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The Poor Relation

Page 4

by Susanna Bavin


  He could practically see the cogs turning in Clough’s head. The full lips pursed thoughtfully beneath the monstrous moustache.

  ‘The day the clinic opens,’ Nathaniel declared, ‘I’ll pin a ribbon across the doorway and Mrs Clough can cut it for the camera. How’s that?’

  ‘Yes … yes …’ Clough murmured to himself and Nathaniel knew he had won. He ought to feel pleased, but he was sick of the sight of this complacent buffoon. He glanced about, noticing the glossy wax fruit beneath glass domes and the brown Lincrusta wallpaper that looked like panelling. Good grief. The room was as false as its owner.

  He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  The Ees House visit was going to be on Sunday. Due to leave school soon, Emma had been included in the invitation for the first time. She couldn’t stop talking about it.

  ‘Word of warning,’ Mary cautioned, as they took their shoes upstairs after Dadda had given them their evening polishing. ‘Don’t say too much downstairs or Dadda will think you’re getting ideas above your station.’

  Emma looked aghast and Mary’s heart beat faster for her. She had promised Mam in her coffin to take care of her new sister. She was sure that was what Mam had wanted. Why else would she, in her dying moments, have named the baby Emma? That had always been Mary’s pet-name – Emmie or Emms, because of her initials. Even after Dadda married Lilian, Mary kept a special eye on Emma, feeling she was fulfilling her promise to Mam.

  ‘But you and I can talk about it,’ she said. ‘It’s best to be prepared.’

  She drew Emma into her bedroom and onto the bed. The mattress dipped, tipping them towards one another. Ozymandias, King of Kings appeared from nowhere and sprang between them. For a cat who wasn’t allowed upstairs, he left an inordinate amount of marmalade fluff on their eiderdowns.

  Emma scratched the back of his neck and his purr cranked into operation. ‘Go on.’ Her eyes sparkled.

  ‘The Kimbers won’t meet us at the door. The butler will let us in, only when a butler does it, it’s called admitting you, and he’ll show us to where they are. If it’s like the other times, they’ll be seated at the far end of a long room called the saloon and we’ll have to walk all the way down it to reach them and you don’t know when to start smiling.’

  ‘Oh.’ Emma’s face fell.

  ‘Don’t worry. They’ll be politeness itself. Manners maketh man and all that. It’s only Granny we have to worry about. Everyone’s on edge, dreading her saying something excruciating, and then you can see the Kimbers’ faces freeze before they start being gracious again. Sir Edward thinks highly of Dadda; that’s what you must remember.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound at all agreeable. Certainly not worth getting ragged for at school.’

  ‘That used to happen to me. And if it wasn’t ragging, it was being sucked up to.’

  ‘Or being called stuck-up.’

  ‘We’ve nothing to be stuck-up about. It isn’t as though the Kimbers have anything to do with us beyond a card at Christmas and dinner once a year. We don’t even rent one of their houses, because we don’t want folk thinking we’re taking advantage.’

  ‘But it is special having grand relations, isn’t it?’ Emma said wistfully.

  Mary gave her a hug and stroked her hair. It was smooth and dark, as unlike her own fair waves as it was possible to be.

  ‘Do the family tree for me, like you used to when I was little,’ Emma begged.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You know it inside out.’

  ‘Please.’

  Mary couldn’t resist. She had always loved playing the big sister. She spaced the names across a sheet of paper: John Kimber – Charles Kimber – Martin Kimber.

  ‘Martin was our grandfather. John and Charles were his brothers. John was the oldest, so that made him Sir John.’

  Below the names, she wrote: Edward Kimber – Charles Kimber – John Maitland.

  ‘They each had a son.’ She drew lines, connecting them. ‘Sir Edward is the son of Sir John. This is Uncle Charles, who was killed in the gales when you were little. He wasn’t our real uncle, but it’s polite to call him that. And this is Dadda. Grandfather Martin died when he was a baby and then Granny married Grandpa Maitland and changed Dadda’s name.’ She glanced at Emma, amused to see her concentrating. ‘Here are Eleanor … Charlie … and you and me. Eleanor and Charlie are our second cousins, and one another’s second cousins, because of our fathers being first cousins. Strictly speaking, Eleanor is a step-cousin, because she’s from Lady Kimber’s first marriage.’

  ‘Do you ever wish Dadda was still called Kimber?’ The reappearance of the wistful note didn’t escape Mary.

  ‘Don’t forget he chose to be called Maitland. Granny changed his name to spite the Kimbers, but when Grandpa Maitland died, he could have changed back. Granny wanted him to, because she was afraid people would forget her grand connections, and the Kimbers said he could, but Dadda refused. He said John Maitland was who he was and who he always wanted to be. Mam told me that. Don’t you think it’s splendid? I do.’

  ‘Do you think the Kimbers will mind that I’m going to work in a shop?’

  ‘Sweetheart, has that been worrying you? It’s not just any shop. It’s part of a successful dressmaking business. They’re more likely to question why I’m leaving the town hall. Dadda says I’m not allowed to say it’s because of not getting promoted, in case it sounds as if I’m dissatisfied with my station. I’m to say he let me apply to be a lady-librarian because of my love of reading.’

  She drew in a breath – and then remembered not to let it out on a sigh. But she felt like sighing. As the poor relations, they were required to be ultra-respectable, though they never got any thanks for it. It was part of their station in life.

  Chapter Five

  Nathaniel hummed ‘Goodbye, Dolly Gray’ as he arrived at the colonel’s house in Withington for the meeting.

  ‘I know what talking to yourself is the first sign of, but I’m not sure what singing to yourself means.’

  He turned to find Alistair walking up the path behind him. They shook hands.

  ‘In this case, it means Clough has been pulled back into line.’

  ‘Thanks to your powers of persuasion,’ said Alistair.

  ‘With a little help from my frock coat. Why is the meeting being held at this time? I barely had time for anything to eat after morning surgery. Is the colonel’s Saturday golf teeing off early?’

  ‘Apparently, it’s to accommodate a visitor Palmer is bringing with him.’

  Colonel Fawcett’s maid admitted them. Meetings were held around the colonel’s dining table. The dining room – indeed, the whole house – was filled with the trophies and trinkets of a life spent in India and the old boy loved nothing more than to spin a yarn attached to one of his mementoes. Nathaniel had learnt not to look at the tiger-skin rug, the ornaments or the photographs of Europeans buttoned up to the back teeth. Hard-hearted perhaps, but it was the only way to get the business of the meeting attended to.

  He nodded a greeting to a couple of local worthies and the PIP man, who represented Projects for the Ignorant Poor.

  ‘Bloody patronising name,’ he had commented to Alistair when he first heard it.

  ‘Who cares, as long as they stump up the funds?’

  As they had soon discovered, it was more than a name: it was an attitude. Nathaniel had to keep a tight rein on his tongue whenever the PIP man started bleating about having to do the poor’s thinking for them.

  Like now. The PIP man was comparing the poor to children – ‘… and you wouldn’t expect children to make their own decisions, would you?’ – and the meeting hadn’t even opened.

  ‘Afternoon, Palmer,’ said Alistair as Mr Palmer, their chairman, walked in, followed by a stranger. ‘Who have you brought along?’

  ‘Name of Hobley,’ the visitor replied, without waiting to be introduced. ‘I’m from the Means Test Office and I’m here to stop you going ahead with these preposterous plans.’r />
  All through dinner, Mary kept glancing at the official-looking letter on the mantelpiece. It must be to do with her new job. Her pulse quickened, but she couldn’t open it until after dinner. If it had come by the first post, she could have read it before she went to work, and its contents would have made it easier to ignore Mr Treadgold’s loaded remarks about nobody’s being indispensable. Instead it had been waiting when she and Dadda arrived home. They worked until one on Saturdays. Lilian had met them at the front door to relieve Dadda of his outdoor things, placing his slippers in front of him and helping him into the tweed jacket he wore around the house.

  Dinner was served immediately. Afterwards Dadda sat in his armchair with the newspaper, which had waited untouched for him. Mary was going to make a rotten wife one day: she could never last a whole morning without reading the paper. Perhaps she would read it secretly, then iron it smooth, ready for the man of the house.

  When Lilian carried in the tea tray, Dadda folded the paper. Lilian took her place in the armchair opposite his. Mary sat in the basketwork chair and Emma occupied the rush-seated chair. Mary’s heart burnt with the need to open her letter; but she must sip her tea and make light conversation while sitting in her appointed chair. Would there be rioting in the streets if they changed places for once? Would the mighty name of Kimber be besmirched?

  Lilian got up to clear away. Finally! Plucking the letter from behind the clock, Mary slit the envelope. A single glance sent chills coursing through her, but she managed to say, ‘I’ll read it later. Sit down, Mother. I’ll wash up.’

  Outside the room, she snatched her breath in shock. The corporation had changed its mind about lady-librarians and her offer of a job had been rescinded. But no matter how upset she was, she must keep it to herself. If Dadda knew, he would ask Mr Treadgold to overturn her resignation.

  Would she be able to find another post before her notice ended?

  ‘… and you won’t change my mind, no matter what arguments you employ,’ said Mr Hobley. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth to give an inch on this matter.’

  Nathaniel clamped his teeth together. This was Hobley’s answer to everything. It was more than his job was worth to let matters regarding the clinic proceed unchallenged. It was more than his job was worth to contemplate subsidised medical fees for the poor. It was more than his job was worth to climb off his blasted high horse and show a spark of compassion for wretches less fortunate than himself.

  ‘If you’re permitted to set up this clinic, you’ll undermine everything the means test stands for. I believe it’s your intention to educate these females in matters of hygiene?’

  ‘Hygiene and its links to health,’ said Alistair.

  Mr Hobley turned a challenging eye on him. ‘In other words, you propose to give these women ideas above their station.’

  ‘Above their station?’ Nathaniel couldn’t keep silent a moment longer. ‘Give me strength.’

  ‘That’s what I said, sir. It’s at odds with the principle and purpose of the means test, which exists to provide support for the lowest kind of people. We don’t want their heads filled with unseemly notions.’

  ‘What’s unseemly about knowledge of hygiene?’

  ‘It would make them dissatisfied with their lot in life.’

  ‘Whereas at the moment they are, of course, content.’

  Mr Hobley bridled, his facial features shrinking in a display of self-defence and spite. ‘If that’s your attitude, there’s nothing more to be said. I came here with an open mind—’

  ‘Like hell you did,’ Nathaniel muttered.

  ‘—prepared to discuss this matter and reach a reasonable conclusion, but apparently that’s beyond you, which merely reinforces the correctness of the Means Test Office’s decision. I’ll bid you good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  The next moment he was gone.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Nathaniel looked round the table. ‘That was my fault.’

  The PIP man shifted awkwardly. ‘If the means test people are pulling out, Projects for the Ignorant Poor won’t support you. We work closely with them.’

  Gathering his papers, he left.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Nathaniel asked.

  The colonel perked up. ‘Reminds me of a dashed ticklish situation back in ’94 – or was it ’95? Now then …’

  Mr Palmer took shameless advantage of the colonel’s pause. ‘As I see it, gentlemen, there’s only one thing we can do. I know how determined Doctor Brewer and Doctor Cottrell have been from the outset not to approach any charitable committees, but under the circumstances …’

  Nathaniel met Alistair’s eyes across the table. The LBCs – the Lady Bountiful Committees. Oh no.

  ‘We want this clinic to be part of the system,’ he said, ‘not subject to the whim of a committee that might withdraw support in a year or two with a change of lady chairman.’

  ‘I’m sure these committees are better regulated than that,’ said Palmer. ‘I suggest the Deserving Poor Committee.’

  Nathaniel bit back a snort. ‘Who decides who is deserving?’

  ‘Lady Kimber and her committee members.’

  ‘Lady Kimber?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palmer, ‘wife of Sir Edward Kimber of Ees House.’

  ‘She was related to Judge Rawley,’ Nathaniel recalled.

  ‘Who was a good friend to the clinic,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Whom Brewer looked after through his final illness,’ added Palmer.

  It took Nathaniel a moment to realise that all eyes were on him. He knew what was coming next.

  Mary consciously relaxed her shoulders. They lived in the back room, but here they were in the front room, sitting quietly in their best clothes. Her hat and Lilian’s were freshly trimmed with silk flowers – just a few; mustn’t be showy – and Emma’s boater sported a new ribbon. They were waiting for the carriage. When you were the poor relations, not only must you not keep your grand relations waiting, you mustn’t keep their servants waiting either.

  A carriage rolled up with the Kimber coat-of-arms on the doors. Mary came to her feet along with the others. Heat wrapped itself round her the instant she stepped outside. She placed a gently restraining hand on Emma’s shoulder. Mustn’t look too eager, not with the neighbours watching. It was an excruciatingly difficult moment. If you smiled at the watchers, you looked swanky, but if you didn’t, you looked stuck-up.

  It was sweltering in the carriage. The leather seats were soft as butter and smelt like new shoes. Dadda pulled down the windows and more heat plunged in.

  They went via Sandy Lane to collect Granny and Aunt Miriam.

  ‘You look peaky, Miriam,’ said Lilian.

  ‘She’s got one of her heads,’ said Granny. ‘She’s brought it on herself, same as always. I told her, Miriam, I said, I’m entitled to go to Ees House and where I go, so can you.’

  ‘But, Mother,’ protested Miriam, ‘it’s different for you. You were married to a Kimber and John was born a Kimber, but my father was plain Harold Maitland. I don’t know why Lady Kimber invites me. I suppose she has to, since I live with you, but I’m sure I’m not meant to accept – or you’re not supposed to accept on my behalf.’

  ‘You see the kind of nonsense I have to put up with,’ Granny snorted. ‘You’re a fool, Miriam.’

  ‘Mrs Maitland, please,’ said Lilian.

  ‘What our Miriam has never understood is that, as my daughter, she’s in a privileged position. I wish I’d changed my name to Kimber-Maitland when I were widowed second time round. It would have reminded everyone who I am and maybe it would have eased the bitter disappointment of John’s stubbornness in remaining a Maitland. It grieves me to this day, our John, not that you care. And you could have been Kimber-Maitland too, Miriam, and perhaps I wouldn’t have had to tolerate your stupidity about visiting the ancestral home.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly use the Kimber name.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. If Eleanor Davenport can get away with calling h
erself Kimber, I see no reason for you to be shy about it.’

  ‘You make Eleanor sound like an imposter,’ said Lilian. ‘Sir Edward changed her name when she was tiny.’

  ‘What would you know about it? It’s nobbut five minutes since you wed your way into the family.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Miriam, ‘Eleanor has a right to the name. I haven’t.’

  ‘Her “right”, as you call it, is that her mother wed a Kimber and, in case you’ve forgot, our Miriam, that’s what your mother did an’ all.’

  Mary looked through the window, distancing herself from the unpleasantness. They were alongside Chorlton Green, where the trees around the edge cast enticing pools of shade. She sat forward, hoping to catch some breeze, but Lilian plucked at her arm.

  ‘Sit back, love. You don’t want to be seen gazing out or it’ll be all over Chorlton that you were lording it and I won’t be able to hold my head up round the shops.’

  Mary sank back, careful not to lean into the leather in case she stuck to it. There were times when she wished the ancient water meadows after which Ees House was named would rise up and flood the dratted place.

  The family swayed as the carriage turned right, passing between lion-topped gateposts onto the long drive, presently drawing to a halt before the grandly protruding porch. For a Kimber, the coachman would have climbed down to open the door and pull out the step, but he wasn’t about to do anything of the kind for mere Maitlands, and it was left to Dadda to assist his womenfolk. There was nothing quite so humiliating as being snubbed by your rich relations’ servants.

  Dadda rang the bell and they waited long enough to stop looking at the door and glance at one another.

  ‘Should you ring again?’ Emma suggested.

  ‘No, love. It’s a big house and the butler might be a long way away.’

 

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