Rose Manor- Part 4

Wendy’s head was hung in shame and embarrassment as she made her way through the small town, acutely aware of the ever growing whispers and murmurs around her. That’s the only communication the Hugh’s had encountered since Mrs Spritt had announced to the whole town that the baby of the mad woman, who had been the bearer of the knife that had massacred all those people, lived among them and in the Hugh’s house. Wendy had returned home as fast as she could after having endured her grocery shopping laced with venomous looks from all her neighbours and close friends, not to mention the grocer’s hateful attitude and sloppiness over weighing out her food and deliberately retrieving it as slow as he could manage from the shelves. She couldn’t help but let the corners of her mouth slip in sadness at their accusations of betrayal and at their whispers of her supposed alliance with Victoria Black in her merciless and gruesome murders.

As she reached the terraced street that led toward her semi-detached bungalow, she began to speed up, her fast pace becoming an almost jog, her blond ringlets bounced under her white and red bonnet, and her heels pinching at her toes. The full paper bags aching her arms under the matching white coat with red rims and buttons, her burgundy skirt covered her knees and now limited her step. But she didn’t care, she just wanted to get home and collapse. John, her husband, had at first resented her decision and the baby too, but now supported her against the discriminative town, after having read the threatening letters his wife had been burdened with, and after having received his own last Tuesday. He would hold her, she thought, he would hold her and make it okay. But as she neared the end of the street she heard someone shouting at her from an upstairs window, “We don’t want you here! Go and die with that witch in that beastly house!”

Tears began to breech her carefully stacked boundaries and she soon felt them welling beyond her control, and still she ran, faster and faster. Ignoring the blisters on her toes and the aches in her arms, she just wanted to get home and stay home and never have to leave again.

And that was when she saw the small mob outside her home.

Her heart stopped.

Her blood ran cold.

And the only things that went through her head were: Is John in there? Are my sons in there? Is the baby in there?

And dropping her now unimportant brown bags containing their food, she raced along the pavement, removing her heels only to throw them to the side and carry on running in bare feet as she got closer and closer to the house.

“John!” she screamed as she stopped outside the house, bustling through the rioters to get to the smashed windows. “John! Peter!”

The roar of the crowd was immense, as they stormed against the house, tearing down its tiles, smashing its windows, destroying from the outside for they didn’t dare to enter with a Black baby inside.

Wendy crawled through the smashed window, slicing through her coat and cutting her cheek, all the time shrieking until her throat was raw, “John! John and Peter!”

Salty tears burnt her nose and throat, as she ran through the house, the smoke from the fires outside began to snake its way through the windows, cutting her throat with gravelly fingers.

“John! Peter! Joh-!” she was immediately stopped, as if a brick wall had slammed into her stomach, the wind was knocked out of her.

Her youngest son, Peter lay curled on the floor, his head resting on his brother’s lap, a pool of blood surrounding him.

His eyes were closed.

Wendy vaguely heard voices and felt herself being herded toward the kitchen where she was then shoved out the back door, but all she could see was her four year-old son, lying broken on the floor, drowning in his own blood.

Then suddenly, her husband’s face was centimetres from hers.

“Wendy, you’re ok. Tell me you’re ok. Wendy speak, please!” he begged.

“Mama, say something, please! What’s wrong with Peter, he won’t wake up!” her son, John pleaded.

“Anne,” she whispered.

“She’s here, she’s alright, she won’t be hurt,” her husband answered, lifting the baby up to prove so, and then handed her to Wendy, who cradled the baby in her arms, wrapping the blanket around her fragile body, tighter.

“Peter,” she whimpered, her knees crumpling below her, she gazed at her son.

Her son.

A corpse before her.

Dead.

Killed.

Gone.

Her husband’s hand instinctively found its way softly rubbing her neck, before he crumbled too, joining her on her knees, weeping. John edged his way over to join his parents too, nudging his way into their warmth.

The mob went on to burn down the front room of the house. Until, out of fear, retreated back and afterwards left the Hugh family, who had both gained and lost a member within one month, alone. Although, they were still neglected communication and socialization throughout the town. However the Hugh’s eventually rebuilt the house, didn’t even ask for outside help for it would not be given, but few blackened timbers in the roof remained. Despite the fear of the town, prejudice still continued to drown the last remaining sympathy from the small, untrusting town of Grenwich.