office attached to the Crown Court. He stopped and turned to her.

  “I think she’s a candidate for Wellbridge House.” He spoke thoughtfully and slowly. “She’s clearly intelligent. She’s a graduate as well,” he added as an afterthought, “and I think we must do our best to get her into their programme. The psychiatrist thinks she’s traumatised and I agree with him.”

  He paused and looked at the Inspector. “I shouldn’t anticipate the trial but I’m pretty sure she’ll be found guilty of concealing a body and not reporting a death. But what are they going to do with the fact that there is no evidence to show that she had a hand in the child’s death? That’s where we get to recommend that she goes somewhere where she can be helped.”

  Graham Wood sat down on a chair opposite Ann McKenzie and looked at her, waiting for a response. She was still something of an unknown quantity and he felt that he might have been more candid with her than he had intended to be. Ann McKenzie thought for a moment.

  I’m glad you suggested this meeting.” She paused and decided to be candid herself. “My take on Tess Dawson is that her background is pretty awful. I don’t believe that she has much strength in her to withstand the difficulties in life and she’s the sort of person who’s made the best of a bad job. I think her pregnancy was a mistake in the sense that she probably didn’t plan it. Perhaps she was looking for love and got more than she bargained for. It happens to a lot of girls. I agree with you about Wellbridge House. She could get something out of it. Who knows, but when she’s in conducive surroundings she may be able to open up. I can’t see any advantage in sending her to prison, but then where women offenders are concerned I can never see the point of prison. They’re madhouses.”

  “Brilliant,” Graham Wood replied. He looked visibly relieved and offered her a wide smile. “Let’s give it our best shot in two weeks’ time.”

  The meeting at an end, Ann stood up, offering him her hand and smiling in turn as he thanked her for coming. Social work, she thought to herself, looking round his grim, sparse room, thankless job. But, of course, she didn’t say that, she simply said, “two weeks”, and with a final smile, departed, exiting the building through the side door, looking up at the looming neo-classical edifice of the Crown Court that dominated the precinct.

  *

  Graham Wood and Inspector Ann McKenzie met one more time after the Court hearing. The hearing itself left the Court with few options. Without testimony from Tess Dawson she was convicted on minor charges, with the murder or manslaughter of her infant daughter left inconclusive. Graham Wood and Ann McKenzie spoke professionally and persuasively about her background and also where they thought she should be sent. So too did the psychiatrist called to give a psychological profile of the young woman. Wellbridge House had been able to offer a place, something that Graham Wood had ascertained through a meeting with the Wellbridge team before the trial, and Tess Dawson was sent to the institution to serve her sentence.

  The social worker and the police officer met at Wellbridge House on the day before Tess Dawson’s admission, in the imposing office of the director, Peter Archer. The meeting was largely procedural but there was a brief conversation between the three of them that established something of the tenor of Tess Dawson’s residence at Wellbridge. After confirming the admission date and which member of staff was to be her key worker, Peter Archer, ebullient and charming, invited them to sit with him over a pot of afternoon tea in front of the attractive Victorian fireplace that provided a focus to the spacious and airy room. He gave them a potted history of the house and then of the institution (the second time around for Graham Wood) before launching into questions about his new resident. He always referred to the inmates as his or ‘my’ residents. His tendency toward the ownership of everything around him was noted by both his visitors.

  “Tess Dawson appears to me to be an interesting case. Tess isn’t short for anything, is it? I like to get the detail right. I have to admit that I’ve never had to deal with anyone who was unwilling to speak. Have you found it difficult to cope with? I think I might.” He looked at Graham Wood as he spoke, indicating that his question was directed at him and not the Inspector. She tried not to let it wind her up. She had to admit, though, that it did.

  Graham Wood, seemingly oblivious to the unspoken encounter, replied in a serious tone: “You’ll get used to it and we’re actually hoping it’ll change, with time, when she’s here, but she is fragile, traumatised we think. I wouldn’t want her to be put under any kind of pressure.”

  Peter Archer re-crossed his legs, shifting his gaze from Graham Wood to the Inspector.

  “Inspector, any thoughts that might be useful to us here?” He smiled – to Ann’s eyes – in a rather ingratiating way and she felt her anger rise. She had encountered him before – this was not the first time – but not in so intimate a situation. And whereas then she had found him no more than irritating, now she found him pushing every button she had. She felt a sharp sensation of rebelliousness rise in her and said: “I don’t think Tess is short for anything. If it is, I can’t imagine what.” She gave him a long, level look that obliged him to look away and back to Graham.

  “Can I pour you another cup of tea?” Peter Archer held the teapot and pointed it rather rudely in turn at each of them and they both hurriedly said no.
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  “I can tell you don’t like him,” Graham volunteered, standing in the car park some minutes later, as he flicked the lock on his car and it bleeped in reply. Ann smiled in acknowledgment.

  “I don’t trust him, Graham. I think he’ll find it very difficult not to put pressure on Tess Dawson. He’ll want the opposite of what you said she needed. He’ll want to get things out of her.”

  “I think you’re probably right,” Graham replied. “Nonetheless here we are and we’re just going to have to trust the professionals.”

  Ann nodded in turn, and after a brief goodbye Graham left her to off-load her briefcase and files onto the back seat of the car. He drove off down the drive of Wellbridge House and she followed close behind, appreciating the evening light and the trees and the feeling of spring in the air.

  *

  Tess Dawson stood at the window of the common room in Wellbridge House and stared at the horizon of trees. It was hard to focus properly. She pressed her eyelids together several times then looked away and back into the high-ceilinged room, taking in the grey-painted walls, the floral curtains, the pale and stained carpet, the worn sofas and armchairs that had seen better days. She felt both slightly giddy and the first pangs of hunger. She needed to eat and had no idea when a meal would be made available or where she should go to find it, although earlier in the day she had peered into a room full of tables and chairs and assumed that was the place.