Hydro: A Victorian Psychological Thriller by G.H. Lusby

Author:G.H. Lusby [Lusby, G.H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Moorfire Press
Published: 2022-10-18T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 29

I kick open the door of the Rose and Crown and barge past a couple of hefty farmers.

“I didn’t think women were allowed in here!” quips one of them, and his mate brays with laughter.

Faces, all male, most of them leathery with weather and bloated with booze, turn to stare at me. I storm through the tobacco fog of the taproom to where my father is propped in the corner.

“Ey up, Hardacre, here’s trouble!” laughs one man by the bar and a joyless laugh, more like a pack animal howl, goes up around the pub. Fat red faces, mouths wide open. Stubby yellow teeth on all sides. I wish I could slap their gobs shut, every one of them.

My dad is sprawled across the bar, shirt tails out, casting his head around with lost, bleary eyes, straining to make sense of what’s going on. He’s still singing the last of his song, the one I could hear as I was striding down Brook Street. Something German, maybe Schubert. There are cries to get him to stop.

“Philistines!” he slurs at them. “Maybe you want another poem then?”

Cheers.

“Very well. Here’s some Milton…

A virtuous girl named Sapphire,

Succumbed to her lover’s desire

She said, ‘It’s a sin, but seeing as it’s in,

Could you push it a few inches higher?’”

A great cheer goes up, then dies as they see the look on my face.

My dad notices me and squints to check he’s not deceived. “Polly! My dear sweet daughter, saviour of my diminished family. This girl,” he addresses the crowd, most of whom have turned back to their conversations, “this beautiful girl is the man of the house. She’s a daughter, a mother and a father all in one. We’re very lucky to have her.” He wags a finger at them and then points it at me, the end of it ranging, waving around my face. I can tell the mental effort involved in keeping it on target.

“Come on, Dad. You need to go home,” I say, trying to get under his arm to hoist him off the stool.

“Nox nova est. Nox tenera est.”

“No, it bloody isn’t. Stand up, you drunken idiot,” I hiss at him. God, he’s heavy. There’s more laughter.

“Can’t any of you help me?” I shout at the onlookers. There are shrugs and smirks all around, then they turn away, as if helping me would give their daughters and wives licence to come and extract them in the same way.

“Bloody men,” I say and heave him up.

I’m not a strong girl, but when I’ve got my temper up, I can surprise myself. Up he comes and I haul him, jelly legged, across the taproom. One pock-faced farmer, with mock chivalry, opens the door and bows as we tumble out onto the street.

The fresh air hits him and he regains his footing, straightening up and smoothing down his shirt front, slick with spilt beer. He takes a deep breath.

“Oh, I don’t feel…” Then he braces himself against the wall of the pub and throws up rancid, vinegary swill all over the pavement.

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