Part One Salem 1682-90

PART ONE -SALEM 1682 - 901

He arrived two days after it happened, a tall, arid man with limp brown hair, watery grey eyes and clammy skin. He looked nothing like Mama and I could barely believe they were siblings. As befitting his status he wore the expected clerical weeds but his stockings were snow gleaming and his silver buckles shone, someone clearly tended to the Reverend Samuel Parris, and he demanded respect. My first impressions of my uncle were entirely negative; he smelt different from any man I’d ever known, his hands were pallid, soft and limp, unlike Papa’s wiry brown fingers, perennially grimed with dirt and calluses. He reminded me of a fish with his bulbous eyes and grey skin that rarely caught the sun. Mama had said he had a small child of his own and they were my only family but from the breath I met him, I knew I’d find little love in my uncle. Once he’d established I was healthy, literate and my estate was legally his to administer, he barely glanced at me. For a child accustomed to constant attention I found this unfathomable, questioning myself why this strange, silent man would offer me a home. I knew my old comfortable life with Mama and Papa would never be replicated, I had little choice but to accept whatever he might throw at me. At least I’d have a bed, be tolerably warm and food in my skinny belly. 2

It was a dusty ride and my haunches unused to the uncompromising and unyielding cart felt sore and in need of hot water. As the nag plodded slowly onwards I began to drift, the motion of my uncle’s camphor body beside me was discomforting and my lids grew heavy. I soon slept away the journey until I felt a bony finger jab into my ribs and jerk me back to consciousness.3

‘Abigail, wake up! We’re reaching Salem now. Sit up. Don’t slouch so girl.’4

Blinking away the sleep I stared about noting the large clapboard houses not unlike my old home, which made the water seep from the corners of my eyes and an uncomfortable lump lodge within my throat. But my home was gone; Mama and Papa buried beneath the soil and my life with them only a cloud of memory. Silent villagers scuttled about their business; grim faced girls stared openly at me with dark hollow eyes and pale cheeks. None of them seemed happy, just sullen and deeply bored, I wondered how quickly they’d accept me into their world of chores and tedium. It didn’t matter that my uncle was an important man with two Indian slaves, he still had household mouths to feed and I could only add to his burden until I learnt to earn my keep. Our society did not accept idleness, any signs of that were thrashed out at a very early age, and quite often in public. 5

A single horseman was trotting towards us, his fustian coat flapping in the late summer breeze, a large leather pouch strapped to his saddle. He was of similar age to Uncle Parris, pale haired and wearing narrow rimmed spectacles behind which faint blue grey eyes glittered.6

‘Good afternoon Dr. Griggs,’ greeted my uncle.7

‘Afternoon Mr Parris,’ returned the man. ‘Who’s this?’8

‘My niece, my late sister’s child. Abigail, say good afternoon to Doctor Griggs.’9

‘Good afternoon sir.’10

‘Good afternoon child, I trust you are a good girl? I have a niece of my own, her name’s Betty.’11

‘I am a good girl sir,’ I replied politely, ’I hope to make friends here and work hard.’12

‘See you do and make sure you mind your elders. Well, Parris, the sick won’t recover by themselves. New mothers seem to require my constant attention these days. Goody Putnam’s son isn’t thriving. Good day to you,’ and with that he kicked his nag and trotted away.13

We watched him disappear, his coat still flapping, nodding politely to one or two of the passing villagers about their business, but I observed how people rarely smiled in return.14

‘You’ll quickly discover, child,’ remarked my uncle noting my attention, ‘that Salem doesn’t always take so readily to strangers. I’m their third minister in as many years. This is a Godly community but some wrangle and have little regard to the authority of the Church. Well, here we are, my Parsonage. This is where you are to live. I trust you will respect it and behave accordingly.’ He grasped my arms and lifted me free of the cart, brim full and concerned by the lack of warmth in the strange and insular community he’d brought me to.15

‘Tituba Indian!’ he called harshly. ‘John Indian!’ and I gasped to see two natives come running. 16

‘Tituba, this is my niece, Abigail Williams; she is to live with us. You are to tend on her with Betty, you understand me?’17

The woman bobbed a brief, almost terrified curtsey. ‘Yes, Mr Parris sir.’ Her voice was husky, filled with breath and more akin to a man. She had quick, sparkling eyes, hair as black as the pits of hell, and an aroma of unwashed flesh hung heavily around her. I wanted to be sick.18

‘Child, this is my slave Tituba, and this is John Indian, he tends to the horses,’ he pointed with his whip to the muscular darker skinned man standing sullenly behind. He too had long greasy jet hair, braided like a girl’s, and quick sly eyes that rapidly passed over me as he nodded deferentially towards his master. I didn’t like the look of John Indian, finding it all too easy to envisage him stripped, daubed and feathered, a thick strip of hair dividing his shaven pate. He too reeked, I was glad he apparently lived in the stables and wasn’t allowed indoors.19

‘Tituba will bring your baggage child. I need food and drink after this long ride,’ and with that the strange, angular man strode into the confines of his parsonage, leaving me to trail in his wake with the rancid slave..20

My cousin Betty Parris was tiny and barely able to connect words into comprehensible sentences. Her hair was almost a white blonde with some of my mother’s beauty, and thankfully lacking her father’s bulbous eyes and pallid features. Tituba had tended to her since birth and the child remained fond of the acrid woman, shadowing her about the house like a lost pup. 21

‘Betty, this is Abigail, your cousin. I told you her Mama and Papa are now with the angels. She is to live with us,’ intoned my uncle, propelling me forwards.22

‘Did you see the angels?’ demanded Betty seriously, furrowing her smooth brow in concentration.23

‘No. I did not,’ I replied, shaken by the directness of her question and quite at a loss as to what I should say next. Thankfully the Indian woman scooped the child into her arms and we were set to finally break the fast of a long day’s ride. I was literally starving, not having eaten since the early morning, and even then the watery porridge had done little to alleviate my hunger.24

My uncle did not share his meal with us; we were set away from him in the kitchen whilst he dined within the confines of his library. Apparently it was his custom to eat alone and although there were often streams of callers on church business, he seldom entertained. I soon discovered why.25

Tituba was an adequate cook, but at least the meat was seasoned and the vegetables fresh. Betty had a ferocious appetite, although she was physically fragile, I had no idea such a small child could devour so much. As she ate she jabbered away in a mixture of English and Tituba’s gibberish, so conversation with her wasn’t always easy. But I quickly learnt she was three years of age, Tituba her only friend and Papa, my Uncle Parris clearly doted on her. 26

We were put to bed soon after supper; washed, in our nightgowns we prayed for deliverance and climbed beneath the heavy blankets. Tituba crooned one of her heathen lullabies, but I still felt sick as her odour invaded my sensibilities. Little Betty however, welcomed the veined hand resting gently upon her brow. I prayed that she wouldn’t attempt any such intimacies with me and turned my back as she bade Betty goodnight and blew out our candle.27

Alone in the comforts of the darkness I felt the small body curl next to me, her thumb thrust childishly between her lips and her breathing regular and even. She had fallen asleep almost as soon as the candle extinguished, but there was no such grace for me, I lay huddled and confused. I was miles away from the home where my parents had died and from all I’d always known. I prayed my uncle would prove a kindly guardian, Betty a loyal friend and I’d be quickly accepted, but the recollection of those hollow eyed girls did little as I waited for night to engulf me.28

Surprisingly I found my way, my history was not dissimilar to that of several others in the village. The threat of Indian attacks remained constant, although Salem itself was regarded as relatively secure owing to its size and length of settlement, but orphaned children were frequent additions. Everyone seemed to know each other, and each family’s history. Several, like my uncle were English, having departed the mother country for a variety of reasons, usually a combination of the economic and religious. We had settlers from Wales, the West Country, and the South East, even London itself as well as those born on American shores. In spite of the vast ocean between us, we were still English, the king and queen our sovereigns, and subject to English law.29

Betty and I swiftly became inseparable. She was a docile but intelligent child, quick to forget Tituba’s jibbering tongue; within a month of my arrival, her speech had developed so remarkably even Uncle Parris commented on holding a sensible and intelligible conversation with her. I liked my tiny cousin, she reminded me of Mama, at times when I looked into her eyes I fancied I saw a ghost. I was less fond of her father and still vaguely remembered he’d taken care of the profits made on my beasts, but at least I had a dry roof over my head, clean linen, a change of clothes, a warm bed and a chance to continue with my education. My uncle surprisingly encouraged me, thankful that Betty was finally leaving the days of ignorance. While we as girls were never sent to school, several of us were able to read and even write clearly enough, it helped to spread the word of God and to understand His way.30

We spent most of our Sabbath days in the Meeting House listening to Uncle Parris preach, praying and occasionally psalm singing. Parris’ sermons were greatly different from those of my old minister, he was obsessed with the hellfire and damnation we’d inevitably face if we strayed from the path of righteousness, or showed what he regarded as the slightest lack of respect for the traditional authority of the Church. He seemed almost fixated with this, something he did not readily receive from the villagers of Salem. Our few social callers tended to stem primarily from the prosperous Putnam clan, leaving the majority of villagers content to maintain their distance. The Putnams dominated Salem life; they had been amongst the first settlers and along with the equally wealthy Porters, were the social elite. A daughter, Ann was similar to me in age and I’d spied her in the Meeting House gripping her Mama’s hand as if terrified of the hellfire promised by Uncle Parris. She was one of the few girls I’d met who seemed fortunate enough to live with her natural parents.31

As we grew so did our circle of friends and acquaintances; the hollow-eyed, grim faced girls who had silently stared into my arrival rapidly transformed into human breaths replete with Christian names and distinct personalities. I shared much of my minimal free time with a group of similar age and background, although little Betty remained my closest friend. Sewing and needlework became the community occupation that brought us under the watchful eyes of Goody Nurse and her sister Goody Easty and I learnt to sew adequately. Little Betty however could sew like an angel, just as Mama had, another family trait that passed me by. At three she produced the requisite stitches for simple shapes and Tituba would all too frequently declare that ‘Her Betty’ would be sewing shirts for Uncle Parris before she attained her fifth birthday. 32

Like me, Mercy Lewis was an orphan, initially placed within the home of former minister George Burroughs, a grim, taciturn man who frequently beat her. When Mercy appeared once too often with a bruised faced and unhealed welts, she was forcibly removed and taken to work as a semi-servant and friend to the younger Ann Putnam. Goody Putnam was a vociferous and formidable adversary, wealth and position automatically enabling her a more or less equal footing with many of the men. Burroughs wouldn’t dare cross her, in fear or her connections and family, so Mercy was rapidly packed and bundled up to the Putnams where she remained ever since. My closest friend however, was Betty Hubbard, the niece Doctor Griggs had mentioned the day I arrived. She may have shared their blood, but fat lazy Rachel Hubbard Griggs treated Betty as an unpaid servant. She was full of tales of her aunt’s sloth, how Rachel demanded soft pillows and wider petticoats than our way of life permitted, but her wealthy and apparently hard working husband always let her have her way. Griggs himself seemed to spend a disproportionate time away from his home tending the sick, although we never called on him. As children we thought little of this, but as we grew into frustrated adolescents we began to speculate as to what exactly kept Dr Griggs away from his wife and hearth. Betty would gather us around her and thrill us with wild theories of passionate conjecture. She claimed her uncle was secretly meeting several goodwives in the woods, but in all honesty, we had little real idea of the truth behind Griggs’ absences. It was only when Goody Jacobs produced a bastard child who bore a distinct resemblance to the good doctor that we all realised we’d been correct in our wild assumptions about his promiscuous and faithless nature all along.33

Bastard children and illicit couplings were nothing exceptional in Salem in spite of the constant threat of eternal damnation and castigation such sinning would guarantee as well as the fact that adultery was outlawed. Many infants were found abandoned in the woods; the sexton hastily dumped the tiny corpses wrapped in makeshift swaddling in unmarked graves without ceremony. Few mourned their passing, few even cared about the souls of these unbabtised, unwanted children. We should have been shocked, but we weren’t, there was little to care about once the deathly grinding chores were completed. We had some contact with the youths who would undoubtedly fulfil the function of husband one day, but all too often we fell prey to the wandering eyes of those men in middle years whose wives were long past their bloom and thickened by constant childbirth. 34

Of our group Mary Walcott was deceptively placid, with her constant knitting she simply seemed to nod and smile as life passed her by. No matter what was said about her lumpy form, scarlet hair and ruddy complexion, Mary merely grinned and continued plodding her way through life, knitting as she went. Her family connections and social standing possibly explained Mary’s apparent easy nature; her father Jonathan was the commander of the Village Militia, and her uncle Nathaniel owned the main tavern Ingersoll’s Ordinary. Jonathan had made a fortuitous marriage into the Putnam clan with the aptly named Deliverance, making Mary and Ann Putnam first cousins. Everyone in Salem liked her, it was impossible not to. 35

As I passed from childhood to adolescence I knew life in Salem could never be easy but I wanted for nothing thanks to my Uncle Parris’ standing. He maintained his distance and never showed me affection, although he clearly idolised little Betty. She was his pet, serving to remind him perhaps of his long dead wife, a void he failed to fill in spite of the efforts of several available spinsters. Many were tempted by the initial lure of becoming the Minister’s wife and lording it around Salem Village Parsonage, but the reality of an unpopular husband and two blossoming girls eventually proved unattractive. Uncle Parris wasn’t exactly an ugly man to most, although I always found him repulsive; he had the cold, unfeeling nature of a fish. He also made me feel increasingly uncomfortable the more I fell into maturity, his gaze too frequently shifting from my face to my form, and I heard plenty of rumours that Tituba’s duties went beyond the kitchen. She was a poor substitute for a mother, and I failed to accept her peculiar odour, even though many went unwashed for the majority, she was particularly pungent. Shortly after my sixteenth birthday Betty and I were eating our supper as usual, sharing a joke over Tituba’s weak broth and she was pouring water for us. Without warning I felt my throat constrict, my stomach rebel and my ears ring against the slave’s rank stench. Unfortunately, Uncle Parris had just appeared when I involuntarily vomited up my broth, coating not only the table but splattering his crisp white stockings and buckled shoes. He was neither amused nor pleased although little Betty thought it hilarious and flew into paroxysms of giggles that were rapidly stifled into coughs. Poor Tituba just stood, rancid and embarrassed, waiting to wipe both the table and me. He seemed to freeze, staring at his swiftly staining stockings and shoes, and inhaling the settling stink 36

‘I’m sorry Uncle, ‘I mumbled pathetically, gazing at the messy puddle. ‘I, I didn’t mean it.’ but he wouldn’t allow me to finish, let alone catch my breath. In a single step he’d grasped my hair and was dragging me away to the stable yard. It wasn’t my fault the slave stank and her smell nauseated me, but he wouldn’t listen to a breath of protestation, in fact he didn’t utter a single word as he hauled me outside, leaving Tituba to scrub away the mess and little Betty weeping fat tears.37

Roughly he pushed me to the ground and raised his crop menacingly as I braced for the first uncompromising blow. I knew he wouldn’t mark my face, but still twenty or so blows hailed through my gown and shift. I felt the inadequate fabric tear and the blood break as the crop bit into my flesh. I suppose I was fortunate Parris was too delicate to physically tear the dress from my back and beat the bared skin, but nevertheless I screamed for Mama, for little Betty, for God to save me. 38

When he was done my uncle stood towering over me, his breath hard, an unfamiliar and disturbing gleam in his pale, watery eyes; I was no longer a pathetic child and well aware of what that meant. In spite of the searing pain and shocking realisation, what had been the most disturbing aspect of my whipping was that throughout it all, Parris had barely uttered a sound. 39

‘Papa? Abigail?’ a tiny, terrified whimper revealed little Betty, her linen cheeks were creased, her eyes scarlet, and her tongue numbed. ‘Papa? Why have you beaten Abby? She didn’t mean it, you didn’t need to beat her. She’s bleeding Papa, look at her.’ The child’s words rendered Parris to his wits, smashing the seductive spell of violence and he stared at the crop in his hand. His mouth opened then closed in rapid succession before he stalked away, flinging it from him. Betty flew to me, ‘Abby, Abby, I’m sorry I’m so sorry. He shouldn’t have done that. Do you want Tituba to bathe you?’40

‘No!’ I searched for my voice, it rasped, unfamiliar in tone and depth. ‘No, please, Betty. I can’t stomach Tituba’s stink. Does she ever touch water?’41

‘Tituba has no time to keep clean, you know how it is.’42

‘Oh Betty, I can’t bear Tituba near me, you ask her to heat a kettle please.’43

‘Papa’s not a harsh man, Abby,’ she attempted to reassure me, ‘you know that. Would you like me to talk to him and explain about Tituba?’44

Tempting as this was, I almost snapped my dissent and clambered slowly to pained feet. 45

‘Give me your arm Betty. Help me upstairs, just ask Tituba for that kettle, I feel dirty.’46

‘Are you really surprised?’ demanded Betty Hubbard when I finally related the truth. ‘You’re the nearest he has to a woman in that house apart from Tituba and we all know what he does with her, it is any wonder he’s never found another wife? Your uncle makes enemies easily Abby, he lords it over everyone and they don’t like it. I heard Goody Cloyce telling Goody Easty he’s demanded more firewood again. Why does he need so much? Does he keep a hot house?’47

‘Betty Hubbard!’ I exploded. ‘That’s not funny. How would you feel? I can feel his eyes searching beneath my skirts. It makes me sick and I’m lucky little Betty’s with me. I’m frightened he might attempt to, to, well,’ I blushed, thankful little Betty remained at home with Tituba for once. 48

‘Well what?’ demanded Betty, her eyes serious with concern. 49

‘Well I, er… feel that, that he would want to, would want to know me.’50

‘Know you? Good heavens Abby, of course he wants to know you. You’re ripe. Haven’t you seen how some of the men look at you?’ Betty had ceased laughing now and her voice was soft. ‘Mercy was saying only the other day she was sure John Proctor was staring at you in the Meeting House last week.’51

‘John Proctor?’ I goggled at her, I barely knew him, a prosperous farmer who lived outside of Salem Village. His wife, Elizabeth, never Betty, was rarely seen with her husband and rumours rumbled about their union. John and William the elder sons were less than ten years of age and apparently there was a third child. John Proctor farmed seven hundred acres and he had no time whatsoever for my uncle or his allies. He’d quarrelled with Thomas Putnam over pasture and won damages, but their enmity festered on. Hardly surprisingly, it was the women who frequently found themselves dispossessed through widowhood or familial death, formerly upright citizens made destitute through the greed of others, and we called ourselves a Christian community.52

Susannah Martin’s case was typical. When her wealthy father Richard North decided to remarry the new wife showed little love towards her two stepdaughters, particularly following the birth of her own daughter. After Richard died, he left this wife, three natural daughters and a legal conundrum. To Susannah’s chagrin, the majority of the North estate was bequeathed to the hated stepmother and her daughter, leaving Susannah and her sister virtually penniless. Even when the second wife joined her maker, the property passed directly to the third child. Naturally, Susannah, hurt and angered by her father’s callousness set to the courts where she spent several unhappy and fruitless years in legal tussles. Women had little status in our society; our expectations were limited, the only minor glimmer of respite was the prospect of a husband. Few, if any, married for love; our unions were primarily borne from land deals and family connections. Casual violence was everyday; many women appeared in the Meeting House graced with purple eyes and the stains of fingers where their husbands and fathers had lost patience. A sharp slap across a child’s haunches was nothing, the pillory and stocks a regular spectacle. Women who called their husbands names on a Sabbath received a public gagging and financial punishment for their imprudence but the greatest fear remained the accusation of witchcraft. It was a constant part of our lives; we accepted God needed Satan, that the angels shared our life with demons and there was a reason for everything. There was no justice, few escaped without some form of punishment. All suspected witches, regardless of age, gender or status were stripped and examined, a humiliating experience involving the intimate search for a witch’s teat where a familiar might suckle. If a mark was discovered, the ordeal of swimming followed, leaving the suspect either drowned or swiftly dead and the charge unproven.53

These threats hung heavy in the hearts of most women, and we always tried to avoid being the subject of gossip though it wasn’t easy. Everything was God’s will; if a neighbour experienced difficulties, the more rigid, such as Parris, claimed it was God’s will and didn’t offer assistance. Fortunately many others weren’t always as rigid and still helped their neighbours raise barns and gather their crops. John Proctor was one; I knew he’d hung new doors on our Meeting House in spite of his opinion of Parris and his affiliation to Town rather than Village. Betty’s casual remark intrigued me and afterwards I slyly watched him at prayers and noticed she’d partly spoken the truth, but he certainly didn’t stare. 54

Like many relatively recent converts to the ministry Parris proved a zealot, rigid and unbending in his code of living, a code that both little Betty and I knew to be ridiculous and increasingly unforgiving. As children we barely understood the comparative lack of freedom but soon I yearned for more than the promised daily drudgery of puritan domesticity and constant childbearing. Mama had been a beautiful and grace filled woman but all I’d inherited was her hair, the rest was Papa. Nevertheless I maintained myself as well as I was able, ensuring my hair remained clean and lice free. Every night little Betty loved to comb, braid and twist even when we should have been at prayer. 55

‘Abby, I’ll make you look so beautiful on your wedding day, we’ll dress your hair with flowers and you’ll look like an angel,’ she prattled. ’Oh, imagine having the pick of fine linens and silken gowns, heeled shoes, silver buckles and sparkling jewels. Your skin’s so pale, Abby, red rubies would shine against you. No man would be able to resist,’ she persisted. ‘Wouldn’t you love to be a fine lady? Have men courting and not spending all our days reading the bible.’56

‘Hush Betty, you shouldn’t say such things, what if your Papa were to hear you? You know he says God hears your every word. But you’re right, I’d love fine clothes and servants to comb out my hair until it gleams. I’d love to be beautiful. Oh Betty we can dream, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to escape, to know love? Sometimes, you know, I long to taste a man’s love, oh Betty, imagine your Papa’s face if he could hear us!’57

‘You will burn in hell and the pits of eternal damnation,’ intoned little Betty wickedly.58

‘Where the devils will pluck your skin for all eternity.’59

‘You’re a sinner,’ chortled little Betty the tears uncontrollable. ‘Oh Abby, we are sinners, but I don’t care!’ 60

As she squealed the door of our chamber was unceremoniously flung open and Parris stood framed in the doorway, his face thunderous. ‘What is going on here?’ he demanded, livid. ‘This is the cackling of hags and the devil’s words! Why aren’t you at prayer? Flaunting yourselves and uttering blasphemous filth! You Abigail should know better. Betty’s a child, but you’re not.’61

‘Papa, we were only sporting,’ replied little Betty stoutly. ‘Abby has such beautiful hair, I was combing it out for her. We meant no harm.’62

‘Be quiet child,’ he snapped. ‘This is your doing Abigail, I heard the filth spilling from your lips. So you’re proud of your hair are you? Don’t think I haven’t seen you admiring yourself. Do you fancy yourself a beauty then?’ his gimlet eyes bored into me and the beast stirred.63

‘No uncle, not at all, I’m just blessed with hair like my Mama. She used to comb it out for me.’ 64

‘Your mother was never such a lump of vanity. Your mother was a God fearing Christian woman who did not waste her time gazing at her self and speaking like a common whore. Pride is wrong Abigail. Self-love and self-admiration are grievous faults. You will not tempt Betty. Come here,’ he commanded, his voice icy with distaste. Little Betty started to snivel.65

‘Your hair will go.’66

‘What?’ I exploded. ‘You can’t cut my hair Uncle. Betty meant no harm. You can’t take away my hair, I won’t let you.’67

‘You question me?’ 68

‘No, but I won’t lose my hair. What harm have we done? We were playing, nothing more. Or is play going to send us to hell along with everything else?’ 69

‘You challenge me Abigail? You dare question my word? How dare you presume to question my decision? I say you hair is causing you vanity and you are tempting Betty into sinking with you. I heard the filth spilling from your lips.’70

‘I’m not vain uncle and I won’t burn for brushing my hair, there’s no harm in it.’71

‘No harm? No harm in flaunting yourself? I heard you speak like a common whore and now you challenge my learning, my years of Harvard education. You who can barely read and write are questioning me?’ His bulbous eyes goggled, no female had ever dared question him, but I was no Tituba. I knew how he’d robbed me. 72

‘I don’t question your learning Uncle. All I said was my hair is not a source of sin.’73

But it was futile. The next moment I heard little Betty scream as he strode forward and slapped me hard about the face, sending me reeling to the floor, blood spattering from a split lip. My head swimming, I felt him grasp my hair and my ears filled with rushing oceans as once more he dragged me across the floor to his own chamber, swiftly locking the door behind him. 74

‘You’re filth, an abomination. You tempt my Betty into your depravities. I will not have it, do you hear? And I will not have my child corrupted. You’re nothing but a common little whore and you know what happens to whores? Get up. Be quiet Betty. Go to bed.’ But she ignored him and continued to hammer frantically. ‘Get up Abigail. You’re filth, you don’t deserve to share a bed with anyone, especially Betty. So you crave a man do you? You crave to taste a man’s flesh do you? Isn’t that what you were saying?’75

‘An idle joke Uncle, that’s all,’ I protested.76

‘My daughter is only a child. She should not be corrupted, especially by the likes of you. She’s far too young to have knowledge of what passes between a man and a woman, to have any knowledge of what a whore like you craves. Get up.’77

Blindly I staggered to my feet, reeling as insult upon blow rained down and again I wished Mama could save me.78

‘You’re a whore Abigail Williams. Do you hear me? I suspected you from the start. You’ll never amount to anything more. Whore!’ and with that he cast me violently onto his bed, glowering above me. ‘And you know what whores are good for don’t you?’79

‘No, Uncle, please, I beg you, Uncle, I’m not a whore, please, I’m a maid, I beg you, please, no,’ I began but his palm once more smashed into my face and I swam into oblivion.80

When I awoke little Betty was clutching desperately at my shoulders, her face streaked with tears and mucus, blood smearing the bed. 81

‘Abby, Abby are you, are you badly hurt?’ she sobbed, ‘what has he done to you? I hate him. It’s all my fault. Oh your poor hair, he’s hacked it all off. Oh Abby, I’m so sorry, I really am. I hate him, I hate him.’82

‘Oh dear lord,’ I muttered falling into her embrace. ‘What did he do to me?’83

‘I don’t know, I kicked him and he just seemed to wake up and then he stormed off. He’s gone out now, but, he said,’ she paused.84

‘What’s he said Betty?’ I winced, struggling to move.85

‘He said he doesn’t want you here any more, that you’re a bad influence. Oh Abby what can we do?’ she gasped.86

Parris left early next morning, intending to be away for some days and Tituba was free to clean us. Her coarse hands tended and dressed all my wounds until the pain finally began to ease. Within an hour we were bandaged and soothed but no amount of care could cure us of the dread of parting. Francis Peabody arrived to repair the battered door, quickly making good the signs of violence, the blood already melted into water. Little Betty’s feet were ruined, splinters thickly embedded in her soft flesh and her toes were black, the nails cracked and bloody. She wore bandages on both hands and feet, and I sported a tattered bandage, my split lip and bruised face stubbornly refusing to heal. In spite of Parris’ efforts, gossip bloomed in Salem, and we did have friends. We were missed and two days on I heard Betty Hubbard’s voice filtering through from the kitchen, angry and determined.87

‘What do you mean they’re both sick? What’s wrong with them?’ she demanded. ‘My uncle hasn’t been called. They can’t be that sick. Let me in Tituba, I want to see Abigail. Do you want me to fetch Goody Nurse from the Meeting House or my uncle?’ 88

In spite of Betty’s vehemence Tituba held firm, summoning John Indian from the stable, Betty’s livid protestations echoing as she finally conceded. However within ten minutes a thunderous knocking reverberated through the house. 89

‘Betty, what shall we do? I don’t want anyone to see me like this, quick into bed, wrap your shawl about you, pretend to be asleep, perhaps they’ll go away,’ I prayed, but little Betty was firm. 90

‘No,’ she insisted. ‘Let them see us. Let them see. It was wrong, you know it was,’ and with that she flung wide the door and stood, a twelve year old angel of retribution in waiting. Hasty footsteps revealed Goody Nurse, her voice tender with concern and shock at the appearance of the usually cherubic little Betty’s bedraggled form but it was a strong male voice that jarred me from my burrow. John Proctor stood framed in the doorway in a strange parody of my uncle’s appearance, a look of outraged disgust clearly etched upon his narrow features, two hands gripping the frame in anger and incredulity. Doused with embarrassment I felt the hot tears roll down my cheeks, I hated being reduced to a figure of pity, I didn’t want anyone, least of all a man like John Proctor to see me in this state.91

‘In God’s name, what’s gone on here? Is this your uncle’s doing? Is it? Did Parris do this to you?’ he demanded irately. ‘Rebecca, can you credit this?’ 92

‘Child, Abigail’ soothed Goody Nurse, reaching for my hand, ‘what’s happened to you, to you both? What on earth have you done?’ 93

In desperation I clutched at her gentle fingers, ‘Nothing Goody Nurse. We did nothing to deserve any of this. Uncle Parris said I was vain and blasphemous. He hacked off my hair and beat me. But we’re better now. It’s nothing,’94

‘Nothing!’ exploded John Proctor. ‘You call this nothing, child, look at you.’95

‘Hush John,’ soothed Goody Nurse, ‘calm down. Abigail, let me see your head.’ She and Betty gently removed my failing fingers, revealing my shame. From his stance in the doorway Proctor slipped into an angry silence.96

I knew I was hideous, my face swollen and bruised, but it was my desecrated scalp I found the most offensive. Parris’ dagger had left tufts of uneven matted clumps interspersed with crusting scabs. Dark purple blood still decorated the skull where he’d either torn or hacked away the hair, the reds, blacks, blues and yellows of bruising in various stages adding to my obscene countenance. 97

‘I, I, was too proud of my hair. Betty and I were playing but we should have been at prayer and Uncle Parris thought we were mocking his sermons. He says I lead Betty astray.’98

‘But she doesn’t,’ piped up little Betty, folding me into her skinny arms. ‘I couldn’t save her, I tried, I tried to kick the door, but I couldn’t save her, I tried, I tried, didn’t I Abby?’ 99

‘Where are you hurt?’ inquired Goody Nurse thoughtfully before Proctor could interrupt.100

‘Everywhere,’ I paused, ‘but it’s better now, I’m healing.’ 101

‘You don’t look healed,’ muttered John Proctor from the doorway, his face livid and contempt written clearly in his eyes. ‘Has Parris ever done this to you before?’102

‘My uncle doesn’t beat me regularly, Mr Proctor,’ I began, desperate to avoid a public humiliation. ‘I was guilty of pride, I accept that, and I showed him disrespect, I challenged his word. I shouldn’t have done that. He isn’t usually a cruel man, but he wants to send me away from little Betty. I think that’s why he’s gone away. Oh Mr Proctor, Goody Nurse, don’t let him part us. Please, if you want to help us, find me a place somewhere in a Salem house.’103

Little Betty raised her head and smiled slowly as she realised my intention. If Goody Nurse or John Proctor could find me employment before Parris returned, I’d be out of the house before he could send me away. The knowledge that at least two influential members of our community knew of his behaviour would hopefully be sufficient to keep me in the village. Too many questions could be asked now if I suddenly disappeared, and Betty Hubbard would have no conscience for Parris and hide the truth.104

Proctor frowned, as if contemplating his next statement carefully, but before his thoughts were transmitted into words, Goody Nurse spoke up.105

‘John, how’s Elizabeth now? Is she still sick? Perhaps you could accommodate Abigail in your household? I’m sure once she’s well Abigail would easily be able to keep house, and you could do with some help with your boys. What do you think?’106

‘Would that be possible, Mr Proctor?’ I scanned his expression for a response, his mouth working as if he were privately amused. ‘I’d be glad to be of service to you. Though I think I’d frighten your boys looking like this.’107

‘I’m sure you could be of service to me Abigail,’ he replied slowly. I caught the flicker of something in his eyes, leaving me with a ridiculous sense of heat. ‘Well the boys are growing, perhaps,’ Proctor was still speaking, but not towards me, ‘you might see to Abigail until she’s fit enough Rebecca? I’m afraid she’s right. Looking like that she’d offend my boys, she certainly offends me, but I daresay she’ll recover in time. We can’t leave her here. What do you say? I’ll fetch her in a week or so.’108

Again I felt the tears spark, I’d been mistaken, seconds earlier I’d viewed John Proctor as my saviour, now he plainly found me offensive. There seemed no hope for me. 109

‘Well Rebecca? Would you do that? I’m sure her recovery won’t be long. That hair should grow and those bruises fade.’110

‘But what about me?’ put in little Betty plaintively. ‘I don’t want to be parted from Abby. Papa was wrong to beat her, I know that. She didn’t do anything to deserve it. I don’t want to stay here without her. What about me? I’ll be on my own.’ 111

‘Betty,’ soothed Goody Nurse, taking her hands and smiling gently towards the bewildered girl. ‘Abby can stay with me until Mr Proctor says she can start work. You can see her all you like in my house. When she goes to Groton, I’m sure Mr Proctor will let you see each other. Your papa loves you, this is your home, and Tituba will still look after you. Do you understand me?’112

‘Yes, Goody Nurse,’ nodded little Betty gravely. 113

So my future was sealed. I was to leave with Goody Nurse in the morning, and when I looked agreeable, I’d take up my position in the Proctor household. This wasn’t the ideal future I’d envisaged, but I was a powerless girl, with no prospects, no property and whatever capital I may have possessed had disappeared the moment Parris glimpsed it. 114

With Goody Nurse and Proctor gone, Betty lingered impatient for the truth. ‘Betty, I suggested to my cousin, ‘would you ask Tituba to help you pack my things? I don’t think I can do it myself.’115

‘Are you sure Abby?’ 116

‘Yes, please Betty. you’d really be saving me a task.’117

Once she’d vanished, Betty’s good-natured face rounded into incredulity. ‘What are you thinking of Abigail Williams? You know what people say about them. You won’t find any thanks from Goody Proctor, or,’ she paused, ‘or is it her husband’s thanks you’d be more interested in? Abby? No! You can’t, not John Proctor. You aren’t serious.’118

‘It wasn’t my idea Betty. I know what she’s like, but I won’t mind as long as I’m away from Parris. If I can stomach my uncle, I’m sure I’ll survive her coldness.’119

But Betty remained unconvinced, her lips pursed sceptically, ’Abby, just you be careful. You know what happens to..’120

‘To what?’ I interrupted her quickly. ‘To girls like me? Betty I’ve spent the past year avoiding Parris, do you really think I’d be fool enough to allow any man near me? The thought of being pawed fair turns my guts, besides no man will ever look at me like that again will he? Look at me, Parris hacked off my hair because he said I was vain and he beat me because he overheard me saying I craved to taste a man’s love. When I woke up, I,’ I struggled to find the appropriate expression, ‘I was covered in blood, my hair gone, and I don’t know what he did to me. I don’t know. Betty, I just don’t know.’121

‘Dear lord, were you bloodied there?’122

‘I don’t know. Surely he wouldn’t have, not with his own daughter outside screeching like a stuck hog?’123

‘Oh Abby, the man’s a monster, no wonder so many people despise him. Were there stains on your nightgown?’124

‘I think it was mostly blood, but Betty, I don’t know. Tituba took it away and scrubbed it.‘125

‘Well, let’s pray he didn’t. What will you do?’126

‘I don’t want to think about it. If he, if he did do that, surely little Betty would’ve have heard wouldn’t she?’127

‘Abby, who are you trying to convince?’ 128

‘Oh Betty, you’re the one who knows these things.’129

‘Do you have pain down there?’130

I hesitated a moment, ‘Not really, not now. But who’d believe me? Mr Proctor and Goody Nurse have seen me, but I doubt if even they’d credit him with lechery. No one would believe me. They’d all think I wanted revenge for separating me from little Betty; it’d be my word against his. There’s nothing I can do. Oh Betty, I don’t want this kind of life, I want to be able to make choices for myself.’131

‘Oh Abby what choices do we have? No one listens to us, we’re just property. You know women who show spirit can end up being called witches. And what happens to witches? They hang them on Gallows Hill. They hang them Abby, no body wants a shrew.’132

‘I’m not a shrew Betty. I just don’t want to be a drudge dead in childbirth before I’m thirty, buried and forgotten. Is that it Betty? Is that what God’s ordained for us all?’133

‘I don’t know Abby, I don’t know, but what choices can we make?’ she sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry Abby, but I must go. Remember what I said,’ she smiled, shaking her head. ‘John Proctor’s not your saviour and Goody Proctor’s winter, believe me. You know the rumours about her and Griggs don’t you?’134

‘I do. But somehow I don’t think John Proctor’s like that,’ I mumbled naively. 135

‘He’s a man isn’t he?’ retorted Betty snapping the door behind her.136