Free Where There is Evil by Sandra Brown

the
rain was not lashing down, and we set out, with much muttering from me because Ian and Norman were being taken to the fair by my father. Its twinkly lights were inviting and in vain I pleaded with
my mother to change our plans. I reminded her of the pocket money I had left, but she was adamant that Mr and Mrs Young, our hosts, would be on the look-out for us at their religious meeting and
she never broke a promise.
    The hall was full of people with damp macs and umbrellas, who all sang heartily from Sankey hymnbooks to an out-of-tune piano. Afterwards, over cups of tea and wonderful Scottish home baking,
they shook their heads mournfully about the weather: ‘Na, it cannae last . . .’
    I was thrilled when my mother agreed that as it wasn’t late we could walk down to the fairground and meet the others before going home, perhaps getting some fish and chips on the way. I
had a go on a few hoopla stalls, but we couldn’t spot my father and brothers. My mother smiled tolerantly as I picked up a fluffy gonk I’d won, and agreed I could spend a few more
coppers at the next stall, where you could win a coconut by knocking down cans. But she was too distracted to enjoy herself watching me. ‘Perhaps they’ve headed home already,’ she
said anxiously. ‘Oh, well, come on, Sandra, we should, too. Remember we’ll have all the packing tomorrow.’
    I pulled a face but I tried not to show how disappointed I was that my dad was not there to take me on the ghost train or the dodgems, or to buy me a ride on the waltzers. When we got into our
lodgings, however, there was no sign of the rest of the family. We ate our fish suppers, washed up and cleared the table, and started to think about bed. My mother was worried. ‘Where on
earth can he be?’ she demanded, as she ordered me into my baby-doll pyjamas, bought specially for the holiday. I shrugged and snuggled down with a
Reader’s Digest
. The minutes
ticked by, and my mother paced up and down on the well-worn lino. Then she started to pile things into cases. Just when I was rubbing my eyes, and checking that it really was after midnight on the
Baby Ben clock, and she was muttering about going to the police station, we heard a key turn in the lock. My father was carrying one child, who was fast asleep, and wheeling another in his
pushchair.
    My parents hissed angrily at each other as she demanded to know his movements. It transpired that my father had met a woman at the fair and, according to him, she had invited himself and the
children to her home for supper.
    ‘You’ve been sitting with some woman while I’ve been worried sick about these weans. How could you?’ my mother asked.
    ‘She was a very
nice
wummin.’ My father smirked. ‘She took to me right away, and she was good to Norman and Ian.’ Then he added, ‘And tae me.’
    My mother smacked him across the face and marched off to bed.
    The atmosphere in our car going home next day could have been cut with a knife, and as we left Montrose behind I knew it was somewhere I would never wish to see again.

Chapter Nine
    In November 1959, a kindly town councillor had listened to my mother’s plea to be relocated near her parents during her husband’s absence, and we were installed at
9 Ashgrove, directly above my grandparents in number 11, with adjoining gardens on a large corner plot. Perhaps my mother felt that such close proximity to his father-in-law would ensure that my
father changed his ways when he came home, but this was not to be. My grandfather detested him, and deplored his sexual conduct, but his policy was to avoid him, while exerting a strong patriarchal
influence on the rest of his large family.
    My grandfather’s principles and values were drummed into me: no matter how glorious the weather, playing outside on a Sunday was off-limits, and even a game of snap was forbidden. It never
crossed my mother’s mind to question why we had to adhere to the rigid code of discipline laid